But back to my story. We formed a group. Besides you, I remember Dub and Joe and Honey Mullican. There may have been others. As the oldest, I was sort of leader. One
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day, we were meeting at Miss Myrtie's house,
second floor, southeast room. Joe would remember this.
I opened the meeting with a prayer, during which I heard whispering behind me. I thought it
was you, and since I was brave enough to hit my little brother, I let go a backhand which hit Honey full in the face.
He was as surprised and embarrassed as I, but after awkward apologies, the meeting continued.
I wonder if Honey is living. I have heard
nothing of him in many years. I'll bet he would remember my trying to ride his brand new bike, and running it off
in a ditch.
Next, I'll tell you some water stories. As you know, water is a physical property used for many
things, including the rite of cleanliness. It was a plentiful commodity at the time and place of our story, but
sometimes illy distributed.
Sunday morning was a special time at our house. It was the time when all of us went to Sunday
school and church, weather and epidemics notwithstanding. Only real illness was an excuse, and woe betide the one
who tried to fake Mom on this count. She was not easily faked.
Saturday night was devoted to getting ready. This included sessions in the kitchen with a No,
2 washtub. Water was drawn from the deep well before dark, and as soon as supper dishes were out of the way, every
available pot and pan was placed on the cookstove to get the water hot. A warm air temperature was a welcome by-product.
We usually attacked this nightmare on a basis of seniority; Munner first, then Pop, then George when he was home, then
Mom and you and I as a group, for she didn't trust us.
One cold mid-winter night, the wheel had turned down to out threesome, and the water was running
low. Mom advised that you and I would have to share our water, so she could have a little for herself.
I went first, and stepped over the side of the tub into about two fingers of water. You knelt
down by the side, putting your elbows on the rim, to watch the proceedings. Mom supplemented my efforts by getting
the rag briskly into my ears, behind my knees, and other places that had not received what she considered proper
attention.
She rubbed off most of my hide, but finally the ordeal was over, and she handed me a towel.
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The stove was still hot, and my front was warm as toast. I turned my back so it could absorb
some of that good heat, and stood contemplating the joys of being through with my bath.
Before I knew it, and, believe me, it was strictly unintentional, I was doing something that
little boys often do when the are warm and well fed, and completely happy with their lot in life.
Mom, of course, took horrified action, but it was too late.
She got me dried off, put my gown on me and sat me down in a corner.
She threw my bath water out into the snow, and came back to deal with you. She poured the remaining
hot water in the tub and started talking to you.
"Richard, you and I will have to share
this water," she said. "Shame on your big brother for what he did! Don't you dare try it!
You looked way up at her with those blue eyes shining and that beautiful impish grin on your
face, not knowing what she was saying.
She undressed you and lifted you into the tub. You sat down abruptly, and she let you splash
for a few seconds. Then she applied the soap and rag, taking your hide just like she had taken mine.
When you had been cleansed to her satisfaction, she stood you up for drying, and stepped to
the table for a towel.
No sooner was her back turned than her ears picked up a sound she refused to believe. Yet, when
she turned around, your blue eyes were still shining, and that beautiful impish grin was still on your face, all
saying plain as words could have said, "Look what my big brother has taught me this night."
She grabbed you out of the tub, and, without bothering to dry your feet, flopped you across her
lap and wore your little bottom out.
You were dancing around and screaming bloody murder when Pop came charging into the kitchen.
"What's the matter, Nannie? Did Richard back into the hot stove?"
"He sure did," she replied grimly, "and your namesake is about to back into it
too, and in a much hotter place!" She hemmed me in the corner, pulled up my gown and brought a bright red
glow to my backside.
With both of us dancing and screaming in unison, Pop just stood there deeply puzzled. He had
never seen Mom lose so much of her temper.
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She put your gown on you, and none to gently escorted us to bed. Then she returned to the kitchen.
"Nannie, what in the world happened?"
Pop hastened to ask. "I have never seen you so mad."
"lets just say," she replied icily, "that I am tired, and I have not had my bath.
Will you please go draw me two buckets of water and bring in some more stove wood, for I am determined to bathe
if takes me till midnight. Since I am the last, maybe I can do it. And on your way, please empty this tub."
Pop shook his head in bewilderment. He slipped into his overcoat and pulled his stocking cap down over his big
ears. He hung an empty bucket over each elbow, and, with the tub high in front of him, headed for the outside cold.
As he went through the door, he muttered, "These Saturday night baths can be carried to far. I'll be glad
when spring comes, so the boys and I can go to the creek.
Pop used to tell another good water tale. It seems early one spring he and one of his farm hands
were clearing and grubbing and getting some new ground ready for plowing. The helper stopped to scratch. He pulled
up his britches leg and displayed a crust of winter accumulation up to his knee.
"Whats the matter with your leg, _______?" Pop couldn't resist asking.
"Aw, it ain't nothing, Jim, it don't
hurt none! But come April or May, I do mean to go to the river and wash off real good!"
Then there is one of Munner's classics. It
seems that she was at a social gathering, and the conversation got around to bathing. After enduring it as long
as she could, Ms. _____, who didn't live right in town, cackled
vehemently "Bathing, bathing, that's all I hear! I ain't bathed in twenty years, and I'll show hide with anybody!"
Finally, the tale Pop used to tell on Mom.
It was the spring after they were married. The Red Horse were on the shoals near the Sligo Crossing,
and Pop, his good friend, Mr. Sam Phillips, and one or two others
were going fishing.
Now, to catch Red Horse on the shoals, you wade out into white water maybe knee deep, and throw
a set of drag hooks upstream. The big shes, up to twelve pounds, Pop said, are spawning in holes rooted out by
their mates. They are sitting with their heads upstream. You bring your tackle downstream in short quick jerks
and, hopefully, you snag one of the big shes. If and when you do, it is a real battle to lead her to shore, with
many a slip and prat-fall on slick green rocks. Not only that, but if you fish all night, the
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water may rise from knees to armpits without your knowing it. (All this, of course, long before
Center Hill Dam.)
Anyway, Pop and his friends were going after Red Horse, and they came by in a wagon (not a station
wagon, either) to pick him up. This was his first fishing trip since they were married, and Mom was not thoroughly
in accord with the idea. After lengthy safety instructions and good-bys, Mom fired this parting shot as the wagon
rolled away, "Now remember, Jim, don't get your feet wet!"
The guffaws and thigh slaps came rolling back up the hill till they had passed Grandpa's place.
For many years, when Mr. Sam and Miss Prudie would come to visit, the first thing he would say was "Nannie, is Jim keeping his
feet dry?"
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