Mom was born in Montgomery County, Texas on this day in 1920. A midwife delivered her in the farmhouse where she grew up, one of seven children.
Mom is a natural storyteller who has told wonderful stories over the years: growing up on the farm, living through the great depression, enduring WWII. Mom tells these stories with frankness, humility and humor. There are stories of picking cotton, the one-room schoolhouse, a humorous story of the ghost in the well and many others. I would like to honor her by sharing one of my favorites; how she met my dad and the reason we had pot roast every Saturday.
At the beginning of WWII, my dad enlisted in the Army where he met my mom’s brother. They became fast friends and remained so until my dad’s death in 2005. Prior to going overseas, my uncle invited his friend to spend a few days on the farm.
Mom tells this story:
“When the letter arrived announcing that my brother, Charles, was bringing a fellow soldier home on furlough, my two younger sisters were giddy with anticipation. At that time most of the eligible young men in the area had gone off to fight in the war and the ones left behind, well, as my sisters would say, were “twits”.
My sisters, always eager to impress the boys, hatched a plan. They pooled what little money they had between them and set off for town. At the drugstore they bought a tube of lipstick, a compact of rouge, and a bottle of cheap perfume. I was older, not as outgoing as my sisters and often found myself excluded from their girlish escapades.
On the appointed day, daddy drove the Model-T to the train station to pick up my brother and his friend. Meanwhile, my sisters set about prettying themselves up. They dabbed on enough perfume that the entire house reeked of Gardenia. When Daddy returned home, he told Mama that those two girls looked like unemployed circus clowns and smelled like French…(ladies of the night). He had mama march them both down to the creek with a bar of lye soap.
Our visitor was quite dapper, this friend if my brother’s, and my sisters were tripping one over the other to gain his attention. Meanwhile I went about my tasks, cooking and helping mama and daddy with the chores.
On Saturday, the day before the boys were to depart, I made pot roast for supper and then all of us went to a barn dance together. My sisters danced, often at the same time, with the gentleman. Then, this young man whom I had hardly spoken to asked me to dance.
We danced and talked and laughed. I discovered that this man, who had come into my life by chance, was charming, intelligent and a little shy. And, he and I had things in common. Several times during the evening he complemented my pot roast, saying that it was the best meal he had ever eaten. I was as proud as a peacock. It had turned into my evening. I knew that my sisters were envious and angry that I had stolen the limelight but frankly I didn’t care.
Before he left, he promised to write. And write he did. With each letter we grew a little closer. He had sent me several pictures of himself and wanted one of me. I scraped together enough money, got dressed up and had a photo studio take my picture.
Not long after I had sent the picture, a letter arrived that included a proposal of marriage. I accepted. It may sound foolhardy, being that I had only known this young man for a few hours and we had not seen one another since that night, but in my heart I knew he was the one. When the war ended and our boys returned home, we were married at the small church in town. On the same day and at the same church, my brother Charles married his long time sweetheart, a girl form the neighboring farm. The reception for the four of us was the biggest wedding event the town had seen.
Now you know how I met my husband and why I served pot roast for supper every Saturday.”
END
FOOTNOTE: My Mom and Dad were happily married for sixty years. Mom is an invalid now and suffers some early dementia. She still likes to tell her stories but they often become tangled. I was fortunate over the years to have written down, and in a few instances record on tape, her memories.
The B&W photo on the left was the one she sent Dad. Dad carried it with him in his wallet until the day he passed away.
It will be Thanksgiving in a couple of days and I’m thankful that Mom is still with us.
Mom is a natural storyteller who has told wonderful stories over the years: growing up on the farm, living through the great depression, enduring WWII. Mom tells these stories with frankness, humility and humor. There are stories of picking cotton, the one-room schoolhouse, a humorous story of the ghost in the well and many others. I would like to honor her by sharing one of my favorites; how she met my dad and the reason we had pot roast every Saturday.
At the beginning of WWII, my dad enlisted in the Army where he met my mom’s brother. They became fast friends and remained so until my dad’s death in 2005. Prior to going overseas, my uncle invited his friend to spend a few days on the farm.
Mom tells this story:
“When the letter arrived announcing that my brother, Charles, was bringing a fellow soldier home on furlough, my two younger sisters were giddy with anticipation. At that time most of the eligible young men in the area had gone off to fight in the war and the ones left behind, well, as my sisters would say, were “twits”.
My sisters, always eager to impress the boys, hatched a plan. They pooled what little money they had between them and set off for town. At the drugstore they bought a tube of lipstick, a compact of rouge, and a bottle of cheap perfume. I was older, not as outgoing as my sisters and often found myself excluded from their girlish escapades.
On the appointed day, daddy drove the Model-T to the train station to pick up my brother and his friend. Meanwhile, my sisters set about prettying themselves up. They dabbed on enough perfume that the entire house reeked of Gardenia. When Daddy returned home, he told Mama that those two girls looked like unemployed circus clowns and smelled like French…(ladies of the night). He had mama march them both down to the creek with a bar of lye soap.
Our visitor was quite dapper, this friend if my brother’s, and my sisters were tripping one over the other to gain his attention. Meanwhile I went about my tasks, cooking and helping mama and daddy with the chores.
On Saturday, the day before the boys were to depart, I made pot roast for supper and then all of us went to a barn dance together. My sisters danced, often at the same time, with the gentleman. Then, this young man whom I had hardly spoken to asked me to dance.
We danced and talked and laughed. I discovered that this man, who had come into my life by chance, was charming, intelligent and a little shy. And, he and I had things in common. Several times during the evening he complemented my pot roast, saying that it was the best meal he had ever eaten. I was as proud as a peacock. It had turned into my evening. I knew that my sisters were envious and angry that I had stolen the limelight but frankly I didn’t care.
Before he left, he promised to write. And write he did. With each letter we grew a little closer. He had sent me several pictures of himself and wanted one of me. I scraped together enough money, got dressed up and had a photo studio take my picture.
Not long after I had sent the picture, a letter arrived that included a proposal of marriage. I accepted. It may sound foolhardy, being that I had only known this young man for a few hours and we had not seen one another since that night, but in my heart I knew he was the one. When the war ended and our boys returned home, we were married at the small church in town. On the same day and at the same church, my brother Charles married his long time sweetheart, a girl form the neighboring farm. The reception for the four of us was the biggest wedding event the town had seen.
Now you know how I met my husband and why I served pot roast for supper every Saturday.”
END
FOOTNOTE: My Mom and Dad were happily married for sixty years. Mom is an invalid now and suffers some early dementia. She still likes to tell her stories but they often become tangled. I was fortunate over the years to have written down, and in a few instances record on tape, her memories.
The B&W photo on the left was the one she sent Dad. Dad carried it with him in his wallet until the day he passed away.
It will be Thanksgiving in a couple of days and I’m thankful that Mom is still with us.
