1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE:OF SPINNING HULA HOOPS AND SPINNING CHICKENS

The orange Hula Hoop spun around my waist, and Becky stood a few feet away making a bright green one do exactly the same thing.  We were trying to win the prize at Robert's birthday party for the person who could keep the hoop going the longest.  

The boys couldn't do it at all.  Their hips just wouldn't swivel the way ours did.  We laughed at their efforts,  grabbed the brightly colored hoops, stepped inside them, lifted them waisthigh, and started the rotation by giving the hoops a brisk push in a circular motion, lifting our arms out of the way so we could keep the motion going by moving our hips slightly with each rotation.

Our mothers looked at us, laughed, and shook their heads.  My concentration was broken looking at them, and I failed to keep the momentum of my hoop going;  it started wobbling.  I tried wildly to keep it going by making bigger ovals with my hips, but it made two or three lopsided circles, then fell to the ground at my feet.  Becky kept hers going for ten or more rotations and was a gracious winner, offering to share her candy prize with me.

The site for the contest was Robert's  front yard, which faced the farm to market road that was also the main street of town.   Fifty yards down the street stood the wooden revival tabernacle where we sometimes sweated and swatted mosquitoes on summer nights while listening to a visiting preacher's forceful sermons.

Just south the two family-owned grocery stores sat on opposite sides of the street.  Beside one of the stores, the blacksmith pounded away in his shop, where you could see  a fire burning inside most days, and hear the loud metallic clank of iron against iron.

Beside the other grocery, the post office, its flagpole standing at attention, was host to everyone in town almost every day.   I memorized our box number-367  , but I didn't even know our telephone number; it was only one digit, but if I needed to call home from someplace else, I just said "give me the Skinner residence, please" because my mother taught me to use good manners with the operator, even if I suspected she sometimes listened in on conversations. 

Standing in front of the green asbestos-sided house, we smiled broadly at people in town who passed by in cars and waved at us real friendly-like while we hula hooped.  Everyone had heard about the new hoops, and this was the first time people in Purdon had seen them in use, so they stared as they passed on their way to and from the stores and the post office.  We just made a few tries spinning the hoops,  and shortly, we got the hang of it and were able to keep them going around our waists for several minutes.

My mother laughed and said we moved our hips like Elvis Presley.  He wouldn't be shaking those hips much anymore, she said, because he was going into the Army.  It had been on television for a month or more, and they were planning to show him getting his substantial head of hair shaved on television when he was inducted into the service.

Robert had the mumps like the rest of us this past school year. I only got them on one side, but Susan had them in both sides, and Mother took a picture which made us laugh every time we saw it.  Even Susan laughed, although she said it made her hurt to think of it.  She looked like a chipmunk with the winter's store of nuts in her cheeks. 

Mother got a funny look every time we mentioned Robert and the mumps though.  She said something one day about them "settling", but then wouldn't say anymore.  I was curious about a lot of things, but for some reason I let that rest and didn't ask further about it.  Anyway, I thought that Robert's mother wanted to make this party special for him because of the "settling".

She asked Mother if Neila would bring Lady, her gentle horse, down to the party and let all the kids ride.  Neila dressed Lady up in a Cowboy hat with holes cut out for ears.  I was afraid she'd bring her down there in the pink hat she put on her one time for Susan and my joint birthday party.  I didn't think Robert would like that.

He liked to wear cowboy boots and drink straight out of the cold water bottle in the refrigerator.  That made me sick.  When I played over there, I always asked Mrs. Miller if I could have water from the faucet with ice.  That assured that I wouldn't be drinking out of the same jug as Robert.  Mother was a fanatic about few things, but strangely germs, especially germs you could get from eating and drinking after other people, sent her into orbit, and I guess I picked that idea up from her.

"Don't ever drink after anyone," she'd say.  "That's a sure way to get sick."

Well, I did get the mumps anyway, but it wasn't because I ate or drank after anyone.

I could just picture invisible things floating in the water and food after someone had taken a drink or a bite.  It wasn't hard  to follow Mother's instructions in that regard.

Mrs. Miller was always really nice to me.  She just had one son too,  like three other families where I often played, and I always thought she treated me as if I were her little girl.  Maybe I just wanted to think that, but anyway she treated me really special.  If Robert and I got in a fight, she always took my side. 

"Stop that," she'd say to him, even before she knew what was happening.  "What did you do? Are you not sharing?" 

Poor Robert would be so dumbfounded at her verbal rampage that he just stood mute,  a toy gun dangling at his side, his cowboy hat hanging at his back, attached by a thick cord around his neck.  He'd scuff his cowboy boots on the floor while he tried to think how to defend himself.

When he'd retrieved his voice, he'd start, "Awwww, Maaaama, I didn't do nothin'", but before he could finish, she made a rapping motion with her fist toward his head, and he ducked  and stopped talking, seeing that she had her mind made up.

I tried not to take too much advantage of her obvious bias toward my side, but after she turned down the hall headed for the kitchen where she was cutting up a chicken to fry, if Robert didn't do what I wanted, I simply moved my head slowly in the direction of the kitchen, and he immediately gave in.  I pretty much got to play with whatever I chose for the rest of the afternoon.

I was glad she didn't have to go out and kill the chickens and pop their heads off like she used to when they lived in the country.  Susan and I had gone out there to play one day several years earlier, and we were on the screened porch when she walked into the bare dirt backyard, her cotton dress billowing in the breeze, threw some feed on the ground, and once the hens were contentedly pecking away at the grain, jerked one up by the neck and swung it around fast three or four times till its head let loose from its body.

 I started crying while Susan took several steps backward, tripping and almost falling into the family's tin washtub; then she stood shellshocked. 

Robert looked at me and said, "Whatchu cryin' about, crybaby?  It's just an old chicken.  It didn't hurt it.  That's supper, and my mama fries gooood chicken."

When Mrs. Miller came back inside after plucking all the feathers off the hen, she seemed surprised that I was crying and Susan was standing inordinately still like a human statue, staring out into the yard.

"Oh," she said.  "Oh,oh,oh.  Oh, dear.   You girls have never seen anyone wring a chicken's neck?"

"No ma'am," I blubbered.

Susan proved unable to respond, her deep brown eyes seemingly set, staring straight ahead. 

Mrs. Miller set the chicken carcass on a  small board shelf beside the door next to a bar of soap, and gathered us into her ample arms, squeezing tight.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't realize you hadn't seen that done afore.  It don't hurt 'em.  It happens too fast.  Besides, chickens have  little bitty brains.  The others watch it happen, but it never dawns on them that the next time it could be them.  They don't even run away like animals that have some sense.  I'm sorry," she said again, letting go of us and knocking the soap onto the floor when she picked up the dead bird.  Then she headed off to the kitchen, the hen, its skinny legs stretched taut, dangling headdown, lifeless, next to her thick thighs.

"I hope we're not staying for supper," I whispered to Susan.

"We're not," she said with more determination than I'd ever heard in her voice.  "I'll call Mother if she's not here by 4:30."


The party was in full force after everyone had ridden Lady.  Neila patiently walked the horse around and around in the back yard under the shade of a huge post oak tree until all the kids had ridden.  We waved goodbye to Lady, and Neila hopped in the saddle and trotted off toward home. 

We all traipsed inside, and Robert opened his gifts.  He got a lot of trucks, toy guns, and his parents gave him a real BB gun.  They reminded him that he could only use it if they were with him, and only in the woods. 

After cake and ice cream and the obligatory singing of "Happy Birthday", Robert wanted to play with his toys, and we were ready to go home.  We alternately walked and skipped home, Mother skipping with us and challenging us to a race when we reached the railroad tracks and could see the house.  I'm not sure it was because she wanted to race or because she wanted to hurry and get home when she saw what was going on in the front yard.

Stephen had several friends over, and they were trying to rig something up on the roof where they could jump off.  They had an orange thing they said was an old Army parachute.  My mother put an end to the jump training as we entered the driveway, but she invited everyone in for cold drinks.  The boys were hot from their efforts and agreed to come in and have something. 

Once inside, their substantial energy seemed to surge, and they seemed to be everywhere, yelling to each other, throwing balls, running upstairs, thundering back downstairs, plinking on the piano in the living room, and slurping their drinks.  Most of them wanted cold cokes out of the bottle, and they left the glass bottles all over the house.

 Neila had a friend visiting, and they had been quietly looking at magazines in her room when they had heard the thumps from the roof, but had tried to no avail to get the boys to come down. 
They gave up and decided to enjoy their day, ignoring the mischief going on above them.

When all the boys suddenly stormed into the house, the girls grabbed their magazines and stashed them under the bed.  Several boys  barged into her room and asked what they were doing, teasing them about their magazines, and saying they were going to find what they were reading.  Both of them sat impassive on the bed until the boys left. 

Mother came into the bedroom shortly after to say hi and tell Neila she was home, as if it weren't evident. 

Helen, Neila's friend, was an only child, and she was used to a calm, controlled life with her quiet mother and father.  The rowdiness of the boys with their loud talk and play seemed to unnerve her.  She motioned her head toward the living room where two boys tossed a ball, one banged on the piano, and two more were fighting, rolling onto the couch, falling to the floor, and scooting the big chaise chair around each time they rolled over. 

"How can you stand this, Mrs. Skinner?   Why don't you stop it?"  she asked plaintively, as though it physically hurt her.  "They're going to ruin  your furniture."



"One day," our Mother said calmly, "they'll all be grown and gone-- and I'll just buy some more furniture." Then she looked  at Helen and laughed her pure, unpretentious laugh.   Helen stared at her, uncomprehending.

That pretty much summed it up.  There were six kids, their friends, and one adult who still appreciated the value of playing.  She could call time when needed, but she had a different perspective than a lot of parents, and it made growing up with her so much fun.




Installed

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: THE HAZARDS OF DATING

Tonight looked to be exciting. Neila had a date!! With any luck, she'd bring him back home and they would sit in the living room which was situated right next to the bedroom that Susan, Jan and I shared. We watched television with our parents until 10 p.m. when the news came on. Then we meandered one by one into our room, and put on our matching pink cotton shorty pajamas,  killing time until we heard the telltale slamming of two car doors.

"They're here!" Susan said, uncharacteristically interested.

"Mother and Daddy just turned off the tv and went to bed," I noted.

"I think I hear them," Jan added. "The front door just opened."

"Quick!" I said. "Shut the bedroom door." Something blonde flashed past me and hit the door with a quick slap, slamming it into the facing with finality.

Without consultation,  Susan and I ran simultaneously to the door to join Jan and each pressed an ear to the hard thick wood.

"I can't hear anything," Jan said in a stage whisper.

"Shhh," Susan put her finger to her lips and frowned at her.

I shrugged at Susan. "Nothing," I mouthed.

Just then we noticed Jan slidiing her head downward on the door. We didn't immediately understand why until we saw her grab the brown metal doorknob to stabilize herself so she could turn and peer through the keyhole. She squinted with her right eye and looked with her left, but she seemed to be having trouble getting anything in focus.

"Move over," I said, shoving her into the cedar chest beside the door.

I positioned my eye on the keyhole. "There they are. They're coming in the front door." I said with some excitement.

"Let me see, please," Susan said, edging me out of the way.

Jan pouted, sitting on the edge of the cedar chest. "I thought of it first," she said, sticking her lip out.

Susan was now sighted in on the green brocade couch, which sat directly opposite our bedroom door on the far wall of the living room, next to the front door.

She made motions with her long, delicate hands indicating that we should be quiet.

In just a few moments, though, she seemed to lose interest. "They're sitting on the couch. I don't think we should be doing this," she said. "It's not really very nice to Neila. She might get mad at us. Let's go to bed."

"Ok," Jan said too quickly.

"Wait, Jan," I said, trying to muster soldiers for a new plan I felt forming in my vacuous head.

"Let's jump from the chest of drawers to the bed,  then run to the cedar chest and open and shut the door while we do it.  We'll each start at a different place and cross in the middle."

The door would never stay shut for long by itself because the house had shifted and none of the doors fit perfectly in their frames.

The chest of drawers stood on the left side of the door,  with  the bed  situated lengthwise at a 90 degree angle to it;  the cedar chest was on the right side of the door.

"Ok," I instructed her, trying not to look at Susan's disapproving face. "You get on the cedar chest, and I'll get on the chest of drawers. When I tell you, pop the doorknob and swing the door toward me. You jump off the cedar chest and run across to the bed. I'll jump off the chest of drawers onto the bed, onto the floor, then catch the door and swing it closed,  run across the room and  jump on the cedar chest. Then we'll repeat it in reverse, with me popping the doorknob."

Susan made no secret of rolling her eyes.

"Get on the cedar chest," I told my minion, while I stepped nimbly from the bed onto the top of the chest of drawers.

"Ok," she said, turning and crawling up.

"You understand what to do?" I asked authoritatively.

"Uhuh," she said, looking slightly uncomfortable.

"Ok, go!" I said jumping with all my might onto the bed, then bouncing up off it onto the floor and running across toward the cedar chest, hitting the door which had swung open.  I hit the door so hard with my flat palms that they felt like they'd been stung by a hundred bees.

Once Jan was in place on the chest of drawers, I gave the command again, then popped the doorknob, sending the door flying open.  Jan was to slam it shut, but she was not fast enough in getting down to the floor, so the door stayed open, and we had to hide, both of us now cowering on the bed, watching the door shimmy slightly on its  hinges.

"Felisa?  Jan?"  We heard Neila's voice and looked sheepishly at each other.  "What are you doing?  You should be in bed."

We didn't answer, but hunkered down now, dreading what came next.

She entered the doorway, and looked toward us.  Susan had burrowed down in her bed and pretended to be asleep.

"Now you need to go to sleep.  You haven't shown  Bill that  you have very good manners, now, have you?"

We ducked our heads, unable to meet her gaze.

"Sorry," Jan said, meaning it.

"Sorry, too," I said, probably meaning it.

"Goodnight.  Bill is going home in a few minutes.  See you in the morning."

"Night," we said, barely looking at her.

"That was dumb of us," I said, realizing that most of it was my fault.

"I agree," Susan said, suddenly awake.

"Neila's not mad", Jan offered.

"Yeah, but I feel stupid." I said. "Bill probably thinks we're idiots.  And what if he never asks her out again because she has sisters who act like monkeys?"

"Well, I don't think she really wanted to go out with him again," Susan said, "so maybe we did her a favor."  

"We'll find out tomorrow," I imagine, I said resignedly, pulling the sheet and bedspread over my head.

"Can we jump off the chest tomorrow?  That was fun!" my former minion asked. 

"You'll have to ask Mother; and for goodness sake, don't tell her that we already did it!"

I sank into the bed, pulling the covers tightly around me,  hoping to lose my immaturity in them.
Installed

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: Waste, Waste, and more Waste

Getting rid of things we didn't need presented a problem in Purdon. We had no city services; we didn't even know what "city services" were. Our family and all the other families got rid of everything ourselves and provided our own disposal tasks.

We didn't need police because people either just killed each other, got over it, or the family intervened; in extreme cases, they took retaliation into their own hands, usually with an unpleasant outcome. Decent people knew the sheriff and deputy sheriffs for Navarro County, and they rushed out to Purdon on the highway in their squad cars when things got out of hand, which was rare.

We didn't seem to have many fires because people didn't throw their cigarette butts out car windows or just any old where, like on the street. They put them in ashtrays in the cars and homes and emptied the stale contents every few days. Events like when my brother and Phil threw the matches in the dry grass were infrequent, and since so many women were home in the daytime, these aberrant occurrences were often spotted early enough to be handled by the swift application of water from a garden hose.

Water quality was excellent for most people, coming either from underground wells or large metal cisterns that caught the pure rainwater that fell in the spring and fall assuring cool, refreshing water for the searing summers.

Of course no garbage services were offered either, so folks had to figure out what to do with the leftovers. We rarely used paperplates or any paper products besides toilet paper, which went into the septic tank and paper towels (which for some unknown reason we called towel paper). Canned vegetables provided the most problematic accrual of waste.

Everyone in town had a "burn barrel", a 50 gallon barrel that sat at the back of the yard. There we burned the "towel paper" and labels off vegetable, fruit, and soup cans. The whole can was tossed in the barrel, and though it wouldn't burn, developed a lovely ashy coating that if touched adhered to one's skin, creating a charcoal colored smear that required lots of scrubbing with soap and water to remove.

For some reason, the fire in that barrel and its sooty contents, was an endless source of fascination for most kids, and we six were no exception, though the older three kids had outgrown playing with the fire in the barrel by the time we younger three got started with it.

"Don't play with the fire in the barrel," my dad would warn, eyeing the flames licking the top of the barrel rim, as he left for work.

"Ok," the three of us said in unison, sticks in hand.

As soon as we heard his truck slow to cross the railroad tracks 15 yards from the house, we hurried to the barrel to see what we could make happen.

"Stick your stick in and see if you can set it on fire," I told Susan.

"Ok," she said unusually agreeably. In seconds, the flames lit the dry branch, and she made neat, tight circles over the barrel with her flaming torch. We watched, hypnotized.

"I'll light mine next," I suggested. She didn't say anything, so I took that as affirmative. It didn't take long for the stick to ignite. The summer heat had sucked it bone dry. I had snapped it easily off the lower part of the large oak next to the house. The others had picked theirs up off the ground.

I held my stick tentatively over the barrel with one hand, bending my knees to reach a stick for Jan that lay between us. "Here," I said with uncharacteristic kindness. "Want to set your stick on fire? We're doing a fire dance with our hands. See?"

"Um, yeah," she said, looking to Susan for reassurance. But Susan was too enamored of her twirling fiery stick and didn't give her the go ahead.
Jan never trusted me as much as she did our older sisters, and rightly so.

Jan's head was just even with the top of the barrel so she couldn't see the flames inside. I reached over and helpfully slid her stick toward the fire.

"Ouch," she said, accidentally touching the side of the rusted barrel, "that's hot," and she dropped her stick into the barrel. Her protest seemed to shake Susan out of a trance, and she suddenly let go of her own stick and watched it fall into the flames.

I held defiantly onto my burning branch even as Susan nodded toward me to let it go. When I didn't drop it, she reminded me with a voice filled with recrimination.

"Now let it go. We shouldn't be doing this anyway. Daddy told us not to, and Mother will be disappointed if she sees what we've done. Remember when you caught the rug and your hair on fire? You don't need to be playing with this. You could get hurt."

Reluctantly, I released my tight grip on the stick and let the rest of it fall into the barrel, the flames licking happily at its dry bark, turning it immediately into tiny glowing red embers.

Inside, we busied ourselves with our dolls while Mother mopped all the linoleum floors. I went into the living room to plink on the old upright and managed to irritate everyone but Mother who said it sounded lovely, and that she thought I had some talent.

Behind the piano, I noticed a small white item, so I retrieved a coat hanger, and stuck it back there, scraping it against the white form, my face pressed against the wall, until finally I pulled it to me. It was one of Daddy's cigarettes. I looked around furtively and picked it up. Mother had already moved to another room with her mop and bucket of water.

"Daaahling," I said, putting it to my lips. "What shall we do today? Everyone wants to swim, so let's go to the pool in the backyard. I can hardly wait to see what your swimsuit looks like. Is it red? You know I love red." I took an imaginary puff, blowing out with great emphasis, then holding the thin tube out between two fingers, my hand posed dramatically near my face, visualizing my conversation partner and her admiring gaze.

"I love red too, daaaahling" a voice said. It was Susan. "What is that in your hand?............Oh my gosh, put that down! How do you find these things?"

I dropped it from my draped hand immediately, reality speeding quickly into the room.

"Sorry," I said. "Don't tell Mother?"

She pursed her lips, considering. "Oh, okay. If you throw it away right now."

I did. And she didn't.

The tobacco tasted rank. Living for a while behind the piano probably didn't improve its taste. Smoking looked so sophisticated on television and the movies, and we loved "smoking" our candy cigarettes, which looked something like the real thing and which we bought in little authentic-looking cigarette packages. But after that brief taste of the true thing, smoking was never a real temptation again. The stale taste stayed in my memory bank, not something I wanted to repeat.

After supper that evening, Daddy said "I think I'll empty that barrel. It's getting too full. It should be cooled off by now. You didn't burn anything in it this afternoon, did you?"

"No," Mother said. "Let me put on some old clothes and I'll help you."

"Can we go?" Jan asked.

"Sure honey," but you need to stay in the front of the truck. It's really dirty there."

"I don't want to go," Susan said. "I'm going to stay here with Neila and study."

"Hey, Daddy," I said, remembering something I needed to tell him. "Do you remember the family we told you moved to town last week? The Reeds?"

"Yes, I remember you mentioning them, but I haven't seen them around town or met them yet."

"Yeah, they said they hadn't met you either. But I told them what you looked like."

"Oh, you did, did you?" My father was overweight, had always worn thick glasses, and was balding quickly, but he was a fastidious dresser and attentive to his appearance. My mother, on the other hand, was slim and pretty, but didn't spend much time "fixing up", preferring to spend her time doing things with the kids.

"Well what did you tell them I looked like?" he said, smiling, hoping for a good reference.

"I just told them you were short, fat, bald and wore glasses," I said sincerely.

When I saw the crestfallen look on his face as he said with uncharacteristic meekness "Oh," I added helpfully, "But I told them you were real friendly and nice and that you didn't smell bad when you sweated."

"Lib," he called. "Let's go."

The trip to the large ditch where everyone in Purdon and the surrounding area dumped their burn barrels was quick. It was only a mile or so down a gravel road. Most of the stuff dumped there was burned cans since everyone fed old food to their pets or wildlife, burned excess paper, and had appliances that were as old as their kids. You rarely saw an appliance in there. People repaired them or traded them in .

There was one swing set lying on its side, and Jan was standing up in the seat of the truck looking out the wide back window. Her eyes lit up when she saw it and she started pointing. I had crawled up in the back bed of the truck to get a better view of the action.

Mother and Daddy were up in the bed of the truck, wrestling the barrel to the back where they had let the tailgate down. Daddy got down on the ground at the edge of the tailgate and took hold of the bottom of the rusted barrel. He ran his hand across the bottom of the barrel. "No holes," he reported. "We can keep burning in it another six months or so."

Mother held the rim at the top of the barrel and together they eased it down to the ground. Then they "walked" and rolled it as far into the edge of the thousands of burned cans as they could.

"On three," my father said, counting slowly. When he said three, they tilted the barrel, emptying its black sooty cans into the heap of thousands of cans already deposited there.

"That looks ugly," I observed.

"Soil erosion control," Daddy said without a smile.

"I agree, it looks ugly. There's no place else to put it though," Mother answered me. "Everybody puts their burned cans in the same place so it only makes one messy place. Someone threw their swingset in there. They should have broken it down and used the pipe to make something else like your Daddy does," she said.

Jan was still focused on the spindly legs of the swingset sticking up like an upended praying mantis and was pointing and jumping up and down on the seat, like she had spotted something in the Sears toy department that we should buy.

"No!" I shouted, shaking my head forcefully.

"It's better than ours!" she yelled, pressing her lips against the thick glass, distorting them grotesquely.

"No! It's not!" I yelled louder. "It's an old one, and anyway we can't get it! There are probably snakes in under those cans!"

Mother and Daddy didn't say anything, but when I turned to see where they were, they were walking toward the cab of the truck, both looking at the ground, kicking stray cans toward the ditch. Mother was laughing; Daddy looked chagrined.

"Maybe we won't bring the girls next time," he said so low I thought he was talking to himself.



Installed

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: SEW-AGE

The fall air felt cool and crisp, filling our noses with the fresh scents of the chrysanthemums blooming in two small green plastic pots beside the back door. Jan and I were as excited as if we were heading for the State Fair in Dallas.

The white truck was already parked out back of the house and several men were jockeying large hoses into position behind the truck. They looked like hoses on the vacuum cleaner, only larger and longer. They took shovels from the truck interior and began digging in the hard gravel driveway.

After a few minutes, one of them got a pickaxe and attacked the hard ground, causing small chunks to fly up over their heads, shoot sideways, and occasionally hit them directly in the face, causing them to grimace and spit.

"That's hard, and dirty," I remarked to no one in particular, gazing out the screened door at the back of the house.

Our cousin Phil, who had come to stay the weekend, came down from the boys' bedroom upstairs, and stepped out of the stairwell that opened into the enclosed backporch where we stood.

"It's going to get harder and dirtier" he laughed, moving past us through the screened door and walking to a spot beyond where the men were digging. They didn't look at him-just kept working, chipping away at the packed gravel.

He leaned casually against a clothesline pole, observing them with an amused expression on his face.

Jan and I looked at each other, puzzled by his expression. We were waiting until someone besides the men were outside, but we wanted to go out. We didn't want to miss this, though we weren't sure what "this" was.

Susan, on the other hand, had said haughtily earlier "I want no part of the day's activities' I'm going to try to finish the book I'm reading, Charlotte's Web. It's so good. I have to return it to the library Monday anyway."

My dad had suggested to Mother that she take us elsewhere today while the men completed the work, but Mother thought it would be educational. We had all gone to see Bridge on the River Kwai last night at the drivein. "dahdah, dah dah dah dah dah dah; dahdah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah, dah; dahdah; dah dah dah dah dah; dah dah dah dahdah dah dahdah dah dah."

The tune played incessantly in my head. I couldn't whistle, so I just sang it with the "dah, dah, dahs". Eventually, it got on my sisters' nerves the night before, and they told me rather rudely to stop "dah dahing". I just sang it quietly enough that they couldn't hear, but I really couldn't stop. They never seemed to understand that about me.

This morning, though, my obsessive singing was just background music that no one seemed to notice since the activity outside drowned it out. Shovels scraping loudly against the hard gravel, the vacuum motor on the truck surging, men grunting, sweating (though that didn't make any noise), the pinging of the pickaxe against the ground, and the men occasionally swearing, while Phil stood chuckling near the clothesline.

My dad was at work. He would not have allowed us to watch, hear the bad words the men were saying, or get near their work area. Mother was buried in clothing, sorting winter clothes in the large closet in their room, oblivious to the developing excitement outside.

One of the men yelled, "I think we've got it, boys.
Get the shovels and wedge them under the edge of the concrete lid."

All three of the men lined the flat edges of the shovels up in a straight row against something we couldn't see. Each placed one foot onto the top of the shovel blade and leaned hard on it, pressing down, their faces reddening with the effort. Two of them let out big puffs of air.

As we stared at the gravel driveway, it seemed to open up as the concrete lid was raised slowly, inch by inch, revealing the most disgusting green pool of vile slime I had ever seen. Still, we couldn't take our eyes off the event. Jan and I looked at each other, smiled awkwardly, then curled our top lips and flared our nostrils.

"Peeewww", I said. "That stinks!" I must have said it louder than I thought, for all three heads turned in unison in our direction, and the men grinned broadly.

Phil seemed more tickled by the minute, and he motioned for us to come outside. We shook our heads violently, my brown and her blonde ponytail swinging forcefully back and forth like horses swishing their tails to get rid of flies.

The men turned their attention to the concrete lid and managed to heave it off to the side by using a long metal bar for leverage. It looked like it could crush a child for sure. I didn't want to be there when they put it back on. Besides, what if it splashed the nasty slime on someone? I might throw up.

Phil motioned insistently to us, so eventually we pushed the door open ever so slowly and slithered out like snakes moving into the water. We passed at a very respectable distance from the green pond--now a new and unwelcome part of our back yard.

The sewage men were now focused on placing the pipes into the greenish- brown sludge, a color difference I had not wanted to note, but couldn't keep from seeing on my run past it.

We held our noses, running toward Phil, who still had a big grin on his face. As we reached him, he scooped Jan up with one big motion and took off running for the cesspool, tripping a little as he ran. He ran to the edge of the water, stopped abruptly, and swung Jan's tiny body out over the stinky brew, stopping my heart momentarily. It looked as if he would release his grip, but at the last second, he pulled her back, swung her around, and set her gingerly on the grass, laughing wildly.

At first, she looked like she would cry, but in only a few seconds, once she realized she was not hurt, she burst out laughing, then chased him around the yard, hitting him in the back while he whooped and chortleld, running in large circles, scarcely trying to elude her.

The men manning the large vacuum hoses looked on in amusement, seemingly unaware of the smell that now permeated the yard.

When we quietly asked later why they seemed to be immune to the odor, Phil whispered, "Their nose hairs have all been burned off. They can't smell."

He kept threatening to throw a match into the green water which he said would blow up, sending sewage all over Purdon. This made us uneasy each time he said it, but seemed to make him laugh crazily, his whole body shaking with the thought of it. "That'll be a big hit with the neighbors," he crowed. "No pun intended."

One summer, he and my brother Stephen had run about in the very dry grass of the large vacant lot between the neighbor's house and ours, striking matches and throwing them in the air behind them yelling, "We're firebugs, we're firebugs."

The fact that they set the grass on fire was upsetting enough, but add to that the specter of a 200 gallon butane tank, capable of blowing the entire town to smithereens (my mother's word), sitting on the edge of the lot, and one can see why, after putting out the fire, Mother set fire to Stephen and Phil's rear ends with a hairbrush.

"She doesn't even spank her own kids," Phil complained later to his mother. "But she spanked me."

"Well she did today, and you both deserved it," Aunt Beulah replied. "End of discussion."

Other than occasionallly moving the hoses, the men had little to do as the stuff was sucked into the tank of their truck, so they sat on the grass or leaned against the back of the tank truck. The green goo was barely visible now after several hours of their vacuuming, sucking, and moving the hoses from place to place. The whole operation was winding down, and we were ready to do something else.

"Hey, what are we going to do the rest of the day?" I whined.

"Um, play in the water with the hose?" Jan suggested helpfully.

"Got any matches?" Phil asked evilly, darting suddenly toward the house. After a few second delay, both of us raced after him, yelling at the top of our lungs, as the sewage men with their burned out noses laughed and stood up slowly to finish the job.

Installed

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: A DOLL'S PAINFUL CHRISTMAS

From Santa, we usually got one main toy for Christmas and then some smaller things from our parents. Our paternal grandmother was on a limited budget, and it never occurred to us that she should give any of us a present, and she didn't. Our mother's parents usually gave her money to buy us slips or pajamas which she wrapped and put under the tree in Ennis.

Our usual Christmas day routine was that after opening presents at our own house and having a huge breakfast, we loaded in some disorderly fashion into two cars. Elton Jr. was married by this time, and he and Deanna probably came out for gift opening and then went to Ennis with us, though I don't remember altogether. Neila was attending junior college, but she could drive, so after present opening, we piled into the cars for the trip to Ennis to our maternal grandparents' house, a forty mile trip.

Neila drove, and Jan, Susan, and I rode with her. Mother, Daddy, and Stephen went ahead of us so Mother could help with cooking the enormous Christmas dinner we would have there.

We pulled up at Nettie's house; she was already standing outside waiting for us, dressed up and wearing her squirrel fur coat. She had on high heels, which was a great change for her; she usually wore Daniel Green houseshoes all the time, everywhere, even in the pasture.

That coat represented something to her, Neila said, but none of us could figure out what exactly. Maybe a period of family prosperity, a bright sparkler long since fizzled out.

You could tell she thought she looked swell in it, the long lines of the coat dwarfing her. At five feet tall, and weighing a little over 200 pounds, she looked like a fur-wrapped mini-bale of cotton, one with legs and a topknot of blonde curly hair.

It wasn't even cold, not really. Sometimes Christmas day in Texas really disappointed on the weather front. Sometimes it was hot, and people sweated If we had snow, it was considered miraculous.

Neila swung the car over to the curb and Nettie pulled open the passenger side door and maneuvered her rheumatoid-prone body into the seat.

"Merry Christmas," she said pleasantly.

"Merry Christmas," we all chimed, smiling at her.

"You look nice," Neila said, meaning it, even if we would laugh about the coat before and after being with her.

"Thank you," Nettie said, her red lips turning up, her mouth forming a U.

We were playing in the backseat with the toys we got. Jan had gotten a beautiful ballerina doll with brown curly hair and blue eyes. She had fourteen movable joints and several beautiful outfits for dancing. Jan had positioned the doll into plie and first position as she had learned at Mrs. Jewel's Dance Studio.

This year I hadn't wanted a doll. I had asked for a robot. It was a popular toy, and I liked the funny way it moved and made little robot noises. It had a control, and something like a metal leash, which was very short, so I had to follow it closely as it moved about. I know I begged for it, but it wasn't long before I tired of it. It required a lot of supervision, and I just got tired of going everywhere it wanted to go.

After spending the day at our grandparents, my patience exhausted, I actually no longer wanted to play with the robot. Jan's doll appealed to me, so I had to figure out a way to get her to let me play with it.

"Hey, this robot is so fun!" I said to her in the late afternoon. "He can turn corners, and he'll go wherever you want him to." I didn't add "if you hold on to his leash". She looked over, interested. She'd never had a robot, but we'd both had lots of dolls.

"Okay," she said hesitantly, placing her doll on the divan in the living room. I left the robot and walked immediately toward the doll, trying not to draw her attention.

"How long can I play with him?" she asked goodnaturedly.

"Oh, as long as you want," I said, picking up the ballerina doll.

"Are you gonna play with my doll?" she asked, seeming surprised at the exchange.

"Yes," I said simply, hoping she wouldn't realize that I had tricked her.


"Okay," she turned, activating the now idiotic looking robot and following him on the leash. He walked her for an hour or more, all over the house, the big L-shaped front porch, and past Granny Newlin, who never looked at him or Jan even though they walked between her and the television where she was watching Lassie fifteen or twenty times.

It was time to go home, and I still wanted to play with the doll. I made her dance in her tiny ballet shoes, bending her ankles, moving her legs up and down by bending them at the hips, making her legs a 90 degree angle by manipulating the knee joints. Her hands moved up above her head as they pivoted in the shoulder joints, and her elbows made the slightest bend in order to form perfect circles for her ballet positions. And she could bend at the waist to perform her perfect bows, thanking everyone for the applause.

The robot was still walking Jan when we got ready to leave, but once we got in the darkened car to leave, she wanted her doll back. I tried to bully my way into keeping her ballerina, but I realized that if our argument got any louder, someone would intervene, and it was her doll.

"Okay," I said grudgingly. "Just let me do one more dance with her," and as I said this, I made her stand on her tippy toes, then moved her so that she was tippy toeing on one leg only, and as I did so, I bent her foot back just a little too far and heard a sickening snap."

"What did you do?" Jan said angrily.

"I think her foot broke off." I said, hardly able to believe it.

"Oh no, we can't fix it!" she said louder.

Neila heard the commotion and after ascertaining the problem, said, "Well, we'll just glue her foot back on, and she will have thirteen movable parts and one unmovable part, okay?"

For some reason, Nettie chimed in, "She'll be okay. Some of my joints don't work right either, and I do all right. Well, I can't do ballet, but I do all right otherwise."

I sat quietly, feeling bad about what I'd done, but hoping Jan would not keep on about it. Our parents would probably be irritated at me for breaking her toy.

Jan was quiet for a few minutes, then for some reason-----maybe because it was Christmas------she said, "Okay, will you glue it for me, Neila?"

I breathed deeply, settled into the crack of the backseat and vowed to be nicer to her for a few days. She deserved at least that.








Installed

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: RACING FOR THE BAPTISTRY

July was always revival month for our church. That month, we worked every day on the house at Corbet, then rushed home to get ready for church during the one week revival. I started listening to the preacher about the second or third night, and for some reason though I had heard "preaching" all my life, it started to make sense. And I could feel a tug in my heart I'd never felt before.

On Wednesday, I found a few quiet moments in the midst of the hammering, board slamming, and sawing to talk with my mother.

"I'm ready to ask Jesus into my heart," I told her. "And I want to go down front tonight."

I wasn't really asking her approval, because I had already made up my mind, but I was glad when she squeezed me and said she was happy for my decision.

That night, when the congregation sang "Just As I Am", I walked forward, making public a decision I had reached in my own heart-to become a Christian. Brother Reames met me at the front with a big hug, and after some questions, he suggested I be baptized on Saturday, later that week.

That summer Saturday was a workday like every other day. We were on a tight timetable to get moved into the house before school started September 1st.

"Hey, I'm supposed to be baptized tonight," I reminded my parents about 4 o'clock. "Church starts at 6:30 tonight."

"We know, honey. We'll be there on time," my mother assured me. It wasn't much assurance coming from her because she was lateeverywhere.

I found my dad, pounding on a 2x4, framing the floor in the new living room.

"Don't forget I'm being baptized tonight," I reminded him.

He looked up and grinned. "I know," he said. "You know your mother and I were baptized out there in that tank after we married." He pointed toward the mossy green pond outside, always referred to in Texas as a tank. "That water never did clear up like it should have," he laughed, bringing chuckles from the other men working on the construction.

I didn't understand the joke, but I thought he would see that we got to church on time. He was usually punctual.

By 5 p.m., I was getting anxious, and I ran to the living room door, and balancing on the joists, walked across to the place my dad was working. He looked up and saw me, raised his arm to look at his watch, and said, "Let's call it a day, boys."

Mother, Daddy, and Haskell, one of the gin hands, loaded up in the front of the turquoise blue Chevy pickup. Phil, Stephen, Susan, Jan, me, and Greenie, one of the men helping us, hopped into the back of the truck. Daddy drove fast but expertly through the narrow blackdirt backroads from Corbet to Purdon. It took about a half hour so it was nearing 5:45 when we arrived.

Then, we had to take Haskell and Greenie home, so we stopped by each of their houses, letting them off, waving goodbye, and promising to see them early Monday.

Greenie's house was on the west side of town and ours was on the east, so as we whizzed from his house to ours, we passed the church where people were already gathering for the night service. Several of the kids we played with at church were there, and looked up with puzzled faces as we waved and yelled "hey!".

I heard Randy's yell that got softer as we sped away, "Heeeeeeey, aren't you going to be baptized tonight?"

Phil and Stephen stood upright, facing forward holding onto the cab, while Susan, Jan, and I held tightly to the sides, the truck racing down the road, spewing gravel and kicking up a dust trail that left the kids at the church coughing.

As soon as the truck stopped, everyone bailed out and ran for the house. Susan, Jan, and I ran to find clothes to wear to church, while Mother rushed into the bathroom and retrieved washcloths and towels. She ran a pan of warm water in the kitchen while one of the boys hopped into the bathroom for a superspeed bath.

We all started working on our faces, arms and legs, which were covered with sheetrock dust. Mother rushed in for a bath after Phil exited, and we girls just put our clothes on over any grit that was left. I was going to be baptized, so I wasn't too worried about any dirt that I missed; it would be washed off anyway.

When Mother was dressed, she gave us a sniff test, approved, and we zipped out the door, loaded in the car and sped to the church. Daddy had entered the bathroom, and he would come and bring the boys in a little while, after the first several songs were sung. He was punctual normally, but he was also fastidious and wouldn't have thought of just washing off like we did. Our cleanup was unusual, true, but dire circumstances dictated emergency measures.

We ran up the stairs, Mother leading the way, breezed into the church all the way down the aisle to the second row, and after causing five people to move about six feet to the left, we were all able to sit down.

Brother Reames, sitting up front on the platform, wore a bemused expression, and watching us as we hurried in, he hunched slightly forward like he wanted to laugh, but couldn't. Coincidentally, the minute we sat down, Mr. Smithen, the music leader, stood up and asked everyone to do the same. On the fourth verse of When the Roll is Called Up Yonder (we almost never sang the third verse of any song, which bothered me) my dad eased in to the pew, causing another shift to the left.

After a short sermon, I moved to the back of the church and got ready for the baptism. Jackie King was being baptized that night, too. I felt happy to show people the decision I had made.

After church, one of our neighbors invited the whole family over
to celebrate by eating watermelon . It made the night even more memorable, eating the cold pink melon, its sweet flavor seeping across my tongue, while I swatted at an occasional mosquito.

"Why did the Hubbards want to celebrate my baptism?" I asked Mother as we walked home from their house.

"Why shouldn't they?" she said.

"Well, they don't go to church, so I just thought they wouldn't care that I was baptized."

She hesitated a moment. "They're good people, hard working, and they treat people right. We can't know what's in a person's heart. That's between them and God. They were happy about your decision. That's all I know."

My heart felt warm and calm that night. It was a new feeling, and it would stay with me and often crowd out the anxiety that seemed so determined to be my constant companion. I was a child, but I knew I had made a really grown-up decision that day.














Installed

1950s SMALL TOWN LIFE: TAPIN' AND BEDDIN'

We were fairly used to the summer heat, since the only air conditioning in our house at Purdon was in my parents' bedroom, and it was only turned on at night. But the heat in the house at Corbet that we constructed and finished out that summer was oppressive at times. Some weak fans blew air toward us while we worked, but seemed to only stir the hot air a bit, occasionally blowing halfhearted puffs in our direction.

In the early years of my life, we owned a small cabin on Lake Whitney, and we used to go there and ride in the boat, swim, fish, and Mother rode the surfboard behind the boat. Lots of friends drove up to barbecue and play 42.

But they sold the cabin a year or so before, so we didn't go there anymore, and family vacations were not a part of our life, unless you count the summer we lived in Calexico as a vacation.

This summer meant daily work on the house, with almost no time to do things like swimming or just playing in the yard.

Our cousin Phil was either a saint or incredibly bored because he came down to visit my grandmother and worked on the house with us every single day. He didn't have any siblings, so he liked being with our loud family. He was actually my dad's first cousin, but we claimed him as ours because he was almost exactly my brother's age and because he made us laugh all the time.

He could drive, so at lunch, he, Susan, and I, sometimes Jan, made the one mile trip to the small grocery store run by Mr. Bittner's son Robert Earl. At least when we moved, something would still be familiar; the store where we bought groceries would have the same name.

We bought bread, mayonnaise, freshly sliced bologna and cheese which Robert Earl wrapped up in clean white butcher paper, and some kind of chips, usually barbecue potato chips, just to round out the meal. "Charge it, please" one of us would say as we pushed open the heavy screened doors on our way out.

We "taped and bedded" and painted our way through June, July and August, eating pretty much the same thing every day and washing it down with Coca Cola, Orange Nehi Soda, Grapette, or icewater. Dessert was Three Musketeers, Snickers, or Zeros, depending on your preference and how fast you grabbed one.

We were taping and bedding the den one day when Phil was helping us. None of us knew how to do it, but Daddy showed us, and while he worked on the harder parts, we filled in all the nail holes and moved a scraper across the "mud" to smooth it.

It was getting close to lunchtime; a hot breeze blew through the open windows swirling dust and small scraps of tape around, and I was sitting on the bottom rung of a small stepladder, looking back at the thousands of holes I had filled that morning.

"I'm hot!" I complained loudly. "And I'm tired of filling these holes. We're never gonna get through with this!"

Susan had filled fifteen or twenty holes, then quietly moved into another room where she continued reading The Catcher in the Rye. I tried to emulate her reading taste and hoped some of her intellect would rub off. I had peeked inside the book, but realized it was not something I could understand right now. I put it on my mental "to read" list.

She wasn't physically as strong as I was, so really the expectation for her to work hard wasn't there. Even I didn't expect her to do as much. Jan was doing a few holes on the bottom part of the wall, but she would skip off and examine bugs or stomp spiders that were always crawling in through the windows.

Stephen and Phil had worked hard on the ceiling. That was the hardest part because they had to keep their necks strained and heads back, looking up.

Mother was, of course, having to help Daddy place the bedding tape. He could never do anything by himself, and if she was available, she was his choice for assistant.

Mother called out, "We only lack a little more. Keep going. We'll be finished before you know it."

Daddy looked over at me, grinned, and promised to buy me a bag of peppermint I didn't have to share with anyone if I'd keep on till lunch. Reluctantly, I picked up my scraper and halfheartedly worked on a few holes.

The peppermint was so good, it did provide an incentive. It was shiny red and white, and melted slowly, the perfect candy, sold only at Bittner's grocery. No other peppermint could rival it, and it could only be found at our little country store.

Twenty slow holes later, Daddy called time. I ran to the pickup and jumped in so I could go to the store with Phil and get my peppermints. Daddy told Phil to buy two bags, one for me and one for everyone else.

"What are you in such a snit about?" Phil asked as we drove down the gravel road toward the store.

"I feel like an indentured servant, and I wonder how long peppermint candy will be enough bribe to keep me from rebelling," I huffed, the beginnings of a martyr complex playing in my head.

Phil shook his head and laughed quietly to himself. We got the food for lunch and took it back; everyone had stopped for a lunch break. After we ate, everyone else shared a bag of peppermints, and I placed mine strategically by the ladder where I sat to work. It kept me from going on strike all afternoon.

Neila had arrived after summer school classes, and she and Phil wired the light in the den, a feat she had learned through 4-H Club demonstrations, and which my dad declared "perfect", a compliment he rarely bestowed. The two of them kept the banter light till we demanded work stoppage about 5 p.m..

We were working in the oldest structure, the one that had been the caretaker's house, in what would become our den. The other house had been brought on site today with some minor hysteria over bringing it across the creek. I didn't go watch that event, figuring my dad would be jumping up and down and saying bad words while my mother tried to calm him and chastised him for cursing.

Eventually, we saw the truck moving slowly up the gravel road with a house atop its flatbed. I hoped they were careful. Our bedrooms were in there!

They set the house down carefully, blocked it up on hadite blocks and left. My dad and his men would nail boards to seal the base portion later. Now, they had to build the two connecting rooms between the houses.


"I've almost finished my bag of peppermint," I hinted when the house was completely unloaded. "Can I have one by myself again on Monday?"

"I imagine," they laughed, exchanging a look I couldn't decipher.

Sometimes I wished I were an only child, just for a day or two to see what it was like. Daddy hated being one, or so Mother said, but I bet he never had to share his peppermints.














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