A Hundred Year Story, Part 29

Life in the 1950s

By Elton Camp

During the summer between the fifth and sixth grade, I spent several weeks with
my grandparents in Fayetteville. My mother was finishing her bachelor’s degree at
Jacksonville. With the long drive back and forth each day, housework, and studying, she
needed help with childcare.

It was while staying with my grandparents that I first saw an umbrella. My

grandmother’s umbrella was black with a lighter pattern. I was fascinated with it and
looked for chances to go out in the rain to use it. I knew umbrellas existed, but never had
one in my hand. To my frustration, no rain fell for weeks. One afternoon we finally got
a rain shower so that I could walk outside with the amazing portable shelter over my
head.

Being in Fayetteville those weeks let me become better acquainted with Aunt
Kate, my grandmother’s sister, another of her sisters, Aunt Nina, and Aunt Nina’s son
Gene and daughter Joy. Joy was so much older that she had little to do with me, but
Gene and I played together some. I learned my grandfather’s brother, Amos, and his wife
Irene when we went to their house each Tuesday night for the book study.

My visit came to an abrupt end when I got hurt in the barn while my grandfather
milked the cow. Each evening when he went to the barn, I tagged along to watch. That
time I jumped down onto a board with a nail sticking up through it and plunged it deep
into my foot. The injury carried a significant risk of tetanus, especially since horses had
been kept on the spot.

Poorly informed about vaccination, my parents never had me inoculated against

anything including tetanus, a potentially fatal disease. Yet, valid reasons for caution
existed. Many vaccines had side effects, some of them serious. Far fewer vaccines were
available when I was a child.

My grandparents quickly loaded me into their car and drove me home so my

parents could take whatever medical action they decided was best. I remember a
downpour of rain that night that added significantly to the danger of the trip. After it
stopped, bugs in droves began to hit the windshield. The accumulated mess made it
necessary to stop periodically and clean the glass. It was a miserable trip for us all.

For some unfathomable reason, Dr. Venning thought that I was “allergic” to the
tetanus vaccine. No basis for that assumption existed. Nevertheless, I had to wait it out
and see if tetanus developed when a clear preventive was readily available. Dr. Venning
was a nice person and I liked him, but I thought then and still think that he wasn’t a very
competent doctor. His master’s degree was in education. The man had been a teacher for
a few years while he saved enough to finance his medical education.
 “You used teaching as a stepping stone,” Mother joked.

“That’s not true,” he replied defensively.

His embarrassed look showed otherwise. I wondered why it mattered even if true.
It seemed to me that he had a right to improve himself. He had nothing to make him
ashamed.

I remained healthy despite the dangerous wound. Mother continued her daily
commute to the college. She got her degree at the end of the 1950 summer session at
Jacksonville. That meant a raise and enhanced job security. For the first time, she was
fully qualified for her position.

This accomplishment was made all the more difficult because she had a bitter
enemy in the registrar’s office at Jacksonville who did her best prevent her from
completing degree requirements. The woman was a clerk, but had gradually assumed
authority beyond her status. She went so far to pretend that Mother needed college
chemistry in order to graduate. No doubt, she thought that she wouldn’t be able to do the
work. Mother took the difficult course and did well in it.

Some of her academic problems were of her own making due to a hot temper.
This was especially true in connection with a music course. The professor required the
students to pair up and sing a song before the class. Mother never could sing and her
partner was even worse. The partner began to cry in front of the class, but the teacher
tried to force them to continue. In a fit of pique, my Mother slammed her textbook to the
floor.

“I won’t be back,” she stormed as she stalked from the room.

“You will too,” the teacher shouted. “That book will stay right where it is until
you do. If not, you’ll fail this class and you can’t graduate without it.”

The book remained on the floor for several days. Mother reported the entire
episode to Dean Woods, a friend of hers. Apparently, Dean Woods somehow gave
mother credit for the music course despite the objections of the professor. She was able
to graduate at the end of the term.

Her enemy in the registrar’s office was notorious for pulling people from
graduation, even while lined up to go on the stage, so it was a tense time. She had a note
on the bulletin board for Mother to come see her, but she ignored it and somehow got by
with it.

Mother’s best friend at Jacksonville that summer was Margaret Chitwood. The
woman, however, became so possessive that mother had to break off association with her.
Margaret took the attitude that she shouldn’t have any other friends. One time Margaret
and her husband visited us at home. A rabid dog had bitten him some years before. He
had to take a series of painful injections. The experience resulted in him having
developed a pathological hatred of dogs.

“Don’t play with the dog around him. He can’t stand them,” Mother cautioned.

I took Nigg and held him behind the barn until they left. I actually thought he’d
try to kill the dog if he saw it. It was a relief when they finally left. I was tired of
holding the unfriendly, snappish dog. I didn’t like Nigg, but felt it to be my duty to try to
protect him.

For the sixth grade my teacher was Miss Eva Pittman. She was a short, stout older
woman with glasses. Her gray hair was pulled back into a bun. She was quite a good
teacher and is the only one, at any level, who taught anything about geography. She
provided a long, interesting unit on South America.

At the end of the year, Miss Pitman made an unusual request. “I want you all to
come back and show me your report cards as you move through school.” I don’t know
about the others, but I did that most of the way through school. It was easy since my
mother worked in the building and I had to go by there each day anyway.

Miss Pittman was the only one of my teachers who attempted to teach moral
principles but without involving church doctrine. She belonged to the Church of Christ,
but in later years I learned that she didn’t fully endorse its tenets. My dentist, Dr. J.L.
Hughes, who was a member of her same church, let it slip that she wasn’t considered to
be a member in good standing.

A student in our room, Amy Rice, was killed in an auto accident. I didn’t know
her at all and didn’t even recall seeing her or hearing her name until she was dead. Most
of the girls cried when Miss Pittman told us that Amy had died, but the boys acted
indifferent to it. There’s a picture of her in our photo collection. I made a point of
mentioning Amy at our fiftieth class reunion. Somebody said that her mother was still
living.

In 1952, Elizabeth II of England was officially crowned. Any of us who could

arrange it were allowed to leave school to watch the ceremony on television. I, along with
a few other boys, walked to Marvin Brock’s house. They had a large, black-and-white
floor model set. It was the finest I’d ever seen. Film of the coronation was shot in
England and immediately loaded onto a plane and flown to the United States for
broadcast.

“Isn’t that amazing?” old, gray Mr. Brock said. “Just think, that took place only
about seven hours ago and we’re already seeing it.” We were duly impressed at the
astounding power of modern technology. Live broadcasts from anywhere in the world
lay decades into the future.
 The music teacher, Miss Neal, came about once a week to give music exercises.
She was in her thirties, blonde, with rough skin, but not unattractive. Somehow, I learned
that she had false teeth. I was shocked that a person her age would have dentures. “Next
week we’re going to make a recording of a song,” she announced. This was the first time
I ever saw or heard of a tape recorder. It was a huge box with a wide tape that wound
between large spools. The class recorded Dis Ole Hammer a song that mocked Negroes.
Miss Pittman obviously didn’t know what a tape recorder was either. When we finished
the song, she asked how much time had to be allowed for the record to solidify. She
expected a phonograph record to come from the experience, as did we all.

“Oh, you can hear it right now,” Miss Neal responded. We were shocked when
she rewound and turned on the tape recorder and our voices boomed into the room.

Miss Neal and her boyfriend were on a trip with another teacher, Mrs. Almond,
and her family, when the unexpected happened. “Come go with us as witnesses,” Miss
Neal invited. “We’re going to get married.” The Almonds took it as a joke, but got up to
accompany them on whatever outing they had in mind. They were dressed in jeans and
tee shirts.

“I don’t want you to go to my wedding dressed like that,” Miss Neal protested.
“Put on something nice.”

It was only then that they comprehended she was serious. The couple married
later that day. Miss Neal held a bough with white blooms that the Almonds, on a sudden
whim, broke from a magnolia tree.

The end of Miss Pittman’s life, years later, was ghastly. She committed suicide
by pulling a plastic bag over her head and choking herself with a rope. One of her
nephews planned a visit that day, so she timed the action to ensure that she’d be found
promptly. The note she left explained that she didn’t want to become helpless and a
burden. Beside her, she laid her clothes for burial and left written instructions for her
funeral.

Early in the sixth grade we got a telephone at home. It was an eight party line with
all eight homes receiving the ring whenever any house in the group got a call. The rings
were coded: one through four long rings and one through four short rings. No privacy
existed on calls. Distinct clicks announced eavesdroppers. Our number, one long, was
547-J1. It was a poor arrangement, but a considerable step forward in communication.
Prior to that we’d gone to the store at the corner to make phone calls.

Vada, our cousin, worked as a telephone operator at that time. We’d sometimes
get her when placing a call. The sets of that time had no dials. “Number please,” asked a
real voice when we picked up the receiver. When the operators went on strike for several
weeks, nobody could make any calls except emergencies. Despite lack of service, the
phone bill wasn’t reduced.
 All phones were heavy with short, straight cords, but any color you wanted was
available as long as it was black. The phone was joined to a large battery case attached to
the wall as well as to the phone line. Nobody had more than one phone per house far as I
knew. Some of our neighbors didn’t have a phone at all. They came to ask to use ours.
Even worse, their incoming calls sometimes came to us.

“Can I speak to Ronald,” the caller asked. Ronald lived three houses away. Yet,
we were expected to go get him while the caller waited. By current standards, that
sounds like an outrageous imposition, but nobody minded. People were more inclined to
help each other in those days.

During the sixth grade, I had my first experience with music “lessons.” Those
willing to pay extra were put in a room with a “tonette” which is a type of recorder. That
flute-like instrument is still stored at Russellville. The teacher provided no real
instruction. If we learned, we did it on our own. Miss Neal had us memorize “Every
good boy does fine,” but I had no idea at all how that related to music or what it was used
for. Of course I got no help at home, nor was any interest shown in my musical progress
of lack thereof. I must, in fairness, admit that I didn’t put any effort into it. I’d realized
quite clearly that I had near zero ability in music. Yet, if I had tried and had a bit of help,
I could’ve learned to play the simple instrument.

Tonette

A high point of elementary school was a play that we performed during the sixth
grade. It was a musical about the Zuni Indians. In addition to the various songs, we also
performed a Mexican hat dance. My partner was Ruth Coffee. The name of the play and
details of the plot have vanished, but it involved a spy from another Indian tribe.

Words from a song went “Zuni, Zuni, Zuni in the painted desert close by Thunder
Mountain dwelled the Zuni.” Another had the words, “He’s a spy, he’s a spy. Catch him.
He’s a spy, he’s a spy, watch him.” Tall, red-haired Kim Keller played the part of the
spy.

While composing this book, I learned that in the southwestern United States an
actual Indian village had existed near the Zuni River and that it lay at the foot of majestic
Thunder Mountain. The Zuni River’s just a trickle in dry weather, but becomes a raging
torrent when rain falls. Had we been told that, it would’ve added interest and educational
value to the play.
 We wore Indian costumes. Mine consisted of brown pants, no shirt, no shoes, and
a headband with a single feather. The night of the play, they put some type of cold, brown
coloring on our exposed skin that I thought repulsive and not at all necessary. Everyone
knew we weren’t really Indians.

The elementary school principal was Hobart Gilbert. His wife was the office
secretary and his daughter, Aletha, was in my grade. Mrs. Gilbert had gray hair, was a
little heavy, but very neat. I thought she was beautiful. Like most kids of that age, I
stayed as far away from the principal as possible.

I lost a lot of respect for Mr. Gilbert following a crude meeting he held with the
boys. Apparently there had been problems with the bathrooms being soiled. Instead of
trying to find the culprits, he lectured the all boys with gutter words that I’d never heard
before. I suppose he was trying to use terms that he thought would be understood, but it
was really gross.

I wasn’t familiar with obscene words since we didn’t use them at home. I started
seeing the infamous “F” word written on the bathroom walls from about the fourth grade
but had no idea what it meant. Finally, I asked my parents about it, but got no answer.
They acted like I was an idiot for asking so I let it drop. As a result, I decided it meant the
same as “shit” which I did understand. I continued to think that for a couple of years.
Finally, I learned the real meaning from another youngster.

My parents weren’t willing to discuss such thing with me in any responsible

manner. I tried not to repeat that same mistake with my own daughter.

At the elementary school, we had a regular recess each day when the children
were free to engage in unsupervised play on the school grounds. We had a set of large,
metal swings, a carousel-type swing set, slides, and monkey bars. The teachers went
outside where they stood in a group to watch from a distance. They didn’t try to tell us
what to do unless trouble came up. If it was a nice day, recess might be extended for a
longer time. The ring of a bell told when to come back inside.

Recess
In the sixth grade, we had organized softball play for part of the year. Two new
rooms had been added to the back of the building between the two side wings. We
played in the semi-enclosed area that created. Softball was one of the few team sports
that I enjoyed, but I wasn’t by any means a skilled player. We took turns serving as
captain.
 Most of the time, it was possible, during recess, to slip off to Hargis’ small,
cement block store. It was across the street at the far edge of the campus. Hargis was a
relatively young man, but extremely disabled. He remained behind the counter in a
wheelchair and took money for purchases, but his slurred speech was unintelligible to
anyone outside his family. The store was a way that he could earn a modest living. A
regular candy bar was five cents and for ten cents, a truly huge one was available. It was
a violation of school rules for us to go to that store during school hours, but enforcement
was lax, essentially nonexistent. I suspect that the principal felt sympathy for Hargis.
The man needed student purchases in order to stay in business. Most people in his
condition might’ve lived on welfare. It was admirable that Hargis did what he could to
make his own way. His tiny store is still there, abandoned and deteriorating.

At the end of sixth grade, we had a formal graduation in the upstairs auditorium in
the lower building on McCord Avenue. We wore no caps and gowns. Each child came
across the stage to receive his/her diploma. I still have the cheap-looking diploma. At the
time, I thought it a grand ceremony. A graduation exercise at that level may appear
foolish, but as our grade moved through the years, many dropped out of school entirely.
No other graduation occurred for them.

(TO BE CONTINUED.)