Those Shifty Fifties...conclusion

Going "back home"...........Our mama was an organizer and truly in her element when it came to making decisions and planning for such trips.
The old Singer would be at full throttle weeks before the departure stitching little plaid shirts, shorts, pinafores and other accessories. She made all her own frocks too and the sports shirts for my Dad. And we had to match! Not each other but our tops to our bottoms. She just wouldn't stand for mixing it up with a plaid here and a stripe, dot or check along with it. And she was big on wearing good underpants. No safety pins allowed.

These folks drove like Andretti possessed as they wove their way from Arkansas to the Catskill Mountains in upstate New York. Stopping only to fuel up and the inevitable "I gotta pee NOW and can't hold it any longer" stops. Probably an hour or two before reaching our destination we had to pull over sometimes right there on the side of the turnpike so they could retrieve clean clothing from the trunk and Mama would make up strip down and she'd go to work on us using a wash rag dipped from the icy water from the little styrofoam ice chest they kept in the car for our food and drinks. This ritual called the Bath left nothing untouched. Faces, armpits, feet and bottoms in that order got scrubbed so we could be pink and fragrant smelling before entering Grandma Gregory's. God how I hated those baths. Especially dead of the winter when we had to stand out in the cold exposed and subjected to cruel and unusual punishment at the hands of the one supposed to love and protect.

On the way back home depending on the time we had left and what remained of their pocketbooks we sometimes made little side trips, stopping to look at historical landmarks or to visit souvenir shops if they had really been careful with their funds and had encountered no wacky car problems. We got to look through racks and choose our own postcards. It gave us something fun to do on the way home and we got to actually mail them to friends and family from the town we happened to be driving through, saying things like "Hi, having fun and wish you were here". Of course the cards did not reach them before we were back home and that always made me feel sad when I learned that.

While driving through the Carolina's and the mountains of Tennessee we'd get a pair of moccasins. Genuine handmade ones by real Indians. Or in Freddie's case a billfold which was in the form of a kit to be assembled with plastic strips. Sometimes I'd get an Indian doll, usually a maid with feathers in her braids. Fun and entertaining was the Burma Shave signs or the "I see something you don't see" game. Spotting license plates from other states, a good little diversion aimed at keeping us from squabbling was a good one too.

Sometimes we got to spend a night coming back in places called tourist courts and I loved it when they were the actual teepees. At least we thought they were truly authentic. We'd stop mainly at roadside parks and have picnic lunches but occasionally we got to have a real cafe meal. I loved those joints. Not just the good hot greasy food but the atmosphere that went along with them. They all had little jukeboxes at the booths. Talk about living. For a dime you could get a couple of songs and for a quarter you could hear music way up until your meal was finished. You hated leaving the music playing but when the plates were empty it was time to go.

Once back home everything was back to normal. Except the time we got home and found our house literally infested with fleas. Freckles had stayed with relatives and when she returned it seems the fleas held a welcome home party for her. They also took a liking to me and Mammy said it was all in my mind because fleas didn't bite anything but dogs or S.O.B.'s. She had some sense of humor didn't she. I've wondered all my life which category I fell into.

Growing up in the fifties was just the best of times for so many reasons. Freddie and I both collected comic books which were always referred to as funny books. Whether they were funny or not. Kinda like calling all sodas "Cokes". But to me that decade was the last era of innocence and we were ripe for the picking as rock 'n roll came of age. Midway into my thirteenth year was the summer I became aware of feelings both exciting and scary.

It was the introduction of Elvis, Bill Haley and the Comets which threatened to consume my very soul. In the past I was content to share brother and sister fun but that summer all seemed changed as Freddie became much younger and never again my little playmate. In my mind I had become of age and left innocence behind. Gone were the gentle days of pretend and leisure. I had growing up to do and I wanted it to happen now. It would take many years before I'd appreciate and yearn for the carefree sheltered time I had so taken for granted.

The fifties were history.Shifty baby.........the word had taken on new meaning.

Those Shifty Fifties

SHIFTY.....A word suggesting shadiness and deceit. According to Webster it is indeed indicative of deceit, and evasiveness. It also means to be resourceful. And resourceful our family was. This was a whole decade of folks given to resourceful living. A throw back from the war days I suppose. Our mother was the queen of make-do and ingenuity; a trait which appreciatively extended down through the following generations. Those were days when daddies worked and mommies stayed home to care for children and keep the home in order. Also the days when parents talked. To one another. Decisions were made together like how to spend the money Daddy earned and another quirky thing common among most of the families from that time was that the children were to be seen and not heard. We had no voice or opinion. At least when there were decisions to be made. Like where to spend the summer vacation. Practically all families took a vacation and it was just budgeted in. Kids were not inclined to suggest, question or nose into adult conversations and discussions. There was just no reason for us to as our needs were met and it was just taken for granted that this was the way it should be.

(This is a little snapshot of my little brother Freddie and I. We were probably around 2 and 4 at the zoo in Little Rock, Arkansas.)

(Our Daddy, George who was 23 here. Wasn't he handsome in his army uniform? He was a yankee from upstate New York)

(And this southern beauty was our Mama, Gene Margaret who was 17 when this was made. She and Daddy had been married for 1 year, and she was why we were in Arkansas as that was her home)

Although I was born in the first month of 1944 I think of myself as a child of the fifties due to only dim recollections before the age of six. I don't think it common or usual to remember much before the age you can attend school. Probably what we recall as actual memories are really things we're heard over and over and thus ingrained in our memory banks.

I do however have strong memories of the summer I was six and Freddie was around four. Things that year were "normal". Or were they. Seems only yesterday to be called in from playing to take our baths so we could be ready to greet Daddy when he came in from work. Mother was keen on sewing and one particular outfit I loved wearing was a little chocolate brown cotton pinafore trimmed with white eyelet ruffles up and down the side of the midriff. She even brown Rit dyed my socks to match and hand polished my white sandals. My hair, hanging to my waist had to be washed daily to eliminate the sweaty little girl smells and then braided with none other than chocolate brown ribbons. Freddie would also be made pure and ready with freshly ironed plaid shirt (hand sewn) and starched and ironed shorts to match. Out we'd go and wait with Mother on the arrival. She'd take a lawn chair for herself and a big jug of iced down lemonade (hand-squeezed) along with four glasses and we were permitted to play. Nicely. The Studebaker would presently appear and Daddy got to have his lemonade while exchanging pleasantries about what we'd done all day before going in for the evening. We could be "normal" again now that he was home.

This was in the days before television and evenings were spent pretty much the same from day to day. Daddy after removing tie and loosening the top botton of his shirt caught up on the days happenings from the newspaper while relaxing in his swivel chair and Mother would cook supper. We sat and ate as a family and mealtimes were actual events where we were encouraged to talk throughout the meal. Even the kids. And parents were truly interested in what we had to say. Things like eating Popsicles and riding our tricycles. Mama talked of her day. Washing, hanging clothes to dry and so forth. Maybe even a little funny like the time Freddie reached down and bit Freckles, our Cocker Spaniel on one of her long curly auburn ears and she turned the tables on him in the same manner. He still sports a faint scar on his chin from that little nip.

Bedtime stories were read to us and we knelt down on our knees for prayers. After that it was anyone's guess. Those were times for adult discussions, plans and perhaps arguments. Afterwards, well you know. The point I'm going for is that we kids knew nothing of adult private times, even things as mundane as the price of coffee. Least of all anything of a sexual nature. And for the most part, mothers and daddies stayed married to each other their entire lives. Always. That's not to say that divorce and infidelity were unknown. Just to us and those we knew.

The same summer of the chocolate wardrobe my daddy quit his job as a butcher. He went to work as a laundry delivery man for a dry cleaning company and his main stop was at the state hospital for the criminally insane. I only mention this because it was the summer that our next door neighbor went crazy. Miz Closs was her name and she had a husband and a grown son that frequently visited. For reasons unknown to us she developed a sudden hatred for my mother. My mother! A woman who didn't do a dang thing to set her off. They weren't even friends. Just nodding neighbors. Miz Closs had to be in her fifties and Mama was not more than a child herself in her early twenties and a keep to herself kind of gal.

These are actual memories not things I've heard over and over. Trauma stays with you even and maybe especially if it occurs at such an early age. My mother had gone to hang clothes on the line out back and feeling something not quite right turned just in time to avoid being whacked across the head by Miz Closs with a garden hoe! Not stopping to analyze the situation she ran like hell for the house and called the police. Miz Closs was questioned as was her husband and son who reported that she had not been feeling like herself. The matter was dropped and after a few unnerving days of leery speculation things went back to "normal".

Nights later the entire family was awakened as from a communal nightmare to the shrieks and curses coming from next door. "I'll kill her." "I'll kill the bitch". The insane admonishments obviously coming from Miz Closs. Sweet Jesus what was happening? For a moment my folks thought Freckles had been left out to pilfer in her garbage setting the lunatism in motion. Miz Closs however was not referring to Freckles. She was intending to kill our mother.

The police again arrived and this time left with Miz Closs. Things began to return to "normal" and we again went about the business of daily living only to know false security. She was deemed well enough to be released and soon the horror of it all resumed and in full force this time. We were not allowed to go outside to play and had become prisoners in our own home. Freckles could not go out to pee without Daddy standing guard with hoe of his own in tow. Mister Closs had become his wife's warden and thus the first lesson in the workings of the judicial system were learned. They finally came back for Miz Closs though and she became a lifetime resident of the same facility my daddy delivered laundry to. Shortly afterwards Mister Closs sold the house and new people came to live there. Normal people like us. Our home however had lost it's charm and security and we moved across town to live with my aunt Anne and grandmother Mammy. Life was good again.

(Note: Be sure to come back next Friday for the continuation of Those Shifty Fifties)

Ratholes, Foxholes and Tea Parties

An interesting comment I hear from time to time. "Times haven't really changed that much"they say. Well I beg to differ. I'm just not buying it. Having grown up in the fifties entitles me to take a different opinion. For one thing...the matter of kids and their play. They just don't know how. Youngins' need store bought toys to teach and to entertain. Older ones are captivated by technology and their senses dulled like last night's warm milk from the lack of being outside limiting social interactions and creative thinking.

When my little brother Freddie and I were little we had all we needed and most of what we wanted. The thing is that I cannot remember a time when we actually wanted "things". Those were given for special occasions like birthdays and at Christmas. We never expected toys at another time. But we weren't deprived. Much to the contrary. I always had a pair of roller skates that fit and a decent jump rope. There were jacks and a ball and usually one that was a real golf ball unlike the little red rubber ones you find in the dollar stores today. Chalk for playing hopscotch was made from shards of broken colored bottles and sometimes even rocks.



A whole generation of game players, and I don't mean electronic or digital but games with lots of kids playing like "Red Rover, Mother, May I, Hide and Seek and Simon Says". Before TV rainy days were spent with card games and hide and seek inside. And thanks to my grandmother Momaw I knew at an early age how to sew my own doll clothes, and still have a little doll skirt to prove it. There was always material scraps, needles, thread and the bottomless can of buttons. I became a "great" doll clothes designer and many hours were spent cutting from magazines beautiful women to create clothing for. Afterwards they became boxes of paper dolls, coveted but rarely played with.



Not everything has changed though. We also had homeless people. Ones who lived much the same as today except we didn't have all the social programs. Those crafty souls knew how to survive on their own. Handouts were scarce. Oh don't get me wrong we were generous and giving but government played a very small role if any in the poverty ridden.



Our house was nice enough but in a modest section of town and we were "blessed" so I felt to live but a couple of blocks from the Arkansas River where living on the riverbanks was an entire little community made up of the most unusual housing. They were referred to as "foxholers" and they lived in what was known as the "Foxhole". I was so completely infatuated with this whole concept of living in shanties constructed from cardboard boxes of all sizes. They were taped and bound by twine with doors cut out forming rooms. Ingenious huh...meager cannot begin to describe this way of living.
Another little charming landmark of interest a block down was a huge, gaping hole known simply as the dump. A landfill that was inhabited by the biggest rats I've erer seen thus named by those on our street, "the rat hole". Today a tiny mouse can literally bring me to a state of panic but as a child climbing through the muck and mire with rats the size of house cats seemed second nature.

Those foxholers spent endless time poking through the rathole in search of stuff to be used as furnishings and decor for their homes. The possibilities were endless. Broken dishes became just smaller versions of plates and saucers, discarded clothing and so forth became curtains, rugs, bedspreads and towels. When they bathed it was in the river and they ate what they could scrounge from grocery store dumps, panhandling or from doing odd jobs for neighbors who paid by way of a hot meal or sandwich like Mammy often did.

Well it's hard to explain the naivety existing back then. I truly believe my family was not uppity by wanting nothing to do with those poor folks but fear and ignorance often mistaken for arrogance kept my parents from understanding why they "chose" to live like that. The rule in our home was that Freddie or I should have nothing to do with them. You just never knew what people like them were capable of doing.

But myself, always one to push the limits couldn't stay away from the foxhole. The mystery and delight of being different drew me to them like a moth to a flame and they became my secret friends. Deceit was early learned. They had names and I knew them and they knew mine. I was a welcome guest there in the Foxhole.

In particular I remember Berniece as being the most exotic and beautiful woman apart from the big screen. Sensual. Probably twenty-two or three she had a regular job at Sterling's which was like the dollar stores today. It was enchanting to watch her walk to and from the bus stop, head up and shoulders back and a walk akin to a saunter. Most thought her trashy and brazen but not I. The fact that her bra showed through her skimpy blouses which was just not done back then refused to faze her. She oozed pride and confidence and I admired her.

I owe a lot to the foxholers. From them I learned homemaking skills. It's funny the lessons to be learned from those we consider to be the least of us. Lessons rarely forgotten. I learned how to make do and be thankful for what you have. Many delightful days were spent in the wee mossy corner of our backyard where the wild violets grew, with my dollies and cast-offs gleaned and cleaned from the rathole. Carefully and lovingly as only a child can know were the tiny chipped remnants from discarded china. Washed, dried, and then used and treasured for special little tea parties.

I never knew what happened to the foxholers. Did they just up and move off to prosperity or did I grow up and cease to be amazed by them. Was it indifference on my part or was I the one to naturally move on.

When I think of them today my heart smiles. They taught me compassion and acceptance and never even knew.

Have a safe but zany weekend kiddos! Peace,Mollye

My Mammy,,,my bittersweet mammy

Slight in stature, standing shy of five foot but a sharper tongue and more piercing eyes none knew other than my great grandmother named "Mammy". She was the mother to my mother's father. And was known as Mammy to all. A snuff dipper and a snuff spitter. A more rank and rancid smell I've never known.
I remember her only through a child's eyes from the age five until she died when I was nine. Memories which still fester.
Until I grew up which was only a few years ago, I was resigned to the fact that she did not like me much less have a love for me. Maybe she did and maybe she didn't but I felt she loved my little brother Freddy more. She rocked and crooned to him from her old smelly rocker that he was a good little boy. Mammy's good little boy. She kissed him too and I remember watching to see if the ever present brown streaks of both sides of her mouth from the snuff would rub off on him, but they didn't.
Mammy's boy got to sleep in his own little bed and his sister had to sleep with Mammy. I hated bedtimes and hated waking up even more. She smelled of snuff and I smelled of pee when morning came. Pee and wet feathers. The bed was old and big and the mattress stuffed with goose feathers, probably chicken feathers too. The place in the mattress that held her tiny old body was a perfectly formed mold of Mammy's backside. She was either too lazy or simply unable to get up at night and go to the toilet and she'd call for Anne, her daughter to come get her. Most nights Anne did not hear her so Mammy did the only thing she could.
The soap and hot water scrubbings took the smell from my skin but to this day have been unable to remove the smells from my soul. I hated going to school for fear the kids would turn their noses up to me. Of course they did that anyway, but now I believe it was because they saw me as a snotty kid which probably came from my aloof and fearful nature. Things so complicated as youngins and so understood as we age.
I also hated her for loving only Freddie. The meaner I was to her the more she loved him and the more she loved him the meaner I was to her. I came home from school one day and was told she had died. I would soon have a bed of my own.
Sometimes today I wish she was here. Maybe I could hold her in my rocker and comb her long thin white hair. I would croon to her "My Mammy".
We could eat vanilla ice cream and Hershey bars which she loved and I wouldn't force Cod Liver Oil down her throat like she did to me. Heck, I wouldn't even pee on her at night. She'd be about a hundred and thirty now. I think she might like me today.