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.