Superheroines

Mary Helen Evans
By Mary Fechter

To me, she was always Gigi.

I listened to the stories she told of her childhood in Del Rio, Texas, of her first teaching job in San Felipe, of working for the government across the road from the German prisoner of war camp, but to me she was my grandmother, the woman who loved me no matter what, the woman who put her family first in all things, the woman who gave unconditional support.

It was only after she died this past August that I realized that beyond being an amazing grandmother and matriarch, she was an incredible woman. People wrote, people stopped and asked me about this amazing woman. I love her with all my heart, but to me, she was always just Gigi.

Mary Helen Evans was born in 1912 and saw the changes of a century. She learned to drive when she was 11 years old, and would go pick her father up from his job at the bank at lunchtime since her mother didn't drive. She admitted to being spoiled, an only child for 11 years before her brother and sister were born, and then she became their second mother. Even at a tender age, her family came first.

She was a musician at heart, a talented pianist who went to Incarnate Word College in San Antonio during the height of the Depression to study music. She would tell stories of taking strolls down Broadway to the restaurants that were there, bribing the nuns who chaperoned them with ice cream. But she had a stronger calling than the music. She became a teacher, creating a legacy that lives on.

She returned home after getting her degree. But in Del Rio in the 1930s there was still a bias against Catholics, and she had difficulty getting a teaching job in her hometown. Finally she was able to find a position in the nearby town of San Felipe, then an all-Hispanic community, and she taught in a one-room school house. She told of the smells of the classroom: wood smoke and unwashed bodies - the only water available was the creek. She had all ages, since some of the students missed large chunks of the school year because they were working in the fields. One day one of the older boys brought in some naughty pictures, and my grandmother confiscated them. She prayed all day that she wouldn't drop dead because she was afraid someone would find the pictures and think they belonged to her!

She left teaching for a few years when her father lost his job and it fell to her to support the family. She went to work for the government housing project. One of the projects was out in the boonies, not far from a German POW camp. A security guard worried for her safety so he loaned her a billy club. She took some of her young cousins with her to work one day, to keep her company, and they found the billy club in her desk. "Sister!" they cried. (She wasn't Gigi till I came along.) "What are you doing with this?" She winked a blue eye and pointed across the road at the POW camp. "I'm waiting for one of those good-looking Germans to get off by himself so I can hit him over the head and take him home with me."

Instead, she married a returning war veteran, JB Evans, in 1946. They met while both worked at a government housing project in Harlingen. My grandfather was not long on words, but big on action. The story goes that she mentioned needing a storage chest, and the next thing she knew, he'd built her one. They were married in a quiet ceremony at Sacred Heart Church on a weekday morning with only her family in attendance. They were married for 41 years before he died in 1987.

They moved to San Antonio after my mother and uncle were born, and my grandfather went to work at Kelly Air Force Base. My grandmother stayed home until the children were old enough to go to school, then she returned to teaching. She worked first at St. John Berchman's, where she had 60 children in her class. She continued there as long as her children attended, then went to work in the public schools. She taught special education for years in a self-contained classroom where many of her students were "special needs". She loved teaching. She would tell her mother, "I know when it's time to go back to school. I can smell the pencils."

Her two children were always first in her heart. My mother tells me of a time when Gigi never smiled because her front teeth were rotten, but she spent the money on her children instead.

As the firstborn grandchild (and her namesake), I had the honor of naming her, and the name Gigi stuck to such a degree that at the end of her life, everyone called her Gigi.

When my parents divorced, she and my grandfather helped my mother get her degree in education, monetarily when they could, but also by taking care of my brother and me. I loved those days. I loved the smell of the house, I loved the hollow sounds of the wood floors, I loved the trips to the ice house (convenience store, for you non-Texans) to get candy and Blue Nehi (cream soda for you young-uns). We'd sit at the table in her back room with windows overlooking the backyard, watch her little black-and-white TV and pig out.

She retired from teaching in 1980 and moved with my grandfather to a plot of land halfway between Seguin and San Marcos. She had already signed up to substitute teach when she fell and broke her hip. It didn't keep her down long. After months of therapy, she was off the walker and feeding her chickens, taking walks down country roads and enjoying her retirement, spoiling her grandkids (now numbering three) when they'd come visit. Her shuffling steps made her impatient, but she refused to let them slow her down. She crocheted like a crazy lady. I have countless afghans and doilies and a beautiful tablecloth, along with a darling set of Santa, Mrs. Claus and an angel. She loved helping us make a home.

My grandfather had a heart attack in 1987. He complained of indigestion for days before finally getting in to see the doctor. When the doctor called an ambulance to take my grandfather, my grandmother drove into San Antonio by herself, in a long-bed Chevy pickup, the first time she'd driven since she broke her hip. After my grandfather died, Gigi moved in with my mother and stepfather.

When my brother was born in 1989, no one was happier than Gigi. A new baby to spoil and something to keep her occupied. At the age of 77, she took care of Michael while my mom went to work. Two years later, when my son was born, she took care of him as well. We never thought about her age; she never showed it. Instead she delighted in caring for the boys, taking them to McDonald's or Chuck E. Cheese, in that same long-bed truck, buying them books and workbooks, teaching them both to read before they went to kindergarten.

She finally gave up driving in 2003 but didn't give up the truck. She was sure one of us could use it, and sure enough, my brother is driving it now.

She was the heart of our family. We lost her in August, and while she's no longer somewhere where we can see her, we feel her in our lives every day.

To read last month's SuperHeroine article, click here

back to the top