Aunt Iccie’s Portrait

On her bedroom wall, next to the door that led to the front porch, my paternal grandmother kept a picture of one of her daughters. From an early age I knew she was my Aunt Iccie Joan for whom my older sister, Iccie Jean, was named. My sister was the third person in the family who carried this name. Aunt Iccie had died in Africa, I was told. As family members told her story at different points of my childhood and teens, she was a teacher or a missionary whose body was not returned to her family for a “proper” burial when she died. Some relatives concluded something horrendous had killed her – a lion or some other wild animal– and a couple of other relatives opined that her body was eaten rather than buried, although this last was not a popular opinion.

After my grandmother died, the picture was moved to the living room wall in my Aunt Evetter’s house, next door to where my grandmother had lived. Aunt Iccie had a resemblance to Aunt Evetter but as my sister Iccie and I grew to adulthood, my sister looked increasingly like the portrait of Aunt Iccie.

When I returned “home” for my Aunt Evetter’s funeral, the only thing I requested from her daughter was her Bible and Aunt Iccie’s picture. Both were in bad shape. In her declining years, Aunt Evetter could not and others did not care for most of her house.

There was bug and water damage to both Bible and portrait. In addition, the portrait had pieces broken around the edges with the bottom edge torn off, and a rip running down Aunt Iccie’s face. The frame was so damaged that when my cousin took it from the wall it broke into pieces. I took only the glass to protect the portrait from further damage as I flew home.

Through the years I thought about repairing the portrait but the quotes I received were more than I could afford. I put it on the top of one of the bookcases in the living room out of harm’s way. Every few years as I recounted Aunt Iccie’s story I would take out the damaged picture to illustrate the telling. But my faith in the family lore suffered the same damage as the portrait – frayed at the edges, torn in pieces, and ripped down the middle.

Then in 2018, amid immigration fears and demonization, someone in a closed Facebook group posted a picture of four generations of men in his family along with a heartwarming immigrant story. His many times great-grandfather immigrated alone from a European country when he was not yet 20 years old. With no marketable skills, he found a low-wage job and eventually married. Each generation moved up the salary mountain until the Facebook poster’s father who was the fourth generation and the first to attend college. A heartwarming American immigrant story that many people responded to with similar stories of their own families.

I responded that most of my ancestors were “unwilling immigrants” and many of the rest were immigrants who owned them. I also expressed my ignorance of my Native American heritage even though I knew there was some.

Rae responded to my post by saying she could help me find that missing heritage. My response was thankful but don’t bother because I knew it was untraceable. Rae was insistent. She had access to African American databases and knew she could help me if I would just provide her with a bit of info. I responded with a link to a long post I had placed on Ancestry.com in response to a request for information about African American family members with the last name Durr. And I gave Rae access to send me a private message.

Not many hours later, in a private message, Rae responded with a genealogy and supporting documents. It gave me chills to see a 1920 United States Census listing the names of my father and his siblings as children living with my grandparents. 

The other documents – phone book listings and draft registrations – were interesting to see but everyone on that census list has died:

• Leffie and Vashtie Durr, my paternal grandparents
• Aunt Iccie, their oldest daughter who died before her parents did; my sister was said to resemble her
• Aunt Evetter, 3 years younger and the last on the list to die
• R.T., my father who would later name himself Rip Timothy, 2 years younger than Aunt Evette; he and Aunt Evette were the last two siblings left alive for most of my years
• Jezebelle, my Aunt Jezzi whom I never knew; she died before I was born but I was told I looked like her
• Uncle L.F., 4 years younger than my father; he was named for my grandfather Leffie which is why he is listed as  “Jr” but my grandparents gave their sons intitials rather than names so they could name themselves when they were older; I knew my Uncle L.F. as Lafayette Durr and my cousin Sonny was his “Junior”; I was an adult when Uncle L.F. died.
• Aunt Rosie, spelled Rosey on this census report; I never knew she was the youngest child, 2 years younger than Uncle L.F.; she died when I was about 3; hers was the first funeral I’d ever attended and it was most memorable because it was the first time I saw my father cry deep sobs of sorrow.

The one document that made tears stream down my face was my Aunt Iccie’s death certificate. She had died in Africa, Liberia specifically, just as the family story said. But she died in childbirth. Her body was claimed by her husband and buried in Liberia because of “local custom.” They would not have had the ability to preserve a body long enough to ship it all the way back to Mississippi. Aunt Iccie, indeed, had been a teacher and a missionary at a Baptist school in Clay Ashland, Liberia.

Aunt Iccie now lives in my memory as more than a story that was hard to believe but a real person who died in a place that actually exists, in a way that makes sense yet still gives credence to those old family stories. I mourn and honor her.

After tears were shed and dried, after I had restored Aunt Iccie from family lore and incredulity to a flesh and blood relative in family history, I started looking for a way to restore Aunt Iccie’s portrait. After a little research, I went to Thumbtack, one of those sites that help you find “skilled pros” to do jobs. I chose Mariya Anderson, the first one to respond. First, she seemed to really care about doing well with my portrait. Also, I liked the examples of her work she had posted on her website. Finally, she promised a two-week completion date and the price was right!

I packed Aunt Iccie’s portrait along with the curved glass in about a ton of bubble wrap and sent her off with a prayer.

Almost two weeks later, I got an email to say it was done and since her husband was coming to my town, he would drop it off to me. The returned package included the original with the curved glass and two restored copies. She had even framed one of the copies!

I plan to search for frames and will gift my nephew with one along with this story. Aunt Iccie, with his mother's face, has been restored.