It Gets Worse With My E-Mail.

Yesterday I bemoaned the E-Mail attack on my bust size and firmness.
Today I am more appalled.

Reluctantly I have come to terms with the ravages of age-- wrinkled skin--thin grey hair--varicose veins-- weekly beauty salon visits. I accept the inevitable.

But dear friends, what does growing old gracefully mean?

Today my E-Mail contained:
                      "Male Enhancement. She will thank you."
                       "Vydox: Our gift to save your marriage. Boost your confidence in the bedroom."

Why does not someone offer me confidence in bed for a full night's sleep, free of 2 or 3 or 4 bathroom calls?

Adventures With E-Mail

The winter solstice has come with no cold, no snow as in past years. But we have rain enough to suggest an ark, as harsh as snow and ice. Isolation by space and weather makes my computer a bosom buddy. Endless unsolicited E-Mails offer me everything from a new roof on a house with a new roof to lowered interest on a credit card debt I do not have.

It has become routine to call up E-Mail, scan, sort and delete . But today was a different day.  I stared at the E-Mail inbox screen:
                               HAPPY 80th BIRTHDAY
                               HAVE A GREAT 80th BIRTHDAY
                                                  Repeated several times.
These genial messages were followed by:
TRANSFORM YOUR BUST LINE INTO A LARGER AND MORE APPEALING LOOK

My loins tingled -- not from bladder leak I hoped.
My heart raced -- not from A-Fib I prayed.
Did I dare hope that help was available for breasts that look like shriveled grapefruits suspended in stretch socks attached to my chest?

I need to get to a book store and buy books to keep me occupied. This rain might very well become snow and ice in January

My Skin May Be Too Thin

At a meeting of friends (some new, some long time) my shell of the educated sophisticated woman was shattered-- reducing me to tears as I responded in a way that likely seemed inappropriate to the group. The friend, whose background is nothing like mine, related to us the following, She and her daughter were driving through West Virginia past small houses and trailers. Discovering they needed gas they were hesitant to stop at any of the gas stations in the 'trailer section..'.

A near empty tank decided the matter. "The proprietor was very nice." Her look and tone laid bare her surprise.

How dare she assume they would be anything but nice? The trailers-- the small houses?

These were, or more truthfully are my people.

I grew up in rural Tennessee, on a dirt road stretching past small houses and shacks. (Trailers were not then generally around. The only non resident people driving on our non-paved road were the itinerant preacher, the rolling store merchant, the county agent, tax assessor, Doc Lawson when a baby was born, and an occasional passer by for 'who knows why?'

We were aware of the difference in status. We knew we did not have as much as the county agent or the tax assessor, Doc Lawson who delivered  babies. But a threat to strangers?

The days of shotguns fending off unwanted visitors was long past in 1945. Certainly today it is of no concern. That trailer, that small house, that country store is owned by people as nice as my leary friend. AND LIKELY LESS PREJUDICED.

I Have Had My Doll Donna for Seventy-six Years

On a chair in my bedroom sits my doll, Donna. I was four years old (in 1939) and my sister was two and a half when we got the dolls. Composition heads, hands and feet; cloth stuffed bodies; pink dresses and bonnets. They were the, most beautiful things we had ever seen.

The fact that Donna is still around is attributed to two things. First, Mommie, in an attempt to keep the precious dolls safe, hung them on the wall and allowed us limited play time. That time we used creatively. Our baby brother born a month before we got the dolls frequently was in need of a shirt or a diaper. The dolls were comfortable in those shirts and diapers.

In 1953 the fourteen year dolls had been stored away, safe from the attention of adolescent girls. I do not remember where Ivy stored hers, but mine was stashed away in the cedar chest which held extra quilts and unused clothing. Hence her survival.

A fire destroyed the house and most of the furnishings. One surviving item was the cedar chest, pushed out an open window, badly charred, but intact. Donna was intact. Albeit her composition face, hands and feet were cracked from the heat. But she lived even with her scars. In her dress and bonnet, the second since that fire in 1953, she sits proudly on the chair in the bedroom.

Before My Earliest Memories

The recent spate of public service commercials about the necessity of Whooping Cough vaccines has triggered in my memory something I know only because I heard my mother tell it so many times. I was but six months old when I contracted Whooping Cough. Mommie said I coughed and whooped so hard I turned blue and she feared I would die.Then I vomited. Keeping enough food in my stomach was difficult causing fear of my general health for I was a thin baby from birth.

When I watch the current commercials with the grandmother with the wolf face, I cannot help,but wonder if in my six month old perception, when I looked in the face of my grandmother holding me tight for comfort I saw the face of a wolf.

No Love For Carbonated Sodas

July 1947
I was just twelve when Grandma Neely died. The not so great Grandma from the point of view of us kids. That was Grandma Cardwell.

Grandma Neely, who sold her house in Crossville to Uncle Fred, had plans to travel from kid to kid. That would have been a lofty plan and filled out a hunk of her life for she had ten children.

While she was in Tazewell visiting Uncle Luther and his family she fell and broke her hip. Mommie, attached at the hip it seemed to her mother, immediately made the trip from Crossville to Tazewell to see her.

Kids it turned out were not allowed to go into the hospital. Uncle Luther took Ivy and me along with his boys to a Crystal Hamburger place, where he bought each of  us a nineteen cent hamburger and an Orange Crush. We had never had a soda. My first sip filled my nose with such fizz that I spit it out along with the remnants of the hamburger.

That has nothing to do with the death of Grandma, who died later that day from a stroke, related or not to her broken hip. It is relevant to the fact that my only memory of Grandma's death is of the tingly effect of Orange Crush.

I Knew I Loved my Daddy

Troy Neely, my Mommie's cousin, was one of  Daddy's best  friends. He came to visit. They had been close since the time they learned to walk. All they had shared, all they felt I never knew. But I knew a little. I was a kid, and we kids knew our place. "To be seen but not heard".

We kids were there-- in our place-- in our beds while our elders talked into the night. In our place when adult things were going on.

But we were not always asleep as we were told to be. We were not always in our beds as we were ordered to be. We were in the background, in the shadows watching and listening.

So it was when Troy came from Tazewell to Crab Orchard to see us. Back slapping, wide grins, tall tales, news sharing, shared friend chicken with the fixins', Then it was late. All us kids and Mommie were in bed. Daddy and Troy sat in the living room. I remember the day. It was in November. The temperature had dropped; Daddy and Troy say in front of the fireplace, sharing intimate men things. Nosy and so not obedient, I crept through the pass through from the bedrooms to the dining room. I sat crouched behind the wall into the living room. I listened as Daddy and Troy talked.

Then Daddy was crying. He just couldn't go on, he said. "I never knowed it would be like this. Ruthie is so hard." Daddy sobbed. I wanted to get up and look around the doorway, but I feared the consequences. I crept back to my bed.
I knew that minute, that night that I really loved my Daddy and could never love my mother as a daughter ought.

Berry Pickers Extraordinaire

As kids on the farm we had to work. Weed the garden, hoe the corn, sucker the tobacco, feed the hogs and on and on in what seemed never ending tasks. All this without pay. The family was an economic unit.

Except during strawberry picking season. Daddy had a big strawberry patch. The short harvest period required many hands. Daddy hired local kids, paid them six or seven cents a box, depending on price he would get at the farmer's market. We got paid too. If one worked steadily payment at seven cents a box could easily reach $3.50 or $4.00 a say. A fortune.

Ivy and I were good berry pickers. Arville was less diligent-- easily distracted by bugs, birds and the taste of the berries. Diane and J.B. were another matter. At least when they began to pick. True they were young and should not have been allowed to pick. True Daddy gave them the chance-- on a seven cents a box day.

It was also true that they were clever and dishonest. Ivy, Arville and I filled box after box. Diane and J.B. filled their share until Daddy discovered why his youngest were so productive. They filled each box two thirds full of grass with one third berries on the top. Needless to say they did not get their seven cents a box. Nor did they pick any more berries that season.

Nearly Lost Memory

My younger brother (not so young anymore-as he will turn 70 in November) inadvertently, without his knowledge, elicited a nearly lost memory. My brother, a Vietnam veteran, planned to go with me to the D-Day Memorial in Bedford, Va. Learning of this my sister asked, "Why was Daddy never drafted? Do you know?"
It came back to be.  Vaguely and sketchy. It was when she was just a wee baby or maybe before she was born. I was just 6 or 7. I know it was before I was 8. That year we moved.

Here's the little I can recall. And that's all there can ever be since I at just months shy of 80 and the oldest of the remaining family.

It was a warm day-- time of year I do not remember. It was early morning. Daddy stood in the yard by Solomon, the big black work horse. Mommie stood beside him. She was crying and she gingerly kissed him. He rode off.
"Where's Daddy going?" I asked
"He's got to go to town."
"What for?"
"He's just got to go. Not stop bothering me." She snuffed as tears ran down her cheek.
"Why you crying, Mommie?"
"I ain't crying. Now I said quit bothering me."

Daddy was gone all day. Grandma Neely spent the afternoon with Mommie. I remember little of what I did that day except for the multiple times I tried to ask what was happening only to be shooed off each time.

Late in the day Mommie was drawing water from the cistern when Daddy rode up. She dropped her just filled water bucket. She ran to Daddy who slid down from Solomon's back. "I failed the physical."
She threw her arms around him and again tears flowed.

It was years later that I learned Daddy had reported to the draft office.

Reflections Of An Unhappy Mother

This is a departure of what I have been doing. But seemed something I needed to say,

Hazel was the same age as my mother.  She was a distant (or not so distant) cousin. The convoluted intermarriage of families in our ancestral rural Appalachian community left its wake of undecipherable connections. So Hazel was some sort of cousin.

But Hazel is not my topic. Except for the encounter I had with her. The last time I saw Hazel she was old. My mother, nearly the same age, was dead.

My sister and I sat in Hazel's cluttered living room, listening to her accounts of her life and by extension our mother's life. "Your mother worked in the fields like a man," she told us. "She put on overalls and went out just like Luther and Fred (her brothers)."

Just like her brothers. That defined Mommie.  My sisters and I remember her telling us how she wore Uncle Fred's overalls and did the same work he did. We remember her telling us how much better was the life of men.

Mommie was not complaining about the work she did as much as she was bragging.

Her message, but one of her obvious dis-satisfactions with being born a woman seeped into the consciousness of us- her three daughters. We knew well how she felt about being a woman; she never knew how it influenced us.

Had she been born fifty years later; had she been born to money; had many things been different her life might have taken a bold direction. She would have been happy and fulfilled with gender transition.

I Took A Vacation

The time elapsed since my last entry is not without reason. My usual calm sedate life has been filled  with exciting, wonderful and sorrowful  EVENTS.

One of my longest held desires was realized. During with my first Latin class with Miss Black at Cumberland County High School I developed and nourished an ache to see, to stand in, to experience the place where Paris, by choosing the most beautiful goddess, started a war which would lead to the founding of Rome.

This year that ache was alleviated. My daughter, granddaughter and I indulged my fantasy. We went to Turkey.

A wonderful trip.

Followed by my coming home and dealing with the fact that my youngest, who for so many years had lived fifteen miles from me, was moving to Florida.

But those distractions are over. Or at least I hope so. And I shall return to "STUFF WRITTEN DOWN".

Family Ties Can Be Horrific: POOR AUNT EVIL

POOR AUNT EVIL

Later called Eva, by all but the oldest family members, Daddy’s oldest sister (when I was young) was Aunt Evil. Aunt Evil was dealt a hard hand as the oldest of the family.  Grandpa Cardwell was sick with Brights disease several years before his death in 1934. During the years of his illness Aunt Lizzie, the second oldest, married Luther Neely.  Shortly after his death Daddy married Mommie.

 In our small community two families topped the social class – if the term applies- the Neelys and the Cardwells.  Aunt Lizzie, a Cardwell, married Uncle Luther, a Neely.  Daddy, a Cardwell married Rutha, a Neely.  To be repeated several years later when Uncle Viven, a Cardwell, married Aunt Norma, a Neely. Needless to say I  have raft of double first cousins. It is (and maybe I will address later that special relationship).

Aunt Evil, the eldest, never married.  Unusual in that time and place. Various versions of her early life are vague and contradictory. She  had boyfriends; she was pretty; she wanted the normal life. But for reasons I have never been able to learn she never got a proposal.

Whether her siblings felt lucky or just took her for granted cannot now be known.

But here begins my account of Aunt Evil.

Often we visited Grandma Cardwell.  One visit hops up in my memory often.  I was just fifteen, Ivy was  thirteen.  Ivy and I were put to bed on the newly stuffed straw mattress in the back room where the pump organ was. Before giggling time was over Aunt Evil came in. “You gals all right?”

“Good”

“Nothing wrong?”

“No”

“You gals been sick yet?”

Ivy and I knew exactly what Aunt Eva was asking. She needed to know if we had had out first menstrual periods.  But we refused to cater to the nosy needs of our not so smart Aunt. Ivy responded  first, “I ain’t been sick for I don’t know how long.”

“Well.” She said. When she left us we giggled, never wondering how we might have made her feel.

Born Too Early For Today's Fashionable Full Lips

I was born in 1935.

Had I been born sixty years later I could have avoided one of the marking hurtful events in my young life.  I was born with full lips – not grossly full, but fuller than  the lips of my mother, sister, aunts or cousins. Today I would have been so in fashion.  But not then and there.  When hurt, angry or just obstinate I stuck out my bottom lip.  Daddy was wont to say, “Better pull in that lip or you might step on it.”

On one Sunday visit to Uncle Lawrence and Aunt Mirtie, Ivy and I, Shirley (the same Shirley who did not cut the clothesline) and Betty Jo went with Bobby Jean (Aunt Mirtie’s girl) to Sunday School. Our Sunday School class had several boys who did not bend to discipline. The girls fed off the boys misbehavior.  They did not listen to the teacher; they chatted; they giggled; they made paper airplanes from their Sunday School pamphlets .

My disapproval was obvious from my stuck out bottom lip. Then it began—what today would be labeled as bullying.

"What fat lips you have.”

”Somebody smack you in the lip?”

“I ain’t never lips that big ‘cept on niggers.”

“I’d be  ashamed of  them lips?”

I rolled my lips together, lowered my head. I did not look at or talk to anyone.

Uncle Lawrence picked us up in his truck. “You youngens have a good time?”

“Yeah”

“Yeah- real good.”

“Yeah from everybody.  Including me who still held my lower lip as tightly confined as I could.

I Could Have Danced

School counselors and psychologists remind us (sometimes ad nauseam) of the pitfalls of being thirteen and fourteen. Hormones rage; moods swing; body and mind vacillate between child and adult. I rise above the psychological ‘mumbo-jumbo’ to explain my anguish as a high school freshman.

My initial evaluation as academically weak was neither harmful nor debilitating. Math and English were not my nemeses. It  was  Physical Education (PE).  PE was set up thus:  In a given period Monday and Wednesday girls met for general exercise.  On Tuesday and Thursday boys met for same.  Friday both came together for folk dancing lessons and practice.

I did not like PE. I hated PE.  Not because of the activity. I hated being the only girl in thirty who dressed out in long jeans instead of shorts.  Mommie and Daddy forbade me to wear shorts. Indecent they said.  I hated spending Fridays in a side room studying sports rules while sixty boys and girls danced. Sinful they said.  I hated being the strange girl who could not wear shorts or dance.

Had I not been driven to learn—had I not been driven to go places,  to meet people, to have experiences beyond my small smug community I would have given up. I survived – but to this day (at nearly eighty years old) I resent the missed dancing. My bucket list includes dancing lessons.

Downs And Ups Of High School

My high school career did not get off to my highly expected hopes. Standardized tests placed me in the bottom ranking. I was not sure what that meant. But who was I to object? Mommie and Daddy took little interest.  So I entered the general curriculum—different from the college bound in English, mathematics and science.

My English teacher (whose name I cannot remember and cannot look up because I did not have the money to buy a yearbook) came from Roanoke, Virginia. The end of the world as far as I knew. Little did I know I would one day work in Roanoke. She encouraged me when I had trouble with THE LAST OF THE MOHICANS.  She praised my writing as creative and original. She saw to it I was placed in the advanced class my sophomore year.

My general arithmetic teacher had me but three weeks before she arranged to have me moved to Mr. Lassiter's algebra class. Mr. Lassiter tutored me during my study hall period for weeks so I could catch up with the class. A not so great beginning turned out to be not so bad. At graduation four years later I was awarded the “Four Year Mathematics  Award”.

But as I will later tell you—not all was ‘fun and games.’

I Tried To Cheat The Torments Of Hell

It was summer revival time, a time welcomed by kids and more so by grown-ups as a relief from long days in the fields.  The clean- up time needed to make the seven o’clock meeting was a respite from picking beans or suckering tobacco until darkness fell. My time with Jean and Annie, usually confined to Wednesday night prayer meeting and Sunday preaching became a nightly treat for two weeks. But the summer of my thirteenth year the fun of girl chatter became bitter. For the second night of the revival Jean and Annie decided to ‘get saved’.

Unwilling or unable to remain the ‘odd man out’ I made my way down the aisle amid the chorus of AMENS and THANK YOU JESUSES to the mourner’s bench, the mourner’s bench where I knelt night after night. No effort, no promise, no plea from me was to any avail. The Jesus who knocked at everyone’s heart, the Jesus who called all people to himself had no interest in me. He left me utterly alone, sin-stained and guilt ridden.

With one night of the revival left my desperation met its limit.      

The morning dew hung on the plants as I helped Mom pick beans. “You ain’t felt nothing?” she asked.  At a loss of what she was asking I said nothing. “On the bench, I mean.” I shook my head. Her face was so sad, her voice so quivery. “I hope you ain’t devil-tied.” Without another word she returned to her beans. My thought whirled.  I remembered how once I heard Mom and Aunt Eva talking about how sad it was that Grandpa was in hell, suffering the torments everlasting fire. Was he devil-tied? Would I go to hell if I died? Salty tears ran into the corners of my mouth.

That moment I made up my mind. I was getting saved. Whether Jesus liked it or not I was getting saved.

That night I boldly rose from the mourner’s bench and announced neighbors and kin, “I am saved.” 

I  refused to be devil-tied; I refused to be hell-bound.

               

High School Became Possible

Ivy’s battle ended without visible trouble. I emphasize visible. The hurt inside her was not and is not so easily managed.  I suspect to this day she must harbor some negative feelings.

 But I was a child of a different breed. Hostile, difficult, jealous and sometimes just plain nasty.  I was also infected at an early age with the love of learning. My first library book (brought to the little one room school by wonderful Miss Harrison) regaling maple syrup production in Vermont awakened my need to know a world outside my realm, a need which by some plan of gods or government became possible. The consolidation of schools, the accessibility of a school bus going into the county high school opened a whole big world to me.  But almost not to me.  Mommie vowed she would never allow her children to go to high school where they would get strange ideas and surely become ‘godless’.

I remember vividly the day I stole a three cent stamp from the book of stamps Mommie kept under the Bible on the table next to the sofa. I wrote a heart wrenching letter to Uncle Luther who had moved to Detroit to work in a war factory. I pleaded that he let me come live with him and go to school with his boys. Little did I know that Uncle Luther was living in cramped house with barely enough room for him, Aunt Lizzie and their five children.  Little did I expect that Uncle Luther would send my letter back to Mom.

Challenged by Mommie, angry because of my defiance and embarrassed at my choosing her brother as a refuge, she was livid, Mommie always cared how things looked. I stood my ground. “I will run away,” I said. “I will go to Knoxville and find me a job. And you can’t stop me.” I never stopped to think about how I would get to Knoxville, where I would stay, and how I would live. Who would hire a fourteen year old?  To this day I believe that Mommie would have beaten me within an inch of my life except for Daddy. 

Daddy in one of his rare defiant moments with his wife announced that “Ruthie, she can go to high school.” Had I been less driven I might never have done it. The conditions imposed on me would have stopped some. But not me. I was a difficult child.

Two Different Nashville School Trips Scenario

Every year Dorton Elementary School took its 8th graders to Nashville, the state capital.

When I was in the 8^th grade Mommie agreed to be one of the parent chaperons.

Early on that Friday morning, long before school opened, we met at the school, boarded a school bus and drove the one hundred and seventy five miles to Nashville.  For all but a very few it was the first time we had been  to Nashville.

Our day involved a trip to the capital building – a quick of the outside—a quicker tour of the inside. As I reflect on this trip I must confess this part of the itinerary was less memorable than the rest. This says more about the mentality of 13 and 14 year olds than the tour.

More memorable was a trip to the State Prison, where we toured a few cells, with no inmates at the time. (Staged I am sure).  I have two persistent  memories of that trip. The first was just outside the kitchen.  A big—and I do mean big—tub  which was full of sliced potatoes submerged in water.  I had never seen or even imagined so many potatoes in my whole life. The second was an old black man with a hand carved action theater.  He displayed his work and lectured us on the need to always obey  the law.

A trip to The Grand Ole Opry was not possible because of time restraints. But we attended a pre-Opry show with singers and dancers before we boarded the bus for return to Crossville.  Mommie was not silent about her like the singers—but not the dancers.

JUMP FORWARD A YEAR

Ivy’s  8^th grade class was going to Nashville. Mommie for reasons never explained refused to give Ivy permission to go.  So on that day when her classmates arrived at school early to board the  Nashville bound bus, Ivy had a usual day, arriving at the usual time, to the usual place. Not quite the usual place. She sat all day in the back of another class until school was over. Staying  home would have preferable.

It was a defining moment in Ivy’s life—the day –the hour—the moment- she wrote off school.

Whatever happened to sour Mommie on the class trip was never known.  Mommie was not so forthcoming about many things. What soured Ivy on school was clear.

What Seems Is More Important Than What Is

Shortly before Diane gave away her sweater and brought Mommie’s wrath to her rear end, she had another coat incident.  Not so serious, not punished so harshly. But of much more import to Mommie.

For Mommie was ‘super’ concerned with her image.  That extended to us.  What people thought about us was as important as what we did. Maybe more.

And that is where the second coat affair comes in. Events happened thus.

The day was warm enough in the morning; we left for school with no coats. That turned out to be a mistake. Weather takes no account of one’s decision to wear or not to wear a coat. Weather does what weather wants to do. The early warmth turned rapidly into midday chill—a  harsh chill.

At recess time Diane’s compassionate teacher was concerned with the students who had no coats. She kept  inside those without coats and gently questioned them.

“Diane, do you have a coat?”

Diane answered honestly , “No Ma’am I don’t.”  She did not add that she had left it at home.

“Don’t you get cold?”

“Sometimes  I do”

Later that day the teacher came to my classroom.  “I need to ask you something. Does Diane have a coat?”

Surprised at the question I answered, “Yes, why?”

“I just wanted to make sure. Winter is upon us soon and I just wanted to make sure.”

When I told  Mommie, she erupted with anger. Diane paid dearly for giving the teacher the impression that we were too poor to afford a coat for her.

Generosity Failed To Pay Off.

The little girl, Diane , never at a loss for words, who never met a stranger, was warm and generous.  It was late fall and the weather had turned cold and damp quickly as it could in our Cumberland Mountains.

Mommie sent us off to school, all properly dressed. Diane wore her new pink sweater and her hand-me-down coat.

Recess time came. The teacher of Diane's class charged each pupil to put on a coat before going out to play. Diane’s seat mate had no coat. With the generosity she was born with and kept her whole life Diane removed her new sweater and gave it to her friend.

Playtime ended; school ended. Diane came home with her coat but no sweater.  Mommie was not understanding;  Mommie was not gentle.  Diane got what she then and forever after considered a harsh and undeserved whipping

Mommie's Two Kinds Of Cakes According To Diane

Diane was eight years younger than I,  six years younger than Ivy.  Mostly from our points of view a pest.   Diane was never shy or retiring.  Following is the first of three passages, devoted to the antics of the young Diane, all inciting the wrath of Mommie.

Mommie was known for two kinds of cakes. One was layered and elegantly frosted. Company saw those. The second, for family, was a pan cake without  frosting.  According to Mommie she baked the first kind—merely knocked up the second kind.

In a class discussion Diane’s teacher had her pupils tell something about their mothers. Diane never at a loss for words gave a detailed account about the cakes her mother made.

“What a lucky girl to have a mother who bakes such pretty cakes.” The teacher said.

Diane responded. “She doesn’t bake them all.”

At a loss the teacher asked for an explanation.

Diane said, “She bakes them when we have company. When we don’t  she just knocks  them up.”

Other pupils  did not understand.  The teacher had a good laugh.  Mommie, on hearing about it, did not. Nor did Diane when confronted by Mommie.

Barefoot Basketball

I had but  one year at Dorton  Elementary—as it turned out an eventful year. The new school opened up a new world. I met students who came from places like Peavine, which last year seemed a world away.  I got to know boys and girls whose parents were professionals and who had more money than we ever imagined. It was strange and wonderful that I did not see my siblings after we entered the school until we boarded the bus to go home.

Almost!  Ivy and I, during recess, played basketball. We did it well enough to be on the school team. Tennessee differed from the majority of other states in that girls’ basketball  teams  had  not five but six players and played half court.  Each team had three forwards and three guards, each playing half the court.   Crossing the middle line was a foulable offence.

   

Ivy and I played guard. I was not bad, but Ivy was by far better. We did share common handicaps. First, we not allowed to wear shorts. Mommie and Daddy forbad it on moral grounds. It caused us much consternation. Second, and perhaps more humiliating, we had no tennis shoes. Mommie  and Daddy said it was a waste of money. To be fair money was tight and Daddy did his best to provide for the family. But when you're eleven and twelve understanding comes hard.  Playing barefoot  was physically and emotionally painful.

Some kind fellow player gave Ivy her cast side shoes which were two sizes or more too small. But Ivy gave those shoes her best effort. It beat being barefoot. I had no such good luck—if indeed it was good luck.

A Brand New School In A Brand New Place

The Mr. Morton story in the previous blogs is a fictional account based on a real teacher. Mr. Horton, an inexperienced teacher who could not manage a classroom, was indeed dismissed after a school board hearing. The accusations of sexual improprieties were based on the fantasies of prepubescent starry eyed girls and the resentment of  'you can't tell us what to do' driven boys.

After a lengthy recess from any school an old retired man teacher came to finish the year. The class came under immediate control. His determination to cram a year’s learning into a few months was met with the grateful praise  of parents—belligerent  acceptance of students.

The following year Chestnut Hill’s one room school was closed and students were bused several miles to Dorton Elementary. Dorton by comparison was huge. Each grade had its own teacher and its own classroom. There were sports teams and a chorus.

It was the beginning of a new world for some of us who would go on to high school. It was the beginning of the end for some who would drop out after the 8^th grade, and some before the end of 8^th grade.

Mr Morton Has No Defense As The Noose Is Tightened.

In the previous episodes we have seen Mr. Morton's plight  becoming more and more dire. He was being interrogated by men who did not know, not could not know the real facts.

The story continues:

        "What was he doing in the woods?"  The superintendent looked at Mr. Morton who met his gaze.

            "Comin' out of the woods with girls."

            "Girls?"

            "Well one girl fer certain.  My Inez."

            "And what were they doing in the woods?"

            Willy tugged at his tight collar.  His face flushed.  "Well I reckon I don't rightly think I ought to say with these young girls sittin' right here listenin' to us.  But it seems more than likely that we all know. Or at least have a pretty good notion what a hot blooded stallion would do with a pretty filly if'n he was alone with her in the woods."

            The superintendent looked out the window for what seemed a long time to Opal.  Then he looked at Willy Swicegood and asked, "Was he ever asked what he was doing?"

            Willy glanced at Woodrow and Lester.  "We didn't see no sense in that.  You ain't serious in expectin' he'd admit to anything, are you? Besides the other youngens seen it all.  You can ask them what they saw. Or if you want to you can ask him."

            "Mr. Morton, do have anything that will make this clearer to us?"

            "I have made mistakes, some might say some serious mistakes.  But they were mistakes in discipline -- nothing more."  Frank Morton met their eyes and his voice was strong and confident.

            "Were you in the woods with girls? Alone?"

            "One girl.  One time, Sir."

            Willy's voice was soft and whispery.  "Well I'll be dogged.  He ain't tryin' to deny it."

            "Now Mr. Morton, would you tell us why you were in the woods with one of your students?"

            Frank Morton looked to the ceiling for some time before bringing his eyes to rest on Opal and Jeannette. Without removing his gaze from them, he related the whole incident. "As I saw it, I had two choices-- to leave her out there or go get her."

            "Did you at any time take liberties with her or any other student?"

            "No sir, I didn't."

            Willy leaned back in his chair, balanced it on two legs.  "That is a bald faced lie." He spoke slowly, softly but deliberately.  "Opal- that's Opal on the end down there.  And Jeannette sittin' next to her.  They was in the back of the school  and seen the whole thing.  They seen when he had his arms around  my Inez."

            Willy paused while the board members looked at Jeannette and then Opal who wished she could sink into the floor. She looked sideways at Inez, whose face was alive under the stares. Her eyes danced, her cheeks flushed. Gone was the tight dress she had worn so daringly so often. The ruffles of her dress hung loosely masking the maturity and beauty of her body.

            Willy's long years of church leadership had sharpened his natural showmanship.  After an advantageous silence he said, "And my Inez was strugglin' to get away. Now I ask you, what's a youngen supposed to do? A woman might could'a handled it, but just a youngen.  Why my Inez is just a girl.  You can see for yourself she ain't more'n a little girl."

            The superintendent drew in his breath.  "Yes Mr. Swicegood.  We can see that. Now Mr. Morton, we realize there are two sides to every story.  Do you have anything you would like to add?"

            Frank Morton looked again to the ceiling and then again to Opal and Jeannette. "Inez was the victim of a school girl crush.  It's a common problem with girls at that age.  Every male teacher at one time or another has it."

            "I see," the superintendent said.  "And there was no more to it than that?"

            "No," Mr. Morton said.  "She had a particularly bad one, but no -- nothing more to it than that."

            Willy leaned forward and rested his chin in his hands.  His brown eyes were piercing Frank Morton. He looked then to the superintendent.  "Can I ask Mr. Morton some questions?"

            "Yes, Of course."

            "Mr. Morton," he paused and gazed with furrowed brow and narrowed eyes.  "Are you denyin' you forced yourself on my girl?"

            "Yes I am." 

            Willy leaned back.  He licked his lips.  "You know that Jeannette and Opal seen you with you arms around Inez."

            "If they think they saw me with my arms around her they are mistaken about what they saw."

            "You sayin you wasn't in the closet with Inez?"

            "I didn't say that.  I said I didn't put my arms around her."

            "Then Mr. Morton, how do you explain what Opal and Jeannette said they seen?"

            "What they saw was the girl trying to hug me.  She said she wasn't a little girl anymore and she wanted me to treat her like a woman. I was removing her arms from my waist when Opal and Jeannette saw us."

            Willy stood, leaned over, looked down the table and shook his fist. "That's a lie, a danged lie," he shouted. Then he lowered his fist. "If my girl as much as kissed a boy she'd git the lickin' of her life, and she knows it.  I don't reckon a man can be too careful with his girls.  These men here, will tell you I ain't one for toleratin' nonsense.  I raised six youngens.  Inez here-- she's my baby.  Four girls and two boys, and there's never been one bit of talk about them- not even the boys.  Anybody'll tell you I got good honest youngens.  Now Mr. Morton wants us to believe this girl was forcin' herself on him-- not the other way 'round.  I reckon anybody can see that's a bald faced lie."

            The superintendent raised his hand. "I think we can easily get to the bottom of this by asking these girls exactly what they saw." He pointed to Jeannette and Opal. "Is that acceptable to you, Mr. Morton?"  Frank nodded.  "To you Mr. Swicegood?"

            "It's a fine idea.  Woodrow here and Lester, I got some disagreements with them but they done as good a job as me or anybody in Rock Hill is raisin' good girls. These girls will tell you the truth."

            "Now Jeannette, which of you is Jeannette?"  Jeannette held up her hand. "Do you remember the day we're talking about?"

            "Yes sir."

            "Do you remember what you saw and heard?"

            "Yes sir."

            There was silence.  Jeannette lowered her eyes and began.  "It was recess-- a long recess.  We had a lot of long recesses. On that day me and Opal- I mean Opal and I got tired of playing dodge-ball so long and was going back in the school. When we went in we saw Inez. She had her back to us, and Mr. Morton was kind of hid by the closet wall. All we could see was his shoulder and elbow. Inez was saying she couldn't finish gittin' the blackboard ready for the next class cause there wasn't any chalk in the drawer and did he have some."  Jeannette paused and looked thoughtful. 

            Then she continued, "Then Mr. Morton kind of laughed and said he had chalk all right, but maybe it wasn't the kind she meant. Then the next thing I saw his arm was tight around her. And she was kind of struggling like she wanted to get away.  That's when he saw us and he pushed her away."

            Opal's eyes, leveled at the table, widened.  She dared not look up.  What was she supposed to say if they asked her anything?  If Inez and Jeannette said the same thing, they would think she was lying. She was not left waiting too long.  The superintendent cleared his throat.  "Well, and now Opal.  Do you have anything to add? Is  that the way you remember things.  Or is there anything you recall differently?"

            Opal gulped. Every fiber of her body was anguished. Jeannette had lied. She looked around. Willy and Woodrow and her father were staring at her.  Jeannette's eyes were narrowed.  Inez was half smiling. She shook her head, "No I can't tell you any thing different."

            The superintendent looked at Frank, "Well Mr. Morton."

            Frank Morton's sad eyes for a long time rested on Jeannette and Opal. Then he rose and looking over the heads of the community delegation he walked slowly to the door. He turned, rubbed his head as if ready to say something. He turned sharply and walked out the door.        

           

Mr. Morton's Problems Took On A Life Of Their Own.

Things went from bad to worse for Mr. Morton.

           Inez did not take readily to being rebuffed by Mr. Morton.  Little time elapsed before Inez's father, Willy Swicegood, accused Frank Morton of indecent behavior with one of his students. Less time passed before the whole community was up in arms.

            For all the turmoil leading to it,  Mr. Morton's hearing before the school board was attended by a small number of people.  They were seated around a long conference table.  On one side of the table sat the six board members and the superintendent.  To the left along the narrow side sat Frank Morton.  Across from the school board was the community delegation, Lester Alley and Woodrow Harrison, Inez Swicegood, the injured party, Willy Swicegood as father of the victim, and Opal and Jeannette as witnesses.

            There was no talking, no noise at all, only sly looks to the left and right, as they sat waiting for the superintendent to begin.  Some heads were lowered, others erect but with eyes straight ahead focused on the wall above the heads of the panel. Nobody looked at Mr. Morton. Opal tried without lifting and turning her head to see what Mr. Morton was doing.

            The superintendent looked at his watch.  He glanced sideways at his board members and cleared his throat. "Well, I see it's a few minutes early, but since we're all here we might as well get started. Unless someone objects."  He paused and hearing no objections continued, "We're here to examine complaints against Frank Morton, teacher at the Rock Hill School."  He glanced briefly at Frank Morton,  then turned to his audience. "Mr. Swicegood, I understand, is the spokesman for the community. Which of you is Willy Swicegood?"

            "I'm Willy Swicegood."  Willy sat erect.  "And I am the head deacon of the Church of God and the father of this here injured girl."  He motioned to Inez, who sat tall and proper. "We come here as God fearing men to see that this here man is got away from our youngens.  We ain't got nothing agin our youngens gitting some schooling.  Reckon we all want them to learn to read and write, so as they can read the Bible,  and to figure so as they can take care of their affairs.  But we can't rightly tolerate the kind of goins on we've been having."

            Woodrow Harrison and Lester Alley nodded.  Inez stifled a giggle.  Opal glanced sideways at Jeannette who looked as scared as she felt. Opal was not sure what Jeannette said when her father questioned her.  She could not even remember what she had said.  It was so long after the stories were on every lip, in every ear. She was not even exactly sure anymore what she saw and heard. She certainly was not sure what she was supposed to say.

            The superintendent's voice interrupted Opal's thought.  "Now let's get down to the facts.  Mr. Swicegood, why don't you tell us just exactly what are your specific complaints against Mr. Morton."

            Willy fumbled at his seldom worn tie.  He stared as the wall across the room behind the board.  The perfect picture of man gathering his thoughts, a man weighing his words.  Finally he said, "Well first off, he don't do much teachin'. My Inez tells me they have recess a long time every day.  I don't rightly remember it being like that when Miz Carmack was there.  For another he's been sayin' some indecent things to the youngens.  'Specially to the girls.  He followed my Inez when she went to the toilet.  It was nearly a half hour before they came back in. That's mighty worrisome to me.  You have to be on your guard with girls.  Does any of you have girls?  If you do you know there's so many worries you have to be on guard agin.  And havin' a teacher to go off in the woods alone with a girl-- Well as I see it,  it ain't decent. It ain't something we can tolerate."

            Faces of the board remained passive. Woodrow and Lester shook their heads in agreement.  Inez looked as if she would pop. Opal sighed deeply wishing the hearing would end.  Willy continued, "Havin' a teacher look with evil intent in his eyes on a young girl is bad enough, but actually takin' one into the woods -- and in broad daylight in front of the other youngens-- I can tell you that just ain't decent."

            

Mr Morton's Problems Begin To Grow

 The story of Mr. Morton and his struggle to teach in a community whose nature he never knew continues:

 Mr. Morton never gained  control of his school.  On days when Bob and Elmo were absent there was a small semblance of work.  Fortunately those days became more frequent as August became September and September became October.  But the long recess was an ingrained part of the school day.

            Mr. Morton never came out of the building during recess. Most days he shut himself in the small book closet at the back of the room.

            There were times when Opal felt sorry for Mr. Morton. But every time she was on the verge of saying so some classmate near enough to overhear stopped her.  Finally she recruited Jeannette as an ally and the two of them slipped away from the dodge-ball game. They would be nice.  From just inside the front door they saw Inez at the book closet door, her back to them.  Then they heard the exchange.

            "Inez, can I help you?" Mr. Morton asked.

            "I thought, if you wanted me to, I could clean the blackboard and put out new chalk."

            "Thank you, Inez.  I'd appreciate that.  I was just getting ready to call everybody back in.  But we'll wait until you've cleaned the board."  He turned away from her, picked up a book and began to examine its damaged spine.  Inez stayed planted in the door.  He turned, "Is there something else?"

            In one quick movement she was inside the closet door.  "Don't you know, Mr. Morton?"

            Mr. Morton pushed her back out the door.  "Oh you need chalk, don't you?" As he held out his hand with six pieces of chalk, Inez clasped both her hands around his arm. "This should be enough."  He pulled back his hand still holding the chalk.

            Inez stepped toward  him. Her arms were around his waist. "Mr. Morton, can't you see I'm not a little girl anymore.  I'm a woman now.  And ever since the first I laid eyes on you I knowed-- and you jest keep treatin' me like a little girl.  Can't you see I'm a woman?"

            Opal and Jeannette shrank back and watched as Inez tightened her grasp. Finally he twisted free and stepped out of the closet and stood face to face with Opal and Jeannette. Inez turned, "You saw what he did to me didn't you?'  First Jeannette and then Opal shook their heads.

 To be continued;

The Sins Of Innocent Children

What follows is a fictional account of a real event. Like DRAGNET the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Although innocence is questionable. I was one of those ‘not so innocent characters'.  This is a rather long story written several years ago. I will print it here in episodes—until it is done.

            It was August.  Did all the momentous events of her life occur in August?  At any rate it was August-- the first day of school after Miz Carmack retired -- after forty years as teacher of the one room school.  Miz Carmack started at eighteen, right out of teacher's academy and had never taken off a year until she retired. Even when her babies came she brought them with her and kept them, first in a cradle, then in a play pen, and later running around the class.  Now the only teacher most of the community had ever known was gone, and a new one was coming.

            Opal and Kaye did not dawdle this day.  Anticipation of a new teacher directed their feet to hurry.  They knew little about him. His name was Mr. Morton, he was just graduated from the teacher's college and this was his very first job. Even the Meltons where he was rooming had never met him, but had agreed to rent him a room on Miz Carmack's recommendation.

            Opal and Kaye ordinarily cut across the big yard to the wood frame school, unpainted for years and set well back off the road.  But seeing Jeannette and Janann coming from the opposite direction they met them at the path into the school yard.  "Wonder what he looks like," Jeannette asked.  "Daddy says he can't be that much older than Elmo and Bob."

            Bob and Elmo Davenport, fifteen and sixteen, were still working at third grade level.  Every year they began school and after a few weeks they began skipping days until by Christmas they we were no longer coming at all.  The next fall they did the same. Opal once asked her father what would happen when Bob was old enough to get married.  Her father never said.  Jeannette  asked as they approached the school house, "Can you believe he's not much older than Bob and Elmo?"

            "That's dumb," Kaye said.  "Elmo's just fifteen. Ain't no way a teacher can be fifteen."

            The girls neared the schoolhouse, peered in the window.  There he stood, his back to them.  He was writing on the blackboard which was nearly filled up.  He was short and thin. His white shirt was neatly tucked into his gray pants.  Jeannette drew in her breath.  "He's a teacher."

            Frank Morton saw the wide eyed girls with their noses pressed against the window.  He smiled and motioned for them to come in.  Stifling giggles they entered.  The desks had been moved from the way Miz Carmack left them. On each desk lay paper and a book. On the makeshift table to the left of the door the water glasses were shiny and arranged neatly around the water bucket. To the right books were stacked neatly on a shelf.

            ""And who might you be?"

            Jeannette blushed;  Kaye and Janann giggled.  Opal said, "I'm Opal Alley.  This is my sister Kaye and this here's Jeannette and Janann Harrison."

            "I'm Mr. Morton."  He eyed the girls. "Well Opal and Jeannette, Miz Carmack left me a note that you're in the seventh grade. You'll sit here."  He pointed. "And Kaye and Janann-- here.  You're early.  I like that.  It shows an eagerness to learn."

            Students trickled in --each greeted by Mr. Morton.  The last to come were Elmo and Bob Davenport, nearly half an hour late.  When Mr. Morton pointed to their desks, Elmo said, "I ain't sittin' with them little farts."  Wide spread giggles erupted.

            "That's where the third grade sits," Mr. Morton.  "Sit down, please."

            "I said I ain't sittin with the babies."  Elmo moved his desk to the opposite side of the room near Jeanette and Opal.  "I'm sittin' here."  Bob grinned and moved his seat too.

            The tone of Mr. Morton's school was set. Mr. Morton's control, or lack of it, was established.  He turned and pointed to the blackboard. "Well, we'll begin. Everybody will start by working on arithmetic."  A round of groans went up.  Jeannette leaned over and whispered to Opal, who tried to restrain her giggle. "Jeannette, do you have something to say?"  Jeanette's grimaced; she said nothing. "If you do have something to say, say it to all of us."  Jeannette blushed, remained silent, and shook her head.  "Then don't talk.  Your assignments are on the board.  There will be no talking until they are all done or recess whichever comes first."  Protests began with a few isolated groans.

            Elmo looked around the room, and getting no response to his grin asked, "What are we supposed to do if we can't do what you got up there, stick our fingers up our butts?"

            Everyone was laughing and talking.  Mr. Morton snapped his wooden pointer against the blackboard.  "I said no talking. On your desk you have paper and a pencil and a book.  If you can't do the work get help from the book. Now I think I made myself clear. I said there will be no talking until you are finished.  Are there any more questions?"

            Jeannette raised her hand. "What can me and Opal to do?"

            "Opal and I?"

            "Yeah, me and Opal.  There ain't no work up there for us."

            "Isn't," Mr. Morton said.

            Elmo grinned and stifled snicker with such aplomb that general laughter broke out. Mr. Morton snapped his pointer against the blackboard again.  He pointed to a section in the top left corner.  "Do this."

            Inez Swicegood, whose body surpassed her mere thirteen years, rose and walked around the edge of the seats until the got to Elmo's seat.  She leaned down and whispered something Elmo's ear.  Then she turned, faced Mr. Morton, pushed back her shoulders, thrust out her well developed breasts, shown to advantage in her tight shirt.  She tossed her head and said, "I have to go." Without waiting for Mr. Morton's response she walked defiantly out the door.

            Thirty minutes later she had not returned.  Mr. Morton confidently said, "Jeannette, would you go and ask Inez to get back in here."

            Jeanette looked to Opal;  both girls shrugged.  "Jeannette," Mr. Morton said.

            Elmo raised his hand.

            "Yes, Elmo?"

            "That ain't goin' to do no good.  Inez said if you want her to come back, you have to come git her yourself.  She's hidin' in the woods out back of the girls' toilet, waitin' for you."

            Mr. Morton's face flushed.  He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Opal, go bring Inez back here."

            "No sir, Mr. Morton.  It won't do no good.  She told Elmo she won't come for nobody but you.  And she means it.  You don't know Inez.  When she makes up her mind to do something she means to do it.  Ain't no stopping her.  Ask anybody."

            Elmo snickered.  "She is mighty hard headed."

            "Then you're in charge, Opal."  Mr. Morton stalked out of the room.  Behind him was tumultuous laughter as the students gathered at the windows to watch what they could.

            It was nearly half an hour later when Mr. Morton returned with a defiant Inez following. The class was properly seated and silent. Inez took her seat, smiled and shrugged. Sly looks became whispers; whispers became chatter.  Mr. Morton looked at the clock on the wall over the blackboard.  Barely nine thirty.  With a demeanor of calm not reflective of his turmoil he announced it was time for recess.