A Childhood Remembered
Dedicated to my aunt Della Wilkerson.
A Childhood Remembered
Della Moncrief Wilkerson was my aunt, my mother’s only sister. She was born 4 August 1910, died 12 December 1983. She is the gg-granddaughter of James Walter and Keziah Cornelius Crow. This short story is dedicated to her.
It was just a shack by all standards. I never knew it to have a coat of paint on the outside, the inside was lined with pasteboard boxes. The four tiny rooms were single wall construction, only the living room had wallpaper. There were few modern conveniences—-electricity, cold running water. The kitchen small and crowded always emitted the wonderful smells of something freshly baked. Behind the curtain, on the stack of shelves that served as a cupboard, set the apple cookie jar, always full of cocoanut cookies. If my aunt was aware that she lived in less than standard conditions, she never said so and seemed quite content, even proud of her home.
As children, my siblings and I could hardly wait for the summer months when we would catch the Greyhound bus in Lubbock, and ride 365 miles to visit my grandmother in Dublin. My grandmother’s old house set directly across the road. Although bigger, and in somewhat better condition, it was my aunt’s house where we spent those wonderful lazy summers of childhood.
Her yard was a wonderland of fantasy, where you could be a pirate sailing the seas, or you could ride with Gene Autry or Roy Rogers and make some of the most delicious mudpies ever. The giant, spreading Live Oak trees that shaded her yard. were a wonderland in themselves, with branches hanging low enough for even the smallest child to climb. And always the trains! Her house set in the corner where the Katy and Sante Fe railroads crossed. The sound of a train whistle sent children flying from every direction. I probably learned to count by counting the cars of those magnificent trains. The man in the caboose always gave a friendly wave. When we saw the occasional open boxcar, we were sure it hid a hobo.
There was never any lack of material for toys and our play was only limited by our imaginations. An old window frame with a plastic shower curtain formed a swimming pool. Old pots and pans and assorted kitchen utensils created a kitchen we were proud of. We sifted sand, poured water to the desired consistency, added acorns and set our pies and cakes in a sunny spot to bake. My brother, a bit older and handy with a copen saw, fashioned wooden guns from an old plank and we rode the range on our broomstick horses, alternating between being the “good guys” and the “bad guys”. My aunt’s yard didn’t have grass and the flowers were never in the most convenient place for play. We could lay out roads, build houses, farms, mountains, even rivers if we didn’t get carried away.
My Aunt Daught didn’t have children of her own, so we were her children. She didn’t spend the day correcting us. We seldom needed correcting. We knew right from wrong, and solved our own disputes, usually with the oldest taking charge. If the occasion did arise when we needed arbitration, it was my Grandmother who took over.
Daught spent the days sewing and cooking. She was always happy and made us feel special. The two luxuries she enjoyed, going to the beauty shop once a week and having her laundry sent out, was because of her eczema. Her kitchen had running water, but not hot running water. The bathroom was the little brown building out by the back fence next to the railroad track.
Each day we walked to town to pick up the mail. On Saturday we stopped by the grocery store where Daught did her shopping. My Uncle Shorty would later stop on his way home from work to pick up the groceries and bring them home. We never had to hurry, we never had to be any where. In the evenings, we sat in the yard chairs, waiting for the street light to come on, catching fireflies in the dusk, listening to my grandmothers stories of days gone by. Oh how I wish I could sit and listen to them again.
The house is gone now along with the wonderful little woman who made it a home. Even the Katy railroad is a thing of the past. All that’s left is the age-old Live Oak trees, sighing and whispering as they recall the laughter and fun of the children forming the character of the men and women they would become.
jujubean
Awww…thats nice. and a great story.
TxGimGim replied
Thank you.