Letters to my Grandchildren Summer 1951

Joan and George. 

While I loved to pick cotton, I was not too fond of chopping cotton, de-weeding, and thinning out the plants.  However, in the summer of 1951 I was chopping cotton for a neighbor down towards Pink Lovelace's store.  Donnis Ashley and I were working in a field down there.  For lunch, I would always go back home where Mama would have a great lunch ready for me, and then I might rest awhile and go back and chop some more if it got cooler.

When I went home for lunch that one June day, Mama had lunch but she was also all a twitter regarding a letter that she had received from my Aunt Elsie who lived in Maryland.  Elsie's daughter, Joan, my first cousin was getting married, and she planned to have the wedding in August down at our grandmother's house.  She wanted me to be her maid of honor.  I was more excited about it than Mama was.  I'm not sure I had ever been to a wedding and I know for certain I had never BEEN in a wedding.

Beautiful Joan. 

Many of our purchases in those days were from the Sears Roebuck Catalog that arrived at our house in the mail every season.  That was the source of the evening dress that I would choose to wear in the wedding.  It was a lovely pink dress with a few rhinestones embedded around the front of the bodice and a sheer cape covering the shoulders. We told Aunt Elsie that I would wear pink so she could choose a picture hat as an accessory for me to wear.  She and Joan came down several days before the wedding day, and when I opened the hatbox from Hecht's in Baltimore that they brought there was this beautiful pink picture hat.  The prettiest hat I had ever seen.  It matched my dress perfectly.  That hat was a birthday gift for me too, my birthday was on the 23 of August, and the wedding was on August, 25.  I had just turned 14.  Joan was only 20.

Cheryl, the flower girl, and me. 

My Dad built an altar that was placed out in front of the beautiful Spirea bush ablaze with white blossoms in front of Grandma's porch.  The piano was pulled out on the porch.  I don't remember who played the piano, but our cousin Virginia Greene, who was an accomplished musician, sang. Our little cousin Cheryl was the flower girl also dressed in pink.  Chairs were placed out on the lawn facing the porch where a large number of aunts, uncles, and cousins who attended sat.

The wedding party in front of the altar in front of Grandma Greene's front porch.

I was happy to be in the wedding, but at the same time, I was sad that Joan was getting married.  She always came down to Grandma's in the summer for a long visit, and I knew she wouldn't; be doing that now.

After the wedding, there was a reception up the road at our Aunt Edith's house.  Joan knew I was sad because she wouldn't be coming in the summers to play, but she told me that I wouldn't be interested in playing for many more summers.  She was right.  It wasn't too many summers until I became interested in boys.

Hanging Out With Rebecca, A Clothes Horse, on Patreon

Apple blossoms by Rebecca A Clothes Horse.

It is such a dreary, rainy, cool day here that I spent some time this morning on Patreon enjoying Rebecca's photography and musings, and that always lifts my spirits.  Rebecca is my first cousin twice removed.  Her grandmother Joan and I are first cousins.  Rebecca's Mom Robin is my first cousin once removed. This information is for those of you who might be fond of Geneology.


I am a patron of Rebecca on Patreon and that means that I am allowed to share her posts as long as I give her credit, so that is what I am going to do today.  All photography here is from Rebecca, A Clothes Horse from what she shares on Patreon.

She often shares some of her favorite quotes. Photography by Rebecca. 

January wallpaper.  

February wallpaper.  Rebecca is a book lover as am I.

The Rhodos bloom much earlier in Northern Ireland than they do here in NC.

Rebecca's inlaws in Northern Ireland have apple farms.  So she makes lots of pictures in these orchards.

These apple blossoms are making my rainy day much brighter. 

One should always have a little book handy. 

Rebecca makes beautiful crowns and this one is made of apple blossoms.

Rebecca has lived in Northern Ireland since she married a charming Northern Irishman, Thomas.  Northern Ireland is really a fairyland and Rebecca captures it all with her photography.  Patreon is a platform and way for artists to share their beautiful work and get paid for it. I get more than my money's worth by subscribing to A Clothes Horse on Patreon.  I check in with Rebecca there almost every day especially when I am feeling down and out and need a boost.  Thanks, Rebecca, you are wonderful.

You might find an artist that you would like to support on Patreon so why don't you check it out https://www.patreon.com/

Ice Cream, Ice Cream, We All Scream for Ice Cream

Homemade ice cream.

My friend, Libby, recently commented on homemade ice cream, and that prompted me to think back on when and how I have had ice cream in my life.  I can’t remember the first time I had ice cream, but I remember when our neighbors, BJ and her parents, moved next door. In the summer they would often go visit Aunt Reba, the sister-in-law of Margaret Hamrick, and her family who made homemade ice cream.  Martha and I usually were invited to go along. Eventually my family began making homemade ice cream. 

The mixture (milk, eggs, sugar, flavoring, sometimes fruit) would be prepared, perhaps just vanilla, but often chocolate, strawberry, or during peach season peach ice cream.  The mixture would be put into the metal canister of the ice cream maker, the dash would be placed in the mixture, the top was put on and the handle for turning was added. Ice and rock salt would be packed around the outside of the canister.  Salt made the ice melt faster causing the mixture inside to freeze.  The crank had to be turned constantly, and sometimes a child would sit on top of the ice maker to stabilize it when someone was turning the crank.  At first, the crank turns easily, but as the ice cream hardens, it becomes very difficult to turn.  That tells you the ice cream is ready. Kids would often fight over who got to lick the dash as it was taken out of the ice cream.  There is nothing better than ice cream made this way.  I need to see if I can find our old ice cream maker. 

Ice cream maker. 

At school, at least beginning in the sixth grade when we were over in the high school building, we could buy ice cream from the school store which was just across from Mr. Padgett’s office.  Someone would collect our money and we could order a fudgcicle, a chocolate-covered Popsicle, an ice cream sandwich, or an orangecicle. Maybe some other things.  My favorite was chocolate covered Popsicle. I think most were 5 or 10 cents.  Looking back I think I always had ice cream money, but I bet there were some kids who never had the money for ice cream and there we sat eating ours while they watched.  That seems cruel now.

                                                                        

As an adult, I still have enjoyed more than my share of frozen desserts.  Breyer’s Ice Cream and Klondike Bars are among my favorite commercial desserts.  But when I had my first Maple Walnut Ice Cream at COWS down on the waterfront in Halifax, Nova Scotia I was sure I had found the “Golden Fleece” of ice cream.  Maple walnut has become my very favorite flavor, and it is difficult to find down here in the south.  But lo and behold several years ago Local Fresh opened up over on Glenwood, and now it is my all-time favorite ice cream shop.  Occasionally they make maple walnut, but not as often as I would enjoy.  But they will make me a special order of the maple walnut if I purchase a gallon.

                

I’ve had gelato in Italy and crème glacée in France.  I like ice cream in the old fashioned kind of cone, but I also like milk-shakes, ice cream floats (particularly made with Cheerwine), banana splits, and chocolate nut sundaes.  And there are those many flavors of Cook Out milkshakes.                  

                                                               

I also like frozen custard.  When I was still teaching one of my students told me he was working at Goodberry’s in Raleigh.  I had never heard of Goodberry’s, but I discovered it was actually more or less on the route I took going home from work each day.  After that, I would stop every Friday and have an ice cream treat.  My favorite there is a Carolina Concrete, vanilla with wet walnuts and caramel sauce. 

                                                               

Alas about a year ago, I became dairy intolerant so that put a kibosh on my eating ice cream that I love, but there are now many plant-based frozen concoctions that are equally tasty.  Of course, sherbet has no dairy so I can eat that, and there is “ice cream” made from cashew milk and almond milk.  Even my Local Fresh has almond milk ice cream.   My recent discovery is Revolution Cardamom Spice plant-based delight. Boy it is delicious. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                

But every now and then I have to sneak away to Local Fresh and have a serving of real ice cream.  So good!!!!

                                                                  

Hanging out in the Eighth Grade Letters to my Grandchildren

May 15, 2020
Dear Grands,

In the summer of 1950 I became a teenager, although I don't believe teenagers were the dreaded lot that they have become in the eyes of some.   Upon entering the eighth grade I was pleased to learn that Miss Sarah Blanton who was my sixth-grade teacher had become Mrs. Sarah Dedmon and she was now teaching the eighth grade.  And our room was in the basement of the high school just as it had been in the sixth grade.

As I recall she continued to take our class to the old tin can gym to play basketball whenever we had recess in rainy or cold weather.  Remember I told you how she had been the one that got me interested in basketball, and by the time I was in the eighth grade I had improved quite a bit from my sixth grade days.  By this time I had an official basketball goal and basketball with which to practice at home.

In Mrs. Dedmon's class, we had art classes.  The one project we had was making a puppet out of papier-mache, actually, we made just the head of a puppet.  I remember we used strips of newspaper that we would dip in water and then cover with starch or maybe it was dilute Elmer's glue.   Then we painted eyes, lips, maybe added hair, I don't remember.  I do remember that we had devised a little stage where we could sit behind and put on a play with our puppets.  My friend Libby and I were apparently pretty good playmakers because we were asked by the other students to put on another play after the required one. (Looking back, I bet our classmates were just trying to get out of having other less fun classes.) We would sit down and hold our puppets up and just make up a dialog as we would go.  I'll have to ask Libby, who is still my friend if she remembers this.

I also learned to type in the eighth grade.  Mrs. Rudasill came to our school to teach typing, and we had to pay to take the class.  Eighth graders were allowed to sign up, and I think my friend Shirley and I were the only eighth-graders to take the class.  We were allowed to leave our class during what was the last period for the high school classes and go up to the room that was adjacent to the stage in the auditorium where the class was taught.  I was a little apprehensive being in a class with high school students, especially since my first cousin Douglas was a senior that year.  I was determined to do as well as he did.  I can remember typing, "The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."  It had all the letters of the alphabet.  I learned to type fast and accurately and did as well as most of the high school students.

I had no typewriter, but our book had a template of the qwerty keyboard, and I would practice on the template in the book.  But "Santa Claus" brought me a reconditioned Underwood Typewriter for Christmas and I could really practice after that.  I loved the class, and it has been one of the most useful classes I had during my twelve years of elementary and high school.  I'm still doing a lot of typing, guess it is called keyboarding now.  I find that I don't type as fast nor as accurately as I once did as I get older.  But I manage.  I never was good with numbers.  I still have to look at the keyboard when typing numbers, and I never learned to use the number pad on the keyboard.

An Underwood Typewriter similar to the one I learned to type on. (Still have one like this in Shelby.)

Not only do I credit Sarah Blanton Dedmon with my interest in playing basketball, but she arranged in the spring of that year (1951) for us to have what would be my first boy-girl party.  She arranged for us to have a party over in the elementary school one evening in the room that had been my third-grade room.  Perhaps that room was no longer used as a classroom.  Up until the eighth grade I had considered boys a nuisance at best, but that changed when a cute little blond-haired boy moved into our school district in the eighth grade.  I'll call him Joey (not his real name).  I had a"crush" on him, but I tried to be very cool and nonchalant about it.  Some of my friends had said, "Joey likes you."

Anyway, at this party, we were playing some kind of game, maybe Spin the Bottle.  Bet you have never heard of that game.   A boy would spin the bottle and the girl that the bottle was facing when it stopped spinning was the one that he could go with for a walk outside.  So on one spin, Joey's spin landed on me, and he and I went out with other pairs to have a walk.  As we walked on that spring night, he reached over and put his arm around my shoulder, and no he didn't kiss me.  I never thought of boys as a nuisance after that.  Thank you, Mrs. Dedmon, you were a wonderful teacher!

I'm sure you grandchildren will find this letter particularly amusing.

Love, GrandPat

Washing Windows Then and Now

My squeaky clean windows, inside and out. 

With this beautiful weather, I have washed my bedroom windows inside and out this morning.  These days I use Windex and paper towels.  Usually, I get a professional company to wash them outside, and I probably will call them for doing all the other windows, but I thought washing these few windows would be a change of pace for me and might relieve the monotony of these days.

Growing up my sister Martha and I would help Mama wash windows inside and out.  One of us would be on the inside while the other would be on the outside and we could see if either of us left a spot.  Bon Ami was what we used on a wet cloth, and when it dried we would wipe it all off with pieces of newspaper.  No paper towels for us back then.

Bon Ami was my friend when I washed windows growing up. 

As I remember the kitchen windows required that we get on a ladder.  Although I'm afraid of heights, I didn't mind getting on a ladder, but I was terrified of getting on the roof.  Sometimes I would want up on the roof if Daddy was working on the roof, but then I was afraid to get down the ladder.  Soon I learned to just stay off the roof altogether.  Now I have learned to stay off the ladder altogether. I'm sure you are happy to hear that.

Clothespins my grandmother probably used. 

Clothespins I used and still use when I am in Cape Breton. 

We did lots of chores around the house.  Dusting, sweeping, mopping, I didn't mind.  Mama always did the washing, but I  or Martha would often hang the clothes on the line and take them off as well.  I miss having a clothesline, but we do have one in Marble Mountain and the clothes smell so good after drying in the sun. As a kid growing up, sometimes the wet clothes would freeze on the line and then dry by sublimation.  I thought that gave the clothes a delightful aroma.

Growing up Martha and I did most of the ironing I recall.  The dried clothes would be sprinkled with water and rolled up tightly until there was a bundle ready to iron. The damp clothes would iron out with no wrinkles if you did the ironing properly.  No steam iron back in the day.  These days I don't iron clothes.  They usually come out of the dryer pretty wrinkle-free.  Only occasionally might I need to press something.

Ironing in the 50s. (Photo from an image on the internet.)

It is rather amusing that I really dislike house cleaning now, whereas growing up I didn't mind it at all.  The one thing I didn't like was to wash dishes.  Mama always did the cooking, she just didn't want us in the kitchen so I didn't learn to cook until I was grown.  But Martha and I had to do the dishes. We would often argue about whose turn it was to wash the dishes. Looking back I believe I did more than my share because she was younger.

Now I have squeaky clean windows in my bedroom, and I can open the shutters and have a nice view of my climbing fig and other plants outside my window. And today I can even leave the windows open it is so nice and fresh and cool outside.

I wonder what chores you have done during this lockdown my dear grandchildren?

Love, Grandpat

Jump Down Turn Around Pick a Bale of Cotton

Cotton plant with the bolls open and ready to be picked.  

Farming and textiles were the main sources of income in Cleveland County, NC during the 40s and 50s and cotton was the main crop of the farmers. I think I was perhaps the only person in the county who really enjoyed picking cotton.  Although we lived in the country surrounded by farmers, my father was a machinist at the Dover Industries Cotton Mills so I did not have to pick cotton as many of my friends did.  But I couldn't wait to get in the cotton fields. I actually got PAID for picking cotton for neighbor farmers.

My older cousins were picking for a neighbor farmer when I was quite young, preschool age, probably five.  They took me with them to the field that was near my house and I picked for a short time, and I got paid with a check for $5.00.  This would have been in the early 1940s, and I certainly didn't pick enough for that big paycheck.  Perhaps the farmer thought that as a child if I picked any amount of cotton it was worth $5.00.  Taking that check home was one of the proudest moments in my young life.  So proud that I didn't want to cash the check, but finally Daddy convinced me to go with him to the bank, and we cashed the check. I had to stand on tip-toes to hand the check to the teller, and I wasn't too happy about cashing the check.  For some reason, the check represented more money than the cash did in my little mind.

I was probably ten or eleven when I started picking cotton on a regular basis.  I could hardly wait for school to be dismissed for six weeks of cotton-picking season.  In the summer, we were in school for six weeks to make up for the time we would miss in the fall while picking cotton.  Most of my classmates were children of farmers and they had to help their families with cotton-picking, for me, it was a way to make money.

We were surrounded by cotton fields.  The closest neighbor had a daughter (BJ) who was about the same age as I and she was my best childhood friend.  So that was the family that I and my sister Martha mostly picked for. My grandmother would make me a cotton-picking sack every season using a burlap sack to which she attached a soft strap that went over my shoulder.  (I don't know why I didn't keep them from year to year.) We would go down a row picking until our sack was full.  Our sack of cotton was dumped onto our own personal "sheet" which was also made of burlap sacks sewn together.

By afternoon there would be a large pile of cotton on the sheet, and with the sun beating down it made a pleasant place to have a little rest, or maybe even a nap.  One could bury her nose in the cotton and the distinctive fragrance emanating from the warm cotton was comforting.  So comforting that when I was in my early 50s undergoing chemo for breast cancer and was told to think of something pleasant as the toxic chemicals coursed through my veins, I would pretend I was lying on a big pile of cotton warmed by the sun and imagine the soothing aroma of warm cotton.

One of the hazards of picking cotton was the stinging Pack Saddle a caterpillar that fed on cotton leaves.  A sting from this little creature was very painful.  There was often a telltale sign that a Pack Saddle was in a stalk of cotton because there would be little black drops of poop left on the leaves or on the ground.  This forewarning would usually prevent one from being stung because you could locate the caterpillar and remove it from the stalk. But I was stung nevertheless many times.

Pack Saddle on a cotton leaf. 

At the end of the day, the sheets full of cotton were tied up and weighed and the farmer would write down the weight of cotton for each person for the day.  At the end of the week, the daily weights were added and it was payday!  The sheets of cotton were emptied into a wagon and taken to the barn. I think the pay was usually something like $2.00 for each hundred pounds or fraction thereof up to $4.00 per hundred.  So I could easily make $15.00 per week, which was good money I thought for a hard-working kid.

Once a farmer had accumulated around 600 to 800 pounds of cotton, it would be time to take the cotton to the local cotton gin to be baled.  The first time I went to the cotton gin in Lattimore, BJ's father allowed us to ride in the wagon full of cotton that was pulled by a mule.  At the gin, the wagon was vacuumed up under a big suction apparatus, and I was a bit scared that maybe we would be sucked up too.  It was safe.  The cotton was baled, weighed, and I suppose the farmer was then paid for the bale.  Soon the mule was replaced with a Farmall Tractor and that made a much faster trip to the cotton gin. I'm sure it made plowing of the fields much easier as well.

A Farmall tractor very similar to the one BJ's father had.  

The cotton-picking season began in early September about two weeks before the James Strates Cleveland County Fair would come to Shelby. This fair was the biggest in the state excepting the State Fair in Raleigh.  The money I made during those two weeks I saved to spend at the Fair.

After the Fair, I would save my money to buy new school clothes for the winter. 

I suppose I picked cotton until I was 16 years old.  I was a fast picker, and I remember the most I ever picked was 210 pounds in one day. Once I was sixteen and could drive I saught other jobs.  But I still have the fondest memories of my years in the cotton patch. 

As we were picking in the fields we would often sing this song among others.  There would be BJ, my sister and me, BJ parents, sometimes her Grandmother, and sometimes her aunts.  It was great fun.

Hanging out in the Seventh Grade

Dear Grands,

May 1, 2020

Back to my school days.  In the school year, 1949-50, I had turned 12 and was in the seventh grade at Lattimore School and our room was in the basement of the high school building just as when we were in the sixth grade.  Mrs. Hugh Harrill, a preacher’s wife, was our teacher. 

One thing that stands out in my mind is how we would have reading class.  Students would have to take turns reading in the order of how we were seated, and the teacher would call our name when it was our turn to read.  It seems that my row was the last row and I had to listen while most of the others read in their turn. I would read much faster and would go ahead and read further along, but I also had to be sure I knew where we were as a class so that when it became my turn I would be in the correct place. Today this seems more frustrating to me than it did at the time.  If we were called on to read and didn’t know where in the story we should begin reading, the teacher was not happy.  I wonder if I remembered anything about the reading lesson of the day. Despite that awkward way of reading, I never gave up my love of reading. 

Back in the day, perhaps it is still the case, 12 and 13 year-old girls formed little cliques.  There were five of us that usually hung out together and would go spend the nights with each other on occasion.  For some reason, our clique often had someone in our little group that we would decide to shun.  I was occasionally the odd man out in our group, but there was one girl that we regularly shunned.  I will call her “J”.  J would get very upset and hurt and would cry so that once when we were shunning J, our teacher called the others in the clique in during recess, one by one,  and scolded us and Mrs. Harrill would sometimes cry she was so upset about how were acting.  I think maybe she would read a passage from the Bible to us.  Looking back, I think that was the only time I can remember being mean to someone, and I so regret it.  By the time we were in high school, we were no longer forming cliques and J was one of the more popular girls in the class. 

Martha Mason, my friend who had polio, returned home that year spending most of her time in an iron lung.  She had missed the sixth grade while she was hospitalized, so after she was back the teachers would go to her house (she lived near the school) and teach her.  Sometimes I and some others would go visit her and she could be out of the iron lung and be on her bed for a short time as we visited.  I recall she was always cheerful and interested in what we were doing.