I don’t remember much about the day of my birth. In fact, I don’t remember anything about it at all. The first time my brother saw me, he said, “Take her back. She doesn’t have any hair or teeth.” They didn’t take me back but took me to my first home.
We lived out in the country along a narrow dirt road not far from my grandparents in a tar-papered share cropper’s three-room house. By the time I came along, the house had been improved. Before my folks and brothers and sisters moved in, it was abandoned except for the mice and possums that fed on the oats that were piled on the floor. It might seem like ten dollars a month rent would be a bargain, but I’m not so sure. Pillars of fieldstone under the corners and centers of each side of the house kept it off the ground. A screened porch on the back of the house also served as a pantry. The yard was red Georgia clay.
My brother, sister and two cousins playing 
My brothers and sisters by the tar paper house
The house was covered in rolled tar paper that mimicked red bricks. An outhouse served as the private restroom. The house was bare when they moved in. Shelves had to be built in the kitchen. Sweeping the floor was easy enough. Mama just swept the dirt between the cracks in the floor. They bought a “square” which was a piece of linoleum to put on the floor. It stopped some of the wind that whistled up through the cracks. If the wind blew hard, someone had to stand on the flooring before the door could be opened. A corner of the linoleum could be lifted up, and we could see the chickens under the house. Daddy told about the time a man knocked on the door one morning and asked if he could catch the big possum that he saw run under the house. Mama was quick to oblige. She certainly wasn’t going to throw a possum in the pot! In the winter, water drawn from the well would be frozen solid by morning. The big round ice cube was rolled to the stove to be melted for the day’s needs. A small coal heater was purchased to provide a bit of warmth in the cold months.
My heart aches as I think of my mother’s devotion and sheer determination as she looked at that rundown old shack with five children by her side – one just a baby. She didn’t have the personality nor the time to feel sorry for herself or moan and groan about the situation. I can almost see her square her shoulders, take a deep breath, and then start working to make the tar paper shack into a home. I joined the family almost two years later. As meek and meager as those days were, there was also abundance – abundance of family, good neighbors and church family who remained friends for years.
My memories of the tar-paper house are more from seeing the house after we moved. We would pass by on the way to visit my grandparents. The house stood there for several years with very little change. As we would go by the abandoned house, I could see kids playing in the yard with white sheets waving in the breeze in stark contrast to the red clay yard. The stories I heard of the time we lived there came to life in my imagination. I have a newfound admiration for my mother as I think of the sacrifices she made. The tar-paper house was certainly not a castle, but I am convinced that my mother deserves a crown and all the honor fit for a queen.
August 2019