East Ditch

The house on the hill sat atop a narrow sandy ridge that ran a short way through the Mississippi delta, a plain of  rich sticky soil that extends for miles either side of the Mississippi River. No cool clear streams flowed through these flat lands. There were, however, a number of large drainage ditches that ran through the farms. These were not what you might imagine. No sewage drained into them, only rain water from the cultivated fields. At that time, not many chemicals were used on the crops, so there was little toxic waste collected in the muddy streams.

The house on the hill was within walking distance of the best of these ditches. The best swimming hole in the county was just a few steps down the road. We had never heard of a swimming pool, but surely no pool could ever compare with the cool shaded swimming hole under the bridge. The frogs and fish flopped about, breaking the whispered rhythm of running water. Wasps and bees hummed among the sweet honeysuckle that climbed the trees along the shore. Dragon flies skipped across the surface of the water and butterflies fluttered along its damp banks.  An occasional snake would sun himself, curled around a piece of drift wood sticking out of the water and a rain crow called “Who who” from somewhere down stream.

When someone yelled, “Snake”! the swimming hole would clear out quickly leaving muddy patterns on its surface.

 Kids from Matthews and all around came to swim in East Ditch. We lived so close, we could have swam every day had it not been for my mother, the most firm yet caring woman I’ve ever seen. She was adamant in her determination that we should not, could not, would not swim in East Ditch. She had good reason to be cautious. A fearful disease was spreading rampant across our nation, a crippling disease that caused paralysis, pain, and death, a disease called polio. No one knew exactly how it was contracted, but Mama would take no chances. We would not swim in the contaminated water of East Ditch.

East Ditch was used by many churches for baptisms. Baptisms were usually scheduled for Sunday afternoon. Soon after lunch, cars would begin to gather at the ditch. They parked on either side of the road, many times all the way to our house. People would gather along the banks of the ditch and against the rail of the bridge to witness this special service.


The depth of the ditch was not always consistent. The changing floor of the stream necessitated scouting out a place deep enough to completely bury the candidates for baptism. This was usually done by a deacon the day before. We Baptists believe that for baptism to be valid one must be completely covered by water. 


A baptism in a running stream is an experience all Christians should witness at least once. Except on rare occasions, baptisms were administered in the summer time. The congregation, in full church dress, gingerly walked down the bank of the stream to the water’s edge. Women were slipping and sliding in their high heels, circle tailed skirts and crinoline petticoats. Men were more reasonable. They left jackets behind and rolled up their sleeves. Delighted children ran ahead giggling and sliding to the water’s edge, excited to watch this infrequent event. If there was a breeze, it remained well above the sweltering humid air at water level.


The preacher waded barefoot into the muddy stream, his tie left in the car and sleeves rolled up on his white shirt. The candidates waited in a line for his wave to come into the water. Thus one hot summer day in 1953, I found myself waiting in line for baptism with Rrean, an older sister, and Marie, my sister-in-law.


I was first in line, Marie and then Rrean. Bro. Williams waved us in and we entered the water holding hands. I took my place in front of Bro. Williams. He raised his hand, stated his authority to baptize given him by the First Baptist Church of Matthews, according to the commandment of our Lord Jesus Christ, and in the name of the Father, Son, and the Holy Spirit and as quick as you could blink an eye,  I was completely under the muddy water and lawfully baptized. I took my place on the other side of the preacher.

 Marie was next. I must pause here to tell you about Marie. She was short, small boned and a little heavy. I worried that perhaps as soft and fluffy as she was, she might become buoyant and not go all the way under. But, my concern was about to change.

Bro. Williams once again raised his hand and made his declarations and lowered Marie into the dark water. But, he could not get her up! I looked at her lying there. She qualified for legal baptism so far. She was well covered with black muddy water. Her little feet were splashing, trying to gain footing but only succeeded in kicking up black sandy mud from the bottom of the stream. Bro. Williams was still struggling. I glanced at Rrean and I knew what she as well as I was thinking, “Should we help?”

I glanced toward the shore. Surely a deacon would be qualified to help, maybe another preacher was present. No moves from there, not even Horace if he indeed was in attendance.


 Now her arms were making circles, stirring up black gumbo. “Do we let her drown or try to help and perhaps negate her baptism?” We Baptists have very strict rules.


Just when a decision had to be made, up she came, spitting and gasping and shaking her hair. She moved next to me, grasped my hand swaying a little. I took what she said as praise to God. The service continued with the baptism of Rrean which I barely noticed. The congregation sang  Trust and Obey as we came out of the water, once again holding hands to steady ourselves, happy to have followed the commandment of Christ.


As a pebble tossed into a stream creates ever widening circles until it reaches the shore, so, events that penetrate  our lives generate ever widening circles of friends and acquaintances pushing ever to that eternal shore where we, once again, shall join hands as we greet our Savior and friend.

The Box

Every child should grow up in a house that shelters a place of mystery, a place of wonder, a place of dreams. Upstairs, in the house on the hill, was such a place. It was filled with treasures, an enchanting place. I remember a library table cluttered with confiscated cardboard and paper from packaging; worn out books and catalogs and stubby pencils. Almost always the bed would be piled with clean clothes that needed to be ironed. There were boxes of old clothes, pictures, abandoned projects and broken things. Clothes lines were strung the length of the long room, perfect for hanging clothes on a rainy day or for hanging a sheet to enclose a play house.

There was a trunk, a very no nonsense trunk with straps and a closure that locked. The absence of a key and the inability to lock it did not diminish the importance this lock brought to the trunk. Mama told us to stay out of it, giving it all the more mystery and importance. Among boxes of letters, cards and old Bibles, special hankies, unfinished quilts, Grandma’s shawl and braided strings of hair was a small closed box. It was almost sacred.

I can’t remember when we learned of its contents. Seems we always knew. It was Little Glen’s clothes and shoes. Glen died when he was thirteen months old. Mama never talked about him. I guess it hurt too much. We honored her wishes and didn’t open the box until after her death. Inside was a little jumper, a pair of leather homemade shoes and a short memory of Martin Glen written in my mother’s handwriting.

We read Mama’s letter to her baby and wept over her pain and loss. Bobbie and I wept for an older brother unknown to us. The other siblings, wept for their baby brother. We carefully placed the aging articles back into the box and dear sweet Marie, Horace’s wife, picked it up, held it to her breast and said, “This was important to Mammie. She kept it all these years. I will keep it now.” And she took it home with her.

Glen slipped away one evening, quite unexpectedly, into the arms of his Heavenly Father. He died of dysentery, a deadly disease in that day for babies and young children. Home remedies were ineffective and the country doctor often hard to find. The disease was swift and merciless.

He was buried beside our Grandma and Grandpa McCoy in a beautiful cemetery surrounding a small white church in Elbridge Tennessee. The following spring, Mama sent the older children to set out a wagon load of primrose on the small grave.

Life went on. Mama never forgot her baby and life for her was never quite the same. I didn’t know her before her heart was so bruised. I came along six years later, a small, sick, premature baby girl. Mama risked her life to save mine, insisting that Doctor Cunningham make sure the baby was stable before he cared for her.

Many of us have boxed up hurt, disappointments, grief and pain tied neatly, and isolated from what we feel is the real world. Sometimes the pain or longing is too great to share. We do not want anyone to open the box. We fear we may betray ourselves, belittle ourselves, or reveal who we really are. But, a heart revealed endures you even more to those who love you. And your pain is of no consequence to those who do not know you. As for those who would judge you, their judgment will be scrutinized by the Great Judge on that day when all things will be revealed. All “boxes” will be opened and God will wipe away all tears. God bless you all.

Summer School

Ah, cotton vacation! While kids in city schools slaved over books, we on the farm were enjoying cotton vacation. This special time came every fall around September first and continued for about six weeks. This was not a celebration of cotton, but a time when schools closed, freeing children and teenagers to work for their families on the farm during harvest season.

This vacation time didn't come easy. We started the school year around the middle of July. At this time there was no air conditioning in the schools. With 100 degree temperatures outside, it was stifling in the classroom. A big fan on a stand whirled from a corner of the classroom. Large open windows along one side of the classroom let in the warm breeze accompanied by the high pitched singing of cicada and the buzz of wasps and bees in the bushes beneath the windows. The classroom door was always open to increase circulation of the slightest breeze. You could hear the quiet rythm of the voices of other teachers in the building.

The smell of lunches packed in paper bags drifted from the coat room closet that stretched across the back of the room. This closet was closed off by a number of folding doors that reached to the ceiling. An unruly child might find himself isolated behind those folding doors as a time out. The smell of juniper and other evergreens drifted in the open windows and mingled with the smell of chalk, and crayons and pencil lead. Reading, writing and arithmetic filled the morning hours. That and the increasingly warm temperatures lulled us into semiconsciousness.

Lunch was a long time coming. But, when the bell finally rang, we filed out into the warm sun and then sought shade to eat our lunch. Lunch for me was usually a bisquit, egg and or bacon left from breakfast. The steps or the sidewalk along side the building was my favorite place to eat. Recess followed. The boys hurriedly ate and quickly organized a ball game. The girls played jacks on the sidewalk which wore our fingernails to the quick. Swings and slides out in the blazing sun drew a few. Recess over, we lined up to go back into the building. It was torture to wait in line in the hot sun while the boys slowly came in from their makeshift ball field on the far side of the play ground. Then more waiting until the teachers, who were standing in the shade, decided the line was straight enough.

The afternoons were slow and lazy. With lunch time over we rested with our heads on our desks as we listened to Mrs. Conrad read another chapter from some literary classic. The afternoon lessons were more interesting, science, history, social studies and occasionally art, my favorite.

Then came the ride home on the bus. Students of all ages crowded onto the bus. Activities of the day had left everyone hot, sweaty and smelly. The older kids crowed the younger children out of their seats leaving them standing or to find a less desirable place to sit. The only thing that made the ride bearable, was that my older sisters were on the bus. But, juniorhigh and high school boys were also on there. They pulled my pig tails, teased me and fought each other disregarding those in their line of fire. The bus driver was oblivious to the activity behind him. His objective was to deliver his load and get home.

At last the bus stopped at the house on the hill. Book satchel in hand, I scurried down the bus steps, across the dusty road and into the welcome shade of the elm tree in the front yard of the house on the hill. The aroma of something cooking pulled me into the kitchen. Suddenly, I was starving. Today Mama had tea cakes hot from the oven. I spread a little butter on mine. Heavenly! I was home at last.

Home was a place where I could be myself, a place where I didn't have to strive for perfection, a place where I could predict the actions of others and their reactions to me, a place where I was unconditionally loved. Such was the house on the hill.

The Storm

The Storm

The day was muggy and hot. The doors and windows in the house on the hill were wide open to catch even the slightest breeze. Cooking was almost unbearable. Mama's hair was pulled back into a bun but the stray hair framing her face and the wayward strings of hair on her neck were wet with sweat. We kids tried to play in the shade of the mulberry trees but the sullen day pulled the energy out of us and we fussed and bickered, punched and shoved; finally winding up on the front porch in a mood that matched the sullen, stifling day. Even the chickens seemed agitated, pecking and sqawlking at one another. The mother hen chirped and scratched the ground, pecking at leaves and grass trying to keep her little family together.

It first began with just a haze along the western horizon. a heaviness but hardly noticed. It hang there in the early afternoon like an autumn weariness. After a while the haze turned grayish blue, a welcome change, a hope of rain. An occasional spontaneous breeze whisked sand and leaves into a whirl wind that raced across the yard, disturbing the chickens and then dissipating into the tall cotton plants near by.

Then a low rumble of thunder. We're not even sure it is thunder. It is just a quiet rumble that fades into the hum of bees and wasps. In a few minutes we hear it again. Then again. It soons becomes louder and and more menacing. Gradually the sky turns dark; a dark bluish black. The dark hue spreads across the horizon. The storm begins to define itself with dark rolling clouds that seemed to pull the smooth dark sky upward covering the sun. The hot humid air is swallowed up by a cool brisk breeze straight off the dark, approaching storm.

The mother hen clucked frantically, trying to encourage her baby chickens under the house to shelter. They half run, half fly toward the security of the house. The cool wind helped them along, turning their tails over their heads, blowing them under the porch to safety under their mother's wings.

Mama met us at the door as we came running in ahead of the storm. Lightening cracked across the sky followed immediately by deafening thunder.

"You kids get out of the door and stay away from the windows!" she warned as the lightening and thunder increased.

Mama rushed from one window to the next closing them. She left them slightly open to stabilize air pressure as if the cracks and creveses in the old hourse weren't enough. Suddenly the storm was upon us.

"Sit on the bed!," Mama said, "And stay there!"

We were never allowed to sit or lay on the bed. We knew better than to dive into the comforting feather bed, so we sat there on the side of the bed, feet dangling, hearts racing and eyes wide with fear.

Mama walked the floor until the back door opened and Daddy and the boys hurried inside. They struggled to close the door against the wind. The men stood in the kitchen wiping their faces on their sleeve and slapping their hats on their legs to rid them of water. Mama took her place at the head of the bed to wait out the storm. The head of the bed pressed hard against the supporting wall that ran the length of the house. We all watched helplessly as the walls of the house on the hill bent toward us then relaxed. The walls continued to bend, relax, bend, relax with the pulse of the storm.

Just as quickly as the storm arrived, it was gone, leaving behind cool clear air. Droplets of water hang on the leaves of the trees, water dripped from the eves of the house and inviting puddles of water beaconed from low places in the muddy yard. The storm raced eastward across East ditch toward the Horseshoe farm. We were safe.

The house on the hill was void of cushy comforts. There were no soft cushioned sofas or chairs. There were no carpets or lamps. The rooms were lighted by a single light bulb that dangled from the ceiling. Wooden walls with heavy gray paper tacked over them surrounded the family living in the house on the hill. But, the house on the hill was a refuge from familial, physical, and emotional storms that came our way. We always found comfort, peace and safety in that old house and in the one who ministered within its walls.

Even today, when the storms of life come my way, I retreat in my heart and mind to the security of the House on the Hill.

A Sunday Visit

The mulberry tree at the west end of the house was a welcome haven from the summer sun. No grass grew in its dense shade and a cool breeze set the huge leaves to turning in the wind, alternating their fuzzy white side with the dark green side. Those huge three point leaves turned and twisted at the end of a long stem. We snapped leaves from the lower branches, broke off the long stems and used them to sew the leaves together to make aprons and tablecloths.

Being Mary’s eleventh child brought with it a unique but happy situation. When my older siblings came home they brought their children; girls who were more like sisters, welcome playmates for Bobbie and me.

Being an older child also brought worries and concerns to a young tender heart. To me, my parents were old. Old people died. Daddy was too tired to play games or to give us much attention. Mama loved to play board games and share stories, but she was often sick.

Jim, my oldest brother, and his family lived in St. Louis. They would drive down occasionally on Sunday to spend the day. This made for an exciting day for Bobbie and me. Laverne would bring “real” bread, light bread, we called it, all wrapped in its own white bag decorated with multicolored balloons. It was almost like eating cake. Laverne also brought banana pudding. This was a special treat. This was the only time we’d have bananas. But, best of all, Nancy came.

Nancy was Jim’s daughter just a year younger than I. We soon found ourselves beneath the mulberry tree playing house. We’d sweep up narrow rows of dirt, twigs and leaves to mark the boundary of our kitchen. We’d set the wash bench inside and pull up some buckets for chairs. We’d spread our leaf woven cloth on the bench table and tear leaves and grass as if we were breaking beans or tearing lettuce. This was accompanied by idle chat; about things of which we thought grownup women talked. But one Sunday afternoon a serious conversation developed between Nancy and me.

Mama was having a stretch of illness and I was filled with dread and concern. What would I do? What would become of me if Mama should die? She was the most precious, the most important person, in the world to me. I shared my concern with Nancy. She looked at me with eyes bright with hope.

“Oh, Grandmother (her special name for Mama) doesn’t have to die.” She said. “Jesus died so she wouldn’t have to.”

Though neither of us understood the infinite meaning of what she said, the demonstration of her simple faith was sufficient. That eternal truth gave hope and satisfaction to the troubled hearts of those young girls.

Joy filled my heart. I had never heard of Jesus. I knew nothing of him. Immediately I loved him, and was eager to share this news with Mama. Thus began my life long relationship with my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.

Thanks Nancy, for the most important conversation of my life.

Jesus cares about you and me. My young heart was not ready for saving faith, but that did not impede the faith I needed for that moment. Jesus seeks you, no matter your age or your circumstances. Jesus can also use you, sometimes in special ways that are uniquely yours.

A Guy comes calling

It was very awkward when boyfriends came to call at the house on the hill. Daddy laid down the law to us girls, "It's either boys or school. You can't have both."

A couple of the girls chose boys. Grace, however, chose school and earned the rank of salutatorian of her graduating class. A year or so after graduation, she came to work in the superintendent's office in the same school. There she became acquainted with the new teachers, a couple of which were young men.

A number of our nieces and nephews, Bobbie and I had these young men as teachers. I remember in particular our music teacher, Mr. Mousier's visit to the house on the hill. Mr. Moushier was French and spoke with an accent. I was a bit taken aback by him and was amazed that he would visit our humble home.

Mr. Moushier's visit was on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. I'm sure Grace spent a lot of time and energy preparing for his visit, cleaning, rearranging furniture, preparing drinks, and perhaps even arranging for Rrean and Lloyd to be there. On this particular Sunday afternoon, Rrean, our sister, and her husband, Lloyd, and their two children, Jennie and Phillip indeed were there.

Jennie was eight or ten, a few years younger than Bobbie and Phil was just old enough to make life miserable for girls playing house. I had advanced to the ripe old age of fourteen or fifteen, much too old to play with dolls.

Upstairs, was the ideal place for playing house. There was plenty of room to set up two or more pretend homes. There were plenty of old clothes to dress up in and dolls aplenty for babies. This afternoon, the play house was at the end of the long room far from the stair way, pretty much directly over the downstairs living room. Bobbie, Jennie and Phil were playing up there and were relatively quiet.

Mr. Moushier arrived right on time. Of course it was nothing but proper for him to sit and chat a while before he and Grace went for a drive. A few minutes into the visit, Phil decided that he had had enough of playing house and decided to have some real fun. Phil was a little on the chubby side, with very short brown hair and the most beautiful mischievous brown eyes you would ever see. Both girls were nearing the end of their doll playing days, beside being a little large for their age.

One of the girls had chosen a discarded hand bag in which to store her baby doll clothes. The bag was a long, black, patent leather purse. Without warning, Phil grabbed the purse, stuck it under his arm, and began running toward the stairs. The purse was so long it stuck out the front and back of his chubby frame. With a scream from the girls and much giggling from Phil, he began to run the length of the house to the stair way. The girls grabbed their naked dolls and ran after him.

Now the house on the hill was by no means insulated, sound proof, or too sturdy for that matter. The house itself jumped and danced with every booming step of the fierce race upstairs. At best there were only two layers of flooring separating the stampede upstairs and the quiet conversation below. In fact, when the running began the conversation stopped.

Not willing to be seen or heard while Mr. Moushier was there, I sat quietly in the kitchen window out of sight. As soon as the running began, I knew where it would end. The doll players knew nothing of the distinguished guest downstairs. I had a strange premonition that Phil would head straight for the living room. Immediately I jumped up to intercept the on coming wild gang.

Still not willing to reveal my presence, I mouthed, "Stop, stop!" Phil came on. I waved my arms and mouthed, "No, no!" But, Phil came on with the girls in hot pursuit.

Phil made a sharp right bringing them all into the living room forming a nice formation in front of the sofa. There they were, Phil with the long black patent leather purse, Bobbie, not in her Sunday best with a naked doll hanging on her arm and Jennie clutching her doll with surprise in those beautiful brown eyes and a smile and giggle that would melt your heart. Then, silence, really dead silence.

Finally, Mr. Moushier spoke in his beautiful accent, "Are we playing dolls?"

Without a word the startled band turned and retraced their steps all the way back to the play house upstairs at relatively the same speed and intensity. I returned to my seat in the kitchen window. The quiet conversation continued in the living room. Only after Grace and Mr. Moushier left for their drive did we burst into laughter. I can't remember Mr. Moushier returning for a second visit.

You could be yourself in the house on the hill. No one judged your speech, your actions, your ideas, your dreams or aspirations. Strangers and family alike were treated with dignity. With so much going on, it was hard to keep the house clean or attractive, but the things that mattered were clean. Food, clothes and beds topped the list. The things that mattered were respected, your integrity, your dreams, your word. The things that mattered most were given free rein, love, laughter, and solace.

Spring at the House on the Hill

Bobbie, Patsy and I were among the first off the school bus on this cool spring afternoon. The sun was already sinking in the west, taking with it much of the day's warmth. Yet, Bobbie, my sister just two years younger, Patsy, our niece, and I had enough time to get in an hour or so of volleyball. The sagging clothes line in the side yard would do for a net. The volley ball was anything from a child's rubber ball to a half deflated basketball. But, we played with zeal using the skills we learned in PE classes at school.

A wire clothes line had been wrapped around the stately trunk of an old cotton wood in the corner of the yard. It had been there so long the cotton wood had embraced it partially closing its self around it. The wire loped across the yard to a t-pole that seemed to bow to the steadfast cottonwood. The clothes line was propped up at intervals by poles leaning in unison. Grass grew around the great cottonwood, tall, dark, green, cold and unfriendly. The cool March wind assisted the tall green grass in cheering us on. Only when the sun slipped below the western horizon did the chill drive us inside to the warmth of the wood stove in Mama's kitchen.

A pot of beans steamed on the back of the stove and the wonderful smell of cornbread filled the house. A large skillet of potatoes hissed as Mamma gently turned them and placed the lid back on the skillet.

Without turning she said, "You girls get the water and wood in before it gets dark. Now go on. Supper is about ready."

Ignoring Mama's request, Bobbie and I made a beeline for the back of the stove and the one cane bottom chair.

"Watch, you don't fall into the stove." Mama said with a little irritation in her voice. Bobbie beat me to the chair and I took a seat on the wood box.

Daddy followed us into the kitchen with the cool March wind preceding him. "Didn't ye Mammie tell you girls to bring in the wood?" he said.

I grabbed an empty bucket sitting on the low water table near the door and headed for the pump in the corner of the yard out by the barn lot. I knew Bobbie was watching me from the window and wouldn't be out until she saw me making my way back with the sloshing bucket of water. After many trips into the cold spring evening, the chores are finished and supper is ready. Bobbie and I take our place on the bench behind the table. Rachel and Grace sit in chairs at either end. Daddy is already in his regular place eating cornbread and milk from a small aluminum pan. Supper was hurriedly eaten while a pan of dish water heated on the woodstove. The fire was getting low and the kitchen cooling fast. Mama put away the few leftovers and lifted the pan of hot water onto a wooden board placed on the table to protect the oil cloth. She left the dish washing to Bobbie and me.

It was my turn to wash and Bobbie's turn to dry the dishes. The process was slow and lonely. We could hear the radio in the front room and the task of washing dishes became almost unbearable and terribly unfair. We could not imagine Rachel and Grace ever having washed a dish. The fussing and complaining added a little energy to the task and at last it is done. A ten minute job has taken at least thirty minutes.

The evening news has gone off and the question, "Who was that masked man?" signals the end of the Lone Ranger and radio entertainment for the night.

With the dishes finished, I opened the back door, and returned for the pan of dish water. There was no running water in the house on the hill. We disposed of dirty water by throwing it off the back porch. By now the dish water was cold and black from soot scrubbed off the bottoms of pans. Solidified grease circled the water line inside the dish pan. The front of my dress was wet, my feet were cold and Bobbie had suddenly turned on me. Just before I got to the door with the pan of water, she shut the door.

"Open the door." I screamed.

"Open it yourself." She yelled.

A shouting match developed quickly. Mama came in to settle it and emptied the water for me. With my job finished, I moved on to the warmth of the front room leaving Bobbie alone in the cold kitchen to finish drying the dishes. I could hear Bobbie crying and slamming dishes. Already I was sorry but the warmth of the room was heavenly and homework must be done.

By the time the dishes were finished, Daddy had already gone to bed. Low conversation, reading, sewing, and homework were taking place just a few feet from his bed. We often wondered just how much Daddy actually slept. A game or two of Chinese checkers followed the homework. When Daddy became restless and began to clear his throat, we knew it was bedtime. Rachel and Grace slept in the unheated bedroom. Bobbie and I slept in a bed in the opposite corner of the front room.

When the heating stove in the front room came down, that meant spring had arrived. Being a little cold natured, I wore a sweater or jacket until the days became warmer. It was unclear whose idea it was to take down the stove. I suspect it was Daddy's since he kept a close watch on the coal pile. There seemed to be a direct correlation between the depletion of the pile of black lumpy fuel and the onset of warm weather. If there was a little discrepancy, it was ignored by Daddy. He spent the spring days outside, planning and preparing soil and machines for a new crop. With spring came hope, a season of forgiveness, a chance to start over, an opportunity to correct mistakes, a new beginning.

A Dreadful Day

It was the kind of dreadful day

When no decent folk would dare to stray

Beyond their walls into the way,

But, pulled the shade and dared not peek

Beyond the opening of clay.

Although the hour was nearing noon,

Dark shadows fell in every room.

And should one glimpse the stormy sky

Three crosses dark against its breast,

Summoned only thoughts of gloom.

Why darkness here at peek of day?

Why stirring of this earth of clay?

Why spirits walking in the streets?

Why noise and rumbling at my feet?

And why no children out to play?

Upon one cross all wrath is waged.

The fierceness of all nature raged,

Lashing at his body torn,

Pounding at his bleeding head.,

Tearing at his hands and feet.

Only when the savior dies,

Does the Master clear the skies

Giving all the dark clouds flight.

He then stills the wind and rain.

And calms the heart of he who cries.

But, still no one dared to speak

Above a whisper or peradventure just to peek,

Beyond the door. For down the street

They carried him, wretched man with body torn,

To wait the resurrection morn

And with his fathers sleep.

Yet soon there dawned a brighter day.

Just three days hence. Not faraway,

The borrowed tomb a rumbling made.

The soldiers scattered, running past,

The women coming there to pray.

Inside the tomb, t'was plain to see,

His body gone, the grave clothes neat.

"Who," they asked, "would be so brave

To take the dead from out his grave,

And leave no clue as where to seek.

Perhaps the gardener at the gate,

Can tell me where my Lord was laid.

"Praise God! He lives, my savior, friend."

"I know him now. I knew him when

He gently called my name."

No more sorrow, trials sore.

No more wreath upon the door.

The Savior went to hell's great depth,

Conquering sorrow, pain and death,

Bringing joy for evermore.

AMEN

Ghost Stories

Halloween meant nothing to the children in the house on the hill. I can't remember even hearing the word until I started to school. That doesn't mean our house was void of ghosts and goblins.

A good ghost story has screeches and howls and things that go bump in the night. The house on the hill had all that built in. On a windy night, you could hear creaks and groans as the house bowed to the wind. Loose boards and shingles would bump and slap, defying the wind. And the wind literally whistled under the doors and around the windows.

On such a night, Daddy would go to bed early. The single coal-oil lamp flickered with the wind and cast moving shadows on the walls. Mama would pull her rocker a little closer to the pot-bellied stove. Bobbie and I would sit in the corner behind the stove at Mama's feet and beg her to tell us a ghost story. Not made up ones, but those she'd experienced and swore were true.

"Well, she'd say, "Not long after Glen was born there was that light that came in the house. It was a hot sultry night. The bed we slept in was in a front open window. We had gone to bed and I had made a pallet for Glen in the floor at the foot of the bed. He was just a month or two old and a little sickly. I was laying there listening to Glen breathe when I glanced out the window and saw this light coming toward the house. This ball of light kept coming, came through the window and danced for just a moment over my sleeping baby and then went back out the window and into the woods. I could see it disappearing behind the trees."

"Did it hurt the baby?"

"No, just came in and then left."

"Tell us another one."

"Well, there was the time I saw your Grandmother McCoy."

"Was she a ghost?"

"She had been dead about a year. The twins, RD and Rrean, were just about a week old. I had been in bed most of the time since they'd been born. I was laying there one day looking out the window. and saw a woman coming up the path to the door. I told Winnie to open the door for Mrs Hornbeck, our neighbor. She opened the door but noone was there. I knew I had seen someone! After thinking a minute I knew it was Grandma McCoy. I recognized her dress and bonet. I had promised her before she died, that I would name the next girl after her. Her name was Rachel. I believe she had come back to remind me that I had not kept my promise."

"Then there was the time we lived over around Elbridge in a house that had a dog trot. A dog trot was an open hallway down the middle of the house. There were two big rooms on one side of the hallway and two big rooms on the other side. Occasionally at night you could hear a horse gallop up the road and stop at the gate. You could hear the gate open, and in a minute hear heavy footsteps walking all the way to the end of the dog trot. They would wait a bit and then the heavy footsteps would come back down the dog trot and out to the gate. You could hear the gate close."

"Did they leave?"

"Can't remember them leaving."

"Did you see anything?"

"Nothing."

Gone are the days of wide-eyed wonder. No blood or gore, just enough of the inexplicable to stimulate the imagination. What could have happened there at the end of the dog trot? Did the dancing light mean anything? Was it a fore warning to Mama that little Glen was a precious gift, lent for a short time? Was it an angel checking on heaven's treasure? Did Grandma McCoy really visit or was Mama delirious? Perhaps Grandma just want to see the new babies. We don't know.

My Place

At the top of the stairs was a large window facing west. As I passed from childhood into my teen years that window became my favorite spot. From there I looked through the dancing leaves of a big mulberry tree to the road leading to the rest of the world. Outside that window I could see the rock pile beside the gravel road that led to highway 61 and routes beyond. I could see the little brick-siding house where my brother, Horace and his wife Marie lived. It was small and neat and cosy. Marie had a real living room.There were no beds in her front room. The pump was in the kitchen. How unique! Something not even considered at the house on the hill. I dreamed of someday having such a cosy, convenient home.

My place by the window was perfect during the hot summer days. I could count on an occasional gentle breeze through the window. It cooled my moist face and twisted and turned the big mulberry leaves, showing their white fuzzy side. The gentle whisper of the leaves brought peace to my heart and life. How perfect were those hours spent sitting in the window.

My seat by the window was a box of old clothes and rags, crushed and torn to fit the shape of a young slim teenage girl. Many dreams and plans were fashioned there. Someday, I'd be a wife and mother. I'd read and play with my children. I'd tell them stories and we'd sing and plan and wait together for Christmas. I'd sew little girls' dresses and little boy's shirts. I'd take them to church and teach them about Jesus. I'd cook and then gather my family together at the end of day.

I spent many rainy hours sitting in the window. I could hear the rain on the roof and it's gentle patter on the leaves of the mulberry tree. The dim light from the window fell on forgotten stories from the pages of old magazines and newspapers. I reread the comics and scanned articles with intreging head lines. If the day was cool, I would pull an old skirt tail from my seat of rags to wrap my arms. With a damp breeze in my face I'd visit faraway places and live a life of vicarious wonder from the discarded papers and books on the landing at the top of the stairs.

The subdued light faded into the shadows behind me, lost in the boxes of junk and clothing and dusty pieces of broken things, even the small unopened box at the top of the stairs.

The Stair Way

The Stair Way

As a child, I was intrigued with the stairway leading upstairs. It was not fancy at all, just a simple stairway of roughhewn boards nailed in place on a saw toothed frame ascending to the second floor. It was boxed in by the inside wall of the dining room and the outside wall of the house. There was not even a banister. Kids just bounded up and down and adults steadied themselves by grabbing the thin strip of wood nailed to the outside wall.

Things without a home were often found in the corners of the steps; a coffee can of nails, a chipped pitcher, a doll left to wait for its young mother, tools, a broom, rags. The landing at the top of the stairs was a depository for hurriedly left items. The empty fruit jars would rest there until we emptied a box to put them in. The heavy pressure cooker was shoved onto the landing after the summer canning. A ripped box bulged with old newspapers and magazines, the latest editions having been thrown on top. Nothing was thrown away, the thin pages of outdated catalogs and newspapers served as bathroom tissue in the outdoor toilet. Then there was the mysterious small closed box sitting undisturbed against the wall.

We loved to play on the steps. This was a place on which we could comfortably sit. The steps just fit the short legs of a child. The steps were also a stage for our paper dolls. We would play for hours; walking, talking, and visiting. We mocked life as we knew it and played it out as we hoped it to become.

Most of our paper dolls were cut from the slick pages of the Sears and Roebuck catalog. The slick, stiffer pages also made wonderful furniture. The page was carefully cut, folded, and glued with spit to make beds, chairs, and couches. We even made an occasional truck to transport our families from one household to another.

Our favorite paper doll was Ruth. She was our only “bought” paper doll. I can’t remember how she came to be ours. Perhaps a “found” treasure when we moved into the house on the hill. She had no clothes except those we drew, colored and cut out for her. But, she was beautiful and cherished.

The stairs were by no means professionally made or finished. Each step was made by the conjunction of two unfinished boards coming together. At the back of each step was a crack. The cracks varied, some wide, some narrow. We paid little attention to the construction of the stairway until the fateful day that Ruth fell through a crack.

That was a sad day. We would peer through the crack and there she lay, flat on her back, face up, gone forever. It never occurred to us to ask for help to retrieve her. We just visited her occasionally, peeking through the crack in the steps. As I grow older, I find myself peeking through the cracks of the past, reliving for a moment the joys and carefree days of my childhood.

Upstairs

The house on the hill had a second story, "up stairs" we kids called it. One of my first memories of life on the hill had to do with upstairs. Just barely three, I remember climbing up and down, up and down the stairs. The stair way ran up one side of the dining room on the outside wall. At the foot of the stairs was a wonderful big window looking out into the side yard.

Upstairs was a mysterious place authenticated by the admonition of a fun loving brother who told me that a ghost lived up there. He had proof of it, the ghost had written his name on the wall. And there it was, "Casper", in large sloppy letters painted at an angle across roughly sawn boards at the top of the stairs. Not only had Casper left his signature, but we were convinced he lived in the crawl space above the kitchen. A wide board had been removed from that side of the large room, giving access to this slanted crawl space. But to us kids, it was just a large rectangular black hole, an opening into dark and mysterious places.

Upstairs was one big room that went from one end of the house to the other. Big uncovered windows at each end gave light to the huge room. On the front wall of upstairs was a line of small windows. The branches of the majestic elm in the front yard reached toward the windows across the roof of the front porch.

Upstairs was an enchanting place. It was filled with treasures and mystery. There was a library table, a bed piled with clothes. There were boxes of clothes and other treasures, old books and magazines, a big stack of St. Louis Post-Dispatch newspapers that Jim had brought. There was also an old hump backed trunk. Mama gave us strict instructions to stay out of there, giving it all the more mystery. Among all the boxes and junk was a small closed cardboard box. It was almost sacred. Mama said we were to leave it alone, not to open it. Somehow we knew that was one request from Mama that we could not violate.

Upstairs was the ideal place to play. It was most fun to play up there when my nieces came. Being number eleven of twelve children, these nieces were around my age. Peggy, Nancy, Patsy, Norma, and my sister Bobbie were in this consort. Peggy was the most adventurous and fearless.

The large room was big enough for each of us girls to make our own "house". The boxes of old clothes were perfect for dressing up. We all had our favorites. A long three tiered skirt and a thin soft fluffy blouse were mine.

Mama kept the mysterious black hole covered by stacking boxes of various things in front of it. But, occasionally, it was open, giving my suspicious and believing heart a quickened beat should I have to pass too closely. However nothing, especially the black hole, could scare Peggy. She was five months older than I. That was explanation enough for me of her prowess.

This particular Sunday afternoon, things were going well. We were trying to get houses set up at various places to play house. This was something of no particular interest to Peggy.

"You go ahead and set up our house." She said to me. " I will just live with you."

Not getting the gist behind it, I thought the idea was great. That gave her the freedom to ramble and explore.
Eventually, she was drawn to the black hole in the wall. Pushing a box aside, she climbed upon another, putting herself directly in front of the black hole. With her hands on either side of the hole, she poked her head way in to look around. All this time, I thought she would pull back out of that hole headless. After what seemed like five minutes, she pulled her head out of the hole.

I'll never forget those big brown eyes, widened for emphasis, looking at us. Then in a very mysterious voice she said, " I saw two big, round, (here she brought those long skinny fingers together to indicate size) white eyes in there."

The next thing heard was a stampede down the stairs. We didn't stop until we were outside, exactly where Peggy wanted to be.

The Last Outing

Mrs. Shouppe died yesterday, closing an interesting chapter in my life. She was 94, old enough to be my mother, but we were more like good friends.

I cannot forget the last time I took her to see the opthalmologist. We had already cancelled and rescheduled at least once. It was time for a complete eye exam. She tried to talk herself out of going, but I talked her into keeping the appointment.

We arrived at the doctor's office to find they had moved the waiting room. This didn't sit well with her but the girls at the desk were kind and helpful and directed us to the end of a long hallway. Long, because by now every step for Mrs. Shouppe was painful and slow. I looked around for a wheelchair. None was available so I borrowed a desk chair on rollers.

Here we go, she is in the desk chair, feet dangling and with her enormous purse, which she used as a filing/medicine cabinet, and my big purse, which would easily serve as an overnight bag, piled in her lap. I held her cane under my arm and tried to manipulate the wobbly chair that wanted to dart back and forth across the hall. Just before we got to the waiting room, a sweet technician directed us to an examination room.

Suddenly, Mrs Shouppe is cold, so I take off my shirt and cover her shivering shoulders. It's a good thing I wore this top shirt to cover my fluff which is now fully exposed by my slightly too snug knitted top. Now we face the task of getting her in the examination chair. The step is too high. After a couple of tries, the technician and I drag her backwards into the chair. The technician leaves us alone in the exam room. Mrs. Shouppe's little feet are dangling and going to sleep so she sends me to search for telephone books to slip under them.

All fixed now, Mrs. Shouppe has to use the restroom. She slides easily out of the exam chair into the rolling desk chair and down the hall we go, she with the purses, I with the cane, under my arm, trying to guide the wobbly chair. The restrooms are back up the long hall, across the length of the original waiting room into a confined hallway. The restroom has a heavy door opening out into the hall.

We arrive at the restroom just in time. I hold the heavy door open for her. She goes in and I'm left to guard the purses. At last she comes out. I try to hold the door open, retrieve the cane she forgot, grab the purses from the desk chair while keeping it from rolling out from under her. Having so much to synchronize, I accidently let the door go prematurely and it slaps her on the bottom. She screams and here comes a nurse and a young man with a wheelchair.

Back in the exam room and back in the chair, the technician begins the exam. Suddenly Mrs. Shouppe becomes faint and begins to gag. A nurse rushes in with cool wet clothes, and I retrieve a throw up bag from her purse.

"I just want to go home!" she says.

I try to tell her this will not take long and we can be on our way.

"I just want to go home!! she repeats several times.

The doctor arrives early, ready to dialate her eyes.

"No! No!" she shouts, "I've told you I don't want that done again".

I try to explain that that it is necessary for her exam.

"I just want to go home!!" she says a little louder this time.

The exam is terminated and we prepare to go.

Wrapped in my oversized shirt, still shaking, Mrs. Shouppe is pushed to the car by a nurse while I settle things at the check out desk.

When I get to the car, Mrs. Shouppe is lying back in the seat, moaning and gagging with a wet cloth on her head and throw up bag in hand. The nurse is soothing and comforting her. I finally get myself, purses, and cane into the car. After fastening our seat belts, I put the car in reverse and we are on our way.

Before we are out of the parking lot she says, "You think we could stop at the Discount Bread Store?"

"Of course." I answer.

It is three blocks from the doctor's office. We are soon there. Before I can get out of the car, she is already out and on her way to the door!

I will miss her.

Wash Day

Washday at our house was always on Monday unless canceled by rain, in which case it happened the next available day. Washday itself dawned with vigor. Mama was up earlier than usual and expected the whole family to follow.

I pull the sheet and blanket up over my head and enjoy the cool breeze coming in the large open window.

"Get up from there, girls," Mama calls from the kitchen.

Awake, but with my eyes still closed, I realize with dread that it is washday. Peeking out of one eye in the direction of the open window and noting the cool breeze, I try to make myself believe that it is going to rain. I pull up the covers a little tighter and drift off to sleep. Sounds from the kitchen drift in and out of my dreams. Mama's steps have a quickened beat this morning. I'm just not in tune with them.

"Out of there, girls, we've got work to do."

Why does Mama sound so close? Suddenly I know. With one sudden jerk, I'm lying on the featherbed ticking, the top and bottom sheets are on their way to the wash pot and I'm wadded up in a knot under my gown.

"I need that gown too," she says, "Get dressed and eat your breakfast. I need you to scrub a few clothes for me."

Certain pieces of the laundry had to be scrubbed before being placed in the wash pot.That could be anything that was especially soiled. Dish rags, and work clothes topped the list. The scrub board was a very effective piece of equipment. It worked very effectively to humble the proud young trainee in laundry. It's appearance was innocent enough. It is a board with legs long enough to reach the bottom of the wash tub. The top is a cornice of sorts that rests against the operators stomach and holds a bar of soap. The working surface, however, is rough, ribbed metal, designed to force out dirt if used properly. If it is not used correctly, it can ruin a young girl's nuckles in a manner of minutes and a hole in the garment as well. This fact alone will speed up the learning process.

The tub for this first step in the laundry process was placed on the back porch. This placed the scrub board just the right height for an adult standing on the ground. I stood on a bucket. Mama added hot boiling water to the half tub of cold water. A bar of P&Gj soap completed the supplies needed and the washday began.

The soiled garment was pulled from the warm soapy water, up over the scrub board, generously soothed with P&G soap, flipped to the soaped side down and gently rubbed, gathering the garment in your hands as you rubbed up and down the ribbed board. This was a slow gentle scrub without too much pressure to the garment to avoid rubbing al hole in it. Continue rubbing and gathering to the end of the garment, then flip the garment and repeat the process. Scrubbing done, the piece was then wrung out by hand and ready for the steaming wash pot.

The black wash pots stood behind the scrubbing board. Mama often used two. She had mountains of laundry to do. A fire was built under them from scraps of wood. The wood smoke driffed through the air. Soon the water in the wash pots was bubbling. Mama boiled all the clothes ten or fifteen minutes depending on how dirty they were. Sunday clothes and school clothes alone escaped the scalding. A long stick, most often the handle of a worn out broom, was used to lift the steaming clothes into a tub. Mama would call one of us to help carry the tub to the wonderfully cool shade of the mulberry tree where the washing began in earnest.

Mama scrubbed the clothes again when needed, and rinsed them twice. Only then were they ready to be hung on the line. All this time she was keeping a watchful eye on the steaming wash pots. Snowy white sheets were first. These were too big to be trusted to children. Mama couldn't risk them being dropped on the sandy soil beneath the clothes line. Mama hang these out with remarkable speed.

When the older girls were at home, Bobbie and I were free to play around the bench holding the wash tubs under that big mulberry tree. Hanging in the dense shade of the mulberry tree was a wonderful swing. It was a long rope with both ends tied to a large branch in the tree. Someone had fashioned a seat from a piece of wood. The rope cut into the sides.

"Ah, at last! My turn in the swing." First I pull back as far as the rope will let me, then I lift my feet and swing forward. On each return, I give a push with my bare feet, getting higher and higher. Then I stretch, pulling back on the rope to get as far back as I can. Then I push forward with my bottom as hard as I can, flinging my bare dusty feet forward, stretching and stretching for the stark white sheets hanging on the line in front of me.

"Betty! Don't touch your dirty feet to the sheets!" Mama warns.

"It's my turn," Bobbie yells.

Only then do I relax and let the swing carry me back and forth and the breeze cools my face and blows the hair that has escaped the single long braid down my back.

As the day progresses, the lines are filled with fresh clean clothes. The work clothes and rags are hanging on the garden fence. The fire is dying under the wash pots. Ashes and half-burned sticks remain. The water in the pots still steams, but is cloudy and brown. One by one the tubs of water are emptied. Some on flower beds, others in the pig lot. Finally one wash tub is carried to the back porch. Mama's apron and dress are wet and she looks tired but pleased.

"Betty, go pump a fresh bucket of water," Mama calls as she reaches for the mop. "Now be sure to pump it off good," she says.

Mama mops the kitchen from the tub of wash water, then with a broom she lifts the water from the tub and scrubs the porch. By now I have returned with the bucket of cool fresh water. Mama lifts a dipper of water from the bucket and drinks it all.


"Ah, that's good," she says and she is on her way to the front porch to rest a bit before she starts supper.

Pre-wash Day

Washday at the house on the hill was always on Monday unless canceled by rain, in which case it happened the very next available day. It was preceded by certain almost ritualistic preparations; water was pumped, beds changed, clothes sorted, and Daddy tricked into changing clothes. To Daddy, changing clothes was an inconvenience and an unnecessary nuisance. Mama always put his clean clothes out on Sunday morning and took his dirty ones to the closet in the back room.

The back room played an important part in the lives of folks when I was growing up. It took the place of utility rooms, guest rooms and closets. It most often served as a bedroom for those needing less privacy, and more often the latest out of Mama and Daddy's room. It also served as a repository for the dirty clothes, canned goods, rags and broken things. The dirty clothes were in baskets or on the floor in the make shift closet in a corner of the back room.

The closet was a corner in the back room. In the summer time the outside door and the door leading to the kitchen opened back to make a triangular closet. A flimsy sheet hung on a string from one door facing to the other hiding the dirty clothes and the slop jar in the winter. The closet itself was a favorite place for kids. It would have made a perfect hiding place had it not been the only place to hide. It did, however, serve as an occasional place of solitude until you were discovered.

The evening before wash day, Mama would pull a cane bottom chair into the back room from the kitchen, throw the sheet concealing the closet over its string, and take her seat. She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, and began a task she thoroughly enjoyed, sorting the clothes. She did this just before going to bed the night before wash day.

Sorting the clothes was a job much too important to be trusted to amateures. Mama sorted the clothes by color and importance. School clothes were important. Work clothes were not. The clothes were sorted and washed in this order; whites, colors, towels, work clothes and rags. But this was not a simple task. Washday was an all day thing. When I refer to whites, I mean all three loads of them, sheets, underwear, white blouses and shirts. The colors were the dresses, the everyday clothes, the boy's shirts and pants, and then Mama's aprons. The work clothes were washed next and last of all, the rags.

Towels had not been a problem until one of the married kids gave Mama some. Until then we had always used the skirts of dresses whose waist had worn out. These easily fit into the everyday colors. Real towels presented a problem for Mama. The lint lingered in the water and clung to the rest of the wash.

Bobbie and I filled huge tubs with water the afternoon before washday. This meant endless trips from the pump to the washtubs already in place on the bench under the mulberry trees at the west end of the house. After the tubs were filled, we filled the black wash pots sittin;g on an incline directly in front of the back door. I'm sure the wash pots were positioned so that Mama could keep a watchful eye from the kitchen. The pump and the black pots were in the blazing summer sun. Between them a path of burning sand toughened the bare feet of the young carriers.

The wash pot was a large cast iron black pot with short legs. This was a very valuable container. Its primary use was to heat water for laundry. However, it was also used for making soap, rendering lard, frying fish and other tasks that were best done outdoors. A fire could be built under its round belly.

How wonderful are the predawn hours on the farm. The rooster is the first to summon the new day. A distant crowing lightens my sleep and I lie there expecting the rooster from the henhouse to answer. He doesn't disappoint me. Soon there is a chorus of neighboring roosters punctuated by the resident rooster. This was music to my ears. The long sultry night had become cool, almost too cool. I pull the sheet and blanket up under my chin even over my head and drink in the cool, damp morning air. I can hear Mama in the kitchen. Soon the smell of bacon and coffee drifts in. I can hear their quiet voices as she cooks and Daddy drinks his coffee. All is well with the world.

Christmas in the House on the Hill

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.