Dolls Uncut

Dolls Uncut

Childhood In The Before Times

     I have read or been told that as one grows older their short term memory grows weaker and the long term memory grows stronger. Over the last few years, through personal experience, I can tell you that this is a true statement. I am sixty-six years of age, which means I was born in 1943, the middle of the Second World War. I still have some of my ration stamps to prove it. At this young age I have problems remembering what happened yesterday but I can remember parts of my past as if it had happened yesterday.

     It came to me a few days ago that, while I have these memories I probably ought to set them to paper in case someone (though it is doubtful) might be interested now or in the future. I can recall during preteen and teen years collecting some documents, photographs, letters, post cards, a small painting done on paper and a partial college report card, all dating from the late 1800s to the early 1900s. These items were given to me by my grandmother, great aunt and other older relatives before they passed away. All of these items pertained to relatives. They made a profound impression on me then and for the rest of my live. So much so that history was one of my majors in college. I still have all those items and am still fascinated by history.

     I was born at 1300 McPherson St., Oxford, Alabama. It was a home birth because most people could not afford a hospital those days and we were definitely amongst the “most people” group. The house was my maternal grandparent’s place, which was, just before or just after I popped into the world, upgraded with the addition of an in-door bathroom and gas heat. Shortly after I was born my mother and dad moved out into a small mill village house owned by the textile mill in which my father worked. About a year later they divorced. It was an unpleasant and hostile divorce which resulted in me never knowing my biological father. Though my mother remarried when I was about fourteen, there were never any brothers or sisters. I am told that my father remarried and had children, but I have never met them.

     Being an only child seems to be a problem with some people or at least that is what the Psychologist of today would seem to have us believe. I, for one, was glad to be an only child because I never had to fight with anyone for attention, toys or simply to get what I wanted. I am especially glad I had no siblings after observing my children when they were growing up and now my grand kids.

     My mother and I moved back into my grandparent’s house after the divorce, along with my aunt who was also divorced. So for the next thirteen or so years, that was where I grew up. My mother worked days at a local G.E. plant and she was out and about a lot at night. This left me to be raised pretty much by grandmother and, as the first grandchild; I got away with a great deal. That is not to say my grandmother was pushover. She had had a hard life married to a horse trader, moon shiner and peddler of fruits and vegetables.

     My mother tells the story of the time they lived in a shack in a very rural area near Oxford. It seems she was just old enough and tall enough to look out the window when one afternoon she saw her dad running down the dirt road, stop at the mailbox and put something in it. He then continued running down the road. Mother told her mother what she had seen. Mom went to look and came back in with a dead rabbit and a note. The note said “Here is supper-revenuers hit the still-going to Georgia-will be back when I can”. My grandmother took care of expenses and her three children by taking in washing and ironing. Granddad showed up about two months later.

     Really Early childhood is not to clear because of the repeated stories I was told of specific events such as my uncle Jim’s arriving home from the front after the war; me pushing back my highchair from the table hard enough to knock a fishbowl off a cabinet onto my head; a younger playmate next door dying and an older kid across the street telling me that there was not a Santa. I believe that I actually remember but I am not sure. Therefore the details from this point will start about age six and the first grade.

     Since money was generally short in the household I never attended any kind of preschool and therefore was not accustomed to order and discipline. Nor was I comfortable with strange grownups, like for instance a teacher. On my first day of school I do remember crying and hanging on to my mother. Later on that first day I recall being too embarrassed to tell the teacher I had to go to the bathroom and I ended up peeing in my pants. To say the least, it was an awkward moment for a six year old.

     My childhood was for the most part utopian and except for the silly requirement to attend school could not have been better. I lived on a street where there were lots of other children to play with. Our street was pretty much the end of construction for many years and I can remember when the dirt road in front of the house was being paved. We lived at the foot of a small mountain which for the most part was uncut forest and undeveloped. This made for many hours of exploration and games of cowboy and Indians, and war, depending on how many of us there were in the pack that day. There was an outcropping of rocks near the top that made a great fortress.

     When I was very young, say between five and seven years old, one of my favorite play past times was playing house with one or the other of the two girls with whom I was closest friends. My granddad had an old barn out behind the house which had fallen more or less into disuse. The girls and I would climb up into the loft and pretend that was our home. The girls usually brought a doll to fuss over as our child and we would decorate the place as best we could with whatever scraps of discarded furniture, lumber for tables, bushel baskets for chairs and whatever else we could scrounge. I think I have been most happy in the company of females ever since those days.

     When I was a bit older another great past time was bike riding. As with our other summer activities, it was not unusual to leave the house by 8 a.m. on a Saturday morning during school months or any day during the summer break, for an all day bike ride or any other activity and not show back up until just about sunset. It was a much safer world in semi rural small town America back then. We also liked to play polo using our bikes as our steeds and any stick long enough to reach the ground to hit the ball. Sticks in the bike spokes while moving made for many painful losses of skin and blood playing this game.

     That wasn’t nearly as much fun as building race cars out of whatever materials we could scrounge and racing them down the narrow road next to my house. These contraptions usually fell apart or became uncontrollable and ran off into a ditch about halfway down. Thus, a further extraction of skin and blood was the usual result.

     When I was still in a stroller my grandmother would from time to time take me to downtown Oxford to the only movie theater to watch productions staring Roy Rodgers, Gene Autry, Tom Mix, Johnny Mc Brown, Lash Larue, and the team of Red Rider and Little Beaver, to name a few.

     When I was old enough to walk to town myself my mother would give me a quarter on Saturday. With this I could go to a movie and afterward get an ice cream soda at the drugstore and buy a comic book. When I needed it she would give me another quarter to get a haircut. I do believe the cost for such items are a bit more these days. I just paid twenty three dollars for a hair and beard trim last Saturday. I’m getting used to it I think, I only cried for a few minutes this time.

     Another great pastime for the boys was war games. The girls always found somewhere else they needed to go or something else more important to do. There was a garden field at the very back of granddads lot where he sometimes planted corn, tomatoes and/or other vegetables. We were not allowed to play in the field until after the crops had been harvested. As soon as I got the O.K. it was time to gather as many boys as possible and choose sides. The field was full of dirt clots of excellent throwing size.

     There were ditches at both ends of the lot and the distance between was just about right for boys of eight to twelve years old to throw. We used bushel basket lids strapped to our arms as shields and with clots in hand advanced, maneuvered, and defended our sides of the field. We defended from our respective ditch as needed when under attack and went over the top for our own frontal attacks. If someone occasionally caught a clot with his head that only made the game more interesting because of the real danger of being hurt.

     When things got boring around the house I would get my granddad to let me tag along as helper on his peddling route. Granddad was a Hudson vehicle man and always had a Hudson pickup truck. He would go to the farmer’s market in Birmingham and load up on fresh veggies and fruits that were in season or that he thought might be most saleable to the rural womenfolk on his routes. It was a tough and hot job in the summertime, out on the Alabama rural unpaved roads - no air conditioning in those days.

      All the women and a few men would come out of their homes when granddad blew his horn. They recognized that sound and were happy for the doorstep convenience of fresh vegetables and fruits (and sometimes nuts). They were also happy to have someone to talk to for a few minutes in their isolated day. My favorite part of the day on the road was when we stopped at one of the old country stores so I could get a candy bar or chips and either a big orange or grape soda or maybe an orange crush drink. I wonder if they still make those. Granddad always stuck with his Buffalo Rock ginger ale and usually a moon pie.

     As with everybody my childhood slipped away year by year, pushed away by hormones, peer pressures, education and parents. As my childhood slipped away its activities were quickly replaced by other activities and interests such as football and girls. Those will never be replaced by anything, especially in the South.

     All in all I believe that the increased capacity for long term memory is a plus in the aging process. It is good to be able to clearly remember ones youth and the people and places and even pets that helped form what you are today. Though it is great to think on and reminisce about, I would not like to go back and relive those years.

     They were not all great times and there is usually a great deal of physical and mental pain associated with one childhood. I still have not so fond memories of my grandmother making me go out to the bushes in the back yard and break off a switch. She would then use the switch to whack me several times on my bare legs for some bad behavior or breakage I had caused. Fifty years later and I still cringe at those memories. Yes, it was a different world in the forties and fifties. I think I enjoy my life now as well or better than as a free range child. One reason in particular jumps to mind right away - air conditioning.

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About the Author

Mr Green has a B.S. Degree form Jacksonville State University (AL) and a J.D. Degree from The Birmingham School of Law. He served in the U.S. Army from 1967 through 1987, 5 years of which were on active duty serving in Vietnam and Germany for a total of 3 years. Retired as A Reserve Major in the Military Intellegence Branch. He has worked with NASA, Defense Contracts Administration Service and USAID. He Served outside the the United States as a Civilian for approximatly 8 years mostly in the Middle East. He also worked for the University of Alabama at Birmingham AL for approximately 1 year. He is now retired.

Please Help: POETRY.?

What does this poem say about determination?

This Was My Brother by Mona Gould

This was my brother
At Dieppe,
Quietly a hero
Who gave his life
Like a gift,
Withholding nothing.

His Youth..his love..
His enjoyment of being alive..
His future, like a book
With half the pages still uncut.

This was my brother
At Dieppe.
The one who built me a doll house
When I was seven.
Complete to the last small picture frame.
Nothing forgotten.

He was awfully good at fixing things,
At stepping into the breach when he was needed.

That's what he did at Dieppe;
He was needed.
And even death must have been a little shamed
At his eagerness

Its basically saying that this young man did everything with order and purpose, no matter what it was. He always did it 100% even when he was a child and it seemed only fitting that he would fight in a war and take it as far as he could..death. Hope this helps.

Damian Marley - Welcome To Jamrock (Uncut) [HD]