A Time For Growth

 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.