Christmas 1957

December, 1957 - The talk of the town in Linton, Indiana was Doctor Tomack’s aluminum Christmas tree and the spinning light wheel.  It seemed that cars were lined up to Switz City, six miles away just to get a glimpse of the tree in the picture window.  That was until Daddy declared, “Come on.  Today we are going to cut down our tree.”  We piled into the old Chevy and drove well into the country.  My brother and I found the TALLEST TREE growing on the hill. 

When we got home, to our delight, the tree was too tall to fit into our living room.  We watched Daddy trim the top and saw off some the bottom.  Mommy went to town and came home with BUBBLE LIGHTS!  The star went on top, the lights were turned on and at that moment, in December 1957, in Linton, Indiana at 909 Roosevelt Street, OURS was the most beautiful tree.  Even more beautiful than the aluminum tree with the spinning light wheel two blocks a way!

Remembering the Red

I was sitting on my deck early one morning admiring the green of my tree against a bright blue sky.  I thought, “That’s a picture to draw.”  Immediately a hummingbird flew from behind my head and hovered over the red geraniums in the pot on my deck.  Then I knew an angel in heaven was saying, “And don’t forget the red.”  So for the morning angel I am remembering the red.  

“Count Your Blessings”

People spend too much time wishing for ---------.  “That’s a very dangerous pass-time,” I can hear my Mamo say, "too much 'wanting' makes very ungrateful people."  On Sassafras Road Mamo’s mantra was, “Count your blessings.”  Looking back there were a lot of them.

When Mamo had errands to do, Jud usually drove her to town in the Ole Blue Goose.  Before he got his drivers license he would only go as far as the old boarding house by the railroad tracks.   Mamo would walk the rest of the way.  On this particular day she grabbed me by the wrist and said, “Hurry, Miss Bough is taking us up town for errands.” 

I can’t remember Mamo ever holding my hand.  It was difficult for her 4’11” frame to take big steps.  She couldn’t have a little girl laggard; so today it was the “wrist-job” with my little ked sneakers dragging all the way across the big front yard.  Miss Bough had parked her car out on the gravel road. 

I didn’t want to go with Miss Bough.  Why? Number one, her name was BOO.  Number two, she looked like a twin sister to the Wicked Witch of the West.  Number three, she hadn’t been home from the Women’s Prison in Indianapolis very long.  (Now there’s a Sassafras Road story.) 

The fact is my Mamo had never given me a reason to doubt anything she asked me to do, so I didn’t protest.  Town seemed like it was light-years away, but actually it was only two miles.  What could happen? 

Mamo opened the passenger’s door.  “Hop in Nan.  Put her in the back,” Miss Bough said in cracking hillbilly twang.

Mamo bent the front seat forward.  It wasn’t like any backseat I had ever seen.  There was no floor space.  The front seat had been pushed back all the way; it touched the seat where I was supposed to sit.  Where was I supposed to put my legs?  There was hardly any space, even for a little girl, but I climbed in and pulled my legs up against my chest.

Suddenly I felt the need to count my blessings.  Miss Bough, who was as height challenged as Mamo, grabbed the steering wheel, locking her elbows, at the two and ten positions of the clock.  Her arms were rigid and parallel to the floor.  Leaning all the way back she punched the throttle on the floor with the tip of her pointy toe, priming the gas tank.  Amazingly the car started and the engine revved as Miss Bough pushed the accelerator to the floor.  We were off like a jet propelled rocket, and in 1955 there were no jet propelled rockets. I had no conception of centrifugal force, but I was definitely feeling it that afternoon. My body was plastered against the back of the car and I was as scared as a freshly bloomed flower in a hail storm.  By the time we hit the graveyard, which was only a few yards down the road; the dust was flying so fiercely I couldn’t see anything out of the windows.

That was when I realized why the car didn’t have a back floor.   Riders probably just lay down on the seat and prayed for the ride to end.  I heard Mamo’s sweet voice singing, “Count your many blessing name them one by one. Count your many blessing see what God has done.”  It made me feel better to join in as I lay on the seat thinking between verses, “At least we’re not singing, When the Roll is Called Up Yonder.”

In a few minutes the dust settled and I realized that Miss Bough had delivered us safely to town.  I don’t remember too much about the errands or the ride back home to Sassafras Road.  I do remember Mamo bought me a nickel’s worth of cinnamon balls at G.C. Murphy’s Dime Store.  The candy was a simple blessing.   The ride with Miss Bough and the lesson  of Mamo's singing, those are lifetime blessings; and I have counted them a thousand times.

Bringing in the Sheets

My Grandma, Mamo, was a hard worker.  Whether plucking a chicken, snapping green beans, or “treadling” the old sewing machine, she usually sang while she worked.  When the Roll Is Called Up Yonder was probably the most sung hymn.   I remember wash days, hanging the sheets on the line out by the garden and her voice cracking as she sang Bringing In the Sheaves.  I loved to run between the flapping sheets as we took them down and folded them.  I was probably twenty before I realized Mamo was not singing, “Bringing in the sheets, we shall come rejoicing bringing in the sheets”.

The Best Present I Never Got

Before my brother’s sixth birthday my parents decided it was time for him to get a “real” bike.  Daddy told Les they would go to Terre Haute and pick out the new birthday bicycle.   On March 8, 1956 they left early in the morning.  By afternoon they brought home the prettiest red and white bike I had ever seen.  Les and Daddy practiced a couple of times on the bike.   Daddy held the seat to steady it, pushed and ran along side.  Soon my brother looked like a pro-rider.

A few days later he ran into the front yard very upset.  Apparently, while bike riding with neighborhood kids, he was speeding perilously close to the creek. Given the choice; he jumped rather than break and the bike tumbled down the hill into the water.  The whole family ran down the block to retrieve the bike.  Daddy was the one who brought it out of the ravine.  It had the first of many dings it would receive over the years.

That red and white bike wasn’t MY present, but next summer I pulled it up to the porch step and swung my leg over the bar.  I wanted to learn to ride; to feel free; to have the wind on MY face.  For two days Les worked to help me learn to ride.  On the second day, when Daddy came home we gave him the great news.  He said, “Well let’s see what you can do!”  We walked the bike about a block away from our house on Roosevelt Street.  Daddy held the bike, Les helped me on and with a push I was off.  Les ran on one side, Daddy on the other.  After a couple more runs and a quick lesson in breaking, Daddy declared me a bike rider.  

Yes, that bike, still today, is the best birthday present I never got.