I’m pretty sure this picture was taken in the spring, and my guess is it was taken shortly before my birth in 1942. The glee on my sister’s face was shortlived, because up to that time she had been the only girl in my father’s side of our family. Then Great-Grandma Fannie died in March of 1942, just in time for my parents and siblings to move into her old house where I was born in May. And my sister never fully recovered after that upset.
There I am in the front yard (yes, that step needs to be repaired!) at about six months of age. I make these assumptions based on the tiny dog between my oldest brother’s knees, that–up to this day–I had never noticed! It appears the puppy is several months older., plus the three siblings were sitting at a site I know to be where the tiny little house they lived at the time was located, way back in the corner of one of the fields on Grandpa’s farm.
A few years later my brothers would complain that I ruined every hunting dog they brought home because the dogs were given too much love and everybody knew you had to keep a hunting dog lean and mean or they turn into pets no good for hunting.
This house was much larger, and the boys would share a bedroom while my sister had a room of her own. We must have left there about two 0r three years later, but I have very vivid memories–though fleeting ones–of things that happened when we were living there. A tree that can’t be seen grew on the other side of where my dirty foot lies–one with Spanish moss hanging down in long strands (notice the Spanish moss hanging in the background).
When I between two- and three-years-old, I pretended the moss strands were fish. I found a cane fishing pole and stood on the front porch “fishing” until I managed to hook some moss. I reached out to catch hold of my “fish” with my right hand to draw it near me–just as I’d seen the grownups do–and the hook dug into the fleshy part of my middle finger.
My big brothers struggled to carry me down the road to Grandma & Grandpa’s house. I don’t know if my mother was there or not because this is where the memory becomes fuzzy. I always thought my grandfather removed the hook. The actual removal is vivid, but according to my mother when I talked to her about it several years prior to her death, it was the doctor who clipped off the hook at the base where the fishing line was attached. I thought he would have to slit my finger to get it out so I was bawling the whole time. I do remember the crying and the great relief I felt when the hook was finally out. The scar is very faint now, but if you know where to look it can still be seen.
And that’s my Sunday snapshot memory on this 19th day of the November daily posting. One more day!