SUMMERTIME, AND THE LIVIN' IS EASY, FOR CHILDREN

Summertime in the South of the late 1920s and early 1930s was unquestionably easier than that of winter during the Great Depression. Fruits and vegetables were plentiful from home gardens or purchased at curbside markets when farmers came to town. I remember okra _ selling for 5¢ a pound, a dozen ears of corn for 30¢ and watermelons ranging from 10¢ to 25¢.

Fish too was abundant in Northwest Florida, either for the catching or inexpensive to purchase. Lakes, rivers, and the Choctawhatchee Bay attracted fishermen (male and female, black and white) for trout, bass, mullet, and catfish, while the Gulf of Mexico provided what we thought then was a never-ending supply of red snapper, crab, and shrimp.

In early childhood, summer began on May 1. That was the date on which my sister and I were allowed to shed our shoes for the glorious feel of running barefoot on grass or Florida's sandy soil. Until school was finally out, we had to wear shoes there, as well as to church or town or the library, but at all other times our feet were free, giving the sensation of complete abandon. To keep cool, clothing too was loose-fitting and kept to a minimum.

Summer also brought the rapturous joy of swimming every day--in the in front of our house, at nearby ice cold Ponce de Leon Springs or in the ful blue-green waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Swimming and picnics a happy highlight of summer, bringing together friends and givingfrom the relentless heat and sticky humidity.

It was/is not unusual for temperatures over eighty degrees, with humidity to match, to last from mid-May to mid-September. Electrical storms then and now provide a temporary break in the steaming temperatures Great, dark clouds with rolling thunder claps and lightning displays followed by torrential rains create wondrous drama in the sky.

Vacation time was also the time for visiting. Mamma's relatives (handsome people with dark hair and eyes) visited us and we would reciprocate, not all during the same summer, but in turn. Whenever any of my mother's folks visited, long evenings were spent on the front porch facing the lake, catching up on news of the family now spread from South Florida to Alabama and even to California. Mamma's brothers, Uncle Ike and Uncle Ira, both stocky men with genial dispositions, were particular favorites. There was always laughter, contagious rolling laughter, in their company and especially in the tales of family. It was in this setting that I became fascinated with family history.

Uncle Ira delighted in puncturing any inflated notions e familys prestigious past. If the conversation turned to the DAR activities of those female members who took pride in this affiliation, Uncle Ira would declare “Now, let's tell the children the truth. The ancestor who served in the Revolutionary War was very likely a deserter from the British Army and changed the spelling of his name hoping he wouldn't get caught." Against Jaughter and protestations over this, Uncle Ira would add, “For the life of me I cannot see anything important in that coat of arms. Looks to me like two blue buzzards and an old hound dog."

“Then, I take it, Ira, you don't care to be buried in the family cemetery in Troy, Alabama?" asked Uncle Ike, still laughing.

“T'll tell you, Ike, if I thought it could get me certain passage to heaven, fine. Do you suppose the kin buried there thought God looked with more favor on them than those poor souls in the public cemetery? Beats me how people can contrive such notions of importance."

"Well, Ira," my father would say in a serious tone, but tongue-in-cheek, “aristocrats have a responsibility to carry their status on to the grave and into the afterlife.”

"There is one more thing I wish,” Uncle Ike said.

"What's that, Ike?” Uncle Ira asked.

That Granpa Urban Jones could've hung onto his money instead of sinking it in that railroad he was determined to see built from Mobile ynrough Troy to Columbus, Georgia. And didn't his in-laws desert him when st came time to pay off the debt incurred because of delays during the Civil War?"

“Let by-gones be by-gones, Ike," my mother said as she went inside to get us cool drinks.

And that's what the Tatom-Stokes--Jones-Murphree descendants always did. Peace loving people, religious people, they would rather lose dollars than cause any family friction. Perhaps others too pondered this as we awaited Mamma’s refreshments, listened to the crescendo of crickets and katy-dids, and watched the high speed flights of lightning bugs (fireflies).

On the occasion of these visits with my mother's relatives, Daddy usually let them do most of the talking, though he'd sometimes get in a story or two. I recall one of his favorites used to illustrate the difficult economic times in which we were living. He'd say, "You know times are so hard everywhere, ol’ Mac MacDonald may have the right idea. They say he pays his children not to eat supper, and then charges them for breakfast!" With such a story and laughter, the evening usually ended.

Trips to visit Mamma's older sister, Aunt Eleanor, in South Florida, were so special I usually began packing my small wicker suitcase d ahead of the departure date. Aunt Eleanor had a swimming pool where fresh water flowed continuously from an artesian well, making a lovely, soothing sound. Although it smelled strongly of sulphur, we children (my sister and I with Aunt Eleanor's grandchildren) could hardly wait for our breakfast to settle before finally being allowed to dive in.

The grounds surrounding my Aunt Eleanor and Uncle Walter Graves’ home in Indian River Country were enchanting. The lush foliage of tropical trees and shrubs, so different from our home area in Northwest Florida, were exotic and beautiful. Miles of Uncle Walter's orange groves seemed to go on forever. Visiting in South Florida gave me the feeling of being in a fairyland Or on a movie set: palm trees of several varieties, hibiscus and bougainvillea of many brilliant colors, blue jacaranda, flaming red poinaana trees, the fragrance of night blooming flowers and the cacophonous sounds of Strange creatures and insects of the night.

Not only were the sights and sounds of South Florida unfamiliar to Us, but the new tastes were deliciously appealing. Guava ice cream, Key lime Pie, avocadoes, all from fruit trees in the yard, left mouth-watering memories. Guava and avocado trees with strong yet not-too-high branches invited repeated climbing.

Home again in De Funiak, our bodies deeply tanned, with much of the Summer and hot weather still ahead, my sister and I took eager pleasure in the weekly story hours at the library. The library, overlooking the lake and Shaded by giant oak trees, always felt cool and peaceful. The cuckoo clock, which I imagined Mrs. Ellenberg, the librarian, had brought from Germany, was our first stop upon entering the library. Even on days when there was no Story hour or books due, we'd stop by to observe the cuckoo emerge to announce the time and then retreat behind the clicking, closing doors.

We also loved going to the movies, although as the Depression progressed, the 10¢ admission became less available. Billboards with glorious color pictures outside the Ritz Theater enticed us to coming attractions. Musicals, especially starring Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers and Dick Powell with Ruby Keeler, were the most exciting. What happy feelings were generated by these films! After seeing the elaborate song and dan e numbers in the movies, my sister and I were inspired to try and re-create them on the sidewalk in front of our house, or on the wide back porch. Final staging took place in someone's garage or in our living room. Tap dancing lessons became an important part of our lives as we worked happily to perfect steps.

I took charge as playwright and stage director with my sister and neighborhood children usually cooperating. If the show I produced held sufficient promise to invite adult friends and relatives, my father typed the program with plenty of carbon copies.

Finding just the right costume or enlisting my mother's help to make them took a great deal of time. Patience, unfortunately, was not one of my personality traits; seeking perfection was. I remember once, when I was
perhaps nine years old, after hours of going through old trunks of out-dated clothing and costumes from my mother's days as school teacher/play director, and not finding just the right outfit for a part, I threw a mild tantrum Its likely I was simply exhausted, but I recall well our childhood nurse Cattie’s reprimand.

"Now, look here, Marj'rie," she commanded as she stood over me, her dark face in a scowl. “This play you're puttin’ on is upsettin’ the whole house. I can't be helpin' you every minute; neither can yourmamma. We have other things to do. You just make up your mind you'll have to use what's here and make do. Ain't nobody but you gonna know the difference.” With that she left me in the middle of a pile of garments that with artistic temperament I'd angrily dismissed as “not right.”

On that day, I discovered the creativity and inventiveness that comes to the fore when one has to settle for what's possible. By show time even I had come to like the costumes and rearrangement of plans to suit them.

As the summer began to wane, we found special pleasures in picking and eating wild blackberries and blueberries, and then grapes. In our yard, Grandpa Tatom, my mother's father, had constructed a lovely arbor and planted black grapes, which continued to produce long after his death. Both the luscious grapes and the cool under the vines are associated in my memory with the easy slow pace of late summer. I read "The Secret Garden” and "Heidi" for the first time lying in a hammock in that perfect place of contentment.

Childhood memories of summer would not be complete without mention of the lively, as well as gentle sounds of singing. My grandmother Morrison, Baba, sang old favorite hymns as she rocked her grandchildren in the cool, shuttered sitting room or on the veranda overlooking the yardful of multi-colored phlox. The fragrance of lavender sachet or juicy fruit gum, which Baba kept for the grandchildren, have the power yet to recreate for me the warm feelings of her closeness and singing.

While Sunday's at Baba's were usually very quiet, one Sunday afternoon my father's sister Kate, whom we called Auntie, played popular Songs on the piano in the parlor with Daddy keeping watch at the window to assure Baba no one from the church was coming to call.

“Malcolm, be sure you tell Kate to stop the minute you see anyone approaching " Baba admonished. “Mother, if it's Olin Campbell of’any of the Tervins, you need not worry. Fact is, they'll probably start dancing,” he teased.

Upon this remark Baba began to have second thoughts about allowing such music on the Sabbath, but Auntie continued to play with her si e;, our Aunt Bern's, encouragement. "Ain't She Sweet Comin’ Down the Street” was pretty lively for that house. 

To his brother-in-law seated quietly smoking a cigar, Daddy needled “Stuart, what happened to your voice? Seems to me a graduate of the Boston Conservatory of Music should join in the singing.” I don't recall that dignified Uncle Stuart lent his beautiful tenor voice to the singing around the Piano by the rest of the family, my father and mother, Aunt Bern, my cousin Kay and her friend, Frances, Chris and me. 

I always connected Kate's playing popular and romantic songs with her longing for her lost love. Mamma told me that a professor at our towns Presbyterian Palmer College had asked Auntie to marry him and go with him to Oxford in England for his next teaching post. Auntie (Kate) could not bring herself to leave the familiar surroundings of her home and family. Until she died, sadly in her forties, she kept a cedar chest filled with lovely gifts she hoped to use “one day."

My mother and father enjoyed singing together on trips in the car. They sang as we drove home from an outing at the Bay through the mysterious, forested roads with the last rays of sunlight on the ghostly grey moss hanging from oak trees, with the car windows down, feeling the cool, fresh night air in our faces. The harmonizing of Mamma and Daddy was particularly poignant. I loved it, but it also made me sad, sometimes bringing tears. I don't know why. "Meet Me Tonight in Dreamland,” associated with their courting days, the more current "Bells of St. Mary's" and the Negro spiritual, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” were sung over and over on those rides as my sister and I nodded in the back seat.

On evenings at home, after she'd put my little sister to bed, my mother rocked and sang to me, assuring me that I too was cherished. Mamma's sweet!  yoice singing bedtime lullabies and concluding with the hymn, "In the Garden," are a lasting and comforting heritage.

“I come to the garden alone
While the dew is still on the roses
And the voice I hear, falling on my ear

The Son of God discloses.

For he walks with me and he talks with me

And he tells me I am His own
And the joy we share as we tarry there

None other has ever known."

The messages I received and still carry with me from that song are: Never will you be alone; always there is God's love; you too can find that mystical or real garden. And, it must be warm weather, ju like it is in De Fumak, or the roses would not be in bloom. The soothing bedtimes and the carefree playtimes of summer made that a wonderful season for this child.