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Words, images tell stories
Published Friday, October 23, 2009
Sarah, who is 9 and a fourth-grader, recently was required as part of her Alabama history class to interview someone who had lived here at least 20 years. She chose my father, known to her as “Grandaddy,” who gave her a 70-year perspective.
“When I was a little boy and would spend time in the country with my grandparents during the summer, Grandmother would worry if the “rolling store” could get to their house on Tuesday morning if it had been raining much. When the rolling store came, some people would trade eggs or chickens for something the rolling store was selling. The rolling store man would then sell the eggs or chickens to someone down the road. If the roads were too muddy and the rolling store could not travel on them, my grandparents could not buy any groceries or kerosene for the lamps that week unless the mud dried out and they could drive to town later in the week.”
When I read the interview, I immediately thought of an interview I’d recently read about Woodie Long, the noted folk artist who died earlier this month.
“I wanted to write my memories down,” Woodie told author Kathy Kemp of his early work. “I had a lot to say, you know. But it was just too hard for me to do. I can talk a million miles an hour, but I can’t write. So I thought, why don’t I paint ‘em?”
Long was one of 12 children of an alcoholic sharecropper, who went to work in the fields each day when most children went to school. Much of his work features happy yellow school buses, which represented a wonderful place he imagined other children went while he went to work every day, he told one interviewer.
As I’ve thought about Daddy’s word memories and Woodie’s picture memories over the past couple of weeks, I’ve wondered if one of the reasons I fell in love with Woodie’s art was because they provided visual images of the stories I’d often heard.
“A lot of people still came to town on horses or mules and wagons,” Daddy wrote. “They would tie the animals behind the main street stores where there was a watering tank for the horses and mules. Lots of people would come to town on Saturdays. They would sometimes stay all day and go home late at night on those dark, dark roads. They would come back the next Saturday and do the same thing again.”
For those familiar with the south end of the county “town” is Florala, and “the country” is between Lockhart and Damascus. It takes no time to get from one to the other now, but it seems as if it was a world away for a child in the 40s.
He also wrote about the impact “Big Jim” Folsom had on the state by paving roads – which no doubt improved his grandmother’s chances of seeing the rolling store. Many times I’ve heard him tell stories about Big Jim’s campaign stops in Florala, and the impression the 6-foot-8 man made on an 8-year-old by downing a jug of buttermilk in a long gulp.
In my mind’s eye, I can take the written description of those days, “When I was a child we went almost anywhere playing with our friends … our parents didn’t worry about us. If we did something wrong some adult would scold us or maybe tell our parents and we would be in real trouble,” and imagine a gang of little boys riding their bicycles to town and watching a really big man drink buttermilk before being entertained by Folsom’s hillbilly band.
There must have been some of that little-boy awe left, when as an adult, Big Jim visited his sister in Elba, and Daddy had opportunities to sit and hear him tell stories about Alabama.
In our family, we have heard stories, read stories, and seen wonderful photographs that have helped us understand our parents’ formative years. Woodie’s family – and indeed the rest of the world – has seen happy paintings that allow us to imagine the best of his growing-up world.
As fortunate as I feel to know so much about family history, there was one memory that made me wish Daddy could paint: “At grandmother’s house we took our baths in a big tub sitting in the backyard. Granddaddy would get water from the well sometime after lunch and sitting in the sun all afternoon was the only heating our bath water ever got.”
I hope your family is capturing the memories, too.
Comments
Posted by outlaw11 (anonymous) on October 24, 2009 at 1:37 p.m. (Suggest removal)
Great article,Michele. I,too, believe if we all had time to sit down and just jot down a few stories, then more of our past heritage could be perserved. I know, at 61, I could tell a few tales of no inside plumbing, outhouses, windmills, no heat except a wood-burning stove, etc. And, I have already started a 'life story ' to leave for my son, so thanks for the memories.
Posted by rgodwin (anonymous) on October 25, 2009 at 6:47 p.m. (Suggest removal)
Michelle, it was a great article and it reminded me how much things have changed, just in my lifetime. We only lived ten miles from my grand parents, but we only got to see them about once a week, because they lived so far away. It was usually on Sunday when we'd visit and my other uncles, aunts and cousins would usually be there too. We don't think anything about driving 10 miles today, but it was another story back then. I'm 51 and I see where outlaw11 is 61 and I bet he's seen many more changes than I have. My kids can't believe some of the things I've told them about the way we lived, but they'll have stories to tell one day too and their kids will think they were just as prehistoric.
Posted by justwingit (anonymous) on October 26, 2009 at 10:48 a.m. (Suggest removal)
My siblings and I love to get together with our mom and dad and reminisce about our grandma and grandpa that lived here. They are actually some of the most fond of memories.
My grandma made the best biscuits in the whole world!!!! I always liked to watch her. I can't seem to make them taste like hers... Milking the cow was another memory for us about them. Grandma would put on her cow milking boots and grab the metal pail and her and grandpa would head down to the barn to milk and of course there was always some thing going to happen. One time the big black and white, sharp- pointy horned cow pushed grandpa into the electric fence! Picture that!
Oh, so many more memories and the more you go back the more images that seem to pop in to your head!!
Posted by pathenley (anonymous) on October 29, 2009 at 8:52 a.m. (Suggest removal)
WHAT A PLEASURE to read such a story that brings back so many memories for a lot of us... Also , I have enjoyed the nice , clean comments posted. I do look forward to reading more from the regular posters ,--- I know they have nice informative memories of times listening to their family 's talk, or maybe have experienced themselves. Have a blest day.
Posted by LoyalAmerican (anonymous) on October 30, 2009 at 5:39 a.m. (Suggest removal)
Michelle, you have written a beautiful story of life that we all share. Oh how things have changed! Instead of seeing grandmother go out and wring the neck of a chicken, that would be Sunday dinner, we zip into KFC or Church's, etc. and get the Family sized box! In so doing, we have lost a real connection. However, now that I am the grandmother, I am grateful that I don't have to chase a chicken down on Sunday! I remember the "rolling store"! Oh my goodness what a nickel could buy! My grandfather was a diamond set in platinum. He was poor monetarily, yet had the richest character and highest morals of anyone I have ever known. He was the architect for the majority of my wonderful memories of childhood! That stick of Juicey Fruit gum he gave to me just before the preacher started his sermon on Sunday was a big event; I didn't have to tear it in half to share!! I now know the reason Papa gave it to me, was to keep my mouth busy doing something other than talking! As the flavor of that 'whole piece' of gum began to wane, and I would fidget, he would turn the silver wrapper from the gum into a tiny silver 'goblet' and I would pretend to sip from it and was occupied until the sermon was over! I challenge anyone to peel an apple, equal width all the way around without breaking the peel. My Papa did it perfectly every time! I was always awe struck! No one loves their mother and daddy more than I love mine, but now Papa....I have always carried a special love in my heart for him that exceeds all others. It has been 44 years since my last piece of Juicey Fruit gum and I miss him so much. I would trade a thousand tomorrow's for just one more day with my Papa. Thank you Michelle for your article. It gave me the opportunity to share a tiny sliver of some truly precious memories!
Posted by justwingit (anonymous) on October 30, 2009 at 8:56 a.m. (Suggest removal)
My Grandpa would go into the garden and get stalks off the squash plant and make horns with his very sharp pocket knife for all of us kids. Can you imagine how noisey it got in our yard when 7 kids would blow squash stalk horns???HA Or the sight of all of us running around with them sticking out of our mouths?
Posted by biscuitsandhoovergravy (anonymous) on November 6, 2009 at 3:09 p.m. (Suggest removal)
LoyalAmerican...dang it, you made me misty eyed reading your post. It sounds like a cliche` to say "tell someone every chance you get that you love them" but take it from me...do it! You will never ever regret it.
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