Sing sweet and low, Aunt Nancy

   

Nancy Jones Hollifield

 This week, my family lost another member--my mommy's sister, my Aunt Nancy. It is difficult as the family of my childhood slowly leave this earth. My Grandma Crenshaw, Grandmother Crenshaw, Daddy, Mommy, Granddaddy, Granny, Aunt Frankie, and now my Aunt Nancy are all waiting for that final reunion in heaven.

     Aunt Nancy was one of my mommy's younger sisters. I remember how short she seemed next to Mommy! And how different! My aunts, unlike my mommy, embraced make-up and fancy hair-dos. Mommy only used powder and lipstick, but my aunts--oh, they used powder, eye shadow, eye brow pencil, mascara, and nail polish. To me, they were so pretty, and Aunt Nancy went even further than Aunt Frankie. Aunt Nancy was a petite woman--maybe 5' 2", if that. What she lacked in height, she made up for with towering hair. In the mid-1960's, she started wearing a beehive. And that beehive got redder and taller each passing year. Mommy's hair was mousy brown and never so fancy. I remember Aunt Nancy would sleep on a satin pillowcase, and she'd wrap her hair in toilet paper, all in an attempt to keep that beehive high and proud. As a child, that fascinated me. Mommy had her hair-hat, but she never wrapped her hair in anything but a scarf or a hair net.

     Aunt Nancy's fascination with all things stylish extended to me. The summer of 1969, she introduced me to eye brows. Actually, she introduced me to the plucking of eye brows. "Come on, Donna Jo, let me fix those bushy brows," she absolutely cooed at me. I was seduced; I admit it. Her eye brows were always perfect. I sat still while she went after those unruly brows with tweezers. "Ouch! No more, no more!" But, she said that once we started, we had to finish. My eye brows were a perfect arch, stretching to a fine line. Sure, they were swollen, but she got me a warm wash rag, and I got over it. That same summer, she did my hair, which was in a short Sassoon cut, teasing it out as far as it would go, spraying it, and placing a bow, right in the center. That only happened once--teasing had to be done every time to keep the hair; the brows didn't grow back as quickly. I know more than one Jones cousin has had her hair done by Aunt Nancy. She was a beautician, denied.

    What Aunt Nancy was was a waitress. She was a single mom, and she worked most of her life as a waitress--a server--to take care of her daughter. Like many Jones women, she had an untold capacity for work and sacrifice. I remember her coming home from the Horne's at YeeHaw Junction, where she worked, and I'd help her count up her tips. If her arms ached, or her back hurt, or her feet throbbed, I never knew it. She did what she had to do. On her days off, she tried to make my summer fun by taking me over to Ft. Pierce or to downtown Okeechobee. Those trips were just the two of us and special. I know she must have wanted to rest, but she also cared for me. All those years of serving others caught up to her as she aged, and she had problems with her knees, back, and shoulders.

     She was also fun. She'd come  to visit Mommy, and they were always laughing.  Mommy was always more serious than she. One year, both aunts came for visit--just them, no husbands--and they took me to the beach. Just us girls. They took me to a burger joint, right on the beach, and persuaded me to try a Lime Rickey. That vacation was the first time I ever heard all the sisters sing. I played a song from my hymnal, and they would sing together. Mommy sang soprano; Aunt Frankie sang second; and Aunt Nancy sang the sweet, low alto. Their voices blended perfectly.

     Aunt Nancy used her sweet, low alto to worship the God she loved. She sang in church choirs at every church she was a member of. Aunt Nancy was a woman of faith. The evidence of this faith and her following Christ is in how she forgave me for the years of my holding a bitter grudge against her. At the end of that summer of 1969, she married my father. He was widowed nine months before, and they married. That marriage only lasted about seven months, and she divorced him. When Aunt Nancy and Daddy divorced, it seemed, to me, that the Jones family divorced us as well. No more trips to Granny's, no more holidays with them. It was all too awkward. I held a grudge against her for many, many years. When I finally came to the place where I could let the grudge go, I called her and confessed what I held against her. She could have answered me with bitterness. She could have just pushed me away, as I pushed her away for so many years. No, Aunt Nancy forgave me, and she gave me the explanation of that brief marriage that I needed to hear for so many years. She went further; she came down to see me, to meet her great-niece, and her great-great niece and nephews. She came again, after I had a kidney transplant, to help care for me. She forgave me, both in spirit and in deed.

     Now, Aunt Nancy is with her family. But, she has left behind a legacy of strength, love, and forgiveness. The circle of sisters is complete, and I truly hope that they are singing together again. Aunt Nancy, I loved you more than you knew, and I'll miss you.

Granddaddy, holding Larry, with his girls--Sissy, Frankie, Nancy

Happy Birthday, America????

Tomorrow is July 4th. I was thinking about the street in Ives Estates where I lived--206th Street. July 4th was always a special day! Our neighbors the Enterlines always had a huge party. Mr. Enterline was a cook, so he'd make slabs of ribs--boiled in his secret sauce and then grilled. So tender! We'd have hamburgers and hot dogs, always with a tinge of lighter fluid, because Daddy liked pouring it on the fire and watching the fire flare up. Cold watermelon. Chips. Baked beans (from several sources, of course Mommy's were the best!). Popsicles. What seemed like vats of ice tea. Wash tubs filled with ice and all kinds of Coke. Ice cream. Cole slaw and potato salad.  And we always had a huge, decorated birthday cake!

Happy Birthday, America????

Well, we had birthday cake, but it sure didn't say "Happy Birthday, America!" Nope, our cake said "Happy Birthday, BOB!" Mr. Enterline was a July 4th baby. In fact, he had his kids convinced, for years, that the whole country was celebrating HIS birthday on the 4th. Bob Enterline was one of the most generous men I have ever met. He threw a party for himself, but also for the entire street. 

That's not the end of his generosity, though. When my mom and dad died, he brought us food for weeks. He and Mrs. Enterline gave of themselves to anyone who needed help. To their credit, they taught their children to be just as caring and generous. Their son Tim used to help my great-uncle care for our yard, after Daddy died. Tim would do anything to help. It's not a surprise that he became a fire fighter. He loved to serve.  Their daughter Kathy would give away anything she had to help others. Mrs. Enterline became a surrogate mother for me. The 4th of July never passes without my remembering the Enterlines and their generosity and kindness. 

Our celebration didn't end with supper. Tim had a large collection of 45's, and he'd be in charge of the music. We sit and listen or dance to the best of the Oldies. Just the families of 206 Street hanging out and enjoying each other. We kids would play tag, hide-and-seek, Bloody Bones, football, cards, whatever we could have fun doing. 

As darkness fell, Tim was in charge of fireworks. My family strictly held to Florida's laws, so we only had smoke bombs, bottle rockets, and sparklers. The Enterlines always stopped at South of the Border and bought boxes and boxes of REAL fireworks. Our neighborhood fireworks were just as beautiful as "professional" fireworks shows. 

I was able to bring my son to one of Mr. Enterline's birthday parties. I loved being able to continue the tradition, if for only one time. Thank you, Enterlines for the great memories!

Daddy, Part II

Joe Crenshaw, c. 1935

I've written one blog about my daddy. I wrote about his humor, his work ethic, his teaching me how to be a good employee. I also mentioned that he became a widower in 1968. He had three children to care for--my brother (9), my sister (2), and me (12). Until I was 35, I didn't realize how young he was and what short time he had with Mommy--just 13 years. I think for all of us, those first two years were very difficult. His mother, Grandmother to us, came to help take care of us at first. Then my brother and I were sent away to Okeechobee for the next summer. The most difficult thing is when Daddy remarried only nine months after Mommy's death. When we got home from Okeechobee, there was new furniture, new sleeping arrangements (well, for me--we also gained a step-sister), new household rules. It was a trying time for all of us. More change came when our new step-mother left, and they divorced after only seven months of marriage. 

Daddy, who really had been good-natured, seemed to change overnight. He was angry at my step-mother, at first. However, slowly, that anger turned against my brother and me. Especially me. He punished us by not letting Grandmother move back in to care for us; he just expected me to clean, to cook, to go to school, and to care for my brother every day. The daddy who took us to the beach for evening swims, who made us a go-cart, who rarely punished us became cold and emotionally hurtful. Finally, Grandmother persuaded him to let her come and care for all of us.

Things were a little better. Grandmother could have a calming effect on Daddy when he was very angry. He decided to stop buying me things like clothes and school supplies. He figured that I could baby-sit and use that money to buy what I needed. And I did. I can remember Grandmother arguing with him about getting me clothes for school, and he finally gave in and gave her money to take me shopping. Still, I had lost the daddy of my childhood. 

He rarely praised me for anything. To be honest, I stayed in my room as much as I could. There were still times of laughter and fun, but we did not have the same relationship I saw my friends have with their dads.

I wish there was a happy ending to this tale. After I graduated high school and worked for  year, I started college. I can remember during my second semester, Daddy starting asking me about what I was studying. He noticed that my friends and I would sing while I played the piano, and he got the piano tuned for me. Daddy actually liked my friends coming over and hanging out. He no longer made me pay rent. I can remember one Tuesday afternoon so clearly. I was sitting at the kitchen table, typing up my first long college paper. I was tapping along, and he came over. He picked up my finished pages and started reading. "Did you write this yourself?" "Yes." He just shook his head and murmured that Sissy would be proud. Something in me broke, and I felt that MY daddy was coming back--that maybe our relationship could be mended.

The next night, I was at work. When I came home, my brother came rushing up to my car--"Daddy's in the hospital! He had a heart attack!" I just shook me head in disbelief. "Nah. Really?" "Yes, we're going down right now!" I opted to stay home. It was then that our neighbor, Mrs. Enterline, came over to sit with me. I was eating a snack, and I looked at her and said, "He's dead, isn't he?" She nodded yes. He had been with a friend, and he collapsed in her yard, and he died on the way to the hospital. I excused myself, went to my room, and opened my Bible to Philippians 4:7, "And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." I knelt and prayed for that peace. 

I did have peace. Even though my daddy was gone, I had peace knowing that our relationship was on its way to being mended.  I had peace because, for the first time in years, I knew that Daddy had loved me. I had peace because I knew he was reunited with Mommy--a joyous reunion. And I have peace now because I can focus on the good memories of Daddy, and not just relive the difficult ones. 

The Cat Doc

We always had cats. I remember my Granny Jones's cat "Scamper," and my first cat "Mrs. Grey." Back then, though, cats didn't have to be indoors. Ours would go in and out, at will, and sometimes that freedom led to kittens.

                                                                Donna Jo and Scamper

My first experience with kittens came with our cat "Buffy." Buffy got herself in the family way. I must say that we were excited about it! As she progressed, she no longer roamed at night (which led to her pregnancy in the first place). When it was bed time, she was making herself comfortable in the house. Grandmother was living with us, and Buffy decided that she liked sleeping on Grandmother's bed--Buffy would curl up in the crook of Grandmother's legs and sleep there all night.

Grandmother starting getting concerned that Buffy would have her kittens right in the bed with her. She'd scold me, "Donna Jo! That cat is going to have those kittens in my bed. You better do something!" So, I did. My brother and I set up a nice box with soft rags in it in my dad's closet (with his permission). We'd try to put Buffy in her box, and she'd stay--but not for long. Every night, Buffy would end up back in Grandmother's bed. We tried everything to make that box attractive for Buffy. But, she'd have none of it. I was convinced, however, that Buffy would use that nice, soft, dark, quiet space when it came time to have her babies.

I was fast asleep and dreaming. Dreaming of a baby crying and crying and crying. Then, in the midst of my dream, I heard Grandmother's voice, "Donna Jo! Get up! That cat has done had its kittens in my bed!" I looked over, and there was Buffy, lying in the crook of Grandmother's legs, and she had a couple of wet, mewling kittens with her. Grandmother carefully got out of her bed and just stood there, muttering , "I done tole you that that cat would do this. I done tole 'em all and nobody ever listens. Cat done have her kittens right in my bed. Dumb cat done had her kittens."

By this time, Buffy was done with her kittens, and I starting screaming, "She's eating one! She's eating one!" I had never seen an animal give birth, and I didn't know she was eating the afterbirth. Granted, I was worried she was eating her kitten, but I didn't go over and try to take it away from her. Next thing we know, Daddy comes stomping into the bedroom. The miracle of birth didn't seem to be much of a miracle to him. "Donna Jo! Billy! Billy, get in here and help Donna Jo clean up this mess. You've let that cat have its kittens in the bed!"

My brother came in, took one look at the bloodied, wet kittens and Buffy eating something bloody, and he turned pale. "BILLY, help clean up this mess!" Billy leaves the room, but he comes back, walking in with his hands up and gloved in Grandmother's dish-washing gloves.

Daddy took one look and burst out laughing. "Here comes the Doc!"

Buffy gave us three new kittens. I witnessed the miracle of birth. Grandmother was right about the cat, and she never let us forget that. Most importantly, my brother Billy gained a new nick-name. Daddy called him "Doc" ever after. And he is Uncle Doc to his niece and nephews. All because Buffy chose to have her family in Grandmother's bed.