Mister Sandman, Bring Me a Dream!

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Make him the cutest that I've ever seen

Give him two lips like roses and clover

Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

Sandman, I'm so alone

Don't have nobody to call my own

Please turn on your magic beam

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream!

It's 1954 and I am 13 years old standing on the floor of the school gymnasium singing my heart out in front of the entire school, teachers and a few parents for the Sandman to "bring me a dream."  Miss Jane was playing the piano when I stepped up the mike and sang that popular song by the Chordettes.  This solo performance was probably the first of many solos I performed during my junior and high school years.  I loved to sing and had a pretty good voice and could "carry a tune" at an early age.  Miss Jane Metz taught music and I took chorus all through high school.  Our high school choral group performed Handel's Messiah one year at the Methodist Church.  I always got an "A" in chorus, and I performed solos, duets, or trios at special occasions--football homecomings and talent shows.  I won the top prize of $20 at a Chamber of Commerce talent show as Rita, my BFF from church, accompanied me on piano when I sang How Great Thou Art.  We split the winnings and bought new clothes or shoes, but I don't remember exactly what I bought--probably bubble gum and candy!

During my 11th and 12th years in high school (1958-1959), our choral group traveled to Tahlequah and Poteau to perform with thousands of high school kids across the state.  What an amazing sound of beautiful young voices blending together, plus a trip to Northeastern State University (NSU) and staying in the dorms that I will never forget!  We stayed in private homes when we went to Poteau (three girls to a bedroom) and it was my first time to have fresh grapefruit and cereal from a box for breakfast.  Wow!  Those city folks really knew how to live!  NSU was fun except when my two friends, Shirley and Patty, made fools of themselves dancing one night at the college "mixer".  The boys starting throwing coins down to them from the balcony.   When the movie Footloose came out in 1984, it made me think how similar Muldrow was to the town of Elmore City, Oklahoma, in that movie.  Growing up with a Southern Baptist background, I was taught that dancing was sinful, so I was not about to participate in their dancing that night.  Patty loved to dance and she would occasionally show up on Saturday mornings dancing on a television station in Fort Smith around the time American Bandstand became popular back east.  I think she was "ostrascized" from the First Baptist Church for a time, but she didn't care!  Patty was born to dance and pop gum. 

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream
Make him the cutest that I've ever seen
Give him the word that I'm not a rover
Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over.

I wasn't noticed by the boys when I was 13--guess I was little bit too much of a tomyboy or maybe it was because I was built like Olive Oyl, Popeye's girlfriend.  I don't think I was noticed by the boys until I was at least 16.  I was a very "late bloomer" and built like a stick, but I could sure sing hoping someday I would have that dream guy.  I think about Taylor Swift and when she relates her story about how her parents moved to Nashville so she could further her career in music and became so popular.  No one really thought about that for me in 1954, and we didn't have American  Idol or America's Got Talent, but we did have a radio station in Fort Smith that some of my friends managed to get on to show off their talent for singing.  I guess my grandparents didn't really think about it things like that.  If they had, maybe I would have been their "meal ticket" out of there, or at least mine. 



Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Give him a pair of eyes with a come-hither gleam

Give him a lonely heart like Pagliacci

And wavy hair like Liberace.

Mr. Sandman, someone to hold

Would be so peachy before I'm too old

So please turn on your magic beam,

Mr. Sandman and bring me, PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream!

And kids, just so you know, I did learn to dance and danced plenty of times after school at the malt shop with Patty and the girls.  Patty taught me how to bop, but I never told my grandparents.  Some things are just best left unsaid.

Love, Mom & Nana

My Passion for Betsy McCall Paper Dolls

You kids know by now about my infatuation with dolls when I was small, but I also loved paper dolls and still do.  I would find old Sears & Roebuck catalogs and cut out the men, women and children to make up my paper doll families.  I kept them safely put away under my bed in a shoebox, and only took them out when cousins didn't come over to visit.  I would cut out furniture, dishes and kitchen appliances--anything pretty to make up my paper doll playhouses.  Sometimes I would make my own paper doll furniture out of construction paper.  This was truly one of my favorite past-times except for playing with jacks and shooting marbles in the back yard.

I have a short story to interject here about playing jacks.  I accidently left one of those metal jacks on the floor one day and my poor Grandma stepped on it--she always went barefoot around the house.  She was very upset with me over that and declared it severely damaged her heel.  I still cringe to this day thinking about the pain she must have endured over that.  She actually did limp around for many days afterwards.  I really felt bad about it but I think I felt worse after the tongue-lashing she gave me!  Believe me--I was very careful about playing with jacks after that.  I played marbles too and traded for prettier marbles with kids at school.  I always either had bubble gum or marbles in my jean's pockets.  I kept my marbles in a large coffee can at home.  Now you know where I kept my marbles!  (No laughing out loud here!)



I was always blowing bubbles!
This wasn't our house--I don't know
where it was taken.

 
Paper dolls were much safer to play with and it was my passion.  Then one day around 1951, I discovered the McCall's Magazine and in each monthly issue was the cutest paper doll called Betsy McCall.  Each month there was a new page of her featured in her little undershirt and panties (oh dear!); Betsy McCall goes to the country; Betsy McCall goes shopping; Betsy McCall goes to school; etc.  What a delight when I disovered Betsy McCall.  No only did each page have the cutest clothes with little white tabs to fold over and cover her "undies", it also held accessories, such as her own little dolls, hats, chickens, pets, schoolbooks--whatever the topic was for that month.  It was absolutely the most adorable paper doll I had ever seen!  I couldn't wait for the next issue so I could see what Betsy was up to that month.  And later on McCalls introduced Barbara McCall, her cousin.  Each page would have a short story about what Betsy had planned for that day.

As I was searching the Internet for Betsy McCall paper dolls before I began this writing, I found those 1950's issues of McCall's featuring the Betsy McCall paper doll.  If any of you readers have a little granddaughter or great-granddaughter who loves paper dolls (our Tristen is too full grown now for paper dolls and I don't think Bryce being a boy would care about them), you can actually print the pages on heavy bond paper and have your very own Betsy McCall paper dolls.  I am going print them just for me anyway!  You're never too old to play with paper dolls are you?

A Fox Hunt with Grandfather

I mentioned in an earlier story about my Grandpa Riddle raising hound dogs and how he loved to go fox hunting.  Every now and then he would bring home a new dog or sometimes one of the females gave birth to a litter.   He kept around five or six dogs at a time in a kennel in the back yard.  My poor Grandmother disliked those dogs because they had so many fleas and she didn't like them riding in the car when he took them on fox hunts.  "Our nice car" she'd say, and "you'd better clean it out before church on Sunday!"

I was never allowed to play with any of the pups as he reminded me they were not pets.  They were raised for a specific purpose and that purpose was to chase and kill foxes.  I'll probably start getting letters from the humane society now, but it was not my idea--it was the "sport" of the older men in town to train their hounds to hunt down some defenseless little fox.

From time to time I would go with Grandpa to the mountain to call the dogs on Saturday mornings.  He had a "blowing horn" from a hollowed-out steer's horn and taped at the small end to form the mouthpiece.  Each hunter had a unique way of blowing their horns that only their dogs recognized.  When my cousins would visit, we would take turns and put forth our best attempts to make it sound like Grandpa did, but to no avail.  When I went with him sometimes on Saturday mornings to call the dogs, I was amazed by how loudly he could blow that little horn!  It could be heard for miles and those hound dogs came running right to him.

I asked Grandpa one fall day if  he would take me fox hunting with him some Friday night.  He agreed I could go so we loaded up the car with dogs, a thermos of coffee, some biscuits and left-over bacon to eat, and we headed out around dusk.  The hunters had a certain campsite where they gathered, and I think this particular one was in a cornfield because I remember laying with my head on Grandpa's lap across some bumpy rows of cornstalks or some sort of plant that had been harvested.  The men had shotguns which I thought they took along to hunt with, but that's not the way it was at all.  I remember saying, "when do we leave to hunt?"  Grandpa said something like "well, this is it" as he was untying the anxious dogs,who knew what was in store for them, but I didn't know what was in store for me. 

Fox hunting in Oklahoma in the 50's was a "little different" than it was in England where the rich landowners donned their pretty red jackets, saddled their finest horses, led out by their sleekest hounds into the fields for the "merry old chase".  In Oklahoma, you built a fire, sat around it, drank coffee, chewed and spit tobacco, and listened to your dogs run.  You could hear the dogs take off running after the men untied their ropes.  Their barking was normal at first, but it wouldn't be long until the dogs found their quarry and were in fast pursuit of that little red fox!  Well, "here comes the excitement now" the men would say.  They could make out the frenzied barks of their own hounds, ole' Sadie, Duke, Lulu or Sam, the same way the dogs made out their master's voices and horns.  Grandpa knew when Sadie or Duke treed the fox by the sound of their barking, but the men never went to the aid of the poor fox nor went to hunt with their hounds.  The "hunters" merely listened the sound of their dogs barking in hot pursuit from back at the campsite and seemed to enjoy every minute of it!

I don't know how long we stayed, but it was probably around midnight by the time we got home. Grandpa
carried me back to car while I was sleeping and put me to bed when we got home.  And that, kids, is my first and only fox hunting adventure!

Posted on Sunday, April 3, 2011

Christmas Icicles and a Cardboard Star



 I always looked forward to Christmas as a child because there was a special adventure in store for me.  Grandpa Riddle would take me to a neighboring pasture in search of a Christmas tree.  Christmas tree lots were unheard of back in the 50's in our small town, so you either went to someone's pasture or you could buy one of those fake aluminum ones sold at Kress's in Fort Smith.

Grandpa would load up his axe, some rope and a shovel in his 1951 brown and white Chevy and we would drive out to someone's pasture to look for a tree for Christmas.  We didn't chop down any big trees like Clark Griswold did in Christmas Vacation nor was there 10 feet of snow on the ground.  The trees we always chopped down were five feet or smaller, and were more comparable to a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree.  We also hunted for holly berries and I would pick as many berries as my pockets would hold so Grandma and I could string them for garland.  Once we got home Grandpa would saw the bottom of the tree trunk to make it flat, and then he'd take two short boards to build a wooden stand in the shape of an "X" (just like Charlie Brown's).

Sometimes I made a colorful chain from construction paper for garland, and to top it all off, Grandma made a perfect five-point star cut from cardboard and covered it with pieces of tin foil.  We kept that star year after year.  Just last Christmas I was telling my daughter about the tin foil star, and she and Stephanie, her stepdaughter, decided to create their own cardboard, foil-covered star, but they got their star pattern from the Internet!  It turned out really beautiful and Stephanie decorated it with colorful beads.  I always had one very old string of electric lights, but they never worked.  I was lucky if they stayed lit for a minute or two, so for the sparkle effect, I always bought one box of icicles every year from Miss Emma's Variety Store downtown.  However, one year I was too late in getting to the Variety Store and Miss Emma sold out of icicles early in the season and said she wouldn't be ordering any more.  I was genuinely disappointed and cried all the way home. 

Grandma always saved the papers that came wrapped around the tobacco in Grandpa's Prince Albert tobacco cans. She said maybe I could cut them into icicles.  The papers were shiny foil on one side and white on the reverse.  I loved to find those papers and smell that wonderful aroma left by the tobacco.  While Grandma strung popcorn and berries for the garland, I remember meticulously cutting Prince Albert tobacco papers into icicles for the tree. I bent each one on the very end so they would stay on the branches.  Try to picture in your mind--we have a Charlie Brown Christmas Tree with a cardboard, foil-covered star, garland chain made from construction paper, a few red berries and popcorn for extra garland, lights that would only come on if you jiggled them just right, and now the "piece de re'sistance",  icicles made from Prince Albert tobacco papers scattered throughout.   Wow!  Is this imaginative or what?  No, this is what you do when if the variety store is out of icicles.

My cousin, Brenda, made fun of it--she always made fun of things I did, but never in front of Grandma.  I was always extremely jealous of her Christmas trees because she had fancy lights that bubbled and sparkly icicles.

I didn't appreciate it at the time, but I realize now how much it meant to me that Grandma and I spent all day making those decorations, and equally special to me that Grandpa took me to find a Christmas tree out in that pasture every year.  This is such a great memory to me--one I shall never forget, especially those icicles made from Prince Albert tobacco papers. 

  

Grandma's Storm Cellar Became My Playhouse

My paternal Grandmother, Jean Ella Doyle Riddle, was born on June 12, 1894, and lived to be only 70 years.  She passed from this world into Heaven on September 15, 1964.  I am approaching 70 this year, but Grandma seemed so much older when she was 70.  She seemed old to me when she was 55, which was about the time I went to live with my grandparents.  Grandmothers seemed older in those days.  After all, she had given birth to 10 or 11 children, two which died right after birth or very early in their infancy, and she raised nine children plus one.  She gave birth to one set of twin girls next in line after my Father, Elmo John.  Grandma worked hard on their farm, picking cotton, clearing fields, and raising kids.  She was a true Oklahoma pioneer woman.  She never wore makeup, except for a little too much rouge and white powder on Sunday.  Her hair was very long and worn in a bun, so she basically looked like a "granny" but we never called her that. 

Grandma was terrified of storms.  I believe she must have lived through some very bad storms growing up in Indian Terroritory in the 1800's.  I am sure the first thing she did when she and Grandpa moved to town and bought that little five-room house on the corner of "Dirt & Main" was to build a storm cellar.  Not only was it a safe haven from storms, it was a place to store her "canning" she put away for the long winters.  It had a cot with blanket and pillow and several wooden stools for "guests" who came knocking once a heavy storm whipped up.  There was also a kerosene lantern.

On the other hand, Grandpa was not afraid of storms and would sleep right through the worst of them.  Storms always happened at night, and she would yank me from my little bed out of a sound sleep and head me towards the cellar, which was conveniently 10 to 12 steps from our back door.  We didn't have siren warnings for storms and tornadoes in those days, but she sensed when storms were brewing.  I'm not talking about a high-wind tornado because it didn't take much more than a good strong wind, and we'd be in that storm cellar.  Many times I begged her to let me stay in the house with Grandpa but she would hear nothing of it.  I remember only once Grandpa went to the storm cellar so it must have been a very bad storm that night. I felt safer with him there.  Even though my Grandma was so fearful of storms, that fear was not passed down to me too much, except when those tornado sirens blow, I get a little nervous and head for a safer spot in our home.   Remember kids?  We spent several nights in the hallway or in the bathtub at our old house covered in blankets and pillows.  Some fun huh? 

Kids, picture me in my nightgown, hair in curlers, blanket wrapped around me down in the storm cellar, and neighbors banging on the cellar door.  Grandma would tightly hold that rope but never turned anyone away.  At times it got pretty crowded down there and we would be literally stacked on top of each other.  I think there was some praying going on many times too.

However, there were great uses for that storm cellar when there were no storms--it became my playhouse.  I furnished it with my little tin dish sets, my dolls and doll clothes and would play down there for hours at a time.  Grandma must have sprayed DDT occasionally for bugs and spiders because I never noticed any, or maybe I didn't think about it at the time--or snakes!  The storm cellar was where Tinkerbell, my cat, would go to have her kittens in a box we made ready for her.  It was so much fun to find a new litter of kittens and I loved it when they would hiss at me when I'd pick them up before their little eyes were open.  They were so cute, but cats never stayed around very long except for Tinkerbell.  I'm not sure what happened to them, but I really don't want to know.  I assumed they ran away and found new homes or something (or worse) but I enjoyed playing with them as long as they were around.  One of the male toms stayed around for a very long time and I would dress him in doll clothes, but one morning he didn't come home, so I guess he found a new place to live.

The storm cellar was a great place to play when I was small, and when I became a teen, it was a special place to hang my 8x10 glossy, autographed prints of Ricky Nelson, Elvis, James Dean and Marilyn.  When my cousins and siblings came to visit, we always headed to my Playhouse in Grandma's Storm Cellar.

And kids, in case you're wondering, the answer is NO, I never took any boys down there.  My Grandmother watched me like the "proverbial hawk" and even if I had the slightest inclination to do so, I did not!  This, I solemnly vow to you.  

Love, Your Mom & Nana

My Grandfather, John Wesley Riddle

"In remembrance of our beloved Father that we loved so very dear,
We have many precious memories we cherish every year.

We loved this grand old man and it makes us very glad
To be able to wear the Riddle name, to have called this great man, Dad!

No great fame or fortune ever came his way,
He was rich in love and kindness and he proved it every day.

He always helped his friends and neighbors for in the Lord this is right,
He often let the unfortunate stranger into his home to spend the night.

He didn't go to church because it looked right or do a favor for someone's bid,
Loving the Lord and wanting to please Him made our Daddy to the things he did.

When he grew old, his health got poor, his body too weak to carry on,
He gave his all and he was ready when the good Lord called him home.

But one day soon we shall see him again and all the others that went before,
We will have a great family reunion which will last forevermore!"
     --Written by Elmo John Riddle on November 1966 for his Father, John Wesley Riddle

John Wesley Riddle, my Grandfather, was born on January 5, 1887, and passed away at the age of 75 on May 10, 1962. 

Grandpa Riddle was a Christian who tithed regularly, attended church every Sunday and Wednesday night, and served as the Sunday School Superintendent for over 20 years.  He could practically preach a sermon during the Sunday School service.  Only you Southern Baptists know what I am talking about.  I remember a little boy once told his mother that he liked Brother Riddle's sermons better than the regular preacher's.  Grandpa used to get "happy" at church and would shout out loud.  He couldn't stop sometimes and he would go outside the building and we could hear him shouting and laughing.  Although it was kind of embarrassing to me at the time, I realize now that it was Grandpa worshipping and showing his love to God and giving thanks for everything.  Grandpa become so happy and overjoyed that he could not contain his joyfulness within--he had to "make a joyful noise".  I know our Grandpa is in Heaven today having the time of his life, probably whooping it up every day! 

Grandpa loved to fox hunt and he had several old hound dogs in a kennel behind the house.  Grandma had to give up her chickens when he started raising hunting dogs.  She really hated those hounds and their fleas.  They were quiet dogs and didn't bark at all, because Grandpa trained them not to yelp and bark except when they were chasing foxes.  In another blog I will relate the story of my first and only fox hunt with Grandpa and his hunting pals one summer night.  It certainly was not what I was expecting.

Grandpa Riddle was a tall, nice-looking man with snow-white hair.  They told me his hair turned prematurely white at an early age.  He was a farmer but when he and Grandma moved to town, he began working for the county grading roads and drove a huge yellow tractor called a caterpillar.  All of us grandkids loved to climb and play on that big yellow tractor.  He always drove it home from work and parked it in the side yard and didn't care if we played on it.  Grandpa graded country roads as well as some of the graveled roads in town since we didn't have any paved roads back then.  People would stop by our house many times and tell him how much they appreciated his work, and mention some neighbor's road back in the hills that needed grading.  He would always tried to accommodate everyone's needs.

Grandpa worked hard and came home every night dusty and greasy, but I loved that smell!  It was the smell of tobacco, dirt and grease all mixed together.  When I walk into a car repair garage and smell the mixture of grease and oil, it isn't too offensive to me--it merely brings back good memories of a fine man, John Wesley Riddle, who drove that big yellow caterpillar--the Grandpa I loved so dearly.

Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all ye lands.  Serve the Lord with gladness;
come before his presencce with singing.  Psalm 100:1-2

Sheena, Queen of the Jungle and the Bee

My Grandpa Riddle tended three or four beehives in our backyard, and there were always bees around, plus we had a lot of clover in our yard, and Grandma Riddle loved to plant and grow pretty flowers. 

Around 1955, when I was probably in my fourth life of My Nine Lives Plus One, I loved to pretend that I was Sheena, Queen of the Jungle.  My cats were vicious tigers, and sticks and sharp pieces of wood became my spears and knives.  I made a bow and arrow from a tree branch and twine, and of course I had a slingshot.  What kid didn't have a slinghot in those days?  I had big trees to climb to hide from cannibals and wild tigers (I had a vivid imagination).  Pretending to be the beautiful Sheena was my favorite game, except for rearranging Grandma's cellar into my playhouse.  I have memories of my cellar playhouse to write about too, but not now.


I was playing Sheena on that summer day when my Dad, Stepmother and siblings came to pick me up to spend a week with them in Arkansas.  I was really looking forward to that visit too, but it seems I was always having a run-in with bees, yellow jackets or wasps.


Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, with spear in hand, wooden knife at waist, bow and arrow on her back, was running around the backyard to the top of the cellar and down again to escape from the hungry cannibals while hunting for wild, ferocious tigers.  I remember galloping down the side of the cellar and stepping into the clover and onto a bee!  It stung my left foot something awful, and it swelled up within a few minutes like a big balloon.  Grandma put some kind of home remedy on it as usual, but I don't remember what it was--I just remember the pain from that bee sting!  She probably used kerosene--seems like she used kerosene (or coal oil commonly called back then) to cure everything in those days from bee stings, cuts, hives, scrapes, and occasionally snake bites, I am told!   I guess I am very lucky that I wasn't one of those kids who was allergic and died from bee stings or from the overuse of kerosene on my scrapes, cuts and stings.


It troubled me greatly that Grandma might reconsider letting me travel to Arkansas with my Dad, but they put a pillow in the back seat for me to prop my foot on, and probably reassured her that I would receive special TLC, which I did.  It was a little crowded in that back seat with Kathy, Eddie, little Gary, and Sheena, Queen of the Jungle, and her big 'ole swollen left foot.

The swelling was gone within a couple of days and it turned out to be the best week ever that summer with my Dad, Stepmom, and especially my siblings.  Kathy, Eddie and I would walk down the dusty country road every day, so we could hang our barefeet over the edge of the creek bridge, and harmoniously sing all of the Everly Brothers' songs we knew!

The Day I Buried My Dolls

I did not have childhood friends in my preschool days as children do these days with preschool programs, daycare and play dates from their tiny tots class from church.  I did not have next-door neighborhood kids to play with even though there was a large family across the road from us, but Grandma didn't let me play with them.

Having no siblings to grow up and play with, I lived in a make-believe world and my dolls and kittens were my playmates.  I had a lot of dolls--some given to me by my maternal Grandmother, Minnie Martin.  She may have told me they were my mother's dolls, and I had collected a few more because I always got a doll at Christmas.  My favorite doll was my "Bonny Braids" doll who originated from the marriage of Tess Truehart and Dick Tracy in the comics.  I loved my Bonny Braids doll--you could pull on the two little blonde braids at the top of her head and the hair got longer. 

My grandparents attended the First Baptist Church every Sunday--both services--morning and evening, and the mid-week prayer service on Wednesday night.  Grandpa was an elder and served faithfully for over 20 years as the Sunday School Superintendent.  My Grandma taught the women's class, and I attended Bible School every summer.  I had a very good "church friend" who was three years younger than me and as we grew older, she would either come home with me after Sunday morning church or I went home with her and played until it was time to go back to the Sunday night service.  It was more fun to go to her house because she lived a ways out of town, had a horse to ride, a barn loft to play in, and a little brother who loved to steal our diaries and try to read what we wrote.  Rita, my friend, and I played with dolls until we felt we were too old to be playing with dolls.  In fact, the guy she was sweet on at the time, Tommy, whom she later married, rode by on his tractor one day as we were playing with our dolls outside on a quilt, and we hid them behind our backs and waved to him like a couple of goofy teenagers.  We still laugh about that when we see each other.

After that incident, I felt it was probably time to put the dolls away--I was around 13 or 14 by then.   I believed it was important that dolls and pretend friends did not need a place in my life anymore, for around this time, I figure I was into part four of my nine lives.  It was time to put them in a box or something, but I had a better idea--I would just bury them instead.   I gathered the dolls, along with Bonny Braids, dressed them in their Sunday best, took them to the back yard, dug a large hole and buried them!  I've shared this story with my daughter, Tiffany, many times and she just could not believe what I did!  She thinks it was a terrible thing to do.  Reflecting back, I think I buried them so I would not be tempted to play with them any more. 

Well, here I am at almost 70, and have around 40 collectible Barbies, some Cabbage Patch Kids and over the years played with and sewed for Tiffany's Barbies.

Once I left home and went to the "big city" my Grandmother most likely would have given them away or have thrown them out; they would have been broken and tossed in a dump somewhere, so at least I know what became of them.  To this day I am really not sorry that I buried my dolls in the back yard that day, and I know exactly where they are!

P.S. I am searching for a Bonny Braids doll on ebay.

The Black Cast Iron Kettle

My paternal Grandmother was a hard worker and an excellent seamstress.  She sewed for practically everyone in town from ministers' wives, school teachers and some of the Black women down the street from us.  She never asked for more than $1.25 for anything she made.  She had a Singer treadle machine and could really make that peddle move when she was sewing.  I loved to watch her sew and I kept scraps to make doll clothes.  She also kept some larger scraps for quilting pieces to use when town ladies would come over for quilting bees.  That was fun--watching those ladies working those needles in and out while I sat beneath the quilting frame and played with scraps.  I never learned the art of quilting, I have to admit.  Either I was too preoccupied with dolls and my paper dolls or playing "Sheena of the Jungle," I just never wanted to learn those things.

A good memory about my Grandmother was that once every other week she would make wonderful homemade rolls. When I came home from school on a cold winter's day, I smelled those rolls baking as soon as I stepped onto the front porch.  I headed straight for the warm kitchen, grabbed a couple of hot ones right out of the pan, smeared on the homemade butter, and to this day I don't believe I've tasted anything better than those homemade rolls.

My grandparents planted a huge garden in their acreage behind our house.  We had potatoes, cantaloupes, tomatoes, lettuce, beets, carrots, cabbage, cucumbers, squash, okra, corn and peas and spinach (ugh!).  I grew up on good, healthy home-grown food and never ate restaurant food or fast food until I left home.  As they grew older, they sold off that lot to one of Grandpa's cousins who built a nice home there.  No more garden--they were getting too old to tend to one by then.

My Grandmother kept cow in a pasture down the road from our house.  We always had fresh milk, butter, the best buttermilk you've ever tasted, and cottage cheese.  We made our own butter and cottage cheese.  I churned butter and I remember Grandma would put the buttermilk or some leftover stuff from the butter we'd churned into cheesecloths and hang from a wire on the back porch dripping until it made cottage cheese.  I should have taken notes on how to do those things, but it really didn't interest me at the time.  I grew up eating fried chicken, cornbread and fried potatoes most of my life. I enjoyed the food, and by the way, I was never overweight and unhealthy from eating homegrown food and never got sick from drinking cow's milk.  I even tried to milk old Bossy once or twice, but I didn't like doing that very much.  Grandma also raised the best strawberries I've ever tasted and made the most delicious strawberry shortcake, and to this day, I cannot make anything that comes close to that huge, succulent strawberry shortcake soaked in homemade crust that she put out on the Sunday table during strawberry season! 

We also had chickens for a long time, and hogs for a short time.  I watched my Grandpa and some men slaughter the hogs one day, and how sausage was made, and to this day, I will not eat sausage.  We ate fried chicken every Sunday after church.  I wanted to wring a chicken's neck one time on Saturday for the Sunday dinner, but I didn't like doing that either.  It was awful sad to see the poor chicken flopping around on the ground with a broken neck.  I did like "plucking" the feathers though, and that was the best fried chicken I've ever eaten to this day.

I could go on and on about my Grandmother, but something that vividly stands out was her black cast iron kettle, or cauldron you might call it, where she made lye soap and boiled water on washdays and for our baths in the big tin tub.  You see, even although we lived in town, we didn't have indoor plumbing for a long time.  Well, that's another story.  She really never got used to "city" ways, but most of the older people in town had gardens, chickens and maybe a cow or two, so I guess it was quite natural back then.

Anyway, she made this icky lye soap out of animal fat, lime and lye I think, and cooked it slowly over a wood burning fire in her large black cast iron kettle in the back yard.  She swore it was the best soap in the world for washing your hair and great for dishes and laundry.  After preparation of this smelly mixture and stirring until it turned a certain color (kind of dirty white), she would pour it into a big square pan and cut into bars once it was hard.  I was afraid it might make me go bald if I used it on my hair, so I preferred to use my Prell shampoo, but I may have bathed with it a time or too.   I don't know why I didn't take to that "country" way of living, but it didn't appeal to me even at a young age--I had "lofty" ideas even then.  I wanted to live in a big city, with sidewalks and streets and traffic lights.  What was I thinking?

That black cast iron kettle stayed around the house for many years--I don't know who in our family, if anyone, wound up with it, but it looked just like what you'd imagine the witches of yore may have used to mix their magic potions--not comparing my sweet little Grandmother to a witch, but she did have a black cast iron cauldron.

My First Spanking from Grandma

My Grandmother, Jean Ella Doyle Riddle, was diminuitive in stature but certainly not in actions.  With one look from those steely blue eyes, you knew you were in trouble of the very worst kind.  She turned me over her knee only once but she "conked" me on my head more than once with her heavy plastic comb when I wouldn't stand still as she braided my hair.  I think I've mentioned how I hated those braids because with my long silky, straight hair, they never stayed in place, and when it was time for school pictures, my hair always looked messy--cute but very messy!

My Horrible Braids!

Grandma never stood for any "sassing" from me or any of her grandchildren.  The only spanking I remember was the time I followed her to town after she told me to stay home and be good.  It was Saturday and Grandpa was home, but he was out back hoeing the garden.  Grandma walked everywhere she needed to go--the post office, the variety store, or the market/feed store--the town was only about five blocks from our house.  We had a perfectly nice Plymouth coupe parked outside and later on a pretty brown/white 1953 Chevrolet, but she never learned to drive.  Grandpa always left the car and drove his big yellow road grader to and from his job on the roads.  Anyway, I watched her leave and I would sneak a block or two at a time until I finally caught up with her at the feed store.  She didn't say anything when I showed up and even while walking back home, and I thought just maybe I had gotten away with it.  Well that didn't happen because as you know, children didn't get by with misdeeds and misbehaviors in those days.  If your parents didn't find out, the neighbors would certainly tell on you.  She called me out to the screened-in back porch, told me to lie across her lap, and she gave me a good hard spanking with her hand--not a board or a belt.  She reminded me that I disobeyed her by following her to town when I was told not to. 

1953 Plymouth Coupe

Most of the time I was allowed to "go to town" with her, but on this particular day, she must have had other business to attend.  We would always stop by Jap & Golden Plank's cafe and get an ice cream cone and sit and talk with her friend, Golden.  Their daughter was married to my Grandmother's youngest son, so she liked to stop at their cafe for ice cream and chat about the kids who were in Germany.  My Uncle Homer was in the Army and stationed somewhere in Germany at that time.  I think I was hoping we could stop and get our ice cream, but we walked right by and she didn't say a word.  You knew in those days not to beg or ask a second time for anything.  I think I was really dreading to get back home for I was pretty sure what was coming, and I believe it was my first and only spanking from Grandma.

The Carnival and the Yellow Jacket

As you know, I was raised by my paternal grandparents in the small town of Muldrow, Oklahoma, which lies on State Highway 64B and adjacent to U.S. Highway 64, north of Interstate 40, approximately ten miles southeast of Sallisaw. We had a celebrity--in 1995 Muldrow native Shawntel Smith was selected as Miss America.  In 2000 the U.S. census registered 3,014 inhabitants, and the public school system enrolled 1,600 students from pre-kindergarten through high school.  My granddaughter, Tristen, is senior this year at Broken Arrow (BA) High School and BA's senior class alone has 1,065 students.  Around 1952 to 1954 there were probably around 1,200 residents in my small town, and a year after I left in 1960, the population expanded to around 1,500.

Because we were a small town, we couldn't support big events such as a circus, but we had a carnival or two that came through every year.  My Grandmother dearly loved the carnivals and I remember that we would walk across town (three to four city blocks) to the carnival site usually on the "other side of the tracks".   There was always a Ferris wheel and a merry-go-round but I don't remember other rides, if any.  The best part was the smell of freshly popped corn and delicious cotton candy--not the kind you buy prepackaged these days in cellophane wrap at the county fair, but actually made by a real person with a paper cone dipped into the spinning aluminum container using real sugar! I loved that fresh cotton candy.

Grandma loved to get our pictures made every time we went the the carnivals.  On this particular day, however, I had met up with a yellow jacket on our neighbor's porch.  I was a curious child and we had such interesting elderly neighbors, who had some interesting things around their old house.  One of these things was a barometer over the door of their front porch that looked like a little house.  When the weather was nice and sunny, a little man and woman would come out  but when the weather was bad, a witch would come out on the opposite side.  You probably see where I'm going with this.  As I said, I was curious and I wanted to know where the man and woman went when the witch came out, so I found a little stool, climbed upon it, and as I peered inside, a big ole' yellow jacket flew out and stung me right between the eyes.  My poor nose swelled up twice its size and my eyes practically swelled shut, but by the time we went to the carnival it was a little better, but not that great.  I was so afraid I would see kids from school and they'd laugh at me so I tried to avoid  people as much as possible, but my cousin, Brenda, saw me and she never did let me live it down. 

I have the picture made by the carney man in my scrapbook which I promise to find and put on this blog site soon.   And yes, Brenda, I did look like "that woman" you alluded to on the "other side of town".

1950 at the Carnival with Grandma

My Father's Poetry

Elmo John Riddle, my father, was born on November 19, 1920.  He was the sixth child of nine children born to John Wesley and Jean Ella Riddle.  Unfortunately, I do not know much about what he did as a boy growing up on a farm, but I imagine that he and his siblings worked the fields because his father was a poor dirt farmer working on someone else's land.  I am sure Elmo grew up in difficult times because of the depression.  They boys were good hunters and handy with guns and probably brought home game to eat, they raised chickens, maybe a cow or two, and hogs, as most everyone did in those days in order to feed a family of 11.

He probably met my mother, Opal Nadine Martin, when he had an opportunity to attend school.  None of his siblings graduated from high school back then but were fortunate to attend grade school often enough to receive at least a 4th or 5th grade education in order to read and write.

Me at 20 months.

Elmo was a very handsome man whom I thought even handsomer than the William Holden or Clark Gable pictures ion my scrapbooks.  He had the blackest hair and the bluest eyes and to me he was just about the handsomest man I had ever seen.  He even had a gold tooth right in front when he was very young.  He was kind and soft-spoken and respected his parents.  I truly believe that was the reason he would not ask my Grandmother to return his daughter to him to raise with the rest of his children.  He had too much respect for his parents, as children were taught in those days.  My Stepmother may have pleaded with him a time or two to ask my Grandmother to allow them to raise me along with my sister and by that time a little brother, Eddie.  My sister said they would ask him from time-to-time why their big sister couldn't live with them, but he would simply say, her Grandmother was "too attached".  After all, she had raised me from infancy so the bond was obviously very strong by the time I was two or three.  I've wonder now why my Grandmother would want another child to raise after raising nine children.  I believe one of the reasons was that she didn't have an opportunity to enjoy her children because times were so hard back on the farm.  Perhaps a baby girl gave her something to look forward to as she was approaching her mid-50's by the time I came along, and by now they had moved to town, and Grandpa had a job with the county grading roads.

At the age of only 41, my Father was diagnosed with ALS (amyotrophic lateral sclerosis) often referred to as "Lou Gehrig's Disease," a progressive neurodegenerative disease that affects nerve cells in the brain and spinal cord.   He was then working as a roofer in Kansas.  They returned to Arkansas with their now three boys later that year.  Kathy married Ron Lamb in 1963 and moved to Arkansas after the birth of their son in 1964, but returned to Kansas due to a job offer in Great Bend in 1966.  My Father's health began to greatly deteriorate from the disease, and he passed away on September 16, 1967, at the age of 47.  I was able to spend time with him during the last two years as he struggled with ALS.  He had an insightful talent for poetry but was unable to write because he had lost use of both arms.  He would dictate to me many lovely poems he had made up in his head, and I would return home and type them on a typewriter.  I wish I had known about some of his other talents, as well as his likes and dislikes, but by then it was too late to learn of those things.  I furnished copies of his poetry for his siblings and children, and some were read at his funeral service in Greenwood, Arkansas. 

I want my siblings to understand that I write these thoughts because he was my Father, and it was not your fault nor his that I didn't know him as well as I should.  I only saw him maybe twice a year, but I think I was happier to see my siblings because not only was I special to them, they were special to me because I was their "big sis" and they looked up to me.  I don't know why I didn't get to spend every summer with them, but most of the time they lived in Kansas, and my Grandmother would never have allowed me to travel with them out of state.  You see, she was one unyielding and tough little woman.  My brother, Eddie, referred to her as a "stern" grandma.  That just about says it all about her--more about her in some of my future posts. 

One summer I spent an entire week with them in Arkansas which was probably one of the most memorable times in my life, and I'll write more about that week later on too.

As I write these thoughts about you, Dad, I wish I could have known you better.  I wish I could have spent Christmases with all of you; hunted Easter eggs; played hide-and-go-seek after dark; caught lightening bugs; and be tucked in beside Kathy at night.  I wish I could have hugged you good night and told you I loved you and see you smile.  I want to thank you for the inspirational poetry you wrote in your last days.  I am thankful I was there to hear them first-hand and to record them for you.  I love you, Dad.

Joyce at  9 months 1942

The Little Red Rocking Chair

My father found employment in Arkansas in or around Greenwood, but I am not sure what kind of work he did at that time.  In later years he lived and worked in Wichita and Great Bend, Kansas, as a carpenter and helped build houses.  During the time in Arkansas, he met a pretty girl named Mildred and they married on November 22, 1944. 

As a toddler I continued to live with my paternal grandparents; however, there was a short span of time that I stayed with my father and stepmother around the time their first child, Kathy, was born in 1945.  I remember Kathy in the bassinet and I thought she was a doll for me to play with.  I was four years old by then.  I loved being with my dad and stepmother--she would dress me in cute dresses and fix my hair.  Then one day we all went to a portrait studio for a family picture.  My daughter has the picture and I have to admit that I was pretty adorable in it with a sprinkle of freckles on my nose and short brown, curly hair, thanks to my stepmother who religiously curled my hair because it was always as "straight as a string".  I think she may have given me a "perm".  My Grandmother never curled my hair and would braid it all the time.  (I hated those braids too--they never stayed in place.) 

I had good memories from staying with my dad and stepmother except for one time when I was scolded for trying to poke at Kathy's eyes.  (Remember--I thought she was a doll and I wanted her to open her eyes because when I poked at my dolls' eyes, they would pop open!)  I was happy--I had a pretty mother who doted on me and we were a family.  I also became part of my stepmother's family which gave me yet another set of grandparents.  How lucky can a little girl be?  Two, three, four sets of grandparents!  When I met Aunt Sue, my stepmother's sister-in-law, I assumed she was another grandmother because she wore very thick glasses and was almost blind.  I've been told that I said, "Who's that, another grandmother?"  My stepmother always thought it was cute and funny that I said that!  I don't know what Aunt Sue thought at the time.

Think about the times as a young parent when you dropped off your sweet little toddler at the daycare or preschool for the first time, or left him with a babysitter.  I really don't know who feels worse--the mom or the child (probably the mom).  Your child is sometimes unwilling and apprehensive about your leaving them, tears begin to flow (probably yours), along with a good deal of screaming and tantrums (again, probably yours).  However, if the babysitter or teacher is knowledgeable in early childhood education, and they usually are, they will probably distract your child with an object such as a toy, crayons with pretty animal pictures to color, a storybook--or in my case, a little red rocking chair.   

You see, I did not want to stay at Grandma and Grandpa's house--I probably had not seen them in awhile, and maybe I had forgotten who they were.  I was young and children forget.  I remember spending two weeks in the hospital when my son was only three and he didn't know me when I came home. 

My father brought me back to my grandparent's house after my visit with him, and it was probably obvious that I was hestitant to stay, so my clever Grandmother leaves the room and comes back with the little red rocking chair which was just my size.  I ran over to sit in it and I imagine that I decided it was all right to stay for awhile.... and I stayed until I graduated from high school!

Another Beginning But Not So Tragic

So what happens now?  A young mother has died, a young father is distraut and he turns to his young mother-in-law to take the child for a while so he can bury his wife and try to get on with his life. 

My lovely mother was buried in a cemetary called Lee's Creek on a cold day in January.  Growing up, I was taken to this cemetary every May during "decoration week" as it was called back then.  They dressed me in pretty dresses, with ribbons in my hair and new Easter shoes, and the grandmother would place a spray of flowers in my hands to place on my mother's grave every year. Pictures were taken by the grandmothers sometimes as I got older and I smiled for the camera.  I didn't really understand why I needed to put flowers on this grave--I didn't really know this person but she meant something to others and they loved to talk about how sweet and pretty she was.   "She was your mother" they would say, but I didn't know this person so I accepted it, but wished I had known her.  People would stand around and kind of took pity on me--like "oh, the poor thing not having her mother" and things like that.   I would ask my grandmother to tell me about her, but she didn't have much to say except that she was very sweet and pretty and they loved her.  I didn't press for questions as I grew older, because even though I'd ask, I didn't seem to find out very much so I just simply quit asking. 

As an infant I was cared for by my maternal grandmother while my father was off working somewhere in and around Arkansas.  And later while I was still in the infancy stage, for some reason I went to stay with my paternal grandparents, and I lived with them until I graduated from high school.   I don't know why that occurred, but I am sure God had a plan for me.  I did not question it back then, but for the life of me, I cannot understand why my grandparents didn't talk about those things in front of me.  When I would ask questions, they would just dismiss it.  Maybe I really didn't want to know, maybe I thought it was because no one really wanted me, but I am sure that was not true because I felt loved by both of my sets of grandparents, but to honest with myself at this time of my life, I did resent it sometimes.  But I was happy--I had a lot of cats to play with.

The Beginning of My Nine Lives Plus One

Yes, I realize this is a very odd title.  I haven't actually had nine separate lives, as in "I've come back from someone else's."  It's just that I want to write about my life from its beginning and I feel I may have experienced around 10 lives, because I am almost 70 years old. 

This is the first blog I've tried to do, so bear with me as I learn, but I feel compelled to write because my children and grandchildren don't really know much about Mom and Nana, except that she exists and gives them goodies, takes them to movies and plays, attends their ballgames, dance recitals, cheerleading events, band performances, and baptisms.

I am pretty certain that my beginning started out great for my young parents, but probably went downhill right afterwards.  I was born right after the Pearl Harbor disaster on December 7, 1941.  My birth was probably about eight to ten hours afterwards, on December 8.  I'm almost certain that I'll never forget how old I am because the media announces the anniversary of Pearl Harbor every year, and if I lie about my age, I'll most likely be caught.

 Then my lovely, young mother (age 17) dies five weeks later from what they tell me was a ruptured appendix.

Nadine Martin with Brothers and Baby Sister, Ruth

Nadine Martin Riddle, My Mother

Nadine  (age 6 or 7) with brothers, Fred & Ernest