Daddy... Benjamin Franklin Moore

[Sharon Moore Stenhouse]

Daddy... Benjamin Franklin Moore
by Sharon Moore Stenhouse (aka) a’Kihoro


Benjamin Franklin Moore –no, not the wall paint manufacturer; my father, was the kindness, most gentile man I have ever known. People often flocked to be in his presence. He was born, along with his twin brother Joseph, on a tenant’s farm in Abbeville, South Carolina sometime between 1910 and 1920, no one alive knows for sure. Most in the family called him Ben although I can remember he loved when the churchwomen called him Benjamin. To me he was simply Daddy.

I am his only child, his daughter, whom he always said reminded him of Mother. He was referring to his mother, a gracious black woman named Anna who shared her love of life with her sons. She was especially proud of Ben because “he had the gumption to pick up and leave Carolina to go up north and work in the steel mills.” His brother, my Uncle Joseph stayed in South Carolina where he tenant farmed until factory jobs began to open up to blacks. Daddy often returned to Abbeville and on one occasion, when I was about thirteen, he insisted that I spend the holidays with him.

There we were my father and daughter traveling in his stylish beige colored ’62 Buick Electra 225 on the long drive to South Carolina. By the standards in those days, the Electra, known as the “deuce and a quarter,” is the best of the Buicks. Nothing but the best was the motto my father lived by. Along the way, he shared many stories of the rural tract of property where he lived as a child, called the ‘promised land.’ Later in life, I would learn that the ‘promised land’ referred to the Special Field Order No.15 issued by General Sherman at the end of the Civil War, offering 40 acres and a mule to freedmen (freed slaves) who served in Sherman’s army.

Before he reached school age, my father, his brother and his cousins manually worked the land to plant and harvest tobacco, corn and sometimes cotton. Tending to livestock, hogs and chickens, was something he dreaded. He realized at an early age that there was nothing promising about farming crops to sell to the highest bidder, especially since the family did not own the land. My father wanted more.

Never having completed the third grade, he joined the Army at age 17. Upon receiving his discharge, he went back home to South Carolina. When the country was still in the midst World War II, Ben traveled to Baltimore to find work at the old Maryland Steel Company, later to become Bethlehem Steel at Sparrows Point. Being a Negro meant that he was hired and assigned to the most dangerous section of the plant... the blast furnaces where over the years he suffered serious burns from the hot molten steel. He would work at Sparrows Point for 38 years.

One of my fondest memories of those days when I seemed to have my father all to myself is the 13 weeks of vacation from the steel mill. He took the time off in one lump sum to enjoy his favorite pastimes, hunting and horse racing. Daddy was dangerous at the racetrack. In fact, he sold a coat I have given him one year for Christmas right off his back because he knew he was on a winning streak. He often came home from a hunting trip filled with glee and loaded down with the ‘kill’ of the season, whether squirrel, rabbit or deer. Then he took great pride in prepping and cooking the meat to show off his culinary skills to all who were brave enough to sit at the table.

Another memory is his skill at the game of Pinochle. Time after time, there would be a howling good game going on with his co-workers and friends. I marveled at the perplexity of the games, and gathered my own friends in the neighborhood to start our own. It was not long before I discovered that just about everyone who is black played Pinochle. Then one day, after many games lost, I asked my father to teach me the game. His response was “the best way to learn is to play.” I soon found out that playing against Daddy was not a good idea, so I decided to sit at his side during some of the games he played with his friends. What a lesson! There I was sitting next to him watching his play strategy; how he counted the cards and which cards he always played first. When the time came for me to play against him again, I beat him at his own game. He questioned how I had learned to play so fine, and of course, my response was... from you. The last time I spent with my father, before he died, was playing a game of Pinochle; and he actually tried to cheat.

My father always told everyone that I was his pride and joy. That fact held true until my daughter was born, and I soon found myself taking second place to his fondness for his granddaughter. He spoiled her just as he spoiled me over the years. Anything she wanted, she got and there were times I had to use her as my agent when I needed his help.

During his later years, in retirement, my father devoted his time to the church. He served on the Usher Board at City Temple Baptist Church and eventually became their president. Benjamin became know as the ‘proud usher’ because of the manner in which he led the march down the aisle. He strutted with head held high, shoulders back and the brightest smile he could muster as the great Christian soldier he had become.

I love this man from humble beginnings on that little tenant farm in Abbeville, South Carolina and I miss him dearly. He went home to glory in November 1986 after suffering a debilitating lung cancer called methoselioma, caused by the asbestos in the blast furnaces at Bethlehem Steel.


© 2008

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Article published in Online Issue: No. 4, The Village Griot, June 2008

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