Scary Times

It was a frightening time for a child. My small safe space had been turned upside down by World War II. Within a few years of that came the Texas City explosion and the tornado which destroyed Woodward, Oklahoma not far from us.

All the adults in my tiny sphere said it spelled the end of the world. My grandmother was certain of it. She wouldn't say it just to scare me. Hadn't she always been my comfort, my joy?

After all, she never made me eat blackeyed peas or boiled chicken and when I wrote on her new wallpaper, she protected me from my mother. We played house and she let me call her "Lady." Would she predict doom if it wasn't imminent?

And my aunts? They understood a child's need for fun and laughter. Always loving, they kept a stash of treats for me or bought me a gift just when I needed it the most. Would they frighten me with all this talk of "the end" if it wasn't an absolute?

Why didn't I confide in my mother? I suspect it was because mothers never lie and I was scared she'd tell me the end was, indeed, near.

My grandmother and aunts talked of the sermons about resurrection at their church. They spoke eagerly of anticipating the Second-Coming. My first thought? "Good gosh, why? I haven't even gotten to wear lipstick or high heels, yet." Those were the things I eagerly anticipated.

They weren't being thoughtless in voicing their conjectures in my presence. As adults our priorities change. They had experienced all I could only envision. Secure in their beliefs, they looked forward to eternity.

I know they never would have discussed the end of the world in front of me if they had known how terrified I was. So terrified I lay awake at night frozen with fright at the thought my world might end. No, they wouldn't have subjected me to that if they'd known. They loved me too much.

Lookin' back, I remember all the times I subjected my children to the evening news. David Brinkley and Chet Huntley gave us explicit details of all the horrific natural disasters and the events of the Vietnam War. Were my children frightened? I hope not, but how thoughtless of me. If they were scared, and had asked, I'd have lied and said everything was wonderful.

Basketball

It was such a small school, the freshmen had to be included to even make a basketball team. The senior girls chose to climb a set of ladder-type steps to the loft to change out of their uniforms after practice. They felt uncomfortable, they claimed, taking off their clothes in front of the freshmen.

Yeah, right! Like we couldn't smell the cigarette smoke or see it boiling out of the small square opening into which they'd just disappeared.

We didn't care though. Every day, four of us climbed up there during our "freshman" lunch period and smoked all the snipes we could find.

Occasionally, we'd hear them cussing a blue streak about a really long butt they'd left behind and now couldn't locate. We'd nearly burst trying to keep from laughing, especially because we didn't want the sophomores and juniors to guess our secret and tattle.

We washed our hands with soap, rinsed our mouths, and blew in each others faces. Nope, couldn't smell a thing. On our way from there to Home Ec one day, a guy in our class stopped to talk. Surrounded by our group, he suddenly asked if we'd been smoking.

Of course we all denied it, but when he persisted we wondered how he'd guessed. That's when we learned one smoker can't smell it on another.

That didn't stop us though. We were having too much fun outfoxing the older girls.

What did bring an end to our escapades was when the most skittish of our group got hold of a loaded cigarette. She was boldly puffing away when the tip blew off. The look on her face was priceless and we nearly fell out of the loft laughing.

I'm sure one of the older girls had bummed one too many from a senior guy and he'd played a trick on her by sticking a "load" in it.

That was the end of our adventures in smoking.

Lookin' back, I've often wondered how long the guy waited before asking what happened with the trick he'd played. If he only knew.

He never wore out his welcome with me.

I still remember the happiness of opening the door and seeing him standing on the porch. Some times he had a suitcase, but most often his possessions were in a paper bag.

He always dropped in. Not nearly as often as I would have liked, but more frequently than my mother wanted. Her hesitancy was because he and his bad habits and dirty laundry stayed for weeks.

A friend of my father's, Fred had very few ties and almost no family. Except us. He loved me with the kind of devotion that never sees faults. And I loved him without reservation, as only a child can love someone who dotes on them.

My first memories of him are from when I was not yet four. He was married then and his cantankerous wife, Imola, came to help my mother with my new baby brother. She most definitely didn't dote on me, thought I was spoiled and told me so. They lived with his parents and I couldn't understand why he seemed to love her. She was never, never in a good mood. They all moved away after a couple of years and when he returned to visit, he was always alone. Drifting.

In those days, before television, he and my father would sit around at night telling hunting stories. Usually how one had gotten away from them that day. All the while, he held me on his lap and included me in his world, if only with a hug or an occasional word.

When we were moving from the farm into the newly remodeled house in town, he sat on a stool in the back of our pickup and played "The Waltz You Saved For Me," on the piano. It was my mother's favorite song. No need to let a good piano and extra playing time go to waste, he said. I suspect it was to soften up my mother in hopes she'd let him stay longer.

Once in a great while, he'd call and tell us to listen to the Grand Ol' Opry because he'd been invited to sit in with some band and they'd promised to introduce him to the audience. Never happened, but I was sure it would next time. Not only could he make a piano talk, he could play the strings off a guitar.

Lookin' back, I didn't care how much trouble he was, but then I didn't have to wash his clothes and clean up after him. I was always glad when he came and cried when he left. He never wore out his welcome with me.

Saturday Night Fun

Going to town on Saturday night during the summer was the highlight of our week. Something to be anticipated from the time we arrived back at the farm until it was time to leave for the next trip. Some times we went across the river to Burkburnett and some times we went to Grandfield.

We always left home about mid-afternoon, so we could sell the excess cream from our milk cows, then we shopped for groceries and had a fountain drink at the drugstore.

After that we went to the picture show. If we were lucky, there was an installment in the serial and a double-feature. The smell of rich, buttered popcorn was so tempting. Some times we had money to buy a sack, some times not. After the movie was over, we sat in the car on Main Street and watched to see who else had come to town and, when people we knew strolled by, they would stop to visit.

If I had money, my mom would let me go to the five-and-dime store. There, I'd spend what seemed like forever pouring over every item before I made the decision to part with my meager funds. I loved the way the store carried the scent of oiled wooden floors and, always, there was the aroma of candy corn.

When it was time for the grocery store to close, we went back and collected our bags. We'd left them just inside the building because it was cooler than the car. I wonder what we possibly could have bought that would have spoiled? Not milk or meat, we grew those. Perhaps, though, it had to do with status. I recall a touch of pride in the voices of my parents as they stood among other customers and pointed out several sacks of food. Was it my imagination or was a family's success indicated by how well they ate?

Usually, around the first of August, we'd go to the dry goods store and buy material so my mother could sew school clothes. Occasionally, we'd make a special trip to Wichita Falls and go to Levine's or Penney's to buy fabric, but often we bought it in Grandfield. Picking out a pair of shoes for the winter was so special that it was saved for a night all its own.

I always knew summer was at an end and fall was near the night my dad bought his winter dress jacket, a leather blazer. To this day, when I smell the scent of leather, I remember his quiet pride as he tried them on. Perhaps that, too, was a status thing. He didn't buy them during lean years on the farm.

Lookin' back, I remember how long it was from one Saturday night to the next. Summer days were filled with chores and seemed to pass with agonizing slowness. Our trip to town was a pleasure worth anticipating.