A mid-twentieth century story of life and love in Arkansas
Mother told me some things I didn’t remember—the rest are like
stars in a night sky on the dark, sable palette of my memory—they sparkle
there, some brighter than others, each with its own special place.
Etched in my very first memory are images of a small, white frame
house, a front porch latticed on one end, morning glories and
mother.
Just as there were no heralding trumpets to announce the grand
openings of the morning glories, so were the quiet, good deeds of my
mother. Each morning she marveled at their lavender-blue beauty and I
was just as awed by hers.
Mother told me some things I didn’t remember—the rest are like
stars in a night sky on the dark, sable palette of my memory—they sparkle
there, some brighter than others, each with its own special place.
Etched in my very first memory are images of a small, white frame
house, a front porch latticed on one end, morning glories and
mother.
Just as there were no heralding trumpets to announce the grand
openings of the morning glories, so were the quiet, good deeds of my
mother. Each morning she marveled at their lavender-blue beauty and I
was just as awed by hers.
My mother and older brother, Johnny
Mother told me I got a birthday card from China on my first
birthday and she saved it for me. My father, who was in the army during
World War II, had never seen his first daughter—me—halfway around
the world in Arkansas.
The ship my father came in on, Pier88, November, 1945, New York City
At bedtime, after we welcomed him home from overseas, I would
listen for a while to my parents’ muted whispers from the next room, then
get up and walk on tippy-toe to them. After Daddy carried me back to bed,
mother would heat an old black cast iron, wrap it in several towels and place it
gently to my icy feet. Encased in a downy, quilted cocoon of love and
security, a canopy of warm sleep slowly descended upon me on those cold,
wintry nights in Arkansas.
listen for a while to my parents’ muted whispers from the next room, then
get up and walk on tippy-toe to them. After Daddy carried me back to bed,
mother would heat an old black cast iron, wrap it in several towels and place it
gently to my icy feet. Encased in a downy, quilted cocoon of love and
security, a canopy of warm sleep slowly descended upon me on those cold,
wintry nights in Arkansas.
This picture was taken before my mom and dad became Christians so we were not yet attending the church I describe below. This picture, however, was taken in the front yard of the home I write about above.
Every Easter Sunday my family joined a longstanding custom of the
community. In order that everyone feel welcome to come and celebrate the
resurrection of our Lord, my mom and I wore flour-sack dresses to church
as did all the other women and girls. The men and boys donned their
everyday overalls. There were no excuses for not having anything new to
wear on Easter Sunday morning on those pastel, early spring days in
Arkansas.
In the summertime my family would drive the sliver of highway
across eastern Arkansas amidst endless acres of snow-white cotton.
My father would pull over to the side of the highway to let us
examine the bolls of cotton. Their soft coarseness was not unlike the
touch of his leathered hand upon mine.
I got a kick out of giving Daddy this book entitled "Verse By the Side of the Road." It was a compilation of over seven hundred Burma Shave poems.
My father delighted in the many “Burma Shave” advertisements
along the rodeway and read them aloud to us. I longed for the day that I
would be able to read those small, funny signs.
We eventually crossed the mighty Mississippi River on our way to
visit our grandparents in Tennessee. At this point, Daddy would break
into soulful renditions of “Ole Man River" and "Mississippi Mud."
We did simple things in Arkansas. We would sit for hours in the
dark greenish-gray dirt of Murfreesboro and look for diamonds at the
only diamond mine in the United States.*
On the way home from the diamond mine, we would stop in Hot
Springs and fill bottle after bottle with the cool, pure water that bubbled
from the ground. Some of the springs were the source of very hot, steamy
water. People came from everywhere to take curative hot-water treatments
on Bath House Row.
examine the bolls of cotton. Their soft coarseness was not unlike the
touch of his leathered hand upon mine.
I got a kick out of giving Daddy this book entitled "Verse By the Side of the Road." It was a compilation of over seven hundred Burma Shave poems.
My father delighted in the many “Burma Shave” advertisements
along the rodeway and read them aloud to us. I longed for the day that I
would be able to read those small, funny signs.
We eventually crossed the mighty Mississippi River on our way to
visit our grandparents in Tennessee. At this point, Daddy would break
into soulful renditions of “Ole Man River" and "Mississippi Mud."
We did simple things in Arkansas. We would sit for hours in the
dark greenish-gray dirt of Murfreesboro and look for diamonds at the
only diamond mine in the United States.*
On the way home from the diamond mine, we would stop in Hot
Springs and fill bottle after bottle with the cool, pure water that bubbled
from the ground. Some of the springs were the source of very hot, steamy
water. People came from everywhere to take curative hot-water treatments
on Bath House Row.
We had to sit out this hot summer day. If you look closely, you can see that we both had recently received our vaccinations.
On other lazy summer days in Arkansas, we would drive far into the
country to the Old Keesler Hole to go for a quick swim. With all the critters,
it was not very much fun but it relieved us from the heat for a little
while.
Sometimes on these trips we would visit the old sorghum mills where
mules still supplied the power for the grinding rollers that squeezed the dark juice from the
sorghum cane.
It was fun to watch the mules but the real treat came the next
morning when we ate fresh-churned butter and sorghum syrup over
cornbread left from the night before.
Daddy loved to drive. Many times we drove by the old Acme Brick
Company and everytime we did, my father told the story about the man
who took a brick home in his lunch box every day for thirty years.
“Finally,” Daddy said, “He had enough bricks to build a house.”
I believed that story until I was almost ten years old. And then one
day, I noticed the glint in my father’s eyes as he repeated it for the
umpteenth time.
Every fifth Sunday of the month when I was child, our little country
church would join four other small fellowships and have church all day.
Unlike the cooler months, about the only movement in the church
were the funeral home fans and the buzzing of flies. After all the jugs of
water had been drained dry toward mid-afternoon, I can still recollect
the parched roughness of my throat on those hot, sultry summer days in Arkansas.
Those were the days of dinner-on-the-ground. The women brought
red-checkered tablecloths, spread them on the grass, and laid out a feast.
Fried chicken, green beans, oven-roasted potatoes, sliced tomatoes,
steamed squash, pinto beans, homemade breads, pies, and cobblers were
the fare of the day.
While the men swapped old news, the young girls took care of the
little ones and the boys played marbles. They drew circles in the dirt and
made up their own rules. They played until their thumbs got blisters.
About a mile behind our church lay one big beautiful upside-
down crater named Pinnacle Mountain. It was almost as if God had saved
this crowning jewel just for us folk in central Arkansas.
Up the road a ways was a cascade of mountains
known as the Ozarks. From a distance their jewel-like colors ranged from
deep sapphire to aquamarine blue to emerald green. And all of this hung
against a canvas of opalescent sky.
Pinnacle Mountain would have been a diamond among many
diamonds there. But resting here, almost sadly alone, its facets seemed to
invite youngsters with nothing better to do than climb, and so it was that we
spent many a Sunday afternoon sitting atop that ancient, inverted gem.
As children in Arkansas, moments seemed like hours and months
like years. From one Christmas to the next seemed like an eternity and we
thought life as we knew it in Arkansas would never end.
Somehow in my mind, though, I knew there would be a finale. As
far-fetched as it seemed, I knew that one day my youth would be a faint
sparkle on the horizon of my mind. But I also knew that for me, no matter
where life took me, the roads of my memory would always lead back home
. . . . . .to Arkansas . . . . .where I could always be a child.
Copyright 1992
All Rights Reserved
* As of 1996 there is an operational diamond mine in Colorado.
