Perhaps I am recalling my childhood through an idealistic lens, but—at least to me—times were easier then. Summers were wondrous and magical, a time when we went outside after breakfast, came in briefly and begrudgingly for lunch, then left again, not to return until the 5:00 whistle blew. After supper, we were out again until summoned home at bedtime.
I grew up in a small town where everyone knew everyone else, and so parents didn’t have to worry about us children as we played and explored all over town, including some places that would have horrified our parents. Had we done anything at all remiss--trust me--someone would have ratted us out before we even got home. That happened more than once, and one time in particular, resulted in a three-day indoor imprisonment.
We rode bikes in the middle of Front Street, roller skated on the smoothest sidewalk in town near the Red Bridge, and climbed a huge sawdust pile left by the sawmill at the edge of town. We hid in big old maple trees and pelted other unknowing children with buckeyes we’d collected for just that purpose. If anyone cared when we filched a ripe tomato or pulled up a baby carrot from a neighbor’s garden, washed it in their pump, and ate it as we took a short-cut through their yard, no one ever complained or told on us.
There was, however, one transgression that landed us in hot water. The three Plummer boys—Mitch, Mott, and Bill—and the three Pughs--Tomi, Ben, and I--were obsessed with the woman who lived in a small white cottage on one side of the Red Bridge. The smoothest stone sidewalk in town was located directly in front of her house, and most often, she ignored us. However, from time to time, she came out and shooed us away, scolding us for being so noisy, noisy enough to “wake the dead,” as she reminded us many times. (In retrospect, I understand why she might regard six or more children skating back and forth in front of her house, shouting and laughing uproariously, a bit of a nuisance. But at the time, the Pugh and Plummer children viewed her behavior through eyes veiled with wild imaginations fostered by reading Nancy Drew, the Hardy Boys, and countless tellings of ghost stories after dark.)
Because this woman was old—to us—and very thin, had a slightly stooped posture and fly-away grey hair worn in a messy bun, we speculated that she might be a witch. She did look like a witch—at least as we imagined a non-Halloween- costumed witch—and, more telling to us--she had cats. Lots and lots of cats. We couldn’t have been more certain that she was a bonafide witch had she flown by us on a broom. The more we whispered about this in our clubhouse—an outbuilding behind the Plummer’s—the more determined we became. We had to prove that she was a witch. We whispered, plotted, and planned how we could find out for sure, once and for all. But how?
Mitch, the Plummer boy my age, knew for a fact that witches did not eat real food. Mitch was very convincing when he made this declaration, and so we did not question the basis of his expertise. The planning began in earnest at this point. Mitch and I were savvy eleven-year-olds and were not about to do anything that might get us, personally, into trouble. Mott and Tomi were good lieutenants but not ever willing to be our flunkies. Our Ace in the hole was the knowledge that all four of us could con the two youngest—Bill and Ben—into doing whatever we told them to do. We gave them the directive: "Once we get to the witch's house, we'll hide in the back yard. You all gotta run up and tip over her tash can." (Why didn’t they defy our authority? Because they were five and gullible, and we had counted on that.)
On the night selected for the raid, we left after supper on the premise of catching lightening bugs after dark to rendezvous with the Plummers by the swing set. Since stealth was a must, we slipped off for her house, taking all the back routes: up the ally, across three back yards, maintaining our cover behind hydrangeas, holly hocks, and overgrown forsythia bushes, and finally down the little bank and across the little stream over which arched the Red Bridge. We scampered up the bank to the side of the little cottage, and then army-crawled to the back yard.
Mitch, Mott, Tomi, and I lurked in the shadow of a large japonica bush and sent the two five-year-olds on their mission. We just had to see what was in that trash can. Bill and Ben ran up to the can, and one of them did not brake soon enough. He bumped into the metal can, and it banged against the drain pipe, causing a clanging clamor that would have indeed awakened the dead. The two little boys raced back, giggling uncontrollably--both winded and a bit terrified--as we whistled and frantically gestured, “Hurry up! Run fast as you can!”
The suspect charged out her back door, and we knew she had seen us. But we had seen enough. Our case was made. Strewn across her yard were several tins of cat food. Exhibit A! She didn’t eat anything but cat food. It was official. And then she called out to us, wiping away any trace of our momentary exaltation, saying, “I see all of you,” in a calm, controlled voice, “and I know exactly who you are.” With that, she returned to her house.
And then we ran down the bank as we’d never run before, slipped and slid, and leaped across the stream. We clambered up the next bank, and ditched the short cut, opting for the solid pavement of Front Street. We needed an optimum surface for super speed. I felt as though I might fly and almost forgot why I was running, until I heard her. “Karen! Tomi! Ben! Get in here right this minute.” Simultaneously, we heard Mrs. Plummer giving the same command to her boys. Our gooses were cooked and we knew it.
Each trio was quarantined to their own house for three days and nights. We couldn’t see anyone but our own siblings and our families. There was to be no television, no friends, no phone use, no art, and no radio. In our house, we were permitted to read encyclopedia, Field and Stream, McCall’s, the newspaper, and books regarded as classics by Mom. There would be no Nancy Drew for me during my incarceration, and I didn’t ask. This was hard time and shame.
Mom made us feel as rotten as we should have for pre-judging someone, for invading her privacy, and for lacking “any modicum of human decency and compassion.” She reminded me, in a sorrow-laced voice, that I had failed to set any kind of example as an older sister, and for days thereafter, I heard several adages over and over: Pretty is as pretty does; Judge not that ye be not judged; As ye sow, so shall ye reap.
The night of the crime, we climbed the stairs, shame-faced and contrite. Mom came in to hear my prayers and to tuck me in. She kissed me on the cheek, turned to leave, then turned back and looked at me, shook her head, and sighed, “Karen. For Pete’s sake. I don’t even know what to say. You had better do some serious thinking about this.” I hated to disappoint Mom. That was a far worse punishment than the confinement.
Once released, the six of us biked, climbed, swung, and explored. We played cowboys, Hide and Seek, and Swing the Statue. We did not skate again that whole summer, not on the smoothest or any other sidewalk.
This past summer, while I was visiting friends, I walked down Front Street. The Plummer house has been torn down. My childhood home is in poor shape and has been converted to apartments. The maple tree I climbed has been cut down. The Red Bridge is no longer red, and that little white cottage is gone. Maybe Thomas Wolfe had it right after all.
I stood on the still-very-smooth stone walk, looked out on the Ohio River, which runs parallel to Front Street, and remembered my youth with a poignancy that brought a lump to my throat. Then I recalled what we had done to a lonely woman whose only crime was to scold rambunctious, rowdy children and to provide shelter for homeless cats. I couldn’t even remember her name. I didn’t need my mother to tell me anything. Over five decades later, I could hear her voice saying, “Karen, what were you thinking?” I wish I could say that that was the last time she had to ask me that question.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Monday, April 12, 2010
Mama Drives to Florida under Duress
My mother had more intestinal fortitude than any other woman I’ve ever known. In the summer of 1958, she loaded her mother, a weeping and love-lorn fourteen-year-old, a pre-teen, a nine-year-old, a toddler, and our claustrophobic cocker spaniel—Happy-- into a yellow Pontiac station wagon and began the long drive to Deland, Florida.
Mom had to do all the driving. She was the only one who knew how and was licensed to do so. (The practice driving that Tomi and I had done in a carry-all in a nearby parking lot did not count. As a matter of fact, had Mom known about that, she would not have been happy at all.) Mamaw rode shotgun with our heavily drugged cocker spaniel at her feet. Tomi and I occupied the middle seat, and Ben and Mort were relegated to the backward-facing car-sick seat where Ben made faces at the cars behind us. Mamaw had never driven and was, therefore, a very complacent passenger. Tomi was disgusted with me since I was continually weeping mournfully about our moving and leaving my boyfriend behind. I wept; she rolled her eyes at me. Mom ignored me, but Ben enjoyed taunting me with, “Cry baby, Karen,” and “Boohoo. Karen lost her boyfriend,” the latter repeated sing-song until I hit him. Mom then told me to “Knock it off,” whereby I considered using that prompt as an okay to knock off Ben’s head. Mom then threatened us with the age-old Mom question: “Do you want me to pull over?”
When we drove into Tennessee, Ben began to read, aloud, all the signs announcing upcoming attractions. “Crazy Charlie’s! Five miles!” “Stucky’s! Can we stop? I wanna pecan log.” “Look! Indian Eddie’s Fire Works! Roman candles. I want Roman Candles!” He was driving me crazy and distracting me from my mourning rites, and so I shouted, “Mom! Make Ben stop!”
This time, she did drive into a dirt parking area by a road-side stand. I can still see her clearly. She wore a crisp white dress covered in big green polka dots and belted with a wide green patent leather belt. She had accessorized with green and white spectators with three-inch heels and white earrings the size of silver dollars. Neatly coiffed and wearing red lipstick, she looked beautiful. But the expression on that beautiful face was scary. She opened the passenger door and commanded: “Everybody out!”
Ben immediately climbed over my seat, kicking me in the head. Mort, a clueless toddler, did the same, thinking a wonderful new game had been initiated. Tomi mumbled under her breath—she was a master of this—“I didn’t do anything.” I stepped out, careful not to get dirt on my new sandals, and feeling righteously indignant because, as far as I was concerned, “Ben started it.”
Mamaw got out, stretched, lit up a Pall Mall, and wandered away from the fracas. Happy lay in a drugged stupor in the floor of the front seat. Mom, arms akimbo at her tiny waist, glared at us and said nothing—nothing for what seemed an eternity. We three older children were squirming, but Mort, oblivious to all, played in the dirt. Finally she spoke: “We have to get to Marietta, Georgia, by supper time if you all want to swim. Now I’ve had just about enough, you all. Karen, for Pete’s sake, stop crying. It’s getting on my last nerve. This isn’t a picnic for me either. Tomi, I can hear you muttering. Stop it. Ben, stop being obnoxious. Leave your sisters alone. Now, all of you, get back in this car, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.”
That’s all it took. That little woman had a tone that left little doubt about her message. She meant business, and we knew it. Peace prevailed, for a while. Until Happy awoke from her stupor.
Please understand: Happy really did have claustrophobia. She had chewed out of a heavy cardboard box when she was a brand new puppy. Once, she had been put into an out-building while she was in heat, and she chewed off the corner of a solid wooden door. She became frantic the only other time we had tried to put her in the car to take her to the vet. The local large animal vet made house calls on our dog. And so, when it was decided—by the Powers that Be—that we were moving to Florida, there was never any doubt about our taking Happy with us. She was a part of our family and much loved. However, Mom had to requisition several bottles of liquid tranquilizers to make this even possible.
It was about an hour after we had been read the Riot Act in a parking lot that Happy awoke. She came abruptly to life--barking frantically and jumping from the front to the back seat in an attempt to find an exit. “What next?” Mom sighed, looking at the car ceiling in silent prayer.
Mom pulled onto the side of a two-lane highway somewhere in rural Georgia. Mamaw, in her pretty purple and pink voile dress and heels, helped Mom corral the hysterical dog--who, at this point, was yapping shrilly, salivating profusely, and clawing at the air—and held her so that Mom could open her mouth and pour in some tranquilizer. We older kids felt like giggling at the slap-stick scene we were witnessing but thought better of it. Only Mort, too little to know better, stroked his blanket and wailed, “Mommy hurt Happy!” Tomi and I eventually shushed him as we recognized that Mom had her hands full enough.
After Happy had settled into a peaceful lethargy, Mamaw and Mom leaned against the side of the station wagon under the blazing Southern summer sun and lit up a cigarette. Stepping back into the car, Mom took out a hanky and wiped her brow, combed her hair, and reapplied lipstick. Looking over at Mamaw, who was repairing the damage to her French twist, Mom smiled and said, “Ready to head ‘em up and move ‘em out?” That was Mom, a woman of unmatched poise wrapped in a pretty little package. She had grit that few guessed just by looking at her.
Mom maintained her sunny demeanor, even when we ate in a restaurant next to Smith’s Motel, even while Ben grabbed all the little pats of butter, ate them, and said, “Yum! Cheese!” I muttered something appropriate for a fourteen-year-old akin to, “Gross!” and Tomi rolled her eyes. Mom just smiled, inhaled deeply on a Viceroy, and sipped a cold gin and tonic. Day one was done.
When I think of the times I was at my wits end on the thirty minute trips from my house to Maysville or Portsmouth, I simply marvel at my mother’s ability to maintain composure and control in the most exasperating of circumstances. How did she do it? She was definitely made of tougher stuff. No doubt about that. They just don’t make them like Joyce Elizabeth any more.
Mom had to do all the driving. She was the only one who knew how and was licensed to do so. (The practice driving that Tomi and I had done in a carry-all in a nearby parking lot did not count. As a matter of fact, had Mom known about that, she would not have been happy at all.) Mamaw rode shotgun with our heavily drugged cocker spaniel at her feet. Tomi and I occupied the middle seat, and Ben and Mort were relegated to the backward-facing car-sick seat where Ben made faces at the cars behind us. Mamaw had never driven and was, therefore, a very complacent passenger. Tomi was disgusted with me since I was continually weeping mournfully about our moving and leaving my boyfriend behind. I wept; she rolled her eyes at me. Mom ignored me, but Ben enjoyed taunting me with, “Cry baby, Karen,” and “Boohoo. Karen lost her boyfriend,” the latter repeated sing-song until I hit him. Mom then told me to “Knock it off,” whereby I considered using that prompt as an okay to knock off Ben’s head. Mom then threatened us with the age-old Mom question: “Do you want me to pull over?”
When we drove into Tennessee, Ben began to read, aloud, all the signs announcing upcoming attractions. “Crazy Charlie’s! Five miles!” “Stucky’s! Can we stop? I wanna pecan log.” “Look! Indian Eddie’s Fire Works! Roman candles. I want Roman Candles!” He was driving me crazy and distracting me from my mourning rites, and so I shouted, “Mom! Make Ben stop!”
This time, she did drive into a dirt parking area by a road-side stand. I can still see her clearly. She wore a crisp white dress covered in big green polka dots and belted with a wide green patent leather belt. She had accessorized with green and white spectators with three-inch heels and white earrings the size of silver dollars. Neatly coiffed and wearing red lipstick, she looked beautiful. But the expression on that beautiful face was scary. She opened the passenger door and commanded: “Everybody out!”
Ben immediately climbed over my seat, kicking me in the head. Mort, a clueless toddler, did the same, thinking a wonderful new game had been initiated. Tomi mumbled under her breath—she was a master of this—“I didn’t do anything.” I stepped out, careful not to get dirt on my new sandals, and feeling righteously indignant because, as far as I was concerned, “Ben started it.”
Mamaw got out, stretched, lit up a Pall Mall, and wandered away from the fracas. Happy lay in a drugged stupor in the floor of the front seat. Mom, arms akimbo at her tiny waist, glared at us and said nothing—nothing for what seemed an eternity. We three older children were squirming, but Mort, oblivious to all, played in the dirt. Finally she spoke: “We have to get to Marietta, Georgia, by supper time if you all want to swim. Now I’ve had just about enough, you all. Karen, for Pete’s sake, stop crying. It’s getting on my last nerve. This isn’t a picnic for me either. Tomi, I can hear you muttering. Stop it. Ben, stop being obnoxious. Leave your sisters alone. Now, all of you, get back in this car, and I don’t want to hear another peep out of you.”
That’s all it took. That little woman had a tone that left little doubt about her message. She meant business, and we knew it. Peace prevailed, for a while. Until Happy awoke from her stupor.
Please understand: Happy really did have claustrophobia. She had chewed out of a heavy cardboard box when she was a brand new puppy. Once, she had been put into an out-building while she was in heat, and she chewed off the corner of a solid wooden door. She became frantic the only other time we had tried to put her in the car to take her to the vet. The local large animal vet made house calls on our dog. And so, when it was decided—by the Powers that Be—that we were moving to Florida, there was never any doubt about our taking Happy with us. She was a part of our family and much loved. However, Mom had to requisition several bottles of liquid tranquilizers to make this even possible.
It was about an hour after we had been read the Riot Act in a parking lot that Happy awoke. She came abruptly to life--barking frantically and jumping from the front to the back seat in an attempt to find an exit. “What next?” Mom sighed, looking at the car ceiling in silent prayer.
Mom pulled onto the side of a two-lane highway somewhere in rural Georgia. Mamaw, in her pretty purple and pink voile dress and heels, helped Mom corral the hysterical dog--who, at this point, was yapping shrilly, salivating profusely, and clawing at the air—and held her so that Mom could open her mouth and pour in some tranquilizer. We older kids felt like giggling at the slap-stick scene we were witnessing but thought better of it. Only Mort, too little to know better, stroked his blanket and wailed, “Mommy hurt Happy!” Tomi and I eventually shushed him as we recognized that Mom had her hands full enough.
After Happy had settled into a peaceful lethargy, Mamaw and Mom leaned against the side of the station wagon under the blazing Southern summer sun and lit up a cigarette. Stepping back into the car, Mom took out a hanky and wiped her brow, combed her hair, and reapplied lipstick. Looking over at Mamaw, who was repairing the damage to her French twist, Mom smiled and said, “Ready to head ‘em up and move ‘em out?” That was Mom, a woman of unmatched poise wrapped in a pretty little package. She had grit that few guessed just by looking at her.
Mom maintained her sunny demeanor, even when we ate in a restaurant next to Smith’s Motel, even while Ben grabbed all the little pats of butter, ate them, and said, “Yum! Cheese!” I muttered something appropriate for a fourteen-year-old akin to, “Gross!” and Tomi rolled her eyes. Mom just smiled, inhaled deeply on a Viceroy, and sipped a cold gin and tonic. Day one was done.
When I think of the times I was at my wits end on the thirty minute trips from my house to Maysville or Portsmouth, I simply marvel at my mother’s ability to maintain composure and control in the most exasperating of circumstances. How did she do it? She was definitely made of tougher stuff. No doubt about that. They just don’t make them like Joyce Elizabeth any more.
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