family stories

You Poor Baby

vintage baby
I had no idea Cousin Carol was four years older than my sister Phyllis till she announced her marriage. It sounded like a joke. Less than two weeks ago she’d spent the night with Phyllis. Sixteen was ridiculously young to get married, but back as late as the sixties, many parents felt it was expedient to allow their teenagers to marry. Her sister, Sue, and I were the same age. We were constantly at each other’s house for the night. Their brother, Troy, was the age of my brother, so on weekends, holidays, and in summer, there was always a jumble of kids spread between the two houses. Carol was extremely spoiled for some reason, though I could never imagine why her mother favored her. With her fair skin, black, curly hair and startling blue eyes she would have been very appealing had she not whined, wheedled, and cried till she got her way. At our house, she just pouted and whined. Of course, us younger kids went out of our way to keep her blubbering, since you didn’t usually see that in a girl that age, expecially rewarding since she wore gobs of makeup and we liked to see it run.

Back to the romance, Carol had been going to the picture show with her older sister Yvonne who was slipping around with Donald Duck.(not a joke) Yvonne brought a sweetie along for Carol and they really hit it off. The sister’s romance with Donald Duck fizzled, but within weeks Carol was to be a bride. The whole thing puzzled me. How could she go from being a kid with Phyllis to getting married in almost no time? Soon there was to be another miracle! Carol announced her first pregnancy. From that moment forward, I don’t think I ever saw her not pregnant, claiming to be pregant, or with a newborn. Before she retired from her thirty-year delivery service, Carol had eleven kids and claimed to have had God only knows how many pregnancies. Her first marriage, lasted only long enough to produce three children. She kept hoping to reconcile, so she had about a three year vacation from babying. She was terminally lazy and a rotten mother to boot, so she spent this time convalescing in her parent’s home in South Louisiana, where they’d moved not long after her marriage. She inveigled Aunt Julie’s cooperation in making use of my Cousin Sue as a captive babysitter. If someone else didn’t change the babies, they just sat squalling in sodden, filthy diapers. Her mom still gave over to her crying, whining, and wheedling, much to Sue’s sorrow. My aunt and Cousin Carol would dump the babies on Sue, taking off for hours, leaving instructions to have the house clean when they got back.

We had the misfortune have Cousin Carol land at our house a couple of times after brief attempts at reconciliation with her erstwhile husband. After a week or two of connubial bliss, he’d dump her and the dirty babies off, saying he’d be right back with milk for the babies. (Carol was a slow learner. It happened twice) That milk must have been on Mars since he never came back. Carol figured it out after an hour or two and started blubbering. The baby or babies helped with the crying, since they were hungry. Already furious at being stuck with unwelcome and unpleasant guests, Mother had to dig deep to find money for extra milk, knowing we were stuck with Carol and her squallers for a day or two till her folks could make the trip back up from South Louisiana to get her. Carol was lazy and worthless to start with. On her arrival, all the baby clothes and diapers were dirty. “Linda, change Bobby’s diaper and give him a bottle. You’ll have to put one of your Mama’s diapers on him. Mine are all dirty.” She wasn’t lying about that. She had dragged in a foul bag of diapers and left it on the front porch. I looked to Mother for rescue. Accustomed to being catered to, Carol was offended when Mother expected her to do her laundry and care for her own babies. “I’m sick! I feel an athsma attack coming on!”

“I’ve got two babies of my own and more than I can do. If you are going to stay here till your folks can pick you up, you’re going to have to take care of your own kids.” Carol pouted, but she got up to put a borrowed diaper on Bobby. Poor Bobby hadn’t seen many clean diapers lately. His poor, burned up bottom looked like raw meat. There was even pus running from one sore spot. “Oh no,” said Mother. “that poor baby. You’re going to have to keep him changed. He’s starting to get infected. Linda, go put my diapers on the line so Carol can get hers in the washer right now. This baby’s got to have clean diapers. Here, Carol, put some of this medicine on his bottom.” Grudgingly, Carol washed, medicated, and diapered poor Bobby’s sore bottom.

Unaccustomed to such ill-treatment, Carol angrily dragged the stinking bag of diapers from the front porch, all through the house, to the kitchen eventually reaching the enclosed back porch to Mother’s washer, leaving a malodorous wet-diaper ammonia stream. Furiously, she pulled a mess of heavy, filthy diapers from the mix, dumping them in the washer. Turning it on, she left the rest hanging out of the open bag to perfume to back porch. The stench was pulled into the kitchen by the attic fan till Mother told her she’d had to put the rest in the backyard to wait. Only when the washer stopped did Mother realize Carol hadn’t bothered to rinse the well-seasoned lumps of poop from those diapers. It was all waiting for Mother when she opened the lid. She was critical!

To be continued

Lou and Lynn Part 3 Looking for Grandma

As the rain pounded on the roof, Lou looked all around. “Boy, I hope Grandma’s not out in this! It’s dangerous!” Her lip quivered, though no tears escaped. “I will not cry! I will not cry! I am not a cry baby!” Facing away from Lynn, she stiffened her back and clinched her fist.

Lynn put her hand on Lou’s shoulder. “Lou, I know you’re worried but your grandma’s probably up at the house with Mother. Look around. We’d see her if she was out here. As soon as the storm’s over, we’ll head for the house.”

That made sense. “But won’t your mom be looking for you out in this storm?” Lou sniffled a little, still fighting tears.

“Oh no!” Lynn laughed. “She knows exactly where I am. We always play in the barn when it rains.”

That caught Lou’s attention. “Who is ‘we’?” She asked.

“My brother Billy. He’ll be home after a while. He went with Daddy and my uncle to take a truckload of hogs to the auction.” Now it was her turn for a quivering lip. “I could have ridden in the back with the hogs, but daddy said I’d be so dirty he might sell me by mistake mixed in with the pigs. It makes me so mad to get left out because I’m a girl! It’s just not fair!”

Now, Lou felt sorry for her. “No it’s not.” She agreed.

They were’t the only ones escaping the rain. An enormous red cow with menacing curved horns loped clumsily into the barn. To escape the huge beast, Lou bounded up the stack of baled hay. “ Lookout, she’s gonna get you!” She shouted.

The cow ran straight at Lynn, bellowing and wagging her horns side to side. Lou hid her eyes behind her hands, not wanting to see the cow destroy Lynn. Then she heard laughter. “Bessie, you big old baby. When are you gonna learn to stay with the cows under the shed?”

Bessie leaned into Lynn, licking her face, then nudging her. “Stop it, Bessie! You’re about to knock me down!” With that, she pulled a pear out of her pocket. “Here. That’s all I’ve got. Bessie opened her big mouth and chomped the pear with one big crunch. Pear juice dripped out of her mouth. She bumped Lynn, hoping to shake loose another. “Nope, that’s it.” Bessie looked very disappointed at Lynn’s stinginess.

“You’re not scared of her with those big horns? Lou couldn’t take it in.

“No! We raised her on a bottle from a tiny calf. Her mama wouldn’t feed her. All you have to be worried about is , she might stomp your foot trying to get a treat. That hurts! Want to give her that other pear? Hold it out with your hand flat so she won’t crunch your fingers.”

Lou climbed off the hay and held the pear out to Bessie like Lou showed her. Bessie took in her mouth, gobbling it down in a big, noisy crunch, leaving slimy slobber on her hand. Then she licked Lou’s hand greedily, hoping for more.

“Ooh! That’s gross!” Said Lou., wiping her hands on her shorts.

“Yep. I never said she wouldn’t slobber on you. I just said she wouldn’t bite you,” Lynn clearly found it hilarious.

“Look the rain has stopped. We can go ask Mother if she’s seen your grandma. One thing, though. Don’t bang the doors as you go in. If you wake up the babies and get them crying, I’ll have to stay in and help take care of them. We’ll be stuck in the house.”

“Y’all have babies?” Lou was astonished. She’d rarely had a chance to be around babies.

“Yeah, a big one and a little one. I like the big one best. She’s cute and will play with you. The little one just sleeps and squalls and messes up her diapers. There’s not much fun in that.”

Lou’s ears kind of perked up. She didn’t want to get them crying but it might be fun to look at them. She sure didn’t want to be around for messy diapers. The best thing of all, Grandma was probably in the house, waiting for her! “Let’s go!”

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You Used to Be Beautiful!

Kathleen Holdaway in flowered dress0002One warm afternoon in late May, 1960, Billy and I were lying on the living room floor as Mother reclined a few minutes with her feet up wearing the heavy surgical weight stockings the doctor had ordered. She was six months into a difficult pregnancy with her last child,and was supposed to be off her feet. She had spent a good portion of the morning tying to keep an eye on her fourteen-month-old, Connie, while trying to coax twelve-year old Phyllis and me at ten to do a little housework, help with Connie, and even get a little work out of seven-year-old Billy, while keeping him out of trouble. Phyllis was watching Connie. We were all terminally lazy, slacking off at the first excuse. None of us had any intention of doing anything we could avoid.

As we dawdled at her feet on the floor in the draft of the attic fan, one of us pulled out an old photo album. I quickly found a picture of her made her senior year of high school, the peak of her youth and beauty. “I graduated thirteen years ago today,” she remarked smilingly.

In my infinite wisdom, I proclaimed, “Oh Mother, you used to be beautiful!”

I turned for her smile, only to see a snarling, slobbering, swollen beast ready to pounce on me in rage! “”Used to be beautiful! Let’s see what you look like when you have five kids in twelve years! Put this stuff up, right now. Linda, you take your smart mouth and get those dishes washed. Phyllis, you put a pot of beans on for supper. Billy, you…”

By the way, this is not the picture in question. That one mysteriously disappeared

It’s My Party

WC
Uncle Jerry drank a little. In fact, Uncle Jerry never drew a sober breath from the time he cashed his paycheck at the liquor store on Friday after work until he got back to the shop on Mondays with a killer hangover. One time he told Bud, “I get paid today and I gotta get drunk. I had the flu all week and feel so bad I cain’t hardly drag. I shore dread it.”
Bud, who’d never been initiated into drinking at the time asked, “Uncle Jerry, if you feel so bad, why do you HAVE to get drunk? Can’t you take a weekend off?”
“Oh no!” Uncle Jerry told him. “I always stay drunk on the weekends.”
He must have been concerned about his reputation. He was Aunt Myrtle’s second husband. At the time I knew them, they’d been married over forty years. If Aunt Myrtle stuck by Uncle Jerry, I can’t imagine what her first husband must have put her through.
Mother went over to visit Aunt Myrtle one Thursday morning, not realizing Uncle Jerry was on vacation. They went out to the garden first to admire Aunt Myrtle’s tomatoes and the green beans that were starting to put out, picking a few for Mother. When they made their way into the kitchen, they encountered Uncle Jerry down on his hands and knees in front of the icebox (not refrigerator). He’d pulled the drawer out and was eating onions and turnips raw with the garden dirt still clinging to them. Considering it was Uncle Jerry, neither one said anything.
He looked up at them and remarked. “This is my icebox and I’ll eat anything I G__ D____ please.” They got their coffee and took it out to drink in the shade.
“Don’t let Jerry worry you none. I forgot to tell you Jerry was on vacation when I told you to come over to get tomatoes,” noted Aunt Myrtle.
“Oh, that’s okay. It is his icebox after all,” Mother replied.

Growing Up in a Communal Home: Memories from Houston Part 2

That Barbie led a charmed life, raised by an adoring Mother who felt discipline damaged tiny psyches. While a screaming Barbie was gently extracted from a situation, she’d be pounding Cookie with her precious little fists. Billy and I stared wide-eyed, totally unaware a kid could attack a parent. I don’t believe Mother felt the least concern for the state of my psyche. She’d have warmed by britches in a heartbeat. We’d even get “the look” when Barbie threw a tantrum, tacitly reminding what would happen should we try such a thing.

One stormy afternoon, a thunderstorm raged. We’d been playing the skate/wading pool game on the front porch when we were forced indoors by the lightning. Barbie threw a fit, culminating in an asthma attack. Cookie dragged her off for medication and rest. While she screamed herself to sleep, Billy and I availed ourselves of her treasures. We set our loot up in the half stair closet, playing there all afternoon. It was magnificent having a ready-made hideout.

I believe I had my first encounter with fire ants at that house. I followed Grandma to the backyard, where she was doing some gardening. I saw a huge mound of dirt which I did not recognize as an anthill. Fascinated, I jumped into it. Of course, I was instantly beset by enraged ants. At my screams, Grandma snatched my clothes off and sprayed me down with the water hose. A fast learner, I’ve never been tempted to jump in another ant bed.

To be continued

Growing Up in a Communal Home: Memories from Houston

Before I started school, my grandparents lived communally on the ground floor of a formerly grand old house in Houston. Clearly the growing city was encroaching on the fading beauty.Cookie, Uncle Riley, and Cousin Barbie lived there too. It was on a busy street with nonstop traffic. The noise of constant traffic and honking horns intruded constantly. The air was never free of exhaust. A large grocery store stood catty-cornered from them and a funeral home directly across. An eight-foot wide sidewalk ran from the front steps to the sidewalk fronting the street. A stately porch ran around three sides of the house. Most intriguing of all, what appeared to be a closet enclosed four steps of a staircase ascending to nowhere. An old lady rented the second-floor apartment complete with an identical porch.

I desperately wanted to explore the second floor but Grandma shut me down. “We can’t go up there. Another family lives there.” Everyone I knew lived in a regular house. I’d never seen an apartment or house divided into apartments.

Grandma was overprotective. I was old enough to be trusted not to wander out in the street but she was convinced a passerby would snatch me off the sidewalk. Also, she was worried a speeding car would plow up onto the sidewalk. She stood guard nearby scowling with her trusty broom just in case a foolhardy kidnapper looked tempted. We were free to play on the enormous wrap around porch.

Cousin Barbie didn’t have to share. She screamed if we approached her inflatable wading pool set up in the porch. She kept her skates close by, intending to keep them safe from me and my brother. That was managed easily enough. While one of us skated, the other ran in and out of the pool. We kept her running and screaming till Cookie took her in for fear of an asthma attack. That worked for us.

One morning as Grandma worked in her flower beds, I was allowed to play on the sidewalk a few feet away. To my great surprise, the lady living on the second floor dashed her bucket of mop water onto my head. I thought it a delightful surprise for a hot day! Grandma was enraged. She tore into her upstairs neighbor while Mother whisked me in to wash off the mop water.

To be continued

Ten Commandments Especially for Us

The Gospel According to Daddy

ten

Daddy was “the Boss.” God put him in charge, so we didn’t have to worry about what God wanted.  If we had any questions, we could go straight to Daddy.  He always had a Bible verse at the ready to back him up, if needed.  Most of them sounded suspiciously freshly-coined and self-serving, lacking book, chapter, and verse. Not having memorized the entire Bible, it was hard to prove they didn’t exist, like the one that forbade men to milk cows, “You cannot take what you cannot give.” Please. You didn’t have to be a heathen to see through that one.  Actually, Daddy anticipated our needs, requiring no effort on our part.  Permission to visit a friend, attend a school activity, or socialize had to come from Daddy.

Well, this is not strictly true.  Mother was free to say, “No” any time she chose.  The answer for visiting or socializing was easy.  “No. You don’t need to go.  Tell so and so they can come here.”   “No you can’t go to that party.  You don’t know who will be there.”  Or even more emphatically, “NO!  ………..will be there!”

School activities were usually okay in theory…… 1. If we weren’t grounded.  2. If one of the other kids in the family wasn’t grounded.   3. If nobody in the family had C or lower on their report card.  How often would a family with five kids not have at least one doofus with a C or lower on their report card?  This ruled out most opportunities to attend school activities, and “It’s your own fault.  You shouldn’t have even have had to ask.”  Of course, the answer was “No.”

School dances were off limits.  We were Baptists, and at that time, in addition to preaching the Ten Commandments, Baptists preached against dancing, drinking, and wearing shorts.  Even asking to go to a dance was a sin.  The sermons didn’t hold the other Baptists back, Daddy always made sure we didn’t do those things expressly preached against.  I didn’t have too much trouble with the Ten Commandments, never having coveted my neighbor’s wife, committed adultery, and so far hadn’t killed anyone, but I wanted to go to dances.   There was no commandment forbidding dancing, but dancing would have incited lust.  If Daddy had bothered to check out the kids we went to school with, he wouldn’t have worried too much about lust. Most kids were hayseeds, skinny, pimply, and inbred.  In the early sixties, we had no access to mind-altering substances to make us look better to each other.

In the unlikely event everyone had perfect grades, the activity didn’t break a commandment, and our plans could still wash out at the last minute if Daddy was in a bad mood, or one of the neighbor’s kids had behaved outrageously, causing Daddy to require us to be a perfect example.  In addition to the opportunity to provide a perfect example, we got to stay home and luxuriate in the added bonus of their lecture by proxy.

As all parents do, Daddy invoked his miserable upbringing, replete with selective memories, to reinforce whatever point he was making at the time.  If he needed to point out we were being selfish, “Once we went three days with nothing to eat!”  If Mother didn’t want to make ice cream, “One thing we could always count on.  Mama always made ice cream on the Fourth of July.”  He looked injured and almost tearful.  He wanted dessert after every meal.  “My mother made a cake every day.”  He may have thought I wasn’t listening, but I pondered every word in my heart.  The next time he rolled out, “Once we went three days without eating.” I shot back, “Why didn’t you eat one of those cakes your mama made every day.”  I got a quick lesson in the difference in smart and smart-aleck and secondly “silence would have been golden.”  My life would have been so much easier if I had just followed these commandments.

Commandments 

I. Thou shalt not do anything without my approval.  This includes failing to anticipate what I might want you to do or having to be told twice.  God help you if you anticipated wrong.  There is no recovering from that.  About fifty-percent of the time, I’d say, “I thought you would want………”  with the resulting reply, “That’s what you get for thinking.” Growl, growl , growl, growl, growl.

Approximately forty-nine percent of the time, I’d defend myself by saying, “I didn’t think…….” To which the response w.as

“If you aren’t going to think, you might as well be alike on both ends.  Growl, growl, growl, growl, growl.”

If there appeared to be no retribution headed my way, my eyes glazed over with the first growl.

About one percent of the time I didn’t mess up.

II. Thou shalt not sass.  Sassing includes anything from actual speech to questioning authority.  

Sassing meant failing to say, “Yes sir” or “No sir,” eye-rolling, or being sullen.  One should snap into a jolly mood as soon as punishment was complete show appreciation for discipline.  Sometimes, I had a little trouble with this one.

Obstinance could be anything from pouting (sticking one’s lip out and refusing to speak), eye-rolling(God help you), to disputing his word.  (But I didn’t leave the gate open, whether you had or hadn’t.)

III. Thou shalt not think bad thoughts.  Bad thoughts included harboring anger toward parents, thinking of doing something wrong, or keeping secrets.  If I knew one of my siblings had done something wrong, I was as guilty as they were if I didn’t tell.  If he knew I knew Billy stole a gumball, I got my rear whipped, too, when the truth came out.

IV. Thou shalt not ask to do things.  School dances, wearing shorts, causing boys to lust (this was never a big problem for me) or asking to stay over with friends could get you quite a lecture.  If other kids got in trouble and he learned of it, they got lectured by proxy.  I guess we were free to pass it on if we wanted.  He assumed every kid who got in trouble was our dearest friend.

V. Thou shalt not be lazy.  There were cows to be milked and hogs, chicken, and other livestock  to be fed daily.  Then there was the seasonal work; haymaking, clearing land, piling and burning brush.  Daddy was generous toward his women-folk.  There was no work they couldn’t do.  Daddy and my brother couldn’t do “women’s work.”  It was demeaning, fit only for women.  Doing men’s work improved women and kept them humble.

VI. Men shall not milk cows.  Thou canst not take what thee cannot give.  The Chapter, Book, and Verse of this injunction was never sited.  Daddy just knew it was in the Bible somewhere.  He couldn’t risk messing up on this one.

VII. Thou shalt not be trashy.  This one was directed to women and girls who without his guidance, have flaunted themselves.  They must wear knee-length dresses and not flirt or do anything to make the neighbors think ill of Daddy.  The worst insult he could hurl at a girl was “fix your clothes.”  God forbid, at best, a girl’s dress was over her head, or at worst a girl might have humiliated him by intentionally soiling her skirt, a premeditated insult to his dignity.

VII. Thou shalt never utter sexual innuendoes or dress in a way that would lead any man or boy in considering you in a sexual context.  This would be the ultimate insult to his dignity and authority.

VIII. Thou shalt not be trashy.  This embarrassment is the worst a man can suffer, trashy women in his family.

IX. Thou shalt be grateful thee has a father to raise thee right.  Thee would be in the street if he weren’t here to guidetelling ten commandments thee.

X.  Thee should always come to me with thy problems.  (Fat chance)

Cat Tales

We’ve had a few pets over the years, cats, dogs, birds, and one rat. It’s a good deal being our pet. Once residence is established, all their worries are over. They’re set for life.

We don’t have a cat now but we’ve had many, usually a ginger male. They always start out with a real name like Tom or Kitty Boy that disintegrates into Fat Yellow by the time they get grown. Our cat memories have all run together. We did have one cat who had the peculiar habit of hitching rides.

That’s probably how we happened on him in the first place. The kids and I stopped at a local country store and a sweet ginger cat climbed on top of a tire and tried to work his way under the hood. John grabbed him while I went in the store to report to the owner that we saved her cat.

“He’s not my cat.” She said. “He’s been hanging around yowling for a couple of days. I don’t know where he came from. Do you want him?”

Naturally, we did. He fit right in. He enjoyed the best of both words. He was an indoor/outdoor cat, clearly accustomed to taking care of himself. He had excellent manners, never making a mess. He liked to stay indoors in stormy or cold weather but spent a lot of time outdoors in summer. He frequently brought us gifts of dead mice and moles. We did have to watch him around visitor’s cars or he’d try to hitch a ride.

Once, John went to visit a friend several miles away. Fat Yellow had secreted himself in John’s car and beat him to the friend’s front door. One evening, after a twelve hour day at the hospital, I got to my car only to find Fat Yellow pacing around my front tire like he was irritated at my being so late. He had a grease mark down his side, so I’m sure he’d hitched a ride under the hood.

One day he abruptly disappeared. Though we asked everyone who’d visited, no one had seen him. He must have gone looking for a new home.