Author: lbeth1950

lbeth1950https://nutsrok.wordpress.comNow that I'm done with the bothersome business of workday world, I am free to pursue my passion, capturing the stories I've loved all my life. The ones you'll read on my blog are good old Southern stories, a real pleasure to relay. Here in the South, we are proud of our wacky folks. I've preyed shamelessly on my family, living and dead, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, often changing the names to protect the innocent and not so innocent. My mother illustrates my blog. I come from a rollicking family of nuts, hence the name of the blog Nutsrok Enjoy.
lbeth1950's avatar

Cute Crocheted Belts for Your DIY Pleasure!

I made these cute crocheted belts for a friend. Each took less than 2 hours and cost nothing. Both were made from scraps in my yarn and craft stash.

https://youtube.com/watch?v=bHq83DVtZAk&si=umflW8KRbtCli5Qv

Follow this link to find easy pattern on youtube. I did simple adaptation for blue belt with D rings. If I were selling these, what should I ask?

PREACHER JAMES JETHRO HUGHETT AND THE GOSPEL TENT© Harvey Hughett

Guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. Please vist his facebook site Musing Appalachia

I first heard of Jethro when I read a classified advertisement in The Roanoke Virginia Times newspaper in 1969.

“Wanted, Circus or Gospel Tent. Call JJ Hughett at (703) XXX XXXX.” Curious, I called, and our friendship began. He explained that he was a minister and desired to buy a large tent in which to hold church revivals. I told him that I didn’t have a tent for sale but that both he and I spelled our last name the unusual H-U-G-H-E-T-T way and that I was confident that we were related. At that time, I was teaching at Virginia Tech and had an interest in genealogy and where my people came from. I learned that most Hughett ancestors in the USA, at one time or another, had lived in nearby Floyd County. My wife and I had spent considerable time roaming the county looking for the gravesites of my relatives and we found many.

Jethro invited us to visit with him and his wife the following week. He lived in a modest but comfortable home and promptly greeted us at the door. Immediately, I knew that we were related. He asked how I knew, and I said, “Because we both inherited the Hughett ugly genes.” At the time, I was in my mid-twenties and still awkward with my words, and he was in his forties.

He laughed, blew off the back-handed compliment, and invited us to sit a spell. While it is not debatable that Hughetts often had some homely-looking men, Hughett women that I know of frequently more than made up for it by being beautiful, in both looks and personality. Why the Hughett genes split up this way by the sexes, I can’t explain, but at any rate, Jethro and I resembled each other with some minor differences. We established that our relationship was tied to a common ancestor, FIVE GENERATIONS BACK! In nearby Indian Valley.

Jethro had an interesting and unique face. I had trouble looking him in the eyes because his right eye would look straight at you, and the other just floated around. I’ll guaran-dang-tee you that when faced with that, one has to look away. Being young and dumb in social graces (another Hughett man trait), I asked what had happened to his eye. He kept talking as if he’d not heard me and never answered that question. We chatted a bit more, and I asked him again and he still ignored the question. I finally gave up and we moved on to another topic of conversation…the circus tent.

He explained that he pastored a small church and wanted to expand the congregation and get God’s word to more people and that a big gospel tent would be perfect. He could fold it up and move it from community to community for frequent revivals. He had the backing for a loan for enough money to buy a used tent and a few more chairs. He would use a pickup truck, trailer, and portable pulpit with a stage he already owned. He also had a sequined “preaching suit” on layaway in Roanoke. With a big tent, he could be up and spreading God’s word more broadly in no time.

About a year later, he called and invited my wife and me to a revival on the outskirts of Pulaski in his new tent. We assured him we’d be there and put it on our calendar.

It was an evening event with close to a hundred people in attendance. And it was impressive! He had a choir singing and a nice sound system that even passing cars could hear as they drove by on the rural community highway.

It turns out that Jethro was not a laid-back preacher but an old-time pulpit stomper who could make the tent shutter when he got on top of his game. I wasn’t prepared for either the volume or variety of words that blessed the congregation that evening. At one point he did “the stomp.” It startled me when he stomped the wooden floor and made a loud sound that caused the portable pulpit to rattle and dust to rise. This was symbolic of stomping the serpent devil’s influence out of our lives. He challenged the “old debbil” himself throughout the sermon and, as a finale, called a few members forward to be healed by the laying on of hands. Luckily, the offering plates were filled with enough money to make a good dent in paying off the tent and accessories. Obviously, he was in his element and glad that he’d repented his earlier indiscretions as a young man and was now leading other lost souls to the path of righteousness.

Then, he did something else that caught me off-guard (I declare this is true). He held up two photographs, one of his wife and one of his daughter, and said that he felt something terrible would happen to them unless someone made an offering to the Lord on their behalf. Two old ladies on the front row eagerly opened their purses, pulled out fifty-dollar bills, and gave them to the preacher. He gave each of them a photograph, and the meeting continued with hallelujahs.

A few months later, I got another call from Jethro, wherein he invited me to a prayer meeting at his home. My father, Harvey Sr., was visiting us, and he and I were honored by the invitation.

When we showed up at his house, there was a circle of eight chairs in his small living room, all filled with women except for him, my dad, and me. The meeting started with a short sermon by Preacher Jethro, followed by an invitation to all in attendance to share things they needed to pray for.

The first one to speak up was a lady in her forties who complained about her husband’s drinking habit. From there, they went around the circle. The next lady explained that her married son had run off with a “cheap, hussy woman” from Christiansburg and was living in sin with her down in Shawsville. The next woman described how her husband came home drunk and beat her regularly and she wanted God to do something about it. And they kept going around the circle until they came to my father. My daddy was a devout Hardshell Baptist who was raised attending the small Mountain Valley Church in Mohawk, Tennessee.

I still shake my head, but the following totally blindsided me. My father didn’t hesitate to point his finger at me and said, “This is my son. He is a heathen, and he don’t believe in the same God that we do. He tolerates churches what believes in baptism by sprinklin’, woman preachers, and churches that accept queers into their congregation!”

Note: I do not belong to such a church as he described and I don’t know what got into him to say that. I try not to be critical, but it is true that I tolerate people and their right to believe what they want. This was always a point of contention between me and my father, and he obviously used that occasion to take a jab at me.

Apparently, his assertion struck a sensitive nerve with everyone, and all (but me) quickly got down on their knees, folded their hands, and started earnestly praying for my soul…out loud! Simultaneously! And forcefully! I remained seated on my chair and watched in disbelief as this was happening. It was surreal. I remember thinking I’d give anything to have a videotape of that event because no one would ever believe me. It was apparent to me that each person tried to out-pray the person kneeling next to them, both in loudness and biting criticism of such a sinner as me. Forget the philanderers and the drunkards; their attention was focused on me.

After about ten minutes of praying, louder by the minute, each person essentially preaching a sermon of repentance targeted directly at me, they said “amen,” and without a good-bye, put on their coats, and, one by one, everyone went home. The next day, my dad returned to East Tennessee, and I was glad to see him go.

Preacher James Jethro Hughett cut off communication with me from that day forward.

Later, in comparing notes with my wife from our first meeting, while Jethro was ignoring my question about how his eye came to be the way it was, she was getting the “straight scoop” from his wife. She explained that back in Jethro’s sinning days, his first wife had shot him in the eye with a .22 revolver, rendering the controlling muscles useless. She went on to describe how his wife had divorced him and, after he became a preacher, he once interrupted his sermon in a church service, pointed at her in the congregation, and proclaimed that God had told him that she was to be his wife. She took him at his word, and they were married. He was in his forties. My wife remembers her saying she was just over sixteen at the time of the inspired sermon. As I inferred earlier, he had a face that would stop an eight-day clock, and she was very attractive. I kept track of Jethro and learned that probably because of the age difference, he died much earlier than she did. But I am pleased to tell you that their marriage was a happy one and, literally “Made in Heaven.”

I once reminded my wife of the technique that Preacher Jethro had used to obtain a young wife and my usually mild-mannered spouse told me that if I even seriously thought of doing such a thing remotely like that, she’d shoot me in the face too, then proceed to shoot me several times below the belt. My wife never lies so I took her at her word.

Our differences notwithstanding, I liked Jethro and remember putting fifteen dollars in the revival collection plate, a lot of money for my young family in the mid-sixties. The closing of that tent revival meeting was memorable, too. He said, “Thank you all, thank you, thank you everyone, and I thank you even more than you know. I look forward to someday meeting you on God’s shining shore…and I hope that we all make it.”

One can’t make this stuff up. This story is true. I changed some names to keep kinfolks from getting irritated with me. And I’m not being critical of the folks who torched me. They were sincere and I was…well, in the wrong place at the wrong time. That happens to me pretty often.

Please hit LIKE and SHARE my stories with your Facebook friends. And FOLLOW this site for all kinds of weekly stories about Appalachia’s interesting people and occasional food items…including a popular Hillbilly product or so made from corn or wild herbs that grow wild in Appalachia and are known to make one frisky. And the next time you see a tent revival; I encourage you to attend. It’ll do you good.

Patriotic

Are you patriotic? What does being patriotic mean to you?

Yes. I am patriotic but I definitely not MAGA. I love this country and freedom. However, I am appalled to see the words patriotism and Christianity used to promote racism, hatred, and exclusion.

BERTHY HOPS A TRAIN(God’s Hillbilly Warrior Goes Yondering, Part 3 of 9)© Harvey Hughett

(This is a guest post by my friend Harvey Hughett. Please visit his facebook site, Musing Appalachia)

It was late spring of 1965 when my great-aunt Berthy embarked on her most daring adventure yet. She had always been a woman of action, never one to sit idly by when there was excitement to be had. So, when she heard the distant whistle of the train approaching Bulls Gap, she knew it was calling her name.

As part of her strategy to conserve money on the trip to Chattanooga, she planned on boondocking rather than paying for motels. She didn’t have relatives to stay with where she was going. She didn’t know it at the time, but this journey would be filled with unexpected challenges and enough mishaps to dissuade her from taking any other trips for a long time. But she did pick up new experiences, change some lives for the better, saw new scenery, and collected on the debt owed to her by Mrs. Gooch.

Shortly after her daughter, Nova, had joined the WACs and left home, she packed her bag, kissed her cats goodbye, and started walking towards where the train had to slow down near Whitesburg. She knew the train schedule and had two hours to get settled into place.

She hid in some bushes, and when she saw the train slowing down enough for her to make a move, she ran out from her hiding place and, with a deep breath and a quick prayer, leaped onto the moving train, her heart pounding with excitement. And so began the adventure of a lifetime, one that would take her from the quiet hills of East Tennessee to the bustling streets of Chattanooga. God’s Warrior was on her way to see Rock City!

Bertha’s trip wasn’t without some close calls. As she made her daring leap onto the moving train, her foot slipped on the gravel, and she almost lost her grip on the grab iron or handhold. For a heart-stopping moment, she dangled precariously, her legs flailing as she struggled to pull herself up and into the boxcar.
Just as she thought she might fall off; she managed to hook her arm around another metal rung and haul herself aboard the moving train. Her heart was pounding, and she could feel the adrenaline coursing through her veins. Once she was safely aboard, she let out a breathless laugh, realizing just how close she had come to a very different ending to her adventure.

She laughed and waved when she saw two of Bryant Gulley’s boys throwing rocks by the railroad. They’d seen a figure jump onto the boxcar, but when Berthy waved at them, their eyes about jumped out of their heads in disbelief. They’d watched her near-miss and frantic scramble to climb onto the train but didn’t have a clue the crazy person was Aint Berthy until she waved. She knew the boys would tell their parents, and she’d have a lot of explaining to do.

The Southern Railway route from Bulls Gap to Chattanooga included several major stops. The train traveled through Morristown and Knoxville, a major hub, before continuing on to Chattanooga. The journey was very scenic, with landscapes parallel to the valleys and rivers of the Appalachian Mountains. Along the way, she made note of all the stops and slowdown areas for the train. She kept those in mind for the return trip.
After hopping the first train of her life, Berthy was energized to finally be off and adventuring again. She was a total mountain woman infused with mountain ways and a streak of wanderlust in her blood that most didn’t have. She was self-confident and afraid of nothing. Since she had been released from Knoxville’s Lions View Hospital, she was careful to keep a low profile and, for a while, backed off a bit on her preachings against sinning.

Nevertheless, because Berthy was convinced that she was a Warrior for God, she was obligated to move out of the shadows from time to time and do something more constructive than just sit in her mountain cabin and crochet and paint scriptural warnings on the backs of turtles and turn them loose in sinner’s yards. She loved “yondering.” Life was always more interesting when she was traveling.

The clackety-clack of the train soothed her in a way she didn’t think possible. Life was good!

Berthy was surprised to find two people in a corner inside the train car. At first, she was alarmed and grasped her petticoat to make sure that her sidearm, Hercules, was still within easy reach. It was a young couple huddled together. They looked up, startled, as Berthy settled herself on a crate. The girl, with tear-streaked cheeks, clutched her boyfriend’s hand tightly.

“We’re from Greeneville,” the boy explained. “We’re running away to Knoxville to git married. Her stepfather… he’s a bad man. He’s been trying to make her do things the preacher said she shouldn’t do.”
Berthy asked, “What are yore plans when you git to Knoxville?” The boy responded, “First, I gotta git a job so we can buy a marriage license and find a place to stay. Then, we’ll see what happens from there.” Berthy recommended that they change their plans and get married by a preacher first, then look for a job before they got into trouble.

She reached into her petticoat and pulled out a five-dollar bill. “You take this and buy yoreselves a marriage license. And make sure you get married proper with a preacher—a good one, not one of them fancy seminary-trained preachers. You gotta watch out for city preachers, they preach stuff they memorizes from books written by who knows who and preachin’ stuff they think up on their own. You need to find a good old mountain preacher, preferably one who cain’t read and ain’t very smart. When they preaches, they rely totally on God and not danged books what might be inspired by man. You shoulda have let Preacher Hughett over at Mohawk marry you up. He cain’t read, and everthing he says is inspired by the Almighty. He just repeats thoughts that God puts in his head while he’s at the pulpit. He don’t use his own words, which could mess up God’s message.”

Then, she handed the money to the boy and said, “I like you’uns ’cause you want to do the right thing, and I’m goin’ to help you sum more.” At this point, she pulled out her enchanted crystal. When the light hit it a certain way, it sparkled, and inside it were some lines that sort of looked like a cross. She’d gotten it years earlier from a granny woman who taught her how to use it to cast spells and put place hexes. She explained, “They’s bad hexes, and they’s good hexes. I call the good ones “blessing hexes.”

Berthy then extracted two gravels from a pouch in her petticoat, whispered a few words, and passed the crystal over them several times.

“Here, y’all take these,” she said, handing one to the boy. “Keep it close, and you’ll find a job. And you,” she said, giving the other to the girl, “stay true to God’s commandments, and everthang will work out well. You’ll find the happiness and peace yore looking for. But remember, no sinning before you get married, or the blessing will become a curse in yore life.”

The couple thanked her profusely, their spirits lifted by her kindness and the promise of a better future.
As the train chugged along, Berthy thought about her own journey. She was on her way to Chattanooga to collect a debt from an old neighbor and wondered what might lie in store for her on the tracks ahead.

Aunt Berthy had a secret she rarely shared because people thought she was crazy when she did. The people at the mental hospital in Knoxville didn’t believe her and kept her there an extra two years after she explained her special powers to them. She truly believed that she possessed a magical ability to see glimpses of the future. It was a talent passed to her by Granny Woman. She used it sparingly, knowing the power it held. As she gazed into her enchanted crystal, she saw a vision of the young couple, happily married and surrounded by children. Knowing she had set them on the right path brought her a sense of peace.
Aunt Berthy’s crystal had shown her many visions over the years, each one adding to her wisdom and guiding her actions. Here are a few notable ones:

During one terrible winter, Berthy saw a vision of a bountiful harvest in the coming year. She shared this vision with several local farmers, encouraging them to plant extra rows despite their doubts. Her prediction came true, and she picked up some credibility.

Berthy once saw a vision of a neighbor in distress. She went to their home and discovered they were struggling with sickness and financial troubles. She gave them some of her herbal elixirs, chopped some firewood for their stove, and fixed some cornbread and beans. When she felt they would be OK, she returned to her cabin.

In one of her more mysterious visions, Berthy saw a hidden treasure buried at the base of an old oak tree on the hillside not far from her cabin. She followed the vision and unearthed a fruit jar filled with silver dollars. She saved these to give to needy people and didn’t use the money for herself, feeling that God had directed her to the stash.

Berthy created special concoctions made of different herbs and plants that grew in the mountains and used these to help heal people. In their preparation, she used the crystal to bestow blessings on the contents of each bottle she prepared.

Another time, she was sitting in a rocking chair on her porch, holding the crystal, when it seemed to get warm. She held it to the light, peered into it, and a vision began to form. She saw a young woman, pale and weak, lying in a small, dimly lit room. The woman was coughing violently, and Berthy could feel the desperation in the air. Berthy recognized the woman as Effie Cobb, a Mountain Valley Church member known for her kindness. She had been sick for weeks, and the doctors had given up hope. Without wasting a moment, Berthy grabbed her pouch of herbs and remedies and set off towards Effie’s house.

When Berthy arrived, she found Effie’s mother sitting by her bedside, tears streaming down her face. “Berthy, I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered. “Effie’s gittin’ worse. The doctors say they ain’t no more they can do.”

Berthy nodded, her expression determined. “We’ll see about that,” she said, pulling out her enchanted crystal. She held it over the girl, whispering ancient words of healing. Then, she carefully administered the herbal remedy to Effie, who drank it trembling. It was a recipe that Granny Woman had shared with her.
“Rest now,” Berthy said softly. “And let the herbs do their work.”

Berthy stayed by Effie’s side for hours, watching over her as she slept. Slowly, the color began to return to her cheeks, and her breathing grew steadier. By morning, the fever had broken, and she opened her eyes, weak but alive.

“Thank you, Berthy,” Effie’s mother said, her voice choked with emotion. “You saved her.”

Berthy smiled, her heart swelling with relief and satisfaction. “Hit weren’t me,” she said. “Hit was God.”
….

Berthy hadn’t been on the train long before she needed to use an outhouse. When the train slowed on the outskirts of Morristown, she grabbed her pack and jumped out. The year before, a train had crushed a car at an intersection in downtown Morristown, and the city council passed an ordinance that required trains to slow down to 5 MPH in town.

When she hopped off, she was drawn by the colorful lights and lively sounds of a carnival. She made her way to the carnival grounds and quickly found a restroom marked for women. As she exited, she bumped into a familiar face.

“Wanda? Is that you?” Berthy exclaimed.

Wanda, a young woman who had run away from an abusive father in Bulls Gap, looked up in surprise. “Aunt Berthy! What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same,” Berthy replied, her eyes narrowing. “I heard you run away from home. What are you doing here?”

“I’m in charge of the penny toss,” Wanda said, gesturing towards a nearby booth. “It’s honest work, and it keeps me busy.”

Berthy eyed the carnival skeptically. “You staying clean in the Lord, Wanda? Carnivals are full of sinning.”
Wanda smiled reassuringly. “I am, Berthy. I even meet with a Bible study group every Wednesday, along with some of the other carneys. We keep each other on the right path.”

Berthy nodded, satisfied with Wanda’s answer. “Good. You keep it that way.”

Wanda made Berthy promise not to tell her parents where she was because she was afraid that her daddy would beat her again and, this time, might kill her.

(to be continued)

If you like this story, you should scroll down my Facebook Page. I have nearly a hundred more stories from the same crazy family this one came from. I also have books for sale on Amazon. MUSING APPALACHIA: VOLUME 2: Wrestling with Life in the Flatlands.

Wee, Wee, Wee. All the Way to Grandma’s House

Train ride 2

Reprinting a story I love to show off Kathleen Swain’s art

Illustration by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

Train ride 2Going to Grandma’s was the biggest thrill imaginable!!! After days of anticipation, Mother woke us long before dawn on the big day. Our bags were in the car and off we went. It was still dark at the depot as Daddy got our tickets and our bags out of the car. Mother hustled us to the bathroom one last time while Daddy was still there to help with the baby. Barely containing my joy during the pre-trip behavior threat, I patiently tried to look like as though I was listening. I didn’t know Daddy knew anybody at the depot, so was surprised when called out, “Porter, Porter!” A nice man came to help with our suitcases and lunch hamper. Daddy gave him some money and asked him to “take good care of us.” I wanted some money, but Mother shushed me.

Daddy kissed us all goodbye. Loaded with baggage, Mr. Porter led the way. Mother struggled down the aisle with baby Billy. A tiny woman, Billy stretched almost to her knees. We trailed behind, Phyllis carrying Mother’s purse and overstuffed diaper bag. I was trusted with a big bag loaded with blankets, books, toys, and other necessities. We bumped sleeping passengers making our way down the aisle as far away from the other passengers as possible. Mr. Porter flipped the seat back so we could all sit facing each other. Mother was exhausted and hoped we’d all go back to sleep. Ha! I was wild with excitement!

Finally, the train moved, wheels ka-whumping as we picked up speed. We looked out the window at the cows, fields, and the backs of houses and barns. As the sun came up we saw farmers on their tractors and waved at kids in their backyards. Pretty soon, we realized we hadn’t had breakfast and Mother pulled boiled eggs and ham biscuits out of the lunch hamper. Sharing a cup of milk from a thermos, Phyllis drank first, saying she didn’t want my crumbs in her milk. Mother wiped our faces with a damp washcloth pulled out of her bag. Mother had a blanket for Phyllis and me to share, a bottle and blanket for the baby, and big hopes that we’d all go to sleep.

Three of them did. I was wide awake. More fields, more of the back of towns, nothing to do. Passengers starting moving back and forth down the aisle. What were they doing? Reluctantly, Mother told me they were going to the bathroom. Bathroom? Trains had bathrooms? I had to go to the bathroom!

“I gotta go! I gotta go! I’m gonna wet my pants.” Mother looked pained.

“You just went. The baby is asleep. You have to wait.”

Mother, Phyllis and the baby slept. I looked out the window; more farms, cows and tractors, more back sides of town. She shoved my Night Before Christmas book at me, telling me to read it. I already had it memorized, was surprised once again to find the last page ripped in half. I was mad!

“Mother, I don’t like this book any more. The last page is gone!” She didn’t even wake up. “Mooooother!”

She opened her eyes and gave me a hard look, hissing like a snake. “Don’t make me come over there. The baby’s asleep.” Making Mother come over there was never a good idea. “Shut your eyes right now and go to sleep. I’d better not see a wiggle out of you!” (between clamped teeth). I could tell she meant it. I gave up and shut my eyes, but made up my mind not to go to sleep.

It was strange waking up on the train. Phyllis was leaned against the window, drool running down her chin. The baby slept snuggled up to Mother. Her head was back, eyes shut. I knew better than to wake her up, knowing she might still still be mean. I tore a tiny piece of paper from the last page of my book, leaned forward and tickled the baby’s face just a little. He moved and settled back down. I tickled again, careful not to wake Mother or Phyllis. He woke up, smiled at me and started moving around, wiggling and reaching for the paper scrap. I held it almost close enough for him to grab, pulling it back as he grabbed, over and over. He laughed out loud. His wiggling and laughing woke Mother. She was in a better mood after her nap.

By now, I really did have to go to the bathroom. I held on to seatbacks as I walked on the rocking train. People smiled and nodded as we passed. They thought we were “so cute” and “so sweet”. They were really nice. Mother and I went in first while Phyllis sat near the bathroom holding the baby. The cute bathroom funny little toilet and sink. After I finished, Mother pressed a little button and a door opened in the bottom of the potty. The wee wee splashed straight down on the track! It was hilarious. I could see the track as the train moved. Then I washed my hands and held Mother’s purse. I wanted to stay longer and explore but we had to let Phyllis have her turn. Mother whispered and told Phyllis how everything worked while she went in alone. No fair! She was out in just a minute. Bathroom break was over, so back to our seats.

Mother read us a new story book while the baby played beside her on the seat. It was a really good story about flying horses and fairies. Phyllis was in the second grade, the best reader in the class. When Mother got tired, Phyllis read to me while Mother played with the baby. This train ride was going great. Mr. Porter came through again selling magazines, papers, snacks, and drinks. Mother asked if she would be able to get fresh milk in her thermos later for the baby’s bottle. Mr. Porter said, “Yes, Ma’am. Easier now than later”. He took the milk thermos and brought it back full. He refused her money, “Already taken care of.” Mother wouldn’t let me get a snack or drink from Mr. Porter. No fair. What made that stupid baby so special?

I turned and looked out the window. More trees, backs of town, cows, and kids playing in back yards. I wished I could play with them instead of being stuck on this boring train. Phyllis finished the story. She pulled a box of paper-dolls out of the big bag. She was an excellent cutter and her paper-doll clothes still had all their tabs. I wanted to play but she was still mad because I cut tabs off last time. She was not good at sharing. Mother gave me a ‘barrel of monkeys’ toy. The baby liked them too. He laughed and grabbed at them when I danced them in front of him. We played till Mr. Porter came through selling sandwiches and drinks.“The diamond car is open for lunch.”

“Oh goody! Time to go to lunch!” I jumped up. Mother caught my arm and whispered, “No, it’s too expensive. We brought our lunch.”

“But I wanna go to the diamond car.” I whined. Mother didn’t allow whining.

“It’s not the diamond car. It’s the dining car. Now, stop that whining! We don’t have the money to eat in the dining car. I made us a very nice picnic lunch.” I could tell she meant it about the whining. Lunch was cold, fried chicken, cold ham biscuits, more boiled eggs, and apples. After lunch, we had milk from the thermos and washed our faces with the same damp washrag. The good news was, we could go to the bathroom again. Mother and I went first. I saw the train track again. Mother let me sit with a friendly grandma lady while she went in.

I told her we were going to Grandma’s…Daddy left us in the dark…that we didn’t have money to buy food…Mr. Porter gave Mother milk for the baby’s bottle…not enough rags for everybody. She looked sad. She dug in her purse and pulled out some money, patted my hand, and said. “This is for your poor, poor mother.” She really liked me!

While Phyllis went to the bathroom, I told Mother about the nice lady who gave me money for my poor, poor mother, “What did you tell her?” she hissed. (Mother hissed a lot.) I told her about going to Grandma’s…Daddy left us in the dark…not enough rags for everybody…Mr. Porter had to give her milk for the baby…not enough money for food. Mother’s face turned red. She left the baby with Phyllis, told me to stay put, took the money and went to talk to the nice lady. She was gone for a few minutes and came back without the money. Boy, was she mad! “I’ve told you not to tell everything you know. I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life!” I tried to explain that I didn’t tell everything I knew, but she just shushed me.

“You shut your eyes, sit still, and don’t you say a word to anybody till I tell you.”

Time drags when you can’t talk. My feelings were hurt. I got the blanket and acted like I was asleep. Ka-whump, ka-whump, ka-whump. The sun was warm on my face. Maybe I had a fever. I imagined how sorry Mother would when I got sick and couldn’t even tell her. The ambulance would take me away and they would never see me again…She and Phyllis would cry and cry, but it would be too late. I would go to the hospital where the nurses loved me so much they let me to stay forever. The story went on and on. I never did get to the end. I woke up and my mouth was dry. Mother and the baby were asleep. Phyllis was reading a book. I wanted to go to the bathroom, but couldn’t ask without talking. Phyllis saw me looking around and told me “Mother said, ‘be still and you better not wake the baby. He just went to sleep’.” She dug a new book out of the bag and read to me for a long time. She could be nice, sometimes.

Mother woke up just before I thought I would pop. Phyllis and the baby were both asleep. “Mother, I gotta go! I gotta go!”

“You went just before lunch. You don’t need to go yet. If I get up now I’ll wake the baby. He’ll cry and disturb everyone. You’ll have to wait a while.” I waited. I waited some more.

“I’ve really, really gotta go! Let me go by myself. I’m a big girl. I know what to do. You showed me how to flush and wash my hands. Puh…lease. Puh…lease. You let Phyllis go.”

Mother thought. Finally, she gave in. “Okay, but I can see you every step. Go straight there and back. Don’t play in the bathroom. Do your business, wash with soap and dry your hands, and come straight back. Don’t you dare talk to anybody!” I got sick of all her silly instructions. I went by myself. Everything went fine. The friendly grandma lady looked away when I went by. That was rude. She’d liked me before.

The train ride stayed the same for a long time. I went to the bathroom again. No problem. We had fried chicken, no more boiled eggs, fruit, biscuits, and more milk. It was nice not having vegetables. We had been on the train all day and still weren’t there. Phyllis read me another story and we played Old Maids. I was sick of the train. Phyllis showed me how to do tricks with string. It was hard. I’d be glad to be big like Phyllis so I could do things. Soon after dark, Mother said it was time to go to sleep. She would wake us when the train got to Grandma’s town. Where would we sleep? I didn’t see any beds. Mother spread our blanket on the seat making a bed for Phyllis and me and one for the baby on their seat. Mother was going to sleep sitting up! We were set, except for one more trip to the bathroom. Phyllis was putting things away and helping Mother get the baby ready for bed, so I went first. Finally, Mother had enough sense to know I was old enough to go the bathroom alone, and didn’t aggravate me with a list of instructions.

I was steady on the moving train now, so I ran, crashing into the bathroom door with both hands. Faaalaap!! Pow!! Pow!! It seemed like time stopped as the door bowed in the middle, finally turning loose at both ends and exploding inward. Sleeping passengers screamed and jumped up, nowhere to run. Men cursed. I couldn’t use a bathroom like that so I went back to the seat. The grandma lady gave me a horrible look. Passengers glared at me from every seat I passed on the long walk back to Mother.

I skulked to my seat, shrinking down as small as possible, not daring a look at Mother or Phyllis. For once, nobody said a word. I couldn’t even imagine a punishment bad enough for tearing up a train. Would I go to jail? Finally, I sneaked a peak at Phyllis. She was fascinated by The Night Before Christmas and didn’t even look up. Mother had her eyes squinched shut and was rocking the baby like she hadn’t heard a thing. I sat down, shut my eyes and pretended to sleep. I didn’t use the bathroom for the rest of the trip. Neither did anyone else!

Broken Law

Have you ever unintentionally broken the law?

I’m sure I’ve broken traffic laws: speeding, driving the wrong way down a one-way street, that sort of thing. I carry a shovel in my truck and have dug up plants on the side of the road. The worst thing I did was go in an abandoned house and take a battered old sign that said “Plant Emporium.”

Yes, I have broken the law.

How Did I Get From There to Here?

If there were a biography about you, what would the title be?

Warning: use of the N word is used in context in this story.

I often wonder how I became the person I am.  I was born in 1950, a Baby Boomer, in the Deep South.  I was raised Southern Baptist by a very devout mother and a father who attended as often as his conscience prompted him.  The influence in our home was definitely ultra-conservative and racist. Everything was segregated.  Water fountains and business entrances were marked white and colored.  Should a black person come to our house, they knocked on the back door, 

I never knew a single black person by name till I met Rosie, a black lady who occasionally cleaned for Mother.  One day Rosie told me she had a little girl just my age, three years old,  I was enchanted, desperate to know more and perhaps play with her little girl.

Innocently, I blurted out, “Is she a nigger?” As young as I was, the hurt look on Rosie’s face showed me I’d said something horrible.

Kindly but firmly, she corrected me. “She’s the same color as me but it’s wrong to say nigger. Say colored.” Rosie was as kind as ever afterward. I was so glad she didn’t stay mad.

Not too long afterward, Rosie had no one to keep Cynthia, so she had to bring her along. I was ecstatic to get to play with her all day. I couldn’t wait to share news of my new friend the second Daddy walked in the door. Rosie had crossed the line. I never saw her or sweet little Cynthia again.

I pray we never go back to that hate-filled time.

Valentine Failure

Bud and I are not the best at commemorating special days. Despite this, we are coming up on fifty-five years so I guess things have somehow worked out.

One year, I was feeling appreciative of our relationship and bought Bud a really beautiful card. I left the card with a box of chocolates, the memento he’d really appreciate, on his bedside table where he’d see it as he came home from his nightshift.

It happened to be my day off, so I waited for his reaction. He came in carrying a bag of Valentine treats a co-worker had gifted the staff. His cheeks were puffed out with candy, so he was obviously enjoying the holiday.

In a few minutes he came back up front with his box of chocolates under his arm and settled in his recliner to enjoy the news. When I went back to check, I noticed he’d never even opened his card. I was infuriated.

“Where’s my valentine?” I demanded.

With his mouth full of candy, he replied. “I didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day.”

Amazingly, he survived.

At My Age

What were your parents doing at your age?

My dad died at fifty-seven so he never attained my age. My mother was healthy and happy living on her own.