Category: Childhood Memories

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.

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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. 

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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. 

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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. 

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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!

Ernie was my brother’s friend. He usually showed up at mealtime. He loved Mama’s Spanish rice. We never had to worry about leftovers if Ernie was around. He loved to pester me. When I saw him ride up on his bicycle, I would run and hide from him under the table in the bedroom I shared with my sisters and one of my other brothers. Ernie would also let my brother ride his bicycle.

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One day my brother said he’d take me for a ride. I climbed into the basket on the front of Ernie’s bicycle.  “I’ll ride with you as long as you don’t go through the ditch,” I said. He promised. Boy Scout’s honor! As soon as he started pedaling, he headed right for the ditch. He hit the ditch and I went flying through the air. Sometime later, I woke up, arm held tightly in place. When I landed, it had broken my collar bone. I didn’t ride with him again!

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Daddy was so proud of himself. There on the counter were some green muffins. He grinned and said, “Try a muffin. They’re good.” I had no desire to taste his green muffins. They reminded me of the green kerosene biscuits I loathed as a kid. I pinched off a very tiny piece and that was too much. I said, “These are terrible. What did you make them out of?” He said, “Well – there was some left-over Split Pea Soup in the refrigerator…..” I like good Split Pea Soup, and though his muffins were not good, they were memorable.

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About the only time daddy cooked was when Mama had surgery or was sick. When I was a kid, Mama had back surgery which also entailed having a bone removed from her leg and put in her back. She was out of commission for some time. Daddy cooked. Well, that term is used loosely. He attempted to cook. One day he decided to make biscuits. When his mom had started keeping house years earlier, she tried her hand at making biscuits. She used a mouse for target practice and killed it when she threw one of her biscuits at the little furry critter. I think Daddy inherited those skills. When my oldest brother smarted off about Daddy’s biscuits, he chunked one at my brother and it raised a welt on his arm. We were ecstatic when my grandmother came for a few days and took over cooking!

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In later years, Daddy had to take up kitchen duty when Mama was sick. Even after she got better, he continued to do the cooking. She was just happy not having to plan meals after doing it all those years. Daddy would ask me how to make certain things. He would taste something and then quiz me on the ingredients. He liked to experiment with seasonings and other things. Though he never was the best cook, he did improve somewhat. He always knew when his food was done because the smoke alarm would go off.

I saw some strange things on his kitchen table. Green Split Pea Muffins were one of them. If something was unidentifiable, it was a good idea to ask, “What is it?” Who knows when you might be served Split Pea Soup Muffins!

Adventures are often found in the simplest of places. I found them in the lap of my grandfather. 

He loved to sit down to a meal and linger over a cup or more of coffee. He was a dunker. He let us grandkids sit in his lap and “dunk” in his coffee, too. He put sugar and cream in his coffee and dunked almost everything. Bread, biscuits, cake, pie, and pizza was dunked in his coffee. Whoever sat in his lap added more sugar and cream and took a sip. If he dunked, we dunked. 

Sitting in his lap, I imagined being with him on one of his adventures as he told story after story. We traipsed across the plains together following the harvest all the way into Canada. We traveled by horse, train or rode in a horseless buggy. He tied the bedroll and fiddle on the side of the saddle, hoisted me up behind him, and we rode cross country to an old homestead where he played for a dance at the end of the harvest.

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I peeked out the back of a covered wagon and watched Indians following from a distance as we trailed from Oklahoma to Montana. My granddad rode alongside the wagons on Old Bill. Nights were filled with the music of fiddles being played around the campfire.

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His tales came to life as he recounted his batching days. They were so vivid, I could almost the mouse tail hanging out from between a stack of pancakes slathered with butter and syrup when he played a trick on his batching partner, John. I could almost smell “Old Stink” outside his cave near Zortman as my granddad told the story of the old man.

By the time he was done with his coffee, the cup was half full of dunking dregs. He would take a spoon and eat what was left. His cup was soon empty, but my cup of memories was full.

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Growing up in a pastor’s family, we moved every few years and lived in church parsonages. The homes often contained discarded furniture and accessories no longer needed or wanted by some of the parishioners. It seems that in most congregations there was at least one person who claimed the right of ownership of the parsonage and its inhabitants.

One of the parsonages was next door to such a woman. She came in the back door unannounced and made herself at home. We never had to wonder what the woman thought because she freely offered her opinion and advice which included what was wrong and what we needed to do.

She quickly overstepped her bounds. It was obvious she didn’t approve of me. She thought girls were supposed to be girlish, which I wasn’t. I preferred being outdoors hiking, climbing, camping or rappelling. My attire included hiking boots, jeans and flannel shirts, and I climbed trees. 

One day she barged through the door and shoved a bag at my mother. In it was something for my room – ruffled white lace curtains. When I saw those curtains of lace, I was mad – more like livid. What right did she have to tell me how to decorate my room? My parents gave me no choice but to hang the curtains. Fine, I’d hang the curtains!

It was just a few days before she made another unannounced visit. You can guess why she came – to see those ruffled lace curtains in my room. I led her down the hall with a factitious sneer on my face. She walked into the room and saw the nice white lacy curtains waving gently in the breeze from the opened window. Then she saw the rest of the room. A small gasp escaped her lips. Hanging from the light in the middle of the room was “thing.” “Thing” was a contorted twisted clothes hanger dripped with multi-colored wax stalactites draped with various colors of string confetti. Big colorful posters and slogans hung on the walls. Rappelling off the green trunk was the big doll I got as a little girl. She was rigged up and partially suspended wearing a rappelling seat complete with carabiners. The bed was frameless, the mattresses on the floor, and covered with a purple and green tie-dyed bedspread. Other non-lady-like trinkets were scattered throughout the room. There was even a black light. Gasp! 

That’s the only time I saw that woman speechless. She huffed, turned on her heels and was gone. She never asked to see my room again. Since my bedroom window faced her house, somehow, I think seeing those curtains of lace blowing in the breeze brought her no satisfaction. 

Jump down turn around pick a bale of cotton
Gonna jump down turn around pick a bale a day

Reluctantly, I tied my sunbonnet securely under my chin. It promised to be another hot humid day. I wore loose fitting clothes and long sleeves to help protect me from the sun and to keep me from getting scratched. A big burlap bag hung under one armpit with the strap over my opposite shoulder. Mama tied a knot in the strap to lift the bag higher, but it still dragged the ground.

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Cotton fields ready for picking were a familiar scene along those back country Southern roads. From the car windows we saw snowy fields ready for harvest. Rows and rows of stalks with fluffy balls of white seemed to go on forever. People of all ages were in the fields filling their bags. For a little kid standing in between those rows, it took on a different perspective. It all looked rather ominous when seeing the task that lay ahead. 

I was seven or eight years old. Daddy knew some of the country farmers. I don’t know how it all came about that we were taken to pick cotton. Beads of sweat were already forming even before I picked the first boll. The cotton was certainly soft and fluffy, but the husks that held the cotton weren’t. The sharp hard corners of the calyx jabbed into my fingers as I pulled and twisted off a ball of cotton and stuffed it in my bag. Down the row I went, grabbing and stuffing my bag. It left a trail in the red dirt as it followed me down the row. The sun and heat were relentless. I no longer objected to wearing the big rimmed sunbonnet that protected me from the fiery rays of the sun.

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I don’t remember how long it took to fill my bag. Well, my “full” bag wasn’t as full as others. A real cotton picker can be in the field for twelve hours a day or more. Their bags weigh about sixty to seventy pounds when filled. My bag wasn’t stuffed that much, but it did get heavy for me to drag down the row. When we were done for the day, I peeked in the bag filled with fluffy white cotton with little brown specks from the husks. We deposited our bags of cotton and held out our hands for the few coins we earned for our labors. I can assure you it wasn’t enough. 

Our day was done. When we passed the fields going back home, I had a greater appreciation for the people who worked the fields. I looked at the cotton boll I had in my hand and put it in my bonnet on my lap. I would sleep good that night!