This is my cousin, Margaret "Jackie" McCullough, who was Grandpa's and my fishing buddy  in #1, and  my school-mate, recess and lunch  buddy in this episode, kind of a tomboy, cheerleader. bright student, genuinely nice person, through and through  !                                     \    

( 23 )

Wind-Blown Rocks Thrown

‘Tis an Ill Wind That Blows No One Good

Our relocation from Greybull was more typical than from Worland to Greybull, in that we knew ahead of time in Worland that we had a transfer coming, so we could plan ahead, use up our perishable groceries, keep the laundry done, and not pay the rent too far in advance. This time we were headed for New Mexico, on short notice. When we left Greybull, it was cold and snowing, When we arrived in Lovington, it was cold and snowing, and windy. I had seen the wind blowing sand. This was the first time I had seen the wind throwing rocks. We had to check into a hotel for the night, but we were told we would not be able to stay a second night; the hotel was booked up. Dad wisely booked us into a different hotel for the second night and was again told that the one night was all that was available. The first hotel had a room available for the third night, so he booked it, According to my mom’s journal, this went on for days, a series of moves from one hotel to another, while exhausting every resource trying to locate a permanent address. We needed to have that before she would enroll us in school. These deplorable conditions she attributed, as everything else, to wartime shortages.

When the weekend came around, with no place to unload anything, and no place to stay ‘til check-in, Dad decided to shift into tourist mode for an afternoon to relieve the pressure. We took a short drive to Fort Sumner where Mom bought some colorful scarves, a picnic tablecloth, since all our others were still packed and we were picnicking every day from a paper grocery bag , and a souvenir bracelet. Dad, with his nearly always present camera found interesting things to photograph, including Billy the Kid’s grave, if it is the real one! 

Finally, there was a vacancy at one of the motor courts where some of the single men were staying. Dad checked it out. Apparently, the shortage had the effect of folks being less discriminating and lowering their standards. It was a filthy dump. It could be cleaned and made livable, and two little boys needed to be in school. At least it would stop the hotel-hop-scotch, so he rented it.  If you read Chapter VIII, paragraph two, you know how that turned out. Verbatim, from my mother’s journal, after she relates the alternating arrangement at the hotels, she described it this way, ”Then we moved into a small cabin which was so cold; only had an oven  to heat with, and under the bed we found a large pool of dried blood, which we left there and moved out, me, going to Oklahoma and Smitty going back to the hotel. After returning to my father’s home in Pryor, I again put the boys back in school. Due to not being able to get an overdue vacation, Smitty quit his job and came to Pryor. We stayed around there for about two weeks and left for Magee, Mississippi, and opened a photography studio.”

Actually, we never really got moved in. We never spent one night in that place and the only thing I remember being brought in was the galvanized tub which contained her cleaning supplies, and it wasn’t there very long. Everything after that is a blur until after dark and we were on the bus. It was so cold, the windows were fogged over, and the air was so dry, it seemed difficult to breathe. If I kept my face close to the window, the condensate that was collected there seemed to alleviate my breathing discomfort. Making the trip at night time was probably a blessing;  no one had to see our sad faces. We were a close family and any period of separation for any reason was always distressing. This was no spur of the moment reaction to a bad situation, This was a very hard decision on the part of my parents, especially Mom, who had a hard time handling being separated from my dad. Seeing him so near death six years ago, and not knowing if he would survive his ordeal, left its influence on her emotions and state of mind. And she was just plain crazy about her Smitty! Poor Dad; at least the three of us had each other, and he was alone. I’m glad he is not a drinking man,

Grandpa had left the farm and moved to town. Mom kept herself busy making up for the deficiencies in Grandpa’s housekeeping. Her mom was a total invalid by now and no longer recognized anyone, but Mom would go to her bedside and talk to her and sing softly as she brushed the long coal-black locks of her mothers hair. It wasn’t as though this put a smile on Grandma’s face; she was always smiling anyway.

Mayes County was in the midst of a cold and rainy spell, but the school was within easy walking distance, so we bundled up and headed that way to officially end our period of involuntary truancy. Mom provided our pertinent records and left without us. We were shown to our appropriate first and third grade classrooms. First my mom, then my brother went their separate ways, and I was alone. I was often alone, and all my life I had coped with playing the solo part; but this was different, I was enveloped in a mild sense of foreboding. I wished I was back, sitting by Grandpa’s potbelly stove, gazing through the feed door, left ajar to serve as a cuspidor. There was something comforting, just imagining the glow of the coals and the soft hiss of the moisture being sizzled out of the not-quite-seasoned stove wood. As my new teacher took charge of me and showed me to my desk, I was suddenly comforted. My seat was on the last row along the outside wall, and right there, almost within my short arm’s reach was a big wide window, Windows and I have a long history, We go way back, and are friends; friends that share! Beyond the window is a world that can become your own when shared by your friend, the window!

Each school day became a little easier as I began fitting in and making friends. I discovered that a good ice breaker was to let it be known that the pretty and popular girl with the long blonde pigtails and just the right allotment of freckles was my cousin. I would look for her at recess and lunch period, and if I spotted her I would join her on the playground. We were, after all, thanks to Grandpa, fishing buddies! We were both first-graders, though not in the same classroom. Another ice-breaker or conversation starter that I continued to use was a talent for drawing. I seems to run in the family, and somebody had coached me and helped me learn to draw a profile of a horse’s head that we copied from a billfold, of all things. I was also getting pretty good at a cowboy hat, with just the right curl to the brim. I practiced a lot, inappropriately many times, when I was supposed to be doing something more productive. I would try to copy items from my favorite comic strips, like Red Ryder. I could draw a pretty decent six-shooter, and Winchester rifle, but the long barrel was difficult because of the long, parallel straight lines, things that would have gotten me expelled in today’s schools! I would try to manage to have some tablet paper folded in my pocket and would sit quietly, drawing one of my more accomplished favorites, until someone would start looking over my shoulder, then a “crowd” of  three or four would gather. By the time the bell would ring someone would usually ask for the sketch, and I gladly gave them away. A nickel “Big Chief” tablet didn’t last me very long. By the time I would reach the fourth grade, my teacher would be asking me to stay in at recess and decorate the chalk boards for Christmas, using colored chalk. I would finally find a way to get on a teacher’s “good side”!

It seemed I was doing better in school for the short time we were in Pryor, but it was because the things we were doing were the sort of things that were not hindered by my dyslexia. Later on, I would find that the hardest thing for me to do was to write the numbers, by tens, all the way to one hundred. The first row, one through ten, would be neat and straight, and the numbers uniform in size. The second row, eleven through twenty, would show signs of diminishing ability, and the numbers were progressively growing taller and fatter. By the fourth and fifth row they would barely fit across the page and were beginning to slant toward the bottom of the sheet. The harder I tried and the more concentration I applied, the worse it got. I use numbers to illustrate the problem because I hadn’t learned to write yet. I would be in my forties, and attempting a return to school before I got an explanation for why this happens. Had I known then what I know now, it would have made my academic life a lot smoother sailing, which I will address in a following episode.

Dad had given his two week’s notice with his resignation. I never heard him discuss the matter, so I do not know how long it took him to formulate plan “B”; for now, it was nice
just to have him in our midst, and take the time to catch up on all the news and current events with friends and family, in Pryor, Locust Grove, and the surrounding area. Within a couple of weeks, the rest and relaxation had run its course, and, as they say, “time’s a-wastin’”. It was time to initiate plan “B”! Dad’s hobby was photography, but it had grown far beyond that. He had long ago begun to set his intensions on owning a studio, and he must have decided to get it out of his system. With this now-or-never decision settled in his mind, all he needed was a location. There was no photo shop presently in Magee, Mississippi. That was about to change!

Thanks again, Ron, for your stories!

I had a cousin, much like Jackie, whose name was Judy. Her dad, like mine, was one of nine children. As the kids of our generation grew up, deaths, divorces and relocations separated us. Judy's brother was killed in a car crash at age nineteen. I probably haven't seen Judy in more than thirty years.

Thanks for sharing!

A.J.