More than 60 years after racism and redlining robbed Marion Washington of two homes in Dallas, this week the 92-year-old got her $35 back.

The symbolic reimbursement — the check was actually written for $332.21 to take into account inflation — didn’t come from any of the local institutions that conspired to discriminate against folks because of the color of their skin.

It came from a white lawyer in Coppell who read Washington’s story and wanted her to know somebody cared — and cared enough to take action.

Brian Jobe explained the check like this: “I can’t go back in time and fix the injustices done to this lady, but she said she always remembered losing that $35. I realized I could do something about that.”

Just before New Year’s, I wrote about Marion and Morlen Washington who, like most African American families intent on living in decent homes in Dallas in the 1950s, were told, “Your kind isn’t wanted here.”

In 1953, discriminatory housing decisions — disguised as a purported expansion of Love Field — pushed the Washingtons out of their three-bedroom home in the Elm Thicket neighborhood. Bitterly disappointed but determined to find a quality community in which to raise their three young sons, the couple put cash down on a brick house near White Rock Lake.

Almost overnight, at a time when many sellers in the area posted front-yard signs saying “white buyers only,” the Washingtons’ initial deposit was handed back to them — minus $35 — and they were sent packing.

Even after the family settled in the northeast Dallas neighborhood of Hamilton Park, developed for African Americans seeking nice new homes in the racially ugly ’50s, Marion Washington never forgot that last blow.

“They kept $35 of our money,” Washington told me during our December interview. “I always remember that.”

Brian Jobe and his wife, Katie, know that $35 doesn't even scratch the surface of the discrimination Marion Washington suffered, but he nonetheless wanted her to know that people care, and "hopefully that’s some small evidence of change." (Brian Elledge / Staff Photographer)

That sentiment pierced Brian Jobe’s heart when he read her story.

“I couldn’t shake the thought that Mr. and Mrs. Washington made a down payment on their dream home and then they were told that they were not welcome. And how many years she had carried the pain of that final humiliation — the $35 she didn’t get back.”

Jobe had one of those “aha moments” that we could use a lot more of: It didn’t matter what he thought about the wrongdoing but what could he do about it.

He pulled up an online tool that calculated inflation, wrote the check and mailed it to me along with a short message to get the money to Marion Washington, whose husband died in 1985.

Jobe, general counsel for a software company, keeps a low profile, but I eventually tracked him down. He initially was hesitant to talk further, noting that his gesture hardly pricks the surface of the discrimination Washington has lived through.

But once I visited with him and his wife, Katie, at their Coppell home, I knew this footnote to the original story was worth telling.

Brian and Katie moved more than a decade ago from Dallas to this northwest corner of the county with their two daughters, now high school students in Coppell ISD.

They talked about the significance of Marion Washington’s story after reading the December column, but Brian never mentioned to his family that he had written the check until he decided to do the interview.

He said credit for his deciding to do something — not just feel something — goes to his wife.

“It’s Katie who has always been good about taking action, doing stuff like volunteering, whether in Meals on Wheels or with the school district,” he said.

Katie disagreed. While this might be the first time Brian ever responded quite like this, she described him as a guy who likes to try to set things right.

The gesture wasn’t about activism, but Brian pointed out that the current environment — not just politically but culturally — “causes one to think more about this kind of thing. What people have been through matters.”

Most troubling to the Jobes was the reminder that the Washington family had no recourse against its disgraceful treatment.

“White people can be so happy because everything went great for us. We didn’t get pushed to other schools or discriminated against in housing and employment,” Brian said. “But what about the Marion Washingtons of the world, who for their entire life it’s been a struggle to the point of having no recourse except to say, ‘That’s just the way it was.’”

In this case, the Jobes agreed, $35 had been owed to Washington for decades. Where it came from isn’t as important as that it’s a debt repaid. The Coppell couple’s only question for me was whether Marion Washington had received the check yet.

Marion Washington and her son, Charles, in front of their home of more than 60 years. “This story is not just about us, it’s about the Hamilton Park community,” Charles said. (Juan Figueroa / Staff photographer)

Yes, I had delivered it two days earlier to Washington, who is known to all her friends and family by the nickname “Dear.” As her son Charles cooked dinner Monday night, the 92-year-old sat on the couch with me and laughed that when her neighbors read the story, they asked “Who is Marion?”

For my part, I addressed her as Mrs. Washington, as befits a great lady of her many years. She was still aglow about the many churchgoers and Hamilton Park residents — some of whom she didn’t even know — who have reached out with well wishes.

“People called from all over,” she told me. “Even friends of my granddaughters who live in New York City saw it.”

The Washingtons told me that they are most thankful to see their historic and tight-knit neighborhood in the headlines for all the right reasons. “This story is not just about us, it’s about the Hamilton Park community,” Charles said.

After we visited a bit, I handed Marion the check and read Jobe’s short message.

She was momentarily speechless. “He didn’t have to do this,” she marveled. “What a blessing he is.”

Marion was baffled that someone she had never met — and whose life story is so different — could understand what that $35 meant to her. And yes, this did ease the pain of that disgraceful past a bit.

Charles and his wife, Glenda, who keep close watch over Dear, echoed her reaction; the rest of the conversation was punctuated with the family trying to figure out how best to pass along its thanks.

Of course, they were curious about the man behind the deed and, although I had only talked briefly to him at the time, they got a kick out of the anecdote I shared about his “If it’s not broke, don’t fix it” attitude.

Yes, he drives a Lexus, but it’s 17 years old, and his smartphone is an Apple 4S, ancient in tech terms and a source of great teasing by his daughters. But Jobe’s Depression-era dad made a deep impression on how he lives his life today.

Wednesday morning, as I recounted the Washington family’s reaction to the Jobes, the couple’s smiles matched that of Marion two days earlier. “You can’t undo what was done back in the day, but you can let people know you care, and hopefully that’s some small evidence of change,” Brian said.

I left both homes — located 17 miles apart but both inhabited by loving families with similarly generous spirits — with a thought worth us all considering as we settle into 2020: It’s never too late to try to correct the mistakes of the past.