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What’s In a Name?
Hazlehurst, Ridgely, and Snow

I didn’t keep track of how many methods my dad employed when searching for an apartment in each new location, but several come to mind. He had many opportunities to practice, and he had gotten good at it. After the rigors of the move, the comforts of home would be very welcome, and sooner or later, essential. Having seen previous situations   become desperate, he left no stone unturned. His first stop was the Chamber of Commerce. They kept a list and were usually up-to-date on recent turnover. Sometimes, their office staff would have inside information on family members, friends or neighbors that had rentals, or space in their homes that was available.

His second stop would be a service station, with a garage and mechanic that could handle all the service requirements for the company vehicles. The selection was partly determined by which client’s name was on the contract. If we were working for Continental Oil, he would look for a Conoco station. He would tell the proprietor how many crew members were married, with kids, or single,  needing apartments, room and board, or sleeping rooms, and let them enter the hunt. Service station staff, back when they were full service, saw and talked to a lot of people; they ranked “up there” with barbers and bartenders. Then he would find the school and drive the adjacent neighborhood, looking for “for rent” signs. If a grocery store had a bulletin board, he would check it out. 

We wound up with the main floor of a house, with a crew member, his wife, daughter, and infant son taking the upper story. We shared the kitchen, but had our own private bathroom. Dad’s boss had found housing for his family in a huge older home, but was still looking for something more suitable. When we met his landlady, she was introduced to us as the grandmother of Cammie King, the child actress that played “Bonnie Blue Butler” in “Gone With The Wind”, who was portrayed in the movie as having died after jumping her pony over a rail. There were lots of photos that Grandma enjoyed showing to all who would take her “tour”.  They were later able to be our neighbor, moving into one of the upper floor apartments of our landlady’s house, across the driveway from us. The ladies could have their coffee and sewing sessions together and I would have playmates with whom I was already acquainted. There was a large fenced playground with swings and a sandbox that had been installed for the tenants’ children. There was one other girl, Jodie, about my age, whose mom and dad had rented the other upstairs apartment. So there we were, all housed and settled in, just in time to get ready for the holidays. Mom had time to try out the oven before she would need to do Christmas dinner. I don’t know why, but it seems every oven was different, with ways that had to be discovered before you could rely upon turning out decent biscuits, pies and cakes. I do remember two Thanksgiving pumpkin pies that had a couple of scorched “blisters” each that had to be “surgically” removed, and a batch of whipped cream was required to hide the “scars”. Still, Merle, the man living upstairs from us bragged and raved about how good they were.

Mom and Dad decided to go “all out” on decorating the house for Christmas that year, The upstairs couple helped go to the countryside and collect holly boughs and evergreens, and a vine I had not seen before with round black berries. Some of the single fellows that were a long way from home even got involved and brought a tree. I remember how we children would get the tree lights turned on and pull our chairs up close and sit with our faces almost against the tree and search among the tinsel-draped boughs for magically illuminated “caves” and “cubby holes” that we identified as dwellings for elves and fairies.Tinsel was such a luxury that year, I’m not sure how we had it, but we did! I do not remember any of the gifts I got that year; not one; but I surely do remember that tree!

Our Landlady had the air of an aristocrat. Even her name suggested such notions.  I remember that all of us kids were somewhat afraid of her. Her property seemed as though it had been at one time a proud estate, or at least the estate of proud people. We had our playground, and that is where we were expected to play, which was reasonable. We were expected to stay out of her yard, and away from her flower beds, also reasonable, for they were lavish and showy. She was especially proud of her “Japonicas”, which is a term that simply designates “Japanese origin”, but I thought it was a particular flower blossom. She had spectacular stands of Azaleas, Gardenias, and Camellias, and among the mature trees in her yard were many flowering Magnolias. It would leave one almost speechless, or at least, speaking with a Southern drawl! One was tempted to pronounce her name, “Ridgely”, as “Richly”, which I had heard on occasion, but was afraid to try for myself.

One morning, I was sent on an errand by my mother that came with major misgivings, though I didn’t really believe she would send me into the lair of a lioness. She wanted me to deliver the rent check to Mrs. Ridgely,  The following events brought about a new estimation of our “benefactor“. At the back door, she invited me in, and would not take the check from my extended hand until I entered and followed her to her breakfast room where she pulled a chair from under the table and offered me a seat. I sat down. She took the check, gave it a quick look , folded it and pocketed it. To this point, I had not uttered a word. She asked me if I needed anything, and I shook my head, and managed a meekly spoken, “No, Ma’am”. She asked me if I liked preserved plums from a can. We were plowing new ground here; I was not familiar with this particular delicacy, so I was contemplating my answer; a simple “no” sounds so blunt, lacking any hint of cordiality. I was high-centered between a rock and a hard place, but not for long. It could have only been the span of a heartbeat or two, then she rescued me with the comment, “ I’m going to have some; would you like to try them?”. This would be an excellent opportunity to expand my acquaintance with worldly living. How could I refuse the hospitality of this gracious and refined Southern lady? The plums were perfectly delightful, as were my manners and the light conversation that passed beteeen us at her breakfast table. I excused myself without scraping the bowl with my spoon, though I was tempted. I may be a newly-turned six year old Okie, but I’m no rube! I was obliged, after this personal encounter with the lady purported to be such a “meanie”, to re-evaluate, and re-compartment her in my mind. 

Mom wanted to know what took so long for me to simply drop of a check at the back door of the “big house”, so I gave her the whole bale, the long version of , by now in my mind, my wonderful adventure. She listened without speaking, and probably without blinking, her expression never changing, but no doubt her impression of Mrs. Ridgely was changing; a sure way to make a good impression on my mom was to be nice to her kids.

I had turned six the day before St. Patrick’s Day, and ten days later, my brother would turn eight. After leaving the Kennedy “land of plenty” we were once again shopping for groceries at the local stores, and realizing how spoiled we had been by the garden, smokehouse, orchards, laying-hens, and home-made soap. I vividly remember Mom and Maybelle, the bosses wife, herding their three preschoolers into the car upon hearing the rumor that such-and-such a store was selling bar soap. On other days, it would be some other commodity we were used to taking for granted, and it was handy having a friend and neighbor with a sedan! Hazlehurst, named for its military officer founder, was a good-sized town with a decent variety of shopping outlets, but so much of their wares were still in short supply or unavailable, many home-makers were plagued by Mother Hubbard Syndrome: bare cupboards! Sugar was the first staple to be rationed, in the spring of ‘42, a condition that lasted until the supply normalized in 1947. Birthday cakes for kids need frosting, thick and gooey, and Mom needed two of them within ten days. This could mean that Dad’s coffee and cereal would be without sugar. What is a mother to do? I can tell you what mine did, and cut her requirement in half. She picked the Sunday between the two birthdays, took a chance on the oven, Ol’ Unreliable, and baked an Angelfood cake (the yolks of the eggs could be used for French toast and sandwiches). With a circle cut out of a cereal box, she covered the hole in the center of the cake, gave the frosting a St. Pat’s green color and mint flavor, and slathered the cake, cardboard and all, to the delight of two boys who got into quite a tussle over who was going to lick the frosting off of the cardboard. 

Mrs. Ridgely had a yard-man that seemed more like a family member that worked for his keep. His name was Snow, not Mr. Snow, just Snow. He was up in years, but still stood straight as a trooper at inspection, even when leaning on a yard rake or a hoe. His hair was beginning to gray, but I thought he was very handsome, and taller than any man I knew. He seemed to have stepped right out of an Uncle Ben’s Rice label! (Check out the 40th anniversary collectable tin!). He was always busy, usually in a serious mood, but approachable. He seemed to be unfazed by a youngster’s questions, even when his reply brought a “why?”, and sometimes another, and followed by another. He even took the time to try to explain why it seemed so long for Christmas to come! Once, we were in the far corner at  the front of the property among the tall pecan trees, deep in conversation. I was absent-mindedly poking the ground with his pitchfork and enjoying the sight and sound of it springing back to my hand. Suddenly, I had miscalculated and poked through the top of  my shoe and deep into my right foot. My scream was Hollywood quality, but it was authentic! I was hurting! Snow grabed me up like a load of firewood and ran with me all the way to the house. Up in years? Perhaps. But at that moment, on that day, he was still the swift runner of his youth. He was already my hero, but this sealed his place in my heart, forever! God rest your soul, Mister Snow!

It is appropriate that Easter Sunday, Resurrection Sunday if you prefer, is celebrated at this time of the year, when our hemisphere is breaking forth with renewed life. It  also meant renewed wardrobe for my brother and me. Though there was a two year difference in our ages, our Sunday clothes were usually matching outfits. This was a big bonus for me; here is why. Mother was a big believer in hand-me-downs, and I was thirteen years old before I got my first brand-new winter coat in Miles City, MT, but there was no way
I could inherit my brother’s year old sport jacket and one be found in his new size to match it. We usually wore out our shoes before we out-grew them, but Easter meant marching down to Buster Brown, Poll Parrot, or Red Goose for new ones to replace our “good” shoes which, come Monday, would be our “school” shoes. Yes. School shoes! I was told that in the fall, I would be “big” enough to go to school. I was excited at the prospect of learning to read. Mom and Dad, for Easter, had presented each of their boys a little white New Testament. She had inscribed, on the inside front cover, a favorite verse from the Beatitudes, and “sealed” it with a sticker of a small red heart. I would find a quiet place and open the little Book and pretend to read it. As I began to acquire rudimentary reading skills, I was still motivated in a substantial way by my desire to be able to read the pages of that little white Book with the heart that my mother and dad gave to me.

There are a few significant memories of our stay in Hazlehurst that I would like to mention: my first balloon, even after it popped, I still played with the pieces; my first bubblegum. given to me by the teenage daughter of a Black family that I visited with across the fence; and a visit to our home one Sunday afternoon. Someone had decided to use precious rationed gas to make a 90 mile round trip to see us! I could hardly believe my eyes as I looked down the long gravel driveway and saw the older-style sedan approaching! The Kennedys! We had such a great visit, and were so glad to see one another. Every moment was a highlight! Too soon, we had to say our farewells, but not goodbyes. Without giving too much away…it will be better if we wait.

My "Grandpa Smith" was also a wood carver. He used only his pocket knife, working with cedar. He produced some beautiful stuff, chairs, hat racks, even chests. His name was Jasper Newton Smith.

A.J.; Must have been something in our Smith genes; I never saw my Grandpa Smith use anything but a pocket knife (he had several, all razor-sharp, one in his pocket, the rest in a bureau drawer) regardless of what he was carving, whether an owl novelty, or an axe- or hoe-handle. or a huge s-shaped scythe handle. For fun, he created walking canes; I have two of them. one from a sassafrass sapling, the other is cedar, the handle being a gooses head. 

We shared our Indian feathers with Jody, who lived across the driveway, and upstairs, above Mrs. Ridgeley.