Revenge Against Odd Man Out

Grandma Neely had a big back yard—the perfect place for serious cousin play while the adults did adult things. The task of caring for the little cousins did not constrain our creation of new games and creative variations of old ones. Other matters did.

The group dynamics of us older cousins was fluid with shifting alliances. Except for one constant.  In the older cousin group were Aunt Mirtie’s  Bobbie Jean and Kenneth,  Uncle Fred’s  Shirley, Betty Jo and Carl,  and Ivy, Arville and me.  Shirley was the constant—always the outsider. Whether the fault lay in her or in the inherent barbarity of nine, ten and eleven year olds is long lost in filtered memories. But Shirley was never a group member.  It was she who hung around the women in the kitchen until on threat of punishment she was relegated to what she called the dumb antics of dumb kids. When Shirley was around we watched our own backs and each other’s backs.  Any infringement of adult rules was promptly reported to adults.  Not a good thing for us transgressors.

The snowball bush behind Grandma’s smokehouse was overgrown with drooping branches.  Our efforts to trim it for Grandma were short lived .  Randomly snipping other branches and chasing each other with the clippers trumped disciplined pruning. That’s when it happened.  Kenneth cut Grandma’s clothesline.

Disaster loomed.

As a well trained unit we sprang into action. Bobbie Jean ran to the kitchen.  “Shirley cut Grandma’s clothesline.”  Four women lined up eight children and threatened us with ‘the licking of our lives’ if we did not tell what happened.  To a man—no to a child—seven of us swore we saw Shirley do it. To our juvenile sense of justice it seemed the perfect retribution.

Grandma's House The Center Of Family Contact

Characters: Grandma and Grandpa Neely
                    Uncle Fred (Mommie's brother) and Aunt Stacie and three children
                    Aunt Mirtie (Mommie's sister) and Uncle Lawrence and two children

When we moved from Tazewell Aunt Mirtie already lived in Cumberland County (near Pleasant Hill). The  next year Grandma and Grandpa Neely with Uncle Fred bought a farm a few miles from Crossville , the only town of any significance in Cumberland County. Before they could make the move Grandpa Neely died.

Grandma and Uncle Fred moved-- Grandma into the big house, Uncle Fred, his wife and three children in the small house within stone's throw away of the big house.

Grandma's house had a big porch along the front which opened into a house with large rooms and high ceilings. Two large rooms in the front were bedrooms; three in the back were another bedroom, a dining room and a spacious kitchen. We children mused why Grandma should live in the big house all by herself while five people were crammed in Uncle Fred's small house. We were not aware of the financial situation.

Grandma's house  was the hub of family interaction. Often on Sundays Aunt Mirties's family came from Pleasant Hill; we came from Chestnut Hill; Uncle Fred's family from next door. We children played, argued, fought and played again. The women congregated in the kitchen for food preparation and womanly discussions from which were kids were shooed if we had the courage to interrupt. The men gathered on the porch in summer, in the front room in the winter where they discussed plowing, the price of hogs, hunting and the condition of the roads.

Arguments were settled here; babies were born here; illnesses were overcome here. Family life happened here.

Everybody, Young or Old Ought To Be Baptized

11. There were two churches in our community—the Baptist and the Holiness. But whichever one you attended you experienced the summer revival meeting and the river baptism. Revivals and baptisms were ingrained in the psyche of everyone.  The ‘getting saved’ and ‘being  baptized’ was a duty not of children, but of those who had reached the age of ‘responsibility’.  Children experienced it vicariously, by watching or by playing.

The hot August day was welcomed by us kids, since it gave us non-working time through the heat of the day.  Mommie and Daddy were settled on the front porch relishing the occasional  breeze. We kids, stopped from activity in such heat only if we had to work, were ready for play. That day we were playing church or more accurately Baptism. Arville whose big baby body had grown into a tall gangly grasshopper type was the preacher. Ivy and I were the congregants, Diane the new convert ready for baptism.

In the  lush grass part of the lawn, a suitable body of pretend water, we gathered.  We sang  incomplete, scrambled verses of ‘Shall We Gather At The River’. Then Arville with the  serious demeanor  baptisms required said, “Sister Diane come forward.”

Diane stepped forward. Arville put one hand on her back, the other on her chest. He leaned her back, dropped her. She jumped up, fire blazing from her eyes, hands waving. “You  trying to drown me, you dummy?”

The baptism show was over. Mommie and Daddy watching from the porch smiled indulgently at their children.

Shenanigans In The Bed

 After our impassioned pleas Mommie allowed Ivy and me to move into the upstairs room. We were up there a few days before trouble befell us. Instead of going to sleep as we were told we lay awake.

Our talking and giggling drew nightly warnings from Daddy in the room below us. “You gals cut out the shenanigans and go to sleep.” Night after night we cavorted; night after night Daddy issued his warning; night after we continued our antics.

One night Daddy called, “If you gals don’t settle down and go to sleep I’m coming up there with the strap.” Daddy’s favorite behavioral control implement was the razor strap.

Like other nights we did not settle down. Then we heard him. As he made his way up the stairs in the dark –(for he took no time to light the kerosene lamp),- we placed our pillows horizontally under the quilt, slid under the bed and lay quietly.

He stormed into the room, gave the pillows a few well-placed whacks with the razor strap  “I don’t want to hear another sound or I’ll be back.” He fumbled his way across the room and down the stairs.

We climbed from under the bed, replaced our pillows with bodies grateful to have escaped the strap. With great difficulty we did not make another sound for some time. Then with controlled laughter we spoke in whispers low enough to keep the razor strap at bay.

The Attack From Inner Space

The church we attended was just past the school. Certainly within easy walking distance. On rare occasions when Mommie and Daddy were busy or just bone tired Ivy and I got to go alone to Wednesday Night Prayer meeting. A treat to be out alone with no parent we thought special. I now wonder why it was special. What kind of excitement would likely occur?  Certainly nothing at the Carmack trailer or Willie Davenport’s  house or any other house along the way. No chance of excitement.

Prayer Meetings to the young are more social  than religious, but we followed Daddy’s admonition, “I don’t want to hear you were cutting up. If I do I’ll handle it.”

At the end of the meeting Woodrow Davenport offered us a ride home. We declined relishing the notion of an after-dark walk. The night was not bright – it was indeed dark. Cheerfully we set out on our grown up trek. We passed the Carmack trailer, just down the road from Dallas Davenport’s house. Whether events were spectacular or whether our imaginations went wild may never be really known. Suddenly with no warning a flurry of light – magnificent pinpoint dots of light- in a whirling mass moved before us. It was aimed at us, coming directly at us as if in attack. We ran. Reaching Dallas Davenport’s house we burst in without knocking. Dallas and Lucille sprang from their beds. With gentle treatment they checked out their yard and looked up and down the road. They assured us things were safe. "Not even a lightening bug," he said.  But he offered to drive us home. Ivy and I knew if Daddy knew this we might never ever be allowed another Wednesday night out alone. We assured Dallas and Lucille we were all right. But we wasted no time in getting home.

The Night Daddy Died

 Dragnet with Jack Webb was broadcast on radio after dark. Ivy and I loved that show-- or maybe we loved staying up late. Occasionally we were allowed to stay up and listen while all the others were in bed. One night the show was vivid. A body was found in the front of a Los Angelos liquor store. Jack Webb so masterfully described the crime scene we imagined we could see and smell the body. The bad guy was caught. They always caught the culprits.
We had to pass by Mommie's and Daddy's  bed on the way to ours. Daddy was lying with face turned toward us. There was no snoring-- there was no noise at all.
"He's not breathing," Ivy said.
I leaned in close to his face and agreed. Mommie's face was to the wall.
"What are we going to do? I asked.
"We have to make sure he's really not breathing."
With our heads side by side we leaned down, not three inches from his face.
Suddenly he sprang up. "What are you girls doing?"

"We thought you were dead"
"Get your asses to bed. And no more late night radio."
"But Daddy," we said in unison.
"Get your asses to bed."