Springtime, time for joy, anticipation, for rebirth of every living thing.
But not the spring of 1938. That was gloom, despair. To a twelve year old,
my thoughts were what will happen to us? Where will we go? We were
living in a small farming town in Arkansas, about a mile or so from the
Mississippi River. My Father was managing a clothing store. We had
moved there the previous fall. I liked the new school and I had made new
friends. In just a few months I felt I was part of that town.
This April had been rainy. But wasn’t that supposed to be the weather
for spring? There was talk of the river rising. It had been a snowy winter in
the North Central states. Melting snows played a big part. The adults in
town knew of the impending danger, prepared for it. But kids had no
comprehension of how serious is was. The day came when the river reached
the top of the levee and in places was seeping over. Most of the farm
workers’ homes were built on stilts, so high an adult could walk under them,
making room for high water. Experience had been their teacher. Floods in
the delta were common, and this was their way of coping. The greatest fear
in everyone’s mind was of the levee breaking. That would have caused a
flash flood. That didn’t happen. But the “Evacuate” order was given.
We piled everything we could into our old car, a little food, a few
changes of clothing, a few of my brother’s favorite toys, a truck, a coloring
book, and his kitten. These he insisted on. Some others made it too,
because to a four year old, everything is important. Things we had to leave
behind were piled as high as possible on top of bureaus, tables or whatever.
Then we joined the parade. There were horses and wagons, some with a
horse or cow in tow, loaded so full that nothing else could be put on.
Mothers were hugging their toddlers, knowing how difficult this would be
for them, dreading the time when they would have to try to answer the
questions of these little ones — “Where is my—?” and “Why?” There were
cars, trucks, all loaded the same way, all heading for Helena, in the foothills
of the Ozarks. Travel was at a snail’s pace. You could only go as fast as the
slowest mover, no passing. There was no room. The opposite lane had to
be kept open for the few trucks that were returning to help anyone stranded.
We passed the shores of Long Pond. In dry season it was not much
more than a swamp. Now the water stretched over the cornfield almost to
the road. The cypress trees stood with their knees almost hidden. They
were a tall, straight evergreen, average sized trunk of a foot to a foot and a
half across. In dry season the roots stretched out for four or five feet around
the trunk. I guess that was to anchor them better in the water. I always felt
they were making a seat for any animal that was caught in the pond. These
trees also had garlands of Spanish Moss. It was as if this spot had moved up
from the state below. I’d heard about them, but this was the only place I’d
ever seen them.
After what seemed like hours, we passed the pond and my escape from
reality was over. I was once more aware of the procession, and the sadness,
of the wagons off to the side of the road, broken wheels, crying children
brave parents, trying to make repairs and hold their families together. Some
were just abandoned, if they were fortunate enough to get rides with
someone else. I felt so sorry for them. To this day, when I hear of
evacuation for any reason, I relive this day. It is a sad memory.
That thirty mile trip took hours. We were so glad to reach Helena and
the welcoming home of my Father’s boss, Mr. Harris. We stayed there for a
few days until they could make other arrangements. The merchandise from
the store was moved to a rented store in West Helena. Upstairs were rented
furnished rooms. There was about six or seven feet of storage space in the
back of the store. My Father slept there on a cot. We had a portable
kerosene stove that we cooked on. We used boxes for a table and chairs.
No ice box, so we bought only food for the day. The four of us kids slept in
a room upstairs. These were managed by a lady and her father, also her
daughter who was about my age. The rest of the rooms were rented. The
entrance was next to the store, up a flight of stairs, into a wide hallway, with
some furniture and chairs, rented rooms on either side.
This particular night, it was my turn to do supper dishes. My sisters
were already upstairs. My Father was cleaning the store. We heard a very
loud noise. Daddy said, “Pat, go upstairs and see if the heater is okay.”
That’s what he thought he heard. I went up and into our room at the top of
the stairs. My two sisters and my brother were terrified. They couldn’t tell
my why – too scared.
“Was he out there?”
“No one.”
“Run! Hurry!”
My little brother was crying. “He’s got a gun! He’s shooting!” That
was all he could say through his tears. I had no clue to what was going on
and I was not about to stop and ask questions. We made it downstairs. By
that time, my Father was out of the store. The police had arrived and we
were rushed down the street to a building several shops away. There we
began to piece together the happenings. All we really knew was that the
grandfather was drunk. He told his granddaughter that she couldn’t go out.
She went anyway. My guess is that she went to get away from him. He was
a nagger, and alcohol made it worse. She could never please him. Her
grandfather was furious. He sat at the top of the stairs with his shotgun. He
was going to show her who was boss. The noise we heard was the gun
going off. Deliberately or accidentally, we’ll never know. Serious enough
that his daughter called the police. In that split second that I had gone up
those stairs, he had gone into his room. (One more time that I know
someone was watching over me.) He was so drunk he would have mistaken
me for his granddaughter, and shot me.
Other occupants were taken out windows, over the flat roof of the store
next door and down ladders. Police surrounded the building, tried to coax
him out, or at least, to throw out his gun. His only reply was to start
shooting at them. After hours of trying, waiting, pleading, dodging bullets,
the drunk man was fatally shot.
That’s were my memories stop. I don’t know were we spent the night
that night, but I’m sure it was not there. I don’t ever remember going back,
even to move out. Don’t know if it was my oldest sister or my Father who
got our few belongings out. I do remember moving into a small house
nearby, living there for the rest of the school year. It was really a temporary
situation. Mr. Harris took the merchandise from the store back to his Helena
store. In June, the school year done, we went to Prairie, Mississippi to
spend the summer with my aunt. On returning, it was to our old homestead
in Helena. My Father had resumed his job of clerk in Mr. Harris’ store
there.
I have no memories of this actual move. It was done while we were in
Mississippi. I’m sure it was very difficult for my Father to come back to the
same house where he had spent so many good years with his loving wife
and young children. He was never the same after her death. He did his best
to care for us. He wanted to give us room to move around, at the same time
to move in the right direction. He was there when he thought I was in
danger. But, he was a lost soul. Time heals. One thing I now know, my
Mother was there for me, to see me through my developing years. And I’m
sure she was there for my Father, too.
