Dad and mom played us our lullaby...

One of the most wonderful memories I have of my parents is when, to coax Craig and Evan and me to bed at night, they would leave the door to our bedroom open and play sonatas together in our dining room where the old Everett baby grand piano was and the matching dining room table. Both our parents were superb musicians and performers separately, but when they played together there was a special magic. I didn't fully realize it as a child, but this "bedtime music" was not just the ordinary song on the radio or the phonograph (yes, we only had the record player back then for amplified music; cassette players could not amplify sound well enough yet...but it also meant that we were more dependent on live music which is highly preferable to any musician), these were two professional and seasoned artists, and husband and wife making the music. They were our parents too of course, but we were given the treat of a live professional performance as we drifted off to sleep. How marvelous that always was!

My first experience on a farm

This is a pretty funny story. I was probably about four or five years old and my dad was driving Craig and me home from Charlotte one afternoon before the Interstate 77 was built, so we were on a country road as were most all of the non-residential roads at that time.

Unfortunately, our car either ran out of gas or had some other problem, because suddenly we had to pull over. We were out in the middle of nowhere. I remember my dad taking us to the closest place he could see which was a farm. In looking for someone to ask to use their phone, we walked into a barn. Whether I asked my dad if I could explore or my dad simply relaxed his hold on my hand I don't know, but I remember being suddenly free so I excitedly ran out of the barn.

Well, my exploration did not get me very far. I got only just outside the barn door when my feet encountered something extremely slippery and I became airborne. Next thing I knew I was sitting in fresh cow manure!

All I remember next was being held by my dad while he walked along the road we had been on (evidently the farm did not have a phone or we had found no one to ask) hitchhiking with Craig in tow; I don't think Evan was with us or was not yet born. My dad later recalled that the amusing, and slightly embarrassing thing was that, since I had soiled my pants in the cow manure, and he had had no other pants to change me into, I was exposed to the world from the waist down. An interesting sight for any prospective hitchhiker!

We must have been offered a ride, made it home safely, and successfully retrieved our car because the rest of that memory for me is incomplete and now just a laughable story; hitchhiking in those days was not the danger it is today, especially in a pretty country area. But like some people can say they know what soap tastes like (I can't), I know what cow manure feels like!!

The man who killed the copperhead snakes!

I don't remember how old I was exactly, but I had to have been at least five. I was sitting on our back porch with my dad. Craig was about three years old and was playing in our back yard next to our sandpile (enclosed by four old logs). Suddenly, Craig let out a loud scream and began hobbling toward us. I, somewhat foolishly, think I  said to dad that he had stepped on a pinecone. But when Craig got to where dad and I were sitting on the carport steps, he held out his foot for us to see. There on his foot, about a quarter of an inch apart, were two small red dots.

The rest was all a blur, but I later found out that Craig had been bitten by a copperhead snake. I also learned later that he had been bitten by a baby copperhead. Baby copperheads are more venomous than the adult copperheads; greater chance of survival for the babies. Very fortunately, even though the copperhead's mouth had widened all the way around Craig's foot (evidenced by the two red dots) only one fang had penetrated. Even that amount of venom had made Craig quite literally "deathly" sick because, as our mother told us, all the way to the Mooresville doctor she could see the blue color advancing up Craig's leg. Scared her to death, needless-to-say. Mom said that when they finally found someone who could get them a doctor that person said, "Well...sumpm' sure bit 'im!" Craig recovered from the bite and even, mom told us, leaned up and kissed the doctor on the cheek in relief and happiness. Though he wasn't consciously thinking it, he probably subconsciously knew that this doctor had saved his life. We also later learned that if both of the baby copperhead's fangs had penetrated Craig's foot, the remaining half of the snake's venom would have likely killed him.

Just before my parents had moved to Davidson in 1960, Lake Norman had been created to furnish power to the area (Duke Power) and provide beauty and recreation. When the lake water filled the lower land, which had been the natural habitat of many forms of wildlife, that wildlife moved upland to escape the water. The copperhead snakes were among that wildlife. Some of them escaped to the woods behind our back yard.

We experienced two more incidents with copperheads after Craig's encounter, but no one was bitten. My mom killed two on our backyard patio. She killed them with an old scythe. Nervously recalling, but with some slight humor, she said while she was chopping one up, the other was striking at the blade!! Another incident also involved Craig when he mistook a copperhead for a bird that the snake was preparing to strike. He ran right past the copperhead pointing to the bird, narrowly missing a second bite! My mom said the copperhead was probably too focused on the bird to turn its attention to Craig as he ran past. Whew!! (But who knows, even if Craig had been bitten again, perhaps he would have been immune to second bite!)

I don't remember how much more time passed, but suddenly I was aware that my dad had hired someone to hunt down and clean out our back woods of any more copperhead snakes. The man's name was Kaiser Brawley and he was African-American (we said "black" * in those days; the phrase African-American had not yet been adopted) and probably in his late seventies or early eighties. He was a tall, thin man and "drove" an old wooden cart pulled by a off-whitish mule named "Jeff." He was nearly toothless and what teeth he did have were unevenly spaced in his mouth. He was very focused, even stern-looking when he held the reins to steer the cart, but he was quite friendly and had a hearty laugh. I remember hearing him come up our gravel road, Dogwood lane, from the nearest paved road, Grey Road, urging his mule ahead with a soft jerk on the reins and two clicks of his tongue, "Tsch, tsch," and then with the gentle exhortation, "Git on Jeff!" He always brought at least one or two small black boys with him in the cart to help with the work.

I speculate that my dad hired Kaiser Brawley because he was famous in the area for being able to kill copperheads (and maybe other kinds of snakes as well) with his bare hands; he may have also been the relative of one of our baby-sitters and they recommended him. I never saw him do it, but according to what my mom had heard (or actually saw for herself) he would grab the copperhead by the tail and swiftly slap its head against a rock! That takes quite some nerve, but I guess if you kill enough of them that way, you get good at it. I learned from my parents that he killed 13 copperheads in our back yard. I don't know how many copperheads escaped this fate, but we never had another incident with copperhead snakes after Kaiser Brawley was finished.


*Incidentally, though I pointed out our use of the term "black" for "African-American" in the 1960s and '70s, I would also like to remind the reader that "black" was considered the politically correct term at that time (even though the phrase "politically correct" had not yet been coined). Out of respect, and because I find the "N" word among the most repugnant of the slang words, I will not write the "N" word in full. But it is curious to note that "black" was the accepted and preferred term then. I definitely heard some people use the "N" word, but no one who was educated and sensitive to anyone's feelings. "African-American" is now, of course, the politically correct term instead of "black." For the purposes of the nuance of the culture of the time in recounting the story, I continued to use the term "black" in place of "African-American" in describing the boys who worked with Kaiser. I was raised by parents who treated African-Americans with love and respect. The term "black" or even "negro" would have been terms they both used out of respect as with any other interesting aspect about the person, personally or culturally.

Just for fun remembering

It occurred to me that I want to write about fun, joyous things as well as serious stuff. And I have found myself lately remembering things quite vividly from my whole life, from my childhood on; hence the reason for my first post of the A.A. Milne poem. (I will be posting more of them...how marvelous they are!) I enjoy recounting fond memories and I hope these will be a nice break from my other more serious blogs.

So thank you, in advance, for reading, and I would love to read any comments or thoughts or feelings that you want to share.

Lee

Favorite poems

This poem, "Teddy Bear," by A.A. Milne, was one of my favorites when I was a child. It is one of a collection of poems in a book called When We Were Very Young.  My parents read it to my two brothers and me before we learned to read. Besides the sheer imagination and beauty of the verse and rhyme, the author's use of correct grammar and sophisticated vocabulary were evident to me even then, though I couldn't articulate my sense for those details. In particular,  I like the use of the word adiposity. What an interesting and erudite word to describe, simply, being a bit overweight. This poem is also endearing in that it conveys the message that some slight girth is nothing to be ashamed of. However, the poem is touching both to the slim and stout alike!

"Teddy Bear" 

(a.k.a. Winnie the Pooh)

A bear however hard he tries

Grows tubby without exercise

Our Teddy Bear is short and fat

Which is not to be wondered at;

He gets what exercise he can

By falling off the ottoman,

But generally seems to lack

The energy to clamber back.

Now tubbiness is just thing

That gets a fellow wondering;

And Teddy worried lots about

The fact that he was rather stout.

He thought: "If only I were thin!

But how does anyone begin?"

He thought: "It really isn't fair

To grudge me exercise and air."

For many weeks he pressed in vain

His nose against the window-pane,

And envied those who walked about

Reducing their unwanted stout.

None of the people he could see

"Is quite (he said) as fat as me!"

Then, with a still more moving sigh,

"I mean," he said, "as fat as I!"

Now Teddy as was only right

Slept in the ottoman at night,

And with him crowded in as well

More animals than I can tell;

Not only these but books and things,

Such as a kind relation brings --

Old tales of "Once upon a time,"

And history retold in rhyme.

One night it happened that he took

A peep at an old picture-book,

Wherein he came upon by chance

The picture of a King of France

(A stoutish man) and, down below,

These words: King Louis So and So,

Nicknamed 'The Handsome'" There he sat,

And (think of it!) the man was fat!

Our bear rejoiced like anything

To read about this famous king,

Nicknamed "The Handsome." There he sat

And certainly the man was fat.

Nicknamed "The Handsome." Not a doubt.

The man was definitely stout.

Why then a bear, (for all his tub)

Might yet be named, "The Handsome Cub!"

Next morning (nose to window-pane)

The doubt occurred to him again

One question hammered in his head:

"Is he alive or is he dead?"

Thus nose to pane he pondered; but

The lattice window loosely shut,

Swung open. With one startled "Oh!"

Our Teddy disappeared below.

There happened to be passing by

A plump man with a twinkling eye

Who seeing Teddy in the street

Raised him politely to his feet.

And murmured kindly in his ear

Soft words of comfort and of cheer:

"Well, well!" "Allow me!" "Not at all."

"Tut, tut! A very nasty fall."

Our Teddy answered not a word;

It's doubtful if he even heard.

Our bear could only look and look:

The stout man in the picture book!

That "handsome king" -- could this be he

This man of adiposity?

"Impossible," he thought. "But still,

No harm in asking. Yes I will!"

"Are you," he said, "by any chance,

His majesty the King of France?"

The other answered, "I am that."

Bowed stiffly, and removed his hat.

Then said, "Excuse me," with an air,

"But is it Mr. Edward Bear?"

And Teddy, bending very low,

Replied politely, "Even so!" 

They stood beneath the window there

The King and Mr. Edward Bear,

And handsome, if a trifle fat,

Talked carelessly of this and that...

Then said His Majesty, "Well, well.

I must get on," and rang the bell.

"Your bear, I think," and smiled. "Good day!"

And turned, and went upon his way.

A bear, however hard he tries, 

Grows tubby without exercise.

Our bear is short and fat,

Which is not to be wondered at.

But do you think it worries him

To know that he is far from slim?

No, just the other way about -- 

He's proud of being short and stout.