Wooden toys and Grass String Swings

Wooden Toys and Grass-String Swings

Being one of 13 children, one would expect that I had a lot of playmates as a child. When I was born in 1955, Pam, who is almost 5 years older than me, was my nearest sibling. James is 7, Rose 10, Jack 13 and Pat 15. The other seven had already married and moved away, all with children of their own. My mother already had 15 grandchildren, so I was born an aunt.

In fact the year I was born, my sisters Pauline, Marie, Alice and Jean also had daughters. I have as many memories of growing up with my nieces and nephews as with my siblings. Possibly this explains my confusion at family reunions, I don’t know which group I belong to, the ‘older folks’, or my nieces and nephews. But over the years, I have acquired the title of ‘the cool aunt’.

My summers were cluttered with visiting relatives; Pam and I being the youngest were the first required to give up our bed. A mattress tossed into the corner, add a niece or 2 all crowded in together on a hot summer night, and me at the foot. Then, everyone would leave and the house seemed empty. Soon after, school would start and I was home alone.

Fall was also harvest time, Daddy was busy in the fields, and Mommy was busy in the kitchen. We always had a huge vegetable garden, along with the money crops. Mommy would can hundred of jars of green beans, corn, tomatoes, picked beets, apples, apple sauce, apple butter and berries, jams and jellies. She would make chow chow, bread and butter pickles, dill pickles and hominy in crock churns. Potatoes, onions, winter apples, and sweet potatoes were stored in the dark recesses of the stone cellar, which doubled as my playhouse on warm days. And it’s where Mommy would sharpen her kitchen knives; a certain corner stone worn smooth and curved like a saddle was the perfect whit rock for butcher knives and carving knives.

Daddy and hired hands would kill a couple hogs, when the weather was right, clean and hang them in the smoke house. Cut and bail hay, bring in the corn crops stored to feed the stock over the long winter. Stripe and hang the tobacco to dry for market day. It was a busy time, and I was too little with help with much of anything. Thank God!

In the evenings when supper was done, we would sit under the shade trees in straight back chairs or on the ground in the front yard; resting, talking and Daddy would whittle. He was patient. His knife was sharp. He would cut only a sliver of wood each time. I would watch it slowly curled and dropped to the ground forming a small mountain of shavings at his feet.

It looks so easy, so effortlessly, I would beg, “let me do it.”

“No, you’ll cut yourself.”

“No, I won’t. I promise.”

Daddy would give in, with a warning, “the knife is sharp. If you cut yourself, you better not cry.” Mommy would protest. Daddy would instruct me on the art of whittling, as I attacked the piece of wood. Of course, after about the 3rd of 4th cut, I would drop the knife.

“What happened?” Daddy asked.

Fighting back tears, “I cut myself.”

“I told you.”

Mommy would bandage my finger, scolding Daddy all the while.

This same scene played out many times over the years. And even as an adult if I asked to borrow his knife to sharpen my child’s pencil for school, he never failed to warm me, “it’s sharp, don’t cut yourself”.
“I won’t.”
“You better not cry.” Then he would smile.

Daddy could never tolerate crying from any of his children, I don’t know if he secretly felt sorry for us, if that was the case--it was a well kept secret, or if it just annoyed him, which is how he reacted. The only time I remember crying on my Daddy’s shoulder was the night Mommy died, and Daddy said to me, “Well, Baby, we’re alone now.”

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Daddy didn’t just whittle on sticks, he made toys, guns, and knives, doll furniture and puzzles. He would sit for hours in the evenings, we didn’t have television until the early 60s, and even then, he preferred the outdoors.

Most of his masterpieces were harmless, but the knives were lethal. The points were as sharp as his own and the blades could cut, well, mud pies and tender blades of grass. I would carry it in a leather sheath I had attracts to my belt, actually I think it was my brother’s belt cut down to size.

The toy guns looked as real as any, the trigger, and the hammer were perfectly shaped, the site on the barrel and handgrip were proportioned appropriately, and it was accurately balanced. These I carried in a holster on the same belt. My blond hair sticking out from under an old cowboy hat and I was ready for my day. My dog, a large collie named Cookie, and I would head for the hills.

My early year adventures were restricted to the yard and the hills behind our home, I would not leave sight of the house, but as I grew older, I ventured farther and soon learned every path, tree, and rock on the farm. A country road divided our farm; it would be a long time before I was allowed to go that far. The back of our farm joined that of our neighbors and my uncle Wiley’s. I felt free to roam onto their land as well. It was mostly mountain, no crops, or farm animals passed the flats. If I happened to find Daddy in the cornfield, I would catch a ride home in the sled on top the fodder, not that I was too tired or lazy to walk home, I just liked riding the sled.


Life on the farm would get boring at times, especially when the others were at school, Mommy, and Daddy working all day long. Even my mountain adventures would become tiresome. The cellar would become my playhouse. I had dolls galore; one named Johnny and one named Chubby were my favorites. I think Johnny was a girl doll, but he had short hair, not real, just formed in the heavy plastic, and I so dubbed him a boy.

With an old broom and all the gusto of a nester, I would clean the cellar and set up housekeeping. Once the cleaning was done, there didn’t seem much else to do, except visit the neighbors, which was Mommy in the kitchen. I could see her through the screened door, and invite myself over for lunch.

She would stop what she was doing, and we would sit on the back steps eating crackers and milk, while she read to me. She often read to me. Reading was one of her things, Daddy didn’t approve of reading anything except the Bible, so Mommy would have to hide her books and only got to read when Daddy was out of the house. But even in winter that was often. He spent a good part of the day visiting with the neighbors, even walking through the snow to get there.

Those times with Mommy were precious, because when Pam got home from school she took over Mommy’s time. She was Mommy’s girl; and wherever Mommy was, Pam was there helping. Pam did play with me after homework and dinner dishes were done. I remember Bob Jacks on the kitchen table, Ante Over, which we always got in trouble for. That’s where we would each get on one side of the barn, the one who had the ball would call out, Ante, and the other would call, Over. She would throw the ball and the other was to catch it, then we would run(NOTE, LEARN THE RULES AND EXPLAIN THIS GAME FURTHER)

We weren’t allow to play with cards, except Old Maid, but we got a deck of playing cards, I don’t know from where, and would hide in our room and play Rummy. Hide from Daddy, Mommy didn’t care, she just warned us not to get caught. I suppose that was not a good lesson to teach us, but Daddy with all his good qualities was a very harsh man and could be violent when he felt provoked. That included even minor infractions like laughing too much. Or crying. Or getting too excited at Christmastime, in fact any show of emotions seems to annoy him.

But Mommy allowed us to be children as much as possible. She would join in on our banter and laughter. We could crack each other us, laugh until our stomachs hurt and tears streamed from our eyes, but if Daddy came home, it was Shhhhhhhhh. And we would “settle down”, as he often told us to. Sometimes it was difficult to do, and the more we tried the funnier everything seemed. Just looking at each other could be hilarious. We would cover our mouths and noses to suppress the laughter and to keep Daddy from hearing us or go in separate rooms to avoid temptation.

Winter was especially hard, as I said Daddy often walked to the neighbors houses to visit, but by late afternoon he was always home, There were still chores for him to do outside, but I often felt trapped when he was in the house. Play quietly, don’t run, don’t laugh, don’t cry……………

If I thought I had it rough, I would listen in disbelief at the stories my sisters would tell of their childhood. At least Pam and I were allowed to play with toys; they were not, because according to Daddy, it was a waste of time. They were either to be working, cleaning, cooking etc, or sitting quietly, not reading.

The girls worked in the fields just as long and hard as the boys, even hired out to help the neighbors. One year my Uncle Wiley hired my sisters to help him plant his tobacco crop. (I was told this story, and now that I think about, I am wondering where his children were and why they didn’t help, or perhaps they did too. Anyway………) They finished the job and he paid them something like fifty cents each. They complained to Daddy who talked with his brother and demanded they be paid a fair wage. My Uncle was astonished and proclaimed, “I could have hired boys for that much!” Somewhere in his alcohol saturated mind that made sense to him.

But Daddy didn’t pay them anything, they got school clothes, most homemade and a new pair of shoes, room and board and not much else, including respect. Women didn’t need education, reading and writing was fine, but beyond that it was nonsense. All they really needed to know was how to cook, clean and be obedient to their husbands. This may explain why they all left home as soon as possible. All of the older children either married or left home by 18, most even younger.

Pauline, one of the twins and the eldest of the girls, built a house across the road on our farm. She lived there with her husband and two daughters, the youngest; Rhonda Kay was a few months younger than me. Pauline had a car and she and Pat, who was 15 or 16 at the time would often go shopping or whatever and bring along Rhonda and me. I don’t recall this time, as I was two when Pat married and left home. I’m sure I missed her very much.

Jack also left when I was very young moving to Indiana to find work. Rose left right after she graduated at 17 to move to Ohio where Pat then lived. I know I missed her. She loved green apples as much as I did, but didn’t care so much for the gathering of them. We had several apple trees of various types that ripened at different times throughout the year. Some we just called early apples, they were the best, maybe because they were the first of the season. They were on the hillside with only a narrow dirt path through the tangle of wildflowers and weeds. I enjoyed the little trip and would supply armfuls of apples for everyone. Then my legs would itch and break out in welts from the chiggers and or poison ivy. I was proud to do it.

There were a couple winter apple trees at the edge of the yard. These were best green with lots of salt and Rose’s favorites. I would collect these and reach them to her through her bedroom window. After she left home, I would replay that scene in my head every time I ate a green apple.

Then there were three. I was 7, Pam 11 and James 15.

As the family grew smaller, so did the crops, but there were still plenty of chores; Gathering wild berries, and black walnuts, cutting firewood and feeding the farm animals, all of which seemed like it should be fun to me. Apparently, I was more of a bother than help. I did get to husk the walnuts, with my bare feet, which carried the stain for several weeks. I would pick persimmons that grew along the barbed wire fence near the milking gate. But Pam and James preferred to pick the blackberries alone.

Once, I convinced James to let me help cut the firewood, he was using a two handed saw blade and it looked so easy when he and Daddy did it. After only a couple tries, I realized it wasn’t easy at all. James pulled me back and forth like a rag doll. I gave up and went to find someone else to annoy. Actually, I think he told me to leave.

I tried to learn how to milk the cows, but Daddy was impatient at my slow progress and told me to leave. Too bad dish washing was a no-brainer; it was the one thing I could do well, and the one I hated most. Usually Pam, being older, got to do the washing, I had to dry and put them away. It was a credulous competition to see who got finished first, duh…. but it made it more fun.

The twins, Pauline and Irene, were doing the dishes one evening and were laughing. Daddy told them to ‘settle down’; they were working, but laughing, which was not allowed. They tried, but said the harder they tried the funnier everything became. They could not stop. So Daddy spanked both of them. I can’t fathom what he thought the crime was, it wasn’t as if they were shirking their chores and just playing. They were washing dishes. They were laughing. They were teenagers.

It’s odd because I remember when they would come home to visit, everyone did a lot of laughing. That’s our thing or did I mention that before, when we are together we laugh, maybe because we didn’t get to do much as children, or teenagers. The surprising thing is, Daddy would join in. He could be a very funny man when he let himself go, quick-witted, cracking jokes and telling stories.

One of my favorites is: One winter there was a bad snowstorm, and then came a freeze. The roads were all but impassible. One brave soul, we will him Bill, started out walking to his neighbors house to check on the widow woman that lived there. (People used to do that sort of thing) When he finally arrived, he was half frozen and exhausted. He sat before the fire and said; “I didn’t think I was ever going to make it here. For every step I took forward, I slide two steps backward.”
“Well,’ asked the widow woman, “however did you make it?”
The man shrugged and replied, “I turned around and started back home.”

Daddy was hardest on the boys, I won’t go into that. But he had mellowed a great deal by the time I got there, and even more so by the time my children were born. He would actually get on the floor and play with them. But, it was also difficult for him to get back up, as he was in his late seventies by then.

So I was lucky to have been born last, I missed a lot of hard work, some bad times, and especially the years before Daddy was born-again. Mommy had been a Christian since a young age, and Daddy put her through hell for a while. People can change, and I’m so glad my Daddy did. I am not one to sit back and watch someone beat up on my mommy. I love my Daddy and spent a lot of my time following him around outdoors, along cow paths, and cane breaks and cornfields, because outside was where I wanted to be, but my Mommy was my anchor, my soft place to fall, my protector, my life.

Every night she would get up to check on us kids to make sure we were covered up, safe and warm. Every day she cooked three meals and washed and ironed our clothes, made our clothes, and showed us by example how to be gentle and kind. She bandaged our wounds, kissed our bruises, and taught us to pray. She worked without complaining or expecting a thank you and she seldom got one, at least not as many as she deserved.

She read to us, played with us, laughed, and let us know she enjoyed being with us, and never for a moment made us feel like a burden or unwanted. We knew we were very much loved and cared for. Her gentle spirit softened the harshness of Daddy’s, and even with all the hardship, she never changed. She didn’t yell at us, or scold us too harshly, she could just ‘have a talk’ and break out hearts more than all of Daddy’s threats and warnings. With just the pointing of a finger, or a look she could cause us to ‘settle down’, quicker than Daddy’s blustering, boisterous voice. We knew she was ‘on our side’, and pleasing her was imperative. Her gentleness toward us, made her seem fragile in spite of the hard work and harsh conditions she endured, and I believe all her children were protective of her and wanted to make her happy; to win her approval and make her proud.

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Meanwhile, back on the farm: I was sitting on the front porch steps, with my wooden gun and knife, cowboy hat and no one to play with----Daddy became inventive. He came to me with three strands of what he called sea grass string. It was also the string used to hold the bales of hay together. The strands were knotted together at one end which he gave to me and said, ‘hold onto to that, and pull hard’, I did as I was instructed and Daddy proceeded to braid the strings.

I watched quietly for a time, and then curiosity overcame, and I asked, “what are you doing?”

“I’m making you a swing.” He nodded toward the silver maple near the house, “I’m going to put it in that tree.”

Hiding my excitement wasn’t easy, and I still wasn’t sure how he was going to make a swing with three strands of sea grass string, but I held the end of what was beginning to look like a rope. It was a long process, having to add additional stings, but finally it was done. And so was my 4 yr old hand.

Daddy brought the ladder from the barn, along with a narrow piece of wood. He climbed the ladder and attached the ends of the rope to a tree limb, then, he put notches in each end of the board to fit the rope and my swing was done. It didn’t last long, perhaps a few months, but it was the first of many.

Daddy would always warn me, ‘don’t swing too high, it could break.’
“OK, Daddy,”
But of course I did, and it did. I wasn’t very good at heeding his warnings.
“Don’t run down the hill, you’ll fall.” The hill was actually our graveled driveway, and of course, I ran and I fell, and Daddy said,
“I told you.”

“Be careful with the knife you’ll cut yourself.”
“Ok Daddy” and of course I would cut myself.
“I told you.”
Sometimes he would add, “Didn’t I?” And, he would expect an answer!
“Yes, Daddy.”


However, of all the times the swings broke with me, I never suffered any serious injuries. I would often cry, but more because the swing was gone, then from the scrapes and bruises. Mommy would comfort me and Daddy would ‘build’ me another. I loved my grass string swings.


When I started school, it was like the end of the world for me, it was the end of my world. I was an exceptionally spoiled child and my teachers just didn’t appreciate that. I still don’t understand why. I was often in trouble and I hated school, I hated Miss Bingham, whose father was our neighbor, the same whose land I loved to roam. I missed my Mommy and I couldn’t wait for the end of the day, or for Miss Bingham to fall dead which ever would come first.

Home again, life was normal and once again, I was master of all I surveyed. Summers became even more precious, ‘back then’ the vacations were longer than now. Then came the relatives to disturb my quiet, peaceful life, and take my bed away. At least, I had someone to play with, my nieces, and nephews.

I was often torn, to sit with my sisters and brothers or play with the kids. I wanted to visit with both. I enjoyed listening to my siblings’ conversations, not contributing often, but hearing them reminisce of their childhood, tell of their present life or just jesting and laughing. When they began to discuss the horror stories of child birth, I was out of there and ready for some jump rope, hop scotch or the see saw. The see saw was a 2x4 board across a wooden horse; or a metal barrel, which added some degree of difficulty. Or when Sondra and I got older in the fork of a tree. There was also springboard for the fearless, and not so bright. This is where the board was placed over a smaller object and one would stand on one end while someone jumped onto the other. To me, this seems incredibly stupid and hazardous to the ankles. I was the one standing on the board. I never quite mastered it.

Sondra was a few months older than me, she was Jean’s daughter, and during our pre and early teen years, she would come down from Michigan to spend the whole summer with me. I loved her and we had great times together, but all summer long! I am a loner by nature; I value my alone time.

She would tell horror stories of her life in Michigan, some I found hard to believe. Others fascinated me. We were the city girl and country bumpkin, I much preferred being in the country. Sondra and I learned to smoke together. I think we were 13. We would collect pop bottles; she called them coke bottles, and would sell them at a nearby country store for .10 a bottle. ‘Back then’, a pack of cigarettes costs around .50 so 10 bottles would buy us each a pack. We would tell the storeowner, Rev. Lewis Hensley, that they were for Sondra’s mom, who as you may recall was still in Michigan.

Did he believe us, of course not! However, being the greedy old man he was, he sold them to us anyway. I have a great deal of respect for preachers doing God’s work; this was not one of them. I know, because one day he tried to pull me across the counter, with Sondra looking out the window. I don’t understand why she was doing that, if he told her too, what excuse he gave, or if she was aware of what was happening. At any rate, having left my trusted wooden knife behind, I used my fingernails, and my loud Daddy voice to free myself. I never told Daddy or anyone else, I don’t know what he would have done, if anything. There was the “what were you doing there anyway and what were you buying” question. Moreover, knowing Daddy’s mindset, he may have blamed me. I can’t say that for sure, he may have shot the man. Either way, keeping quiet seemed the best option.

The next Sunday, Rev. Lewis sang Unclouded Day, took up a collection, and preached to us about something. His granddaughter, Judy, was my age and in the same grade at school. He picked her up and brought her to church. I walked with Pam and James. Judy was very proud of her grandpa, and the fact that he was a preacher, I never told her either. However, I often wondered if…I’m sure I wasn’t the first or the last he tried something with, and I’m sure they all didn’t escape.

Every Christmas Rev. Lewis would bring us a bag of treats, apple, orange, and candy canes. I was always volunteered to meet him at the highway to bring them to the house. Our drive way could be treacherous in the wintertime. From the highway, it went downhill with a curve, then across a wooden bridge and passed the flat land in front of our barn and back up hill to the parking place. Coming out was even worse, there was a curve in the road on either side and made it difficult to enter the highway safely. The best way was to stop about half way up, where there was a clearer view of the road, and then make a run for it. Hoping no one came speeding through. If you did have to stop at the top, it was best to back up and try again; otherwise, the gravel would cause you to spin tires.

Well, wasn’t that interesting? Back to the reverent, after that one time, he never attempted to bother me again. I don’t recall if I told him I would tell Daddy. Or if he just got the message and went on to easier prey, at any rate, I never could respect him after that, and I hated going to his church.

Sondra and I continued going to his store. We would hide the cigarettes in her suitcase, with our initial to mark which pack was which. We smoked in the mountains, and hid the butts under a rock. We were so slick. We got caught big time. The cigarettes were confiscated; we confessed where we had gotten them. Of course, the reverent told Daddy that we had lied about whom they were for, and said he believed us. But he still sold us more.

Sondra lived with her mother and step dad, her real dad lived in Kentucky near us. He decided he wanted to meet her. I don’t know how long it had been since he had seen her, and she hadn’t seen her brother since they were tiny, I’m not sure she was even aware that she had a full brother who lived with his father. But they were to meet. He was coming to our house to see her, and she was nervous.

We were outside, I ran in for something and saw him standing there. He thought I was Sondra. I quickly informed him I was not. He was scary looking. I ran out to tell Sondra that her dad was in the house and terror crossed her face. “Bill?” She asked, that was her stepfather and what she called him when he wasn’t around.

“No, you’re real father.” A different kind of terror and we made our way inside. He wasn’t as scary as he looked and Sondra agreed to spend some time at his house and get to know her little brother. I missed her those two weeks, and was just getting used to being alone when she came back. We had such ventures together over the next few summers.


Bobby was the youngest of Uncle Wiley’s children. Tenney, his mother died at his birth or soon after, leaving my uncle a widower with 6 children. I don’t know how Uncle Wiley made his living, I’ve heard rumors of moon shining, but I can’t confirm that. I also heard that his older sons, Richard, and Alex drove the shine to sell, but I don’t know that for sure either. But as long as I knew Uncle Wiley, I never knew him to hold a regular job. He did raise a crop of tobacco, but I feel sure that wasn’t enough to support his family. But I didn’t know him when his children were young as Bobby was several years older than me.

So most of those kids were grown and married by the time I became aware of them. I do remember Bobby was a very good-looking man, as were most of the Johnson men.

I do know Uncle Wiley spent a lot of time across the road at our neighbor Elmer’s house. Elmer was a blind man who I know for sure sold beer and whiskey bootlegged up from Tennessee. At night, they would have parties; I could hear the music and laughter from my bedroom window that set at an angle from his house. Sitting up in bed, I could look out the window and see their lights and dark figures of people moving around in their yard.

There was loud music, laughter and boisterous voices, men and women and sometimes gunfire. It was all bothersome, but the gunfire was frightening. I don’t think they were shooting at each other I never heard of anyone being killed over there, except for Elmer’s dog, which he did himself. Rose and I witnessed that from our front porch. He came outside, held the dog’s chain, and shot him. Being blind, I guess he missed the first 3 times, the dog would yap in pain and terror as Elmer held him and fired again.

I don’t remember what it was that I screamed at him, but it did no good. I know he heard me, because he raised his head and turned in our directions. Rose warned me to be quiet, or he might start shooting at us. If he couldn’t hit the dog two inches away, I wasn’t too worried about him shooting me. Later he explained to Daddy that the dog had been killing his chickens and that is why he shot him. But Daddy, Rose and I agreed that he was just mean.

Anyway, Daddy worked at several different jobs off the farm, he was a coal miner, a stone mason, and he worked road construction. He helped raise our family and he helped Uncle Wiley raise his. Mommy helped them a lot too. She made them clothes and did many other things to make their lives easier.

Bobby was older than me, maybe 13 years or more. I don’t know much about him, I have heard some things that he wasn’t a very nice guy. He also liked to party with his dad, and he had a daughter out of wedlock. He married and moved away, soon after they had a baby daughter named Dale Ellen. One morning, when Dale Ellen was about 6 months old, Bobby went outside, sat under a tree, and shot himself in the head. No one knows why for sure. He didn’t leave a note. However, about 6 months later, his widow died of a brain tumor, leaving Dale Ellen an orphan. Some speculated that Bobby was aware of her illness and couldn’t handle it.

Bobby’s sister, Sally, took Dale Ellen in, adopted her, and raised her as her own. Sally had married well and could well afford it. Her own children were older, and in school, she was the most capable. She loved the Lord, and sang with a church choir. Everyone thought Dale Ellen had landed in a safe haven.

When Dale Ellen was older, early teens, she became ill and was bedfast for a few years. One afternoon Sally took her Bible and a .38 to the bathroom, sat in a chair, and shot herself in the head. No one knows why.

Alex was my favorite of Uncle Wiley’s children, he was always laughing. I cannot think of a time when I saw him that he was not. He would often visit us when he came home, as Daddy, and Mommy had been a major influence in his life. He was the same age as my brother Jack and they were very close. Alex was a good man; he had a lovely wife, and two beautiful daughters, an excellent job and a great sense of humor. I loved it when he visited.

He was also a tall man; he came to the house one-day riding his nephew’s pony and the pony stepped on his foot. He thought it was hilarious, even though he was in pain.

Uncle Wiley had bought the pony for his grandson, who was spending the summer with him. They had no place to keep it, so Daddy agreed he could use our pasture. I was thrilled. My second cousin, we call Jr. was younger than me by a couple years, but we had a good time that summer. He came over often to ride his pony and of course, I was allowed to ride him to. The pony’s name was George, after his dad.

At the end of the summer, Jr went back home to Indiana and the pony left too. I was heart broken. I missed Jr, but I think I missed the pony more. That September on my birthday, Daddy called me outside and there was another pony, a bigger one. I named him George. He was mine. He was with me until I married and left home. Daddy kept him for a few more years and then sold him, to Jr’s dad, the original namesake.

Richard was Wiley’s oldest son. He was still a young man when he died of a heart attack. Beatrice was the oldest daughter, after she retired she moved back to our community and a few years later died of cancer. I think it was somewhere in between these two deaths that Alex shot himself. That was and still is the greatest shock of all. No on knows why.

Then there was one. Martha, Jr’s mother, the sole survivor and is still with us. She and her husband also retired and moved back to Ky. Of all the children, Martha seemed the most fragile, as referring to her mental state. As it turns out Tenney had mental problems too, and I assume the children she left behind inherited them. This makes me wonder of her death.

No one was aware of a family curse and no one knew how to end it. Now the grandchildren are left to deal with it. To my knowledge, none of them have committed suicide, so far.



My Uncle Wiley, twinkling blue eyes looking out from his wrinkled, unshaven face, his faded red hair mixed liberally with gray, unwashed, and uncombed. His clothes were dirty and in need of repair; but the cane was new.

I had not seen him since the accident; they did not allow small children at the hospital. But, I remember the day it happened. It was near our house. A deep snow had fallen the night before and the roads were icy. I had watched from our front porch as much as the cold would allow.

Daddy came rushing into the house calling for blankets; his brother was trapped under a car in Oscar’s hayfield. He had been walking with his friend, Elmer, which was their custom. Elmer, who lived across the street from our house, was blind since childhood, and used a cane. They were walking up the road to my uncle’s house when a car came around the curve too fast and lost control. It struck both men. Elmer was hurt too, but not seriously, because my uncle had tried to push him out of the way. No doubt saving his life.

We were so far out in the country and with the condition of the roads it would take the ambulance a long time to arrive. The temperature was in the teens with a wind-chill at minus zero. Daddy was near panic; it frightened me.

He rushed back to the scene. Several neighbors had gathered, but none had much hope for my uncle’s survival. They were all of the opinion that trying to move the car and drag him out was futile, and the fact that they were all just standing around watching, angered my dad. He ordered them to ‘help me get my brother out of there!’. It may have been the anger mixed with fear in his voice that brought them out, but they worked together and relieved my uncle’s broken body from the weight of the car.

It was sometime later; that I heard the sirens the ambulance and police arrived. I suppose they did some medical treatment at the scene. When Daddy returned to the house, he was sure Wiley wouldn’t make it. He pulled off his coat in order to get dressed to go to the hospital. He removed a .38 special from his pocket.

“It’s Wiley’s” he explained, “I didn’t want the police to find it on him. I think Ock took Elmer’s”

A blind man with a gun, now that is scary.

Uncle Wiley had many injuries; the worst of which was that his leg was crushed. There was nothing else to do, but remove it just above the knee. It was still touch and go for a while, but he did pull through, that Irish stubbornness could be an access.

Several months later, he was fitted with a prosthetic leg. He was not able to live alone after his release, so the people who lived in our rent house took him in. My sister Pauline build this house, and had lived there, as I mentioned before. She had long since moved to Indiana. So had my oldest brother, Earnest, and the other twin Irene. Another sister Alice had also moved there. It must have been the land of milk and honey at that time as far as finding jobs were concerned.

Our little community was growing smaller, farming wasn’t such a lucrative business anymore, the coal mines were not favorable, and there was not much else to hold young people here. The steal mills of Indiana and the automobile industries of Detroit lured them away.

The people who took in my Uncle were named Patterson, father was Tip, and mother was Haley, son Paschal and daughter Nan. The ‘children’ were much older; neither had married nor ever would.

I think the daughter had a crush on Uncle Wiley, and at one time, I believe, they were engaged. It didn’t take him long to learn to walk, and he managed the short distance, including the down and up hill that was our driveway. Now, as he walked across the living room and eased himself down onto our couch, I couldn’t help but stare.

“Wanna see it?” His gruff voice reminded me of my manners, and morbid curiosity caused me to nod even as my mind screamed Run!

As he pulled his pant’s leg up, I saw the shinny pinkness of the leg. He pulled it over his knee and explained to me how the new knee worked, and showed me how he could bend it. I sat beside him and examined the workings of the strange contraption.

I asked him if it hurt. He nodded, but grinned, as if say “yeah, maybe a normal man, but I can take it.”

Winter came and went and by the next summer, things were back to normal, more or less. Uncle Wiley could walk well with his new leg and cane, even drunk, we discovered. Elmer had recovered quickly spending less than a week in the hospital. He and Wiley resumed their Friday and Saturday night parties at Elmer’s house. The parties had not stopped only uncle Wiley had had to abstain.

By day, I would watch them walk along the road, the cripple, and the blind man. The cripple leading the blind, Elmer steadying Wiley, both with canes, .38 specials and probably still half lit. It was indeed a sight to see—to see such loyal friends.

As a young girl and teenager, I lost several family members, uncles, cousins, and friends.

Uncle Emmett was Daddy’s youngest brother. He was a jolly man, and a diabetic. He didn’t take care of himself at all. I’m not sure what business he was in, but he traveled a lot and often took Reba Kay his youngest daughter with him. She was a year younger than me and loved her Daddy better than anything.

Uncle Emmett lived in town, was involved to some point in politics. His son David was my age, we got to know each other in high school. Patsy was Pam’s age and a lovely woman. She was my favorite of Emmett’s kids. She would visit us, and spend the night. I got to hang out with them, Patsy didn’t mind. Which I guess is why I loved her so much.

We would go swimming in the creek, which ran through our lower fields and often flooded, usually taking the bridge with it. The creek ran parallel to the road, which meant it also cut through the neighbors farms left and right as far as the interstate. When it would flood, every spring, it would bring all kinds of treasures my way. I loved walking along side it to see what I could find. Nothing valuable of course, but for me it was an adventure.

Oscar’s farm, Daddy called him Ock, for some reason, joined ours and the swimming hole on his side of the barbed wire was deeper than ours, which also may explain why his fields didn’t flood as much as ours. Coming home from school on more than one occasion, finding our bridge, (if it was still there) covered with rushing water, we had to walk up the road, cross at Oscar’s bridge and walk around the mountain to get home. It seemed a long distance when I was young, but it really wasn’t that far.

He didn’t mind if we used his bridge, or the swimming hole. He didn’t mind that I spend about as much time on his land as on my own. The path that we took though his land had wood vines that came down and formed a swing, much stronger that my sea grass string swings, and could swing almost as high. I spend a lot of time there.

Pam, Patsy, and I enjoyed Oscar’s swimming hole. The memory now of us walking down our drive, listening to a transistor radio brings back such sweet emotions. A song that was popular, we all loved it, but I cannot think of which one it was. But it was playing that afternoon as we walked in the sunshine on our way to the swimming hole. That is my favorite memory of Patsy.

She was still a young woman when she was killed a few miles from her home in a car wreck.

Uncle Emmett had died several years before his daughter. I remember his funeral was very sad. He was still a young man; Reba was a child playing in the sand. I felt sorry for her having to give up her father at such a young age.

Uncle Charlie passed after that and then there were four, my Daddy, the eldest, Aunt Rhoda and Uncle John and Uncle Wiley. There had been other children, but I don’t remember them.

Uncle Wiley was diagnosed with throat cancer. They did surgery and implanted one of those talking boxes. He would hold an electric razor looking object to his throat and talk, it sounded terrifying. I usually took off when he came over after that. I couldn’t stand the sound it. He grew worse of course, and put into a nursing home. Mommy and Daddy would visit him every day that summer. I didn’t go at all. He did however make his confession of faith before he died, and my brother-in-law Archie, a wonderful man, and of the Catholic faith, baptized him there in his hospital bed. I was glad that my uncle was born again and that I will see him again some day. He will be whole.

I remember Uncle John. He often would visit with us, spending a few days at a time. He was clean, didn’t drink or curse, but he did smoke a pipe. I liked the smell of it. But one day while they were out, I wanted to do my Uncle John a favor. So, I washed his pipe for him. It was so dirty, but I got it shiny clean. I was so proud of myself, and holding it in both tiny hands, I presented it to him with a big smile.

Mommy and Daddy apologized profusely for my mistake, but Uncle John just laughed and said that was OK. I was just a child and didn’t know any better. I still didn’t know what the problem was, Daddy finally explained it to me. A pipe must be seasoned to taste right and I had ruined his pipe. I was heartbroken. But Uncle John wasn’t at all upset with me. He seemed to think it was funny.

He also died when I was relatively young.

Daddy was 102 yrs old when he died, leaving Aunt Rhoda. I could tell stories of her, but they would not be pleasant, as if………I haven’t seen her since Daddy’s funeral. I don’t recall speaking to her then.


The rent house was small; only two bedrooms, with a covered front porch. We had many renters there over the years. My first memories were Eugene (can’t recall the last name), the father a full-blood Cherokee his redhead wife, and their two daughters, Imogene and Carolyn. Imogene looked like her father and Carolyn took after her mother. We were great friends, hiding behind Daddy’s wagon, playing cowboys and Indians. My wooden gun came in handy. We were all on the same side, the Indians of course.

After they moved I was very sad, but met again in school and continued our friendship through the years. We lost contact after high school. Imogene was my age, a kind, and wonderful person. I loved Carolyn as much, but she was a couple years older. They were best friends, truly devoted to each other.

The next family was, Anna and Darlene, both older than. I don’t recall their parent’s names, I think his was Charles. We were also friends and went to school together. Often times, when I went to their house, I felt I was only tolerated because my parents were their landlords.

Then there were the Pattersons, who took in Uncle Wiley, and had a mean, red, long horned cow, which tried to take over my stomping ground. There wasn’t sufficient pasture land on that side of the road, just enough level ground for a vegetable garden. The rest was mountainous and overgrown. So the cow had to share our pasture. She would chase me.

One day I was walking though the woods, minding my own business, when I heard her hooves pounding the ground and growing louder. I saw her barrowing though the trees head down heading right for me. Thankfully, I was near the barbed wire fence and I ran for it. I grabbed the two bottom strands, and swung myself under. I reached the other side still standing and prepared to continue running. As I glanced back to see if this was necessary, her head came between the strands, but they held.

She didn’t leave. She waited there. I had to find another way home. Through bushes and briars and more barbed wire, but I made it. I complained to Daddy, but I got no results. I just had to live with it. I hated that cow.


School became easier to handle once I met Kay. She was to be my best friend through elementary and most of high school. She lived with her grandparents, along with her two sisters and a brother. She had several aunts and uncle who were still at home; a very large family. Her mother was dead, and her father was unfit, I suppose, but Kay was determined to go to him. She ran away several times trying to get to him, but was always returned to her grandparents who punished her brutally. She often came to school with striped on her legs.

And I thought my life was hard…….

She had one dress that she washed out each night and wore until it was so tight she could barely squeeze into it. Her aunt, who was one day older, had several different outfits. To my young mind, I could not understand how this could be. I felt sorry for Kay. She had a hard life. I suppose it’s no wonder she got into drugs during our high school years. This is when we parted company.

She married a drug dealer, who beat her often. She had a daughter and finally divorced him, but lost custody of her daughter. How did that happen? She married again, and had three more children and when her youngest was still an infant, she took a shotgun, placed it against her stomach, and pulled the trigger with her toe.

This happened in August the same year my mother died in March. This was a very bad year. Only one thing made it bearable; that I was born-again. Only a few short weeks before my Mommy died, I gave my heart to the Lord. I believe had it not been for that, I would not have survived that year either, even though I had two small children of my own.

I was divorced and lived with Daddy for about nine years after Mommy died. He didn’t take it well. He had been driving the day the 18-wheeler hit their pick-up. It hit Mommy side; she saw it coming. Daddy only got a cut on his head and after 24 hours of observation, he was released from the hospital.

I’m sure he felt guilty. It had been his fault, the accident I mean.

Mommy was in and out of the hospital a few times and died of complications about a month later.

I worked at the Knox County Health Department as a CNA/CHW and took care of my son and daughter and my Daddy. We went to a church near our home, in fact we could see it from our front porch. We saw the smoke and flames the day it burned. Daddy and I got in the car and drove down. The pastor was devastated. Near neighbors, members or not gathered around.

Mommy had helped to decorate that church, and now it was gone, too.

It wasn’t an accident, and I can tell you who kicked in the front door, poured a can of gasoline down the middle aisle, and set it on fire, but I can’t prove. I know it was a near relative, in fact. Someone my age, that I came to know in high school.

It didn’t take us long to start building again, in the meantime we had service under a tent. It was very hot that summer, but we never missed a service and indeed, had some great, Spirit filled services. A great amount of the material we needed for the new church was donated, the members did much of the labor, including myself. We build it bigger, stronger, and no not faster, but it did go up fast. It was wonderful to once again sit on padded seat, with carpet under my feet instead of dirt, with air condition instead of smothering heat and mosquitoes, and enjoy the service.


I’ve gotten a long way from wooden toys and grass string swings, haven’t I? Death and destruction has a way of overshadowing sweet childhood memories. But when childhood seems to be full of it, it’s hard to stick to the happy times.

I went to a small country school, four classrooms, four teacher, and two classes to each room. This way we knew the older as well as younger students. When I was in the third grade, Francis S. was in the fourth. She was best friends with Kay’s sister Veronica and her aunt Shirley who both were also in fourth grade. I liked all three of them. They didn’t mind talking with us younger kids and we played games together at recess.

In the third grade was also, Judy, the Reverend’s granddaughter, Bobbie, also Kay’s aunt and Bobbie Jean another one of my dearest friends.

In front of the schoolhouse there were two long set of stairs. We were allowed to play on the first but not the second nearest the road. We played ‘mama may I” and dared each other to jump, or walk two or more steps at a time. If one forgot to say, “mama may I?” before performing the task they had to go back to the top. The first to reach the bottom was the winner, and got to be “mama” on the next game.

We played hop scotch, limbo, softball, high water, jump rope, and others I can’t remember.

On this particular day after finishing the game, we were waiting for the bell to ring; Francis was talking of how excited she was to be going to Shirley’s to spend the night. It was her first time to be allowed to so. I had not so far been permitted to spend the night with Kay, I’m not sure why. I was allowed to go to Judy’s and Bobbie’s whenever I was invited. Judy was diabetic and not allowed to spend a night away from home, but Bobbie often came to my house. I loved spending time at Bobbie’s house.

The bell rang and it was back to class. The next morning at school, I was to learn that Francis would no longer be with us. She and Shirley had set down to do her homework, Francis had just written her name at the top of the page when …….
Shirley’s brothers, ages, 8 and 13, were wrestling over a gun; it went off, hitting Francis in the head. She lived long enough to say, “Tell mommy, I love her.”




Forgetting those things which are behind……………

Even though I remember my childhood as a happy time, when I think of it, when I start allowing the memories to flow, writing about it, there were many bad memories as well. There was a lot of pain, deaths, and bad times. I guess the bad we shove into a trunk and lock it away, but the key is always floating around in our minds and if we are not careful it finds its way to the trunk and all those bad things come rushing out.

I had meant this to be a blissful journey into a happy past, a joyful childhood, filled with simple toys, harmless adventures, and pure pleasures. It seems to have turned into a death list. There were many tragedies; it could be that is why the good times seem so good.

The innocence of a wooden gun tucked into a leather holster strapped to my brother’s belt around the waist of a naïve little girl, as opposed to the cold steal of a .38 special pressed against the temple of a young man who seemed to have everything to live for.

The gentle, summer breeze whipping the sheer curtains as it blew though the open window and cooled the sleeping little girl, as opposed to the sudden awakening by gun shots and loud obscene laughter of drunken party goers.

The joy of a sleep over shattered, by the death of nine-year-old girl doing homework.

The memories of schoolyard playgrounds, a childhood friend, and adolescent games, scarred by the recollection of the ghastly death she was to inflict on herself a few short years later.

Sitting in a grass string swing, hearing only the peaceful sounds of summer, and the voice of your mother drifting softly across the yard as she sings praises to our Lord; well that one is still untarnished. She loved flowers; she loved to work in her flower gardens and allowed me to assist. I was more trouble then help, but she didn’t mind. The only thing she loved more than her flowers were her children.

OK, so that memory is somewhat tarnished, because even after 26 years I still miss her as badly as the day she died. Are there any good memories out there? Or in there? Perhaps if I salted my mind with confabulations, I could recall blissful times without the recollection of the atrocious events spattered throughout.

All I know is the adventure down memory lane has many thorns, hazards, and sand traps, I am not sure that I want to continue.