Momma Knows

To be a successful genealogist is tricky. Why? Because not only do you have to leave no stone unturned, any site unsearched, or any record not paid for, you have to be a good listener. This is the hardest part for me. Some  stories you have heard what seems like a million times. We all know when a parent or grandparent starts to tell “that story” again, your eyes glaze over and you try to remember where your secret stash of nursing home brochures are. Stop doing this. I don’t mean hoarding nursing home brochures, you might to fix momma’s nasty attitude by laying these about sometimes. I mean do not tune out.

I was a teenager at least 100 years ago, give or take 60 years. The first telling of these stories are horrifying and sad beyond belief. I conjured up people living in caves, eating mice, and Og, the leader, having a sloping forehead and a unibrow. I promise, if you dig deep enough in your family history, everyone has at least one Og. Some families have more “Og” than “not Og.”  You know who you are. However, as I got older, I hear different portions of the story. I  no longer thought, wow, that sucked… well I  still think that but my perspective changes. MY Og brain developed  into a caring human being that is capable of feelings and empathy. However…

Momma, I love you, and I appreciate the fact that you have enough marbles rolling around to  tell  me our story. However, there are a few stories I can deal without having to hear again…

I know you were poor. Most rural southern whites were in the ’40’s.  Being that poor builds character and old people that hide pudding cups in shoes. That being said, the story of where you lost the last family dollar, let me re-emphasize that, the LAST FAMILY DOLLAR, to stop and throw rocks in the mud …  This does beg the question of why a child would be entrusted with the last dollar?    The answer is, obviously, as any true southern genealogist will know, is because there were probably anywhere from 2 to 7 babies at home. So a decision has to be made. Do you leave your babies with the 6 year old…or do you send the 6 year old on a day’s journey to the store?

The story goes, my momma and her younger brother, were sent to the store with the last family dollar to buy something. I guess I may have to hear the story at least one more time in order to fill in this blank. However, on the way to the store that was inevitably 5 to 10 miles away, she and her little brother stopped to throw rocks in the mud. She doesn’t know how long they were there. I guess time really does fly when you are having fun. She did realize that at some point the dollar bill, the last family dollar, was thrown into the mud.  I know what you are thinking. It is “just” mud. If you are thinking this, you are not from the deep South. This was not your regular dirt meets water and becomes mud. This was “gumbo” mud. This is similar to quick sand meeting wet concrete,  meaning anything below the surface is history. In fact, this could be how the dinosaurs disappeared. No comet, just stumbled into Louisiana and Mississippi into the gumbo mud. Tar pits have literally nothing on this mud. These stories never end like “Little House on the Prairie”. She could not find the dollar and had to go home, covered in mud, to tell her momma she had lost the money.

The next story is somewhat humorous in the “everyone was poor” kind of way. My mom was the second child, the first to make it out of infancy. Good time story hour, am I right…?  My mom, being the oldest child of a very rural, and very poor family, did not have store bought clothes. She, like many people growing up in rural areas, made their clothes out of flour sacks.

*********History tidbit******** Once flour companies realized people were using the fabric from the sacks they not only started using more decorative material for their sacks, but magazines would have patterns on how to use this fabric to make dresses. But I’m sure everyone knows this, right?

It was no big deal that my mom had flour sack dresses, everyone did right? In addition to the flour sack dresses,  for the first six years of my mom’s life,  she also had flour sack underwear. I sew and don’t even know how that would work. My mom told me that elastic was too expensive so, on occasion, her mom would use old rubber tubing for the elastic waistband.  At some point in my mom’s sixth year of life,  she received her first pair of “store bought” underwear. She was so excited, she wanted everyone to see how pretty underwear was. Apparently, this was not acceptable behavior in the 40’s. She got a spanking for being overly proud of her possessions. I think there is a lesson here. I think that lesson is if you show your ass one too many times, you will be made to wear uncomfortable clothes… or something similar.

The last story truly is heartbreaking. Siblings born close together have a stronger bond, I think. My mom was the second child born to her parents.  The first son died early. Shortly after my mom’s birth, another son was born and this baby was my momma’s playmate. They were about 2 years apart. Charles William was born when my mom was 4, and her little “Buddy” was 2.  Charles was born in January, and  died at 2 months from crib death. In late May, Buddy got quite sick. Momma remembers him coughing all the time.  My grandmother was using every old wives’ cures in her arsenal, but to no avail. My mother, even then, had to know literally everything, all the time, and could not be placated with platitudes. “Where is Charles?” ” Why is Buddy coughing?” “Why are you crying momma?” She wanted to know what was going on with her “Buddy”. My grandmother was  preparing  to take Buddy to the clinic. The situation had gotten gravely serious if a doctor was being considered. My momma, pushed passed her mother to talk to Buddy. She was telling him he needed to get better so they could go outside and play.  In his tiny little my mom placed her most prized possession. She had gotten a shiny, new penny for Christmas. She gave him  her penny to get better. When he was better, they could go outside and play. Buddy died on my mother’s fourth birthday.

A sad story, yes? Well the first time I heard this depressing ass story was coming back from some god-forsaking Mississippi town on a dirt road in a station wagon with no air-conditioning, in the middle of swamp-ass summer. I was sad, but I was thinking…” are you f#$king kidding me?” You pick NOW to tell me the saddest story I have ever hear in my LIFE? I cannot have “sad” and “satan’s  swamp asshole” in the same trip. I refused to process that story until cooler areas could be found.

So what I am saying is momma knows when she has your attention. Listen to her stories. Learn where you come from. And most importantly, turn down the “Og”.

Please follow and like us: