In the 50’s coffee came in one flavor, people came in one color and music came in one beat. And you didn’t know any better. First time I heard “Shake, Rattle and Roll” I thought they were singing “Shake, Marilyn Monroe.” What did I know? Up in Atlanta they had a mega-store, Rich’s Downtown, you could get lost in there and never be seen again unless you happened to pass across the glass bridge which connected the two buildings over Peachtree Street. It’s the connections which shine the light on your journey.
My connection started at home, and I knew the few necessary steps to survive in that mine field. Slam a door and open another one. I am at level two holding Mama’s hand and walking down the long hall and smelling something. Smells take you any place quick. Give me a smell and I’m there. Diesel fumes give me Atlanta; wood fire at sundown and I get Carolina in the hills. I smelled pencil shavings walking down that long hall. Fresh wood being cut up into little tiny pieces. I was a little tiny piece that day, already been cut up, though. That walk was scarier than a sinner’s hell fire . I don’t suppose they ever thought we could have gone around to the back of the building and just walked in and there we’d be. Way too easy. Trauma beats tranquil, in spades. And they talk about terrorism today?
Then I’m standing in front of a door to a world I never knew. Lots of little tiny pieces in there, already cut up, too. I let go of Mama’s hand but I don’t remember how I got to where I ended up. But I sure got there. Still that smell of wood and shavings. I sat at a big low table for six in the back of the room. The only person I remember is the woman up front. She was not what you’d call Good Morning, Miss Dove, more like Miss Hog in a dress two sizes two small. Emphasize heaving, unused bust. Mean. So mean that when you misbehaved she made you dress up like a girl and stand in front of the room for everybody to laugh at you. I never did misbehave enough to put on that dress and I wanted to. Doris Day knew me even then. But I never got to get up there and show off in the dress. That’s how she dealt with the tiny little boy pieces while at home she was raising a son herself for bigger things.
I don’t remember her punishing the little girls. I do remember a pretty little blonde girl with a smile that made you need sunglasses on a cloudy day. One day, she wasn’t there. I couldn’t find her. In those days nobody talked about anything so I couldn’t find my friend. I turned to another girl friend to ask but she didn’t know anything either. I always held her suspect anyway. She wasn’t home-town and she wiped her dog’s butt with toilet paper out in the yard every time he pooped. They didn’t stay in town very long either. They picked up their toilet paper and their saxophones and moved straight to Disney World.
It was a year before the girl with the smile came back. She came back with more than she left, crutches and a brace on her leg. Polio. So close to me. Flying around in the air on the backs of flies. But none of them landed on me. It didn’t seem to affect her, though, the smile was still there. Sometimes it was forced, but she smiled even if it killed her. At the Pastime Theater, they used to pass the tin cup for polio and Sinatra up on the screen would sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” My friend always had the metal under her arm and on her leg. And she never walked alone.
Across the long hall there was another woman who had a much better deal going on than Miss Hog. This woman was what you would call a battleaxe. She was of indeterminate age, a heaving bosom, orthopedic oxfords and little pince-nez glasses down on her nose. I was terrified of her, but I loved her. She made you bring newspaper every day so you’d have a place to take a nap on the floor. After nap time, she’d give you a little orange pail and you’d march outside and get water for her plants. She was standing in the door one afternoon giving some words of wisdom to us while keeping tabs on the Long Hall. She used an improper word to describe a black person and the maid who was sweeping the hall, herself black, said “Miss Ellen, we don’t use that word anymore, we say “Negroes”. With one huge heave of that bosom, Miss Ellen turned to the woman and said, “There is no ROSE to it. Now you get home and wash your Christmas.” Don’t ask me what it meant, I’m just telling the tale. She continued teaching about 20 years past retirement and when they finally shoved her out the door she went home, made Christmas Brandy and called you up out of the blue to tell you your batch was ready and to bring $7 for it. And you never said no to Miss Ellen.
C. 2008 Richard C. Wall
My connection started at home, and I knew the few necessary steps to survive in that mine field. Slam a door and open another one. I am at level two holding Mama’s hand and walking down the long hall and smelling something. Smells take you any place quick. Give me a smell and I’m there. Diesel fumes give me Atlanta; wood fire at sundown and I get Carolina in the hills. I smelled pencil shavings walking down that long hall. Fresh wood being cut up into little tiny pieces. I was a little tiny piece that day, already been cut up, though. That walk was scarier than a sinner’s hell fire . I don’t suppose they ever thought we could have gone around to the back of the building and just walked in and there we’d be. Way too easy. Trauma beats tranquil, in spades. And they talk about terrorism today?
Then I’m standing in front of a door to a world I never knew. Lots of little tiny pieces in there, already cut up, too. I let go of Mama’s hand but I don’t remember how I got to where I ended up. But I sure got there. Still that smell of wood and shavings. I sat at a big low table for six in the back of the room. The only person I remember is the woman up front. She was not what you’d call Good Morning, Miss Dove, more like Miss Hog in a dress two sizes two small. Emphasize heaving, unused bust. Mean. So mean that when you misbehaved she made you dress up like a girl and stand in front of the room for everybody to laugh at you. I never did misbehave enough to put on that dress and I wanted to. Doris Day knew me even then. But I never got to get up there and show off in the dress. That’s how she dealt with the tiny little boy pieces while at home she was raising a son herself for bigger things.
I don’t remember her punishing the little girls. I do remember a pretty little blonde girl with a smile that made you need sunglasses on a cloudy day. One day, she wasn’t there. I couldn’t find her. In those days nobody talked about anything so I couldn’t find my friend. I turned to another girl friend to ask but she didn’t know anything either. I always held her suspect anyway. She wasn’t home-town and she wiped her dog’s butt with toilet paper out in the yard every time he pooped. They didn’t stay in town very long either. They picked up their toilet paper and their saxophones and moved straight to Disney World.
It was a year before the girl with the smile came back. She came back with more than she left, crutches and a brace on her leg. Polio. So close to me. Flying around in the air on the backs of flies. But none of them landed on me. It didn’t seem to affect her, though, the smile was still there. Sometimes it was forced, but she smiled even if it killed her. At the Pastime Theater, they used to pass the tin cup for polio and Sinatra up on the screen would sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone” My friend always had the metal under her arm and on her leg. And she never walked alone.
Across the long hall there was another woman who had a much better deal going on than Miss Hog. This woman was what you would call a battleaxe. She was of indeterminate age, a heaving bosom, orthopedic oxfords and little pince-nez glasses down on her nose. I was terrified of her, but I loved her. She made you bring newspaper every day so you’d have a place to take a nap on the floor. After nap time, she’d give you a little orange pail and you’d march outside and get water for her plants. She was standing in the door one afternoon giving some words of wisdom to us while keeping tabs on the Long Hall. She used an improper word to describe a black person and the maid who was sweeping the hall, herself black, said “Miss Ellen, we don’t use that word anymore, we say “Negroes”. With one huge heave of that bosom, Miss Ellen turned to the woman and said, “There is no ROSE to it. Now you get home and wash your Christmas.” Don’t ask me what it meant, I’m just telling the tale. She continued teaching about 20 years past retirement and when they finally shoved her out the door she went home, made Christmas Brandy and called you up out of the blue to tell you your batch was ready and to bring $7 for it. And you never said no to Miss Ellen.
C. 2008 Richard C. Wall
1 comment:
I was quite amazed to find, when I returned to teach on that same hall in the fall of 1968, that it was, in fact, just a normal length for a hall in a school and not the never ending passage that we both remember from childhood. My heart used to jump into my throat every time I had to walk all the way down to the first grade door. I can still smell the oil soaked wooden floors which resulted from the way they were cleaned which was with oil soaked wood shaving (they were a deep red color) that were scattered on the floor then swept. I guess that kept the playground dust down.
I do have exactly your same memories about Ms. Hog (everybody called her husband Piggy Deal) especially concerning the mean part and the "son Nathan this and the son Nathan that" adoring commentary. I will have to say that it was Miss Ellen who kept the dresses in her room and therefore I always thought that particular form of twisted torture was her idea. Poor Tommy Peavy, who always came to school without shoes, not because it was some fashion statement but because his folks did not have the money to buy him any, wore the dress more than anyone and for, of all things, wetting his pants. I can see him right now. He had light blue eyes, freckles and sandy, poorly cut, hair. He was very shy and always ducked his head to the side. If he later became an ax murderer I would understand wouldn't you? Speaking of long term damage - My sister, Debbie, who creates a type of folk art and is pretty well known in folk art circles, was so tramatized by Miss Ellen that she had to create a piece of art about one of her "Miss Ellen" experiences. The experience - One sunny day Debbie and some other 7 year old children were happily playing on the playground at recess and one of them found a tiny featherless fledgling which had fallen out of a nest. They were very excited and went to get Miss Ellen to show her the baby bird. Miss Ellen made some statement like, "Well It won't be able to survive," then promptly crushed it with the cube that was the heel of her big black lace up shoe. The art piece is of the big black shoe and the crushed bird and is called "The Biddy Stomper." As you will remember Debbie is thirteen years younger than we are so those two were still inflicting their particular brand of torment at that time. I also remember that we all went to the auditorium on the first day of school with our parents. The principal was up on the stage speaking and Tommy Brett, who was sitting behind me whispered to his Mother, "Momma, is that God?" Anyway, I've enjoyed your memories and I hope you've enjoyed mine - dismal as they are! Take care, Ray
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