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"Viewing the World With Fresh Eyes"


Prologue
A Prologue

By BethShelby

In an effort to organize some of the odds and ends in my portfolio, I’ve decided to group some of the older stories into a book. The original topic I chose was "Viewing the World With Fresh Eyes. Later, I wanted to change the name to Rooted in Dixie, but try as I might, there didn’t seem to be a way once this title was created to change it. As a result, I now have two titles rather than one.  

I have decided to keep this title and limit it to stories told from the point of view of the child, and also for stories and maybe poems that I have written for children. This means some of the chapters, which I’ve already moved to this heading, may be moved yet again.

The other book, Rooted in Dixie, will be for personal stories written about my younger years, but told by me as an adult and also stories of my parents and other members of my family who lived before me, but also have Southern roots. 

From time to time, I may add new stories, or revive the older stories so that newer readers may choose to review them while they can be rewarded with member dollars.

I hope some of you will join me on this journey as well.

 


Chapter 1
Writing To God

By BethShelby

Becky was four and she was bored. There were only big people around and Mama was always busy. Mama had no time today to read her a story.

What I need is a sister or even a brother who would play with me. It's not fair. Other kids have people to play with. I always have to play by myself.

Mama said God always hears me and I can ask him anything. Maybe I could have him send me a sister. I know. Maybe I’ll just write him a letter. The way that wind is blowing, I’ll bet it could just take it straight up to Heaven so he’d be sure to get it.

“Mama, can I have a piece of paper?  I have to write a letter.”

“Baby, you have to wait until you’re old enough to go to school. Then you’ll learn to write.”

‘’Please, Mama. It’s important. I can draw what I want to say.”

“Well, okay. Get a sheet out of my desk, but just get one. I’m about out of stationery. Use your colors. Those pencils are too sharp. You might fall and get stuck.”

Becky did as she was told. She did her best to draw a baby, but she also did some loopy-loos that looked a lot like her mama’s writing. He’ll know what I’m saying. Important stuff needs to be on paper. I’m sure He will know what I wrote. He can read minds. Mama said so.

She took her paper outside and a gust of wind lifted it and swirled it up into the air. Later that night, when mother was tucking her in bed, she decided her mama ought to know so she could be ready.

“Mama, I got a secret. If I tell you, don’t tell Daddy yet. We can surprise him. Okay?”

"We’ll see. Let’s hear your secret, Becky. Then you need to go to sleep.”

“We’re gonna get a baby sister.”

Mother laughed, “Oh we are, are we? What makes you think that?”

“I know because I asked God for one. You said I could ask him anything.”

“Well, Honey. That’s not what I meant. You don’t need to be asking God for something like that. We don’t need to have another baby. Daddy doesn’t want any more children.”

“Well, I'm sorry, but it’s too late. I already wrote God a letter, and I mailed it.”
 

 

Author Notes I'm calling it fiction because I renamed her, and it isn't word for word, but I actually did this when I was four. I can remember thinking if it would work. My mother had some fast talking to do. I never got my sister, but I did try to get my doll to come to life. I actually though I heard a heartbeat. I was a pretty naive little girl.


Chapter 2
Dealing With Death

By BethShelby

When as a kid, I learned death comes to all,
it petrified my childlike brain.
I hid behind a self-constructed wall
and vowed I’d not participate in pain.
 
My mother saw I was avoiding grief,
and thought my mental health at stake.
It’s part of growing up was her belief.
This fear is something she must shake.
 
A neighbor died, and Mom thought I should go
with her to pay her kind respect.
I cried and said I did not want to know
or see the change death might reflect.
 
Mom went inside to see the man who’d died,
and left me sitting in the car.
Someone she saw did sculpting on the side.
His work, she’d show me from afar.
 
When Mom emerged, she carried in her hand
a head I thought was the deceased.
This thing she held must be something she’d planned
to somehow see my fear decreased.
 
I screamed out loud and dived below the seat.
How dare my mom bring him to me!
She stood confused, not knowing this retreat
was fear that caused her child to flee.
 
She took the art and hurried back inside.
My daughter must have lost her mind.
Back in the car she questioned why I cried.
She knew why I had stayed behind.
 

“You knew I didn’t want to see that man.
How dare you bring to me his head!”
She laughed at me because I thought her plan
was just her way to show the dead.
 
She told me what she held was just some art.
“I thought t’was something you’d enjoy.
How could you think I’d take that man apart?
That’s not a trick I would employ.”
 
“You silly girl, I’ll let you take your time.
Forcing may push you o'er the brink.
To rid yourself of fear, may be a climb.
Your mom’s not crazy as you think.”
 

Author Notes As a child, the thought that people would die terrified me. Mother thought I needed to learn to deal with it. I couldn't bear to see a dead body. When Mom went to the funeral parlor, I stayed in the car. The funeral director was an artist. and he'd sculpted a head Mom thought I like to see, so she brought it out to show me. I thought it was the dead man head and I freaked out.


Chapter 3
Riding High

By BethShelby

I remember staring up from my tricycle as I rode around the yard and seeing airplanes fly over my house. We lived near a small airport, and the planes were flying very low as they passed over. The sound of the motor was loud. I could sometimes actually see the person flying the plane. I would always wave, hoping they would wave back. “Look, plane!” was one of my first sentences.

I remember the day my dad asked if I would like to ride in a plane. “Yes! Yes! Can I? Please, can I ride in a plane?”
  
“We’ll see," Daddy said. “I know the guy who runs the airport. Maybe I can get him to take you up one of these days.” After that, Dad seemed to forget about it, but I kept asking, “When can I go up in a plane?”

Those were my brave days. Before I started to school, I was confident and ready for adventure. I couldn’t wait to start to school. Once I actually did, I found there were many things to intimidate me, but that is another story. At age five, getting to actually fly in the air would a be a dream come true. I envied the birds' ability to fly. Ever since Mom had read the story of Peter Pan to me, I thought flying must be the most wonderful thing in the world.

Then one Sunday, Dad said, “After lunch, we’ll drive over to the airport and see what’s going on.” I was so excited, I could hardly swallow a bite of food.

When we got to the airport, there were a lot of people there. It was a special event day, and the pilot was taking kids up for rides for a penny a pound. Most of the kids were older than me. The plane kept taking off, flying around a while, and coming back down. Every time the plane landed, I would ask “When am I going to get to go?” Dad would say, “Be patient. We’ll see if he has time after a while.”

“Are you going with me?” I asked.  

“No, not me.” Daddy said. “I don’t’ have any business being up there.”

“Don’t you like to fly, Daddy?”

“Nope, never had any desire to fly.”

That was a surprise. He was considering letting me do something he’d never done. It was getting late. The crowd had thinned. I’d about given up, when the pilot walked over and said to Dad, “So this is your daughter, I’ve heard so much about. She’s the spitting image of her Daddy.” I wasn’t sure that was good news. Daddy was bald.

"You ready to take a ride?” he asked me. I grinned and nodded. “Well, all right! Let's weigh you in.”
He had me step upon some scales. “54 pounds. That’s going to cost your daddy 54 cents. You think you’re worth that?”

Daddy reached in his pocket and pulled out a handful of change.

The man led me to the plane, lifted me up into the seat, and buckled me in. He climbed in behind me and said, “Okay, Little Lady, where do you want to go? How about we take a trip over to your house? Would you like that?” I was too excited to talk, so I just smiled and nodded.

The engine was so loud, he had to shout, so I could hear him. The little two-seat plane taxied down the runway and lifted off. I drew a breath of surprise and awe, I couldn’t believe that it was the same world I was used to seeing everyday. The plane circled and tilted. I was sure I knew how it felt to be a bird.

"You want be the pilot?” he asked. “See the thing in front of you? You fly it for a while. I’ll take a nap.” I hoped he was kidding. I’m sure I wasn’t doing anything, but he let me think I was.

In a while, he dipped the plane low and pointed. “You know who lives there?” I knew he was showing me my house, but it didn’t look like my house from this angle. I could see my dog in the yard. He looked like he had shrunk.

The plane lifted. “You want to try a rollover?” I shrugged. I wasn’t sure what a rollover was.

“Okay, hold on tight. You’ll be upside down for a second. You sure you’re alright with that?” I nodded. What a sensation. That was a little scary. I hoped he wouldn’t do that again.

All too soon my ride was over. I couldn’t shut up on the way home. None of the rest of my family had ever flown in a plane. I had my own unique status among my family members. I had gone where none of them had ever gone before. 

 

Author Notes Word count. 828 This took place in 1942.


Chapter 4
A Warm Day In February

By BethShelby

The day was incredibly warm for February, and a brisk wind was kicking up leaves. Sand from our driveway prickled my face causing me to close my eyes and turn my head. The atmosphere rippled with a strange sensation that caused me to feel excited without knowing exactly why. It was Friday, and I had an unexpected day off from school.
 
I was ten years old and in fifth grade. Tomorrow would be Valentine's Day. We were supposed to have our school Valentine's party today, but there had been a change of plans. The County Commissioners had an emergency meeting with the Mississippi governor, and the only spot big enough to hold everyone was our school auditorium. Just yesterday, we had been given a mimeographed sheet to bring home, alerting our parents that school was canceled for the day.  

I got out of bed, tugged on my faded jeans and favorite shirt, anxious to start my day. Any day without school was a good day, and I didn’t want to waste it.

“Mom, It’s not cold outside. Can I go barefooted?”

“No, you may not! You know it's too early. You don’t ever go barefooted before May. Besides, it looks stormy outside. You need shoes with rubber soles in case there is lightning. I want you insulated, if you’re going to be running around outside.”

“I was going to ride my bike to Grandpa’s house. Can I go? I won’t be gone long. Please!”

“Okay, I guess so. But I’m counting on you not to be gone long. Daddy will be home from lunch soon.”

My grandparent’s house was just over a small rise. I could be there in five minutes. I jumped on my bike and pedaled up the gravel road. I spent more of my waking time there than I did at home. 

I loved their old house. They lived frugally, in an unpainted frame house that must  have been built around the turn of the century. It had tall ceilings and a tin roof. They had no electricity or running water. The house was partially heated by a fireplace in the front room. Water came from a well pump behind the house. Grandma cooked on an iron wood stove. There was a front porch with a swing and a small back porch. Outbuildings littered the property. Grandpa had a gristmill where he ground corn on Saturday. There was a barn, a shed, a blacksmith shop, a smoke house, an outhouse, a chicken house, a potato shed, a pigpen and a storm pit, dug into the side of a small embankment.

In the fenced pasture, there were two cows, with calves, a mule, and a horse. Grandpa kept a hive of bees. He also had a V-shaped structure filled with yellow dirt where he distilled a strong acidic mineral, which he was convinced was capable of curing any illness known to man. People, who knew about it, often stopped by to purchase a bottle of it.

When I arrived at my destination, it was apparent no one had time for me today. Grandpa was rarely sick, but he’d once contracted malaria, and occasionally he had a flare-up, causing him to have chills. Today was one of those days. Grandma was trying in vain to keep him in. He was sitting on the edge of his bed attempting to put on his brogans, and Grandma was yelling at him.

“Ebb, you don’t need to be out in that wind. You should stay in bed, so you can get better. Let that mule go. You can’t go chasing no mule in the shape you’re in.”

“Ahh, Woman, be quiet. I’m gonna get that mule in the barn if it kills me.”

Grandma turned her attention to me and said. “What are you doing here? It looks like it’s going to storm any minute. How come your mama let you come off in this weather. You need to go back home and tell your mama she better come over here. We might all need to go to the storm pit. Eva’s already at the pit, trying to get all the spider webs down and make sure there are no snakes in there.

Eva was my grandma’s old maid sister who lived with them. She was especially afraid of bad weather. She had taken it upon herself to see to it that the pit was ready in case it was needed.

I took the hint. “Okay, I’m going home. I know when I’m not wanted.”

I jumped back on my bike and took off pedaling as fast as I could. The sky had gotten darker, and the rolling clouds had taken on a strange yellowish tint.

Mom was glad to see me. “Good! You're back. I think we’re about to have a bad storm. Go in the back bedroom and get down between the two beds. I’m going to turn the stove off, and I’ll be in there in a second. I'm afraid there may be a tornado in that cloud. If the roof caves in, maybe the bed will protect us."

The tone of her voice told me she was serious, so I went. Mom opened the back door to look out, and the wind tore it from her grip. The door slammed shut with a loud clap. Mom wasted no time getting to me. She dropped down onto the floor beside me. Placing her arms around me, she lowered her head onto my back. She was not a second too soon.

The double windows over the bed tore loose from their frames and sailed across the room, crashing into the opposite wall and sending glass shards slithering across the floor. A deafening roar filled the room, and the floor tilted beneath us. I watched in horror as the dresser toppled over, and two big balls of fire rolled across the room. Dust filled my eyes, and I squeezed them shut, as Mom and I went airborne. “Pray,” Mom yelled in my ear. I had the sensation of being sucked up as by a giant vacuum cleaner.  

I must have gone out for a brief period, because my next memory was of Mom and I, still together, but this time we were actually sitting on a thick wooden beam, with our feet in a puddle of water. Rain was pelting down on top of us.

“Are you all right?” Mom asked.

“Yes, are you? Where are we?"  I looked around, completely bewildered by what I was seeing. There was no house, no trees, just rubble everywhere. We stood up. The beam on which we were sitting was full of nails, except for the one spot where we sat.

“How did we get here?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I have no idea how we got here. I must have been unconscious for a minute. The last thing I remember is I felt like we were floating. It felt peaceful. But we’re alive. Praise the Lord. It’s like a miracle. There’s the road. Let’s go see if your grandparents are okay. You need to be prepared. They may not have made it.”  I heard the fear in her voice.

Since Mom knew where we were, she led the way up the road, until we reached my grandparents house. Mom started calling them before we got there. Two heads appeared at the door looking out over a ripped off porch. Twisted tin was everywhere. The roof was missing. Somehow, they managed to pull us into what was left of the house.
  
Grandma was crying. “We’ve lost everything,” she said, wringing her hands. Aunt Eva walked in looking dazed. Her dress was splotched in red. Mom thought it was blood, but it turned out she picked up some red crepe paper. No one was hurt.

My mother tried to comfort my grandmother. “You’re alive and you’re not hurt. We're all alive. Things don’t matter. Things can be replaced. Just thank God, we’re all alive."

About that time, Dad came running up the road. He’d been on his way home for lunch when the storm struck. He could see his house was gone. He was so afraid we’d all been killed. When he couldn’t find us around where our house had been, he had kept going hoping to find us here.

"We have to go somewhere and get some dry clothes. It's cooling off, “ Dad said. Dad had left his car a half a mile down the road when he could no longer get past the downed trees.

it wasn’t long until the neighbors began to show up and offer help. We went with them, and they helped us find dry clothes.  Everyone helped, even strangers, and in a couple of months, we were in a new house, and things had settled down to a more normal pace.

We learned that twenty-nine people died in that Friday the thirteenth storm. More than eighty others were injured. We weren’t even bruised. Mom said we were spared for a reason. I don’t know. I just hope we haven’t let anyone down.

 


Chapter 5
Swimming Lesson

By BethShelby

I was an only child, and at fourteen, I’d led a very sheltered life. Most of my pleas to be allowed to do things my friends took for granted, fell on deaf ears. Sleepovers with friends were rare, and being away from home more than overnight was unheard of. We had no TV, as they were not yet popular in small towns in Mississippi. My family didn’t even own a phone.

It was summer, and I had another three months, during which my entertainment would likely consist of a weekly trip to the library. No other young people lived near enough to come over for a few hours of socializing, so I spent my time living vicariously through books.

My best friend, Helen, was going away to camp for a week, and she invited me and two other friends to attend with her. The other two had already gotten permission, but I was still in the process of trying to break down my parents' resolve. Mom felt sorry for me, and pleaded my case with Dad.
 
“She's going to grow up, whether we like it or not. We can’t keep her with us forever. It’s a Christian camp.  We should let her go,” Mom told him.

Miracle of Miracles, permission was granted, but with a list of stipulations a mile long. The camp brochure listed things that every child should bring, and one of them was a bathing suit.

“No, absolutely not!” my father said . “She’s not getting in no water. She doesn’t know how to swim. She’ll drown. They probably won’t have anyone watching those kids. If she takes a bathing suit, she be tempted to get in the water. I won’t have it.”

“I won’t get in deep water,” I pleaded. “I promise, I’ll stay in the shallow end. I won’t go out past my waist.”

The answer remained a resounding “NO!"  I didn’t push it further, lest it meant not going at all.

And so it was that I was the only kid at camp with no bathing suit. But that didn’t mean when all the kids trudged down to the lake, that I didn’t go with them, wearing shorts, shirt, and sandals.

The lake was large and took up nearly an acre. Its depth near the middle was over twenty feet. Most of the kids would stay near the shore. Only the excellent swimmers ventured into the deeper water.

Another girl, named Anita, chose not to get in the water, because she didn’t want to get her long blonde hair wet. Since she didn’t know how to swim either, she suggested that we sit in a boat docked by the edge of the lake. It seemed safe enough to me, so I climbed into it.

The kids in the water were having a great time, and I was so envious. Anita and I both lay back on boat cushions and closed our eyes. I’d almost fallen asleep, when Anita screamed, and I felt the movement of the boat. I opened my eyes to realize we were surrounded by six of the older teenage boys, and they were busy towing our boat into deep water. The more we protested, the more the laughing guys teased us by rocking the boat. Water was coming over the sides, and we were in the middle of the lake.

The boat was already sinking, when the life guard noticed what was happening and blew his whistle. Somebody yelled, “Those girls can’t swim.”

As the boat went under and my body entered the water, I started dog-paddling furiously. Somehow, I was managing to stay afloat. Anita was choking, but I was actually swimming. Not too gracefully, but nevertheless swimming, shoes and all. Someone managed to get some inner-tubes out to us, and we were dragged to shore.

I couldn’t help but feel a certain degree of pride at my progress during my first swimming lesson, but my instincts warned me, that perhaps I should keep this incident to myself when I returned home.

 


Chapter 6
Book Worm

By BethShelby

 
Growing up as I did in the days before television, my earliest memories are of sitting in my mother’s lap and having stories read aloud to me. Mom was a good reader and could make the stories come to life. Dad read to me to, but his job was to read the funny paper while I looked at the pictures.

I was an only child, and I grew up around adults. The nearest playmate lived a mile away, and we seldom saw each other. Story time was the best time of the day. Some stories weren’t always to my liking. I had a tender heart, and a lot of the fairy tales were brutal, like killing giants or having Bambi’s mom die. I couldn’t wait until I learned to read for myself.

Reading came easy for me, and I was fascinated by words. The day Mom took me to the library for the first time was the day, my whole world exploded with color and adventure. From that day forward, I came home with as many books as I could carry. Reading was my life. I loved to find a tight space and curl up away from everyone, and not move for hours except to turn pages.

I went on every adventure the Bobsey Twins had. I solved mysteries with Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. I became a Nurse with Cherry Aims. I read all the Orange biography books, about all the heroes of history. By the time I reached third grade, I’d read every book the library in our town had to offer young people.

We used to sign our names on a card inside the book cover. There was one name other than mine on every card. I was not the only book worm in town. This girl was in my class in school and Jo Ann became my rival. We competed for everything; even to see who could read the most books. We always wanted to have the same part in school plays. We vied to be the one named to do the speeches for class competitions. She was the richest girl in town, but years later, she confessed at a class reunion that she always envied me. Funny thing was I’d envied her.

I graduated to the Zane Grey series, the Perry Mason series, the Emily Loring books, and everything Charles Dickens wrote. I read Robinson Crusoe and Moby Dick and Wuthering Heights. There was no subject that didn’t interest me. I read by firelight and flashlight and moonlight. I even captured a jar of fireflies hoping I could see to read by them when Dad made me turn out the lights at night. That trick didn’t work so well. I read in cars, in barns, and while lying across a limb on my favorite pine tree.
 
I once heard an aunt tell my mother, “I’m glad my daughter doesn’t care about books. I think it gets them interested in boys too young.” Her daughter started dating at twelve. I had no time for boys. Books were more interesting. Books had macho men for icons. Sure beat pimply faced teenagers. I had my first date at seventeen and he was twenty-five.

Now that I’m older, and have just about put my eyes out reading, I have my own library. Every room has dozens of books. One long wall of my house is floor to ceiling books. Ironically, now I prefer to read on the computer. You can usually make the type larger. I would still rather read the book than see a movie or watch TV.

Did reading make me smarter? Probably not, but it did make me want to write, and I’m a whizz at crosswords and trivia.

 


Chapter 7
First Day of School

By BethShelby

Today, I had to go to school. I've been worrying about it ever since Mommy and Daddy told me I wasn't going back where I went last year. When I was in pre-school, I was in a little school where I knew everybody. They all thought I was cool too, because I was better at my Wii games than anyone, even the big kids. My sisters were at the same school, but this year, we all had to go to different public schools.

Today, I begged not to go but Daddy made me. He said I'd have fun, and he didn't believe me when I told him my stomach felt like it had big worms crawling around in it, and my throat didn't want to swallow cause there was a lump there. Daddy took me to school cause Mommy had to work. He went with me to the room and told the teacher my name. I think she might be nice. She's kind of pretty.

I don't know nobody at this school, and there are thousands of kids there, maybe even a zillion. Most of the ones in first grade like me already know the others from pre-school last year. Just me and this one other girl was new, and the teacher told the other kids they had to play with us, but they didn't play with me. They played with that girl, and she was ugly too. I felt like crying, but I tried not to because they might laugh at me.

At recess, I did see a cute girl though, I followed her around because I thought she might like to be my girlfriend. I think she smiled at me. When I told Daddy about her, he laughed, and I heard him telling Me-ma, he was going to have problems with me because I was girl crazy already. I don't know why grownups have to tell everything anybody tells them. Me-ma said I shouldn't worry because Daddy found a little girl he liked the first day he went to school too.

I can't wait to go back tomorrow because I'm going to ask that girl what her name is.

Author Notes This is the way my grandson related his first day to me, plus some of the things my son told me about his first day. Grammatical errors are his way of talking, not mine. The picture is him at that aga. He is eightteen now.


Chapter 8
A Simple Age

By BethShelby


This picture takes me back in time
when Ice cream cost a single dime,
and time for play was understood
in carefree days of our childhood.
 
Cars back then had a rumble seat,
and riding there was quite a treat.
We'd stand outside on the running board
with all outdoors to be explored.
 
No danger lurked outside our door,
when we decided to explore.
The accidents we had were rare.
We played all day without a care.
 
Our doors weren’t locked when we came home.
We knew how far that we could roam,
and we came home if Mom should call.
It wasn’t smart to try and stall.
 
We lived life in a simple age,
and childhood was a pleasant stage.
Unfortunately it didn’t last,
and we’re left dreaming of the past.


 

Author Notes For those too young to know, a rumble seat was a extra seat that opened up where we have trunk. A running board ran along side the door and was to step on when entering cars. Kids loved riding on them and holding on the window.
The picture is my cousin and I. He's a year younger.


Chapter 9
Ingenue's Debut

By BethShelby

 
 
The red velvet curtains slowly separated to reveal a packed auditorium. The shuffling noises and din of conversation quieted. I stood on the second tier of the sheet-covered bleachers with my knees beating a steady rhythm beneath my white robe. Even my red bow tie quivered beneath my chin. Where did all these people come from? Everyone in the whole town must be here.

A large section of the Newton Elementary School stood with me, ready to warble out all those carols we had practiced daily for weeks. Below us, Mary, Joseph, and a baby doll, lying in a bed of hay, appeared like carved statues with spotlights fixed on them. The chief narrator stood at the podium and began to read.

The singing part wasn't so scary. If my vocal cords failed me, I could just open my mouth and fake it. The fact I even stood among the vocalist proved my mom had been wrong. At least, half of the kids with less singing skills were placed in a section where they would chant in unison a portion of the lines of narration.
 
When I was four, Mom had decided singing wasn't my forte. "When you start to school, we'll have to give you speech or piano lessons, because I don't think you're going to be able to 'carry a tune in a bucket'" 
 
Carrying a tune in a bucket made no sense to me, but apparently Mom wanted to see her only child excel in some direction, and my sing-song wailing of lullabies to my dolls hadn't impressed her. As soon as I started school, she'd enrolled me in private piano and speech lessons. My left and right hands didn't want to cooperate with each other, so I didn't make the great gains she hoped for with the piano. I did have a knack for memorizing, so speech became the prime hope for me.
 
"Why can't I take dance lessons," I'd begged. "The costumes are so cute, and all the other girls are taking lessons."
 
"Baptists don't dance," Mom said. "Besides, you don't want to be like everyone else."
 
So it was the speech lessons which continued. The teacher was a frustrated dramatist who had gone to charm school. I'm sure she hoped for an acting career, but settled for teaching after marrying a local businessman. The fact I was taking lessons likely accounted for me being one of the two people in fourth grade selected to do a dramatic recitation.

When the teacher handed me two single spaced typed pages of material, which I was to memorize for the program, I couldn't even pronounce the title. The Immaculate Conception? What on earth is that? Mama said she thought it was something Catholic.

"But Mama, we're Baptist. Why do they want me to do that? We don't even have a Catholic Church in this town."

"Don't worry about it. I've read it, and it's just the story of Mary finding out she is going to have a baby. You have to say it like you're Mary, and you're telling your story."

"Mama, I don't want to say I'm pregnant in front of all those people."

"Hush, don't say that word. We don't say that. It's not nice. We say 'with child'. That's what the paper says. Just memorize it. It's a honor they picked you."

"I don't know why I couldn't have gotten the piece Addie got. She gets to say a cute poem. It's about Christopher Robin saying his prayers. It's not nearly as long as this."

In the end, Mama and my teachers had the last say. I memorized it, and every day, I practiced it until I could recite it in my sleep. Miss Turnage stood at the back of the auditorium and made me enunciate and project my voice until she could hear every word clearly.
 
Reciting to rows of empty seats was one thing. It was a whole new ball game when every seat was filled and dozens were standing because there were no more places to sit. Mama, Daddy, and all my kinfolk were out there. They were expecting me to make them proud. If I choked up, I would die with humiliation, and they probably would too.

I had to stand there and sing through twelve Christmas carols, the shepherds and kings all marching in and doing their thing, and the narrator reading several chapters of the book of Luke. I shifted my weight from one foot to the other trying to keep the circulation going so my feet wouldn't fall asleep.
 
All the time, I'm worrying about whether or not I was going to trip and fall getting off those bleachers, or worse yet, if my voice was going to quiver or squeak. And horror of horrors, what if I just freaked out and forgot all my lines. It didn't help that the kid behind me was singing off key, and Jimmy Wells kept shoving me, almost making me lose my balance.

As the last strains of 'Good King Wencelas' died, Jimmy punched me hard. "Go girl! It's your turn. Go say that thing, and let's get out of here before I pass out."

"My aching legs felt rooted to the spot. A thousand butterflies were doing the twist in my stomach, but somehow I moved and managed to squeeze between the kids in front of me to step down off the bleachers. To my amazement, I made it to the center of the stage without any major catastrophe. The spotlight fell on my face causing the illusion that the audience no longer existed.

When I opened my mouth, the voice that came out sounded unfamiliar. Thankfully, all those days of practice made a difference. The speech proceeded flawlessly with me scarcely aware that the recitation was actually coming from my lips. When it ended, the crowd erupted in applause. It was over. I'd had my few minutes of glory. I'd done my mama and daddy proud. School was over until January 2.
 
Now I could relax, go home, and dream of all the presents I hoped to get. The pressure was off, and the joy of Christmas lay ahead. It was as if I could already sense the delightful aromas and tastes of the delicious foods that were so much a part of the season. Tomorrow, I could help my mom bake and decorate cookies. At night, we could drive up and down the streets looking at the Christmas displays.
 
At least, I was allowed to wallow in this bit of blissful daydreaming for a few moments until the Presbyterian minister's wife approached.

"That was just marvelous!" she gushed. "You simply must come to our church Sunday night. We're having our annual Christmas program, and we must have you recite that piece for us. It'll be the highlight of the night. I won't take no for an answer."

I didn't have the option of saying 'no'. Mama answered for me. "Of course, we'll be there. Beth would be thrilled to do it for you. What time would you like us to come?
"


Chapter 10
The Neighbor's Chinkapin Tree

By BethShelby

My mother was a person who believed it was written somewhere in stone that all neighbors were special and should be handled with the utmost care. She went out of her way to make sure our family never offended any of ours.

We lived far enough on the outskirts of town and on enough acreage that we didn’t have any close neighbors. Other than my grandparents, who lived just over the rise of the hill, there was only one neighbor whose house could be seen from our house, and it was far enough away that you had to squint really hard to tell it was a house. Their land, however, extended well beyond the house and was in spitting distance of our own land. This qualified them as neighbors, who we must never offend.

The Caulwells were a fairly prosperous farm family; Henry and Miss Mamie were getting up in years, and I never had a lot of contact with them. Their three children were another matter. The two girls were nearly grown, but the boy was about four years older than me. One of my earliest memories of him was when he came over and attempted to teach me how to shoot marbles. His aim was to take all my marbles home with him. Why I had marbles, I can’t remember, but I’m pretty sure I never intended to shoot them. I think I had them because I thought they were pretty. At any rate, I developed a strong aversion to this young neighbor.

He was loud-mouthed and capable of making up outrageous stories, in which he was always the hero. He could do everything ten times better than anyone else. According to him, he could even beat up Superman. He seemed to think I’d be impressed with this declaration, but I wasn’t buying. The more I saw of him, the more I disliked him. The sister, Harriet, eight years his senior, graduated from high school about the time I entered first grade. She was the female version of him. So I didn’t care for her either, but that is another story.

She came over to my grandmother's house with about six of her high school friends. Grandma had a huge rose garden which was in full bloom that May. The high school had a tradition of having the junior class make a long chain of ivy and roses to lay at the feet of the seniors. At most graduations, the Junior class made paper roses from folded Kleenex for the chain, but Harriet had a better idea.

 
“I told my friends, it was silly to use paper flowers, because I had the sweetest neighbor that grew the most beautiful real roses, and that she would be thrilled to let us have them. I knew you wouldn’t mind. We’ve all brought our scissors, and you don’t even need to get up and come out. We’ll just get the roses and be out of here before you know it.”

Grandma was also ingrained in the myth that neighbors were to be treated as though they could do no wrong, so she kept her mouth shut, as her rose garden was raped of its beauty, and Harriet didn’t even see the tear roll down her cheek, as the girls waved goodbye.

Ruby Lee, the oldest girl, may have been the normal one. After she got her teaching degree, she found a man, and planned a wedding, after which she intended to move as far away as possible. Mom dressed me up in a long dress and informed me that the Caulwells needed me at the reception. When the neighbors asked, Mom said “Of course. She’ll be honored to be part of the wedding. ” Thus I had the prestigious job of sitting by the register book and making sure the guests saw that it was there to sign. It wouldn’t be right to say `No’ to a neighbor.

Every Easter Sunday, from my earliest memory, Henry Jr. came over early in the morning, bearing a note from Harriet, which announced that in the afternoon from two to four, their family would be hosting an Easter Egg hunt in their cow pasture. Mom was to have me there along with a basket and two dozen boiled and colored eggs.

Henry Jr. would tell me. “I’ll know where they’re all hidden. I’m gonna be the one that hides them. If you’ll be nice to me I’ll show you where they are.”  

No matter how much I’d beg Mom not to make me go, she'd always say, “They’re our neighbors. They’re just trying to do something nice. We can’t hurt their feelings. You’ll go and be polite.”

After Harriet finished College, she called my mother and told her she wanted to sell a lot of her older outfits which she’d outgrown, and she felt sure mother would want to buy them for me. Of course Mother didn’t want to disappoint our neighbor by telling her that they probably wouldn’t be suitable for a fifth grader. So for the next year, I wore some out-of-date and altered outfits that were designed for a much older person.

“Oh, these outfits are really beautiful.” Mom told Harriet. “You have such good taste, and this material really looks expensive. Beth will be the best dressed girl in school.” Not from my standpoint, I woudn't, but heaven forbid, that we should insult the neighbors.


Whenever I saw Henry Jr. at school, I tried to make myself invisible. One day, when I was thirteen and starting to look less like a little kid, he came over and asked my parents if he could take me to a ball game. If it had been me he had asked, the answer would have been a resounding `No,’ but Mom seemed to think it might be an insult to the family, if she turned their son down. Especially, when he was polite enough to think I might like to go to a ballgame.

Lucky for me, my dad had no such problem with turning neighbors down. He regarded these neighbors much the way I did. He said `No’ with expletives added. I was relieved, but at the same time, it did concern me that this might be his answer for any guy that ever wanted to take me out, from now on into eternity.

Henry Jr. didn’t give up. The next time, he made sure my dad wasn’t around. I was nearly fourteen by this time when he showed up with a bucket and he pointed down into his field and toward the woods behind it. He told Mom he was going down in his woods to pick up some chinkapins, and asked if it would be all right if I came with him.

The chinkapin tree, unlike the chinkapin oak, produces small nuts that form in a burr, similar to chestnuts. Like the chestnut trees, a disease had about stamped them out, and the ones remaining produced few nuts. Years earlier, when they weren’t so rare, I remembered them as being very tasty, but I hadn’t heard the word chinkapin in a long time.

“Really?” Mom asked. “I haven’t had a chinkapin in years. I didn’t realize there were any of those trees still around.”

“Oh yes Ma’am, There's a big tree of `em down in our woods. I’m pretty sure they’ve fallen by now. I’ll bet we could find a bunch of them. I thought maybe y’all might like to have some, too.”

“Beth, get that bucket off the back porch and go down there with him and pick up some for us.”

I shot darts at her with my eyes, but she seemed not to notice. Reluctantly, I stomped to the back porch and found the bucket and returned.

He jabbered all the way across the field and into the woods, but I just kept my mouth shut and let him talk.
    
When we were well into the woods, he searched around saying, “I was sure that tree was right over here. We might need to go down further. I haven’t been here for a while. I think we might have a way to go before we find it.”

“Well, you go look. I’m gonna sit right here on this tree stump and wait. If you find it, you can come back and get me.”

I wasn’t about to go any further. I doubted if there even was such a tree. Besides, the woods were swampy and I didn’t want get my tennis shoes wet.

He seemed disappointed, but he headed off and was gone about five minutes. When he came back he said, “Well, I found the tree, but something already got every one of them nuts. It was probably a bear. I saw some tracks. If I’d have brought my knife I’d have looked for him and killed him.”

“Henry Jr., you’re lying! You know good and well, there ain’t no bears in these woods. There hasn’t never been no bear in Mississippi. Not in our lifetime anyway. I’ll bet you didn’t even find that tree.”

I got up and took off running back toward the house. I’d barely made it to the edge of the woods, when something hit me like a ton of bricks, and I went sprawling in the dirt. The bucket flew out of my hand, and Walter Jr. was on top of my back.

I struggled to raise up yelling, ”Get off of me! What the heck do you think you’re doing? You’re hurting me.” He tried to keep me down.

I fought like a girl tiger. I bit his arm and dug my fingernails along his skin bringing a streak of bright red to the surface. He loosed his grip long enough for me to get free and jump up and take off again.

I only made it a few feet before he was on me again. I kicked and screamed and threw dirt in his face.

“Leave me alone, you idiot! Have you lost your mind?”

He wasn’t saying a word. He was like someone possessed. He eased up and let me get a head start, when once again he leaped at me and brought me down onto the plowed field. I pinched the flesh of his arm and twisted it. I bit one of his fingers as hard as I could clamp my teeth, tasting blood in my mouth.

I felt like I was fighting for my life. Once again, I was up and running. This time I managed to get within sight of my house, before he took me down again. I let out an ear-piercing scream. At this point, it must have dawned on him, that my mom might be able to hear and to see what was happening. He released me and got up. Still not saying a word, he took off toward his own house, leaving me behind.

Free at last, I limped toward home. My shirt was missing a button and my whole body was covered with dirt. Tears were streaming down my red face, as I slid under the barbed wire fence and back into the road in front of our house.

When I walked in our door, Mom was busy in the kitchen, blissfully unaware of what I’d gone through. “Did you get any nuts?" she called.”

”No, there wasn’t any nuts, and don’t you ever make me go anywhere with that idiot again.”

“What happened?" she asked. Alarm spread across her face when she saw me. “What did he do? Did he hurt you?”

“Yes, he kept jumping on me and knocking me down. I thought I wasn’t going to make it home. He’s a lunatic.”

“Did he touch you somewhere inappropriate?”

“No, he didn’t get the chance.” A look of relief spread across her face.

“Maybe he was just playing rough. He probably doesn’t know how to act around girls. I’m sure he didn’t mean anything.”

“No Mom, I’m sure he didn’t. After all, he’s our neighbor,” I said as I limped to my room.

We didn’t see any more of Henry, Jr. for a while after that. He dropped out of high school and joined the Navy. Several years later, we learned he was engaged to a girl he’d met from another town. Mom insisted on hosting a wedding shower for them. It was the neighborly thing to do.
 
 
 

Author Notes Word Count 2,254


Chapter 11
Why Do Mommys Embarrass Their Kids?

By BethShelby

I saw a little green man in a tree today. He wasn't cute like Tinker Bell. He was dressed sort of like a music man with one of them long Tux things on. Mommy didn't want to come out to see, but when I begged her, she finally did. Then she laughed at me and said he was a praying man Tis. He didn't look like he was praying to me. He looked like he was about to dance or something. She will probably tell people all about this, too.

Mommy is always laughing at me. She can be nice, but sometimes she thinks it's cute or something to tell people things I say that are dumb. It embarrasses me. Like the time I thought the turtle was a pretty rock, and I brought it in the house, and it grew legs and a head and walked away and scared me. Or the time I peed in my panties and couldn't find another pair. She told me to go take a nap, until she had time to come inside and find a pair for me.

I did just what she said and went to sleep on her big feather bed. I sank in so low, and I pulled the covers back over the bed just like she had it made up. I didn't wake up when she came looking. She thought I'd been kidnapped, and had everybody out looking for me. She said I scared her that time. But she told everybody that story, even the part about me leaving my wet panties in the middle of the living room floor. I don't understand grown people. Mommy said she was a kid once,too, but I'm not sure if I believe that.

I asked Mommy once where I came from, and she said out of her stomach. I just know that can't be right. I wouldn't even have been able to breathe in there, and there's not no door to get out that I can see. Anyway, Aunt Eva said they found me in a cabbage patch. That makes more sense, but I still don't know where I was before I got there. My grandma and I saw a lady walking by with this huge belly, and I asked grandma why she just got fat in the belly. Grandma said it was cause she swallowed a watermelon seed and it grew. Now, I'm scared to eat watermelons, because what if a seed slipped down my throat and I ended up looking like that.

I don't want to grow up like everybody says I will someday, because grown people are weird and they don't have much time to play, and their idea of having fun is to laugh at little kids. If do grow up, I won't go around embarrassing my kids. If I marry Jimmy Dale, maybe we'll have smart kids that don't say dumb things.


Author Notes This is the way I saw the world. These incidents are all true and took place between ages three and five. Kids today are not so naive but we had no TV to learn all about life when I grew up. It was a different world.


Chapter 14
A Mythical Santa

By BethShelby

I was six-years-old and in the first grade, when I first heard rumors that Santa wasn’t real. I didn’t want to believe it, but Sarah Ann was nine, and maybe she knew something that I didn’t know. I went home and asked my mom.

”Who told you that?”she asked.

“Sarah Ann at school told all the kids there wasn’t any such thing as Santa. She said our parents are lying. I told her my parents don’t lie.”

“Santa is mythical,”she said. “Jesus is real, but Santa Claus is mythical.”

“What does that mean? What is mythical?” I asked.

“You’ll understand when you get a little older. You can look up the word in the dictionary.”

“Okay, I’ll look it up now. How do your spell it?” I got the dictionary out, and she gave me the letters one by one, until I found it. What I read didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but there was a little picture of a statue of a Greek god with no clothes on.

I was shocked because I always thought Santa wore a red suit and cap. I decided that mythical people were special people, who either dressed funny, or didn’t wear clothes at all. Maybe it really didn't matter as long as he kept coming.

We had a fireplace and I’d been told Santa came down the chimney. I begged my parents not to have a fire on Christmas Eve because I didn’t want this mythical man to get burned. Two days before Christmas, my Dad must have dropped a heavy log on the fireplace grate. The grate was broken in half, and soot and ashes were scattered everywhere.

When I ask what happened, my dad said, "Santa broke it. He must have come a couple of days early to test it out and make sure he could get down it okay. I think he’s gained some weight.”

“Well, could we just leave the front door unlocked?” I asked.

On Christmas morning the slice of fruit cake and the glass of milk that I left out for him were gone, and from all the toys, it was apparent that leaving the door unlocked had worked.

I had some positive proof now. I knew my daddy wouldn’t break our grate just to prove Santa was real, and Daddy never did like milk. I went back to school and assured Sarah Ann that she was wrong, because I had proof that Santa was real.

So I believed for another year. When I was seven, I started to have doubts again. Most of the kids at school had gotten wise. By that time, I had decided that it was in my best interest to keep my doubts to myself. I was afraid that as soon as I admitted I didn’t believe, that might put an end to the toys.

When I was ten, I was still pretending I believed. That way the magic of Christmas lived on.
 

 


Chapter 15
Riding the Rail

By BethShelby

Four a.m. and I was being dragged from bed and dressed. My sleep-clogged eyes blinked trying to adjust to the light. I remembered why I was awake in the night. This was to be my first great adventure. I'd looked forward to it with eagerness, but now it hurt to be awake when my body was crying out for more sleep.

"Be still, Honey! Let Daddy get your shoes on. You can go back to sleep on the train."

My mother and I were leaving our little town of Newton in east-central Mississippi and heading for Texas, so she could try to talk her wayward brother out of divorcing his wife for another woman. Divorce was a disgrace in the 40's, and she was sure he would listen to reason.

Excitement was starting to build again as the big engine pulled into the station with a bellow that all but drowned out the voices around me. The black smoke was barely visible in the darkness of pre-dawn. The smell of burning charcoal mixed with damp night air invaded my nostrils.

Daddy kissed us goodbye, before we made our way through the train along with a small group of other boarders. I shivered from the anticipation of adventure. We walked through several cars until Mother found us a seat. She settled me down and told me put my head in her lap. She threw a shawl around my bare legs.

"Now you try to get some sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us."

Sleep? How was that possible? I was awake now. I wanted to see, feel, and hear everything. At age six, I'd never been out of my sleepy little town before. We lived in the country. Nothing ever happened. It was a whole different world out there, and I wanted to be a part of it.

The train shuddered and whistled and started up with a jerk. Obediently, I tried to close my eyes, but sleep escaped me. Even the train's rocking motion and the rumble of the wheels weren't successful in benumbing my senses. I was aware when someone came through asking for tickets, but I tried to pretend I was sleeping as Mother fished in her purse for our tickets.

I managed to pretend sleep for about forty minutes, until a big man in a blue uniform came bellowing through the car, shouting out the first station stop. I sat up abruptly and looked out the window. The first light of dawn had turned the sky pink. I saw small group of people on the platform of a shack-like building waiting to board. No amount of persuading on Mom's part was successful in getting me to lie down again. She gave up trying.

Someone pushed a cart through selling breakfast items, and Mom purchased milk and a sweet roll for me. For hours, I peered out the window until my eyes ached from staring at the passing scenery. The train stopped often. The big buildings we sometimes passed filled me with awe. It was August and air-conditioning was almost unheard of. Occasional puffs of black smoke drifted through the open windows causing my eyes to burn and my skin to feel gritty.
Passengers got on and off, and our almost empty car began to fill. Sometimes people in other seats would strike a conversation with Mother and would ask me if I was enjoying riding the train.

At one point, a group of soldiers got on along with an MP. They were rowdy, and one of them staggered and almost fell on top of us. Mother whispered she thought they were drunk. As the day wore on, I began to tire and started asking how much longer. I was anxious to see my cousins, but Mother said it would be after dark before we arrived.

About 2 p.m., we had an hour layover in a big city. Mother decided we would walk to a nearby shopping area. She wanted to clean me up and buy me some new shoes. The time passed quickly, and we nearly missed the train. I remember her urging me to hurry. We ran almost all the way back.

Our seats faced each other and Mother persuaded me to lie on the one across from her, hoping I'd be able to get a nap. By evening, the train became very crowded. Two soldiers got on and asked if they could sit by us. Almost immediately, they started a conversation. The one by me put his arm around me and called me his girlfriend. I thought he was handsome and managed to develop my first crush on an older guy within minutes.
 
Mother was having problems with the other one, who was attempting to hold her hand while she talked to him about God. Both smelled of liquor. It was the same odor I sometimes detected when one of mother's brothers kissed me. The soldiers helped make the time go by faster, by entertaining me with silly songs and knock-knock jokes.

I was still awake at eleven that night when we finally arrived at our destination. Aunt Aline was there to meet us. She picked up our luggage and whisked us off to her house. In almost no time, she had us settled for the night. She put me in a twin bed adjacent to my younger cousin, Dave. He was already sound asleep. I drifted off to sleep staring at a glow-in-the-dark picture of a cow jumping over the moon.

The next two weeks brought many new experiences to a little country girl, like riding from Port Arthur to Houston, Texas in the rumble seat of Aunt Aline's Chevy, and eating chocolate ice cream cones which we bought for a dime from street vendors with the musical carts. My first trip to the beach in Galveston was almost too wonderful to believe. The gulf waves and white sand were more than my young mind could have imagined.
 
The oil refineries of Texas had drawn many of my Mississippi uncles to uproot their families and move to Texas to find work. I met a lot of cousins whom I'd only heard about before.
 
It was a time when parents felt it was safe to let their children roam the neighborhoods even in the late evening without fear. Near dark, mothers could be heard up and down the streets shouting for their children to come home. The houses were small and close together. Back in Mississippi my own home was built on acreage, with no other children's homes within walking distance. In this neighborhood, kids were everywhere. Dave, my favorite cousin, near my own age, was my guide on this grand adventure. Is there any wonder, I didn't want this to ever end? 
 
When the two weeks were over, we didn't ride the train back home. Aunt Aline drove us back in her car. She was also a Mississippi girl, with brothers and sisters in our little town. The fact my cousin Dave was with us made the long trip home by car more fun.
 
The only thing unpleasant about the trip was the Texas' giant mosquitos, which seemed to be drawn to my tender flesh, unused as it was to the late evening exposure. Telling me not to scratch was pointless. To this day, I have white spots on my arms which I'm sure are scars from me digging into my skin with sharp fingernails trying to stop itches that wouldn't quit.
 
Mom's attempt to stop her brother's divorce was completely unsuccessful. Uncle Newman went on to divorce and remarry three more times. Still Mother's good intentions provided me with happy memories that would last a lifetime.

Author Notes I'm reposting some earlier things because nerve damage in one of my hands is making it hard for me to type right now.


Chapter 16
Toughening Up

By BethShelby

Many children grow up in homes where they witness horrific things, robbing them of their childhood innocence early on. They become tough in order to survive. I’m happy to say I didn’t have that kind of childhood, so toughness was not a part of my makeup. On the other hand, being overly protected has its drawbacks as well.

Thinking back to my childhood, I don’t remember ever asking anyone for advice. I didn't have a friend I felt secure enough with to share my deepest secrets. It might have been very different if I’d not had the misfortune of being an only child. I could play with other kids and be silly and laugh with them, but I was convinced things which went on in my brain would likely freak them out.

I had Mom, who was always telling me what I should think and believe about everything. When I was four, I assumed she knew it all, but gradually I began to develop thoughts of my own. How could she possibly understand what someone my age needed to know? Dad was there, but our relationship was superficial. He’d been an only child himself, and communicating about feelings wasn’t his forte. He'd leave that to the women in the family.

My grandmother had a bit of advice to give, but I couldn’t imagine how it applied to me. Grandma’s advice went like this. “Get yourself a good education, and don’t ever depend on any man.” Poor grandma. She married twice, but thanks to her brother, not to the one she loved. The first husband was a lawman, who was killed after a couple of years leaving her with two babies. The second husband was "a marriage of convenience" to a much older man. He already had nine children. I wasn’t likely to fall into that trap.

Reading was my passion, and I read everything which the juvenile section of our local library had to offer. Sometimes, what I read was frightening or heartbreaking. I couldn’t go through life afraid of my shadow or with tears streaming down my cheeks. Kids who cried were the ones who were bullied at school. I wasn’t going to risk that. So far, I’d been lucky, and no one had seen my tears.

I was eleven when I decided it was time for me to take control of my own life. No doubt, something I’d read in a book inspired these thoughts. Maybe it was some brave or adventurous character I wanted to be like. At any rate, I decided I needed to figure out a way to toughen up. I had too many fears and emotional reactions holding me back.

At ten, I’d been carried aloft by a tornado. The experience left me shaking in terror during any threat of a thunderstorm. It took months to overcome that fear, but after forcing myself to stand outside during a few electrical storms, I actually started to enjoy them. They became my favorite kind of weather.

I read stories about young tribal Indians having to suffer great pain to prove they were brave. Maybe dealing with physical pain was the way to go. Some walked on hot coals. I tried walking barefoot on sharp rocks. I forced myself to sit, with bare legs, on a metal tank heated by the summer sun and close to boiling point. I sunk my teeth into my arms and stuck needles in my fingers to produce a dot of blood. Maybe now I wouldn't fear dog bites or the vaccine needles that made me cringe. I managed to hide my injuries from Mom, and congratulated myself that my blistered, bruised and battered body was becoming tougher.

Now, I needed to work on overcoming my fears. I would need to face my phobias head on. I was nervous about what might lurk in the dark, so I challenged myself to sneak outside and walk around the house after midnight.  I cringed at every shadow, but I managed to get back inside safely. I was afraid of heights, so I climbed as high as I dared in trees. I climbed a ladder nailed against the wall of our barn and dared to step over into the loft. I was afraid of stinging insects, so I sat very still and let them buzz around me without moving. It was all I could do to remain still when a wasp actually lit on my nose. I closed my eyes tightly and scarcely breathed until he moved on.

Mom had seen to it I would overcome my fear of performing on stage by insisting I take drama and piano lessons. My heart still raced, but I learned to handle it without fainting..

After my recent episode of freaking out in fear, thinking I was seeing a dead person, I realized this was going to be a tough one. I vowed to attend the next funeral that took place. When a great aunt died, I shocked everyone by agreeing to go with Mom and Dad to the services. It was one of the most traumatic tests I had set for myself. With my heart in my throat, I stared down at her body lying in the casket. With trembling hands, I reached in and touched her cold stiff fingers. I might suffer some nightmares, but I was making great progress. I had a reason to be proud.

I was terrified of being left at home alone since we had no close neighbors. But the next time Mom had to go into town or visit someone, I determined I would no longer be her shadow, I insisted on staying behind. Every unknown noise made my heart race, but after surviving it a few times, I began to feel at ease. In fact, I started to enjoy having the house to myself. Another fear was behind me.

My reading material took on a different flavor. No more Nancy Drew and Bobbsey Twins for me. I went for Alfred Hitchcock, Truman Capote, Zane Gray, James Street, Harper Lee and Margaret Mitchell. I was succeeding at controlling my fragile easily-fractured ego. Tears were a thing of the past. I had gotten to the point Mom was concerned that I wouldn’t cry even if she died. She was right. I may have taken it too far. I'm incapable of crying in public. Even in private, tears no longer come easily.

I finally decided I’d probably reached my goal. I didn’t want to turn into a bully or a juvenile delinquent. I had taken it far enough to gain a new outlook on life, and most of my fears and tendencies to be overly sensitive were  behind me. I don't know if other kids ever set out to systematically change the direction of their lives. Maybe they don't need to, but it seemed to work for me.

When I was fifteen, I met a young man, nine years older, who would eventually become my husband. He was convinced I was far more mature than other girls my age. He’d find out later, when he moved me to the city, I was pretty naïve in other ways, but even then, I managed to adjust.

These days, when I’m faced with something I feel nervous about, instead of shying away, I’m likely to remember the best way to deal with life is to face it head on.  


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