Services were conducted on Thursday, November 13. Over seventy friends signed the “Those Who Called” book. There were forty-seven floral tributes. As at Frank’s funeral, Tennyson’s “Crossing the Bar” appears in the program:
But such a tide as moving seems asleep
Too full for tide and foam
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.90
Katherine Jackson French was laid to rest next to her husband, Frank, in the Jackson family founders’ plot in the Russell Dyche Cemetery in London. Her grave lies less than a mile from where she grew up.
Tributes poured in from Shreveport. Books were placed in libraries in French’s honor, charities given money in her name. Several boxes of letters in regard to her death still exist. “You’d think everybody in Shreveport knew my grandmother,” said Kay Buckland.91 One letter reads: “Think of all the people whose lives were enriched because she passed their way.” Another notes: “She was such a wonderful woman that it is difficult to put into writing what we, her friends, feel. Erudite, stimulating, yet down to earth and interested in the minutest bit that affected people and particularly her friends, which are legion. Public spirited, gregarious, deeply spiritual, and a great inspiration to so many both in the cultural and religious life of our community, her name will ever be enchrined [sic] in the hearts of her friends, the church, the organizations to which she belonged.”92
Cecelia Ellerbe, her fellow cofounder of the Shreveport Woman’s Department Club, had the last word on Katherine Jackson French. At the club’s tribute to French the following January, she read a poem she had written in honor of her friend:
Let this be said, for honor is her due,
She was a teacher, one who loved this art
That was the highest privilege she knew
By right of knowledge, that she could impart
The meaning of a life is in its thought
And in the measure of the mind its test
The good she knew, the wisdom that she sought
These were the substance of her last bequest
To keep when strength had failed and breath was spent
To be her final wish and testament.
The years have gone, and life has reached its end,
Now Peace belongs to her, scholar and friend.93
Dr. Katherine Jackson French. Courtesy of Kay Tolbert Buckland.
Katherine Jackson French lived many lives in her one life: daughter, sister, wife, student, schoolteacher, professor, mother, writer, traveler, friend, neighbor, community member, dean, genealogist, Sunday school teacher, scholar, founder of an important women’s department club and inspiration to the women of Shreveport, leader of university women, and pioneer ballad collector. Despite an ongoing heart condition and a world unaccustomed to the achievements of women, she accomplished all this on her own terms.
The opening page of the service book for French’s funeral reads: “If life is sacred, it should not be allowed to perish…. We are not dead until we are forgotten.”94 Sadly, Katherine Jackson French has indeed been forgotten. Traces of her are impossible to find in her birthplace. No one there remembers any mention of her. Only a few echoes linger in Shreveport. There is no mention of her at Centenary College, no statue, no plaque, no marker, although a framed photograph and an inscribed gold plaque of Dr. Stewart A. Steger hangs outside the office of the chair of the English Department.95 There are no markers to her at the Shreveport First Methodist Church, though she taught Sunday school there for thirty-one years. Streets bear the names of other founders of the Woman’s Department Club—Ellerbe, Wilkinson—but the only monument to her is the lonely plaque that hangs in the back of the auditorium of the Shreveport Woman’s Department Club, thanking her for sharing her gifts and changing the lives of thousands of women.
This remarkable pioneer—the first collector, male or female, to attempt to publish a large scholarly collection of southern Appalachian ballads, a mover and shaker in the Louisiana AAUW, the cofounder of the Shreveport Woman’s Department Club, a beloved professor at Centenary College, and a proud daughter of London, Kentucky—has been consigned to obscurity by the passing of years and a seemingly willful ignorance on the part of her time and ours regarding the accomplishments of such women. That her feats have largely been ignored or forgotten makes them no less glorious. She was a giant, and like many other forgotten giants, she paved the way for other women who followed, breaking down walls that might still be in place without her efforts. Indeed, “honor is her due,” and hers is a name worthy of remembrance.
PART 2
“THE STURDINESS AND TRUTH OF SONG”
They have lived because they have been loved.
Katherine Jackson French
4
“A Fortnight of Balladry”
Jackson had studied medieval literary balladry while at Columbia University, so it was natural that she was intrigued by the idea of old ballads of the sung variety being kept alive in the Kentucky mountains.1
The ballads that Jackson’s classmates told her about and that she eventually sought were descendants of the same ballads that Francis Child had collected in Great Britain and immortalized in The English and Scottish Popular Ballads.2 These songs left the Old World, sailed with immigrants to New England or Virginia, and then clambered over the mountains from eastern Virginia or Pennsylvania into Appalachia. These musical fables are old; some date back to the thirteenth century and, as Ron Pen reminded me, give a sort of eternal window into issues of “race, gender, class, power relationships, identity, and memory.”3
The early collectors—and Jackson was no exception—focused on these British Isle ballad escapees. Though some of the collectors may have had a variety of motives, they held one thing in common: they thought these ballads to be worthy of their efforts, eschewing other kinds of music from other kinds of people. It was a bias that was sometimes manifested in a condescending and explanatory racism (“[The Negro’s] … mental processes are not adequate to the burden which some scholars have imposed upon him”),4 derisive dismissiveness (“When we reached the cove, we found it peopled by niggers … all our troubles and spent energy for nought”),5 or wishful racial identification (“This little booklet … will represent the life and spirit of a people in whose veins runs the purest strain of Anglo-Saxon blood to be found anywhere in America.)6
The last quote brings up a paradoxical circumstance: the ballads discovered in America were determined by the early collectors to be of both English and Scottish origin, but the ballads themselves were invariably referred to as being Anglo-Saxon. Of the immigrants who fled the Scottish Lowlands for northern Ireland and then wound up in southern Appalachia, most were actually Scots, not Englishmen. This is a case of trying to jam a square peg into a round hole. The Scots were, in fact, neither Anglo nor Saxon; their ancestry was largely Celtic. Yet the claim of the ballads’ exclusive and unblemished Anglo-Saxon origin was to continue unchallenged for close to a century.
Berea College president William Goodell Frost.
The social conditions that led to the establishment of that claim are double-edged, and no one exemplifies that better than Berea College president William Goodell Frost. Berea’s original mission