Christmas was a happy time for Mary's family. The children and their families came home Christmas Eve or early Christmas morning. Thelma and her children came a week early. The commonly cold kitchen became warm and cozy. The days were filled with the aroma of cakes and cookies baking. Daddy, not to be outdone, would make a secret trip to town and return with apples, oranges, nuts and hard candy. The house was filled with the fragrance of Christmas.
The dining room, now fridged in winter, was turned into a walk-in "ice box". The dining table was soon covered with goodies; at least ten cakes, candies and the latest "you just have to try" new found recipes. But all these temptations were off limits until Christmas Eve.
The Christmas tree was set up in the "girls' room". The ordinarily cold room was heated by an oil heater or by the pot bellied coal stove in the front room. That old cast iron stove glowed red with extra heat, spreading it's warmth beyond those four walls to the magic room beyond.
The Christmas tree was a fresh cut cedar, not easily found in the boot heel of Missouri. But, somehow Daddy or one of the boys would find one. It was decorated with ragged garland, bare in places, glass ornaments, with peeling paint, hand made ornaments from school projects and a tattered angel for the top. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful, in the eyes of two little girls.
Santa always visited the house on the hill. We knew he was watching the children inside because he always made a visit sometime during the weeks approaching Christmas. One night, when least expected, there he was, peaking in the window! It seemed that his face filled the whole window. His big blue eyes peered over a tattered white beard and a white fur lined cap covered his head. "Ho, Ho, Ho", announced his presence and just as quickly as he came, he was gone, but his ambiance remained for days filling the children with hope and wonder. Could it be there is someone , someone who loves me enough to over look my faults and mistakes? Could there be someone like Santa Claus, who forgives and loves me no matter what and wipes my slate clean for another year? Does he love me even though he has no obligation or duty to love and care for me?
Santa's visits to the house on the hill were fun and funny to the adults, but to us children, he was real. He was faithful. He was kind. Belief in Santa Clause taught us to hope, to trust, to believe in things unseen, undeserved, unconditional. That belief readied tender hearts to unquestionably accept Jesus. Jesus, one unseen, but very present; one unconditionally offering everlasting life, the ultimate gift, to an undeserving child. But, you must believe.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Mama's Apron
Mama's Apron
It hangs in my kitchen, limp, sagging, unnatural; a blue gingam hand made apron. The bib is faded and there's a three cornered tear in the skirt, but it is a prized possession, my mother's apron. A thread still hangs from the hem, snapped off with her fingers. She was too hurried to take the time to cut it with scissors. The top stitching is far from perfect and the small pocket on the left hand side is a little askrew.
Mama didn't change dresses every day, but she put on a clean apron every morning. She'd step outside and load that apron with wood to make a fire in the big wood cook stove to cook breakfast. Gathering the skirt of that apron in a wad, she'd grab the handle of the big iron skillet and push it to the cooler side of the stove. The skillet was full of milk gravy, the bubbles popping and splattering her apron.
Swalking and cackling from the hen house announced that one of the hens had laid an egg. Later in the morning, Mama would check the nests, pushing some of the hens off their nest to retrieve the fresh warm eggs from the nest. She carried them back to the kitchen in her blue gingam apron. In the early spring she would carry select eggs back to the hen house to set the old hens. In a few weeks she filled her gingam apron with fluffy baby chickens from that nest and carried them to a fenced pen, all the time being flogged and scolded by the mother hen.
Mama kept an eye on the garden. It was down the path, through weeds and grass and just beyond a crooked gate held shut by a rusty wire hooked over the fence post. Bobbie and I followed her, anxious to help with the first vegetables from the garden. She grabbed the file used to sharpen hoes and began digging in the soft earth. Soon her apron held enough king-marble size potatoes for dinner. By now she was bent over the young green peas, snapping with eagerness and keeping watchful eye on four little bare feet, lest they trample the tender plants. Soon Mama's apron was filled with potatoes, peas, onions and radishes, the first meal from the spring garden. Later in the season that apron was perfect for holding snap beans or peas to shell. A quick trip to the back yard and she had enough peaches in that apron for a couple of cobblers for her large family.
Children took precedence over everything with my mother. I've seen her dry her hands quickly on her apron and run outside when one of the children yelled, "Mama" or "Mammie". Her apron has wiped away a million tears and soothed many a hot cheek or broken heart. And as she proudly rocked the latest new baby, she would wrap the baby's feet snugly in her apron or use it to wipe away a dribble.
I've seen Mama shoo flies from the kitchen screen door with her apron. I've seen her wrap her arms in her apron to ward off the day's chill. She would stand out in the back yard and wave her apron to let her family, who was working in the field, know dinner was ready.
My mother's aprons were made from anything she could put together. She loved a big apron with a bib. Nothing fancy, just something to catch the spills and keep her dress clean. When it came time for Mama to hang up her apron forever, she looked strangely under dressed.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The Front Porch
A wide welcoming front porch extended across the front of the house. Warm mornings, Daddy sat on the porch in a cane bottom straight chair leaning against the wall in the sunshine. No doubt arthritis plagued him and the warm sunshine soothed his aching joints. A couple of rocking chairs sat a few feet away in the shade of the overhanging roof. The edge of the porch was jagged and irregular from use and exposure to the sun and rain and an occasional whittling.
From spring through fall, the front porch was the center of activity, social and otherwise. In the spring we stretched out and warmed ourselves in the sun while Daddy sharpened the hoes before we went to the cotton field. Children and women had the job of chopping grass and weeds out of the cotton and during the first chopping, thinning the cotton.
The porch was a place to rest after lunch while Daddy sharpened the hoes once again. He laid the hoe on an old elm tree root, then taking the file, he ran it back and forth across the blade, leaning into the file to give it strength. Now and then he would pause to check the sharpness of the hoe by flipping his thumb along its blade. As long as we could hear the grind and screech of the file, we had another few minutes to nap. When he had sharpened all the hoes, we were off to the field for the longest afternoon you could imagine.
Summer days were filled with preserving vegetables and fruit. Mama would bring baskets of vegetables from the garden to front porch. There we settled in with pans in our laps to shell beans and peas, snap green beans, and peel apples under Mama's watchfull eye.
The porch served as an easy- to- clean table for cutting and serving watermelon and cantalope. No utencils were needed. Water melons were cut lengthwise making it easy to get to the juicy fruit. Mama cleaned the porch by throwing buckets of water on the soiled sticky puddles, then scrubbing the porch with a broom. She then rinsed with more buckets of water. As one who did a lot of the water pumping, I must say that my mother could use more water than anyone I knew.
The family gathered on the front porch on summer evenings. A welcome breeze always swept the length of the porch. A big elm tree and a large cotton wood tree shaded the front yard by day and their rustling leaves gave a voice to the gentle breeze in the evening.
The front porch was home base for many childhood games; Piggy wants a motion, Mother may I? and many more. Little ones played under the porch, making frog houses. We would check for frogs in the morning.
Other times we sat quietly on the porch listening to the evening noises; chattering guineas roosting high in the elm tree, cackling and squawking in the hen house as the chickens readjust seating positions on the roost. The live stock were relatively quiet except for an occasional whinny from our old jinny. Conversation was usually low key. You learned to wait as long as a minute or two for an answer to a question or responce to a statement. It wasn't that the question was hard or the statement needed thought. It was just the rhythm of a summer evening.
From spring through fall, the front porch was the center of activity, social and otherwise. In the spring we stretched out and warmed ourselves in the sun while Daddy sharpened the hoes before we went to the cotton field. Children and women had the job of chopping grass and weeds out of the cotton and during the first chopping, thinning the cotton.
The porch was a place to rest after lunch while Daddy sharpened the hoes once again. He laid the hoe on an old elm tree root, then taking the file, he ran it back and forth across the blade, leaning into the file to give it strength. Now and then he would pause to check the sharpness of the hoe by flipping his thumb along its blade. As long as we could hear the grind and screech of the file, we had another few minutes to nap. When he had sharpened all the hoes, we were off to the field for the longest afternoon you could imagine.
Summer days were filled with preserving vegetables and fruit. Mama would bring baskets of vegetables from the garden to front porch. There we settled in with pans in our laps to shell beans and peas, snap green beans, and peel apples under Mama's watchfull eye.
The porch served as an easy- to- clean table for cutting and serving watermelon and cantalope. No utencils were needed. Water melons were cut lengthwise making it easy to get to the juicy fruit. Mama cleaned the porch by throwing buckets of water on the soiled sticky puddles, then scrubbing the porch with a broom. She then rinsed with more buckets of water. As one who did a lot of the water pumping, I must say that my mother could use more water than anyone I knew.
The family gathered on the front porch on summer evenings. A welcome breeze always swept the length of the porch. A big elm tree and a large cotton wood tree shaded the front yard by day and their rustling leaves gave a voice to the gentle breeze in the evening.
The front porch was home base for many childhood games; Piggy wants a motion, Mother may I? and many more. Little ones played under the porch, making frog houses. We would check for frogs in the morning.
Other times we sat quietly on the porch listening to the evening noises; chattering guineas roosting high in the elm tree, cackling and squawking in the hen house as the chickens readjust seating positions on the roost. The live stock were relatively quiet except for an occasional whinny from our old jinny. Conversation was usually low key. You learned to wait as long as a minute or two for an answer to a question or responce to a statement. It wasn't that the question was hard or the statement needed thought. It was just the rhythm of a summer evening.
Monday, October 27, 2008
The House on the Hill
The Family moved into the house on the hill in early March of 1941. There were four large rooms each joining the next with big hinged doors. Little identified the rooms for any special use. There was no sink, no running water, no cabinets or cupboards. Just four large empty rooms. Perfect for two little girls to run in wild circles screaming and yelling and slamming doors. Stairs climbed the wall in the "back" room to a long spacious room upstairs.
A chimney stood in the wall separating the two rooms on the east end of the house. This alone defined the rooms. One would be the "front room"where the family received guests, gathered in the evenings and carried out various household tasks. The other room would be the kitchen.
Mama supervised the unloading of the truck. The beds were set up. Two double beds went in the "front" room, one for Mama and Daddy, the other for the little girls. A large double bed was set up in the adjoining room for the big girls. The boys would sleep upstairs.
A large wood-burning cook stove was set up in the perceived kitchen. A large home-made cook table was brought in along with a long bench and four cane-bottom chairs. The beds were made and buckets of water were brought in from a pump out by the barn lot. A fire was kindled in the old cook stove and Mama started supper.
The smell of bacon, fried potatoes, hot bisquits and gravy filled the kitchen. The children warmed themselves behind the big cook stove before sliding on to the bench behind the table. Daddy picked up the baby and sat her on his knee. This is where Babe ate every meal until she became too heavy for this very special place.
The pot bellied stove used to heat the "front" room was stored for the summer. We had used the last of the coal before leaving Arkansas. Spring was coming. It would be warm soon. There was no need to buy more coal until next fall.
Bobbie and I spent the cool spring days in the warmth of Mama's kitchen rocking and soothing our hand made babies and playing with thread spools saved from Mama's sewing.
A chimney stood in the wall separating the two rooms on the east end of the house. This alone defined the rooms. One would be the "front room"where the family received guests, gathered in the evenings and carried out various household tasks. The other room would be the kitchen.
Mama supervised the unloading of the truck. The beds were set up. Two double beds went in the "front" room, one for Mama and Daddy, the other for the little girls. A large double bed was set up in the adjoining room for the big girls. The boys would sleep upstairs.
A large wood-burning cook stove was set up in the perceived kitchen. A large home-made cook table was brought in along with a long bench and four cane-bottom chairs. The beds were made and buckets of water were brought in from a pump out by the barn lot. A fire was kindled in the old cook stove and Mama started supper.
The smell of bacon, fried potatoes, hot bisquits and gravy filled the kitchen. The children warmed themselves behind the big cook stove before sliding on to the bench behind the table. Daddy picked up the baby and sat her on his knee. This is where Babe ate every meal until she became too heavy for this very special place.
The pot bellied stove used to heat the "front" room was stored for the summer. We had used the last of the coal before leaving Arkansas. Spring was coming. It would be warm soon. There was no need to buy more coal until next fall.
Bobbie and I spent the cool spring days in the warmth of Mama's kitchen rocking and soothing our hand made babies and playing with thread spools saved from Mama's sewing.
Friday, October 17, 2008
The Move to Missouri
The house sat there on the hill overlooking rich black bottom land. Actually, it stood on the edge of a ridge about three miles across that sloped south along the New Madrid fault line.
The family moved to the house on the hill from Arkansas. Although we were a pitful sight, I'm sure we were hardly noticed. Everyone rode around in a flat bed two ton truck with wooden, slightly bulging, side boards.
Mama and the babies rode in the cab, the rest of the family were tossed about in the bed of the truck along with the beds, cook and heating stoves, tubs, kettles, a few items of furniture, clothes tied up in bed sheets and of course, farming equipment.
Daddy turned off Highway 61 and we bumped along a for a couple miles on a dusty farm road before pulling into the front yard.
The family we were uprooting were still in the house. They had been dragging their feet about moving for weeks, maybe months. When they saw the eight or nine kids jumping out the bed of the truck and Mama exiting the cab with a baby on each hip they decided it was time to move on.
The house on the hill was ours. So this was home, a big two story house perched on cement blocks, wooden tree stumps and piles of rocks. As precarious as the house appeared then, it remains to this day to me a symbol of stability, protection, comfort, home.
The family moved to the house on the hill from Arkansas. Although we were a pitful sight, I'm sure we were hardly noticed. Everyone rode around in a flat bed two ton truck with wooden, slightly bulging, side boards.
Mama and the babies rode in the cab, the rest of the family were tossed about in the bed of the truck along with the beds, cook and heating stoves, tubs, kettles, a few items of furniture, clothes tied up in bed sheets and of course, farming equipment.
Daddy turned off Highway 61 and we bumped along a for a couple miles on a dusty farm road before pulling into the front yard.
The family we were uprooting were still in the house. They had been dragging their feet about moving for weeks, maybe months. When they saw the eight or nine kids jumping out the bed of the truck and Mama exiting the cab with a baby on each hip they decided it was time to move on.
The house on the hill was ours. So this was home, a big two story house perched on cement blocks, wooden tree stumps and piles of rocks. As precarious as the house appeared then, it remains to this day to me a symbol of stability, protection, comfort, home.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Another Baby Girl
She knew the baby was coming, but it was too early. How much early she wasn't sure. This had been an unpleasant pregnancy. Two of her older children were married already and a grandchild was on the way. She had not been well for a year of so and the older children were not thrilled that she was expecting. She had nine children. Wasn't that enough?
She sent Daddy for the doctor. She hoped he hurried. She instructed the older girls in how to prepare for a birth and they were busy with anxious excitement. She sent the younger children to play with cousins on this cold February Sunday.
The baby was born without incident, but the doctor looked worried and she didn't hear a new born cry. "Is the baby ok?" she asked.
"I need to take care of you first." the doctor answered.
"No, take care of the baby first." she breathed. She could not bury another baby, not now.
The doctor worked feverishly with the baby, mainly because Mary needed immediate attention. He was about to lose two patients. The baby, limp, blue, and with no response was as good as dead. He dipped the baby in warm , then cold water. There was a small gasp, a few faint heart beats, then nothing. The doctor repeated the process again but still the baby's heart did not respond.
"Don't give up." came a desperate whisper from the bed.
" I will try one more thing, a shot in her heart. If that doesn't work, we've lost her." the doctor answered.
With an injection into the tiny heart, it began to beat. Gradually the tiny body turned pink. The doctor wrapped her in a warm blanket and handed her to an older sister. He then turned to the mother and once again worked his magic. Soon Mary inched up in bed and reached for the tiniest baby she'd ever had, another little girl.
The doctor wrote in his little book, "Baby girl, February 13, 1938.
She sent Daddy for the doctor. She hoped he hurried. She instructed the older girls in how to prepare for a birth and they were busy with anxious excitement. She sent the younger children to play with cousins on this cold February Sunday.
The baby was born without incident, but the doctor looked worried and she didn't hear a new born cry. "Is the baby ok?" she asked.
"I need to take care of you first." the doctor answered.
"No, take care of the baby first." she breathed. She could not bury another baby, not now.
The doctor worked feverishly with the baby, mainly because Mary needed immediate attention. He was about to lose two patients. The baby, limp, blue, and with no response was as good as dead. He dipped the baby in warm , then cold water. There was a small gasp, a few faint heart beats, then nothing. The doctor repeated the process again but still the baby's heart did not respond.
"Don't give up." came a desperate whisper from the bed.
" I will try one more thing, a shot in her heart. If that doesn't work, we've lost her." the doctor answered.
With an injection into the tiny heart, it began to beat. Gradually the tiny body turned pink. The doctor wrapped her in a warm blanket and handed her to an older sister. He then turned to the mother and once again worked his magic. Soon Mary inched up in bed and reached for the tiniest baby she'd ever had, another little girl.
The doctor wrote in his little book, "Baby girl, February 13, 1938.
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