Category: Childhood Memories

I received word that my friend, Dr. Grace (so dubbed by my sister and I), recently left on a grand adventure. She stepped out of a worn and fragile body lacking strength, vision and hearing, and must have danced into the realm of heaven shouting with joy as she went. I imagine she met up with my parents shortly after her arrival, bragging about getting there after 99 years. I can assure you, she livened the place up!

This lady was a precious gem. She was one of those rare few people who found something good in everyone. She was a voice for those who were separated by barriers created by status, poverty, race, philosophies of life, creed or religion.

Dr. Grace was aptly named, for grace is what she extended to others. She was a champion to the abandoned, a savior to the rejected, a teacher to those deemed unteachable, a friend to the untouchable, an advocate for those without a voice, a hero of many. She was not conformed to this world nor swayed by popular vote. She dared take a stand at a time when women hid behind apron strings and were told what their opinion should be. She associated with those shunned by poverty, race or even “sin”, offering them a hug of friendship, love and hope.

This special lady was a Doctor of Psychology at the University of Georgia, a theologian, artist, author, counselor, teacher of all ages, tutor, mother, and wife, among other things. She did not walk the halls of tradition, but instead opened doors of opportunity and change. She was wise, kind and non-judgmental. Even as a child, she peered from behind walls and around corners and rightly repelled the injustices she witnessed that society deemed as permissible.

Dr. Grace loved children. That deep love stemmed from a childhood of often feeling unloved and knowing from the start that she was different than other children and the society that surrounded her. She wrote a short book called, “The Child.” A quote from her book reads,

“Thou shalt not kill was not spoken of the body alone.
It also meant thou shalt not kill a child’s dream.”

Dr. Grace was a giver of dreams. Every child she met was valuable and she encouraged them to dare to aspire to reach for their dreams. Her tolerance, acceptance and compassion reached beyond the visible to chisel away the roughness to reveal diamonds of great worth. She knew hidden inside of each child was a treasure.

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I was able to take my daughter and grandchildren to visit her a few months ago. We had a blast! She laughed and told them stories of my early years and of their mom when she was young. My life is much richer because of her years of friendship. I attribute surviving my teenage years to Dr. Grace. There is not space on these pages to express my admiration for Dr. Grace, but here are a couple of excerpts from one of her books that might help to understand why she was so special.

“My two boys, ages six and four, were playing in the sandbox with three other little boys. The sandbox was in the back yard not too far from the kitchen window so I could know what went on in their play area. I heard one little boy, not one of mine, say, “I’ve got the prettiest mama in Winterville.” Neither of my boys said a word. “I got the smartest mama in Winterville,” said another. Neither of mine said a word. “My mama can talk more than any-body anywhere,” the third said. I thought surely my boys would contest that! Not a word. There was a brief silence, then my oldest declared with great pride and triumph in my defense, “That’s all right; we got the only crazy mama in Winterville.” I smiled, no, I grinned, because I knew what he meant. He did not have the vocabulary to express his thoughts, but he knew his mama was different; his mama was fun; his mama did things the other mamas would not do, like camping out in the back yard, and looking for elves in the woods. Their mama was crazy and we liked it that way.”

“One of the children was watching the puppy eat his dinner out of his bowl on the kitchen floor. “Mama, what’s it like to eat on the kitchen floor instead of at the table?” “Why don’t we see?” So the child put his bowl of cereal on the kitchen floor close to the puppy and proceeded to try to eat without a spoon. He didn’t get much cereal, but made a serious mess. “O.K. Mama, now I know.” He was content to eat like a person. Only a crazy mama would let her child eat off the kitchen floor with a puppy. It was fun!”

Dr. Grace, thanks for the memories, the acceptance, love, and the joy you brought to me and so many others. May you have the time of your life! Well done!

“Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute; Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy.” “Give her the reward she has earned, and let her works bring her praise at the city gate.”

My mother was not a tv person, but Saturday nights in the ’60’s were an exception. She loved Lawrence Welk. When Saturday rolled around, there was no question as to what would be on tv – The Lawrence Welk Show. She liked the band, the accordion being played, the champagne bubbles that floated through the air, the Lennon Sisters, other special singers and the dancing. I wonder if she imagined herself gliding over the dance floor, her full skirt twirling as her partner spun her around. 

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Mama always liked music, not all kinds of course. She had a few favorite albums she played occasionally. It seemed she really liked artists that whistled or yodeled. I can still hear the smooth falsettos of Slim Whitman, the country yodeling singer, coming from the record player.

We often heard her singing, humming or whistling. I can assure you that we didn’t always appreciate it, especially early in the morning when it was time to get up.

I turned down our street and there in the middle of the road was a little black puppy. My traveling buddies immediately said in unison, “awwwww.” I stopped and the little puppy sat down. He stood up and walked toward the car. Not knowing which side of the car he was on, I rolled down my window. There, looking up at me with sad eyes was the little black puppy. It looked like he was wearing white socks on his front legs and white shoes on his back paws. He whimpered and whined and said, “take me home with you.”

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I drove slowly toward the house. The little puppy ran as fast as his little legs would go. I had to drive really slow so his little legs wouldn’t fall off. The girls were cheering the little guy on. I only had to stop once for him to catch up. He almost beat me into the garage. After some discussion, the dog whisperer said, “I’ll have to take him to the pound.” The cute little black puppy with big white feet is now getting settled in pretty good at our house and eats everything in sight. There has been some discussion as to what his name should be. Some are calling him “Socks” but one of my granddaughters and I think his name should be “Two Socks.”

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The little puppy brought back some memories. When my daughter was little, she fell in love with all the strays and abandoned puppies and kittens that were dropped off by our house. There must have been a sign on the mailbox that said, “Hey, dump your unwanted puppies here!”  One day, we heard whimpering coming from the ditch. It was the mangiest scrawniest dog I have ever seen. The dog obviously had not had anything to eat in quite some time. It also had mange. There were only just a few sprigs of hair on him. No one would “awwwww” over him. Ugly is the best word to describe the poor little skinny hairless thing. I don’t know of anyone who would scoop that little dog up, hug him, and think he was the greatest thing ever – well, no one except my daughter. She begged us to keep him. She promised to feed him, doctor him and most of all, to love him. True to her word, that was the most pampered dog in the world. Her love for that little dog was rewarded by a faithful companion. 

When my daughter saw that little black puppy with big white feet, I wonder if she remembered back many years to that mangy mutt that she promised to care for and love. Something must have tugged at her heart because when she cut her eyes over toward her husband, he took one look and said, “No!”

By the way, there is no longer a sign hanging on our mailbox! If you’re so inclined, you’ll need to make your delivery elsewhere.

The last time I was at Mount Rushmore, I wouldn’t have known where I was if it weren’t for the faces on the wall of stone. The place was full of people going in and out of the gift shop as larger than life stone eyes watched every movement. Some tourists walked by with ice cream cones in their hands. Others stood along the wall gazing up at the mountain while children peeked through viewfinders to get a closer look at the faces.

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It certainly wasn’t like the first time I saw it. I was actually a bit disappointed that my grandchildren would never see it like I did as a child. I traveled back in time to my first trip to Mount Rushmore. That’s the year I rode in the back window for a good part of the long trip from Georgia. I remember seeing the stone faces in the distance growing bigger as we drove up the winding road. We pulled off the side of the road and stopped at a picnic area. Mama made sandwiches and we had lunch under the watchful eyes of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt. A narrow trail led to a closer view. I was fascinated that someone was able to chisel away the stone to make recognizable faces with eyes that seemed to be looking at us. When we drove up to the observation deck, there was no grand entrance like there is today nor were there distractions to divert our attention from the amazing massive work of art that rose out of the earth.

In 1963 there were 1,272,800 visitors to Mt. Rushmore. In 2018 there were 2.31 million.

The sculptor of the faces of Rushmore, Gutzon Borglum, had a grand scheme to carve a room in which to store documents of our country’s heritage. His plan did not come to fruition wholly but there is a repository of records placed in the hall entry of the “secret room” behind Abe Lincoln. Etched on the capstone is the following quote of Borglum, “…let us place there, carved high, as close to heaven as we can, the words of our leaders, their faces, to show posterity what manner of men they were. Then breathe a prayer that these records will endure until the wind and rain alone shall wear them away.”

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Our plates were buttered and ready. Mama finished stirring the hot taffy and took it from the stove. Some of the hot sweet syrupy candy was poured into each dish. We had to wait until it was cool enough to work. I always managed to stick my buttered hands into the sticky goo while it was still too hot. Once I could get my hands in it without burning myself, I would start working the taffy.

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Salt Water Taffy is what Mama made. We would have people over to share our Taffy Pull. It was often the Youth Group in our church. I don’t think any of those kids knew about a Taffy Pull. Taffy was something they bought in the store twisted in waxed wrappers.

If anybody was walking by the house and looked through the window, they would have wondered at the sight. All hands were pulling taffy. The object was to pull and twist, put end to end and go at it again. Sometimes someone else would grab one end of the taffy to help pull and twist. We’d see how long we could stretch it before it broke. The taffy was a soft yellow color when it was first poured into our dishes. After it was worked for a while, it was almost white. My forearms and hands would be sore for a day or two. When it was all done, I wrapped my taffy in waxed paper, took it to my room and hid it in the nightstand drawer by my bed. One time I ate so much taffy I got sick. For weeks, I couldn’t even open the drawer because just the sight or smell of it turned my stomach.

When my kids were little, I decided we needed to have a Taffy Pull. We invited some people over, some well over my age, who had never even heard of a Taffy Pull. The plates were buttered, and I poured a little bit of hot taffy in each. It was fun to be able to pass along something from my childhood. It didn’t have quite the allure as when I was young. I could still see that wrapped up taffy stuck in my drawer! Maybe it’s time to have a Taffy Pull will the grandkids!

The concertmaster drew the bow over the violin’s A string. The noise that followed may have sounded like chaos to those already in their seats awaiting the concert. To the conductor’s ear, it was a glorious melody for he knew every instrument in the orchestra would soon be as one. Horns, strings, woodwinds, tympani, all tuned to the same note. The instrumentalists, each oblivious to the others, warmed up with scales or last-minute practice on difficult sections. 

That all came to an abrupt stop as the conductor came out of the wings onto center stage. He walked toward the crowd, then stepped onto the podium and faced the orchestra. A curtain of silence fell over the whole auditorium. Not even a breath was heard. Every eye in the room was on him. He lifted his arms and instruments immediately responded by moving into playing position. With the downbeat, the music began. Every instrument played its part and made the black and white pages of the music score come to life. Countless hours of practice bathed with talent and a dose of opportunity transformed the notes on the pages to a lasting melody that echoed throughout the room.

When the last note of the concert ended, the conductor turned once again to face the audience who stood in applause. With a bow, he then directed their attention with a wave of his arm to the orchestra that had performed under his leadership. The musicians stood and applause erupted again. 

As everyone went their way, they took with them a sense of satisfaction. Individuals from all walks of life and different backgrounds had come together to perform – not as individuals but as an orchestra. There were many instruments, some expensive, some not so much, and different levels of talent and ability. It took each one playing their individual instrument in tune with the others to create a masterpiece that was the performance of a lifetime. 

My mother did not like four-letter words. There were some offensive words that warranted a kid getting their mouth washed out with soap. There was another four-letter word that was really a bad word, “CAN’T”. It was not allowed in our household. In fact, it was not even in Mama’s dictionary.

She taught us kids some valuable lessons. She believed that if something needed to be done or you wanted something done, “Do it yourself.” Her motto was, “just do it.” My mother coined that phrase LONG before Nike. Sometimes that was quite an exasperating answer, but it actually taught all of us kids independence, maybe even to a fault at times. No limitations! That was just one of many nuggets of gold she dropped along our path.

Remember, “CAN’T never could!” per my mother…..

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