T­he strands of DNA, which would come together to create the person who would be me, was fated to occur in the state of Mississippi. All of those people, I would later learn were my ancestors, had been in the state for several generations before I entered the scene. Most of them had lived in the east central part of the state in a little town called Newton. Even before that, they had been in the U.S. long enough for most all of their European traits to have disappeared into the rich southern soil.

Why my ancestors chose Mississippi was likely due to the fact they’d heard something about free government acreage to the homesteaders, and being a land owner meant everything. Unfortunately, that free land had once belonged to the Native American tribes which the government had started systematically taking by wars and treaty agreements.  In 1833, most of the Indians were being removed and assigned to designated reservations. There is much of history that seems unfair. Still, my people took advantage of what was offered. I only hope they had no active part in pushing out the rightful owners of the land.

I am sorry to say that living in this part of the world where slavery was a way of life, left most people in the state prejudiced, whether they owned slaves or not. It is a curse which has to be unlearned over time, and many are still in the process.

Because the KKK became active shortly after the Civil War ended, the races didn’t trust each other. Most of the whites were convinced crimes were more likely to be committed by the black population. This was likely the case, because by making the schools inferior and the wages low, poverty was created. Crimes are more frequent in areas where the population survives in poverty and lack of education.

Although I seldom heard it discussed, the KKK was still a poorly kept secret among certain groups of people. Thankfully, it was not something anyone in my immediate family participated in. Most of the members of my family had been landowners and farmers before I came along, but only a few were slave owners. They seemed to have enough children in their families to take care of the work requirements.

My mother's father was a widowed farmer with six boys and five girls. He married my grandmother who was also a young widow with two children. Her husband who was in community law enforcement had been murdered by a suspected thief. Lucille was the youngest of the two children born to that union. Mom’s blended family consisted of 15 children. Of all those children, only two of the boys chose to be farmers and two of the girls married farmers.

On my dad's side, his father, Ebenezer Weir, was a ‘jack of all trades’ as someone was called who had their hands into many different ways of producing income. He came from a family who operated grist mills and did farming on the side. My grandfather was not only a miller, a farmer, a brickmaker, a syrup maker, a blacksmith, a bee keeper, the owner of a country store, a lumberman, a carpenter, a part-time dentist and barber, but he had also, patented and distilled an acid from the soil which people in the community considered a cure-all. In spite of all this, he seldom had over a dollar and some nickels and dimes to his name. He was self-sufficient and money just wasn’t that important.

My paternal grandparents lost their first child, a little girl, at birth. After Glover was born, his mother was advised that having more children could cost her life. Since Glover grew up as an only child and was never around small children, he was convinced he didn’t want children of his own. Lucille, on the other hand, was used to a big family and although she was the baby of her family, she was always around children of her older siblings, and she had dreams of growing up to be a mother as well.

Although Glover was a good student, he wasn’t happy with the fact that his parents didn’t see to it he had nice clothes to wear. When his years in a one room country school ended in eighth grade, and the students were sent to school in town, he decided continuing to wear overalls to school would be embarrassing. He needed to find a job so he could earn money with which to afford appropriate clothing. He dropped out of school and managed to find work at one of the local stores, cleaning up and stocking shelves. He soon had a better wardrobe and an old A-model car to drive. It was 1925, and he was well respected in the general store where he worked.

Glover’s uncle had married Lucille’s older sister, so although they were weren't related, they were destined to meet through mutual family ties. Although, they were acquainted as children, Glover was five years older than Lucille, and they didn’t become interested in each other, until Lucille was 16 and Glover was 21.

By that time, Lucille was in high school and had hopes of finishing her senior year and going on to college. She had an older brother who had been in the Navy. After his stint with the military, he had gotten a job as a policeman in Detroit. He was sending money to his little sister to buy clothes for school. He wanted her to move to Michigan, attend the University and be the first one in the family to get a college degree.

However, the best laid plans often change. Two years later, Lucille’s brother had married a Canadian girl. Since he now had a wife to support and the possibility of starting a family, she felt bad about continuing to take his money.

Glover had established himself in retail sales. The store owner had thoughts of opening a business in Knoxville, Tennessee and having Glover manage it. Glover was anxious for the opportunity, but he dreaded the thought of leaving his girlfriend behind. Lucille was now seventeen and about to begin her senior year. When he told her about the possibility of a move and asked her if she would marry him, she agreed to marry him and move to Knoxville if the job came through. Her stipulation was, until they knew if they would be moving, the marriage would be kept secret. If for some reason the job didn’t materialize, she would continue living with her parents and graduate from high school. The school didn’t encourage married students to attend.

Glover agreed and they were married by a Justice of the Peace in August of 1932. Within a week, the secret was out. They hadn’t realized, the local paper would carry a list of those who had applied for a marriage license. The Great Depression which had started in 1928 with the stock market crashing and the banks failing, at first, had not had a great impact on the little town of Newton. Now it was starting to be felt all over the country. It was showing signs of deepening, rather than abating. Glover was fortunate to have work at all. His boss decided it wasn’t a good time to open a new business in a larger city.

Lucille was disappointed they wouldn’t be moving to Knoxville. She had always wanted to live near the mountains. She had seen the Appalachian Mountains once when she was 13. Her brother had taken her all the way to Michigan and back. For a little country girl, it had been the adventure of a lifetime. Now, she tried to refocus on the idea she might never again have an opportunity to escape living in a small town. Also, the idea of graduation was out.  She had made an adult decision. The time had come to focus on being a wife.

Neither Lucille's nor Glover’s families had ever gone into debt. They had both been raised with the idea that if you don’t have enough money to buy what you need, you would have to let it go until you do. Now with the banks unstable, it certainly wasn’t a time to be borrowing money.

Glover’s dad had moved the family closer into town several years before to make it more convenient for Glover to get to work. The old unpainted wooden house which they’d purchased had four rooms that could be used as bedrooms. Only one of them was heated by a fireplace. His mother’s unmarried brother and sister lived with the family. Glover’s parents were happy with having Lucille in the family. They suggested the two of them stay with them as long as they needed to. It wasn’t an ideal arrangement, and the couple determined that they would do everything in their power to get their own place as soon as possible.

Glover looked into the possibility of buying some acreage that joined the 15 acres his father owned. The man who owned it agreed to sell him 15 more acres on credit for $400.00. He would carry the loan without interest. The agreement called for them to pay $100 a year for the following four years. To go into debt went against everything they believed, but this was a neighbor who he felt he could trust. He had a little money saved, but he would need that for building materials. Land wouldn’t be of much use without a house. Would he be able to build a house and still manage to save a hundred dollars a year from his small salary? He’d have to try. He had a wife to support.

Glover’s dad, Ebb was handy with a hammer, having built many barns, a mill and other out buildings as well as assisting other people as they built their own houses. Many in the community respected him and felt obligated to give their time to help with the construction. Glover and Lucille sketched out a simple plan for a two-bedroom house. Although they knew they would have to make do with an outdoor toilet, they included a small space where an indoorone could be added later.

Ebb made a dowsing rod with a balanced tree branch and went over the land looking for an underground stream. A well would need to be near the house. It had to be dug first, so where water could be located would determine the spot where the house would be built. Lucille had hoped the house could be on the small hill nearer to Glover’s dad’s place. However, the dowsing rod showed an underground stream fairly near the surface further over in a lower spot. This would leave the hill between the two houses. The well diggers didn’t have to go too deep to find the water.

Some of the lumber for the studs and rafters were gleaned from older houses that had been torn down. Getting lumber this way was much cheaper and sometimes free for dismantling. The simple house went up quickly. Since the construction was done in the spring, the couple left it unsealed, hoping to be able to make it more airtight before winter.

Laying a brick chimney took the longest, but Ebb, in spite of being crippled with arthritis, headed up the project and had his hands in every phase of the work. He made the concrete foundation stones and would have made the brick, but they were able to find enough brick from an older house which had been toppled by a storm. After purchasing the recently milled and roofing material, all of the money Glover had saved back had been used.

With a roof over their heads and some donated furnishings, the newlyweds moved in. Lucille started a garden immediately. Their plan was to later seal the rooms and to add porches as they could afford them. So far, the house in its unfinished state was at least paid for. Now to come up with the mortgage money by August.

The couple was, at last, in their own home with more privacy. Living in an unfinished house was a bit like camping out, but being young and full of energy they were content to work hard and plan for the future.

Lucille had gotten up enough courage to mention the possibility of starting a family. She was shocked and disappointed to learn that Glover didn’t really want children. Seeing how this upset his wife, he reasoned with her they might think about it further down the road, but until the land was paid off, and they had a finished house, it wasn’t a good time to consider having children.

One of Glover’s friends, who worked at the local pharmacy, had given them a huge box of rubbers as a gag gift. Glover had every intention of seeing to it there would be no children in the near future. He was very grateful for something his friend had tried to pretend was only a joke.

Winter found them still without the funds needed to make the place more livable. They wore heavy clothes and hovered around the fireplace, shivering as snowflakes drifted through the cracks left in the walls by the shrinking recently milled green lumber which had been used to board up their house. The first mortgage payment was paid on time, leaving three more to go.

With so many people dying that winter from flu and pneumonia, Lucille had to admit, now wasn’t a good time to start a family. However, her dream was still alive. There was plenty of time to have a child. After all, she was only 18.  She would have been disappointed if she had known that time was still nearly five years in the future when she would give birth to her only child, a little girl she would call Beth.

The story will continue with a chapter called “Mortgage Money”.

Author Notes

The book will be called, "Coming of Age in Mississippi. I've written about my life and family starting with when my husband and I got married. This will be an autobiography leading up to that point.

The windows were tightly closed, and old rags had been pressed into cracks between the wall boards to keep out the cold, but it wasn't working. The house felt like an igloo. The unsealed walls had been hastily constructed using green lumber. Over a six-month period, the boards had dried and shrunk, leaving cracks large enough for snow to sift through into the house itself.

 

Although snow was not common in Mississippi, it had been an unusual winter. On two separate occasions, all along the north wall of the house, there had been little ridges of snow lines on the pine board floor. The glass on the small windows had formed intricate patterns of frost that never seemed to dissipate.

 

Lucille shivered and hugged her sweater tighter around her, as she put another stick of stove wood into the little potbelly iron stove in the kitchen. She opened the small oven door on the side of the stove, checked the pan of cornbread and stirred the pot of beans heating on top of the stove. The fire was almost out, and she knew she would have to go outside for more wood soon.

 

She heard the sputter of Glover's old model-T Ford as he turned into the driveway. Good, she thought, let him go get the wood. A couple of minutes later, the door opened, and Glover came in quickly, his breath making little puffs of vapor in the frosty air. He gave her a quick peck on the cheek and started to take off his overcoat.

 

"Babe, we need some more wood. Do you mind getting it before you take off your coat?" 

 

Glover rolled his eyes, grunted and started for the door. It wasn't long before he reentered, carrying an armload of small chopped sticks of wood. He unloaded it in the kindling box near the stove.

 

"What's for supper?" he asked.

 

"Cornbread and beans again. We don't have any meat left. I don’t want to kill any more of our chickens. We need what few hens we have left for eggs. I made some tea. Are you ready to eat?"

 

Glover sighed and ran his finger through his thinning hair. Only twenty-five and he was going bald already. He would be an old man before his time.

 "Things will get better after this weekend. I'm looking forward to burning that mortgage agreement. First thing Monday morning, we're taking that money to Mr. Granger. I don’t ever want to owe anyone again. We're not ever going to borrow any more money. By this time next year, we'll have this house sealed. Next winter, we won't be freezing our butts off."

 

Lucille grinned and turned back to the stove, adding more wood as she spoke. "We need to go dig our money up Saturday after you get paid.  I'll put it all in a nice white envelope to take to him."

 

The year was 1935. Glover and Lucille had married in August of `32.  She had only been seventeen, and Glover was twenty-two. The country had still not fully recovered from the Great Depression. Glover had dropped out of school at fifteen to take a job at a dry-goods store in order to help his family. When he thought he might be transferred to a store in another state, he had pressed Lucille to marry him. She hesitated, because she wanted to finish high school and go to college. Her older brother, Eugene, had promised to provide the money for her tuition. Still, she didn't want to lose Glover, and he was so persistent.

 

In the end, the thing that helped her make up her mind was when she learned her sister-in-law was pregnant. Eugene can't really afford college for me, she reasoned. Dad and Mom are barely making it as it is, so maybe this is the right thing to do. She was disappointed when Glover wasn't transferred after all. She had looked forward to moving to Tennessee.

 

The couple wanted a home of their own. Glover only made $20.00 a week, and it took at least half of it to live. Land prices were reasonable. If they skimped, they could manage to put most of the other half away toward buying land and building a house.

 

Mr. Granger, a man who owned land adjoining Glover's father's land, agreed to sell them 15 acres and let them pay $100 a year over a four-year period with no interest. The loan agreement had some strict clauses of what would happen should the money not be paid on time. They still found this preferable to dealing with a bank.

The first year, they had lived with his parents, and the following summer, with the help of his dad and some neighbors, they had built the little two-bedroom house where they now lived. It had no electricity, no indoor plumbing and no heat, except for a fireplace in one of the bedrooms and the little potbelly stove on which they cooked their meals. For the last three years, Glover had sold off a few trees to help make the mortgage payment. His dad had sold a little timber also on some other land he owned. 

This year, they had set the money aside early, hoping it wouldn’t have to be used before the due date. It had been a struggle doing without things they desperately needed, but they had gotten by without touching the final amount.  

In the spring, Lucille had put in a garden, and the two of them had planted cotton on the rest of their fifteen acres. Since she had grown up in the country, Lucille was no stranger to hard work. By canning fruits and vegetables, raising chickens and milking the one cow Lucille's parents had given them, they had been able to have enough to eat.

 

In the blazing hot September sun, they had picked the cotton from the ripe bolls, bursting open to reveal the soft white fluff. The cotton burrs had sharp edges that pricked their hands and made them bleed. As they removed the cotton from the burrs, they placed it in the burlap sacks onto which Lucille had sewn straps. The sacks hung across one shoulder and trailed behind them in the dirt. As they filled the sacks, they weighed the cotton and emptied it into Glover's father's wagon. Once the wagon was piled high with cotton, it was hitched to a pair of mules, and hauled to the cotton mill to be ginned.

 

Every time Glover got enough dollars together, he would take them to the bank and exchange them for a crisp twenty-dollar bill. At first, they had sewn the money into the mattress on which they slept, but fearing fire or perhaps a thief, they decided to put the money into a fruit jar and bury it in the dirt floor of a little shed outside the house. There were five twenties in the fruit jar, which they had buried last fall. This weekend, they planned to dig up the money and on Monday, they would take the final payment to their neighbor.

 

By Saturday, the weather had warmed to 60 degrees. This wasn't unusual for Mississippi. The temperature could change drastically from one day to the next. When Glover got home from his job at the store, he wore a big grin. "Let's go dig up the money," he said. "You ready, Sweety? Come Monday morning, we'll be debt free."

 

Lucille was excited, but she was also cautious. "Maybe we should wait until Monday just before we go and make the payment. What if something should happen over the weekend? We know the money is safe where we have it."

 

"No, let's do it now. I can't wait. It's a pleasure to see that much money at one time. I just want to hold it and look at it." Glover headed for the shed and grabbed the shovel. Lucille followed close behind. It took both of them to move the heavy chest out of the way, which they had placed over the spot. Once the chest was moved, Glover started to dig carefully so as not to break the jar. When the shovel hit something solid, he put the shovel aside and dug with his fingers until he uncovered the jar. It was dark in the shed, so they took the jar outside before they opened it.

 

The jar appeared fogged over. Apparently, there was moisture inside. Glover twisted the lid and grabbed the money. His face drained of color. The money felt clammy. It was white. It didn't look like money at all. "Oh God, something has happened to the money."

 

Lucille's mouth dropped open. She could only stare at the bills Glover held in his hands. "It can't be gone," she cried. "Let me see." She took the bills from Glover and gaped at them in shock. There was nothing on the money you could read at all. The bills could have been fives, ones, or simply pieces of white paper. "What on earth are we going to do?" she moaned. "We've worked so hard. We're going to lose everything we've worked for." She burst into tears.

Mr. Granger was rumored to be a hard man. He had written into the agreement if any one of the payments were not made on time, the money paid earlier would be considered as past rent, and the land and all improvements would revert back to him. They’d had the agreement notarized. He had sold land and taken it back before for inability of the buyer to make the payment.

 

In a daze, they walked back into the house and spread the money out on the kitchen table. It appeared to be covered with some kind of white mold or mildew. It had a strange musty smell. Lucille picked up a dry towel and pressed it to the money. "Be careful! You'll tear it. Let's leave it flat on the table and see if it will dry out."

 

It was getting dark, and the light from the kerosene lamp did nothing to improve the appearance of the money. Reluctantly, they turned away from their ruined treasure and tried to come up with some solution. Was there any way they might manage to hold on to their land if they couldn't make the payment? Would anyone believe them when they claimed the money had gone bad by some strange freak of nature? They finally had to admit, the situation appeared hopeless. If they lost their land, they would have no choice except to move back in with Glover's parents.

 

The evening temperature dropped and Lucille and Glover went to bed early in order to keep warm beneath the heavy quilts. He held her close as she cried herself to sleep. It had been his idea to bury the money, so he felt responsible for what had happened. Fine provider I am, he thought.  Lucille could be in college making something of her life, if I hadn't insisted that she marry me. I've made so many promises, I haven't been able to keep. 

 

The next morning after a restless night, Lucille hopped out of bed and ran to see if maybe the whole thing had been a bad dream. The money appeared much the same as it had the night before. Her heart sank. Glover refused to look at the money. He was so discouraged, he could barely choke down the breakfast that Lucille prepared.

 

By mid-morning, the sun was streaming through the window and lighting some of the bills. Lucille noticed they were starting to dry. She picked up one, and a fine white powder fell from the bill. A ray of hope sprang up in her chest. She grabbed the bills and hurried to the clothesline in the back where the rays from the sun were already beating down. She pinned each bill to the line and closed her eyes and prayed.

 

An hour later, Lucille returned and found the bills dry. As she gathered them from the line, the white powder came off on her hand. The sun had killed the mold that was growing on them. As the powder fell away, the writing and portrait reappeared. Andrew Jackson had never looked so handsome. 
"Thank God!" she cried, rushing inside to show Glover.

 

For the next hour, the two of them worked on the bills with toothbrushes to make sure all the powder was completely removed. Never had they felt so happy. Nothing could spoil this day. Tomorrow, they would have a mortgage burning party.

Author Notes

Some of you may feel you've read something like this before, because several years ago, I worte a fictional story a bit like this one. It was based on truth, but this one is different and it is true. A bit of the first chapter from yesterday repeats to make it a stand alone story or the second chapter to a biography.

Chapter 3
A Desire For Something More

By BethShelby

With the mortgage paid off, Lucille began to think about babies again, her brother and sister in-law, had stopped by, bringing their little girl, Jeanine. She was adorable with her dark bouncing curls and sparkling blue eyes.

 

Lucille had still been living with her mama and papa in the country when Jeanine was born. Her brother and only sibling with both parents, Newman, was two years older than her. When he’d married Alene, he brought her home to live until he could afford a place of his own. There were plenty of rooms in their house since the half-brothers and sisters had grown up and moved away.

Alene was a girl from the community who they’d grown up with, so she felt at home with her in-laws. Her brother had already married Lucille’s older sister.  

 

Alene had gotten pregnant right away. The baby was born at home, and the birth had given everyone a scare. She was born breach, and the doctor had a hard time delivering her. To further complicate things, she was born with a veil or caul.

This can happen when the water doesn’t break normally and the amniotic fluid sack becomes affixed over the baby. It isn’t dangerous as long as it is peeled away fairly soon, but it is extremely rare, occurring in only one in 88,000 births. It was a first for the doctor and for all the others gathered around. The baby’s skin was a strange shade of dark purple. It alarmed everyone, especially Lucille, who at the time was in her early teens. If folks had only known, many cultures consider this extremely lucky.

From her strange beginning, Lucille adored the baby girl and longed to have one of her own. The child, who was now almost six, idolized Lucille as well. “Aunt Lucille, do you have any cake for me?” Jeanine asked.

“No honey, I’m sorry. I would have if I’d known you were coming today. I don’t have any cake, but I have some peaches. Would you like a peach cut up with some cream and sugar on it. I’ll tell you what, if you can get your mom and dad to bring you back tomorrow, I’ll have you a cake baked with chocolate frosting, just like you like.”

“Sis, you spoil her. She thinks you hung the moon. When are you going to have one of your own. You’ve been married four years. It didn’t take me that long to get one going.”

“You always did try to beat me at everything. It’s a good thing your baby was two weeks late being born. People were ready to start counting the days you’d been married. If she had been born early, you’d have had the whole community whispering behind your back.”

After supper that night, Lucille worked up the courage to approach Glover again about starting a family. They were sitting out on their new porch enjoying the swing, Glover’s dad had built for them. Glover was puffing on his pipe causing Lucille to have to fan away at the smoke which the breeze kept blowing her direction. She hated the smell of tobacco, but at least a pipe, with its faint scent of cherries, wasn’t as bad as the strong cigarettes her brothers smoked. Glover insisted the smoke kept the mosquitoes at bay.

"Honey, now that we’re out of debt, could we at least be thinking about starting a family.”

“Seems to me, we are a family. Am I not enough for you? Come on, Lucille, be reasonable. We still haven’t got this place sealed. Remember how cold it was in the winter. If we had a baby, it might get pneumonia and die. The Bounds family lost two of their little ones, last winter. Could you handle that?

“Are you saying you don’t ever want any kids?”

“I’m just saying, I don’t know why we need kids. They’re noisy. I can’t handle a lot of noise. Are you that lonely? We could get a dog. Anyway, let’s not talk about it right now. We might think about it, after we get all the walls sealed and maybe get some electricity. We signed up with the power company two years ago, but they may never get around to bringing poles and wire down this road. Papa didn’t sign up for it, so our house is the only one on this road that needs wiring for electricity.

 

Lucille sighed. “You and I grew up without electricity. Children don’t need electricity. If they don’t have it, they don’t miss it.”  She decided she would have to let the subject drop for now. She would just have to start praying about it. She changed the subject.

“When are you going to teach me how to drive? You promised me when we got married you would." 

“You don’t have any reason to drive. I don’t want you working. You’ve got enough to do here at home, but if you really want to learn to drive, we’ll try to get out on Sunday and let you practice.”

 

Sunday afternoon, the driving lesson was frustrating. Starting the car was easy, but each time Lucille started forward the car would jerk. Lucille quickly learned her teacher wasn’t a man of patience. “Damn it, Lucille, you’re not listening to me. It isn’t that hard."

 

After a few more forward jerks and quick stops. Glover got out of the car. He slammed the door and headed inside. Lucille sat for a few minutes, choking back the tears. Then, she cranked the car and eased it forward. Without Glover yelling at her, her confidence returned. Slowly, she made her way down the driveway and onto the road.

She picked up speed, as Glover came running from the house waving his hands and yelling in alarm. She paid no attention but kept moving all the way down to the highway where she turned around and drove back home. She was pleased with herself. Now, all she needed was her license. She had mastered the art of driving.

A few weeks later Lucille was working in the kitchen. She glanced out the kitchen window looking at the four chinaberry trees she had planted three years earlier. They were growing well. Suddenly a strange feeling washed over her. She felt dizzy. The scene was changing in front of her eyes. The trees were bigger and full of tiny purple flowers. A rope swing hung from one of them. The yard was sandy. Right in the middle of the sand pile sat a little girl who looked to be about four. She had a sand bucket and shovel and was in the process of scooping sand into the bucket.

 

There was a sharp intake of air, as Lucille caught her breath, and the word “Beth” formed on her lips. As soon as the word left her mouth, the scene faded away and she was, once again, seeing the trees as they were. Her knees buckled, and she sat abruptly in one of the kitchen chairs. In all her heart, she knew God had just told her that her prayers would be answered.

When it was time for her monthly cycle, her period didn’t start.

Author Notes

The time is around 1936 in the little town of Newton, Mississippi. Glover and Lucille have paid their debts but live in a partly finished house. This is will likely be the third chapter of a book intitled "Growing up in Mississippi".

Chapter 4
Devastating News

By BethShelby

Although, Lucille had missed her period and hoped it meant she was pregnant, she didn’t have time to think about telling anyone. The following day, one of her older half-brothers, Henry, showed up at her door with some devastating news. Her dad, who was 78 and had been in declining health for the last year, had suffered a massive heart attack that morning.

 

“Sis, it doesn’t look good. He’s conscious, but the doctor isn’t giving us much hope he will make it. He was out in the barn when it happened. Your mama heard him yell out, and she managed to get him into the house. We’ve all tried to get him to slow down, but he just wouldn’t. He says if it’s his time, he’s ready to go. He wouldn’t let us take him to hospital. The doctor came out to the house and gave him something for pain.

 

Lucille burst into tears and fell into Henry’s outstretched arms, sobbing into his shoulder.

 

“Oh no, I’m not ready for this. I need to go to him. We had him and Mama over just last Sunday for lunch.” Tears rolled down her cheek as she asked, “How’s Mama holding up? “

 

“You know your mama, Lucille, she’s strong. She's been through this before when she lost her first husband. She had to be tough to marry a man with nine kids and two of her own. She’s staying right there with him. Alma and Nanny are over there helping. Are you going to be alright? You’re taking this pretty hard. I’ll take you over there, now, if you want me to, but there’s nothing you can do. Why don’t you get Glover to bring you over after work.”

 

Lucille and Glover drove over that evening. Her dad had his eyes closed. He looked peaceful and not in pain. “Papa, can you hear me? she asked through her tears. He squeezed her hand. The room was full of people so they didn’t stay long. All of his children who lived in the surrounding area were there. Two of his daughters and three of his sons had moved to Port Arthur, Texas a couple of years before hoping to get jobs at the Texas company Oil refinery there.

 

Her father passed away peacefully the following day. Lucille was his last child and she adored him. She was an emotional wreck for days following the funeral. In addition to all his children, he had 29 grandchildren. The funeral had been huge. They had waited until all of his children from Texas had arrived.

 

Glover realized his wife was fragile and tried to be on his best behavior. He could be caring when he made the extra effort. He loved her. There had never been another girl for him, but sometimes he just didn’t understand her. He hadn’t known how sensitive she was before. He wondered if she would cry that much if he died.

 

The trauma wasn’t over. There was the problem of what to do about Lucille’s mother.

 

“Mama, you can’t stay in that big old house by yourself. You’re going to have to live with one of your children. You know you’re welcome to come to Texas and live with me and Aline.” Newman told her. “If you don’t want to leave Newton, you could live with Harry and Christine or Lucille and Glover, but you can’t stay here by yourself. You can’t take care of this farm. You don’t have a car or any way to get out. The kids need to divide up what they want from here and sell this place. It needs to be done right away. Don’t you even think about trying to stay here.”

 

Glover kept his mouth shut. Surely with his house unfinished, she wouldn’t be able to live with him and Lucille. Harry and Christine lived in an older house and had plenty of room for her. It only made sense that she live with them.

 

Annie Jane sighed. She saw the wisdom of what he was saying, but she didn’t like it. She wanted her independence. All her life, she had done what she had to do. She’d cooked and cleaned and taken care of children and had never had any time for herself.

 

When her first husband died, she’d dreamed of moving nearer to town and opening her own business. She thought she would like to sell hats, and maybe do some seamstress work on the side. A month after his funeral, she’d realized she was pregnant again, so that dream had gone out the window. In need of financial security, she’d accepted Mr. Lay’s proposal, even though he was twenty years her senior. He was kind, and they’d had a decent life, but she’d never felt comfortable calling him, Bob. To her, he would always be Mr. Lay.

 

In the end, Annie Jane had packed her clothes into a suitcase and agreed to go with Harry and Christine for now. At fifty-eight, it was too late for her to try to go out on her own. What did she know of running a business. When she was young, girls only went to school through fifth grade. She could read and write, but getting a decent education had never been an option.

 

All of Robert Lay’s nine older children divided up the things from the house which were important to them. Lucille got the piano, a love seat, a claw foot hall tree, some small tables and her mother’s sewing machine, since Christine already owned a sewing machine. Most of the other pieces of furniture went to Christine and Harry, and what no one wanted was stored in their barn.

 

The house and land were sold, and the profits were split twelve ways. No one got enough to make a difference in their life. Lucille used her portion to seal the living and dining area and purchase some nice flooring to cover those rooms. She and Glover did the work of laying it.

 

She planned to keep that new floor waxed smooth and shiny. If there was a baby on the way, it would be able to crawl without getting splinters in its knees.

Robert B. Lay (Bob) is Lucille's father. He has 9 children by his first marriage, two by his marriage to Lucille's mothe, and two step-children who are Lucille half siblings my her mother first marriage.

Ann Jane is Lucille's mother  she is married to Robert Lay her second husband. Christine, Eugene, Newman and Lucille are her children.

Newman Lay is Lucille's only sibling with the same mother and father. He live in Texas with Aline his wife.

Henry Lay is a half brother and son of her father.   Alma and Nanny are also half sister with the same father.  

Chirstine is Ann Jane's oldest daughter by her frist marriage  She is married to Harry Williams who Aline's brother.

Glover and Lucille are the main characters in the part of the book.

 

PHOTO:  Bob Lay  bottom right with five of sons   Henry Lay: standing second from right

Author Notes

Glover and Lucille have been married four years. They live in Newton, Mississippi in the late 1930. The house is still only partly finished. This segment shows interaction with other of Lucille's family members.

Chapter 5
The News is Out

By BethShelby

Once my yet-to-be grandmother, Annie Jane, had moved out of her house, the most logical place for her to live was with her oldest daughter Christine and her husband, Harry. Their house was the largest of her children’s houses, and the bulk of her furniture had ended up there. Christine, whose father, a constable, had been killed when she was two, was eleven years older than Lucille.

 

Christine’s husband, Harry, was a laid-back, happy-go-lucky farmer and the perfect husband for Christine. She was used to farm work and was easy-going and good natured. Harry played the fiddle and guitar and the couple enjoyed interacting with friends in the community. They often had people over to play games or for a musical evening with Harry’s siblings. The one great regret of their life had been their inability to have children. After a miscarriage, Christine’s health had deteriorated, and she had no choice, other than to have a hysterectomy.

 

With the Williams family, things were pleasant enough for Annie Jane, but she felt awkward living where she was no longer the lady of the house. She was determined not to outstay her welcome with any one of her four children. Next, she hoped to visit with Lucille and Glover. Later, maybe she could do a little traveling and go stay a while with her boys. Newman was in Texas, and Eugene was in Michigan.

 

Lucille had revealed to her mother she thought she was pregnant. She dreaded telling Glover, because he wasn’t anxious to have children. Annie took the news without any visible excitement. To her, children meant work and trouble. She decided she’d wait until nearer the time for the baby so she'd be of some help. In the meantime, she got busy making some loose-fitting dresses for Lucille to wear.

 

Lucille waited for three months to pass before she got up the nerve to tell Glover. She had already told his mother, Alma, and swore her to silence. Alma was excited. She hoped Lucille would have a girl, as she had lost her baby girl several years before Glover was born.

 

“You need to go ahead and tell him, Lucille. He's not used to children, but he will be thrilled when he has his own baby. He needs to go ahead and get used to the idea that he’s going to be a Papa. I know Ebb will be excited. Is it okay if I tell him?”

 

“Give me a couple of days,” Lucille told her. “You’re right. I need to go ahead and tell him. Pretty soon, he will be wondering why I’m putting on weight. So far, I think I’ve lost weight. I’ve been really nauseated.”

 

Waiting for Glover to get home, Lucille paced back and forth trying to calm her nerves and think of how to approach the subject in a way that wouldn’t trigger a sharp reaction from her husband. The last five years had taught her that he didn’t like surprises. Maybe the carrot cake I baked and loaded with pecans will help, she thought. It is his favorite.    

 

She waited until the meal was finished and he actually complimented her on the cake before she started the conversation.

“I’ve been wondering why I’ve been so nauseated lately,” she said. “I was talking to your mother today and she thinks I may be pregnant.”

 

“Surely not,” he said. “Wouldn’t you know? I thought women could tell those things by their period. You haven’t missed a period, have you?", he asked. His expression darkened and he looked alarmed.

 

“Well, with Dad dying and Mama trying to figure out what to do and then with us trying to get a garden going, things like that can slip your mind.”

 

“Lucille, don’t tell me you wouldn’t know. Are you trying to slip something over on me? You can’t be pregnant. I’ve used rubbers every time.”

 

“Well honey, you’ve still been using some of those old ones your druggist friend gave us when we first got married. That was five years ago, I told you we needed to throw those old ones out. The rubber probably dry-rots like it does on tires. It wouldn’t be so bad if I’m pregnant, would it? Some of our friends who got married after we did, have already got three kids.”

 

Glover's face was flushed. He got up from the table without saying another word and headed down the path toward the barn. He needed time to process this information. He didn’t buy the idea of Lucille not knowing if she was pregnant. She had a way of saying things she wanted to get out, in such a way she wasn’t exactly lying, but still making him feel he was the victim of a deception. She wanted a baby and in some way she must be putting one over on him and making him feel like it was all his fault.

 

After walking all the way to the back pasture, he was starting to see this news a little differently. He had gone through a lot of teasing at work. Men friends, and women as well, kept asking if he wasn’t ever going to get a family going. Apparently, people were beginning to believe something might be wrong with one of them physically. Having kids seemed to be what people thought marriage was all about.

 

Damn it! If she’s pregnant, it better be a girl. A boy is too hard to handle, and I can’t tolerate a lot of noise. I wonder how long she been keeping her little secret? I need to find out. I hate surprises.

 

The is the story of my early life in Mississippi. I have yet to be born.

 

Characters:

Annie Jane: My maternal grandmother  A widow with 4 children and 11 stepchildren.

Christine: Annie's older daughter by first marriage. Married to Harry Williams.  

Eugene Dearing: Older son by first marriage  He lives in Detroit, Michigan.

Newman Lay  Annie's son by second marriage and my mother brother, with same parents. He lives in Port Author, Texas.

Lucille: Annie's youngest daughter. My mother is married to my father Glover Weir  She is a housewife.

Glover: My father He works in town and is a clerk in a retail story.

Ebb and Alma Weir  Glover's parents and my grandparents, who live a short way down the road from Glover and Lucille.

Author Notes

In is 1937. The place is a small town in Missisippi. Lucille's father died recently and her mother has had to move to make her home with her children. Lucille is pregnant but Glover has said he didn't want children. She is reluctant to tell him. He works as a clerk in town. The couple have been married five years.

Chapter 6
Countdown to Delivery

By BethShelby

Lucille was relieved that she no longer had to hide the fact that she was pregnant. Glover had accepted it better than she’d expected. Except for some minor nausea in the mornings, she was feeling good. She was a naturally energetic person who had always considered herself healthy. It was spring planting time, and she was anxious to get a garden going. Glover, not having ever been around a pregnant female, was afraid she might overdo it. He loved her and didn’t want anything to happen to her. 

 

“Lucille, you can’t be doing all that lifting and hoeing. Aren’t you supposed to be taking it easy and resting? Come on in the house and sit down. Let that garden go. You canned enough stuff last summer. We are not going to starve.”  His voice showed both concern and irritation.

 

“No, I’m fine. I feel better than I ever have.” She did a few steps of the Charleston to prove her point. “Being pregnant doesn’t make an invalid out of a person.” 

 

“Well, damn it, I’ve warned you. If you have a miscarriage, don’t go blaming me. If you want to act like a fool, go ahead.”

 

Glover got busy trying to finish sealing the rooms and make everything as airtight as possible. Lucille continued milking their two cows and churning the milk using a dasher in the gray crockery churn. They always had plenty of fresh butter, cream and buttermilk. 

 

Each morning, she made biscuits from scratch using a starter she kept in a large bowl covered with a white cloth. There were always fresh eggs gathered the day before and sausage or bacon. There were also molasses, thanks to Glover’s dad, who had his own cane mill. 

 

Glover complimented his wife on her biscuits saying they tasted better than his mother’s which had a strong soda taste. He still preferred his mother's cornbread though. As she mixed the freshly ground cornmeal, eggs and buttermilk, she was overly generous with the lard.

 

Lucille also gardened, cooked, and cleaned. Knowing there was a baby on the way made her  happy and she sang as she worked. In the evening, when it was too late to work outside, she would sit by the oil lamp and knit little bootees and sweaters for the baby. She had chosen pink and white skeins of yarn because she was sure the baby was a girl.

 

 In the unpainted frame house down the road, her mother-in-law, Alma, was busy getting ready for the new baby too. She was quilting little crib blankets, which she would later embroider with baby lambs. She, too, hoped the baby would be a girl. Her own baby girl had died at birth many years before.

 

Since there was no electricity, there was no radio. Newspapers from Meridian were delivered to the store to be sold for a nickel a copy. Glover got into the habit of picking up a copy each day so they could keep up with the news of the world. Lucille loved to read, so when she had the chance, she read the paper from cover to cover. She especially enjoyed the Dorothy Dix advice column.  Glover scanned the front page and read the funnies. 

 

Lucille was amazed with news of the German blimp which would be coming to the US. She imagined what it might be like to see such a large air ship. The news in May of the Hindenburg disaster was shocking. The fire aboard, possibly caused by lightening, made the helium and hydrogen explode and burn, killing people in the compartment beneath the blimp, and even more on the ground, as it crumbled and fell.

 

Another news story which captured Lucille’s imagination was in June, when she read of Amelia Earhart, the gutsy lady, who flew airplanes and had plans to fly around the world. In July, came the sad news that her plane had gone missing somewhere over the Pacific Ocean. Each daily paper afterward continued to carry stories of vain search attempts, with no clues as to what the fate of her plane may have encountered.

 

The garden was looking great by summer. Lucille’s meals were mostly fresh vegetables which she harvested daily. What she didn’t cook, she put away in pint and quart jars. She still had a lot of energy, but her expanding stomach was starting to make her uncomfortable. 

 

The little town of Newton had an ice plant, and each week, they would send a truck around delivering ice in large blocks. People with no electricity kept the ice blocks in air-tight insolated ice boxes. The ice box was a piece of furniture large enough to preserve the food which needed refrigeration. 

 

With summer temperatures hovering around 100 F., Lucille constantly craved ice, which she used an icepick to chip up as fine as possible. The block obtained from the iceman wasn’t lasting long with her constantly munching on ice chips. 

 

“Glover, honey, I hate to ask you, but do you mind running back into town and picking up another block of ice? We’re running out. I just feel like I can’t get enough.” 

 

He always obliged her without grumbling too much. He’d heard pregnant women had cravings. There were more expensive things she could be craving. He often brought her back a small cup of vanilla ice cream as well. Newton had both an ice cream plant and a CocaCola drink bottling company.
 
Lucille visited the doctor only once during her pregnancy. He declared everything looked good. Dr. Simmons assured her, he would be available around the due date, which he believed would occur in early September. Since the Newton Hospital wasn't completed, he told her he would make house calls and to be prepared to have the baby at home.

 

As the baby grew more active, Lucille would rock and sing to her spreading belly. She would also talk, hoping the child would bond to the sound of her voice. She would say, “I can’t wait to hold you. Your mama loves you.”

 

Glover couldn’t visualize a child just yet. He wouldn’t be able to feel it was real until he could actually see it. He was starting to feel he might be playing second fiddle to this new addition.

 

Annie Jane, Lucille’s mom, decided it was time for her to come and help out as September grew closer. She packed her suitcase with the intention of staying for a few weeks. She would be there for the birth and as long as Lucille might need her. 

 

Annie Jane declared that Lucille would need to stay in bed for two weeks after the birth of the child. This was the proper length of time for the confinement, according to her own mother, who had been the country doctor and midwife for the community when she was young.

 

It was around midday on the tenth of September when Lucille’s water broke and she began experiencing the labor pains. One of the neighbors was alerted to go into town and tell Glover that he would soon be a father. His heart started racing as he informed his boss he would be taking the remainder of the day off. 

 

He went home with a feeling of excitement as well as fear. He couldn’t imagine what he would do if this didn’t go well and he lost Lucille. She was his world, and he didn’t see how he could make it without her.

 

Characters:

Glover Weir: Husband of Lucille He works in town as clerk in store.

Lucille: Glover's wife  She is housewife.

Annie Jane Lay: Lucille's mother.

Alma Weir: Glover's mother.

Author Notes

Biographical story of my family who are living in Newton, Mississippi in the late thirties. Lucille and Glover are my parents, but at this time, my mother is pregnant with me.

Chapter 7
Making a Grand Entrance

By BethShelby

In mid-August of 1937, Annie Jane, Lucille’s mother moved in with the Weir family, planning on easing things during the time of her daughter’s delivery. Glover was uncomfortable with her presence, feeling he wasn’t free to be himself. He’d never lived with anyone else in the house other than his own family and Lucille. He would try to be on his best behavior. He would treat her with respect and try to curb his tendency to erupt with swear words when something aggravated him. On the other hand, he was relieved to realize that he wouldn’t be alone with a wife who might be in pain, and possibly, a crying baby, as well.

 

Lucille's mid-section was expanding rapidly. The summer temperatures in Mississippi made her feel like she was melting. Still, she continued to get out in the early morning and pick the vegetables that would need to be canned. Her mother helped with shelling the peas and beans and with processing food.

 

September arrived, and the baby was due any day. It became apparent this child was likely to make a late entrance into the world. The doctor had only made an educated guess as to its time of arrival in the first place. It was early morning of the tenth day of the month, when the light cramps Lucille had felt earlier, became much stronger. She cried out with their intensity and told her mother she believed she was in labor. Glover had already left for work. Thinking she might have the baby very soon; she told her mother someone needed to go to Glover’s work so he could alert the doctor and come home himself.

 

“Lucille, I know it hurts, and you don’t know what to expect, but I’ve been there four times”, her mother said. “This is your first baby, and it probably won’t be here for hours. It may not even get here today. We have to time those pains. They will get really close together, later. You can lie down, and we’ll see to it someone can go to Glover’s work and tell him. He can let the doctor know you’ll be needing him.”

 

“Mama, it isn’t hurting all the time, it comes in waves, but when the pain starts, it’s brutal. You know how much I used to suffer when I had a period. The best part of being pregnant is that I haven’t had that pain in nine months. This is much worse than that, and I always had to take a strong BC powder to ease those cramps. Can I take something to ease the pain?”

 

“No, you shouldn’t take anything. It could slow down the labor and could hurt the baby. Just grab on to something and hold on tight until the pain passes. As soon as we get you settled, I’ll walk over the hill and let Glover’s mama know what’s going on. After a while her brother, Willie, can drive into town and tell Glover.”

 

Lucille’s face was contorted in pain with each contraction, but she told herself she was fortunate that her mother was able to be there and to take care of her. She prayed everything would go as it was supposed to, and that too many hours wouldn’t pass before she had a little baby girl to hold. She had never once thought she might be having a boy, because she trusted the vision, or whatever it was, she had seen before she knew she was pregnant. Besides, all of her friends and acquaintances had said it looked like the way she was carrying it, it was likely a girl.

 

One friend had even had her lie down while she held Lucille’s ring on a string over her belly. The lady waited for the string to move on its own and it slowly started to circle. “Oh, it is definitely a girl,” her friend told her. “If it had been a boy, the ring would have swung back and forth instead of in a circle.

 

By midafternoon, the pains were still not regular. They were around 10 minutes apart, but her water had broken. Glover had been notified and he came home both worried and excited. Shortly after he came, Dr. Simmons came out and checked her.

 

“It looks good,” he told her. “The baby’s heart sounds strong, and you are healthy. You should do fine. You’ve just started to dilate. I’ve got another patient that will deliver before you. She has almost dilated, and this is her third child. I’ll be back about eight o'clock tonight with the nurse. If things should pick up and it looks like it may be sooner, have Glover come and get me.”

 

Lucille smiled weakly. “Okay, Dr. Simmons, I trust that you know what you’re doing. You know you took out my tonsils, back when I was thirteen.”

 

“Yeah, I remember you. I thought you looked familiar. I was just starting out as a doctor. You are the little girl who kept begging for chocolate ice cream.”

 

Lucille resigned herself to the fact this wasn’t going to happen any time soon. Annie brought her some chipped ice to put in her mouth and an icepack for her head. The house was starting to fill up. A few neighbors came by to see how things were going. Alma, Glover’s mom and Eva, her sister, came with the intention of staying, but when they realized it wouldn’t happen right away they when back home to get supper for Ebb, Glover’s dad. They would return later.

 

Just before sundown, the sky darkened and the wind speed intensified. In the distance, there were flashes of lightning and low rumbles of thunder. Ebb looked at the sky and remarked to his wife, “It looks like a storm’s brewing back in the southwest. We are likely to be getting it, sometime tonight.

 

About 8:30, Dr. Simmons was back with his nurse. This time the examination showed Lucille was over half way dilated. The pains were between five and three minutes apart, and Lucille lay groaning in misery. She was starting to wonder if she could survive much more.

 

Annie Jane made a pot of coffee for the doctor and nurse. The doctor had delivered another baby earlier. He was ready for coffee and planned to stay until the baby came. Glover’s mother and dad were there as well as Eva, his mother’s sister. Eva had never married, and she and her bachelor brother, Willie, lived with Glover’s parents. Eva was nervous about the weather. She was deathly afraid of storms and preferred being near their storm pit when the weather looked threatening.

 

The doctor continued to check Lucille’s progress every 15 to 20 minutes. About eleven p.m., she was crying out in agony. He and his nurse were with her, telling her to hold on and to try not to push yet. Outside streaks of lightning were flashing across the sky and loud claps of thunder shook the house. Eva was crying and saying, “I think it’s a tornado, I’m afraid we’ll all be blown away. What a terrible night to have a baby.”

 

At eleven thirty-five, those waiting in the living area heard Lucille cry out above the roar of the storm, and shortly afterward there was the unmistakable wail of a newborn. While the nurse cleaned the baby and gave her to her mother, Dr. Simmons came in to congratulate Glover.

 

“You’re the father of a little 10 lb. girl. I think she and the storm arrived at the same minute. For a little while, it was touch and go. I wasn’t sure she didn’t bring the storm with her. Mom and baby are both doing fine. I’ll finish up in there, and then, you can go see her. Tell her I’ll come check on her next week”.

As the storm started to abate, Eva relaxed. “The baby should have waited a few more minutes. Then she would have been born on my birthday.”

"It's after midnight so “Happy Birthday, Eva" Alma said. "I’d forgotten all about it, but pick out a pattern, and I'll make you a new dress.. The baby needs her own birthday. She won’t want to share it with an old lady. It’s been an interesting Friday night. As soon as we get a quick peek at the baby, let's see if we can get Glover to drive us home. It’s too wet to walk, and I’m dying to get a little sleep, before I have to get up and milk the cows. I can't believe I finally have a grandchild. It has been a good day after all.

 

Glover Weir - My father 

Lucille Lay Weir - My mother

Anne Jane Davis Lay -My maternal grandmother, recently widowed.

Ebb Weir - Glover's father -My maternal grandfather

Alma Simmons Weir - Glover's mother and my paternal grandmother and wife of Ebb.

Dr. Omar Simmons  Newton doctor  The doctor is not related although he has the same last name.

New Infant - Me   

Author Notes

The time is Fall of 1937 in Newton, MIssissippi. This chapter is about my birth and family. In will be chapter 7 of At Home in Mississippi.

Chapter 8
Postpartum Crisis

By BethShelby

It was two in the morning on September 11, before the doctor and his nurse finally left the Weir home after I had become a part of the world outside the womb. Lucille was exhausted, and I’m sure I was as well. Before she dropped off with me cuddled next to her, she told the doctor my official name so he could fill out the necessary paperwork.

“Her name will be Verna Elizabeth Weir,” she told him. “Glover’s mother lost her first baby named Elizabeth. My mother's first child was named Verna Christine. This way, she has names from both sides of the family. We will call her Beth. She looks like a ‘Beth’ to me.”

 

“I think she looks a whole lot like her daddy with that round face,” the nurse said. “I do believe she’s got more hair on her head than he has though. I’ve never seen so much black hair on a baby.”

 

As soon as the doctor and nurse had gathered their birthing tools and left, Annie Jane woke Lucille who had drifted off again. “Lucille, let me take the baby and put her over in the basket. You’re liable to roll over on her.  She’ll probably sleep the rest of the night. I’ll try to get a little sleep over here in this rocking chair. If she wakes up, I’ll take care of her. Glover said he will be going into work late tomorrow. We all need to get some rest.”

 

Glover didn’t try holding the baby until the next evening, and then it was only briefly. He had never held a baby before, and in spite of this one weighing 10 lbs., she looked tiny and fragile to him. He was thankful he’d only heard her cry out once. Those were her first sounds right after she was born. He was pretty sure his nerves wouldn’t be able to take too much of that noise.

 

Lucille was using the double bed in the front bedroom for now, and they had set up a small single bed in the room for Annie Jane. By getting his sleep in the back bedroom he was able to stay out of the way while his wife recovered after having given birth.

 

Glover’s mother had insisted he come there for his meals until Lucille was up and around again. “Miss Annie’s going to have her hand’s full taking care of Lucille and the baby for a few days, so you’ll need to plan to come over here and eat with us. Several of the neighbors have taken some food over there for them to eat, so she won’t have to cook.”

 

Glover was relieved. He didn’t want to be away from home any more than he had to be with his job, because he felt like he was expected to be getting acquainted with his baby daughter. Still, it would be awkward having Mrs. Lay cook for him and trying to figure out what to say to her.

 

Annie Jane had grown up with her mother acting as the community doctor and mid-wife. Annie was trying to take care of Lucille in the same way her mother had taken care of her patients. She was convinced that a new mother should remain in bed for two weeks.

 

After a day or two, Lucille wanted to be up. She insisted on sitting in the rocking chair while the new baby nursed. She had checked all the tiny fingers and toes and examined her baby from head to toe, and declared her to be perfect.

 

On the third day, something went terribly wrong. Lucille got a blinding headache, and she felt her body start to go numb. The sensation started with her feet. It felt as though her feet were in a pan of hot water. “Mama! Come quick. Something is happening to me. I think I may be having a stroke.”

 

Fortunately, she was sitting on the edge of the bed. Annie pulled her feet back up and insisted that she lay back down. Glover was at work and Annie wasn’t sure what she needed to do for her daughter, but she acted on instinct. “Lay down, Lucille, and try not to move. I’m going to run to the kitchen and get a towel and some pans of hot and cold water. I’ll try to rub the circulation back into your feet."

 

“Hurry Mama, it is working its way up my body. It feels like the numbness has gone past my knees. I can’t move my legs anymore.”

 

By the time Annie returned with the towels and water, Lucille was in full panic mode and was crying. “Mama, I think I’m dying. It's already past my stomach, and now my arms are paralyzed. When it gets to my chest, my heart will be paralyzed, and I’ll be dead. What’s going to happen to my baby. She needs me. Glover won’t know what to do.”

 

“Hush, Lucille, you’re not dying. If you do, I’ll raise her myself. I’ve raised enough babies. You need to calm down. You’re going to give yourself a stroke. Sometimes women get some kind of a birth poison after they have a baby. Most of the time they don’t die. Shut up and be still, and let me rub you.”

 

Annie began rubbing her daughter all over vigorously alternating between the pans of hot and cold water. Lucille tried to speak again but now her speech was slurred and her vision was blurred. Annie was trembling and praying but she never let up with the hard rubbing. It felt as though her arms were too tired to move, but she forced herself to keep going. Slowly, Lucille started to relax.

 

“Mama, I think I’m getting a little better. I can move my arms again. You may have saved my life, but we probably need to get the doctor out here. Do you think you could walk over the hill and get someone to call Glover. Have him see if he can get the doctor to come out here again.”  

 

“Yes, just lay still, I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she said as she headed toward the door. The baby had slept through the whole episode.

 

Dr. Simmons made another home visit and diagnosed her with toxemia. Her blood pressure was extremely elevated. He gave her a pill and told her she needed to drink more water and eliminate salt from her diet. “You have too much protein in your urine. If you drink more water, it will help get rid of it.”

 

He said Annie’s massage and water treatment wasn’t something he had ever tried, but it had likely relaxed her and helped to lower her blood pressure.

 

By the end of the week, the crisis had passed. Lucille had started to feel more like she would live to raise this baby after all.

 

 

Glover Weir - My father 

Lucille Lay Weir - My mother

Anne Jane Davis Lay -My maternal grandmother, recently widowed.

Ebb Weir - Glover's father -My maternal grandfather

Alma Simmons Weir - Glover's mother and my paternal grandmother and wife of Ebb.

Dr. Omar Simmons  Newton doctor  The doctor is not related although he has the same last name.

New Infant - Me   

 

Author Notes

The time is Fall of 1937 in Newton, MIssissippi. This chapter is about my birth and family.

Chapter 9
Little Things Which Shaped Me

By BethShelby

While Lucille was being treated for toxemia, I had to be bottle fed for a few days with cow’s milk. It was readily available as we had several cows, which Glover was milking while Lucille recovered. Cow’s milk had more protein but less carbs, and I apparently wasn’t thrilled with my dining routine being interrupted. In order to pacify me in days before baby pacifiers were popular, my grandmother constructed something by twisting a clean cloth into the shape of a nipple. She put sugar in it, secured it with a rubber band, and gave it to me to keep me quiet.

 

Later I would blame her for contributing to my lifelong craving for sugar. Poor Grandma. Mom blamed her for her weight problems, because she’d insisted on giving her buttermilk as a child.

When I was told that my grandmother made a sugar tit for me, I thought maybe it was something she’d made and named herself, but I looked it up online and found this was a well-known folk name for a baby pacifier once commonly made and used in North America and Britain. It was put together exactly as mine was.

Once Lucille had resumed breastfeeding, I discovered I could get the milk flow going and pull away. The milk would continue to spew out on my face, making me crack up laughing at my clever trick. I guess by three months I’d heard milk baths were supposed to make women beautiful. Otherwise, maybe I just enjoyed a sticky face. Likely, that was why someone was always trying to wash my face.

Lucille loved rocking and singing lullabies to me. I know this because it continued well until I was old enough to remember. I thought her voice was beautiful, but apparently, I didn’t inherit it, because by the time I was three, she told me I couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. That was quite a negative review for one so young. I was devastated to learn I wasn’t perfect.

Glover was nervous about picking me up, until my neck was strong enough that I could hold my head up. When I started smiling and laughing, he found me more interesting. He loved finding ways to make me laugh. Some of them were downright silly. Maybe this was the beginning of my quirky sense of humor.

According to my mother, I only had colic once, and I proceeded to scream all night. At that point, Glover got into his car and went to his parent’s house to spend the night, leaving my mom to deal with me the best she could. Annie Jane had returned to her other daughter’s home as soon as Lucille seemed to be able to be up all day. She felt Glover might feel uncomfortable. She still felt homeless in spite of her children assuring her she should consider herself at home with them.

By the time I was seven months old, I was making the usual baby sounds, and I had gotten to the point I could manage to scoot around on a linoleum or hard wood floor. I didn’t have a play pen so Lucille had started putting a quilt down for me on the floor in which ever room she happened to be working in.

She was still preparing meals on an iron wood-burning stove which was suspended on legs. The base was about a foot from the floor. The stove was heated by short sticks of wood. She somehow failed to notice I’d managed to roll off the quilt and proceeded to inch my way beneath the belly of the red-hot iron stove. In my mind, I seem to be able to remember her yelling, with me beneath that stove, but everyone tells me I couldn’t possibly be remembering something from when I was seven months old. I’ve not been able to convince everyone how exceptional my memory is.

Lucille went into panic mode. She was alone, and she was sure I was about to raise my head and burn my brains out. She started screaming at me not to move. Somehow, she had the presence of mind to grab a broom and use it to flatten my head and body against the floor. Then with one hand, she grabbed my legs and pulled me to safety. I’m sure it was the last time my quilt was ever placed in the kitchen.

In order to keep me in one spot, she insisted that they get a jumper, which I could be belted into. This new item consisted of a baby seat suspended with springs that would allow my feet to touch the floor and I would be able to entertain myself by jumping up and down and bouncing. I’m sure I enjoyed the action as long as it lasted. Still intent on doing myself in, one way or another, I was able to bounce high enough to tip the whole thing forward, I ended up crashing to the floor, chin first.

Even into adulthood, I was able to feel the raised scar on the underside of my chin. Again, I seem to remember this and in my mental picture, I can hear my dad trying to blame Mom for this accident. I don’t think I was ever allowed to bounce on it again.

According to mom, I was talking before I reached my first birthday, but I refused to pull up and try to walk. Why should I as long as someone was around to pick me up and carry me. Dad would ride me on his shoulders, but I preferred an ant’s-eye view to a birds-eye view. I always feared high places so maybe being near the ceiling was traumatizing.

I was fascinated with the legs and underside of some of our furniture. We had a hall tree which was used for hanging coats. It had little paw-shaped feet on three legs. I can remember spending a lot of time on my belly on the floor marveling over these little feet. It seems I didn’t have a lot of toys to amuse myself with.

Mom and Dad had opposing ideas about my education. Mom couldn’t wait until she had me quoting Shakespeare, but Dad was determined I would learn to bray like a mule and make other animal noises. Mom read to me from library books, while Dad read me the funny papers.

Shortly after I reached my first birthday, the old Jewish man who owned the dry goods store where Dad worked decided to sell out and to move away from Newton. Mom’s only full brother and four of her half-siblings had moved to Port Arthur, Texas where a new oil refinery had been built. Lucille persuaded Glover to make a trip to Texas to look for a job. It was about the only vacation they ever took with me. Unfortunately, I was too young to enjoy it. She should have known Dad would never go for a refinery job, but at least, she got to see some of her family. The old A-model made the trip there and back.

I don’t think Mom had managed to train me to perform, as she did later, but Dad’s shot at educating me had paid off. I was told I delighted all my Texas relatives, by sitting on a fence post with Dad holding on to me while I performed a perfect rendition of braying like old Kit. I also took requests for goat and cow sounds. As a reward for my performance, my uncle gave me his own daughter’s rubber doll. Jeanine was eight years older than me, and to this day, she remembers how upset she was about losing her doll. She also tells me the doll was a girl, and I insisted on naming her Jack.

After the trip back home, Dad was offered a job managing a grocery store called Jitney-Jungle. He remained with that same grocery store until he retired at age sixty-two.

It was 1939, and World War II was starting to break out in Europe. Since my family still had no electricity, we had no radio so we were blissfully unaware of anything except that Franklin Roosevelt was president. Of course, I wouldn’t have cared anyway, but all of that would soon change.

 

Glover Weir - My father 

Lucille Lay Weir - My mother

Anne Jane Davis Lay -My maternal grandmother, recently widowed.

Baby  Beth-me - Birth to sever or eight months.

Author Notes

This is 1937-1939 in Newton MIssissippi. The Book starts with my grandparents who were all born in Mississippi. It will contnue until I get married in 1956. Sometimes I use my parent's names and sometimes I refer to as Mom and Dad. I hope this isn't confusing. This chapter is mostly during the first year of my life.

Chapter 10
Exploring My New World

By BethShelby

Being the first child of a married couple is a big advantage. The young couple sees the new baby as a novelty and an extension of themselves. How could they not be fascinated with this new human they had a part in creating? It doesn’t mean they will love future children any less, but the new wears off and more children means time has to be divided in more ways. This is why people claim firstborns and only children are spoiled. It isn’t the child’s fault they get more attention. It is just the way human nature works. I believe birth order has a strong influence on the personality traits the child develops.

 

Lucille, having been part of a big family, hoped for more children. Glover hadn’t planned on any at all. Since fate had intervened, he decided one child was good, but one was enough.

 

Both Glover and Lucille came from farm families where their needs were met, but there wasn’t a surplus amount of cash to have big celebrations on holidays. Like most families during the depression years, Christmas was a time to get together and have a decent holiday meal, but presents for the children would be minimal. Gifts might be homemade or some object of clothing they would require anyway, like shoes. People of that time would tell us, “I was lucky to get an orange and a few nuts for Christmas.”

 

Doing things with the baby was, in a way, like making up for what they felt lacking in their own childhoods. They looked forward to times when they could play Santa and make Easter into a special occasion. No one ever told me about my first Christmas. Since I was less than four months old, it probably wasn’t a big deal. Mom’s hobby and craft was knitting, so I likely got a new itchy hat and sweater, and possibly, a stuffed toy. I assumed the family shared Christmas dinner with my dad’s parents and single aunt and uncle who lived with them. This became the routine once I was old enough to remember.

 

By Easter, it seems my parents had acquired a box camera, so as to record those special moments. I was seven months old, and what I know of this is mainly from having seen the photograph. I was sitting outside on a piano bench covered in a knitted blanket. There was a bush loaded with white flowers behind me. I’m pretty sure Mom was squatting unseen in the background, holding on to me to make sure I didn’t tip forward.

 

Beside me was a cage holding a live rabbit almost as big as I was. The rabbit had to be a photo prop, because if it had had access to me, I would have been kicked black and blue. Placed beside the cage was an Easter basket loaded with colored eggs. For the next few years, I would get an annual photo in the same spot. By the next year, I’m able to remember how upset I was over all the tiny black bees circling those white flowers.

 

My dad’s grandparents died when their youngest daughter, Eva, was fifteen. Her brother, Willie was twenty-five, and shortly after their death, Willie was drafted to serve in WWI. Unfortunately, Willie’s arm became seriously infected after he was given the required smallpox vaccine. He got a Military Honorable Discharge and was sent home extremely ill.

 

Dad’s mother, Alma, being the oldest of the Simmons children, felt it was her duty to take her parents' place in seeing to the welfare of her siblings. She and my grandfather, Ebb invited the two of them to make their home with them. These four people, living so nearby, became a familiar part of my extended family.

 

My grandmother treated Eva and Willie almost as if they were her own children. Eva had been a beautiful young woman, but she was extremely shy. Grandma had discouraged her from getting involved with men who might have been interested. I never knew Eva to be ill or visit a doctor, but grandma convinced her she wasn’t strong enough to consider marriage. In later years, my mother would tell me that Grandma Weir had also prevented Willie from marrying. I guess she was something of a control freak. She didn’t approve of the lady he was seeing and took it upon herself to tell her to leave Willie alone. It made me wonder if she had been okay with her son marrying my mother.

 

Mom often said I talked before I was a year old, but she’d started to wonder if I ever intended to walk. I’m not sure at what point I started putting words together, but it must have been before my second Christmas.

 

Mom had enough pride that she was embarrassed that we still had no electricity. I was impressed enough with the fact electricity existed. When taken into town around people, I served to further embarrass her by pointing, in wonder, at every light I saw and saying “looky, looky lights.” It seems it didn’t take much to enthrall me. I was really impressed with the colored Christmas lights. Those were “purdy lights”.

 

Aunt Eva enjoyed Christmas and liked to decorate. The decorations were simple. Since she didn’t work, I’m not sure how she purchased them but they were likely inexpensive. She used long ropes of red and of green tinseled garland and six foldout crepe paper honeycomb bells. Only one room of my grandparents' house was heated by a big fireplace. It served as a place to entertain guests, as a sewing room for grandma and also the main bedroom for her and grandpa. It was a large square room with high ceilings.

 

I’m pretty sure I do remember bits and pieces of my second Christmas. By this time, I was fifteen months old. Since our family lived close and we spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ place, I noticed right away that Eva had decorated that front room. While there, I spent my time fascinated by those big red crepe paper bells she had attached to the ceiling.

 

It seems my aunt's Christmas bells, or lack of them, became my claim to fame. Mom loved to brag that I could put words into sentences, long before the book she had on baby skill-development claimed was possible for babies.

 

It was in January of 1939. I remember the disappointment I felt on entering my grandparents’ front room only to find those lovely bells missing. That is when I uttered the famous sentence Mom quoted often when exercising her bragging rights about the early skill her baby had acquired.

 

What I said as I tuned up to cry was, “E’ba took `de ding-dongs down outta’ toppa’ poppa’s hous.” This was my first fourteen syllable poem. Pretty impressive for one so young, wouldn’t you say? The translation, in case you missed it, was Eva removed the bells from the ceiling of my grandpa’s house.

 

My mom seemed to think I was more advanced than I actually was. Among things I acquired that first Christmas was some large Crayola colors and a coloring book. It didn’t take me long to realize staying in the lines wasn’t going to happen. I needed a large area in which to do my artwork. The front bedroom where I spent my days, now had a white painted wall. I thought a bit of color was needed, and I didn’t consult a designer. I just proceeded to color as far up as I could reach.

 

Unfortunately, Mom didn’t seem to appreciate good art. I couldn’t believe she expressed her reaction on my bare legs. This was my first spanking, and I was highly insulted. When I finished crying, I had a few words to add which I’d learned from my dad. “#o^&d dammit.” This didn’t set well with her either, and led to my second spanking.

 

This world wasn’t anywhere near the happy place which my first months had led me to believe.

 

 

Glover Weir - My father 

Lucille Lay Weir - My mother

Anne Jane Davis Lay -My maternal grandmother, recently widowed.

Ebb Weir - Glover's father -My maternal grandfather

Alma Simmons Weir - Glover's mother and my paternal grandmother and wife of Ebb.

Eva Simmons - My great aunt  who lives with my grandparents

Willie Simmons -My great uncle who lives with my grandparents.

Chapter 11
Potty Training

By BethShelby

I don’t remember the diaper days so well, but I do remember when Mom assured me, “You’re a big girl now, and you’re going to be wearing big girl panties. From now on, I need you to remember to use your potty, so you won’t get all wet.”

 

When Mom was inside the house, she reminded me often enough, but her daily routine meant she had to leave me playing inside when she went outside to work in her garden. Not having been out of diapers that long meant it was easy for me to forget.

 

I remember one particular day when I didn’t go in time. Not only were my panties soaked, but urine had run down my legs and soaked my socks and shoes. I had sat in it and soaked my dress as well. I knew Mom was in the garden not far from our front door. With tears streaming from my eyes, I went out front to tell Mom I’d forgotten again.

 

“Mama,” I called. “I’m wet. Will you come help me?”

 

“I’ll be there in a few minutes,” she yelled back. “I’ve got some more stuff I’ve got to do out here.  Pull your wet clothes off and wait for me. Better still why don’t you see if you can take a nap. I’ll be in there soon.”

 

Since everything I had on was wet, I proceeded to strip right there in the living room. I left it all in a neat pile the middle of the living room floor and headed to the bedroom. The big feather bed where I usually slept was neatly made. I remember thinking, I’ll try not to make a mess of this bed. I climbed into the center of it and fluffed it up the best I could around me. Then, I lay my head between the two big pillows and sank deep into the feather mattress. Very carefully, I took the edge of the spread and pulled it gently over my face. In no time, I was sound asleep.

 

What took place later, I only know from hearing it talked about. I don’t know how much more time Mom spent in the garden. It was long enough, apparently, for her to have forgotten our earlier conversation. When she came inside, she called and got no answer. She was shocked to see all of my clothes in a neat pile in the center of the living room.  She ran into every room calling me, but the house seemed completely empty. Her next thought was of the two big galvanized tubs of water on the back porch, still unemptied from the wash she had done earlier. She plunged her hands to the bottom of them and found nothing.

 

By that time, she was in sheer panic mode. She rushed over the little hill to my grandparents’ home. “Beth’s missing,” she screamed. “I need help. I’ve looked everywhere. Somebody has kidnapped her. They took all of her clothes off. She hasn’t got a thing on. Get everybody you can to come and help us look.”

 

I don’t know how long the search went on, since I was having a nice long nap. It must have lasted an hour or so, because the house filled up with neighbors, and we didn’t have people living that close. One of the ladies eventually flung the spread off the feather bed and was surprised to find me sleeping. Mom couldn’t believe how many times she'd been inside that room looking and even gotten on her knees to look under the bed.

 

Later, there were times I purposely hid and caused a panic, but this wasn’t one of them. Mom was excitable and capable of letting her imagination run to the worse case scenarios.

 

Other parts of potty training were stressful for everyone. I wasn’t a good eater, and as a result I tended to be constipated much of the time. Mom seemed to think if I sat on my little potty for  enough time, I would eventually go. It didn’t work that way. It was boring, and I would beg to get up. She always insisted that I sit a while longer. I didn’t like being alone, so I’d bring my potty to the kitchen or wherever Mom happened to be. I wanted to make sure she heard me begging to get up. Eventually she would get out the castor oil or the Milk of Magnesia. Sometimes I’d beg for the chocolate tasting Ex-Lax, but that only made my stomach cramp worse.

 

Living without plumbing as we did when I was little, meant we had an outhouse. At least, our outhouse had a pit dug deep into the ground which made it a little more sanitary than those where the waste was on ground level and had to be taken care of by insects or free-range chickens. The odor of those toilets was far too earthy for discriminating nasal passages. Dad threw lime into ours to keep down the odor.

 

I was afraid of the hole in the seat. What if my little bottom fell in? I had also heard stories of spiders building their webs below the seat. I even had a cousin who had been bitten by a black widow. This added to my anxiety. When my legs grew too long for the baby potty, I had no choice but to go to the outhouse.

 

Most people’s toilet paper was an outdated Sears Roebuck catalogue. But my dad was splurging and buying actual commercial toilet paper. For a while, it was mom who cleaned my bottom once the job was done, but she quickly became tired of it. She patiently instructed me on how to get myself clean. Still, I would call for her to come wipe me.

 

Then she laid down an ultimatum. “Look, I’ve shown you how to clean yourself. You’re old enough that I shouldn’t have to do it. I’m warning you, if I hear ‘Mama, come wipe me’ one more time, I am going to give you a spanking you won't forget."

I usually knew when to back off, but this time, I wasn’t quite ready to stop testing the waters. I, very carefully, did the clean-up job making sure no brown stains were left on the paper. I remember thinking, she will be so proud of me when she sees what a good job I’ve done. Once more I yelled, “Mama, come here.”

 

She came stumbling out of the house in a stormy rage. Before I could get a word out, she yanked me up and left hand prints all over my bare bottom, while I was still trying to sputter out my explanation through my tears that I only wanted praise for doing such an excellent job.

 

It was my first lesson in the importance of timing, especially when is not an appropriate time to pick a battle.
 

Chapter 12
Tidbits, Cures and Other Kids

By BethShelby

As I entered my second and third years on earth, my grandmother, my mothers’ mother, Annie Jane, continued to be part of my life. She lived in our home for short periods at a time, as she tried to make sure she didn’t overstay her welcome in any one of her children’s homes. She was most often at her Singer sewing machine. If she wasn’t making or mending clothes, she was sewing blocks of cloth together in various shaped patterns to make quilting squares.

Grandma seldom went outside, unless it was to pick up a chicken to kill and prepare for lunch. Both she and Mom wore bonnets when they went outside. She even made a little bonnet for me. I wasn’t allowed outside the house without something on my head and usually my arms. I had fair skin like my dad which freckled easily. Grandma seemed convinced too much exposure to the sun would do me in.

Now we’ve learned, skin cancers often go back to too many severe sunburns we got as children. My skin was never uncovered in the sun long enough to get a blister until I was in my late teens. Grandma Lay, as I differentiated between her and my other grandmother, took care of her own skin, slathering it every night with Ponds Cold Cream.

She often said my Grandmother Weir had sallow skin as a result of not taking care of herself. Grandmother Weir did have a darker, yellowed tone to her skin, but she spent much of her time outside, working in her garden, washing clothes outside, milking and taking care of livestock. She did eventually have problems with skin cancer.

I seldom had contact with anyone near my age. Although the few times I did, I seemed to get in trouble. A neighbor came to visit on one occasion with a little boy about my age. He was sucking on a token. A token was the way sales taxes were paid in the late thirties and forties. They were usually made of aluminum about the size of a nickel and their value was less than that of a penny. When purchases were made, you were required to add some tokens along with your cash.

At any rate, the little boy removed the token from his mouth and offered it to me. It was my first gift ever from a boy, and to show my appreciation, I promptly shoved it into my own mouth. It turned out to be the gift that kept on giving. He had whooping cough which I contracted from the token. Apparently, I only got a mild case of the virus, possibly due to Mom’s home nursing skills.

There were some horrible cures mothers used in those days that made us gag, but they didn’t kill us and maybe helped keep us alive. I don’t think mothers of today would dream of torturing their children with these cures. One was Cod Liver Oil. Mother kept trying to convince me this was something special which I really wanted.

“Come on. It's time to take your little fishes. You know you love your little fishes”, she would tell me, as she forced my mouth open to pour in a spoonful of the thick foul-tasting substance. Where she got the idea that I liked that nasty concoction was beyond me. It didn’t even resemble a fish. Bad as it was, it beat the Castor Oil she sometimes used. She knew better than to try to convince me I liked that. That had to be followed up with pie, or something I truly liked.

Somewhere in her past, mother had read there was health benefits in yeast cakes. It was the same thing she used to made dinner rolls. She insisted that I eat one of the little white squishy squares each day. These squares were the consistency of putty, and was likely the 1940’s answer to Gummy Bear vitamins. This was also something Mom tried to convince me was a treat which I enjoyed. I kept wondering if perhaps she had me mixed up with some other little kid who she’d once known.

There was one cure even my mom was a bit leery of. It involved putting a drop of Coal oil on a sugar cube to cure phlegm in the throat. It would cause such a violent spell of coughing you would automatically cough up the phlegm. I only remember that torture treatment once.

When I had a sore throat or chest cold, Mom would use greasy strong smelling Vicks Salve to rug over my entire body from my neck to my toes. Then, she would place heated flannel cloths over the salve and insist that I stay in bed. I felt like I was soaked in gravy and prepared for roasting, but I survived and healed fast enough.

Years later when I lived in New Orleans, I learned they had some folk cures that beat ours. They boiled roaches and used the resulting liquid for cough syrup. They also sliced onions and put in kids socks to bring down fever. Ear aches were cured by blowing cigarette smoke in the ear.  

Back to other kids around my age who got me into trouble, I’m sure I was less than three when my mother took me to a party for some relative’s hundredth birthday. It was outside in some park. I still remember Mom proudly showing me off to Aunt Cissy. The lady sat hunched over in a wheel chair wondering why she was outside with all these people gathered around her.

There was a cute little boy at the party, and he grabbed my hand and wouldn’t let go. We paraded through the crowd with people saying, “Would you look at that. Isn’t that adorable.”  I guess they didn’t think it was that adorable after someone had to go and rescue me from the two-seater outhouse where we’d gone when nature called.

He was the same little boy who gave me red measles when my mother took me to his house to play, while she visited with his mother. I still remember the room we were allowed to play in. I thought I’d gone to Toy Heaven or at least Santa’s workshop. It had no furniture in it, just toys scattered everywhere. Most of them were broken but it didn’t matter. I’d never witnessed anything like this, as I only had a few things to play with at home.

At that point, I decided he could be my boyfriend forever. I still told everyone he was my boyfriend even after both of us had recovered from the measles. Years later when we both turned six, I learned how fickle some first love affairs can be, but that is a tale for the future.

Little girls were a different story. For some reason the only two I remember from that time period both ended badly. Girls were no fun. At least, both of these girls were a little too prissy for my taste. We seemed to have nothing at all in common. Even at our young age, a certain rivalry was present. Alice Carolyn was a Mama’s girl. She looked down her nose at me and seemed to have no desire to get to know me better.

Linda and I might have had a chance to be friends, but when I politely asked if I could hold the doll which she carried with her, she said “No!” very flatly. My immediate reaction was to start plotting my revenge.

You just don’t say those words to an only child without repercussions which could be carried out without alerting the adults. The evening ended with her in tears and with me gloating at my own cleverness. I will admit at three, there were times when a hint of a diabolical streak was present.

I wrote that story in 2022, as to how I went about trying to get revenge. It wasn't one of my proudest moments. It's called "The Doll", Some of you may have read it already. It will be the next chapter I will post. 

Chapter 13
The Doll

By BethShelby

It wasn’t my proudest moment. But hey, I was only three. Kids usually get a pass when they’re that young, don’t they? It wasn’t altogether my fault. If she hadn’t been such a selfish little snot… Oh, I’m sorry. It isn’t right to call people names, but things might have gone a lot smoother, if she just had, at least, tried to be nice. We might have actually had fun that day. It was her own fault that she ended the day in tears.

My life revolved around nothing but adults. I thought it wasn’t fair for other kids to have people their age to play with, and I had no one.  Dad worked in town, but Mom was always around, and I had a traveling grandmother, who lived with us part of the time. The other grown-ups, Gram-ma and Gram-pa Weir, Uncle Bill, and Aunt Eva, lived a few minutes away, so everyone around me was twice as tall as me and way older. They tried to keep me entertained, but we had nothing in common but our DNA.

When anything less boring than another long summer day at home was about to happen, I was always the last to know.  I didn’t know I was going to meet a girl cousin, my own age, until shortly before she arrived. Like me, she was an only child, and every bit as spoiled as I was.  She looked at me like I had cooties. The doll she was holding had big blue eyes and curls.  All I wanted to do was hold it, but when I politely asked permission, her short emphatic “No!” rubbed me the wrong way.

I didn’t push it, but a plan was already forming in my mind. Later in life, I was occasionally accused of being devious, but my journey down that path probably started that day.

It would have been a really special day under different circumstances. My parents and her parents had decided we would all drive an hour away to a new state park that had been recently constructed under President Roosevelt’s WPA project. Since our cousins lived in a different state, getting reacquainted at a family picnic seemed a viable solution.

The six of us climbed into their new ’40 Ford sedan and drove until we arrived at our destination. By that time, with some encouragement from our parents, Linda and I had at least started to be less suspicious of each other, but the doll was still clutched tightly in her arms.

The park was located down a winding black-top road that led to a large lake. Our eyes lit up when we saw the swings, slides and see-saws.  Our family located a big pavilion with picnic tables scattered about and began laying our lunch. Linda and I headed for the nearby playground equipment. I was well aware that her precious doll now lay on one of seats surrounding the pavilion.

As we explored and played, Linda’s attitude toward me warmed considerably. I made sure she stayed happy, and the doll was long-forgotten, but only by Linda. As our parents chatted and we munched on sandwiches, I kept my eye on the doll. When Linda’s mom took her to the restroom for a potty break, I saw my chance and made use of the Sunday newspaper someone had discarded, to ease over and carefully cover the doll.

Later in the afternoon, I held my breath as our parents packed the car for our return home. All the way home I kept Linda involved in an exciting ‘I spy’ game. We giggled and chatted away like old friends, until we were just a couple of miles from home. It was time.

“Where’s your doll?” I asked with genuine concern in my voice. 

“My doll,” she screeched, “my new doll! I left my doll on that bench. We have to go back. I need my doll.” By this time, tears had formed, and she was starting to make choaking sounds.

“Honey, we can’t go back. It’s too far. I knew you shouldn’t have taken that doll. It probably isn’t there anymore,” her mom told her. “You’ve got other dolls at home.” 

Her tears of distress grew louder and still echoed as the family said their good-byes and drove away. Only after their car faded from sight did it occur to me, once again, I had no one to play with. Only then, did I feel a degree of shame. I’d done a bad thing, but I wouldn’t be punished, because my flawless plan had left me looking innocent.

I never saw Linda again, but I never forgot  I had caused her pain. For years after, when I started to feel like maybe I was a few degrees nicer than the average kid, I’d remember the doll and realize that I was very capable of a burning desire to get even when I felt wronged. I needed to watch my impulses.

It wasn’t the last time that demon reared its ugly head.  I gave in too often, and used a certain degree of cunning to get even, without getting caught. It was a flaw I fought well into my teens. Even in my early married years, it was sometimes there. I didn’t like myself very much when that particular temptation got the best of me.

It has taken a while, but I’m thankful to say that I’ve not felt that urge in years. Maybe we finally grow up as we grow older. Hopefully, the term “devious” no longer applies to me.  
 
 
 

Author Notes

I am reviving this at this point because I will add it as Chapter 13 of the book At Home in Mississippi. It fits here as a followup to the story "Tidbits, Cures and Other Kids" as I alluded to in my last post. Many of you will remember it from 2022.

Chapter 14
Communicating With God

By BethShelby

I wasn't usually a vindictive little brat. Mama did her best to steer me in the right direction. She was a woman of faith, and from as far back as I can remember, she talked to me about God. She read Bible Stories for children and insisted I say a prayer each night and ask a blessing at mealtime. I was like a dry sponge, absorbing and retaining everything she said. She told me God is always with us and he hears us when we talk to him. He even knows what we are thinking. If we need something, we should ask.

I decided what I needed was someone to play with. If we had a baby, I’d be the big sister, and it would have to do what I said. I kind of thought boys were nicer, but I was willing to take whatever God had handy. If I asked him just right, I was sure he would know best what he should send.

 

This seemed pretty important, so I thought maybe it needed to be in writing. I didn’t mention it to Mom because I’d been around her long enough to know she might try to talk me out of it. She might think it would be too much trouble, but I could be the teacher.

 

It didn’t matter that I’d never had to write anything before, because Mama had some letters laying around which people had written to her. Right away, I noticed letters people wrote were different from words in books. I was sure I could study them and learn how to do it.

 

I got some paper and a pencil and started staring at the letters I’d found. I saw the writing needed to go straight across the paper and the letters made loops, some had cross lines on them. There was a scattering of dots. Some loops were tall and some short. Some had a lot of loops and some didn’t. There were spaces between them. This is easy, I thought. I can do this. God will know what it says because Mom says he knows what we’re thinking. Maybe I’ll draw a baby just to make sure.

 

I was pretty pleased with my letter, and I took it outside and explained it to God. “God, I’ve written you a letter, but you’re going to have to pick it up with the wind and bring it up to Heaven, cause I can’t mail it. See if you can do something about it pretty quick, because the baby will have to grow before we can play.”  

 

Luckily, a storm was brewing and the wind was blowing hard that day. I had to keep throwing the sheet of paper into the air several times before the wind caught it and it vanished over the tree tops. I was thrilled. I didn’t plan to tell Mama right away, but I couldn’t keep my secret long. That night I broke the news.

 

“Mama, I’ve got something to tell you. Don’t get mad, but God is going to send us something.”

 

“Oh, is He? Have you been talking to God? What did you tell God?”

 

“I didn’t just tell Him. I wrote him a letter, and he got it this morning. He is going to give us a baby.”

 

Mama started sputtering and I’m sure she was taking some deep breaths trying to figure out how to approach this without destroying my faith.

 

“Honey, it doesn’t work that way. We can’t have a baby right now. Daddy has to be involved and everything. We can’t afford a baby. You shouldn’t expect something like that.”

 

“It’s too late. God already got the letter. I saw it go up. I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to do anything. You said we could ask God anything.”

 

I can’t remember all the details of how she finally got out of that little breach of faith. All I remember is I had a very upset Mother. I think she tried to blame it on Daddy and say he wouldn’t let us have a baby. Mother actually wanted more children. Maybe God tried, because years later, she admitted to having a miscarriage when I was a few years old.

 

I wasn’t ready to give up on a sibling. Mom had read me enough fairy tales that I believed in some pretty weird stuff. For example, there was a time I insisted she come outside and see the little green man in the tree.

 

“Honey, what is your little green man doing?" she asked stalling for time before she would have to leave what she was doing.

 

“He is just standing there, naked, and rubbing his hands,” I told her. That got her attention. She cracked up laughing at me when she saw him. She had to give me a nature lesson on what a Praying Mantas was.

 

I still wanted that baby so much. I definitely remember thinking if I prayed hard enough, God, who Mom said could do anything, would certainly be able to turn my little doll into a real baby. I remembered that was how Pinocchio came to life. The shoemaker wanted a real boy, and I thought I remembered him asking God to change him and make him real. 

 

I prayed and prayed over that doll, and I actually convinced myself I could hear a heartbeat in her little cloth body. It felt so real, and I started worrying about whether I would be able to feed it. I told God not to worry about making her real, because I wasn’t sure I could really take care of her. Mama was too busy to help me and I didn’t have the kind of milk a baby needed.

 

Mom had started taking me to church regularly. Daddy didn’t go. In the children’s Sunday School classes, we were just coloring pictures of Bible characters. The big people’s church was boring. I couldn’t see over the people in front of me, and I didn’t know what they were talking about anyway, so I tuned them out. The only thing fun about church was in winter I would sit on the end of the pew and stroke the fur on the women’s coats as they walked by. My mom didn’t have a fur coat.

 

One day in church, I remember being able to see some man’s head up front. I started wondering if I stood up and held my hand up high, if my hand would look higher than the man’s head. I had no idea what he was talking about, but it turned out, he had just asked if anyone would volunteer to do some menial task, which the church needed to have done. At that moment, my hand shot into the air.

 

“My goodness! Would you look at that.”  He told the congregation. “You older folks should be ashamed. I don’t see any of you volunteering, but it seems we’ve got an enthusiastic young lady who’d be willing to do the job.” A tittering of laughter erupted among the pews.

 

Mom turned in my direction with a red face and jerked my hand down. “Stop embarrassing me like that,” she whispered.

 

The following week, we visited the country church her sister attended. We had a good reason. Aunt Chris had invited us for lunch. I’m sure the change of venue, had nothing to do with my little experiment.

 

Chapter 15
The Radio and a Briar Patch

By BethShelby

Since the electrical poles and wiring hadn’t become available for our area when I was small, our house and my grandparent's house had no access to electricity. Grandma’s brother, my Uncle Willie, wanted to hear the news and country music, so he put a tall pole on the edge of the yard in order to pull in radio signals for a battery powered radio. 

 

Because Uncle Willie and Aunt Eva lived with my grandparents just over the hill from our house, we had access to his radio as well. There was good reception, particularly at night when far away signals came in. All of us except Dad, who hated all noise, enjoyed the radio.

 

The stores in Newton opened around 7 a.m. and closed at 5 p.m. on Monday through Friday. Dad always worked late on Saturday nights because the stores were open until 9 p.m. for the convenience of those getting paid at the end of the week. After that, Dad had to do inventory, so he often didn’t get home until midnight. Since Newton was a small town, the Chamber of Commerce voted to close all stores at noon on Thursdays. The best I remember, this only took place during the growing season and not during winter months. Dad, like many of the store managers, was a part-time farmer. It gave him some time to do work that needed to be done around the house.

 

Mom didn’t like being in our house late with only me to protect her, so, just before dark on Saturday, we’d walk to Grandpa’s house to wait for Dad. She’d make me go to bed by 10 p.m., so Dad would pick me up and carry me to the car over his shoulder. Sometimes I’d hear him griping about why kids seemed to weigh more when they were sleeping.

 

Saturday night meant Uncle Willie’s radio was tuned to the Grand Ole Opry. My skinny little legs went crazy when country music came on. Children seemed to be born with rhythm and find it hard to be still when there’s music in the air.

 

I’d never seen anyone dance, but I had seen Mama do a few steps to the Jitterbug to prove she could. Not a song came on that I didn’t make up my own wild version of dancing to entertain or drive everyone around me nuts. I also enjoyed the comedy of characters like Minnie Pearl, June Bug Carter, as she was called on the show, and Little Jimmy Dickens.
 
The radio enabled Mama to learn what was happening in the news of the world. She found what she was hearing alarming. The news was all about the war in Europe. Stories were starting to filter in about death camps being built in Austria and Germany to rid their countries of those of Jewish origin. 

 

The latest news told of Japan getting into the conflict. The commentator told in somber tones, that he believed Japan would be likely to invade the United States. The news struck a cord of fear in my mother's soul and triggered her overactive imagination.

One particular Thursday, Dad had gone to his parent’s house to pick up some tools. The day was hot and Daddy  had forgotten his straw hat. Grandma was returning an aluminum roasting pot Mama had left there. Dad put the pot on his balding head and carried the tool on his shoulder. 

 

Mom glanced down the dirt road and saw him approaching, but to her eyes, what she thought she saw was a Japanese soldier marching toward her wearing a helmet and carrying a gun on his shoulder. She ran in the bedroom and got the pistol, Dad kept under their mattress for protection.It’s a good thing Mom had never actually fired a weapon, but like a mother hen she believed it was her duty to protect her nest. Fortunately, she recognized her husband as he drew closer. I didn’t learn of that incident until years later, so I wasn’t aware I had a ‘pistol packing mama’.

 

I was allowed and encouraged to play outside, but with no one to play with, I became bored easily. One particular day, I kept begging my mother to read to me. Dad was home that day and Mama was fixing lunch. “Beth, I’m busy right now. I’ll make some time later, to read you a story. Why don’t you go outside and find Daddy and tell him lunch is almost ready?”

Okay, that was a task I could handle, but I knew something mama didn’t know. I knew Daddy wasn’t outside. He had told me that he would be back later, but he was going to Grandpa’s house.

 

There was a large field between our house and theirs. Dad had once planted cotton there, but now it had grown up with weeds and briar vines. We always walked on the dirt road when going to their house, but I wasn’t allowed in the road alone. In fact, I always had someone with me when I’d gone there. This was an important task to be allowed to go there alone. Since I couldn’t use the road, the only other choice would be to go by way of the field.

 

I carefully rolled under the barbed wire fence and started my journey. The first few yards weren’t so bad, but the nearer I got toward the crest of the hill the thicker the briars became. The weeds and bushes were over my head. I was constantly having to stop and untangle myself. I had scratches all over me and blood was running down my legs. A vine of briers was tangled in my hair and I was caught fast. Tears started as I yelled as loud as I could for help.

 

I must have made a lot of noise, because Mama and Daddy both came to my rescue from different directions. It wasn’t easy for them to get me untangled. It seemed to me it took an awfully long time. Mama had to go back to our house for scissors to cut my hair in places in order to set me free. Daddy blamed Mama for me being there, and she blamed him for not telling her he had gone to Grandpa’s house.

 

Of course, I was getting my share of scolding too. Once I was free and back at home, there was other torture I had to endure. Mama put iodine that burned like fire on my cuts, and Daddy doused me all over with rubbing alcohol from head to foot to get rid of all the chiggers and ticks which I’d picked up on my little adventure. The alcohol burned almost as bad as the iodine when it hit the broken skin.

 

What a bummer this day had turned out to be. I wouldn’t be trying this alternate route out again any time soon.

 

Author Notes

This will be a chapter in my book about my family in Mississippi. The setting is Newton, Ms. in the 1939 and 1940, The story begins earlier with my grandparents.

Chapter 16
Favorites, Fears, and Willpower

By BethShelby

When I was three, I had a favorites list among my family members. I kept it to myself because I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.  Mama and Daddy had to be at the top of my list because they were always there for me. Mama was number one, because she tried to carve a lot of time out of her busy schedule to read to me, and to teach me things about the world around me. I knew she really loved me because she was always telling me that.

Of course, she was the main one to punish me, if I did something that she had a problem with. She could go off on me really quickly. Unless she laid into me before I had a chance to explain why I didn’t deserve to be spanked, I could usually convince her to let it go.

Daddy was my second favorite. He would beam all over when someone told him, I looked just like him. He’d let me ride on his shoulders and get down on the floor and be the horse as I rode while he crawled on his knees. He liked to take me riding in the car when it was just the two of us. Sometimes, he would let me ride on the car’s running board. He always brought me candy or a treat when he came home from work each evening. He had a bad temper, but he never seemed to lose it with me.

My three grandparents were next. Mama’s daddy was a grandparent I never knew, because he died before I was born, but Grandpa Weir was my favorite of the other three. It was obvious, he adored me. If he was anywhere near me, he was telling me stories, which I’d begged him to tell.

Grandpa was tall and bony. He was crippled from rheumatoid arthritis, so he used a cane. That didn’t stop him from making toys for me, like whistles, stilts, doll furniture, and swings. I told everyone who would listen that my grandpa could do anything. He was versatile. He ran a gristmill, had a blacksmith shop, was a carpenter, made cane syrup, kept bees, farmed, distilled mineral water from soil, and the list went on.

Grandma Lay rated fourth because she lived with us part of the time and she made most of my clothes and sometimes a dress for my doll. When she was with us, she shared the room with me. She was always giving me advice, which for the most part, I tuned out. 

I rated Grandma Weir as number five. She was an energetic little woman who hardly ever stopped working. She made me hot chocolate every day when I came around. She made the world's best cornbread twice a day. I loved being there for the evening meal. I guess she was last on my list because she was so afraid that something I was doing would lead to me getting hurt. I hated being cautioned so often. 

Eva and Willie were extended family but still a part of my world since I was around them so often. Eva did a lot of needle work like embroidery and tatting. She loved growing flowers and didn’t mind doing yard work. I thought she seemed shy around people and didn’t have a lot of opinions about things. Sometimes, she let me play with a tiny tea set she’d had as a child. She inspired me to appreciate the beauty of flowers. Her nemesis was bad weather. She was extremely afraid of storms.

Uncle Willie was seldom around. He was afraid of other things like rats and snakes. He always tied the bottom of his pant legs with string to keep something from running up his legs as he walked across the pasture. Grandpa’s bees seemed to always sting him, and his mule would chase him if he was anywhere within range. I didn’t see a lot of him when I was little. He was always busy doing something. He refused to work for anyone, and eventually, started a business of his own.

My grandma had free range chickens. I often saw a rooster on the back of a hen. He would always have the hens comb in his beak. Knowing nothing of the sex life of chickens, I would say “Come look, this rooster is combing the hen.” Aunt Eva and Grandma would try to shush me and tell me it wasn’t nice to say that. I had no idea why it wasn’t nice, but if Uncle Willie happened to hear me, he would crack up laughing.

There were some subjects that were taboo. Pregnancy was another.  I saw black ladies walking down the little dirt road on their way into town with huge bellies. I would ask “Why does her stomach look like that.”  Grandma would tell me, “She has probably swallowed a watermelon seed.” I loved watermelons, but I was extremely careful not to swallow any seed from then on. 

Still, that didn’t keep me from stuffing a pillow in my panties at home and walking around like the women I’d seen. Mom yelled at me, and told me not to ever do that again. She didn’t explain what I’d done wrong. Lack of information often found me confused.

 
No one explained to me about monthly periods which all women have. In those days, most women didn’t buy disposable sanitary products, but rather they made a pad by folding cloth that could be washed, sanitized and used again. Usually, they waited until their three-to-five-day period ended and then washed the cloth separate from the other laundry. 

 

One day while exploring in our bathroom, I came across some cloths with blood on them. I thought someone must be hurt really bad. Since Mama was out of the house, I asked my grandmother what happened. “Don’t touch those,” she said. “Your mother is sick. She’ll take care of them.”  

If my mama was sick enough to be bleeding like that, then she much be dying. Again, a lack of information was something that made my world a scary place. Subjects that adults thought children were too young to understand were simply avoided.

One thing Mom did try to teach me was the importance of something she called willpower. She said if there was something you wanted really bad, but you know it isn’t good for you, you need to be strong and say, ‘no’. She sometime fussed at Daddy for bringing me so much candy. I'd heard her tell him it wasn’t good for me, and it might make my teeth rot out. 

I really loved that candy, but I decided without telling anyone, I’d try out my willpower. Each night I took my candy bar and hid it. As the stack grew larger, each day, I would look at it and think about how much I wanted it. I was determined I would be strong and not eat it. My willpower lasted all the way up to eighteen bars.

I could stand it no longer. After consuming ten bars at one sitting, I was sick enough that I never wanted to see another candy bar again. When I admitted why I was so sick, Daddy decided popcorn or nuts might be a better choice for me. I’m sorry to report my aversion to sweets didn’t stand the test of time, but I never ate ten bars all at once again. 

My willpower worked better with money. I was determined not to spend the 25-cent allowance I got each week. I kept all the money in my piggybank and refused to use it for anything. When I got older, I would count my money often, and look in a catalog and dream of all I could buy if I decided to use it. I still had most of it when I got married.

My kids today don’t understand my reluctance to spend money. I think it all started when I was three.

Author Notes

This story is about my early life in Mississippi. I was an only child with a mother, dad and grandmother in my home and next door was my dad's mother and father and Eva and Willie, my grandmother Weir, unmarried brother and sister. This will be a chapter in the book about growing up in Mississippi.

Chapter 17
Old Things and New Changes

By BethShelby

My Grandpa’s house was primitive. He hadn’t owned it for very many years, but it was already quite old when he bought it. The boards were a weathered gray. The house had porches on the back and front and had a red brick chimney opening into his and my grandma’s bedroom.

 

Before the move, he had lived farther back in the country on some wooded acreage and had run a country store and gristmill. When my dad was old enough to get work in town, Grandpa moved the family closer. I’m pretty sure Daddy was ashamed of the old house, but I absolutely loved it.

His house was the most fascinating place to me. There was a wide hall running down the center past four big square rooms and leading to a dining room with a small kitchen behind it. Since the floor from one section to the other didn’t line up properly, it looked as though the house may have had another section added on later.

I loved the hundred-year-old mantle clock that ticked loudly and struck the hour. I enjoyed the sound on the tin roof when it rained. I was fascinated by the three large wooden trunks filled with all sorts of strange objects and the tall Victrola record player which had to be wound in order to play my dad’s old scratchy records. There must have been a time when he was a boy that he could tolerate music.

In Aunt Eva’s bedroom there was a wooden crate large enough to have contained a piano. From top to bottom. It was stuffed with quilts my grandmother had made. Her claim to fame was that she mailed one of her quilts to the World Fair in Chicago and had won a blue ribbon on it. Climbing into the box and playing on the quilts was a spot where my aunt would often find me.

When I got a chance to be at their house, I must have driven everyone crazy. I opened every drawer in each piece of the old mismatched furniture. Aunt Eva followed me around asking why I was so curious and calling me a rambler. “Why do you have to sort through everything we have? You leave a trail of stuff you’ve pulled out, everywhere you go. I have to walk behind you and pick it all up.”

Aunt Eva had one of the four bedrooms and Uncle Bill had another. Grandma and Grandpa shared the front room with the fireplace, but the other front room on the opposite side of the hallway wasn’t normally in use. In that room, I found something which really disturbed me. On a writing table, there was a picture in a gold-colored metal frame of a little girl with sausage shaped curls hanging to her shoulders. She wore a big smile on her face. “Who is that girl?" I asked crossly.

“That’s Shirley Temple, honey. Isn’t she pretty?” Grandma asked. 

“No, she’s ugly. What is she doing here? Why don’t you have a picture of me.”

“Her picture was in there when someone gave me that frame for a gift. I don’t have a picture of you that would fit that frame. Besides, you’re over here all the time. I can see the real little girl. I don’t need a picture.”

This didn’t sit well with me at all. The second she left the room. I opened the drawer and put the picture inside. Then, a few days later, I was over at their house again, and the girl’s picture was back on the table. This time I hid her under the bed. Thus began a game of hide and seek between my grandma and me. I often heard her chuckling to Mama and others about how jealous I was of the little movie star.

I didn’t understand why I felt such dislike for this girl with the silly curls or why my grandmother thought she was so adorable. I figured it had to be those funny looking curls. I couldn’t help it because I was born with straight hair. It seemed like mom was sorry about that too, because she was always braiding my hair to get it out of my eyes or rolling it up on a pencil to make it curly before I went to church.

 

My curls didn’t come out like Shirley Temple’s did. The pencil made the curls tight and frizzy. My hair looked more like the little black girls who I saw when I was in town. When Mama kept brushing to get the frizzy tangles out, I would get frustrated and often spent Sunday morning in tears.

One day, when Mama had made me take a nap, I woke up in a grumpy mood. Rubbing the sleep from my eyes, I went looking for Mama. When I got to the other bedroom, right in the middle of the big bed was a baby girl, sound asleep with pillows piled around her. “Mama, Who is this person on your bed?”

Mama came in grinning from ear to ear. “Honey, you told me you wanted a baby sister so you’d have someone to play with. What do you think?”

“Mama. I don’t want that one. Her face is all red and besides she don’t look like no baby. Take her back. She is too big to be a baby and she is too little to play with me. Does Daddy know you got her?”

Mama continued to laugh. “You didn’t tell me you had any specific instructions. Her face is red because it is hot in here. Your face is kind of red too. What if I can’t take her back? Are you sure you don’t want this one?”

“No, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t like that one. We don’t need no baby. Besides you said Daddy didn’t want one. I thought you said he would have to be okay with it. I don’t think we need a baby anymore.”

“Well, you are in luck, because I was just teasing you. We aren’t keeping her. She belongs to my friend. I’m just baby-sitting her. Her mother had somewhere she needed to go.”

I stomped off a little aggravated, because she had made me look bad and say things I didn’t want to have to say. Mamas shouldn’t tease kids and then laugh at them.

A few weeks later something really exciting happened. It came as a big surprise for me and a little bit of a surprise for my parents as well. They knew it was in the works, but not when it would happen. Mama and I had been in town waiting for Daddy to close the store and drive us home. It was after dark.

 

When we drove into our driveway, every room in the house was lit up. I hadn’t noticed that our house was wired for lights, or that we were just waiting for the power company to get through working outside and turn them on.

It was exciting to realize it would be brighter inside our house at night without the oil lamps. There was even a radio playing when we walked inside. Having a house with electricity was a big milestone. We still had the outdoor toilet, but one step at a time, we were starting to join the rest of the world.

 

This was a turning point for us. Now, my mom would no longer need to heat her iron on the stove or in the fire place. She got herself an electric iron, and started to enjoy this dreaded task, because now, she could listen to Oxydol’s Own Ma Perkins and other soap operas while she ironed our clothes.

My grandparents had not chosen to take advantage of having electricity. This was fine with me because I sort of like the smell and ambience of oil lamps. I wasn’t all that anxious for the world I’d been born into to change quite so fast.

Author Notes

Living in Mississippi in 1940. This is a chapter in a book that starts with my ancestors and will continue to the early sixties.

Chapter 18
War and a Peaceful Holiday

By BethShelby

Winter wasn’t my favorite time of year, because on cold days, I was often cooped up in the one room which was kept heated. Sunday wasn’t my favorite day of the week. Daddy was always tired from having worked until midnight, doing store inventory. He wanted to sleep late on Sunday morning. That caused Mama to have to make his breakfast later.

Mom had to rush to get us off to church. Daddy, who didn’t like the preacher at the big town church, found reasons not to go, although his family members were all Bible believing Christians. The Simmons were staunch Baptists and Grandpa Weir's family had always been Presbyterians. Daddy wasn’t brought up attending church regularly.

I hated sitting in the big church, having to be still. I couldn’t see because of big people in front of me, and I didn’t understand why Baptist preachers always seemed to be shouting at us. The songs were nice but most of them didn’t make sense, blessing a tie that blinds and clinging to a rock with blood flowing from it.

Sometimes on Sunday afternoons, we would visit Aunt Chris and Uncle Harry who lived further into the country. Aunt Christine was Mama’s favorite sister. She was her favorite because she was the only sister who shared the same mother. Daddy and Uncle Harry got along well. The two of them were talking about giving up farming and moving to Detroit where Uncle Eugene’s family lived. Christine and Eugene were the only two children Mother's mom had before her first husband was killed. Mama didn’t want them to move away.

One Sunday, after being with Aunt Chris and Uncle Harry, we got back home close to nighttime. Daddy got busy lighting the heater to get our house warmed back up and Mama turned on the radio. The evening news grabbed her attention. The news stations were reporting that the US Air and Naval base at Pearl Harbor had been bombed that morning by a large fleet of Japanese planes. Most of the ships in the harbor were destroyed and over 2,500 people were dead and many more injured. Mom was acting like it was the end of the world. It was December 7, 1941.

Mom’s reaction shot waves of fear through me, as well. It was the next day when President Franklin Roosevelt addressed congress with his “Day Which Will Live in Infamy” speech. Congress voted unanimously for the US to officially enter WWII. Up to that point, I had not been aware something happening in another part of the world could possibly have an effect on our family.

After that, we started hearing about things being rationed like sugar, gasoline, tires and many other things. Daddy had to use ration stamps to buy what we needed. Daddy was thirty-two and was already registered for the Draft. His number was called, and he had to go in to see if he would have to serve.

He didn’t end up having to serve for three reasons. One reason was because he was flatfooted. The second was, as manager of a grocery store, he was needed by the civilian population, and the third reason was, as a family man with a wife and child, he said he was responsible for caring for his parents who were old.

Personally, I thought his parents were plenty able to take care of themselves, but they didn’t drive and he did stop by their place and check on them every day and bring them stuff they needed from town. Mama was relieved that he wasn’t going to war.  

Other things changed for our family, as well. Mama was always listening to the radio and acting all upset. We kept hearing reports of how many Americans had died in Europe each day. I learned all about Hitler and how he was killing Jews and putting people in concentration camps. In my mind I got Hitler and Satan, who Mom had told me about, mixed up and I started having nightmares, dreaming I was a prisoner who was about to be tortured.

Newton started having air raid warning drills. They had a siren system which would often go off after dark. We were required to turn off all of the lights. We were near enough to town for the eerie sound to come in loud and clear. It really scared me and I would hide under the table. I don’t think adults had any concept of how children might be affected by things they didn’t understand. I wondered if I wasn’t almost as frightened as children in Europe who had bombs falling around them.

Other kids, who were my age at the time, have told me since, that they went on with life without paying much attention to something so far away. I don’t know if it was because I had no one my own age around to keep me distracted, or if my mom's fears were causing my own. I had no reason to be so afraid, but I don’t remember anyone reassuring me that I was safe.

During World War II, Detroit adapted its factories to produce airplanes, tanks, vehicles, boats, weapons, ammunition, electronics, clothing, food – everything necessary to assist the military efforts at home and overseas. Uncle Harry and Aunt Chris knew this place would have many jobs available. They rented out their house and moved right away without giving a move more thought. This meant my grandmother, who had been dividing her time mostly between Christine and Mother’s houses, would be spending most of her time with us.

Since Christmas was only weeks away, preparations continued. Fruitcakes were Mom’s favorite thing to make. She made a lot of them and gave some smaller ones out for gifts. She had started in November saving orange peel to be candied and used with other candied fruits. She had gotten many pounds of pecans. I helped with cracking them and filling quart jars with the nut meats. Mom used a dish pan to mix all the ingredients.

She would bake the cakes weeks in advance and wrap them in cheesecloth and do something she called curing. She would put apple slices around them and every few days, she sprinkled fruit juice on them. The longer this went on, the better the cakes seemed to taste. Some people put alcohol on their cakes, but I’m not sure mom’s fruit juices weren’t fermented.

A lot of people aren’t fans of fruitcake, but I didn’t know of anyone who would  turn down a slice of Mom’s fruitcake. They were full of pecans and they were delicious. I’ve never tasted a bought fruitcake that even came close. We were always still eating fruitcake well into the Spring. They were moist and delicious.

Daddy took me out to some woodland we owned and let me help him pick out the perfect cedar tree, and I got to help decorate it. We had evergreen trees with berries growing around the back yard. Mom always cut branches and spray-painted them red, gold and silver. She had them everywhere for decorations. It spite of the war, Mom went around singing Christmas Carols and trying to teach me how to carry a tune.

Mom told me God is real, and Santa is mythical. She refused to explain mythical and said I could look it up when I learned to read. I chose to believe it meant the same as magic. I didn’t ask for very much from Santa, but I remember lying on the floor listening to someone read kids’ letters to Santa on the radio. I always left a slice of fruitcake and milk for Santa on Christmas Eve night.

Christmas morning would never fail to make my eyes grow big with wonder. Mom knew how to make it look like I was getting a lot. In addition to a few actual presents there would be apples, oranges, nuts, candy and fireworks scattered in abundance around the tree. That year, I remember getting a kid's doctor kit, a nurse costume, a small rocking chair and a doll buggy.

The Christmas feast would be at Grandma Weir's house. Along with turkey, dressing and vegetable dishes, ambrosia fruit salad and coconut cake were always on the menu. Christmas was the one day, no one mentioned a thing about the war.

Author Notes

This chapter takes place in Newton, Mississippi in December 1941. I am a four year old. The characters are my mather and father, three grandparents and my mother's sister Christine and her husband Harry Williams.

Chapter 19
My Uncle Willie

By BethShelby

My grandmother’s brother, Uncle Willie, was an interesting character. People are complicated. Like everyone, they aren’t all bad nor all good. They are a product of their environment.  If I tell you things I remember about him, some of you may see him as dislikable.  He was my great uncle, and living so close to us, I was around him often. I saw his weaknesses and his strengths. I accepted him as flawed but still with likable traits. You can draw your own conclusions. 

My records of the Simmons family are accurate for several generations leading up to the Civil War. The family came to Mississippi from South Carolina by the way of Georgia and were one of the first families in the area. They fought on the side of the Confederacy, and a number of the young Simmons men died in the war. Willie’s father was eight and one of eight children left behind when his grandfather died in the siege of Vicksburg. This branch of the Simmons family were land owners and farmers but not slave owners. They were members of the Baptist Church and attended services regularly.

 

Willie was the second son in a family of five. His sister Alma, my grandmother, was married and his older brother was also married. A sister two years older than Willie died in her teens of yellow jaundice which is now known as hepatitis. He and Eva, who was ten years younger than him, still lived with their parents. The flu epidemic of 1918 took both of his parents. 

Willie was drafted in his twenties near the end of WWII. He only served four months, during which time, he almost lost his arm from an infection caused by the typhoid vaccine. He received an honorable discharge and was sent home to recover. Since his parents had passed away. Alma and Ebb took him in.

Eva was already living with her sister, Alma, and attending school with my father, Glover. Since Ebb and Alma were providing a home for the two Simmons children, it was agreed the land which his father had owned would become Weir property and my grandfather, Ebb, would take care of the property taxes.

Willie continued working the land for a while, but he had other ambitions. He enjoyed hunting and decided he wanted to learn the art and skill of taxidermy. He sent away for instructions which he studied but also got pointers from a man he knew in the trade. He worked with small animals like fox, squirrel, raccoon, and bobcat. After a while, Willie lost interest and decided to try another kind of project.

This time, he turned his attention to molding statuettes. Again, he sent away for books to teach him the art. He purchased molds, and materials for the statues. The materials for molding the statues were things like alum, silicon, glitter and a synthetic resin. The figurines were white and beautiful.

 

All his molds were of religious figures. I remember a manger scene. Most of the figures were Biblical saints. At first, his sisters were thrilled. They were proud to display his art. Then, someone told Eva and Alma the religious figures were idols. “The Bible says we are not to worship idols. We are Baptist. Only Catholics have those kinds of things in their homes.” 

Of course, Catholics don’t consider themselves worshiping idols. They see the statuettes as icons to remind them of the saints they pray to. When Willie’s sisters told him they couldn’t have his art pieces in the house, he gathered them all up with his molds and materials and dug a hole and buried everything. I’m not sure if he was afraid of offending God, or if it was his sisters he had to walk carefully around. 

His next venture involved selling hamburgers. I doubt if he’d ever cooked before, but he learned quickly. He rented a small stand near the bus station and started a new career. This time, he had picked a winner. The stand did well. He earned enough money to buy a piece of land and build a stucco building in which to house his burger business. With a larger business, he asked his sister, Eva, to come work with him. She agreed, and this became their daily profession.

 

A short distance up the road from my grandfather’s house was a house owned by an old man and his wife. The wife died first, and the old man decided to sell his house and move in with his son. Willie purchased the house, added a room and did some remodeling. At that point, he and Eva moved in together and my grandfather’s house was left with only the two of them there.

 

I was probably around ten by the time all of this took place. Later, The Corner Cafe would become a memorable part of my life since it was where I first met the man I would marry. That is all part of another story. This story is about Willie.

Willie loved beer. There were beer cans and bottles discarded everywhere. I never saw him drunk, but he always seemed mellowed out from indulging in his favorite drink. Another of his vices was smoking cigars. He enjoyed going to fairs and winning prizes at games of skill. I never knew him to have a lady friend, but my mother told me there had once been one who my grandmother had gotten out of his life. 

I tried to ask Grandma about Willie’s lady friend once. Her reply was, “Oh she was just some old piece of trash. He didn’t care nothing about her. I told her I didn’t want to see her coming around him again.” I assumed if it was someone who mattered to him, he wouldn’t have listened. He wasn’t a bad looking guy other than being bald.

He had friends who he hunted with. Fox hunting was one of his main sports. He was also into the politics of Mississippi, and he had a great admiration for the Mississippi state senator Theodore G. Bilbo. Bilbo was an extremely racist segregationist who influenced the political climate of Mississippi for 40 years. Mississippi was a Democratic state in those years.

 

Bilbo had served as Governor of Mississippi twice. He had been elected twice to US senate and in 1947 was challenging his right to be seated when he died. Bilbo considered himself a proud member of the KKK. Willie owned a book which Bilbo had written, and he believed every word of his racist rhetoric. He thought all the black people should leave the state and go back to Africa.

I don’t think Willie was ever a member of the clan. At least, I hope he wasn’t, but his attitude was typical of many white men in the state. He admitted to me once he had attended a lynching. He and I argued constantly about his racist views. Although I didn’t have much personal interaction with the black race, I was horrified at the way they were expected to live. 

Uncle Willie’s café had two doors. The front was for whites only and the rear door was for colored. That wasn’t unusual. Even the doctor offices had a back door for their black patients. All Mississippi schools were segregated. There were separate drinking fountains and restrooms. They were required to sit in the rear of the bus and nice restaurants were off limits.

People tend to fall in line with the way things are. Willie lived his life with the thinking of those around him. Other than his racist views, he thought of himself as a Christian. Although he didn’t talk about it, he couldn’t resist buying Bibles. He owned several, and one was almost too heavy to pick up. He loved country music and constantly fed nickels into the slots of his café jukebox. He had a good sense of humor and enjoyed laughing and joking with his customers. I don’t remember ever seeing him angry. 

He was a part of my extended family and although I didn’t agree with him, I still cared about him. He owned the Corner Café until he died in 1964. He was seventy-five. He left his land to my dad.

Author Notes

I'm encluding this character sketch of my uncle to show what many white men were like in the forties in Mississippi. I wlll probably use this in the book Growing Up in Mississippi.

Chapter 20
Career Decision at Age Four

By BethShelby

From the time I could talk, both of my parents appeared to have wanted a parrot rather than a daughter. Dad wanted to be able to show everyone who came around that I could make sounds like all the animals I knew anything about. Mom had me memorizing everything she read to me so I could bore any visiting friend or relative with my long recitations. Memorizing came easy for me because I was fascinated with words and stories. I could usually repeat anything by heart if Mom had read it to me as much as three or four times. 

Although I craved praise and attention, I wasn’t pleased by being put on display and having to recite poems to ladies, who I figured would much prefer gossiping to listening to a poetry session from Mom’s pride and joy. By the glazed look in their eyes, I sensed they might have to work at coming up with enough praise to satisfy my mother. I especially didn’t like performing for her brothers. Some of them actually scared me to the point, mama had to dig me out from under the bed every time they came around.

I decided stage performance wasn’t my thing, and I should be looking around for another career choice. It came unexpectedly one day when I rode with Mom to the next county to visit her aunt. Aunt Lula Davis was a tiny withered old lady who lived in a flat level block house. It stood in the yard of the more prestigious old house where her daughter’s family now lived. Her husband, Uncle Tommy, was my grandma Lay’s youngest brother. The whiskered old man was kicked back in a hammock beneath a spreading Oak enjoying the mild May weather. 

Mom said her hellos to Uncle Tommy, and we followed Aunt Lula inside. It was my first encounter with an art museum. Aunt Lula was an artist. From floor to ceiling, every wall in every room was lined with pictures she had painted. I found it hard to believe what I was seeing. Mom started oohing and aahing with great gusto at every picture on display. There were a variety of subjects. Some were vases filled with flowers or pastoral scenes. Some were of wild animals or family pets. I decided immediately, I had discovered my career. I would be an artist. We came home with a painting of a huge vase of poppies. 

I needed to let Mama know it wasn’t necessary for me to perform anymore. I figured it might require some Divine back-up to get my point across. As soon as I got back home, I went to my room, got on my knees, and told God I needed some assistance learning to paint, because I’d decided to be an artist.“

“Mama, I told God I wanted Him to make me an artist, and He said Okay. He told me to go draw a white house with a green roof and a red chimney.”

“Oh, He did, did He?”, she asked with an amused look. “Well in that case, I guess you’d better get to drawing.”

“Will you get me some paper so I can get started?  She handed me a sheet of her stationary and I got my crayons out and got busy. Actually, the result wasn’t too shabby for a four-year-old. My art remained pinned to the wall for years. I don’t remember why I thought God had specified what I was to draw, but my mama was too impressed to question it.

At four and five, I was a fairly outgoing little girl. Most strangers didn’t scare me nearly as much as some of Mama’s brothers did. She had eight of them, and they seem more aggressive, determined to grab me up and hug and kiss me. Strangers, who came around, were more polite and less intimidating. Sometimes I’d go inside and tell Mama, “There’s a preacher outside who wants to see you.”  She would look puzzled and ask how I knew he was a preacher, and I’d say, “Cause he looks like one.

Sometimes, it was a salesman or a candidate running for a local office. Mom was mystified at how I knew the difference. Preachers and candidates both wore suits but salesmen didn’t. Preachers had a kind look about them but they never handed out nickels, like the candidates did.  
Candidates were easy to spot because they always had a pocket full of nickels and dimes to give kids. Their campaign expenses were cheap in those days. Mississippi was the last state to ratify the 19th amendment in 1984, but women could vote much earlier. I was very young when Mom registered to vote. I remember Daddy wasn’t happy about it. He said, “You’re just going to cancel out every vote I make. She probably did too, because they didn’t agree on much, and she wasn’t going to let him tell her how to vote.

I was overly anxious to go to school. I wanted to learn to read, but Mom refused to let me learn. I could have picked it up quickly if she hadn’t been against it. Someone told her kids who can read before they start first grade are bored and learn to hate school. She taught me my ABC’s and numbers but not reading. 

Grandma Weir was the one that taught me about money. She sold eggs and milk to the black people who lived down our road, so she had fruit jars filled with change. She’d take a break from her work in the afternoon and we’d play store. I nearly drove my grandma nuts pretending to be one of her actual customers. I mastered the art of learning the black dialect of the 40’s, and I could sound just like them.

By the time I was five, Mama would allow me to walk to my grandparents’ house alone. Grandma wouldn’t realize I was there and I would hide close enough she could hear me but not see me. Then I would pretend to want some eggs.

“Miz Weir? Miz Weir? You be home? Is you got any dem aggs today?  I's gonna be needen to git me some o dem aggs.”

Grandma would say, “Where are you?  I can’t see you. I’ve got eggs, but you need to come on around back where I can see you.”

I would be cracking up giggling. I could fool her almost every time. I loved practical jokes. Some of my escapades were more dangerous. I didn’t know it at the time, but Grandma had a heart condition. I would often sneak into the house, hide and then jump out from behind a door when she wasn’t expecting it. She would jump and scream. Unfortunately, my parents didn’t realize the things I did when I was there. I could get away with almost anything without getting punished, I was turning into a little terror. 

Today, I regret some of the things I did back then. Kids tend to want to test their limits, and when I was at my grandparents’ home, there were no limits. Grandma would scold but never about anything I did to her. It was about her fear that I might do something to get hurt. She was always cautioning me about hanging off tree limbs or playing in the pasture with an unpredictable mule.

 
I feel sorry for kids who never knew their grandparents. Those are the memories which last the longest.

 

Chapter 21
Up, Up, and Away

By BethShelby

From as far back as I can remember, I was fascinated with birds and watching them as they flew. I would dream about how wonderful it must be to be able to zoom around in the air. I would fantasize about doing cartwheels among the fluffy summertime clouds. I didn’t realize they were optical illusions and nothing like pictures I’d seen of cherubs lounging around on them. If I’d realized they were just damp air that would make things look hazy, it would have been a destructive blow to the imaginary picture I’d created in my mind.

Our little town of Newton had a small airport about a half mile away and planes flew low over our house. I found them intriguing as well. The owner of the airport, happened to be a regular customer at the grocery store dad managed. One day, he told my dad he had plans to generate some interest in the airport by taking kids up for plane rides the following weekend. He’d weigh them and let them go up for two cents a pound. “You think your daughter would be afraid to go up in a plane?” he asked my dad. 

“I’m sure she wouldn’t want to go up, but I’ll bring her out and let her see the planes and the other kids going flying. She’s pretty young, but we’ll see.” 

Dad didn’t tell anyone. He just said he was going to ride around with me for a little while. He liked having me to himself, so no one objected. I was thrilled to be able to see the planes close up and watch them taxi down the runway and take off into the sky.

 

“What do you think about all this?” Dad asked. “Would you want to go up in the air in a plane?”

“Yes, I want to. Please, can I? Can you come with me?"

“No, I wouldn’t be going. Mr. Jumper would have to take you up. It is just a two-seater plane. Are you sure you want to do this?"

“Yes, I want to ride in the plane.” Dad took me over and introduced me to the pilot. I liked him right away. He started joking around with me and had me step up on some scales.

 “Wow, you weigh a whole 38 pounds. You’re not much bigger than a bird. That’s going to cost your daddy 76 cents. Are you worth that much?"

I just grinned and said nothing. He led me to the plane and helped me into the front seat and buckled me in. He climbed into the seat behind me. There were controls in front of me and behind me as well. It must have been a plane for training people to fly. When he started it up, the sound was so loud I had to cover my ears. When he talked to me, he had to shout. We taxied down the runway and lifted into the air. I was in awe as I watched the place where Daddy waited, quickly become smaller. The buildings, houses, and cars started to look like toys. 

We circled around the city and then, he dipped the plane down and pointed to a house and asked me if I knew who lived there. It looked very different from my angle, but I recognized it was our house. It surprised me that he knew where I lived.

Then he angled the plane up and asked if I wanted to go upside down. I nodded, and he told me to hold on tight because it would feel funny for a minute. It was a weird and scary sensation as the plane nosedived and then flipped back right side up. My stomach felt queasy. I hoped he wouldn’t do that again. 

“You did great,” he told me. “You could probably fly this plane without my help. I think I’ll take a nap and let you be the pilot.” I looked at him like surely you aren’t serious. He was grinning, and I hoped he was teasing me.

He told me what to do and let me pretend I was flying it, but I’m sure he never let go of the controls. I felt like we were in the air for a long time before he brought the plane back to earth. I was ready to be on the ground again. I hadn’t been scared, but I couldn’t wait to tell everyone about my adventure. I was so proud of myself because I was the only one in my family who had ever been in a plane. 

Daddy stopped by his parents' house, and I had to tell them all about it. My grandma got upset with my dad for letting me go up. “Are you crazy? What are you trying to do? Get her killed?” Mom wasn’t too pleased he hadn't told her what he planned to do before we did it. Daddy told everyone he didn’t plan for me to go up, because he thought I wouldn’t want to. He said I had begged to go, and he knew Mr. Jumper was a safe pilot, but he hadn’t expected him to do a flip in the air. When he saw the plane do the flip, he had been worried. 

****
Another bright spot, in my life around that time was when I met Mattie. I went to visit my grandparents and to my surprise, they had a visitor. She was related in some distant way. I don’t think Grandma was too pleased when she arrived carrying a big suitcase. 

Mattie was an old lady who visited relatives and expected to be waited on. She didn’t move very fast and walked with a cane. She sat around most of the time and dipped snuff, but she liked me right away and was willing to make conversation with me for hours and tell me stories of her life. She loved playing jokes on people. I thought she was funny and acted more like a kid than the other grown people. I was probably the only one who would talk to her. Grandma and Grandpa stayed busy and were delighted to let me entertain her.

 
Mattie loved telling stories. I craved hearing stories, so we were a good match. In a way, she wasn’t so unlike Grandpa, because he was the storyteller in the family and he also dipped snuff. Grandpa carried his snuff in a tin inside his jean pocket. Mattie got her snuff out of a jar. Snuff is a brown powder that looks like cocoa powder. I wanted to taste it, and Mattie let me taste hers. I couldn’t understand why anyone would put something that tasted so bad in their mouth.

Matte started visiting my grandparents a couple of times a year. Daddy said she was like a parasite because Grandma had to wait on her and cook for her, but she never offered to help her do anything. When I knew she was there I always hurried to visit with her. She was like a kid in an old body, but I couldn’t wait to hear what new stories she might have to tell. 

One of the last tales I remember her telling was her plans for the funeral she hoped to have when she died. She wanted a brass marching band and a parade with balloons and fireworks. Her descriptions almost made dying sound like fun. 

 

Author Notes

The year is around 1942 in Newton, Mississipp. This will be a chapter in the book "Growing Up in Mississippi.

Chapter 22
Our Neighbor, Joe Seay

By BethShelby

Down our little dirt road from where my parents’ home stood, on the left and over a small hill was my grandparents’ older house. It was about a five-minute walk away, unless I was inclined to dawdle and climb the embankment, where I could satisfy my sweet tooth with the juicy flavor of the wild plums when they were in season. 

Still on the left side of the road, past my grandparents’ home and another five-minute walk further down, stood an old two room shack which was the home of a neighbor named Joe Seay. Joe was as colorful a character as you would ever want to meet. Since he moved about in my world, often in an irritating way, no book about my life would be complete without covering Joe. 

This book isn’t intended to be only about me. It is also about Mississippi, our way of life, and of the times in which this story takes place. Sometimes, I might feature a member of my family or a character who stands out for some reason. This chapter is mostly about Joe.

 
Joe and his wife, Maggie, were living in the old run-down house before my birth, but my first memory of them was when I was around three. Back then, Maggie didn’t stand out in my mind as anything other than another adult. She used to come over and sit on my grand-parent’s front porch and visit on Sunday afternoons like people did back in those days.

Then one day, Maggie wasn’t around anymore, and Joe was excitedly telling people Maggie had tried to kill him. “That woman tried to poison me,” he told anyone who’d listen. “I’d be dead if I hadn’t a learnt what she was up to. She put rat poison in my cornbread.” 

I don’t know if Joe’s story was true, but Maggie divorced him, and we never saw her again. Divorce was a word you didn’t hear often back in the forties. Years before I was born, Joe and Maggie had a son, who had died of a ruptured appendix when he was still a teenager. Joe was illiterate, and people said he was `simple-minded’. If he received mail, he brought it to Mom to read it for him.

Even at my young age, I could tell Joe wasn’t like other people. He’d make all kind of funny faces and gestures, and he enjoyed teasing me. He’d pretend he was going to steal a toy away from me. I’d even heard him barking at the neighbor’s dogs. 

Joe had a few acres of land and a small orchard. He farmed his land with a mule and grew many kinds of fruits and vegetables which he shared willingly with his neighbors. In spite of his poverty, no one could accuse Joe of being selfish. Whether you wanted it or not, Joe showed up at the door of all his neighbors almost daily with a bag or a bundle of fruit or vegetables he’d grown on his land. All he wanted in return was some of your time to talk about whatever might be going on in his life or to pass on news he picked up from another neighbor. Even after Mississippi instituted a welfare program for older people who had never worked outside the home, he was willing to share the free cheese or peanut butter he'd been given.

Mom would tell me, “Beth, be nice to Joe. He doesn’t mean any harm. He is like a kid himself, but he’s got a good heart. He’d give you the shirt off his back.” I wasn’t interested in his dirty, stinky shirt, nor the wormy apples, melons or freshly dug peanuts, still covered with dirt, which he was always offering. The things that irritated me most about him was his constant picking and teasing. I also hated his coming to grandpa’s house to listen to the news on their radio, because I had kids’ programs I was listening to.

In 1944, the Justice of the US Supreme Court was disliked by many Southerners because the court had declared segregation to be unconstitutional. There were billboards all along the highways with the words reading “Impeach Earl Warren.” Joe got very animated over news about this. I still remember hearing him vehemently declare. “He needs `peaching. We got to see to it we gets that man 'peached.”

His intense interest in the political news of the day seemed out of character for someone with the mind of a child. He might have had a learning disability, causing him to quit school without learning to read. He had educated siblings who wanted nothing to do with him. Joe’s father, John, lived with him for a few years after Maggie left. His siblings seemed to have disowned their father as well.

After John’s death, Joe set his mind on the idea of getting himself another wife. I couldn’t imagine anyone would marry him, but I was wrong. One day, he came to tell us his exciting news. “I’m getting me a wife. I can’t wait for Yaw’ll to meet her. She’s a big ‘un’.” Big was putting it mildly. Virgie was nearly a foot taller than Joe and weighed over 600 pounds. She had just gotten out of a mental institution to be cared for by her sister. The sister heard about Joe and did the negotiating. She must have been desperate to unburden herself of the responsibility of caring for Virgie. Virgie had been diagnosed with schizophrenia.

 
The marriage seemed to work out for a while. Virgie declared herself a business woman and went to work for a catalog company selling dresses. Each week, the company sent her new pages with pictures of the dresses and a cloth swath of the material with instructions for ordering. Often Mom would order a dress for herself or for me. After a few months Virgie’s salesmanship personality switched gears.

Back then, few believed multiple personalities existed, but Virgie had at least four separate personas. Sometimes she was like a child of about seven. One of her personalities, in which she referred to herself as Jinny, was that of very promiscuous young woman. Her lurid descriptions the sex acts she talked about made mom desperate to get me out of earshot immediately. Her other personality, Virginia, was a very conservative Christian lady. Today there would be treatment for such people. Most are very intelligent and have usually suffered traumas as children. Becoming a multiple is a coping mechanism. 

Joe must have been very confused, since instead of getting one wife he had a harem. It took him several years before he decided Virgie had slipped over the edge, and was `too crazy’ for him. Once again, he declared his wife was trying to kill him. Since she was about four times his size, he had good reason to worry. He contacted the local sheriff and had her taken away. We never heard him mention needing a wife again. We all felt a little sorry to see it end that way.

. 
After I married and left home, my parents continued to show compassion to Joe. Dad gave him rides into town when he became too crippled to walk. My mother made sure he had special food at Thanksgiving and Christmas and a gift or two. As long as he was able, he kept bringing my parents something he’d grown in his garden or orchard. 

Dad alerted the local government of his needs. They constructed him a newer house since his was falling down. They put him on a pension and food stamps and gave him free cheese and coffee. When Joe died at ninety, my parents learned Joe had left them the 15 acres farm land of he’d inherited from his Pa along with the the little house the government had build for him. He had relatives in another county, but they didn’t even bother to attend his funeral.

It pays to be kind to everyone. Joe wasn’t the only neighbor my parents reached out to with compassion. Mom and Dad did what they could, never expecting anything in return. 

If you continue reading this story, you’ll learn more about Joe and realize that I wasn’t nearly as kind and understanding of his quirky personality as my parents were.

Chapter 23
War Years and Other Happenings

By BethShelby

As time went on, and the initial shock of our country being involved in a world war sank in, everyone started taking it all in stride, so long as they, or members of their family, weren’t personally involved. As we had a lot of relatives in Newton, many of the young men were drafted, but fortunately none of them were killed. Newton county did lose around fifty men over the course of the war.

 

Other than Dad talking about those he knew being drafted or of him repeating horror stories of those returning from service, the war wasn’t a main concern for us. Still, there was the constant worry over having enough ration stamps for the things we needed. Mom insisted on listening to President Roosevelt’s fireside talks on the radio, and we continued to have an occasional air raid drill. I hated the drills, because the sirens made me wonder if we were about to be bombed. There was an air force base in Meridian, which was only twenty miles away, so Military planes flew over our house quite regularly.

 

One of the ones we knew of who served was Grandma Lay’s nephew, Haskel Davis. I didn’t even realize he existed until someone mentioned he had returned. It was the summer of 1942. Summer was a time I loved because it meant homemade ice cream, watermelons, fresh peaches and strawberries. Most of all, it meant I could play outside all day. Occasionally, we would have relatives visiting from Texas. 

 

Mom’s brother, Newman’s wife, came with her two children. Newman and Aline were starting to have some marital problem, and she suspected him of seeing other women. I paid no attention to what was going on with them. What interested me was her son, Dave, who was just a little younger that I was. He and I would spend hours playing together. Aunt Aline’s daughter, Jeanine, was a teenager and was starting to get interested in boys. She always came with stationery to write home to boys she knew from her school.

 
Haskel, who was about twenty, had returned from Hawaii after doing his two years as a drafted soldier. Mom invited him over for lunch while Aunt Aline and her kids were visiting. Haskel came wearing his uniform and Jeanine was awe-struck by him. At nearly five, even I was impressed. He was a real heartbreaker. I’d never seen such a handsome man. Seeing Jeanine and Haskel together, obviously attracted to each other, caused Dave and I to decide to spy on them.

We hid behind trees and sneaked around until we finally saw them kiss. Jeanine threatened to tell her mother we were spying and Dave countered with, “You tell, and I’ll tell Mom, Beth and I saw you kissing him.” 

Haskel was so smitten with this pretty young girl that he made sure he found a way to see her every day until they returned to Texas. By that time, he’d made arrangements to go back with them, saying he would be able to find a job at the oil refinery easier than he would find work in Newton. Haskel was Jeanine’s first cousin once removed, but since they had never met before, they didn’t think of each other as cousins. He did find work in Port Arthur and after Jeanine finished high school, the two of them got married.

 

Grandma Lay had lived with us full time since Aunt Christine and Uncle Harry had moved to Detroit to get jobs. Aunt Chris had worked in a factory producing military equipment, and Uncle Harry had gotten a job at the Henry Ford estate, as a night watchman. Word came that Aunt Christine had been diagnosed with breast cancer and had had one of her breasts removed. They had decided to return home while she convalesced. Now that they were returning home, my grandmother would be living with Christine again part of the time.

Several years had passed, and I barely remembered my aunt and uncle. Uncle Harry drove back in one of two trucks he had bought in Detroit. He had a friend drive the other. In the forties, Detroit was the auto capital of the world, and by driving the vehicle from there you’d save the shipping charges. He’d gotten the second truck in order to sell it once he was back in Mississippi. 

Mother had continued to teach a Sunday School class at the big Baptist church in Newton. She seemed concerned because the pastor found reasons to come talk to her from time to time. Mom had very high moral standards, and any indication someone might be interested in her, any way other than spiritually, caused her to be extremely nervous. My dad was even more concerned about the pastor’s visits. I have no idea if the pastor may have had a crush on her, but I know there were times, she’d see a car drive up and she'd tell me to be quiet. She would lock the door and we would hide until the person had decided no one was home and would drive away.

 
Mom and Grandma Weir had started listening to a preacher on the radio at her house. He caused both of them to question some things they believed. My grandpa, whose family had always been Presbyterian since they arrived in South Carolina in the 1700s from Ireland, loved to read the Bible and find things to argue with Mom about in a good-natured way. Mom was very serious about her relationship with God, and could talk about scripture with anyone who would listen all day long. 

Since I was so young I don’t know how it all came about but Mom started taking Bible studies by mail. She dropped her Sunday school class and no longer attended the big church. I think Dad was relieved about that since he didn’t care for the preacher, but he wasn’t happy about the Bible study course she was taking either. Dad continued to take me to Sunday school and pick me up later. I felt very grown up finding my way around without Mom holding my hand. 

1943 was the year, I would finally get to attend school. All summer, it was all I could think about. School would start in the middle of August. I would be only five, but my sixth birthday would be in September. In July, Mom had got out the Sears-Robuck catalogue and had ordered school dresses, socks, panties, boots and rainwear. Grandma had made dresses for me as well. Shoes were the only thing we’d buy locally.

I can remember getting dressed and being so excited I could hardly wait. I thought it would surely be the best day ever. Mom would be coming with me but only to help find my room and get a list of supplies I would need. 

School would be like a new page in my life that would bring many changes. In some ways it would involve things I’d not expected, which would take some getting used to. For once in my life, I would no longer be the center of attention. 

 

Characters:

Lucille Lay Weir:  My mother a stay home wife and mom.

Glover Weir:  My father who manages a grocery store.

Elizabeth Weir;  'Beth' Me at five years old.

Annie Jane Lay:  my Grandma Lay and Mom's mother who lives with us during this time.

Alma Wier: Grandma Weir and  Dad's mom who lives nest door.

Ebb Weir:  Grandpa Weir and Dad's father. 

The Lay Family:   Newman, Mom's brother, Aline his wife  Jeanine, teenage daughter  Dave, son and boy near my age.

Christine Williams  Mom's sister

HarryWillimas   Christine's husband.

Haskel Davis  Grandma Lay's nephew just our of service.

 

 

Author Notes

This will be chapter 22 in book about my life in Mississippi. The photo is of Haskel Davis My Cousin and WWII vet.

Chapter 24
That Memorable First Day

By BethShelby

The first day of school finally arrived. I could not have been more excited. To my eyes, the building, in which I would be having classes for the next 12 years, was enormous. There were three sections to the long red brick building. The first six grades were in the right section where my classes would be. In the center section was the office, the auditorium, the gymnasium, and the cafeteria. High school, with its four grades, were on the left side. Seventh and eighth grades were sandwiched somewhere among all those rooms, but by the time I would be that far along, there would be another newer building just for the sixth and seventh grades.

That first morning as Mom led me into the classroom, my eyes were wide open taking in all the chaos inside with amazement. Some of the kids were clinging to their mom with tears streaming down their faces. My teacher was a tall woman with light brown hair piled into a bun on the back of her head. She came to us as we walked in and introduced herself as Miss Chatham. She led me over to a desk made for two and introduced me to another little girl. She told me Carolyn would be my seatmate. Carolyn stared at me with curiosity and then, began pelting me with questions. 

Carolyn didn’t know what it was like to be an only child or to be around girls. She had two older brothers and three younger ones. Her mother worked long hours in a clothing factory. Her father, once a professor who had married his student, was much older and retired. He stayed home with the kids. Carolyn was tiny, but she was as tough as a sumo wrestler, having endured life in a household full of rambunctious boys. She had also never been expected to keep quiet. She was destined to spend most of her first school year in the coat closet as punishment for talking.

 
The classroom smelled of paste, chalk and mimeograph paper. It was decorated with delightful pictures of children and animals above the blackboard. There were many tiny chairs and child-size desks for two and a bookcase filled with storybooks.

I was disappointed the school dismissed early that first day. We were given a list of supplies to buy. The only good thing about leaving all this wonder was Mom and I would get to go shopping for crayons, tablets, paste, and fat pencils. We were also to bring a woven rug for naps. I wasn’t used to having to take a nap during the day and that was the one thing I wasn’t happy about.

 
By the time the second day arrived, I’d already fallen in love with my teacher and decided I wanted to grow up to be just like her. There was something about the way her eyebrows rose and fell as she talked which fascinated me. For some reason, I was convinced that I was destined to be her favorite. I would be the first in class to learn to read. However, when it came to math and printing letters, she would need great patience to deal with me turning certain numbers and letters like 5s and the letter S in the wrong direction.

We had recess in the morning and in the afternoon. The teacher came outside to show us how to play games like Red Rover, Drop the Handkerchief, Ring around the Rosy, Farmer in the Dell, and others. 

I believe it was when playing London Bridge, I had my heart broken. I was rejected, humiliated and teased. When the rhyme being sung ended, I was caught between the arms of the girls holding up the bridge which tumbled down. The two little demons holding me hostage demanded to know who my boyfriend was. James was the only boy I really knew. We’d played together at his house and held hands at a birthday party as we walked toward the outhouse, so I assumed we were a twosome.

 
However, school had turned a chatty, outgoing little boy into an introverted recluse which would be his new persona forever after. When I proudly announced him as my boyfriend, he turned scarlet, hung his head and departed. I was left with a score of children chanting “Elizabeth loves James” over and over. I found this treatment so devastating, I promptly wet my panties. Now, there was something else to chant about.

There was likely another reason for the bladder accident. When we’d been introduced to the bathrooms earlier, I was puzzled because I was an outhouse girl. I wasn’t used to peeing in a commode. I had no idea how to flush one. I decided this was a task better delayed until I got home. I wasn’t the only ignorant country kid there. Most of the commode water was bright yellow with turds floating in them. It would be a while before we learned how these porcelain potties worked.

The cafeteria was a place I hated most of all. It only cost twenty cents a meal or a dollar for all week. The only thing I liked was the bread and milk and dessert. I could sometimes stomach the mac and cheese and the cream potatoes but I hated the vegetables and meat. I had never been able to eat meat. It always made me throw up. Miss Chatham saw I wasn’t eating it and thought I had a problem cutting it up, so she decided to do that for me. I tried hard to eat it because I wanted to please her, but she soon realized her efforts caused her to have to dodge the results of my violent upchucking. 

The after-lunch activity was another thing which was going to be a problem for me. It was time to get out those new rugs we’d bought. We laid them on the floor beside our desks and were told to lie down on them and go to sleep. The teacher walked around the room, acting as though it was an infraction of the rules if our eyes were not closed. Going to sleep on demand wasn’t going to work for me, but I squeezed my eyes shut and pretended to be asleep. To my amazement, some of the kids actually slept through what seemed like the longest half hour of my life.

Art time and reading circles were my favorites. At first, we colored pages torn from a coloring book and later drew our own pictures. I liked drawing wisteria bushes with drooping clusters of purple flowers. All the little girls begged me to draw one for them. The boy’s pictures were of boats, cars, or an airplane being shot from the sky. They also drew stick figures of the family with dad usually having curved lines coming from his lower region, showing he liked to pee outside. I decided all little boys were nasty. 

We had three reading circles where we all sat in little chairs in front of a three-foot book with words and pictures of Dick, Jane, Sally and Spot. I was with the better readers in circle one. The teacher held a long pointer which she used to indicate the words we were to read.

I remember one little girl sitting with her legs spread wide apart and her pink panties showing. This really annoyed Miss Chatham. The sound of her hand slapping the girl’s bare thigh was heard as a red hand print emerged. Patsy broke into loud sobs. I was shocked silly. It was something I could never forget. Neither could Patsy. We talked about it, recently. She is one of the people who still remains in my circle, after all these years.

 

Chapter 25
The Pros and Cons of School Days

By BethShelby

As school continued, I wasn’t pleased that my mom had decided to volunteer as a room mother for my class. I wanted my independence, and she wasn’t ready to fully let me go. Not only was she involved in all the school parties, she’d volunteered to read Children’s Bible stories to us kids every Friday. That wouldn’t be allowed these days, but in the 40s and 50s, there wasn’t a problem. Most of the class attended the same Baptist church which I attended. The others were either Methodist or Presbyterian. 

Each morning, our class always had prayer and repeated the pledge of allegiance to the flag. At least once every week, we would line up and march to chapel, which was often a talk by a local minister. No one had a problem with religion in public schools. Miss Chatham was delighted to let my mom take over on Friday afternoon while she had a break. I wasn’t thrilled with having her there, but the kids all adored her, and she paid them more attention than she did me. That gave me some relief. 

Mom decided she wanted to thrust me into the spotlight, so she signed me up for both private piano and speech lessons. The speech was actually called “expression”. We had an old player piano at home which had been Mom’s as she grew up. A player piano has rolls of paper with little square holes which the instrument reads and plays when pumped by foot. Each song is on a separate roll. One has to pump the large pedals quickly, or the music slows down. This type of piano could also be played by hand like a normal one. It is what I would use for lessons.

I wasn’t happy when the piano teacher told me I must practice at least 45 minutes a day. She also gave me theory papers to fill out in order to learn how to read the notes. Those were the longest 45 minutes of my day, and I had to get them in before Dad got home in the evening. Dad couldn’t handle noise, and a kid banging on the piano definitely qualified as noise. Mom bought an owl shaped cookie jar, and kept Oh Henry cookies in it to use as a reward for when I finished practicing.

After I mastered the beginner book of little tunes, the piano teacher assigned me a recital piece. The first recital would be in December, so I was given Jingle Bells to play for my number.

Mom went out and bought sheer pink georgette material and pink satin with lace. She had a local seamstress make my evening dress for the performance. I had to go for so many fittings, it was almost like getting a wedding dress. I think my mother thought of me as a doll she could dress. It was her glory, not mine. I never had any input in these decisions. I wanted to drop the piano lessons and take ballet like some of my classmates, but Mom said Baptists don’t dance. That made no sense to me, because most of my classmates went to the same Baptist Sunday School which I attended.

The expression lessons were a further thing which resulted in another embarrassing bladder problem for me. My expression teacher had a group of kids she was directing in a play. Instead of the private lesson she dragged me along for the play rehearsal. 

The auditorium had thick red curtains. The kids with parts were on the front side of the curtain. I was waiting behind the curtain. I was still avoiding the school restroom, but when nature calls, one shouldn’t wait too long. I needed relief. By squeezing the curtain between my legs, I hoped the pressure would relieve the urge. It didn’t help. On the other side of the curtain, kids watched in horror, as a dark spot appeared on their side of the curtain and continued to spread. Panic broke out.

“Look! Something’s happening. It might be a ghost. We need to get out of here.” A chorus of screams erupted. I felt myself being grabbed and dragged away from my hold on the curtain. With soaked panties and water dripping down my legs, I felt shamed once again. They took me to the nursing station where someone washed my panties and put them across the radiator to dry. I had to wait on the cot while they dried and I could return to class.

Sending me back to class from a location I wasn’t familiar with caused yet another debacle. I got lost and ended up on the high school side of the building just as the bell rang dismissing classes. The doors sprang open and what looked like a herd of giants poured from the rooms. The kids three times my size didn’t seem to notice I was being trampled as they shoved their way toward their locker to exchange books. I clung to the wall until it was over with tears running down my cheeks. Finally, a teacher saw me and asked if I was lost. She guided me back to my room. 

If all of this wasn’t enough to make me hate school, my mom learned about the incident in the auditorium and found it hilarious. Now, everyone she knew had to hear about it. She should have known better and muzzled her mouth. I wanted to crawl under the bed every time I heard her repeat the story. She tried to do it out of my earshot, but there was nothing wrong with my hearing at age six.

Some of you might accuse me of being negative, but there is one more not so happy thing which happened that winter. I’m not leaving it out. We didn’t have indoor plumbing, but Mom wanted to make sure I went to school clean every day. I was still small enough to fit and sit down in an enameled baby bathtub. Mom would boil water and fill it for my bath. We had a roaring fire going in the fireplace in our front room, so Mom would place the tub in front of the fire. One night, the tub had been too close to the fire and the metal edge was red hot when I placed my bare bottom on it. 

I won’t go into my screams of pain and Mom’s heartfelt apologies. I won’t elaborate on all the salve she spread across my cooked rump. The following day, I went to school, but I quickly realized there was a certain portion of my bottom which couldn’t be sat on without agony. I wasn’t about to tell the teacher I’d had an accident on an unmentionable portion of my anatomy. 

Of course, Miss Chatham noticed I was sitting in a very weird position. No doubt I was wearing an expression of great pain on my face. The teacher was concerned. Today she would have likely called child welfare, thinking I’d been badly abused. It took a couple of weeks to heal, during which time, she confronted my mother, telling her she suspected something very bad had happened to me at home.

Mom explained it all away, but this time I think it might have been her, who felt shame and embarrassment by having to admit we had no indoor plumbing. My Mom had a lot of pride, and I’m sure this wasn’t one of her better moments.

.

 

Author Notes

As most of you know this isn't a stand alone story and is a chapter in a much larger book. Reading over this, I realize a lot of it sounds negative, but it spite of things I wasn't so happy about, I loved school. I think it is just more fun to write about crazy things that go wrong.

Chapter 26
School Days in the Forties

By BethShelby

Making friends in a small-town Mississippi school in the forties wasn’t a problem for most of us first graders. Unless you were a cry-baby, super shy, ate your boogers, or were an oddity in some other way, you were an accepted part of the group. I remember being hugged by one little girl who told me we were cousins. Neither of us could figure out how, at the time, but we later learned our grandfathers were half-brothers. All of us came from a time when large families were common, so there were dozens of ways to be related. I’m sure she wasn’t the only child in our class who was related to me in some way.

One of the new students didn’t start school with us on the first day. The teacher brought her into class and introduced her to us a week later. You would think first grade girls wouldn’t be fashion-conscious, but we knew what we liked. I have a feeling the boys were impressed as well. The way Shirley Sue’s mom had her dressed for the first day, made her acceptance guaranteed. Her blonde hair hung in ringlets, and her big blue eyes shone bright, as she stepped inside wearing a soft blue velvet dress with glittering sparkles. She could have been a princess. She wore black patent leather shoes like many of us wore only for Sunday School. We all wanted to be her best friend, but I was the one she chose.

 
Shirley Sue’s family wasn’t around long, much to our disappointment. Her father had met mine in the grocery store, and the day the family moved away, Dad brought home a surprise. Shirley Sue’s family would be living somewhere that didn’t take pets. She had told her dad she wanted her best friend to have her beautiful white Persian cat. Although it was sad to lose my best friend so quickly, Snowball became my first pet and was with us for many years. No one spayed cats in those days, so her DNA was passed on for many generations.

At recess time, the teachers soon stopped organizing games for us and left us to find ways to amuse ourselves. For the boys, the choice was playing ball. Most of the lower grade boys played softball during the two long recesses. After lunch, there was a short break where the choice activity was Frankenstein Monster, a game the boys invented, which involved chasing the girls. The movie showing at that time served as an inspiration. This led to a lot of screams and giggles.

As to the girl’s recess activity, someone suggested we should play house and went about assigning everyone roles. One of the larger girls was chosen for the mama and the baby was the tiniest girl in class. The girl who considers herself in charge declared she would be the father. The rest of us were sisters and brothers. You might say, we could pick our pronoun. 

There were a few kids who simply didn’t fit into the school scene. It wasn’t their fault, but none of us had learned the art of being gracious and sensitive to their circumstances. This is one time in which I wish I could have a`do-over’ using a more mature brain and a dose of compassion. These children attended school only sporadically. They came because the law said they must, and they never learned enough to go past the lowest level.

 

These outsiders tended to be lanky and pale and were older than the rest of us. They came out of poverty. They were a part of a group, once referred to in Mississippi by the black population, as`po white trash’. Since our school was segregated, no black children attended. The girls wore tattered dresses which hung nearly to the ground. They usually were without shoes, even in winter. Their hair appeared to have never seen a comb, and some of their heads were shaved, likely to rid them of lice.

 
At recess, these sad children leaned against the brick wall, hanging their heads. We had to line up everywhere we went. Their place in line had large gaps. No one would stand near them. It was as if we feared their condition was contagious. In class, they sat in the back of the room, and the teachers simply acted as though they weren’t there. I often wondered how they might have fared in life with such an unpromising beginning. After they reached 14, they were no longer forced to attend school.

Another group of kids who were seldom in school were the gypsies. Gypsy families would move into our town and camp out on a vacant lot. The ladies would set up fortune telling booths, and the men would do temporary work for a few weeks. The children would come to school during the short time they remained in the area. These kids dressed better and usually didn’t appear to be shy. I remember thinking some of the gypsy boys were cute. Back then I had a weakness for the darker skin and dancing brown eyes.

After I had mastered the primary reading books, I developed a hunger for reading. Newton had a small library which was, at that time, inside the city courthouse. It was necessary to walk through the courtroom in order to find the door leading into the library. I assume Mom must have taken me there a time or two, but after that I went on my own. From the front door, one entered the main courtroom which was a large room with empty seats. Occasionally, a trial would be in progress. I found it interesting to stand outside the library door and watch for a while. Even today, I enjoy watching legal movies involving court cases.

Once inside the library, I would check out as many books as I could carry from the children’s section. The books had cards in a pocket in the back of them. The card had to be signed and left with the librarian until the book was returned. Most cards only had a few names, which likely meant the kids of Newton didn’t spend a lot of time reading. One name consistently appeared in many of the books. I got used to seeing someone named Jo Ann W. had checked out the book before me. At the time, I didn’t know anyone named Jo Ann, but even without knowing, I sensed she and I were in competition.

Jo Ann didn’t join our school until third grade, but it didn’t take the two of us long to realize we had met our competition. Both of us would spend the rest of our school days trying to outdo the other.

Author Notes

This will be a chapter in the book about my life in Mississippi in the 40's and 50's. This chapter is memories of friends, games, we played and children who did fit in with other first graders.

Chapter 27
All Aboard for Texas

By BethShelby

The alarm sounded at 4 am. Minutes later, I was being dragged from bed and dressed. My sleep-clogged eyes blinked trying to adjust to the light. I struggled to remember why I was awake when it was dark outside. I finally remembered the excitement of knowing I would be doing something different when morning came. I’d never ridden a train before, and I thought of it as my first great adventure. I'd looked forward to it for days, but now it hurt to be awake. My body was crying out for more sleep.

 

"Be still, Honey! Let Daddy get your shoes on. You can go back to sleep on the train."

 

My mother and I were leaving our little town of Newton in east-central Mississippi and heading for Texas, so she could try to talk her wayward brother out of divorcing his wife for another woman. Divorce was a disgrace in the 40's, and Mother was sure Newman would listen to common sense. Surely, he wouldn’t want to embarrass the family.

 

Excitement was starting to build again as the big engine pulled into the station with a bellow which all but drowned out the voices around me. The black smoke was barely visible in the darkness of pre-dawn. The smell of burning charcoal mixed with damp night air invaded my nostrils.

 

Daddy kissed us goodbye, before we made our way through the cars of the train, along with a small group of other boarders. I shivered from the anticipation of the adventure. We walked through several cars until Mother found us a seat. She settled me down and told me to put my head in her lap. She threw a shawl around my bare legs.

 

"Now you try to get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us."

 

Sleep? How was that possible? I was awake now. I wanted to see, feel, and hear everything. At age six, I felt as though I'd never been anywhere. I'd been less than a year old when Dad had taken us to Texas the first time, when he was considering finding work there. We lived far enough out from town that nothing exciting ever happened other than a new calf being born. It was a whole different world out there, and I wanted to be a part of it.

 

The train shuddered, whistled and started up with a jerk. Obediently, I tried to close my eyes, but sleep escaped me. Even the train's rocking motion and the rumble of the wheels weren't successful in benumbing my senses. I was aware when someone came through asking for tickets, but I tried to fake being asleep, while Mother fished in her purse for our tickets.

 

I managed to fool her into thinking I was sleeping for about forty minutes, until a big man in a blue uniform came bellowing through the car, shouting out the first station stop.  By the third stop, I was wide awake and wanting to see what place might have such an unusual name, “Pee la hatch ee!  Pee la hatch ee!” 

Pelahatchie, Mississippi was a small, but historic, town east of Jackson. The name, in Choctaw, meant crooked creek. It had been around since the beginning of the state. It was the site of an Indian treaty signing, where the Choctaw nation had ceded over five and a half million acres of their territory to the government. I’m not sure what they got in return. They likely got cheated. Of course, I wasn’t aware of any of this, and I had never heard of this place before. It was a funny word which I would repeat when telling others of my trip.

I sat up abruptly and looked out the window. Pelahatchie didn’t look so impressive. The first light of dawn had turned the sky pink. I saw a few people on the platform of a small shack-like building waiting to board. No amount of persuading on Mom's part was successful in getting me to lie down again. She gave up trying.

 

Someone pushed a cart through selling breakfast items, and Mom purchased milk and a sweet roll for me. For hours, I peered out the window until my eyes ached from staring at the passing scenery. The train stopped often. The big buildings we sometimes passed filled me with awe. It was May, but in Mississippi, where temperatures were already in the nineties, air-conditioning was almost unheard of, and our train certainly didn’t have one.  Our car felt humid and stuffy in spite of the open windows. Occasional puffs of black smoke drifted through the windows, causing my eyes to burn and my skin to feel gritty.

The train stopped at every little town along the route. Some didn’t even have a depot. Instead, there was a raised platform and a long bench beside the track. Passengers got on and off, and our almost empty car began to fill. Sometimes people in the other seats would strike up a conversation with Mother and would ask me if I was enjoying riding on a train. I didn’t mind talking to the strangers, because it broke up some of the monotony which was starting to set in. 

There were still a lot of soldiers around us. Even back in Newton, we saw them often. The world, at this time, was in the next to the final year of World War II. The US had been involved in the war for two and a half years since the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. Mississippi had three military training bases and it wasn't unusual to see a long convoy of soldiers being transported along the highways. The boys in army fatigues would wave at passing cars and kids would always wave back. I usually did as well. 

Around mid-morning, the train stopped in Jackson. It had a larger station, and its platform was teaming with soldiers. These were men who had likely been on leave and visiting their families. Now, they were returning to their bases. They were a noisy and disorderly group of men. A few of them were kissing their wife or girlfriend goodbye. 

We watched as a Military Police took a bottle of liquor from a soldier. He slammed it against a post breaking it and letting the liquid pour onto the ground. He seemed angry as he picked up the glass and tossed it into the trash. He shoved the soldier around roughly and said something we couldn’t hear.

Before the train pulled away, I heard the conductor shouting, "All aboard" and the cars began filling with soldiers looking for seats. The MP got on along with the group, trying to maintain some order. Many of the soldiers were rowdy, and the unmistakable smell of whiskey invaded our car. I recognized the same odor Mom’s Texas brothers often had when they visited. One of the soldiers staggered and almost fell on top of us. Mother whispered she thought they were drunk. I could have told her that. 

At lunchtime, we didn’t go to the dining car. Mother bought me a cheese sandwich and some milk from a guy who walked around selling food. She didn’t eat anything. I think she was dieting.

As the day wore on, I began to tire and started asking how much longer. I was anxious to see my cousins, but Mother said it would be after dark before we arrived. About 2 p.m., we had an hour layover in Louisiana. Mother decided we would walk to a nearby shopping area. She wanted to clean me up and buy me some new shoes. I was excited because Shreveport, Louisiana seemed like a huge city to me. We had to walk a couple of blocks to find a department store which sold shoes. Mom finally settled on a pair of sandals. When she looked at the time, she panicked.

“Come on, Beth, we have to get out of here. We are going to have to run as fast as we can. I didn’t realize it was this late. Hold on to my hand and don’t let go. We can’t miss our train.”  We were both out of breath when we reached the station. The last boarding call had already been made. This time we had to change to a different car in order to find seats.

 

Our seats faced each other, and Mother persuaded me to lie on the one across from her, hoping I'd be able to get a nap. By evening, the train became very crowded. Two soldiers got on and asked if they could sit by us. Almost immediately, they started a conversation. The one by me put his arm around me and called me his girlfriend. I thought he was handsome and managed to develop my first crush on an older guy within minutes.

Mother was having problems with the other one, who was attempting to hold her hand. She started trying to talk to him about God. He was pretending to be interested, but he kept trying to get his arm around her. She ended up holding on to both of his hands to keep them from being all over her. I don’t think she knew what else to do. She looked really nervous.

Both of the soldiers smelled of liquor. Once again, it was the same odor, I often smelled when one of mother's brothers insisted on kissing me. No one drank in our family but I was getting good at recognizing it. The cute guy sitting with me helped make the time seem to go by faster by singing silly songs and asking me knock-knock jokes.

 

I was still awake at eleven that night when we finally arrived at our destination. Aunt Aline was there to meet us. She picked up our luggage and whisked us off to her house. In almost no time, she had us settled for the night. She put me in the top of a bunk bed over my cousin, Dave. He was already sound asleep. It had been a very long day.  I drifted off to sleep staring at a glow-in-the-dark picture of a cow jumping over the moon.

Author Notes

Some of you may feel you've read this before. Parts of it is much like one I wrote before but I adapted his to fit better in the book. It will a chapter. The book is life growing up in Mississippi.

Chapter 28
Family Outings and Planned Trip

By BethShelby

My folks weren’t people who did things for entertainment. They seldom went to a movie. In fact, I can only recall my mom and dad seeing two movies together. I stayed with my grandparents on those occasions. I don’t remember ever being at a movie with Dad. They went to see "Gone with the Wind" when it came out in 1940. I wasn’t even three, but I can still remember them discussing the movie stars.

 

I also remember them once going to see the Grand Ole Opry with friends. They didn’t go all the way to Nashville, but they drove to Meridian, which was thirty miles away. Many of the country stars from the Grand Ole Opry were there to perform. I was a country music fan, and I was upset they got to see Grandpa Jones, Little Jimmy Dickens and June Carter, without me being along.

Other than the one or two movies and the country music show, there was no entertainment they enjoyed together. We never took vacations. Dad like playing Dominoes and Rook, but Mom never played. They did like going to dinner at the homes of friends and relatives or having people over. Sometimes at a get-togather, they made homemade ice cream turning the old crank freezer and using chipped ice and salt to freeze it. I was able to be a part of these gatherings.

Mom took me to see my first movie, which was Walt Disney’s “Fantasia”. I was probably four or five. I’d never been inside a theater nor witnessed animation. If the darkened theater and big screen wasn’t enough, the music, brilliant colors and shapes morphing from one thing into another kept me awed in wide-eyed wonder. It was a different kind of music from the country music or church music I was familiar with.

I talked about that movie for weeks and never forgot it. I realize now, the music was performed by a classical orchestra and the movie didn’t really have a story except in one spot when Mickey Mouse was in a short story called "The Sorcerer's Apprentice". I’ve read recently the movie isn’t recommended for small children because of some very dark music and scary scenes. As far as I was concerned, it was perfect and I enjoyed every second of it. This wasn’t the case when I was taken to another movie.

The second movie Mom took me to was Bambi. I was thrilled in the beginning with all the cute talking forest animals, but as the movie continued there were scary and sad parts that left me sobbing. I wasn’t ready for the reality of death. I would have to deal with learning how to handle that over time. It was the last time I remember her taking me to a movie. Once I was in school, I could go alone or with other kids.

Going to a movie in those days only cost a dime for those under ten. With a quarter, you could see the movie and could have popcorn, a drink and a candy bar. Black people had a separate door, and they could watch from the theater balcony. The movies always started with local business advertisements. Following that, there were the newsreels, which was mostly about what was happening with the war in Europe. Then it was time for an animated cartoon feature. When that came on, all the kids in the theater clapped and yelled. After that, there were the previews and finally the feature film. 

I went to the theater movies with kids I knew from school, often twice a week. I didn’t like riding the school bus so, I walked to town and waited for Dad to get off work and drive me home. Dad would give me money for the movies to get me off the street so he didn’t have to worry about me. He’d always say, “Don’t tell you mother.” Mom had decided she didn’t like me going to movies. Most of my friends went to the Saturday cowboy movies, but I was always home on Saturdays.

At one point, Max Commick who owned the Newton's Roxy Theater and drove around in the latest Cadillac available, decided, he would march all twelve grades of the Newton school students in front of the camera. A moving picture of their child, showing at the theater, would certainly bring the parents out. I remember the day in first grade when Miss Chatham lined us all up, two by two. I don’t know whose idea it was to have a girl and boy paired together.

At any rate, she put Bill Beach and I together. Bill was the menace in our class. He was always in trouble, but he was one of the two cutest boys in class. I had decided I wanted nothing to do with boys since I had been rejected by my shy former boyfriend, James, on the first day of school, so I chose to ignore Bill as we walked out on the campus. We were to stay in a straight line as we followed our teacher as she walked in front of the camera. 

As Bill and I approached the camera, he reached out and grabbed me and planted a kiss on my lips. I was shocked. It hadn’t occurred to me that he would dare to do such a thing.“Why did you do that?” I demanded.

“Haven’t you ever been to a movie?” he asked. “That’s what movies are for. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you get in front of the camera.”

Apparently, the others hadn’t been informed of the rules. I think I was the only one who got a kiss that day. 

School would soon be out for the summer. At home, Mom had learned her brother, Newman, who lived in Texas, was going to be getting a divorce from his wife, Alene. We had heard that he was having an affair with his secretary. When Grandma Lay, his mother, had learned about the divorce, she had taken a bus to Texas to stay with him and try to dissuade him from ruining his life. He was living and working in Houston, but Aunt Alene and her two kids were still living in Port Author. 

Mom had decided as soon as school dismissed, she would take me on a train to Port Author. Aunt Alene had said if we came to Texas, she would drive us back to Mississippi and we could bring Grandma back home with us. Mom also decided, without my input, that I would get a permanent wave in my straight hair and get a studio photo made. She wanted to impress the Texas relatives.

I don’t know what she was thinking. It was torture for a six-year-old to go through this just for the sake of having some curls. This beauty shop had one of those heat-wave perm machines. I had to sit on a stack of towels to get me up high enough to be hooked into the thing. Each curl was rolled on the end of an electrical cord dangling from something which looked like it was some kind of electrocution machine. It took forever, and then we had to hurry over to the studio for my photo appointment. The photographer told me to say cheese, but I wasn’t in the mood for any such foolishness. 

School was out in May of 1944. I had my report card saying I’d been promoted to second grade. I don’t know why I had been so worried. I’d been afraid of being held back, even after Miss Chatham told Mom in confidence, I’d scored highest in the class on the IQ test which we had to take.

Mom tucked me into bed early, because we would have to go to the depot in the middle of the night to get on the train to Port Arthur. The next chapter will be about the train ride. I wrote it a few years ago. I may use it as it is written, or rewrite it.

Author Notes

The photo is me at six. This will be a chapter in the book about my growing up in MIssissippi.

Chapter 29
Texas Adventure

By BethShelby

Waking up in Texas, I felt like Alice in Wonderland. It took several minutes to realize the sea of white I was staring into was the ceiling of the room. I’d never slept on a bunk bed before. It was a long way to the floor. I was glad I hadn’t rolled off during the night. I wasn’t quite sure how to get down. My cousin was stirring in the bunk below me. He crawled out of bed rubbing his eyes and headed out of the room without noticing me in the top bunk. 

I rolled over on my belly and holding on to the bed post gradually draped my body over the edge and slid to the floor. The smell of bacon and eggs was in the air. I followed my nose into the kitchen where Mom and Aunt Alene sat talking. 

Aunt Alene greeted me, “Well, hello there Baby. My goodness, you’re getting to be a big girl. Did you sleep ok?”  I nodded. “Dave is up. I think he went into the bathroom. He’ll be in here in a minute. He has been looking forward to seeing you. Are you hungry? Dave always wants cereal, but I’ll make you an egg and toast if you’d rather have that.”

“I like cereal. I’ll eat with Dave.”  

At breakfast, Dave and I chatted away as if we ate our meals together every day. It had been nearly a year since we had seen each other. When we finished eating, Dave said, “Come on, let’s go outside.” I was surprised that no one asked where we were going or when we’d be back. I followed him as he led me toward a narrow street. 

I was shocked to see the houses were close together, and they all looked a lot alike. A boy rode by on a bike and hurled a rolled-up newspaper through a hole where the screen was torn back on the screened-in porch.

Dave and I crossed a couple of streets and cut across people’s yards. We came to a small creek or drainage ditch, where there was a half dozen or so other kids of various sizes and ages. They were trying to float a piece of weathered plywood in the stream. From their excited conversation, I got the impression they were planning to get on the board and use it as a raft. No one seemed to notice I was even there. Dave knew the kids, but he didn’t bother telling anyone who I was. 

After a few kids tried to climb onto the board and ended up tipping into the water, they realized it wasn’t going to hold their weight. One of the boys said they needed to go get some milk jugs and tie them to the board, and then, it would float. 

Dave and I got tired of watching and moved on. He pointed to a house and told me our cousin, Alice Carolyn lived there. There was a little store on the corner beside the house, and he said her mother, Aunt Merle, ran the store. 

Her dad, Uncle Lee, was one of mother’s half-brothers. Dave said Uncle Lee was a pest-control man when he wasn’t drunk. He was one of my uncles who always smelled of alcohol. He also liked to play practical jokes. I remember one time when he brought over his little white dog and when mom wasn’t looking, he laid down some fake dog poop.

“Hey, do you want to go into the store?” Dave asked. “Aunt Merle might give us some candy.”

“Does she ever give you candy? The best I remember, she acts kind of snooty.”

“Nah, I usually have to buy it, but if she saw you, she might give us some. Come on. Let’s go see.”

We entered the store, and Alice Carolyn was sitting by the window munching on a candy bar. Aunt Merle spoke up, “Well hello kids. Is that Beth? I heard she and her mama was coming to Texas. My goodness Beth, aren’t you sporty looking with all that curly hair. The last time I saw you, you had pigtails.” 

“Alice Carolyn, you remember your cousin, Beth, don’t you? You know we visited her house the last time we were in Mississippi. Why don’t you go outside and play with them?” Alice Carolyn got up and followed us outside with a pouty look on her face. Aunt Merle didn’t offer us any candy.

Alice Carolyn was a year older than me. We had never really played together. When she visited our house, she’d always hung around with her mother. I was pretty sure she didn’t like me. 

“What do ya’ll want to play?” she asked crossly. "How about ‘hide and seek'?” 

“Not It.” Dave and I both yelled at the same time. 

“Okay, fine. I’ll be `it’ first. I’ll count to thirty, and you better be hidden somewhere between here and my house.”  

Dave whispered, “There’s nowhere to hide around here. Let’s go home. We don’t want to play with her. She’s bossy and she’s no fun.”

“Won’t she be mad?"

“Who cares? She doesn’t want to play with us anyway. She won’t look for us very long. She’s just doing it because her mama’s making her. Come on. Let’s go.”

I felt guilty, but I followed Dave back to his house. Aunt Alene was glad to see us back. “Come on in kids. We were about to go looking for you. We’re going to ride around. I’ll take you down to the pier on the Sabine Lake. You two can ride in the rumble seat.”

I’d never ridden in a rumble seat before, nor had I been to a large lake with a pier. I was starting to believe this place had a lot more to offer than my home town. Someone had left a bunch of fishing lines fastened along the edge if the pier. Dave and I were curious about why they were there, and we decided to pull them out of the water. We got scolded by Aunt Alene for doing that. She said it was someone’s way of fishing.

I was amazed because, along with other kids from the neighborhood, we were allowed to play in the yards and streets until way after dark. A truck spraying for mosquitoes came by, and kids came from every direction to run into the cloud of misty spray as it passed. Breathing in the poison couldn’t have been good for our lungs, but it must not have been very potent, because It didn’t stop the mosquitoes from eating me alive. I still have tiny white scar spots Iwhich won’t tan all over my arms to this day. Dad had a fit when we got home because I had bloody sores all over me from scratching the bites. 

I had other experiences which were new for me, such as chasing after a vender in a small musical vehicle selling popsicles for a nickel, learning how to play miniature golf and spending a few hours on the Gulf of Mexico beach in Galveston. I loved wading in the ocean and building sand castles.

We also visited four other families of cousins. They had moved to Texas years before and settled in Port Author. Two of mother’s half-sisters and two of her half-brothers lived here. The sisters had married and had large families. Both sisters had a set of twins much older than me. The two brothers had also married and each of them had only one child.

One of the longer trips we took was a drive all the way to Houston where Mom got to visit with her only sibling who shared both a mother and father. This was Uncle Newman, Aunt Alene’s wayward husband.  He blew off any suggestion Mom made about not divorcing Aunt Alene. We did pick up my Grandma Lay, who had been staying with him. She was eager to get back to Mississippi. She would be living with us again.

I was sad to leave Texas. This trip had been so much fun. I had learned how different life was in a neighborhood with kids my own age. We had a long hot drive in Aunt Alene’s car, but she would be visiting her own relatives and Dave and I could still enjoy each other’s company for a little while longer. He always seemed to enjoy the change of being in farm country. 

Dad was very relieved to have us back home again. It would be a long time before I got to go anywhere again.

Author Notes

I am six years old. It is summer after first grade in1944. Mother and I are away from Mississippi and visiting relatives in Port Arthur, Texas. After living in rural Mississippi, a neighborhood in a larger town was a new experience for me. Rumble Seat: a folding seat in the back of an automobile (such as a coupe or roadster) not covered by the top.

Chapter 30
Friends Come in all Colors

By BethShelby

Back home in Mississippi, it took a little while for the euphoria, from having my horizons broadened by my trip to Texas, to wear off. I was now aware that everyone’s life wasn’t as much like mine as I had imagined. I realized I was fortunate to have grandparents living near me and a dad who lived with me and brought me treats from the store every night. These were things my cousin didn’t have in his life.

Living in the country had other advantages. The thirty acres of trees and fields which my house and that of my grandparents sat on was all my private playground. Dave couldn’t walk ten feet without being in a neighbor’s yard. I had a nighttime view of the most amazing sky where thousands of stars danced above me. I hadn’t even noticed the sky in Texas with streetlights everywhere. Here, I could go to sleep to the peaceful nighttime sounds of frogs and crickets chirping and the occasional hoot of an owl. 

My dad decided it was time for me to learn to ride a bike. The grocery store had a tall men’s bike, which the delivery boy, J.P., used to take small grocery orders around town. Dad started bringing it home every night. He promised, if I could learn to ride on it, maybe I would get one of my own for my birthday in September. 

My legs could barely reach the pedals, and there was no way I could sit on the tall seat and pedal too. The high metal bar across the middle was painful when I kept falling on it when my feet slipped. With Daddy’s help holding on, I eventually learned to keep it in balance and ride it for a few yards. I was getting bruised so badly Dad decided not to wait for my birthday. He surprised me with a smaller, lighter and more suitable Western Flyer girl’s bike. From that day on, I was hardly ever outside without being on my bike. 

There was a black family, or likely more than one, renting a large older house on the same gravel road we lived on. They never paid any attention to us, as groups of them walked by on their way into town. Because the groups walking past seemed to change often, we assumed they rented for a short while and other families took their place. It was mostly women and children who walked past. Our house stood back from the road and we only saw them from a distance. Since black and white families didn’t socialize in those days, we accepted they likely wanted to be left alone.

Mother insisted she didn’t have ‘a prejudiced bone in her body’, but since she didn’t know anything about the black people who lived below us, she was nervous there might be someone living there who could do us harm. For that reason, on Saturdays when Dad wouldn’t get home until nearly midnight, she always insisted we go before dark and wait at my grandparents’ home until he got off work.

One day, two little black girls about my age were walking past and saw me in the yard with my new bike. One of the little girls yelled, “Hey girl, did you git yo’self a new bicycle?”  

Yep, sure did.”

"Can we come see it?"

"Sure. Come on over.  I’ll even let you ride it.

They came into the yard eagerly, and I was delighted. I couldn’t believe there were actually kids my age in my neighborhood who could be my friends. We told each other our names, and in no time, we were laughing and giggling like old friends. Neither of them had ever been on a bike, so I got busy teaching them how to ride. They caught on pretty fast. It was much easier to learn on a smaller girl’s bike than it had been for me.

Eventually, I took them in the house and introduced them to my mother. She was surprised, but smiled and tried to be cordial. The girls were awed that we had a piano. I showed them how to hit the keys in a pattern to play a simple tune. When they had to leave, they promised to come back to play with me again. After they were gone, my mom shocked me by bringing out a bottle of disinfectant and a rag. She scrubbed down the seat of my bicycle and also the piano bench. “Why are you doing that? They are just kids. They weren’t dirty.”

“I know, Honey, but we don’t know them, or what diseases they might be carrying. We have to be  careful. They probably don’t wear underwear, and I’ve heard a lot of black people have venereal disease.” 

I was horrified. I finally had someone to play with, and this was her reaction. Well so much for my mother’s total lack of prejudice, I thought. They were a lot more fun than some of the white girls I’d played with.  I knew my Daddy was prejudiced against almost all races, but mother always fussed at him about his attitude. He even had negative things to say about the Jewish people around town, although his first employer was Jewish, and Dad thought he was wonderful. I think he might have resented other Jewish families because they owned most of the businesses in Newton.

Mother didn’t tell me I couldn’t play with my new friends or have them over. She probably felt a little guilty over her initial reaction. My mom couldn't handle thinking of herself as having prejudice, but it is hard to overcome what you have grown up with. In later life she did learn to love and respect those racially different from her.

It wasn’t the last time I played with those little girls. We played together often until school started.The three of us ate watermelon together and played games we made up in the loft of our barn. Mom even paid them in nickels and dimes to help me pick and shell beans. After school started in August, I never saw them again. It was likely their family had moved away, and another family had moved into the old house.

I think prejudice is often fear and misunderstanding which comes from a reluctance to get to know someone different from yourself. When you become acquainted with those of other races, you start to see them as friends rather than a threat.

However, another incident occurred later on in the year involving a couple of young black men who lived in the same rental house. This time, something occurred that would justify Mother’s fear and suspicion. Poverty and lack of education is a factor, when it comes to petty crime. Like people of all races, not everyone is someone you can trust. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 31
Trouble Erupts

By BethShelby

School was off to a good start in September. My second-grade teacher, Mrs. Chatman, was someone who really seemed to like all of us kids. She wasn’t as strict as Miss Chatham had been. With one year behind me, school was no longer intimidating. We started doing more math than we had in first grade. I found numbers boring and preferred dealing with words. Reading problems made very little sense to me.

The playground got new equipment, so now, we had swings, slides, a jungle gym, seesaws and something like what my folks called a spinning Jenny. Still, most of the girls continued to prefer playing house, and the boys played ball. I hung out with girls, who like me, enjoyed the more active equipment. Sometimes we jumped rope or played hopscotch.

At home, there were some changes. Mother’s sister, Aunt Christine, who had moved to Detroit with Uncle Harry soon after the US got involved in the war, had to have breast surgery due to cancer. She and Uncle Harry moved back home to Mississippi to heal. When they first returned, they stayed with us until their renters could find another place to live. I was very young when they left Mississippi. Now, I was getting to know them better, and I really liked both of them. Mom was the closest to Christine of all her sisters since they had the same mother. Dad and Harry got along really well, so we started spending almost every Sunday afternoon with them.

On the first Sunday after they moved back into their house, Daddy and I drove over to pick them up and bring them back to our house for lunch. Aunt Christine had just finished baking a pie on her new oil burning stove. She checked to make sure the stove was off and the house was secure. She asked, “Do you think everything will be safe until we get back?” It was a kind of odd thing to ask, and I answered without thinking what I was about to say. I have no idea why I would have said such a thing. 

“Everything will be fine, except your house will burn down.”

Dad yelled at me. “Beth, don’t you ever say something like that. You know better than to talk like that.”

It turned out I had uttered something prophetic. We had barely finished eating when a neighbor came to tell them their house was burning. It was a total loss. I remembered what I’d said without even knowing why I said it, and I felt guilty, like I had somehow caused the fire.

The firemen attributed the fire to faulty wiring. Some people suggested the renters, who hadn’t wanted to leave and had hoped to buy the place, might have deliberately set the fire. The lady still had a key and was in the house after we left. She said she had come to pick up something which she had forgotten. She had been the last person there, but she claimed everything was fine when she left.

It took a couple of months for their house to be rebuilt. During that time, they stayed with us again. After the house was completed, we began spending Sunday afternoons there like before. It always meant Daddy, Uncle Harry and I would play several games of dominoes. Uncle Harry had taught me to play and I loved the game as much as he and Dad did. They made me the score keeper, so I began to understand basic math and decided maybe it was something worth learning after all.

It was after an enjoyable Sunday afternoon with Aunt Christine and Uncle Harry, when the incident I’d mentioned in the previous chapter happened. We returned home late in the afternoon to find our kitchen window screen had been cut and the glass was shattered. It was apparent someone had used it to enter our house. Dad went inside first to make sure no one was still there. When we got inside, the entire house had been trashed. Contents of all of the drawers in the bedrooms had been dumped onto the floor. For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to feel violated.

It appeared whoever had been there was looking for money and valuables. Since we had no jewelry and never left money around the house, the thieves were out of luck in that respect. The only things we could determine which were missing were Daddy’s rifle and shotgun. The thieves had somehow missed the pistol, which Dad kept beneath the mattress on his bed.

In those days, almost all the homeowners in Mississippi had guns. Dad didn’t hunt like many men, but he claimed he needed them for protection and to shoot at anything disturbing the chickens.

All three of us were upset, especially me. I was no longer comfortable inside my own house knowing someone had so recently been there touching everything we owned. Dad drove into town and called the police. They came out and took a statement, but since no one had left any obvious clues, it didn’t appear there was much that could be done. No one suggested looking for fingerprints.

It was a couple of days later, when I learned something, I hadn’t known before. Mississippi had its own vigilante laws, separate but often with the knowledge and blessing of the police department. My own grandpa who I adored and believed to be the kindest and gentlest man on the planet was involved. He apparently had contacts which I had not known about. I never learned who the other party was who grandpa partnered with. He wouldn’t say, and it really wasn’t something he wanted to talk about at all.

I did remember Grandpa had once told me he belonged to a secret society called Woodsmen of the World. Later that company was known as an insurance company, but maybe it was something else at first. His father had been a Mason, but I’m not sure if grandpa ever was. He once told me if he ever needed help, all he had to do was ask a member anywhere in the world, and someone would be there for him. I don’t know if this was his connection.

All I learned was by eavesdropping when the adults were talking. I found out there were two men involved and one of them was my grandpa. They somehow grabbed a young boy who lived in the tenant house below us and took him into the woods and tied him to a tree. They told him, they knew that he knew who broke into our house, and they were going to beat him until he told on the culprits. I don’t know if they actually hit him, but I’m sure the poor kid was afraid they would kill him. It turned out that he did know, and he told them one of the guys was his older brother and a friend. At that point, I wasn’t able to learn anything more, and I can only assume the cops arrested them.

The guns were returned and nothing else was ever mentioned about the robbery within my hearing. I don’t know if the men went to jail or not. It made sense that it would be someone from the rental house who was watching as we passed their place and returned late every Sunday. No one else would have known we weren’t home. No one would tell me anything when I questioned them. It made me sick to learn my grandpa had been part of the ones who threatened a young boy, likely no older than me.

At his gristmill, Grandpa’s main customers were black people, who brought corn to his mill to be ground. I was often at the mill as he worked and Grandpa was always pleasant and obliging around them. I did know he preferred the black men, many referred to as Uncle Toms. They were the ones who kept their heads lowered and answered “Yas Sur”’ and “Naw Sur”.  

It took me a while to adjust to sleeping in my house again. The incident made mother even more nervous than she had been about us being alone in the house after dark. When we would walk up the dirt road in late evening, Mom acted as though she suspected someone was hiding in the bushes. She would pretend she was carrying a gun and would make comments to me like, “Be careful, Beth. Don’t bump against that gun. It’s loaded and you might make it go off.”

All that talk of loaded guns only made my own heart beat faster.  I always breathed a huge sight of relief when we, at last, walked through Grandpa’s door.

Author Notes

This wouldn't necessarily be a racial problem except for the way it was handled. Thieves come in all colors too. A chapter in the book "Growing up in Mississippi"

Chapter 32
Tiptoeing on Holy Ground

By BethShelby

Many wars have started over religious beliefs. I didn’t know much about that at age seven, but I was starting to see the beginning of one erupting in my own household. For a while, my mother and my paternal grandmother had been listening to a religious radio broadcast which had both of them questioning some of their Southern Baptist beliefs. Mom wanted to make sure everything she believed came straight from the Bible. One day, she found a card in the mailbox inviting her to take a Bible correspondence course. She decided she would sign up and compare what was being taught with her understanding of the bible. The more she studied, the more convinced she became this church was more in tune with the way the Bible was meant to be interpreted.

She had already given up her position as a Sunday School teacher with my dad’s approval. He didn’t like going to church and always found reasons not to attend. Besides, he didn’t like the preacher and felt the man might be more interested in my mother than he should be. I think Mom was uncomfortable around him as well. At my young age, I didn’t know enough about what he might have said or done to worry about it. I just knew Mom stopped going to the big Baptist church, but still insisted Dad drop me off each Sunday morning for Sunday School. Most of the town kids attended there so I always had someone to sit with.

Mom and both of my grandmothers started having Bible studies at home once a week while Daddy was at work. Dad didn't have a problem with this, but when Mom decided she wanted to join another church, Dad went a little ballistic. He was sure she was disgracing the family because everyone knew there were only three kinds of churches in Newton, and if you weren’t Baptist, Methodist or Presbyterian, then you must be a heathen. Mom didn’t let Dad’s opinion stand between her and what she had come to believe. She had someone from the church pick her up and drive her ten miles to the church so she could be baptized as a member.

After that, my dad seemed angry all the time. He stormed about cursing and destroying any material Mom got from her church. He even threatened physical violence against anyone who visited our home from the church. He didn’t make the threats around me, but I overheard and was afraid he would kill someone. If I’d realized he was only`full of sound and fury signifying nothing’ I might have been less upset and traumatized by his behavior. I didn’t know what he was capable off. He'd never done anything physical to mom or me, but the mental abuse was painful for me to hear. It usually took place in the early morning while I was still in bed. I don’t think he was aware I was overhearing it all.

My grandpa, who was a Presbyterian, didn’t care what grandma did, but he enjoyed arguing what he believed with anyone who would listen. He spent a lot of time reading the Bible looking for new points to argue. Grandma wasn’t convinced he could go to Heaven until he at least got baptized, sprinkled or whatever else it was that Presbyterians did.

Grandpa didn’t see the need because he’d been christened at birth, which he claimed made him a member for life. In the end, grandma won out, and he agreed to get in touch with the Presbyterian minister and do the ceremony. The whole family got to go watch, as he got some drops sprinkled on his head. I really doubt anything changed other than he’d managed to pacify Grandma.

At school, another religious war was going on. This year a new student had joined our class. Rene, a cute little boy who happened to be from a Catholic family. I think he was the only Catholic in our entire school system. Mississippi likely had Catholic churches in the larger cities, but Newton had nothing to accommodate them. There were a few Jewish families, but they had to travel to a larger city to find synagogues.

One day at recess, I was surprised to find Rene surrounded by a group of Baptist girls who had him angry and crying by telling him that all Catholics would be going to Hell. He was screaming back, with tears streaming down his cheeks, that it wasn’t so, and that only Catholics could get into Heaven. He knew this to be true, because he claimed his priest had said so. He said God had personally told the priest that only Catholics could go to Heaven.

Rene’s family didn’t stay in Newton long, and that particular war ended with his departure. I hoped he moved to somewhere like New Orleans, where Catholics were in the majority, so the poor kid wouldn’t feel totally outnumbered.

I continued to go to Sunday School every Sunday until one Sunday we heard sirens going off in the distance and saw pillows of black smoke curling toward the sky in the direction of the town.

I got dressed to go, and Dad drove to town to drop me at church only to find we couldn’t get anywhere near, because the largest church in Newton was engulfed in flames. The brick building was a total loss. It was sad to realize the most beautiful stained-glass window, with a two-story depiction of Christ the good shepherd, holding a staff and a lamb, no longer existed. The following year, Sunday school and church were held in the Newton high school auditorium while the church was rebuilt.

Although Dad’s threats and violent temper tantrums had me nervous for a lot of my young life, Mother apparently knew he would never carry out any of his threats, so she continued to invite people from her new church to visit. I was always antsy and afraid Dad might find some reason to come home while they were there. After they left, I would go outside and ride my bike over the tire tracks in our sandy driveway to keep Dad from knowing we’d had company. Dad was like a detective, and he would always ask who had been there if he spotted an unfamiliar tire track.

Ironically one day, Mother’s cousin who lived in Jackson wanted to come and visit for a few days. Marabeth had once lived in Newton, and she had attended a country school with my dad. Dad had actually had a crush on her before he started dating Mom. When Marabeth arrived, Mom was surprised to learn she was a member of the same church denomination Mom had joined. When I found this out, I was worried about what Dad’s reaction would be when he learned this. I had worried for nothing. Dad couldn’t have been nicer. He was delighted to see and talk to Marabeth. What church she belonged to made no difference at all.

I think most of what kids see in their minds as having the potential to blow their world apart isn’t nearly the Godzilla, they imagine it might be. Still, as long as imaginations are allowed to run full steam ahead it might make for sleepless nights and shattered nerves. Parents likely have no idea what anxieties might be playing havoc with their offspring.

Author Notes

This will be a chapter in the book Growing up in Mississippi. This takes place when I'm seven years old in the forties.

Chapter 33
Summer of 45 and Changing Events

By BethShelby

In April, not long before school was out for the summer, President Roosevelt suffered a heart attack and died at his place in White Spring, Georgia. He was there with his aide or mistress, as we would later learn. His body was sent back to Washington by train. Everyone was upset because our president had died. His vice president, Harry Truman took his place.

In the summer after second grade, Mom and Dad allowed me to go and spend a week in the country with Aunt Christine and Uncle Harry. They lived about six miles further away from town than we did. After they had returned from Detroit, they had started a Grade A Dairy farm. In addition to the new concrete dairy barn, they had a huge older barn with a loft which was a wonderful place to play.

The main objective for the week was so I could attend Vacation Bible School at the country church where Aunt Chris was a member, but there were many other things to do as well. None of the other kids who attended that church were in my class at school, but they all seemed to like me and would often go back after the half day Bible school ended to spend time with me at the farm. My favorite part of the Bible school was working on the daily craft projects, which we would take home at the end of the week.

My aunt and uncle got up before daylight to deal with the dairy. The cows were milked twice a day. Dairy cattle can produce 6 or 7 gallons of milk each day. I wasn’t used to getting out of bed so early at home. The change in routine seemed to give me more energy, so I decided I must be a morning person.

Early in the morning, while it was still cool, Uncle Harry made trips to the gravel pit to scoop up gravel for paving his driveway. I loved going with him and standing up in the back of his pickup with the wind blowing in my face while watching the sun rise. It didn’t seem to occur to anyone that standing up in a fast-moving vehicle might not be safe. It would be years before seat belts were standard equipment or until laws designed to promote safety came into being.

This area felt more like country than where we lived. I found the gravel pit fascinating. Because we went early, Uncle Harry and I were the only ones around. There were banks of reddish sand and gravel in every direction. It felt like I was exploring the surface of the moon or another planet.

I’d had so much fun during that week, I was reluctant to return home. I spent the rest of my summer finding hide-aways to read one of my many library books. If Mom didn’t have me picking or shelling beans or mowing grass I was usually reading.

WWII was winding down. We got word that Hitler had committed suicide. The US had built and successfully tested the atomic bomb. It was apparent that Japan was losing the war, but was refusing to surrender. Harry Truman was president, and he made the decision to force a surrender by using our atomic bombs in early August. It was horrifying listening to the reports as they came in about the death toll in those two Japanese cities. 

Near the end of August, school started back up. I was excited about being in third grade. It was always fun to meet the new teacher and to see what new students might have joined our class. Often there would be several, who had been in the grade before us, who would have to repeat the grade again. I liked my new teacher Mrs. Jones. She was young and had a three-year-old daughter, but unfortunately, she wouldn’t be there long due to a severe illness.

One of the new girls who joined our class, was Jo Ann Whatley. I recognized her name from the library books, I’d checked out. At last, I would meet the person who read as many books as I did. When she came that first day, I wasn’t impressed. She walked to school with her younger sister and some other kids. Her hair was in pigtails that were coming apart. Her shirt was out of her skirt, and she looked as though she’d been in a fight. It turned out she was a tomboy who preferred playing ball with boys than playing with girls.

Even though she was scruffy looking, I was anxious to find out more about her since she was such a prolific reader. It already felt like we were competing to see who could read the most books. No one else in class seemed very interested in the town library.

Jo Ann was outgoing and seemed anxious to make friends. She hadn’t been in our class long before she came in bringing invitations addressed to each class member for her birthday party. She said we could all walk together after school, and she would show us where she lived.

The day of her party we all left class with her leading the way. She took us into a part of town I’d never been in before. We had to cross the railroad tracks, so I didn’t know what to expect. When we arrived, I was shocked because I had never seen such a large house or one that looked like this one. The house was by itself with land around it. The huge concrete monstrosity was shaped like a cruise ship. I wondered if it had been a hotel at one time.

The building was a flat topped two story with a concrete deck covering most of the top. Inside, it was beautifully decorated with very expensive looking mahogany furniture. Jo Ann had twin siblings, a boy and a girl, who were around four or five. Each child in the family had their own room. I immediately assumed she was rich. When we told her we liked her house, she said she hated it. She said they had just moved in, but she preferred living down in the country where her grandparents lived. I think her dad had been in the military service, and she and her mother and siblings had lived with the grandparents until he returned. She’d been in another school district. Now, her dad had bought an automobile dealership.

After Jo Ann opened her gifts and we'd had cake and ice cream, Jo Ann joined the boys who had started a baseball game in a pasture. We didn’t stay around long after that. I think we’d made arrangements to have our parents pick us up.

On September 2nd, the war was officially declared over. The town exploded in celebration. The fire and police sirens and the oil mill whistle and everything else whichs could make a noise went off. People were blowing their car horns all over town. My classmates, whose fathers had served in the war, were thrilled to know their dads would soon be returning home.

One of the men who returned from service was Billy Brantley. He had some money saved and was anxious to buy a business. The grocery my father ran was owned by a business man who lived in another county. He had allowed Dad to manage the store without any interference from him. Now, he wanted to sell the store, and Billy wanted to buy it and manage it himself, although he'd had no experience in running a grocery business.

The owner offered Dad the first choice to buy the store, but Dad didn’t have any money saved, and he was not the kind of person who would borrow money for any reason. Debts scared him. Since Billy planned to be the owner and operator of the store this meant my dad had to find another job.

Dad did get another job working at a feed and seed store. This was not my dad’s dream job, and it wouldn’t end well.

Most of the time, I only learned bits and pieces from what I overheard. I was not privy to the ups and downs that went on with the adults in the family. It was probably best they kept their problems to themselves. I found enough to worry about without adding to my already over-stressed imagination.

---

Chapter 34
Lessons in Humility

By BethShelby

My Dad worked at the seed and feed store for as long as a month. Then one day, he didn’t go to work. I knew something was wrong, but my questions were being short-circuited. My mother was a person who would never outright lie, but she had a way of making sure you wouldn't get the full story unless she wanted you to have it. Without her realizing it, she had passed this bad habit on to me. I would have a lot of trouble overcoming it. I hadn't gotten it out of my system when my daughter was born, and I unfortunately passed it on to her. Her husband named it "tricky talk".

When I asked why Dad was at home, Mom said, “Oh, he’s just taking a few days off. There is some work he needs to do around here.” I knew better. My dad didn’t take days off. I also knew no number of questions would ever get me to the real truth. I’d been given the run-around before. Mom had too much pride to ever admit to anyone, even her family, that Dad had been fired. She probably told herself, she didn’t want me to worry about it. Sometimes a lack of information can cause more worry than knowing the truth. It would be years before the fact he had been fired ever came to light, and even then, there were no details forthcoming.

I can imagine my dad, having always been in a position to make his own decisions and not having to take orders from others, getting himself into trouble. He could have easily smarted off to someone who saw him as a subordinate.  The owner of the seed and feed store’s wife worked with her husband. It’s possible he could have insulted her. Maybe, she just didn’t like her husband hiring him.

At any rate, Dad was dressed in his work overalls and was angry at the world as he pushed a plow around breaking up some new ground. Thankfully that state of affairs didn’t last long. Dad found another answer before the week was out.

The new owner of the grocery business realized he was in over his head and he was happy to hire dad to work with him. Dad was back managing the store and working with Billy. It was as if nothing had changed for the next twenty years until Billy himself was ready to retire.

Back at school, I was friends with everyone in my class but I wasn’t a group person. I had no desire to be a group leader nor a follower. I was more comfortable hanging around with one or two close friends and those often varied from year to year.

Newton was a Junior College town. Actually, it was a Baptist Preacher College town and they had an active recruitment program. Some of those who felt called to the ministry were often older and already had families. We seemed to get a lot of new students who would only be with our class for two years, until their fathers graduated and moved on to the four-year college near Jackson or to the seminary in South Mississippi. It seemed many of my special friends were only around temporarily.

Patsy was a close local friend who was in my class and someone I’d known from Sunday School since I was three. We didn’t always move in the same circles. She lived in town and I didn’t. Her parents signed her up for band, and mom had me taking piano and expression lessons. She had a brother who played sports so she got to go to evening ball games and I only went to a few afternoon baseball games.

My dad wasn’t interested in sports and I seldom attended after school activities, other than the annual Halloween carnival. I never got to go trick or treating. It wasn’t something many kids did in those days in Newton. Boys liked to go out on Halloween night to do some mischief, like soaping up all the store windows and throwing toilet paper into trees or on houses.

Jo Ann, whom I mentioned in my last chapter, didn’t seem to have any girl in particular she was close friends with. We always seemed to be competing to see who could read the most books or for parts in school plays. She still preferred playing with boys. I saw her as a rival and someone I felt a bit envious of because she was better at sports and had a more outgoing personality. I didn’t realize it at the time, but many years later she would admit to also having envied me. Although the two of us never became close friends, she did manage to wake me up to a flaw, I had developed by trying to be like those around me.

We had a girl in our class who was obviously from a poor family. Some of the kids didn’t like her and described her as disgusting. She was one of those kids who didn’t come regularly. After a long absence, one day she was back on campus. I saw her before class and decided to tell Jo Ann. I always regretted my words.

“Guess what?” I said, “that creepy Ollie Mae girl is back.” 

Jo Ann immediately looked around for her. She went over to her and said, “Oh Ollie Mae, It is so good to have you back. We missed you. I hope you weren’t sick.”

I was so ashamed of myself I wished I could disappear into the woodwork. I recognized Jo Ann as a better person than I was. I decided I never wanted to say anything negative about a classmate again. Shortly after that, Ollie Mae had acute appendicitis surgery and was in the hospital. Our teacher got a get-well card and had the class sign it. For some reason, she chose Jo Ann and me to go to the hospital and give her the card. We went that afternoon after class and it was a visit I will always remember.

Our hospital had a basement. I was never in it but that one time. It was a dark and dismal area that was poorly staffed and didn’t have private rooms. Because Mississippi was still segregated and black people were considered second class citizens, those patients were always assigned to the basement rooms. White patients, who couldn’t afford the eight dollars per day for a room were also put in the basement.

Jo Ann didn’t say anything about her being in the basement and neither did I, although I felt bad about her having to be there. We found her alone in a room with two beds. We were both friendly and sympathized because she’d had surgery. She seemed surprised and pleased to have us visit her. She couldn’t believe the whole class had signed a card for her.

I realized that all people deserve respect and dignity, and that a little kindness goes a long way. I’m sure Jo Ann’s family seemed in better financial condition than most in our town, but that hadn’t kept her from treating Ollie Mae as she would have treated any other person. My opinion of her had taken a big leap forward.

After Ollie Mae recovered from the surgery, Mom let me invite her over to our house for the afternoon. I found she was actually a lot of fun to be around. My family didn’t have a lot and some might have considered us poor, because we still didn’t have indoor plumbing, but we had a decent house and land and many were so much worse off than we were. How much or little a person had never really mattered to me again.

Author Notes

This is my story as I remember it at age eight. I am an only child who is third grade in 1945 in Newton, Mississippi. My dad as managed a grocery store which was recently sold and he's had to take a job at a feed and seed store.

Chapter 35
Beginning of the Post War Years

By BethShelby

The summer before fourth grade started, Dad told me he knew the lady who would be my teacher. “You’ll like Mildred.,” he said, I’ve known her a long time. She buys all of her groceries in our store. I told her you’d be in her grade this year. She is anxious to meet you.”

That sounded promising, and I thought maybe I’d have an inside track since she was friends with my dad. The problem was she might have been okay with adults, but she wasn’t my daddy’s teacher. Miss Nicholson was a bit of an odd ball. She was older than the teachers I’d had so far. She had never been married, and she lived with her mother, who was bedridden and had a caregiver. She drove an old Model T Ford that looked really weird parked among the newer models.

She never acted as if I was someone she cared to get to know. After a day or two in her class, I tried my best to steer clear of her. She had a horrible temper, and I’m not sure she liked kids at all. If she left the room and returned to find people talking, she would go into a temper fit and start yelling. Her facial expressions reminded me of a witch, precisely the witch in the gingerbread house that planned to cook the children and eat them. Her favorite expression was, “If you don’t behave, I’m going to peel you and pepper you and slide you down a razor blade.”

With threats like that is it any wonder I tried to make myself invisible? I made passing marks, but I can’t remember anything special I learned the entire year. It seems to me that was the year we did a lot of diagramming sentences. Is that still taught? I don’t remember my children doing that.

By the first of November, the private speech teacher and program director for the elementary school gave all the teachers a break by claiming hours of time directing the annual Christmas pageant. Since Mom had me taking private speech lessons, Mrs. Turnage decided I was to memorize and present a long dramatic reading. I was to narrate in first person the story of the Virgin Mary who has just been told she was pregnant with the baby, Jesus. It was two typewritten pages long. Not only did I have to practice it over and over in her private room, but also in the huge auditorium, where she would stand in the back and make sure my voice carried to every portion of the room. We didn’t have sound equipment.

While I was good at memorization, and I didn’t totally hate being in the spotlight, it would be many years before I learned how badly my classmate and rival, Jo Anne, had wanted to be the one to have that role. She had begged her father to let her take private speech lessons. The lessons were only six dollars a month, and he was likely one of the wealthiest people in town, but he told her, “If you think I’m going to spend good money to have someone teach my daughter how to talk, you’re out of your mind. You talk too much already. I need to pay someone to teach you when to shut up.”

The music department was involved in the program, and I was chosen to be in the musical chorus. There were 12 Christmas Carols we had to learn. There was a speech chorus for children selected to repeat parts of the Christmas story in unison. In addition, there were the characters in costume, like Mary, Joseph, the shepherds and the wisemen. This two-hour program required long daily practice sessions, where we stood on bleachers until our legs felt ready to collapse.

The program was presented just before our two-week Christmas break. The Auditorium was packed with people on both of the two nights we performed. I couldn’t wait to get this behind me. Since my part was so long and dramatic, it received a lot of praise, and the wife of the Methodist church pastor insisted that I come and do it again for their Christmas program.

The New year brought in the year 1947. Truman was serving the third year of his term and planned to run again although he'd finished Roosevelt's term at his death. Now that the war was over, people seemed more hopeful. There were a lot of building projects going on. Men returning from the war were getting help with veteran loans. New neighborhoods with government housing were cropping up everywhere.

The problem was now that WWII was over, the country soon found itself in the middle of a cold war with the USSR. Communism was the next threat. J. Edgar Hoover was an interesting character who was head of the FBI. He served 48 years in that position under eight different presidents. There were many scandals with the agency during that time, which proves power corrupts. It isn’t wise to have people in positions of power for so long. Much of what went on wasn’t discovered until much later.

I had started becoming more interested in what was going on outside of my own little corner of the world. Not only did I love reading novels and biographies, but one of my aunts had an old set of encyclopedias. I was fascinated and wanted to know all about everything. One day a World Book Encyclopedia salesman showed up at our house. I wanted those books so much, I didn’t want to see him leave. Mom wanted me to have them, but she had no money.

My Grandmother Lay, who lived with us part of the time, was there. Although she didn’t get to attend school past 5th grade, she was a strong believer in education. She always felt like if she’d had a better education, she be able to support herself, and wouldn’t be forced to live with her children. The government gave her a thirty-dollar welfare check each month. It was for those who had never worked for wages and couldn’t draw social security. She told Mom if she could come up with a down payment, she would pay monthly, so I could have those books.

Mom did a very foolish thing, which got her in serious trouble with my dad when he found out. She got the salesman to take an old shotgun, which dad never used, for the down payment. Dad ranted and raved for a while over that, but six weeks later my books came. I vowed to read them from cover to cover and I pretty much did. I got the value from those books many times over. They took me through high school. I wrote many papers, and won several essay contests using those books for research. I even learned a lot about art and painting from them. which was another of my passions.

Today, with the world at our fingertips with computers, no one would understand why I was so thrilled. At the time, it was the best gift I’d ever been given. I guess I was a nerd and didn’t realize it.

Now in thinking back, I realize I must have been in fifth grade when I got those books, because they weren’t destroyed in the tornado, which occurred the following year in February of 1948.

Author Notes

This will be a chapter in the book "Growing Up In Mississippi. It is 1948 and I'm in fourth grade.

Chapter 36
The Greatest Show on Earth

By BethShelby

My dad told my mother when they got married, he didn’t want any kids. Maybe no one explained to him how to prevent that from happening. Lucky for me, he changed his mind when I appeared on the scene. He gave thanks to God I turned out to be a girl, because he knew for sure, he didn’t want any boy kids.

It worked out I was the one and only child who would ever arrive in the Glover Weir family. After Dad decided he could tolerate me as long as I didn’t make any loud noises, he started to think of ways he might make sure I would experience some things which he had not gotten to experience himself.

The first one was to send me up in an airplane when I was five. My grandparents had a hissy fit and asked if he was trying to get me killed. Maybe they thought the desire to not have children was still with him, and they didn’t want to lose their only grandchild. Grandma was a bundle of nerves, and airplanes hadn't been invented long enough to seem safe to her.

The idea of going up in an airplane and doing loops in the air appealed to me at five. I hadn’t yet learned that people weren’t indestructible, so I assumed all would be well, because Daddy said so.  Daddy tended to be very money conscious, but they were running a special that day, and kids could go up for a penny a pound. Since I didn’t weigh enough to make a dent in a half a dollar, I got to fly.

No more interesting events occurred in our stale little town for a while, but when I was ten, the word was out that Ringling Bros.Barnum & Bailey Circus was coming to Meridian, a mere twenty-five miles away. I was up for new experiences, but I'd never had a urge to see a circus. It was unusual for Dad to take a day off from work. Was is possible, it was Dad's attempt to put a little excitement into his own life? I had mixed feeling about leaving school on that particular day. I'd alreardy accepted a lead in the school play which would be preformed that day. 

When Dad informed me, I’d need to cancel because he had a bigger surprise in mind, I was reluctant to give up being an star for the day. Still, Daddy/daughter days were relatively rare, so I humored him and told the teacher to give the part to my rival.

The fairground in Meridian was crowded and carnival barkers were everywhere advertising freak shows like midgets, giants and tattooed women. Yes, women with tattoos were considered freaks at one time. I was up for seeing a freak, but Dad didn't come to see the side shows. He was all about going under the big top. He said we needed to find a seat before they were all gone, so we moved along with the crowd until we were under the big top. The excitement that I had felt starting to build desolved when I realized where we would be sitting.

Inside the tent, three big circles had been created on the sawdust. Surrounding the circles were the bleachers towering to near the top of tent. They looked to be hastily nailed together and made of rough boards of lumber about six inches wide. With all the bleachers and sawdust everywhere, the whole place smelled as though the wood was freshly milled. From the looks of the resin still oozing, it probably was. Most of the seats were already taken except way up on the very top row. Dad took my hand and started tugging me up those bleachers which vibrated with each step we took. This was not what I’d signed up for. Dad sensed my hesitation and lifted me to each new level. I was shaking like I was having a seizure.

There were openings everywhere that I could easily slip through. Although I didn’t know the word for it yet, I was experiencing my first bout with acrophobia. My heart was beating like wings of chicken about to be beheaded, by the time we reached the top. I carefully eased myself down on the plank and tried to not move.

Dad kept pointing out various things he thought would capture my interest. I nodded and tried to smile. I'm sure he found my lack of enthusiasm disappointing, but what I was seeing was blurred by my anxiety. The man walking on stilts caused more concern than wonder. The clowns were more fightening than funny.

With three different acts going all at one time, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to be looking at, but I was mostly staring at the ground so far down below me and imagining how it would feel to fall.

When the trapeze artists started shooting through the air with no net below them, I got dizzy thinking I was about to see death played out in real time before my eyes. I squinted my eyes tight closed to keep from throwing up.

It seemed the show went on forever, and when it finally ended, our trip down from our perch was every bit as frightening as it was going up. Back in our car at last, I breathed a huge sigh of relief and tried to pretend I’d had a wonderful time. I owed him that for trying to give me a day to remember. At least, he succeeded in doing that. The best thing about the trip was the pink and blue feathered doll on a stick which dad bought for me as a souvenir.

The doll was still hanging on the wall of my room when our house was destroyed by a tornado two weeks later. My mom and I were taken for a sky ride which I’ll never forget, I’ve written about that so many times I won’t comment further here. But if you were to ask me what one thing frightened me the most in my life, I’d have to say it wasn't the storm. It was those bleachers.

Even to this day, a reoccurring dream has me walking on a vibrating plank high in the air which I’m sure may give way at any moment..

Chapter 37
The Gun and I

By BethShelby

One thing I always hated as a young child was guns. Still, likely from the time my eyes focused, I saw them everywhere. I was told not to touch them. I didn’t like the way they looked, and I had no desire to get near them, so that wasn’t a problem for me.

My dad wasn’t a hunter, so his guns were seldom used. Neither were my grandfather's used often. Yet it seems, most southern men must have something built into their DNA, going back to days when guns were needed for making sure there was meat on the table. In Mississippi in the forties, most men believed gun ownership was necessary.

I don’t think little boys are built with an aversion to guns. All of the little boys back then looked forward to getting their first toy gun. Having a cowboy outfit to go with it was even more thrilling. Most of them had cap pistols and BB guns. As much as I enjoyed playing with my Texas cousin, the summer he came with his guns and firecrackers, was a summer of misery for me. I got stung with the BB pellets several times. A boy in my class at school was forced to wear a glass eye, thanks to the careless use of these toys.

My other cousins from Detroit were no exception. Of those two boys, Charles was five years my senior, and Dick was two years older than I was. They didn’t visit quite as often, so I didn’t know them as well. When they did visit, they brought their toy guns with them. Uncle Eugene, their father, was a Detroit policeman, who seemed to enjoy showing off his weapon. He actually wore his pistol, strapped in a holster.

It didn’t seem to bother Uncle Eugene to walk into our house and casually lay his loaded gun on a table without a word of caution. Uncle Eugene was a stereotypical cop. He had a loud gruff voice and I was very uncomfortable around him. It didn’t help that he had lived in Detroit long enough to have picked up, what I thought of as, a Yankee brogue. This sounded harsh to my southern ears.

His own father, my grandma Lay’s first husband, who served as a constable, was killed by a gun before Grandma even knew she was pregnant with him. Eugene served in the Navy during WWII and settled in Detroit where he married a Canadian girl. Aunt Margie, too, had the Yankee accent, but she was plump and jolly and fun to be around.

Uncle Eugene would live to regret his assumption that leaving a pistol laying round was a smart thing to do, because in 1948 when Charles was 16 and Dick was 12, Charles would pick up his dad’s pistol while playing around with friends and say, “Who wants to play Russian Roulette?” He would then point, what he assumed to be an unloaded firearm, at his own head and pull the trigger. Thus ended the life of my cousin and the career of my uncle. The tragedy was too devastating for Uncle Eugene. He could no longer handle police work.

I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself, as this is still early in 1945. There was another incident relating to guns which I wanted to mention. This was something which could have been life altering for my family. It isn’t something I witnessed personally, as I was sleeping at the time it occurred.

We had a flock of chickens which we allowed to roam freely around in our back yard. We didn’t have a chicken house at the time, but Dad had put wooden apple boxes on a stand, making a place for the hens to lay their eggs. These nests were behind some evergreen bushes which had grown to around 15 to 20ft. The chickens used the bushes to roost in at night. Recently, we’d had problems with possums or foxes sneaking in at night and helping themselves to a chicken dinner. Dad was determined to put a stop to this activity.

He made sure the pistol he kept under the head of his mattress was loaded. At this time, we still had an outhouse in our backyard. Like most people with an outhouse, we kept chamber pots underneath the edges of our beds in case of nature calls during the night. These would be emptied and cleaned every morning. My mother was suffering from a stomach flu. Not wanting to risk an unpleasant odor, she decided not to use the inside pot. She got up during the night, without waking Dad, and headed for the outhouse.

On exiting the outhouse, Mom was near enough to the bushes to disturb the roosting chickens, and they sounded the alarm by cackling and crowing loudly. Dad heard the noise and grabbed his pistol and flashlight. It had only been a few months since the incident with our house being burglarized. Seeing a figure on the steps about to enter our house, Dad’s nerves were on edge. His gun was cocked and ready.  

As Mom started up the steps, she was shocked to hear the click of the pistol being readied for the shot, and as the bright beam of Dad flashlight blinded her, she screamed, “Don’t Shoot!” Dad dropped the pistol down, horrified to realize how close he had come to killing his wife. They were both trembling as they crept back to bed.

Even when people have been taught the proper use of weapons, accidents happen. Over the years, stories of teens who attended my high school dying in hunting accidents weren’t uncommon. In my early teens, I went through a period of trying to toughen myself up, knowing that I had some irrational fears.

I eventually decided if guns were going to be around me, I needed to know how to handle them. I talked my dad into teaching me how to shoot. He set up some tin cans for target practice and showed me the basics for using all of his firearms. I’m thankful no one in my family ever felt the need to own the type of guns that are usually involved in the mass shootings of today.

While I’m not for changing the constitution or getting rid of the right to bear arms, I would like to see assault rifles banned for civilian use. We certainly need background checks. The gun lobby has too much power, and the question of guns is considered a political issue. When are people going to start using some common sense and stop allowing a particular political ideology to dictate what they should know in their heart is right?   

Author Notes

This will ba chapter in the book Growing up in Mississippi. THis is set in early 1945.

Chapter 38
Southern Heat and Back to School

By BethShelby

After spending nine months in Miss Nichols class, I was so relieved when the summer break finally came. I was ready for whatever the summer might bring, even if it just afforded me more time to read. Now that I was older, Mom expected me to do more work. I did things like mow the grass with an old fashioned push mower with no gas or electric power. I gathered things from the garden when asked. I also shelled a lot of peas and beans.

On one occasion when asked to go dig some potatoes for Mom to make for lunch, I ended up having a big scare. The ground was soft and I grabbed what I assumed was a potato only to have it slide through my hands and escape into a deeper hole. When I realized I’d had my hands on a snake, I reacted by fleeing the garden screaming. It was likely a harmless grass snake, but I made a big deal out of it. After all, I’d had expression lessons and I knew how to emote.

Something which really did scare me, came from the kitchen. Mom spent much of the summer canning. She used a pressure cooker which had a gauge on top. Near the top of the gauge in red capital letters was the word ‘Danger’. Mom’s old stove made the temperature hard to control. I visualized reaching the danger level might involve an explosion similar to the atomic bomb. It reached the danger often but instead of a real explosion, this triggered a release valve. It made a horrible hissing noise and a cloud of steam exploded into the room. At the first hint steam was about to be released, I would hit the front door at top speed and not stop until I collapsed in a heap with my heart hammering in my chest.

This was the year Dad had a pond built for our cattle to have drinking water. The cows spent their days in a pasture further from the barn. They’d carved out a path leading from the barn to a spot they liked to graze and rest beneath the trees. Going from the barn to pasture, the herd always follows a lead cow. The lead cow takes the same route each day, so there is soon a three-foot-wide path where no grass grows. When we walked to our back pasture, we always took the cow path too, being careful where we stepped. This way, we avoided the tall weeds.

The pond was located in the back pasture. It had taken a while, but the spring rains had filled our pond to the point we had five or six feet of water in the deepest part. Dad and Mom were trying to teach me to swim. There were no public places around Newton, and I’d never had an opportunity to learn before. So far, I’d learned to dog paddle and float on my back. I loved being in the water even though mud squished between my toes and the water was brown and I couldn’t see the bottom.

During the summer, I never wore shoes at home which meant my feet usually had splinters and cuts and sores always in the process of healing. One particularly hot day, I was looking forward to Dad getting off work to go with me to the pond to swim. I’d been bike riding and I was in an area where mom often left trash, before it was later tossed into a gully on our property. I jumped from my bike and came down on a broken glass jar. The glass sliced deeply into my foot, and blood was spurting everywhere. Mom was working in the garden, and I didn’t want her to know I was hurt. I didn’t want anyone to tell me I couldn’t go swimming with a bad cut on my foot.

I left a trail of blood as I hopped across the grass and into the house. I found a rag and wrapped it tightly around my foot. Actually, the glass had cut into a tendon in the arch of my foot. I needed a trip to the emergency room, but I was determined no one should know. The bleeding had stopped by the time Dad came home. I did wear sandals to the pond, because I couldn’t risk anything touching the cut. Dad kept asking why I was walking so funny. I could barely stand any pressure on the foot so I was walking on the back of my heel. When the water touched the cut, I felt like screaming, but I pressed my lips tightly and bore it. I told Dad I didn’t feel like swimming, and we went back home.

Mom had seen blood everywhere I’d failed to wipe it up, and she was in a panic. It took weeks for the cut to heel. For years, I had a small lump in my arch and discomfort when I walked. I wonder now how all of us kids who ran around getting germs in open sores survived those days.

The Mississippi summers were hot, and it was almost worse inside the house than outside. We kept the windows open, and I did most of my reading sprawled on the floor on my belly near a small electric fan with a wet washcloth. Sometimes, I’d chip off a bit of ice from the big block we got delivered from the iceman for extra comfort.

By August, I was back in school. Mrs. Hardy was my fifth-grade teacher. This year, Mom didn’t sign me up for private speech or music lessons. I was taking after school piano lessons from the Presbyterian minister’s wife. She was teaching me to play hymns from the church hymn book. It probably wasn’t the best way to learn music, but it was easy, and she didn’t have me doing hours of exercises.

Our class was doing a play. The main character was a clown and several of us competed for the role. My rival, Jo Ann was especially anxious to do the part, but Mrs. Hardy chose me. I was going to have to be able to do a series of handsprings as I entered from offstage. I was practicing, but so far, I could only manage one at a time.

Then, Dad came home with tickets for both of us to go to the Ringling Bros. & Barnum Bailey Circus in Jackson. He said I would have to take off a day from school to go. I was dismayed when I learned it would be the day of our play. Mrs. Hardy was upset, as I had already learned my lines. Jo Ann couldn’t have been happier. “Please, please choose me to take her part. I already know the lines too. I can do it. I can even do all the hand springs.” So, Jo Anne was given the part, and I took the day off and went to Jackson with Dad. She was more athletic than me, so I imagine she did the part well.

I’ve already written the story about my day at the circus, which I may use here. It tells of my anxiety about having to climb to the top of the bleachers under the big top. I seem to have been born with an irrational fear of heights. I don’t think my dad had ever seen a circus before, and though he pretended this was all for my enjoyment, he may have been the one who liked it best.

Author Notes

A chapter in the book Growing Up in Mississippi. The year is 1947.

Chapter 39
In the Clutches of a Tornado

By BethShelby

Newton, Mississippi is a place which has seen its share of tornados. Some call it a tornado alley. There was a time when almost everyone who owned land, dug tornado pits into the ground or the sides of an embankment. Before I was ever in a tornado, I’d heard stories of how my cousin was picked up by one and tossed aside while still an infant. She had survived but was too young to remember. I always thought it might be a neat adventure. I was immature and apparently didn’t feel there had been enough excitement during my first ten years. Besides, I’d seen the Wizard of Oz movie.

February is usually still a time to cozy up beside a roaring fire, but for several days, our weather had turned spring-like and windy. My grandpa was an expert in weather predictions. He came by our house to borrow one of Dad’s tools. While he was there, he looked up at the sky and declared, “This weather’s not right. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if there’s not a tornado in the making.”

“I hope we have one,” I said. “I wouldn’t mind taking a ride in the sky.”

“Don’t even say something like that. You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he scolded. “People die in tornadoes.” I briefly remembered, how, not so long ago, Dad had scolded me for telling Aunt Chris her house would burn down. I’d gotten that one right. Maybe I needed to watch my mouth.”  

The following day was Friday the 13th. We had a day off from school because our auditorium was needed for a conservation meeting that a lot of people planned to attend. The morning dawned with an odd yellowish cast to the cloudy sky and a warm brisk wind. It felt like barefoot weather to me and I begged not to have to put on shoes. Mom protested. “It’s still winter. You don’t go barefooted this early."

“Please. It’s hot outside. I hate shoes.”  She gave in at first, but later, when I wanted to ride my bike to grandpa’s house, she insisted I put on my rubber boots. There was lightening in the distance, and she thought boots would help ground me if I should get struck.

At their house, everything was in an uproar. Grandpa had had a malarial attack. Malaria was in his system, and he suffered reoccurring attacks of chills and fever. Grandma was insisting he stay in bed, but the farm animals were acting up. His mule was chasing a heifer and Grandpa was determined to get up and go lock the mule in a stall.

Aunt Eva had her rain gear on, and she was outside trying to make sure there weren’t any snakes around the storm pit. She needed to check the kerosene lamps for oil and see if there were dry matches available. It was apparent they didn’t want me underfoot.

“You better go on back home. You need to get inside. It looks like it is about to storm. You should get off that bicycle before you get struck by lightning,” Grandma told me.

It was nearly lunchtime and my dad would be driving home soon. I was getting hungry, so I pedalled back to our house. Mom was relieved to see me back. She had started to turn off the eyes on the oil stove, but instead, had gone to the back door to look out. A sudden vacuum snatched the door from her hand and slammed it shut with a bang. What she had seen before the door closed, terrified her.

“Beth, run quick. Get down between those two beds in the back bedroom. I’m coming as soon as I’m sure this stove’s turned off.”

Despite the fear in her voice, it was a game to me. I decided to make a tent for us to crawl into. I grabbed a big safety-pin and pinned the two spreads together and crawled under them. Mom was there in seconds. She snatched the pinned spreads and threw them aside, dropping her head down on my back and putting her arms around me. There were double windows beside the larger bed. Just as she dropped her head, there was a horrible roar and the windows pulled loose from their frames and sailed across the room, crashing into the opposite wall, and sending glass shards in every direction. This got my attention.

Our whole house tilted sideways, and I saw balls of fire rolling across the angled floor. “Fire!” I yelled. “Let’s get out of here.” That was a pointless thing to say. We were airborne by that time and Mama was yelling. “Pray!”. I prayed “Please save us, Lord. We don’t want to die.”  With all that roaring noise, I’m sure He was the only one who could have heard me. If Mama was praying, I didn’t hear her.

My eyes felt full of sand, and I had to close them. From that point on, my experience and Mom’s differed. I felt like we were being rapidly sucked up into the air, and I likely became unconscious at that point. Mom later claimed she felt as if she was peacefully floating and thought she heard the beating of wings. I’m sure she was in a semi-conscious state as well. We must have lost our breath in the vacuum.

We couldn’t have been out long, but suddenly, we were both wide awake and we were sitting in an upright position on a plank. Mom still had her arms around me. Our feet were in a hole with about eight inches of water in it. Our hair and clothes were soaked and a rain was beating down on us.

Her first question was, “Are you alright?” Mine was, “Where are we?” There was nothing but rubble in ever direction. Nothing looked familiar. Mom wasn’t as confused as I was. We had come down from our sky ride near the dirt road. As soon as we realized we were both unhurt, we got up from the plank, likely attic flooring, on which we were sitting, and started up the road toward my grandparent’s house. Mom warned me to be prepared. “They might not be alive."

Fortunately, only the tin roof and front porch were gone from their house and no one was hurt in our family. Other families were not so fortunate. There were many deaths and dozens injured. A neighbor family, Mom and I had visited several times, were found dead in a field. She was decapitated, and his eyes had been sucked out. It was a violent storm. I can’t imagine how we survived without even a bruise.

My grandmother was wringing her hands and moaning, “We have lost everything. I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

Mom sounded like a Holiness preacher. “Praise the Lord! Thank God we’re alive. It’s a miracle. Things can be replaced. People can’t.”

It wasn’t too long before my dad came stumbling down the road, after having gone through the rubble. He was in tears and couldn’t believe we were all alive and unhurt. He had driven from the other direction and had watched as the tornado crossed the highway taking houses. He saw it as it zig-zagged across the field taking down trees, and then to his horror, his own house. He’d frantically driven over limbs and rubble, thinking we were surely dead. For the last twenty minutes, he’d been putting out fires and moving rubble looking for our dead bodies. 

This is one of six or seven stories I’ve written about this storm. Each time there are some differences. It made a lasting impression on me and is as clear today as if it had happened yesterday. Yet, I don’t remember any fear. It all happened too fast and probably caused more shock than fear. I will admit future stormy weather jangled my nerves for a while. I’ll talk about that in a future chapter.

Author Notes

A chapter in the book, "Growing up in Mississippi"

Chapter 40
The Days Following the Storm

By BethShelby

After the storm had passed, I had mixed feelings about what I’d gone through. My first thought was this will be something new and interesting. I won't be going home tonight. I’ll get to sleep at other places and maybe I’ll be getting new clothes to wear. I might like this. I didn’t grieve for a thing I had lost. There was an outpouring of goodwill and support from the community and donations started to pour in almost immediately. I was excited to go through the boxes, that came in. However, it didn’t take me long to hate the realizing we were the objects of pity and curiosity, and everyone wanted to hear our story. I didn’t like the idea of being a charity case.

Mom seemed to enjoy reciting her story, which of course, included me. She could be very dramatic. After hearing her version a dozen times, I had to hide and cover my ears. The story never varied. It sounded like a recording, and I thought if I have to hear this one more time, I’ll scream.

People came from everywhere to look at the storm damage. They got out of their cars and prowled around looking for anything worthwhile. Some gave us what they found that we might want and others kept it for themselves. Mom walked up on two women fighting over some unbroken jars of fruit she had canned. There were a few chickens walking around among the debris. Some guys were chasing them and taking them home.

We spent a few nights in different places, but as soon as Grandpa got a tarpaulin on what was left of his tin roof, we moved in with them. The rest of February was extremely windy. At night, even when there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, strong winds would blow the tarp up and down against the tin on the roof. The sound mimicked that of the storm. Fear caused my stomach to knot up. I couldn’t handle it. Several times, my parents had to get up in the middle of the night to take me somewhere else so I could relax and sleep. I think I know what post-traumatic stress disorder is like.

Kids at school looked at me with curiosity and wanted to hear my version of the storm, but I didn’t want to talk about it. I became quiet and withdrawn. Several times, I was given envelopes containing money. My Sunday School class gave me thirty dollars which I assumed was mine to keep, but my parents used it to buy a new aluminum patio set. They tried to explain it was for family use, but I felt they had taken what was mine.

At least the house was insured, so the rubble was soon cleared away and builders started a new house. This made me feel better. I had something to be excited about again. This house would have indoor plumbing. That was a big step up for us. I don’t think many people bothered with house plans in those days. Mom and Dad sketched off what they wanted, and the builders seemed to know what to do. Everyday after school, I went to watch their progress.

Mom went shopping and picked out new furniture which would be held until the house was finished. The house I was born in, which the storm destroyed, was only 14 years old. This one was similar in some ways, but much nicer. It was still a two bedroom. These bedrooms had closets. There was a larger bath and kitchen area and larger porches. The wood burning fireplace was now in the living/dining combination room instead of in a bedroom. This time we had a gas stove in the kitchen and propane space heaters in every room.

 Amazingly enough once the piano dried out it was refinished and still usable after new felts and being tuned. The player parts were ruined so they were taken out.

The night we moved back home was exciting. My room had twin beds. I would share it with my grandmother during the weeks she lived with us. Mom had also bought me a desk.

While we were eating supper that first night with all of the house lights on, something amazing happened. Before the storm, we’d had eight cats. We hadn’t seen any of them since the storm and had assumed they were all dead. That night seven of them came back home apparently uninjured. They had survived in the wild, eating whatever they could catch.

After our close call, Dad insisted if it was stormy outside, we needed to get in the car immediately and go to my grandparent’s house, so at a moment’s notice, we could make a mad dash to their storm pit. If my other grandmother was with us, she wouldn’t get out of bed. She’d had a vision as a teenager when she almost died of typhoid fever. It left her with no fear of death. In the vision, her spirit guide told her to go back, because it wasn’t her time. After that she always said, “I won’t die till my time comes. If it is my time, then I’ll go from my bed.”

I hated going into the storm shelter. It was about thirty yards from my grandparent’s house inside a small hill. The walls were dirt and benches lined three sides. It was low enough from floor to ceiling the adults had to stoop to enter. It was always full of critters like field mice, huge dirt spiders and grasshoppers. If we were lucky, any snakes had been chased out earlier in the day. We use kerosene lanterns and lamps for light. It smelled of wet dirt and oil.

No one other than Aunt Eva would dare go in there unless it looked as though we might die if we didn’t. The trip to the pit was always made at the height of a thunder storm. We would arrive soaked to the bone. Grandpa never went. He would stand on his back porch staring at the sky and giving advice on whether it would get worse or would soon be over.

By the time the fall school semester started, I was in for an unpleasant surprise. The school had switched Miss Nicholson around and now instead of teaching fourth grade, she was teaching sixth. I was going to be in her class for another year. What a bummer.

There was one thing which I thought would be good. During the war years, a lot of babies seemed to have come into the world, and now they were starting to school. More teachers and classrooms were required. The County built another building to house 5th,6th and 7th grades. It was a more modern building with a glass floor to ceiling windows along one wall of each classroom.

What I thought was a good thing, turned into a nightmare for me. It had only been six months since the storm. My nerves hadn’t settled yet. Those floor to ceiling windows faced the southwest, which was the direction in which storms developed. Although, we didn’t experience a tornado, there were times when it looked as if one might come at any moment. Having a panoramic view of black clouds and lightning left me paralyzed with fear, which I did my best to hide.

My fear of storms only lasted about a year, and then for some odd reason, I started to really like them. Maybe my grandmother's philosophy rubbed off on me, and I decided if I’d survived that tornado without a scratch, it must not have been my time. I didn’t need to worry about it because if it was my time, there wasn’t much I could do about it.

Author Notes

This will be a chapter in the book Growing Up in Mississippi.

Chapter 41
Summer of my Indiscretion

By BethShelby

In early May of 1949, school ended for the summer break. I was relieved to be finished with Miss Nicholson’s sixth grade class. She was a no-nonsense teacher, and she wasn’t the sort of person who bonded with any of her students. I felt like I’d learned a lot, but it hadn’t been an especially pleasant year. Some teachers know how to make learning fun, or at least less painful. My dad liked her as she joked around with him while buying her groceries, but that hadn’t made things any easier for me. I felt like she probably regretted becoming a teacher. Our paths would cross again years later, after I was in college and she’d retired. Then I would see a different side of her, and realize she wasn’t as awful as I’d thought back then. We seem to judge people from our own perspective.

That summer when I was eleven, my plan had been to spend my time losing myself in all the books which I hoped to read. I knew Mom would have some outdoor work she would insist that I help with, but she usually didn’t demand a lot of my time. A few days into the break, something happened to change the direction in which I expected things to go.

There was an old house further up the dirt road past our neighbor Joe Seay’s house, which appeared to be getting new renters. When Mom and I drove by on our way home from town, I saw a girl, who appeared to be near my age, and a younger boy moving items from the back of an old pickup.

I didn’t give it much thought, since I wasn’t particularly looking for a new friend. Joe Seay, on the other hand, enjoyed talking to everyone, and the new neighbors didn’t escape his notice. This house was along his walking route into town, and he stopped by to welcome the new neighbors with an offering from his garden. The couple were in their fifties, but the girl was my age and asked about other young people around. He told her about me. Little did I know this summer would turn a relatively respectable person into a guilty felon, or at least an accessory in crime.

A couple of days later, the girl and the younger brother, whom I’d seen when passing the house, showed up at our door and asked for me. Glenda was different from anyone I’d ever met. My first impression of her was of an extreme extrovert. She seemed lively, and fun-loving and full of mischief.  She informed me her family had moved from Smith County, a couple of counties south of Newton. She and Tommy were the last two children in a family of thirteen kids. The rest of her siblings were grown. When school started in August, she would be in seventh grade, like me.

The county she came from had the reputation of being the home to a family that feuded like the ‘Hatfields and McCoys’ of West Virginia and Kentucky. These feuds involved wild west style murders and gun battles among the Sullivan family in an area known as Sullivan’s Hollow. Glenda proudly proclaimed that her mother was a Sullivan, and most of her family were members of this notorious clan. The original Tom Sullivan who established Sullivan’s Hollow was father to twenty-two children, eleven from each of his two wives, to whom he was married at the same time. One of the women was an Indian of the Choctaw tribe he met in Mississippi after moving from South Carolina.

The grandson of the original founder, and Glenda’s uncle, was known as ‘Wild Bill’ Sullivan, and he was said to have killed 50 men. A couple of escapades she mentioned involved catching the sheriff, securing his head between two rails and leaving him in the woods to starve. Another involved harnessing a salesman to a plow and forcing him to plow a field. Wild Bill started a war in a church yard after Sunday services that ended in a number of deaths. The episode that finally got him prison time involved killing his own brother.

I was fascinated with her stories, and the three of us became friends quickly. Mom was pleased to know I had someone my age in the area. She was glad to see us doing physical activities like fishing in the pond, and playing games that had us chasing each other and turning hand springs, flips and riding bikes. Glenda tolerated Tommy, her younger brother by three years, although he was sometimes the butt of our jokes. We tricked him into touching our electric fence and getting a mild jolt, among other things.

All too soon, Glenda became bored with our usual activities and decided we should pay our neighbors, Joe Seay and wife, Virgie, a visit. The original idea was to see what we could find in his apple orchard. I knew Joe would be delighted to share his apples, so I didn’t anticipate a problem. Unfortunately, when we arrived at his shack, neither he nor Virgie, who out-weighed him by about 400 pounds, were home. Glenda’s next thought was to see what mischief we could create. Tommy immediately picked up a dead frog and chunks of dirt which he tossed into the well. Then, he got busy writing curse words with a stone on the grassless yard. Glenda overturned some flowerpots on the porch and then looked around for what she might do next.

“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go inside and see what we can do.”

This was out of my comfort zone. The door wasn’t locked and not wanting to be called a chicken, I followed her inside. The tiny shack only had two rooms, a bedroom and a kitchen. The unpainted walls contained huge framed portraits of men and women, who looked to be from the 1800s. Joe’s father had lived in the area and had likely come from a well-known family. I assumed the pictures passed to Joe at his death. Joe’s father, John, once owned the land my grandpa and Dad now owned.

Glenda was busy trashing the house by throwing quilts around and hiding kitchen pots and pans. “Do something,” she ordered. “Don’t make me do this stuff all by myself.”

“Okay,” I said. “Look, I hid the clock,” I dropped the clock inside a dresser drawer. “Come on. Let’s get out of here, before we get in trouble.”

“I’m through. Me and Tommy’s got to go home. You worry too much. Nobody’s going to know it was us. Anyway, so what? What’s he going to do about it? He’s a weird old man, with a really strange wife.”

Glenda and Tommy left to walk home, and I crept back in the other direction toward my house, hating myself for getting talked into something I knew was wrong. I buried myself in a book and tried to put the whole incident behind me.

I was reminded of the words, “Be sure your sins will find you out.” two days later, when my mother confronted me by asking if I been in Joe Seay’s house. At that point, I became even more of a sinner by pretending I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Joe said he and Virgie were working in the field and they saw you and Glenda and Tommy going into his house. He went to their parents and told them you all had trashed his house. Glenda claimed it was you and Tommy and Tommy claimed it was you and Glenda. Are you going to stand there and tell me you weren’t even there when he claims he saw you?”

“Well, maybe he saw me on the road with them. I walked as far as to the front of his house, but then I turned around. I don’t know what they did after I left.”

I’m sure Mom knew I was lying, but she didn’t push it. Maybe she didn’t want to know the truth, or maybe she didn’t want to hear me make up more lies. We never discussed it again. The only other thing she said was, “I don’t want to see those kids over here again. Christine wants you to go stay with her next week. You can help her and Harry with their dairy.”

I always enjoyed time spent with Aunt Chris and Uncle Harry, and I was more than happy to get away. It was a long time before I felt good about myself again. I didn’t confess my misdeeds to anyone but God, and dared to hope He’d forgive me.  

Glenda’s parents had grounded her and Tommy, so I didn’t see her again until school started, and then we never talked about it. Both of us avoided each other, and moved in different circles. The family only rented the house for one year, and I assume they returned to Sullivan’s Hollow where the rest of the clan still lived. The last thing I remember about Glenda was her shocking our class by giving our teacher a bottle of snuff for Christmas.

 

 

Author Notes

This chapter of the book Growing Up in Mississippi involved a neighbor, Joe Seay who I've written about in other stories. Joe Is an illiterate simple-minded, but kind neighbor.Christine is my mother sister. She and Harry have been metioned in other chapters. The tales about Sullivan Hollow are true and can be found with Google. Glenda's name has been changed for privacy reasons. The name Sullivan has not.

Chapter 42
Dealing with Changes

By BethShelby

Even after the disastrous first part of my summer in 1949, which left me with deep feelings of guilt, there was still a bit of time remaining before school would be back in session. I was still eleven, but I would be twelve in September, and I was starting to change physically. Between ten and eleven, I’d put on a little extra weight, but as I headed toward puberty, I had lost the weight. I was wearing a training bra, which I hated. I wasn’t at all anxious for a more mature figure as were some of my classmates who were slightly older. The slightest indication of a couple of bumps in our blouses and the guys would embarrass us girls with ‘hubba-hubbas’ and wolf whistles.

Just before school started, Mom learned her niece needed someone to keep her daughter for a couple of weeks while she went somewhere for job training. Mom volunteered that Mary Nell could stay with us.

I wasn’t at all pleased. Mary Nell was ten. I’d seen this cousin a couple times before, but I didn’t really know her and I thought I was too much older to have much in common with her. To my dismay, I had just learned the previous day, I was starting my very first monthly period. It was humiliating, I felt I was cursed for life, and I wanted to be by myself to grieve my lost childhood. I had spent the entire day before she came lying around writing sad poetry and pitying myself, while wondering what God had against females to design us to bleed.

Imagine my shock when I learned my ten-year-old cousin was also having her first monthly period, and she was thrilled to pieces with the idea. Well, I must admit that did take some of the pressure off of me. The only problem was this kid wanted to compare pads to see who had produced the most blood. This was a little too personal for me.

The two weeks went better than I’d expected. I’d decided I wanted to be an artist and was going through my World Book Encyclopedias looking for ideas to draw. My copycat cousin claimed she planned to become an artist too. I picked a ‘View of Toledo’ by El Greco to copy, and she picked an earthworm. At least she was willing to start on a beginner’s level.

Mom gave us Kool-Aid popsicles and popcorn balls between meals and the time went by quickly. Strangely enough, I’d started to enjoy my cousin’s company. After our time together ended, she and her mom moved away. That was the last time I ever saw her. Back then, I had too many cousins to keep up with them all.

School started and for seventh grade, I had the first male teacher I’d ever had. It was Mr. Johnson’s first year to teach. He had no clue what to expect and neither did we. Thinking back, I feel a bit of sympathy for him having to share the teacher’s lounge and the classroom next door with Miss Nicholson. She had less tolerance for him than she did for students who misbehaved. The idea that he had to smoke a cigarette each time he got a break was almost too much for her. The truth was he had a roomful of students, all going into puberty. He probably needed that cigarette to help him relax.

Most of us were country kids whose main sex education came from observing the farm animals. We had no televisions and most of our parents believed the subject wasn’t to be discussed until just before marriage. We didn’t ask our parents questions of that nature because it made them uncomfortable as well as us. Girls were told, “Don’t let a boy touch you anywhere, and don’t be wrestling with them or sitting in their laps.” Most of what we gleaned on the subject came from whispered dirty jokes or True Story magazines, which was standard reading in all the beauty shops. Suddenly, every innocent remark we made was interrupted as something dirty by one of our fellow students.

It didn’t help matters that three of the girls new to our class were already in their late teens. Zetty Bell, at 18, was the one who decided to contaminate our minds with her version of an X-rated adult world. She hadn’t been demoted because of learning difficulties. She was intelligent, but behind because she’d not attended classes enough to be promoted. Zetty Belle was lazy, but she stayed in school to avoid having to get out and find a job. She was pretty, a talented artist and likable enough to be accepted. This wasn’t the case with the other two girls, who kept mostly to themselves.

Zetty Belle seemed to know all about the seamier side of sex. She started bringing into class some extremely lewd and sexually explicit stories. She claimed they were written by her brother who was in the Navy. Those stories shocked and embarrassed most of us girls, but they were titillating enough we didn’t pass up reading them when they came our way. Both boys and girls in our class turned red and felt dirty while reading the papers before passing them on. None of us wanted to be thought of as a “goody two shoes.”

Mr. Johnson had to have known stories were being passed around, but he never challenged us or asked to see what we were reading. He also had to know cheating was going on in his class. By not seeming bothered by it, we all assumed he didn’t care how we got our answers to test questions. We copied from each other or from an answer sheet we had with us. He was so lax some times we simply opened our books and looked up the answers. I don’t recall learning much school subject matter during the year. We all made good grades, which wasn’t fair to the few students who really bothered to study the material in our textbooks.

Sometimes there were off campus activities students could attend only if they brought notes from their parents. The boys usually forgot to ask. Because they wanted permission to leave school and attend, they would ask girls with decent handwriting to write them a permission note and sign their parent’s name.

 “Are you sure your mom won't care if I sign her name?” I would ask.

“Oh, no she won’t mind. She meant to give me one. I just forgot to remind her.” 

This may or may not have been true, but I’m sure Mr. Johnson had to know all those notes with the same handwriting wasn’t from anyone’s mom. Sometimes, I wondered if he might have been afraid of confronting us. His lack of teaching skills almost made me appreciate Miss Nicholson.

This was Mr. Johnson’s only year to teach in Newton. He may have decided teaching wasn’t for him, or he may have gotten fired for failure to keep discipline in his classroom. We never knew why he wasn’t back the following year.

Seventh Grade was a year of change for all of us. The boys became more interested in sports and planned to take shop or agriculture classes. Many of the girls were eager to take Home Economics and learn to sew and cook. Girls started paying more attention to their personal appearance. Some were starting to wear lipstick and experiment with hair styles. A few girls begin dreaming of when they might be allowed to date. These changes continued for at least another year as all of us gradually became what parents dreaded most, “the terrible teens.”

Author Notes

This will be a chapter in the book, Growing Up in Mississippi.

Chapter 43
1948 Becomes History

By BethShelby

For the remainder of fifth grade after the tornado, I continued to go cold and clammy every time dark clouds lined the sky. It seemed the entire year had more than its share of violent storms. Many of them took place in the night. I don’t know if this is a common problem for others, but when I am suddenly awakened from a sound sleep after midnight and forced to get up, I get horrible stomach cramps and have an urge to throw up anything I may have eaten. It takes a while for the pain to let up. I still have that problem, but now it isn’t likely to happen unless the phone rings in the night.

When I was ten, my dad must have been suffering from PTSD too, because every time he heard thunder, he felt he had to get Mom and me out of bed and insist we get dressed.

My dad kept having us get in the car and go to my grandparents’ house. For several months, they too were awakened by the thunder and lightning. However, after a few times of arousing them from a sound sleep, he realized they weren’t so young anymore, and he felt bad for disturbing them. There was an alternative to bothering them.

I’m sure those of you who have been following my story might remember our neighbor, Joe Seay, the good hearted but simple-minded old man who kept us supplied with freshly dug peanuts and wormy apples. He was also the one who had married Vergie, the 500 lb. lady with multiple personality disorder. He and Vergie were also victims of the tornado. His loss from the storm was only some trees and his roof top but he and Vergie were badly frightened.

Joe was the stereotypical person reporters always find to interview after a storm. Now, they look for someone in a trailor park, but this was before those were popular. I’m not kidding, when I tell you Joe’s version of the Feb. 13th tornado in Newton was the one that went out all over the US. Our relatives in Texas heard Joe telling how he saw it coming, and he and he and his wife got on the floor and tried to pull the mattress over their heads. I couldln't imagine how Vergie managed to get on the floor. Those out-of-town reporters seem to have a nose for sniffing out someone simple like Joe to be the spokesman when a disaster occurs.

Joe took the storm seriously, and with the tarp still covering what was left of his tin roof, he started digging a new pit in the side of an embankment beside the road. He’d hoped to make it large enough to save everyone within a half mile of his shack if there should be another tornado.

Joe had issued us an invitation as he probably had to those in every house between us and town. “Ya’ll need to come on over and see my new storm pit. It’s plenty big enough for everybody. We’ll be able to keep y’all safe from the next tornado.”

I don’t know if anyone else ever checked out Joe’s pit, but one stormy night, Dad passed up my grandparents' place and stopped  our car beside the new pit. From the partially cracked doorway letting in fresh air, we could see it was lit with lanterns, and someone was inside of it.

Thunder was rumbling in the distance along with jagged streaks of lightning, but the rain had not yet started. Mom, Dad and I got out of the car to go inspect Joe’s new creation. At least, this new shelter shouldn’t be full of snakes and spiders. We soon found out Joe had exaggerated its size. With a full bed inside there wasn’t a lot of space left. The bed contained Virgie in her granny gown and Joe hanging off the other side in his underwear. I gasped in shock. This was more than I was expecting to see.

“Ya’ll, come on in. Theres a plenty of room.  It looks like we are liable to get us a bad blow after a while.”

“Joe,” my daddy told him. “You’ve done a fine job on this, but we’ll just sit out here in the car unless, we see a tornado coming. We don’t want to interrupt you and your wife’s sleeping. Ya’ll go on back to bed. We’ll be fine out here.”

Joe and Virgie continued to sleep in their pit most nights, but as for my dad, his PTSD seemed to have improved. I don’t remember us having to make any pit stops after that night.

When school started up again in August, I was once again in Miss Nicholson’s class. She was still having her temper fits and wanting to ‘peel and pepper’ us when we got out of line. Someone must have said something, because she wasn’t mentioning ‘sliding us down the razorblade” any more.

Like all of the elementary teachers, she was required to have her class perform a play in the auditorium. It certainly wasn’t something she looked forward to doing, because she didn’t like her classes disrupted for play practice. She announced we would be doing The Golden Goose.

This tale involves three brothers. The youngest was considered stupid. The first two went into the woods to cut trees, and an old man asked each of them to share their lunches, but each in turn refused to share. As a result of being selfish, they were both punished by being hurt with the ax. The third son begged to go and cut down the trees and his father told him he was too dumb, and he would get hurt as well. He went anyway, but when the old man asked to share his meal, he shared it willingly. As a result, he was rewarded with a golden goose.

He decided to spend the night in an inn, but the innkeeper’s daughters wanted to steal a golden feather from the goose. To shorten this tale, everyone who touched the goose, or the person holding the golden feather became stuck and, in the end, there is a long parade of people following the guy with the goose. This ends with the parade making a princess who has never laughed, find this hilarious. The king gives her hand in marriage to the dumb younger son as a reward for making her laugh, and he eventually inherits the kingdom.

It was no great plot, but it allowed Miss Nicholson to line most of her class up behind the dummy with the goose, without anyone having a lot of lines to learn. Then, her turn to produce a play would be over for the year.

I was chosen to be the first thief to grab for a feather. Mom made me a long blue dress with a white apron for my costume. Warren who was playing the dumb son, whispered he had a real live goose at home that he could bring. “Well, don’t tell Miss Nicholson you’re bringing a real goose to school. She’ll peel and pepper you,” we told him. I’m sure she would have liked to have punished him. She threw one of her temper fits when she saw a real goose in her classroom. Reluctantly, she allowed us to replace the stuffed one. Warren had even sprayed her tail with gold paint.

The play went as planned. At the proper time, I grabbed a feather, and the next cast member grabbed me. Soon a long parade had formed, and we started winding around the stage trying to make the princess laugh. Warren whispered to me, “Twist her tail. That will make her honk, and everyone will laugh.”

It sounded like a good idea to me, so I gave it a sharp twist. We got a honk all right. We got much more than we bargained for. The goose sprayed me with goose poop from my head down. We got a laugh, not only from the princess, but the audience went wild at my expense.

I might have been the only one who didn’t see anything funny. My face turned scarlet, but our play was a big success. I just wanted to go home and take a good bath.

---

 

Author Notes

Story is Out of Order

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