The Neighbor Lady
The phone jangled two long rings. After a second, it again rang two longs but cut short. We sat at the supper table, not talking. , Then Mama said, “Ya’ll be quiet,” and she snuck up to where the phone rested on the kitchen counter. Slowly she lifted it to her ear. She eavesdropped on the party line and we were expected to wait in anticipation for any earth shattering news. Even my infantile mind knew this behavior was wrong. But, it seemed the social norm. There was no doubt that turnabout was fair play. Our ring was two shorts and Harold and Lelda Peschel’s was four shorts. Everyone in the neighborhood knew each other’s intimate business. If the phone ever rang four longs, call the law because that was Struess’ camp house and nobody lived there.
Mrs. Willie Mae and Mr. Ernie Smahlik were practically family. Maybe that was the jus- tification for listening in personal conversations. For my notions, it was a good day when Ma Bell’s improving technology eliminated multiple phones on one line. But, in honesty, none of that had much effect on me. From the beginning, I knew how to ease through the woods, cross Yaupon Creek, and follow the cow trails across the prairie to Mr. Ernie’s and Mrs. Willie’s house. However, there was something about the open country that made me tingle. It didn’t feel safe. Maybe it was the old Indian stories, or maybe it was instincts. But, as a youngster, I hung to the safety of the brush and woods. Ms. Willie spoke of her great uncle, who was the last captive of the Apaches and then the Comanche. Of course, they were 100 years gone, but… There was safety in the shade, hideouts back in the brush, and fish in the creek. I didn’t need much company or telephones.
My worldly perspectives inched into the future when Mom and Dad bought Charles Ray’s bicycle from Uncle Henry and Aunt Lillian Brune. For several years the fat-wheeled Schwinn was relegated to the gravel track up to Grandma’s House and dusty old wagon trails in the pasture. But, ultimately, it gained access to the Shaw’s Bend Road. Worries about red men on the warpath were replaced with apprehensions of aging drivers and county dump trucks running over little boys. Nevertheless, the freedoms outweighed the concerns. Sud- denly, there were more fishing holes and tanks within pedaling distance; and more houses where a pilfering little bugger like me could grab a snack. Mrs. Willie Mae always had kolaches or pastries on a platter, and to Keith Schobel’s chagrin, I knew when his Mom was cooking up burgers and fries. Diane Ilse’s Grandma Chollet and Dad, Uncle Buddy, also welcomed hot and thirsty bike riders.
The new social mingling brought more knowledge which in turn brought more questions. Mr. Ernie and Mrs. Willie Mae began hauling me to ball games in Aggie Land. There was an indoctrination process levied upon me that was noteworthy, if not completely successful. The traditions, the Fighting Texas Aggie Band, the 12th Man, the overall acceptance into a brotherhood that would never blanch from duty inspired and impressed me. But again, at a tender age, I questioned whether it was a society where a lonesome woods urchin could thrive. Also, I could not understand why other bands had girls for drum majors when clearly the job was designed for male leadership.
The next transition in transportation was not more wheels. My preference was four-legged. While other rural cohorts mechanic- ed on hot rods and became experts at rebuilding 454s, 327s, 350s, and whatever else could throw a rod – I became more proficient at saddling and riding in the moonlight. A weekend excursion meant find ing me camped beside a pond out in Brushy. I’d pack a bedroll and enough Vienna sausages for two days, maybe a can of beans, my rifle, and a blue tarp in case it rained. The context of life to that point implied that as much as times changed… some things remained the same.
Mrs. Willie Mae knew that I liked storytelling. She knew that any stories about Grandpa Brune, Sheriff Harvey Lee, or anything pertaining to historical happenings in our neck of the woods would hold my attention. With that, she imparted upon me tales of meeting my Grandpa along the road early in the morning when she was young. He was horseback and leading his hounds after a full night of coon hunting. She spoke of when the band stopped at Hill Crest and all the dancers listened at the windows to hear his hounds chasing a coon around the hall. Then she told me about her Dad squirrel hunting and stumbling into a camp inhabited by Bonnie and Clyde. She described the country before Highway 71 existed and explained the hardships folks endured and survived.
As a joke, I mentioned the Home Demonstration meetings held monthly by the ladies of Shaw’s Bend. I thought these hen parties were designed as country ladies’ gossip depots. It seemed like an excuse to cackle and eat coffee cake. Mrs. Willie Mae gaped at me like I was a dogie calf and too dumb to suck. Then she set me straight. “Herman Willie, prior to WWII, country folks did everything on a wood stove. They were barely over the Great Depression. Many still had coal oil lamps and indoor plumbing was a new standard. They were getting electricity at the exact same time the boys came home from the war. There was an industrial revolution and an entire generation of new wives that did not know how to use electrical appliances! The state devised these Home Demonstration Meetings, and provided County Agents to teach these young women how to manage their homes.”
