My mother, who brought cool water to my soldier daddy as he guarded German war prisoners in the abovementioned location, was a tenant farmer's daughter. She'd been born at home in north Georgia, the eleventh of what was to be thirteen siblings. With six brothers and five surviving sisters, it is unlikely that she received appreciable attention from her overburdened parents.
The small farmhouse must have teemed with bodies. Creature comforts would have been scarce, even the most basic amenities were absent. No faucets emitted running water. No indoor bathroom, even the most rudimentary, provided a space for cleansing one's body. A wood stove stayed in constant use with multitudinous mouths to feed. Perhaps a large fireplace provided warmth on cold Southern nights. Summer brought sweating but no fans offered relief. Electricity hadn't reached this rural area.
To say that life was primitive might understate the harshness of the environment. Couple the living conditions with arduous farm labor and life might be viewed as bleak indeed. School attendance had to be blended with crop requirements, even for the youngest child. There was no insurance, no savings, no car, maybe little hope.
My mother really never talked about her childhood except to retell a few stories. One of the most poignant involved her emergency visit to the local hospital when her appendix burst. Not only were her parents fearful for the life of their daughter, but the cost of her care was clearly beyond their meager means. Mother said that on the day after the operation, a nurse inadvertently left a hot water bottle on her stomach and she received third degree burns. The hospital administration was so alarmed by this accident that my grandparents were told they owed nothing for Mother's visit. As unsophisticated country folk, there was great relief that the financial burden had been lifted, but more importantly, that their daughter would recover completely.
However, the convalescence lingered for quite a while. During this period, Mother was unable to attend school. No lessons were sent home for her to keep up with her class. Thus, at the end of the year, she was unable to move forward to the next grade. Feeling that she would be shamed to remain in the eighth grade a second year, she decided to quit school altogether. Her parents must have agreed as she never returned. How sad for a child to relinquish her education prematurely.
With scant funds and a dozen living children, capturing childhood faces would have been unimaginable. As the older siblings married and left the family home, life eased somewhat. Whether a camera was purchased, and that is unlikely, or friends photographed the Carter crowd is unknown. When Mother died, a cache of early photos was discovered in her bedroom closet. These precious poses were previously unseen and now offer a glimpse of a young woman who obviously loved fashion, especially shoes. (It should be noted that the next two generations of females share this affection passionately.)
I look at these pictures, now aged, in some cases, over three quarters of a century, and try to see the mother that I knew. She seems carefree, happy, well-groomed, stylish. I wonder what she is thinking and what her dreams contain. I am confident that she never envisioned living her last two decades in a California desert town with her daughter's family.
Did she sew these dresses herself? Did she trade frocks with her favorite sister who was a few years younger? What colors were in her closet? I know she preferred soft pastels of blues, yellows, and pink. Occasionally she'd wear red or black and look quite stunning. Did her taste in hues shift with the decades?
On the farm, washing was a tedious and never-ending chore. Large galvanized metal washtubs were filled with water heated on the wood stove. A washboard was used to scrub out the most obvious stains. Rinsing occurred in another tub. All freshly washed pieces were hung to dry on a line that stretched across the backyard. Ironing required the use of heavy cast iron appliances which were heated on the stove's burners. During months of oppressive heat, these chores created a cauldron like atmosphere.
Mother traded her Georgia farm life for a similar one at Daddy's ancestral home in Mississippi. The house may have been a bit larger and less populated but modern conveniences hadn't been adopted at the new address either. A significant difference, however, was that she no longer washed anything. Daddy was a partner with his three brothers in a laundry and dry cleaners business. Surely this fact eased Mother's life tremendously.
As a young wife whose first fourteen months of marriage were spent husbandless as her groom fought in Europe, Mother eagerly awaited the advent of her second wedding anniversary and the birth of her first child. This baby was due on Valentine's. Yet, on Mother's birthday sixty-five years ago today, she ran across one of the farm's pastures and accidentally initiated early labor.
The baby, a girl, delayed her arrival for two more days. I suspect that she wasn't a bit happy about being born so close to her mother's birthday. She's always been somewhat selfish about birthdays. I think she might have been chagrined to have missed Valentine's as 'her' day.
Mother left us in June 2002. She had a long and fruitful life and remained a farm girl forever. She never learned to ride a bicycle, was terrified of water because of a scary incident in her childhood, adored her many brothers and sisters, cherished her immediate family and mine, retained her Southern accent throughout her lifetime, and kept her dignity even as her faculties became ever so frail. Her spirit roams our house and I find that many of her characteristics are now manifested by me and seem to be seeping through my being more and more with each passing year. Happy 97th Birthday Mother. We'll miss you always.
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