SOLLIE'S STORY

Being poor and not knowing it,  is one thing.  Being poor and knowing it, is another.    I knew it.

Early 1940's, our family of five struggled in a run down shack to stay warm.  Food was sparse, but when available, it was  prepared on an old wood stove and given to our family.  Sometimes it was breakfast, sometimes dinner, sometimes supper, but it was never much.  Biscuits, fat back, potatoes, and syrup.  Mother made the best biscuits in the world!  Our house was three rooms.  A kitchen, a bedroom, and a living room.  

My Father, a barber by trade, with no transportation other than his two feet, walked several miles to a job.  Most times, he would be picked up along the way by a passing neighbor lucky enough to own a car.  His long walk home usually got him home long after dark.  Mother,  who did not read or write very well,  stayed home to see that the we children got on the school bus with clean, warm clothes.  I never held a book until I started school.  We might have a pine Christmas tree, but never any presents. The days were long but the nights were even longer, with only a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling in the three rooms and no indoor plumbing.  A well out back furnished us water.  Baths were in a No. 2 galvanized wash tub with water heated on the stove.   My brother and I shared the tub to save having to draw and heat more water.

I was named for my grandfather Solomon who was called Sol.  So, I became Sollie.  From birth, I had persistent coughs and breathing problems.  My Mother held me and rocked me back and forth in an upright position to help with the breathing.  I was always overdressed because of the notion that I needed to stay warm, but even in the warmer days,  I would be layered in long underwear, sweaters or coats causing sweat to bead on my frail little body.   At times, the family thought I would not make it through the night.  The local doctor administered whatever he could, but nothing helped the asthma.

There was talk in town of a old black woman who had special powers and potions that could cure any kind of illness.  Having tried everything, Daddy decided to give the old  woman a shot with her remedies to see if they would cure me of the horrible wheezing and shortness of breath.  I remember vividly the old woman putting a piece of cloth over my head and hers together.  She lights a fire in a shallow little tin cup with a match and I was told to breathe deeply and inhale the smoke.    Of course, I choked, sputtered, and coughed but the folks were sure that I would be cured soon.

Now today, common sense would tell anybody that a child with asthma should not be inhaling smoke of any kind.  It also tells me that I was probably smoking marijuana!  I don't remember any feeling of euphoria, that's for sure!  I also didn't get well.  The asthma would plague me until my teen aged years.    I was seven years old when I started first grade and older by far than most of my classmates.  I missed a lot of school for many years because of the asthma, but when I was about 14, I was prescribed an inhaler of some type which allowed me to attend school more regularly.  That's when I started working.   I never stopped until I was 78 years old.