Month: October 2019

There is nothing that melts the heart like a little baby. The gruffest of burly men soften and become putty with a newborn baby in his arms. Women gather around a new baby like a mama hen with her chicks, clucking, ooooing and ahhhhing. Even grumpy people smile at the sight of a soft little baby. A new life brings hope of the future, but sometimes a new life is unwanted and seems hopeless.

One day in 1967 there was a knock on the door. It was a lady with Family and Children Services. My parent’s names had been suggested as prospective foster parents and there was a desperate need for foster families to care for newborn babies. With four of us kids still at home, Mama didn’t have extra time, but she agreed to help them out until arrangements were made for adoption. 

The case worker brought us a big baby boy straight from the hospital. All we knew about the little guy’s parents was they were professors at the University and a baby did not fit into their budget. You know, it doesn’t take much to get attached to a new little person. That little guy was very smart. His personality won the heart of everyone who saw him. He was cooing and smiling in no time. We kept him for at least six months. It was really hard to let him go, but it wasn’t long before we had another baby. Over a period of six years, we kept at least thirty babies for two and three months, some longer. Occasionally we would keep a toddler for a shorter period of time. One of the saddest situations was a little girl about two or three years old who had cigarette burns all over her body. When Mama put her in the crib to sleep, the little girl whimpered like a scared puppy. When she was lifted out of the crib, the little girl ran to the corner of the room and curled up on the floor. Mama made a bed for her in the corner. There is no telling what that little girl had lived through. She was sent back to her mom who promised to reform but it wasn’t long before the little girl came to us again. 

All the babies we kept were unique with their own looks and personalities. One of the perks of keeping foster babies was that we got to name them. We took turns naming each new baby. Of course, the adoptive parents had names picked out for them but one of the babies kept the name we gave him. 

The last baby we kept was a little boy. He was a ward of the state. We knew he would not be adopted. He was to stay with us until they found a place for him in a State institution. The little guy’s mother was a young teenager, a drug addict. The baby suffered from withdrawals and had epileptic seizures. He was born with a closed skull that had to be crushed in order for his brain to grow. Jagged edges of his crushed skull could be felt and seen under the skin on his head. He was legally deaf and practically blind. His eyes were glazed over and they darted back and forth almost continually. His cry was the sound of a wounded animal. He had no instinct to suck, so we got a cloth, dipped it in milk and taught him to suck so he would learn to take a bottle. It broke our hearts. The doctors said he would never respond to any stimulation, even to touch, but they were wrong. If he was whimpering or agitated, there were very few who could quieten him down. He responded to their touch and sensed if someone was comfortable with him. I was one of those he responded to. I think that is the reason that of all the babies we kept, he was my favorite. I figured he needed us more than any of the others. 

I have thought about those babies over the years and wondered what happened to all of them. I would like to think that somehow we made a difference and am thankful my parents were willing to open their home and their hearts to care for these little ones. 

The youngest of my brothers was an instigator. He always looked like he was up to something and wore that Cheshire Cat grin. He could make me mad quicker than a chicken on a June bug. What was so unnerving was that he grinned the whole time.  I will admit that I often threatened him bodily harm. The only thing was, I couldn’t catch him. Oh, I chased him plenty, but he would only taunt and tease even more. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t catch him or I would have been locked up at the age of nine.

He always managed to talk me into not telling on him when he did something bad. One day we were out playing. Off to the side of our yard was a small hill covered with broom straw and rabbit tobacco that overlooked the old railroad bed. He looked at me and grinned his usual evil grin. He reached into his pocket and out came a corncob pipe. Mama would not approve! He continued to grin and said, “Don’t tell.” As usual I said, “I won’t.” He stuffed the pipe with rabbit tobacco, pulled out a match, lit it, and proceeded to smoke that weed. True to my word, I didn’t tell on him. Well, at least not then.

Years later, we all sat down for supper one night. We started reminiscing about some of the places we had lived. Everyone was sharing stories. My brother was the subject of many of those stories. I then told of the time he smoked rabbit tobacco in his corncob pipe. He grinned and said, “You weren’t supposed to tell!” He didn’t even get in trouble!

The screen door slammed behind us as we walked into the house, the smells from the kitchen already dancing a happy dance with our noses. I think I’m a pretty good judge of good cooks and Aunt Leone was top on the list.

We went to Aunt Leone’s several times during the year. She and Uncle Charlie lived in one of those old Southern homes with a big porch and a wide hallway dissecting the house. Aunt Leone was not a Southerner by birth, but she oozed with Southern hospitality. Often when we arrived, she would be sitting in her seat facing the door with arms and ample lap ready to snuggle little kids. One squeeze would about break me in two. Her booming voice was welcoming and was soon joined by a hearty laugh that erupted from the tips of her toes.

When we sat down at the table, there was plenty for all of us and part of the neighborhood. She didn’t scrimp on anything. Real cream and butter were staples in her house. Homemade bread and cinnamon rolls, pies, cakes, cookies, potatoes loaded with butter, vegetables, meats – it was all good. She could slap a meal together in no time at all and it was always scrumptious. No one was excluded from her table. My mother told me the story many times of going to Aunt Leone’s house when she was young. If unexpected company showed up, Aunt Leone popped open a couple of big jars of home canned chicken, threw it in a pan with butter and cream poured on top, let it cook for a bit and then served it with a big pile of mashed potatoes. Mama said that was the best ever!

On special occasions the whole family congregated at Aunt Leone’s. Almost any time was a special occasion. Long tables were set up under the big shade trees. On cold or rainy days, we piled up in the house and spilled onto the porch.  By the time everyone gathered, there were no empty spaces on the tables loaded with food. Those Knapp girls could cook! Kids ran around playing in the yard and climbed on the old grist stones that stuck upright in the ground. Uncle Charlie, Uncle Herb, Daddy Bee, Mutt and John sat on the porch spinning yarns about their early days of homesteading and life on the prairies. Others would float in and out of their tales, adding a story here and there. Soon, Guy threw out the starting pitch and the game was on. Kids of all ages ran the dried cow patty bases as the ball flew through the air. After the game, it was time to cut the cooled watermelons. Sticky juice ran down the chins of kids leaving red streaks on their bellies. My Granddad ate his watermelon by cutting off slices and eating them from the tip of his pocketknife. Everyone made a second round at the tables, grabbing up scraps of cinnamon rolls or a slice of pie.

When we heard the whistle of the train, we ran to get a good view and started counting cars. There were hundreds and hundreds. All of us kids lined up at the edge of the yard, stuck our arms in the air and pulled the imaginary horn with our closed fists. We were usually rewarded when the steam trumpet blew repeatedly as the engineer pulled the whistle. If we happened to be on the road on the other side of the tracks waiting for the train to pass, Daddy might even drive down the road to the railroad trestle and we watched the endless stream of cars cross above us. The clankety clank of the train wheels on the rails echoed in the distance even after the train passed out of sight and there was one last eerie broken sound of a faint whistle.

Full and satisfied, we gathered up our dishes, balls, bats and gloves, and crammed into the car for the return trip home. A day at Aunt Leone’s was always a good day!