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105 pages

English

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This memoir recalls the lives of three sisters growing up in East Texas during the Depression and World War II. Their father and uncle were partners in a lumber mill, which required them to move many times. It was difficult changing schools and meeting strange new kids. The strength and faith of their mother and the closeness of their three female cousinsSister, Tad, and Tootmade it easier to cope after their father died. Although sad at times, this memoir is amusing and heartwarming.Walk with Alma Hereford through the pages of Wild Grapes as she and her sisters come of age in the heartland of Depression-era Americaheartwarming, empathetic, and very funny. Georgia I. Hesse, founding travel editor of the San Francisco Examiner

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Lettres et linguistique

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Publié par	Inspiring Voices
Date de parution	20 septembre 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781462407026
Langue	English

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Wild Grapes:
A Memoir

ALMA DARIEL HEREFORD

Copyright © 2013 Dariel Alexander.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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Inspiring Voices
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ISBN: 978-1-4624-0703-3 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4624-0702-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013914528

Inspiring Voices rev. date: 09/17/2013

Contents
“Once a Texan, always a Texan,” I heard my sister’s daughter say, “and if I can, I’ll see that my children are born in Texas.” I might have said the same thing at one time, until I found other fair places. Yet sometimes I get a longing I can’t describe and I start remembering… .
He’s the Lily of the valley, the Bright and Morning Star, He’s the Fairest of ten thousand to my soul.
‘Oh Beulah Land, sweet Beulah Land, as on thy highest mount I stand And look away across the sea where mansions are prepared for me’
This world is not my home, I’m just a passing through. If heaven’s not my home, dear Lord what shall I do?
Will the circle be unbroken, by and by, Lord, by and by? Is there a better home awaiting, in the sky, Lord, in the sky
Have we trials and temptations, is there trouble anywhere? We should never be discouraged, take it to the Lord in prayer.
God will take care of you, thru every day, o’er all the way He will take care of you. God will take care of you.
I come to the garden alone, while the dew is still on the roses And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the son of God discloses
Great is Thy faithfulness, morning by morning, new mercies I see All I have needed, Thy hands have provided
This world is not my home, I’m just a passing through. My treasures are laid up for me somewhere beyond the blue.
In the shady green pastures, so rich and so sweet, God Leads His dear children along
Acknowledgements

To my precious sisters, June and Patsy

“Once a Texan, always a Texan,” I heard my sister’s daughter say, “and if I can, I’ll see that my children are born in Texas.” I might have said the same thing at one time, until I found other fair places. Yet sometimes I get a longing I can’t describe and I start remembering… .
Some glad morning when this life is o’er, I’ll fly away To a home on God’s celestial shore, I’ll fly away
U ncle Gord helped Mama into the front seat of the car while Sister climbed into the back with us. I concentrated on the funny little feather bobbing on Mama’s hat and how the car seat scratched the back of my legs. Patsy clutched June’s hand and watched me closely to see if I would cry. We followed the hearse the few blocks to the church. Aunt Estelle, Tad and Toot were already waiting on the church steps when we arrived. Toot held one of Uncle Gord’s big handkerchiefs to her nose and Tad cried openly. I felt the tears behind my eyes, deep in my head, and the back of my throat ached with them and the corners of my heart hurt with them, but I couldn’t let them out. If I did, it would be true, this awful thing, this awful bad dream would be true. And there certainly couldn’t be a God. If He was there, He wouldn’t do this to us. I’d been a fool to ask Him to live in my heart when we went with Mama to the revival in town.
Uncle Gord liked to kid Daddy about how skinny he was. He was skinny alright, and tall. I thought he was tall then—slightly built and infinitely patient and gentle. He had a small, black hole in his left cheek and when we sat in his lap, we ran our fingers back and forth over it, fascinated, trying to learn its secret. He said it was where an Indian had shot him. We only half believed him and kept asking, thinking he would change his story. But he never did. As far back as I can remember, his health never seemed robust. He had worked as an accountant for a cigar company in Beaumont when he and Mama married, but he always hated being cooped up in an office and finally quit. Soon after, he and his brother, Gord, bought a sawmill in Helbig in East Texas.
Daddy and helpers from the mill made a clearing in a grove of sweetgum and pecan trees and built a simple house from lumber milled by Daddy and Uncle Gord. It sat beside a sandy narrow road that ended at the river. Behind the house a shallow creek fed by several small springs ran cool even on the hottest summer days. We sisters played for hours, damming areas and filling them with minnows, crawfish and tadpoles, which were plentiful. One bank was steep and covered with pine needles and moss, making a perfect slide into the cool water. Mama could watch us from the kitchen window which was only a few yards from the creek.
I vaguely remember the birth of my youngest sister, Patsy. I was four, my middle sister June was two. Doctor Elwyn Cousins delivered Patsy in our front bedroom and Mama thought so much of him that Patsy’s middle name became Elwyn, much to Patsy’s discomfort in later years. She never owned up to Elwyn if she could help it and would add other names to disguise it saying her name was Patsy Elwyn Frances Lee Hereford. Where “Frances” came from, we didn’t know. She wanted “Lee” from daddy’s brother, Uncle Lee, whom she admired because he wrote things that appeared in the paper and because he made up little poems to please her. June was named after great Uncle June, our grandpa’s brother.
Selina was the color of coffee with lots of cream and freckles which we tried to count and hair which was incongruously red. She came every day to help Mama take care of us and once in awhile brought one or two of her kids to play with us. She made up songs to amuse us and often she and Mama sang together, Mama’s sweet soprano blending with Selina’s almost bass. I loved to hear them sing an old Spiritual “I’ll Fly Away” and I’d imagine flying away to God’s celestial shore, wherever that was. It had to be a wonderful place if Mama and Selina wanted to be there.
When Patsy was about two, she was very ill and had a high fever which brought on convulsions. Mama was holding her when she became rigid, her eyes rolled back into her head and she seemed unable to breathe. Frightened, Mama asked Selina to fetch Daddy from the mill. Instead, Selina took Patsy from Mama’s arms, pulled her dress over her head and threw it into the fire. Shocked, Mama watched as Selina pressed Patsy to her bosom and walked back and forth humming to herself. “Don’t fret, Miss Mamie, she’ll be fine,” Selina told Mama. Sure enough, Patsy’s body began to relax and soon she was breathing normally again. The pongee dress had been lovingly smocked by Mama and Aunt Estelle and without a thought Selina had thrown it into the fire.
What witchcraft Selina had performed we didn’t know, but she performed magic in the kitchen too. Crawfish were bountiful in the ponds and creeks around us and Selina taught us how to catch them with salt pork tied on strings and endless patience and even though Mama watched closely as Selina prepared gumbo, she swore hers would never be as tasty as Selina’s. Selina made her own file powder, a mixture she made from ground sassafras leaves, and of course she insisted the gumbo had to have plenty of okra. Daddy praised Selina for her crawfish gumbo, but there were some foods only Mama could fix for him like the wild and tender spring mustard greens, cooked quickly in just a little hot oil and seasonings and the morning cheese she made for breakfast. After milk clabbered, she twisted it in cheesecloth and hung it on the line til it compacted, then unmolded and sliced it, serving it with homemade sour cream and sugar. If we didn’t have morning cheese, the sour cream was spread over hot biscuits. And nothing pleased him more than her lemon pie.
Selina lived nearby with her family in a house Mama said was so clean you could eat off the floor, tho I wondered why anyone would want to. Often Selina took June and me home with her where we played with her kids of various sizes and ages, and if we behaved and didn’t get on Selina’s nerves, she asked us to stay for supper. We sat on benches around the table, seven black curly heads and two cotton tops, Selina at one end, her giant of a husband at the other. Before we could eat, the kids had to take turns giving thanks to God for whatever He’d done for them that day and with coaxing from Selina, June and I would try to think of some reason we were thankful too. Selina’s kids thanked God for everything they could think of besides the food, for the clothes they wore, for their pet rooster, their daddy’s new straw hat, their grandma’s new teeth, the bubble gum they had been chewing and if their daddy hadn’t cleared his throat, they would have gone on til the food got cold. The food was spicy and simple and June and I ate with an eagerness we might not have felt at home.
We called her Mama. Daddy called her Jerrie, family called her Mamie and friends called her