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�ONLY WHEN THEY'RE LITTLE
The Story Of An Appalachian Family
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�ONLY WHEN THEY'RE LITTLE
The Story Of An Appalachian Family
By KATE PICKENS DAY
Illustrated by Margaret Pickens
Edited, with an introduction by
Nancy Carol Joyner
APPALACHIAN CONSORTIUM PRESS
Boone, North Carolina
�The Appalachian Consortium was a non-profit educational organization
composed of institutions and agencies located in Southern Appalachia. From
1973 to 2004^ its members published pioneering works in Appalachian studies
documenting the history and cultural heritage of the region. The Appalachian
Consortium Press was the first publisher devoted solely to the region and many of
the works it published remain seminal in the field to this day.
With funding from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation and the National
Endowment for the Humanities through the Humanities Open Book Program^
Appalachian State University has published new paperback and open access
digital editions of works from the Appalachian Consortium Press.
www.collections.library.appstate.edu/appconsortiumbooks
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons BY-NC-ND license. To view a
copy of the license^ visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses.
Original copyright © 1985 by the Appalachian Consortium Press.
ISBN (pbk.: alk. Paper): 978-1-4696-3816-4
ISBN (ebook): 978-1-4696-3818-8
Distributed by the University of North Carolina Press
www.uncpress.org
�Introduction
Only When They're Little is a story set in the mountains, but it
is no tall tale. It is the fictional account of an actual family whose
Scotch-Irish ancestors immigrated to western North Carolina in the
early nineteenth century. The book begins in 1904, when the Barker
family undertakes the elaborate move of twenty miles across the
mountain to "Tarpley," a small town a few miles north of Asheville.
It concludes nearly a half century later, in the late forties. Thus it
describes the situation and relates significant events in the life of an
Appalachian family during the first half of the twentieth century.
The family consists of Cora and Joe Barker and their eight
children. Joe, a farmer/blacksmith/carpenter, is presented as a stabilizing force in spite of his bewilderment at the sweeping economic
changes within the area. Cora, the dynamic center of the book, is portrayed as a energetic, ambitious woman who is devoted to her family
and determined that they succeed. The eight children, with varying
abilities and interests, appear as a relatively close-knit group who absorb almost unquestioningly their parents' attitudes and value system.
As middle-income white Protestants with an orientation toward education and upward mobility, they are typical of thousands of families
living in the southern highlands.
For the past hundred years residents of southern Appalachia have
been stereotyped as eccentric, ignorant recluses whose principal occupation is to protect the family still from the "revenoors." Families
are presented as male-dominated, ultra-conservative, and clannish in
the extreme. The creators of the comic strips "Lil Abner" and "Snuffy Smith" and the producers of such television programs as "Hee
Haw" and "The Dukes of Hazzard" have done much to perpetuate
such a myth, but serious studies have also encouraged the view that
mountain people are distinct from "mainstream" America partially
because of their low income and inadequate education.
This book helps to amend the view of the "oddity" of mountain
people by providing a portrait of a family similar in many ways to
members of the middle class anywhere in the United States. At the
same time it maintains an awareness of the area and the definite effect of the region on the lives of the people. It emphasizes for example the closeness of the southern Appalachian family, a theme often
�mentioned in studies characterizing the area. The author also emphasizes the importance of education for the mountain people and
the impetus for personal achievement, themes often overlooked.
Another significant aspect of the book is the portrayal of Appalachian
women as intelligent, independent, and assertive.
In a 1981 interview the author was asked if she regarded her life
in an Appalachian community as being more difficult than if she had
lived elsewhere. This was her reply:
During my early life it was a poor community compared to
today's standards, but it was not to the point where people
had to really suffer for things. If you were willing to work,
and tried, you could have a comfortable and decent home
and a decent home life. And while education wasn't on every
corner and it wasn't up to the point where it got to be later,
we didn't have to be ignorant, and there were plenty who
never were. My mother was able to teach school, and so was
my grandmother. And as for the values of life and for her
attitude toward it, I think that the mountain woman would
stack up with any other.
The story of the Barker family, especially that of Cora Barker, encourages a re-evaluation of attitudes about life in the southern
highlands in the twentieth century.
The author was born Esther Katharine Pickens in Weaverville,
North Carolina, on February 20, 1894. Three years later she moved
with her family to Swannanoa, twenty miles away, but in 1904 they
returned to Weaverville, primarily in order to afford schooling for
the children at Weaver College. She, along with five of her seven
brothers and sisters, completed the academic program there. After
her graduation in 1913, she taught in public schools until her marriage in 1918 to Ben T. Day, the owner of a lumber company in Easley,
South Carolina. The house they built in 1920 was her home until her
death in 1984. She was the mother of two, grandmother of five, and
great grandmother of seven.
ii
�Although raising her two daughters and a niece was her principal
occupation during her married life, Kate Pickens Day had many interests beyond her family. She helped to organize and was first president of the Woman's Club of Easley and was active in many other
civic organizations; she held many positions of responsibility in the
Methodist Church; she kept books for her husband's expanding
business; she wrote a column for the local weekly newspaper; she
raised flowers, vegetables, and chickens; she did a variety of handwork: tatting, knitting, crocheting, and quilting; she painted in oils
and water color. After her husband's death in 1949, she traveled widely, making extended trips to unfamiliar areas in this country as well
as to Mexico and Europe. She also gave art lessons in her home in
Easley and worked for several years as a bookkeeper in a law office
in Asheville. In 1951 she published privately an extensive genealogy,
The Pickens Family.
Her life was an exceptionally active one until, in 1974, her eyesight
began to fail. Two cataract operations resulted in inoperable detached retinas, and with her diminishing ability to see she was
deprived of the activities that most absorbed her time—painting,
needlework, and gardening. In 1980 her seriously impaired heart
forced her permanently to bed.
After eighty-six unstintingly energetic years, her forced physical
activity was anathema to her. She couldn't see well enough to read,
but she could see well enough to write. Surreptitiously at first, fearing her family might think her "a fool to try such a thing" at her age,
she began to write a novel. With the encouragement of her daughters,
however, she threw herself wholeheartedly into her project, writing
in longhand on the days she had the physical stamina and sufficient
sight to do so, sending the pages along to her daughter, Margaret,
to type, while her daughter, Esther, cared for her. The result is Only
When They're Little.
The book combines the genres of autobiography and fiction: it
is a memoir told from three points of view. Most prominent is the
voice of Cora, a fictionalization of Kate's mother, Clemma Ozora,
remembering the difficulties and delights of raising eight children.
Occasionally the point of view switches to Jane, the fictional character
who most closely resembles Kate. A third voice is that of the author
herself as she speaks reflectively, commenting on the changes she
has observed over fifty years. Sometimes she does so in humorous
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�dismay, sometimes in indignation, but always with perception and
sincerity. The book does not preach, but it does convey strong
opinions.
As Huckleberry Finn says about the book Mr. Mark Twain wrote
about Tom Sawyer, this one also contains some "stretchers/' The
events in the book do not represent a factual account of the author's
family. Character and place names are changed; happenings are
telescoped, combined, and occasionally fabricated. One poignant example is the story here of Dan, who represents Hugh, the adored
youngest brother who died of a heart attack before he was thirty. Kate
said she couldn't bear to record that, so she created a new life for
him, complete with family, in London. On the other hand, the author
makes no attempt to whitewash all the familial experiences that have
led to unhappy memories. Although she deliberately avoids factual
accuracy, she confronts the truth head-on. It is a truer book than a
mere factual account could make it. I know. I am the niece she raised.
Happily, the author's relatives have made this book a real family
project. Kate's daughters, Margaret Day Ball of Wayne, Illinois, and
Esther Day Moore, of Easley, South Carolina, have provided material
assistance by typing the manuscript, proof reading the typescript, and
encouraging in other ways the completion of the work. I have edited
the typescript, making minor revisions by occasionally re-ordering
paragraphs, avoiding repetitions, and smoothing out inconsistencies.
In every case, however, I have attempted to keep intact the individual
quality of the author's style. The illustrations have been generously
provided by Kate's younger sister, Margaret Pickens of Weaverville,
North Carolina. She has based her drawing on the events recorded
and on her own memories, and when possible she has used as models
photographs of family members. The author once said in an interview, "Not any of us ought to be parasites. We all ought to contribute
something to the world—that's what we're here for." With gratitude
and devotion, members of Kate Pickens Day's family have added their
contributions to the author's larger one in creating Only When They're
Little.
Nancy Carol Joyner
Western Carolina University
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�"Jane! Ring the bell! Then make haste and run on down to the
spring house and get the milk and butter! Hurry now!" Cora's voice
was tense and strident.
Obediently Jane set down the bowl of tomatoes she had just sliced,
went hurriedly through the dismantled kitchen, took the old-fashioned
hand bell from the water shelf on the back porch, and shook it
vigorously up and down. Replacing the bell, she raced across the
porch, down the steps, and on to the spring path.
Cora watched her ten-year-old daughter disappear around the
bend of the path and thought that this must be the most confusing
day in Jane's life. Probably she was completely bewildered by all the
unfamiliar things that were happening in this very familiar place.
Joe and Cora Barker had lived in the little valley bordering the
Swannanoa River for fifteen years. More than that, Joe had lived his
life in the house they were preparing to leave. When his father died
in 1890, Joe had inherited the homestead and about a hundred acres
of land. With his brother John, he had "kept batch" as they called
it. There was a highway running through one side of the farm, known
to local settlers as the Big Road, and Joe and John had a blacksmith
shop bordering the road. Old Uncle Bill, who had been the general
handyman about the place for as long as anyone could remember,
lived in a cabin behind the main house.
Cora Graham had been a plump little girl with bright dark eyes
and hair that inclined to curl. In a family of five children she was the
odd one—somehow the others formed two pairs and Cora from the
beginning had learned to play by herself. She had lived in an imaginary
world peopled by her dolls who, according to her, were an ideal group
of brothers and sisters who never quarreled and who were completely loyal to each other and made a very special family.
One day when old Aunt Betsy was at the Graham house to do
the week's laundering, Cora dwelt at length to her on the virtues of
her family. Finally Betsy shook her head. "Humph—humph, Miss
Cora," she said. "Peoples don't live like dat. When dey grows up de
chillun lots o' times don' even lak each udder. Dey quarrel and
sometimes dey fights. Dey moves away from each udder when dey
�grows up and dat's de last of 'em. Families just don' be lak yours
when dey grows up. No, sir, just only when dey's little."
Naturally, Cora didn't believe Aunt Betsy. She was sure she knew
what kind of family hers would be and that they wouldn't be the way
she wanted them to be only when they were little, so she went on
with her dreaming and planning.
When Cora finished her teacher training and came to take charge
of the one-teacher school in Swannanoa, she felt ready to begin raising a family. Joe Barker had also begun to look for a helpmate, and
soon after they met they decided to marry at the end of the school
term. After the wedding and a short honeymoon, Cora moved into
the Barker home and took over the housekeeping. Uncle Bill was her
salvation. He did the milking, helped her with the kitchen garden,
and taught her how to care for the chickens, turkeys, and guineas.
He showed her how to make butter, dry apples, and "leather
breeches" beans. In fact, she wondered how she ever got to be nineteen years old and know so little.
�Life on the farm for the most part was placid and agreeable, the
biggest changes occurring when every other year a new member was
added to the Barker household. Their first child was a daughter, Mary,
and two years later Nathan was born. Then came Jane, Janice, Robert,
Millie, and Susan. Once when Cora's waspish-tongued aunt had been
visiting, she told folks back home, "Poor Cora, she never gets one
baby off her lap until there's another one to go on it!" Having seven
children in fifteen years proved the aunt right, but Cora did not think
of herself as poor. She had the family she had wanted ever since she
was a little girl.
When Mary began to talk and could say "Papa" and "Mama,"
almost unconsciously Joe and Cora adopted Mary's dialect. Soon they
became not "Joe" and "Cora" but "Papa" and "Mama" to each other.
Papa was well content with his life. He enjoyed his big family
and worked hard in his blacksmith shop on the farm. He had no desire
to make a change, but Mama did. Sometimes Mama's restlessness
worried him and he grew peevish. "Why can't the kids grow up here?"
he asked her. "I've never lived anywhere else and I've got along all
right."
"But Joe, times are changing," Mama would answer. "The
children must get an education. They can't help themselves if we don't
give them a chance, and we can't afford to send them off to school.
Now, if we moved to Tarpley, we could see to it that they have an
education."
For several weeks the discussion had gone on. Papa didn't think
Mama really knew what she was talking about when she predicted
that automobiles and hard surfaced roads would bring so many
changes. And he could not visualize the decline of a blacksmith shop
or the lessening need for horses and farm tools and equipment.
However, in the end he capitulated and the farm was sold.
Mama herself had some misgivings about the move. She realized
that Papa was making a real sacrifice by agreeing to sell and that
it would be hard for a person to leave the only house he had ever
known. But she was deeply convinced that the children must have
a better opportunity than this community could give them. Mama was
herself a native mountaineer just as Papa was, but neither of them
belonged to the shiftless, illiterate type that modern novelists like to
portray as typical mountain people. In spite of lack of transportation
and difficulty in communication, they were able to acquire some
�education, to have access to books, to travel a bit, and to see each
generation advance a little. Poor they might be, but by hard work
and frugal habits they could live comfortably.
Tarpley was a little town about twenty miles away, where a struggling small college was located. It had a preparatory department where
students could "fill in the gaps'1 left because of inadequate elementary and high school training. Mama had it all figured out. By living
in Tarpley, all her children could attend as day students and have
only tuition to pay. She was willing to make any sacrifice that might
be required of her to get them all through school.
Mama and Papa set the date on their calendar for the big move.
It was June 17, 1904. Finally, the day had arrived.
�The ringing of the dinner bell speedily assembled the members
of the family. They came into the ghost-like house, with its curtainless
windows and bare rooms that echoed their footsteps, and were
silenced by the strangeness of it all. Papa and Uncle John came from
the shop across the way. Nathan and Bob, aged twelve and six, had
been picking the last of the cornfield beans with old Uncle Bob. Janice,
eight years old, had been minding the two youngest children, threeyear-old Millie and Susan, just four months old. Fourteen-year-old
Mary, the oldest child, and Jane, aged ten, helped to put the food
on the big, round, claw-footed oak table. Even though most of the
furniture had been packed, the kitchen furnishings were still usable,
and the family as usual sat down together for their breakfast. Healthy
appetities helped make the ham biscuits, sliced tomatoes, applesauce,
and gingerbread disappear in a hurry. In a few minutes the loading
resumed.
The railway ran in sight of the farm in Swannanoa but did not
go to Tarpley, so the only way to transport themselves was by horsedrawn vehicles. A huge wagon with high boarded sides was backed
up to the door and the tailgate was let down. It soon began to bulge
with its cargo of wooden beds, straw mattresses, feather beds, the
parlor sofa, the Estey organ, bureaus, chests, tables, chairs, and a
hodgepodge of household goods. Neighborly cousin Bert was driving this wagon with Mary sitting up front next to him because she
had visited relatives in Tarpley and knew the way.
Nathan, called Nate, would drive the top buggy and Mama would
ride with him holding Susan on her lap, while Millie sat between them.
Jane, Janice, and Bob were left to go with Papa, who would drive
the two-horse farm wagon. Janice had claimed the wagon seat with
Papa, so Jane would have Bob for company in the back of the jolting
wagon, which was going to make for a tedious and uncomfortable
ride. The wagon bed was filled with odds and ends that the larger
wagon could not take and articles that had been overlooked until the
last minute.
Off they started on their twenty-mile trek, cousin Bert in front,
Nate in the middle, and Papa bringing up the rear. Soon Bob became
�restless sitting in the wagon. In his wriggling around he discovered
the almost forgotten wooden churn which had been added at the last
minute. It appealed to him as a good place to sit "high" and see things.
Promptly he crawled up on top of it and things went smoothly for
a time, but as the wagon rounded the curve on a downhill grade, the
churn, top heavy with its burden, turned over on its side, catapulting
Bob across the wagon. His head struck a standard and cut a gash
in his forehead. By some good fortune they were passing by a watering trough just off the roadside. It was a big log hollowed out like
a canoe and was fed fresh water continuously from a pipeline connected with a spring on the hill above the road. It was in a shady spot,
and because of the dampness, ferns and other green plants grew in
profusion around it. Papa stopped the wagon, washed the grime from
his bleeding offspring, and gave the horses a drink.
Soon after the churn episode Bob burrowed into a corner of the
wagon and went to sleep. Jane had an old, braided rug folded up for
a seat. It was wedged between a box of dishes and some old pots and
pans. Relieved of having to watch after Bob for the moment, she let
her thoughts dwell on the confusion and panic she had felt all day.
Why, she asked herself, was a one-teacher school so bad? She had
been happy in hers and was sure she had learned lots of things. This
year the teacher had let her help with spelling and writing lessons
for the smaller children and she had loved doing it. She hadn't minded
�taking her turn at sweeping the floors or cleaning the blackboards
either, and as for germs being so deadly, didn't all of them at home
drink from the same gourd dipper hanging by the spring? And why
was Uncle Bill not coming to Tarpley to live with them? Jane had
followed him around ever since she was a toddler and he seemed as
near to her as her own parents. Who would help him hunt the guineas'
nests now or who would go with him to the woods to hunt chestnuts
and chinquapins in the fall, and couldn't she find more wild strawberries in the spring than he could? Since he was not coming to Tarpley,
who would do the milking? She was afraid she knew the answer to
that.
As the caravan neared Asheville, another crisis occurred. Papa
leaped from the wagon and ran to the horses' heads, signaling Nate
to do the same. They held on to their bridles and spoke soothingly
to the horses just as the object of their concern went chugging by,
"making at least twenty-five miles an hour," Papa said. Jane was
startled out of her reverie and stared goggle-eyed as the automobile
went out of sight. She had never seen one before. "My goodness,"
she said to Bob. "Didn't it look just like a buggy running along without
a horse!"
Drivers were beginning to expect such interruptions in their
traveling. The horses showed antagonism and fear for these noisy
machines and many farmers resented the automobile for the trouble
it caused. When the Oldsmobile chugged by, Papa had trouble enough
with his horses. Gentle old Prince only rolled his eyes and stamped
his feet a bit, but Dixie and Dell, both young and skittish, tried to
bolt. It took all Papa's strength to keep them from running away.
Concentrating her attention on the horses, Jane remembered the
time when Janice, the musician of the family, was playing songs she
had heard by ear. She had played some familiar songs on the organ
when she turned to Bob and said, "Listen, Bob, I'll play 'Dixie' for
you." When she had finished the song, Bob was delighted. He patted her arm and said, "Now, Janice, play Dell."
As the horses clip-clopped along the street across the square in
Asheville, Jane let her gaze wander over the pictures the wagons and
their occupants made as they were reflected in the plate glass windows along the way. Already she was homesick for the Swannanoa
Valley and all the dear, familiar things she was leaving. She didn't
cry but her heart felt lonely and unutterably sad.
�It was almost dusk when the weary travelers arrived in Tarpley.
The house Papa had bought with money from the sale of the farm
was no architect's dream. It was very plain with no gingerbread trimming or ornamental woodwork of any kind. Shaped like a big square
box, it had four rooms downstairs and four on the second floor, with
a hallway running through the center of each floor. A wide porch with
bannisters ran across the front while a kitchen extension was built
back of the dining room with an L-shaped porch on two sides of it.
There was no electricity and no plumbing. The well house joined the
back porch. Water was drawn by a pulley and chain with a wooden
bucket on either end. As one bucket went down into the well the other
one came up. Behind the small barn at the back of the house was
the outhouse. A fence enclosed the two acres of land in the plot,
located in a narrow valley, with hills rising up sharply on two sides.
There was nothing fancy about the house or the property, but both
would be adequate for the Barker family.
Mama's sister Sally lived in Tarpley, and she met them at the
house with a basket of food for supper. That was a wonderful help
since the big old kitchen range would have to be connected before
they could even have hot water. Beds had to be set up before they
could sleep. After the disorder and confusion, when much was accomplished, finally out of sheer exhaustion everyone went to bed.
After two weeks the strange beds began to feel natural. Jane no
longer woke in the morning expecting to see the wallpaper of her old
room or to hear the train whistle and other familiar sounds of the farm
left behind. She and the rest of the Barkers gradually became accustomed to their new home and its surroundings. Jane still missed
Swannanoa though and told Mama so. Mama told Jane that she was
sure Jane would like Tarpley better as soon as school started.
�On the Monday morning when schools reopened, Mary (with
Mama's coaching) was able to enter Tarpley College as a freshman.
Nate was enrolled in the seventh grade, Jane in the fifth, Janice in
the third, and Bob in the first. The catapulting of the Barker family
into the Tarpley school system made little impact on the school itself,
but it certainly put Mama and her brood into a merry-go-round of
activity that, as she said, made her dizzy to think about.
Mama said her coat tails never caught up with her that winter.
What a scramble it was to outfit and keep five children in school! But
that was not all. There were two more children to be cared for and
meals to be cooked for a family of nine. Mama wondered, as Jane
had, how they would get along without Uncle Bill. Her only help was
Aunt Althea, who came on Mondays to do the wash and received
�seventy-five cents a day. In the well house was a bench holding three
zinc tubs filled with water, and nearby was the big iron pot which
the Negro washerwoman also filled with water before she built a fire
under it. With a scrub board and homemade lye soap she washed the
clothes and then put them in the big pot to boil. Ladling them out
of the suds, she put them first in one of the zinc tubs and then the
other. Aunt Althea had to wring each article by hand as it was moved from one rinsing tub to the next before it was ready for the clothes
line.
At the end of wash day, Aunt Althea left a mountain of unironed
clothes to wrestle with. There were starched pieces that had to be
sprinkled down—shirts and collars for the men, petticoats and dresses
for the girls, pillow cases, centerpieces and other household linens.
It all had to be done with a sad iron heated in front of the grate or
on top of the kitchen range. Mary, Jane, and even Janice had to take
turns almost every afternoon when they came in from school. They
were lucky if they completed the job by Saturday before beginning
again on Monday. But as the children became adjusted to their schools,
they became more involved in outside activities, which meant that
Mama got less and less help with the chores.
Reports were sent to parents at the end of a grading period, and
Mama was more anxious than the children to get the first reports.
Mary's and Janice's work was rated excellent, Jane's was good, Nate's
was fair, but he was on the baseball and tennis teams and that meant
more to him. Bob's report was poor. Mama found the last report hard
to accept, but she finally decided the fault must lie in the teacher.
One afternoon when the group had come in from school, they were
seated around the kitchen table having a snack and rehashing the day's
experiences. Janice said importantly, "I wrote a poem today."
"Oh," said Mama. "What was the poem about?"
"About families."
"What's a poem?" piped up Bob.
"It's when you write some lines and the words at the end of them
sound just alike, but they are not the same words," explained Janice.
"Maybe you would like to read your poem to us," suggested
Mama.
So Janice, trying to look very grown-up, got out her notebook.
"The name of this poem," she said, "is 'Shall Ever Be.' It goes this
way:
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�I belong to a big family.
Seven and two make nine, you see.
Shall ever be.
Mary is the oldest of my mother's.
I love her better than thermometers.
Shall ever be.
Nathan, or Nate, he precipitates.
You can see him standing by the gate.
Shall ever be.
Jane's name ought to have been Flossie
Because she always has been bossy.
Shall ever be.
There's two more sisters and a brother,
Who like to fight each with the other.
Shall ever be."
Nate set down his glass, picked up his cap, and started for the
door. He turned and said, "Wouldn't you know it? In this family we've
got a poet!" Then he waved to Janice mischievously and called, "Bye,
shall ever be!"
There was an open meeting of a literary society into which Mary
had been initiated, and the public was invited. Mama thought the
Barker family should go, and it never occurred to her that the smaller
children would be better left at home. From Papa down to baby Susan
they were dressed in their best and, as it had been their custom on
the farm, they all rode in the wagon to the college. Upon arrival, they
all went in together and sat all in a row on one bench. This arrangement was humiliating to Jane. Around her she saw her friends seated
in groups of twos and threes, unencumbered by parents or smaller
brothers and sisters. She fervently wished that she didn't have to sit
there between Bob and Susan, trying to keep them quiet.
Even Mama realized that her enthusiasm had carried her too far.
The fact that the folks in the valley traveled "en famille" to any public
occasion did not quite fit in with the Tarpley customs. From now on
she and Papa would take turns staying home with the smaller children.
11
�She felt almost sure that Papa would rather have stayed home this
time.
It was soon evident that school and its activities would interfere
with all family routines anyway. There was some special place for
Mary to go every afternoon after school, and she was beginning to
want to go out at night. Nate's obsession with sports called for daily
practice, which in turn interfered with the wood bin. It never got really
filled anymore. Mama was lucky if she got Nate to chop enough ahead
to keep the fires going a few hours at a time. Some days he was late
getting home in time to do the milking, and of course Jane resented
having an extra chore.
Bob was also unpredictable. When he failed to turn up at the end
of a school day, Jane or Janice was dispatched to find him. Once he
couldn't find his cap, and when Jane caught sight of him, he was,
she said, "wandering around waiting for his cap to come to him" instead of hunting it. Another day he found a stray kitten and was lugging it home with him. When Jane explained that it probably belonged to someone and he had better let it go, he was reluctant to release
it. "It belongs to me now," he argued indignantly, "because I found
it, didn't I?"
Bob had a special affection for his cap and wore it constantly,
removing it when he came inside the house only when reminded to
do so. Soon the boys in his grade discovered his attachment to his
12
�headgear and loved to tease him. One afternoon after school, Janice
went out and saw a commotion on the playground. Some boys had
snatched Bob's cap and were having a fine time playing catch with
it, while Bob ran from one boy to another trying ineffectually to
retrieve his property. Janice threw down her book satchel, made for
the boy who held the cap, and before he was aware of her nearness,
she grabbed him by his red hair and with both hands held on for dear
life.
It wasn't an every day occurrence to see a boy and girl fracas
on the school grounds. This one was fast and furious, and it was over
in a few minutes. Bob's cap was recovered, Janice's dress was torn,
her hair ribbon was lost, and there was a scratch down one check,
but the redhead had his battle scars too. Fingernail marks were on
his face, buttons were ripped off the front of his shirt, and the pain
from the hair pulling caused him to go home howling. Bob shamefacedly picked up his cap, dusted it off, and he and Janice walked home
in silence.
Mama was disturbed to hear about the fight. She worried for fear
there might be an aftermath and probably further troubles because
of it. She realized that she had not counted on this kind of trouble
when she was planning to put the children in school at Tarpley, but
when a week went by and no further mention was made of the fight,
she began to breathe easy again.
13
�In 1909 Mary was a member of the graduating class of Tarpley
College. Her last year at school had been unusually pleasant. There
were less than 400 students at the school. Rich people did not send
their children to a struggling small college like Tarpley, so the
backgrounds of most students were similar and the school atmosphere
was unpretentious and friendly. Joe Tolbert, also a senior, had been
Mary's escort to a number of school events and they were good
friends. Mary wanted to ask him to come to dinner before the term
was over and he left town. Mama agreed, so the date was set.
The dinner was a regular home-cooked meal served with mountain hospitality. There was a hen baked with dressing, creamed Irish
potatoes, hot biscuits, home-canned pickled peaches, and salad consisting of lettuce, onions, and radishes from the garden. The dessert
was homemade ice cream and cake. Mama did not have a matching
set of china, silver, or crystal, but she took her one ' 'company"
tablecloth and the few good pieces of tableware she did have and
matched things up the best she could. Finding herself one napkin
short, she got one of Papa's big white handkerchiefs, folded it neatly, and put it beside Bob's plate. "He'll never know the difference,"
she thought.
But she was mistaken, for when they were about half through
the meal, Bob held up the article and said in a loud voice, "Say, is
this a napkin or a handkerchief?" Otherwise, Mama felt that the
children were well-behaved for the company dinner, and she noticed
that both Mary and Joe seemed to be enjoying themselves.
At Tarpley College in 1909 seniors did not wear caps and gowns
for graduation. The boys wore dark suits and the girls white dresses,
made just alike. That year the class has chosen organdy for the dress
material. The pattern called for a high neckline, very full sleeves, and
gathered skirts. The collars and cuffs were edged with lace and there
were insets of it in the bodices. The girls were thrilled with their
dresses and eagerly looked forward to preening themselves across
the stage on graduation day. Then they learned with a shock that
Marcella Jones's father had forbidden her to wear her organdy dress
because one could see the flesh on her arms and neck through the
14
�sheer material. Such immodesty was unthinkable to him and he
refused to listen to his daughter's pleas. When Marcella's classmates
heard about the difficulty, they were up in arms, determined that she
not be left out. They got together and created a pattern to make a
bodice out of broadcloth. It had long, tight-fitting sleeves and a high
neck. With the addition underneath the organdy, there was no "seethrough," and Mr. Jones, deciding his daughter's modesty was
preserved, allowed her to go on with the others.
Mama and Papa, proud of their eldest daughter's achievement,
brought the family to the graduation. Mary was elated to be
graduating, of course, but the fact that she had been fortunate enough
to find a place to teach in an elementary school just seven miles from
Tarpley was much more of a thrill to her.
A summer with no specially planned vacation trips might seem
unendurable to another generation, but to the Barker family it differed not at all. They looked forward to summer, to the overnight
visits of friends and cousins, to spending several days at a time with
aunts and uncles, to picnics and ice cream suppers at the church, and
finally to the family reunion which took place the first Sunday in
August each year. This get-together assembled family members who
had moved to different localities. From North Carolina they had
emigrated to most of the states in the South and West. This year
Oklahoma, Oregon, Georgia, and Texas were represented and the
clan spirit was evident. Mama enjoyed the reunion along with
everyone else, but she thought she could do without some of the extra company the occasion brought.
15
�Coming home from school one sunny autumn day soon after the
term had started, Jane was happy as a lark. Her friend Jud had asked
her to join a group for a picnic on top of Hamburg Mountain. They
were to make sandwiches, hike up the mountain, build a bonfire, and
watch the sunset. Jane was so excited at the prospect that she rushed
to tell Mama.
She found Mama lying on the bed with a towel folded across her
forehead. Apparently she was "undone," as she called it, with a
migraine headache. Jane knew quite well there would be no picnic,
and although she was sorry for Mama, she resented having to change
her plans. She went to her room, changed clothes, and stalked into
the disordered kitchen where she stoically proceeded to put things
to rights and begin preparations for the evening meal.
Some weeks later Mama was alone in the house when Jane came
home from school. After greeting her, Mama said diffidently, "I guess
you have noticed that we're going to have an addition to the family."
"Well, yes I have," admitted Jane, "and Fm awfully sorry."
"Why," countered Mama, "don't you believe it's the Lord's will
for us to have another baby?"
"I think the Lord had some help with this one," said Jane
sarcastically.
"That is irreverent," said Mama reprovingly, "and Fm surprised
at you."
"It may be" said Jane, "but I can't help it. You have had enough
children and you're too old. People won't know whether you are
parents or grandparents when they see you with a baby. And another
thing, I just wish Papa had to have this baby!"
Jane knew she had not been very kind to Mama and she was
ashamed for having given way to her feelings. She knew she was lucky
to have the kind of parents she had, too. They weren't too demanding or overstrict, and they didn't resort to physical punishment as
some parents she knew were wont to do. She resolved to be more
respectful in the future. "But darn it all," she said to herself. "It just
isn't fair. Mama gets the worst of everything. She must have the baby
and then she has to be up with it at night so she doesn't get enough
16
�rest to do all the things she has to do. One thing is for sure—I never
intend to have eight children!"
On a snowy night in mid-February Jane was wakened by unusual
noises, which of course she understood. She knew she was not to leave
her room unless she was called for, so she sank back into a
semiconscious state. The next morning family members were informed that they had a new baby brother named Daniel.
He was like a new toy to the younger children. As soon as they
arrived from school they made a beeline for his crib and expressed
disappointment if he was sleeping. Jane at first was aloof and standoffish, but one afternoon she went to see him and found him lying
in his crib trying to catch his own hands and cooing to himself. Involuntarily she exclaimed, "Oh, you little cutie!" Then she admitted
to herself, "And to think, I didn't even want him!"
The rest of the winter was a hard one. With six children in school
and a baby to care for, Mama had no leisure. But with all that, she
was worried about Papa. She knew he was finding it increasingly difficult to provide for the needs of his growing family. Farmers still
patronized the blacksmith shop, but in the last five years automobiles
had penetrated even the mountain fastnesses of the Blue Ridge and
17
�more and more people were discarding their horses and converting
their stables into "car bams." Papa was pessimistic. "The automobile
will ruin this country, just you wait and see/1 he predicted.
Meanwhile, Jane was in a world of her own. At sixteen she was
receiving for the first time in her life marked attention from a young
man. Jud walked with her back and forth from school, sat with her
in church on Sunday, and escorted her to all available school functions. She fell deeply and wholeheartedly in love.
One afternoon she took Danny out for an airing in his carriage.
On the way down the street, she met Jud and they walked along
together. A tourist couple out for a stroll stopped them and the woman
exclaimed, "What a beautiful baby. But you to look awfully young
to be parents." Jane assured her that the baby was her brother, and
as they walked on she laughed at the incident. To her surprise,
however, Jud was not amused.
One weekend Jud made no effort to get in touch with her. Jane
was at first irritated and then worried. She thought of calling his dorm,
but she knew Mama would disapprove of such forward behavior. On
Monday she went to school certain that Jud would explain his sudden behavior. Instead she saw a classmate who said, "Guess what?
When my brother went to Asheville on Saturday, he saw Jud with
Jessie Baldwin. They seemed to be having a high old time."
Jane fled to the sanctuary of the library where she could let the
news sink in. She had trusted him so completely and believed that
they would always love each other. She was sure her heart was broken
and she would never be happy again.
For days she went around mechanically doing her duties, often
giving way to tears after her younger sisters had gone to sleep. Mama
understood what was happening and finally had a talk with Jane. She
told her that often a young girl was in love with love, not a person,
especially not a person who had a roving eye and whose fancy often
changed. Such a person was usually in love with himself, unsettled,
and immature. Mama assured Jane that she was too young to get
serious with a man and that she should think of her disappointment
as a learning experience.
Jane didn't think Mama knew much about such things, although
she thought it good of her to be so sympathetic. Eventually Jud came
back to see her and tried to patch things up, but Jane knew the magic
was gone.
18
�6
Nate, two years older than Jane, was behind her in school. He
was a pitcher on the baseball team and one of Tarpley's best tennis
players. It seemed that he was much more interested in sports than
in his studies. When Jane or Mama tried to encourage him to pay
more attention to his required classes, he usually said, "What's the
big hurry? There's plenty of time."
Then one Saturday afternoon, like a bolt from the blue, tragedy
struck the Barker family.
From time to time Nate did any odd jobs available to make what
he called his "spending money." A distant cousin operated a farm
just outside Tarpley and he needed some help harvesting a crop of
corn for ensilage. Nate was given the job of feeding the stalks into
a shredder which then went into a silo. While he was working, the
cuff of his leather glove was caught by a stalk, pulling his hand into
the shredder. In a matter of seconds, his arm was torn and mangled
to the elbow.
Papa, white-faced and weak, came into the house to tell the rest
of the family about the tragedy. He had been summoned immediately to the scene of the accident, and when he had seen Nate's bloodspattered clothes and mangled arm, he had cried out, "My God, Nate.
Oh my God!" and had turned aside to be sick. He himself had ridden
with his son in the ambulance to the hospital in Asheville. The doctor had told him that an emergency operation was necessary, and Papa
had given his permission for Nate's right arm to be amputated just
above the elbow.
The family listened to the news of the horrible accident as though
they were in a daze. Finally Mama said, "We must all be brave and
thank the Lord his life was saved."
"But Mama," exclaimed Mary. "What can he do with just one
arm? What will become of him?" All the Barkers mourned for the
one whose interest in sports had been the ruling obsession of his life.
It was almost as if he had died.
A few nights later as the family sat around the supper table, Mama
knew she must discuss the crisis facing them the next day when Nate
was scheduled to come home from the hospital. "When he gets here,"
19
�said Mama, ''nobody must notice his bandaged arm. We must smile
and welcome him as if he had been on a vacation, and there must
be no tears."
When there was a general protest that it would be impossible not
to notice his empty sleeve, Mama was firm. "We can do it and we
must. He is the one who will have to learn to live without his arm,
and I think it would be selfish and weak of us if we can't muster
enough courage to try to make his homecoming cordial and
unemotional."
Four-year-old Danny climbed out of his chair and came to stand
by Mama. He looked up into her face searchingly and said, "But
Mama, when Nate comes home and is well again, his arm will grow
back, won't it?"
Mama, her eyes swimming with tears, could not answer. She got
up hastily and began to carry the dishes to the kitchen. Papa, his own
eyes suspiciously moist, took Danny on his lap and held him.
On the following afternoon when Nate arrived looking surprisingly natural, glad to see everybody and happy to be home, no mention was made of his arm. According to Mama's instructions, everyone
tried to think of some interesting bit of news to tell him. At supper
Papa added to his usual blessing, "We thank you, Lord, that the family
is united again," and the first hurdle was over.
As the days passed Nate proved to have a wonderful attitude about
his fate. If he was in pain and frustrated because he could not accomplish something, he was not embittered and tried hard to be cheerful for Papa and Mama's sake. Knowing that he could no longer hope
for a sports career, he decided he must concentrate his efforts on getting a diploma. "The way it looks now," he said, "the best thing for
me to do is to get through school and become an 'old maid school
teacher' like the rest of the Barkers."
Jane's graduation came and went almost unnoticed, and it was
late June before she found a place to teach. Her situation was like
Mary's—she would have the first three grades in a two-teacher school
close to Tarpley, making the munificent sum of forty dollars a month.
Nate and Janice were both scheduled to complete requirements for
graduation the following year.
Nate was not unhappy during his last year in school. He had
learned to dress himself and could even shave with a straight-edged
razor and tie his own shoes. Mary had given him a special knife-and20
�fork combination, which allowed him to feed himself. Then he
discovered he could still play tennis, grasping the ball between his
thumb and second and third fingers, tossing it in the air, and then
in a second swing sending it smashing across the court with his racquet. He also resumed his baseball practice, using the stump of his
arm for an anchor as he wound up to pitch the ball.
When another graduation ceremony rolled around, two Barkers
were on the list. Janice, so gifted in music, was also honored by being named valedictorian. And the senior awarded the medal for making the most progress in public speaking was Nate Barker.
21
�The Barkers, especially Mama, had looked forward to seeing half
of their brood out of college. They visualized a period of time when
financial burdens would lighten and they would have a breathing spell
before the next quartet had to have tuition for their higher education. With four of them working, it ought to be easier!
But although no one needed tuition for the 1916-17 school year,
the Barkers had a new set of worries. Tarpley was to have a light
and power system installed, and Papa and Mama thought this was
an opportunity they could not afford to miss. They also knew that
finding money to pay for this improvement and others would not be
easy. Mama knew that the children who were working would help
with these extras, but she wished it could be done without asking
them to contribute.
The first thing they added that summer was a bathroom on one
end of the back porch. A window was cut on one side and a door led
out to the porch. The fixtures were installed and an oil burning stove
was connected with a tank for heating water. The bathroom, even
for the six people now at home, was a luxury, especially during the
summer. When winter came though, with an occasional "cold snap,"
it was not unusual for the Barkers to revert to the zinc tub behind
the kitchen range.
Shortly thereafter, the electric lights were installed. The house,
built as it was, made it necessary for the wiring to run inside the rooms,
all exposed to view. It was not an aesthetic improvement, but even
so, nobody wanted to go back to using the smelly oil lamps or to take
up the task of washing smoked lamp chimneys, with the daily chores
of trimming wicks and filling the lamps with oil.
Late one afternoon Mama sat alone on the porch, ignoring the
sunset which on other occasions she would have called magnificent.
She was not relaxing either. She was confused, realizing to her dismay
that she had been so determined in her single-minded way to accomplish a certain goal that she had lost sight of other things. First
there was Papa, whose blacksmith shop clearly would soon be a thing
of the past. Already he was opening it only on weekends, spending
the rest of his time working as a carpenter in a construction company. Mama still felt guilty about insisting that he move away from
22
�Swannanoa, and this decline in business surely did not make him any
happier about being in Tarpley.
Then there was Mary. She had decided she no longer wanted to
teach. She had been offered a scholarship to Columbia University in
New York City and was sure she would die if she didn't get to go.
When she got a degree in home economics, then she would be eligible to become a home demonstration agent—that was the big thing
in North Carolina now, with every county having an agent—and she
would be much better paid than if she taught.
Papa had said, "But, Mary, the scholarship won't pay all your
expenses. You'll have to borrow money. Why don't you stay here and
teach a few years, then get married and have a family of your own?"
"Papa, with all the brothers and sisters I've had around me all
my life, I don't want to start another family," Mary had replied, apparently determined to continue her education.
23
�Then there was Bob. Reluctantly Mama admitted that in all
likelihood slow moving, good natured Bob was not likely to graduate
from any high school, much less college. Papa would just have to help
him get some kind of job, maybe as a carpenter. She knew it was
not logical, but she felt it was impossible to have borne a child who
didn't share her ambition and desire to finish school. It just didn't
bear thinking about.
Mama was realizing that all children were not alike just because
they happened to be brothers and sisters. She was also becoming
aware of the fact that her children were becoming young men and
women with ideas and ambitions of their own, and not all of these
coincided with hers.
It was time to cook supper, so she rose and went inside. She
worked automatically at her chores, but her mind was still busy with
her problems. She wanted to find something to help eke out their income. More and more women were working outside their home, and
if the war that was being talked and written about materialized, still
more women would be needed. Trying to think of places that might
be open to women, she recalled that practically all milliners were
women—but she couldn't trim hats! She could not work in a laundry
or a bakery or a restaurant because she couldn't stay away from home
such long hours. Maybe she could write a book, but, also, maybe she
couldn't. The only things she could write about would be those she
had actually experienced—prosaic, ordinary happenings which nobody
would read about. She had no imagination.
It had been in the back of her mind all along, but now she was
ready to acknowledge that she meant to try to teach school again.
She didn't think Papa would approve, so she decided she would turn
things over in her mind awhile before she told him about her plans.
Papa could be very abrupt at times. She remembered an evening they
had spent with friends and the subject of women's suffrage had come
up. She expressed herself as being in favor of it and said she looked
forward to the time when women could vote. Papa had said very
positively, "Now Cora, you are old enough to know that women's place
is in the home." Mama thought a woman's place was in the home
as long as the children needed her, but after they all went to school,
she decided that a woman's place was wherever she could find a place.
24
�8
Jane's year of teaching a few miles from Tarpley convinced her
that she truly enjoyed her work but she didn't like living at home now
that she was able to support herself. She wanted to get away for awhile
and be on her own, so she was very pleased to be offered a job in
the extreme northeastern section of North Carolina. It was five hundred miles from Tarpley and within ten miles of the Atlantic Ocean.
As excited as Jane was to get this school, she was unprepared
for all the changes she encountered. Born and reared in the Carolina
mountains, she knew no landscape but hills that curved up and down
with unexpected level valleys bordering clear streams, and, in the
distance, fresh green hills with the soft blue mountains forming a
background beyond them. Boarding the train in the afternoon, she
watched the shifting scenery until nightfall. When she awoke the next
morning in her Pullman berth, she looked out the window and was
amazed that the land stretched away as far as the eye could see, flat
as the palm of her hand.
25
�A trustee of the school met Jane at the depot and drove her the
seven miles to Cranston, the little community where she would be
teaching. The sandy road, stretching straight as an arrow, was
bordered on both sides by great fields of cotton and peanuts. Jane,
accustomed to red clay hills, thought this soil looked unproductive,
but she had to admit eventually that the crops she saw were growing
lustily. The trustee told her that many of the peanut fields had single
furrows over a mile long without a single curve in them.
Jane received a warm welcome from the Cranston community.
Many of the patrons called on her and often she was invited to Sunday dinner by the parents of some of her pupils. On Saturday nights
there was usually a gathering of the young working people in
somebody's house. Jane had worried that she might be homesick, but
she was far too busy with her schoolwork and socializing even to think
about home much.
She threw herself into her work, gradually becoming accustomed
to the strange landscape and peculiar accents. People in the eastern
part of the state talked so differently that she kept a notebook of
localisms she had never heard before, such as, "He chunked a rock
right through the window," and, "That was some kind of pretty/'
and, "I thought you won't going to town today." Once when she was
telling her class that she had never seen big fields of peanuts or the
blooms and balls of a cotton stalk before, a serious looking little boy
raised his hand. "If you don't have any peanuts and cotton, how do
people make a living?" he asked.
Jane tried to explain that cattle raising and truck farming, such
as apples, hay, and corn, were the principal ways of making a living
in her part of the state, but he still looked puzzled. "I guess he won't
understand until he sees it himself," she thought.
One of the young people Jane met at the first Saturday night party
was Boyd Brock. She had been flattered by the attention he had paid
her ever since, but after her experience with Jud she had treated him
very cautiously. Her reluctance to accept his invitations seemed to
make him all the more eager to be with her, and he was a frequent
visitor at the teacherage.
On a lovely spring afternoon Boyd asked Jane to ride with him
down to the beach. He was driving a shiny rubber-tired buggy and
they skimmed along the smooth sandy roads with ease. Sometimes
there were palm trees bordering the way; sometimes at the edge of
26
�a swampy place the tall cypress trees stood with their knees sticking
up out of the brackish water.
When they reached the little town, Boyd left his horse and buggy
at the livery stable and the couple set out on foot to explore the
premises. They walked along the beach, gathered some sea oats, and
came back by a drug store where they got sandwiches and milkshakes.
Suddenly Jane realized it was getting late and she must be back at
her boarding house before twilight. She didn't dare be out driving
with a young man after dark.
During the return trip Boyd said to her, without any preamble
or warning, "You know, Fve been thinking, and I believe it would
be a good thing for you and I to get married."
Jane didn't take him seriously. "For you and I?" she asked him
archly. "Don't you mean 'for you and me?"
"I mean for you and I," he answered positively. "I like the sound
of it that way. And I mean what I'm saying and I want you to think
about it, too. If you do, I believe I can convince you that I am right."
"Well, what am I to do—say This is so sudden' and fall into a
swoon?"
"You faint? Well, I'm from Missouri! But if you do, I'll catch you,
and when you 'come to' just remember what I have said."
27
�The conversation was not pursued during the rest of the ride back
to Cranston, but the subject came up again the following Sunday. Jane
and Boyd went to church together, and because it was a second Sunday there was dinner on the grounds and almost everyone in the
Cranston area went to church.
A good number of automobiles were parked out front, but the
patch of woods at the back of the church still held buggies and horses,
the mode of transportation for a large percentage of the congregation. Boyd had taken his horse from the buggy and tied him in a shady
spot. The buggy he left at the edge of the woods, as he said, for propriety's sake so that everyone could see what was going on.
The trestle tables were loaded with delicacies on which a
multitude could have fed. After going up and down the tables, leisurely
taking samples from dishes and making conversation with the folks
who had prepared them, Boyd said to Jane. "If I keep this up I'll be
kissing all the babies and hugging all the grandmas just like a real
politician."
"Don't tell me you were bored/' said Jane. "You loved it all! I
had to stand aside and be the staid school marm while you were the
Prince Charming!"
"That's just what I've been trying to tell you," he answered.
"That's one of the reasons why we ought to get married. I know I
get carried away sometimes and am irresponsible, but you are sedate
and practical and matter of fact. You need me to loosen you up a bit
and I need you to nail me down when I get out of hand!"
As he left her late that afternoon he said, "I've enjoyed this day.
We must go to church somewhere real soon where they'll have dinner on the grounds again."
But it didn't happen that way.
The next week Boyd called unannounced to see Jane. They sat
in Mrs. Tilson's parlor with its organ, horsehair sofa, and starched
lace curtains. He had come to tell her that he was being called into
the army and in a few days must report to Camp Sevier in Greenville, South Carolina.
Jane was stunned. She knew the war was going on, but it was
far away and had not touched her family yet. Papa was too old, Nate
was ineligible, and Bob was too young. A lot of her friends and
associates were in the service and a great many were already in
France. Of course, everyone out of uniform was questioned. She
28
�remembered that at a party one night, when Boyd was asked why
he hadn't gone, he had replied impudently that he was a conscientious objector. Another time when the subject was broached, he had
said he was a Four F because of a brain defect. Boyd had made it
all appear like a big joke then, but tonight he was different. He told
her, "If I said I wanted to go Fd be lying. I don't like anything about
the army and I dread going. I can't help wondering why America feels
she must be mixed up in all those European nations who are trying
to kill each other. But I am no better than all the fellows who have
had to go before me. So, now that my turn has come, I'll do my best."
Jane didn't want to be serious. She was afraid she might cry, and
she did not share the generally accepted idea that tears were a
woman's prerogative and her best weapon. For her, they were a sign
of weakness, and she had often told herself when she was disturbed,
"I'm too big to cry." So, she said to Boyd instead, "Oh, I know you!
You won't be in France long before you will have found yourself a
pretty little mademoiselle and you'll forget all about me!"
"Sure, I'll be on the lookout for a little Frenchie," Boyd replied.
"But don't you worry—when it's over I'll be back and a certain little
hillbilly had better be waiting for me!"
29
�9
Back in Tarpley, things were on the mend. Mama made peace
with Papa about trying to go back to teaching. She had reviewed the
textbooks she needed for the teacher's examination, and shortly after
she took it, she received word that she had earned a creditable rating.
Her first applications for a place to teach were disappointing since
no one seemed to have an opening, especially for someone as old as
she was. But she kept trying, and, finally, she heard of a one-teacher
school "around the mountain" from Tarpley, at Allman's Cove, where
the teacher had resigned because of illness. Mama lost no time getting to the trustees to offer her services, and, since they did not want
the school term interrupted, they asked if she could begin on Monday. Although that schedule gave Mama only the weekend to get
ready, she consented. She hurried home with the news and after supper had a family conference. The chores were divided so that each
person was allowed, as much as possible, to choose the things he or
she liked best to do.
Bob could not be counted on for as much as the girls, for he was
doing odd jobs for people when he could. Just now, he was working
with Papa as a carpenter's helper, but he was assigned the tasks of
keeping the kitchen woodbox filled and of looking after the Warm
Morning heater which had replaced the fireplace in the dining room.
In the winter time the whole family used that room as a sitting room.
Millie, always dependable and good-natured, was to be responsible for Danny from the time his school was out until Mama could get
home in the afternoon. She would share the bedmaking, dishwashing,
and ironing with Susan. Susan would also see that the pantry had the
essential staples for cooking, but Mama would still be the cook, taking over the kitchen at night.
While these plans were being made, Papa sat in his easy chair,
engaged with the newspaper. He was content for Mama and the
children to work out these plans on paper, where they sounded easy.
If she was determined to go back to teaching, Papa thought, let her
work it out.
On Monday morning Mama cooked her usual breakfast of
sausage, eggs, hot biscuits, butter, and jelly. When she had her brood
30
�at the table, she fixed a lunch pail for Papa and Bob, made herself
a sandwich for lunch, hastily threw on her clothes, and made off for
school. Bob had hitched up old Dixie to the now creaking buggy.
Mama piled in with her books, a bundle of kindling, a kettle, a sack
of oats for Dixie, and some odds and ends of school materials her older
children had used and discarded. In spite of all the trouble in getting
off to school, Mama was in a cheerful mood. With her experience
with children of all ages, she felt confident that she could handle this
group. Also, she admitted to herself that she was looking forward
to being out of the house several hours a day, even if she might have
to work longer hours to keep things going.
Mama had never studied psychology, but she had a good
understanding of human nature. It did not take her long to spot the
school bully, the smart aleck, and the troublemakers among her
students. She saw to it that the bully left the small children alone,
and she could squelch the smart aleck with a look, but as she did so
31
�she tried to make friends with all the students. She told them that
every pupil must cooperate if they were to have a successful school,
and that she needed their help.
Of course, these generally considered roughnecks in Allman's
Cove did not turn into perfect students overnight. Mama had her problems. She was not always able to forestall unpleasant situations that
sometimes marred a day, but as time went on, things improved. The
pupils responded to her sincere efforts and she soon had allies willing to work with her.
The twenty-five students of assorted ages and scattered in grades
from one to seven all in one room presented a challenge to Mama.
She planned her schedule so she could have two, three, and sometimes
four classes going at the same time. She tried to do most of her
teaching to the ones in the sixth and seventh grades and to the five
and six-year-olds who were beginners. Under her direction and with
her lesson plans, some of the larger pupils could take charge of certain classes.
�She had a box of soil placed in one corner of the room and in it
the students experimented with seedlings and rooted cuttings. On Friday afternoon they had varied activities—one Friday a spelling bee,
the next a hike to a nearby waterfall and a picnic supper, another
a program of original compositions. These were written by the older
children describing some lesson they had liked (or disliked). Mama
picked out poems that she thought all children should know and had
the pupils memorize and recite them by turns. On the last Friday
before Thanksgiving, she took from home a big frying pan and the
ingredients for making dough. Some of her pupils brought dried apples already cooked and seasoned. She kept four students inside to
help her cook (two boys and two girls, since Mama firmly believed
that boys should know how to cook) and excused the others to go
hunting or identifying autumn leaves on the school grounds. Mama
and her four helpers made and fried dried apple turnovers on the big
iron stove. They were hot and delicious and made a great feast for
the children.
The stove had a broken leg and was propped up on bricks, and
there were other things wrong with the schoolroom. A few windowpanes were missing. New blackboards and chalk were needed. There
was no money allotted for school supplies and Mama decided she
would have to do something about it.
She discussed the matter with the trustees and they encouraged
her to have a box supper. Notes were sent to all the parents urging
them to come and to invite others in the community. The school room
was decorated with holly, fir, and spruce boughs and looked very attractive. A trustee was the auctioneer and the boxes were promptly
sold. After supper, word games were played in which all could take
part. The evening ended with a string band from the cove playing
old familiar songs for a community sing.
Mama was elated with the results. There was money enough to
take care of the most pressing needs, and she had a warm feeling
of gratitude for the patrons who had helped to make the evening a
success. Even Papa and Danny had gone along with her. She knew
Papa would never openly admit it, but she was sure he had had a
good time! Danny thought it was great and said so repeatedly. After
hearing the string band play, he decided he needed a banjo, too.
Having a job made a world of difference to Mama. She had been
tired of the house with its unrelenting chores, and although she had
33
�been on a merry-go-round since she had started school, she enjoyed
the change and felt she was more a part of what was going on around
her. In the past, she had also grown oh so weary of having to ask
for every cent she received. Now, small as her salary was, it helped
and Mama was able to give money to her own children for incidentals. She was ever so happy with her teaching.
34
�10
Christmas of 1917 was to be a quiet affair. For the first time in
twenty-six years, all the members of the family would not be home
for the holidays. Mary, in New York, was doing some clerical work
in addition to her classes, and would only have a few days off from
work. Jane, in Cranston, had decided the trip would be too expensive for her to make. Still, that left eight people to look out for, so
Mama didn't really expect a vacation.
Christmas would be quiet for other reasons. The war had taken
thousands of young men overseas and already there were some who
would not come back. Mama said she felt sad every time she saw
a young man in uniform. The preacher said, 'There shall be wars
and rumors of wars/' but she didn't believe they should go on forever,
especially when to her it seemed the fighting came about because
one country decided it should have some land that belonged to another
settled nation.
35
�Christmas Day came. The Barker family had all hung up their
stockings and they enjoyed opening presents before the usual
Christmas feast. Then they sat around the fire, popped popcorn, and
played games until bedtime. The surprise came the next day, when
they awoke to look out on a white world and a howling blizzard. It
had piled snow high in drifts and paralyzed traffic. To add to the
discomfort, it was bitterly cold, and the family was housebound.
"Storms like this belong to New England, not as far south as the
Carolinas," Mama thought.
The first day or two went splendidly. They made a huge snowman
and had a few snowball fights. Once a day they wrapped up warmly
and walked to the post office. The young folks were invited to a
friend's home to a "candy pulling." Homemade molasses was boiled
on top of the stove until it thickened. After it was cooled enough to
be handled, a mass of it was given to each couple who faced each
other and pulled together. After a while the candy stiffened, and then
it was broken in short lengths and called "stick candy."
One night after supper they all sat around the fire while Papa
read aloud "Snowbound" by John Greenleaf Whittier. They all
thought it was a very appropriate poem for such an occasion. By the
end of the week the poem seemed too much like their own situation.
Everyone began to seem edgy and get on each other's nerves. They
felt restless and housebound and even looked forward to the end of
vacation.
When the new year was ushered in and the weather improved,
they were soon back on the same old merry-go-round. Papa was working in Asheville, which was fast becoming a tourist attraction. One
hotel after another was under construction. For transportation he had
to commute on the little interurban streetcar line which ran from
Tarpley to Asheville, and he carried his lunch with him. Bob had gone
to Knoxville, where he was staying with Papa's brother Jim. He was
taking a six-month training course to work as a garage mechanic. Only
the three younger children were at home. It made Mama feel lonely
to think of how quickly her brood had scattered. Although she kept
as busy as ever, she missed each one of her absent children daily.
The cold winter of 1917 ended in time, and the spring of 1918
was lovely, but people were more and more conscious of the war going on. Jane wrote that Boyd was still in camp and feeling resentful
because he had not been sent overseas. In the midst of war, one can
36
�hardly realize just what is happening, and since news of a battle came
by cable or appeared a day or two late in the newspaper, no one could
predict the duration of the outcome of this supposed "war to end
wars." Mama thought Jane was more interested in Boyd than she
would admit even to herself, and it made her anxious. She wondered
what he really was like and if he would be another "ladies' man" with
a roving fancy like Jud. She wished she could see Jane and talk to her.
When school ended in May, Mama went into an orgy of house
cleaning. She washed windows, laundered curtains, sunned quilts and
mattresses, mopped floors and scrubbed the wide planks of the kitchen floor until they were spotless, hung the carpet from the parlor
on the clothesline, and beat the dust out of it with a broom. Mama
was proud of this carpet, even though Susan often complained that
it did not have flowers like those other people had. Grandma Patton
had made the parlor carpet out of old clothing cut in strips and sewn
together. Then she had woven the strips on a big loom which stood
in the corner of her kitchen. It took fifteen square yards of carpeting
for the parlor, and Mama had forgotten how long it had taken Grandma to make it.
Soon Janice and Jane arrived for their summer vacations, but Nate
was not to be with them. He had a job offer as a desk clerk in a hotel
in the town where he had been teaching and was quite happy with
it. Although everyone missed Nate, it was a lively household without
him. They made up teams for the daily chores: Mama and Danny took
the kitchen garden and what they called the front yard, Millie and
Susan chose the house cleaning, and Janice and Jane did the cooking. They all shared the washing and ironing.
The Barkers had recently acquired a washing machine, a forerunner of electric machines but infinitely easier to operate than the scrubbing board. The hand-operated machine stood on four legs, supporting
a tub with a rounded bottom in which a wooden inset called a cradle
rocked back and forth over the soapy clothes. Attached to one side
of the washer was a hand-turned wringer, which saved a lot of hard
wrist work but was also a grand place to catch the buttons of a garment at the wrong angle and snap them off. Danny called it the button buster.
Practically all the young men the age of Jane and Janice were
away in service, but the girls did not seem to mind. Jane spent a good
part of her vacation in summer school, earning extra credits necessary
37
�for a pay raise. Janice belonged to a string band which played for
various social activities and often gave open air concerts in the park
on Sunday afternoons. Susan saw to it that the Barker house had some
teenagers in evidence. Millie, the agreeable one, often went along
on Susan's outings. She told Janice she was Susan's chaperone.
Danny was the one Mama was concerned about. One would think
that the youngest child in a big family would be very lucky. He'd have
older brothers and sisters to spoil him, give up to him, and provide
things they did not have at his age. But it did not always work out
that way. Being so much younger than the others, he was like an only child who had to grow up alone and, as Danny said, had more bosses
than any one person could ever get along with. So she and Danny
worked together in the vegetable garden and in cleaning up the
premises, and she encouraged him to have boys his age over for an
afternoon.
Millie and Susan were constantly singing the war songs—"Over
There," "It's a Long Way to Tipperary," "K-K-K-Katie," and "Keep
the Home Fires Burning." They had also learned a new game called
"Rook," and on summer evenings they often had a table or two going. Some preferred dominoes, some checkers, but everybody liked
Rook. Papa was shocked when someone told him that Rook was
played just like regular cards. Simple substitutions had been made—
fourteen for an ace, thirteen for a king, twelve for a queen, and eleven
for a jack. He was undecided as to whether he should allow this game
in his house. He remembered very well that he had promised his father
to have nothing to do with playing cards, and to him it was unthinkable
to break that promise. The children, however, were able to convince
him that the numbers had no relations to the wicked emblems, and
the game went on.
Mama thought she must have been born lucky, or at least she
sometimes did have a lucky break, like the one that came late that
summer. A lot of teachers were leaving the classrooms since the war
had opened new and better paying jobs for women. When one of the
teachers in Tarpley Elementary left to work for the Red Cross, the
trustees offered the place to Mama.
Her new position solved many problems. She felt that she had
proved she could teach and still carry on at home. She would be
teaching in the same school that Danny attended, and even though
he was not in her grade, she could keep an eye on him. Susan was
38
�entering Tarpley College in September, and Millie was to be a junior.
The outlook seemed bright for a pleasant and peaceful school year.
When Papa had sold the farm in Swannanoa and had bought the
house in Tarpley, there had been a little money left over. With it he
had invested in forty acres of land about one mile outside Tarpley.
It was poor, unproductive, and neglected, but it was cheap. They had
named it the Briar Patch, and it was a special favorite for all the family
for many kinds of outings. Some apple trees still produced a crop in
the fall, and there were chestnut trees and chinquapin bushes and
wild grapevines—all of which attracted the children and young people.
One Sunday afternoon in September, Mama and Papa took a
basket and decided to walk over to the Briar Patch to get some wild
grapes for making jelly. It was a warm September afternoon. The
goldenrod and Joe Pye weed vied with the red of the dogwood leaves
and sourwood. The clear yellow of the hickory trees added their contrast. They walked to the little spring which flowed from under the
mountain and sat down on a big flat stone beside the small stream
that trickled from the spring. The grapes were on the mountain side,
and they needed to get their breath before they started the climb.
Also, they were thirsty.
39
�"There's no water anywhere else that tastes like cold spring
water/1 Papa said after his second drink as he wiped his forehead
with his handkerchief and hung the gourd dipper back in its place
on the spring house wall. They climbed the steep hill to the woods
where the grapevines were. The crop was bountiful and hung heavy
and ripe so that their basket was soon filled.
"Oh, drat it all/' said Mama when she surveyed the tear in her
stockings which the brambles had snagged as she walked by. "I wish
I had worn pants."
Papa looked at her with mischief in his eyes and answered, "You
wear the pants in this family anyhow, Cora."
"If I do, I surely wish I'd had them on today. It would have saved
my stockings."
The Briar Patch was situated in a little valley, and they had
another climb to make to get back to the highway. When they got
to the top of the knoll they stood to take in the view. At the horizon
were outlined three blue mountains almost exactly the same size and
shape, and at that distance they seemed identical. They were known
as the Three Sisters. The dark green of the pine forest was interposed between the blue range and the trees tinged with early fall
colors. The sun was setting with the rosy orange of an autumn sunset.
It was a glorious view and an enchanted moment in their lives. Not
given much to talking, they stood there drinking in the beauty of their
surroundings and sharing with each other a sense of peace and wellbeing.
40
�11
In November the armistice was signed and even small towns like
Tarpley celebrated exuberantly. Bells rang, whistles blew, bands
played, schools were dismissed, and the children marched in parades
up the streets. The world, as all were told, was about to begin an
existence where brotherhood was foremost and there would be no
more war.
Schoolwork seemed easier than it had been the year before, and
the weeks slipped by. Mama said she had better keep her fingers
crossed, for just as surely as she thought that everything was moving smoothly for them, some sort of calamity befell the family or some
unexpected problem arose.
Soon the predicted calamity showed itself. A letter from Bob told
them he was about through with his training course, and he was sure
he would get a job. Also, he had met a girl he liked a lot and they
decided that they wanted to get married—he knew Papa and Mama
would understand that he needed some money.
''Heavens above!" exclaimed Papa. "He's only nineteen years
old and evidently doesn't even have a job. What in the world can he
be thinking of?"
Mama mourned to herself, "He's planned to be exactly what I
was trying so hard to spare my children from becoming—a day laborer
with little hope of advancement."
They decided to write Bob immediately, asking him to come home
for a visit and let them talk things over before he took such a step.
The next morning the letter was dispatched, and they waited with
some apprehension for an answer.
About a week later the answer came. Bob thought it would be
a good idea to come home, and he was planning to do so. He and Lula
had thought it would be easier all around if they got married and came
together so that is what they had done. He had bargained for an old
secondhand car and was trying to "patch it up" so they could travel
in it. He would let them know when to expect them.
Neither Papa nor Mama was the sort of person to go into a tirade
or have hysterics when receiving such a shock. They read the letter
and sat in stunned silence trying to realize just what was happening.
41
�Mama noticed that at the bottom of the page Bob had written "(over)."
She turned the letter over and on the back he had added, * Tula's
Mama is coming with us."
That weekend Bob, Lula, and Mrs. Drake arrived. Millie gave
up her room to Bob and Lula and moved in with Susan, while Mrs.
Drake occupied the only spare bedroom in the house. Mama comforted the girls by saying, "It will only be for a few days," but as
she made the statement she knew deep inside that she was only trying to convince herself and hoping against hope that the situation was
not as grim as it seemingly was going to be.
The affairs of the family continued without interruption. Everyone
got up in the mornings, did the chores, and went their separate ways
for the day's occupations. Bob, Lula, and Mrs. Drake stayed at the
house, apparently quite satisfied. They made themselves very much
at home. One week went by, then another, and still another. Mama
and Papa were feeling the strain. They felt helpless and depressed.
Bob had not only ignored their advice, but also he had brought to
their house two complete strangers, who apparently intended to spend
the winter. Of course, Bob didn't realize what he was doing, but
Mama's philosophy was the same as always, "I don't know what in
the world we can do, but I know we've simply got to do something!"
Papa took Bob out and talked to him. "Son, you said you were
ready to go to work. Are you trying to find yourself a job?"
"I aim to pretty soon," Bob answered.
"I think you'd better start right today. You have taken on the
responsibility of looking after somebody besides yourself and how
are you going to do that without a job?"
"I thought we would stay with you a little while."
"That was all right for a while, but we can't take on three extra
people to house and feed indefinitely. You must know that. Now, you
find yourself something to do, and Mama and I will help you get
enough things together to go to housekeeping. I suppose your motherin-law will be going back home soon, won't she?"
"I-I don't know," Bob said weakly.
"Well, one thing at a time," Papa said. "You see if one of the
garages will hire you and then we will make some further plans."
When Bob did find a job in a garage a couple of miles up the
highway, Papa and Mama went to see a widow who lived nearby and
had rooms to let. There were two large rooms with an outside en42
�trance through a side porch. While it was not built for a kitchen, the
owner was willing for them to use one of the rooms for that purpose
and suggested that they buy a two-burner oil stove for cooking. When
they took Bob and Lula to look at the rooms, there was little excitement or anticipation evident. Both seemed confused and bewildered
as they looked around.
Lula said, 'Two rooms is not enough for three people/'
Mama said, "Well, maybe Mrs. Drake will rent another room for
herself."
"But she can't afford to do that," Lula answered. "She only has
enough for her clothes and doctor bills. She's not well, you know."
"In that case, I guess you'll have to start with two rooms anyway,
since Bob can't afford to pay any more rent."
Papa and Mama got a wooden bedstead out of the attic, cleaned
and polished it, and bought some coil springs and a mattress, since
feather beds and straw ticks were no longer in vogue. They gave Bob
the chest of drawers that had been in his room, found an old table
or two, and bought the suggested oil stove for the kitchen. Bob had
come up with a cot Mrs. Drake could use (and criticize), and the
housekeeping experiment got under way. Mama's parting words to
them were, "Remember, we want you to come have dinner with us
on Sunday."
43
�12
One December day in 1918, Jane was busy in her school room
in Cranston. Her class was studying about the first settlements in
America, and after she discovered that the story in the textbook had
little meaning for the children, she decided to construct a sand table.
They made log cabins out of cardboard and put deer, foxes, and rabbits in the forest. They were busy trying to decide the best place to
put a church with a small steeple when there was a knock at the door.
A pupil opened it and then turned to Jane to say, "There's someone
to see you."
Jane pushed her hair back from her forehead and went to see who
the caller was. A long arm pulled her unceremoniously out into the
hall, closed the door, gave her a bear hug and a lusty kiss, and she
leaned back to let her see where the whirlwind came from. It was
Boyd. He opened the door and followed her into the room, and, while
she was still trying to compose herself, she heard him say, "Aren't
you going to introduce me?"
Without hesitating she announced, "Boys and girls, this is Mr.
Brooks, who has just come home from France."
Then she added, hoping as she did to give him a bit of a shock
in return, "Perhaps he would like to talk to you now."
For a second Boyd did seem startled, but he quickly recovered
himself and with elaborate ceremony he felt in his coat pocket, in his
pants pockets, and even in his vest pocket as if he were frantically
searching for something. "You know," he said, "I had a speech all
written out but Fm afraid I left it at home. So I'll just have to say
hello to you boys and girls and tell you I hope that by the time you
grow up there won't be any more wars and you'll never have to go
fight in one."
As Boyd picked up his hat and started to leave the room, he passed
by Jane and whispered, "111 see you tonight."
That evening they sat in the swing on Mrs. Tilson's vine-covered
porch. Boyd said, "I just can't believe it has happened—to realize that
I could go where I have been, could slog through rain and mud in
the trenches, hear the guns firing and all the other sounds of war—
and then come through it all alive and land back here in Cranston.
44
�But best of all was to find you in the schoolroom teaching the children
just as if none of this had ever taken place. I didn't know how glad
I was to be living until now!"
"Was it all so terrible? Weren't there some moments that were
happier and less harrowing?"
"Well, of course," he said laughing. "There was the little French
girl."
"Where is she now? What did you do with her?"
"Oh, I decided to leave her in France for the time being, and if
I get bored with you I can go back for her later."
"Boyd Brooks, I wish I could hate you!" Jane said.
"But you don't and that's all that matters. I won't be coming back
to Cranston to work now," Boyd continued. "The company is opening a new store in Charlotte, and I am going to be sent there. I have
three weeks' vacation before I have to start, but there are a lot of
45
�things I have to get settled before I move. Number one—when can
we get married? Number two—must I find an apartment or will you
help me? Number three—when can we go see your parents?"
"Oh, Boyd, you make me dizzy—you move so fast. Why, you don't
know much about me. Here you come back from the war driving a
new car your Papa gave you, and if I were to get married my Papa
couldn't even give me a wheelbarrow! I belong to a big family and
we all have to work. A schoolteacher's salary doesn't allow many frills,
I can tell you. So I'm not ready to get married—I couldn't buy three
new dresses, let alone a trousseau!"
"That's all right, honey," Boyd said as he put his arm around
her. "We don't need a wheelbarrow and the clothes you wear suit
me just fine."
Soon letters began coming to Tarpley from Cranston with increasing frequency. Bit by bit Mama and Papa learned that Boyd and Jane
were planning to get married, that they wanted to come to Tarpley
during Easter weekend, that Boyd was being transferred to a new
store in Morgan Hill near Charlotte, that he would be manager, that
they would stop over night in Durham with Mama's sister Mary, that
they would leave Cranston on Friday morning and arrive in time for
supper on Saturday night, and that they would be coming in the Ford
roadster Boyd's parents had given him.
Mama wished they had had the house painted on the outside,
where it needed it so badly. The inside also needed some refurbishing,
but that was beyond them now. It didn't help matters to dwell on such
things, and Mama had plenty to do trying to give the house a goingover and getting enough food ready to carry them through the
weekend.
Good Friday came, and when the visitors had not arrived by dusk,
the Barker family, already tired, grew cross. Millie said, "If they don't
get here pretty soon, these rolls will be ruined. They've been ready
to bake for nearly an hour."
Mama was worried, too. She knew that there were few miles of
paved roads outside city limits and that driving could be especially
hazardous at night. But Danny brought up a complaint she hadn't
thought about. "It's so dark now that nobody can see an automobile
driving up to our house," he lamented.
The tension was relieved shortly, however, for Boyd and Jane
arrived, the mud-splashed car and Boyd's muddy shoes and rumpled
46
�suit telling the story of their difficulties. Going over the highway between Old Fort and Asheville the travelers were twice bogged down
in the mud so that they had to get a farmer with a team of mules
to pull them out of the mire. When a shower came up, Boyd got out
of the car to put up the curtains, and Jane, trying to be helpful, got
out too so that she could hold an umbrella over his head while he
worked. "The result was/' said Boyd, "that by the time I got the
curtains up it had stopped raining but Jane and I were both wet.
Millie's rolls were not ruined and the group was soon seated at
the big table. Boyd's outgoing friendliness helped to put everybody
at ease and the dinner was a good beginning for a pleasant weekend.
Boyd was a delightful guest. He played ball with Nate and Danny, he praised Millie's cooking, and he teased Susan about her
boyfriends. To Mama and Papa he was very respectful and seemed
quite sincere and straightforward when, late in the evening, he began
his speech with "of course, you know why I am here" and explained
that he wanted to marry Jane.
Papa and Mama, answering by turns, told Boyd they felt that Jane,
being over twenty-one, was grown and was capable of making her
own decision as to whom she would marry. They hoped she had made
a wise choice, but if she were happy, that was all they asked.
Early Sunday morning Boyd and Jane started on their two-day
journey back to Cranston. Jane would miss one day of school, but
she had received permission to do that. Their anxiety centered on
the condition of the roads over the mountain, but Boyd said, "We
got through coming up, so we ought to make it going back."
Danny was pleased to note that it was light enough for the
neighbors to see them drive away.
47
�13
After school on Monday afternoon Mama came in and sat at the
kitchen table enjoying a cup of coffee. She had a satisfied feeling about
the weekend. It was one time, she thought, when everything clicked—
it all seemed to go just right and the whole family had enjoyed the
time spent together.
Susan interrupted her reverie. "I'm sure glad Bob and Lula had
already gone back to Tennessee when Boyd came/' she said.
"That isn't very loyal to your brother, is it?" asked Mama.
"Well, just what would we have done if Mrs. Drake has still been
here in the guest room? Even after they got their apartment they
always managed to get back here for the weekend—and you know
it as well as I do. We need all the room we have. And don't forget
that Janice told you she was coming home some weekend soon and
wants to bring that band leader with the funny name. I think she is
really stuck on him, don't you?"
"Oh, no, child," said Mama. "He's just a co-worker and a good
friend. Besides, I'll bet he's old enough to be her father."
"I wouldn't count on his age having any effect on Janice if she
likes him."
Mama got up to fix supper, and they dropped the conversation.
She was too busy thinking about Jane and Boyd to worry about Janice.
Although they planned to have a quiet and simple ceremony, they
wanted it to be at home and that sort of wedding would keep the
household busy.
Bit by bit the wedding plans progressed and the spring cleaning
was accomplished. Mama declared she had two days of work to complete every single day. As a rule she looked forward to the end of
her school day when she could relax and take things easy until time
for the evening chores to begin. Now, by the time she hung up her
hat, she had to start on the second stint of the day.
Boyd and Jane's wedding was set for early June and the scent
of honeysuckle filled the air. Mama's roses were at their best and
she had no need of a florist or hothouse flowers to decorate the rooms.
One end of the big front porch was vine-covered, forming a sort of
alcove where a double-seated swing hung. Removing the swing, they
48
�arranged an altar there. Susan said that the guests would be seated
on the veranda, too. "Yes," said Mama, "they will be seated on the
front porch/'
Jane, thought Mama, was a lovely bride—fresh looking, young,
and natural. It didn't matter that she did not wear the traditional white
satin wedding dress with a veil and train. She had wanted a practical
sort of dress that she could wear after the ceremony and had chosen
a pearl taffeta made with a pleated skirt and a draped bodice which
ended with a wide sash tied in the back. The sleeves were of matching chiffon gathered full and caught at the wrist with bands of taffeta. With this she wore nine-inch grey kid boots that laced up in front
and just touched the hem of her dress. Aunt Jessie had made it for her.
The guest list included Boyd's father and mother, the Barker family, a few aunts, uncles, and cousins, and the neighbors who lived on
either side of the family. They couldn't be left out after they had lent
chairs and dishes for the occasion. Immediately following the
ceremony Susan and Millie served a buffet luncheon to the thirtyfive who had filled the front porch.
When it was all over, Mama was tired but she didn't stop. There
was furniture to be re-arranged, dishes to be returned, floors to be
swept, and another meal to prepare. "I'm glad it's over with," she
said to herself, "but it did go off well and seemed sort of sweet and
sacred. How I do hope they will be happy!"
49
�After Jane and Boyd left Mama had a sort of lonely feeling. It
was the first time Jane wouldn't be spending her summer vacation
at home. Since North Carolina schools had terms of only seven or
eight months, the young teachers often had four or five months to
stay at home. Mary, Nate, and Bob had jobs year round, but Jane
and Janice had always spent the summer months in Tarpley, and both
Mama and Papa had enjoyed having the children return. Mama comforted herself by saying, "At least Janice will be home and she will
liven things up for all of us."
The following week Janice came but Mama's pleasure was shortlived. Janice was bubbling over with enthusiasm because she had
learned that she had won a scholarship to attend a summer course
for public school music teachers at the University in Knoxville. She
had hardly unpacked her suitcases before she was busy repacking
them to go away again. It also developed that Pete Lovorini was to
be among the students in the summer session.
50
�Mama admitted that she was uneasy. She had convinced herself
that Janice's liking for this middle-aged band leader was the result
of propinquity as well as the love they shared for music, but now it
was different. When Lovorini had visited their home earlier in the
year, the Barkers had found him friendly and courteous, a born musician who could play almost any instrument and who possessed a soulful tenor voice. But to them he was a foreigner. Also, he was almost
as old as they were— not Janice's contemporary at all. Mama tried
to talk to Janice about her plans, but Janice only laughed and said,
"Now, Mama, you know you never could tell what I was apt to get
into, could you?"
Papa always liked surprises, and a few days after Janice left he
provided one. Even a little town like Tarpley was enjoying a business
upsurge. Relief that the war had ended, optimism that this had been
the war to end all wars, and confidence in a brighter future made
business boom. Papa was working six days a week and the outlook
was for a prosperous summer. In the spring Susan and Millie had
complained about not having a piano so as to practice their music
lessons, and Papa had wondered what was wrong with the organ.
When they told him that nobody but nobody had an organ in the parlor
anymore, he had continued to read the newspaper as if he hadn't even
heard them, so no more was said on the subject. Then one Saturday
Papa went to Asheville and came home in a big truck which was driven
up to the house, and the driver deposited an upright Kimball piano
for them. Mama was astonished and the girls were elated. "Now we
can put the organ upstairs in the hall and the piano will make our
parlor look like something to be proud of," said Millie.
"Papa, you're wonderful," Susan said as she embraced him.
Papa said nothing but the twinkle in his eye showed his pleasure.
51
�14
Mama, as she said, was trying to "get her ducks in a row" before
school started again. She had spent the morning canning soup mixture and had sat down on the porch to read and relax a little when
Susan came in from the post office bringing two letters, one from
Bob and one from Janice. Bob's note included the announcement of
the birth of a son born the day before the letter was written. Mama
knew that Bob and Lula were expecting and she knew that she would
become a grandmother when the baby arrived, but she still felt a sense
of shock. She didn't think she knew how to be a grandmother.
The news in Janice's letter, however, was like a bomb tossed in
her lap. Both Janice and Pete had signed the letter that assured her
that the course they had taken was to make it easier for her! Since
they would be teaching in the same school again next year, they had
decided to get married in Knoxville at the close of the summer school,
thereby saving all the work and trouble of getting ready for a wedding. The chapel at the university was often used for weddings and
they would be married there. Since Pete was a Catholic and wished
it, they would go to a priest later and be married again. "Just think,"
wrote Janice, "won't it be fun to get married twice on the same day?"
Mama really couldn't see anything funny about the whole situation,
but she tried to remain calm and reminded herself that when a thing
has happened in the family, whether she approved or not, she had
to accept it and make the best of it. With Papa it was not that easy,
however. He disliked the difference in their ages, he was suspicious
of all "Eyetalians," and he had a strong prejudice against the Catholic
Church. He was sincere in his concern for he was afraid Janice could
not be happy with three such stumbling blocks in her way.
Bob's letter with the news of the arrival of the grandson was completely overshadowed by Janice's account of her plans. Her news
called for action because the couple planned to spend the weekend
with the Barkers on their way back to Pete's apartment in the little
town where they would be teaching.
Susan defended Janice. "Can't you see, Mama, that she and Pete
decided to get married this way to save you trouble? Don't you
remember how hard everybody worked and had to be so involved
for a whole month before Jane and Boyd's wedding?"
52
�"It may be," Mama answered, "but I would have felt better if
they had come home for the ceremony. Also, as I see it, the whole
family is going to be quite as involved in this weekend visit."
Janice and Pete came driving up in a touring car, the back of which
bulged with a conglomeration of musical instruments, books, papers,
pots and pans, bedding, towels, and suitcases, while stuck in any
available corner were articles almost forgotten, such as a pair of shoes,
a comb stuck in a brush, and an umbrella. When Danny saw the car
entering the driveway, his pride in having two brothers-in-law who
owned cars took a tumble. He hadn't counted on the automobile so
resembling a moving van.
Janice was her own irrepressible self—thrilled to be home, proud
of being married, and perfectly sure that everybody would love Pete
when they got acquainted with him. She chose to ignore the reserve
with which Papa and Mama greeted Pete and kept up a lively chatter about their experiences in trying to get themselves and their
belongings into the car to make the trip home.
Gradually Mama decided that the situation wasn't as bad as she
had first thought. For one thing, Pete was not an "Eyetalian." Both
his parents had been in their early thirties when they left Italy, and
Pete had not arrived on the scene until after his parents had been
53
�living in Baltimore for several years. He had brothers and sisters older
and younger than he, so like Janice he was accustomed to a big family. Mama was also relieved to discover that Pete, even though in his
late forties, had never been married. Papa, not very tactful at times,
bluntly asked him why he had not married sooner and Pete had replied,
"Well, I guess I had never met Janice until last year!"
When they had spent a day and night in Tarpley and continued
on their way to school, Mama decided that the weekend was more
pleasant than she had anticipated. She was still hurt that Janice had
not wanted to come home to get married, but she had to agree that
the way she and Pete chose was simpler and less expensive than a
home wedding.
54
�15
Tarpley College opened for another year the following week.
Millie was beginning her senior year and had made for herself an enviable record. She was intelligent, a good mixer, dependable and ambitious. Susan was a sophomore. She was also intelligent, but she
didn't seem particularly interested in her studies and said she was
happy just to "get by/' Danny was beginning seventh grade and
Mama was back with her third grade students in the elementary
school.
"How nice it is," said Mama, "for all of us to be back in our old
routines where we can get down to steady work and not have some
unexpected crisis hanging over us. I don't think I could take anything
else right now! Two weddings and a grandbaby in less than a year!"
Soon after school started the County Fair was held. After the war
in the Carolinas, county fairs had become very popular, and very few
people in the area missed the opportunity of attending some or all
of the events. On Friday afternoon Susan told Mama that she and
her boyfriend Greg were going into Asheville to see the exhibits at
the fair and "have a bite to eat" before they came home.
"I thought Millie wanted to go, too. Is she going with you?" Mama
asked.
"We asked her and Greg's cousin to go with us, but she said she
had some schoolwork she needed to do and declined," said Susan.
Danny, as all seventh graders in school, got a trip with his class
to the fair. They had been given a half holiday from school and were
chaperoned by their teachers. He came in soon after Susan had left
and was so thrilled about what he had seen and done that he kept
up a non-stop running conversation during supper.
When ten o'clock came and Susan had not returned, Mama began
surreptitiously to keep an eye on the old clock on the mantel. It was
not that she suspected anything wrong with the trip, but the morals
of a young lady were very carefully supervised. Being out late at night
with a beau always invited gossip, unless the couple had attended
a concert or a public gathering that lasted late in the evening.
Whatever the event, eleven o'clock was zero hour to be unaccounted
for.
55
�When the clock struck eleven, Mama said to Papa, who was dozing behind the newspaper, "Don't you think we had better do
something—phone Greg's father or something?''
Millie hesitated a moment and then answered her mother, "I don't
think you need to do that, Mama. Susan said she wasn't coming home
tonight."
"What do you mean, and how do you know that?" asked Mama
rather crossly.
"I guess you will blame me for this but I didn't see how I could
do anything about it. Greg and Susan told me today they were not
going to the fair. They went to Reverend Burton's house and got married. Then they planned to go to Knoxville for a honeymoon and will
be home Monday."
"Ye gods and little fishes!" cried Mama. "Susan simply can't do
that. She's not even eighteen! It won't be legal! Why in the name
of all that's good and holy did she try such a scheme as that?"
"They had talked about it and they said they decided that since
she would be eighteen next month she really is nearer eighteen than
seventeen, so they were to put her age down as eighteen. She said
she didn't want any bother about a wedding and Greg didn't either,
especially since his mother has been dead so short a time. Susan meant
well, Mama. I'm sure she wanted to make things easier on you. She
said you didn't need any extra work and worry of any kind just now."
"Well, it's nice of you, Millie, to try to smooth things over, but
you needn't trouble yourself. I know very well that Susan wasn't thinking of me nor was she worrying about my having extra work to do.
I was concerned because she didn't take more interest in her
schoolwork, but it never entered my head that she might be planning to get married now. Of course, I'm not happy about it. I wanted
her to finish school for her sake no matter who she was going to marry
later. Greg has been just sort of a fixture for the last couple of years
around her, and we all like him, but I thought it was just a school
boy and girl affair that might be broken off any moment."
"Well, Cora," said Papa. "I've told you that the more children
a body has the more trouble they can bring you when they grow up."
"Sure, but I notice you didn't put into practice what you preach,"
was Mama's final shot.
The newlyweds arrived Sunday afternoon, a bit nervous and not
quite sure of being welcomed. When they were invited to stay for
56
�supper they accepted eagerly. Conversation was general for a time
and no mention was made of there having been a change in their
relationship.
Finally Greg got up the courage to say that they meant no
disrespect to their elders in taking things into their own hands as they
had, but circumstances had changed their original plans. At first they
meant to wait until Susan had finished school, but then his mother
had become ill and some months later died. That left Greg and his
father at home alone on the farm. Being an only child, Greg felt he
must stay with his father, and he was sure Papa and Mama could
see that they both needed somebody to help them. Susan agreed to
leave school and to marry him, but she said she thought the easiest
way to do it was to keep their plans a secret because she knew neither
of her parents would approve of such an early marriage. "Mercy on
us," thought Mama, "how did they think springing a surprise like
this would make it easier on anybody?''
Mama said to Greg, "I thought you were planning to go to State
College and study agriculture/'
"Yes, mama, I was," Greg replied, "but Fve decided that I can
learn as much actually farming as I could get out of books and theories
because Fd never know if these would work until I tried them on the
land anyway."
"Under the circumstances, there is nothing left for us to say or
do," said Mama, "except to wish you both good luck and to hope
that Susan can learn to be a farmer's wife."
Both Greg and Susan seemed relieved that Papa and Mama were
not going to make a scene.
Monday morning came and with it the rush to get everybody off
to his particular task—Papa to work, Millie with her books slung
across her shoulder to make an eight o'clock class, and Danny racing
away to be sure he would not be tardy. Mama was not finding it easy
to follow her own philosophy, "When a thing has happened in your
family, you have to accept it and make the best of it," and she was
woolgathering. She found the elopement to be unnecessary and was
humiliated by it. She forced herself to get her materials together so
she wouldn't be late for school, but she was finding it hard to be calm,
and her naturally optimistic outlook seemed to have deserted her.
57
�16
Seated at the table one evening soon after Susan's departure, Danny remarked, 'This table looks too big for just four people. Maybe
we'd-better cut off one end of it."
"Don't let that bother you, son. They'll be coming back, and with
the extra in-laws, we might end up needing an extension," said Mama.
In a few days Mama realized that she was acting like a child by
nursing her own disappointment about the elopement, and while she
brooded over that, there were many things she was neglecting. It occurred to her that Millie was rather lost without Susan. They had
been together all their lives, always sharing the same room, even after
the older children had left home and there was plenty of room to spare.
Mama knew that she must be companionable to Millie and see that
she was not left alone too much.
An event which created a lot of interest among Tarpley College
students was the intercollegiate debate which took place every
autumn. Some current national issue was chosen as the subject of
the debate, and the pros and cons were argued by Tarpley College
and a visiting school. The affair, which caused keen rivalry, was open
to the public and was well attended. One day Millie came home with
the news that she had been chosen as one of the debaters. While Millie
was pleased to have been selected, Mama was elated. That meant
that three of her children had represented the school in the debate.
Mary, back in 1910, had the subject, "Resolved: that the United States
should adopt a graduated income tax." When Jane was a senior in
1913, she had argued that women should be given the right to vote.
And now Millie was going to try.
There was a great deal of controversy among colleges and universities about the ethical or legal right of the athletic department to give
scholarships as a drawing card to get special athletes to attend these
schools. Millie and her partner in debate had the negative side. She
said she was sure they could win the decision, but it wouldn't make
any difference if they did.
"What do you mean by that?" asked Mama.
"You know how it is," said Millie, "people are so sports-minded
these days and the alumni of these schools are so keen on having their
58
�alma maters win that they would be willing to use any means to lure
the best athletes to their schools."
Mama attended the debate anyway, and was pleased that Millie's
side won, whether or not it would make any difference.
The days slipped by and the holidays were approaching. Mama
got a letter from Jane telling her that she was not feeling up to par
and had been advised by the doctor not to make a long automobile
trip. Mama knew the rest—it only confirmed what she had been
suspecting. She counted up the number of people she was expecting
for Christmas dinner and arrived at nine. "Danny should be pleased,"
she thought, "for the table will be full again."
A few days later Greg and Susan dropped in. They had been to
town shopping and were full of excitement as well as loaded down
with bundles. They had come, Susan said, to invite the family to have
Christmas dinner with them.
59
�Mama said, "That's ever so kind of you children, but how could
Susan take care of that many people? She has never tried to fix a meal
all by herself for nine people in her whole life, I know."
"I might help her a little bit," said Greg, "but we are planning
to do it and we expect you to come."
"And Mama," continued Susan, "you are not to bring anything—
not anything! I know you—youll be trying to bring some fresh
sausage, or bake the turkey for us, or bring one of your fruit cakes,
but this time that's out-all of it."
The Simmons farm was situated just outside the town limits of
Tarpley, where the land lay in the fertile valley of Jarvis Creek. The
homestead was a two-story clapboard house with a porch across the
front both up and downstairs. A hallway ran through the center of
the house with rooms opening on either side of it. Directly behind
the hall was an ell in which were located the kitchen, pantry, back
porch and a "shed room." The last room was a storage place for tools
as well as the place where firewood was stacked for winter use. There
was nothing pretentious about the house but it was well built and had
been kept in good repair. Mrs. Simmons had loved flowers, and her
boxwoods, lilacs, iris borders, holly, and dogwoods were lovely
reminders of her work.
Greg and Susan, with a little help from Millie, served dinner just
as if they were experienced hands. When everyone had done full
justice to the meal, they gathered in the parlor where the air was
fragrant with the smell of pine and cedar.
After the dominoes and carol singing the group rose to go, and
Mama told her hosts it had been a lovely occasion. But she thought
to herself, "Why can't pleasures like this last? Why does time march
on so relentlessly so that even by tomorrow things may be changed?"
At home and in bed, Mama's thoughts continued. "And how does
anyone know what is best to strive for? Here are two children, both
of whom decided to quit school, elected to elope, concluded they could
manage a farm—Susan without any experience—and have proceeded to try out their theories which, so far, seem to be working. Greg
acts as if everything is as it should be. Susan's inexperience doesn't
bother him, even if he does say there are two things she won't domilk a cow and kill a chicken. Susan did look tired tonight, but she
also looked happy. It's probably a good thing she doesn't know just
what sort of a job she has undertaken. Dear Lord, help her be strong
60
�enough so that she won't lose her youth, her vitality, and her good
looks before she is even grown up/'
61
�17
By the end of the first week in January, all the Barkers were back
at their posts, ready to start another year. In the early 1920's drastic
changes were taking place in the Asheville area. More tourists came.
Before the war the Carolina mountains had drawn visitors because
of the climate and scenery, but now it seemed that many who had
formerly thought of the region as a summer vacation attraction were
beginning to consider it as a possible year-round home. Land values
mushroomed and there was a building boom in progress. Real estate
dealers were having a field day. Even a small town like Tarpley was
having new developments like Carson's Acres, Willow Heights, and
Seven Oaks.
A famous author built a home and came to Seven Oaks to live.
He gave as his reason the year-round climate. It was far enough south
to escape the long sieges of bitter winter weather and far enough north
to miss the unbearable sticky sweltering summer heat of the deep
South. He said he found it to be the nearest to an ideal year-round
climate.
Papa came home with the news that he had been approached by
an agent who offered to buy the Tarpley house and the lots surrounding it.
"What would we do if you sold it, Papa?" asked Danny. "This
is home."
Mama was writing her "duty" letters that night and she mentioned to Mary that Papa had been approached about selling the house.
She passed it on as a matter of family news and thought little about
it. But almost by return mail Mary answered, "I think it would be
a very wise move to make. If Papa can get a good price for the place,
why not sell it? I've written Nate and told him about the offer and
I expect that he will want to come home next weekend with me to
talk about this."
Mary, the spokesman and probably the instigator of the plan, had
it figured out this way: they could sell the Tarpley property, take the
money, and build a new house at the Briar Patch. There seemed to
be no special reason to stay in town now that Millie would be
graduating in May and Danny, being a boy, could make the two miles
62
�from the farm to the school without too much trouble. Besides, by
the time he was old enough to drive, they would be able to get a T
model.
Papa said that if they did move out to the Briar Patch he wanted
to divide the land. Since there were forty-five acres there, he could
reserve five acres for him and Mama and give each child five acres.
6
'It isn't much," he said laughingly, "when you compare it to George
Vanderbilt's four thousand acres and him with just one child to inherit it!"
"You should have thought about that and selected a shipping
mogul for your grandfather instead of a circuit-riding Methodist
preacher," quipped Nate.
Mary, Nate, Millie, and Danny were to have their plots designated
and their deeds drawn up, but they asked that these be situated around
the homestead. If any of the four children not present wanted money
instead of land, Mary and Nate offered to help buy the land from them.
Word of the land division was sent to the other children. Bob immediately asked for the money. Susan said that since Greg didn't need
any more land, she'd like to have a nest egg of her own. Jane and
Janice both thought they might like to have a summer home built on
their plots some day so a deed was all they wanted.
It didn't seem possible that people could be as busy as the Barker
family that spring and summer. The house and land were duly sold,
the Barkers to have an extension of six months before giving up
possession of the house. The construction company for whom Papa
worked was to build the new house, but they all knew they would
be racing against a deadline to select the plans, get the building
materials assembled, and complete the house in the allotted time.
The new house would not have any more room than the old one
they were leaving, but it would be more convenient. There would be
electric lights and a Holland furnace, the kind with one big register
in the middle of the hall floor—a system which a great many people
thought quite unnessary. The wide hall through the center of the house
so popular in older homes was done away with. From the front entrance one walked into a large living room. A dining room separated
from the living room by French doors extended across the front of
the house. Behind the living room a narrow hall ran to the back and
opened onto a small porch. On one side of the hall were two bedrooms
with a bath between them. On the other was a breakfast nook, a
63
�kitchen, a pantry, and the back porch. In the hall a stairway led to the
upper floor, where there was another bath and three bedrooms, each
with its own closet space.
Mama had her moments of misgiving about the whole affair.
There was so much bone weariness attached to moving. And there
was also a big gap between a house on paper and the finished product. Maybe the family would not be as happy on the farm and away
from their familiar associations in the town. "But," she concluded,
"we mortals are like that—we're never satisfied with things as they
are and we're always wanting something different from what we've
got."
Commencement time came and Millie received her diploma.
"Aren't you thrilled to be graduating, Millie?" Mama asked. "Just
what did you think about when you walked across the stage to get
your diploma?"
"Mostly I wondered if I could make it across without stumbling,"
Millie replied. "You know it was pretty dark back stage. Next I was
sorry for the spectators who had to sit and see a hundred people
dressed just alike file across the stage one at a time just to pick up
a piece of paper and shake hands with the president. But I'm happy
to be out of school even if it reminds me of our new house. People
keep saying how wonderful it will be to have a new house. They don't
count the time or take into consideration the labor that will have to
be put out in making the move. My getting out of school is like that,
too. Friends speak as if graduating were a grand finale and the end
of the rainbow when it really is like an invisible presence saying, 'Now
you're finished; get out and see what you can do for yourself.' "
Moving day arrived and Mama could not help contrasting it with
the move from Swannanoa eighteen years ago. She decided that the
confusion was the same, but trucks transported their possessions this
time and accomplished in a few hours what had taken more than a
whole day to do back then.
The site of the new house was a knoll in a grove of oak, poplar,
and hickory trees, with a profusion of dogwoods growing among them,
refusing to be choked out even through they were small. The house,
being built on this high spot, afforded a magnificent view of the surrounding countryside and of the mountains beyond.
As had been expected, the inside work on the new house was
not completed when they had to leave their old home. The bathroom
64
�fixtures upstairs were not installed, the back porch was not yet screened, the kitchen cabinets were not in place, and a host of other small
details remained to be looked after. The family didn't seem to mind
very much though. These deficiencies were overshadowed by their
pride in a new home that they had seen grow, as Danny said, "from
a hole in the ground."
The summer wore on and another problem still had to be settled.
Mama had deliberately put off thinking of school and had concentrated on getting a schedule worked out for the family that they could
live with. However, when she came face to face with their situation,
she realized that this house would neer be a proper home unless someone stayed eternally on the job until it was finished. Also she admitted to herself that she doubted her ability to walk three miles a
day, work eight hours at school, then have the energy enough at her
age to come home and be able to turn herself into a magician who
could cook and clean for the family. She had wanted a new house
and she was proud of it, but in acquiring it she had forfeited her place
as a teacher. "Oh well," she sighed, "life is like that. You get one
thing you have been working for and then find out you have to give
up something else in order to do it."
65
�Mama thought her living room was just right. There was a red
brick mantel and an open fireplace at one end of it, flanked on either
side by built-in bookcases. She pointed out to the family that their
books were not just alike in rows on shelves like some libraries in
fine homes, but these were like old friends, acquired over the years
to be read rather than used as decorative items. Susan, who was an
artist with the needle, had done a really professional job on the curtains she had made. Mary had bought a nine by fifteen Wilton rug,
which looked ever so nice on the floor that had been treated with
orange shellac and waxed until it shone.
Papa had built a small barn and they got a cow. Mama thought
it a luxury to have their own butter and milk again, but she also
thought the chores were tedious and never ending. She remembered
old Uncle Bill with special gratitude as she thought of his kindly help
back in the days when she and Papa were newlyweds. Even now she
hated to admit how little she had known about managing a house back
then.
66
�18
Early in September Mama went to see Jane and Boyd. One Friday night Boyd had telephoned to say that Jane had just delivered
a baby boy. Jane had written earlier and asked Mama to come down
and keep house while she was in the hospital and then stay a week
or two after she and the baby came home.
Millie, who was at home teaching in the elementary school, could
look after the family in Tarpley, and one Saturday morning she and
Danny got out the horses and buggy and drove Mama to Tarpley.
Mama and Millie then caught the interurban to Asheville. At Pack
Square they transferred to the streetcar that took them to the depot.
Millie stayed with Mama until she was seated on the train.
The train was not crowded so Mama did not have to share her
seat. She settled herself, took off her hat, leaned her head back, and
closed her eyes. She had always thought the train was a comfortable
way to travel—it was so restful to sit in the plush seat and not even
have to think. She was not accustomed to being still very long during the daytime, and soon after the train began its rhythmic journey,
she was soundly sleeping.
She had been a little anxious, wondering just what she would do
if there was no one to meet her when she got off the train. But she
need not have worried, for even from the window she spotted Boyd's
tall figure in the crowd.
He was more talkative than usual as they drove out to Morgan
Hill. Jane was doing fine, he said, but she was mighty anxious to get
home. At the hospital they only allowed her to have the baby every
four hours at feeding time and once or twice the little tyke was brought
in and she could tell he had been crying for a long time. Jane said
if she could have him with her, he wouldn't do that.
'Isn't it strange how having a baby of your own changes your
viewpoint?" Mama asked. "You hear other people talk about a baby
crying and they tell you it develops a child's lungs and does him no
harm. Maybe so, but if that baby is yours, it's a different story. You
want to know why he cries and if there isn't something you can do
to comfort him."
"Everybody who has seen the baby tells me he is an especially
67
�fine looking youngster, and of course I believe every word they say,"
said Boyd.
Jane had written her parents during the summer telling about the
house they were building. They had moved into it a couple of months
before the baby was due. Mama was naturally very interested and
curious to see the place. She couldn't help comparing it to her new
house, but was visibly impressed with what she saw. The rooms were
spacious and the walk-in closets seemed huge. There was a butler's
pantry as well as a kitchen pantry, and in the former was an honestto-goodness electric refrigerator. You didn't have to buy ice for it,
since it made its own and there was no drainage from it. Somewhere
Mama had read that the ice the refrigerator manufactured might not
be safe to put in tea or other cold drinks, but she hoped that was not
the case. The next marvel to catch her attention was the new electric stove. It was like a table with four coiled burners on the left side
and an oven taking up all the space on the right. It was hard for her
to imagine that if you wanted to cook, you just turned a button and
the heat came on. Mama knew too well the tedium and sometimes
the frustration on cold mornings of shaking down ashes, building a
fire, and then waiting for the stove to get hot enough to bake biscuits.
Of course, she was delighted that Boyd and Jane could have a
place like this one, and she rejoiced with them, but her unspoken
thoughts were, "I do hope these children haven't gone too deeply in
debt to get all this. Young people nowadays don't seem to mind owing money and they believe good times are here to stay. I only hope
they will be able to stem the tide if and when it does turn."
A few days later, Jane and the baby came home and immediately everything centered around the new member of the family. Since
he had not yet been named, the three grown-ups discussed that first.
"I suppose he is to be a junior," said Mama.
"No ma'am," said Boyd decisively. "He doesn't need my name
and I heartily dislike hearing a child called "Junior." I would personally like to name him for my father, but I'd not give him Dad's
full name so he would be John Doe the second or third or whatever.
He needs a title of his own."
Jane said, "In that case, why don't we call him Stanley Joseph
Brooks? He wouldn't be a junior and he would have one of the names
of both of his grandfathers."
"How would you like that, Mama?" asked Boyd.
68
�"I couldn't think of a better name/' she answered. "But I really
had not thought much about names for grandchildren. I have only
one real request to make. If you ever have a daughter, don't call her
Cora."
"You needn't worry," said Jane. "I love you dearly, Mama, but
you've never seemed like 'Cora' to me, and I wouldn't inflict that name
on a little girl myself."
And laughing, they closed the subject.
Old Aunt Rose called herself a nurse and she made her living by
spending a month or two in the homes of mothers with new babies
"to help get them started off right," she said. Boyd had engaged her
to stay with Jane, and she came in a few days before Mama was to
return home. Aunt Rose showed plainly that she was not enthusiastic
about having another woman around who might question her authority. Mama, quick to sense the situation and knowing that Jane needed Aunt Rose, deliberately set about to make friends with the old
woman and to avoid any arguments about the care of the new baby.
Boyd, being the youngest child of his parents, knew very little
about new babies, and he seemed all too satisfied for someone else
to look after the child. That to Mama was much better than if he had
felt it his privilege and duty to dictate to others how and what should
be done for the child or what others should do for him.
When Mama left she told Jane that things would get easier as
time went on, and she was sure Jane would get along fine.
"I hope so," said Jane. "But I never was so scared nor felt so
helpless in my life as I do right now."
69
�19
Back at home, Mama had the sensation of being catapulted
headlong into a beehive of activity. The apple crop had been gathered
and Papa was storing the sound ones for winter use. There were also
pumpkins and cabbages to be stored. A little way behind the new
house, the hill dropped sharply and formed a bank. Papa dug a sixfoot cubicle from this bank, put a roof over the top, made a framework
for the open side, and hung a solid wooden door across the front. He
believed the thick, solid, earthen-sided root cellar would keep produce from freezing even in the coldest weather.
Mama had her work cut out for her, too. From the apples she
made apple butter and applesauce, which she then canned. From the
cores and peelings she made several jars of the rich, red apple jelly
they all loved. With all the work that the farm required, Mama wished
she had some paid help, but the Barkers had always been "do-ityourselfers."
When the Carolinas were being settled, slave owners did not come
to the mountain section, for people in the hills didn't farm on the scale
to make slave ownership profitable. In all of Tarpley, almost fifty years
after the War Between the States, there were no more than a halfdozen families who had elected to settle on what was called "Chocolate
Hill" in the south part of town. Most of these residents worked as
domestics or handymen, but the Barkers had not hired any outside
help since old Aunt Althea had come to do the wash when the children
were little.
Mama could especially have used some help at Christmastime,
when the whole family was there for the first celebration in the new
house. Delightful stories are written about the joys of a Christmas
homecoming when all the family members assemble without any problems and when peace and good will permeate the atmosphere. It
sounds idyllic, but in these descriptions the author usually has all the
food and hosting preparations done to a turn and served at the right
moment, as though someone waved a magic wand and presto—everything was all finished and ready to serve.
Mama knew better. She knew what had to be done and she also
knew who would have to do the biggest part of the work. Susan was,
70
�however, a lifesaver to her. She volunteered to make the dessert and
to "sleep" the overflow crowd at her house on Christmas Eve.
Christmas came and went with lightning speed. It was a lot of
work but after it was over Mama enjoyed it in retrospect. Could there
ever have been a family with so many occupations? There was a band
director, a garage mechanic, a hotel clerk, a chain store executive,
a teacher, a farmer, and a home demonstration agent. Could so many
people with such diverse occupations ever have enough in common
to enjoy their association as a family group? "Only time will tell,"
Mama thought.
A few days after the holiday was over, Mama answered the Barker
ring on the telephone, which was two longs and one short. It was
Susan, asking to speak to Millie. When Mama told her that she had
not yet come from school, Susan said she wanted to ask Millie to spend
the night with her. Mama pointed out that it was a cold day for such
a long walk, but Susan told her that Greg had to go into town and
could pick her up. "Do tell her to be sure to come," said Susan.
Mama had been a bit suspicious about Susan at Christmas and
she was pretty sure she knew what her urgency was to see Millie.
More than likely Susan was "in the family way." Mama had a hard
time admitting it to herself, but she was a bit jealous that Susan was
turning to Millie instead of her own mother. "Oh well," thought
Mama, "they do belong to another generation from me, and I guess
they think I don't know where babies come from."
When Millie came home the next day she gave Mama an account
of her visit with Susan. "When I first got there, I thought she was
deathly ill or at least had suffered a nervous breakdown, but after
a couple of hours she perked up and acted very much like her old
self. She finally told me that she was expecting and that was what
made her feel so bad. I feel sorry for her, Mama. She has an awful
lot of hard work to do, and also being the only woman around I know
she gets lonesome at times."
"Yes, I know," Mama said. "At eighteen she thought she was
grown-up and very self-sufficient. Now she will have to live and act
like a grown woman. I'm sorry she is so miserable, but unless there
is some complication we don't know about, she will survive and probably be none the worse for her ordeal. As I've said before, experience
is a great school."
Not only did Susan survive the birth of healthy baby girl in
71
�September of that year, but in exactly eighteen months she had a second child, this time a boy, lusty and vocal and determined to make
himself heard. Mama and Millie were both on hand to help with the
housework on both occasions, and Susan decided she liked being a
mother just as much as she liked being a farmer's wife.
News from Bob in the following week included the announcement
of another expected increase in his family, and before that fact was
fully digested, Jane wrote that little Stan was soon to have a brother
or sister. The letters caused Millie to remark,"At this time the Barkers
seem to be going in for mass production/'
"Sakes alive, Millie, how you do talk/' said Mama. "But," she
continued, "I'm bewildered myself. I grew up expecting to get married and have as many children as the Lord saw fit to send. I was
so naive it never occurred to me to try to limit my family, and yet
after two pregnancies, Susan loudly declares she's not going to have
any more children. Most young couples nowadays seem to share Susan
and Greg's ideas about limiting families. Who could believe that people's thinking could undergo such a change in a little over thirty years?
I thought if Papa and I could see that all of you got an education,
everything else would fall into place. You would all be a tight little
group having the same ambitions and plans I had. I thought we would
be able to work as a unit and come what may put up a solid front
to the world! So what is the result to date? Some of you graduated,
some didn't, but as soon as you finished school or decided you were
grown, you scattered, each one in a different direction. It's only when
they're little that children behave as their parents expect them to."
72
�20
The 1920's had been kind to Boyd and Jane. Their attractive new
home was a noted addition to Morgan Hill, and they were duly proud
of it. The premises were showing marked improvement, for Jane, with
her love for flowers and her fondness for the outdoors, was soon getting shrubbery planted and flower borders in place. There was also
a space in the back for a kitchen garden. Boyd admitted that he didn't
like to get his hands dirty, but if Jane would manage he'd see she
had help for the heavy work. He was as good as his word, and soon
an old colored man was spending four days a week working on the
grounds.
There seemed to be a mood of optimism everywhere. The war
was over, money was plentiful, life-styles were changing, and a
religious sect predicted that the end of the world was near. Boyd
received another promotion, becoming manager for a group of stores
in the area. Since this job meant traveling a good deal, the company
furnished him a car, which in turn gave Jane the use of the family
car. She was as busy as Boyd and, as she said, her hours were longer
than his. Boyd's mother was an unusually good cook, a thrifty
manager, and a meticulous housekeeper. Jane felt her own inadequacy
compared to that of her mother-in-law, and she was sometimes very
discouraged when she baked a cake that fell in the middle or let the
fried chicken burn. Teaching school, for her, had been lots easier.
One day when Boyd came home for lunch, they were eating on
the screened porch just off the dining room. Jane brought out some
rolls, piping hot from the oven. Stan reached for one and immediately flung it away from him. "Why did you do that, son?" asked Boyd.
Stan looked solemnly at his daddy and replied, "Hot, too 'dan'
hot."
With a wry grin on his face, Boyd looked at Jane. He was aware
of the fact that she had cautioned him about using certain expressions before Stan and he had laughed at her, saying that Stan was
too little to pay any attention to him. Now the tables were turned,
and he was completely taken by surprise at his son's remark. He
grinned sheepishly at Jane and said, "you're not saying anything, but
your eyes tell me 'I told you so.' "
73
�A day or so later Boyd noticed the spring on the outer door screen
seemed to be sagging and discovered that the screws holding the
spring had worked loose. He got some longer screws and some tools
and set about to fix it. Moments later, hearing a howl and a commotion, Jane rushed to the door of the porch and asked the proverbial
silly question, "Did you mash your finger?"
Boyd was standing there holding onto his thumb and balancing
himself first on one foot and then the other. He glared at her and
shouted, "Hallelujah! Darn! Heck fire and katoot!"
Then defensively and in an injured voice he said, "At least I hope
you noticed I didn't curse this time."
"No, you didn't, Honey," said Jane. "But what I heard sounded
like a pretty good imitation to me."
The next acquisition in the Brooks household was a cabinet radio.
The loudspeaker was concealed in the console and there would be
no more need for earphones and the unsightly and temperamental
box on the library table. The radio thrilled and amazed Jane. How
in the world could any such insignificant looking device pluck sounds
from the air and bring them into your home? All the wonderful music
and the news from all over the world made the world seem intimate
and small. The house itself seemed more alive and there was added
character to the atmosphere. Even the children were affected by it
and wanted the radio turned on whenever they were in the house.
Boyd's work schedule was a demanding one and his days were
full. Jane was surprised at the varied things he tried to promotesome new product for distribution, an appealing and different window display, or a seasonal advertising campaign for certain articles.
In addition to these chores, he had to know in dollars and cents if
these efforts were profitable as well as how each store was doing individually. Then there were board meetings, sales meetings, and sessions with the auditors.
Many of these affairs took place at night, and Boyd wanted Jane
to go with him. They found a responsible middle-aged woman to stay
with the children, since it was unthinkable to hire a teenage babysitter, and the two were constantly on the go. Also, a number of young
couples had formed a square dance club and the Brooks were invited
to join. Boyd enthusiastically said they'd be delighted. He had no
qualms at all, but Jane was a little reluctant. She was pretty sure
Mama and Papa would really not approve, but she reasoned, there
74
�actually didn't seem to be any harm in dancing, and wasn't that
something she and Boyd would have to decide for themselves? The
club was made up of a friendly lot of young couples and the square
dancing was really fun, so for a few months these get-togethers were
a pleasant diversion. Then Jane began to be a little uneasy.
Prohibition to these young people was an unjust law, one to be
broken and ignored. They had no qualms about flouting it. The punch
bowl was spiked and there were drinks for those who wanted them.
By the time the party was over, there were always one or two individuals who had imbibed too freely.
One night when they were driving home Jane complained about
the drinking and Boyd said, "Don't be a spoil sport. There's no harm
in breaking that kind of law, and these fellows don't do any harm
that a good night's sleep won't cure. The girls seem to enjoy the
punch. How do you like it?"
"I don't drink it."
"All I can say is you are missing a lot. It would help you relax
and you would have a whole lot more fun."
By the time Stan was in the second grade, his little sister Janet
was in kindergarten. Jane was busier than ever, chauffeuring the
children from one place to another, working as a grade mother, and
contributing volunteer service as a club member. She thought she
would have more time when the children were in school, but it seemed that the reverse was true.
People no longer spent weekends at home. The whole country
was on wheels, and treks to the mountains or the beach were becoming the accepted way of life. Jane remembered once back at home
their whole family had gone visiting for a few days. Someone had
asked Mama if she had enjoyed the vacation.
"Oh, yes, I did enjoy it," Mama said.
"What was the nicest thing about it?"
"The best of all was getting back home so I could rest from the
trip," Mama replied.
Monday morning often found Jane feeling just as Mama had, but
somehow the hectic pace went on into the next week just the same.
The Square Dance Club had become The Cotillion, with an increased
membership and an enlarged program. Boyd loved dancing and made
every possible effort to be present at every meeting. He wanted Jane
to have a new dress for every banquet, which prompted Jane to say,
75
�"It's a funny world. I always thought it was the women who wanted
fine clothes to wear and the men who resented the money spent on
what they considered their wives' extravagance, but with our family
it seems to be the other way around."
Soon, however, the club became a real source of anxiety for
Jane. She felt completely helpless to cope with the situation that confronted her. This feeling was aggravated by the fact that she had no
one in whom she could confide or with whom she could discuss the
problem. Certainly she could not discuss the matter with Boyd, for
when she tried to caution him or talk with him about drinking, they
always somehow ended up in an argument with no solution and with
their convictions farther apart than ever.
Jane didn't know where Boyd got his supply, but she realized that
legal or not he always had a drink available. She also knew that he
was mighty apt to take at least a little every day. Some people argued
that if a supply was kept at home and cocktails were served openly,
men would not sneak around to buy liquor and drink too much. Jane
wasn't so sure that was the solution.
At the annual club banquet, Boyd was unsteady on his feet by
the time they started home. They made it safely to the garage, but
Jane was unnerved and tense. She realized that in spite of all his
boasting that "he knew when to stop," poor Boyd was only fooling
himself.
76
�21
That December Jane and Boyd decided that since it was probably
the last Christmas the children would really enjoy having a visit from
Santa, they should make special plans for the visit of the jolly old
man. They invited Boyd's family to dinner and began early to buy
presents for the children and stashing them in Boyd's office, safe from
prying eyes.
On Christmas Eve, when Stanley and Janet were finally in bed,
Boyd brought the packages into the living room to put them under
the tree. Just as they had begun to arrange the gifts, the telephone
rang. It was a friend of Boyd's asking him to come to town to meet
a war buddy of theirs who was in town for the holidays. "I won't be
gone long," he told Jane as he went out.
Jane busied herself for a time putting last minute touches to the
table, checking on the turkey, which was already in the oven, and
mixing a salad. She could not help watching the clock, and as time
dragged on her apprehension grew.
Shortly after one o'clock she heard the front door open and
footsteps in the hall. There were three men, one on either side of Boyd,
holding him up. The men told Jane that they were happy to meet
Boyd's wife, that they had been having a little party talking about
their days in France, and that Boyd had had "a little too much" so
they thought they had better see him home.
At that moment a flash of recognition seemed to come to Boyd.
He looked up at Jane with attempted bravado and said, "Hi, Toots!"
"Take him into the den," directed Jane, as she opened the door
for them to enter. When she indicated the couch to place him on, one
of the men told her they would take him to the bedroom and undress
him for her, but she thanked him and told him she could manage
herself.
After wishing her a Merry Christmas several times over, the two
men left. If Jane had been describing their departure in mountain
dialect, she would have said they "snuck out."
Bone tired, hurt, and humiliated, she stood for a long time looking
at her sleeping husband and then went to work. She took a flashlight
77
�and made several trips to the garage to bring in the remaining
packages for the tree and stockings. She tore off the outside wrappings
in the kitchen, took the gifts into the living room, and placed Stan's
on one side of the chimney and Janet's on the other. In the stockings
on either side of the mantel, she put fruit, candy, and small gifts.
As Jane was tidying up the kitchen she speculated: she could have
a crying binge and develop a sick headache, or she could call Boyd's
family and say he had come down with a virus, or she could go to
bed, try to get an hour or two of sleep, and go ahead with the plans
as if nothing had happened. By gum, that's what she would do! She
angrily brushed away the tears that kept coming into her eyes.
As she was going to bed she checked in the den to see about Boyd.
Snoring heavily, he lay exactly as they had placed him. She took off
his shoes, put a pillow under his head, and threw a blanket over him.
The air seemed stuffy to her, so she raised a window. Then she closed
the door and went to bed.
As she had expected, she heard the children's excited voices
before six o'clock on Christmas morning. Going hurriedly into the
living room, she toned down the radio, cautioned the children about
making too much noise because Daddy had a headache, and shared
with them their delight in what Santa Claus had brought.
After fixing breakfast for the children, she and the maid stayed
busy the rest of the morning preparing dinner. The guests arrived
promptly and sat down at the table soon after. Jane had debated about
whether to lay a place for Boyd or not, but she quickly realized that
since the table was round there wouldn't be a gap anyhow. Everyone
expressed sympathy and disappointment because Boyd was not feeling well, but Jane felt that Boyd's family knew what had happened
and were gallantly trying to help her make the best of it. It would
always be a day of torture for her to remember.
By the time the guests left and general clutter surrounding the
tree had been cleared away, the children came in from outside declaring they were hungry. Stan looked a little worse for wear, with a muddy coat, scratches on his legs, and torn stockings. "I fell a few times,"
he admitted, "but pretty soon Fm going to get the hang of my new
bike and will be able to ride it."
While they were in the kitchen having a snack, Boyd came in,
fresh from a bath, clad in his robe and slippers, his hair neatly combed,
and no stubble showing on his chin. He sat down to drink a cup of
78
�black coffee. The children greeted him warmly, glad that his headache
was gone. They insisted that he come see what Santa had left them
and open his own packages.
When Stan and Janet had gone to bed, Boyd said, "Jane, I can't
begin to tell you how terrible I feel about this. I simply don't know
how it happened. The boys were there recalling things we did in
France, and the bottle was being passed around although I didn't think
I was drinking much. Then all at once everything was blank and that's
the last thing I remember. That's all there was to it."
"No, it wasn't all! We were going to work on the dinner and play
Santa Claus, remember?"
"Don't be cross, Jane. I've told you already that I feel too awful
for words, but don't you think I need a little understanding?"
"I do understand," Jane said tartly. "I understand that you need
a swift kick in the pants. I've been awake and at work almost all the
time you have slept, I'm dead tired and am going to bed. And I never
expect to have another Christmas party again, no matter how long
I live."
79
�22
In the days that followed Boyd worked exhaustingly long hours.
He also worked hard at repairing the rift in his family. He was especially agreeable to the children, playing games with them and taking them
on outings. One day they all went up to Charlotte to see a new kind
of picture show. It had sound as well as a picture and they were all
thrilled at Al Jolson's singing.
Boyd told Jane in all seriousness that he was going to stop drinking. He knew he would never allow himself to repeat the Christmas
Eve experience, and he would make it up somehow. Being a selfsatisfied male, he couldn't understand her lack of response to his
declarations. He had told her how sorry he was, hadn't he? He had
made her a solemn promise, hadn't he? And he was going to do
something especially nice for her, wasn't he? After all that, why
couldn't she forgive and forget so things could be as they were before?
Jane couldn't understand how she could ever feel normal again
after the Christmas ordeal, but she kept herself busy. While she had
a washing machine, dryers were a thing of the future, and she often
had to dry the children's clothes over the radiator during the dreary,
rainy January. She attended a mission study course at the church and
helped with a P.T.A. bake sale. On all sides she heard complaints
of inflation and rising prices. Some commentators on the radio
predicted a stock market crash, while others declared such a thing
couldn't happen.
A letter from Mama brought the distressing news that Janice was
ill and had been ill for several weeks. Doctors had advised surgery.
Pete, having lived in a bachelor's apartment for years, could look after
himself, but eighteen-month-old Marinella must be provided for.
Mama had told the Lavorinis to bring the baby to Tarpley while her
mother was in the hospital.
The next letter brought the news that a mastectomy had been
performed. Janice had stood the operation well but was recuperating
slowly. The baby was a happy little thing, inquisitive as a kitten, but
completely adorable. When Danny was around she was his shadow,
which so flattered him that they became great pals. She was learning to talk, and when Danny tried to get her to say her name she
80
�shortened it to "Nella." Immediately, the nickname replaced
Marinella.
Jane knew that Janice was seriously ill and that her chances for
a complete recovery would hang in the balance for months to come.
She also thought Mama was too old to assume the responsibility of
a young child. Boyd, sensing that Jane was worried about affairs at
home, suggested that she take the children and spend a few days in
Tarpley. They agreed that he would take them to the train on Tuesday and drive up on the weekend to bring them home.
Often sisters who have been separated for ten or more years, living in different states establishing their own families, find they have
lost the feeling of closeness they shared as adolescents. This was not
the case with Janice and Jane. The week was a glorious reunion for
them, and Mama said it helped Janice more than any treatments she
could have had, for Janice had been frightened and depressed because
of her ordeals. When Jane came the sisters re-lived many of their
girlhood experiences, laughed at their escapades, talked over their
housekeeping problems, and had a wonderful time.
On Saturday morning Jane began to collect her children and
belongings to make the trip home. She would have sworn that she
did not believe in ESP and would have pooh-poohed the fact that one
could have presentiments, but she felt a vague sense of uneasiness.
When supper time came and Boyd had not appeared, her heart sank.
A couple of hours later when he called her to explain that he had been
delayed, she knew what she did not want to know.
At midnight, when the household was asleep with the exception
of Mama and Jane, he arrived. He was still on his feet, but he was
staggering, and his pathetic efforts to tell Mama he had been suffering
from headaches lately made Jane feel sick inside. The next morning
Jane was able to get Boyd awake enough to dress himself and come
to the table. He could only drink coffee and nibble at his food, but
the conversation went on as if nothing was out of kilter.
As soon as they left Tarpley, Jane insisted that she drive. Boyd
was reluctant for her to do so, but finally he stopped the car, got into
the back seat, made a pillow out of the suitcases, and was soon sleeping audibly, when they got back to Morgan Hill, Jane fed the children,
helped them get a bath, located their paraphernalia for school the next
day, and sent them off to bed. Boyd, still groggy, ate a little soup,
stumbled into his room, and fell on the bed.
81
�Jane put things right in the kitchen and went into her desk. She
was tired, frustrated, uneasy about Janice, and disgusted and embarrassed by her husband. She had promised Mama that she would drop
her a note that night, so she got pen and paper and began:
Dear Mama,
We got home about sunset and since everybody was
tired, it did not take long to get through with the nightly
chores. Janet and Stan said that the piece of cake you gave
them was "good to the last crumb/'
The house was steeped in silence. The only sound to be heard was
the ticking of the clock in the hall. As Jane sat there she was suddenly overwhelmed with a longing to share her own feelings of
helplessness and her anxiety for the days ahead. She wrote:
Mama, have you ever been afraid of your husband?
Knowing Papa, of course you haven't! I don't mean really
fearing physical violence, but being afraid, as I am, of what
Boyd might do when he is under the influence and also for
what might happen to him when he has reached the unconscious state.
Boyd has always argued that a person's individual
freedom is unlawfully restricted if he is told he cannot take
a drink. He says that if prohibition laws were repealed it
would stop drunkenness—people would feel free to indulge
moderately and no one would drink too much at a time.
I went along with that for a while because I didn't know
what else to do, but gradually I had to realize that he was
not able to stop at a few drinks and that he would not be
quite sober when we were ready to leave a banquet or party. There's no need to go into all the details about how in
the first stage everything to him is uproariously funny and
he talks too much. Then he lapses into a sort of stupor, and
following that, he goes out like a light that has suddenly been
turned off. It takes twenty-four to thirty-six hours for Boyd
to get over the effects of a bout and be on his feet again.
He has never yet admitted that he is helpless once he
takes a drink, and after every binge he declares he will never
82
�let it happen again, but of course he is the only one who
believes that.
The tears had been falling as Jane wrote. Some even splashed onto
the letter. Finally she stopped and sat looking vacantly around her.
She would never mail this letter to her mother, but putting her dilemma into words had given her a certain sense of release and she felt
refreshed for the moment.
After she read her letter over one more time, she tore it into small
bits and put the pieces in the wastebasket. Then she took fresh paper
and began again:
Dear Mama,
The trip home was uneventful and we arrived before
dark. We had lots to talk about discussing the nice things
that happened during our stay with you.
Thank Papa especially for the apples and vegetables he
put in the car. We are going to have a good many feasts
because of his generosity.
I do sincerely hope that Janice can continue to be optimistic and hold on to her hopeful outlook. What could happen if she has a recurrence of her trouble simply doesn't bear
thinking about.
It is late and soon the Monday morning alarm will be
sounding off, so I must close with love to all of you.
Jane
83
�23
Through the summer Janice continued to improve and the baby,
free to play outside, was happy as a lark. When the school term began,
Pete came for them and they went back to their school.
One morning Papa went into Tarpley and noticed a crowd of people in the post office. There was an air of excitement in the crowd
and people were pouring over the black headlines which announced
that the New York Stock Market had crashed. Tarpley was excited
by the news, although few citizens had any understanding of what
had really happened or what effect such a calamity could have on local
affairs. A neighbor jokingly said to Papa, "How do you suppose it
feels to be a millionaire one day and wake up the next to find you
are a pauper?"
"I wouldn't know," said Papa. "But it is sort of comforting to
know you can't lose a million if you have never had it."
The upheaval did not seem to have any noticeable effect on the
people of Tarpley for some time. Everybody talked about the crash,
wondered how it could have happened, read conflicting opinions from
newspaper editors as to what effect it would have on the country's
economy, and were appalled by some of the tragedies that took place
following the debacle. Then, after a few weeks, life went on as usual
and the people turned their minds to local affairs.
It was not until the first part of the 1930's that a noticeable change
came over Tarpley. Industrial plants began operating five and
sometimes four days a week, teachers' salaries were reduced, farm
surpluses could not be sold, and many people found themselves out
of work.
Mama was confused by it all. How could the crash of the New
York Stock Market have such a devastating effect on everyone in
the country? She knew vaguely that rich people invested lots of money
in stocks and bonds and that this procedure somehow brought them
dividends. Then there were others who bought shares with the hope
of selling them soon at a higher price and that was gambling. She
was not just exactly sure who was the investor and who was the
gambler.
News from Pete and Janice put all thoughts of material matters
84
�out of Mama's mind, however, for Janice had been ill again and her
doctors had recommended further surgery. The news came as a double blow this time, since Janice had seemed so well for nearly four
years. Everybody in the family had been confident she would not have
any recurrence of her trouble.
Again Janice returned to Tarpley for the summer. She was in the
hospital in Asheville for two weeks, when a hysterectomy was performed. Although she was very weak, there had been no complications and the doctors spoke hopefully of the chances for recovery.
In spite of the shadow hanging over the household, it was a happy summer. Papa's age and rheumatism made it necessary of him
to give up his "public work" as he called it, and he spent his time
with his truck farming and gardening. All of the other children were
either working or away at summer school, so Mama had the
housework to do herself, but some of the children came home every
weekend, and the house was filled with pleasant activity.
Toward the end of the summer Janice, Pete, and Nella got ready
to go back to Tennessee. When the family had driven off, Mama and
Papa went back into the kitchen to have a cup of coffee. Both wanted
to talk, but neither knew how to express the concern they felt or the
uneasiness which they shared.
"I don't think she is as much better as she tries to pretend," Papa
said.
"Yes, I know, but I'm still glad for every day she can live feeling
hopeful," said Mama. "I wish I had her optimism. I wonder why so
useful a person and one so young should be the victim of such a horrible disease. The doctors themselves are about as helpless as we are,
it seems."
The specter of Janice's illness stayed with them. Even on days
when they didn't discuss her condition at all, both knew it was uppermost in their minds.
One day Mama got a letter from Millie. She had spent the summer in New York City studying at Columbia University, working, as
Mary had done, on a master's degree in education. Mama was eagerly
looking forward to Millie's return, for she had missed her companionship. The letter was a blow. Millie had been offered a teaching position in a school close to New York City. The pay scale was better
than that in North Carolina, and she was sure they would be as happy as she was with her "advancement" as she called it.
85
�Mama read the letter over several times as if she couldn't quite
take in what was said. Then she looked around at her beloved mountains. There was Pisgah wrapped in an early morning blue haze rising to the east of her, the long Hog Back range formed the skyline
to the south of the valley where they lived, and on the west were the
three tall peaks that rose behind the nearer hills and at this distance
they seemed identical. Local people called them the Three Sisters.
In this lovely setting how could anyone want to leave? Mama had made
only one trip to the seacoast in her life. She had loved the sight of
the ocean and enjoyed walking on the beach, but when that fine white
sand began to get in the floors of the cottage, in their clothing, even
in the towels and bedclothes, she was ready to go home. When she
returned from any trip the very sight of these hills spelled home to
her. They were like old friends, and she drew comfort and strength
from them. Why should all but one of her children prefer going to
some other place to make their homes?
As Papa said at supper time, they were back to where they had
started. After forty years of marriage, all their children were away
and the two of them rattled around the house like a couple of peas
in a pod. Soon, however, they established a pattern that made them
feel not quite so lonely. Papa liked to come in at night, turn on the
radio, eat supper, read The Asheville Citizen, and then have a game
of dominoes or checkers before bedtime.
Mama didn't really enjoy the games, but she went along with his
wishes. If any of the children dropped in or if Danny came home for
the weekend, Mama always took advantage of their willingness to
play with Papa and she dropped out of the game. Papa, on the other
hand, really enjoyed playing with Mama the most, partly because Papa
was almost always the winner when she was his opponent. One night
Mama had a new book she was so interested in that she tried to snatch
a few lines of it when it wasn't her turn to play. Papa resented her
inattention and scolded her soundly. She ought to know it wasn't possible to concentrate on the game and read at the same time, and it wasn't
fair to her partner. So Mama laid aside her book and took up the
challenge. She beat him soundly for the next three games. When they
had finished playing, Papa remarked,"You're not that good, you just
had a run of luck tonight."
The next day Jane phoned. It always made Mama a little nervous when she received a call—somehow she associated all long
86
�distance calls with trouble—but Jane had nothing but good news to
report. Stan was back from a two-month bicycle tour of Europe in
time to go back to Duke University and Janet was getting ready to
go to Stanford.
"Do you mean/' interrupted Mama, "Stanford University in
California? Why, Jane, why ever in the world did she want to go so
far from home? Won't it cost a fortune?''
"I wouldn't have chosen that school myself, but some time ago
Boyd told Janet she could select her own school if she maintained
the high average she was making. So, as he said, since she had kept
her part of the bargain, it's up to him to keep his. But what's the news
of Janice, Mama?"
"So far her letters have been cheerful, but she doesn't talk much
about her condition. We keep hoping that everything will be all right,
and we are looking forward to having her visit us for the summer."
"Of course you are, Mama, but you yourself need a rest.
Remember what Boyd said about you years ago, that it's no wonder
you and Papa haven't accumulated any money since you've run a free
hotel for forty years."
"That's all right," said Mama. "I wouldn't know what to do with
a lot of money and neither would Papa."
Only a fortnight after the conversation with Jane, Mama had a
disturbing one with Pete. Janice was not any better. She was not even
holding her own, but was losing ground steadily and suffering constantly. Pete's voice sounded faraway and sad.
In spite of the nagging uneasiness they had felt about the doctor's reports after Janice's last operation, the family, Mama included, had tried to see some evidence that a miracle might happen. But
after Pete's call she knew this was the death knell to all their hopes.
Janice was coming home for her last visit.
87
�24
So the never to be forgotten summer began. Pete was troubled
and apologetic. He seemed to feel that he was in some way remiss
because he was unable to stay on his job, look after Nella, and give
Janice the help she needed. There were staggering hospital and doctor bills accumulating, too. Both Papa and Mama assured him that
they wanted Janice with them for the summer—or until she was
better—they said, trying to be hopeful.
For a short time Janice did seem to improve. She was happy to
be at home, to see other members of the family as well as friends
who dropped in, and she tried desperately hard to be cheerful and
interested in what went on around her.
If it had not been for the night ordeals, Mama herself would have
been encouraged, but she knew Janice could never sleep at all without
a sedative, and as soon as the effects of one dose wore off, she was
awake and suffering. This was the heartbreaking part of it—the neverceasing, intolerable pain which by its dogged persistence dragged her
down, leaving those who loved her powerless to do anything to help
her.
Mama was feeling the strain herself. Worn out with lack of sleep
and physically weary from overwork, she sometimes wondered if she
could last the day. When Mary came home for the weekend the first
thing she did was to arrange for a nurse to come on duty every night
for an eight-hour stint, but even so the going was hard and the whole
family lived in a state of suspended anxiety.
As the weeks went by Janice weakened and her interest gradually
narrowed to the four walls of the bedroom. She needed stronger
opiates, and sometimes when she wakened from her drugged unconsciousness, she seemed disoriented and her memory was affected
to the extent that she confused dates and events. Following a low
point like this, for no apparent reason, there would come a few days
when she was more comfortable. She would have a respite and be
somewhat like her old self, interested in family affairs, planning for
Nella to start school, enjoying the summer flowers.
But these interims came less and less often and were usually
followed by a more terrible seizure when she would be conscious of
nothing but the excruciating misery which engulfed her.
88
�One day in the late summer, Janice roused from a drugged sleep
and asked for Mama. She seemed entirely rational and very calm.
Mama came into the room and stood by the bed rearranging the
pillows.
"Mama," Janice said, "I know now that I am not going to get
well."
"Oh, Janice, no!" burst from Mama involuntarily.
Janice continued, "I have been all over this many times and I have
come through my Gethsemane. At first I was determined to get well,
and for months I thought I would. Then when it came to me that I
was losing ground, I was resentful. I asked myself, 'Why me? What
have I done to bring this judgment on my head?' I have no answers
for some of my questions, but I realize now that man is mortal and
subject to all manner of diseases and afflictions and no one knows
whose turn will be next. I believe in the eternal goodness of God and
I do not believe that this terrible disease has anything to do with Him.
It is one of the devastating evils of this imperfect world. Of course,
I want to live. I want to see Nella grow up and for Pete and me to
continue our music. But I simply cannot. The awful pain and the increasing helplessness have made it all impossible. And I'm so tired
I will even be glad if the end comes soon."
Janice drifted off into a fitful sleep and Mama continued to stand
by her bed, stroking Janice's forehead, mute, but herself dying a thousand deaths as she tried to accept the certain knowledge that Janice
had just told her mother goodbye.
She died in September. The last week of her life was peaceful,
for she lay in a coma and was oblivious to everything around her.
Mama thought to herself that she would never have believed it possible
to have a feeling of relief when a loved one was gone, but when she
remembered the constant suffering Janice had to undergo this last
summer, she was glad it was ended. Even though she knew life must
go on, the grief and loneliness and a terrible vacancy would always
be with her.
When Janice had been laid to rest in the Tarpley cemetery, Pete
was back at work and Jane had taken Nella home with her, where
she was to attend school. When Jane had asked Boyd about keeping
Nella for the winter, he had said, "Sure, bring her along. You and
I have been rattling around in this house ever since the children went
off to school. Maybe Nella can put a little life into the place."
89
�Tarpley people were neighborly and kind. They visited Mama,
bringing her flowers and tempting delicacies, which she accepted
gratefully. But she seemed to be in the grip of an overpowering
lassitude from which she could not free herself. From lifelong habit
she went about her household tasks. Automatically, she ate her meals
and went to bed at night, but nothing registered with her. She felt
as if she were living in a great void in which everything was blank
except the grief and sorrow that Janice's death had brought.
It was in the late autumn before a sense of awareness began slowly
to come back to her. She realized that in her own constant grieving
she had neglected duties toward those around her. She must accept
what had happened. Time, she knew, would help to heal the sorrow,
but the loneliness and the ache, the ache would always be there.
90
�25
When the new year came in it brought many changes to the
Barker household. In December Mary had suffered a heart attack and
was hospitalized for several weeks. The doctors strongly advised her
not to try to continue the strenuous work she had been doing and
recommended a complete rest for six months or so.
Papa and Mama wrote to Mary suggesting that she resign her
position and come home to live with them. Papa, who was pushing
eighty, said that when she got rested up he'd be glad to turn over
the garden work to her. And Mama pointed out that it would be so
nice for Papa to have someone to play dominoes with at night.
In a few weeks Mary sent in her resignation, sold her house and
most of her furnishings, gathered her personal belongings and her
dog, and drove home to Tarpley to live. Relatives and friends intimated that this new order of things might not be a bed of roses,
some pointing out that "no house is big enough for two women," but
Mama didn't spend any time worrying about that. She was confident
she could get along with her own daughter. Besides, she wouldn't
admit it to anyone but herself, but deep down she was tired of
housekeeping and knew that if Mary wanted to take charge of the
house she would be glad to let her.
Mary was not long at home before her bent for managing
displayed itself. Her first acquisition was a dishwasher. Papa and
Mama thought that it was an unnecessary expense, but they went
along. Before they became adjusted to that change, Mary had decided they must get a home freezer, too. She turned a deaf ear to Papa's
argument that the "Polar Pantry" was adequate for keeping their
meats frozen and they could can fruits and vegetables as they always
had. Mary had worked with food processing before, so when the
freezer was installed in the basement she was able to show them many
new tricks about freezing. Mama and Papa became more interested
than they had expected to be.
Millie had not come home for the summer but had worked in a
girls' camp in Vermont. She wrote that she wanted to come home
for Thanksgiving and to bring someone with her. His name was Jim
and she seemed to think that he was the answer to all her dreams.
91
�Mary and Mama set right to work giving the house a thorough
going over. They washed the curtains for the spare bedroom windows and Mary worked late at night in order to finish the hooked
rug she was making for that room. Planning menus and cooking meals
1
'ahead" also took much of their time.
On the day Millie and Jim were scheduled to arrive they had
everything ready. Papa, Mama, and Mary had a light meal early "to
stave off hunger" until the travelers should arrive, but night fell and
Millie and Jim did not come. As they sat in the living room waiting,
Papa began to speculate. He thought it likely they had had a puncture or some other car trouble. Mama thought they might have started
later than they had intended—Millie was always a good one to be a
little late. They sat, uneasily, watching the clock as the minutes ticked
slowly by. Finally as midnight approached they decided they had better go to bed because there seemed nothing they could do until they
received some message or some news of the couple's whereabouts.
However, no one was sleeping when the telephone rang, and Mary
was the one who answered. The call was from a hospital in Lynchburg,
Virginia. There had been a car wreck, a collision, and Millie was in
the hospital there. She was in a state of shock and had cuts and bruises,
but she was not listed in critical condition. When Mary asked about
her companion, there was a long pause, and finally the voice said,
"The driver of the car was killed instantly."
They decided Mary was the logical person to go to Virginia, so
the next morning Papa had the car serviced and Mama fixed breakfast
and packed a lunch. Papa suggested that Mary should take someone
with her, but Mary rejected the idea. "I'll stay until I can bring Millie
home, and if I take somebody along, that will be board and lodging
to pay for two people instead of one. We can't afford it."
In a week's time Mary and Millie were back in Tarpley. Millie
had a noticeable limp, an arm in a sling, a bandaged head, and a
bruised face accented by a black eye. Although the homecoming was
subdued, Millie felt the sincerity of their warm-hearted concern. Just
being at home with people who loved her brought her unutterable
comfort. She had been given a leave of absence from teaching until
the new term in January.
The seclusion of her own room seemed to be what Millie wanted
more than anything else on the first days after her arrival, so she was
told to call for anything she needed and was left alone. Gradually,
92
�she seemed to become more like her old self and to want to be with
the family. She began to help with the chores. When Mary decided
it was time to put up the Christmas tree, Papa got the axe, put on
his boots and muffler, and started out. "Wait, Papa/' called Millie,
"I want to go with you."
She bundled herself up and they trudged off together. It was an
outing both of them would always remember—the brisk walk in the
cold, the good long talk they had enjoyed, and "just the right size"
cedar they found made the afternoon very special.
After supper that night Papa wanted to play a game of Rook, his
current favorite. Mama and Mary played partners against Papa and
Millie. Mama and Mary (who was the best player) won the first game,
and since everybody knew that Papa wanted awfully to win, Mary
suggested that they change partners. "Oh no," he said, "Millie and
I are doing just fine. You just deal me a hand and we'll show them
a thing or two, won't we, Millie?"
Mary and Mama won the next game, but for once Papa didn't
seem to mind.
Day followed day and eventually the subdued holidays had gone
by. Finally, Millie began to get her things together to go back to
school. Mama came in to help and stood looking anxiously at her
daughter.
"No, Mama, you aren't to worry about me," said Millie. "The
accident seems ages ago, and I don't even feel like the same person
I was. It was a ghastly way for a vacation to end. I'm glad I have
no recollection of the crash. Losing Jim is terrible, but I don't think
I could bear it if I had been conscious of his condition right after the
accident or the ride in the ambulance or the clearing of the cars from
the highway. But at last I've come to this conclusion. My students
aren't responsible for what happened and I feel I must get back to
them and try to make up for lost time. I remember a statement I read
not long ago, 'Hearts break, my dear, but they go on beating just the
same.' "
93
�26
January was a month Mama liked. It seemed an in-between season
of the year and a good time to go through the papers in her desk,
re-arrange the cabinets in the kitchen, start to work again on her lone
star quilt, or to crochet a little. Mama had given up knitting, since
she was handicapped in that area. She was left-handed. Nobody
seemed to mind much these days, but when she was a child it was
the same thing as being cross-eyed or harclipped or clubfooted. One
of the most humiliating experiences of her early school days was having the teacher tie her pencil to her right arm so she wouldn't try
to write with her left hand. Mama still remembered how she felt when
her schoolmates laughed at her. When it came to knitting, her being
left-handed was a real problem. If she didn't use her right hand the
patterns were all inside out, so she decided the world could get along
without her knitting efforts. She had plenty of other kinds of handiwork to do.
Mary was asked to take charge of the Tarpley Public Library and
accepted the job eagerly. Mama had felt all along that if Mary's health
continued to improve she would want something besides the four walls
of home to engage her attention. As soon as she began work in the
library, Mary's enthusiasm for redoing the house was transferred to
updating and re-arranging the library.
Since Papa was indoors a good part of the time in January, he
kept the radio turned on incessantly. In fact, he so constantly sat in
his easy chair listening to the radio that Mama told him he would grow
to it if he didn't bestir himself and take a little exercise.
Most of the news on the radio had to do with the war. Mama had
been stunned by the news of Pearl Harbor, of course, but for a long
time the war seemed so remote, and she had so many troubles at home
that the fighting didn't seem quite real. But when the news came that
a local boy was missing in action and two more had been taken
prisoners of war, when draftees were being called up on all sides,
and when Tarpley enlisted men were being sent to camps all over
the country, then the conflict became a dread reality.
The Barkers were personally affected, too. Danny was doing
clerical work in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. Stan had just received a commission at Fort Gordon, Georgia, and he wrote Mama that he was
94
�now a "shavetail." Bob's oldest son had just been sent to Camp
Roberts, California, and presumably was on his way overseas. Six
months before she would have graduated from Stanford, Janet married a young lieutenant from the Midwest, both of them vowing she
would go on to school until she was graduated. Susan and Greg's son
was impatiently awaiting his birthday so he would be old enough to
enlist.
The situation of the Barker family was duplicated by all their
neighbors as it was by the whole country. Every eligible male was
getting into uniform, and women's units were being activated, too.
As Mama said, everybody was in active conflict except the old men
who decided the country should go to war, directed its policies, and
then sat behind a desk or in some sheltered place while others did
the fighting. Most of the troops were young boys who didn't know
what "expendable" meant and who were brainwashed with patriotism
and fired by dreams of adventure. Mama had not forgotten the aftermath of the First World War.
She did think that people's attitudes were changing. During World
War I a soldier kissed his sweetheart goodbye, prayerfully hoping
to return to her. Now, it seemed that every draftee got himself a girl
and married her before he left for combat. It almost seemed as if he
thought that having a wife would be a sort of insurance to guarantee
his return. Mama also noted that the great majority of these war brides
were pregnant even before the soldiers left for foreign duty, and birth
rate began to soar. She thought with concern about the future for
this raft of helpless children coming into such an unsettled world.
The rationing of sugar, gas, and tires, as well as the shortage of
other commodities, didn't bother the Barkers, who were glad to do
without if it helped the war effort. But the problem of tending the
truck gardening was a real worry. Papa could not get help, and neither
he nor Mama had energy or strength enough to carry on as they had
formerly done.
"Goodness me," thought Mama, "Papa is nearly eighty and here
am I not far behind him. Did I think it was something that would never
happen to us?"
Still and all, they managed. Greg found time to bring his tractor
over and prepare a couple of acres for Papa to have a "victory garden,"
which, through Papa's patient efforts, yielded a surprising amount
of produce. Mama, in turn, canned as much as she could.
95
�One day, after a stint of canning tomatoes, Mama sat down to
catch her breath. She said to Nella, who was visiting for the summer, "I declare, I'm developing bunions. Couldn't I surely have missed
inheriting that?"
"Why Mama," said Nella, "just think, you have vegetable feet.
The other day you said you had corns and today you say you have
onions!"
"Yes, ma'am," laughed Mama as she tousled Nella's hair. "And
I know a little girl who has a pumpkin for a head!"
Nella was very dear to her grandparents. Many of her little mannerisms were to them constant reminders of Janice, while her sunny
disposition coupled with her gay chatter kept them amused and interested. Pete always paid the Barkers a visit when Nella was with
them, and he and his daughter were the best of pals, but as time went
on, it seemed that Nella considered Jane's house home base for her.
Early in October the message came that Bob, Jr., was reported
missing in action. To the family it was practically the same as an announcement of his death, but Bob's wife Lula adamantly refused to
believe her son was lost. She steadfastly maintained that she would
hear from him again and insisted that he would likely be safer in prison
96
�than out with the troops. Nobody shared her optimism, but they didn't
try to dissuade her.
Mama realized that nature being what it is, people can adjust
themselves to anything, even to war. In Tarpley people reacted to
the restrictions the war brought according to their own interpretations of what they owed their country in loyalty and to what extent
they were willing to share. A black market and hoarders could be
found, but there were loyal citizens, too, willing to make sacrifices.
For the most part, the inhabitants of the town went about their
daily tasks as usual. The schools did not close, the shops stayed in
business, the mills kept running, and farmers were busy. Over it all
and through it all was a feeling of impermanence. All their thinking
was geared to the theme, "when the war is over/'
97
�27
It was Mary's idea that a change of scene would be a tonic for
them, so when Jane wrote inviting all of them to come down to Morgan
Hill for a weekend visit to see their new house, Mary was delighted.
They went, picking up Nate on the way.
"I thought the house you lived in was plenty good," Papa told
Jane when they arrived at the new house. "This one looks pretty fancy
for a Barker to be living in," he teased.
"Oh, Papa," Jane answered. "Don't you know you are the same
person no matter what sort of house you live in?"
The big picture window, on the back side of the house where
nobody could see it, and the private bath in every bedroom spelled
luxury to Mama. She wondered what Jane and Boyd would do now
that the children were gone.
Nella took enormous pride in showing off her very own room.
"Look, Mama," she said. "I hope you like the curtains and the
bedspread that are just alike. I picked them out all by myself. And
the teddy bear on the bed is the one my daddy gave me last Christmas,
and this badge on the dresser is the one we wear to Victory Club
meetings."
At her grandmother's question, Nella went on to explain the club.
All the children on Hillcrest Street belonged. The purpose of the club
was "to help win the war." Each member had to have a victory garden
and Nella had four tomato plants in hers. Meetings were held every
other week and dues were five cents a month. A boy named Charles
was president and Nella was secretary. She showed Mama the last
entry in her book of minutes:
The meeting met. We were at Jane's house. Charles didn't
come and Mary decided in his place. We collected dues and
played games. Then we ate strawberry ice cream and left.
Nella Lavorini, Secretary
Soon Nella and Mama went downstairs to join the others. It was
a real treat to have so much of the family together. Boyd played host
in his ever cordial and attractive manner. It was no wonder he was
98
�so popular, beguiling anyone into forgiving his lapses and sympathizing with him. "A charmer if there ever was one," Mama thought.
They talked of family members involved in the war. Bob Jr. was
still a prisoner and recently Joe Simmons was listed as missing
somewhere in the Pacific theater, which made Susan's nerves as taut
as a violin string. Janet would be coming home soon because her husband was being sent overseas, and Stan was a captain stationed now
in Australia. Danny had shocked everybody by marrying an English
girl a few months ago. Mama was uneasy and wondered if the bride
would be able to adjust to life in America.
Driving home Nate said, "If I had had two hands, you know, I'd
have been in World War I. There were thousands of veterans who
couldn't adjust themselves to civilian life because they were wounded or shell-shocked or whatever. It will be worse this time since this
war has lasted twice as long and so many more people have been
involved."
On the way home they stopped by the post office to pick up the
mail. Among the letters was a telegram, which Mary tore open.
"Heavens to Betsy!" she exclaimed and sat down suddenly. Then
she shook her head unbelievingly and said, "Well, I never! I n-e-v-e-r!"
She passed the telegram to Papa, who read aloud, "Married today in Little Church Around the Corner. Letter follows. Millie and
Pete." Papa snorted and said, "Why, he's already her brother-in-law.
That's some sort of incest, isn't it?"
Mama quickly put his mind at rest about that. "No, Papa," she
said. "They really are no kin at all. If a man wants to marry his deceased wife's sister and the said sister is willing to have him, there's
no law against it. But a little warning would have made the news a
bit more palatable."
"Millie didn't have to marry Pete. What was the matter with that
other fellow she was going with?" growled Papa.
"And just why are you so concerned about Millie?" Mary asked
him. "Why don't you worry a little bit about me since I haven't ever
been married?"
Papa's eyes twinkled as he answered her, "If you were to get
married, I'd know you were going to be all right, but I would be a
mite anxious for your husband!"
The summer was almost gone when V-J Day actually arrived and
the war was officially ended. It changed the pattern of life for millions
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�of people. While there were joyous homecomings for those whose
loved ones came back alive and uninjured, there was also unutterable
sadness for those whose sons had been lost in combat. The soldiers
returning were not the same young men who had gone forth eagerly
to defend their country. They were often disillusioned to discover that
America was not the haven against all frustrations they had imagined
while overseas. Thousands of war brides, many with young children,
had lost their husbands to the war or had been abandoned by them.
Confusion instead of peace seemed to be the outcome of the war.
At a Home Demonstration Club meeting that fall, an acquaintance
sat next to Mama and said in a not-so-soft voice, "Cora, what has
happened to the people in your church? Is it true that Jim Grey has
run off with Tom Martin's wife and split up two families? And isn't
he on your board of stewards? I don't suppose you could blame that
on the war, could you?"
Mama's face turned red and she stammered a little. "I—I guess
you'll have to ask someone better informed than me."
But the barb had gone home. Already embarrassed about the effect of the scandal on the church, Mama resented the implication that
an affair like this was not likely to be found in her neighbor's church.
Talking to Papa that night about the club meeting, Mama told him
what Jessie Moser had said. His reply was, "A lot of things like that
are happening these days. I don't know what has brought it about,
but the standards people lived by have certainly undergone a change.
But just you wait and see. One of these days some sort of upheaval
will happen in Jessie's church, too. All the holier-than-thou people
are not in one congregation."
His prediction was entirely correct. In a few months, the pastor
of Jessie's church left his wife and three children for a girl half his
age. Mama's urge was strong to say to Jessie, "Just what has happened in your church? Has the war had this effect on your congregation, too?"
In the next few months many changes took place. Bob Jr. arrived
home apparently none the worse for his experience of having worked
on a farm while in prison camp. Stan Brooks, now a lieutenant colonel, had decided to make a career of the army. His sister Janet, who
had gone with her small daughter and husband to Montana to live,
was already dreading the winter weather. Bob's oldest daughter was
waiting to hear from a husband who seemed to be making no effort
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�to communicate with her. Susan's son had been home and gone again.
He was unsettled and admitted he didn't know what he wanted to
do—a real war casualty.
Mama despondently wondered why people refused to learn
anything from past experiences. In her lifetime she had had intimate
knowledge of three great wars. The earliest and most vivid memories
of her childhood centered around stories of the Civil War, of her
father's four years in the Confererate army. She had heard the family speaking of its poverty, but she had never been hungry and her
family had been no poorer than her neighbors. Her folks did not lose
their home to the carpet-baggers, but they lived in it for years without
being able to put a new coat of paint on the outside.
When World War I came along, Papa was too old to go, Nate
was ineligible, and Bob too young, so her immediate family was exempt. But the war was very real to her since she had relatives and
neighbors who were involved. She remembered the wave of
lawlessness, rebellion, and wild carousing that followed the cessation of the so-called "war to end all wars."
Who could have imagined that in less than twenty-five years the
war machines would be geared to fighting again, this time involving
all the principal countries of the world, using new and deadlier
weapons, taking a ghastly toll of lives and property? The saddest thing
about it all was that when the fighting did cease, the relief from tension, the feeling of good will, and the sense of peace which everyone
expected simply did not materialize. The only conclusion Mama could
draw was that "a war is an instrument of destruction where even the
winner loses."
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�28
One brisk morning in December, Nate, who had recently retired
and returned to Tarpley to live, went to the post office and brought
back a thick letter from Danny. That in itself was an event, for he
was not a regular correspondent. The Barkers sat at their cozy kitchen table while Mary read the letter aloud. The letter brought the
family up to date on his future plans, explaining that he and his wife
Sheila had decided to make their home in England. He had found a
job in a publishing house and Sheila would return to her pre-war position as a receptionist in a doctor's office. The real purpose of the letter, though, was to tell the family that they wanted to come to the
States for a holiday before really settling down. He wanted Sheila
to see where he had grown up and he hoped that other members of
the family could come home for Christmas too so they could have
a sort of "get acquainted" reunion.
Only that morning Mama had been thinking of the kind of
Christmas they would have that year. She wouldn't have to worry
about a large meal—she could just make dressing for one of Papa's
hens, and the four home folks could enjoy a quiet, uneventful day.
Somehow the idea especially appealed to Mama. "I must be getting
old," she thought.
Even before Mary had finished reading Danny's letter, however,
Mama had given up her ideas about a quiet Christmas and was making plans around the biggest turkey she could find. Of course they
would tell Danny that they would try to do as he wished, and at once
they began to count the number of guests they might have. Mary said
to Papa, "At least Nate and I won't be adding any more family
members to the crowd. Aren't you glad we're both old maids?"
"With thirty people in the family we'll have all we'll need." Papa
conceded. "This is going to be worse than a shivaree."
"And I hope, Mary," said Mama, "that you don't start off with
any wild ideas about turning out the whole house from cellar to attic
to get ready for them. With that many people here nobody is apt to
notice what the house looks like, and as for the cleaning, we'll need
to do that after they've come and gone."
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�Although Christmas was four weeks away both Mary and Mama
knew they would go all out to try to make the holiday special, so they
began planning furiously for the homecoming. There were menus to
concoct, sleeping arrangements to be worked out, and yule decorations to be made and hung. The dining table with its extensions would
seat twelve people and the kitchen table would accommodate eight,
but that made only twenty places. This problem was solved when
a friend of Mary's offered a folding table which would seat eight. Since
two of the guests were infants who could only use high chairs, this
helped to make a place for everyone to sit down at the beginning of
the meal. Susan would help with the baking and bring dishes and
cutlery over to fill the gaps, as Mama said.
They began to hear from the children. Bob and Lula with all of
their five children, the daughter-in-law, and the grandson would come;
Pete, Millie, and Nella would get there for the weekend; Jane wrote
that she and Boyd would be up for the day only, bringing Janet and
her baby; Stan would fly down from Washington for the day also;
and Danny and Sheila planned to arrive on Christmas Eve.
"Oh, I do wish Janet's husband could come/' said Mary. "If only he were here that would make it one hundred percent—every last
member of the family under one roof at the same time!"
"No, it wouldn't," said Mama. "Janice is missing."
A week before Christmas, Susan's boys brought bunches of holly and mistletoe from the Simmons farm along with a beautifully
shaped six-foot native cedar tree, which was placed in front of the
big windows in the living room. Long strings of popcorn were looped
around it, and star-shaped cookies decorated the tips of the branches,
but the new and special feature for the Barkers was the colored lights
which Jane had sent them. Years ago Papa had turned thumbs down
on real candles for the tree because of the risk of fire, so the electric
bulbs were especially welcomed. On the mantel they arranged one
of the ceramic manger scenes Mary had made for each of the
households the year before.
Bob and his family arrived in two cars just before dusk on
Christmas Eve, followed soon by Pete, Millie, and Nella. Danny and
Sheila called to say that they were spending the night in Asheville
and would see them before noon the following day. Counting the folks
at home, that made sixteen people to be housed for the night. Mary
was intent on placing a certain number in each of the four bedrooms,
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�but some of the young folks brought their sleeping bags and scattered themselves all through the house.
Christmas morning dawned clear and cold, but since it was dry
underfoot outdoor activities were in full swing. The old tennis court
on the south side of the house was soon in action, while some of the
youngsters set out to climb Hamburg Mountain with Greg as guide.
Danny and Sheila wanted to look over the town and surrounding landscape, and some of the relatives went with them. Most of the women
spent the morning in the kitchen, helping Mama, as Susan said, "to
feed Coxey's Army/'
They were busy every minute but by planning and working
together the dinner was ready when it was expected. Each of the three
tables had its own serving dishes, its own salad, pickle and relishes,
its own bowls of rice, sweet potatoes, and green beans, and its own
basket of homemade rolls. Papa was called into the kitchen to slice
the turkey and ham. He did so and put some of each on three platters.
Danny came into the kitchen a few minutes before the meal
started and drew Mama aside. "Mama, you know Sheila is English
and on special occasions like this she expects to have wine served
with the meal. Do you think Papa would object if we had a little of
the wine we brought with us?"
"I think you already know what the answer will be, Danny, for
you know how adamant your father is. When he has once convinced
himself that a thing is right or wrong, nothing can change him. Don't
you remember when Nate and Mary wanted to play bridge? Papa said
they could play Rook, Flinch, Authors, dominoes, checkers—
anything—but a game with a pack of cards that had a king, queen,
and jack in them could never come in his house!" She stirred the rice
vigorously for emphasis.
"I really don't think Sheila would mind," she went on. "She seems
quite sensible and down-to-earth to me, and you could tell her we
mountaineers are a pretty independent lot of folks and "set" in our
ways. I have some good grape juice already cold and some blackberry
acid—the kind you used to like— and I think that either of those will
serve just as well."
"O.K., Old Lady, you win," said Danny with a grin.
When they were all seated, Papa returned thanks. Mama hoped
he would add to his familiar blessing some little mention of their
special pleasure in having the whole family with them, but he didn't.
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�Just as he repeated every day at dinner he said "Make us mindful
of others as we partake of this food. Bless it to our use and us to thy
service. Amen."
Little one-year-old Nancy was given grape juice in Danny's pewter
baby cup. Expecting anything she drank to be milk, she took a sip
of the juice, made a wry face, and immediately turned the cup upside down on the tray of the high chair. Janet rushed up with a towel
to mop up the juice. Then she washed the mug and filled it with milk.
This little incident seemed to bring to mind a train of childhood
reminiscences. Mary said, "Nate, do you remember the time you got
baptized at the table with buttermilk?" To the rest of the listeners
she explained, "The minister was having dinner with us that Sunday, and it so happened he had christened a child at the morning service. Nate, Jane, Bob, and I all sat on a long bench on one side of
105
�the table, and as the children were taught back then, we sat at the
table until the adults were ready to leave. Jane was getting restless
so she took up her glass of milk, leaned over Nate, and said, "I baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and here you go!"
And so saying she emptied the contents of her glass on Nate's head."
"Was that the end of the story?" asked Pete.
"Well, at least it was the end of the dinner party!"
"Susan, you tell about the time you and Millie got into the ants'
nest,"said Jane.
"Not me," Susan replied, "if it's told let Millie do the telling."
That story was told, and another and another. The ones who had
heard them before seemed to enjoy them more than ever. Eventually
Boyd looked at his watch. "My friends," he said, "as pleasant as this
is, we poor folks who have to work tomorrow need to be getting on
with the tree and then starting our trip back home."
They trooped into the living room, the first to arrive taking possession of all the chairs and couches and the overflow sitting in a semicircle on the floor opposite the tree. Greg had agreed to act as Santa
106
�Claus and Susan had fixed a costume for him. He said he'd wear the
suit, pillow front and all, but he drew the line at putting on the beard.
In thirty minutes Santa with some helpers had stripped the tree and
removed the stacks of packages from the floor around it. Everyone
tore open the packages the minute they were received, and as the
happy recipients shouted thanks to pleased donors, the room became
noisier and noisier. When things had calmed down a bit Mary said,
"I know we can't spend much more time, but let's have a song or
two before you leave."
With Danny and his banjo and Pete with his guitar, they all stood
knee-deep in wrapping paper and sang "Silent Night" and "Joy to
the World." After a few more carols they caught hands for a lusty
rendition of "Auld Lang Syne."
The days following were a sort of kaleidoscope to Mama and
Mary. By the time they got through with one meal and the washing
up was finished, it was time to get the next meal ready. Friends and
relatives dropped in to see those still visiting. In two days after
Christmas the fruitcake was almost gone and Mary was in the kitchen frantically stirring up another one to insure that there was
something to serve callers with their afternoon coffee or tea.
At last, on Saturday morning, the visitors began their trek back
home. The house itself resembled a beehive as families tried to collect their belongings, pack their bags, and stow them in cars. Eventually the commotion was over, for everyone had gotten on his or her
way. Papa announced that he was going to celebrate by taking a nap.
Mama was busy putting the house to rights, collecting the mountain of sheets and pillowcases she would have to wash, and pulling
out the boxes for storing the Christmas decorations, when all of a
sudden a paralyzing weariness overcame her. She sat down in an easy
chair, thinking she would rest a bit before going on with her chores.
It was sweet to sit still and know that she didn't have to hurry. It
was ever so good to be alone and to sit there not even thinking.
Papa wakened from his nap, took a walk around the grounds, sawed a little wood, and stacked it in the shed joining the back porch,
and then walked up to the mailbox to get the evening paper. In the
meantime Mary had come back from a trip to town and had gone to
the kitchen to see about supper. When they were ready to eat and
Mama still had not stirred, Papa went in to see about her. "Cora,"
he said and shook her gently.
107
�Mama opened her eyes, stared blindly ahead of her for a few
seconds, and then asked foolishly, "Have I been asleep?"
When they had finished eating they still sat in the cozy corner
of the kitchen, unwinding and living over the events of the last week.
Mary was happy with the reunion and said so with enthusiasm. Papa
said it was fine, of course, but something you couldn't repeat many
times in a lifetime. Mama said she was like old Uncle Billy Bradford,
who, when he was describing the departure of some lingering house
guests, said, ''When I saw the last car go down the driveway—them
was the purtiest tail lights I ever did see!"
108
�29
Spring came early to the Carolina mountains in 1947. Early in
March Papa found a sheltered spot on the hillside dotted with bird'sfoot violets. Despite his trouble in stooping, he picked himself a bouquet and took it home to Mama and Mary. When Mama had put the
flowers in a vase and placed them on the breakfast room table, Mary
said, "Wait a minute, Mama, you can't put those violets on that blue
cloth—the two blues simply kill each other/' So for lunch that day
they had a fresh white cloth to complement the violet centerpiece.
That afternoon Susan came in excited to tell her news: Greg had
agreed to sell the thirty acres of his farm adjoining the new highway.
He had been reluctant to do so, knowing that if his father were alive,
he would never have allowed it. But Susan had convinced him,
pointing out that people must change as times change, that they had
more land than they could tend anyway, and it would be so nice to
have a little free cash for the first time in their lives. The times were
a boon to Greg and Susan.
With the returning veterans establishing families, new houses
were springing up everywhere. Builders described the new style as
"functional"—long and low, glass-walled, and flat-roofed. Mama
thought the homes looked sort of like a lead pencil.
In many ways it was a most unusual year. With the war over,
it seemed a new life style was being adopted in America. Credit was
easy. Young couples seemed to want to start with what their parents
ended up with, borrowing freely for cars, appliances, and furniture.
Even the government was piling up an ever increasing indebtedness
each year, and the popular phrase to describe it was "deficit spending." To Mama that meant only one thing—spending money you didn't
have—and she thought it would end in trouble.
Standards of behavior were changing, too. Mama knew she was
old-fashioned, but the avalanche of divorce cases appalled her. She
sorrowed bitterly over her first grandchild to get a divorce from her
husband, and a few years later she was unreconciled to the situation
when the granddaughter married again. "Thank God," she said to
herself, "at least there were no children." But a short time later, Stan,
who had had two children by his first marriage, brought his new bride
109
�to see her. Mama couldn't understand how responsible human beings could abandon their own children and justify themselves in their
action. But people were doing just that. Divorce was legal, accepted,
and becoming a way of life.
For one who had always considered herself an optimist, who firmly believed that the world was growing better, that the Christian
religion would one day be universally accepted, and that the precepts
of her Bible were standards that would never change, the world of
the *40's was a shattering revelation. But it wasn't just the world
around her that was changing. The conflicts and tensions of her own
emotions baffled her. She wondered what had become of her settled
views—the principles on which she had based her thinking and the
pattern of life she had tried to follow.
But changing or not, day followed day and the routine of their
lives went on. The ordinary household chores took longer and seemed more difficult to perform, so much so that she and Papa were both
"tuckered out" by noon and had to have a rest before they could do
any more work that day. They were ever so grateful for Greg's help
to Papa and for the days that Susan spent in Mama's hot kitchen,
even though she had the same sort of work to do in her own home.
One Sunday afternoon when the midday meal was over, Mary
announced that she and a friend were going to Asheville to attend
a lecture at the auditorium. Nate had gone to Atlanta for the weekend,
so Mama and Papa were by themselves. Mama settled herself to write
her regular weekly letters to the children. Papa said he felt sort of
drowsy and wanted to lie down. He took the Sunday paper with him
so he could read a little and then have a nap.
Mama was busy for a time with her correspondence. It was so
quiet that the clock's ticking sounded loud in the stillness. After a
while Mama leaned back in her chair and dropped off to sleep, too.
She awakened to the realization that the day was far gone and it was
about time for Mary and Nate to be coming home. She thought she
had better wake Papa up or he would never get to sleep later. She
went to the bedroom and called, "Are you going to sleep all day?"
There was no answer, so she opened the door and went in. She
was immediately conscious of an eerie stillness which sent a chill of
fear through her. She stood there unable to speak, unable to move,
staring at and seeing nothing. She was not even aware of Mary's coming into the room or of her taking her arm and leading her away.
110
�In the kitchen Mary made a strong cup of tea and urged her
mother to drink it. Little by little the numbness left her and she could
accept the reality of what had happened. She laid her head on her
arms on the table and sobbed softly. Soon Nate came in and was told
the sad news. Mama said to him, "How in the world could it have
happened like this? I was right in the house and didn't realize anything
was wrong/1
"But, Mama," said Nate, "think of what a beautiful way to go.
He didn't suffer any pain for he lay quietly on the bed relaxed and
peaceful. He simply went to sleep."
All the children came home to see their father laid to rest—even
Danny and Sheila from London. The funeral was held in the little white
church where the Barkers had worshipped ever since they had moved to Tarpley. The church was filled with relatives and friends of many
years. "I wonder why they don't toll the bell like they used to?" a
young boy asked. "When my grandpa died they tolled it once for every
year of his age, and he was seventy-seven years old."
From the church the procession drove a few blocks to the
cemetery, where the rites were concluded. As the crowd began to
disperse, Mama thought it was somewhat like a reunion, for people
who had not seen each other for a long time began to greet each other
and renew acquaintances.
Mary and Nate, who stood on either side of their mother, asked
her if she would like to leave. Slowly she shook her head back and
forth and remained where she was. She stood silhouetted against the
brilliant color of the autumn sunset, a plump little woman in a neat
black dress. She knew the service was ended, but she was loath to
leave her companion of more than fifty years.
Ill
�30
The Barker household went on much as if there had been no interruption. Mama helped with the housekeeping and did her usual
chores automatically, but she admitted to herself that she felt adrift
with nothing to which she could cling. To fill the empty hours she
worked harder than ever on her project to make a bedspread for her
grandchildren. She had planned to make either a quilt or a crocheted
afghan for each one of them. It was a big undertaking since she had
so many grandchildren, but she thought she could at least do that
for them to remember her by.
112
�One day she received a telephone call from Jane. After they had
exchanged family news, Jane said, "Mama, Boyd and I are going to
Europe this summer and we want you to go with us. You and I can
sail over on one of the Queens, and Boyd will fly over later to meet us/'
"You surely can't be serious, Jane. You know I don't have the
means to go gallivanting around in foreign countries. Besides, I don't
know how to act."
When Mama left the phone that day she was sure that Jane
understood how utterly impossible it would be for her to go to Europe,
but in a few days Mama was shocked to find that she was planning
to go to Europe with the Brooks. She hardly knew how it came about
that all her objections and doubts left her, and she began looking forward with enthusiasm to visiting countries she had never dreamed
of being able to see.
Jane sent her brochures from Bronson Tours. They gave instructions about places to be visited, the time to be spent at each, the sort
of clothes to take along, and the amount of luggage each person would
be allowed to carry. Mama's enthusiasm grew with her studying, and
she applied herself conscientiously to getting out her history books
and refreshing her memory about the countries she was to visit.
On the night before she left Tarpley, Mama began to have misgivings. She wondered why she wanted to go away for three months,
separating herself by three thousand miles of water from all that was
near and dear to her. But the next day she took hold of herself and
decided that even though there was an element of risk in crossing
the Atlantic, hundreds of people did so safely every week. Also, she
didn't have any guarantee that if she stayed home she would be safe
or that things wouldn't change in her familiar surroundings. So she
finished her packing with determination, including in her prayers,
"Lord, if it be Thy will, let us go safely on this voyage."
Her excitement was at a fevered pitch by the morning of her
departure. Mary and Nate drove her that afternoon to Charlotte, where
she spent the night with Jane. On the next day she and Jane took
the "Southerner" to New York, where they spent the night in the
Waldorf-Astoria. Jane said she chose that hotel to compensate Mama
for their not being able to sail on the Queen Elizabeth or the Queen
Mary. There was no space available on either of them, so they had
booked passage on the Franconia, an Italian ship whose brochure made
it look really elegant.
113
�To Mama it was a once in a lifetime experience to stand at the
pier from which Franconia was to sail and realize that she was one
of the passengers herself. There were many small groups, and the
majority of them were saying tearful goodbyes—evidently they were
anticipating long separations. There was one rather loud party of
cheerful well-wishers popping champagne corks, and on the other extreme there were travelers who acted bored with the proceedings as
if an ocean voyage were a weekly occurrence and they saw no reason
to make a to-do over it.
When at last the gangplank was pulled up, the huge ship inched
away from the dock, with what seemed to be tiny tug boats accompanying it. Most of the passengers stood on deck to get a final glimpse
of the Statue of Liberty, but soon the buffet lunch was announced,
so Mama and Jane hurried along to the dining room.
It was nothing short of a feast, and no one was limited to anything.
Boyd had told Mama they served such elaborate food because they
knew lots of people would be sick and couldn't eat much, so they
wanted to tempt their appetites. Mama, although she didn't know
it then, was a good sailor and therefore did full justice to the food
throughout the passage. She never stopped marveling at the quality
and quantity of the food served.
She didn't have time to indulge in homesickness or uneasiness
as the ship got underway. There was the getting settled in their cabin,
114
�being assigned a table and time for meals, and a walk on the deck.
It was unbelievable to her that going two laps around the deck was
the same as walking a mile.
Mama decided the whole ship was like a small village uprooted
and set afloat on the sea. They had all kinds of shops, a movie theater,
a library, and a beauty parlor. For entertainment, there was a musical
concert every afternoon. Every night there was bingo, bridge, and
dancing. The management had devised activities in which all
passengers could take part, and each day brought something different.
It was the ending of an era of ocean travel; however, no one would
have believed the transition that was taking place, not even the ships'
owners. If Mama had had an inkling that these floating palaces would
soon be superceded by air travel, she would have been grieved because
the five days she had spent crossing the Atlantic gave her a thrill she
had never before experienced.
When the ship docked at Liverpool, a van was waiting for the
Bronson group. They drove to Windemere to spend the night. There
the group got a taste of how cold northern England could be even
in the middle of the summer. The same burly Scotsman drove them
the second day to the lake country of Scotland. Mama was petrified
when they started out and she saw the cars coming toward them on
the "wrong side" of the road! She closed her eyes in anticipation of
a crash, but then she realized that the other drivers were also hugging the left side of the highway. "Mercy on us all," said Mama to
herself. "What sort of country is this?"
On the drive through the lovely lake country of Scotland, they
stopped at an inn which bordered Loch Lomond. Tea was served to
them on the lawn, but Mama was so excited she could hardly drink
her tea. The lines of the old song kept ringing in her ears:
But me and my true Love will never meet again
On the bonny, bonny banks of Loch Lomond.
As a girl singing that song, she had been saddened by the thought
of true lovers never meeting again, and here she was an old woman
now but seeing with her own eyes this beautiful scene. She felt romantic and young again, and she sorrowed for the young lovers of the
whole universe who had the misfortune never to meet again.
Being a member of a touring group to Europe just after World
War II was not designed for those who didn't have strong legs, good
digestions, and plenty of pep. Mama thought she could keep up with
115
�the best of them, but there were times when she wished for just one
day in which to relax and do nothing. She wished there were another
boat trip spliced in with the tour! Mama never wanted anything she
couldn't share, and she felt she must be on the alert every minute
because she must take an account of these thrills back home with
her and be able to tell them all to family and friends.
She had read about Edinburgh and the huge fortress on Castle
Rock, but she was filled with awe when she saw the size of the massive
structure rising perpendicularly above the street. How in the world
did people get the material to build a castle like that? It looked so
safe and solid, and the encyclopedia said it was over a thousand years
old. She was also enamored by the flower clock on Princess Street.
She had to stand before it a long time to check with her watch to
see if the hands moved and if it was really keeping time.
116
�31
After spending two days in Edinburgh, they went across England
and took a boat over the North Sea to Holland. That trip was undertaken on a night so stormy that nearly everyone aboard was seasick
and went without dinner. Even Mama had second thoughts about a
boat trip being restful after that.
One thing Mama did religiously was to keep a diary of her travels.
Each night she entered a complete account of what had taken place
that day. She did it only to keep a record for herself, since she was
convinced that if she tried to tell people about her trip in as much
detail as she put in the diary, her listeners would be bored. Even with
making a full account of her trip each day though, she knew she
couldn't transmit the emotions she felt in actually being in places that
had until recently seemed so remote.
In Belgium the director took the group to Aachen to visit an
American cemetery. There were rows and rows of white headstones
with names of United States soldiers on them. It was like an electric
shock when Mama walked right up to a stone and read the inscription, "Lt. John Weston, Tarpley, N.C." John Weston had lived in the
country as she did, and their homes were in sight of each other. It
was almost like being present at his funeral, for he seemed very near
and real to her. She stood there transfixed while her companions
walked on without her.
Driving over a mountain road toward Baden-Baden, they travelled over a landscape dotted with little huts, used by the herders
who looked after cows and sheep in the summer pastures. The driver,
a self-confident young fellow, seemed anxious to exploit his skill, and
in Mama's eyes he was going too fast for safety. She was nervous
and kept closing her eyes whenever they rounded a curve. Suddenly
a rude jolt made her eyes pop open. The bus had met a milk truck
on one of the sharpest curves, and the bus driver was forced to go
into a ditch to avoid a head-on collision. The bus lay on its side with
the passengers scrambled "just like a carton of eggs," Jane said.
Everybody was jolted and frightened, but luckily none of the
twenty-nine passengers was seriously hurt. Injuries consisted of
bruises and abrasions, broken glasses, and loss of dignity. The bus
117
�was situated so that there was only one exit, the door next to the
driver. Two men climbed on top of the bus and literally pulled the
occupants out. Mama said it was like climbing out of a chimney. The
experience was unsettling to say the least, but with only a few hours'
delay the Bronson group resumed their schedule.
The next day they took a boat trip up the Rhine River, an excursion much more relaxing than the ill-fated bus trip. They were treated
to the sights of acres and acres of neatly pruned grapevines and many
picturesque old castles on the hills above the river. The volume of
water that flowed up the channel amazed them, and the tourists agreed
among themselves that it was quite romantic for the orchestra to play
"Die Lorelei" as they sailed around Siren Rock.
Mail from home was terribly important to Mama, and she was
thrilled because she got something at every mail stop they made. Many
members of her family were thoughtful and wrote, but her ten-yearold granddaughter was the most faithful correspondent. At every mail
stop Mama found a letter waiting for her from Jan, who would never
know how much these letters lifted her grandmother's spirits. In fact,
with every mail stop Mama realized how much she missed being at
home. At first, the novelty of crossing the ocean and seeing countryside so different from the Carolina mountains kept Mama excited
about the trip, but when there was a month left on the tour, Mama
began to realize how footsore and weary she was becoming. She began
almost unconsciously to count the days until she would start back
home.
Boyd flew over and met them in Paris. He was his usual charming self and acted as if it were a privilege to escort Jane and Mama
on sight-seeing expeditions. He took them to Notre Dame, the flea
markets on the Left Bank, The Eiffel Tower, the Galleria Lafayette,
Napoleon's Tomb, and the Arc de Triomphe. They had tea one afternoon served on the sidewalk of the Champs Elysee, which Mama enjoyed thoroughly. Boyd told her that he was saving the best for last,
since he felt that a trip to Paris wouldn't be complete without an evening at the Folies Bergere.
At that stage of the trip, Mama would agree to anything that
would help pass the time until she got home, so she started out in
the best of spirits. Their seats were in the balcony, and it shocked
Mama to see how practically everyone was smoking and throwing
their cigarette butts on the carpeted floor. It made Mama nervous
118
�even before the show started, for she was afraid of fire and she wasn't
at all sure that the cigarettes were thoroughly stamped out to be sure
one wouldn't start a blaze.
Mama had heard of the Folies from some of her friends who had
been to Paris, but she hadn't paid much attention to the description
of them. She thought of it as just another event that "everyone" went
to see. Sitting between Boyd and Jane, she waited expectantly for
the show to begin. The first thing on the program was a rather clever
monologue by someone inpersonating an Englishman. Then the chorus
girls came on the stage. "My land," she said to herself, "they really
are naked!" Each of the girls wore a big picture hat and a sequined
traingle in a very strategic spot, but aside from that they were completely nude.
Of course, Mama disapproved and did not even find them attractive, but when she glanced over at Boyd she saw a big grin on his
face. "That rascal would enjoy this sort of exhibition," thought Mama.
However, she noticed that he seemed to be spending more of his time
watching her than he was watching the show. Since he must be expecting her to be shocked and disapproving of the nakedness on stage,
Mama resolved to do a little pretending herself. She laughed when
anyone else laughed, clapped her hands enthusiastically, and acted
as if the whole performance were for her special benefit.
Having tea at the sidewalk cafe after the show was over, Boyd
said, "Just what did you think of all that bare flesh, Mama?"
"Well, with the weather like it is, I imagine those girls were more
comfortable than we were up in that hot balcony," Mama replied.
From Paris the travelers returned to London and this visit furnished Mama the biggest thrill of the whole trek. Danny lived in a
London suburb, so he met them and carried them to his home where
Sheila and the twin grandsons were waiting to greet them. Their small
home was attractive and well-kept. Like the proverbial English garden,
theirs, pocket handkerchief in size, was in perfect condition. Not a
weed was growing, not a branch of the shrubbery was out of place,
and the little flower beds were riotous with color.
Mama was happy that Danny seemed so thoroughly acclimated
and satisfied with his life in England, but she found it hard to realize
that her youngest child, her little barefoot tousle-headed boy, who
had grown up in the Carolina mountains, had become a virtual
Englishman. He and Jane seemed to be so happy together and they
119
�had many things to recall about their childhood days. Mama wondered
if Jane remembered her resentment when she discovered that Mama
was to have another baby. Jane and Danny had had a special rapport
all their lives, and though they lived thousands of miles apart, they
were ever so happy to get together and could bridge the gap of
distance or time whenever they met.
Mama thought of old Aunt Betsy's talks with her about her family.
She remembered that she had said, "Dey ain' never really yours and
all together 'cept when dey's little. When dey grown up, dey'll scatter and each'll go his own way. Don' think dey'll be what you want
'em to be neither—cause dey got to find dere own way."
From London they went across to Dublin and finished their tour
with a three-day visit to Ireland. They were to take the ship at Cogbh
for the return to America, but because of heavy rainstorms their last
day, the Franconia could not come into the harbor and the passengers
had to be carried out to the ship by tenders, and instead of a gangplank
to walk on they had to climb a ladder. This strange procedure made
Mama nervous, but she crept on board feeling thankful that at last
they were on their way home.
She had a rude shock, however, for she expected the calm sea
and smooth sailing they had experienced going over, when in reality
this whole crossing was stormy and at times the winds reached almost
hurricane force. There was dense fog at night, and the foghorn sounding sometimes every few seconds filled her with dread. The ship was
tossed about by the heavy seas day and night. Walking on the deck
was no longer a pleasant prominade but an ordeal to see if one could
remain on one's feet. "How in the world could two crossings be so
different?" Mama thought. She would be ever so glad, if and when
they reached the land, that there would be no more water to cross.
120
�32
When the Franconia arrived in New York, a whole day late, listing
noticeably because the cargo had shifted during the rough crossing,
the more than one thousand tourists all seemed glad to have that leg
of their journey behind them. After they had gone through customs,
checked in at Grand Central Station, and claimed their seats on the
"Southerner," Mama thought she could never wait the night through
so she could actually get home. When Nate and Mary met her at 6
a.m. at the station in Charlotte, she seemed to have lost the power
of speech or of movement. She stood there trembling, overcome by
her emotions. Although she couldn't communicate with them for a
time, she said later she had never been so happy in her life before.
She had been gone three months and had traveled thousands of miles,
but she was home again and she found that no great calamity had
befallen her family while she had been away. In fact, she wondered
if they had even missed her very much while she was gone!
Since it was late August, there was canning and preserving to
do, and she was soon back in the old routine of housekeeping and
homemaking chores. One afternoon she went upstairs to lie down after
clearing away the dinner dishes, and she thought about her trip. She
certainly was grateful to Boyd and Jane for the trip, and she realized
she would never be just the same woman she was before she went.
Studying history and reading about countries helped, but nothing
compared to the actuality of visiting these places and seeing with one's
own eyes foreign ways of life and being a part, if only for a few days,
of daily living in a different country. The trip had helped her to see
how little she knew about the globe she lived on. She had thought
that the European trip would make her a "well-traveled" person, but
what the wonderfully pleasant experience had brought home to her
was that as far as becoming a traveler, she had only touched the tip
of the iceberg. When she realized she had not set foot in South
America or Africa, or countries such as Russia, China, India, and
Japan, or goodness knows a whole world of other smaller countries
she couldn't even name, she was appalled at her own ignorance. At
least, she hoped she knew enough to realize her limitations, and she
121
�felt that she had learned things she had not expected to by going on
her trip.
For one thing, she thought she understood Appalachia better than
she ever had before. To outsiders it was considered a place where
everybody was poverty stricken and where people couldn't help
themselves. She had to admit there were some like that, but being
a mountain woman "born and bred'1 she couldn't feel herself very
different from the average run of people she met. It was like the old
adage, "Give a dog a bad name and you just as well hang him." People who lived away from Appalachia had the impression that being
from the mountains meant being underprivileged and on the poverty
level. But Mama realized that other places come in for their share
of being pinpointed by certain characteristics that are exploited by
the press.
On the day that Mama had taken the trip up the Rhine, she had
sat next to an English woman who had settled down for a long chat.
She told Mama she was expecting to visit the United States next summer and seemed to want to discuss the proposed visit to get help in
selecting the places she particularly wanted to see. Mama thought,
"Shell be asking me about places I haven't seen myself." First the
English woman had talked about New York, where the streets were
like canyons because of the Empire State Building and other
skyscrapers. She had heard also about the marvelous shopping centers
and the supermarkets. Then she mentioned the Grand Canyon and
Florida's sandy beaches. Mama wondered if the woman thought that
America was the size of England.
"There's one place, though, that I would not care to visit," continued her companion. "Chicago would be off limits for me. I don't
think I would feel safe in the vicinity of Al Capone and his gangsters."
Instinctively, Mama wanted to defend her country. "The press,
you know, wants sensational news to catch the public eye, and
sometimes one group or even one person's misdeeds can give a whole
city a reputation that is unjustified and hard to live down. Chicago
is indeed a prosperous, modern, and interesting place to visit, and
it is the second largest city in America. You would be as safe there
as anywhere else where millions of people are living in a congested
area."
Her companion did not answer, and Mama was sure that her
listener was unconvinced, but she had to try. It made her think of
122
�the Englishman and the American she heard arguing on the boat. The
former was sure that the left side of the highway was the "right"
one, and the American was just as positive that the right side was
the only "right" one! After listening to them, Mama decided they
really had no convincing arguments for either side—it was simply a
matter of each person being loyal to a custom of his native land. And
wasn't that feeling instinctive and universal?
No matter what the place of one's birth, be it mountain, desert,
or plain, each individual has a love for and a sense of loyalty to that
spot. Mama understood and shared that feeling herself. To her there
was no place on earth quite like the Blue Ridge Mountains of her
native Carolina. The great majority of the people there were simple,
honest, pure Scotch-Irish descendants. They were hard-working, Godfearing, church-going folks who were ambitious for their children to
have advantages that had been denied them. When all was said and
done, most of these mountain folks were the salt of the earth, and
she was proud of being one of them herself.
Mama remembered Aunt Betsy's advice to her about her children,
that they would be hers only when they were little. Mama thought
how right she had been. Her children had gone their separate ways
and had chosen what they would do. She had children and grandchildren scattered all over the United States and one family in
England. In some cases she had hoped that they would follow a different course, but as Aunt Betsy had said, "You cain' do nothin' about
it cause dey ain' gwine ask you."
Mama could not cope with the current attitude about families,
with divorce so easy and the number of children in a family so small.
She had grown up thinking that a woman's real mission in life was
to have as many children as God willed and to give them advantages
she herself had not had. Even though her children were scattered now,
she still felt close to each of them, rejoicing with them when they
were successful and sorrowing with them when they were in trouble. They had not all lived up to her expectations, but she was honest
enough to admit that in some cases she had expected too much.
Mama's reverie was broken by Nate, who came up to her room
with a letter from Jane. She read the note and said, "They want to
come up for dinner and bring along Janet's little boy from Minnesota.
We haven't seen him since he was a year old."
The letter seemed to rejuvenate Mama. It would be nice to have
123
�a chance to talk to Jane about the European trip they had shared,
it would be fun to see Boyd, for he always livened things up, and she
would be so glad to see the great grandson again.
She remembered that Mary would be gone until the weekend attending a library conference, and she thought of Sunday dinner. She
knew what had to be done, she told herself, and she also knew who
had to do it. Under those circumstances, she rose a little stiffly from
her chair and started toward the kitchen, saying to Nate as she did
so, "Fd better be up and at it."
124
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Dublin Core
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Title
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Appalachian Consortium Press Publications
Description
An account of the resource
This collection contains digitized monographs and collections from the Appalachian Consortium Press.
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Appalachian Consortium Press
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Appalachian Consortium Press
Date Issued
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June 1, 2017
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<a title="Digital Scholarship and Initiatives" href="http://library.appstate.edu/services/digital-scholarship-and-initiatives" target="_blank">Digital Scholarship and Initiatives</a>
Publication
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Appalachian State University
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Title
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Only When They're Little: The Story of an Appalachian Family
Description
An account of the resource
<span>A fictional account of an actual family whose Scotch-Irish ancestors immigrated to western North Carolina in the early nineteenth century, </span><em>Only When They're Little</em><span> is an authentic tale of Kate Pickens Day’s family life near Asheville, North Carolina. Published in 1985, this book combats the stereotype of the impoverished mountain people by presenting a new narrative. A middle class family living in a fictional town near Asheville named “Tarpley,” the book centers on an energetic and well educated woman named Cora Barker. Devoted to helping each of her family members excel in their chosen activity, this book is filled with drama, hardship, and the importance of being a good person.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://drive.google.com/open?id=10ebVv8ghidia9uKswswkCyRhhKOWnzwU" target="_blank" rel="noopener">Download EPub<br /><br /></a><a title="UNC Press Link" href="https://www.uncpress.org/book/9781469638164/only-when-theyre-little" target="_blank" rel="noopener">UNC Press Print on Demand</a>
Creator
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Day, Kate Pickens
Joyner, Nancy Carol
Language
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English
Publisher
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Appalachian Consortium Press
Subject
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Mountain life--Appalachian Region--Fiction
Families--Appalachian Region--Fiction
Appalachian Region--Fiction
Date
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1985
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PDF
Fiction
E-books
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Text
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<a href="https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed" target="_blank" rel="noopener">https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/deed</a>
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<a title="UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records" href="https://appstate-speccoll.lyrasistechnology.org/repositories/2/resources/9" target="_blank" rel="noreferrer noopener"> UA 76 Appalachian Consortium records </a>
Is Part Of
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<a title="Appalachian Consortium Press Publications" href="https://omeka.library.appstate.edu/collections/show/82" target="_blank" rel="noopener"> Appalachian Consortium Press Publications</a>
Appalachia
Appalachia Culture
family life
novel
stereotypes