Category: Childhood Memories

When I was four years old my brothers and sisters attended school. I was kind of lonely, but now I look back and think I should have been thankful for the reprieve from being aggravated by my brothers. Some days Mama would let me walk to the Wheeler’s house. She would watch me walk to the corner and turn down the street. I’m sure she placed a call to Mrs. Wheeler to make sure I got there okay. Cookies and milk would be waiting for me when I went inside the house. Mr. Wheeler would take me outside and let me play on the tractor. I would pretend I was on all kinds of adventures. After visiting for a while, I would walk back home.

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Mama was always busy. She made the best bread in the world, and she made a lot of it, six loaves at a time. I guess she made a batch at least once a week, sometimes more. Bread baking day was one of my favorites because sometimes Mama would make us fried bread before shaping her loaves. Mama kept the flour in an aluminum flour can. Whenever the lid was off, I would lick my finger, stick it in the flour and then lick it off. The can was just the right height for me to sit on or to use as a stool. One day Mama was making bread. She had mixed it up, beating the mixture with a slotted spoon that whipped air into the dough, scraped the dough onto the floured countertop and kneaded the dough for twelve minutes. After covering it with a towel to rise, she gathered up the freshly washed laundry and headed to the clothesline. 

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I peeked out the window and then looked at the flour can. The peanut butter was stored in the cabinet above the counter. I slid the flour can up against the cabinet and climbed aboard. I jumped up on the counter, opened the cabinet, retrieved the peanut butter and started my descent. Stretching out my toes, my foot found the top of the flour can, then the second foot. About that time the lid flipped. Swoosh! I landed IN the flour can. Flour shot out everywhere. I was covered from head to toe, and flour was scattered all over the floor. Boy, was Mama surprised to see a little spook when she walked through the door. Boy, was I in trouble! 

I wonder if I got a piece of fried bread that day. Hmmm…maybe not.

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My mother’s favorite national treasure to visit was Badlands National Park. Every time we went west, we had to go through the Badlands. That was the least we could do for her. She’s the one who had to get everything ready and packed for the trip. She was the one who got stuck keeping kids or grandkids that weren’t big enough to go camping or backpacking in the mountains. She was even compliant with camping along the way from time to time. It may have saved them a few dollars, but it was a lot of extra work for her. So when we neared the Badlands, it was a given that we would go through.

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The Badlands National Park consists of 244,000 acres. Formations of various sizes and shapes emerge from the eroded hills. The roads lead through grassy plains and then the earth opens up as canyons begin to take shape. Pinnacles and buttes rise from the earth that seem to have been swallowed by time, water and wind. Nothing can be seen for miles except flat land and ridges of layers of various colors of the strata of rough barren hills. The Lakota Indians called this place “Mako Sica,” which means “land bad.” Bison, big horn sheep, prairie dogs, deer, antelope and coyotes roam the land. 

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Mama always marveled verbally about the colors of the hills. She would explain that the hills change intensity of colors from one year to the next. Some years, the colors were muted. Other years, the colors were bright and intense. Looking across the quiet sacred hills, Mama would say, “This has to be God’s Cathedral.” 

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“Bring me back something.” That’s what I told Daddy every time he had to travel out of town for a conference or meeting of some kind. I didn’t care what it was, just as long as I got something.

As soon as he got home, I’d run to meet him, “Did you bring me something?” I wiggled and waited impatiently for him to unpack his suitcase. Sure enough, tucked away in the pocket was a special gift for me – a bar of soap. Yep, that’s what it was every time. You would have thought he gave me a million dollars.

The bar of soap was always from the hotel or the place he stayed. I would grin from ear to ear, hold the bar of soap close and run off to my room to hide the treasure in my jewelry box.

That may have been a silly little thing to most kids, but to me it was a never-ending game. Even when I was grown with kids and grandkids of my own, he would bring me a bar of soap from his adventures. Some of the soap ended up going on adventures with me. Other soaps are still tucked away in my jewelry box. Once in a while I get my bars of gold out, show them to my grandkids and tell them about my special gifts from the past.

You know? Those little bars of soap didn’t cost him a dime yet knowing that he always thought of me while he was away is priceless. It always brings a smile to my face and sometimes a tear to my eyes as I think of the joy that was given to a scrawny little girl in that one small sliver of soap.

August 2019

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.

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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

My Grandmother was a unique individual with some wonderful traits. She was a good cook. When she knew we were coming, she would make some of my favorite things to eat. It was often roast beef with mashed potatoes and brown gravy, homemade noodles with tomatoes, and homemade bread. She would pull out a quart jar of home canned thick sliced 14-day pickles that would about take my breath away and make me pucker. They were my favorite. Sometimes she would even open a jar of pickled peaches, each decorated with a clove belly button. 

She crocheted, knitted and sewed. Many of the clothes my sister and I wore, especially in the summer, were made by my grandmother. She made us shorts with tops that matched, some trimmed with rick rack or lace. When I got a doll, it was well dressed in fancy homemade clothes (including undies) and crocheted dresses. She stayed in touch with family through her letters written in her impeccable handwriting. My grandmother was a good neighbor, a poet, and is said to have been an extraordinary horsewoman. My daddy said she could grab a chicken, ring its neck, have it plucked and ready for the frying pan by the time she made it to the house.  

All of those things she did for others spoke volumes. We may not have been told, “I love you,” in words, but we were shown by her acts of service.

Among her admirable qualities were other not-so-admirable characteristics. For one thing, she was, well, stingy. I would ask her for a recipe, but when she gave it to me, she just happened to leave out ingredients or vital instructions. When I wanted her to teach me how to read crocheting instructions and to knit, she balked. I finally gave her no choice and told her, “One day you won’t be here anymore, and I want your legacy to live on. Tell me what I need to get, and you can to teach me.” 

She was a Two-Square Grandma. We were only allowed to use two squares of toilet paper when we did our job. Now tell me, could you wipe your tush with just two measly squares? I couldn’t, and I had a tiny hiney. She must have remembered the days of rationing. Now I know why my granddad went outside to water the bushes or snuck off to the little house to use the unmonitored facility.

When my dad got to where he had to have help with his bathroom duties, I realized that he, too, suffered from a toilet paper phobia (acartohygieiophobia). He would take one square at a time, fold it in fourths and take one little wipe. Of course, that wasn’t enough to finish the job so he would tear off one more square and do the same thing. I’d come along behind (literally), grab a wad and finish the job. I told him, “Daddy, you can use more than one square at a time.” I think that Two-Square Grandma got hold of him, too!

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August 2019

I was fortunate to have two grandmothers growing up. Today is the birthday of my grandmother called “Gommie” by her grandkids. 

Just the thought or mention of her name brings a plethora of emotions and memories. It brings memories of curling up next to her on the sofa whether sitting quietly or being rewarded with a story, lumpy gravy, a trip to her beloved mountains, a visit to her cabin and “Gommie’s Lake,”  a place of refuge, a place of safety, a peaceful place.

She was the family historian. People of all ages would gravitate to her house. Everyone was accepted into her home. In her younger days, she was a horse wrangler and a horse midwife for her brother on the ranch. She was a lady who could box your ears or dunk a sassy mouthed kid in a bucket of water. She could make the kids walk a fine line or play with them like a kid herself. “Babe,” as she was called by many, was a beloved girl at any age who was endeared to family and lifelong friends. She was a good neighbor and could throw together a meal in no time for whoever showed up at her dinner table.

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When she married my English grandfather, she didn’t know much about cooking. Poppy’s partner, Ernest, taught her to cook. One day she made biscuits. After they had set out for a while, she saw a mouse in the kitchen, picked up a biscuit and threw it. It hit the mouse and killed it. 

One time on a trip to Montana, Daddy stopped in Wall, South Dakota in late afternoon.  He decided we’d drive on through, so he wanted to call Gommie and tell her we’d be in about 1 a.m.  He went to the pay phone but discovered he had no change so made a collect call. Gommie answered. The operator said, “You have a collect call from Mr. Ward.”  She said, “I don’t want no damn ford!” and slammed down the phone.

She was like a mama bear to any who dared mess with her kids or grandkids, yet she was a soft squishy teddy bear who offered a snuggly resting place. Her black dancing eyes spoke volumes. They could pierce a proud tongue, and one look could shoot arrows that stopped unacceptable behavior in its tracks. Those same eyes, black and soft, could penetrate the very depths of the soul and warm the coldest of hearts. Gommie did not live by idle words. Before she spoke, she asked herself, “Is it true, is it kind, is it necessary?” 

When we visited her place, we had hot tea every day. We got to pick the tea cup of our choice and use as much sugar and cream as we wanted. I was always extra careful not to break any of her fine china. That love of hot tea and the memories that linger are now shared with my own grandchildren. 

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A poem by C R Gibson, we know as Gommie’s Creed, reflects her character and convictions:

I have wept in the night
at my shortness of sight
that to others’ needs made me blind.

But I never have yet
had a twinge of regret
for being a little too kind.

August 2019

The growth of young pine trees grew to one side and the back of the brick parsonage. That was our playground. The trees were limber enough to use as catapults. We’d pull the top of a tree down, climb aboard and launch. It was a relatively short flight and sometimes ended in a crash landing. The trees weren’t big enough to choke out the undergrowth. Blackberry vines along with other thorn bushes and broom straw grew unrestrained. The lingering heat from summer helped to make the broom straw dry and combustible. 

We often made forts out of broom straw and sticks. One day we were out playing, and two of my brothers devised a brilliant plan. They would take turns starting a fire and see which one could let it burn the longest before putting it out. My sister, just two years older than me, and I were with them playing in the growth of trees and brush. One brother lit a match to ignite the broom straw then proceeded to stomp it out. The next one took his turn. He let it burn a little bit longer before stomping it out. The fires burned longer each time as the game continued. 

When it was my youngest brother’s turn again, he lit a fire and waited and waited and waited. The fire spread quickly. He stomped and stomped. My other brother and sister started stomping. I was little, and I was barefooted. I just watched. When it was apparent the fire was out of control, they took off running to the house. I was scared to death. I froze in my steps. I could not move. One of brothers came back for me. He grabbed me up under his arm and headed to the house. He was my hero!

By the time I got to the house, Mama already knew what was going on. She got on the phone to call for help. About that time, a neighbor was coming down the road on his tractor. He came to the rescue and started cutting a fire break. Mama said, “You girls go make some cookies.” Mama’s response to anything was to stay busy. I’m sure she wanted to take our minds off the fire. I was scared, and she knew it. She went outside, and my sister and I made cookies. I kept going to the door looking out the window to make sure the fire wasn’t coming any closer. 

Other neighbors came and helped. I wanted to see what was going on, but at the same time I thought our house would burn down. I just knew the fire would come into the yard, creep up to the house and burn it to ashes. Thanks to our neighbors, it wasn’t long before everything was under control. I rested a bit easier and was thankful for them and for my hero! 

Cookie, anyone?

The teacher arose from her chair behind the desk. She had a ruler in hand as she walked toward the board and pointed to a specific location on the map. There were only two students sitting in their desks in the one-room schoolhouse. I watched from the back of the room. I was amazed at the transformation that came over this lady as she stood in front of the room. That lady was my mother, and the students were two of her great grandchildren. When we first stepped into the furnished old schoolhouse beside Garfield County Museum, I told the kids to sit in the desks, and Grandma Buck would be their teacher. 

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Years before, my mother taught in a one-room schoolhouse near Barber on the Montana prairie. She received her teaching certificate shortly out of high school. She had gained some experience teaching while still in high school when she substituted for a teacher, Leona Manning, who was on leave from the Grey Cliff School. Teaching was really nothing new to her. It was in her blood. When she was just a youngster in the first grade, she went home from school every day and taught her little sister everything she had learned that day. Her sister started school the next year but was automatically promoted to the next grade because she already knew everything the second-year students knew. 

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Teaching in a one-room schoolhouse was a bit different though. This pioneer teacher served as custodian, principal, counselor, nurse and athletic director. There were lesson plans to prepare for her 13 students in 7 grades. She was responsible to teach reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, history, geography, grammar and other academics. The fire had to be started in the stove every morning to have the school warm for the students. If weather permitted, they had recess outside. One piece of playground equipment still stands at the site where Cavill School once stood. I can almost see children laughing and playing around the Giant Stride, running so fast their feet would leave the ground. I remember visiting the Cavill family and Cavill School when I was small. Not long after, the school was torn down. Since then a plaque has been erected to commemorate the teachers and the students. The school was named in honor of the Cavill family who were the first settlers in the community. Fred Cavill was on the school board and was responsible for acquiring the teacher. Mama lived in the three-room teacherage beside the schoolhouse. On weekends she would stay with the Cavills or visit the Sherods.

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When my parents married, my mother had to give up her position at Cavill School. She continued her teaching profession even though it was just for one little girl who lived in the mountains. It wasn’t long before she taught her own children when they came of school age. She continued to receive pay as teacher of the mountain school.

Seeing my mother in front of the classroom was like stepping back in time. I saw my mother transform into a young schoolteacher. Her eyes lit up and twinkled as her countenance changed. It was evident that she had a love for teaching and learning. Sunlight fell on my mother’s face as the door of the little schoolhouse closed behind us. Was that a twinkle that lingered in her eyes? Though the encounter with the young schoolteacher had been brief, it seemed that my mother walked with a lighter step.  

I pulled back the layers of tissue paper and unwrapped the little drawstring bag, gently taking it in my hand. At one time a little package of thin papers was attached by a strip that wrapped around the bag. Some people wouldn’t give this tiny swatch of fabric a second thought and might even toss it away, but to me it is a great treasure. It no longer has the smell of tobacco nor has it been in anyone’s shirt pocket for over 50 years. I loosened the drawstring, opened it slowly and peaked inside. It was full of magic!

The magic is not in the little bag but rather what is contained inside. You might peek inside and not find even one little leaf of tobacco. When I look inside the worn-out tobacco bag, I see a wealth of treasures. One look transports me back in time. There I am, sitting with my granddad on the porch. I hear his voice as he tells me stories of life on the prairie. I hear the story of the hail storm that destroyed the family’s crops. With a laugh he adds the words of his sister, “Well, someone go milk the cow. We’ll not let this ice go to waste.” They made ice cream and had a party.

I peek in the bag again and see my brother being chased by the mad mama cow. Another look and I hear fiddle music as big rough hands draw the bow across the strings to make the fiddle sing and the fiddler’s fingers dance.

There are other treasures in that little bag. There are tales of cowboys and covered wagons. There are memories of wagon rides to the creek, climbing apple trees, playing in the hay loft, swinging on a rope, wading in the creek, walks in the pasture, and rides on the tractor. I even find a box of chocolate covered cherries in that little bag of magic. Carefully I place the little drawstring bag into the tissue paper and gently wrap it up again and place it back in the trunk. Another day, I will once again pull it from its wrapping for another dose of magic.