Miami's "Mayberry"

     Say "Miami," and people think of "Miami Vice," South Beach, Little Havana, "Cocaine Cowboys," or the celebrities living on Star Island. However, growing up in Miami-Dade, specifically North Dade, in the 1960s and '70s was more akin to growing up in Mayberry than South Beach. The neighborhood I grew up in was Ives Estates. Bordered on the north by County Line Road (dividing Miami-Dade from Broward County), to the east and south by I-95, and to the west by the remaining dairy land, Ives was a community which was isolated from the urban sprawl of Miami proper.  This isolation served to build a strong community spirit among the people of Ives.
    Most of us attended Madie Ives Elementary. No school buses were needed; we all either walked or rode bikes to school. The school was built to take advantage of the breezes from the ocean, as there was no air-conditioning. Unfortunately for the students, we still had vestiges of rural life, and we got the smells from the local pig farm and Wolfie's egg farm in that ocean breeze. The egg farm was directly next to the school, and often we'd find chicks from eggs the hens had hidden from the owners. No inside gym--we had a huge field to play in. An old-fashioned metal jungle gym, metal slides, and a black-top with basketball hoops, box ball squares, and hop-scotch squares all ready for us. Those of us who went to Madie Ives in the 1960s remember having to do exercises while listening to "Go, You Chicken Fat, Go!"

     Like Mayberry, we had a "main street." Well, we had a strip mall with a 7/11, Phil's Barbershop, a hair salon, and Harris Drugs. Even as a child, I was allowed to walk up to the 7/11 to bring back bottles for the deposit and buy candy. Harris Drugs had a lunch counter, and I remember getting free ice cream after getting a shot at Dr. Dobbrunz's office. Mr. Harris kept watch on us. I remember trying to buy a pack of cigarettes one time, and Mr. Harris, knowing my parents didn't smoke, questioned me and then called my mom. Never did get those cigarettes, but I got in trouble with Mommy!  My dad knew Phil from the barbershop, and I remember when he and my brother would go for a haircut, they would take at least an hour. I wasn't allowed to go in the barbershop--it was for men. I envision the men sitting and talking about sports or doings at the Optimist Club or whatever it is men talk about. Joe's wife owned the hair salon, and that was the first place I had my hair professionally cut. Ives also had Walker's Ranch. I could go to the corner of 206 and 12th Ave and watch the horses for hours!
    In those days, almost everybody went to church on Sunday. For the Baptists, it was at North Dade Heights Baptist Mission. My Catholic friends went to Visitation. The Methodists and Lutherans went to churches outside of the general Ives area. On my street, 206th Street, you'd see the families, all dressed-up, getting into their cars on Sunday morning. The Enterline boys would be clean and in dress shirts; the Jones girls would have on their chapel veils (which I envied!), and my brother and I would be dressed in our Sunday best as well. I still remember Preacher Jim and the fish fries we had at North Dade Heights. I also remember our whole street going together for Vacation Bible School at North Dade Heights.
    The Optimist Club was THE community center for Ives. We had Brownies, Girl Scouts, and Bingo using the Optimist building. In fact, Daddy made the first electric Bingo board for the Optimist.  They ran the Little League, football teams, and softball teams.  What fun to walk up to the fields on a spring night and watch Little League games, visit the concession stand, and visit neighbors! And all of Ives was excited when the TV show "Gentle Ben" actually filmed two episodes using our Optimist fields.

Ives Optimist Field photo by Craig McWhorter

     Like Mayberry, we had our special characters whom everyone knew. Mike Verle' (RIP) was the de facto Mayor of Ives. The Enterline family--Mike, Pat, Danny, Timmy, and Kathleen--provided me with friendship, entertainment, and, many times, excitement. The Phillips family. The Dunkmans. The Rabins. The O'Chipas. Mr. Perfetti, the school principal. The Burnsides. Coach Eunice Frost. The Emroes. The Consuegras.  I could go on, but I'll add just one more. My favorite paperboy, and first crush, Jimmy Philbreck.
    Maybe Ives sounds like a typical neighborhood, but it was so much more. We pulled together when a family had problems. I remember the visits, meals, and kindness of Ives when my mommy died. Moms watched out for each other's kids, even administering punishment when necessary. There were several bad hurricanes that came through in the 1960s. On 206 St., the electric was out for a couple of weeks. As we kids skid-boarded on the deep puddles, the moms rotated cooking at the homes with gas stoves. The dads helped clean up the whole street--not just their yards. The residents of Ives were an extended family; when one family hurt, we all hurt. When there was joy, we were all joyful. There was pride in our little "Mayberry" that other neighborhoods did not have. Truly, I have not lived anywhere that was like my childhood home in Ives. 

Daddy, Part I

Joseph Anderson Crenshaw 1933-75

      Joseph Anderson Crenshaw--my daddy.  Daddy could be fun. I loved going to the beach with him because he would get out and swim and bob the waves with us. He'd also throw us out into deeper water, which was thrilling. One summer, he got some wood and made us a little cart, stilts, and a see-saw. He also was one of the first on our street to take apart skates and put the wheels on a board--viola'--skateboard! Billy and I had the dog pull us on the skateboard, rather than riding it the correct way. Daddy loved hosting watermelon parties for the street during the summer. He get several melons, put them in metal washtubs with ice for a few hours, and then we all feasted on the coldest, sweetest watermelon! Someone told me that if you ate the white part of the rind, you'd be poisoned, so I always left plenty of pink, but Daddy would eat it all and spit out the seeds. He also taught us that people in the know always put a little salt on their melon. It was also a great treat for us when Daddy made home-made ice cream in an old hand-cranked freezer. We'd crank it, at first, but it would get too hard, then Daddy would take over. I loved tasting the cold salty water that would dribble down the side of the freezer. Daddy could make anything, and he made a grill from a giant metal drum. He seemed to love applying the lighter fluid with a very heavy hand because everything had the faint taste of petroleum.

The watermelon and I

     People would always tell me how funny Daddy was. Really, I didn't get it. I still don't think of him as being funny. I do remember, though, when the guys from the neighborhood would sit around on the front porch, and they'd all be laughing at whatever Daddy was saying. He'd pull pranks on them, especially Mr. O'Chipa who was a wee bit gullible, but well-loved by Daddy.  I remember one of his pranks. We spent Easter afternoon with our friends the Hulseys. Of course, we had an Easter Egg Hunt. Back then, before everyone was concerned about salmonella, the adults would hide real boiled eggs. Well, we kids found all the eggs except one. Mrs. Hulsey and Mommy were worried about that egg going rotten in the Miami sun. So, we searched and searched for at least an hour.Finally, Daddy and Mr. Hulsey, smiling like possums, admitted that Daddy had eaten the egg. At least they found that trick hilarious! I don't think the moms did.
    After Mommy died, Daddy changed, and he became a harder man. I didn't understand then, but I understand now. A widower with three children--my sister only two years old. He had to shoulder more responsibility, and he had to deal with a teenage daughter. Daddy was an only child, so he had no clue about raising girls. Especially a hyper-emotional teen. But, he did his best. And I learned some very valuable skills from him.
    Daddy was a perfectionist. I, by nature, am not. But, he taught me that when you have a job to do, then you do it right. When you're working, do more than what is asked of you. When I got my first job as a popcorn girl at a local movie theater, he told me to work hard, and, if I ran out of things to do, to always ask the manager for more work. I've followed that philosophy all of my working life. And I have reaped the rewards of Daddy's work philosophy. He also reaped the rewards of his philosophy. He was a diesel mechanic and worked on all kinds of engines. He also worked on people's cars and yachts. The rich people who lived down on Star Island passed his name around as a man who was an excellent, honest, and hard-working mechanic. Daddy's reward? He worked for the president of FPL. He was so impressed with Daddy's skill and work ethic, that he hired him as part of the management team. Here he was, a man with a high school diploma from a vocational school, part of FPL's management team. I saw that hard work and giving extra would pay off and was, really, just the right thing to do. I also learned by watching him always to be myself. As he advanced in management, he was just Joe. I remember a picture he had of the management team of FPL. Everyone was in a suit and tie; there was Daddy in a short-sleeve shirt, no tie. He even had an old fashioned fish fry to which he invited the management team. We still lived in working class Ives Estates, but Daddy didn't care. He cleaned out the carport, cut a metal barrel in half to use as the fryer, set out paper plates, cheap wine, and plenty of folding chairs. He was just being who he was and they loved it. I, a little surly at having to attend, ended up playing duets at the piano with one of the vice presidents.Thanks, Daddy, for teaching me to be genuine!
    
    

The Cracker Girl's Guide to Creepy Critters, Part II

     Florida Cracker Jim Stafford sings: "I don't like spiders and snakes, and that's not what it takes to love me." This Cracker Girl would rather have spiders and snakes than the creepy insects that live in Florida.
     I really don't mind spiders. In fact, I was taught never to kill a spider because they are good luck. There were the little grey spiders that I'd play with, if I could catch one. Even now, if there is a spider in the house, I'll take her out and release her. We always have at least one big spider web and its occupant in our front ivy garden--she is welcome to stay and eat as many insects as she can! However, there is one Florida spider that I don't handle and that, even I, find a bit intimidating--The Banana Spider. Now, these were never found in the Miami suburbs. I first saw one on a childhood camping trip. Admittedly, I backed off a bit. Biggest spider I had ever seen! However, they are really beautiful, with their bright colors. My brother has been known to pick them up and let them rest in his beard. I'm not quite that friendly with them. There are many people who do not like spiders, so I'm sure they would not want to encounter a Banana spider!

Banana Spider

There is one insect that I have always been terrified by, and I have been assured that they don't DO anything to people. I don't really believe it, though. That is the Lubber grasshopper. Nothing I hated more than being out playing hide-and-seek in Grandmother's hedges and coming across one of them. They are so big. Big ole boogly eyes. I suspect they can fly pretty well. Mommy told me that when I was maybe 3 or 4 that I kept one in a glass jar as a pet. I do not remember that, nor do I want to. My uncles James and Larry had them, so I insisted on having one as well. When there was one on our plants, Grandmother would just grab her shoe and smash it, while I was running far, far away! When we moved up to North Central Florida, I discovered the juvenile Lubber. One year, we went up to Ginny Springs, and as we walked, there were literally hundreds of black hoppers with a red or yellow stripe down their bodies. A little research, and I realized I had been introduced to baby Lubbers. Nope. I don't like them any more than the adult ones. Grandmother had good reason to smash them; they are very destructive to gardens.

Juvenile Lubber

Lubber Grasshopper

 Finally, no discussion of Florida critters would be complete without discussing our roaches. Now, I don't mean the little German roaches; I mean the big, flying cockroaches that every Floridian has encountered sometime in his or her life. Many people mistakenly call them "Palmetto Bugs," but that is a whole different roach. I'm talking about the big roaches that really don't live inside in large numbers, but they do come indoors, especially during rainy season or if you have uncovered dog food! People from Up North have a difficult time understanding that the odd flying roach or two is just a fact of Florida life.I learned very early in life that these roaches will show up in the most unexpected places. My best friend Dana, her sisters, and I decided, one summer day, to pull down the "bark" that surrounded the top of their coconut palm with intentions of making hula skirts.  Imagine our surprise when hundreds of roaches came flying out at us! Four little girls shrieking at the top of our lungs and batting away flying roaches as we ran. To this day, there is nothing more frightening than sitting quietly, watching TV, and then hearing IT. The whir of the wings, then the silhouette of the roach--body hanging down--as it flies across the room and lands on the wall. General confusion ensues with someone finally getting brave enough to squash the roach. In my time, I've squashed them with shoes, magazines, newspapers; I've sprayed them with spray starch and hair spray. Mostly, I get my husband to take care of it, while I cower. Everyone has "that" roach story. My husband had one fly into his mouth while he was sleeping. I had one crawl onto a student's long hair during class. And only one boy was brave enough to squash it and throw it away--in the outside trash can. I would almost claim that once you've battled--and won--against a Florida flying roach, you can call yourself a True Florida Cracker.

The Cracker Girl's Guide to Creepy Critters, Part I

   
     One thing everyone knows about Florida is that we have lots of creepy critters. I really didn't know that Florida had this reputation until we were thinking of relocating to Washington State. The realtor was showing me house after house, and I finally asked why the windows didn't have screens. She looked at me, mouth agape, and said, "We don't have an insect problem like you do in Florida." Add to that experience, the general fright of newcomers when they see that first cockroach take flight or find a gigantic buffo toad. Natives know that we have all kinds of scary, crawling, flying, creepy animals, and we're used to them. Well, more or less. I don't think I know anyone who enjoys the sound of whirring wings as a cockroach takes flight--right at your face!

    In particular, I have issues with frogs, toads, and lizards. As long as I can remember, I've been afraid of frogs. The fear started with seeing little green tree frogs on the screen of Granny's door up in Okeechobee. The way that they puff out their throats really frightened me. And there were always at least a dozen of them on every screen in the house.Every time I'd go to take a shower, there they would be, clinging to the screen right above the shower. Throwing their necks out and peeping. I was totally convinced that they would squeeze themselves through the shower head and come plopping down on me. This is not a joke; I really would have a hard time showering because of those frogs. On July 24, 1969, that fear came true. I was getting a shower early that evening so I could watch the moon landing with Granny, Granddaddy, and the rest of the family. I was washing my hair, when, from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the green tile move. I shut my eyes and rinsed my hair. Then, when I opened my eyes, I thought I saw the tile move again. I looked at the screen--nope, the frogs were still there. Or were they? As I turned to pull back the shower curtain, I saw them. A dozen tree frogs sitting on the shower tiles! I screamed, grabbed a towel, and ran out of that bathroom. That's when I heard Uncle Larry and the rest of them laughing! He had caught and filled that shower with frogs. Apparently, he thought that was a funny practical joke. You can be sure that I checked those shower tiles very carefully every time I took a shower after that night.

Bufo Toad--I am NOT holding it!

    Unfortunately, South Florida is host to many invasive species. One of these is the cane toad, the buffo toad. Those things are huge. They have poison on their skin that can make a dog or cat sick, and sometimes even kill them. As afraid as I am of tiny green tree frogs, that fear is multiplied for those huge, ugly toads. We had one that lived near the gas tank at the back of our house. When I would mow the yard, that thing would come out and play "chicken" with me. Well, to be honest, if it hopped out, I would just go mow elsewhere---disturbing the strict pattern Daddy set for me to mow. Sometimes, it would jump out at me when I would go to get clothes off the line at dusk. These toads are very aggressive. And they make a hissing noise.Much creepier than the tree frogs, and truly more dangerous.Although, once I could drive, I did find a way to help rid South Florida of this invasive species.  They would cover our street when it was raining. I would drive down the street and run them over. They literally popped like balloons.A most satisfying noise.
     Finally, I have never liked lizards of any type. We had hundreds of the green anole living in our yard.They would also get into the house through loose screens or people leaving the door open.  My head told me that they were not dangerous to me, but my heart said "Run!" when I saw one. I think I was mostly scared of them because my brother Billy would take them and clip them on his ear lobes and nose. Then he'd chase me. All the boys in the neighborhood would play with those lizards. I also did not like when the males would throw that red fan out of their necks when attracting females. That is just freaky. I still do not like lizards. I have a small garden in front, and it is infested with a couple of different types of lizards. If there is one on the sidewalk, it might as well be Gandolph saying, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS." When it decides to move, I continue on my journey.

    

Sand Crackers

      A True Florida Cracker has, somewhere in his/her history, whip-cracking cattlemen. However, there are many of us Crackers whose families moved to South Florida and settled what would become more city than country. I'm descended from one of those families. My Granddaddy Jones moved to Broward County to work for the MacArthur Dairy, so my mom actually grew up moving between South Florida and North Central Florida. When she married Daddy, who was a Miami native, they stayed in South Florida. So, I consider myself a True Florida Cracker, but also a Sand Cracker.
    While most of my family lived further north, and they were used to the woods, rivers, and lakes of Central and North Florida, I grew up more used to the beach, palmetto scrub, and canals of the south. When they were swimming in the rivers and spring-fed lakes, I was swimming in the Atlantic Ocean. They dodged gators; I dodged jellyfish and masses of Sargasso seaweed. My parents, having grown-up going to the beach, took us all the time. True, I took swimming lessons at a city pool, but I really learned how to swim in the Atlantic Ocean. Daddy would pick me up by one foot and one arm and throw me out as far as he could, and I'd swim back. One of my favorite things to do was to stand on his thighs (as he squatted). He'd then simultaneously stand up and push on my behind, and I'd fly up and into the water. That was better than any diving board! My parents also taught us to bob in the waves and to body surf the large ones in to shore. I've always loved just floating on my back as the waves gently rocked me, and the sun warmed me.

       I hear and read about all the hunting my Cracker brothers and sisters do. Well, there wasn't much hunting in North Dade County, except my brother hunting lizards. Instead of hunting, we went fishing. Daddy loved to fish! Even Grandmother liked fishing in the canals with a cane pole and a bobber. We had a little boat that we'd take out on the Inter-coastal. Daddy was a master at navigating around the mangroves. I liked going out near Haulover Cut to fish. The water was so clear, I could see right to the bottom.
     Daddy had  fishing rules, though. He did not hold to talking while fishing. Being somewhat of a chatterbox, this was a real problem for me. He also made me bait my own hook. He usually used live shrimp as bait, so that was a problem. I never liked the way they would flip their tails against my hand when I reached into the bait bucket. Sometimes, he'd bait my first hook. When that happened, I'd make that poor shrimp last as long as possible. It never stayed in the water very long, as I was always checking it to see if a fish had hooked itself. I never thought that I was actually drowning that poor shrimp by taking it in and out of the water so much.I don't want to brag, but I was quite the expert at catching several things: rocks, sting rays, puffer fish, and my brother. Nothing that we wanted. (Well, I'm sure my parents wanted my brother--they just didn't want him with a hook stuck in him!) Although, every once in a while, I'd catch  grunt,  yellow tail, and, a couple of times, red snapper. If we didn't take the boat, we'd pick our way through mangrove swamp to stand and fish alongside the Inter-Coastal.
    We just didn't fish salt or brackish water. We'd go up into Broward County and fish the canals in Davie. It was rural back then. That's when the cane poles came out for us kids. Again, we had to bait our own hooks, but I didn't mind putting worms or shiners on the hooks. My fishing expertise wasn't any better in fresh water. The worms suffered the same fate as the shrimp--lots of up and down. I honestly never remember catching anything but rocks. Daddy would get bass or catfish. My brother caught a mud fish one time, and he went running when that thing flapped and hissed.
  So, fellow Crackers, while you were enjoying venison and wild hog, we were down south enjoying the fish we caught in the morning and fried that evening, served with baked beans and hush puppies. While you tromped in the pine woods, we were picking our way through a mangrove swamp..And we both found secret fishing "holes" to use our cane poles and worms. Are there any other Sand Crackers out there?

Grandmother, Part II

Grandmother at my wedding

     Grandmother did spoil us! She looked forward to Easter, in particular. I don't know why Easter was her favorite holiday, but it was. She always boiled and colored eggs for an Easter egg hunt at her house. I remember that she only dyed them yellow, pink, and blue. Her yard was made for an egg hunt! There were all kinds of shrubs and bushes. There was that Royal Poinciana tree, with its big roots and nooks and crannies. Daddy would always hide eggs in the hollow pipes that held her clothesline. Even though the egg hunts were usually just Billy and I, we still had the best time. Usually, Grandmother would have extra baskets with candy for us, and Uncle Son would give us whatever Easter baskets the Foremost Dairy had that year. And, yes, they would hide real boiled eggs in the hot Miami sun. We'd eat them for days and never once got sick.
     However, I never understood the depth of her love for us until I became a grandmother myself. It is fun to be able to spoil your grandchildren--not to have to worry about disciplining them or caring for them on a daily basis. They come to visit; you spoil them and have fun; they go home for their parents to do the hard work. Grandmother loved us enough to surrender the fun of being a grandma and accept the serious responsibility of becoming our "mother."
    When Mommy died, Grandmother came to live with us and take care of us, and Daddy. She took a break from her job; she moved from her little house and her belongings to take care of us. She gave up the life she had made for herself--her friends, her fun, her freedom. At first, she was there for about ten months. The summer after Mommy died, she and my sister moved back to her house, while my brother and I stayed with Granny. Once summer was over, Daddy decided to let me do the cooking and cleaning. Each week day, my sister stayed with a neighbor until he got home from work.  This was such a difficult time for me. For all of us. I was barely 14 and did not know much about cooking and cleaning. Grandmother came to our rescue again. She insisted that she come back and take care of us. This time, though, she sold her house so that the move was permanent. Grandmother gave up everything.
    She was no longer the grandma who spoiled us. She chose to take care of us. To cook. To clean. To discipline, when necessary. To comfort. For me, especially, she often ran interference between Daddy and me when she thought he was being unfair. Grandmother changed so much. I remember how she was so meticulous in her appearance, wearing high-heel shoes and just the right accessories. Now, instead, she wore cotton house dresses and slippers. She didn't have her hair done every week. Going to church or the doctor was just about the only reason she'd dress up. There was no way to understand just how much she gave up for us until I became a grandmother. I never argued with her, until she lived with us. The fights a teenage girl would have with her mom? I had those fights with Grandmother. She was the one who nagged me about cleaning my room or washing my clothes. And Grandmother could have never imagined that Daddy would die only five years after she moved in, leaving her as our sole parent.
    She still had one way to spoil us--with her delicious food. That never changed. When I dieted, she would make up special lunches and dinners for me. When my friends came over, she'd be sure there was tea and a little something to snack on. Honestly, I think her Sunday fried chicken helped woo my husband! In him, she found a new person to spoil
    I also have good memories of Saturday nights watching "The Lawrence Welk Show" and teasing her about her crush on Tom Netherton. She laughed at "The Jeffersons" and "All in the Family." She was obsessed with "Dallas." Uncle Son believed that, as much as she liked her shows, she enjoyed "peeping" on the neighbors more. Poor Grandmother. She couldn't look out of the front window without his accusing her of peeping.  Of course, she did get to see Mike Enterline's angry girlfriend drive her Jeep right into his house. Peeping did pay off!  We'd play 500 Rummy, and she was a card shark. Grandmother could be surprising. One night I was playing Don McLean's American Pie album. An old-timey, blue-grassy song came on. To our surprise, Grandmother lifted up her house dress, just a little bit, and started clogging away in the kitchen.
    After all she had given me, I was able to give her the one thing she wanted most--someone to spoil. When my son was born, her great-grandson, she was able to be just a grandmother again. She loved Michael with all her heart. He WAS her boy. She made his favorites for him--macaroni and cheese, cut-up hot dogs, and, of course, cornbread. It was sad that we lived hours away, but she was excited every time we brought him down. The year before Grandmother died, Michael and I came down and spent Easter with her and my sister. Grandmother was so happy to have Michael there for the whole week. I'm glad I was able to let her be just "Grandmother" for him. Michael was young when she passed, but he remembers her. She would be so happy to know that.

Michael and Grandmother, Easter 1985

    When I think of Grandmother, I think of her at the end of a long day, when she was relaxing. She'd be sitting at the corner of the couch. Her legs would be crossed. No lights on. She'd have a little glass of water with a straw on the table next to her. In her right hand, she'd have a cigarette. In her other hand, she'd be holding a clean Vienna sausage can for her ash tray. Quiet. No TV.  She'd just be thinking and smoking. Smoking and thinking.Until her death, she was always grieving for Daddy, her only and beloved son. I imagine those quiet evenings where the only times she could just sit and remember those who had left her behind. Her parents. Her husband. Her son. 

Grandmother Part I

     It's interesting how different my two grandmothers were. Granny was soft and fluffy. She would hug us and get some sugar. She was a talker--certainly a Jones family trait--and she always moved quickly. When Granny cooked or cleaned, she did it quickly. I remember how fast she could cook breakfast, dinner, and supper. And how quickly she cleaned up afterward. (Or how quickly she asked Granddaddy to help her clean up!) Granny was a washer-woman at the dairy, and she would fly through her job.
     On the other hand, Grandmother was slim. She was taciturn, and it was rare for her to control the conversation. Fast? The word did not exist in her vocabulary. Grandmother did everything very deliberately  and precisely. She started supper right after cooking breakfast. She was so slow at everything, that Uncle Son used to tell her that she'd be late to her own funeral.  Grandmother worked as an upholsterer, a profession that required preciseness. While Granny had five children, Grandmother had only my daddy and us. We saw Granny in the summer and a few times a year when she came to visit us; however, we visited Grandmother every Sunday afternoon and almost every holiday. Grandmother wasn't a hugger, nor did she tell us that she loved us, but she sure showed her love.
     My brother and I looked forward to visiting Grandmother on Sundays. After church, we'd change into play clothes, and drive down to Little River. When we got there, Sunday dinner was on the table.  Grandmother would always make fried chicken, cornbread, and, the only vegetable I remember, LeSueur's Baby English peas. She would make those just for me. Both my brother and I wanted to eat from the special dish that had been Daddy's when he was a child; Mommy made us take turns.  After dinner, the adults would go and talk, and Billy and I would play.

Daddy's Plate--fried chicken where the clown is, peas on the left, cornbread on the right

     I always took the time to read the funnies from the Miami Herald and the Miami News. Then the adventures would begin. Grandmother had a large yard, plenty of room to play. Most of the time, we would go out and play under her Royal Poinciana tree. I called it the "pickle tree" because the leaves reminded me of a big pickle cut in half. When it was in bloom, we'd pull on the branches and make it rain flowers. When the seed pods had formed, we'd use them as swords and play pirate. One of our favorite things was to take her metal lawn chairs, lay them down so the back became the seat, and pretend we were on air boats. Uncle Son had a plant nursery in the next lot, and we'd play out there.

Royal Poinciana with flowers and seed pods

     When we were tired, we'd go in and get our Sunday treats. Grandmother always had boxes of Cracker Jack for us and Pee Wees, small bottles of fruit-flavored drink, unique to South Florida.  We were always excited to see what prize we had in our Cracker Jack. The best prize was the magnifying glass--which we would promptly use to try to start a fire. Never happened. The worst prizes were the little plastic toys. Billy and I would trade prizes, at times, but that never seemed to come out fairly. Just in case that wasn't enough of a snack, often Grandmother would have Ritz cream pie, just for a little dessert. Sometimes, Uncle Son would give us a dime and walk us to the corner store to buy more candy.
     Once the adults had talked enough, we'd get back in the car and drive a few blocks to spend some time with my Grandma Crenshaw, Daddy's grandma. More treats and then the drive home. Tired, happy, full, and loved.

Act Like A Lady

"Act like a lady!" The admonition Mommy gave me any time I was going somewhere. I knew exactly what she meant. It seems, to me, that there aren't many mommas teaching their daughters what "acting like lady" means.
Many people think that Scarlett O'Hara would be the epitome of a Southern lady. I'd say they're wrong. Mommy and Granny would not have approved of many of Scarlett's ways. The true Southern lady in Gone With The Wind is Melanie Wilkes. Many people think that only rich Southern women are ladies. Again, they'd be wrong. My family were not rich Southerners. However, the women were ladies, and they taught us girls to be ladies.

Sissy and Reatha Jones

One of the first things that we learned  was to watch what we said. Scarlett was way too sassy. If she spoke to Granny like she did to Mammy or Melanie, Granny would have quickly put an end to that. I'm not saying that Southern ladies are mealy-mouthed ninnies, but, instead, a lady would be more like Melanie. Calm, collected, kind--but, when needed, she speaks with conviction and strength. Southern ladies can also be some of the funniest ladies, yet they are funny with class. I was also taught that Southern ladies did not curse. It pains me to hear Southern women curse so loudly and freely. One can say more with an arched eyebrow and a steel magnolia look than all the curse words one knows. And, of course, Southern ladies know the power of a well-placed and appropriately spoken, "Bless your heart."
Southern ladies also know how to dress appropriately for an occasion.I know I'm from a different generation, but I dressed for birthday parties. We dressed in our Sunday best for church--even wearing gloves in the hot Miami summer. We also knew that a picnic called for shorts or jeans; a trip to the beach meant a bathing suit and at least a t-shirt for a cover-up. Southern ladies have the good sense to cover up the bits that the good Lord means to be covered. Mommy made sure I was always dressed appropriately. Maybe not store-bought clothes, but she would sew what I needed. Kind of like Scarlett using the drapes when Rhett came to visit. Appropriate for the situation.
Actions are important. Southern ladies do not fight or brawl in the dirt. They do not flirt indiscriminately. Although, when they choose to flirt, few men are able to resist. This is one thing that Scarlett was a master of and Melanie lacked! A Southern lady knows how to be the proverbial steel magnolia. Granny, Mommy, Aunt Nancy, and Aunt Frankie all had difficult times, but they endured with grace.My aunts and Granny had to work to support their families, yet they never lost their femininity.
My examples of true Steel Magnolias taught me that a Southern lady is more than her clothes, her words, or her actions. She is both tough and tender. She works hard and plays hard. She has faith in God and confidence in herself. She loves with all she has to give, and she will give all she has to those she loves.

You are invited to dinner.

    "You are invited to dinner." Words that I learned to fear--after the city chicken and broccoli trees, I just wanted to stick to supper and Grandmother's cooking! However, I did have the opportunity to expose my friends to some good old Southern cooking. My childhood best friend Dana Jones liked my mom's black-eye peas. All these years later, she remembers how good they were. However, my high school bestie Patti though that they tasted like "dirt." Her words. Almost everybody loved Grandmother's fried chicken and Lane cake. There was general agreement on the subject of Grandmother's cornbread. Not one person ever disliked it. Nobody made cornbread and corn pone like Grandmother. Hot with butter, cold with butter, cold by itself, crumbled up in pot likker or buttermilk--no fancy chef has ever made anything better.

However, there was also Grandmother's pepper sauce. She used an old Avon Skin-So-Soft bottle with a cork stuck in it to make her sauce. There was vinegar, of course, and then a blend of every pepper Uncle Son and Daddy grew. There were Cayenne peppers, purple jalapenos, Scotch bonnets, habaneros, and whatever hot peppers they could find to grow. If she felt like the sauce was getting a little weak, she'd add a little more vinegar and many more peppers. I don't like spicy foods, so just the smell when Daddy popped the cork made my eyes water. The family used that pepper sauce very judiciously--just a little drizzle over greens. I didn't use it at all. One night, my friends Rose and Beverly came for supper. The sauce bottle was on the kitchen window sill (all that sun probably helped ferment that stuff). Rose spied it and wanted some. Beverly, Grandmother, and I tried to tell her that no, no she did not because it was really hot. "No, no! I love spicy foods," Rose protested. Grandmother said, "Rose, you ain't never had my pepper sauce." Rose would have none of it. She asked for a spoon so she could have a taste. Again, we begged her to put it on some food, at least. Nope, she swallowed a spoon--straight. Poor Rose. She asked for what happened, but I did feel sorry for her as her eyes watered, her face reddened and sweat began pouring down her face. We said for her to eat some white bread, but she grabbed her glass of water and chugged it. That just made it worse. Beverly and I could not help but laugh, but Grandmother was worried she'd choke. Finally, she got down some white bread, marshmallows, and milk before the burning stopped. She never even so much as looked at that bottle of pepper sauce again.

     Rose was not a fast learner in the Southern food area. Yes, I am a True Florida Cracker. I eat plenty of Cracker/Southern foods, but there are some that I cannot stomach. Black-eye peas? Yes. Collard greens? Nope. Grits? Yes. Hominy? No, nope, never, never, ever will I eat that nasty stuff. Again, Rose and Beverly were at the house for supper. That night Grandmother had a bowl of  plain boiled hominy on the table. Rose had never seen hominy before. It looks like wet popcorn, but it sure doesn't taste like popcorn--wet or dry. She asked about it, and Grandmother told her it was hominy and would she like some? Again, Beverly and I told her, "NO!!! You won't like it, Rose."  Grandmother was all in on Rose trying the hominy. I think she wanted a hominy-eating buddy. Rose took two big spoonfuls of it on her plate. She took the first bite. She didn't say anything, but the look on her face told Bev and me that it was not what she expected. After the pepper fiasco, Rose's pride had been hurt, so she managed to eat both of those giant spoonfuls of hominy. I had to give her credit. I know I would have gagged. Unfortunately, since she ate all that hominy, Grandmother thought it was her favorite and would cook some up, if she knew Rose was coming to supper. Again, Rose brought that on herself. And Grandmother did always have a soft spot for Rose.     

    Plain, boiled white hominy

Y'all hungry?

     One thing Crackers love is food. Talk about, fix it, eat it, brag on your granny's cooking, brag on your mama's cooking, brag on your own cooking. Start thinking about what you're making for supper right after you've eaten breakfast. Admittedly, I grew up in a "mixed" neighborhood--one Cracker family mixed in with a bunch of Yankees.
      I never realized how differently we ate in my family until I spent the night at my best friend's house and did not eat my supper first. At home, we'd have some kind of meat--usually fried--two or three types of vegetables, white bread and cornbread or biscuits, and tea. (I don't need to say sweet or ice, because that's the only way we had it.) It was always served from bowls and a platter set on the table, and Mommy did give us some say over which vegetables we ate--at least two of the three.

    Imagine my surprise, when her mother called us down to "dinner," and the plates were already filled and sitting at our places. On my plate was a stick with little chunks of breaded meat, a giant stalk of broccoli, and a roll. I looked at my glass, hoping for some help to swallow down whatever this food was, and it was filled with milk. Not just milk, but powdered milk. My mommy had taught me that I was to eat whatever was put in front of me when at someone's house, and here I was stuck with this. I politely asked what the meat was, and I was told it was "City Chicken." What relief! It was just little chunks of breaded chicken. I wrestled a piece off with my fork. I did notice no one else was picking it up with their hands, like I would eat fried chicken. I popped that chunk in my mouth and gagged. And covered up the gag as best as I could. What was this stuff? No chicken I had ever eaten tasted like this! I had to take a swig of that tepid, nasty, water-milk to keep from choking to death. Mrs. Jones then asked, "Donna Jo, have you never had City Chicken? It's breaded veal." Well, I didn't know what a veal was, and now I didn't want to know and I certainly didn't want to eat it again. (Actually, I have NEVER eaten another piece of veal.) "I'm fine. Thank you. It's delicious." (At this point, I was none too happy with Mommy's rules of polite behavior!)
     At least the roll was there to help. It was actually a novelty too--a white, soft dinner roll. If there had been a basket of them on the table, I certainly would have eaten more than my allotted one. Still, there was that gigantic stalk of broccoli staring me in the face. What a decision! To eat another chunk of the meat or to start on the broccoli. I knew what broccoli was, but Mommy never made it. She made "normal" vegetables like  field peas, crowder peas, English peas, well, any kind of pea. She made pole beans, green beans, Lima beans, butter beans, baked beans. She made greens of all types, but never a green tree of any type. I gritted my teeth, took my fork and knife, and sliced me a piece of the broccoli. It was just as nasty-tasting as I expected, and, worse than that, it was raw! I was used to nice soft vegetables, cooked with bacon grease. This was bland and hard. At least I didn't gag, but I did have to swig that milk-water to get it down.
     Unlike Mommy, Mrs. Jones did not insist that I clear my entire plate. Whew. I managed to eat all the roll, most of the "City Chicken," and a few bites of broccoli. Enough to be polite, but not enough to make myself sick. And I determined to eat at home before going off for supper at someone's house again. Or at least ask what they were having for supper first.