Trudy Edgington
It happens when my brothers and sisters come together. We tend to reminisce about our childhood. My nephew’s wedding in May on Sullivan’s Island gave us this chance to share and to catch up. It’s not easy. We’re scattered across the globe. So it requires a significant event to bring all seven of us together again at the same time.
But five siblings out of seven was not bad, considering the distance. Larry drove down from Tennessee with his son. Chris flew in from Cheyenne, Wyoming with her three daughters. Joy and Marie live in the Charleston area and me in Hanahan.
My twin, Judy, was unable to attend due to medical reasons. Steve lives in Saudi Arabia and the chances of him coming was slim. Mom and Dad have passed away. And on a special occasion as this, their presence is greatly missed. Meal time was significant and defined our childhood. It was a time to share and to be a family. It kept us involved in each other lives. Hearing Mom and Dad tell stories of the past have driven all seven of us to dedicate ourselves to passing on our heritage.
In our times together, our chosen spot is around the kitchen table. The same old stories are told over and over but no one seems to mind. We are transported back in time. Some of our best times were around the table.
Back then, when Mom and Dad were still with us, Mom loved it best with Dad at one end the table and she at the other end, and we grouped in our seats. They would give amused glances as certain topics were being discussed which Mom wrote down for all the relatives to read. There was never an end to the material she could write home about. She could weave a story that left you wanting more.
Mom was not an early riser. Reading late at night was her normal routine. So most mornings she would stand at the stove in a semiconscious state slowly making pancake after pancake.
On one particular morning Mom went through the ritual of heating the skillet, taking the mixture from the cabinet and stirring everything together. The aroma of pancakes filled the kitchen announcing breakfast is being served. Larry was the first to arrive at the scene.
With one bite it became evident that something was not quite right.
Larry, being an old man at age three, was trying to communicate in a matter of fact way. All he could say was "Yuck." Words were not necessary, and his face said it all. Watching Larry, no one wanted to risk the ordeal of being another victim.
Mom’s big black eyes showed that she was not happy with the complaints. Last one to the kitchen was Dad. He sat at his usual spot and proceeded to eat. All eyes were on Dad. Leaping from the table, he ran from the room mumbling something like, "Yoap." With all the confusion, Mom could not understand what he was saying.
Larry quickly answered, "He said, "Soap." Mom whirled around and there in the cabinet, beside the pancake mixture was the All Soap powder. Mom had grabbed the wrong box. The pancakes were the prettiest Mom had ever made and the last.
Life was simple and uncomplicated. But never dull. When my twin and I were born, Mom needed an extra pair of hands: Dad, Mother Edgington, and hired help, Mary. The two oldest, Larry and Joy, were spellbound by how two little ones could keep everyone jumping. We were on some expensive powdered milk and rest of the family were on baked beans. That Christmas Dad went to the woods for our Christmas tree. What little money left over was spent on gifts for us. Mom sent homemade cookies to relatives along with one of her "corny" poems.
Christmas found us penniless
But loaded with Good Wishes
"Heck," I said, "You folks won’t mind
I’ll send something that’s delicious."
So I baked these little cookies
Followed the receipt to the T.
If they taste like Hell
Don’t blame the mess on me.
Mom dreams of becoming a writer were never fulfilled. But that never stopped her from sharing her little masterpieces. Tucked away in the file cabinet are her poems and letters now.
They are little worn around the edges but our link to the past.
As always, that time in May found us sitting at the table, feeling Mom and Dad with us listening in on the stories as they did long ago. It all seemed real—It was.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Home Sweet Home
For our family, a new baby meant a new home. When my twin and I were three, our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remember was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of pine trees, a large oak tree and a magnolia tree. The fragrance of the gardenia bush in bloom competed with the smell of the paper mill. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go: the kitchen table, with the bench Dad had made, which was worn out and broke, the old braided rug from the den, and curtains that wouldn’t fit in the new house.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little, things were stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly, and the lamps placed where Mom had envisioned. Dad was planning on renting a U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove, and washer.
A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before the move. As I recall, he was a short, wiry man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned. Each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load he decided we should take another. He gave the older children a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load; grab it, Bill." Finally, the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was taken down, and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said, "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Through the years remodeling was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. Each room in the house was like a canvas in which Mom could express her creative ideas. The sudden urge to change the dining room became overwhelming. It was set for a make over. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of redecorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were quickly painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. Mom and Dad viewed their works of art with "We should have known." What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying; "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve had knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He had flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face so he could breathe better. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face and left the room.
As the day continued to unfold, it was life as usual. In the living room, the portable record player was playing the new rock and roll hit tune of the week. The little ones danced the shag. Mom, within earshot of the music, was writing a letter to her family and recapturing the event of the day. She didn’t share our love for this type of music but was immune to it. Dad sat in his armchair reading the newspaper. He never complained. With seven children, he had learned to cope.
During the school year, morning rush presented a problem in this house. The school bus stopped directly in front of our house around 7: 30 A.M. Dad also left for work at that hour. That meant five had to be ready by 7: 30 and we had one bathroom. The sink was beside the in-swing door and it was an easy way to be knocked down. Tempers would fly. Mom came up with a solution by attaching to the door a card on a string. Using a crayon, one side was colored green and the other side red. We would flip the card red when going in and green when coming out. Mom’s originality solved a lot of bathroom accidents.
As clever as Mom was, she was unable to find a solution for getting rid of the popsicle man. He made his round once a day. We could hear his bell ring from blocks away. As fast as we could, we would run home to ask permission to buy a popsicle. Then down to the corner we would run, sit, and wait, contemplating what special popsicle flavor we would choose that day. This daily occurrence was a source of irritation to Mom--frantic scrabbling for frozen treat money, but it remains a joyful memory to us.
At the end of each day amidst the confusion and busyness that regularly happened, there was still a sense of peace. It was home.
For our family, a new baby meant a new home. When my twin and I were three, our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remember was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of pine trees, a large oak tree and a magnolia tree. The fragrance of the gardenia bush in bloom competed with the smell of the paper mill. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go: the kitchen table, with the bench Dad had made, which was worn out and broke, the old braided rug from the den, and curtains that wouldn’t fit in the new house.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little, things were stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly, and the lamps placed where Mom had envisioned. Dad was planning on renting a U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove, and washer.
A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before the move. As I recall, he was a short, wiry man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned. Each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load he decided we should take another. He gave the older children a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load; grab it, Bill." Finally, the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was taken down, and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said, "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Through the years remodeling was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. Each room in the house was like a canvas in which Mom could express her creative ideas. The sudden urge to change the dining room became overwhelming. It was set for a make over. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of redecorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were quickly painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. Mom and Dad viewed their works of art with "We should have known." What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying; "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve had knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He had flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face so he could breathe better. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face and left the room.
As the day continued to unfold, it was life as usual. In the living room, the portable record player was playing the new rock and roll hit tune of the week. The little ones danced the shag. Mom, within earshot of the music, was writing a letter to her family and recapturing the event of the day. She didn’t share our love for this type of music but was immune to it. Dad sat in his armchair reading the newspaper. He never complained. With seven children, he had learned to cope.
During the school year, morning rush presented a problem in this house. The school bus stopped directly in front of our house around 7: 30 A.M. Dad also left for work at that hour. That meant five had to be ready by 7: 30 and we had one bathroom. The sink was beside the in-swing door and it was an easy way to be knocked down. Tempers would fly. Mom came up with a solution by attaching to the door a card on a string. Using a crayon, one side was colored green and the other side red. We would flip the card red when going in and green when coming out. Mom’s originality solved a lot of bathroom accidents.
As clever as Mom was, she was unable to find a solution for getting rid of the popsicle man. He made his round once a day. We could hear his bell ring from blocks away. As fast as we could, we would run home to ask permission to buy a popsicle. Then down to the corner we would run, sit, and wait, contemplating what special popsicle flavor we would choose that day. This daily occurrence was a source of irritation to Mom--frantic scrabbling for frozen treat money, but it remains a joyful memory to us.
At the end of each day amidst the confusion and busyness that regularly happened, there was still a sense of peace. It was home.
Box
What is it about a handwritten letter that can change one’s mood in a second? It is sad to envision letter writing becoming a thing of the past, replaced with instant text messaging and emails. I’m glad I was born when letters were the common thing. The instant messages are great, but the words are deleted and forgotten.
A colorful, striped cloth box my sister made sits on my closet shelf. What it holds is more valuable to me than everything I have put together. Letters from Mom, Dad, my sisters, and brothers occupy this box. Some are a little worn around the edges and stained with ink but are still treasures. I can hold in my hand. Each letter reveals to me the person it was from and the passage of time.
Until my mother died, walking to the mailbox and finding a letter from home would influence my mood for the day. The motions were all part of the thrill: ripping the envelope open, removing the letter, and then lingering on each word.
Mom wrote the best letters. She had a homespun way of saying things that revealed her very soul. I often felt her longing to be heard, and each line spoke volumes to me. She wanted me to know that life is to be lived as best you know how and to not worry. Besides, most of the problems, she knew, would work themselves out. The idea was to tell God about it all.
The letters were newsworthy, but they conveyed a truth. The many valuable lessons to be learned in life were somehow written in between the lines. The person of Mom was revealed and her strong personality softened from line to line. Her painful childhood made her determined that we would all receive the necessary tools to lead happy, useful lives.
One letter from January of 1973 was typed on the old portable typewriter and began with the greeting, "Dear Crew." On the side of the worn paper, she wrote in red ink, diluted by moisture, "I can’t possibly correct all these carbon copies. You’ll just have to wade through the errors." Her desire to spend some time with us was her main concern and she felt it necessary to close the letter with . . . "Start your year in prayer-start each day with your morning offering. Remember prayer does not change God, but it changes us to be better people. It strengthens us to meet the bad days and makes the good day better."
Often she would recite this poem, it captured the maternal feelings she held within:
There was an old lady
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
Because she wanted to
She gave them some broth
And plenty of bread
Kissed them all sweetly
And tucked them in bed
With five girls and two boys, some arriving four years apart, some sixteen months apart and in two in a pair, Mom knew full well the responsibilities of motherhood. Her words still ring true, "Love the bad days as well the good ones." She showed me that if you do not embrace the bad days, how will you recognize and enjoy the good ones. From years ago through today, when things become a little hectic, and life begins to wear me down, I open my closet, lift the box down, and spend some time with Mom.
I remember, whenever Mom had a moment to spare from house work, she would be jotting something down. The poem Mom scribbled while waiting for Joy’s birth, crowded her memory as she sat in the auditorium the evening in May at St. Mary’s Academy for Joy’s graduation from high school.
We’re expecting a ray of sunshine
When the leaves begin to fall.
At least, that’s what the Doc says
And I don’t doubt it al all.
Sometimes we hope that it’s a boy
Then again we like a girl
But I don’t really care
As long as it has curls
It’s really been fun expecting
I thank God for it all
But damn, I wish the day would come
When the leaves begin to fall
Flipping through the letters, cards, and pictures in the box, I catch a glimpse of moments that have faded from my memory. Trips to the mountains are mentioned on post cards. The old Ford is in a photo. Of course, pictures of the family meals show pleasant weather lunches, birthday celebrations, and summertime watermelon at the picnic table in the back yard. One thing not in the box was a sign Mom made to let neighborhood playmates know we were not available to play. It read: "Sorry-eating."
I check my emails every day; read and delete. I go to the mailbox and find bills and advertisements; it is nothing but junk. It’s the same day after day. I am waiting for the day when a letter will arrive and I can go through the motions: ripping the envelope, lifting the letter out, and lingering on each word until that day comes, I have my little box.
What is it about a handwritten letter that can change one’s mood in a second? It is sad to envision letter writing becoming a thing of the past, replaced with instant text messaging and emails. I’m glad I was born when letters were the common thing. The instant messages are great, but the words are deleted and forgotten.
A colorful, striped cloth box my sister made sits on my closet shelf. What it holds is more valuable to me than everything I have put together. Letters from Mom, Dad, my sisters, and brothers occupy this box. Some are a little worn around the edges and stained with ink but are still treasures. I can hold in my hand. Each letter reveals to me the person it was from and the passage of time.
Until my mother died, walking to the mailbox and finding a letter from home would influence my mood for the day. The motions were all part of the thrill: ripping the envelope open, removing the letter, and then lingering on each word.
Mom wrote the best letters. She had a homespun way of saying things that revealed her very soul. I often felt her longing to be heard, and each line spoke volumes to me. She wanted me to know that life is to be lived as best you know how and to not worry. Besides, most of the problems, she knew, would work themselves out. The idea was to tell God about it all.
The letters were newsworthy, but they conveyed a truth. The many valuable lessons to be learned in life were somehow written in between the lines. The person of Mom was revealed and her strong personality softened from line to line. Her painful childhood made her determined that we would all receive the necessary tools to lead happy, useful lives.
One letter from January of 1973 was typed on the old portable typewriter and began with the greeting, "Dear Crew." On the side of the worn paper, she wrote in red ink, diluted by moisture, "I can’t possibly correct all these carbon copies. You’ll just have to wade through the errors." Her desire to spend some time with us was her main concern and she felt it necessary to close the letter with . . . "Start your year in prayer-start each day with your morning offering. Remember prayer does not change God, but it changes us to be better people. It strengthens us to meet the bad days and makes the good day better."
Often she would recite this poem, it captured the maternal feelings she held within:
There was an old lady
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
Because she wanted to
She gave them some broth
And plenty of bread
Kissed them all sweetly
And tucked them in bed
With five girls and two boys, some arriving four years apart, some sixteen months apart and in two in a pair, Mom knew full well the responsibilities of motherhood. Her words still ring true, "Love the bad days as well the good ones." She showed me that if you do not embrace the bad days, how will you recognize and enjoy the good ones. From years ago through today, when things become a little hectic, and life begins to wear me down, I open my closet, lift the box down, and spend some time with Mom.
I remember, whenever Mom had a moment to spare from house work, she would be jotting something down. The poem Mom scribbled while waiting for Joy’s birth, crowded her memory as she sat in the auditorium the evening in May at St. Mary’s Academy for Joy’s graduation from high school.
We’re expecting a ray of sunshine
When the leaves begin to fall.
At least, that’s what the Doc says
And I don’t doubt it al all.
Sometimes we hope that it’s a boy
Then again we like a girl
But I don’t really care
As long as it has curls
It’s really been fun expecting
I thank God for it all
But damn, I wish the day would come
When the leaves begin to fall
Flipping through the letters, cards, and pictures in the box, I catch a glimpse of moments that have faded from my memory. Trips to the mountains are mentioned on post cards. The old Ford is in a photo. Of course, pictures of the family meals show pleasant weather lunches, birthday celebrations, and summertime watermelon at the picnic table in the back yard. One thing not in the box was a sign Mom made to let neighborhood playmates know we were not available to play. It read: "Sorry-eating."
I check my emails every day; read and delete. I go to the mailbox and find bills and advertisements; it is nothing but junk. It’s the same day after day. I am waiting for the day when a letter will arrive and I can go through the motions: ripping the envelope, lifting the letter out, and lingering on each word until that day comes, I have my little box.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
The Box
What is it about a handwritten letter that can change one’s mood in a second? It is sad to envision letter writing becoming a thing of the past, replaced with an instant text messaging and emails. I’m glad I was born when letters were the common thing. The instant messages are great but the words are deleted and forgotten.
A colorful, striped cloth box my sister made, sits on my closet shelf. What it holds is more valuable to me than everything I own. Letters from Mom, Dad, my sisters and brothers occupy this box. Some are a little worn around the edges, stained with ink but a treasure I can hold in my hand. Each letter reveals to me the person and the passage of time.
Walking to the mailbox and finding a letter from home would influence my mood for the day. The motions were all part of the thrill: Ripping the envelope open, removing the letter and lingering on each word.
Mom wrote the best letters. She had a homespun way of saying things that reveal her very soul. I often felt her longing to be heard, each line spoke volumes to me. She wanted me to know that life is to be live as best you know how and not to worry. Besides most of the problems, she knew would work its way out. The idea is to tell God about it.
The letters were newsworthy but they convey a truth. The many valuable lessons to be learned in life are somehow written in between the lines. The person of Mom is revealed and her strong personality softens from line to line. Her painful childhood has made her determined that we all receive the necessary tools to lead a happy, useful life.
Her January letter of 1973 was typed on the old portable typewritten with the greeting, "Dear Crew." On the side of the worn paper, she writes in red ink, diluted by water, "I can’t possibly correct all these carbon copies. You’ll just have to wade through the errors."
Often she would recite this poem, it captured the motherly feelings she held within:
There was an old lady
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
Because she wanted to
She gave them some broth
And plenty of bread
Kissed them all sweetly
And tucked them in bed
With five girls and two boys, arriving four years apart, some sixteen months apart and in pairs, Mom knew full well the responsibilities of motherhood. Her words ring true, "Love the bad days as well the good ones." She has shown me that if you do not embrace the bad days, how will you recognize and enjoy the good ones.
When things became a little hectic, and life began to wear me down, I opened my closet. Lifted the box down and spent some time with Mom. I remember, whenever she had a moment to spare from house work, she would be jotting something down. The poem Mom scribbled while waiting for Joy’s birth, crowded her memory in the auditorium that evening at St. Mary’s Academy. It was her graduation.
We’re expecting a ray of sunshine
When the leaves begin to fall.
At least, that’s what the Doc says
And I don’t doubt it al all.
Sometimes we hope that it’s a boy
Then again we like a girl
But I don’t really care
As long as it has curls
It’s really been fun expecting
I thank God for it all
But damn, I wish the day would come
When the leaves begin to fall
Flipping through the letters, cards, and pictures, I catch a glimpse of moments that have faded from my memory. Trips to the mountains, the old Ford and of course the family meals started popping in my head. All the neighbors knew when it was time for dinner. The screen door swung out and the roll call began . . . Joy . . . Larry . . . Judy . . . Trudy . . . Marie . . . Steve . . . Chris.
Mom started placing a card on the door that read: "Sorry-eating." The kids in the neighborhood knew the sign meant no knocking. Our door was always open and Mom would add a little extra to the pot in case a relative or friend just happened to come by. She placed such importance during this time, she delighted in the time to share and talk. Good conversation was food for her mind and she was hungry.
How can I forget Annabelle? She came twice a week to help with cleaning, ironing and such. This gave Mom time to sit under the Chinaberry tree; read, think and write. Now and then, she had to pull in her feet, as the posse’ chase came charging around the front of the house. A neighbor stopped by the fence to talk to Mom and asked if she knew how many children were in the back yard. He counted them. "Twenty-two," he said.
I check my emails every day. Read and delete. I go to the mailbox and find bills and advertisements. It is nothing but junk. It’s the same day after day. I am waiting for the day when a letter will arrive and I can go through the motions: Ripping the envelope, lifting the letter out and lingering on each word. Oh well, I have my little box.
What is it about a handwritten letter that can change one’s mood in a second? It is sad to envision letter writing becoming a thing of the past, replaced with an instant text messaging and emails. I’m glad I was born when letters were the common thing. The instant messages are great but the words are deleted and forgotten.
A colorful, striped cloth box my sister made, sits on my closet shelf. What it holds is more valuable to me than everything I own. Letters from Mom, Dad, my sisters and brothers occupy this box. Some are a little worn around the edges, stained with ink but a treasure I can hold in my hand. Each letter reveals to me the person and the passage of time.
Walking to the mailbox and finding a letter from home would influence my mood for the day. The motions were all part of the thrill: Ripping the envelope open, removing the letter and lingering on each word.
Mom wrote the best letters. She had a homespun way of saying things that reveal her very soul. I often felt her longing to be heard, each line spoke volumes to me. She wanted me to know that life is to be live as best you know how and not to worry. Besides most of the problems, she knew would work its way out. The idea is to tell God about it.
The letters were newsworthy but they convey a truth. The many valuable lessons to be learned in life are somehow written in between the lines. The person of Mom is revealed and her strong personality softens from line to line. Her painful childhood has made her determined that we all receive the necessary tools to lead a happy, useful life.
Her January letter of 1973 was typed on the old portable typewritten with the greeting, "Dear Crew." On the side of the worn paper, she writes in red ink, diluted by water, "I can’t possibly correct all these carbon copies. You’ll just have to wade through the errors."
Often she would recite this poem, it captured the motherly feelings she held within:
There was an old lady
Who lived in a shoe
She had so many children
Because she wanted to
She gave them some broth
And plenty of bread
Kissed them all sweetly
And tucked them in bed
With five girls and two boys, arriving four years apart, some sixteen months apart and in pairs, Mom knew full well the responsibilities of motherhood. Her words ring true, "Love the bad days as well the good ones." She has shown me that if you do not embrace the bad days, how will you recognize and enjoy the good ones.
When things became a little hectic, and life began to wear me down, I opened my closet. Lifted the box down and spent some time with Mom. I remember, whenever she had a moment to spare from house work, she would be jotting something down. The poem Mom scribbled while waiting for Joy’s birth, crowded her memory in the auditorium that evening at St. Mary’s Academy. It was her graduation.
We’re expecting a ray of sunshine
When the leaves begin to fall.
At least, that’s what the Doc says
And I don’t doubt it al all.
Sometimes we hope that it’s a boy
Then again we like a girl
But I don’t really care
As long as it has curls
It’s really been fun expecting
I thank God for it all
But damn, I wish the day would come
When the leaves begin to fall
Flipping through the letters, cards, and pictures, I catch a glimpse of moments that have faded from my memory. Trips to the mountains, the old Ford and of course the family meals started popping in my head. All the neighbors knew when it was time for dinner. The screen door swung out and the roll call began . . . Joy . . . Larry . . . Judy . . . Trudy . . . Marie . . . Steve . . . Chris.
Mom started placing a card on the door that read: "Sorry-eating." The kids in the neighborhood knew the sign meant no knocking. Our door was always open and Mom would add a little extra to the pot in case a relative or friend just happened to come by. She placed such importance during this time, she delighted in the time to share and talk. Good conversation was food for her mind and she was hungry.
How can I forget Annabelle? She came twice a week to help with cleaning, ironing and such. This gave Mom time to sit under the Chinaberry tree; read, think and write. Now and then, she had to pull in her feet, as the posse’ chase came charging around the front of the house. A neighbor stopped by the fence to talk to Mom and asked if she knew how many children were in the back yard. He counted them. "Twenty-two," he said.
I check my emails every day. Read and delete. I go to the mailbox and find bills and advertisements. It is nothing but junk. It’s the same day after day. I am waiting for the day when a letter will arrive and I can go through the motions: Ripping the envelope, lifting the letter out and lingering on each word. Oh well, I have my little box.
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Home Sweet Home
For our family, a new baby meant a new home. When my twin and I were three our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remembered was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of pine trees, a large oak tree and a magnolia tree. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little things was stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly and the lamps placed where Mom had envisioned. Dad was planning on renting an U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove and washer. A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before we move. As I recall, he was a short, wiry man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned and each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load, he decided we should take another. He gave the older ones a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load, grab it Bill." Finally the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was down and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Remodeling was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. Each room in the house was like a canvas in which Mom could express her creative ideas. The sudden urge to change the dining room became overwhelming. It was set for a make over. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of redecorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were fast painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. Mom and Dad viewed their work of art with "We should have known." What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying: "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He’s flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face so he could breathe better. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face and left the room. The room did get painted.
As the day unfolded, we were back to being our normal selves. In the living room, the portable record player was playing to the new rock and roll hit tune of the week. The little ones danced the shag. Mom didn’t share our love for this type of music but she was immune to it. Dad never complained. With seven children, he learned to cope.
When school started, morning rush presented a problem. The school bus stopped directly in front of our house around at 7: 30 A.M. Dad also left for work at that hour. That meant five had to be ready by 7: 30 and we had one bathroom. The sink was beside the in-swing door and it was an easy way to be knocked down. Tempers would fly. Mom came up with a solution by attaching to the door a card on a string. Using a crayon, one side was colored green and the other side red. We would flip the card red when going in and green when coming out Mom’s originality solved a lot of bathroom accidents.
Mom was unable though to find a solution for getting rid of the popsicle man. He made his round once a day. We could hear his bell ring from blocks away. As fast as we could, we would run home to ask permission to buy a popsicle. Then down the corner we would run, sit and wait, contemplating what special popsicle flavor we would choose today.
At the end of the day amidst the confusion, there is still a sense of peace-it’s home.
For our family, a new baby meant a new home. When my twin and I were three our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remembered was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of pine trees, a large oak tree and a magnolia tree. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little things was stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly and the lamps placed where Mom had envisioned. Dad was planning on renting an U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove and washer. A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before we move. As I recall, he was a short, wiry man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned and each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load, he decided we should take another. He gave the older ones a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load, grab it Bill." Finally the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was down and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Remodeling was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. Each room in the house was like a canvas in which Mom could express her creative ideas. The sudden urge to change the dining room became overwhelming. It was set for a make over. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of redecorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were fast painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. Mom and Dad viewed their work of art with "We should have known." What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying: "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He’s flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face so he could breathe better. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face and left the room. The room did get painted.
As the day unfolded, we were back to being our normal selves. In the living room, the portable record player was playing to the new rock and roll hit tune of the week. The little ones danced the shag. Mom didn’t share our love for this type of music but she was immune to it. Dad never complained. With seven children, he learned to cope.
When school started, morning rush presented a problem. The school bus stopped directly in front of our house around at 7: 30 A.M. Dad also left for work at that hour. That meant five had to be ready by 7: 30 and we had one bathroom. The sink was beside the in-swing door and it was an easy way to be knocked down. Tempers would fly. Mom came up with a solution by attaching to the door a card on a string. Using a crayon, one side was colored green and the other side red. We would flip the card red when going in and green when coming out Mom’s originality solved a lot of bathroom accidents.
Mom was unable though to find a solution for getting rid of the popsicle man. He made his round once a day. We could hear his bell ring from blocks away. As fast as we could, we would run home to ask permission to buy a popsicle. Then down the corner we would run, sit and wait, contemplating what special popsicle flavor we would choose today.
At the end of the day amidst the confusion, there is still a sense of peace-it’s home.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Short Informal Review of Stephen Kings’ On Writing: A Memoir of Craft
In our highly technical world, anyone can take advantage from the many how-to booklets that provide step by step details for any conceivable event or situation. What is refreshing about Stephen Kings’ On Writing: A Memoir of Craft is that the author provides tips and tools to enable writers to find their own inspiration and create their own literary style.
Aspiring writers can take comfort in the fact that King’s love of comic books is what started his career as a writer. According to King, his Mother’s words, "Those Combat Casey funny books are just junk-he’s always knocking someone’s teeth out. "I bet you could do better," was the challenge that led King to become one of America’s most popular writers.
King recreates his first attempts at writing, "I remember an immense feeling of possibility at the idea, as if I had been ushered into a vast building filled with closed doors and had been given leave to open any I liked. There were more doors than one person could every open in a lifetime, I thought (and still think.)."
Combination of his life experience with practical approaches is King’s primary way to guide writers. According to King, the core to writing is practice and the use of techniques such as the "toolbox." Simple, King’s advice is both guidance and his Mother’s challenge to
potential writers. At the same time, the success of each writer will depend on applying them both. To King, the art of writing boils down to transcribing experiences and emotions in a way that the reader has a sense perception as if they were experiencing what is in words.
Everyone can find comfort in King’s experience that rejection is an invaluable part of the writing process. "When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story."
What I found from King’ advice on writing was the need to create inner situations where you are living and experiencing what you are writing. "You need a room, you need the door, and you need the determination to shut the door. As long as you keep to these basic guide lines, the easier the acts of writing will become. "When you write, you want to get rid of the world. When you’re writing, you’re creating your own worlds."
In our highly technical world, anyone can take advantage from the many how-to booklets that provide step by step details for any conceivable event or situation. What is refreshing about Stephen Kings’ On Writing: A Memoir of Craft is that the author provides tips and tools to enable writers to find their own inspiration and create their own literary style.
Aspiring writers can take comfort in the fact that King’s love of comic books is what started his career as a writer. According to King, his Mother’s words, "Those Combat Casey funny books are just junk-he’s always knocking someone’s teeth out. "I bet you could do better," was the challenge that led King to become one of America’s most popular writers.
King recreates his first attempts at writing, "I remember an immense feeling of possibility at the idea, as if I had been ushered into a vast building filled with closed doors and had been given leave to open any I liked. There were more doors than one person could every open in a lifetime, I thought (and still think.)."
Combination of his life experience with practical approaches is King’s primary way to guide writers. According to King, the core to writing is practice and the use of techniques such as the "toolbox." Simple, King’s advice is both guidance and his Mother’s challenge to
potential writers. At the same time, the success of each writer will depend on applying them both. To King, the art of writing boils down to transcribing experiences and emotions in a way that the reader has a sense perception as if they were experiencing what is in words.
Everyone can find comfort in King’s experience that rejection is an invaluable part of the writing process. "When you write a story, you’re telling yourself the story. When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are not the story."
What I found from King’ advice on writing was the need to create inner situations where you are living and experiencing what you are writing. "You need a room, you need the door, and you need the determination to shut the door. As long as you keep to these basic guide lines, the easier the acts of writing will become. "When you write, you want to get rid of the world. When you’re writing, you’re creating your own worlds."
Saturday, July 12, 2008
Home Sweet Home
When my brother Larry comes home for a visit, he makes it a point to revisit the many sights and places of our childhood. Without hesitation Joy, Marie and I tag along. Joy elaborates on what she remembers: names flow freely. The rest of us just listen and add a comment here and there. Approaching our first sight, we felt a rush and remembered with fondness our home along the Ashley River. Larry drove down the narrow road until it came to a dead end. A bound of dirt, which stood our home, was lost to make way for Interstate 26.
I remember the nights were long. We occupied our time by playing games in the street while the adults sat under the Chinaberry tree, keeping cool. We chased lighting bugs-hoping to catch one for our jars. Before long, it’s time to settle down. Joining the adults under the tree, the spins of tales begin. Joy specifying without a doubt, they were a hoot.
For our family, a new home and a new baby went together. When my twin and I were three our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remembered was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of Pine and a few large Live Oak trees. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little things was stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly and the lamps placed where Mom had envision. Dad was planning on renting an U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove and washer. A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before we move. As I recall, he was a short, wirier man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned and each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load, he decided we should take another. He gave the older ones a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load, grab it Bill." Finally the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was down and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Painting the interior of the house was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. For Mom, change was good. The sale at Sears brought on Mom's sudden urge to change the dining room. The newly purchased table needed a new wall color to bring out the dark hue of the wood. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. The dining room was set. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of decorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were fast painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying: "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He’s flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face. He could breathe easier. Dad moved. Silence. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face. Silence.
If this little house could speak, more stories would emerge---laying to rest our bird, eating watermelon on the picnic table, and building dreams up on the tree house.
As we drive home, we look forward to gathering our pictures and letters not just to remember but to preserve them. The thought of making scrapbooks emerged.
" Let’s write brief comments under each picture." Suggests Marie.
So our ride down memory lane takes on new life. A mound of dirt has brought us to this point. As we watch the sun going down, we pause. This day captures the happy moments under the Chinaberry tree.
Home Sweet Home
When my brother Larry comes home for a visit, he makes it a point to revisit the many sights and places of our childhood. Without hesitation Joy, Marie and I tag along. Joy elaborates on what she remembers: names flow freely. The rest of us just listen and add a comment here and there. Approaching our first sight, we felt a rush and remembered with fondness our home along the Ashley River. Larry’s drove down the narrow road until it came to a dead end. A bound of dirt, which stood our home, was lost to make way for Interstate 26.
For us growing up in Charleston was magical. Places like Hampton Park, and the Old Museum, the Battery, the Dock Street Theater, and Sullivan Island were entwined into our weekly routine in order to escape the steady hot humid weather.
The nights were long. We occupied out time by playing games in the street while the adults sat under the Chinaberry tree, keeping cool. We chased lighting bugs-hoping to catch one for our jars. Before long, it’s time to settle down. Joining the adults under the tree, the spins of tales begin. Joy specifying without a doubt, they were a hoot.
For our family, a new home and a new baby went together. When by twin and I were three our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remembered was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of trees. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little things was stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly and the lamps placed where Mom had envision. Dad was planning on renting an U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove and washer. A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before we move. As I recall, he was a short, wirier man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned and each appliance left on separate loads. His trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load, he decided we should take another. He gave the older ones a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load, grab it Bill." Finally the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was down and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Painting the interior of the house was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. For Mom, change was good. She would come up with the creative ideas and Dad would carry them through. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. The dining room was set. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of decorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were fast painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. What really through Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying: "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He’s flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face. He could breathe easier. Dad moved. Silence. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face. Silence.
As we were driving home, we were looking forward to gathering our pictures and letters not just to remember but to preserve them. The thought of making scrapbooks emerged.
" Let’s write brief comments under each picture." Suggested Marie.
So our ride down memory lane has taken on new life. A mound of dirt has brought us to this point. As we watched the sun going down, we paused. This day has captured the happy moments under the Chinaberry tree.
When my brother Larry comes home for a visit, he makes it a point to revisit the many sights and places of our childhood. Without hesitation Joy, Marie and I tag along. Joy elaborates on what she remembers: names flow freely. The rest of us just listen and add a comment here and there. Approaching our first sight, we felt a rush and remembered with fondness our home along the Ashley River. Larry drove down the narrow road until it came to a dead end. A bound of dirt, which stood our home, was lost to make way for Interstate 26.
I remember the nights were long. We occupied our time by playing games in the street while the adults sat under the Chinaberry tree, keeping cool. We chased lighting bugs-hoping to catch one for our jars. Before long, it’s time to settle down. Joining the adults under the tree, the spins of tales begin. Joy specifying without a doubt, they were a hoot.
For our family, a new home and a new baby went together. When my twin and I were three our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remembered was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of Pine and a few large Live Oak trees. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little things was stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly and the lamps placed where Mom had envision. Dad was planning on renting an U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove and washer. A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before we move. As I recall, he was a short, wirier man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned and each appliance left on separate loads because his trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load, he decided we should take another. He gave the older ones a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load, grab it Bill." Finally the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was down and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Painting the interior of the house was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. For Mom, change was good. The sale at Sears brought on Mom's sudden urge to change the dining room. The newly purchased table needed a new wall color to bring out the dark hue of the wood. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. The dining room was set. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of decorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were fast painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. What really threw Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying: "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He’s flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face. He could breathe easier. Dad moved. Silence. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face. Silence.
If this little house could speak, more stories would emerge---laying to rest our bird, eating watermelon on the picnic table, and building dreams up on the tree house.
As we drive home, we look forward to gathering our pictures and letters not just to remember but to preserve them. The thought of making scrapbooks emerged.
" Let’s write brief comments under each picture." Suggests Marie.
So our ride down memory lane takes on new life. A mound of dirt has brought us to this point. As we watch the sun going down, we pause. This day captures the happy moments under the Chinaberry tree.
Home Sweet Home
When my brother Larry comes home for a visit, he makes it a point to revisit the many sights and places of our childhood. Without hesitation Joy, Marie and I tag along. Joy elaborates on what she remembers: names flow freely. The rest of us just listen and add a comment here and there. Approaching our first sight, we felt a rush and remembered with fondness our home along the Ashley River. Larry’s drove down the narrow road until it came to a dead end. A bound of dirt, which stood our home, was lost to make way for Interstate 26.
For us growing up in Charleston was magical. Places like Hampton Park, and the Old Museum, the Battery, the Dock Street Theater, and Sullivan Island were entwined into our weekly routine in order to escape the steady hot humid weather.
The nights were long. We occupied out time by playing games in the street while the adults sat under the Chinaberry tree, keeping cool. We chased lighting bugs-hoping to catch one for our jars. Before long, it’s time to settle down. Joining the adults under the tree, the spins of tales begin. Joy specifying without a doubt, they were a hoot.
For our family, a new home and a new baby went together. When by twin and I were three our house went up for sale. The doctor had advised a move because we were so close to the river. He thought the dampness was bad for my Dad’s asthma. So once again we moved. It was there that we waited for the birth of Marie, number five.
The move I most remembered was from North Boulevard to Sherwood Street. Steve, second youngest, was a baby. The decision to move was sudden. A man in my dad’s office was moving to another town, and his house was up for sale. It was modest and in a nice neighborhood. The yard was already landscaped and full of trees. Unlike the others, this one did not need painting. With only a month to pack, Mom was on a mission to discard the junk collected over time. Some things were hard to let go.
Moving day was getting closer and Mom was hoping to make it as easy as possible. Little by little things was stored in the new house. The curtains were hung. The cabinets were ready, lined with paper. The linens and clothes were arranged neatly and the lamps placed where Mom had envision. Dad was planning on renting an U-Haul to move the remaining things. He was sure he could handle everything but the refrigerator, stove and washer. A friend of the family, Donald, promised to come the night before we move. As I recall, he was a short, wirier man who was always ready to lend a hand. Being an electrician, he was going to hook up the appliances. He arrived as planned and each appliance left on separate loads. His trailer was small.
With this accomplished, Donald suggested a few more heavy pieces be transported so Dad would not have to wrestle with them alone in the morning. After each load, he decided we should take another. He gave the older ones a ride on the trailer with the furniture and Dad. I remember Donald giving orders. "We’ll have room for that chair on this load, grab it Bill." Finally the only thing left in the house was Steve sleeping in the crib. The crib was down and the door was shut.
By late evening, we were in our new home and the washer was already in operation. Donald was smiling and pleased with himself. Mom and Dad sat paralyzed and bewildered. Their goal was to move in a slow and easy manner. When he was ready to leave, he said "Now if you need me for anything-just holler." A weak response, "Yep," was heard.
Painting the interior of the house was as natural to Mom and Dad as moving. For Mom, change was good. She would come up with the creative ideas and Dad would carry them through. A trip was made to Sears and the paint was selected. The dining room was set. As the paint went on, Mom became more excited over the thought of decorating. Meanwhile, Steve and Chris were fast painting murals on the wall, delighting in their handiwork. What really through Dad into a state of shock was when he climbed down from the ladder to remove the spilled paint from the base board. Steve couldn’t resist the temptation to climb. The screams brought Mom running. On the top of the ladder, was a freckled face Steve saying: "I’m sorry Daddy." Steve knocked the paint bucket right on top of Dad.
Dad sat beneath the ladder, staring into space, dripping with paint. Mom waved her hand back and forth in front of his face but no contact. He’s flipped this time for sure. Mom kept saying, "Bill . . . Bill . . . Bill . . . , are you all right?" Gathering around Dad, Larry suggested washing his face. He could breathe easier. Dad moved. Silence. With a towel in hand, Dad wiped his face. Silence.
As we were driving home, we were looking forward to gathering our pictures and letters not just to remember but to preserve them. The thought of making scrapbooks emerged.
" Let’s write brief comments under each picture." Suggested Marie.
So our ride down memory lane has taken on new life. A mound of dirt has brought us to this point. As we watched the sun going down, we paused. This day has captured the happy moments under the Chinaberry tree.
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