An odd fact about the family is that Sarah was the only daughter in a family of boys.  She raised 5 boys and one daughter, Mamie.  Mamie had 4 boys and one daughter, Alice.  Alice had 3 boys and one daughter, Linda.  Linda had one boy and one daughter, Davida.  Davida is now in her childbearing years.

When Albert was about 10 years old, the family was living in San Saba County, Texas, in the Richland Springs area.  It was during this time that one of Sarah's brothers was riding on the back of a horse drawn wagon down the street of town.  A newfangled motor vehicle came up the street and frightened the horse, which began to run.  The sudden start threw the brother from the back of the wagon with such force that it killed him.  Sarah never forgot that day

From there the family settled in Montague County, Texas.  It was here Albert attended school through the 6^th grade.  He then dropped out to help the family farm their land.  World War I was being fought, and he was needed at home.  It was here that Albert became a steadfast friend with two cousins, William Rose and Hudgin Richardson.  He thought as much of them as he did his own brothers and remained in close touch with them all their lives.

In December of 1929, with Mamie and Edgar already married and settled into their new families, Sylvester and Sarah moved Albert, Oran, Cecil, and Jesse to the homestead west of Ringling, Oklahoma, near the community of Atlee.

Albert helped with the family farming.  In addition, he worked as a pumper in the Oscar Oil Field near Grady, Oklahoma.  His earnings helped with family expenses and helped to send Oran to Decatur Baptist College where he studied agriculture.

She was a strong girl in a family of few boys and was called on to do farm work.  She was able to hitch a team of mules to a double tree as well as any of her brothers.  She was a scrappy young girl and was more than able to fight her own battles, which she did when she was called names because of her medical condition.  She once threatened Fred with a pitchfork when they were fighting.

Her oldest brother, Buck, had left home before she was old enough to remember him.  One day she saw a man coming up the road toward their house.  He stopped and asked where "Ma" was.  She replied that she didn't know where his Ma was, but hers was in the house.  It turned out to be her brother, Buck, home for a visit.

Ida Mae, though tough as any boy, did have one beau.  His name was Tennis Ferris.  His young life was cut short the day he tried to hitch a ride on a freight train.

They soon became acquainted.  Cecil had a Calumet Baking Powder can filled with dominoes which he brought and taught them to play"42".  Annie 'walked out' a few times with Jesse.  Myrtle liked Cecil a lot.  Albert soon planted a grape vineyard by their house.  When Annie and Myrtle would be passing by, he would cut some clusters of grapes and toss them across the fence to them.  When they told Tiny, she instructed them to be sure to say "thank you".

Albert tried his hand at growing watermelons and found he was good at it.  In the summer of 1934, he invited Ida Mae to go along with him to help him as he peddled the watermelons.  He got a quarter per melon, and Ida Mae kept the money for Albert.  She kept the quarters, but she didn't spend any; for they weren't hers to spend.  Sometimes, when Albert was carrying a melon to the car for one person, someone else would come up and purchase a melon from Ida Mae and tell her to give it to her husband.  She knew he wasn't her husband, but she just took the money and said, "Thank you."

Sarah was not altogether pleased that Ida Mae, in her faded, patched overalls, and was helping Albert.  She told him that if he insisted on taking her along, the least he could do was buy her a decent dress to wear.

Albert took Ida Mae to the dry goods store in Ringling, told her to pick out two cotton dresses and he paid for them.  When Sarah heard of this, she started to complain, but Albert stopped her by saying he was only doing what she had told him to do.  Sarah said no more.

On warm summer days, Albert and Ida Mae went with another couple for drives in the country.  They stopped once to make their picture sitting on the bridge that spanned Mud Creek.  Sarah always believed Ida Mae was the one who talked Albert into having the wen on the side of his face removed.  And perhaps she was.

Elsie prepared a room for them in their house.  It was there Albert and Ida Mae stayed until they arranged for a one-room house in the Atlee community.  They only had a couple of chairs, an eating table, and an iron bedstead to start house keeping.

Sarah was not overjoyed with her new daughter-in-law.  In fact, Sarah never felt that any girl was quite as good as her boys.  But when Marion was born July 1, 1935, a month early, he was termed a blue baby.  He was sickly in the beginning, and it was Sarah who came to help Ida Mae care for him.  In time Sarah came to like Ida Mae and told her in later years that she thought as much of her as she did of any daughter-in-law she had.

A year later, Albert, Ida Mae and Marion were living in Texas near the town of Belcherville.  Ida Mae was again in the "family way".  It was July, corn was just ripe, and Ida Mae ate a big mess of roasting ears.  That night she had a severe stomachache and blamed it on the corn.  The next day, July 18, 1936, Clifton Leon was born; we called him Leon.

When Marion was about two years old, they were once again in Oklahoma.  Marion had a dog that was his constant companion.  Together they explored the creek behind the house.  In fact, wherever Marion was, there was his dog.  Marion had not yet learned to talk and there was some concern about this in the family.  Cecil once wanted to know, "When is Marion going to learn to talk." Albert's reply was, "Oh, when that dog does, I guess."

Money was in short supply, so when Leon was a year old and Marion was two, Albert and Ida Mae went out to west Texas to pick cotton.  In those days, the fields were segregated with whites picking in one area and coloreds picking in another.  Albert and Ida Mae picked three rows between them.  Marion and Leon walked along with them.  Somehow Marion wandered away.  When Ida Mae discovered he was missing, she stood up in the cotton patch and called out, "I've lost my little boy.  Has anyone seen him?"

From across the field in the colored section a black lady answered, "I have him here on my sack." There was Marion, riding contentedly on the back of her half filled cotton sack.

In October 1938, Albert and his young family were living in the community of Atlee.  Ida Mae was again expecting a child.  This time she went to stay with her mother and when Virginia Lou was born on October 15, 1938, Tiny helped care for her.

The family at some point lived in a tent below Sarah's house.  Sarah was now a widow, having lost Sylvester in 1935.  Oran and Alice lived in Beaumont, Texas.  Jesse had married Opal Abshire and moved away.  This left only Cecil at home with Sarah.  It remained that way until the 1950's when Mamie, also a widow, came to help with her care.

Albert and his family settled in a wood frame house west of the Richardson home place.  It was here on October 12, 1940, that their second daughter was born.  They named her Patsy Ann.

In the fall of 1941, Marion started to school at Atlee.  Leon was only 5 years old but went to school with Marion to keep him company.  They were inseparable, and the school bent the rules for them to be together.

On January 15, 1942, when Marion and Leon got off the school bus, they were greeted with the news that they had another sister, named Mamie Loucinda after Albert's only sister.  That completed the family.

When Mamie was 6 months old, World War II was in progress.  Albert was too old at age 42 to join the army, so he packed the family and moved to California to work in the aircraft plants.  They traveled at night through Death Valley with Mamie wrapped in moist towels to keep her from getting too hot.

Many memories were made by the children of Albert and Ida Mae Richardson.  Marion recalls that our Daddy was a strict man, but there was one time he especially remembers that Daddy was lenient.

Our car was an older model Chevy, which would only run about 20 miles an hour.  The radiator had a hole in it and we had to stop many times on the way to Ringling, and put more water in the radiator.  Sometimes we stopped at mud holes, and then Daddy began to carry a 5-gallon can of water with us to fill the radiator.

In order to get the car started, it was parked at the top of the hill, and we would all push it down the hill to get it started.  One Saturday, we pushed it down the hill, but it didn't start, it ran into the sand by the well and died.  Daddy decided we need the tractor to pull it back up the hill to try again.  Leon and Marion started to run, but Daddy stopped them and said, "Wait a minute, before you go, I don't want you to drive the tractor in road gear.  Don't drive in 4^th gear."

The race was on.  Marion and Leon knew that whoever got to the tractor first would get to drive, which they both wanted to do.  Leon won the race.  He got in the driver's seat and headed to the house.  The tractor had a cultivator on the back.  Sure enough, Leon put the tractor in 4^th gear and was making good speed.  All of a sudden, he made a slight turn in the woods, the cultivator hit a tree and tore the cultivator off the tractor and tore up the front end of the tractor.

When they got back to the house, Daddy asked, "Where's the tractor?" They responded, "In the woods."

Daddy's comment was, "The last thing I told you was not to put that tractor in road gear."

To their surprise, they did not get a spanking.  He was tough and he whipped hard, but he could be lenient also.

When stories are recounted, some of us remember details one way and some remember another.  But all of us have memories.  The following is a collection of memories by the oldest daughter, Virginia Lou.

It took place in California about 1943.  I was only four year old.  It is possible I don't really remember but have heard the story so many times that it seems like a memory.

The apartment where we lived had a small closet, probably in the hall, which Marion and Leon had rigged to be the engine of a train.  They had tied a string around the latch on the outside of the door so that they could open the door by pulling the string from inside the closet.  They took turns being the engineer and driving the train from inside the closet.  This to them was the train's engine.  When their turn was over, they pulled the string and came out.

One day when they were out and Mama was busy some-where else in the house, I decided I would be the engineer.  I got inside the closet, shut the door, and must have realized how dark it was inside.  I wanted out.  But the string either broke or I didn't understand how to pull the string.  At any rate, I could not get out of the closet.  I started crying.  Mama came looking for me but could not find me.  I heard her steps walking away and cried even louder.  Finally, she heard me, opened the door, and let me out.

The only other memory of California is seeing Mama standing at an ironing board pressing colorful transfer patterns on plain white pillowcases to make them pretty.  Mama always liked pretty things in the house.

Marion helped me remember the following.  When we started back to Oklahoma from California, we tied our eating table to the back of the 1933 Chevy.  All our belongings were put on the table and tied down with a rope.

Wherever night caught up with us that is were where we spent the night.  Daddy took a mattress from the top of the car and put it on the ground.  Mama, Daddy and the three girls slept there.  It was Marion and Leon's habit to sleep on the back seat of the car.

The night we stopped near Clovis, New Mexico, for some reason, Marion and Leon decided they wanted to sleep outside and a pallet was made for them near the mattress.  At 4:00 a.m. a dump truck sideswiped the Chevy, turning it around and ripping off the top.  If Marion and Leon had been sleeping on the back seat, they would surely have been killed.

Daddy had the top and doors cut off, got the car rolling again.  We called it the "Hoopy".  It was our means of transportation for many more years.  It is the car Daddy, Marion and Leon drove when we moved to Beaumont.  Mama and the three girls came by train.

We rented a house from a man named Mr. Coffee.  He kept a cow in a pasture by our house.  Daddy cared for the cow in exchange for milk for us to drink.  One day, Mr. Coffee came to test the cow for bangs.  I thought he meant the kind of bangs girls wear.  They laughed at me.

Daddy also raised turkeys.  I remember one old turkey gobbler was always strutting.  It seems that every time I had to go out the front door, he was there strutting.  I was so scared when I had to walk past him.

We played on the terraces and waded in the canals of the rice fields near our house.  We found frog eggs and watched them turn to tadpoles and then to frogs.  When we would have Malt-O-Meal for breakfast, it felt in my mouth the way frog eggs looked.  To this day, I still cannot eat Malt-O-Meal without thinking of frog eggs.

Mama and Daddy had some friends who lived nearby.  They had two girls our age, Charlene and Hopalene.  One day we three girls were walking to their home to play.  As we walked, we spotted a persimmon tree in a pasture.  We decided to eat some of them.  We crawled under the fence and climbed the tree trying to find the ripest fruit.  Sometime later, we noticed a huge 'bremmer' bull eating grass, and looking straight at us.  Mamie was closest to the ground.  Patsy was a fast climber.  The two of them got down, ran to the fence and crawled under.  But the bull ran toward them a little.  I froze in the tree, afraid to come down.  Patsy kept telling me to come on down, I could outrun him, but I didn't believe her.  She fussed at me to come on, and I would get up my courage.  Then the bull would shake his head and I would not budge an inch.  Finally, he turned his back and began eating again.  I scrambled down and ran as fast as I could for the fence.  I scooted under, my heart beating 90 to nothing.

Charlene and Hopalene's daddy called me his girlfriend.  Every time he went by our house, he would wave to me if I happened to be in the yard.  It embarrassed me.  Leon and Marion teased me about having a boyfriend.  Leon then told me he was just doing it to make me act bashful and if I would return his wave the next time he came by, then he wouldn't do it any more.  So, one day I was in the garden cutting okra for supper when he came by and waved.  I waved back.  Around the corner of the house Marion and Leon came running and laughing, saying, "I saw you wave to your boyfriend!" It was a long time before I took advice from my brothers again.

I remember a park with huge magnolia trees and a lily pond where we always stopped to put water in the car radiator when we went to town.  I remember tying clover blossoms together and wearing them around my neck for a necklace.  I remember walking to the bus stop in fog so thick you could hardly see the people you were walking with.  I remember spider webs collecting dewdrops in the dense fog.

I remember my first grade teacher, Mrs. Josie Sawyer.  We all called her "Miss Josie".  I remember learning to read about Dick and Jane and their dog, Spot.

"See Spot.  See Spot run.  Run Spot.  Run, Spot, run."

One day we were shopping in Woolworth's and I saw a big, beautiful doll on the top shelf in the toy section.  She had a frilly dress, real hair, and eyes that opened and closed.  She could say, "Mama".  I asked Daddy to buy her for me.  He stretched out his long arms as if to take her down.  But he stopped just short of reaching her.  He told me she was too high on the shelf, his arms were too short, he couldn't reach that far up.  Then he picked up three dolls from a lower shelf and bought them, one for each of us girls.  She was not as fancy as the other doll, and to tell the truth, I was disappointed.  But we played with the dolls for years to come.  They had molded arms, legs and head.  When the cloth body wore out, we made new ones and they were like new.

With the passing of time, I have learned that even though my Daddy had a good job making good wages, $1.00 per hour, plus overtime, it took a lot to take care of a family of seven.  Plus, Daddy had a dream and he was saving for that dream.  He hoped some day to move back to Oklahoma.

The farm, located about 2 miles southwest of Orr, had a 4-room house.  One room was used as a storeroom and we lived in the other three rooms.  Mama and Daddy's bed and the bed shared by the three girls were in the front room.  The middle room contained the heater and a couch.  It also served as bedroom for Marion and Leon.  The third room was the kitchen with a wood cook stove, table and chairs.  On one side was a bench, which was shared by we three sisters.  We had a sideboard to store our dishes and an icebox.

Daddy built a smoke house for curing meat, and a chicken house.  The cow lot at that time was south of the house along with a corncrib and the pigpen.

Our new home was at the end of 2 miles of dirt road, which was dusty when dry, and almost impassible when wet.  Once I remember Grandmo was with us in the truck on a rainy day.  The road cut across the Porter's field.  When we were about half a mile from home, we went through a mud puddle.  Well, we didn't actually go through it.  We got stuck.  We tried to go forward.  We couldn't.  We tried to go back.  We couldn't.  Daddy kept trying.  Finally, he gave up.  Grandmo said, "Dear John, that's all she wrote", quoting the words a song popular at the time.  Daddy and Marion walked to the house and returned on the tractor to pull us out.  I don't remember if this was the first time we got stuck in the years we lived there, but I do know it was not the last.

I was in the third grade when we moved to Oklahoma.  We lived there until I graduated High School in 1956…8 years.  There are many memories connected with those years of growing up.  Though these may not cover all the things that happened, what follows is a collection of events remembered.

Spring would find us climbing the branches and hanging upside down by our knees.  We would turn flips through our arms, drop to the ground, and then race to climb up again.  Of course there was a rope swing with a wooden seat, V-notched on each end to fit on the rope.  We would swing as high as we could, pretending we were acrobats on a flying trapeze performing in the circus.

Other days would find Patsy, Mamie and me with our dolls under the shade of the "Big Tree".  We played house and even drew our houses on the ground with a stick.  We made a living room, bedroom, and kitchen.  We gathered rocks and boards for seats.  For money we used green leaves from the trees nearby.  The larger the leaf, the more it was worth.

Daddy's blacksmith shop was located beneath the shade of the "Big Tree".  In the spring he could be found at the forge with a red-hot fire burning.  All the plows for the cultivator would be sharpened for spring plowing.  We would gather and watch.  There was a fascination in seeing the plowshares pulled from the red-hot coals with tongs and pounded on the anvil with a special hammer until they were shaped just the way Daddy wanted them.  The coals were kept hot by turning a handle on the blower, which made a whirring noise as it blew air onto the coals.

Many days I would steal away to the quiet of the Big Tree to read a book.  All too often the silence would be broken by one or all of the other kids, for the "Big Tree" was a favorite spot for all of us.

Many days we would use old textbooks and make up lessons for our pupils.  Of course, we had to know the answers ourselves.  So it was helpful to us to review the subjects we studied in school.

One day we were exploring some ditches that led to the creek.  We found a gully that had a nice, comfortable feeling.  Green moss grew under the trees on its banks.  It was cool, even in July.  Leon had an idea.  Back to the house he went.  When he returned, he had a shovel.  None of us knew what he had in mind, but we were all curious.  He started to dig.  Soon he had made a seat into the side of the ditch.  We all took turns sitting in it.  Immediately, each of us wanted one of our own.  Leon set the shovel to work once more.  Shortly, there was a seat for everyone.  This became our classroom.  Though the rains came, our seats lasted many years, and many lessons were presented by kids on vacation from school.

Bats and gloves were taken to school with us.  Quite often a game was organized among the Thompson kids and us as we waited at the bus stop.  One such game of 'work-up' found me behind home plate as the catcher.  Marion was at bat.  I don't remember who was pitching, but the pitch was made.  Somehow, in my effort to catch the ball, and Marion's desire to hit a home run, his bat got mixed up with my right eyebrow.  Suddenly, blood covered my face.  Everyone hovered over me wanting to know what had happened and wondering what should be done.  It was decided someone should run back to the house to get Mama while the rest of us would walk on the short distance to the Carroll's house to see if they could help.

On the way to the Carroll's we passed the pasture belonging to J. D. Burden.  There was a herd of cows grazing.  One big bull raised his head and came toward us.  I was afraid and asked them to scare the bull away.  They just laughed at me.  To this day, they claim there was no bull in sight.  But I can still see the look of anger in his eyes as he came toward us.

By the time Mama came, Mrs. Carroll had stopped the bleeding and a clot was forming.  The cows were all gone.  It was decided I would not attend school that day.  The others caught the bus and went to school.  Mama and I walked the mile back home, her arms around my shoulders for comfort and support.  My right eyebrow bears the scar of that baseball game to this very day.

At school many times in the spring we would look up from our class work to see a school bus from a neighboring town.  They were there to play our school in a game of softball.  Not once did our teachers turn them away.  We would take a break from spring studies and play such schools as Union Hill, Courtney, Leon, Zaneis, and Thackerville.

Even during the summer months, the five of us would choose up sides and play a game of softball.  Marion was the captain of one team and Leon was the captain of the other.  First choice of players was decided by tossing the bat in the air, catching it, then alternating hands until the one who had the last grasp with enough grip to hold the bat got to choose first.  Why we went through this procedure is hard to say for in my recollection, we were always somehow divided Marion, Mamie and me against Leon and Patsy.  Because we had so few players, special rules had to be made.  We only had one base and that was the tree in front of the house.  I'm sure other rules applied but I cannot remember them now.  Nor can I remember who won most often, but I am sure it was Marion, Mamie and I.

But there was seldom enough money left over to buy toys.  We had some things from Beaumont.  The dolls Daddy bought us.  A lady there had given the boys a big truck to share and she gave the girls a tin tea set to share.

Our toys were more often than not products of our imagination.  The creek was a source of red clay.  From this we molded cars and pickups.  Most of our cars had sloped backs in the style of the late 40's or today's modern hatchback.

Some of our most prized possessions were the tractors, harrows, cultivators Leon made for us.  He used baling wire to form the basic shape, and then cut pieces from tin cans to make wheels and plowshares.

We built roads and farms and houses.  We drove our cars and pickups on the roads.  We plowed our fields with our baling wire tractors.  Little rocks were used as horses, cows and pigs.

We loved to explore old deserted homesteads for pieces of dishes.  These were our people.  A pretty piece with a pink rose became the mother.  A strong brown shard was the father.  Other pieces served as the children.

When we tired of this, we might play paper dolls.  We didn't have money to buy the pretty books we saw at the Variety Store.  The Sears Roebuck catalog was our source of supply.  We cut out pictures of ladies in swim wear.  Using flour and water paste, we pasted them to cardboard to stiffen them.  We then drew all the dresses they wore and colored them with crayons, or we cut the dresses from the fabric section of the catalog.

Every spring Marion would find enough money somehow to buy two kite sticks.  He formed them into the traditional cross pattern, and then strung them around four sides with string from feed sacks.  Next he pasted newspaper over the strings.  When it was dry, a string yoke was made a tail of scraps attached and the kite was ready for its first flight.  We all took turns flying the kite, pulling the string and feeling the kite pull against the wind as it darted to the right and to the left.

Store-bought toys were scarce, but we never lacked for something to keep us amused.

Doing the dishes was the girls' responsibility.  We devised a system whereby we rotated washing and drying and had a day off.  One day I washed, Patsy dried; Mamie had the day off.  The next day Patsy washed, Mamie dried and it was my day off.  Then Mamie washed while I dried and Patsy rested.  It worked real well.  We looked forward most of all to the day off.

Of course, we had other household duties.  Each of the girls was responsible for her own ironing.  Mama ironed for herself, Daddy and the boys.  Sometimes I was not as industrious as Patsy and would have to borrow a skirt or blouse from her, as I had not done my ironing.  Since we did not have electricity, the irons were heated on the wood stove, even in the summer, and it was hot work.  The irons had clip-on handles and were used until they cooled.  They were then exchanged for a hot iron from the stove.  It was the style in the mid-50's to wear skirts full and mid-calf.  They were made of cotton and stiffly starched.  It was a chore to keep them ironed and ready to wear.

The washing was done on a gasoline, wringer-type Maytag.  Dead limbs were gathered and burned around a black wash pot to heat the water.  To keep whites snowy white, bluing was used.  The clothes were hung on a clothesline, both summer and winter.  Sometimes they froze on the line.  If a sudden rain came up, we had to rush to get them in

One washday, Mamie pushed some clothes into the wringer.  Her fingers got caught and pulled her arm through the wringer.  She screamed.  Mama saw it, reversed the wringer and let it roll back out.  It all happened so quickly; she didn't even release the pressure on the wringer.  But it came back out just fine, with no damage done to the arm or to the wringer.

Cooking and canning also fell our lot.  Many days in the summer, we carried washtubs to the plum thicket in the canyon to gather plums for canning.  I remember the blood red water of canning beets, jars and jars of purple hull peas fresh from the pressure cooker.  All this was done on a wood stove in the summertime.  HOT!!!!

Marion and Leon worked with Daddy in the field in the summer chopping cotton, planting and plowing.  They also alternated building the fire in the heater in the wintertime.  They helped with milking the cows and it was their responsibility to keep wood in the wood box.  They fed chickens, gathered eggs, slopped the hogs, and other jobs to help Daddy.

Long before Congress was concerned about equal rights amendments to guarantee equality in the work place, Daddy was an equal opportunity employer.  We ALL picked cotton.  Even when Mamie was only 6 years old, she had a cotton sack that just barely touched the ground.  She did her share.  Marion was probably the best picker of all the kids.  He kept his head down and was at the end of the row weighing up while we were still mid-row.  Of course, some of us may have taken time to throw a green cotton boll or two at the others.  And none of us was above taking time to 'bust' open any remaining watermelons in the adjoining patch for a bite of the heart of the melon.

The pay was equal.  Nothing when pulling bolls on the home place.  $2.00 per hundred pounds when working outside, which we were allowed to collect.  We used the money to buy school clothes or whatever we wanted.  The amount of money earned depended on the amount of cotton a person picked.  The harder one worked, the more one made.  Not too bad a system.

The family worked together to cut a supply of wood for the winter.  Mama answered every pull of the crosscut saw made by Daddy with a pull in the opposite direction.  Marion and Leon used axes to trim limbs and split the wood.  Patsy, Mamie and I loaded the trailer.  Lunch was packed and consisted of biscuits from breakfast, Vienna sausages, and homemade 'tea cake' cookies.

Our water came from open, spring-fed water well and was drawn with a pulley using a wooden bucket.  We each had our share of keeping the water bucket filled.  Occasionally, the well had to be cleaned.  All the water was drawn out and someone was lowered to the bottom to clean the debris, which was put in a bucket and drawn up.  I remember one time Marion was at the bottom and when he came out, his mouth was blue and he was shivering, even though it was warm outside.  The well was that cool at the bottom and he had stayed longer than he should have.

All the chores associated with the running of a farm were done as requested or directed.  We did not always do them with a willing heart.  Sometimes there was muttering and grumbling quietly under our breath, but there was no need to argue or whine.  Once Daddy set his jaw at that certain angle, you knew he had said what he meant and meant what he said.  In retrospect, even though the work was hard and the pay small, I would not trade my farm upbringing for anything.  The lessons learned there have served me well in my adult life.

We would all listen and laugh as Fibber McGee opened the closet door and the contents spilled on the floor.  Each of us imagined what was in that closet.  We came to know Jack Benny and his stingy ways.  We were there with Lum and Abner at the Jot 'em Down Store.  Political conventions kept us aware of politics of the era.  News and weather kept us up-to-date on local happenings.

In the summertime, on his lunch break from the field, Daddy would stretch out on the bed and listen to the Cleveland Indians battle Joltin' Joe DiMaggio, the Yankee Clipper, as he swung a bat for the New York Yankees.  Oftentimes Daddy would nap off until the game was over.  Then when the weather cooled down, he would return to his work in the field.

In the evening, about the same time each night, I noticed Daddy would leave the radio and would be gone for 10 to 15 minutes.  One night, I had to go down the path to the bathroom.  As I sat there in the darkness, I heard a man's voice.  My heart pounded.  Then I realized it was Daddy.  Listening closer, I could tell he was saying his evening prayers where it was quiet and he could be alone with God.  The mystery of the nightly disappearances was solved.  It was a comfort to hear him mention each of us in a special way and to know he cared for all of us enough to pray for us.

On Saturdays we often took a nickel, the price of admission for kids, and went to the matinee picture show in Ringling.  As we entered, darkness surrounded us.  We paused to look around to spot Grandmo or Cecil.  They were nearly always there on a Saturday afternoon.  We sat with them as we watched Gene Autry, Roy Rogers or Tom Mix conquer the west and ride off into the sunset with their trusted horse Champion, Trigger, or Tony.

One Saturday we were in town and it just happened the circus was there.  We read the posters with the elephants standing on their heads, and asked Daddy to take us.  To our surprise, he agreed.  We saw the ladies in their colorful, sparkling costumes hanging from their heels high above our heads.  The elephants were there, and stood on their heads as promised on the posters.  There were also tigers, llamas, camels, monkeys; many things not seen on the farm.

The ringmaster called for a volunteer from the audience.  Many volunteered, but the man chosen was a stranger to us.  He was supposed to ride a horse around a circle while standing on the back of the horse.  To prevent his being hurt, a rope was attached to his belt.  Now, wouldn't you just know it! He couldn't ride that horse! There he dangled above the circle while the horse ran round and round.  We laughed and laughed at the sight.

Many times the school would sponsor a donkey basketball or baseball game to raise money.  One fundraiser at Ringling brought in a musical show.  The star was Bill Mack, a disc jockey on a country music station in Wichita Falls.  He was trying to be a country music singer.  Although he never made it to the big time, he did write one song that was on the hit parade, "I'm Drinking Champagne", and in recent times LeAnn Rimes recorded one of his songs, "Blue" which became a #1 hit.

Most of our entertainment, however, came from simple pleasures, such as camping on Red River and swimming and fishing, and just being together as a family.

Pa and Ma Evans were our mother's parents and lived just outside Ringling in a community called Cornish.  They lived there, or within a 20-mile radius, all their lives.  On our weekly trips to Ringling for supplies, we would stop on the way home for a visit.

Ma's given name was Tiny and the name fit for she was small of stature.  Ma was a sweet natured lady with a happy laugh that came from deep inside.  She always kept us informed on the news from the family who had moved away.  Many times Mama would take pen and paper to answer the letters as Ma spoke them, for Ma never learned to read or write.

Ma's mind stayed sharp until her 90's when she fell and went to the nursing home in Ringling.  Because she was in bed there, she thought she had just had a baby.  The only time she was ever sick enough to go to bed was because of the birth of a child.  She kept asking for her baby.  Finally the nurses brought her a doll, and then she cuddled it and was content.

Pa was tall and raw-boned.  He nearly always had about a 3-day growth of beard.  In his younger days, he played the fiddle and called at square dances.  Once when we stopped at their house, we asked him to play the fiddle.

He got it down, dusted it off and tucked it under his chin.  He pulled the bow across the strings in an old-fashioned hoe down.  His toes tapped to the time of the music.  Although he was a bit rusty, you could tell why he had been in demand at the dances.

As he grew older, he kept up with politics.  I remember one conversation when the merits of "Oddly" Stevenson and Estes "Teaparker" were discussed.  Even though he mispronounced the names, he knew where they stood on the issues.

Pa and Ma lived on the same block as Mama's younger sister and her husband, Ruby and H. M. Hall.  We knew, even then, that Norma and Connie, their daughters, were Pa's favorite grandchildren.  Somehow, we didn't mind.  They were close and helped them.  Connie would come in and climb up on Pa's lap, snuggle close and give him a big hug, even though he had a dip of snuff in his mouth.  From his pocket he would find a piece of peppermint candy to give her, hug her in return and tell us of some cute remark she had said.

At one time Pa and Ma's house burned.  After that they would never again both leave their house at the same time.  I don't remember that they ever came together to our house to see us.

In the summertime Daddy always took tomatoes and watermelons from the garden for them.  Pa bragged that Daddy grew the best watermelons in the country.  Pa and Ma, Charley and Tiny Evans, were good grandparents to us and lived to be in there 90's.  They are buried in the Odd Fellow cemetery west of Ringling.

I never knew our father's father, for Sylvester Sherman Richardson died before I was born.  Pictures of him show him to be a good-looking man with a mustache.  He must have been a nice man, because all his children spoke of him affectionately as 'Papa'.  He married Sarah Emaline Rose whom we lovingly called Grandmo.

My first memory of Grandmo is of her sitting in a rocking chair in the front room of her house west of Ringling, Oklahoma.  In her lap she held ears of corn, which she was shelling as feed for the chickens.  She lived in that home with her son, my Uncle Cecil.  The Richardson family moved there from Wise County, Texas, where my Daddy was born.  Grandmo had been born in Missouri.  She was fond of saying, "I'm from Missouri.  You will have to show me." Aunt Mamie, her only daughter, came later to live in the home place and help care for Grandmo.

Grandmo and Cecil grew geese and sold feather pillows.  You can be sure she had feather beds.  In the wintertime, it was soft and warm to snuggle into the big feather bed.

Making them up was another matter.  You had to push and plump until they were nice and fluffy, then turn them over, push and plump some more.  Every day.

Grandmo got a television set when they were new in the community.  It was great fun to go there and watch "I Love Lucy", "Sgt. Bilko", Ed Sullivan's "Toast of the Town".  She also kept a nice supply of "My True Story" magazines, which we enjoyed reading.  Aunt Mamie had a subscription to "The Saturday Evening Post" and we found the covers by Norman Rockwell fascinating.

Each year we spent a week with Grandmo and Cecil and later Aunt Mamie.  We went with them when they milked the cows.  Grandmo had a special cow, which was hers to milk.  They had a cream separator and it was interesting to see the milk poured into the top container.  With the turn of a handle, as if by magic, cream came out one spout and skimmed milk came out another.  The separator had to be washed every day.  It had hundreds of parts that had to be carefully fastened together and kept in their proper order.  They sold the cream at Allen's Feed Store in Ringling.

Their garden was past the corncrib a goodly distance from the house.  We went there and picked purple hull peas.  As we walked back, Grandmo would tuck her apron into her belt to make a pouch.  This she filled with peas.  As we walked back to the house, she would shell the peas and throw the shells on the ground.  By the time we returned home, her job was half finished.

Many times Grandmo came and spent a week with us.  She took string from feed sacks and taught us to crochet.  She loved to make doilies.  Her favorite pattern was anything in the pineapple stitch.  It is also one of my favorites.

One year Daddy made an especially good cotton crop, a bale to the acre.  It was more than we could gather before winter snows set in.  After Cecil got all his cotton picked, he and Grandmo came and helped us with ours.  Somewhere there is a picture of Grandmo with her cotton sack in the middle of that field of cotton.  She was probably in her 70's at the time.

Often Grandmo's youngest son, Uncle Jesse, would take Grandmo with him as he traveled to California to see our Uncle Edgar.  On one such trip they stopped for a rest at the Continental Divide.  Grandmo brought Patsy, Mamie, and me each a lace handkerchief as a souvenir.  Patsy and Mamie always thought mine was the prettiest because it had a cowboy on a horse woven into it.  I thought so, too.

Christmas then was not so preoccupied with gifts.  It was mainly a time for the family to get together.  But one year at Christmas, Grandmo gave me a hair barrette, as I wore my hair long then.  My sixth grade school picture shows it in my hair.  It is long since gone, but the memory remains of the love she had for me.

There was a county extension club, which met in the neighborhood.  Women from all around would gather to work on some project and share new ideas for crafts.  Many times they would have a quilting bee.  All the farm wives would work together on someone's quilt.  Grandmo always helped…but she never took a quilt to be made.  She was very precise with her sewing, and she didn't think some of the other women's stitches were small and even enough to meet her standards.  Any streak for perfection that I may have, I learned from my Grandmo.

Once Grandmo was staying with us in the fall of the year and we were picking up pecans on the creek bank west of our house.  We looked up to see Cecil coming down the road in his pickup truck.  We wondered what was wrong.  He came to tell us he had just got word that Aunt Fannie had got her gown in an open heater.  It caught fire and she was dead.  Aunt Fannie was Grandmo's aunt, and she had married Papa's father making her my Dad's grandmother as well as his great aunt.  They all cried at the news and Grandmo went back with Cecil to go to the funeral in Nocona.  Aunt Fannie was in her 90's.

Grandmo was not one to complain about illness.  Many times she would be lying on the sofa with a hot water bottle on her stomach to ease a pain.  Someone would drive up.  She would sit up, hide the hot water bottle under a pillow and talk to her company as long as they stayed, never mentioning an ailment.

She remained active into her 80's at which time she fell on the street in Ringling and broke her hip.  It mended but she never was as active afterwards.  She died in 1960, the year my son, Ronald, was born.  When I was 18, she was 81.  She died at age 85 and is buried by Papa Richardson in the cemetery at Nocona, Texas.

Our grandparents did not lavish gifts on us.  They did not have the means to do so, even if they wanted to.  But they were generous with their hugs, and words of praise and encouragement.  I hope if someday I am included in my granddaughter&s book of memories, it is with as much love and affection as I had for Pa and Ma Evans, and Grandmo Richardson.

The exception occurred when we were living at Atlee.  There were just three of us then, Marion, Leon and I.  We were playing around the woodpile, I have been told, for I was too young to remember.  Leon and Marion decided to cut wood as they had seen Daddy do.  Marion took charge of the axe to do the chopping.  Leon put all his trust in his older brother and placed his foot on the log to keep it steady.  You guessed it.  When the axe fell, it cut off four of Leon's toes.  It is said that I ran to the house for Mama.  When she saw what had happened, she put Leon's foot in a pan of coal oil to stop the bleeding.  Daddy was summoned from the field and they drove to the doctor's office in Ringling.  He told them there was nothing more he could do.  Mama had done the proper thing to stop the bleeding.  She was instructed to keep it clean to prevent infection, which she did.

As we grew, there was no tree too tall to climb, no limb too narrow to tread, no calf too rowdy to ride.  Where the house now stands, there was a grove of oak saplings.  It was great fun to climb to the tiptop until our weight caused the tree to bend toward the ground.  As we jumped off, we scrambled to get out of the way as the branches swished upwards again.

On the same site, there was also a cow lot.  In the daytime, the cows were put in the pasture and their calves kept penned in the lot.  Many times, we chased the calves, their hind legs kicking at us.  When we finally caught a calf, we would ride as if we were bronc riders in a rodeo, until thrown from its back, hooves falling close to our face and arms and legs.

We were jumpers.  Spanning the creek was a narrow footbridge.  It was the only means of crossing when the creek was up.  In the summer months, the sandy creek bed was perhaps 10-12 feet below.  Patsy, Mamie and I would walk to the middle of the footbridge and sit down.  Patsy dared us to jump off.  The first jump was always scary.  Patsy was the first off and encouraged Mamie and me from the creek bed, assuring us it would not hurt.  We would count up to 100 to build up courage, then shut our eyes and jump, feeling a thrill in our throat and chest until our feet touched the sandy creek.  Then we would race up the bank to do it all over again.  We have also been known to jump from cowsheds, and even from the roof of the house.

We had a large barrel to catch rainwater to wash clothes.  When it was empty, we would turn it on its side on the ground.  Then with our bare feet, we would stand on the barrel, extending our arms for balance.  Then, carefully, we began to walk backwards, turning the barrel beneath our feet.  Across the clay surface we would go, picking up speed until it hit a sandy spot.  Off we fell on our backside as our momentum continued after the barrel had stopped.  We picked ourselves up, dusted off, and did it all over again.

After spring rains, logs and trash would collect in the bend of the creek forming swimming holes for our pleasure.  One such pool formed behind the garden across the creek.  On a warm summer day, all five of us put on our swimming suits and walked the distance for a dip in our private pool.  We were splashing and laughing and having a good time.  I took a step only to find a washed out spot.  My foot did not touch bottom until my head was under water.  When I came up, I panicked and began slapping the water.  Marion and Leon both knew how to swim, but we girls had not learned.  As I went under again, I heard Marion say, "I don't think she is playing.  She's in trouble." I came up again, coughing and sputtering.  Leon and Marion were coming toward me, but did not reach me before I took another dip.  They grabbed me and pulled me back to shallow water, hitting me on the back to make me spit out any water I had swallowed.  The incident created a healthy respect, if not fear, for the dangers of water, especially in a lake or pond where the exact bottom is not always known.  It was not until I reached my 20's and took a Red Cross swimming course that I learned to swim and even yet, I do not swim in water that is over my head.

Patsy has a scar on her forehead from a fall she took on a swing swung too high.  I have a scar on my leg from a cut received climbing through a barbed wire fence.  My right index finger bears the mark of a car door being shut on it.  But all in all, we had the adventures.  We took the falls with a minimum of injury.  Someone, somewhere, was taking care of us.

On a balmy spring afternoon, the "Big Tree" beckons.  We scurry to its spreading limbs, shed our shoes and climb to its heights.  From our perch high in the branches, we see Daddy coming up the hill from the creek.  Quickly, we come down and put on our shoes.

We race to greet him, and we ask permission to go barefooted.  He pauses to give careful consideration to the proposition.  His decision is that even though the days are warm, the earth is still cool and we might take a cold to go barefooted.  We accept the decision and continue to the house with our shoes on.  Daddy never knew we had already sneaked in a barefoot day.  Or did he?

Walks in the woodlands brought the discovery of wood violets popping up amid the debris left from an overflowing creek.  Attempts to transplant the delicate purple flowers to the yard were never successful, but we tried in vain every spring.

Fields and gardens were plowed.  The fertile, mellow soil crumbling gently into rows to receive the eyes of potatoes by March 17, green onion sets, cabbages, and fields of corn and cotton.

Lilacs, fresh and dewy, filled the air with their sweet aroma.  Old-fashioned roses produced buds to add a distinctive scent.  Iris, or 'flags' as we called them, appeared on stately stalks, adding a splash of blue to the new green grass and yellow green leaves on the post oak and elm trees.

Soft, billowy clouds would drift through the sky.  Lying on our backs in the grassy meadow, we would visualize different shapes in the clouds.  Some of us might see a bunny rabbit while others could distinguish the shape of an ocean liner, or tiger, or airplane.  As we watched, the wind would gently reshape the object into something entirely different.

Sometimes the clouds were more ominous.  The skies would grow dark.  The wind would whip the treetops around.  Daddy would carefully study the southwestern sky, searching for a sign of what might come.  If he said it would blow over with just a rain, we did nothing.  But if the forecast looked bad, that was different.  We all got a sweater or coat.  Daddy lit the lantern, and we started walking up the hill to our neighbor's house.  We did not have a storm cellar but the Porter brothers did.  Usually when we got there, we found them already in the cellar.  A knock on the door, and it was opened for us.  We huddled inside the earthen dugout, with the lantern providing a dusky glow.  The men began to speculate about the approaching storm.  Stories were told of other storms and the damage done, of boards being thrust through cellar doors.  Eyes darted to the door, shudders everywhere, sweaters drawn tighter to keep out the cold.  After a while, silence settled on the group.  Someone opens the door cautiously.  Skies are clear.  Another storm has passed.  Sleepy eyed, we gather our belongings and, thanking the Porters for their hospitality, we head back to our own home.  In all the years we spent on the farm, we never experienced the wrath of a tornado, even though it was in what is called tornado alley.  Some winds were strong enough to break trees, and once we lost the roof of a barn.  But fortunately we were spared the destructive twisters of Mother Nature.

After the rains, new grasses came.  Along the fence rows plums began to blossom in banks of white.  The tall straight branches of the pear tree broke into snowy white bloom.  Red buds and peaches added a touch of pink to the scenery.  Wild dewberries grew, providing us a delicious cobbler.  A beautiful season.

Marion had bought a used bicycle, paid $5 for it.  He got the tires aired up to their proper pressure.  We took turns riding it.  To the top of the hill we went and rode the grassy clay banks down and around the house.  Sometimes, the more daring of us would put our feet on the handlebars as we came down the hill.  Leon and Patsy mostly did this.

We went for walks to different parts of the farm.  Northwest of the house was an old home place.  The house was long gone, but some rose bushes remained.  We went there to gather a bouquet of red roses, adding wild phlox and oxeye daisies to make a nice centerpiece for Mama's table.  On the way there and back, we always took time to touch the sensitive plants growing on the banks of the gully, just to see their leaves close like hands in a prayer.

Another stroll might take us to the tank across the creek toward the south field.  We went there to check on the water lily pond.  Sometimes the lilies were in bloom.  But one particular summer day, the blossoms were all gone, leaving only the seed pods and lily pads.  Patsy, Mamie and I each picked a lily pad to hold above our heads, pretending they were umbrellas.  We came out of the woods and headed toward the sawmill.  We saw the figure of a man approaching from the direction of the field.  We recognized him as Great-uncle Greenberry Poindexter Richardson.  He lived in Nocona, Texas.  Nearly every summer he came to see us.  Since he had no car, he came the only way he could.  He walked.  It was a distance of about 50 miles and he was around 70 years of age at the time, but walk it he did.

As he came close, we waved a greeting, which he returned.  He saw the lily pads and his first remark was, "Don't you know those things are 'pizen'?" No, we did not know, for no one had told us lily pads were poisonous.  I suppose we did not believe they were, because we continued to carry them as we made our way across the creek to home.

When the days got hot and the nights were not much cooler, we would set up saw horses and take the mattress and bedsprings out under a tree to get the full benefit of any breeze that might be blowing.  It is a special memory of waking up on a starry morning, to search the skies for the big and little dippers.  At night, the skies were watched for a glimpse of the first star to appear.  We would make our wish, 'Star light, star bright, first star I've seen tonight.  I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.'

When the mosquitoes got bad, we had to go back inside.  Daddy put insecticide in a sprayer and went through the house pumping and spraying a mist of bad smelling spray.  But it seemed to keep the mosquitoes away until we could go to sleep, so the unpleasant odor was bearable.

Some days not even a breath of air was stirring.  The air was heavy.  In the middle of the day, there was nothing to do but stretch out across the bed, or under a tree with a book, until the evening brought cooler weather.  It is hard to imagine in our air-conditioned houses and cars how we survived those hot, humid Oklahoma summers.  But we did.

One year at Orr, we had a new principal.  Mr. H. T. Hicks was his name.  Rumor spread that he was tough.  It was reported that he had a paddle 24 inches long with holes bored up and down the length to make it hurt even worse if you were unfortunate enough to receive a spanking from him.  He had a dark, heavy beard that showed through his skin even though he was clean-shaven.  It added believability to the stories we had heard.  To his credit, he had a nice wife named Betty and a sweet little 2-year-old daughter named Laura.  We all loved to carry Laura around.  And Mrs. Hicks was nice, but we were not sure of Mr. Hicks.

It just so happened that was the year Shirley Carroll and I chose to get into a dispute in the gym.  We exchanged a few choice words.  Her ally was Dorothy Abshire, while Janice Lamascus gave me some words of encouragement, bringing tears to my eyes.  The bell rang.  We went our separate ways.

Later in the day, Janice and I were walking down the hall.  Coming our way were Shirley and Dorothy.  Dorothy and I were on the inside and our paths were going to cross if someone did not give in.  I was determined not to budge and Shirley encouraged Dorothy to hold her ground.  As our elbows bumped, words flew, arms flailed.  We were about to come to blows when in walked Mr. Hicks.  We were promptly requested to make an appearance in his office.  Thoughts of that paddle crossed my mind.

Mr. Hicks sat behind his desk in a serious and thoughtful manner.  Dorothy and I sat opposite, heads bowed.  He launched into a long lecture about his disappointment in our behavior.  He pointed out the fact that we were young ladies and the proper attitude and actions for proper young ladies to display.

He pulled out the middle drawer of his desk, looking for something.  I just knew it was going to be "The Paddle".  Then, slowly, he closed the drawer and looked us in the eyes with a steady gaze.  With measured precision, he meted out our punishment.  We were to promise him, each other, and ourselves this sort of behavior would never happen again.  Then we had to shake hands with each other to seal our promise.  I don't know how Dorothy felt, but I was more than happy to comply.  We had escaped the dreaded paddle.  For the rest of our school days, we were nice to each other with no more fighting problems…with anyone.

Our wanderings in the fall almost always took us by the persimmon thicket.  When they were ripe, the persimmons were a sweet treat to eat.  But if they were not, your mouth would pucker from their tartness.  We always sang "Possum up the 'simmon tree, raccoon on the ground.  'Possum said to the raccoon, throw them 'simmons down, boy.  Throw them 'simmons down."

Pecans began to fall.  We took our buckets and scouted out all the trees.  We picked them up on the halves; we kept half for our spending money and gave half to Daddy.  Daddy, Marion and Leon climbed into the trees with long poles to 'frail' the pecans from their hulls.  We all scratched through the leaves to find as many as we could.  At age 80, Daddy still wanted to 'frail' pecans.

The colors of the leaves ranged from yellow to orange to red.  The stillness of a crisp autumn afternoon was broken by our footsteps as we shuffled through the leaves on our way homeward.

Outside the snow is still falling even though there is already 4 or 5 inches on the ground.  Everyone wonders whether the school bus will be able to make it to the bus stop to take us to school.  Each of us silently hopes it does not, so we can have a day of play in the snow.  The bus does not come…Yea!

Someone gets the big iron skillet from the kitchen and puts it on the stove.  Bacon grease is poured in to cover the bottom.  From a sealed jar is added a layer of popcorn and with the lid firmly in place, the skillet gets a gentle shaking.  Back and forth.  Back and forth.  Suddenly, the corn bursts open.  Pop.  Pop.  Pop.  Pop.  The popped corn is poured into a bowl, salt and butter added and passed around.  Instant party!

We run and play in the snow, slip and slide on the hills.  We check the creek to see how thick the ice is.  What fun when it is thick enough to skate.  We have snowball fights.  We collect icicles.  We put out hay for the cows and keep the chickens penned up.

Sears and Roebuck always sent a catalog.  The one at Christmas featured toys.  What beautiful dolls with hair to comb and eyes that closed in sleep.  Some even said "Mama." And skates built right on the shoes.  Wouldn't it be great to have a phonograph and some records?

Nighttime found us three girls snuggled in our bed, Patsy on the outside, me in the middle and Mamie against the wall.  At our feet was a 'smoothing' iron that had been heated on the stove and wrapped in a cloth.  At night it was warm and cozy.  By morning, it was cold as ice.

We pulled the covers up under our chins and by the glow of a coal oil lamp, we chose our favorite pieces on the quilt that covered us.  Perhaps it was the pink one or the blue.  My favorite was a paisley print design.  The pieces came from feed sacks from which we had made our dresses, skirts or blouses.

We made up stories of things that had happened, might happen, or would never happen.  We laughed and giggled.  When the lights were 'blown' out, we were admonished to keep it quiet so others could sleep.  We continued in whispers until one by one we fell asleep.

Sniffles and colds were a normal part of winter.  The treatment ranged from a generous rub with Mentholatum on the chest, covered with a piece of flannel to hold in the warmth, to a spoonful of sugar with a drop of turpentine added to soothe a sore throat.  For a light cough, you would get a spoonful of honey or sorghum molasses.  In spite of the conditions in which we lived, with poor heating by today's standards, none of us missed many days of school because of illness.

Through the window you can see the pure white snow covering the earth.  The leaves and branches are covered with a frosting of snow.  Even the barbed wire fence has a cap of white.  From the kitchen comes the smell of hot biscuits and bacon.  You know there will be scrambled eggs, gravy and oatmeal with cream and sugar.  Life is good.  Who could want more than this?

The pastor and visiting revival preachers kept singing invitational hymns to persuade people to come forward and join the church.  I wondered whom they were talking to as I knew everyone there and as I saw it, everyone was already a member.  I gradually came to realize they were talking to me.  Therefore, I began to sit farther and farther back in the congregation.

One Sunday night in 1952, I was sitting in the middle of the back pew.  The invitation began, "Have Thine Own Way, Lord".  Before I realized it, I had made my way to the aisle and was walking forward.  Mamie and Patsy came with me.  We all joined the church and were baptized in the baptistery at First Baptist Church in Ringling.

Our family of seven and the Maness family of eight comprised about one half of the total congregation.  So, if either family was absent, attendance dropped dramatically.  Sometimes Daddy would drive to the Maness house to pick them up to be sure they had a ride to church.

I remember one particular Sunday evening in August.  Daddy had hay in the back of the truck as it was watermelon season and he had been peddling melons and tomatoes.  The Manesses, for some reason, were at church but didn't have a way home.  Daddy offered them a ride home.

Mr. and Mrs. Maness rode in the cab with Daddy and Mama.  All the kids climbed onto the back.  All the way to their house we laughed and talked and sang songs.  On the way home, sleep overtook us and we stretched out on the hay and fell asleep.

The church at Orr was a mission from the First Baptist Church in Ringling.  The Ringling church sponsored two weeks of camp at Falls Creek Baptist Assembly out of Ardmore.  One year they invited two of the Orr young people to go with them.  I was chosen to attend and so was M. C. Maness.  Mrs. Edwards went with us and took her young son, Ross.  Her niece Bernadine DeFriez, who was visiting from Colorado, also went.

This was the first time I had been away from home, except for our visits to Grandmo's house.  We borrowed a suitcase, packed my bags and went to Ringling to meet the Ringling church bus.  There were several kids from Ringling who all knew each other.  I felt lonesome already.  By the time we got to Falls Creek, I was pretty sad.  As we unpacked and set up our cots, I began to cry.  Mrs. Edwards came to me, held me and comforted me.  I felt a little better.  Then Bernadine came bouncing in.  She saw that I was sad and pointed out that she didn't know anyone either.  She proclaimed then and there that she and I would be partners.  That helped tremendously.  Bernadine was a dark headed, energetic, cheerful person and it was not long before we became acquainted with the other girls and had a wonderful two-week trip.

The mornings were spent going to classes.  Missionaries from all over the world were there to talk to us.  We studied foreign lands and Bible history.  We sang songs like "Kum Ba Ya" and "Jesu Ne A Nah".  The afternoons were free to swim or hike.

In the evenings, there was a preaching service under a large tent.  A group of us girls signed up to sing in the choir.  We were not that good, but from the choir loft we looked out over the congregation.  One night near the end of our two-week stay, during the invitational song, a young man came forward.  Hazel Gay leaned over and whispered to me, "He's cute.  Maybe he's volunteering to be a missionary.  I'm going down to volunteer.  Maybe I'll get to meet him." And that's exactly what she did.

I don't know whether that young man ever made it to the missionary field, but as far as Hazel was concerned, she came back with us, finished high school in Ringling.  To my knowledge, she never became a missionary.

When attendance fell off and the church in Orr disbanded, we moved our membership to Centerpoint Church where Grandmo, Cecil and Aunt Mamie attended.  Daddy was made a deacon, and Marion was Sunday School Director for many years.  Our teachers were Inez Eubanks, Grace Cox, Edith Copeland, and Mrs. Coyle who ran the store in Centerpoint and whom Mama always called Mrs. Troyle.

We made good friends in both churches.  Mrs. Edwards' son, Randall, married our cousin Martha Carroll.  Once when Daddy was sick, Mr. Apala came to visit him.  Mr. Apala was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian and a very quiet man.  He stayed about an hour, never saying more than three sentences, but you could feel the caring in his silence.  Such was the nature of those Christian friends we made those long years ago.

The only time I really felt like I was a "teacher's pet" was the year we had Stanley Patty for a teacher.  He was Wilma's older brother.  When he had an errand to run to the general store or to the post office, Wilma and I were usually the ones who got to go.  Another way we were chosen was to dust the chalk erasers on the cement cellar.  This let us out of the classroom for a while and we got in a lot of good talk clapping those erasers.

Lennie, Wilma, and I were constant companions.  We even spent the night with each other several times a year.  Once when they were at our house, we decided to make a cake.  We got out the recipe book, found all the ingredients, and built up a fire in the wood cook stove.  We mixed carefully, put the batter in an iron skillet and waited.  Well, something happened.  We opened the door and let it slam, walked on the floor too hard, or had the fire too hot or too cold.  At any rate, when we took that cake out of the oven, it was 3 inches high around the edges but as flat as a flitter in the middle.  We laughed and laughed.  But it tasted pretty good anyway.

A special time with Wilma found all of us on a walk with Sharon and Rachel, Wilma's younger sisters.  After the walk and a good meal cooked by Mrs. Patty, we settled down for a session of giggles, gossip and games.  Mr. Patty came in to announce there was a dark cloud in the sky and it would be best if we all went to the cellar.  It seems I remember it as being under the house; we didn't even have to go outside to get to it.  We were there with all the family.  There was a special warm feeling with their family as they weathered the storm by telling stories.  As it turns out, the Pattys spent many nights in their storm cellar.  Mr. Patty was more cautious of storms than was our Dad.

Two or three times in our growing up years, we attended "tacky" parties on the creek bank near the Patty farm.  All the kids in the upper grades were invited.  The theme of the party was for all of us to dress in old clothes and smudge our face to look like a hobo.  We built a fire, roasted hot dogs and marshmallows.  Games were played that paired boys and girls.  It was then required that we walk a set distance together, holding hands.  All the others giggled until it was their turn.

Many happy hours were spent together.  Lennie left us as a sophomore in high school to marry Lavern Hodgson.  Wilma and I finished high school at Ringling together.

Our first bus driver was Bill Lyles.  Later, the routes were changed and George Patty drove the south route, which included us.  He and his wife had no children, but he took an interest in all of us, joking and laughing as we entered the bus.  He was strict, however, while he was driving and we had to obey the rules.  He was conscientious about his driving.  He made every effort to make all his rounds.

We lived on a dirt road.  The red clay hill by the Carroll house was very slick and slippery after a rain.  But Georgie knew we seldom missed a day of school and would be waiting at the bus stop.  He would always make an attempt to drive the two miles to get us.  There were not many times he failed to make it to pick us up.

We first walked to the gate at Larkin Burden's field, a distance of about one mile.  We walked diagonally across the Porter field, which was sometimes planted in cotton, sometimes corn.  It was here we waited with the Thompson kids and played games, mostly baseball.  The Thomsons later moved into Orr.  There were times when some of us were later than the others, but if even one child could be seen coming to catch the bus, the driver waited until he got there.

In the winter, it was cold waiting for the bus to come.  We began to wait in an old log house where the Pembertons now live.  When we saw the dust of the school bus coming, we took off walking to the bus stop.  Of course the bus got there first, then they had to wait until all of us got on board.  Eventually, the bus began coming to the log house to pick us up.  It may have been so we would have a warmer place to wait, but more likely, it was because it was faster to drive the distance than wait for us to walk to the bus stop.  In time the bus came another tenth of a mile and turned around at the spot just north of the present cattle guard.

In an effort to keep the high school, it was necessary to have a certain number of students in each grade.  I was in the 3^rd grade when we moved to Orr, but that fall, instead of being promoted to the 4^th grade, I was advanced to the 5^th grade as there were not enough students in that grade to qualify the school system for high school status.  I don't know whom else, nor how many others, received this double promotion.

Since each room contained two or three classes, I heard all the lessons of the 4^th grade as well as the 5^th and 6^th.  I feel I received a good education in the Orr system.  The effort to save the high school failed and the next year Orr only had 8 grades with grades 9-12 being transferred to Ringling.

In addition to our academic studies, we were exposed to the values taught through the 4-H Club, learning the worth of hands, head, heart, health and the 5^th H… home.  As a 4-H project one year, I made a dirndl apron.  We took it to the county fair in Marietta.  It won a white, 3 ^rd place, ribbon…which I considered pretty good on a countywide basis.  Marion and Leon raised and showed pigs for 4-H and later FFA.  They also won some ribbons.

During the 50's, polio was a dreaded disease striking children and leaving them paralyzed.  We had one such student, Lyndal Patty.  He was confined to a wheelchair and from him we learned to have compassion for those who were unable to do the things we could.  We helped him as much as we could, but he was a rather independent person and got around pretty good on his own.  Every January we were allowed a half day off from school to go through the neighborhood collecting funds for the "March of Dimes" to help find a cure for polio.  That cure has been found, for which we can all be thankful.

Through magazines, we found two moneymaking projects, which we tried.  One was selling flower seed.  We ordered the packets and went door-to-door trying to sell them.  One good prospect was Tim Roberts who bought a lot of seed, even though his yard was already covered with flowers.  We had a nice flowerbed that year, also.

The other project was selling Cloverdale salve.  We sold it as we had the flower seed, from door to door.  We earned a "ruby and diamond" cluster ring.  We were so proud of it at the time.

It's peculiar how your perspective changes, as you grow older.  Jesse and Opal came to visit us one summer, with Joe Dean, Lowell and Sherman.  We went down to the creek and were playing and splashing in the water.  Opal bent over, reached between her knees, caught the back hem of her skirt and tucked it into her belt at the front, creating the effect of a pair of shorts.  She took off her shoes and waded into the water to splash with the rest of us.  I remember thinking what fun this 'old' lady was having.  On reflection, I realize she was much younger then than I am now.  And I still wade and splash in water every chance I get.

We went through a phase of writing to pen pals.  Our teachers got the addresses for us.  I wrote to a girl in Allentown, Pennsylvania; a boy from New Mexico who drew pictures of cactus and horses and may have been of Indian heritage; a girl from Canada who sent me lots of pictures of Niagara Falls.  It was interesting to learn of the customs and values of students in other parts of the country.  As a note of interest, it cost 3 cents to mail a letter, and a penny post card only cost a penny.

We got involved in another project through the mail system.  It is possible that Imogene Pickering, the pastor's wife, got it started through the church.  It was called the IAH Club, standing for I Am His, meaning Christ.  We were sent Bible verses through the mail.  We were to memorize the verses and write back advising when we had them memorized.  Although they could not check on us, we never cheated.  The purpose of the project was to earn a Bible.  This is how I came to own my first Bible, for I memorized each verse they sent me.  I continued to use that Bible throughout my days in Oklahoma and still have it.

Toward the end of the 8^th grade, I began to wonder what it would be like to go into High School at Ringling.  I knew the classes would be larger, as many as 25 compared to 7 or 8 we were accustomed to at Orr.  I knew, also, we would be attending school with former basketball and softball opponents from Grady, Ringling, and Courtney Flat.  I knew that our school days consisted of classes until the first recess when, as weather warmed, shoes were shed to free our toes for greater traction to run bases and track.  I understood they did not even have recess at High School.

Loretta Hammond was a year ahead of me.  She had been in High School all year.  After school one day, I gathered my books, collected my shoes and boarded the bus.  Taking my seat, I started a conversation with Loretta.  I asked her what to expect when I entered High School in the fall, how was it going to be different? "Well, for one thing," she answered, "you can't go barefoot." She looked wistfully at the shoes on my schoolbooks.  Thus came to an end my BAREFOOT school days.

• Mamie Elliott:
  • Clarence:
    • James
    • Pat
    • Mike
  • Alice
    • Lloyd
    • Lynn
    • Linda
    • Lewis
  • Walter
    • Leon
    • Eddie
    • Larry
    • Sarah
    • Mary
    • Erin
    • Margaret
    • Kimberly
    • Sheila
  • Olen
    • Billy
    • Weldon
• Edgar
  • Bernice
  • Sonny
  • Ona Marie
• Oran
  • Stephen
  • Michael
  • Mary Alice
• Cecil
• Jesse
  • James Lowell
  • Joe Dean
  • Sherman Dale
  • Cloyd Nelson

• Oscar
  • "Buck"
  • Leonard
• Eddie
  • Bonnie
  • Bob
• "Sis" Underwood
  • Aaron
  • Emma Lou
  • Wynell
  • Gloria
  • Johnny
  • Billy
  • Tiny
• Fred
  • Billy
• Myrtle Abshire
  • Oliver
  • Billy Ray
  • "Bud"
  • Coy
  • "Shug"
  • Jerry
  • Tammy
• Annie Carroll
  • Martha Ann
  • Ronnie
• Ruby Hall
  • Norma Ruth
  • Connie
  • Debbie
• Rosie Freeman
  • Claude
  • Patricia
  • Randy

We had some special teachers.  Especially remembered for their kindness are Mrs. Cavins, Mrs. Foster, Mr. Hinch, and Mrs. Williams.  It was in Mrs. Williams' Girls Glee Club that I discovered I was bashful.  She had noticed a sour note coming from the second soprano section.  We were called to the front of the room in groups of five to be monitored as we sang.  As she got to me, I turned a bright red.  From the side I heard someone say, "She's blushing." I felt red-hot down to my toes.  Mrs. Williams had us sit down, and then commented that whoever was off should just lip sync when we were in competition.  I was sure she was talking about me, as I knew I was not blessed with a singing voice, but she graciously did not call me by name.  From that time forward, I continued in the Glee Club, but only moved my lips and uttered no sound.  We won many competitions and I made many interesting trips.  Some times it pays to be quiet.

My favorite teacher, however, was Mr. Puckett.  He taught math and science.  I had him for Algebra I, Geometry, and Biology.  Although he had a reputation as a tough teacher, I found him to be quite reasonable.  From the beginning, he told us not all of us would fully understand Algebra, but he promised he would not fail any of us as long as he felt we were doing the best we could.  We were advised, however, that a grade of D- was the same as a polite F.

Mr. Puckett would enter the classroom, lick his index finger, place it in the center of his graying mustache, look around the room and make his attendance slip, without ever calling the roll.  He knew each of us and where we usually sat.  He seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.  While standing with his back to us at the blackboard, he would call by name that errant student who was about to pass a note.  "Bud," he would say, "When you get that note passed, we will proceed with the lesson."

He would put a problem on the board, explain it and ask if we all saw how the solution was determined.  When we nodded that we did, he erased the board, then turned to ask if we still saw how the solution was reached.

It was in Geometry class that I learned by observation, that math can have many routes to the same answer.  It proved Daddy's adage that there is more than one way to skin a cat.  Anna Jo Reid, Molly Norvell and I nearly always had the right answer, but each of us used different reasoning to get the answer.  Toward the end of the year, Mr. Puckett put a long, complicated equation on the board.  When he proceeded through the proof, he discovered he had the wrong answer.  He went over it again only to reach the same wrong answer.  Class was over, but he left the problem on the board with a note: DO NOT ERASE.  For two or three days afterward we went over that problem.

Then one day, he was going through the problem again, when I discovered the discrepancy.  "Shouldn't that be such and such?", I asked.  He looked at me, licked his index finger, placed it on his mustache and began to rework the problem.  This time the proof verified the answer.

That was the year the medal for outstanding student in math was awarded to me.  I have often wondered if that problem was some sort of test.  In a year when there were three equally talented students, it was a way to determine who would receive the math award.

Although both Mama and Daddy were forced by circumstances to leave school early, they each had a great respect for education.  They continually expressed their desire to see each of their children graduate high school.  They took great pride in telling people that all five of their children graduated from high school, four from Ringling High School.  Patsy, who tied with Norma Hall for salutatorian of the ninth grade, graduated from Azle High School, Azle, Texas, where she moved after she married in her senior year.  Mamie entered an essay contest and won a scholarship to Southeastern State College in Durant, Oklahoma, where she attended one semester before moving to Fort Worth and getting a job.

Mama and Daddy took great pleasure in visiting all the children who moved away.  Patsy tells of times when Daddy would enter her living room, take all the coins from his pocket, throw them on the floor, and tell her kids they could have what they picked up.  Mamie says Daddy has come to her house and thrown his cap through the door to the floor.  Then he would observe, "Well, it wasn't thrown back, so I guess it is safe to come in."

When we drove up at their house, Mama would usually come to the car to greet us, but Daddy waited for us at the porch.  With a sly grin he greeted us with, "Oh, I thought it was somebody. "

After Manley and I were married, Daddy drove us to downtown Orr to show us around.  It had grown even smaller through the years.  The post office was closed.  The country store was closed.  The church was gone.  We turned a corner and met Marion on his motorcycle, with Ronald riding behind.  We both stopped and Daddy inquired of Marion, "Where are you going?" Marion replied, "Nowhere." "Well," Daddy said, "you're almost there."

Daddy and Mama were in a car wreck in February 1979.  They were both in the hospital for weeks.  Daddy received a blow to the left temple, which caused some brain damage.  He never did fully recover; he lost some memory cells.  He gradually went down hill, until on April 19, 1988, he passed from this life.  He left a tremendous void in our family.  No doubt about it, he was our backbone.  Mama is 87 now and is in the nursing home in Ringling.  Marion is still close by.  Leon goes up about every two weeks and takes her out to the home place.  Patsy and Mamie go often.  We get up as often as we can and I write to her about every other week, and she still answers back.  She enjoys hearing about our travels and the sights we see along the way.  The family still gets together at least once a year.  We have had some good times together.

One time Marion, Patsy and Mamie came to see us when we lived in Lindale.  We had just bought the Fun Machine player organ.  I had written the notes on some hymn books and had learned a few of the songs we grew up singing.  I sat at the organ and played, sometimes missing a note or holding a note too long.  The others were supposed to see who was the first to guess the song.  Invariably, Marion was the first one to start singing in a voice that was slightly off key and out of tempo.  Frustrated, Mamie finally asked him, "Why are you always the first to know what she is playing?" His reply was, "Well, I guess it's because she plays them the way I sing them." We all had a good laugh.

The fourth generation now enjoys the home place.  It is a special treat to them to walk through the woods and to the field, to hear the stories and remembrances of our youth.  One such outing found Patsy, Mamie and me joined by David, Jeffrey and Lauren.  We walked the north fence line almost to the northwest corner.  There we cut through the woods and crossed the creek where the water trickled down in a shallow stream.  We came out in the field where we used to grow sugar cane and walked as far as the old sorghum mill site.  We turned back east, passing the old saw mill where we met Uncle Greenberry that time, and the old garden spot, which is now, overgrown with pecans and persimmons.

When we got to the creek, we discovered that dead trees and debris had collected and formed a dam, which backed the water up.  The crossing was under three feet of water.  We had two options.  We could walk back the way we came, or we could use a dead tree that had fallen across the creek as a footbridge.  Patsy opted for the fallen tree.

We made our way upstream a short distance through briars and bushes.  When we reached the fallen tree, Patsy stood up and walked straight across.  Mamie followed close behind, then David and Jeffrey followed her.  That left Lauren and me on this side while all the others were on the other side urging us on.  Lauren and I looked at the water, and decided it would be a long way to fall, and the water was sure to be cold.  We sat down, straddled that log and scooted our way across, inch by inch.  The others stood on the other side laughing at us and slapping their knees in glee.  But we didn't care; we just kept inching along, green slime getting all over my jeans.

This past Thanksgiving when we were at the home place for our annual get together, Marion stood in the front yard wearing overalls and a flannel shirt.  When I glanced out and saw him, I couldn't help thinking how much like our Daddy he looked.  It brought back some beautiful memories of our time together and how special it was and how special all of my brothers and sisters still are.

There were five of us children.  We all grew up in the same house, with the same parents and the same set of rules.  Yet, we each developed our own distinctive personality.  Each of us is different from the others.  And yet, below the surface differences, there are the same basic principles of honesty, integrity and perseverance.  For these we have to thank our parents and our teachers who guided our footsteps in those early years.

• As long as you put your foot under my table, you will do as I tell you to do.
• With reference to someone who has spent money foolishly:
  • He has more dollars than sense.
  • He would buy a battleship if he had a place to put it.
• After skinning a knuckle draining the water from the tractor on a cold winter night:
  • Dat gum the dat gum luck anyway.
• You heard what I said, and I didn't stutter when I said it.
• After shooting at some pesky crows:
  • I didn't hit any, but I made the feathers fly.
• To an inquisitive child who put his nose in where it didn't belong:
  • Who? Who? Your foot doesn't fit a limb.
  • If that doesn't beat a goose a gobbling.
  • There's more than one way to skin a cat.
• To an impatient child:
  • Just hold your horses.
• On the topic of fishing:
  • When the wind is in the north, the fishermen go not forth.
  • When the wind is in the east, 'tis not fit for man nor beast.
  • When the wind is in the south, it blows the bait in the fish's mouth.
  • When the wind is in the west, 'tis then the fishing is the best.
• Come in, make yourself at home.  If you are not at home, you ought to be.
• Two sayings that contradict each other:
  • You can't teach old dogs new tricks.
  • You are never too old to learn.
• About someone who has cheated him:
  • If he can live with it, I can live without it.
• When he borrowed from someone:
  • I'll owe you forever, before I beat you out of it.
• I've known that since Hector was a pup.
• I've known that since McGuffy's reader.
• I've known that since the black and white spotted one.
• If you don't eat it now, you'll eat it for supper.
• There's no fool like an old fool.
• From Mama:
  • I don't know, myself.
• To someone who is a little too cocky:
  • Remember, a stopped clock is right twice a day.
  • If I bought you for what you are worth, and sold you for what you think you are worth, I'd be rich.
• We will be there, the good Lord willing, and the creeks don't rise.
• Can't? Can't never could do anything.
• On a brisk autumn morning:
  • The frost is on the punkin.
• They live so far back in the woods, they have to pipe sunshine in to them.
• When a job was not done properly:
  • I think you need to lick your calf over.
• If he had a brain, he would take it out and play with it.
• Of someone who was fickle:
  • He's anybody's dog who will hunt with him.
• You can catch more flies with honey than you can with vinegar.
• When told to wait:
  • Weight is what broke the bridge down.
• When someone was blocking the light:
  • I can't see through you.  You have been drinking muddy water.
• I told him how the cow ate the cabbage.
• Shut the door behind you.  Are you from Arkansas?
• He's not lazy.  He was just born tired and has never got rested.
• We'll cross that bridge when we get to it.
• I'm going to turn around twice and there won't be anyone left here but me.
• If I'm buying, we'll have soup.
• When all the dishes cooked for dinner were eaten:
  • It'll be a clear day tomorrow.
• The sun is shining and it is raining, the devil is beating his wife.
• I'll sell this place lock, stock and barrel.
• Anything worth doing is worth doing right.
• When something is found in plain sight:
  • If it had been a snake, it would have bit me.
• If you make your bed hard, you will have to sleep in it.
• Of rock and roll music:
  • If they are playing that by parts, they can leave my part out.
• He jumped from the frying pan to the fire.
• Of time:
  • 10 after 5.  That is an uneven race.
  • 5 after 5.  That should be an even race.
• That's none of your bee's wax.
• He cut off his nose to spite his face.
• I am so hungry I could eat a mule's lip from his ears down.