Carmen - 1962

Carmen was four months old. Her father and I were shopping at a sears store in Birmingham, Alabama when his arms grew tired and he placed her in a deluxe wind-up baby swing on display in a window facing the sidewalk. He turned the handle, winding the mechanism tightly, and the swing began to move back and forth, back and forth, until Carmen fell asleep.

We continued browsing nearby ... glancing often toward the swing to be sure our baby was safe.

Then we noticed an amazing thing. Outside the window, a crowd was gathering. People, some with their noses pressed against the glass, were trying to decide whether Carmen was a living child or a very realistic baby doll.

Before leaving the store, we gave in to temptation and bought that swing. It turned out to be a bad investment. Carmen liked it way too much. she slept better in the swing than in her crib. Problem was ... the swing had to be rewound. And rewound. And rewound. Each winding lasted only fifteen minutes. Motion stopped. Crying started.

I spent my nights sinking into sleep over and over again, and being yanked out of sleep over and over again.

Electric swings were later invented but, sadly, not in time to save my sanity.

That long-ago Sears display baby is, today, a woman capable of translating ordinary books into Braille. Her work enables blind school children to absorb information through their fingertips.

I'm so proud of her ....

Big Brother

Many years have passed since this picture was made. It still makes me smile to see Karen's tiny hand held inside her brother's bigger one.

When Karen grew to be a busy toddler, she was often in trouble for going into Tony's unguarded room and disturbing his belongings. The lectures he delivered were fun to watch.

Tony, looking down at Karen, said, "Karen, have you been in my room again?"

Karen, looking up at Tony, nodded her head and popped a comforting thumb in her mouth.

"Didn't I tell you to stay out of my room?"

Thumb-sucking and head-nodding picked up tempo.

"I found grape jelly on my guitar today, Karen. Did you touch my guitar?"

Removing thumb from mouth, Karen stepped forward, wrapped both arms tight around Tony's legs and leaned her golden curls against his knees.

The battle was won.

Tony never had a chance.

Tony and Karen

This picture was made thirty years after Karen's

tiny fingers left grape jelly on Tony's guitar.

Brother and sister are still good friends.

Nita ...

My niece, Nita, was nine-years-old when this picture was made. The baby she's holding is Tony. When the camera captured this moment in 1955, it showed two children I loved totally and unconditionally. I longed to protect them both from all harm. Forever and ever.

Nita came yesterday ... I hadn't seen her in many years. When I put my arms around her, time melted away. and for one brief moment she was again the small girl who gave me great joy.

I will always love Nita.

Sisters ...

Patti, Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail

This picture was made in the early 1990's. I smile every time I look at it, remembering the pushing and shoving going on just seconds before I snapped the camera.

Trouble started the minute I asked them to line up ...

Patti said, "Mama, Honey Gail's not lining up right. She's not getting in her rightful place. Make her be last, Mama. She knows she's supposed to be last. She's not being nice."

Honey stood her ground, "No! I'm tired of always being at the end of the line. This time I'm going to be first. Patti can bring up the rear for a change."

Lots of elbowing going on ... jockeying for position ... laughing ... fussing.

I waited patiently ... Well, maybe not patiently ... camera to my eye.

Karen said, "Shut up. Everyone just shut up and do what Mama wants. Let's get this over with."

Carmen jumped right on that, "Ahhhmmm, Mama, Karen told us to shut up. Ahhhmmm, Karen, you know we're not allowed to say those words. Ahhhmmm, you're in trouble."

More shoving. More laughing.

Finally, they got themselves arranged. Honey, standing in front with hands clasped loosely. Karen next. Then Carmen. Patti, last. I'm all ready to make the picture when another uproar began.

"Mama, Karen is sticking her chest out real far. Make her stop, Mama!" Patti fussed.

Carmen was quick to back Patti up, "Karen, you're trying to make the rest of us look bad. You're always upstaging us. Stop right now!"

Laugh. Push. Shove. Argue.

Then, Patti got their all-time favorite complaint going, "Mama, exactly why did Karen get to be 32DD when all the rest of us are 32AA wrinkled? Why? It's not fair. Make her stop sticking her chest out, Mama! Mama, she's still doing it! Mama! Mama!"

Honey, calmly speaking over her shoulder, said, "Relax, Patti K., I've got everything under control."

"Smile!"

Four beautiful smiles appeared right on cue. Karen shoved her chest out a little farther. Just as I pushed the camera button Honey Gail's right hand quickly moved to her hip which allowed her arm to block the exaggerated view of Karen's figure.

A letter to my grandchildren

June 23, 2006

Today, I am seventy.

I look in the mirror and see Aunt Effie looking back at me. Where did that woman come from? I haven't thought of her in years. Suddenly, here she is. Uninvited. Living inside my bathroom mirror.

Seventy years is a lot of living to look back on. I envy old people who, when reviewing their pasts, see peaceful roads well traveled. When I dare look over my shoulder, which isn't often, I see bombed out terrain, frighteningly similar to pictures of a war-torn Europe.

Seventy years is a very long time.
Profound words should be spoken.
Here goes:

Don't take running water for granted. I know you think all houses are born with running water, but this is not true. The first thirteen years of my life water was pulled from a deep well, bucket by heavy bucket. Water needed for drinking, cooking, bathing, laundry, hair washings at home, foot washings at church, apple dunkings at school carnivals ... every wet drop came up out of the ground via a dripping water bucket attached to a strong rope.

Water gushing from a faucet is man's greatest invention.

Don't take electricity for granted. During the first thirteen years of my life there were no handy switches to flip. There was a lamp. The bottom part was filled with kerosene which we called coal oil. We carried it home from Alvin Short's store in a gallon can. A wick (something similar to a long beige colored hair ribbon)floated through the oil in the lamp base and was threaded up through a metal slot. We lit the slot end of the wick with a long kitchen match. A glass globe was placed over the flame and presto! night shadows melted away. The glow from that kerosene lamp was roughly equal to a 25 watt bulb today. A little brighter, maybe, if I had cleaned yesterday's soot off the inside of the globe. Mostly we got by on 25 watts.

Having no electricity meant we had no air conditioning ... not even a fan. On hot summer nights we carried old quilts out to the front porch and bedded down on the floor. However, since there was always the chance a snake might try to snuggle with us, I took my sweaty cowardly self back inside the hot house before sleep claimed me.

Having no electricity meant we had no refrigerator. We had an icebox instead. The iceman came once or twice a week and put a 40 pound chunk of ice in one side. The other side contained jugs of raw milk straight from the cow.

As ice melted, water dripped into a pan beneath the icebox. It was my responsibility to empty that pan at regular intervals. I often forgot and water ran across the linoleum floor.

Sometimes we bought extra ice for making ice cream. The recipe was so simple even a child could do it. We mixed cream, milk, eggs, sugar and vanilla flavoring, poured the mixture into an old fashioned hand-cranked churn, set a round galvanized wash tub beneath the old magnolia tree, placed the churn in the tub and surrounded it with chipped ice. Then, my brother and I turned that crank round and round 'til our young arms almost fell off our shoulders. The ice cream we produced was better than any thing we'd ever tasted before, or anything we've tasted since.

After our house was wired for electricity, Daddy bought an electric range to replace the kerosene cook stove that had replaced the wood cook stove of my earliest years. I thought life could never get any better than that electric range.

Old irons that required preheating on the cook stove were thrown out and a brand new electric iron made it easier to do the family ironing.

My father was always suspicious of electricity. When a wall outlet was not in use, Daddy tried to keep the little holes covered with tape so electricity wouldn't leak out and harm us. My brother and I laughed behind his back. Long years later, when scientists began acknowledging the damage electro-Magnetic hypersensitivity caused the human body, we stopped laughing.

Ten years from now, when I turn eighty, I'll be back to pass down more words of wisdom. Wait for me. Will you?

You and your parents are the highlights of my seventy years on this earth. I may not see you often, but your names and faces never leave my mind.

The Princess Dresser ...

This country was seven years into the Great Depression when I was born, so the first four years of my life were spent in a sheep shed. Five of us - father, mother, sister, brother and me - survived in a one-room structure that had not been built for human occupancy. Wide planks were laid to create a floor. Cracks between the planks allowed cold winter winds to come whistling through.

A small lean-to with tin roof and dirt floor was attached to the main room and that became our kitchen. The legs of a wood burning cook stove rested upon the hard packed earth. A motley collection of chairs around a make-shift table completed the room's furnishings.

There were no windows. The front door was made of weathered gray boards with rusty hinges. It remained open in summer to let in sunshine. Unfortunately, it also let in flies and mosquitoes. During winter months kerosene lamps chased away the shadows.

Two beds were layered with plenty of homemade quilts. There was an old Singer treadle sewing machine.

And there was a beautiful dresser ...

My father had met and married my mother eight years before the beginning of the Great Depression. He was working for the railroad at that time. The first gift he bought his young bride was a princess dresser ... one large drawer across the bottom and two small drawers on top ... shiny veneer finish ... and a mirror that moved back and forth and up and down, producing just the right viewing angle.

My father loved to watch as my mother sat at that dresser brushing her long black hair.

As the nation headed deeper into financial disaster my father lost his old job and couldn't find a new one that paid a living wage. He searched for work daily, faithfully. He was willing to take any job doing anything. Often, he worked from sunup until sundown doing hard menial labor and earned only fifty cents. He was grateful for that work. Fifty cents bought food for his family.

Gradually, he lost almost everything he owned, but he never let go of the dresser.

To me, a child of four with no store-bought toys, the princess dresser with its movable mirror was a constant temptation. I wasn't allowed to wiggle the mirror except when I was officially acting as Daddy's helper. He'd casually mention that he ought to comb his hair and I'd fly into motion, rushing to take my place at the side of the dresser, small hand on the bottom of the mirror, ready to tilt as needed. For a man who cared little about his physical appearance during that time, Daddy sure combed his hair a lot.

We left the sheep shed in 1940. Earthly belongings, including the dresser, fit nicely on the back of a neighbor's rickety truck as we waved goodbye to poverty in Texas and rolled toward greener pastures in Arkansas.

My father had landed a new job with the Rock Island Railroad. Thank God the worst was behind him now. Thank God his strength had seen us through. Thank God.

My mother soon pushed the little princess dresser aside to make room for more fashionable furniture and it finally came to rest beneath boxes of unwanted junk in an out-building.

Long years passed. My father's health declined. The old home place was closed down. Daddy gave me permission to take the dresser. He stood watching as I rescued it from the barn. The mirror would need to be re-silvered now ... His work worn fingers traced scratches in the veneer. One knob was missing from the big drawer. He sighed ...

A few years before he died, on Father's Day, Daddy came to my house where my brother and I proudly displayed the newly restored princess dresser. Daddy's eyes examined it from top to bottom. The flawless gleaming wood finish ... the perfect mirror ... every knob in place. He found it hard to speak but his head kept nodding approval. Maybe he was seeing the reflection of a long-ago woman brushing her hair ... Maybe he was remembering a small daughter who delighted in tilting the mirror as he straightened his hat.

The princess dresser remains in our family today. I'm glad my children and grandchildren will keep it and love it always.

Hopes and dreams were once folded tenderly into those drawers ...

Memories still linger in that tilted mirror ....

Housecleaning ...

Patti, Honey Gail, Donna, Carmen and Karen

It was a typical after-dinner holiday scene in the early 1990's ...

Wall-to-wall people filled the Blankenship house. Children were everywhere. Nice ones playing quietly at our feet ... Naughty ones hurrying through, looking smug about rules they'd just broken or rules they were plotting to break ... Men, drinking beer, watching football and occasionally roaring with laughter about something children shouldn't know and women didn't want to hear ... Women, sitting around the kitchen table, idly talking about children who, with some effort, could be reformed ... and men who, with all the effort in the world, could not.

Saran-wrap made ripping noises. Refrigerator door clicked and banged. Honey was dealing with leftovers. Patti, Carmen, Karen, Donna and I assisted from the comfort of our chairs ... Freeze this. Throw that out. Send those home with her. I'll take the cheesecake off your hands.

Our group was peaceful until Donna announced she needed to clean kitchen cabinets at her house. Patti pounced on that innocent remark and began to weave it into my grown-up children's favorite game of "Get Mama!"

"Donna. Donna. Donna ..." Patti shook her head sadly. "You've been part of this family for a long time now. I can't believe you're still scrubbing your own kitchen! Listen. We're gonna tell you how to have the cleanest kitchen in Little Rock without breaking a sweat."

Honey Gail - leftovers forgotten - squeezed back in between Carmen and Karen. Those three were mentally rolling up their sleeves, preparing to aid and abet any and all lies Patti chose to tell.

There was almost a classroom atmosphere as Patti continued, "First thing you do, Donna, is invite Mama to your house. (they speak as if I'm not sitting there) Lead her to the kitchen, settle down at the table as if you're getting ready for a cozy chat, and serve her a coke."

"Coke is important here." said Carmen.

"You gotta have coke." Karen agreed.

"Since your goal is to get her deep into conversation as fast as possible, your best bet is to ask about her children." (Patti really should have been a schoolteacher)

"Words will start gushing," said Carmen.

"Like an artesian well!" added Honey.

"Soon as you get her going good," schoolteacher's voice moved forward, "about what Tony did and Patti said and how Carmen danced and Karen played and Honey sang and they all looked so cute, get up and move toward the kitchen sink. Tell Mama, over your shoulder, to keep talking ... you just want to do a few things while the two of you visit."

"Open a cabinet door, remove salt, pepper, Pam, Aunt Jemima pancake mix, sticky maple syrup bottle, corn chips ... pile everything, willy-nilly, on the counter top. Make a big mess. Run water into the sink, squeeze a sponge and make one swipe at the inside of that empty cabinet. Two swipes at most. That's as far as your work is gonna go. Mama will be on her feet, nudging you aside, taking the sponge from your hand because, Donna, no offense, but she won't like the way you clean. Patti pauses for a swallow of coke, "She doesn't like the way we clean either."

"Mama wouldn't like Martha Stewart's cleaning!" Karen was really getting into this story.

"Okay," Patti continued, "You're unofficially off-duty now, Donna. Avoid any sudden moves as you inch back to the table. You want Mama to remain unaware that she has just taken over your kitchen. As long as you keep her lost in her memories of the olden days, she'll clean everything in sight with absolutely no conscious thought."

"A super-deluxe high-tech robot," said Carmen.

"Better than a robot, Donna. Sit down and get comfortable. All you gotta do from this point on is keep the woman talking." Patti said, "If the artesian well shows signs of slowing to a trickle, request more stories about her children."

"Wait, Patti," Honey spoke, "Instead of children in general, wouldn't it be more effective to keep her focused on Tony? We all know he's her favorite."

"Good thinking!" Carmen agreed, "Donna, if you sincerely ask to hear every detail of Tony's childhood, you could get cabinets washed plus your oven cleaned and the floor waxed too."

"Carmen, let me tell you something, Darling," Patti tipped her glass for another swig of coke and I noticed it wasn't actually coke, "Sincerity isn't necessary here. Mama would talk the ears off a used car salesman if he asked about Tony."

After conducting a visual inspection, I realized that only Donna and I had genuine Coca-Cola in our glasses, which explained why only Donna and I were behaving with dignity.

"So ..." Karen said, "Let's give Donna a list of four topics ... each topic guaranteed to get fifteen minutes talk - and hard work - out of Mama."

"Okay," Carmen went first, "Tony could read the Encyclopedia Britannica by age three.
"Carmen!" Honey jumped in, "The Encyclopedia Britannica? Are you sure?"
"Well," Carmen said, "Only through the B's, Mama said, but still ..."

"Cub Scouting." Karen announced "There's a good topic. Mama will spend twenty minutes telling how hard Tony worked to win International Cub Scout of the Year in Heidelberg, Germany, and that's if you act bored. If you ask questions she'll make a half-hour tribute out of it."

"Two more ideas and we've got Donna's kitchen covered." (Has Patti always been such a take-charge kind of person?)

"Languages," Honey said, "Let the record show that Tony spoke four languages while still in elementary school. French in first grade ... Spanish in second, third and fourth ... German in the fifth. And, of course, English. Tony was born speaking fluent English."

"Math Skills," Karen had saved the best for last, "Tony knew pre-calculus integration."

"He knew WHAT?" Patti didn't believe this, "How do you know he knew something like that and what did he use it for anyway?"

"It was needed to figure the volume of water in swimming pools. A rectangle pool was easy to figure. Anybody could do that. But an oval pool required pre-calculus integration. Tony explained it to me."

"Karen," Patti took a bigger gulp of coke that wasn't coke, "All swimming pools come equipped with water. More water on the deep end. Less water on the shallow end. That's all anybody needs to know on that subject."

Honey Gail left the table to resume scraping bowls and loading the dishwasher. As her eyes fell on a broiler pan encrusted with dried turkey dressing, she turned to me with a time-tested smile guaranteed to turn my bones to mush ... "Mama," she cooed, "You want to come tell me all about your first-born child?"

"No, Darling, I do not." Returning her sweet smile, I settled deeper into my chair.

Security Measures

I was sixty when I moved to Roland, Arkansas and began living alone in the woods. I'd never been scared of things that go bump in the night, but I was a sensible woman who believed in taking precautions. My house was built with strong doors, dead-bolt locks and iron bars on the bedroom window.

Outside, motion-detector lights were installed near the roof. If a prowler came sneaking around in the dark, my yard would light up like a football stadium. For good measure, my son-in-law, Ron, put a warning light on my bedroom wall. When triggered by outside motion, this light would shine down on my sleeping face, and prompt me to scramble out of bed and go searching for the gun Ken Blankenship had given me ... a gun I'd hidden so well from grandchildren, I could seldom find it myself.

Sometimes all those lights would turn themselves off again before I reached the front window, making me think a bad man had, perhaps, been scared away by the midnight sun. Other times I peeked out the window, lethal weapon held at the ready, only to see a fat raccoon waddling across my grass, or a hound dog sniffing my oak tree.

Security was tight at my house, but I figured I could always use more so one day, when my eyes fell on Ron's size 16 feet, a plan began to take shape inside my head.

"Patti," I said, "Next time Ron discards a pair of worn out Nike's, can I have them?"

"Sure, but why in the world do you want them?"

"Burglar deterrent." I answered.

"Oh."

Next Mother's Day, here came Patti ... large box, wrapped in shiny paper ... super-sized bow perched on top ... streamers hanging down.

"Patti, is that something store-bought?" I demanded, "It looks store bought. It better not be store-bought! You know the rules."

"Believe me when I tell you, Mama, no rules have been broken here."

I eased the ribbon off and set it carefully to one side. My gift-wrap recycling program was a never-ending source of amusement to my none-too-frugal children. Gently pulling scotch tape off with only minimum damage, I smoothed creases from the beautiful paper and heard my daughter begin muttering to herself. Probably counting to ten. All my children became good counters at early ages.

Finally the box was open and there, nestled in a cloud of tissue paper, lay two very big, very ragged, very worn out tennis shoes. They were perfect! PERFECT! I hurried to place them just outside the front door. Those shoes looked, for all the world to see, like a mean man had just come home from a hard day's work, kicking butt from one end of Pulaski county to the other, and stepped out of his shoes on the porch to preserve the carpet.

No criminal in his right mind would risk tangling with the giant owner of those well-worn Nike's.

Even Jehovah Witnesses would hesitate to knock.

My brother dropped by often and unexpectedly during those days. No advance call ... just barged in complaining about how long it took me to answer the door. He'd head straight through to the bathroom, throwing loud and clear orders over his shoulder ... Iced tea with no sugar and a ham sandwich with mustard ... no mayonnaise ... and get a move on. He didn't have time to put up with slow service.

You get the idea ...

One day he knocked softly instead of banging. When I answered, he eased through the door in a cautious manner quite unlike himself. I had tea poured and bread in the toaster before I realized he was still standing. What was going on here? Telling him to please sit down, I began sharing the latest family gossip ... he remained silent. Finally, almost in a whisper, he said, "Am I intruding?"

"Intruding? INTRUDING? You've been intruding in my life for well over half-a-century!" I laughed, "Why act concerned now?"

"Well ... those shoes on the front porch ..."

Ohhh ...

For a minute I was tempted to worry the man ... let him think I had a sawmill worker napping in my bedroom. A sawmill worker who'd had to hitch-hike to my house because he didn't own a car, and even if he had owned a car he couldn't have driven it because he lost his driver's license after too many DUI's ... Oh, my mind was racing there for a minute. The lies I could lay on this brother of mine. The worry I could cause him. I OWED him grief. But, one look at his face told me I'd better not push this issue too far, so I explained my burglar deterrent.

He was proud to have such a smart sister, and relieved he wouldn't have to fight a giant to defend his sister's honor which he wasn't sure, most days, deserved defending in the first place.

I loved those shoes.

I kept them for about two years. Now and then, after a hard rain, I'd hang them on my feet and slosh through a few mud puddles to restore their original corrupt appearance.

My heart was broken when I discovered one shoe missing. Carried off by a stray hunting dog, I suppose. I searched my woods and offered a 5.00 reward to any grandchild who located the missing shoe, but it was lost and gone forever. I threw its mate into the trash.

Nobody is scared of a one-legged giant.

A Rose From Carmen ...

The sky fell. Not the whole thing, you understand, but a large chunk. The crack had been there a long time ... I should have been watching.

It was 1973. Tony, within days of graduating high school, was working in the furniture business and living in an apartment on his own. He was out of harm's way. Patti, a sophomore at Perryville high school, was living with her grandmother. She was safe. Carmen, Karen and Honey Gail were tucked into bed right down the hall. I was baking cookies.

The crack in the sky was lengthening ... widening ...

I thought about turning off the oven, grabbing those children and running like hell.

Too late. Down came the sky.

On that long-ago night, my little girls got caught in the crossfire of their parent's fight. The damage they suffered was emotional. It was a hundred times worse than any damage done to me.

When, after a three-day absence, I was able to return to our home , Honey Gail, Karen and Carmen rushed into my arms, and for a long sweet grateful time we simply held on tight to each other. No words were spoken. None were needed. My babies were scared and I knew it. Their mama was sad and they understood.

Taking a deep breath, I began the matter-of-fact business of cleaning a house that had been severely trashed. With Karen, Honey and Carmen glued to my side, I learned it's possible to pick up toys, clothes, newspapers and dirty dishes while holding three little hands in mine. Tricky, but possible.

Three little hands became only two. Carmen disappeared.

I looked out the front window and saw her running down the street, away from our house. Unsure what to do, I continued restoring order to the living room, holding on to two little girls while watching the street and silently willing the third to come back. Sun was shinning. Neighbor children were playing up and down the block. I wasn't afraid for nine-year-old Carmen's physical safety. I was concerned about her frame of mind. What was she thinking right now? What was she feeling? Where WAS she?

Suddenly, there she came! Running fast. Back toward home. Back toward me!

Breathing hard, Carmen hurried in the back door. With a shy smile, she handed me one perfect long-stem rose and said, "Welcome home, Mama."

Oh, how beautiful ... I found out later that she used her own money to buy that flower and asked a neighbor to keep it safe until I returned.

When I think of all the gifts I've received through the years - from small children barely big enough to slap scotch tape on wrinkled wrapping paper, and from older children who became quite adept at tying bows - I remember sparkly jewels that turned my neck, ears and wrists black ... Hand prints in plaster of paris ... Beautifully wrapped boxes containing used magazines ... The movie, "Doctor Zhivago" ... crayola masterpieces portraying mother, father, five children, one dog, eight smiles and a house surrounded by flowers ... poems ... a small wooden cat from an European souvenir shop with no known purpose except to make me smile ... A large gaudy pink and black ceramic cat with beads for whiskers and no known purpose except to make me smile ... bath oil that smelled so strong neighbors three houses down complained ... When I remember all those treasures, I feel richly blessed.

But the gift that lifted my spirits highest,
during a time when my heart was lowest,
was a rose from Carmen.