| Biographical Non-Fiction posted May 27, 2024 | Chapters: |
...18 19 -20- 21... 
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My life growing up in the 40s and 50s in Mississippi.
A chapter in the book At Home in Mississippi
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.
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.
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