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.

The James Mountain Family Saga

This seems like it might be a good time to share with 'yall a little secret.
Back in 2001 I was a mess. My husband had died the year before and I had some issues I was wrestling with making 2000 and 2001 the darkest times of my life.

As a form of therapy I began writing what was to be a short story and has since grown to epic proportions. And nope....don't fret because I'm not going to ask you to be my captive by reading the whole thing! Dang it girls cut me a little slack here LOL
I wrote the tale in the first person as the Matriarch of a hill family up in Tennessee. As I wrote I wanted to SEE my family so I cut pictures (most of whom you will recognize) from magazines and gave them my own family names. Of course each had their own quirky captions and was assembled in photo album forum which I have scanned for you. This entire story was tongue in cheek humor and I can't say the story is TRUE but again I can't say it is FALSE. So what we have here is a little sure 'nuff "Truth and Spoof".

The tale begins almost 50 years ago and continues to the present so my dearly beloved Mike (Punkin Darlin) will be referred to as Marcel Breedlove later on, but first you'll get to know "Reuben James", which will represent my late husband, Alan.
Writing this little hillbilly story was instrumental in putting me back together and on the right track as I was indeed a broken woman. In writing this I ALWAYS have the Vince Gill song "Go Rest High On That Mountain" playing or at least playing in my mind. It will literally bring you to your knees in tears.
Now for a little "yarn spinning while gathering the wool of my memories".

"Rest High Upon The Mountain"

Hit ain't a fancy tale nor one of much interest to most I 'spect but jest a good many rememberances an memories of a quiet an simple family. The little funnies an happenins I aim to tell about wuz jest the ordinary livin of a family whut loved an cared fer one another.

We wuz knowed as the James clan from east Tennessee an there were the head of the family, Reuben Kelly James (my life long darlin), me Mollye Lou and our youngins; Suzie Lou the first gal, then little Georgie Lou. Next wuz Luke Albert, Dixie Lou (the onliest one we lost) and Jakey Gee.

I were from the Flowers clan. My pap were knowed as Clifford Jofred Flowers an my mammy were Lou Margaret. Me an my twin sissy Irma Lou wuz the oldest an we had one baby brother knowed as Sugar Boy. Oh he had a real name alright. His given name were Fredjoe. But to us girls he were always our sugar boy.

These two shots are of my sweet an lovin husband Reuben.
Wuz there ever a more hansom thang to look upon?

My pap were a country lad. One from up in the hills of New York an my mama were an Arkie. They had come about a'bein in Tennessee from some dealins with my mama's gran folks on her pa's side and after us youngins had been growed they up an went to Louisiana to visit Sugar whut had gone there to become a lawman an they wuz so took with hit they stayed put an wuz there til they wuz both gone. They had left Foxton Mountain to all us youngins. But that there is another tale I aim to git off into later on. Reuben's ma an pa, Miz Rosie an old Johnnie T-Bone James give us a parcel of land up on a fine ole mountain top that we called "James Mountain", sos we could raise up our youngins in a good an beautiful place. An beautiful hit were.

This heres little Dixie Lou (the one which wuz lost to us a short time after this wuz took)

Miz Rosie Louise were a fine gal an a hardworkin one whut raised up six boys a'countin Reuben James. She never onest had herself a girl an I reckon owin to that fact of her bein the onliest woman in the house she didn't rightly know jest how to take to another gal. Oh she tried alright an she were mostly good to me. Specially at all the birthins an helpin me to learn a more growed up way of mountain livin. But all in all she knowed I had my own mammy an she held off fer that reason an never onest aimed to mother me. For that I wuz grateful an I held her up in the most respectful way. Miz Rosie were my rock after my mammy an pappy wuz gone. An after Reuben had lost his own pap we wuz real close to her but she went on down to Louisiana to live where she had sissys an other kin. Hit jest werent the same fer her without T-Bone around, an after a few real lean years she plum give up an went on to her redemption.

T-Bone were an ornery an hard un to pull close to. But lordy if the old man didn't love all his gran gals.

A'lookin back upon hit all I reckon me an Reuben James wuz always made jest one fer the other.Kindly like the good Lord made us sos we could jest be together til he called us on to glory. We wuz not a whole bein without the other. Many a time wuz when Mollye Lou would be laid low an Reuben were there to hold hit together and when he wuz low I wuz able to hold the chinks in enouf til he wuz up agin. We jest couldn't have did hit without the savin grace of a lovin an merciful Lord Jesus Christ.

Now don't git me wrong we wuzn't the best folks aroun an I'm rightly shore we made ourselfs a whole passle full of mistakes in livin an raisin up the youngins but we always tried to learn all the little fellers right from wrong even when we wuz wantin to have some fun an friskiness in our lifes.

A'settin here a thankin on hit seems like only yestiddy then agin hit feels like a whole eternity of livin. But afore my thankin gits lost back in relivin all the happenins I tole you I'd aim to jest recall some funnies when we wuz all together high upon that ole mountain. Some might tickle you an some might jest bring on a tear, but lordy honey, hit were all jest a part of the circle of life.

So as Mollye Lou James would say "hits been a pleazure folks an I hope you'll come on back now that you is knowin each of us you kin set a spell an I'll tell you'ns some more of whut went on high up on top of that ole mountain.

Bye bye now,

mizmollye

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)