Southern Shade

I’ll cherish memories of yesterdays tomorrow

In my peaceful, little piece of southern shade



INTRODUCTION



     

"Dannie Jean Beechworth, I declare!" My Mother's somewhat less than harmonious tone gave me a pretty good indication that I was in for another one-way conversation. Now, I knew she couldn't see me at the back door from her vantage point at the kitchen sink, but Dad often said she had eyes in the back of her head, so I assumed she also had the ability to see around corners.

"You wipe your filthy feet before you come traipsing into my kitchen . . . out there running all over creation with the dogs and the poop and Lord knows what all. I’ll swanee, young'un . . . I don't know what to think about you sometimes. Better yet, now that I am thinking about it, just take them sandals off and drop 'em there on the side of the steps. We're gonna start doing like them Chinese people from now on around here. They take their shoes off every time before they enter their . . . I think they call it a hacienda, or something like that. Anyway, they hardly ever have to mop. I've heard tell they don't have dog poop in the yards either, because they . . . well, never you mind about that."

"The point is, I don't wanna hafta be cleaning floors every time I turn around. Why, you're plenty old enough to start pitching in on more of the heavy work, like your sister, Irene. What’re you, eleven now?”

“Yes’m.”

“Bless my soul, there’s so many of ya’ll it’s hard for me to keep track. Anyway, I was down on my hands and knees scrubbing floors and wipin’ walls when I was half your age. Oh, and by the way, sweetie, before you come in, go run round up your brothers and sisters." (Mother, hereinafter referred to as Mama, also had the unique ability to sprinkle niceties into the middle of a tirade.) "They're pro'bly out scattered from Village Creek to Hobbs' Drugstore, and I won’t be able to whistle 'em home, since I blistered one of my pinkie whistle fingers on that hot coffee pot this morning. Supper's gonna be ready in an hour or so, and I want ya'll all washed up, sugar, so you don't come in here looking like little guttersnipes and smellin’ to high Heaven. Your Daddy'll be gettin’ home after while, and he'll tan all ya'lls hides."

What, on the surface, might be viewed as an ominous warning was only Mama having one of her occasional rants, which were typically all bark. However, it was best to let her speak until the well ran dry, like the daughter of a preacher that she was, once she got on a roll. And while she was sermonizing, you knew you'd best listen, because she had a penchant for giving pop quizzes on what she had just said. Her bark could get a little toothy if she caught you daydreaming during one of her "life lessons," as she was wont to refer to them. The fact is, Dad never once lifted a finger to any of us kids, but Mama didn't seem to notice or, in any event, it didn’t preclude her mentioning what she perceived to be a genuine threat to us.

Mama continued, "Now, what do the Chinese call their houses?"

"I don't know, Mama, but it sure ain't hacienda. That's Mexican. I learned that in jog’raphy last semester."

Through a slightly flushed face, Mama responded, "Oh . . . well, okay then. Go on now. SCOOT!"

Born in Anniston, Alabama, during an era when an outhouse was considered a luxury, Mama was country through and through. A natural, curvaceous beauty, at almost five feet nine, she was a hair taller than Dad; he always seemed a bit disquieted whenever she wore her high heels. For many years, Mama fit the image of the proverbial ‘barefoot and pregnant’ domestic goddess. Dad liked that . . . the ‘barefoot’ part, anyhow.

Goodness gracious, before I proceed any further with this little saga, I suppose it’s about high time I introduced myself. As fate would have it, I wound up taking after Mama, in terms of our personalities, much moreso than I would have admitted not that many years ago. Just like her, I never could quite see eye to eye with formalities, and I, too, have a tendency to be a little long-winded, especially since most of my musings tend to be peppered with Southern colloquialisms. Once my childhood insecurities were behind me, I felt at home in this world, and I try my best to make those around me feel likewise. If someone asks me how I'm doing, I give a straight answer, and expect the same in return.

I'm Jean Cargile, but was a Beechworth in those days, one of six kids (ultimately there would be seven of us with the birth of youngest sister Becky, in 1957). Oh, what wonderful days they were, growing up in a quiet, urban (those words weren't oxymoronic then) part of Alabama at a time when old things seemed more precious, and new things seemed fresher. Traditional family values were intact, neighbors were more neighborly, and just about every aspect of life seemed to be cloaked in innocence.

Global warming wasn't an issue, though I posed comfortably for Dad's movie camera in my one-piece yellow bathing suit one winter, while standing ankle deep in snow . . . twenty-seven degrees one day, sixty-three the next. In the fifties, anytime there was an overnight change in the weather, the blame was put on either the Communists or nuclear fall out. Nowadays, there never seems to be a shortage of well-defined reasons for virtually every climatic change that can scare the bee-jeepers out of those gullible enough to open their purses and billfolds. My Grampa Beechworth remembered some pretty freakish weather around the turn of the twentieth century, and, according to him, only one explanation was needed to account for it and that involved the good Lord (though the devil must have figured into the mix one way or another).

My memories of the fifties, when one year stretched on for ages, and each day provided exciting new venues for exploration, have allowed me an occasional diversion from the more turbulent times that followed. While I've never been one to dwell on the past, I do find that taking a brief mind trip to that bright, treasured oasis has never failed to buoy my spirit and strengthen my resolve in my later, grayer days.

In the winter/spring semester of my sixth grade year, I would celebrate my twelfth birthday. During that five month span, life's unpredictable path would lead me through a panoply of emotions, more than some people experience in a lifetime. Except for a few, I wouldn't trade any of those memories for all the emeralds in Timbuktu. I was a wide-eyed innocent, on the cusp of puberty, and living in an ideal time for making that ofttimes difficult transition as smooth as possible.

By then, World War II had become an unpleasant memory, with a mostly pleasant ending. Dad fought and was badly injured in that war, but, as he was quick to remind anyone who felt sympathy for him, he was far better off than most young men in his outfit. His biggest problem was occasional severe pain in his lower back, the result of a German bayonet being thrust there, just missing his spine. A lesser concern was some very decorative forearm tattoos, compliments of a one night furlough in France, which he would come to increasingly regret as the Beechworth clan grew. I can recall him wearing long sleeve shirts in sweltering weather when attending my two brothers’ Little League baseball games. Oh, those youthful indiscretions.

The Korean conflict was behind us. Even the major headlines regarding the space race, when our fear of Russia grew exponentially as they launched Sputnik, to gain a major technological advantage, wouldn't occur until the following year. The massive social upheaval, some necessary and liberating, some questionable to me, was still a few years off. Life was simple. Times were good. From any angle, the future wore a smile.

Though Dad, who was in the heating business, earned more than most of the fathers in our neighborhood, any able-bodied person could make a decent, honest wage, as the cost of living was very low. Taxes were reasonable, sales tax a mere nickel on the dollar.

Milkmen, in their snappy, white uniforms, delivered a full range of dairy products right to the front door. Sunday, Tuesday, and Thursday nights, Mama would set out the empty bottles with a list of what she required the following day. Occasionally, one of us would become emboldened and sabotage the note to include something we usually didn't get, like orangeade or chocolate milk. I’m uncertain as to the reason, but those glass bottles produced a far milkier flavor than the wax-lined cartons at the supermarket. Bosco, Hershey’s and Ovaltine tasted like cheap imitations when compared to the creamy chocolate milk delivered by White Dairy. Because it arrived ready to drink at our door, we kids assumed special cows produced it, thereby accounting for the pronounced difference in taste and texture.

Every other Monday, the milkman left an itemized invoice along with the order. When she set out the empties on Tuesday night, Mama would leave enough money to pay off the charge. She would let one of us kids drop the change inside one of the bottles (only after washing it out to remove the sticky residue), then she would tuck the greenbacks halfway into the same bottle so they would be poking out of the top. In warm weather, the delivery man would place large scoops of crushed ice on top of the perishables to keep them cool. We never saw ice like that anywhere else, and we enjoyed getting up early on hot summer days to munch on it before it melted.

An array of vendors patrolled the neighborhoods. Popsicle boys pedaled their wagons of Icesicles and Dreamsicles, kept frozen by chunks of hot ice. Truck farmers were a common sight, most in old pickups, a few, still clinging to the last vestiges of a slower-paced past, in their mule drawn wagons. Droppings along Freemont Avenue, where we lived, attested to the truth of their existence, though within a year or two, they were gone. It saddened me, for I derived a degree of comfort from the singular echo of the mule's unshod hooves clopping slowly along the tree-lined, narrow, asphalt roads. I will always miss that soothing, hypnotic sound. As for the droppings . . . well, that is another matter entirely!

We were fortunate to have as our regular peddler, Mr. Tony the Banana Man, world famous, in our very tiny world. He would belt out, in his operatic tenor voice, a tune announcing what magnificent produce he had on board on any given day, something like, "Oh, peaches-melon-i-ooo, fresh turnip greenies and potatooooes, got papaya, green beans, and mangooooes  . . .  toooodayyyy!" I had forgotten about Mr. Tony, until a video game, Super Mario Brothers, debuted in the eighties. I felt certain that the lead character was created by someone familiar with Tony the Banana Man, right down to his thick, black moustache and colorful overalls (or "overhauls," as Grampa Beechworth called them). In addition to the usual assortment of fruits and vegetables, like polk salad, tomatoes, bell peppers, corn, apples, grapefruit and oranges, Mr. Tony always had some goodies for the kids. One of our favorites, a bargain at twice the price, was "Chum Gum," three pieces for a penny. The flavor only lasted a couple of minutes, but, my oh my, what a tasty two minutes it was. And, of course, he was almost never without his namesake . . . bananas.

Quaint and borderline ridiculous as it sounds now, doctors did make house calls. One spring I contracted strep throat, and was hardly able to hold up my head. Through my fever-watered eyes, I could barely make out the soothing visage of Dr. Tourney in his white frock, stethoscope hanging from his neck, as he stood at my bedroom doorway. Seeing his familiar red, flat-top hair, with that ever-present, always pleasant smile on his freckled face, gave me an immediate sense of relief. In him, God had created the perfect pediatrician, with a comforting voice and a reassuring, delicate touch.

When I learned I was Dr. Tourney's final house call, I felt special, but not without a twinge of sadness. From a very tender age, I experienced wistfulness over any ‘passing of the guard,’ whether it was the bankruptcy of the small Green Spot Orange Ade bottling plant in the middle of our West End neighborhood, or the last Howdy Dowdy show. Even though I was sixteen years old by the time that final episode aired, I broke down in tears when I heard Clarabelle the Clown say, “Good-bye, kids.” With far less emotion, I also mourned the closing of our local Spinning Wheel Restaurant, ‘home of the world’s greatest milkshakes, thirty-two flavors.’ Since it closed its doors in the early seventies, I haven’t had a grape milkshake anywhere near as delicious as those I got at Spinning Wheel. Actually, I don’t recall having a grape milkshake since then!

If I may paraphrase the narrator of "The Lone Ranger" television show, "Return to those thrilling days of yesteryear." Come with me to a marvelous time and place that seems almost surreal today, but was, in fact, quite real.  I’m sure you'll find it rather pleasant, a brief respite within the gentle, southern shade. 

Very clear memories click into focus on that cold Christmas Eve, 1955, almost as if I were watching moving pictures . . . .



















CHAPTER 1

Christmas Eve With Elvis



     



"Dan Jean, I can't sleep. My stomach's got a whole buncha butterflies floatin’ around! You don’t reckon ol’ Santa Claus is gonna 'member those apples me and Zack stole outta the Fink's pear trees last summer, do ya? They don't never pick 'em, so they just fall off and rot, but I guess it's stealin' all the same. If I was Santa, I know I'd overlook a boy takin' wormy ol' apples. Wouldn't you, Dan Jean?"

If ‘Dan Jean’ was being addressed, it was an odds-on bet that baby brother Danny was doing the addressing. By 1956, everyone called me ‘Jean,’ which I much preferred. Everyone, that is, except for Danny and Mama, who called me ‘Dannie Jean.’ I had been given my first name to honor my Granddad (though my Dad was also named ‘Dan’), just in case no boys were ever born into our sizable branch of the large Beechworth family. That name brought some teasing from the boys, until I kicked a few of their skinny butts, demonstrating that, even though I might have been a tomboy, they would be wise to think twice before calling me ‘Tom,’ or ‘Dannie,’ either.

"I don't believe those were pear trees, where ya'll grabbed those apples, bud," I corrected Danny with a trace of a grin. He caught his mistake and giggled.

My worried five-year-old brother was precocious, to say the least. He was a genuine child prodigy, who had begun reading at age three, and scrutinizing everything under the sun shortly thereafter. Fortunately, Danny was grounded, and blessed with a marvelous sense of humor, though, a good deal of the time, his jocular wit seemed to be completely inadvertent. His wide-eyed innocence and youthful exuberance made kids and adults alike want to be around him. With big blue eyes, and a huge dimple in each cheek, I had no doubt he would be a heart-breaker someday.

"Heck, I don't think ol' Santa Claus is gonna much mind about those apples though, Danny. After all, you push-mowed the Fink's side yard free of charge right after that, though they didn't even know about the apples. A’ course, I'm not so certain Mr. Fink believed you when you told him you were in trainin’ just in case the Olympics had push-mowin’ when you got grown. But that fort you built in the front yard outta Wheaties boxes, might have convinced him. Still, I think I'd be more worried about the huge bowl of banana puddin’ you ate, and then told Mama some masked men came in and took it." Oops.

That ill-advised comment was responsible for making Danny bawl so hard, I thought he'd never stop. Already on edge over the crab apple thievery, the last thing on earth he needed to be reminded of was other misdeeds! I finally convinced him that Santa Claus had gotten his big belly from sneaking "nanner puddin" (as Danny called it) when he was little, and that got him slowed down to a sob. Then I got his nose with my thumb, and he laughed. Seeing his tear-moistened face brighten up, after I had made another in a veritably endless string of faux pas, made that Christmas Eve extra special for me. The very thought of my ruining that magical feeling for Danny, the inimitable one brought on by the anticipation of Santa’s impending visit, would have been too much for me to bear.

The Mickey Mouse hands on his clock were pointing to ten minutes until eight when he began nodding. Though Mama had tucked him in earlier, I readjusted his covers, and gave him a peck on the forehead. 

“Good night, buddy. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

“Night-night, Dan Jean. Ooooh, I’m nervous. Santa’s gonna be right here in our house after while!” After smiling and reassuring him that Santa was sure to have a large bag marked “Danny,” I repaired to the back den to see what my siblings were up to.





***





Built in the late 1800s, when sturdy was the only way to build them, our home on Freemont Avenue was the largest in an area chock-full of large houses. The sizable front porch was enclosed by a full screen. Large enough to accommodate half the kids in the neighborhood on rainy, summer days, it was a welcome sanctuary where we played everything from Monopoly to dodge ball. We had so many toys and games that our front porch earned a reputation as the unofficial neighborhood recreation center; plus, there was an added bonus unavailable at Harrison Park, the real rec center. More often than not, we had assorted snacks of tea cakes, funnel sticks, or buddy bars, available for the price of a “please,” along with lots of Cheeri Aid to wash them down. Sometimes, usually around twilight, when firefly flashes were becoming visible, we would sit on the porch while my older sister, Irene, broke out the Ouija board to ask some scary or provocative questions. We were amazed as the two participants invariably spelled out coherent answers. I wondered if it was all a trick, thinking perhaps I was the only stool pigeon in the group, since I knew I wasn't intentionally moving that pointer.

In keeping with the overall theme of ‘large,’ our kitchen was also spacious, containing enough cabinet area to keep Coxey’s army supplied with foodstuffs for several weeks. Since we normally broke bread in the kitchen, Dad converted our adjacent dining room into a back den, with a side door leading to a gently sloping walkway which ran to the front of the house, making our home wheelchair friendly long before the conversion crusade began. On summer and weekend nights, we spent the majority of our free time playing board games or watching television in the back den, since raiding the ice box was more convenient from that location. Typically, on Saturday mornings that back den was standing room only, since ‘televisionless’ friends showed up from far and wide to watch the many wonderful children’s programs, forming a group roughly the size of Howdy’s Peanut Gallery. Both dens, as well as the living room, had a fireplace. 

Mama took pride in the beautiful rows of varicolored flowers she had planted along either side of our driveway, which consisted of two concrete tracks, on a slight incline, the width of standard cars, with a grass median between the tracks. One spring, the Chamber of Commerce voted the Beechworth driveway as the most attractive in West End. Mama proudly (but modestly) displayed the plaque on the mantel in the back den; adult company rarely ventured into that part of the house and few kids ever took notice of the flowers, much less the award, so she didn’t feel like she was engaging in overt haughtiness. Whenever Dad washed the vehicles, my brothers would compete by choosing a lane in the driveway to root for. The one whose water reached the gutter in the street first was the winner. Those boys would actually plead with, cajole, or even scold the stream in an effort to win.  Of course, their admonitions were primarily directed at Dad, who wouldn't appear to be paying attention, but he'd see to it one of the lanes got some extra H2O if it was lagging too far behind. The loser had to eat a cracker and whistle three times, while the winner frogged him on the shoulder.  Rarely was there an absence of some kind of competition or hi-jinx at the Beechworth homestead.





***





"Somebody hurry up and close that door," Mama yelled from the kitchen, as thirteen-year-old Irene came rushing into the back den, breathless, her teeth chattering. She was sealed as tight as Mama's strawberry preserves, and her cheeks and nose were just about the same color as those delicacies. Irene, along with some other kids from our church, had been Christmas caroling at homes throughout the neighborhood for less than ninety minutes; though they had planned to sing for three hours, a chilling wind kicked up in the thirty degree weather, hastening them to make a numb-fingered money count and scatter like the dickens for their respective homes.  Despite that, Irene said they still managed to raise twenty dollars and change for the orphanage just up the street from our house.

(That orphanage, one of the first houses built in our section of West End, was a run-down, gray-shingled duplex, with fifty-something Ma Boone as caregiver. Each Christmas, Dad would slip Ma Boone extra money for presents, more than she could have afforded from her small, government stipend. She provided a home for up to three orphans. Two of the three seldom stayed long enough for us to learn their name, let alone become friends. Always young, no more than seven or eight, they were invariably adopted within weeks, if not days. Twelve-year-old Roy Wilson, one of those boys who had been the target of my ire after he made fun of my name, was the only long term child resident. His parents died in a car wreck when he was seven. Roy survived, but had occasional bouts with depression as a result, apparently causing potential adoptive parents to overlook him. Roy never was adopted, though I’m not positive he genuinely wanted to be. Around our house he was treated just like one of the kids, which he must have deemed simpatico as frequently as he hung out with us.)

Irene was gorgeous, and an easy target for envy, with her arched eyebrows and exotic, gleaming, ash gray eyes, unlike the rest of the blue-eyed Beechworths. Additionally, she was the only southpaw in the entire clan of over sixty children and adults. I sometimes teased her about being adopted, but she took it in good fun, and really seemed unaffected by her beauty, talents, and accomplishments. She was the consummate ‘All American girl.’ Yet, she was so self-deprecating and always willing to help with even the smallest problem, that there was no way to have negative feelings about her  . . .  most of the time, anyway.

With the three younger ones, including twenty-month-old Susie and almost four-year-old Pammy, asleep on that Christmas Eve, we didn't have to guard our words about the secret of Saint Nick, and brother Zack wondered aloud when Dad was “gonna bring in the loot.”

Unlike Danny, Zack was not a prodigy. He was, however, a mastermind . . . of mischief; he was the proverbial accident waiting to happen. But like Danny, he was so cute he could charm the stripes off a zebra. He had a multitude of evenly spaced freckles on his face, which Irene and I sometimes took advantage of to engage in a friendly game of connect the dots, though Zack wasn't too enamored of that particular pastime.

While Irene warmed up by the fireplace, Mama brought us some piping hot chocolate, thick with melted marshmallows. She served it in cups we'd won two months earlier while pitching pennies at the State Fair. We had a secret technique that allowed us to win more than our fair share at the fair, which Dad called the "unfair;" one of us discovered that if we spit on one side of the penny, the saliva acted as an adhesive. We didn’t consider it cheating though, since Dad said most of their games were rigged, and turnabout is fair play, after all.

We finished the cocoa; Zack and I used our index fingers to scrape off the last bit of marshmallow cream, while Irene slowly shook her head and said that our boorish behavior was a sorry sight. That last adjective prompted Zack to suggest we play a game of Sorry, about the only board game we owned that didn't require rolling dice. The noise made by dice, especially when shaken in a cup, tended to get on Mama's nerves. In Sorry, cards were used to determine the moves. I was one sorry Sorry player, maintaining a three year losing streak that stretched all the way back to the time I had played alone. I tried every color token - red, yellow, blue, and green. I cut the deck twenty different ways from Sunday to make sure there were no shenanigans afoot. Nothing worked, however, to change my lousy luck, and that is what made it so amazing. The game is basically luck, with very little skill involved. But losing wasn’t that big of a deal after we got a complete set of Elvis’ records, the ones he did for Sun Studios.

If the turntable on the hi-fi was spinning, it was a reasonably safe bet that Elvis songs were filling the air. Each time our short stack of discs finished playing, one of us would hop up to flip them over and we’d listen to the other sides, ten songs in all. It’s a wonder we didn’t wear those records out the first week we got them. Any time the forty-fives were not revolving, they were resting safely in a corner of Mama’s cedar chest.

As Mama was doing some last minute baking, she heard the rock and roll sounds, and insisted we put on something more suitable for Christmas Eve, like Bing Crosby. Incredibly, we actually agreed with her for once. Somehow, "Good Rockin' Tonight" didn't exactly inspire feelings of chestnuts roasting on an open fire. The fresh aromatic scent of the huge, Cedar tree we had chopped down in the country three weeks earlier, made the atmosphere more conducive to "make the season right" music. (We all took part in felling our Christmas tree, the younger ones with a rubber ax; Dad finished it off as we stood at a safe distance and yelled, “Timber!”)

When Irene got up to put on some Crosby and Frank Sinatra albums, she said she sure wished Elvis would make a Christmas record. Mama overheard her and said with disdain that “the boy was probably a heathen who didn't know the meaning of the word.” Eventually though, she would completely change her tune about his tunes! As soon as she got word of his first Christmas album release, two years later, she made sure Santa had it on his list, and she enjoyed those treasured songs as much or more than we did. "Peace in the Valley" and "I Believe" were her favorites.

As expected I lost the game of Sorry in record time, which was just as well, since Dad came in from assembling toys in the garage, and said it was time for all good children, “even nine, eleven, and thirteen-year-olds to go to bed.” ‘The Man,’ as Dad referred to Santa, wouldn't come until all six kids were bedded down. And frankly, we were probably as ramped up as the younger ones, since the Man didn't cut back on his generosity simply because we'd gotten older.

(Dad was one of the biggest fans of Christmas to ever don a Santa suit, as he had a few years earlier at a charity event for the Shriners. We were Methodists, regulars at both Sunday school and church, and Dad always made certain that we were aware of and thankful for the true meaning of Christmas. Nevertheless, he was genuinely overjoyed when it came to watching his kids, heck, any kids' faces glow in anticipation of Santa Claus.

He spent a considerable chunk of change that year to purchase an eight millimeter camera, marking the first of many times Dad would film the festivities of a Beechworth Christmas morning. Rather than wait until then to try out the camera, however, he decided it might be wise to do a “get the bugs out” rehearsal. Naturally, all us kids mugged and generally hammed it up in our motion picture debut. Dad picked up the developed film the week before the big day. Mama prepared several large bowls of popcorn for the event. Virtually every kid in the neighborhood came around for the grand premiere on Saturday, and “The Wizard of Oz” could not have generated any greater expectations, for the screening would be the first time for any of them [or us] to view a film other than in a theater. Of course, a lot of the buzz was due to the fact that they were actually in the show. Home movies are not boring to non family members if they are also part of the on-screen ensemble. I would soon be wishing I had turned in my Actor’s Guild card before my debut came to fruition.

That December afternoon proved to be a complete embarrassment to my already fragile ego. Decidedly unphotogenic, especially when compared to Irene, my hair was parted on the wrong side, and my eyes were snuggled up far too close to my nose. My entire being seemed out of kilter, reminding me of the bride of Frankenstein, except that her hair was parted nicely. I looked as weird as I sounded when we got a tape recorder the previous Christmas and I heard my actual voice for the first time. That was the day I took a vow of silence for life . . . which lasted for the better part of that afternoon. After the movie screening, I considered going through life with a bag over my head, but ultimately decided I would have to deal head-on [sack off] with my grave misfortune.)

It was Zack's first year of Santa awareness and he wanted to play one more game, but Irene and I assured him that the Man was as serious as a crutch about not making an appearance until all kids were "nestled snug in their beds," so off we went.

When Irene had changed the music earlier, she left the Elvis records in their sleeves, next to the hifi. As I carefully gathered and returned them to the cedar chest, I thought about the odd way we had come to possess them six weeks earlier.