1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE/BEWARE OF STICKS

Susan, Jan and I often walked home from school with a group of kids that lived in town. Susan had two friends, Janice and Patricia, who were usually with us. Two boys named Larry and Robert, unrelated, but living near each other, also walked along. Sometimes there were as many as ten of us, and today that was true.

The girls wore dresses and penny loafers with bobby socks, the boys jeans and patterned cotton shirts. Jan, Larry, and I were the youngest. Most of the kids walking on this spring Tuesday afternoon were twelve years old. Larry was only eight, closer to my age of nine, but one year behind me in school. Jan was the youngest, only six.

Larry was an only child, and a little whiney for my taste, but still I liked to go to his house and play because they had chickens. It wasn't that I liked chickens so much, but I found it amusing that they got under the house with us when we crawled under there. The house sat on blocks and had no underpinning, so we were able to play in the dirt there by just ducking a little.

We could see all the way from the front to the back and side to side. Sitting under there, we dug dirt, played cars, and looked for worms and pillbugs. The chickens must have sensed what we were doing because they clucked and ducked their way under the house once we started playing, and then they moved ever closer, their tiny eyes focusing wickedly on the dirt piling up beside us.

I didn't like for them to get too close because I was a little scared of them, afraid they'd peck me or flog me with their wings, but they amused me with their weird noises, odd springy head movements, and malevolent eyes.

Larry's mother Edna called us for lunch around noon, and we ate catsup sandwiches. They almost rivaled the mustard and sugar ones that Boy and I ate at his house, but Edna didn't add any sugar to them which I thought might improve the taste.

A few times, I went to Larry's house on Sunday afternoon, and we ate at his paternal grandmother's house. She lived just down the road in town in a dark little house with heavy brocade drapes that never seemed to admit any sunlight. She cooked what she called a "log rolling" for Sunday lunch, which she called Sunday dinner. It sure beat the heck out of catsup sandwiches even if we had to stay in that cramped home with Larry's relatives.

Fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, fried okra and squash,blackeyed peas, fresh tomatoes, iced tea, and carrot cake for dessert. After she and Larry's mother cleaned up all the dishes for about twenty family members, she got out a big round tablecloth, gathered all the pans and bowls of food onto the round oak table and with one of them on each side, lifted the tablecloth in the air over the table and let it float parachute-like down over all the containers.

"Why are they covering the food like that?" I asked Larry.

"Aw, we'll eat that food tonight for supper," Larry said.

I stared at him, uncomprehending. "Will it just sit there till you eat it?" I asked, with increasing confusion.

"Yeah," he said. "Just on Sundays, we do that. That way they don't hafta put it all in the frigerator."

"Oh," I said simply, glad I would have to go home before supper. I wanted to remember to ask my mother what she thought of that. She was fastidious about refrigerating food, though we might eat bits of what she'd cooked for a week if any of it was left over, which was not often.

"We have iron stomachs, I hope," my dad would laugh.

Larry had run ahead of the group today about twenty yards, but he suddenly diverted into the grassy ditch to retrieve something, then took off running again. We could see a big twisted stick that moved up and down with each pump of his arms.

"Hey!" Robert, the only other boy, yelled. "Stop running with that stick! You'll put your eye out."

When the shout reached him, it appeared that Larry immediately stopped, braking abruptly with both feet. His right hand flew up toward his face, the stick moving upward, hitting him somewhere up there with a sickening snap. Larry screamed like a girl and turned to face us. Blood streamed from his right eye. His hand flew up to his cheek, wiping away blood, and he screamed again, louder this time. He looked frightening!

All of us except Robert stopped walking, staring at the scene before us.
Robert took off like he was running a sprint, moving toward Larry. Meanwhile Larry turned,still screaming, and began running away from us, zigging and zagging across the street. We figured he was heading home, which was about three blocks away, but he sure wasn't going to get there very fast running in that manner.

"Wait!" Robert called to him. "Wait, let me look at it. Let us help you. We can go in the Williams' house."

But I guess the adrenalin kicked in and Larry left us in the dust like the roadrunner left Wiley Coyote in the cartoons.

"Stupid kid," Robert said disgustedly, "I told him not to run with that stick. He probably put his eye out."

I didn't want to think about it. His eye, the chickens' eyes, staring, looking evil, blood flowing like a red river down his cheek. I wondered if he would have to wear a patch like Captain Hook if his eye was really put out.

"Mother," Susan said as we stormed through the front door. "Larry ran with a stick, and we think he put his eye out."

Mother's face registered alarm, and she went immediately to call Edna.

"He's going to be all right," she assured us when she hung up the phone. "Edna doesn't blame any of the other kids. She knows how highstrung he is. He even told her that one of the boys tried to help him."

We all breathed a sigh of relief, but all evening I had to shake my head to clear images of staring chicken eyes with blood running down their white feathered heads, a black patch attached loosely over the damaged eye.
It also occurred to me that I didn't want to eat any more catsup sandwiches at Edna's house.
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1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE/THE RUNT/PART 2

The chicken pen was only an interim solution. We hadn't planned on getting a dog. Certainly our parents hadn't. We had dog pens, proper ones, but they were filled with stinky hounds who were transported into the country at night to chase foxes and wolves. They'd kill Julie with happiness, they'd be so glad to have her in the pen.

They never met a dog or anything else they didn't like. They'd jump on her to say hello until she couldn't stand up, then lick her and nudge her till she'd die just to get away from them. We couldn't possibly put her in that pen.

The only other enclosure available was a chicken coop, but we'd never had chickens, not really, unless you count those little green and blue chickens we got at Easter some years. They never lived very long, though we fed them and tried to take good care of them.

We usually found them dead after a few weeks. Mother never liked the idea that they were dyed a color. She said yellow was good enough. She always thought the dye killed them once it got in their systems. She only bought them to save a few from the fate she felt most of them met.

"People buy them like they're candy. And they don't even have a place to keep them or kids who have any idea how to treat a chicken," she'd say as she put a tiny feeding center in the coop.

We had the coop all right, but it wasn't meant for a dog. Still, it was all we had for Julie until Daddy found time to build her a better one. We kept her out most of the day and played with her endlessly. We ran, she chased us. We hid, she found us. We fed her, she ate. We got drinks for ourselves out of the cistern and filled her waterbowl with the same fresh rainwater. We sipped, she lapped. Mother said she couldn't come in though. She never wanted a housedog.

So we put Julie in the coop when we went in the house for meals or to get in out of the worsening heat. It was May, and the Texas thermometer was starting to simmer. We placed the pen under the large oak tree beside the house. We rolled the chickenwire coop over, its spare framing holding it taut, so that the small rectangular door was on the top.

We'd pick her up, drop her gently through the opening and latch the door. She showed her dislike of this arrangement by jumping up and bumping the door repeatedly with the top of her head, trying to get out, whining loudly all the while. I found her behavior upsetting.

This behavior concerned all of us, but bothered me so much that I rushed through meals, often stopping midmeal to run out and check on her. We had only had her three days, and Daddy had set posts for a new pen in the pasture beside the house. He would bring the wire home to finish the new pen after he left the gin today.

Today, though, Julie seemed to sense impending freedom and to resent the restriction of the coop even more. Her jumping was turbocharged, her whines louder than ever. For some reason, during supper, I felt the need to jump up and check on her and rose suddenly from my chair.

"Are you through eating?" Mother asked.

"No, I'm going to check on Julie," I said as I moved quickly toward the backdoor.

"Now, you need to finish supper," she said, but for some reason I ignored her, heading with singleminded determination for the backyard, moving like a piece of iron drawn by a powerful magnet. Opening the back screened door, I let out an odd screaming sound I didn't recognize as my own voice. Now frozen, with wooden legs and arms, I watched as several people ran past me toward the coop.

Julie hung suspended, her head trapped in the partially open door of the pen, legs pedaling furiously. There was no sound from her. Her brown eyes were huge, bulging, filled with fear.

My brother Elton grabbed the pen door, opened it and swooped Julie up by her torso. I was at his side in an instant. She whimpered, and he handed her to me. We were both quivering. Elton patted my shoulder and patted Julie's head.

"She's okay now. Lucky you went to check on her," he consoled me. "Daddy, where is that wire for the new pen? I'll go ahead and get that done."

That night Mother didn't say anything when Julie slept on the foot of my bed. She just didn't acknowledge it. Starting the next day, Julie had a nice large pen to stay in when we weren't playing with her. But Julie ended up sleeping on the foot of my bed every night until the end of her life; Mother never mentioned it. After all, she didn't approve of dogs in the house.
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1950S SMALL TOWN LIFE/THE RUNT

I don't think my erudite grandfather drank, though I can't imagine what else could have prompted him to mention the new litter of boxer puppies that were born to his next door neighbors' beloved pet Gretta. Susan, Jan, and I immediately jumped up and down, alternately grabbing Mother's hands and turning in circles, begging her to let us go see them.

"We just want to see them," Jan whined.

"Mother, can we just go over and pet them for a minute?" Susan asked reasonably. I saw Mother's look change as she gazed at Susan, whose voice always seemed able to pierce the din of childrens' voices and reach the ears of the adults.

"I really want a dog," I piped up, though I hadn't given it a thought prior to seconds ago.

At that remark, I saw Mother grimace, hesitate, and for a minute I thought I had ruined our chances of getting our hands on the puppies.

"Oh, okay," she relented. "Dad, can you go over with us?" she said while moving toward the door, followed by her own three puppies, happily skipping, scuffling, and yipping all the way to the neighbors' house.

Mrs. Minter opened the door and smiled at the multiple knocks from three small pairs of fists. "Oh, I guess you've come to the see the puppies." She smiled down at us benignly. "How do you do, Mr. Newlin?" she said more formally than neighbors should, it seemed to me.

"The girls would like to see them. Do you mind if they hold them a little?" he asked.

"Oh no, not at all," she said leading us to a huge basket filled with boxer puppies crawling in all directions and spilling out over every edge. They were pawing at each other, squealing, tumbling from the basket, running about the room, furry brown balls of energy with varied white markings on their faces. Their mother lay on the floor against the wall, impassively watching their frenetic activity, her jowls making her look permanently out of sorts.

We melted to the floor, laughing, enchanted by their sharp little yips, and tried to corral them. Susan sat with two on her lap; Jan got one and petted it tenderly. While still trying to catch one to caress, I noted a furtive movement in the corner under a wooden chair.

A tiny brown puppy with no white markings of any kind on its face tried unsuccessfully to hide. It was half the size of the others and had large, sad brown eyes and a black button nose. I imagined that it flashed me a "help" message from its soulful eyes. Crawling under the chair, I gently pulled the tiny dog from its ill chosen hiding place.

It nestled close and didn't struggle or try to get away. In fact, within a few minutes, Susan remarked that it looked "proud".

Mrs. Minter was engrossed in a conversation with Mother. "Yes, we have them all sold. You know they're from a good bloodline, so it's not hard to sell them. Our Gretta is quite a specimen, don't you think?"

"She's sure BIG," Mother said, uncharacteristically succinct, glancing briefly in the dog's direction.

Gretta stared back angrily.

Mother was observing us with the puppies, and likely planning our exit.

"Well, thank you Mrs. Minter. The girls enjoyed seeing the little things, I'm sure. Didn't you girls?" We obediently and simultaneously nodded our heads yes, and Susan and Jan gently put their little charges down on the floor, watching them scamper off to play with their six siblings. I couldn't force myself to let go of the little brown furball I held in my lap yet.

"Let's go, girls," Mother said with finality, looking directly at me.
I stood reluctantly, my new brown friend still cuddled in my arms.

"Felisa, put the little thing down. We have to go. Anyway, all these have been sold; they have homes."

"Except that one," Mrs. Minter said unexpectedly, pointing toward me.

Mother looked like she wanted to bolt. "Why not that one?" she asked, appearing fairly disinterested in the answer.

"Oh, well that one is a runt. No one would pay anything for that one. Didn't you see how she stayed in the corner? Even the other puppies push her around. They know she's weak. I don't know what we'll do with her. I'm just not sure. Can the girls....?"

Mother interrupted her in midsentence, but by then we had heard what she started to say and I tightened my hold on the puppy nestled in the crook of my arm, hiding, as though we had practiced for this moment and the pathetic look she'd project toward my mother when it was time.

"Please-------please, please,please,please,please," we all said over and over, small obnoxious parrots chanting the same word until someone wants to stop the sound by strangulation. Mother shot a glance at me.

I tried to look pitiful and mentally signaled my new best friend for the "pathetic look" which she delivered like a pro. Our mother's face softened, more in resignation than happiness, and she told Mrs. Minter we'd take the puppy and could we pay her. Mrs. Minter laughed at that.

"I should pay you" she said amiably. I noticed Mother didn't return her good humor. My granddad, who had been unnaturally quiet the whole visit, turned toward me, reached out, and patted the little mutt, then gently patted my shoulder.

"You all will be good to her," he said quietly, smiling down as all of us huddled around the dog, hands soothing her.

All six hands were vying for the little pup, but I held on tight, marching proudly back to my grandparents sprawling white two story home.

"Dad," mother whispered behind us. "Did you know she had a puppy to give away?"

"Libby, I swear I didn't," but I detected laughter in my grandfather's voice.

We spent the remainder of the spring afternoon on the large wooden L-shaped front porch playing with Julie. We had christened her within an hour or so, after some brief skirmishes about the name, several ending in our hitting each other in the back. Purple iris and wisteria vines silently observed us, hoping, I'm sure, to have their quiet sanctuary back once we left that Sunday evening.

Julie didn't seem to care what we called her as she ran willy nilly about the porch, her unclipped ears, clipped tail and large feet giving her a goofy appearance. While we were involved in a heated argument about her name, it nearly became a moot point when she ran to the screen door that opened into the parlor and came face to face with Granddad's rotweiller, Boots, who barked at her loudly and then tried mightily to come through the screen, succeeding in tearing it about eight inches at the side before Granddad pulled him away by his thick leather collar and shut the wooden door.

On the trip home, all three of us rode in the back of the pickup, playing under a patchwork quilt with our little treasure. The quilt, made in 1926 by Mrs. Mollie Frazier, or at least that's what was embroidered in the corner of it that I was holding down, flapped wildly in the wind as our dad drove the turquoise vehicle down the two-lane highway from Ennis toward Corsicana.

Each of us held a corner, leaving the fourth corner to flap at will. We took turns holding Julie, grabbing for the corner when we could, trying to secure it so our tent would be cozy and safe for her.

As we arrived at the northern edge of Corsicana, I reached to grab the popping quilt corner, but was distracted by large letters spread across a building we were passing. I was just learning to read, so I sounded them out, "A DAM HAT FACTORY," I pronounced, absorbing what it spelled.

"What, what?!" Susan said from under the quilt. "What are you saying?" she asked with a hint of incredulity.

I repeated what I had read. " A dam hat factory."

Silence except for the flapping of the quilt. A corner folded over toward the center and Susan's head appeared. She looked east over her left shoulder and started laughing. "Adam," she said. "Adam Hat Factory."

"Oh," I said quietly, ducking my head under my corner of the quilt.

Julie belonged to all of us, but I really wanted her to be mine. In a few days, something would happen that would cement our bond and make me feel like she belonged only to me.




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