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!
Oops! I’m not a very good proofreader am I?!
How I managed to survive my toddlerhood without scars is a major miracle given my propensity for mischief. My mother always said that God looks after drunks and little children and the former explains how I made it through my college days in the 60s. Sigh.
I remember the moss and palmetto plants of the swamps. Once back in the 1950s, my grandmother visited us in Louisiana and took back some moss to try to grow it on her trees in Missouri. It was too cold there and the moss died. An aunt from Delaware visited and took back a box of palmetto leaves to use as decorations. She had never seen any before. Reading your blogs always brings back memories of growing up in the south.
Well, I thought 19 was interesting, but it is 30 here. I personally am much relieved that the month is over. Yes, I will do this again, but with a lighter topic.
I’ve loved your entries. Thank you so much.
I’ll be writing No. 30 in a little while. Then I’m probably finishing up the housework tomorrow. I won’t stay away long though. You’re one of my strongest supporters, and very much appreciated. See you on Postcards soon.
I love hearing about your early life way down south. Are we in ‘Gone with the Wind’ country?
Well done for sticking with the project and enjoy the rest tomorrow.