I joined the stream of traffic
along life’s roadway during the runup to the Great Depression; my on-ramp was
at 913 St. Louis Street, on the near south side of Fort Worth, just east of the
original Fort Worth High School. I was
born at home at about 9:15 PM on Monday, September 27, 1926.
I’m
one of the younger members of the group Tom Brokaw has called “The Greatest
Generation,” those who grew
up during the depression of the 1930s, served their country during World War
II, then helped build a vast postwar world economy. I am proud to be of that generation, but am due no credit for any
of the deeds that earned Mr. Brokaw’s generous appellation. Although I lived through the depression, I
did so without suffering; I served in the military during the last seven months
of World War II and for nearly a year thereafter, but ran little risk of
injury; I was a part of the postwar U.S. industrial machine, but not in a major
leadership role. I traveled many of the
roads taken by those deserving the credit for the “greatest generation” label,
but avoided the worst bumps and potholes along the way.
Our family lived at three
other “Cowtown” addresses during the four and a half years
after my birth; we moved from St. Louis street to 720 Cromwell, then to 1023
East Tucker (where Twila, my sister, was born August 9, 1928), and,
finally, to 1025 Bedell. The house on
St. Louis Street is now gone; the Cromwell and East Tucker structures didn’t
appear habitable when I last saw them, but 1025 Bedell was still a residence in
the mid-‘90s.
While my memories from early childhood are kaleidoscopic and
ill-defined chronologically, the memory I believe to be the earliest, but not
my proudest, occurred before the third anniversary of my birth, during a week I
spent with Mama and Papa Grammer (my mother’s parents) at their Acton
farm. I refused to use a potty for the first couple of days I was there, but nature eventually
prevailed, and I soiled my clothing; Mama Grammer hand-washed my dirtied
garments in their bathtub.
I recall no reason for my stubbornness; I wasn’t unhappy with anyone or
anything. Perhaps I thought I was too
big for the potty, having grown accustomed to using a commode at home, and was
too immature to deal rationally with the lack of such a facility in my
grandparents’ bathroom. I was never
reminded of the “accident.” I doubt
that my grandmother told my parents, and I know I didn’t.
Commodes were called “gobboons” around our house when I
was small. I don’t know the origin of
the expression, and never thought to ask my parents about it.
The water
froze in our commode tank at home one winter during my toddlerhood. I suppose my dad must have had the water
supply cut off, for I don’t remember any burst pipes, but I clearly remember
seeing ice in the commode tank. That
incident may have occurred the same year Lake Worth froze over and thrill-seekers drove their automobiles across on
the ice; I don’t think that has happened since, for the Fort Worth area seldom
experiences deep cold for extended periods.
My aunt Ruth (Mother’s younger sister) has reminded me of another event
I don’t actually remember, but which may have occurred during my
above-mentioned visit to Mama and Papa Grammer’s farm home. One morning after Mama Grammer and Ruth had
finished shelling peas for our dinner I grabbed the full pan and scattered the peas
widely. Ruth, who was about seventeen
or eighteen, wanted to spank me, but my grandmother wouldn’t let her. I’m not sure whom Ruth was most unhappy with
– me, for being bad, or my grandmother, for preventing just punishment.
The
“dinner” preparation I impeded was the mid-day meal. Dinner was always the noon (and usually largest) meal on the
farm; the evening meal was “supper.” As
an adult, I have generally used “breakfast,” “lunch,” and “supper” terminology
for mealtimes, except for special occasions when the evening meal might be
called “dinner.”
◊◊◊
My tonsils were removed before I was three years old. Both grandmothers came to Fort Worth to help;
one baby-sat with Twila and the other went to Dr. Davis’ office with my parents
and me. I vaguely remember standing
with Mama Miller outside the building where the work was done, presumably
before the procedure started, but I remember nothing of the procedure itself,
nor of any subsequent discomfort; actually, I must have suffered little pain,
for my mother said I ate fried fish and cornbread with the family at supper
that evening.
◊◊◊
The first house in which I remember living was at 1025 Bedell Street, but I
recall only a few events or items from our time there, for we moved to Acton a
few months after I turned four:
·
I remember climbing to the top of the trellis over our back
gateway, then being unable to make my way down; I suppose I “froze” with fear
of the height. I must have eventually
conquered that fear, for I have a picture of myself (from an old album kept by
my parents) sitting on top of the trellis, apparently tranquil.
·
My dad occasionally worked on jobs away from Fort Worth; a
job at Palestine (in East Texas) required his absence on weeknights over an
extended period. My memory of those
absences led to confusion at Sunday School in later years, when I heard about the
biblical Palestine; in my mind that land was located in East Texas.
·
Automobiles
fascinated me; Mother said I could recognize the brands of autos from their
pictures in magazine advertisements long before I could read. Foreign-made cars were a rarity then, but a
next-door neighbor on Bedell drove an Austin, a British-made vehicle much
smaller than our Model A Ford sedan. My
knowledge about a larger world began with learning the origins of that tiny
car.
·
Airplanes fascinated me even more than autos. My dad sometimes took me to a landing strip
at the southwest edge of town on Sunday afternoons to watch small planes take
off and land. For most of my early
childhood years I ran outside to watch any plane I heard passing over
(airplanes weren’t commonplace in the ‘20s and early ‘30s).
Times were good in the
mid-to-late ‘20s, the early years of my parents’ married life. They paid cash
for a 1926 Model T Ford coupe before I was born in September of that year;
then, needing a larger car after Twila arrived in 1928, swelling our number to
four, they disposed of the little coupe and bought a 1929 Model A Ford sedan,
again paying cash.
Paying cash was a fetish with my dad.
Except for mortgages on two residences, I know of no debts my parents incurred
during nearly sixty years of married life.
He believed credit only brought trouble, and was somewhat disappointed
when I, as a young adult, accepted a job as a credit reporter with Dun &
Bradstreet, Inc.
Construction activity in Fort Worth boomed in the late ‘20s, so my dad
was busy, installing tile in (1) hotel bathrooms, (2) rest rooms in downtown
commercial buildings, and (3) many residential bathrooms and kitchens. The downtown Mexican Inn still has visible exterior tile he set.
The Great Depression ended
the boom and stopped most tile installation work. My dad was laid off in early 1931. That lay-off meant a return to rural living for my parents and a
new way of life for Twila and me; our furniture was placed in storage and we
moved in with my dad’s folks on their farm at Acton. I remember the drive from Fort Worth the day we moved; I realized
it was a sad, traumatic time for my parents, but I don’t recall having been
personally disturbed by the change.
◊◊◊
Although I began life in Fort
Worth, my roots went down at Acton, where earlier generations had grown. The
pace of living was slower than that of the city, leaving me permanently
disinclined toward life in the fast lane.
I sometimes wonder how my life would have differed had I spent all my
developing years in the city, but I’ve never regretted the years spent in a
rural environment.
Our family moved to Mama and
Papa Miller’s farm at Acton in early 1931, about four months after my fourth
birthday. I don’t know exactly how long
we lived at the Miller place before extracting our furniture from storage and
moving into a small three-room house on Papa Grammer’s farm, but it was
probably less than a year and a half, for we had moved by the time I started
school in October, 1932. I remember
only two significant events during our life at Acton before I started school:
·
My aunt, Ruth
Grammer, married Virgil Goforth on Christmas
Eve, 1931, at our Acton pastor’s home in Fort Worth, thereby fulfilling the
proclamation Virgil had made when Ruth started school – that she was the girl
he was going to marry. Virgil was
twenty-seven when they married; Ruth was twenty. My dad witnessed the event while Mother stayed in the car with
Twila and me.
I’ve
been present at only two weddings and the fiftieth anniversary celebrations thereof. Theirs was the first; my own was the
second. Technically speaking, I wasn’t
actually at Ruth’s and Virgil’s wedding, but I was just outside, in our family
car, so I count myself as having been there.
Ruth and Virgil lived and worked around
Lake Worth for
a couple of years, first in a ranch-type setting for a couple named Wallace,
then at the nearby Shady Grove fishing resort.
The resort had cabins, rental boats, and a forerunner of today’s
convenience stores; I remember little about it other than the thousands of soft
drink and beer bottle caps scattered around the unpaved driveway and
grounds. After a few years at Lake
Worth, Ruth and Virgil returned to Acton to enter the grocery business with
Papa Grammer.
Ruth’s
and Virgil’s marriage and subsequent homelife were significant to me, for I
spent much time with them during the years I was growing up, and was in their
home many times as an adult; they were like a second set of parents, and I
always felt as if their house was a “home away from home.” Their daughter Sherry, who wasn’t born
until I was nearly grown, has laughingly referred to me as “golden boy,” because of the
special relationship I had with her mother and dad.
·
Twila broke her upper right arm during a visit our family made to the
Wallace place while Ruth and Virgil lived there; late one afternoon she fell
from the back of a Shetland pony as he trotted along a little trail between two
ponds. A Fort Worth physician, Dr. T.J.
Cross, set the arm that night, then taped the
lower arm to the upper as a splint.
Shortly
before her death, my mother told Twila she and my dad had only $15 left in
their bank account after paying Dr. Cross for setting Twila’s broken arm; that, according
to Mother, was the low point of their financial state during the Great
Depression (although I remember a period a few years later when we didn’t use
our car because its licence had expired – unrenewed because of its cost).
When the tape was removed some weeks after
Twila’s arm was set, her elbow was so stiff it wouldn’t straighten. Doctor Cross suggested she carry a bucket of
sand until the joint loosened. Sand was
abundant on the farm, so she was provided a toy shovel and bucket with which to
“work;” the therapy was effective, and her arm was soon as good as new.
Dr.
Cross became our family physician (to the extent we had one, considering the
generally excellent health we enjoyed) as a result of Twila’s broken arm. Papa and Mama Grammer also used him, until
their deaths in 1942 and 1945, respectively.
I last saw him in March, 1950, when he removed my appendix; Virgil and
Ruth used him for a number of years thereafter. His office, in the Medical Arts Building, on the western
edge of downtown Fort Worth, was easily accessible, with handy parking on
streets nearby. (Both Dr. Cross and the
21-story Medical Arts Building are long gone.
My understanding is that he died in 1970, and the Medical Arts Building
was razed at some point during the last half-century of modernization and major
changes to downtown Fort Worth.)
Twila was only three when her misadventure
occurred, but she was old enough to know it involved her right arm. Later (after the break healed and she
regained normal use of the arm), when asked which arm had been broken, she
often responded by raising her left arm and exclaiming, “My right one!”
Twila’s mishap intensified Mother’s long-standing fear of
horses, so she never wanted us to ride them again. We had little opportunity to do so, for the horses and mules on
my granddads’ farms were used for work, not recreation; our riding was mostly
limited to wagons and automobiles.
(Twila and I had fixed positions in our family’s Model A; until we grew
too tall to do so, we each stood on the floorboard between front and back seats
– Twila on the right, I behind the driver.)