Uncovering the day-to-day routines and activities of a family with seven children should be interesting in any age, but when it covers Depression years to World War II, it’s especially revealing. The narrative throughout is in rhyme, and the author is dealing mostly with first-hand experiences so she brings the common and not-so-common aspects of the Sanders family into bold relief.How to celebrate Christmas when there is virtually no money for gifts; how the father attempts to discourage the chicken-thief; how to keep food on the table when the bread-winner has trouble collecting for the household products he has sold door-to-door; and the isolation experienced when TB forces the mother to live for a year in a sanitarium out of town.The richness of the details in this narrative demonstrates the storehouse of memories possessed by Ms. Barnes as well as the insights gained from being a first-hand protagonist in this family’s struggle. The six children who grew to maturity had many relatives nearby. The closeness of these relatives displays a dimension of community often lacking in our hectic, modern pace.Of special interest is the way this family (and especially the parents) devoted themselves to their church and its outreach. God’s work came first, as much of the father’s activities will demonstrate.Not a steadily unfolding plot, but more like a series of intriguing cameos, this narrative portrays a picture of one family’s involvement in Mid-western culture of the ’30s and ’40s.These verses, laced with humor and pathos, show that a home is truly blessed where there is mutual love and a rich spiritual heritage.

A Heritage to Remember

Growing Up Poor But Blessed In A Small Midwestern TownBy Orpha Sanders Barnes

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2011 Orpha Sanders Barnes
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4567-5932-2

Chapter One

    Through memory's lens I keenly gaze
    At myriad scenes from childhood days,
    And as I pause and reminisce,
    My heart beats nods to acquiesce.

    I see a small frame house in view
    At 345 Sanders Avenue
    In it reside nine happy tenants,
    Outside Centralia's city limits.

    My Mother and Dad were proud to be
    Parents of our family tree,
    Three sons were theirs to love and train,
    And four daughters with unusual names.

    Irene, the youngest of the four,
    As an infant entered Heaven's door;
    Our parents experienced pain and grief,
    But through faith in Christ, they found relief.

    Mom said of Irene, "She was the prettiest of all,"
    With blue eyes and dark hair, she resembled a doll,
    Both measles and pneumonia were her affliction,
    But God welcomed her with a special benediction.

    Aunt Nora explained the death of Irene
    To Odessa, using an astronomical scene
    She said the little girl was a bright, shining star,
    Lighting the heavens up there very far.

    This eight-year-old sister was given a clue
    To what death brings—a brighter view
    Thus her heart understood the reason why
    Stars twinkled brightly in the sky.

    Each child had his own chores to do,
    Cooking, ironing, and cleaning too,
    At times, we fussed, fretted, and fumed,
    That we must dust furniture and sweep with a broom.

    Troy declares that he often grew weary
    Of seeing his sisters with eyes all teary,
    Arguing who had last washed the dishes,
    So he did the job, like a Miss or a Mrs.

    That Troy was industrious, I'll have to confess
    It was also his duty to clean out the mess
    Which the cow had deposited in the red barn.
    If you think that was fun, you'd believe any yarn.

    Often, Troy was responsible for milking the cow,
    While Dad undertook the garden to plow,
    With so many growing children to feed,
    It was necessary for him both to plant and to weed.

    I can almost see Dad now,
    Walking straight behind the plow,
    Jutting blade down in the soil,
    Whistling gaily while he toiled.

    In the furrows that were made,
    Infant seeds were carefully laid.
    He plodded patiently, performing his best,
    God, with nature, did the rest.

    Raising chickens was part of our enterprise,
    We had both the large and the smaller size,
    They had to be watered and fed each day,
    Inside a fence they were kept at bay.

    Usually in the evening, but sometimes in the morn,
    We'd gather in our hands some wheat and corn,
    Flinging it forthrightly upon the ground,
    We soon heard chatters of chicken sound.

    With cackles of mirth and great expectation,
    The chickens ran to their destination,
    Thrusting their beaks down into the soil,
    They pecked any other hen trying to foil.

    The rooster with his comb all ruby-red,
    Strutted and crowed with an uplifted head,
    Looking arrogant in his regnant way,
    With a sense of importance, he would sway.

    To our hens' faithfulness I can attest,
    White and brown treasures they laid in their nests,
    At times, however, guilty we'd feel,
    As eggs from under their warm bodies we'd steal.

    One day Dad discovered to his dismay
    That someone was smuggling our chickens away,
    So a set of wires inside our abode,
    To the door of the chicken house he did load.

    Late one night shortly thereafter,
    We heard loud cackling from the chicken rafter,
    Then the electric device, which Dad had manned,
    Performed precisely as he had planned.

    When the thief opened the chicken house door,
    He soon found out what he had in store,
    A clanging of bells made him jump the fence,
    And we haven't heard of his whereabouts since.

    Beside our house ran a railroad track,
    Sometimes the trains sped past, sometimes they rolled back,
    As the engine whistled, puffing smoke and sparks,
    Our dog responded with his shrill barks.

    As the train roared by,
    Dola and I watched with an inquisitive eye;
    We saw people dining (perhaps the wealthier kinds),
    And dreams of faraway places filled our minds.

    Often we counted the boxcars that passed,
    Several scores they numbered, from first to last;
    Sometimes they jangled as their wheels hit the track,
    We waved to the engineer, and he waved back.

    To a new brace of pigs did Troy fall heir
    Each year; to offer water, feed, and care;
    Dad bought them for a rather small fee,
    Then asked my brother their caretaker to be.

    From several neighbors Troy gathered food,
    I think it's called "slop," but that sounds rude,
    The pigs put on weight as their bodies grew,
    Then Troy, having planned, knew what to do.

    When fall arrived, after summer had ceased,
    They were sold back to Dad for a price increase;
    Troy's earnings were deposited safely in the bank,
    His spirits were high, but soon they sank,
    For in '33, during the Depression years,
    He lost it all; good cause for tears.

    When butchering time for a hog arrived,
    Dad and a neighbor stood side-by-side,
    Wielding their strength and all their might
    While the squealing pig fought its last fight.

    Soon the aroma of fresh sausage we savored,
    While our taste buds with spices were flavored;
    Mom's culinary arts pleased us all,
    Especially on those cool days in the fall.

    While gathering hickory nuts one day,
    Scampering just like happy squirrels at play,
    We spied some turnips in a nearby lot,
    And sampled them freely. We didn't get caught!

    Never did we a barber need,
    For Dad cut our hair, at his own speed;
    We weren't always proud of the finished product,
    But he had more money in his pocket.

    On cold winter mornings we huddled around
    The black coal stove which in the dining room was found,
    If too close we approached, the heat burned our nose,
    But when we moved away, cold were our toes.

    Dad rose first to get the fire started,
    That task required someone stouthearted;
    He was the shepherd, we the sheep,
    His duty the house warm and cozy to keep.

    It was his custom to shake the grate,
    Then into the ash pan fell the clinkers and slate;
    The clinkers were removed and carried out of sight,
    Later, he would "bank" the fire at night.

    The old outhouse was of our heritage a part,
    In winter weather we hurriedly would dart
    Out to that cold, unpretentious place
    And carry out our transaction with the greatest haste.

    We ventured forth in rain and in sleet,
    In all kinds of weather—in the sun's blazing heat,
    We peered straight ahead, almost breathing a prayer
    That no one would notice us walking there.

    A catalogue from Sears or Montgomery Ward
    Was the only "tissue paper" we could afford;
    Its texture could never be compared to Charmin;
    Or at least that's the opinion of my brother Norman.

    At Halloween time it was rumored around
    That several of these buildings uprooted were found;
    This was a sad happening for many folk,
    And for us, it was no practical joke.

    Mother's stature was small,
    But large was her spirit;
    Her humor was confounding,
    If you were caught near it.

    On the first day in April she was delighted
    With a proper plan on which she'd alighted;
    Inside of the pancake batter she made,
    A small cloth she'd shrewdly and deviously laid.

    As soon as the first bite we displaced,
    A sheepish grin appeared on her face,
    Her blue eyes sparkled as she spoke,
    She told us it was only an April Fool joke.

    It was our turn to grin at other times
    As she quoted one of her favorite rhymes,
    Sounding poetic as she could be
    Citing about kitty and the spool of O.N.T.

    Picking strawberries made us come alive,
    And on May 30, in '35,
    Dad and I decided to race;
    Of course, we both wanted to win first place.

    We crawled along, row after row,
    Mashing strawberries as we'd go,
    Our red-stained knees, though tough, started aching,
    Leg muscles were strained, and our backs were breaking.

    Exerting all my strength, I rallied,
    One hundred quarts to my credit were tallied,
    But Dad was far ahead of me;
    (Maybe I hadn't kept an accurate score)
    He had a total of nineteen quarts more!

    To my brother Troy I'll give due credit,
    And this number he did not edit,
    His total was a whopping 115;
    But our dad remained the "Strawberry King."

    Canning fruit was an annual affair,
    We peeled bushels of apples, peaches, and pears,
    And washed glass jars in suds and hot water,
    Squashing foods through a perforated colander.

    Mother tightened the lids giving them a twist,
    Although she was small, she had power in her wrist;
    As perspiration beaded her smiling face,
    She labored in our kitchen—her favorite place.

    Vegetables were part of the menu she planned,
    Hundreds of quarts of these were canned;
    Tomatoes, corn, and green beans too,
    Were picked fresh from the garden where they grew.

    Once Mother made jelly, and on it paraffin poured,
    With my finger dipped in it, a small hole I bored,
    Chewing the wax, away I ran,
    The hole was discovered, and the questions began.

    As Norman was known to be a mischievous kid,
    He got the scolding while my face I hid;
    At camp meeting time I confessed to my mother
    I had told a lie while blaming my brother.

    The aroma from apple butter coming from the yard,
    Was proof that by a kettle Mom was standing guard;
    Mixing spices with apples, making a delicious brown spread,
    That we put on baked biscuits or homemade bread.

    The icebox was a blessing I can't forget;
    It had its drawbacks—"Empty the ice pan," and yet,
    The milk from our cow and the butter we churned,
    Were kept sweet and cold, as we soon learned.

    Often used in our kitchen was a crock;
    It was almost as needed as the clock;
    It held a holiday beverage called "Float,"
    That caused us when we saw it to gloat.

    When Mom made sauerkraut, it lent
    A place for cabbage to ferment;
    And headcheese was pressed there to set
    Neatly covered with a cloth-like net.

    At times, milk was strained into the crock,
    And placed to cool in the icebox;
    My memories of its usefulness I now unlock,
    A boon to us- that big, brown crock.

    Our drinking water was pumped from an outside well;
    It was very deep, how far it went I could not tell;
    The water from the cistern was used for chores;
    Never did we buy water from the stores.

    Our rectangular washboard, used to scrub clothes,
    Was regarded by some people as one of their woes;
    But it readied the clothes for the regular wash,
    Loosening stains, stubborn and harsh.

    Water was heated on the coal- and wood-burning stove,
    Then carried to the back porch to the washing machine;
    With Mom's homemade soap and the swishing of suds,
    In no time at all the dirty became clean.

    After being washed, through the wringer they'd go;
    (Today that seems strange, I know);
    However, we'd never demoralize our mother,
    Because (for her), this was more fun than a free circus show.

    The fresh-washed clothes were hung out on a line,
    No dryer was ours, but Mom's method was fine,
    Because "the sun-dried clothes smell so clean," she'd say,
    It was worth her efforts to dry them that way.

    Ironing clothes was a duty I'll never forget,
    For me it was playing; I have no regret;
    I ironed Dad's handkerchiefs one by one,
    Thinking of it as being fun.

    Our iron had a detachable handle made of wood,
    It was less likely to burn and blister as the iron handle could;
    'Twas a great innovation I would say,
    And we could do our job in a safer way.

    While Dola ironed Dad's pants, our oldest sister strove
    To smooth out shirt wrinkles with the iron heated on the stove;
    Not yet knowing about fabrics of nylon and polyester,
    Which would have made the process faster.

    While those methods we used for washing, drying, and ironing
    clothes,
    Were much different from those used today,
    We never considered for one minute
    We were performing those jobs in a crude way.

    New inventions today make chores go fast,
    But they can't bring happiness that will last,
    Our focus should be on appreciating each other,
    And treating our neighbor as our brother.


      * * *

    Odessa, Dola, and I slept in the same bed;
    I don't remember for how long,
    Often Dad came into our room
    Singing a traditional song.

        Good morning, merry sunshine,
        How did you wake so soon?
        You've scared the little stars away,
        And shined away the moon;
        I saw you go to sleep last night

        Before I ceased my play;
        How did you get way over there,
        And, pray, where did you stay?

        I never go to sleep, dear child,
        I just go 'round to see,
        My little children of the East,
        Who rise and watch for me;
        I waken all the birds and bees,
        And flowers on my way,
        And now come back to see the child,
        Who stayed out late at play.

    Later, I thought: What a pleasant way
    To wake up for the day
    Hearing a song from Dad,
    To show he was happy, not sad.


      * * *

    In those early years, Dola and I earned a small income
    With our dad's assistance; he met us after school
    In our backyard, as a general rule,
    Where he had cleaned some bunches of onions and radishes,
    That we took to peoples' door,
    Hoping to make a sale of five cents a bunch (no more).

    Dola was thirteen, and I was eleven,
    And we didn't get home until after seven,
    With only fifty-five cents as the total sum,
    Barely enough to buy a few packages of gum;
    But we understood that we could only keep what we'd earned;
    It was an important lesson for us to have learned.

(Continues...)

Excerpted from A Heritage to Rememberby Orpha Sanders Barnes Copyright © 2011 by Orpha Sanders Barnes. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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