Linda Miller
We are, all of us, akin to books that have been done well. We have a beginning and an end, and the best parts are where, when, why, and how we do what happens between the pages.
Delores Faye Phillips seemed to know the importance of those best parts.
She loved words, the rhythm and the sound of our mother’s voice reading fairy tales or poetry at the end of the day. Delores stated that was where it began for her. Words became lifelong friends when she used them while reciting poems before our church congregations and listening to their heartfelt calls of “Yes, Lord” or “Amen.” She could feel the appreciation that further ignited little sparks of the joy of words that grew into flames and continue to burn within her throughout her life.
As for many shy people with artistic talent, her silences, intolerance for stupid acts and meanness, and inability to engage in small talk were not always understood. And neither was the bottomless well of love she had for her family and close friends. It was simply Delores Faye being Delores Faye.
For as long as I can recall, she could and did write. And it did not matter to her if the writing was poetry, short stories, editorials, personal or business letters. It was detailed and right to the point.
She enjoyed reading her work aloud and was open to comments from listeners, though not always happy with the responses. However, after taking time to think about critiques, she often learned from and utilized them.
Delores’s writing was a gift I had the privilege of reading and listening to. However, I was not influenced by it. Awed? Yes. Influenced? No.
Yes, we loved to read and to write, but I saw quite early (forty years ago) that there was absolutely no comparison to how she structured her writing, scheduled her time, determined inside her head where and when she wanted to take her characters between those pages, and how she planned to get there. She was able to sight obstacles, then figure out how to overcome them. So very similar to what we do in real life.
Unfortunately, as much and as often as Delores encouraged me, cajoled me, fussed at me, I had to admit to my sister that I preferred to read.
Still, she gave me her time and patience to read whatever unfinished drivel I managed to write. She gently critiques the writing, tried to find a complimentary word or two, and always reminded me of the importance of character. She’d say, “Di, you can’t just write descriptions. A story is about characters. You have to have them.” And I’d reply, “Uh huh, thanks.” And I would very soon begin writing my drivel again.
She never gave up on me, and after we reached our forties, we began to put our heads together to write short stories. I was okay with that. Delores excelled at it.
Creating art alongside Delores was an unimaginable delight because I had the joy of seeing her mind at work. My little sister shared who she truly was and the special blessing that added such meaning and happiness to her life.
Between the pages of Delores’s life, she encountered rough roads, sharp curves, hills, valleys, and detours. Because she was determined to be taken seriously as a writer, she returned to university at the same time that her daughter, Shalana, was attending Kent State University. She was one of the oldest students in her classes. A small bump in the road. Five years before the Quinn family’s story was written, Delores was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis. It slowed her down, but it never stopped her.
Two years before completing The Darkest Child, while mowing her lawn, Delores had a heart attack. As a nurse, she knew what was happening, went into her house, washed freshly mown grass off her feet, and drove herself to a hospital. One of those unexpected curves. But she continued to write, to fill the pages in her own personal book.
During most of her writing of The Darkest Child, and the beginning of Stumbling Blocks, Delores was living in Cleveland, Ohio, while I resided in Silver Spring, Maryland. Every day, sometimes two or three times a day, she would call me. “Di, you got time to listen to this chapter?” “Sure, just let me nuke my coffee first,” I’d answer. Then she would read the pages to me. And after hearing them, often, I was silent, but at other times, I’d be laughing, or even crying, just trying to take in something that was so huge and mesmerizing coming from my sister.
But most often I was held spellbound by the blessing she had been given to be able to bring Rozelle Quinn, Tangy Mae, Martha Jean, and their story to life.
I was honored to accompany Delores on her book tour and many speaking engagements. To witness how much work is involved in traveling, greeting interested fans and signing copies of her book for hours so as not to disappoint people who had waited patiently to say a few words to her.
I observed that as shy as she was, Delores was always friendly and gracious, and she managed to talk easily with her fans.
There were evenings when we returned to our lodgings, too tired to do anything more than eat a late meal, look into each other’s eyes, and incapable of talking, just laugh out the happiness we were experiencing.
One of the questions Delores was asked most frequently was, “Is your book autobiographical?” The answer is no! But yes! Our mother, Annie Ruth Miller, was warm, loving, and attentive. She also wrote and read constantly. Her children were 5, 12, 16, and 17 when she died at age 39. So we raised each other. But yes!
Delores was born in the Jim Crow South, so much of the topography, speech, behaviors, work, and day-to-day 1950s life she wrote about are a reflection of the Georgia she heard and observed and lived.
She continued to write and to accept invitations from colleges and book clubs for ten years after the publication of The Darkest Child. She also was a volunteer reading teacher in the Cleveland Public School system.
In February of 2014, Delores encountered a roadblock she was unable to surmount—pancreatic cancer. That soon put a stop to her weekly senior line dance classes.
Did she stop writing and just give in? No, she did not. Delores accepted her closing chapters by writing on her good days and trying to prepare her family for the days after her last chapter was completed.
She wrote brief letters to each of us. She held us while we cried for her. She prayed with and for us.
And thank goodness Delores had the presence of mind to hold on to so much of her earlier poetry, short stories, and unfinished novels—these fascinating glimmers into the mind of one extraordinary woman, writer, sister, and friend.