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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781456722845 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | AuthorHouse |
| Publication date: | 03/03/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 144 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
Read an Excerpt
Stories from the Hart
By Anne Hart Preus
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Anne Hart PreusAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-2283-8
Chapter One
Gravel and Grits* * *
Sometimes we joked that we lived so far in the country, we had to have sunlight pumped in. The distance into the country from town, on the gravel road seven miles to my home at Hitt Spur, made the journey one that not everyone cared to take, so a person had to be going there with a particular purpose. Hitt Spur is located about halfway between Webb (then population five hundred) and Parchman, the state penitentiary. The gravel road sometimes had too much gravel, making the navigation difficult, and it sometimes had no gravel. At other times the water got over the road so deep that a car could not pass. Neighbors were a few miles down the road—way beyond a "stone's throw." The gravel road was always a challenge. It kept the flow of traffic to a minimum, and so we were both isolated and insulated in our own little world in the country. It also provided a cloud of dust whenever a car or tractor passed by, so we made friends with the dust and didn't worry about things being dust free. We had many skinned knees and elbows from the rocks when we learned to ride our bikes, but we always picked ourselves up and dusted ourselves off and got right back on the very thing that had demoted us to the ground. We were stubborn, with heads just as hard as the rocks on the gravel road.
Traveling on the gravel road was not done frequently, so Groceries were bought in town on Saturday or grown in the garden. Daisy, the cow, gave five gallons of milk a day, and churning it would give us buttermilk and fresh butter. (Milk was poured into the churn, and a wooden stick with a wooden cross attached was used to pump up and down until the butter rose to the top. The butter was then scooped up and molded with a butter paddle and squeezed until all the milk was out and then, voila, butter. I did not know that milk could come in a carton all pasteurized and homogenized, and I would not drink it after Daisy the cow disappeared. It took a long time to get used to the store-bought kind. Even butter did not taste the same when it came from the store. Actually, we bought margarine, and my taste buds had been primed for that real butter. The butter paddle not only shaped the butter, but it shaped behavior as well. Mother found it to be a valuable resource in readjusting our attitudes.
Chickens provided eggs and drumsticks, and pigs contributed bacon, sausage, and other pork delights. There were no Wal-Marts or big chain grocery stores. The local merchants kept tickets, and at the end of the month those in debt paid up. There were no Visa cards or debit cards then, either. Credit was on a person's word.
Good food was the standard, and no meal was complete without meat, four or five fresh vegetables, cornbread, tea for the adults, and milk from the cow for the children. Some homemade dessert followed all of this so that we would leave the table "with a little taste of sweet." All food was prepared from "scratch" with no assistance from prepackaged meals or the microwave, since there was none at that time.
Sitting around the kitchen table sharing food for three meals a day was expected, and whether it was with the equipment salesmen or others who just happened to be there when the dinner bell sounded, it was a normal occurrence. If a friend happened to be around when it was time for dinner (lunch) or supper, another place setting was added to the table, and food was always in ample supply. The table would almost groan with the fresh vegetables and homemade cornbread (no sugar allowed there, 'cause Yankees cooked that way). No matter what was going on in our lives, supper would wait until everyone could come to the table. Daddy, who ruled over the table, usually delivered the blessing, which may or may not have included a roll call of relatives and friends in need of God's governance and guidance, either imagined or real. Good manners were expected: "Use your napkin and don't eat with your knife. Pass the biscuits, please." "Thank you" and "you're welcome" were required; "Yes, ma'am" and "yes, sir" were expected. There was no "yeah" and "naw" when addressing adults or anyone we might think was an adult. There was no such thing as eating and jumping up from the table. We had to wait until everyone was finished and ask to be excused from the table. We also had to remember to say we enjoyed it too.
Grits, however, were the glue that held us together. We had them in the mornings with sausage and biscuits and homemade jelly. We had them in the winter evenings just for good measure, and we never tired of them. Mother would say they would fortify us against the "elements" and because she said it, that was the law. We weren't too clear about what "elements" were, either, but we certainly wanted to be fortified in case we encountered any. I don't remember us spending a lot of time being sick—except for Will, my baby brother, and that is another chapter—so apparently grits kept us free from disease. We surely were fortified.
While food fortified our bodies, parents felt the need for spiritual fortification for themselves and for us children. Church was where we went on Sunday morning and evening. We did not go on Wednesday evenings because we were so far in the country, and schoolwork took precedence.
The world was not accessible via high-speed Internet, cell phones, CNN, or other technological advances. Those things would later become part of daily existence, but we grew up in the '50s and '60s, before the advent of such conveniences. We received news of world or national events on the radio and through the Commercial Appeal that was delivered on the route by the mailman. Television did not enter the household until I was six years old, and reception was fuzzy at best. Cable, satellite, CNN, and FOX were all things of the future and not a part of our lives.
The winding gravel road ensured that we would become self-reliant. The grits and good country cooking provided a healthy diet, and mealtimes were established routines where we learned good manners and held conversations. They were the foundation for us then and forged memories and habits we carry with us now. Isolation, good food, and regular attendance at any and all church functions marked my formative years.
Pigs and Parades
* * *
Some things could not be debated. These events were set in stone and could not be changed, and weather, illness, or acts of nature could not alter them. The Greenwood Christmas parade and the district 4-H Livestock Show, also in Greenwood, were two such happenings. A person could count on the Christmas parade being held on the first Friday of December, no matter the temperature. One could also mark down the annual district 4-H Livestock Show for the second week in March to coincide with schools' spring break so children would not have to miss school to mingle with the cows, pigs, and sheep. That may also have been a plot by those in the know to have a scheduled event to keep children who were out of school occupied.
My parents thought 4-H was a wonderful thing for us children, and Robert and Will both were given livestock to take care of. My brother Robert was involved with 4-H and had cows and pigs to show at the local and district events in the spring. Being responsible for an animal and competing for awards in showmanship, first place, etc., at the local, district, and state events instilled life skills not learned in any classroom. Because I was a girl, and my parents were very specific about gender appropriate activities, I was not given the opportunity to be around the animals. I was to be involved in the citizenship activities and with nothing concerning animals. However, as luck would have it, I was about to be thrust into the pigpen at the ripe old age of ten or so.
At the 4-H fairs, events were held in each category of animal—sheep, pigs, cows. The kids who raised them would show their animal, and buyers would then bid on them for the slaughterhouse. (We were told the animals were going to a bigger farm.)
The district fair rolled around, as it always did, the second week in March, and the Sturdivant boys were there in their usual entrepreneurial manner, selling sticks as prods for the kids to use when their animals were in the show arena. Mind you, these were just sticks they had picked up lying on the ground, though they did spend hours slightly sharpening one end so as to set them apart from just regular sticks. Nobody wanted to be seen in the show barns without those sticks—they were status symbols—so kids paid a dollar apiece for them, a lot of money then. Those boys had an eye for business then, and they still do.
Anyway, Robert got sick with the flu or something and his friend Billy Gip was sick too. It was time to show the boar hog Robert had so carefully pampered for a year, but there was no one to show this nine-hundred-pound beast. Right, you read correctly—nine hundred pounds ... maybe it was more. So, here was the big hog, ready for the competition and nobody to show him because all the boys were sick. It was a fine beast, too, having been fed and pampered for a year. Younger brother Will was too little, so he was automatically disqualified from service. I don't know if I fell off the top of the pen and volunteered or whether Mother and Daddy decided that I should step into the pen and show that hog. There was a consensus, it seemed, that the hog had been too big of an investment to languish in the pen unseen.
Regardless, I soon found myself herding this huge animal into a pen with other huge nine-hundred-plus-pound hogs, and my only defense was a Sturdivant stick, which was comparable to a toothpick in that situation. I had puffed up all four feet and five inches of my young frame and marched confidently into that pen, herding that hog as though I had been doing it all my life. My knees shook, I thought I would be sick, I was afraid I would step into the pig droppings and have them forever glued to my shoes, and I was feeling extremely sorry for myself for having been forced to get into that pen with those beasts, which did not smell very good, plus I was quite scared, if the truth were to be told, when my thoughts were interrupted.
My hog, apparently, was not pleased to share the spotlight with the others and proceeded to attack the other hogs as we were parading around in front of the judges. Such squealing was quite disconcerting, and being in the middle of a group of giant, disgruntled animals was very frightening. I just froze for a moment, not knowing whether to run for the gate or stay and defend my hog. In that moment of indecision I looked up to see men running into the show arena with boards and planks to separate the hogs because they were pig rioting. I'll bet you could have heard the squealing in downtown Greenwood.
When the beasts were separated after a small eternity, my hog was done with the showtime and decided to go take a seat. Somehow, he got out of the arena and started climbing into the stands. Folks were flying everywhere trying to get out of his way. Imagine the nine-hundred-pound animal climbing into the stands, and you will understand mild (or maybe wild) hysteria.
Mrs. Ygondine Sturdivant, wife of gubernatorial candidate Mike Sturdivant, well dressed, with her perfectly coiffed hair and a smile on her face, happened to be sitting in those stands that day because her sons, mentioned earlier, were participating in the events. To the horror of all in attendance, Robert's hog made a beeline for her. I think that for a few moments time stood still while brave men formulated a plan to rescue Mrs. Sturdivant from the charging beast. The next few moments remain a blur in my memory, and I do not remember how the men got the hog out of the stands or what happened to the other hogs or what happened to Mrs. Sturdivant. Calm did eventually descend upon the stands, though. I also remember the judges announcing the winners, and my huge boar hog was the grand champion. Mother still has the purple ribbon that says "Grand Champion" to prove it.
Somehow, I managed to accept the ribbon and prod that horrible hog out of the pen and into history. That ended my career in the livestock arena, but it was the beginning of the crazy adventures I've had in my life. I figured if I could get into that pen with all those huge, smelly hogs and survive with my four-foot-tall self, I could tackle anything. I did, and I have. Life was pretty simple ... just a pigpen away from excitement. It did not take much to entertain us.
The Greenwood Christmas parade was the other event that required participation, as well as numerous blankets, gloves, and hats. The weather would always be freezing cold, but it was not a deterrent. Anybody who was anybody was at the parade, so it was a time to see and be seen. Only an extreme illness or death in the family prevented one from attending.
When I was in the twelfth grade and was part of the West Tallahatchie High School marching band, the call of the parade enticed us to Greenwood, where we saw students from all over the Delta. Bands from every school within one hundred miles came to participate. Floats were decorated by every civic organization, and even Santa Claus appeared at the end of the parade to inspire goodness in all the little children who were too frozen to go to sleep.
The parade officially signaled the Christmas season. DeLoach's and Wee Moderns were especially delighted to see the shopping begin, for they were the main stores in downtown Greenwood. Weary shoppers would stop for lunch at the Crystal Grill to fortify themselves. There, the aroma of divinely cooked food and the clatter of plates from the kitchen would welcome the diner, who would have to stop and speak to everyone on the way to a table. If you did not see someone you knew, you at least knew of them, or they knew you. Waitress Frances would oversee the dispensing of food and could juggle customers and their orders better than a circus clown on a tightrope. Mr. and Mrs. Ballas, the owners, knew every customer and their families and could not let you pay your bill without inquiring about the absent ones in the group. They were always glad to see you, and that made the dining experience at the "Crystal" even more special.
As the day faded and time for the parade approached, we would never have admitted how cold we got. After all, that is what long underwear is for, right? The majorettes did not have that option, though, and their uniforms were not designed to accommodate the long handle underwear. Neena Jennings, Jayne Henderson, LaNelle Brett, and Eva Jane Shaw were part of the majorette line that endured those coldest of days. The West Tallahatchie band, under the direction of James Donald Cooper, was by far the best one. Or perhaps we thought so, because we would have marched to hell and back for our dynamic young band director.
Young ladies who rode on the floats or in the convertibles were stylishly outfitted in their mother's or grandmother's fur stoles. Being chosen to ride a float meant wearing a gorgeous evening gown and being the envy of all along the parade route, so no young lady would dare to shiver in the cold. Perhaps that pageant wave of the arm was enough to generate warmth. We blew, drummed, twirled, and marched our way down Howard Street and never knew the temperature.
Pigs and parades permeated our childhood. We knew without any doubt that the parade and the 4-H show would occur. While we could never be sure of the exact extent of our involvement, the memories are indelibly marked into our brains.
Religion Ruled: God Beckoned, and We Followed (Or, If the Church Doors Were Open, We Were There)
* * *
When traveling down Highway 49 either going toward Clarksdale or Greenwood, notice the church on the side of the road by the high school. It was built by love and devotion, and it served countless families through the years with Sunday school and the assemblies where boys and girls were counted and competed against each other, Bible school, revivals, weddings and funerals. Friendships and lasting memories were forged there.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Stories from the Hart by Anne Hart Preus Copyright © 2011 by Anne Hart Preus. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Preface....................ixGravel and Grits....................1
Pigs and Parades....................5
Religion Ruled: God Beckoned, and We Followed (Or, If the Church Doors Were Open, We Were There)....................11
The Church in the Wildwood....................16
Visitin'....................20
Gifts and Gaffes....................24
Characters Cast from Many Molds....................29
Two Brothers....................35
Two Billies....................38
Dink and Choctaw....................41
Part of the Family but No Kin....................44
Treks, Trips, and Times to Remember....................49
Bound Only by Imaginations....................59
Winter Wonderland—Better than Disneyland....................64
Irrigation: to Water the Fields and to Cleanse Our Souls....................67
Intruders in the Roses....................72
Cold Enough to Kill Hogs....................75
The Green Bomb and Celebrations....................78
Lights, Camera, Action....................85
Memphis and Music....................89
Saturday Nights Live....................93
Double or Nothing....................96
On Another Note....................102
School Daze....................108
Pink Bows, Permanents, and Porch Parties....................117
Stage Planks, RC Colas, and the Rainbow's End....................123
The Final Farewell....................127
Afterword....................131
Acknowledgements....................133