The Song of Sarah: Poverty and Plenty, Grit and Grace, Wit and Wisdom

By Charlene Pillow Little

For author Charlene Pillow Little, the mirror on the wall refl ected a sobering message. As the signs of aging were obviously growing at a much higher rate than her 401(k) she must act quickly, but not for a face lift. It was time for Sarah to set the record straight and go all the way back to the fifties, to the time when she too was wrinkle-free, young and restless. These memoirs are her own unmistakable voice talking about the good, the bad, and the not so pretty of her journey through life.

The Song of Sarah presents a touching personal story from 1937 to 2010, beginning with her birth in the thirties when the family physician arrives an hour late. Her feisty grandmother assumes the role of emergency MD. Growing up petite and scrawny in the fiftiesand always on the lookout for ways to change her name to the one she feels is truly hershe emerges from each hurdle stronger in character, body, and mind. Though her childhood years were lived in an environment considered poverty-stricken, the hardships and circumstances served to define more clearly and purposefully certain ambitions and values.

Told with candor and humor, her story is more about the human spirit that wills itself, not only to survive, but triumph over the long haula spirit that doesnt accept the notion that life is over after the fiftieth wedding anniversary.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Jul 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462014002

Charlene Pillow Little

CHARLENE PILLOW LITTLE is the middle child and only daughter of an Arkansas sharecropper’s family, She and her husband, Richard, have been married fifty-one years. They live and play golf at the Canebrake Club in Athens, Alabama.

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Copyright © 2011 by Charlene Pillow Little

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ISBN: 978-1-4620-1399-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1401-9 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-1400-2 (ebook)

Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 06/22/2011

With nary a thought for fortune or fame,

My earliest passion was to change my name.

—Charlene Pillow Little

In loving memory of

Mother and Daddy

The two individuals who helped shape my life are described in greater detail in the appendix. My perception of their distinctive individualities and backgrounds sometimes adds sense and other times lends confusion to the development of my own personality, the direction of my life, my achievements and failures, blunders and bloopers and, I can only surmise, most likely affected some of my own parenting mistakes and or successes. I came to the conclusion many years ago, and again with this exploration into my past seventy-plus years, that my parents did the best they could … and that’s all any of us can do. They gave me life and love; I will always love and be grateful for them.

This photograph was taken a few years before Dad passed away of colon cancer in 1988; Mother passed away in 2000.

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Gladys and Odus Pillow 1985

Boys will be Boys

While growing up, it seemed that my four brothers always arrived at the family dinner table first, pushing and shoving with little regard for Sarah; I was outnumbered and easily elbowed aside while they helped themselves to the choice pieces of chicken and the biggest pieces of cake. Honestly, it was no big deal, but as we are all prone to say, it was a matter of principle.

It’s taken me decades to find a way to balance the scales of justice, and now I take delight in being able to put you guys in your rightful place; last but not least, you made the final pages of The Song of Sarah.

To my four siblings,

Wilburn (Mike), Jerry, Tom, and Larry

With much love,

Sis

Acknowledgments

Thanks to my husband, Richard, who always told me I needed to write a book. He checked regularly on the status of my writing and always encouraged me to keep on plugging. He was allowed to read the manuscript about a week before submittal time—big mistake. He kept coming into my little office, asking for more yellow post-it flags.

Thanks to our daughters Kim Little Bright and Julie Little Smith, who were permitted to read certain sections; it seemed more appropriate to ask for their permission instead of risking the possibility of having to ask for forgiveness later.

Thanks to so many of my friends, girls and guys, who inspired me with words like, "When are you going to finish with Sarah? and I want a copy."

Thanks to my grandsons, who occasionally happened by when I was working at my computer. They always had a big-time greeting, Whatcha doing Meemaw? You’re doing what? Writing on your book again? Oh, okay. I adjusted to the notion that the boys were more interested in what was cooking in the kitchen than my writing project. What’s for dinner? Their shuffling around sniffing the food was all it took to keep me moving forward with my writing."

Prologue

The fifty-year-olds are addressing me with strange-sounding phrases: Yes, ma’am; No, ma’am; Thank you, ma’am. It’s that word ma’am at the end of every phrase that stops me in my tracks. Now I could understand if I was someone important like the First Lady or a lady dressed in full religious habit. But I’m just an ordinary person, so I go home and look into my mirror.

OMG … Life is coming at me fast.

The person looking back at me in my vanity mirror confirms the law of diminishing returns. My confidence and faithful investments over a fifty-year period in every new anti-aging product that came on the market were all misplaced; they’ve let me down. There doesn’t seem to be any way to downsize the wrinkles. The signs of aging have grown at a much higher rate than my 401(k).

The state trooper is the only one who asks to see my ID nowadays. When I’m cruising along the road, minding my own business, and in my rearview mirror I see a car approaching, blue lights blinking, I pull over, roll down my window, wondering what’s the problem? Ma’am, don’t you know this a seventy-miles-per-hour zone? Why are you driving thirty? Proudly and respectfully I answer, I’m trying to let everyone get by. The officer adjusts his hat, rubs his chin, and is also respectful, Well, see if you can pick it up just a little, okay?

Remember when the universal buzz word was Y2K? The new century was coming, get ready! It seems like yesterday when the world was put on notice to get their gadgets in sync. Because of the diligent efforts of every tech-savvy person in the world, the universe did not miss a single rotation when midnight rolled around on December 31, 1999. The Y2K compliance rules were complicated and lengthy, but necessary. (Kindergarten material compared with our country’s 2010 healthcare reform bill, so they say). Everyone was relieved when the transition from 1999 to 2000 occurred with hardly a glitch. Glitzy parties were celebrated as usual on the eve of the new century; thankfully the TVs were all working so that we could once again watch the big ball drop in Times Square. OMG, here it is already 2010. So there you have it, a reason to write. Even though I’m only seventy-two, in no time I’ll be 102.

The real motivation and desire to pen my personal glory days peaked to its highest point after our four very handsome grandsons were born, the first in 1990 and the last in 1995. When my oldest grandson (twenty already) began to speak his first words, he christened me with a new name, and the succeeding three grandsons followed suit. What a grand title they bestowed upon me, Meemaw! I wouldn’t exchange the telltale title for the largest lottery ever awarded; little things do mean a lot. The following pages are written as my little thing for my four special guys; these pages contain simple but bona fide experiences of the lady who demanded a hug and kiss every time one of them came in my door—and many times in between.

The first thing to understand, guys, is, there really was a time when your Meemaw was young and carefree, and I, too, was concerned more about the moment than the past or the future. I’ve watched you over the years during our dining room gatherings; you enjoy the turkey and dressing, the ham or the prime rib, much more than listening to our random tales of ancient family history over every birthday and holiday dinner. Even with the risk of chasing you away from the table, our dinners were never complete without a serving of reminiscence. It’s easy to understand your preoccupation with texting to your friends as we sit around rewinding the stories. Since you weren’t too keen on listening to the grown-up nonsense, these pages will give you a second chance to listen if you should ever have an interest.

What fun it is to replay, over and over again, the memories—like when Taylor fell in the pond on purpose; when Hunter caught the big fish in the golf course lake and brought it back to live in our own pond; when Clay couldn’t get enough chocolate pie and I sneaked him another piece as soon as his mother left the room; when Trip always insisted, with two fingers waving in the air, intently watching a Winnie the Pooh video for the umpteenth time, and begged to stay up just two more minutes more. Or the times that we played Monopoly and everyone cheated, and we swapped eight ones for a ten. Or when we made from scratch a pound cake at 10:00 p.m., or the time we spent half a morning tugging and pulling on the four corners of a tent, trying to make a campsite in the boys’ room upstairs. I tried to tell the boys I had never set up a tent in my life. No problem for the little guys, between the ages of three and eight, who always knew how to do everything.

I know how to do it.

I do too!

I helped Dad when we went camping last summer.

Yeah, it’s easy to put up a tent.

The joint effort was rather disjointed, but that was the fun part. What an accomplishment when all four poles stayed up at the same time.

Look, we did it! And we all crawled inside.

What better style of camping, stuffed into the tent like sardines in a can, on top of the smooth carpet, in the middle of an air-conditioned room. No bugs, no bears. Under the canvas with elbow room only, we ate popcorn and giggled in front of the TV. Swapping places and exiting the cozy zone to furnish the tent with other amenities, pillows, blankets, and water of course. I can still hear the boys laughing hysterically as we watched Eddie Murphy in Dr. Doolittle.

Peepaw remembers doing the really good stuff with all the little guys: digging for worms to go fishing; driving them down to the gas station for a thirty-minute debate on which treat they wanted; settling the arguments about whose turn it was to sit in his lap to drive the golf cart. When he allowed each of you to drive the John Deere lawnmower, it made me crazy, even though the blades were disengaged and your speed was restricted to .001 mph. The things you and Peepaw wanted to experiment with often caused me great panic. All my protests were overruled by a five-to-one vote when you marched out the door and into the woods with a real rifle and live shells for target practice. It is stressful to be a Meemaw, even when we made pancakes in the morning you grabbed a step stool to help me stir the batter or flip the cake.

As far as genuine historical data covering the last seventy years, just about everything has been recorded already, in detailed accuracy, by brilliant scholars. Odd though, when I read their material, I never find a single paragraph that mentions Sarah and her clan. These pages of new revelations are spot versions of history from a different perspective; peculiar events that occurred between the decade of the thirties, when I was born, and the decade of the nineties, when our four grandsons were born.

First, you gotta believe that while the good ole days is a term that is relative, personal stories of the past that you hear from those who tell it like it was have an element of value that can be applied to the present. After all, that’s why the history of mankind is studied in nearly all societies. Second, you gotta know that the good old days have been spun in many directions, from wretched to wonderful, from dramatic to ho-hum, from fantasy to reality. Third, you gotta know my story falls into all of those categories but with very little spin. Herein is written the scoop on Sarah: the whole truth, the expanded truth, and occasionally the exaggerated truth. I’m now living in the year 2010, watching our once-little towhead guys pass through their teenage years; the boys have never given it much thought yet, but they too will soon be adults and remembering their own bygone days. Wouldn’t I love to hear the real facts when these stories are finally released!

There’s one very important matter to clear up. Every generation truly does have its unique hardships of life to bear, but one of mine was not walking barefoot in the snow, ten miles up a mountain every day to attend school. Not me. I walked to school on a hot sandy road, only five miles every day, and on the flattest ground in the country, and with non-brand-name shoes on my feet.

I want to share details of the good, the bad, and the ugly of my simple life complete with just about any feeling or emotion you can imagine—from happy to sad, smart to stupid, confident to doubtful, bold to timid, courageous to cowardly, etc. I’ve never been a very private person; it usually makes me feel better to put all my cards on the table (in other words, I would never make a good poker player). Although Kim and Julie read and approved the contents of The Song of Sarah before it was sent for publication, they purposefully limited their critique so that Sarah would be my story. The revelations of my song are straightforward and simple. It is extraordinary for only one reason; it’s my very own. The long-winded, ho-hum, family-life stories are beefed up with personal philosophy as well as off-the-cuff humor. When read in its entirety, there’s no doubt you’ll be better acquainted with Sarah, alias Charlene, alias Meemaw, occasionally.

To be perfectly honest, I suppose the real reason for writing my story is a desire to be remembered, not forever, just for maybe two generations. I figure the only way I can attain a crumb of immortality is within the pages of my own written record.

When our four little guys were in preschool and they came for a weekend visit with us, we called them our ‘high-maintenance foursome." Trying to entertain any one of them from early dawn until bedtime called for patience, creativity, love, and buckets of energy.

missing image file

L-R: Hunter, Taylor, Clay, Trip-1996

Contents

1. True Grit

2. Sarah’s Island

3. Déjà Vu, Hancock

4. Land of Opportunity

5. Caution: New School Zone

6. Thirteen-Sixteen Candles

7. Paper or Plastic?

8. MHS—Class of 1954

9. Life 101

10. The Natural State

11. Making Room for Sarah

12. Your Cheating Heart

13. The Few, the Proud, the Marines

14. The Pride and Joy of Sarah

15. Green Grass and Pea Gravel

16. Nashville, Pulaski, Iuka, Camden, Waverly?

17. Sweet Home Alabama

18. Susquehanna Valley Pennsylvania

19. Midlife Medley

20. Working for the Entrepreneur

21. Year 2K to Year 2005

22. A Brave New World

23. Canebrake Club

Chapter 1

True Grit

When I first mentioned my writing ambition to a dear friend of mine, she responded impulsively, How would you know where to begin? I wouldn’t have any idea where to start.

I can never resist an opportunity to dole out a bit of sarcasm to the people I love, or to people I don’t love; and this was a golden opportunity.

Well, I’ll begin my story with my birth. Don’t you agree that would be the proper time and setting?

My friend wrinkled her brow, and as though we were communicating by satellite, there was a thirty-second delay. Then a serious and apologetic confession: Yes, but, but … I … I don’t remember my … my birth.

Really? You mean … you mean you don’t remember your birth?

By now Pam was puzzled almost to the point of irritation. Bothered and bewildered that she couldn’t recall her own birth, she couldn’t let the matter go. She was certain that one of us was nuts, and judging by the suspicion in her voice, she was pretty sure it was me. Can you remember your birth?

Poker faced and attempting to keep some credibility, I said "Of course I remember my birth. There was so much frenzy going on all around me, how could I not remember?"

Pam was really trying to quit smoking during this period of time, but she reached for a cigarette.

If you’ll put that cigarette down right now, I’ll tell you all about my birth. After all, I was there. I had heard the details so many times, told by a very credible on-the-scene witness. Yeah, I remember everything just like it was yesterday.

My grandmother, by default, was in charge of my delivery; she was running around in circles and wringing her hands. When I finally popped out, my mother began crying tears of joy and smiling at the same time, finally out of her pain. A neighbor friend, Lola, who had come over to the house as a back-up nurse to my grandmother yelled, ‘We did it! We did it! Oh, my goodness! Elizabeth, isn’t she simply precious?’

That’s as far as Pam would let me go.

My friend began to stare me down, rolled her eyes, and waited to hear something that made more sense.

I just sighed heavily. I know it’s hard to imagine, but I really was precious once upon a time, you know! Those truthful words of that dear neighbor have stuck with me forever.

And so that’s how I’m going to begin my story.

Mississippi County, Arkansas

December 3, 1937. Almost three-quarters of a century have passed. I’ve had the privilege of watching the calendar roll from one century into the next. I lived sixty three years in the twentieth century; and already ten years in the twenty-first century.

Rather than list all the things my childhood family didn’t have in 1937, I’ll list what we did have; the list is much shorter.

We lived in an unpainted, weather-boarded, four-room house with meager furnishings. Oil lamps for light and, like most people in our community, Mother cooked on an oil cookstove. The house was poorly insulated, but a big, pot-bellied coal stove heated the two front rooms cozy warm, except for the cold linoleum floors. The two bedrooms were closed off from the living room and kitchen in winter and were very cold most of the time. Metal bedsteads were outfitted with luxury bedding which included a four-inch mattress placed on top of metal springs (coils exposed). During the cold winter months, every night was like going into hibernation when we crawled between two flannel sheets, beneath multiple layers of quilts, and sunk into the seasonal featherbed. There was a front door and back door, but no locks. Dozens of glass jars with home-canned veggies were stacked in the kitchen corner. A manual water pump was conveniently located on the back porch and two washtubs and a washboard hung on the wall of the porch; the two tubs served a dual purpose, laundry and family baths. At the back of the yard was a crude storehouse for Dad’s tools of trade—carpentry—and not far away was a sturdy little outhouse. (Sure didn’t want that to blow away.) Out front the mailbox was attached firmly to a rather fat, weather-worn, post that had been honed from an old tree trunk; the gray post was silky smooth and stood perfectly perpendicular to the roadside. Dad had some kind of quirk about mailboxes that leaned.

Did we live in poverty? Yes, if determined by a level of income. I prefer the Pollyanna recollection: niceties were extremely limited, but our basic needs were always met. And life was not wretched by any means.

I was told that December 3, 1937, was bitter cold. Although there were only three more weeks of shopping until Christmas, there were still no signs or sounds of the holidays around our house or down the road. However, by late afternoon, the dense gray clouds were showering the first snowflakes of the season. My thinking while still in the womb was, Now, maybe someone will get the holiday spirit.

Large lumps of black coal blazed inside the heating stove and were replenished all during the day so that the iron belly remained glowing red and the living room and kitchen areas were kept cozy and warm. The bedrooms, closed off from the heat and poorly insulated, were damp and chilly. The two pre-school boys had been cooped up all day inside the small farmhouse with nothing else to do except play rough, tough and tumble with each other. Fisher-Price toys had not yet been introduced, at least in our neighborhood. The boys—five year-old Wilburn (later dubbed Mike) and three year-old Jerry—played cowboys and Indians outside most of the time, but on bad weather days, they wrestled and punched, giggled and screamed and drove everyone crazy. As soon as darkness fell, they were tucked into bed under five layers of covers, and quickly fell asleep, securely removed from all the action about to follow that evening.

Mother was now at term limits: nine months with child. The unborn baby was becoming more and more aggressive, kicking mightily. Grandma was on the scene and in command of the birthing event, but the usually confident lady was becoming very anxious and nervous. Poor Grandma, she had her hands full all day long, trying to keep the little boys from injuring one another, taking care of the laundry, cooking meals on the old oil stove, and trying to comfort my mom, her twenty-six-year old baby daughter, who was deep into labor pains.

In spite of the severe cold, Dad steered clear of the stressful situation and sought refuge tinkering around outside. As the afternoon sky grew darker, Dad dared to come inside. Sensing that the evening might be a long one, he set about the evening routine of refilling and lighting all the oil lamps (with his handy pocket of matches). Next, he picked up the coal bucket and tossed the few remaining lumps on top of the already-hot burning coals inside the heater. After a quick peek out the window, he hustled out the door with the bucket to the stockpile of coal, topping it off so there would be plenty to last throughout the night. He couldn’t take a chance on running out of heat with a new baby due in the house at any time. The house was plenty warm, but no matter how much heat the stove put into the room, the floors always felt like a sheet of ice. Dad’s feet were very sensitive to the cold and when he took off his shoes and socks at night to walk into the bedroom he’d curl his toes up as high as possible and nearly always comment gadamighty (translation: god almighty) these floors are like a sheet of ice.

By the time his evening chores were under control, Grandma advised Dad it was time to go and call the doctor. Understand that go and call is not a grammatical error here. Without telephone services this far out in the country, Dad would have to go to the Newsoms’ home, three miles away, and call the doctor. The Newsoms had fine luxuries: a phone, an automobile, and curtains on the windows. They had everything, even warm wool rugs on the floors. Usually, Dad didn’t pay much attention to Grandma’s orders, but this time when Lizzy spoke, Daddy listened. With his boots still on since early morning, he grabbed his heavy coat off the wall hook near the front door and headed down the snow-covered dirt road in the dark and cold night … walking!

Mom was having it very rough before Dad had gone even a quarter mile down the road. She moaned quietly; the pains were getting closer together and no doubt she had some apprehension knowing she was at the mercy of her mother to deliver the baby unless Dad really hurried. And what if the Newsoms weren’t home?

Even though Grandma was terrified, she pulled up her big-girl britches and took charge of the situation. She always laughed about the cool way she handled things. Get this for her style of military precision: she paced the floor and begged my mom, nervously repeating over and over, Hold everything, Gladys. Wait till the doctor gets here!

Grandma did her dead-level best to overrule Mother Nature, ordering her daughter, Gladys, Gladys! Don’t push yet! Don’t push yet!

On his trek to get to a telephone, Dad stopped at a neighbor’s house just up the road to bang on their door. Looks like we’re getting ready to have the baby, I’m on my way to call the doc. The neighbor, Lola Palsgrove, had already gone to bed herself, but the announcement was her call to duty; she dressed hurriedly, probably in the same dress she wore making cornbread for dinner that evening. (So much for the sterile green scrub uniforms! After all, it was just me they were preparing to welcome into the world … no big deal.)

Lola had no idea what she would do as assistant nurse, but she did the neighborly thing and hustled the quarter-mile back to our house to make her services available. Lola was a short, plump lady whose hair was usually knotted into a bun on the back of her head while several loose strands of undisciplined hair flew in every direction. No matter the muss in her appearance, as the sweet, fat lady came huffing and puffing through the front door, stomping the fresh snow off her boots, she was a beautiful sight to my frightened grandmother. Lola shook the snowflakes off her coat and yelled confidently to my mother in the bedroom, Don’t worry, Gladys, everything’s gonna be all right. I’m here.

I can only assume Mother intensified her prayers with that bit of news.

Even though Grandma had handled many emergencies while raising my mother and her three siblings, Grandma had never delivered a baby, nor had Lola. Lucky me, huh? (I decided then and there the best thing for me to do was to be accommodating.)

Elizabeth and Lola got their act together rather quickly. The two little ladies busied themselves in the makeshift delivery room and didn’t wait around for the doctor. Lola, fill all the pots with water. We need to get the water boiling. Oh, me, it’s really snowing outside. I just hope the doctor can get here.

I suppose get the water boiling was Mother’s cue that it was okay for her to start pushing. And really snowing outside was my cue to take a nose dive. All it took, they say, was one big push and I came out squealing! Well, here I am now. How about someone giving me a gentle pat to the backside, something to jumpstart my breathing?

Grandma overreacted and delivered a wallop to my behind and I really let out a high-pitched cry. I meant a gentle pat, Grandma, not the Heimlich maneuver!

The fat lady, neighbor Lola, began to sing! A live baby, Elizabeth! Look, at her, we just delivered a real baby! Isn’t she just precious?

Now, I didn’t want to miss the first snow of the season, but I’m thinking I may have wanted to make my world debut before Jane Fonda. In spite of the three-week jump I got on Jane, somehow she grabbed all the fame. It remains an unsolved mystery as to how Jane and I could have been born under the same sign, the same year. I’m not sold on this horoscope business.

How much luckier can a little girl be than to have her own grandmother in charge of her birth? She gave me a warm sponge bath, wrapped me in a soft blanket, and cuddled me in her arms. Then she gently laid me down beside my mother. Grandma said I began snoozing right away as mother oohed and awed over her precious baby girl (me!).

During my early childhood, when Grandma repeated the story of the night I was born, I was like a thirsty sponge, soaking up every detail. Every time she talked to me about the events of the early evening of December 3, 1937, she improved on the story with more and more sparkle in her eyes and a wider, mischievous, but tender smile on her face; and every time she came to the ending there was such excitement and adoration, I would almost forget it was me she was talking about. She made the whole event sound as though it was the birth of a princess, which, by the way, is the meaning of the name Sarah.

Of course, Grandma was a great storyteller and very convincing. I knew when she was coming to the end of her story because her voice became softer, so I listened intently, as though she was sharing in important secret just between the two of us. When you were born that night I was soooo happy to see you, and Lola said to me, ‘Oh, look Elizabeth, she’s a precious little girl. She’s beautiful from head to toe.’

I looked up at Grandma as she squeezed my hand and added, And Lola was right; sure enough, you were beautiful from head to toe and precious to me. I hardly gave any thought as to how a grandmother’s mind can work. We just can’t help thinking our grandchildren are the grandest of all God’s handiwork.

I must tell you more about Grandma later … Elizabeth was truly a work of art. But the other details of that historical night are important too.

For another thing, Dad had missed the birthing episode at home, but he did his part too. After calling the doc, he waited at the Newsoms’ home; the doctor would stop to pick Dad up on his way to our house.

Better late than never, I suppose. They tell me Dad’s face lit up with an ear-splitting grin when Liz and Lola greeted him in unison, "Odus! You got yourself a girl! Get on in here, Dr. Randall, but you don’t have to get all nervous. Me and Lola already got everything under control." I’d lay odds Odus took a quick peek at me and went directly to bed. I came to know my dad very well; it would take more than a precious baby girl to keep him up past his 9:00 p.m. bedtime curfew.

The country doctor pretended he knew exactly what to do; he opened his little black bag, pulled out his stethoscope, and confirmed that all appeared to be well. Shortly after, the doc grabbed his pen and paper and asked, What you gonna call this little bundle of joy? He began to write down all the pertinent information for the birth certificate.

I’ve always given everyone the benefit of understanding. Maybe they were too exhausted and the hour was too late to put much thought into my name. Personally, I would have loved my grandmother’s name, Elizabeth. But they chose to name me after my dad’s only brother and one of his sisters: Uncle Charlie and Aunt Pearlene; thus, Charlene (and no middle name). Well, I’m thankful they didn’t come up with a real knock-off like Gussie Mae or Fannie Sue! Since I wasn’t born talking (believe it or not), I had to wait another five years for an opportunity to change my name to Sarah.

Sarah Elizabeth would have satisfied me perfectly! Isn’t that a beautiful name?

The doc finished his routine and dreaded going back out into the weather. As he was working his arms back into his heavy topcoat, he lingered a little too long with the front door half-open and Grandma yelled at him, Hurry up, Doc, you’re letting in the cold air. And she had more to say, And don’t you be charging for no delivery fee ’cause me and Lola did that.

My brothers, Mike and Jerry, bounded from their bed the next morning bright and early. They were told to take a look at their new sister. The little guys were less impressed than Lola; in fact, their greeting was downright offensive.

Jerry yelled, Yikes! An ugly sister, and Wilburn chimed right in. Oh no! You mean she’s a sissy girl?

I squalled a little, but on second thought, decided I’d get even some day.

Did I finish telling you about all the nice things we had in our house when I first came on the scene? Everyone needs one luxury in the home, a status symbol, and ours was a transistor radio. Just kidding! Dad never in his life worried about impressing anyone, unless of course he had a hundred pound watermelon he had brought in for display on the back porch.

Their primary concern during the first years of marriage, the 1930s, had little to do with what was going on around the world. They thought local, not global, concentrating on what was happening down the road a few miles. WWI ended in 1918 and this was 1937. What was happening on the world scene was a tragedy of monumental proportions to not only the American people but to people worldwide as well. The stock market crash of 1929 triggered a great worldwide depression for ten years. My parents didn’t know what the stock market was, so they could only shake their heads and sympathize, hardly grasping the severity and reality of America’s hard times. At the time of my birth, banks were collapsing like rows of dominoes all across the country. Millions of people— at least a fourth of the work force, were unemployed.

While the fallout of the economic disaster brought unbearable misery worldwide, the Depression presented hardly anything out of the ordinary for our family; life in and around our unpainted farmhouse continued almost undisturbed. Dad kept his usual pace and eked out sufficient wages to provide the family with basic necessities. The radio was not a necessity, but indeed many radio programs provided not only world news but genuine family entertainment. Saturday nights during the forties was a favorite time around our house. After supper our family huddled around the radio to listen to the Grand Ole Opry; that was back when country music was truly country. I could hardly wait for Minnie Pearl to come over the sound waves loud and full of hillbilly, How-dee, I’m jes’ so proud to be here! Coincidentally, Minnie Pearl’s real-life name was Sarah … Sarah Colley. Her monologue performance, audio only, was delivered with such talent that even my dad sat mesmerized listening to Minnie Pearl weave her comic tales about what was happening around Grinder’s Switch.

The mailbox, like the radio, connected us to a bigger world, reaching all the way west to California and north to Chicago, via letters to and from relatives in California and mail orders from Sears Roebuck in Chicago. In 1937, the mailbox was a very special item, nothing like the fancy ones at the end of driveways today in appearance or functionality. Today, the little tin box is much like a black hole in which the mail carrier is obligated to stuff reams of advertisements, endless catalogs, and circulars. The only news in the box is that everything is now at an unbelievably low price, just bring your credit card on down. By contrast, our mailbox had nothing but goodies and important stuff poked in it (especially in the eyes of Sarah).The mailman didn’t stop at our box every day, but when he did we knew he was bringing something very exciting, or taking one of our letters to a relative miles away. About once a month the postman dropped off a small envelope, always with the letters SWAK (sealed with a kiss) hand-printed on the backside, the best kind of mail, a letter from Grandma! Mother read the letter aloud; I was all ears. A new Sears catalog was delivered two or three times a year, three inches thick. Mother was every bit as excited as I, and we sat down together to look at everything, page by page.

Oooh, I like these, and these. No, I think these are my favorites. This was the page with the shoes. The same ratings were applied to the pages of dresses, the sweaters, the purses.

Sears mail-order forms were so much easier than any online shopping today; item numbers were three-digit instead of fourteen, no long credit card numbers to screw up with typos, no ship to, bill to, or confirm for the tenth time. Submit—well that was easy too; just fold up the form, stuff it in the envelope with enough cash to cover the order. The mail carrier filled out a postal money order for the exact amount, and left any change in the mailbox. Whenever a new catalog was delivered just prior to a new season, the old catalog was recycled to the outhouse. We ordered clothes, shoes, and household items from the Sears catalog and when we noticed the mailbox door not quite closed, we knew packages were inside and the excitement was equal to or greater than Christmas morning.

Dad’s favorite piece of mail was the Farmers Almanac, which he studied from cover to cover. It was amusing to listen to Dad read, sort of whispering half the words as he read. The almanac was the bible for gardening advice and told him when to plant the cabbage, carrots, potatoes, and all the good fresh vegetables in the garden that Mother canned. We didn’t dare throw away or misplace the almanac.

Even though everyone has probably seen this, or similar e-mails that circulate periodically, these observations are clearly reminiscent of my teenage generation, a reminder of good old days. I solemnly promise not to mention a single one of these tearjerkers again. I do remember when …

It took five minutes for the TV to warm up!

No one owned a purebred dog!

When a quarter was a decent allowance!

A fried chicken had a pulley bone!

You’d reach into a muddy gutter for a penny!

Your mom wore nylons that came in two pieces!

When a Chevy or Ford was everyone’s dream car … to cruise, peel out, or lay rubber. And there was a time when …

Milk was delivered to our door in glass bottles.

Phone numbers began with a word prefix (e.g., Glenview 4-3275).

We used metal ice cube trays with levers.

Coca-Colas were a nickel.

And I remember the first time I saw that incredible hulk of furniture that housed a picture tube; it was nonexistent in our community until the early fifties. The old television screen displayed snow and rolling lines more often than a real picture, but it was something to behold, as were the metal ice cube trays, real ice right in the kitchen.

Despite the aftermath of the First World War, the stock market crash, and a long period of global economic slump, those matters had little impact on a particular thing that had been going on since the beginning of time. Yes, a new crop of babies made their grand entrance during the year 1937. Some of the babies would make a real mark in history, like Jane did; the majority would grow up and ease quietly into the mainstream as I did.

Before I go on, I promised to tell you more about my grandma, Elizabeth Agee McClain Batten. This is good; yeah, she was married three, four, maybe five times. She was probably about twenty in the picture below, and I can believe she would not have hesitated to reach into a muddy gutter if she saw a penny there. She definitely wore nylons that came in two pieces.

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My very own Queen Elizabeth (Grandmother) McClain

It’s obvious that I loved and adored my grandma. She was a true lady, and a lady with really true grit. John Wayne is one of my favorite actors and True Grit is a great movie; but in my most humble opinion, Marshall Rooster Cogburn was a wimp in comparison to my grandma.

Elizabeth McClain was my mom’s mom, and Granny (Lura Pillow) was my dad’s mom. I loved Granny too, but Grandma McClain (dad called her Lizzy to annoy her) was a feisty energetic lady, always smiling, a survivalist, the fittest of the fit, truly beautiful inside and out.

Grandma married young and gave birth to four children by her first husband who died in his mid-twenties. She became a widow when my own mother, Gladys, was only eighteen months old. The McClains owned nothing, no property or material assets. Of course I have never known anything about my biological grandfather, but was told the only thing he left in this world was a worn-out pair of overalls and a half bottle of whiskey in the back shed. There was no such thing as Social Security or welfare in 1910. What a desperate set of circumstances for the poor widow McClain, my dear grandmother; she faced a long, lonely, and desolate period.

She must have gone to sleep crying and praying every night—worrying about how on earth she would provide food, clothing, and shelter for her four small children. Not for a minute did she shed tears looking for pity and handouts. After she tucked the four in bed at night, the tears were a perfect mixture of love and distress, pure enough to cause the flowers to bloom.

This was a time in history when most women’s primary interest and expectation was to nurture the family, not pursue a career. It was not uncommon for poor widows with small children to be forced to give up one or all of their children when fate dealt them such insurmountable circumstances.

Grandma had no marketable skills by today’s standards, but as the sole breadwinner, she was determined. I will not, cannot place my children in an orphanage. I’ll drop dead myself before anyone can have my kids. Which one would I give up? Not a single one. And over my dead body will one of them ever go hungry or without shoes on their feet. She made ends meet by doing laundry for other families, working in the cotton fields in summer and fall, and regular housecleaning for the affluent in town. Everyone came to know that Lizabeth McClain was a fine woman; a hard-working, honest woman who always wore a big smile. Not only did her children, my aunt Vera McClain Biggs, aunt Dora McClain Kirby, uncle Fred McClain, and my mother, Gladys McClain Pillow, adore her, but they each produced grandchildren who loved her. Long after the McClain children were all grown up, they loved to talk about the days of their childhood.

My mother’s favorite reminiscence: Oh, remember how we sometimes felt so persecuted. I just couldn’t understand why I had sweep the front porch every day; it always looked perfectly clean to me, except for maybe one leaf or two. But momma insisted that it was good to have some responsibility. She couldn’t tolerate dirt or any debris on the front porch, so I did what I had to do. Mother pause momentarily with her recollection, and that’s when I noticed a tear in her eye. She quickly went on to say, But I couldn’t wait to look from our little porch down the road in the late afternoon and see Momma walking home. Now I wish I could have gone in and cooked supper for her.

Grandma, and many others just like her, should be a source of inspiration to all of us; their legacy is, I will do it. I will survive. As long as I am healthy, I will not depend on others to take care of me.

There is one absolute lesson to be learned from my grandmother’s way of life—hard work never killed anyone. She lived to be ninety-two years of age. Moreover, long before she passed away, she owned her own home and her last years of life were filled with contentment, satisfaction, and reward. She loved life, and everyone loved her!

Here’s my platform. Who dares to describe my grandmother’s plight, and so many like her, as beyond hope and one that should have been solved by big government? Who in their right mind even imagines that the government would have done a better job than she did of rising above adversity? Explain to me how anyone can ever support government programs that can only stifle small business growth. The government is much more successful in creating a deeper hole in taxpayers’ pockets than it is in creating employment opportunities.

Did Grandma have any vices at all?

Oh, yes. She would spank me if I overlooked her major transgression, so here goes. Elizabeth loved the dipping snuff (very discreetly, of course), just as I do my box of Godiva. And she never let the goodies drool from the side of her mouth as I sometimes do when my mouth is overloaded with good chocolate. Perhaps it was that itsy bit of deviance that made her more interesting and intriguing and left me with one perception only; grandma was all heart and goodness, let her dip her snuff and enjoy.

Not very often, occasionally, the uneventful days could become unexpectedly exciting. Such a day was when the mailman stopped at our box, dropped something inside, and drove away waving. I ran out to retrieve a letter and readily recognized the handwriting on the envelope. And the circle stamped in the middle was proof positive that inside the envelope were two or three pages of news written in pencil on tablet paper. The letter was from way out west, California! I could have opened and read the letter, but it was so much more fun to anticipate what Grandma might have to say, so I held off until I got inside. Mother opened the envelope and began to read words out loud to both of us. Dear Gladys …

The news began in standard form, We’re doing just fine and hope y’all are too. Then Grandma talked about some of the things she’d been doing lately.

Mother flipped to the second page of the letter. Guess what! We’re gonna be retiring and moving back to Paragould this spring. Mother smiled a big one and continued reading. I want Charlene to come spend a week with me when school is out. I sure hope she can come. Anytime that’s good for y’all will be good for me.

Summer sounded better than a white Christmas, but there was one glitch. Summer was several weeks away. Time dragged, but at last the day came when I packed up and Dad drove me to Grandma’s home.

I became an only child for one week in my life. She and I walked downtown together underneath her parasol, which must have been five feet in diameter. She always carried her umbrella—rain or shine. And she always dressed up in high heels and silk stockings, and clutched a big black purse close to her side. Her hair was styled with deep waves and curls at the bottom and sides, not pulled back in a bun like some grandmothers I knew. Even with all her paraphernalia, she managed to have one free hand; we walked hand in hand the several blocks together to downtown Main Street. She got as much pleasure in buying me an ice cream cone, as I did in eating it. We shopped around all over the five-and-dime store, but I don’t remember buying a thing. (I suppose the cost of entertaining grandchildren has gone up considerably.)

When I picture Grandmother Elizabeth, I see a well-groomed and lively lady with an effervescent smile. Even Richard, who had the privilege of being around her only a few times, was impressed enough to remind me, Your grandmother was quite a lady.

What a compliment to me when one of my brothers makes an off-the-cuff comment with a silly grin, Sis, you sound just like Grandma.

Yonder Side of the Mississippi River

July 16, 1938. Another baby was born way across the Mississippi River, on yonder side of the river from the Arkansas home of six-month-old Sarah in Mississippi County.

The young mother was hoping for a baby girl this time, but the little lad had no difficulty charming his way to win the heart of both his parents. Besides, he was very handsome … at least I have no reason to doubt what the happy and proud parents Robert Hazel Little and Mary Ella Little told everyone.

Before their second son’s birth, the young couple had recently moved back into the home with Mary’s parents, John Calvin and Tishia Meeks. During the decade of the 1930s (Great Depression) people did what they had to do to survive the hardships that affected people worldwide. Robert was among our own country’s 25 percent unemployed, but fortunately Mary’s parents were financially able and caring. They opened their home to make room for their young daughter and son-in-law, and their grandsons Robert Bobby H. Little Jr. (eight years old) and the chubby-cheeked new grandbaby, Richard Alan.

Robert and Mary, Bobby and Richard continued to live with Mary’s parents in Halls, Tennessee, until they were able to get their feet back on the ground after the Depression. In due course, Robert became employed as a guard for the Ford Motor Company in Memphis. The family bought their first home, a neat two-bedroom with white clapboard siding on Norwood Street in South Memphis, one of the early homes built by Wallace-Johnson (Holiday Inn founders). A down payment for the home was earned the old-fashioned way; with no extra cash Robert opted to do all the painting, inside and out which was enough to satisfy the down payment requirements. Ideally located near the Mallory Heights elementary school, young Richard started school and attended grades one through six at Mallory Heights.

The second son of Robert and Mary, Richard Alan, was a good student—by his own admission, not exemplary—but he followed the rules, stayed out of trouble most of the time, and rightfully became the pride and joy of his parents. The family prospered with the financial security offered by Ford; by 1950 they were