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January 3, 2003
Today I received an
email from a cousin in Oklahoma, who had sent me some limericks she had
written, one of which was about a party line. She asked if we had ever
been on a party line. Her question made me think of the old crank
telephone that hung on the wall at my Grandmother's, where I spent almost
every summer, and my mind took off into the past with every detail of
those visits to "Grannie's" that seem to compose most of the memories of
my childhood.
"Grannie's" is home to
me; more than our actual place of residence ever was, though I have some
happy memories of that, as well. As I look back, I realize that I really
had a wonderful childhood.
"Grannie's" house is
gone now, in the sale of my grandparent's estate, and for some reason, I
get a strange, sad, almost painful, feeling when I think about it's having
been sold out of the family. When there for a family reunion, held at the
local park, I found that I didn't even want to go to see it again, though
I understand that the present owners have done wonderful things with it.
Once embarked on this "trip down memory lane", I also thought about a
memoir written by a niece of my gggg-grandfather about the family's
migration from South Carolina to Tennessee in the 1830's; their first home
a sod hut with a dirt floor; their later plantation home, and her memories
of the Civil War. It is a real treasure and so revealing of a time that we
have no concept of. I decided to record my memories of my childhood, as
she had done, for later generations.
My
first memories of going to Grannie's, were of the trip up there on Highway
71, which wound through the Boston mountains through Fayetteville and on,
until we turned off and went close to Eureka Springs, where the road was
also extremely winding. In those years, my memory probably beginning in
the early 40's, the road was two very narrow lanes, and, in places, it
dropped off a cliff on one side and hugged side of the mountain on the
other side. We were sometimes held up while road workers cleared dirt,
rocks and even boulders off the highway, that had fallen from the cliffs
above, or, places where the road had fallen away into the valley on the
other side. Many times, we had to go for miles behind big trucks as they
labored up the mountains at a snail's pace and the cars lined up behind us
as far as you could see. We almost always saw a truck wreck, where one had
gone too fast in one of the hair-pin curves and gone off the mountain, or
where the brakes had burned out going down the mountain and the truck had
run off the road at the bottom. This happened a lot at the bottom of the
mountain at Mountainburg, and a friend that I met in later years who lived
at Mountainburg, told me that the kids there lived for the truck wrecks so
they could gather up the truck's contents that scattered all over the
wreck site and sell it or eat it.
It seemed that we had
at least one flat tire and sometimes more, and my mother usually changed
the tire herself, which I thought was very impressive.
My most vivid memory of all, was being carsick all the way there. It
started almost as soon as we got in the car, and by the time we got
through the mountains, I was just laying in the back seat and hoping to
die. We usually had to stop at least once for me to get out, unless I
could manage to go to sleep. In most of my memories of arrival at
Grannie's, it seemed that we usually got there at night, and I now realize
that my mother probably planned it that way so that I could sleep and not
get sick.
Even if I was asleep, it seemed I always knew when our arrival was
imminent, and I usually woke up when we turned off the highway on to the
dirt road that led to our destination. If it was daytime, and I was not
lying down in the back seat, I always watched for the little "log cabins"
of a motel that was built on top of a hill overlooking the highway right
before our turn-off.
Mother always had to shift into low gear to go up the hill to the house
and by that time I was very excited. Everyone who was at home would come
out into the yard to greet us. At the time of my first memories, I was the
only grandchild, and I guess our arrival was an occasion for them, as
well. I had nine aunts and uncles, the youngest of whom was only 2 years
older than me. My oldest aunt had gone off to Kansas City to make her
fortune, but the rest were there most of the time until the two older boys
went off to WWII, and the older girls always made a fuss over me, which I
enjoyed to the fullest. The only bad memory that I have of our arrival,
was that I had to undergo the ordeal, every time, of being asked
immediately if I had quit wetting the bed. This was an affliction that had
come upon me at age 6, when my brother was born. Whatever the psycology of
that event may have been, it became an object of torture and humiliation
gleefully inflicted by my younger aunts and uncles.
After everyone had calmed down, we would go into the house, and I remember
that it was dark inside except for the kerosene lamps. I later realized
that the walls, and probably even the rugs, were darkened and stained by
the smoke from the wood stoves and the kerosene lamps, to a uniform brown.
Probably, my very earliest memory is of that dark living room with it's
vaguely patterned dark beige wallpaper, and being rocked by my
grandmother, who sang as she rocked. The only song I remember, was one
about two children who wandered into the woods, got lost and died, and the
birds covered them up with strawberry leaves. I always got very sad and
cried when she got to this part, and I now wonder why on earth she would
sing such a song to a small child. I now wish I could remember the words
and melody to that song. I have never heard it since, and I am sure it was
probably something she learned as a child herself, from her family, who
came from Georgia in the mid 1800's.
If
we arrived at night, my grandfather was usually already asleep, having
probably gone to bed right after dark. I don't recall seeing him at those
times. After the excitement had subsided and everyone had settled down, we
were off to bed, taking our kerosene lamps, and going across the large
yard to the other house, where everyone slept, except my grandparents and
one or maybe two of the youngest kids.
At
this point, I think it may be important to explain the circumstances of
there being two houses on the farm. My grandfather, probably still in his
late teens, had become the farm manager for two unmarried sisters from
Illinois, who had traveled to Arkansas to Hot Springs to take the
therapeutic baths offered there. At some point, they purchased the farm
and the two story rock house and settled there in Boone County, near
Harrison. When my grandfather decided to marry the daughter of a
neighboring farmer, they built a "cottage" for the newlyweds across the
yard from the main house.
My mother says that
the original house was not as I remember it, but grew over the years,
until, by the time I came along, it consisted of two small bedrooms, a
dining room, living room and kitchen, and a covered front porch, which at
some point was screened in, a lean-to, built off of the kitchen, and a
sizeable attic. At the back was the outhouse and chicken house, where my
grandmother kept a sizeable flock of chickens. There was a swing on the
front porch, and some flower beds, which were outlined by whitewashed
rocks and usually contained some dahlias (always maroon) and some straggly
petunias. I also recall a lilac and a "Rose of Sharon" to the left of the
front porch.
There was a cellar
under the house, where all the canned goods and root vegetables were kept.
The dirt floor was covered with potatoes, and the walls with shelves of
mostly canned tomatoes and green beans. It was dark and cool, and my
grandfather often took a nap down there on hot summer afternoons on a
folding cot. My grandmother, at the first hint of a storm, would rush down
there in fear of tornados, and I recall her wanting me to go also, but
having learned that she would do this, I managed to be elsewhere at the
first hint of a storm. I had absolutely no fear of the storm and the
cellar seemed by far the worst threat. I hated to be asked to go down
there to fetch anything. It was full of spiders and, I imagined, other
unpleasant things. My grandmother was bitten down there by a spider,
probably what we now know to be a brown recluse, and had a huge pit of a
scar on her leg from it.
I also avoided the
outhouse. Someone cautioned me to always check the seat before sitting
down, and , from then on, I couldn't bear to go in there. I do recall the
inevitable Montgomery Ward catalogue, which, as I recall, was totally
inadequate for the job at hand. There was a regular bathroom in the old
two story house, and I made a great effort to make it there in times of
necessity.
My
grandfather apparently purchased and began to pay on a farm of his own,
but when the depression came, the "Misses Andrews" evidently became
financially strapped and were on the verge of losing their farm, and my
grandfather made some sort of arrangement to sell his farm and save theirs
in exchange for ownership of their farm with the stipulation that Clara
Andrews, who was severely crippled by arthritis, would be cared for until
her death. Minnie Andrews the other sister, was a registered nurse, and I
don't recall that she ever lived there after I began to spend time there,
but had gone to Kansas City, and at some point, got married. Consequently,
Clara inhabited the entire lower floor of the house, and my grandparent's
family, which had grown to 10 children, began to spill over into the
upstairs bedrooms of the main house. I don't recall sleeping anywhere but
in this house, usually in the room referred to as the "library", a small
room on the second floor, which contained a few shelves of books and a
cabinet model Victrola. I came to think of this room as "mine", and left
all my treasures there when I went home after the summer. My treasure
consisted of a large collection of paper dolls, a couple of beaded purses
from the 1820's "flapper" era, given to me by Clara Andrews,and some rocks
that were actually clumps of marine fossils that I found in the creek that
ran through the lower part of the farm. One summer, when I returned, my
grandmother had given my paperdolls away to a visiting cousin, and another
cousin of mine was given, or had taken, the two beaded purses. I was very
upset with my grandmother at the time, and still regret the loss of the
purses to this day, though I have never mentioned it to my cousin, who I
have met only on rare occasions. I have always been tempted to ask if she
still has them, and have wondered if she valued them as much as I. I don't
know what happened to my fossils, but my favorite one was mostly a solid
mass of skeletons of tiny creatures with shells like a snail.
My
grandmother was evidently mystified by my tears over the paper dolls, and
I don't think, ever understood why I was so upset. I don't recall that she
was ever very affectionate, and my memories of her are of someone who was
somewhat distant. I realize now, as an adult, that she was overwhelmed by
children and work, and that she probably had all she could do just to get
through a day, much less think about the importance to me of what she
probably considered my "childish" treasures. Even knowing this, I am
amazed that even now, I feel emotional about what I considered at the
time, to be her callous disregard for my feelings, and that, somehow, I
never quite felt the same about her. It makes me wonder what similar acts
I may have unknowingly inflicted on my own children, that may affect them
even today, as adults. The Party
Line I remember
when my grandparents had one of those old phones that hung on the wall and
had to be cranked. (I never did understand how that worked) There were a
lot of people on the party line and some of them would keep it tied up so
long, that my grandmother would have to ask them to get off. It could get
to be a real diplomatic problem, since everyone knew everyone else. We
kids used to get a kick out of listening in, though it was forbidden. I
also remember that my grandmother yelled into the phone as if speaking to
a deaf person. I think the voice on the other end was faint, which made
you feel that they couldn't hear you if you didn't yell. I'm not sure, but
my brother may have that old phone. We were on a party line right here in
Fort Smith when we first built our house in 1961, and were on it for many
years. It was cheaper than having a private line and we were always on a
tight budget. I never found the line tied up for some reason. It's funny
how something will make you think back. I spent the whole summer with my
grandparents every summer, and to me, that was home. It's amazing, now
that I look back, at how they lived. In my earlier memories, probably up
through the late 40's and 50's, they had no electricity. We used kerosene
lamps. They
had 10 kids and the place had two houses; one very old 2-1/2 story rock
house, (that's where the phone was, and when the phone rang, if someone
was there to answer it, they had to yell across the yard to the other
house for my grandmother) and, the "cottage" that my grandparents lived
in. When it got time for bed, we lighted the kerosene lamps and took off
across the dark yard for the other house to go to bed. It was scary and my
aunts and uncles, who were near my age, loved to hide and jump out and
scare someone. You also had to be careful not to trip over the blue-tick
coon hounds that were laying all over the yard. To take a bath, you had to
heat water on the wood stove in the cottage and carry it across the yard
to the bathtub in the other house, or, take a bath in the kitchen in a big
washtub next to the wood stove. The houses were at the top of a fairly big
hill, and all perishable foods were kept in a spring at the bottom of the
hill. It had been dammed up with a sizeable dam, and there was a
compartment left in the bottom of the dam with a door in which they kept
the milk and butter. I remember that at every meal, someone had to go to
the bottom of the hill for something. All meat, was provided by the farm,
and was kept in the smokehouse. I never could eat the bacon. It always
tasted rancid to me. (I'm sure it was) Now that I think about it, I don't
recall having anything but chicken and pork, and rarely a beef roast or
fish that my grandfather and uncles caught. The spring with it's dam all
covered with moss, was really beautiful. It was surrounded by big oak
trees. The water was so clear that it looked shallow, but was very deep.
The crawdads looked huge through that water. It somehow magnified their
size. My grandfather and uncles used to go on week-long fishing trips to
the White River and would come home with the most enormous catfish you
have ever seen. They would hang them up on hooks out in a lean-to behind
the cottage on big hooks, and use pliers to strip the skin off. The
catfish hung from the rafters almost all the way to the floor, and their
heads were enormous. After a fishing trip, they would have a big fish-fry
down at the spring for all the neighboring families. My grandfather would
drop the fish into a huge black kettle full of lard boiling over a big
fire. (I think it was the same kettle that my grandmother did the wash in
and was also used when they butchered hogs) The fish tasted delicious.
Maybe it was just that I was hungry all the time. Thinking back, I don't
know how everyone kept from getting food poisoning, with no refrigeration
and all that rancid meat.
Gosh, I don't know what made me ramble on so,
down "memory lane". I guess we all have such memories when we get to this
age. This last century has really covered a lot of territory in technical
advances, and I know my children just don't have any comprehension of
experiences like I had growing up. Look what just mentioning a "party
line" provoked!! The Truck Ride
The Truck ride is my other favorite. It was a
big treat to go to town in my grandfather's old black truck. It had wooden
rails, that I guess were home-made, built all around the sides and the
back of the cab. I guess it was used to haul cattle at times. We would
climb up on the rails behind the cab, so we could see everything. Our hair
whipped around in the wind, and it seemed like we squinted all the way to
town, though I don't know how we got that much velocity when my grand-dad
drove in second gear with the engine whining and protesting, all the way.
Looking back, he was probably a terrible driver; one of those "old
farmers" that my high school boyfriends "cussed" about when they pulled
out on the highway in front of them, and then puttered along at 15-20 mph,
riding the brakes on every hill and curve.
Little Children Lost
We had to take a "good" chaw of the tobacco,
chew it up, and then suck the raw egg. This was devised by my older
uncles, who got a great kick out of all the gagging and vomiting. It was
really kind of mean, but then, so were they. I think this all took place
after my mother had left me there and gone, for I don't think she would
have allowed it, had she been around.
I am working on this story and it is running
away with me. I was trying to recall my earliest memory, and it is of my
grandmother rocking me and singing a song about two children who wandered
into the woods, got lost and died, and the birds covered them up with
strawberry leaves. I always cried at the last part. Have you ever heard
such a song? I wish I could remember the words and tune. There are people
who collect and study the old songs from pioneer families, and I'm sure
this song was probably a remnant of those old pioneer days or maybe even
earlier to the immigrants, but I just can't remember it. |
