Raised by Miss Novella (Novella Moore Lawyer)

A Camptown legacy of love, truth, and lavender

Her name was Novella Moore Lawyer. Most people in the neighborhood called her “Miss Novella,” even though she was married to my granddaddy, Abraham “Ham” Lawyer, from Silver, South Carolina.

Calling a married woman “Miss” was common where we lived. There was Miss Bessie, Miss Stella, Miss Rena, and Miss Isabelle—women who carried families and neighborhoods with quiet authority and dignity.

My maternal grandmother Novella had nine babies, but only four children survived: Ruth, Andrew (Buddy), my mother Ellouise, and Reynold (Teensy). She told us the miscarriages, stillborns, and a set of twins were buried or disposed of. I remember small mounds in the burial plot we visited every Memorial Day.

She raised four grandchildren until we were adults—Pat (Elvis Patricia), Avon, Butch (Wendell), and Tena…me. We lived on Pocahontas Avenue in Camptown, Southern Virginia.

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The Old Wooden House

I wasn’t quite in the first grade when our household changed. My grandmother Novella, my mother Ellouise, my cousin Pat, and I moved from an old wooden, two-story house into a brand-new home built right behind it.

That wooden house sat on a crawl space foundation. The crawl space was its own little world—safe enough for dogs to have puppies underneath it, and cool enough for snakes to hide during long, humid summers in Southern Virginia.

Back then, we didn’t know we were poor, but by government standards, we were. The backyard had an outhouse and a smokehouse. We put plastic on the windows in the winter to keep the cold wind out, and we relied on fans in the windows during summer months.

There were wood-burning stoves throughout the old house: one in the front room, one in the family/TV room where my grandfather spent most of his nights, one upstairs in a bedroom large enough for two queen-sized beds, and one in the kitchen.

That meant one thing:

A lot of wood chopping in the winter.

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The Lavender House

The new house was a four-bedroom rancher built on a concrete slab foundation.

And it was lavender—yes, lavender, a shade of purple.

My grandmother chose that color because she was inspired by my cousin Butch’s lavender Hot Wheels car. She showed the builder the car and said:

“This color.”

No one in our neighborhood had ever seen a lavender house. Not in Camptown, and not in neighboring Franklin either. It stood out—bold, unexpected, unforgettable.

Looking back now, that lavender house felt like a statement, even if she never meant it to be one:

We’re here, and we’re building something new.

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New York Came to Camptown

Around that same time, my cousins Gigi, Avon and Butch moved in with us from New York. Their mother passed away, and Uncle Buddy brought them back to Camptown and placed them in the hands of his mother—Miss Novella—to raise.

I remember having a couple of pets back then—a goat and a duck—both short-term. My grandmother’s intentions were clear: one day, they would be supper.

That was Miss Novella—practical, resourceful, and steady. She didn’t play with survival. She mastered it.

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The Prayer She Never Forgot

We called my grandmother “Grammar” during our formative years.

One day she told us that as a teenager, she chopped so much wood to help her ailing parents that she got blisters on both hands. Her parents lived in that old two-story house with peeling white paint and a screened-in front porch.

There was over an acre of land in the back and more in the front to the left of the house.

How do I know?

Because grass cutting was a chore for both boys and girls.

Grammar told us that in the early 1930s, as a thin sixteen-year-old girl, she prayed to God to send her a hardworking man—someone who would help her maintain that house and care for her parents.

And God did.

Then she looked at us and said something that stayed with me for life:

“Be careful and be specific when you pray, because God just might answer your prayer.”

She jokingly added:

“Your grandfather was a hard worker. I didn’t ask for a good husband.”

That lesson still lives in me today.

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Sister-Cousins and Unbreakable Bonds

Miss Novella was the greatest inspiration and teacher in my life—and I believe the same was true for my cousins too.

She raised us to honor and treat each other as siblings. She taught us that siblings don’t have to come from the same birth mother or father.

It’s the way you love and support someone that makes them your sister or your brother.
And when that bond is built on safety and security, it’s unbreakable.

I desperately wanted siblings.

Now I had three.

I was thrilled.

But during our teen years, we tested that bond like teenagers do. We formed friendships at school and in the neighborhood and often wanted to go places without our “sister cousins.”

Grammar wasn’t having it.

If Pat wanted to go somewhere and Avon or I couldn’t go, Grammar shut it down immediately:

“If she can’t go, you can’t go either.”

Then she asked the question that ended all arguments:

“What are you going to be doing that she can’t be around?”

She made it plain: if it wasn’t a good environment for your younger cousin, then it wasn’t a good environment for you either.

So stay home.

Pat didn’t like it. She was the oldest, and she fumed. She would give in, but not without warning us:

“If you go home and tell anything, you ain’t going No Moe.”

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The “Bone” Rule

Miss Novella didn’t like gossip. Camptown had small-town “Peyton Place” tendencies, and she refused to feed it.

She would listen to the grumbling and feuding—neighbors, girlfriends, women who came by and talked—but once they left, she would quickly tell us:

“Never repeat what someone said about another person you don’t even know.”

Her reasons were simple. First, you don’t know if it’s true. But more importantly, she taught us a proverb:

“If a dog brings a bone, he will certainly carry one.”

As kids, we asked what it meant. Grammar spoke in parables and proverbs.

What she wanted us to understand was this:

If someone is willing to bring gossip to you, they will carry what you say back out to others.

A dog can’t help but be a dog.

Even as adults, that lesson is hard. It takes effort not to share juicy information—especially when someone asks.

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The Truth Rule

One of Grammar’s greatest commandments was this:

Always tell the truth—no matter the consequences.

She believed lying was never small. She used to say:

“If you’re willing to lie, you will cheat. If you can cheat, you will steal. If you can steal—especially if you get away with it—you’re capable of doing anything.”

To her, that made a person completely untrustworthy.

My cousin Butch learned this lesson the hard way—more than once. His storytelling wasn’t good, and when he was in trouble his explanations were usually laughable.

Avon and I would snicker under our breath, and he hated it.

But Grammar never bought it. Not once.

And in our house, you didn’t get a whooping for the mistake.

You got a whooping for the lie.

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The Gifts She Gave Us

That truth lesson is one of the greatest gifts of my life.

It became a standard I hold for my children—Tierra Sherelle and Tashara Burnett—and for the people around me.

Always tell the truth.

What I’ve found is that telling the truth gives you something priceless:

Peace.

Peace of mind that you don’t have to remember lies.
Peace of not building one lie on top of another.
Peace of standing in who you are without fear.

Over time, people learn they can trust you. They will call you because they want the truth—not comfort.

In my career, I have given hard truths—professional, candid performance feedback that I knew might bruise someone’s ego. But I did it the right way: with respectful language, behavioral examples, and professionalism.

It wasn’t personal.

It was truth.

And Grammar would have approved.

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Her Legacy

I thank God for Miss Novella—for her love, wisdom, stability, resourcefulness, and steadfastness.

She was in her mid-fifties when she began raising four grandchildren. She was on disability and received a small monthly check because heart disease prevented her from working. When I learned how small those checks were, I was amazed by what she was able to do – with four growing children in the house.

Yet somehow, we were never cold. Never hungry. Never neglected.

She taught us to honor our parents, even in their absence. She taught us to say please and thank you, because nobody is obligated to do anything for you.

She taught us to speak to neighbors and sometimes strangers.

“Say the greeting of the day when you pass-by,” she would say.

And she taught us to never stop learning and never stop teaching. Grammar believed you can teach old dogs new tricks, and that you’re never too old to grow.

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I Am Her

I am a product of this amazing woman.

I am Tena Lawyer from Camptown, raised on Pocahontas Avenue by Miss Novella.

Not bragging or boasting. Here’s what my grandmother inspired me to become.

I am a retired U.S. Army intelligence professional with over 30 years of experience in the Intelligence Community (IC) and in Education and Training (E&T). I worked in uniform and as a civilian for the National Security Agency (NSA).

I have a Master’s degree in Educational Leadership and graduated Summa Cum Laude. I am a Certified Life Coach. I earned a Certificate in Human Performance Improvement (HPI) from ATD, and for many years I served as an active Adjunct Faculty member with NSA’s National Cryptologic School.

I have traveled the world learning and teaching. I served in Germany, South Korea, Australia, Japan, and worked across the United States, including beautiful Hawaii.

Now retired, I’m pursuing a doctoral degree from Northcentral University in Global Training and Development, and I created Enhanced Performance Improvement Consulting—EPIC, LLC.

EPIC, LLC. is the realization of my dream: to help women succeed in life and in their careers.

As a life coach, I motivate and inspire my clients to change their lives, careers, and relationships through honest, authentic conversations that lead to actionable goals.

I am passionate about lifelong learning, education, training, and coaching because I was raised by one of the greatest teachers of all time.

I was raised by Miss Novella.

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