MOVE OVER HOLLYWOOD!

I want it to be clear that I'm not ashamed in the least about my childhood.  I loved my family! My Father was a very hard working man.  My Mother took care of her family and loved each one of us.  We never lacked for food or clothing.  We were never mistreated in any way.   We had fun and enjoyed what we had, although we had little.  Our conditions were not uncommon for most of the people in the early 1940's.  It was war time.  Food and many necessities were rationed to everybody, not just us.   I would never intentionally embarrass myself,  family or friends by recalling my childhood life or boyhood pranks.  That being said, what and how I describe my memory is how I remember it and I share with you for you to enjoy.   

--------

Growing up in our small town was like having a very large family.  Everybody looked after everybody's children.  Just because you didn't have professional or educated parents did not make you any different from those who did.  We all went to school, church, sports events, etc. together and when we graduated, we either went off to college or stayed in the town.  I don't remember  any incident where I was treated differently from the other students.   That's the beauty of small towns.

At one point during high school, a good friend of mine needed a place to live during the school year so he could finish High School.   My uncle's family had moved out of the other side of our house and we took the whole house so had a lot more room.  Momma gladly took in John H. so he could graduate while his family moved away to Louisiana.   John wanted to learn how to operate a projector so he could get a job at the other new drive in that opened on the other side of town.   I took him out to my place, and showed him everything I knew and sure enough, he got a job at the new drive in. 

Another friend, Jack D. got in on the idea and asked me to teach him so he could get a job at the theater down town.  So, I did the same thing with him.  Bingo, he got a job at the Dixie Theater.  Now there were three of us cavaliers who knew how to do something nobody else our age did.  We decided it would be a good idea to make our own movie.

Now the movies would come in a a huge reel - all the news, comics, previews, and featured movies would come on one reel.  I would watch as I played the reels for good spots to clip for our movie.  Jack and John would do the same thing.  I showed them how to cut out a strip about two feet long and splice the film back together, hoping the next theater that got the reel would ever know the difference.   Then we'd get together out at my work place in the afternoon and splice them all together and we had ourselves a pretty good movie!  You'll have to use your imagination here, but remember this was the 1950's so there wasn't anything like you would see today. 

John stayed with us,  I believe until he graduated and moved to Louisiana to be with his family.  I don't remember seeing him again, but have thought of him many times.  Tragically, Jack was killed in an airplane crash before he graduated.  John and Jack were great friends and I was lucky to know them and have them in my life.  We shared many boyhood experiences together. 

CLEANING THE WELL, BICYCLE, AND WATCH

Sollie's story continued ....#3

When we moved into our last house, my uncle and his family lived on the other side.  It was an old house but like a duplex in that it had two front doors and two back doors and two kitchens.  Three rooms each side.   It was covered with brown siding, probably asphalt, made to look kind of like brick.  There was a front porch with a large China Berry tree that shaded the yard which was part dirt and part grass.  The grass part was near the Highway.  USA #80 that runs from Savannah to California,  I suppose.

In the back was a porch, dirt yard, and large trees and the well.  To the left of the house, was a shed and outhouse.   There was a well dug into the ground - no concrete or anything on the sides.  Just clay dirt all the way down.  Around the well and for about two feet above the hole was a "fence" to keep anyone from falling in accidentally.  Momma would draw water for household cleaning and cooking and drinking.

After we had been there a while, Daddy noticed that it wasn't filling up like it should and decided it needed cleaning out.  He said somebody was gonna have to go down the rope and clean out the bottom,  so the water would come up.  That would be me.  

Daddy and my Uncle lowered me with one foot in the bucket holding on strongly to the rope down the well.  Bucket by bucket I shoveled the sand and silt from the floor of the well and sure enough the water started coming through clear and clean again.  I was probably 12 years old at this time.  I felt so good every time I did something important like that.   I constantly was taking something apart and putting it back together again or repairing something around the house for Momma.   She and Daddy didn't make a big deal out of things I would do.  It was just the way it worked.  It was sort of like expected I could do things that today you wouldn't think of having a child do.

 I hated it when it came time to go back to school after Christmas holidays when everybody would get a chance to tell what they got for Christmas.  I would make up something or just not say anything, too embarrassed to say I got nothing. 

One year, after I started working my job, a school friend, Henry C. got a beautiful new bicycle.  It was the best looking thing I had ever seen!  I asked my Daddy to buy me one, but he said he couldn't afford it.  Since I now had a job, I decided I was going to buy me a bicycle.  I went to the Western Auto Store in town and there was only one bicycle there.  It was absolutely the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.  I asked the owner of the store the price and told him I could pay weekly if he would sell it to me.  $75 - SOLD!   I'll never forget him allowing me to ride that bicycle out of that store home!  The top of the line, it had a green panel with a gold pin stripes, and in the middle were the words "Schwinn" written on it.  There were chrome fenders and wheels, white side wall tires, a battery operated headlight, a horn, a rack on the back for my books, and a basket.  I didn't like the basket, so I took it off.  Every day from then on, I rode that bike to school with my brother hanging on the back rack holding his legs out, and when we got home in the afternoon, I'd get me a rag and wash and polish it till it gleamed. 

I had never had a watch before, so pretty soon, I took my chances at Stewart's Jewelry.  I looked at the beautiful watches on display in the glass cases and Mr. Stewart said, "let me show you one that just came in.  I'm not sure I'll get another like it."  It was perfect.  I gave him the same pitch about paying weekly, and I walked out of the store with my first wrist watch!  $25!  I was on my way!

I knew if I wanted a bicycle and watch, the only way I was going to get one would be to earn money and pay for it.  I wouldn't be given one.  These two kind men took a chance on a young boy who needed a start in life.  I paid weekly until both the bicycle and wrist watch were paid for.   I had earned their trust. 

Marbles, Switches and Pay Dirt

Sollie's story continued 

After a couple of years we moved to another old shack.  It wasn't much better than the other one, but I remember it well.     Now I had a friend next door by the name of Nan, who could play a mean game of marbles.  She had a glass jar full of them!  Really nice marbles too!   The few I had to play with,  helped to fill up her jar!  She would beat me every time I played.   Nan and her family lived in a very nice house up the hill from ours.  It was country living, but there was a nice broom straw field and a the yard was dirt which made for good marble playing.   Momma kept it swept with the broom straw broom.  Nan remained my friend for many years even after we grew up and moved away.  Her family and mine were close friends for years.

Sometimes several families  would get together with other families to have a fish fry at the "Hoopee" river.  The men would catch fish and the kids would swim in the river.  I remember the Murphy family and the Claxton family were especially good friends of ours and sometimes we would even visit and spend the night, making pallets on the floor to have a place to sleep.  Life was simple but good.

When I was about about 11 years old , we moved to a nicer place on the other side of the town. It was still country  and only a couple of miles to town, but also close to some fine hunting grounds, a creek for fishing, and camping places.  I was never bored for lack of things to do.  My brother and I would tangle and fight over normal things but when we did,  Momma would make us  go cut a switch.  If it didn't suit her, she would make us go back and get a better one.  She used  it up and down both our legs while we were running around and around her.    She made it pretty clear fighting wasn't a good idea.

My Daddy was a barber and worked six days a week at a local downtown Barber Shop. Mr. Powell, the owner of the Shop also owned the house we moved into.    Occasionally, Daddy would get off early and that was a really special time to me since we didn't see him much except on Sunday.  Riding on the school bus, I would sit next to the window and lean way over looking down the road to see if I could see Daddy's old car which he had bought a year or two before.    If it wasn't there, it meant he wasn't either, and I'd be so disappointed.  But I would find something to do in the shed fixing something or making something.  If Mother needed wood, she would send me out to find some.   I had a dog who went with me everywhere.  Rusty was a fine yard dog.  He got into some serious trouble several times however, when he ran off looking for a girlfriend, but he'd always wind back up sitting at the back door.

Sometimes, Momma was able to get some raw peanuts and boil or roast them for me to sell in town on Saturdays.  Even better was rice crispy treats which should would wrap up in waxed paper and I sold for a nickle.  On Saturday we would go back to town with Daddy and sit on the courthouse square in the car while he worked.   The town was a busy place on Saturdays with farmers and locals who came to shop.   It was always difficult to get a place to park but Daddy has a special spot across the street from the shop where Momma sat all afternoon and visited with other ladies from around the area.  It was almost a given that his car would be parked in the same spot every week-end.  This was the only social life Momma ever had except the fish fry's.

 

Now I was a serious entrepreneur.  Selling those peanuts and rice crispy bars was my way of making a little spending money.  I walked around and around the square selling my wares and usually would wind up with a quarter or two.  But when I was about 12 , I hit pay dirt!  A new drive-in theater had just opened up down the road from our house.   I got myself a job hopping cars there.  When I wasn't hopping, I would stand and watch the man in the little room that ran the projectors.  I knew every move he made and did it over and over in my mind, just like him.  Then one day, the owner asked me if I thought I could run a projector and I told him, "Yes sir, I sure can."  He paid me $25 a week.  I was rich!  I could buy all the candy and cookies I wanted and could have lunch in the lunch room at school if I wanted to.  I could give my Momma some money.  I could buy myself some new clothes and later on, I bought my sweetheart a gold ring with pearls for her birthday!   I walked to work and it was near midnight when I walked back home.  There wasn't a lot of time for homework but I worked there until I graduated high school. 

School was never my favorite place to be.  I was far behind the other children because of losing many days due to sickness and reading was especially difficult for me.  It made me very uncomfortable to have to read in class and to this day, I will not read aloud unless I'm forced to.  I repeated the 3rd grade and the 4th grade.  I love to say that I was waiting for my sweetheart to catch up with me.  Once we were in the same grade, I never repeated another one and we graduated the same year and married right away.  But the inferiority I felt, because of the inability to read well, has never left me.

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.

CHERRY BLOSSOM FESTIVAL GONE BAD

My attempts to be positive, exercise, and live a normal life are waning.  Someone  who doesn't have epilepsy, fibromyalgia, osteoarthritis, osteoporosis, degenerative disc disease, ulcers,  hiatial hernias, poor eyesight, and is damn near deaf will appreciate this.  So, if you can't identify with any of these just pass this up.

Not to be outdone at missing several of the Cherry Blossom Festival events due to one thing or another, it was a beautiful morning so I huffed and puffed trying to get my clothes on, put on my face, put on my socks and tie my shoes, decide if I needed a jacket, be sure I had my phone and hearing aids, and finally after mentally scratching off my list, I headed out the door to walk up the hill to the UMCH to see what was in store for all the kiddies in Macon today. 

As I got up the hill, I think to myself, you know, I really need a hair cut so I decided to go into the beauty shop and make an appointment.  The beauty shop is in the same building as the pool.  After making my appointment, I thought, hummm.....I'm gonna check out the temperature of the pool to make absolutely sure it's warm enough for me,  should I actually ever get up the energy and nerve to put on a bathing suit and go there.   

I poked my head in the door.  Good!  It's empty.  I crept up to the pool and bent over at the steps where there was a handle to hold on to should I get dizzy and fall.   With much stretching and pulling of every muscle in my body, I reached down into the pool.  Yep, perfect. 

 As I straightened up, something fell out of my pocket into the water.  Oh #%@!   My coveted old flip phone with every phone number for everybody I know in this world, including all my old friends, old doctors, new doctors, old family, new family, hearing aid places, eye glass places, and people I no longer even know,  neatly archived in it,  was on the LAST step.  The deepest one!  Now the pool is about 4 1/2 ft. deep, so do the math.  I'm 5' 5 1/2" tall.

I stared at my phone thinking to myself, you need to get that out of there NOW!  Again, I held on,  bent over as far as my hand would go. It was a long way from my phone.  Now, I have to make a conscious decision to take off my sweater, roll up my capri's as far as I could get them, take off the socks and shoes I had tried so hard to get on, roll up the short sleeves of my shirt, and step down those stairs to retrieve my phone.  It wasn't pretty.   Each foot had a Dr. Scholls corn pad between two hammer toes, but I had to go back into the beauty shop, tell her what had happened, and ask for a towel.  Did I mention the shop was full of ladies?

Not to be outdone, I strolled out of there with my dripping flip phone, hopefully waving it in the sunlight so it could dry out, and went over the my original destination, the UMCH festivities, and enjoyed the sights of a bazillion kids climbing rocks, jumping on blow ups, and playing everywhere.   

Back home and now, I'm all "het" up, and the sweater comes off, the shoes and socks off,  the phone is in a bag of rice (suggested by one of the ladies in the beauty shop) and as far as attending the Cherry Blossom Festival, I'm done.  Maybe next year. 

PRETTY FEET

Today as I'm standing in the isle at Walmart frantically looking for a replacement cartridge for my printer and trying to figure out which one was the correct one was rolling around in my brain.  My thoughts are interupted by feeling the presence of someone standing next to me. I wasn't dressed to impress. I'm wearing some old gold colored clunker sandals and a pair of jeans that I grabbed out of the closet because they were the first things I saw. Now, my latest pedicure was on my birthday, July 8, so you can just use your imagination as to the condition of my dry, unpainted, arthritic tootsies with bunions and just a touch of toenail fungus on one big toe. Not a pretty sight.

The "presence" beside me mumbled something and as I turned to look at him he says, plain as daylight, "you have very pretty feet." ........ Humm, I'm thinking - ok - here's a live one with a loose screw. Being the polite person I am, I said "thank you" and turned back to the rack hoping to find my cartridge and that he would move on to the next isle. After a moment, he says something else to me.  As I turned to him with a questioning look, he repeated his statement. "Would you mind showing my your heels?" At that point, I said "WHAT??" He politely repeated his request. Now, I'm not believing what I am hearing! I blurted out "WHY?" "Why in the world do you want to see my heels?" He looked somewhat rejected and quietly said, I have a "foot fetish" to which I loudly said," well you go find someone's elses' heels to look at but you ain't seein' mine."

I quickly found my hubby, told him what happened and we went to the Service Desk and ask for Security.  I'm pretty worked up by now and ready to run for my life but expected some long drawn out report would have to be filled out.   You know, a little excitement. In a moment, a long tall dude in jeans and cowboy boots saunters up to us. Expecting to see somebody in a uniform, I asked "are you security"? He nodded, (apparently miffed because I asked) so I explained the whole thing to him. Not seeming too impressed or concerned, he said he would look at the video cameras and that in the last two years, they had something like this only a couple of times. Lucky me.

As we left, he laughed and said to me. "Well, look at it this way, it's nice to be over 50 and have someone think you're good looking enough to compliment your feet!" I could have decked him! I've never even been "hit" on before, and some jerk only tells me I have pretty feet? Dang!

Sink or swim!

On a sticky, hot summer day, probably a 4th of July, the Scott "clan" decided it was high time for a picnic.   Brown Springs, the swimming hole to die for, was the best place in the whole wide world to have a picnic.   Secluded, soft and spongy green grass, pine trees, and room enough to park the cars around the banks of the clear, icy cold bubbling spring was perfect.  You had to get there early  to claim your spot for parking or there would be no picnic for you that day.  The area was small.   The spring  was about the size of a small house, with a narrow sandy beach and shallow water, and the middle of the spring was an abyss of unknown proportions.   The bubbling water kept anyone from actually sinking so the kids were fairly safe. 

The "clan" consisted of those family members around  at the moment, but on this particular day, it was probably  like this:     Big Daddy with Big Momma, Aunt 'Cile, Donnie, Momma and me in his old ramshackled , black, aged to grey, 1930's something,  4 door car.  This thing  was  big enough inside hold a square dance.  It had a push button starter  to crank it, a long stick shift with a round knob,  in the floor,  and choke knob.  You had to be careful not to flood it.  If you flooded it , you were in trouble and you would have to wait and wait until it got unflooded before you could try again.  Big Momma always had trouble with that.  I can see her now, stomping the gas peddle trying to start it just right without flooding it.

Uncle Aubrey usually always had the newest car in the "clan."  Most of the time, it was a white, 4 door Ford, that looked sort of like a bubble with a rounded top.  But he kept it so clean you could lick  the seats.  I didn't get to ride in Uncle Aubrey's car much,  unless Momma had to borrow his car on occasion.  Tommie Faye and Buddy would load up with him on this day.

Uncle Waitus and Aunt Margie had a bubble car too.  It  was mostly new,  but he didn't mind getting  his dirty,  and we kids would stand up on the floor in the back and sometimes go splurging on Sundays.  That meant going to Quick's Service Station and getting a Dixie Cup of vanilla or chocolate ice cream with a pull off cardboard tab lid.  With them would be Gail,  and her Momma, Alice.

Gail was sort of my cousin.    As it turns out, she was as good as any cousin because she lived with my Uncle Waitus and Aunt Margie.  That was good enough for me.  We had lots of fun together and I spent many a day and night at their house, helping Aunt Margie can pears and peaches, swimming in the #2 washtub in the yard, and in  Uncle Waitus's turnip patch.

  

We all load up and head out North in a convoy of bubble cars and a jalopy of sorts, squealing children in bathing suits, and hot and sweaty adults.  I never saw any of them in a bathing suit that I remember.  To the contrary, voile dresses, white sandals, corsets, stockings, girdles, or who knows what, was worn to picnics, and any place else, even in the hottest days of a South Georgia summer, by the Scott "clan" women.  Uncle Aubrey and Uncle Waitus has a penchant for starched white dress shirts and rolled up the sleeves to mid forearm to give them a casual look, I suppose.  Uncle Waitus's black, lace up ankle boots were shined to perfection and he wore suspenders for his trousers and socks both.  I don't think he wore his black bow tie to the picnic, however.  Uncle Aubrey almost always wore a tie, tucked into his shirt opening between buttons and his trousers hiked up to his chest, complete with a Panama cigar.

The cars are unloaded, the watermelon put in the water for cooling, and the doors opened on all cars so the ladies could sit and fan.  We kids pile out, strike out for water so cold it took your breath away, splashing and pushing each other into the clear, freezing water.  We are allowed to stay in the water until our lips turn blue.

 

Now, being the timid little girl that I was, had never learned how to swim.  I had been led to believe by the powers that be, that a teaspoon of water could drown me.   Momma shrieked for help every time I got in water more than ankle deep, so I was more than cautious for fear of getting in the deep part where the hole was.  Uncle Waitus, being the jolly, and mischievious man that he was, came around and picked me up in his arms.  He gently walked around to the other side of the springs, and threw my flailing arms and legs into that spring as close to the center as he could get me.  "Now, LaRose, you can swim!"   Yep, I could swim alright.  I was practically walking on water by the time I got out of that hole, laughing, crying and screaming every inch of the way.  But in my desperation to survive, I had actually taken some strokes to glide me out of the mess I was in.  I've never forgotten how to do that.

By this time, all of us in the water had turned seriously blue, and the activity had us starving!   The picnic was spread, watermelon cut, tea poured, and we ate our fill of fried chicken, potato salad, cakes, fried pies, and some of Aunt Margie's emerald green and ruby red canned pears and peach pickles.

After waiting the allotted time before getting a promised cramp, we were allowed back in the spring

for more fun and frolicking on that summer day.  It was late in the afternoon before we  gathered up  towels, food, drinks, and toys to make the trip back home, happy and exhausted.

Picnics during war times were few and far between.  Many food staples were rationed with stamps and many families, including our own, had loved ones in harms way.  But the Scott "clan" is thankful for the memories of Brown Springs and for the family that was able to enjoy and share good times for a summer picnic.

Brown Springs is located on private property and isn't even on a map today and most people have never heard of it.  It is located north of Swainsboro near Coleman's Lake and Midville.