Ivy's Special Shared Birthday

When my son asked me to ‘write stuff down’ I promised no particular order of events. Memories do not come in chronological order.  My last entry was of my baby brother’s birth in November of 1945. This event occurred in April of that year.

The War for the USA was in its fourth year, following the bombing of Pearl Harbor; the country was unified. Children were collecting metal articles; mothers, fathers and wives proudly displayed  flags in their windows, telling the world they had a son or husband in service.  Certain goods were rationed, such as shoes, sugar and gasoline; people mildly grumbled but proudly complied.   Mommie’s  brother, Uncle Kin was in the army and brother Uncle Audie in the navy. He was so handsome in his sailor suit. Daddy’s brother, Uncle Viven was drafted in October of 1942 and was still in the army on this April 12^th of 1945.

April 12, which is Ivy’s birthday, held a more monumental event than one small girl turning eight could expect.  Birthdays in our house were not celebrated, but merely acknowledged. But this April 12 was special. Ivy, Arville and I had walked home from school for dinner.  When Daddy did not come at once , Mommie served us our dinner. She was fussing in the kitchen when Daddy came in from the barn where he had been clearing manure from one of the stalls. “Your shoes,” Mommie said.

“On the porch. I’m hungry enough to eat my hat.”

“The radio said President Roosevelt was dead”

In one fluid movement Ivy was off her chair and in the kitchen. “Daddy, can we go to the funeral with you?”

Mommie and Daddy burst into laughter. 

How Glorious Was VBS!!

Dirt farmers’ kids from the 1940’s and 50’s with the slightest prompt would tell you about the work heaped on them  - especially in the summer when school was out. Even as senior citizens those still living will tell you the same story. Feed the chickens, slop the hogs, milk the cows, hoe the corn, pick the berries—need I say more?

From dawn to twilight tasks called—all day. Except for the two weeks of VBS – Vacation Bible School, that gloriously religious experience of stories, crafts and games instead of garden weeding and corn hoeing .  An evangelical church in town sent a preacher  and a cadre of young people (mostly girls) into our community. They came with games, crafts, sermons and songs, all designed to make us good little Christian boys and girls.

My favorite activity was the ‘Bible Firing Squad’.  I kid the not—the Bible Firing Squad. It was only for us older kids. We stood before the Sergeant  in a straight line,  Bibles in one hand to our right side. The sergeant was  the visiting preacher.  He said “Ready”.  We raised the Bible and held it with both hands. He said “Aim”.  We brought our Bibles to reading distance.  He recited a Bible Book, chapter and verse. Such as Proverbs, Chapter 12, Verse 22. The first person to open to that passage stepped forward and read the passage. Then back in line for the second round. 

There  were other activities, all of which were fun. But by far the biggest reward was – During VBS there were no farm chores.

Life Is Not Always Fuzzy

Happy memories of fun times and fuzzy feelings are many and treasured. But that is half of life. The other half is conflict and hurt. Ignoring that side is not honest. To deal with it is of questionable honesty. Feelings, fuzzy or hostile, are personal, fashioned by personal interpretation.

I have been forthcoming about my non-acceptance  of both Diane and JB. I have acknowledged my ‘near hatred’  of Arville whom I was forced to spend what seemed like an eternity –when I was but four years old—rocking to sleep because he was restless.

I have yet except by innuendo expressed how I felt about Ivy. She was at once my best friend, my constant playmate, and my nemesis. Most of these memories speak more of my insecurities and restructuring of events than to her culpability or actual history.

Right or wrong, restructured or real, these are memories which undermined my self esteem, which questioned my place in the family. Etched in my memory is the episode of the sweaters the year I turned eight. Mommie ordered two sweaters from Sears&Roebuck, two sweaters  just alike except for color. They came—but not the two Mommie had ordered. They were out of stock. Substitutions were sent. The two that came were quite different—one delicate and feminine – the other ‘not so feminine’. Both were the same size. Ivy got the pink feminine one; I got the blue ‘not so feminine one’.

The pitchfork incident I do not lie at Ivy’s door. But it does not belong to me.  Unless my memory is wrong I give this account as true.  Daddy scythed  the tall grass just outside the back yard. Raking it into piles was a task given to Ivy and me. Each of us were given pitchforks to rake the cut grass. The scene still flashes before my inward eye. I lifted a forkful of grass and aimed it at the larger pile. Ivy with empty fork jumped in front of me. My pitch fork pierced he leg. She screamed, “Jewell stuck her fork in my leg.”

I was handily beaten by Daddy’s razor strap.

Life Can Be Puzzling

The tale I am about to unfold speaks to many things. Ivy was eight years old and not very smart. I was ten and dumber yet.  Arville at six and Diane just two might be excused.  Of course by all that’s right and holy Ivy and I ought not be judged too harshly. The grown-ups in the family were not as forthcoming about important things as they could or should have been.

Here is the tale.

It was midday of a cool November day when we were piled in the truck and taken to Grandma Neely’s house. We had barely arrived when Daddy put us back in the truck—all crammed in the front seat with him—and we set out for home. Without  Mommie.  “Why’s Mommie not coming home?” Arville whined more than asked.

“She’s staying with Grandma,” Daddy answered.

“Why?”  Ivy asked.

“Cause.” Daddy said tersely.

“Why cause?” I asked

“Just cause she is. Now stop your pestering ”

Further questions evoked harsher answers. So we stopped asking—but not wondering.

After we  finished the evening chores Daddy heated up leftovers for supper. Ivy and I pondered together what was going on. Grandma was not sick; she did not need Mommie to take care of her. Long after Arville and Diane were asleep Ivy and I lay side by side in our bed whispering possible reasons why things were happening as they were.

After morning chores we found ourselves back in the truck and on the way to Grandma’s house again.  Jumping from the truck we bounded toward the house to be stopped at the door by Grandma and Aunt Stashie. “Where’s Mommie?’ Ivy asked.

“In the back room.” Grandma said.  “Now you youngens keep down the noise when you go in there.”

“Is Mommie sick?” I asked.

“Not sick, but she’s all wore out.  She ain’t had enough sleep.”

Grandma shepherded us into the room where Mommie lay in the bed.  In her arms she cradled a tiny baby.  A total and complete surprise to the four of us.  And not a particularly happy one for Diane whose new brother had just pushed her out of her place as baby.  Nor for me who had not wanted Diane two years ago.  Ivy and Arville were more accepting of baby brother James Barton.  Or so they seemed.

The Peddlar Came

                                       Coffee,  dried  beans and sugar

                                       Spices, candy and gum

                                       Lined the walls of the old truck bed

                                       With the regularity of the new moon it came

                                                      The Rolling Store

                                      Friendly chatter and charming smile

                                      Receipt sheets and credit ledgers

                                      No interest for debt; no need

                                      Prices took care of that

                                                     The Rolling Store

                                      Once a month for Ivy and me

                                      For Arville and Diane  Cracker Jacks

                                                    The Rolling Store

Wild Huckleberries And Wilder Stories

A few miles down the road lived the Henrys. Though not hostile they did not mingle with us. They did not attend church; they had no school age children. There was little reason to interact.

Old Mr.  Henry, the aged father, was always on his porch—winter and summer. We kids talked to him only in huckleberry picking time. The most abundant  patch was off the road just past the Henry place. Every summer Mommie escorted us kids, each with a lard bucket, to the huckleberry patch.

After a long morning, with filled pails in hand, thirsty, hot and tired, we stopped at the Henrys for a drink of water. Mr. Henry always encouraged us to ‘set a spell’ and rest our bones. He regaled us with stories whose credibility was suspect even to us gullible kids. One of his most outrageous stories, which he enjoyed repeating over and over is as follows.

‘Sam and Ed while chopping wood for the winter fell into an argument—then into a fight. Sam swung his ax and cut into Ed’s neck . His head dangled; blood spurted high and wide. Sam loaded Ed onto his wagon and hauled him off to Doc Lawson, who was able to stop the bleeding and sew the head  back on the neck. But Doc Lawson, hampered by poor eyesight and rich alcohol intake, sewed the head on backward. From that day on Ed had to walk backward if he wanted to see where he was going.

Mommie told us we ought not to believe a word the old fool said. We were young, not stupid. But we loved Mr. Henry’s stories.

Reprieve For The Errant Squirrel

It was not really the end of Ivy’s squirrel.  Mommie inside her  ‘what could seem a harsh demeanor’ was really a softie.  She nursed a goose with a broken leg and with near graciousness cleaned up his poop all over the kitchen floor.  She brought weakly new born lambs into the kitchen for first aid. Thus she did not get rid of Ivy’s squirrel.

Daddy with her blessings built a cage for the squirrel.  Mommie did insist that he stop eating the living room curtains.  And she fed the animal for Ivy was not as maternal as she might have been, but she was but a child.  Neither Arville or I felt allegiance to Cordell’s gift.

One sad day when Mommie went to feed the pesky animal;  the dastardly thing made a break and ran off into the woods.   Mommie’s efforts to find and recapture him were futile. Her only recourse was to find Daddy who was in the far field taking care of a broken fence.  He came with annoyance and set out to capture the run-a-way pet.  For what was an hour, but seemed like many hours to him who  sought the squirrel and to us who watched, Daddy tried to capture it.  Ready to give up, he turned to go back to the house. The squirrel jumped from a tree into his arms.  It clung to his shirt.  The protector and provider of our household proudly returned the squirrel to his cage.

Squirrels Do Not Make Good Pets

 We lived close to nature,  dependent on weather for vegetables,  relying on  animal reproduction for meat.  Sometimes the distinction between pet and dinner was thin. Often the distinction between pet and pest was thinner.

Cordell, whose mental acuity was short of sterling, took a shine to Ivy.  My ever present envy of Ivy, who was prettier and more popular than I, did not extend to Cordell and his attention to her.  Cordell in his attempt at blatant masculinity shot a squirrel, whose death left a nest of baby squirrels. He took it on himself to rescue the babies and to pedal them to neighbors who would raise them to squirrel adulthood.  Mommie reluctantly permitted Ivy to take one.

Ivy used her doll’s bottle to feed the baby squirrel who grew at an amazing pace. The distinction between pet and pest was quickly apparent. Ivy’s squirrel became master of the house, crawling under bed covers, raiding the food pantry and climbing the curtains with gymnastic agility. Mommie daily threatened  to kill the little pest if he did not learn how to behave.

How does a squirrel behave? Except like a squirrel?  Which he did. The final act—the act that did him  in— the act which was ordained by his squirrel-hood—came.  He not only at will climbed the curtains, but he sat on the curtain rod and nibbled at the curtains. Without any discussion of the situation, without any concern for the squirrel’s future,  Mommie removed him from the house and left him to whatever fate might befall him.

In A Different Place And Different Time We Would Be Called Juvenile Delinquints

Parents today would wince at the antics we practiced as children.  If they did not wince they would be brought up on charges of the endangerment to the welfare of children. But so long as we never missed church, showed up farm work and came to meals on time we were free to come and go as we pleased. Which accounted for our watermelon stealing forays.

Kenneth Martin, his wife Luella and three children lived down the road from our farm. Kenneth’s father, Doug, who lived with them, was an off again, on again drunk. Doug’s only income was in the summer from his watermelon patch. No one questioned Doug’s magic with watermelons. His patch thrived through hot weather, cold weather, through too much rain or too little rain. He spent many sober hours tending the crop that would  yield a profit guaranteeing bottles of cheap booze .

Every year as sure as Easter, the Fourth of July, Halloween or Thanksgiving we kids had our ‘raid Doug’s watermelon patch’ foray.  While parents were engrossed in their ‘too tired to move’ after a hard day’s reaping activity, we gathered to play.

But on this particular night the play was a raid of Doug's watermelon patch. As a group we crept down the hill toward the Martin place. At the edge of Doug’s watermelon patch we each took one melon and high tailed back up the hill to Daddy’s barn where we hid the melons. Nightly we cracked one open until the fruits of our crime were gone. As I have grown older and aware of the ability of parents to sense trouble I suspect Daddy knew, as did Shirley Melton, Haskell Moore and even Doug Martin.

EASTER COMES WITH UNWELCOME NEW SHOES

We girls always got new dresses and new shoes for Easter. New dresses are new dresses; some are nice; others are iffy.   New shoes, on the other hand, are instruments of torture. Old shoes have grown accustomed to the feet;  new shoes are an unwelcome intrusion of comfort.

On this particular Easter Sunday church was – the word that comes to mind  is OKAY.  The Easter egg hunt following the service was more rewarding for those of us younger than seventeen.  Then came the dinner at the Moore’s house, just down from the church.  Potato salad (made with mustard), ham (saved from the last hog killing) sweet potatoes, coleslaw, green beans, creamed corn, coconut cake.  A spread worthy of royalty.

For us who qualified as youngens the dresses got stained with pickled beet juice; the shoes pinched and cramped feet used to shoes a year old. While grown-ups visited and attended the very young we of a younger, freer and more adventurous nature hiked along the stream deep into the woods. The stream widened into a pool with a gentle moss covered bank where we could sit with shoes removed.  In water too cold for real comfort we dangled feet weary from the cramping of new shoes.  Later with shoes in hand, with  winter- tender feet suffering the punishment of woods’  terrain we made our way back to the Moore’s and the disapproval of parents, who threatened a punishment worse than twice aching feet if we tried this again.