MARILYN SHARES HER FIRST WRITING ASSIGNMENT

I can't do a thing with her. She insists that it is her turn to write the blog. I want to get along, so today Marilyn is the guest writer on the blog.

Lucky

                                MY EARLIEST MEMORY –  MY 4TH BIRTHDAY PARTY

                                                                 by

                                                         Marilyn Carnell

 

Seeing a complete picture of my earliest memory is difficult since only a few details are actually remembered – it is like a big painting that has been heavily damaged leaving splotches that are clear and large blank areas held together with tattered gossamer threads.  All children seem to experience “childhood amnesia” and I am no exception.

 

It is not clear to me whether I have a specific memory of the party or if I “remember” it from seeing photos or the telling of the story by a family member. The rest of the event has to be reconstructed from what I know of the time; it reflects how I was reared, and how my family influenced who I am today.

 

There is a strong oral tradition in the culture and telling stories was how we passed the time and entertained ourselves. My maternal grandfather was well regarded as a great story teller and subsequent generations emulated him as best we could. We are a close-knit family that even referred to ourselves as “the clan”.  In addition, lots of photographs were taken of family gatherings and I was told stories of the events as we looked at albums and scrapbooks. Sentimental items were kept as reminders of times gone by.

 

My 4^th birthday party was held in my mother’s sister’s back yard.  The little informal gathering was across the driveway from the home of my maternal grandparents.  Their two story white frame home at the end of Main Street, sat high above Big Sugar Creek. The creek has always been an important  landmark to my family.  I also remember a wooden picnic table, the green grass and the large shady maple tree that sheltered so many family gatherings until I was well into adulthood. High heat and high humidity peak about that time of year in the Ozarks. It was a hot summer day. I do remember that. Probably later in the afternoon after we had our naps and when women were home from work or the chores were done and the blistering heat of the day had passed. A soft wind soughed in the trees made the remaining sultry heat bearable and kept the flies from pestering too much. The grass was beginning to dry up from the summer heat and the air was dusty as no streets were paved. It was quiet by today’s standards, no power mowers roaring nearby, and few cars passing. Only the cicadas sang loudly from their lairs near the creek.  

 

 

We lived about six blocks away at the north end of town, just off Dog Holler Road; another maternal aunt and my paternal grandparents lived in the same block. Mom and I walked to the party because my father was using the only car in the family. The only car in the family is literal. No one else in the extended family that lived in Pineville, Missouri owned a car in 1944.

 

My strongest memory is receiving the gift from my parents. It was an “Indian” silver and turquoise bracelet and ring. I thought they were the most beautiful and glamorous things I had ever seen. I was thrilled. The bracelet is long gone, but I still have the ring with five little round stones. It now fits my little finger.  There must have been several of my friends there – the usual children that I had known and played with since birth - Jane Beth, Linda Lee, Beverly Ann, Mike, Mary Rowan,  Larry Drexel and possibly a few more. Most people in my hometown were called by two names, perhaps due to southern influence or to sort them out. It helped when a name was common. I knew Billy Brown, Billy Max, Billy Joe, Billy Gene and Billy Bob. Not one of them had William as a legal name. They were all Billy’s.  I was Marilyn Lee, but usually went by my first name because it was longer. ) If a parent called me Marilyn Lee I knew I was in serious trouble.) I was a little different in more than just a name, but I wouldn’t realize that until much later. I can dimly remember the party, though. All of the children were scrubbed within an inch of their lives; the little girls in freshly starched and ironed gingham dresses with sashes tied in neat bows at the back, the little boys in long or short pants, cotton camp shirts (tee shirts came later). Our shoes polished until they glowed tied with freshly washed laces. ( I wore high top white leather “baby” shoes until my feet finally got too big at about age 5.) The boy’s all had neatly trimmed hair; the girl’s hair longer (but never as long as shoulder length) they carefully combed with pin curl sets or braids. All of their hair was shiny from a wash with soap and a vinegar or lemon rinse.  I would have been one of the girls with curls, my auburn hair gleaming, blue eyes and a fair freckled face with a snub nose and a determined chin.

 

I am from a place in the Ozarks of southwest Missouri that is unique even in that region – a sub- culture of a sub-culture. Unlike county names like Washington or Lincoln, there is only one McDonald County in the USA.  It sits in the corner of the state bounded by Arkansas on the south and Oklahoma on the west. Oklahoma had become a state only 33 years before I was born. Because of its location it was in the midst of clashing cultures – the terminus of the Mason-Dixon Line was the southern border, the former Indian Territory to the west. Early settlers who were the most influential, were primarily from the mid-south – we were southern Hill People; but there were other influences from the other cardinal directions, but it was (and remains to some extent) a culture of the mountains of Appalachia and the Ozarks. It was and continues to be an area of poverty, yet we had no idea that we were poor. Everyone was the same. I did not meet a soul who was not a WASP until I went away to college.  The beauty of that horizontal status was that I grew up without prejudice. Without a pecking order in my past, I was enchanted by the idea of meeting people who were unlike me in culture and appearance.

 

Because we were poor and because it was the norm, wewere frugal; almost everything was saved in case it could find a future use. Our primary needs were met and our tradition was to be largely out of the money economy. We grew our own food, made our own clothes, shared resources and “made do”. I think it is summed up in a remark my brother made many years later when I was at a low point in my life.  He said, “Come on home, honey, they can’t whip us all.”

 

 In 1940 the population of Pineville was about 400 and I was related to in some way to most of them. If not by blood or “shirt tail”, I had many “Aunts” and “Uncles” that were so called out of a cultural requirement for respect.  Later, I have joked that I didn’t grow up in a gene pool, but a gene puddle. I suspect that I chose to marry men from far away for that reason. In a family that was so secretive that I didn’t know I had an older half-brother until I was in my 20’s, that was probably wise.

 

By my birthday on July 12, 1944, the population was considerably reduced as nearly all of the men between ages 17 and 50 were in the military and a significant number of women were as well.  Camp Crowder, an Army signal Corps base and POW location occupied more than 66,000 acres in the northern part of the county and adjacent Newton Co. Adults who for some reason were not in the military, found jobs there. All of my uncles and male cousin were overseas and in danger. The only males I knew were my Daddy, my maternal grandfather and my 13 year old brother.

 

 

Every adult at the party had a loved one or more in harm’s way. The war had gone on for years and they were always on edge with the dread of bad news from abroad. I think the party was one way of establishing normalcy in a time of great tumult and fear. Fortunately, we children were largely oblivious to this undercurrent and enjoyed playing games and eating special treats, but the ominous feelings were there, even if unexpressed openly. We must have absorbed it at some level because we were always aware that there was a war going on and feared it might appear on our shores.

 

 My Daddy was also away that day. He was spending the summer (as he had for the previous 25 years) at summer school. He was exempt from military service because he had polio at age 9 ((1913) and walked on crutches the rest of his life.  We had a car because it was a necessity. He even invented ways to make it totally hand driven and had a local blacksmith manufactured it so he could get around. That year he was at the University of Missouri in Columbia, completing the requirements for a Master’s in Education.  Since the age of 16 he had taught school in the winter and gone to school himself each summer to get his education. It is no wonder that education was and is of high value in our family.  Since he couldn’t be at the party, he sent me a birthday card, simply signed “Daddy”. I still have it.

 

Rationing was stringent in 1944. I don’t know if there were enough sugar coupons for a cake and homemade ice cream. Surely there were, because the aunts would have pooled their coupons for a special occasion. I had a coupon book, too. Yes, I still have it also.

 

My Mom was the gardener and farmer of the family as my Daddy wasn’t much interested. I know that because he never let his handicap stop him from doing anything he really wanted to do. He was an avid hunter and fisherman. The first thing my Daddy did when war was declared was to buy a case of shotgun shells.  In addition to the shotgun, he also had a .22 and a 30-06 rifle. He was well prepared to hunt for food (as were most men in the area). I don’t think he saw any dire need to defend us with gunfire.  We were fortunate that we had enough land (about three acres) to keep a cow, chickens and sometimes a pig on our place in town. Mom had a big garden and dried or canned food to keep us fed.

 

So I know that milk, cream and eggs were available for birthday treats and I am pretty sure I had a cake and possibly homemade ice cream. So long as they were able, my Mom and aunts would make up a freezer of ice cream to share almost every weekend. After the war, when sugar rationing was stopped. My Mom gave me a spoonful of brown sugar that I took outside and sat on the roof of the cellar to eat with bliss.  All alone and savoring every morsel.

 

The importance of the birthday party to the adults was trying to make the best of a terrible time in history, cosseting a little girl who was to always be the youngest child of her generation and putting a brave face on an uncertain future. How did it affect my future? A glimmer that I was a little different and “special” to the family, a deep interest in food, the importance of keeping treasured possessions and an underlying sense of insecurity despite having a stable home and family.

 

Comments

[Mary Borthick]

Good writing, Marilyn! Memories are the thread of life's tapestries, aren't they?

[Mary DeLand]

Marilyn, Thanks for the memory! I remember the ration books and the drawing in the courthouse for sacks of sugar. I was 4 or 5 when I drew names for free sugar; the courtroom was full! Everyone was very saving; nothing was wasted. When I think of those times I feel humbled and have an extra appreciation for buying everything needed in a well-stocked grocery store. Good story; keep up the writing. Your recollections are much appreciated!

[Connie (Hanavan) Brennan]

Marilyn: Wow, I enjoyed reading your story about your 4th birthday party. Thanks for taking me back to life in simpler times!

[Gayla Elliff Slish]

Hi Marilyn: Thanks to Lucky for allowing you to post your personal memory story. I enjoyed it. I'm glad you have such a good recollection of a happy childhood birthday. It was also interesting for me to read history bits about my home sweet home town.