memoir

Memories of a Girl Lost Too Soon

The city had crept on the gracious old house making it out of place among the bustling businesses. One blistering afternoon the streets were cordoned off and the neighborhood nearly impassable. The parking lot at the funeral home was packed. Crowds of people in black pressed up to the doors unable to gain entry. Speakers broadcast sad church music. Even to a young child it was obvious this was a sad occasion.

Mother and Grandma had us play quietly indoors rather than our usual romping on the large porch. My questions about the goings on across the street were brushed off. Mother and Grandma settled at the dining table for afternoon coffee after Barbie and Billy had been put down for a nap. Determined to learn what was going on, I stretched out on the cool hardwood floors near enough to follow the conversation. With my back to the dining table, I hummed as I pretended play, then feigned sleep.

Soon enough, the low talk turned to the events across the street. It turns out, the funeral was for a sixteen-year-old girl. Her boyfriend had stabbed and mutilated her when she attempted to break off with him. In my desperation to learn more, I forgot my stealthy plan to eavesdrop quietly. I sat up and and barraged the coffee drinkers with excited questions. A scolding broke the conversation up and I learned no more.

I’ve recalled that conversation and wondered about that poor girl many times over the years. I was young enough at the time that she was no more real to me than a television program. More than sixty years later, I am thinking of that girl who will be forever sixteen.

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

Jolly Funeral Policy

Connie and Marilyn's Toddler PicturesAgents selling funeral policies were a fixture in the rural South.  Our budget was too tight for such luxuries, so Mother tried hard to keep us alive.  Myrtle Harper sold policies for Jolly Funeral Home and Watkins products.  She was a nosy do-gooder who carried sunshine from house to house, dispensing information about people’s financial situations

Betty Jones was three months behind on her six policies but thought she might be able to get the money from her mama, now that her daddy had drunk himself to death and Mama wasn’t stretched quite so tight. She shared health information. It’s a good thing, Bonnie Mercer bought that nice policy on her new baby.  She might need it if the baby didn’t start looking better.

She shared all kinds of social matters. Bertha Willis had another black eye Another tidbit: No wonder Phil Parker ran around with everything in a skirt.  Lucy kept a filthy house and her cooking wasn’t fit for the hogs.”

Even though Mother had repeatedly refused to purchase funeral policies,  Mother occasionally bought Watkins Vanilla or Anti-Pain Oil for her headaches, so Myrtle kept optimistically coming by every time she was in the neighborhood.  She inspected each new baby hopefully to see if it might look puny enough to tempt Mother into buying a new policy.  When Connie and Marilyn were toddlers, they sat playing in the shade of a huge oak tree as Mother and Myrtle drank tea. Myrtle launched her latest insurance campaign.  “Just look at those two little gals playing there.  If you bought a policy for them right now, I could get them both a four hundred policy for just a dollar a month.  If you wait till they’re thirteen, it would cost you at least a thousand dollars to bury them.”

Mother studied her babies thoughtfully.  “Well, I guess we’d better bury them now.  I wouldn’t want to miss out on a good deal.” Myrtle never even knew she was being strung along.

Doorbell Ring

https://ring.com/share/7f5d90a7-df84-4ccf-8383-61c2cd04744c

Our doorbell kept ring all afternoon. Follow the link to see our guest!

Lessons from a 96-Year-Old Mother

My mother has reached the age where she has few peers. At ninety-six she is is a generation ahead of most baby-boomers. Several times when we’ve been out to eat, a gray-haired man has stopped by the table and asked to pay for her meal. They usually say they miss their mother.

people of all ages go out of their way to help Mother. Shoppers in the grocery store offer to get things off shelves. Neighbors offer to take out her trash or help in other ways.

Two little boys had stopped to visit Mother, then lingered to visit. She heard them talking outside her back door.

”Miz Swain’s old.” One remarked.

”Yeah, but she’s a nice lady.” the other replied.

”But she’s old. She’s just full of …..”He cast around for the right word.

”Oldness.” replied his friend. “She’s full of oldness.”

Lessons from Childhood: The Connie and Marilyn Story

My sister Connie is seventeen months older than Marilyn.  She was protective of Marilyn from the start, always giving over to “the baby,”. She wasn’t encouraged to do it, that’s just how she was.  Mother was careful not make a difference or favor Marilyn.  In fact, she was felt bad at seeing Connie knocked out of the baby spot, so bent over backwards trying to be fair.

Marilyn had no problem asserting herself. Since Connie didn’t want Marilyn to get in trouble, she rarely hit Marilyn back or tattled on her.  I infer this worked well for Marilyn..  As country children often do, one day Connie didn’t want to take time to go in and wee wee.  She simply darted behind a tree to do the job.  Finding an abandoned hubcap that served as a dog-feeding dish, she squatted and filled it.  As she stood, Marilyn slipped up behind her and kicked it, splashing Connie liberally.  Instead of smacking Marilyn like a normal kid would have, Connie just exclaimed, “Damn!”  Marilyn was off like a shot, looking for Mother,  Connie ,right behind her as soon as she got her wet clothes pulled up.

””Mama, Mama!  Connie said “Damn!”  This was big trouble.  Mother wouldn’t tolerate trashytalk.

Mother whirled around, shocked, expecting Connie to deny the evil deed.  “Connie, did you say, “Damn?”

”Yes ma’am.” Connie whimpered.  Had she told Mother what Marilyn had done, they would both have been swatted.

”Get me the fly swat.”  Mother kept a plastic fly swat hanging by the back door ready for just such a occasion.  She gave Connie two or three quick swats and dismissed her, while Marilyn stood by self-righteously.  It was years before Connie told the whole story.

I wonder if the dogs thought “Damn” later that day when they smelled pee in their dish.

My family:  I am in the back row Left, holding Connie’s hands,  Billy Center, Phyllis  holding Marilyn Right.

Favorite Album

What’s your all-time favorite album?

My favorite is by Harry Belafonte. I am posting the cover below. It has “Lemon Tree”, “Day-o”. “Darling Cora”, and numerous other wonderful songs on it.

Family, Faith, and Fun: Church Meetings Next Door

Many Saturdays , our neighbors held church meetings in their home. They probably served a meal and visited since the guests remained a great portion of the day.

Our unfenced backyards ran together. Children of all ages played freely between the two yards while their parents worshipped. My kids loved the party atmosphere, mingling freely with the kids.

We were adding an addition to our house at the time. Bud had his power tools set up in the open area of the addition. No doubt, the power tools were quite loud, impacting the service next door. It was unfortunate they were holding services on the day Bud had laid out to work but he had to work on his days off.

Nevertheless, sometimes we could hear their enthusiastic singing over Bud’s sawing. After a while, a lady took it upon herself to speak to Bud about the noise. Genially, Bud replied, “Oh, go right ahead. You’re not bothering me.” In a huff, she returned to the service next door.

Meanwhile, our children had been invited and went along to the service when the kids were called in. After about twenty minutes, my son John came casually ambling out. “How did you like church, son?” I asked.

“It was okay. I helped ‘em sing and listened to Mr. Bob talk a little, but when they got ready to bust the bread, I came home.”