Open Writing

When I was growing up we lived in several different houses, shacks, and tents in and around Weed. In the winter of 1945 after spending several weeks at Delia's P.G. got a job at a small sawmill near the tiny village of Sacramento, about four miles from Weed. We moved into a very small "shotgun" shack that was about the size of a railcar. It must have been better constructed than some we lived in because I don't remember being as cold there.

Our shack, along with the others housing sawmill workers, sat on a rocky hillside, among pine trees, with a rutted dirt road winding up the hillside from one home to another. It was very difficult for my pregnant mother to care for three children, cook on a wood stove, and keep the place clean without the convenience of running water and electricity. A lesser person would have complained but my mother never did.

The birth of my sister in that shack impacted my life and changed my place in the family forever. My reign as the only girl in a family of boys came to an end and put me second in line for my stepdad's affection. My role as spoiled little sister changed immediately to that of surrogate mother.

The day Phyllis was born would turn out to be long and painful for me as well as for Mama on her birthing bed. Early that morning, P.G. anxiously left on horseback to fetch Doc Shields, who would deliver Phyllis.

Delia had come to our house to help the Doctor deliver the baby. "You kids are going to have to stay outside and play today," Delia told us as she sat by Mama's bedside. I knew we were going to get a new baby that day. I just didn't understand the impact it would have on my own little world.

Jessie and I played peacefully for a while that morning until we became bored and started bickering. "Don't touch me anymore," he warned, picking up a discarded wine bottle from a pile of rocks. I couldn't resist the dare and poked him lightly with my finger.

He swung the bottle to warn me off just as I bobbed forward and the bottle smacked my nose. The pain was blinding and the sight of my own blood terrified me. "You've killed me, you've killed me," I screamed.

While I was howling, Willie knocked on the back door and asked Delia, "Can we have a wet rag for Bertie's bloody nose?"

Delia handed Willie a wet rag. "Try to get them to quiet down," she scolded, "the baby's about here."

Willie tried to console me as he cleaned my bloody face. Jessie showed
no signs of remorse. "She caused it," he accused. "She wouldn't keep her hands to herself."

I was still in a foul mood when we were called inside to meet our new sister. I was further wounded when P.G., who had always showered his attention on me, proudly announced, "Come look at my new baby girl!"

Upon seeing his "new baby girl" for the first time, I scowled. "She sure is fat and bald," I pointed out. I had a beautiful curly mop of hair and hoped Phyllis's baldness would make her less loveable. That hope was dashed.

My parents adored her. My jealousy grew as fast as her hair. But in a short while my unconditional love for Phyllis completely replaced that jealousy.

A few days later, Jessie stirred up a wasp's nest in an old stump. One of the enraged insects flew into his ear and stung him. I was still brooding over my bloody nose, so I couldn't feel very sorry for him.

"Mama it won't stop buzzin'," Jessie wailed, shaking his head and screaming. Mama was used to her children's disasters by now. She calmly poured mineral oil in Jessie's ear and extracted the wasp with tweezers.

A few weeks after Phyllis was born, a neighbor gave Willie a black and white spotted puppy that we became very fond of. We were playing outside when we noticed that Willie's new puppy was frothing at the mouth and staggering around wildly. We knew this was a sign of mad dog disease.

Willie grabbed me by the arm and yelled at Jessie who had reached to pick the dog up. "Don't touch him, Jess. Let's get inside quick." We ran into the house, slamming the door behind us.

"I think my new puppy's gone mad, Mama. He's slobberin' and walkin' funny."

Mama looked out the window, and then she nodded. "You're right, Willie, and you know I'll have to shoot him 'cuz it's rabies."

Tears streamed down Willie's cheeks. "I know Mama," Willie whispered. "He's real sick and it has to be done."

Mama rose from her chair where she had been nursing Phyllis. She laid her on the bed. Then she turned to Willie, and hugged him to her. "I'm sorry," she said softly then went to the closet where she took out PC's 30-30 rifle.

"You kids stay right here." She walked to the back door. A few minutes later we heard the gun shot.

Later that day we spent hours playing King of the Mountain on the tall sawdust pile at the sawmill. It was safe, clean, and fun to climb to the top and roll down the sides. It helped us forget for a while about our dead puppy.

Our parents worked hard; P.G. at the sawmill, and Mama cleaning, cooking and caring for us kids. They had little time or energy to play with us. For entertainment, our parents would sometimes get together with another sawmill family to play music and listen to Fern and Dessie, a singing sister duo.

"Don't those girls sound as sweet as angels," Mama would say, as she patted her foot to the beat of the music. "Yes," we would chorus, as we listened enraptured. The music provided escape from the reality of our meager life.