Storytelling

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!

Don’t Worry, Grandma

My sister and her four-year-old daughter were visiting her mother-in- law when Grandma realized she was telling a story she didn’t want repeated.

“Now, Hayley. Sometimes people talk about things they don’t want repeated. You don’t need to tell anyone what Mommy and I are talking about.”

“I know, Grandma. Mommy talks about you and I never tell you.”

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.”

Patches: A Story of Our Calico Cat

I believe our calico cat, Patches, was mentally ill. From the beginning, she liked the men in the family. As for the women, she either treated us with disdain or total rejection.

Many times, Patches behaved as though she was having hallucinations, staring intensely at walls or furniture as though something was there.

She was a very picky eater, preferring one brand of boxed cat food. The only other thing she’d touch was tuna. One morning I gave her the last of the cat food. That afternoon, on the way home from school, I sent my daughter into a convenience store with a five-dollar bill, assuming that was plenty. In a minute she was back out with her purchase. I always let the kids keep the change if they went in the store.

When we got home, Patches was yowling. I tore the top off the bag and poured. Patches had her face almost in the dish as dust fogged in her face, nearly choking her. My daughter had bought the cheapest item on the shelf with a cat picture. That may have been the very moment Patches took a dislike to us.

Bud and I settled into bed one night when Patches decided to visit him. He was lying flat on his back when she jumped up on him and started purring loudly and making biscuits on his chest. Eventually, she quieted down.

“Thank goodness, she finally settled down.” I said

“Yea, but I’d feel at lot better about it if she didn’t have her butt right on my face.” The

Photo from WordPress photo library

Segway

Segway, the motorized scooter, is not for the clumsy. We visited Sarasota, Florida many years ago with my daughter who’d been yearning for a Segway adventure. I wasn’t. I’ve always been uncoordinated. I knew what was in store for me.

In case you don’t know, the Segway has a motion sensor. When you lean forward, it goes forward. I hated it on site. Had I heard this ironic story about the Segway owner on NPR before my little outing, I’d have never gone.

“Owner Of Segway Dies On Segway

SEPTEMBER 27, 20109:58 AM ET

By 

JJ Sutherland

Jimi Heselden, the owner of Segway, apparently drove one of the personal transport devices off a cliff and into a river. He was killed. Police say they do not suspect foul play.”

We received a whisper of instruction before our Segway ride began. My performance was even worse than I expected. I looked like I was trying to dance with the wretched thing. I never actually fell but I looked like a bobble-head doll. While everyone else in the group coasted along smoothly, I struggled to retain my upright position. I hated it!

Photo from Google