memoir

Jump Frog

This guy poked his head up as I was just ready to plant. I jumped and shrieked like he was a monster. I wonder if he thought it was funny?

Andrew and Molly Part 25

They found Aggie on the cabin floor grimly clutching Bartle’s hand where he had collapsed. Blood leaked from his right ear. He made no response to Aggie’s pleas. The two little girls clung to Abbie’s dress tail, crying.

Perkins, the bondsman, and Andrew lifted the unresponsive man to the bed. Aggie gently got him settled and staunched the blood oozing from his ear. His breathing was raspy and irregular.

“I’ve seen this before,” pronounced Aggie glumly. “He’ll not live. He’s in God’s hands now.” Stoically, she pulled a chair to keep vigil.

Molly spoke to Rosemarie. “Take all the young ones over to my house and get them fed and abed. You’ll need to get supper for the men when their day is through. I’ll sit with Aggie.”

They sat quietly through the long evening. Aggie broached the subject of Andrew’s return. “Bartles deeply grieved Andrew’s capture. We had come to love you both and feared for your future. We were overjoyed when Master Wharton married you and took you under his protection. Your babes have filled our hearts with love. When Andrew returned, Bartles hoped you’d be joined again in marriage.”

Molly answered Aggie. “I loved Andrew. I prayed for his return. Things are not so simple since I have children. I don’t even know if I am still married to Andrew since I married the master. If my marriage to the master was true, his land will go to my children. The reverend who insisted I marry is dead and cannot speak for me now. If I am still married to Andrew, I might be judged an adulterer and sold back into bondage. My children might be judged bastards. I could be jailed. If questions are raised, who knows where the law leaves either me or Andrew? I fear approaching the law. Who knows what will happen to me and my children?

Traveling with Elderly Parents: Tips and Experiences

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I am traveling today so I am running an old post from several years ago.  Mother is not traveling with me today

Mother accompanied me to visit a relative a few months ago.  It was a route I flew often enough to get expedited security.  I explained to security I did not want to be separated from my elderly mother.  They saw her in her wheelchair, which she always requests for convenience.  She immediately put on her goofiest look, which is quite convincing.  Starting her Alzheimer’s act, she started firing questions at me and security.  They rushed her through.  Frankly, I considered abandoning her, she was making such a pest of herself.  I was glad when we got out of security and she got back to her normal goofy self.

Were You Born in a Barn?

I grew up in the fifties  and didn’t expect much.  I didn’t feel deprived, just understood the situation.  All the family toys fit in a medium-sized box and were shared. We had mean cousins who regularly tore them up, so storage wasn’t a problem.   If we realized they were coming and had time, we locked them in my parent’s  bedroom, but nothing was foolproof.  Those hellions could ferret out a steel marble locked in a safe and tear it up. No kid I knew laid no claim to a television, radio, or record player.  We were free to watch or listen along with our parents and act as the remote control as a bonus.

Most of mine and my brother’s time was spent outdoors.  We had the run of our property, including a large two-story barn, so we never had to stay indoors, even in rain or rare icy weather.  “Get your jacket and shoes and socks on before you go to the barn.”  I was more concerned about getting out than I was about bad weather, so I’d gladly have gone barefoot and jacketless, given the chance.  

Mother, a pessimist, foolishly believed in hookworms, stray nails, and broken glass.  I knew better, but she stayed on me.  It was a real downer.  If I got wet, I certainly didn’t come in to dry off. Most likely, I was wearing my only shoes.  

Should Mother notice wet feet or muddy clothes, we’d be stuck indoors for the day or till our jackets and shoes dried  I learned early that if you stay out in your wet things, pretty soon they lose that discolored, wet look.  Besides if you play hard enough, you generate some heat.

Our barn was two stories with a gigantic open door centering the second where Daddy backed up his truck up to load or unload hay.  It was a thrill to get a running start and fly to the ground eight or ten feet below.  Dry weather provided the softest landings since thick, shredded hay and powdery manure make a decent cushion.   Even the most determined jumper soon learned the folly of jumping on a rainy day.  It was too easy to slide into something horrible.  

Regular wet clothes aren’t too bad, but malodorous puddles and cow pies should be avoided at all costs. No one ever broke an arm or neck.

Playing on the square hay bales without damaging them is an art worth learning.  Tearing up baled hay quickly got us expelled from the barn as well as plenty of trouble.  It didn’t take long to discover which friend could be trusted to do right.  Billy and I policed them  and put a stop to tearing up bales.  Daddy had a stacking method we knew not to mess up.

The cats loved the barn, busying themselves with the rats who also made themselves at home. I’ll never forget the horrible feeling of a rat running up my leg.

Knowing rats hid in our playhouse made them no less scream-worthy, though we weren’t afraid of them, often hurling corncobs at them.  I don’t think I was ever fast enough to do any damage.  Sometimes we were a little more effective with slingshots or a BB gun.

A covered area below the loft was intended for equipment storage. Interestingly, only the broken equipment was under the shed. Presumably, repairs were started and abandoned there.  The good stuff sat out in the open.  Very little space was taken up for feed.   Mostly, it served as a repository for junk items.

One of the most interesting  was a rough wooden box with filled with letters and personal items both parents brought to the marriage. We were forbidden to open that box on pain of death, so were sneaky as we prowled through it, enjoying  the pictures and letters from old sweethearts, navy memorabilia including a gigantic pin used to close Daddy’s navy gear bag, six two-inch chalkware dolls in their original box, and two enormous carved ebony spoons featuring a naked man and a woman with pendulous bosoms.  

I can only assume Mother was too much of a coward to hang those shocking spoons on her kitchen wall.  Her sister, Anne, in the WACS had brought them home as a gift to Mother, a woman who wouldn’t  say butt or titty, euphemizing with “your sitting down place “or “chest” if absolutely necessary. What a waste.  If fondling ebony wood breasts makes a pervert, I signed on early. The man was not anatomically correct or the guilt would have undone me. The pity of it was, I couldn’t ask questions about any of those treasures since  the  boxes were strictly off limits.  

Sadly, the rats devoured the letters long before I learned to really read cursive, though Phyllis bragged she got to read some.  I prefer to think she was lying.

Lean-to sheds with stalls flanked the left side and back of the barn. We frequently snitched oats and  lured the horse near the rail partitions dividing the stalls while the other slid on for a brief ride, then switch around for the other to ride.  We badgered Daddy Incessantly to saddle the horse for us, until one fine day when I was about ten, he told us we could ride any time we wanted if we could saddle the horse ourselves.

We never expected that.  Billy and I did the old oat trick and had the horse saddled in minutes.  We rode any time we wanted after that.  I know the horse hated what was coming, but could never resist the oats. When he’d had enough, he’d scrape us off by walking under the low roofed stall.

That barn was the most glorious play area any kid ever knew. We were the luckiest kids around.

 

 

From Stump to Garden: Nature’s Circle of Life

Croc and Izzy helping with yardwork

The dogs hate being left alone in the house when we work outdoors. When I have a stationary project, I bring them along to lounge in the shade. Croc, my big boy, tries to put his leash on by himself if I’m a little slow.

This ragged stump is all that remains of a stately pine. When we moved here forty years ago, it was part of a thick stand. We cleared quite a few out for a lawn and garden but I was partial to this one.

I hung one end of my hammock on it. My children played in its shade, It survived tornado damage but was eventually done in by lightning. We planned to fell it but before we could, red-headed woodpeckers set up housekeeping in it.

The time was never right to remove it as they built nests all up and down its length. We loved the woodpeckers so we left it.

Finally, the wind blew it down before the nesting season. About thirty woodpecker nests lined with white dog hair stretched along its length. The woodpeckers abandoned their wrecked home to set up housekeeping in a neighbor’s snag across the road. We hear but never see them.

We built the flagstone patio and incorporated the stump into the landscaping. Last year, ants made it their home. I couldn’t tolerate the ants, so that’s another story. This sad bit is all that’s left.

Today, I drilled numerous holes in my old friend, filled them with earth and flower seeds. I’m in hopes we will enjoy another season together.

Rubbernecking Duckie

Rubberneck 1Rubberneck 2Original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

We endured periodic visits from Mother’s bizarre  relatives, Cookie and Uncle Riley. Whether or not they were actually deranged was debatable, they definitely teetered somewhere between eccentric and maddening. Most people who had to interact with them on a regular basis held out for just plain crazy. Both held Master’s Degrees, Cookie’s in Education and Uncle Riley’s in Mathematics. Cookie was head of a large public school system in Texas. Uncle Riley worked for the government as a mathematician in the 1950’s. I won’t press that any further, except to say that somehow, they miraculously collided and produced Cousin Barbie, The Wonder Baby. On their way to an Easter visit in 1957, Cookie and Uncle Riley made a few stops.

 

I digress, but needed to set the scene for their visit. Because my mother had married a blue-collar worker, a man they considered “beneath her” and had three children, Cookie and Uncle Riley held the impression that my parents ran an orphanage and would be grateful for any gift of apparel, no matter how useless they might drag in. This particular trip, they came bearing refuse from a fire sale: ten pairs of boys black high top basketball shoes in a wide range of sizes, six identical but slightly singed, size eight, red and green sateen dresses trimmed with black velvet collars and waist bands, six dozen pairs of size two cotton satin-striped Toddler Training Pants, and three six-packs of men’s silk dress socks in a nude tone, a color I’d never seen anyone wear. In addition to these useless prizes, they’d stopped by a fruit stand and gotten a great deal on a box of fifty pounds of bruised bananas and an Easter duck for Barbie. By the time they’d reached our house many hours later, four-year-old Barbie, Easter Duck, and Bosco Dog had romped in the back seat and pretty much-made soup of the bananas. Fruit flies circled the old black 1943 Ford merrily as it rocked to a stop. Uncle Riley, the mathematician, anticipating breakdowns didn’t believe in wasting money on new car parts. He always carried a collection of parts extracted from a junker in his back yard to keep his old clunker running. He also split the back of his old jeans and laced them up with shoe strings when they got too tight, but that’s s story for another day.

 

I know Mother must have dreaded their visit, with its never-ending pandemonium, especially since for some reason, the only thing they shared with Daddy was a healthy contempt and barely concealed animosity for each other. The five of us kids were always delighted to see them, in spite of their bizarre offerings. One pair of the smoky-smelling shoes did fit my brother, but shredded in a few steps, due to its proximity to the fire. The dresses were put back for “Sunday Best,” Thank God, never to be seen again, since neither of us girls was a size eight, nor was partial to singed, scratchy dresses. Fortunately, for my parents, at the moment, they had no size two toddlers for the training pants, though they did manage to come up with a couple just a few years later. Easter Duck, however, deeply interested four-year-old Billy.

 

Sensing misfortune in his future, Mother tried to run interference for Easter Duck, fearing for his health. For some reason she was distracted by the madness of intervening between Daddy and her whacked-out relatives, getting dinner ready for the whole crowd, dealing with out-of-control kids, and finding places to bed everyone down for the night. Not surprisingly, her concerns for Easter Duck were pushed to the bottom of the list. Never having been deprived of anything she wanted, ever, Barbie had no intention of being parted with Easter Duck. Billy needed a better look, and having had plenty of experience dealing with mean kids, patiently waited for his chance. Forgetting Easter Duck, Mother and Cookie went back to their visit, leaving the two four-year-olds to play. As you might expect, before long, they heard the screaming. Barbie held poor Easter Duck by his head; Billy had him by the feet. Between them, they had stretched the poor duck’s neck way past anything God ever intended, even for a swan. Neither exhibited the Wisdom of Solomon and was determined to maintain possession, at all costs. Poor Easter Duck paid the price! Though he was rescued, sadly his neck was not elastic and did not “snap back.” He didn’t get to spend the Easter holidays with his new friends, Barbie and Billy.

 

 

Kathleen Tells All

Andrew and Molly Part 10

Aggie lived up to Molly’s first impression, a terse and demanding taskmaster.  She worked Molly hard, setting her to bread-making, sausage making, washing and ironing. Then came the spinning and weaving.  No wonder Master Wharton hadn’t been concerned, knowing he had an expert in house. From the wool not needed by the house, the master sold her blankets and yarn for good prices, earnings they shared. When Molly looked discouraged at her tasks, Aggie was quick to remind her “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.”  It seemed Aggie begrudged her even a breath of fresh air at the back door.  

Aggie was kind enough to give her a blanket and some mattress ticking for their lodgings in the barn, for which Molly was very grateful. Nights buried up only in the hay would have been very uncomfortable.  Covers over and under hay proved a great boon.  Aggie also gave her some of her fine homespun for drawers and petticoats. Molly was trying hard to like her, but found it hard going when Aggie abraided her for clumsiness or ignorance at her new tasks. Molly found little in the dour woman to recommend her beyond her gifts. 

Despite her taciturn nature, Aggie began to share a few bits of their life before coming to Jamestown.  Learning they’d lost three children to a fever in one week made Molly more understanding of her distance and left her feel more warmly toward Aggie, though she never broached a personal remark, expecting a rebuff.  Master Wharton never interfered in the running of the house, only advising if there would be a guest for dinner or an order for weaving.

With good food, both Molly and Andrew filled out.  With the hard work of timbering and farming, Andrew’s muscles bulged.  He enjoyed the days working with the voluable  Bartles.  Master Wharton sometimes joined them at their tasks, swinging an ax or harvesting tobacco. In the late afternoons, they spent a couple of hours at the forge.  

After a few tries, Andrew was turning out the precious nails and learning to shoe horses. Should they finish early enough, Bartles helped Andrew a bit with the room he was constructing in the barn. Andrew used some of the first lumber to build a rope-bed for himself and Molly.  The straw-stuffed ticking and blanket finished off a fine bed, soon to be joined by a table, chairs, and chest.  They often took their suppers and Sunday meals in their snug room. Aggie helped Molly weave a second blanket before the cold winds of winter moved in, which Molly appreciated despite her resentment.

Andrew and Molly had their Sundays to themselves attending church and socializing with others of their class, soon learning they were in a good situation.  Many indentured servants were poorly fed and abused, not living long enough to work out heir time.  

Should an unmarried bondswoman fall pregnant, she could be punished with up to thirty lashes or levied a fine of the equivalent of thirty-seven dollars, as well as have up to two hundred forty days service could be added to her time for lost work and the master could petition to have her child placed out for care.  Quite often, women were raped then punished should they become pregnant.  Should an English bondswoman give birth to a mulatto child, the punishment could be greater.

Andrew and Molly practiced withdrawal during sex, fearing pregnancy, despite the Biblical injunction against it.  Their time already looked far too long for them to chance increasing it by having a child.  Despite these precautions, a few months in, Molly’s courses were several days late.  She kept her worry to herself, not wanting to trouble Andrew unnecessarily.  One Saturday, her anxiety came to a head when she and Aggie went to the post to deliver some weaving and saw a young girl publicly flogged  for the crime of pregnancy out of wedlock.  Molly wept at the cruelty. 

When she could not be consoled, Aggie guessed the reason for her distress.  “Are you breeding?”  Molly dropped her eyes, not answering.  “I’ll make you a tea that will fix you right up.  You’ll drink a cup a day and these things won’t trouble you.  Our lives are not our own.”  

Gratefully, Molly drank her tea and bled the next day.  Every day thereafter, she had a cup of Aggie’s tea and had no more scares.  She felt closer to Aggie after that, knowing she was softer than her crusty exterior belied.

Andrew and Bartles spent their mornings laboring over the money crop, tobacco.  When John Rolfe had introduced tobacco to England, colonists had gone wild over tobacco, devoting all their efforts and land to its cultivation.  They’d nearly starved after refusing to plant food crops needed to make the colony self-sufficient, till a law was enacting requiring them to plant food crops to be added to public larder.  In addition to tobacco, they grew corn, beans, squash, pumpkins, yams, and several other vegetables.  They raised, cows, pigs, goats, and sheep as well as availing themselves of game and fish to enrich their diet.  In the afternoons, they cleared timber, always leaving some time for blacksmithing.  Soon Andrew was turning out the priceless nails, latches, hinges, and horseshoes colonists were desperate for.  Bartles confided his own share from the sales would soon be sufficient to set himself a forge and smith when he worked his time out.  Andrew should have skill enough by the time he left to take over.  They always saved a little time back to work on the room Andrew was framing up in the barn for himself and Molly, even knocking together a table, benches and rope bed.  They took their meals alone in their home on Sundays. 

Though Jamestown was not established on the principles of religious freedom, it was assumed colonists would attend Anglican services, the established English religion.  Andrew and Molly eagerly attended, using the opportunity to mingle with other indentured servants, learning they were fortunate in their master.  Starting out as a bondsman was no impediment to moving up socially once a servant worked out their time, but they wouldn’t have expected to socialize in the homes of colonists.  Unfortunately, disease was rampant and conditions so harsh, that almost half died before working out their time.

Unlike slaves who had also been transported to Jamestown, indentured servants did have rights and could appeal to the legal system, though it was most often relatives who appealed successfully on their behalf.  They had no say in who indentured them, could be beaten, and earned no wages nor could they marry without the master’s consent. 

Though they weren’t free, they had a good master and the last year of Bartles and Aggie’s service passed quickly.  The two would be soon moving to twenty-five acres where Bartles and Andrew had built a cabin with an outbuilding that would serve as a blacksmith shop and barn.  The barn and smithy were much more commodious than the cabin, since they were necessary for their livelihood.  The twelve by twelve foot cabin could be expanded at any time.  For the present, it was tight and sufficient to their simple needs with its fireplace stretching half-way across one end, its rope bed, a table with benches, and a chest for linens.  A couple of shelves held a few crocks and pots.  It would be easy enough to add rooms with the rich store of available timber.

Survival of the Fittest: Easter Egg Hunt Stories

Easter egg hunts with my cousins were a lot more like cage boxing than gentle competitions.  I had more than forty first cousins, mostly wild animals and heathens. By the time their parents herded them to the scene of the festivities, their hellions had exhausted them so just opened the car doors and all Hell broke loose.  Exhausted from defending themselves and their babies on the ride over, it was every man for himself.  God help anybody in the way,

The monstrous kids ripped through the house under the guise of needing the bathroom and a drink of water, destruction in their wake, before being cast out into the yard like demons into swine.  Actually, they were cast out onto the other cousins.  We’d get a baseball or football team going, all the big kids on one team, so the little ones never got a chance to bat, or got mowed down in football.  They’d go squalling in to their daddies who’d come out long enough to straighten us out a vague semblance of fairness, often lingering to play a while.

Once the egg hunt started, it was chaos.  It was survival of the meanest. The horrendous kids showed no favoritism between their sibligs and cousins shoving all the smaller kids down, stomping the hands of little ones reaching for eggs. The event was a melee of squalling, battered young ones, and sometimes even a few bloody noses. More than a few times they hurled eggs. My antisocial cousin, Crazy Larry, kept trying to pee on us while we were distracted by the madness.

One aunt in particular didn’t think her big kids ought to have to share at the end of the hunt, even though they’d hoarded a basketful and babies had none.

“They found ‘em!” my aunt asserted, sticking up for her devilish offspring.

It didn’t matter that she’d only brought a dozen eggs to the hunt. She resented the host confiscating her evil progeny’s bounty and redistributing them so every kid got a few, and converting most to the Easter Delight of deviled eggs.

Ah, family.  Better get busy.  I have company coming.  But not Crazy Larry.  He’s in the witness protection program.