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Country
Poetry by Cora Gail Gunn Trent |
| The
Good Old Days Memories of Childhood |
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| Home Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Memories Grandpa's Legacy Little Hute Flomot, Texas Childish Fun Rodeo Days Houston and Jackie Hauling Freight Saddle Bum The Matthews Connection Miss Sallie Medical Knowledge in 1929 |
Memories The past is rich with memories, embossed, perhaps, by time. They lend themselves so naturally to syncopated rhyme. They seem to keep us young at heart and brighten dullest days, reminding us of lessons learned and kids we helped to raise. When grown too old for work or play, with present thoughts uncertain, we feast our souls on memories as life brings down the curtain. § Grandpa's Legacy (Lycurgus Aurelius "Curg" Gunn) 1901 - before the town of Flomot existed When Grandpa Gunn came west to farm, no plow had broke the land; no weed, no cactus, no mesquite, just grass on every hand. He was the best of neighbors, a Christian through and through. Just ask for help and he was there, 'most everybody knew. A transient family stopped awhile, the pregnant mother sick. She died, and Grandpa's helping hand never missed a lick. He took the boards right off his barn, a coffin for to build, and buried mom and infant up on the gravel hill. The grave remains, a monument, reminder from above of a Grandpa that I never knew and his legacy of love. § Little Hute Robert Houston Gunn 1903-age 10 His Pa has allowed him to ride the wild horse as long as he's there in control. "Don't you try to ride him without any help" was exactly what he was told. Help comes in all sizes, according to Hute; who says they have to be grown? His buddies were watching, and one spooked the horse, with Little Hute bound to be thrown. His foot hung the stirrup, he dragged 'cross the way, head bouncing and banging around. A weak stirrup leather gave way just in time, as the horse jumped the fence with a bound. His back teeth were missing and some cut his lip, his unconscious body a mess. His friends thought him dead when his sister they told, their part in the fray to confess. The doctor was called from a birthing nearby, as Hute was just coming around. He sewed up the cut lip and bandaged some wounds, but no broken bones could be found. Hute's enthusiasm for broncs never flagged, he rode every chance he could get. The crowds loved to watch him put on a good show; youth's experience caused no regret. (It was actually his sister-in-law, Pearl, who was summoned, but I couldn't make it fit.) § Flomot, Texas The first Flomot post office was at the Welch's ranch, west of the Floyd and Motley County line. Three letters from each county combined to make a name for school kids to become proud of in time. A cotton gin and store soon sprouted three miles to the east; the making of a town was underway. To move the old post office there seemed logical to all, no pessimistic voices saying nay. The little village prospered and built a handsome school, morale was boosted by its churches three. Hard-working farmers were its backbone, knowing from the start that nothing worthwhile ever comes for free. An attitude of love and trust enveloped one and all; we felt just like a great big family. There neighbors helped each other out from birthing until death, although their politics might not agree. Responsibility was learned by work and sacrifice; no lazy bums and loafers were allowed. We didn't turn out presidents or Rockefellers rich, but citizens to make a mother proud. § Childish Fun When Hute was eight, a feisty pup, in the year of nineteen-one, Curg moved the family out west, toward the setting sun. The neighbors loved to socialize when given half a chance; newcomers to the area were welcomed with a dance. A festive air enveloped the crowded little hall as grown-ups danced and mingled and young kids had a ball. Nobody paid attention when Hute refilled his cup at the punch bowl spiked with whiskey as he slowly liquored up. This gala introduction to the Flomot party scene had set the stage for years of fun when Hute became a teen. As the mothers danced and visited, their sleeping babes were switched so when they would retrieve them from the bedroom dark as pitch, a neighbor's child was taken, bundled in familiar quilts, and the teens who caused the trouble suffered not a pang of guilt. Often horses had been tethered in the farm yard here and there, just the recipe for meanness with young boys who love a dare. Horses from beneath the elm tree traded places back and forth and their homing instincts took them west or east instead of north when the tipsy riders nodded off and let their reins go slack, waking at their destination, oft as not a neighbor's shack. Kids are kids as generations of the century go by. Foolishness and fun are ageless; ours is not to question why. § Rodeo Days Houston
Gunn (Daddy) 1914
cgtrent@att.netHe was just a little tipsy, happy as a lark, to please the crowd his ultimate ambition. His only problem as of now was drawing just the bronc to help him try to bring it to fruition. Within the rope arena the waiting bronc stood still as though he knew not what he had in store. When Houston hit the saddle, the pony quit the ground; the young bronc rider couldn't ask for more. The walleyed cayuse bucked and bawled, the rider to unseat, stiff-legged jumps and suck back to surprise. Hute raked his shoulders with his spurs and laid back on his rump, a man this hoss was starting to despise. Once more around the ring and Houston's spurs were losing hold; he flew straight up almost into the clouds. The horse ran out from under and Hute landed on his feet. Both horse and rider drew cheers from the crowd. § Houston and Jackie His favorite job was riding broncs, regardless of the pay, but next to that was hauling freight, a challenge night and day. From the train depot at Estelline to Lockney, up the Cap, he drove a span of pampered mules without a bad mishap. Arriving home long after dark, his wagon empty now, wife Jackie met him at the barn and helped unhitch somehow. Home was the rock half-dugout on Grandpa's old home place and it was there, one fateful day, life slapped him in the face. He found his wife a-dying by poison of her choice. Raw eggs, too late, she tried to take before death stilled her voice. Her burial dress lay in the drawer; she wanted no tombstone. In the Flomot cemetery she lies unmarked, alone. (Correction: According to Cousin Clara, Houston and Jackie were living in the newer house, Uncle Hershel's family in the old rock dugout.) § Hauling Freight Back in the early twenties, when times were hard and mean, my Daddy ran a freight line from the town of Estelline. He loved that hand-picked span of mules and gave them tender care, considered dispositions when hitching up a pair. The road was long and treacherous, through creeks and gullies steep, meandered at the highest point between two rivers deep: Red on the north, south to the Pease; rainwater ran both ways. It took a lot of fortitude for hauling in those days. One canyon posed a major threat, so steep for miles on end; exhaustion was a problem waiting just around the bend. Sometimes they moved just inches, then had to stop and rest to give the mules a chance to blow before they reached the crest. And then there was the Caprock, escarpment like a wall; a driver had to know his mules to make it up at all. Delivery to Lockney was cause for celebration, with rightful pride in teamwork, a feeling of elation. The railroad came to Quitaque, through tunnels up the Cap, to put an end to freighting and change the local map. Bronc busting, ranching, freighting, he loved that way of life, but ended up a farmer with five kids and a wife. § Saddle Bum The cantle on his saddle was comf'table and low, and the folks who found it rather queer had often told him so. He cowboy'd in New Mexico where the range is dry and rough. When the situation called for grit he often showed his stuff. One day his wild steed pitched a fit right down a steep hillside. He laid back on the horse's rump, a simple, bouncy ride. A cantle any taller could have popped his spine in two or forced him forward for a fall and a laugh from all the crew. The boss-man, looking on with glee, had quite a lot to say about this funny-looking rig on which he earned his pay. Hute had a sense of humor and took it as a joke, but came back with a barbed retort, a little fun to poke. "If not for risky saddles which you very much admire, a Texas boy for the tougher jobs you wouldn't have to hire." § The Matthews Connection Amanda Kidwell was a lass whose fine upbringing was first class. Kentucky neighbors thought her silly to fall in love with a tall hillbilly. Tom Matthews won the young girl's heart and promised they would never part. In time they met with much success and with a family were blest. Though big and strong, tough as a boot, he longed for work that paid more loot than felling logs to feed his clan. To farm in Texas was his plan. West toward the sun the group sojourned as wheels of fortune slowly turned. The eighth and last kid to arrive was Sallie, born in '95. Dorchester, Texas was their home til Sallie got the urge to roam. The rest is Flomot history where Gunn and Matthews produced ME. § Miss Sallie Sallie was so sickly, she missed a lot of school, but finished at the age of twenty-one. Her speech of valediction was years before its time, a harbinger of better things to come. In "Normal School" she learned to teach, as she had longed to do; her heels dug in to start a new career. The kids all loved her young outlook and silly, witty ways. They were to her like sons and daughters dear. To windy Amarillo, a bustling little town, she rode the train from Sherman, close to home. By mail hack on to Dumas she hitched a dusty ride. This lady had some big plans of her own. There she became the tutor for two lonely little kids out on a ranch where no one ever came. They made her think she'd rather have a family and home, and precious freedom never looked the same. She still remained a teacher, with babies of her own. The lessons learned came both by word and deed. She read us books by lamplight, taught music, art and love, and managed somehow seven mouths to feed. Her life taught us endurance and a faith to breed content with anything that fate might send her way. We're learning still as memories return to spur us on; down deep within, her spirit's here to stay. § Medical Knowledge in 1929 Sallie Ann Matthews Gunn (Mama) She was only eight months pregnant when labor pains began; too soon, too soon, said Doctor Price, the quack. He stuffed her full of gauze and ordered her to rest in bed; when time was full he promised to be back. Another month and now the scheduled birth began again; the dead and rotten babe was born in bits. Old Dr. Price went on about his very merry way and left the mother to depressive fits. She nearly died, and who would care? Lawsuits were not the vogue. For better doctors, options there were few. He delivered yet four others; by luck they all survived, and like a bunch of careless-weeds they grew. In modern times malpractice suits are plentiful as stars, but who would wish to turn the times around? Instead we should be grateful for new medical techniques and all the caring doctors to be found. Home |
| The
Good Old Days Part 2 |
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| The
Clumsy Stork Crowells' Place Stormy Weather A Walk in the Woods A Sticky Situation Spring Grove Dink's Solution Mrs. Wolverton Cemeteries Turtle Soup A Snaky Day Same Song, Second Verse Don't Mess with Mama Fun in the Rain Learning the Hard Way |
The Clumsy Stork 1933 Mama said that when the stork delivered little baby Mary, he flew too low and dragged her in the lake. Her lungs were full of water, and they had an awful time persuading her that first big breath to take. While growing up, she'd cough and wheeze with asthma now and then, and it always seemed to be worse in the fall. Down on the farm, the cotton crop is ready in the autumn, and the reaping wasn't any fun at all. When Mary felt too puny, she'd stay at home and cook, and she knew just how to whet an appetite. Backbreaking labor was our lot all day out in the field, but we sure looked forward to her food at night. Then when Mary went to college at Canyon, on the Plains, instead of cotton, their main crop was grain. She had no asthmas problem til she made a visit home and the fall connection then was very plain. She dropped her farmer/boyfriend and latched onto a coach, living mostly on the Plains to raise her brood, turning out five kids (four coaches) who are doing mighty fine, the products of her can-do attitude. § Crowells' Place On Leonard Crowell's dusty farm, the place (I think) where I was born, my happy memories begin, good memories of "way back when." Mrs. Crowell (Lizzie) came one day, (just when this was, I couldn't say) caught geese to hold between her knees and pluck their downy breasts with ease. 'Twas there I learned that syrup cans were hardly meant for tiny hands. An old car minus all its wheels was where my budding sex appeal brought me an offer from a guy whose sales pitch I refused to buy. While sitting near the smokehouse wall, discussing things I can't recall, a rattlesnake beneath the floor is etched in mem'ry evermore. I seem to see a small shed room, a feeling of enshrouded gloom. A mattress lies there in a heap, a place to suck my thumb and sleep. Somebody shut the window on the tender tail of a Maltese Tom. These varied snippets I recall make very little sense at all. (Oops! Walt says the snake tale happened on the Franks place.) § Stormy Weather A black cloud looms up toward the north; must we expect a storm? Somehow it has a different look; a sinister, eerie form. No lightening plays within it, no shafts of rain below. It seems to cling right to the ground. Our apprehensions grow. The darkness is upon us, and gobbles up the sun. the choking dust envelops us; our troubles have begun. These are the Dirty Thirties with sandstorms here to stay. It heaps at every post and rock, grinds on our nerves each day. Wet blankets on the windows catch pounds of dust and grit, but still it seeps right through the walls, and we eat scads of it. At last the howling wind subsides; who can describe the peace? It's almost like that tranquil time when the pains of labor cease. We sweep and shovel piles of sand; it bars the toilet door, completely hides the cellar, everywhere you look there's more. It is no rare phenomenon, we've only seen the first of many years' duration. Each seems to be the worst. § A Walk in the Woods 1939 It was the first time we lived at Spring Grove, when I was just a tot. We lived in a trailer way out in the woods, the woods Mama sure loved a lot. I remember her walking with Dink on her back as I tagged along close behind through leaves that were golden and scrunched underfoot; delight was so easy to find. One day I went walking alone up the trail to see cousins Shirley and Roy. Nobody was home but a big Collie dog, and he danced around me with joy. I reached up and put my fat arms 'round his neck, and we became friends then and there til Mama showed up with a long switch in hand, and was she irate! I declare!! She switched my bare short legs each step of the way, and I learned a hard lesson well: Don't worry your Mama, just stay close to home, or you'll have a sad story to tell. § A Sticky Situation 1939 - age 2 1/2 I was always quite a snoopy, nosy, bratty kid, it's true, ever looking for a chance to find out something odd or new. With Mama at the windmill washing laundry by the ton, I went snooping in her trunk, which was off limits, loads of fun. The velvet dress of blue had been outgrown for quite awhile, but I tried it on because I shouldn't dare, and cracked a smile. Then prancing down the lane, I must show off my sneaky smarts, and Mama took a switch to unprotected lower parts. Back to the house; what could I find to make a mess of now? The kitchen stands unguarded and I'm hungry, anyhow. The syrup on the table beckons to my roving eye; subversion may be just the locale where my talents lie. I kneel on bended, dimpled, grubby knees upon the bench. I guess I'm big enough to help myself now in a pinch. I tip the gallon can of syrup gently toward the plate and backward on the floor I go to meet a sodden fate. The bucket landed upside down upon my addled head; a pool of gooey syrup round about me quickly spread. When Mama found me I was getting pretty close to tears with icky, sticky syrup running down around my ears. She barely had the time to take the situation in, one moment short to ponder in her mind where to begin, when from the windmill came a scream of pain and agony. Sister's arm was in the wringer; she had to be set free. So now big brother Walter had to clean up all the mess, and he wasn't very tender at the job, I must confess. The moral of the story is: Obey your mother's rules, 'cause big brothers have no patience when dealing with young fools. § Spring Grove 1941 After living in West Texas, Spring Grove was paradise, with trees and grass so bright and green, our life had added spice. The three-room shack was nothing great, but nature's big outdoors gave everything our hearts desired. We couldn't ask for more. We drew fresh water from the spring beneath a willow tree, and found a snapping turtle there, big sister Peg and me. The creek was shallow where we swam and frolicked happily. We picked blackberries from the vines, swung in the tallest tree. The country school was right next door to Mama's garden spot. The teacher loaned me books to read; her love I ne'er forgot. A copperhead spied Mama's chicks when no one was about. He almost swallowed one, but Mama made him spit it out. The time we spent at Spring Grove was set apart, it seems. The memories of childhood come wafting back like dreams. § Dink's Solution 1941 "I burned up Daddy's Bible," Dink proudly said to me. He thought he'd solved THE PROBLEM, 'cause he was only three. It was only Daddy's songbook I found there in the stove, the one he took to church each week while living at Spring Grove. The Bible seemed to be the source of arguments we heard which Daddy always started with his knowledge of the Word. He felt an obligation to set the whole world straight, make sure we gained the entrance of heaven's pearly gate. Instead of greeting Mama with love and joy, I fear his first words on arrival were, "What're YOU doing here?" § Mrs. Wolverton Our neighbor is Mrs. Wolverton, who lives just up the way. Her upstairs house is painted white, her cow eats oats and hay. She has a fluffy feather bed, fireplace and radio, and even a big pear tree; she's filthy rich, I know! She asks me to go to the store, some vinegar to buy, and on the road, what do I see? A whole Eskimo pie! Someone has taken just one bite and dropped it in the dirt. I know I mustn't pick it up, but leaving it will hurt. The gallon jug is heavy, the summer heat is tough. I dream of monetary gain; two bits would be enough. She offers me some water to cool my fevered dome, and loans a hated bonnet that I must wear back home. § Cemeteries Our Spring Grove house was ample, three small rooms and a path. To figure up our budget you didn't need much math. 'Twas Mama's job, like paying rent, to hoe the cemetery, a quiet little family plot, not extraordinary, surrounded by a grove of trees with strong vines for a swing. I loved to play there while she worked, not bothered by a thing. And since that time, a graveyard has always been a place of comfort and serenity, no specters there to face. § Turtle Soup I must have been four and Peg about six when we lived at Spring Grove, way out in the sticks. Across the road and through the fence we went down to the spring to fetch a pail of water, a heavy, sloshy thing. 'Twas there we spied a turtle, the big old snapping kind, which had Peg dancing round with joy; this was a glorious find. "Let's catch it for some turltle soup," suggested she with glee. But I would lend no help at all; I ran and climbed a tree. He wouldn't fit the bucket; I guess it's just as well. The thought of eating turtle soup is yucky, truth to tell § A Snaky Day Mrs. Christian was the teacher at the little one-room school. She gave me books to read at home; at five, I was no fool. She even gave all three of us material for a dress, 'cause we were nearly naked in those days, I must confess. I put on my new pinafore to proudly show Mrs. C., but lying stretched across the road, a black snake startled me. The kids were out for recess, so Walter I did tell. He popped the coach-whip's head off; I thought my Bud was swell! I trotted toward the out-house, and coiled there in the trail was a sun-warmed, snoozing copperhead, and Walt killed him, as well. § Same Song, Second Verse Spring Grove is just a schoolhouse, whitewashed and shining bright. We're on the playground after hours, and get into a fight. We climb the fence and head toward home across the garden plot, and sit discussing Angeline, who we dislike a lot. The minutes pass, perhaps an hour, before our leave we take, and coiled behind Dink in the shade there lies a rattlesnake. Have no fear, Walter's here! § Don't Mess with Mama The copperhead was hungry, the chick a tasty snack. It sure looked like a goner til Ma gave the snake a whack. Out popped the dazed and frightened fowl and wobbled all around. The copperhead done lost his head, his ship has run aground. You mess with Mama's eggs or chicks, you're gambling with your life. She keeps that trusty garden hoe as sharp as Bowie's knife. § Fun in the Rain The house was higher than the road, the ditch a steep incline. A rainy spell made lovely mud, and did we love the slime! A pair of well-worn underwear that could be thrown away was all we ever needed to make a smashing day. Slide down the bank into the ditch and splash the water high. Tom Sawyer would feel right at home in this glorified pig sty. § Learning the Hard Way There were plenty trees for cutting when we lived at Spring Grove, and all the people round about had two wood-burning stoves, a heater in the living room for comfort nice and cozy, and a cook-stove in the kitchen where hungry youngsters mosey. Daddy had an old used pickup that he loaded up with wood to sell to neighbors by the rick every day he could. When Walter was around to help, a cross-cut saw they shared and then lopped off the little twigs, hard-working hands to spare. As Daddy used the heavy axe, young Walter swung a hatchet, an education in itself, a job with many facets. I watched with curiosity as chips and sawdust flew, too close to Walter's hatchet, like kids are prone to do. He drew back for a hefty blow and clobbered my hard head. My brow had quite a gaping wound as down my face it bled. Since then I learn best from afar, reverse has plenty traction. The hard way taught me not to tarry too close to the action. (Walt says that when he was not available to help, Daddy used a rubber band made from an old innertube on the un-manned handle to pull the saw away from him.) § Heaven Scent In Beth's flower garden I found a surprise, not a bloom to delight impressible eyes, but a smell from my past, a sharp tangy scent recalling Spring Grove; the freshness of mint. With exhilaration I followed my nose back into the past where fond mem'ry grows, of live oaks and acorns, lush growth to be seen, of plentiful rains making everything green. Perhaps when we live in eternity's span we'll have all the pleasures of Spring Grove again. cgtrent@att.net Home |
| The
Good Old Days Part 3 |
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| Tall Tales Young Love Whitesboro Depression Memories Mama's Legacy Mama's Instant Cure Close Call Try, Try Again Dusty Roads Cut the Butter The Dreaded Booger Man The School Bus |
Tall Tales Surviving the depression just served to make us tough. When we had nothing else to show, our humor was enough. An argument ensued about the wealth we had back then, each boy proposing just how rich his family had been. The winner lied with gusto and excitement all could feel. "Why, I recall we ate both beans and taters at one meal!" § Young Love Bone-chilling cold had slowed the pace in our Spring Grove paradise, with branches of the live oak trees now laden down with ice. Shirley and Roy lived north of us and a little east, I think, where a pond was frozen over for a handy skating rink. Though very small, almost too young for memories to stick, one incident impressed the mind of this pint-sized country hick. Son Price, an older neighbor, three or four times my size and seriously retarded, seemed harmless otherwise. We walked together toward the pond where kids were slipping, sliding, laughing, falling, having fun, but skateless, hardly gliding. I was dreaming of the thrills ahead, my thoughts all in a whirl when bashful Son Price blurted out, "Tootie, would you be my girl?" § Whitesboro We moved from Spring Grove in the fall to a nearby cotton patch to earn some needed money so Dad didn't have to batch. Whitesboro was the little burg, but the stores I can't recall, just the black-land mud that stuck to shoes, for I was rather small. Too young to help with pulling bolls, Dink rode on Mama's sack as I plucked cotton from the bur and piled it in a stack. Sometimes I found a penny nestled in the boll. How Mama worked that magic out she wisely never told. A pallet for our daily nap lay in the trailer's shade where we sucked our thumbs contentedly and knew we "had it made." We'd never heard of poverty, had not a single care. As long as family was near, we were happy anywhere. § Depression Memories I picked cotton today til I could drop; lets stop by the store for a sody pop! That sweet chocolate flavor should quench my thirst, but it needs some shaking to mix it first before you flip that crinkly lid where oftentimes surprise is hid. Now on a handy shelf I spy a creamy chocolate Eskimo pie, for cotton pickin' country folk, a dream reduced to a standing joke. The only sweets we can afford, so seldom that we're never bored, is an all-day sucker in a sack of beans which, sometimes, is beyond our means. Our wartime ration of sugar stamps is about as useless as electric lamps when greenbacks are as scarce as meat. We're lucky to have free wood for heat. Dad milks the neighbor's cows for half. With arthritic hands, that chore's no laugh. Ma skims sweet cream from off the top and parcels out each precious drop of butter churned so patiently on homemade rolls that suit to a T. Though times are hard, we're learning well to enjoy each yummy taste and smell. § Mama's Legacy The first job I remember was standing by a chair and washing dishes in the pan that Mama lowered there. She bragged about how smart I was to do the job so well, to boost my youthful ego, my tender pride to swell. It was her habit in those days to give a just reward that made us eager to perform, although the task be hard. A can-do spirit was the lasting legacy she gave. To try and fail was not a sin or everlasting shame. She set a good example and gave her very best. She'd try to do 'most anything, and seldom failed the test. From teaching on a Dumas ranch to raising baby chicks or renovating furniture, she was an awesome mix. She loved to read and write and paint; her list of gifts was long. Her alto voice and old guitar did justice to a song. With each advance, her talents grew; her love of life, as well. We learned from her example and now her praises tell. § Mama's Instant Cure The five of us are taking turns, the rolling barrel to walk. You have to hold your mouth just right; there is no time to talk. At four, I lack the balance to stay on top for long. I fall off in an ant bed; I always do it wrong! The ants are right unfriendly, their stings like poison darts. I run to Mama screaming, proclaiming how it smarts. She calmly reaches in her lip for a little dab of snuff to smear the painful swelling, and stops it soon enough. § Close Call (According to Kenneth) When Kenneth Kell and Walter, age 11 years or so, are turned loose with a rifle and .22 ammo, some sort of dire calamity is likely to occur, make Mama wonder if the Lord sent kids to punish her. They take aim at a knot-hole on the sagging outhouse wall and can hear the bullets hitting a tub above the stall. From inside, a screaming banshee threatens death or maybe worse, putting fear in whipper-snappers like an awful dreaded curse. Walt has earned his timely beating, not the first and hardly last. Kenneth isn't sure his future will be lengthy as his past. In the year of Mama's holy wrath, the fall of '42, is born a lasting memory, etched like a bright tattoo. § Try, Try Again 1942 Daddy always made a living any honest way he could. While at Spring Grove he plied the trade of cutting, hauling wood. But during wartime, things were scarce; no new tires could be bought. Without them, the old pickup was useless, good for naught. There were no jobs, no way to go, and seven mouths to feed, dire circumstances that would make a Daddy's heart to bleed. He hitched a ride to Flomot, hired out to help a friend, batched in a little one-room shack and sent us dough to spend. The rest he saved for quite a spell, as wages then were cheap, although he worked from dark to dark, and seldom got much sleep. At last he had the money to hire a grocer's truck to move us back to Harley's place, with hope we'd change our luck. Thank God for parents who had grit and love through thick and thin. No matter what life handed out, they took it on the chin. § Dusty Roads 1942 An old-time spring revival was being held that week at the lonely little Fairmont Baptist Church, with Sunday's usual climax, "dinner on the ground," but to find the place just might involve a search. We lived in Harley's little shack and had no way to go except by foot on stubby little legs. It must have been a six-mile trip along those winding roads, my dusty footprints almost matching Peg's. I had a pair of jet black high-top patent leather shoes, too precious to be worn except for dress. I carried them like costly gems, protecting soles and shine, til my unshod feet were quite a dirty mess. At the church's steps I sat and pulled on socks to hide the dirt, and donned my pretty shoes for all to see. I don't remember much about the service or the feast, but the memory of that trek has stayed with me. § Cut the Butter Most people had a fancy butter churn, but ours was just a plain half-gallon jar. Pour it three-quarters-full of cream, and shake like a rattletrap old car. When your arms feel like they soon will turn to lead, the yellow flakes of butter start to show. Like magic, fat and buttermilk divide, and creamy lumps into a ball will grow. Remove from milk and wash with water pure, then add some salt, and shape upon a plate. Spread samples on a slice of fresh-baked bread; your taste buds couldn't meet a better fate. § The Dreaded Booger Man 1942 I wouldn't admit it, but now I confess. It's not of importance these days, I guess. I was scared of the dark and that old booger man, and of dreaded tornadoes I wasn't a fan. I had to be macho or Walter would taunt; I thought I must satisfy his every want. But then when he dared me to run 'round the house in inky black darkness, I thought him a louse. With lumps in my throat and holding back tears, I faced the night boldly and laid back my ears. To circuit three rooms, it seemed like a mile, with the booger man tight on my heels all the while. A set of old bedsprings lay right in my path; the odds you can figure without any math. Entangled and falling all over the place, I looked that old booger man square in the face and, gaining composure, I finished the course to overcome handily that dreaded force. I've faced many booger men since that dark night but none worse than threatened in that fearsome flight. Each escapade tempers the soul just a bit and usually keeps me from throwing a fit. Perseverance brings patience, I truly believe, but I hope Walter has no more tricks up his sleeve. § The School Bus 1942-44 When we moved back west to Flomot, we didn't have a car, and the two-mile trek to town and back on short legs was too far. Then Daddy got a dandy job, the big school bus to drive. It suited me down to a "T", 'cause I was only five. It took us everywhere we went; we must have been a sight at every local function and the show on Saturday night. It moved all our belongings to the Fairmont home and back as we settled for a longer stay in Skinners' run-down shack. When Daddy took that dreaded job to feed his hungry brood we couldn't then appreciate how hard he earned our food. cgtrent@att.net Home |
| The
Good Old Days Part 4 |
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| Changing Times Hog Killing Time Guilty! Kids Will Try Anything The Stone Family Kids at Play Mama's Good Example Down the Hatch Thomas Flirting with Danger Permanents Cleanliness and Health Woman’s Work The Old Swimming Hole Progress? Beware of Strangers Wild Walt, the Gunnman Stupidity When Do We Eat? Kicking the Habit Simplicity Heading Maize Glad Tidings Good Old Days No More! A Cut Above Hard Times Ever the Teacher The Trunk Garbage Disposals A Special Hair-Do Newspapers The Wisdom of Age Sweet Dreams Bertie and Uncle Lee The New Rug A Lost Art The Spoon My Idol Memories from Cousin Nica The Day Bed Skinners' Shack The Well-House The ‘28 Buick Old-Fashioned Christmas First Ride Horsing Around |
Changing Times The Great Depression wasn't all that the Thirties had in store. Some good things happened, also, like the five kids Mama bore. And there was penicillin, a wonder drug for sure; the death rate started going down with that great miracle cure. In my time, neat inventions have eased life's little ills, like cellophane tape and ball-point pens and birth prevention pills. Kleenex replaced the hanky and oleo edged out butter. The gasoline powered mower retired the old grass cutter. Machines have changed the way we live, from tractors to TVs, and the future boggles up our minds with its possibilities. We wouldn't change technology even if we had a vote, but do you think we can improve on the yellow sticky-note? § Hog Killing Time 1940s You try to cover up your ears and scream to stop the sound of a dying hog in agony, the piercing squeal to drown. They want his heart still beating to pump out all the blood, and squirting like a fountain, it makes a bright red flood. A barrel of boiling water will tender up his hair. We take turns scraping with a knife to leave him slick and bare. I'll spare you all the details of buthering from here. The meat is cut in handy slabs and rubbed with sugar-cure. We grind some into sausage and stuff in into sacks made from the scraps of worn-out sheets, and hang it up on racks. The liver is our supper; it wouldn't keep for long. To say it is delicious ain't very far from wrong. Through winter months we eat our fill of ham and chops and bacon. No matter how you cook it, we'll clean the plate, I reckon. § Guilty! 1943 Out on the graveled school yard I found a quarter bright, just lying lonesome by itself; no owner was in sight. I knew that I should turn it in to teacher right away, but if its owner wasn't found, in her desk it would stay. I chose to keep the fortune, and went to town at noon. My pocket might just spring a leak if I didn't spend it soon. It bought paste and Crayolas, construction paper, too. A tablet and two pencils; no bubble gum would do. The pride I felt was worth the guilt; I could afford the best. I'm glad nobody offered me a lie detector test! § Kids Will Try Anything When Mama was young and snuff was "in," she learned to dip and spit. We had to try it just for fun but the habit didn't fit. Dirt tasted best and made the same old nasty looking juice. Cocoa and sugar, better still, could soon lead to abuse. We smoked tobacco at every chance, and sometimes coffee, too. A strip of cedar bark to roll, of these we smoked a few. Daddy kicked the habit and returned his "makings" to the store, but learned to his surprise that there should be one package more. A sack of Bull Durham disappeared? So innocent were we! There seems to be a lesson here; nothing comes for free. § The Stone Family We moved around so often, no taproots were intact. Just like a Gypsy band we roamed about. From Flomot to East Texas we bounced from time to time and seldom ever stayed a season out. In '42 we came back west from Spring Grove to Fairmont and used the teacherage next to the school. It was a stucco house, the best abode we'd ever had. To leave this set-up one would be a fool. The schoolhouse was unused those days, a perfect place to play. There Sister honed her budding teacher's skills. But best of all, across the road we had some neighbors new whose lives, like ours, were quite devoid of frills. Floyd was the dad, a one-armed man who worked from dark to dark, and Lillie, a snuff dipper, was his wife. With seven kids to feed, they struggled just to meet the bills, but seemed to have a very happy life. Don was the youngest, just Dink's age, then big Lucille for me. Nadine and Peg were paired, two of a kind. Helen and Mary, Walt and Joe, why ask for better friends? Ten young and eager lives all intertwined. Our moving soon continued, they often did the same. The families kept in touch down through the years until we all were grown and gone, yes, gone but not forgot. Their memory ever in my mind appears. § Kids at Play A little over seven years twixt Walt and little Jerry with three tough tomboys in between made our life very merry, all close enough in age to play at cowboys, sports or poker as Walter always took the lead, a carefree, nutty joker. With Dink I oft played in the dirt with homemade toys of wood, made roads and fields and mountains, our game plan understood. On rainy days we girls played house with paper familes cut out from last year's catalogue, our entertainment free. When playing church we each took turns at preaching, praying, singing, baptized each other in the tank, lost souls salvation bringing. We sometimes fought with words or fists but seldom held a grudge, competed constantly at sports with Walter as the judge. On Friday nights, the radio brought weekly boxing thrills, and wearing names of favorites, we honed our fighting skills. From jacks to games of marbles, we had to try it all, sloshed in the mud, jumped off the roof and always had a ball. I loved Red Rover, Pop the Whip and even Kick the Can. When darkness drove us back inside, the quiet times began: Monopoly or reading or sawing on the fiddle, card games to exercise the mind, a joke, perhaps a riddle. We ate mulberries from the trees in shelter belts so green and watermelons Boots provided, best you've ever seen. We played much harder than we worked, stayed busy sun-to-sun. My whole childhood comes back today in memories of fun. § Mama's Good Example I learned to love the sound of words before I can recall. To hear my Mama's crooning voice was the greatest sound of all. She read us Bible stories, told fairy tales by heart. Dramatic presentations always played a major part. She gave us many gifts of books before we started school. To learn was most exciting. We even thought it cool. She helped me play the violin with music knowledge scant, and when requests were given we seldom answered "can't." She offered much encouragement in everything we did, from washing up the dishes to baby-sitting kids. She set a good example of perseverance-plus and used her varied talents to raise all five of us. § Down the Hatch On a lovely summer's evening back in nineteen-forty-five, we were riding home and singing, happy just to be alive. We had been to a revival at the Flomot Baptist Church with emotions overflowing after souls were deeply searched. Standing in the Buick pickup, leaning forward on the cab, wind a-whipping hair in tangles, eyes a-tearing just a dab, headlights beaming in the darkness, dust and wildlife blowing south, as I sing aloud with gusto, some old bug flies in my mouth. Past the lips too slow to stop him, too far back to flick the tongue, swallowed faster than a reflex, look out stomach, here he comes! § Thomas 1940s I wished hard for a boyfriend through my first few years in school, but no such luck was to be had for this mop-headed fool. Then Thomas looked beyond the mess and saw a soul within who shared the hope that here, at last, a friendship could begin. But then his horse kicked in his head, some of his brain oozed out. Normality was questioned, he was different, no doubt. He soon dropped out of seventh grade and disappeared from sight, and I've often wondered since that time how he survived his plight. I now had other boyfriends, but none could quite replace the very first who dared befriend the girl behind the face. § Flirting with Danger The school bus was crowded and noisy and hot, some passengers having to stand. Friend Thomas and I were perched on the step til our flirting got quite out of hand. The bus driver, Daddy, had opened the door, allowing the breeze to come in, a good invitation for clumsy old me, disaster about to begin. As Thomas so boyishly stepped on my toes, I naturally picked up my feet, and out of the doorway I tumbled head first, a bloody misfortune to meet. It took them awhile to get Daddy to stop, the sad situation to view. He just sat and waited, I limped down the hill with kids making fun, nothing new. Though no bones were broken, my knees only skinned, the last wound to heal was my pride. I found out the hard way when flirting with boys, the door's not the best place to ride! § Permanents In the early nineteen-forties, a ladies' beauty shop had electric heated curling irons that frizzled up your mop, a jillion little tiny clamps, each with its own thin wire to electrocute a woman's head, a situation dire. For homemade perms, you ordered a kit from Wards or Sears and heated one curl at a time, a job that lasted years. When scientists invented a perm with chemicals it was a glad occasion for haridos fanciful. It answered all the wildest dreams of girls with stringy hair and made us feel right feminine, not beautiful, but fair. § Cleanliness and Health In days of the germy outhouse, we seldom washed our hands except, perhaps, before a meal, so I don't understand how we all kept from dying, if hygienists know their stuff, or did we kinda grow immune? Was nature's help enough? I never heard of tetanus shots. Coal oil was all we had. Mixed with sugar for rare colds and flu, it didn't taste half bad. And, there was Daddy's "gall cure." For horses it was made. It eased a lot of tender spots on children as they played. Our time was spent in good clean dirt, our health was excellent. No doctor could survive for long on money that we spent. § Woman’s Work The gasoline powered washing machine has just laid down and died. We’ve gone back to the rub-board, scraping knuckles, losing hide. Use the barb-wire fence for clothesline, socks and undies on the tree. If the mule eats Daddy’s long-johns off the fence, yall don’t blame me! Sprinkle down a stack of ironing for tomorrow’s scheduled day. Clean the lamp globe, fill the oil can, say your prayers and hit the hay. Rise and shine, daylight’s a-wasting, prunes and oatmeal down the hatch. Turn the coal oil on beforehand, light the burner with a match. Heat the iron til spit will sizzle, wipe the soot on paper brown, smooth the wrinkles quick and sure, ‘cause time will cool the metal down. Feet and legs are tired and aching standing too long in one spot. Attitude’s becoming testy, cheerfulness has long been shot. Have you ever wished to go back to those good old days of yore? I remember them with love but hope they’re gone forevermore. § Progress? As I stand at the supermarket in the fast-moving check-out line and hear the beep of computers to speed the waiting time, I think back to Georges’ Grocery, now just a memory, when time flowed like cold molasses, relaxed and so carefree. In winter, an up-ended carton for Cokes made a seat by the stove in back where men exchanged the news of the week while the kids chose a pretty feed sack. Each item they bought was listed in Harrison’s neat long-hand and paid for monthly or yearly, whatever the budget could stand. A nickel would buy a cold soda or a bag of potato chips, and don’t forget to bring home a glass of the snuff that Mama dips. A trip to the store was a social event much better than TV news. We had no earthly idea then how much we soon would lose. § Beware of Strangers Do you remember, Nica, the day we walked to Flomot three miles from Skinners’ shack in summer heat? A stranger offered us a ride, two girls so young and foolish, and it sounded good to tired and aching feet. But Mama always said you don’t associate with strangers; we waved him past and staggered on our way. We didn’t know the kindly stranger was a neighbor farmer, Putt Gilbert, Daddy’s friend from olden days. § Wild Walt, the Gunnman It was on a summer Saturday, the day we went to town. Young Walt was dressed up fit to kill, his hair all plastered down. While waiting for the word to go, he got into a fight with outlaws at the well-house/jail; oh, what an awesome sight! His six-guns are a-blazing, his bullets draw a blank. He’s hit; he stumbles backward and falls into the tank. The sodden youth has met his match, his spirits dampened down. Now he must change to lesser garb to see the lights of town. § Stupidity With hair and eyebrows of sun-bleached blonde I thought myself washed out and plain. Though I tried all the beauty tricks I knew, my efforts were in vain. One boring day in second grade, with my handy scissor knack, I blindly snipped the hated brows and crayoned them in black. I wasn’t prepared for the teacher’s response, her expression almost fun. At loss for better words, she screamed, “Cora Gail, what have you done?” Was that the last of my stupid tricks? How I wish it could be so. It seems that age and wisdom do naught to stem the flow. § When Do We Eat? At home the food was simple: cornbread and pinto beans. We seldom had a real dessert, a dish beyond our means. Like a good Grandma, Aunt Neva would spoil me when she could and knew the best way to my heart was fixing special food. She puttered in the kitchen with a twinkle in her eye. “I don’t have much to do today; I think I’ll make a pie.” I watched with fascination the careful pains she took to roll the dough and add the fruit and put it in to cook. She takes it from the oven; my mouth begins to drool. My stomach can’t believe my ears; “Now we must let it cool!” § Kicking the Habit Before emphysema became a word, Daddy’s breathing was giving him fits. He laid all the blame on cigarettes and used sheer will-power to quit. For five years he wanted a cigarette with every breath he drew but being determined to tough it out, nobody ever knew. Not learning from Daddy’s example, Dink started out early to smoke. He didn’t realize the temptation to Daddy was no joke. One night when he left his “makings” and Dad was alone in the house, he rolled one and started inhaling, feeling all the while like a louse. But his lungs rejected the nicotine, and was he sick? Oh, brother! In all his life thereafter, he never wanted another § Simplicity Oh, for the simple days of yore when a trip to Georges’ grocery store required no complicated list. Corn meal and beans were seldom missed. The “pie safe” was our storage space to keep necessities in place: red beans and taters, salt and snuff; we didn’t need a lot of stuff. The Honest Snuff came in a glass with just the right amount of class to fit into our home decor like the well-used peach-can-cuspidor. One dresser held our clothes and such. We had no need for closets much til we started buying chicken feed in pretty sacks that all agreed would help our little wardrobe grow, which soon we’d need a place to stow. On nails across a corner spot we strung a piece of wire we got (perhaps from Daddy’s baling cache) to hang our pretty, stylish stash. More wire, with sticks to make it strong, formed hangers as we went along; inventing, improvising, scheming, all the while, great futures dreaming. Toys were made from scraps of wood, old inner-tubes, well understood to be of no use otherwise and hardly missed on their demise. Garage sales hadn’t yet arrived, although we didn’t feel deprived by using up and making-do, with wants and needs so very few. The lye soap Mama made each year washed bodies, dishes, hair and gear. Our medicine was castor oil, asafoetida to cause recoil, gall cure for cuts and varied sores, plain kerosene for colds and more. With good well-water, clean fresh air, we Gunns had blessings and to spare. Hard work and fun , variety. The best in life indeed is free. § Heading Maize The first few years on Skinners’ place our work was “on the halves.” We owned no farm equipment, used borrowed cows and calves. For heading maize and other jobs, a red horse and a mule were teamed to pull a wagon, an odd but handy tool. The reins were tied a little slack and Daddy simply spake to tell them when to stop or go and keep the span awake. Maize heading is a tough old job, just one stalk at a time, requiring skill and practice and a good sharp pocket knife. Dad walks and cuts and gees and haws and throws the itchy heads until the grain lies in a heap inside the wagon bed. Then to the barn to empty by pitchfork, grit and muscle and back again for one more load; that little man could hustle! He took pride in a job well done, hard working, yes, and wise. He didn’t need a treadmill to get his exercise. § Glad Tidings Have you tried to run in cowboy boots? It makes for quite a show. To catch my Daddy running is the rarest sight I know. He raced across the cotton patch from Skinners’ (on the hill) with glorious, delightful news to give the heart a thrill. By radio, they’d just announced the war was at an end; Americans and allies had put Europe on the mend. Our close-knit small community had lost some native sons who proudly wore the uniform and faced those deadly guns. We had a cause to celebrate, a day of games and fun, but the icing on that special cake was to see the “old man” run. § Good Old Days Have you gone out to the windmill in winter’s snow or sleet to fetch a pail of water, then sloshed it on your feet? Did you wish that from this dreaded chore you could be exempted? Have you brushed your teeth, prepared to rinse and found the bucket empty? Then offer thanks each blessed day for plenty running water; use cool or simply turn the tap when you want it hotter. Have you ever used a rub board to wash old grimy jeans and tried to wring them out by hand, a job beyond your means? Have you fought a dratted wringer that squirts you in the eye and had the clothesline break when you hung the wash to dry? In chilly winter weather when your fingers just might freeze, be thankful for those two machines that wash and dry with ease. Did you ever have a bellyache from eating spoiled food or had to drink your milk half warm and change your happy mood? Was your icebox just an old wash tub with a quilt to slow the melt? If you seldom saw a block of ice, I know just how you felt. Refrigerators are a boon for comfort and for health. Don’t take their use for granted, a symbol of our wealth. Was your Daddy’s old straight razor the source of that first shave? Oh, for a safety razor, your tender skin to save! To hone and strop that antique blade was a never-ending chore. It pulled a lot more than it cut; good riddance evermore! The memories of days long gone make pleasant reminiscing of slower times and youthful fun; we mourn what we are missing. But who would choose to venture back to olden times and ways? I’m thankful for the progress we’ve made in modern days. § No More! I didn’t like ketchup or lettuce or beets, Coca-Cola would not pass the test, no chocolate candy for my teenage taste; a Payday with peanuts was best. Tho my budget was skimpy, a nickel I saved to purchase a Payday at lunch, tore into the wrapper and took a big bite, then scanned the remains, on a hunch. I was not alone, I saw right away; White worms, too, are partial to nutty Payday. My taste changed to Hershey almost overnight. Just keep those old Paydays out of my sight! § A Cut Above I didn’t learn mending from Mama, or planning a varied menu. She didn’t do regular ironing; her housekeeping talents were few. She’d rather refinish a dresser, upholster an out-dated couch, make a desk and book shelves from a pie safe, which kept her from being a grouch. Preferring the outdoors in springtime, when new baby chicks turned her on, or leaving a cotton row weedless, or reading a book all alone, she was one of a kind, hardly social. Her family filled all her needs. Two dresses were plenty for wardrobe, she knew not the meaning of greed. She hoped, she once said, that her daughters would be more housewifely inclined, enjoy chasing kids and dust bunnies, relax with a satisfied mind. But I followed right in her footsteps; the farm dust seeped into my blood. I’m happiest digging the sweet-smelling soil and transplanting seedlings in mud. My on-going project this season is to make the piano like new, replace ugly old dings and scratches with a neat Tung oil finish to view. The writing bug I caught from Mama has brought unexpected rewards; our mountain retreat has new fodder for rhymes that time in retirement affords. If everyone had such a Mama, the world would be at peace. Heaven on earth would be reality, all fussing and fighting would cease. My blessings from childhood are countless, “Why me?” I have wondered ere long. But no answer comes as I pound out the chords and praise her example in song. § Hard Times In the long depression years thru the sandstorms and the tears we didn’t even have a chamber pot, just a tin can ‘neath the bed, budget always in the red. Life was bleak, between a hard place and a rock. Maybe even worse for Dad, there was no horse to be had. Many years he couldn’t buy a pair of boots. It was really sad for me, such a little kid, to see the weather-man and devil in cahoots. I remember Daddy wearing (maybe to his own self swearing) a pair of two-tone slippers, second hand. For a cowboy, that’s no joke and to us he often spoke of the good old days when luck was with the land. Younger folks have never seen times when pickings were so lean, and I hope it never happens here again, but it taught us how to cope when there seems so little hope and the bigger picture we can’t understand. § 1940s
Sister tried so very hard
to
civilize
our clan
despite our daily tactics
to
undermine
her plan.
Attempts to organize the
house
and keep it clean and neat
were met with rank
rebellion and
ultimate defeat.
A good example was when
Walter
shucked
his winter coat,
gave it a sling toward the bed, as deep within his throat he growled, "Shut up!" at Sister before she could protest, so that her tendency to rant for once went unexpressed. To work on table manners while she served as summer cook, she gave a prize for neatness, a spiral small notebook for keeping cotton weights that fall as we labored in the fields, a significant example of the power she could wield. She had us watching crumbs and spills as though it were a game while teaching us a lesson, this smart and cagy dame. I wonder if the practice with this bunch of stubborn mules was any help in later years while teaching kids in school? § The Trunk
When visiting at Glen Rose I saw the old trunk, discarded and empty like some piece of junk. The tales it could tell of life down through the years, of moves it had made, of laughter and tears. It rode out to Dumas by train and mail hack, and several times to East Texas and back. A dozen farm houses and probably more were home for its owner through good years and poor. It kept all our trinkets and keepsakes and such, a worthless collection we treasured so much: The baby quilt made before Walter was born, the blue velvet dress that each girl child had worn, a shell Uncle Will brought from Guam in the war, an album of pictures, Walt's class ring and more. I rescued the trunk, refinished its wood and lined it with cedar to do what I could to save a few memories from out of the past and give it a permanent new home at last. § Garbage Disposals Before the advent of the modern under-sink disposal, a farmer didn't wonder what to do. We kept a bucket for the slop beside the coal-oil cookstove although the table scraps were very few. Potato peelings, corn cobs bare, a well used bacon rind, not much to whet a poor hog's appetite. For flavor Mama added clabber milk that might be rancid and we lugged it to the barn 'most every night. An old broomstick stuck through the handle shared the weight between us as we tried not to splash it on our toes. With mash mixed in, it made a fairly yummy piggy menu. They fought like swine to get it, heaven knows! § A Special Hair-Do 1943 Our curlers are strips of a Prince Albert can, each wrapped round and round with old rags. We hope they will kink up our long, stingy hair and keep us from looking like hags. Mama's homemade lye soap is our only shampoo, with vinegar rinse for a shine. If it squeaks twixt the fingers, it's ready to roll and that bouncy hair-do will be mine. Twist the hair on the curler, crimp each end for hold, ignoring the rust that shows through. So what if your blonde hair shows traces of red? The color might compliment you. All night I must wait for the wet hair to dry; I'm anxious to see the creation. A cascade of ringlets delights my young eyes, my heart overflows with elation. The coils will grow limp ere the day is half gone, but for now I'm on top of the world. Take my picture real quick to remind me henceforth of today while my tresses are curled. § Newspapers The Fort Worth Star-Telegram was the rag we loved to read but no way could we afford it, with our seven mouths to feed. Uncle Dud and sweet Aunt Neva saved theirs up for us each week and delivered them on Sunday, bringing blessings to the meek. Daddy thought newspapers foolish, useful only in the john. He read nothing but the Bible. Worldly wisdom was a con. Mama read like time was wasting, papers, magazines or books. We inherited her nature, curiosity and looks. My favorites were the funnies, Smilin' Jack and Mutt & Jeff, Joe Palooka, Winnie Winkle, will Dick Tracy marry Tess? Sunday afternoons were special, catching up on weekly news. With so much to keep us happy, our bunch seldom had the blues. § The Wisdom of Age Uncle Lee was close to ninety, and Charles a rowdy teen, two generations distant, no common ground between. Engaged in conversation, Charles asked of Uncle Lee, "To lose a taste for women, how old do you have to be?" Old Uncle spat tobacco juice and slapped his bony knee. "Well, I don't know. You'll have to ask somebody older'n me." § Sweet Dreams The kerosene barrel lies down on its side with a spigot in front that opens up wide for filling the jug, so heavy to tote when a kid’s in a hurry and wearing no coat. (And that’s not all of the heartbreaking news. She’s also not wearing her stockings and shoes.) The upside-down tank sits now on its tip with the spring-loaded lid letting kerosene drip to keep the fire burning all day into night, its red glowing sides a beautiful sight. We sit in a circle on old kitchen chairs, so glad to be safe from the freezing night air. But then comes your bedtime, where rooms have no heat, and it takes a brave cowpoke to face icy sheets. Wad up in a ball, warming one tiny space, your chattering teeth nearly breaking your face. Then stretch out by inches to lengthen the nest. Two sisters for comfort encourage sweet rest. The old cotton quilts are heavy as lead, which sure make it hard to turn over in bed. But now warm and cozy, you dream of a day when comfort is brought by the new REA, and wondrous inventions will heat up the home or even the bed. Young dreamer, dream on! § Bertie and Uncle Lee I first remember Uncle Lee the year that I was six, and he was nearing eighty, long retired. He lived with Harley and his wife, the former Bertie Morris, a lady whom I very much admired. He was the closest thing to a Grandpa that I knew, spent lots of time at our house through the years, sat in the shade and whittled, chewing on his plug tobacco and likely drove sweet Bertie oft to tears. Sometimes son Boots would volunteer to take him for a visit to give them both a breather from the stress, but he refused to stay for long, a day or so at most, and back he came to Bertie’s cozy nest. His mind was getting foggy, what we call these days “Alzheimer’s,” which often sends caretakers ‘round the bend. There were no home health services way back there in the ‘fifties; the only help was family and friends. When I had “been there, done that” through Mama’s “long goodbye” and Daddy with depression later on, I learned appreciation for Bertie’s loving patience while taking care of Uncle Lee so long. § The New Rug The floor was rough and bumpy, just old, unfinished wood. Vain were improvement efforts, doing everything we could. One year we must have made a crop and had some cash to spend. We bought a new linoleum, brough ugly to an end. With old newspapers underneath to pad the bumps and cracks, it really brightened up the room, despite some other lacks. We waxed it every Saturday and buffed it to a shine with an old worn cotton blanket to give each other rides. How proud we were of simple things, not did we mind the work. Instead we turned it into fun, would not our duty shirk. When I dread to run the vacuum or mop the kitchen tile, I think back to those days of yore and crack a little smile. § A Lost Art According to Mama, the term "chopping cotton" meant more than just hoeing the weeds. When planters were first invented, they generously sowed the seeds and the plants came up thick as hair on a Yeti, too many to grow strong and tall. Then a hoe's width was chopped out, a hoe's width was left, for a well-balanced stand overall. Before burgers and chips were invented, slaves cooked right out in the field, frying cornbread on the blade of a hoe, a tasty "hoecake" thus to yield. We were hardly as tall as the handle when Daddy taught us to hoe and file the blade sharp like a razor, a good lesson kids ought to know. We knelt across the handle with the blade held tight on our knees, and with bare calloused hands filed a keen edge, a perfectionist Daddy to please. When it takes more than one lick to fell a big weed, then it's time to ply the file, which, to me, is a welcome change of pace so I can rest awhile. § The Spoon I wish I had that metal spoon my Mama used so long to mix the cornbread as she sang a Stephen Foster song. It stirred the red-eye gravy, dipped up delicious beans and served food at the table like wild lambs-quarter greens. It scraped so many pans and bowls, one side had worn down flat and a hole came in the bottom. You can't dip soup with that! When stainless steel and plastic replaced that proud heirloom I wish I'd been on hand to claim that old hard-working spoon. § My Idol 1943 Evelyn Martin played piano at the Fairmont Baptist Church, my idol at the tender age of six. I knew that someday I'd play, too, though we had no piano, but that was something my great Dad could fix. Evelyn rode on Daddy's school bus, a teenage girl with boyfriends, but she still had patience with a kid like me, one of the few who didn't tease, with words so cold and cruel, and I wanted to grow up as sweet as she. It was six long years before the dream of playing the piano came true with Daddy's work and sacrifice. How my music might compare with hers is nothing now that matters but I hope my attitude is
half as
nice.
§ Memories from Cousin Nica A photo of the family came in the mail today and had my mind in turmoil; “Which house is that?” I say. A window-facing painted white? It isn’t Skinners’ shack or the farm house owned by Cousin Boots with a cistern at the back. Then I spied the big white bandage on Sister’s skinny leg and knew that this was Turner’s place (where I grew as tall as Peg). Between the rows of elm trees, as Dad was batting us flies, when Sister jumped to catch the ball, she got a big surprise. She came down on the ragged edge of a gas tank cut in two, which peeled her shin down to the bone, a nasty thing to view. No doctor was available to sew the jagged wound and the scar it left embarrassed her as teenage woes ballooned. The picture brought back memories of happy times and sad, and knowledge that those days are past makes this old lady glad! § The Day Bed Our house was furnished sparsely, only necessary stuff: Three beds, a dresser, one old trunk, one chair each - just enough. The "day bed" in the living room was a dressed-up army cot Uncle Will brought back from World War II, and comfy it was not! It wore a skirt of feed sacks like a dress Ma made for me. I slept there in the summer to escape a bed for three. That cot sits in our cellar now to help wait out the storms. The springs are tied with baling wire but its use is true to form. § Skinners' Shack The sad old house had never seen a warming coat of paint. Its starkly nude appearance gave it an aura quaint. No knobs or locks upon its doors, just latches with a string. Holes in the floor let in the rats and snakes and everything. The walls were bare and thin and cold, one window to each room. The rafters held no ceiling, the prospect one of gloom. But under that tin, leaky roof a happy family thrived. We loved and laughed and sang as though our fortune had arrived. It was the base for active sports, engaging one and all, an old milk bucket on the front a goal for basketball. We rode old Star and Dynamite, went swimming in the tank, the lessons learned while there worth more than money in the bank. No house of brick with velvet drapes and swimming pool in back could harbor love and memories to rival Skinners' shack. § The Well-House A weathered wood oasis, covered now with climbing vines, it always was the coolest summer spot. Kids used it for a nifty playhouse, school and cowboy jail; adults brought chairs to sit when days grew hot. From deep within the earth, the windmill drew up water cool; a barrel, trough and stock tank held their fill. The overflow then ran out to the greening garden plot, the waste of precious water almost nil. Milk, eggs, and butter cooled from dampened cloths within the trough, evaporation magic at its best. Our seven hungry mouths ate most supplies before they spoiled; the pigs and chickens handled all the rest. When summer days grew hot, we pulled the plug and drained the tank to wash out winter’s muck and grime and moss, and scrubbed the sides and bottom til it smelled again like wood to freshen water for the cows and hoss. It served as swimming pool before the welcome dam was built, where I cut my eye on barbed wire overhead. It cooled our watermelons hauled in by the pickup load, the only time that we were over-fed. Rain barrels, cisterns, springs and creeks - necessities of life; we used them through the years of fat and lean, but none surpassed the well-house for its versatility, best water source that I had ever seen. § The ‘28 Buick Times were hard, jobs were scarce, and then there was the war. ‘Twas likely 1942 when we abandoned our old car. We used the school bus Daddy drove to get ourselves around; it went to church on Sunday, and Saturday nights to town. And then our next conveyance was an iron-wheeled wagon rough. To stand the bumps and sometimes stares was often pretty tough. We were the only family so far behind the times. No pleasant memory of that experience can I find. In 1944 or ‘5 we must have made a crop and bought a car from Cousin French, a Buick with rag top, the vintage 1928, but what was that to us? It beat a horse-drawn wagon or a rattletrap old bus. The wheels were always turning in Daddy’s busy head; he took the turtle portion out and made a pickup bed. We took the doors and hood off to add to its mystique but sister wasn’t much impressed with our pickup unique. It hauled our watermelons and served around the farm. We all took turns at driving and never came to harm. Though the starter and the brakes gave out, it still ran like a top. We pushed if off to start it and geared it down to stop. A pickup cab was added, no fenders for the bed, and riding in the open back could fill a kid with dread. The unpaved roads threw muddy missiles at us when it rained, and fun was very often mixed with misery and pain. At Christmas, Daddy fashioned a covered wagon top, and off we went to Gainesville for fun that wouldn’t stop. Every time it had a flat, we fixed it on the spot, taking turns at pumping; a picnic it was not. The weather going down that day was autumn-like and mild, but coming back we ran into a norther cold and wild. The old cab had no windows, only curtains tied with wire, no modern vented heater to prevent a problem dire. By sharing body heat and quilts we made the trip intact, although our almost frozen limbs with aches and pains were wracked. ‘Twas years on end before we got the urge again to roam, agreeing with that adage old, there’s just no place like home. § Old-Fashioned Christmas Christmas used to be more fun back in the olden days; imagination played a bigger part in generating expectations, blissful joy and hope, excitement great enough to bust a heart. Old Santa Claus was still a jolly elf that we could love, who had no trouble fitting chimneys small, not some old guy with tacky beard to scare the little kids as seen these days in every shopping mall. We took the wagon up the Caprock where the cedars grew and cut a tree that reached high overhead. Then everyone pitched in their talents decorating home to look like holidays in green and red. We had a Christmas program to rival Broadway fare, with homemade script and carols old and new. We went to bed on Christmas Eve with hearts and souls aglow although we knew the presents would be few. By early morning light the beds were emptied one by one to see what waited there beneath the tree - a store-bought stick horse, home-made doll, a stocking full of fruit, perhaps a book of poetry for me. When modern kids have everything their little hearts desire, what’s one more day and one more heap of toys? Anticipation is the key to make the holiday a special time of year for girls and boys. § First Ride
Horsing
Around1944 A horseback ride was new to me, but bravely I climbed on. Up to the corner we would trot where other kids had gone. A walk, a trot, and faster still, I couldn't slow her down. I feared we'd end up far away in some strange foreign town. Up in the saddle with my feet; I must bail out, and NOW! I jumped toward the sandy ditch; I've strong legs, anyhow. Old Star was trained for roping, and stopped before I lit. I took the reins and led her home, no use to throw a fit. They laughed at me for falling off, which bothered me a lot. But Star ran off to kingdom come every chance she got. § 1944 “Come look”, Mama says as she stands at the door facing the eastern sun. There in the pasture are Peg and the horse; a contest has just begun. Peg is toting the bridle, and Star stands right still til she’s starting to slip it on. Then off runs the mare, circling around, the seeds of frustration sown. After several tries, as many rebuffs, and Star almost laughing with glee, Peg sets herself down on a big handy rock, the bridle at rest on her knee. Star’s circles grow smaller, she slows to a trot, a questioning look in her eye. The fun game has suddenly come to an end and she seems to wonder why. She walks up behind the crest-fallen girl and gives Peg a nudge with her nose. The bridle goes on now with nary a hitch and a new relationship grows. cgtrent@att.net Home |