Memories of a Nobody

HOW IT WAS

My parents were married June 29, 1929. Slightly more than 13 years later, July 24, 1942, the fourth and final child to survive birth was born.

That child was me.

If Mama had known the care of physicians instead of midwives during her confinements, I could possibly have had another older sister and a younger brother. Not that I blame the midwives; about the only thing they could do was let nature take whatever course it chose while praying for the best.

As it turned out, Mama’s first and sixth confinements resulted in the kind of heartbreak only a Mother can know. There were two girls and then two boys that survived entry into the family.

Being born and reared in the era of pronounced hard times surrounding World War Two, we kids had to carry our share of the work-load. In all honesty I must admit that although the going was rough, I don’t ever remember going to bed hungry. Our table fare was simple but filling.

In the late spring and early summer months Mama would spend countless hours over the Home-on-the-Range wood-burning cook stove canning home-grown vegetables.

During the fall and winter months, squirrels, rabbits and raccoons supplemented our diet.

Hog lard was used for frying and baking, but if this was not available mutton tallow was substituted.

As in any society, there were a few ‘haves’ and a lot of ‘have-nots’.

What the ‘haves’ of our community had consisted primarily of enough acreage for a respectable sized cotton patch, a few scrub cattle and a goodly number of sheep.

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MAMA’S BISCUIT SANDWICHES

As anyone who has done a significant amount of camping or even made single-day fishing trips combined with a cookout can attest, the most lasting memories are centered around the camp meals or prepared shore lunches, rather than on the number of fish caught.

I am no exception, and the most memorable shore lunches I can recall were eaten cold from a rust-spotted lunch bucket. These particular lunches were always shared with the same person and consisted, by request, of the same menu. The second person at those meals was my Father, and the lunches were prepared by my Mother, both now deceased.

Mama was making egg-biscuits and sausage-biscuits long before anyone realized they had any commercial value. The more I think about it, the more firmly convinced I am that if Mama’s biscuit sandwiches could be put on the market today, McDonald’s would beg for mercy.

When I think of those meals, I automatically think of what Papa and I were usually doing at the time.

From my early teen-years until my late thirties, Papa and I floated and bass-fished more miles of water than I would dare to estimate. From early spring to late fall, when water conditions in Bundick Creek were favorable, and there was nothing pressing to do at home, early Saturday morning would find Mama in the kitchen making sock coffee, baking a pan of biscuits, and frying fresh yard eggs with maybe some home-made pork sausage patties.

Papa and I would load the wooden boat, seat cushions/life preservers, paddles, rods and reels, the lightly stocked tackle box, a jug of water and a small ice chest into the back of the old pickup. As soon as Mama packed the lunch bucket and filled the quart thermos with black, unsweetened, coffee, we would be on our way.