I
clicked through the rack at Jett's Dress Shop with a keen eye,
savoring my secret. 1944 was still a new year, and the winds of war
swept into even the remote corners of eastern Kentucky. "New
clothes are such a rare treat these days," I thought, "so
even this outfit must serve more than one purpose." At least I
had a little money to spend, thanks to that teaching job last year up
on South Fork and my job now at the A&P. Wishing my sisters were
around to consult, I smiled and settled on a tailored, two-piece suit
of soft gold wool with a crisp white blouse. Then I paused for a
moment to consider the occasion on which it would first be worn.
Mrs.
June Jett, the store owner, watched me with more than a passing
interest. She was a friend of the family, had known me since I was
going around on roller skates with pigtails in my hair, playing the
tomboy... gee, not so very long ago! Like so many others, she was very
sympathetic when my mother (Maude Noble Haddix) passed away so
suddenly - it's been five years ago now.
At the time we were living in
Richmond; we had moved there so my eldest brother and sister, Vergil
and Edith, could attend Eastern Kentucky University. My parents had
both taught school, and they put a high value on education. Mama
seemed to be a very strong woman, and she was certainly a hard worker.
She had to be, with eight children! But she suffered from rheumatic
fever when she was a child, which damaged her heart. She was only 46
when it finally gave out on her. I still remember that day like it was
yesterday.
My
dad (we all called him 'Pappy' then) was working back in Jackson to
make ends meet. We all worked hard to help Mama during the week. I can
hear her now: "Don't bring me flowers after I'm gone," she
would say, "do what you can for me every day." Pappy had
come to visit us in Richmond for the weekend, and he returned to
Jackson on Sunday evening.
Edith
slept with Mama that night. There were plenty of beds, but they had
grown-up whispers to share. Next morning, they awoke and talked for a
bit; then Mama started gasping for breath. Before she could even get
up, it was over. She was gone. Someone sent a telegram to our dad, and
a house full of children spent a long day in tears. Oh, what a
heartache! If only she could be here now... I know she would have
good advice and a warm hug to offer...
When
Mama died, my brother Vergil and his wife Ohna lived in an upstairs
apartment in our house on Fifth Street. We all looked up to Vergil, as
the oldest, to help us take care of things while Pappy was away
working. But this was something even Vergil couldn't fix. The
youngest, little tow-headed Dove, was only seven years old. I was
fourteen.
We
took Mama home to Lost Creek, in Breathitt County, and buried her in
the family cemetery on the hill (the one that was later named for Paw,
my grandfather - William Washington Haddix). After the funeral, Uncle
Mitchell and Aunt Ina brought us all back to Richmond in their car, a
crowded and quiet ride. Then the cloud of tragedy mushroomed.
That
very day, some kinfolk and neighbors were holding a memorial service
for Mama in the little church near her family home at Clayhole. Some
young men were outside, drinking and wrestling over a gun not far from
the church. Suddenly the gun fired. The shot went into the church,
ricocheted, and hit Mama's youngest sister, Ada Noble, right behind
the ear. She didn't make a sound, just slumped right over in her
seat.
They
sent Aunt Ada down to Louisville, I think, for a special doctor. She
lived about five days. We had barely got home to Richmond when Pappy
and Uncle Mitchell and Aunt Ina had to turn around and go right back
to Lost Creek. The rest of us stayed home that time.
Ada was a pretty, single schoolteacher, just 27 years old, a favorite
with everyone. Her mother, "Mother Noble" to us kids, lost two daughters, both lovely young women full of
life and promise, almost both at once... a burden no mother should
ever have to bear. The shooting was ruled accidental; those fellows
served about two years for it, I think.
We
moved back to Lost Creek not long after, into the rambling two-story
house that Pappy built for Mama just down the road from his own
parents. Edith taught school and stayed home
to help with the young ones. Pappy put all the pictures of Mama away
in a trunk, and we just didn't talk about her. It was too painful.
Dreams of a home in the bluegrass dashed for good, he
buried his grief in hard work on the hilly mountain farm.
Years
later I saw him sitting beside her grave over there - across the
creek, beyond the swinging bridge - when I came home from school
unexpectedly in the middle of the day. He must have seen me, too,
because he slipped 'round the back way and beat me home. Never said a
word about it. I think he must have spent many hours with her there on
that little hill, with worldly chores abandoned for a brief respite in
her company. I know he loved her dearly, and he missed her fiercely
every day.
They
say time heals, but even after all these years I still grieve for
Mama. I can see her working in the kitchen, wiping her hands on a
flour-sack apron, pushing away a stray strand of hair with long
slender fingers, fixing a big hearty breakfast or a fine Sunday dinner
for her brood. I can hear her voice, calling the boys to bring in wood
for the cook stove, asking, "Where has little Ross got to
now?" and sending me to fetch him home. She was always so busy. I
got my roller skates then, when we lived in Richmond. Saved up
wrappers from Blue Horse notebook paper and got the skates by mail
order. Zipped around just about everywhere on those things!
I
remember an earlier time, too, when I was about eight or nine... out
on the back porch at Lost Creek. My hair was in two long braids, about
down to my waist. I don't suppose it had ever been cut. Vergil always
barbered the younger boys' hair, but I don't think he cut mine. Mama
was there, and maybe Mother Noble too. I can swing my head today and
remember the sudden light-headed, grown-up feeling when my heavy
braids were cut off, and for the first time my hair swung freely
around my face.
Suddenly
Mrs. Jett shattered my woolgathering with a conspiratorial whisper.
"You're fixin' to get married, aren't you, honey?" Startled,
I grinned a little and tried to give an evasive answer. It was true,
but was it so obvious? It was supposed to be a secret!
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MORE TO COME -
