The companionable thing about growing up in the fifties and sixties in the rural South was that everyone went to the same school and churches and knew everything about everyone. The teachers at school taught your siblings and cousins and might have taught your parents. If a kid got in trouble at school you can bet his mama would be waiting for him with a switch even though our rural neighborhood had no phone service.
Once the women got the kids off to school, beds made, dishes done, wash on the line, and the beans on to soak for supper, they might have a little time to visit a neighbor for coffee before heading home to get the baby down for a nap, finish their afternoon’s work and get supper on the table. I loved going to Miss Alice’s house. She didn’t have kids, so she always made a fuss over us. Instead of scampering off to play, we usually hung around long enough for her to offer us a snack. Sometimes it was left over biscuits with butter and jelly or best of all, teacakes. If I hadn’t been hanging around hoping for a teacake, I wouldn’t have heard about the scandal of Red Bagwell and his brother Floyd. They weren’t the sharpest guys around but got by okay on the little place where their parents raised them. Though they were in their forties, neither had ever married. I always looked forward to hearing Red talk. His consonants didn’t always work out. The way he explained it, “I can’t sound out my rells.” Daddy stopped by one day when Red and Floyd were working on a shed. Red put on a new door hinge and gestured to Floyd, “ Froyd, git me that rock.” Floyd looked around, found a good-sized rock, obligingly brought it over, and propped the shed door shut. Red gave it a kick and barked, “Not a rock!! A damned rock!” stomped over and picked up the lock where he’d laid it out on the ground. My ears perked up anytime someone mentioned Red and Floyd. It seems Red had somehow snagged a wife. The three lived in the family home, Miss Ruby fitting in well with the two brothers. She kept house, cooked, cleaned, slopped the hogs, and kept a nice garden. The three were getting along fine. She was a fine wife and a healthy-looking woman. Back then, healthy-looking meant she ate like a lumberjack and could wrestle a bear. As time went on, it seems she was fitting in far too well with both brothers. One day Red rode in to town with Joe Jones to sell a load of turnips, but Floyd felt like he needed to stay home and work on the new hog pen. When Red and Joe got home, ready for coffee, the doors were locked. Red knew Ruby and Floyd were both home, because the wash was still on the line, the old truck was there and Floyd’s old dog was under the porch. Floyd never went anywhere without Ol’ Blue. Red beat on the front door. No answer. He checked the back door. No answer. He came back and hammered on the front door again. Miss Ruby yelled out. “Git on out of here and quit bangin’ on that door! Floyd’s tryin’ to take a nap.” Bewildered, Red squatted outside the front door, muttering to Joe, “umpin ‘oin on in ‘ere.” Eventually, Floyd finished his “nap,” ambled on out to do chores. The three did not have a cozy night. Something like this might have broken up the relationship between most brothers, but Ruby saved the day. When the feuding brothers got up the next morning, Ruby had eloped with Ol’ Blue and the truck. As the brothers commiserated over the betrayal and bonded over their losses they worked things out.
Now for the poop part of the story, Once Mother gets a notion in her head, she can not be side-tracked. Mother and I stopped in at the grocery store one morning. As we made our way back to my vehicle, I spotted a dignified elderly gentleman hurriedly making his way back to his own car parked adjacent to mine. He seemed to be in some distress, so I slowed my place to stay out of his way. As he sidled past me, I got a whiff and realized the reason for his scurrying. I slowed my pace and acted distracted to give him time to get to his car and save his dignity.
That wasn’t the worst of Grandma’s Goodwill gifts. When I was in the eighth grade and anxious to fit in, she hit the mother lode and stopped by Goodwill just after Shirley Temple cleaned out her closet. Grandma sent me several party dresses. Mother was overjoyed. They were exquisite and probably just what she had wanted twenty years earlier. Mother held up the worst of the worst, and reminded me, just in case I had gone into a coma and forgotten, I had a band concert coming up and had to have a new dress. I had been praying for a miracle, a box pleated wool skirt with a pullover sweater. Hope died. She held up a disaster in sheer lavender with a wide satin cummerbund. Mother made me try it on right then. It was so sheer, my ugly cotton slip, which Grandma had thoughtfully provided earlier, was perfectly showcased. (All the other girls had lacy nylon ones) It looked like a horrible joke. Better yet, its low cut back showcased off my pimply back perfectly. 
However, as sheer as it was, a high back wouldn’t have hidden anything. It was a good three inches too long. Mother explained it was tea-length, just what I needed in a fancy dress, and cut me off when I suggested hemming it. It would ruin all that beautiful embroidery around the tail of the skirt. I was heartsick. “Mother, I can’t wear this. It’s embarrassing. Nobody wears stuff like this!”
I have enjoyed blogging so much this past year and a half. I have met so many friends and enjoyed incredible writing. Following Bunkarydo’s example, I am reposting my first post. Pictured above: upper left Linda Swain Bethea holding Connie Swain Miller’s hands, Billy Swain, Phyllis Swain Barrington holding Marilyn Swain Grisham.
Grandma was born in 1896. Very progressive, she employed higher standards of hygiene I do today, possibly because she’d barely survived typhoid in her mid-forties. Like me, washed her hands frequently as she cooked, but she scalded instead of merely rinsing her dishes, and boiled her whites, linens, and towels when doing her laundry with home-made lye soap in a huge cast-iron washpot outdoors until she got a washing machine. 
Nutsrok 