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METER ARASH (QUALI TULATET ETE LN HEED EHETELE HELTON TET ETS LENT ETT REET

he

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

By BLANCHE EGERTON BAKER

 
 

 

 

Copyright 1951

By

BLANCHE EGERTON BAKER
Goldsboro, N. C.

Printed in the United States of America

he Graphio. Prats. Gna

RALEIGH, N. C.

6

BLANCHE EGERTON BAKER

 
 

 

 

“We pass this way but once.” At the beginning of World War II
young men, prospective soldiers, from all over the United States
began to gather at Seymour J ohnson Field just out from Goldsboro.
They came from every part of the country until they numbered some
30,000. It was not long before their sweethearts, wives and mothers,
or other relatives began to come to Goldsboro to be near that they
might see their dear ones, speak to them and feel their presence until
the expected call came for the young soldiers to join the army

overseas.
Life throbbed in high tension. The town was taxed to its capacity

to care for the visitors. Most of them were young women, who
stopped wherever they could find a place to stay. Uneasy, alert,
thoughtful, in a strange present and with the future unknown, they
were reaching out for comfort and assurance and stability. They
were brave under the trying conditions.

Those thrown together were the rich, the poor, the sophisticated,
the sturdy farm lass, the girl from the slums, and the protected

daughter of plain but fond parents. Thinking the same thoughts,
their interests lying in the same direction, they made friends with

each other easily. The young mothers discussed their babies and
compared notes. Sweethearts looked forward to the moments when
they would see their loved ones, it might be for the last time. Hach
girl left an impress upon her companions, though for those who were
together for only a short time the conscious picture of the individual
may in time dim or fade out. With others who were together longer,
the friendships were deeper and the conscious picture will remain
clear and lasting.

They laughed and passed the hours, often lightly it seemed, but
their very laughter was the overflow of intense feeling and an un-
conscious striving for mental rest. At times a shadow would cross a
face and linger at the thought of the near separation and the un-
certain future. They hoped and prayed and sometimes shed tears.
Some of their dear ones would come back; others would not. As their
husbands and sweethearts were called and sent to ports of embarka-
tion, the girls would go sadly back to their homes and await the
news from across the seas.

The writer of this book lived with these young people, with some
for only a few days, with others for months under conditions that
had never before existed and could never be again. It was interest-
ing, tragic, and filled with intense meaning. To draw a true picture
of this phase of life during the war has been the aim of the writer
in presenting these pages, that others too might see it as it was. How
Well she has drawn it each reader may decide as his heart and

sympathy help to make the picture clear and true.
GEORGE §. BAKER.

 
AUTHOR’S FOREWORD

“Mrs. G. I. Joe” is a true story of the young women who
lived in our home while their husbands were stationed Sy
Seymour Johnson Field near Goldsboro during World wee ‘4
It contains humor, pathos, and romance, but most of a on
everyday life of these young women, their husbands while
they were at the home, and their babies.

The incidents in the book are true, and the characters are

tances when fic-

em best. To not only these fine young women
but to the thousands of

e country at

given their true names except in some ins

titious names se
whom I remember so pleasantly,
others who were similarly situated all over th

that time, this book is dedicated.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CONTENTS

WE BUILD A CAMP

THE CROWD POURS IN
MARCELLA AND CASSIE .
LOUISE AND DOROTHY .
LUCILE AND SUDIE
SALLIE EURE

THE PASSING CROWD
HORTENSE

ROMANCE ...........

JUNE, DOROTHY, AND MILDRED..
IRENE, EULAH, AND ANNIE.
EMMA HALL

ANOTHER IRENE

BEULAH AND CARROLL ...
MARY AND BETTY
FLORENCE

CARMELA

JHANNE

MIRIAM AND JULIA

THE KATZENJAMMER KIDS.

DAUGHTER OF THE WHITE HOUSE...

HAZEL, MILLIE, AND GWEN
ELEANOR AND MADELINE. ....
“THE FAMILY” BREAKS UP.
HUNICH oes :

FORDYCE

DOROTHY SEXTO

A BULL FIGHT ...

GLADYS AND DELL

ETHEL, RUTH, AND A WEDDING..
MERRIE

THE VETERANS

THE BALL PLAYERS ..

THE ENGLISH WAR BRIDES.
CONNIE AND RALPH
AND NOW

 
 

 

 

 

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

LINDA MARIE FREY

LARRY AND SAMMY

THE FAMILY

MADELINE, GEORGE, AND ROBERT TRAVER.
LOWELL

ROY EARL

JOH, ESTHER, AND JOANNE

LITTLE NANCY, BIG NANCY, AND BILLY

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER I
WE BUILD A CAMP

I never dreamed there were so many different kinds of people

living right here in our United States—never until the Camp was
located at Goldsboro, and they began to move in and had to be taken
care of somehow. And I also never dreamed that so many of them
could work their way right into my heart, and that I could love them
almost like they were my own children.
: This quiet little city of about twenty thousand suddenly doubled
its Population, not counting the thirty thousand soldiers at the
Camp. Activities and industries were enlarged or new ones sprang
Up to try to meet the needs of seventy thousand people instead of
twenty thousand.

It started this way with us. We were lonesome. After being
accustomed to a house full of children, suddenly my husband and
I found ourselves alone. Three of our children were married and
had moved away, and the other daughter was teaching and was at
home for only a part of the summer. Our oldest grandchild, who had
been born and reared in our home and qvas then about five years
old, had gone with her parents. We had three other grandchildren,
all babies, but we were alone.

Our country had gone to war in December, 1941, and England and
Germany were already at war. We had read that English refugee
Children would be sent to America to be cared for for the duration, so
We decided to take one, a little girl about five or six years old. I
looked carefully at every little girl I saw on the street. Would my
little girl look like that one? Or this one?

I went to the Welfare Department to ask about the procedure for
setting the child. To my surprise, I learned enough to show me that
Mstead of doing a favor to the government by opening our hearts
and home to a poor little refugee, the government would be doing
US a great favor, and that it would be a most difficult and expensive
Undertaking. Expensive before we even began the expense of caring
for the child. First, her passage across the ocean would have to be
Paid by us. Then we would have to go to New York for her, and then
Put up bond of a thousand dollars to insure her care. And the red
tape! It was out of the question.

 
 

 

But I didn’t give up the thought of my little girl. I would find
one somewhere. Not really adopt a child, but just borrow one who
needed a home for a while.

But suddenly something happened, and we were no longer lone-
some. We no longer needed a little girl. With the coming of the
camp, we had a succession of young men and women and babies,
hundreds of them in our home, sometimes as many as four babies
at one time. Our house and hearts were full.

In the winter of 1941 and 1942 the government bought a huge
tract of land two or three miles south of Goldsboro for a camp.
Good prices were paid for the property, farm houses were torn down,
and the people living there sought homes and farms elsewhere, A
Methodist church was moved out of the area and located at Adams-
ville, a village east of Goldsboro and near the camp. A call went
out from the Goldsboro Chamber of Commerce for rooms for the
hundreds of men and women working on the great Army camp
that was in process of construction.

The people of the city, both rich and poor, opened their homes to
them, and ours, like those of other people, was soon filled. We had
electricians, inspectors, carpenters, and foremen. We liked them.
Some of them boarded with neighbors, others took their meals down
town or at concessions at the camp, as we did not furnish meals.
They usually stayed only a few weeks, and then were replaced by
others.

Some of the first we had were four young men—two pairs of
brothers. They had one large room, and from the laughing and
frolicing we heard at night they must have had a pretty good time.
Then there was a big foreman, whose wife and two little girls visited
him for a few days. The younger girl, a beautiful child about four
years old, was recovering from infantile paralysis and was expected
to be entirely cured in time. We noticed the loving care shown her
by her sister, who was a few years older. It was heart warming.

A neighbor telephoned me one morning to the effect that a “very
nice couple” wanted a room. The man, she said, was one of the “big
bosses” in the camp construction work. I hesitated, for I had not
thought of taking women as roomers. However, we decided to try
it as an experiment, and the couple, Mr. and Mrs. Conrad, came. We
decided to give them our room, which was a large front one with a
private bath and was farthest from the kitchen.

We were much pleased with them, and they with the room. Mrs.
Conrad was such a lady! They were stopping at the hotel and said
they would like to move in as soon as possible. We hired a Negro
man to move some of the furniture, and we moved into the bedroom

2

 

 

 

 

 

 

back of the living room and adjoining it. Our daughter, Emma Hall,
Was occupying a cool comfortable sleeping porch which also opened
into the living room, and this arrangement gave us three practically
4 private apartment.

We were ready for the Conrads and waited for them, but they
never came. I learned from the neighbor that they had taken rooms
at a tourist home. I went to the house, found Mr. Conrad and told
him his room was ready.

‘Didn’t you get the message we sent you that we had decided not
to take the room?” he asked.

I knew perfectly well he had sent no message, but it taught me a
lesson in business—when reserving a room, require a down payment.

We then decided that we wouldn’t take women, and rented the
room to some young men. Later, however, when a very sweet looking
young woman, Mrs. Browning, wanted a room for herself and her
husband, who was employed in the construction work at the camp,
we took her, even allowing her to prepare their breakfast in our
Kitchen. She was a perfect housekeeper and never left a sign of
having been in the kitchen, and both of them left for their work
before we were up in the morning.

Mrs. Browning showed me pictures of her parents, her home, and
her twelve year old daughter.

is she pretty?” I asked, referring to the daughter.

She is perfectly beautiful,” she replied, her face lighting up.

h I was delighted with this arrangement at first, but something

@ppened that made me change my mind. Late one night we were
awakened by the sound of someone stumbling through the hall.
aa and Mrs. Browning were going to their room, she helping him,

he was barely able to walk. She got him to bed in their room,
Maran Was next to ours. In a short time we could hear him snoring,
Pe heard her sobbing way into the night. Next morning she arose
= the usual time and went to her work, but he remained in bed

early all day. This was repeated about once a week.

Poor girl! She had left her home, had left her child with grand-
Parents, and had come with her husband in an effort to look after
ioe We were full of sympathy for her, though we never said a word
ate er about it, but we could not help feeling relieved when after

€w weeks the company sent him away.
: awe of our roomers, Mr. Charles West and Mr. P. H. Simmons,
old us their wives were coming to visit them and they wondered if
ues had room for them. We decided to move the dining room furni-

© out and fix that room as a bed room. The back hall would do
cr a dining room for us. Odd how a house can expand! We took

8

 
 

the leaves out of the table and put the table at one end of the sleeping
porch. We put the china closet in our bed room, the sideboard in
the hall, scattered the chairs about the house, and made a very good
bed room of the dining room.

Mrs. West and Mrs. Simmons came, and also Mrs. West’s son,
Charles, who was about ten years old. He was a fine little fellow,
handsome and with excellent manners. They stayed over the week
end, and everybody enjoyed them.

Then we decided to let the dining room continue as a bed room.
We had a door cut from that into the bath that adjoined the front
room, thus giving one bath room to each side of the house.

The next applicant was a most attractive young woman, Mrs.
W. W. Whitaker, who brought her twenty months old son with her.
I fell in love with them at first sight, and rented them the dining
room bedroom with permission to cook breakfast in the kitchen.
When her husband, an engineer connected with the runways at the
huge camp airport, came, we liked him too. There was already a bond
of friendship, as he knew my brother, who was a state chemist and
inspector of materials used in paving state highways.

We found them congenial, and we enjoyed being together, and
little Wilson was a joy in the house. Mrs. Whitaker told me when
she first came that she was very careful with him. It was true; she
was almost too careful. She was so afraid he might make some noise
that she hardly let him play enough. Sometimes I would take him
into my room or the kitchen and let him play and make as much
noise as he wanted to.

But she was fine, and we were very sorry when Mr. Whitaker was
transferred to a camp being constructed in Georgia, and they had to
leave. She wrote me:

“We are living in a three room cabin, expect to get a cottage any
day now. We are seventeen miles from the nearest town, surrounded
by swamps, snakes, bears, wild-cats, etc. I didn’t know Georgia had
so much wilderness.

“However, Pine Harbor is beautiful, situated on the water way.
Huge oaks draped in moss, the famous Georgia pines tower to the
sky. The sunrise over the water is a sight to behold. Wish your
daughter could do some painting here. Wilson is fine and speaks of
you each day.”

When the construction of the camp first began, my husband, our
daughter and I drove out there one afternoon and saw where roads
and streets were being laid off and where a temporary wooden build-
ing to take care of some of the equipment was going up. That was
all. Later we went again. This time we were stopped by guards, and

4

 

 

 

 

as we had no credentials we were not allowed to enter. From the
outside we could see that an enormous amount of activity was going
on both inside and outside the camp proper.

This wasn’t satisfactory to me, and I felt that from the standpoint
of a newspaper reporter, if nothing else, I ought to get a peep into
the camp, at least. So I called the Public Relations office, got the
officer on the phone and explained who I was and that I would
appreciate any news of interest from the camp at any time. He was
very cordial and invited me and my husband to come to his office

and have a talk with him.

Fine! That was just what we wanted. Emma Hall was glad to
take us and to get the opportunity to go in. No use to waste good
Space in the automobile and a good opportunity for someone else to
see the camp, so I phoned our daughter-in-law, Florine, and invited
her and Anne, our granddaughter, to go with us. They came right
Over, and away we went.

When we reached the gate, we explained our mission to the guard
and were allowed to enter. Just inside was the gate house, entrance—
or no entrance—to the mysteries of the Camp. We went into the
house and awaited our turn to explain ourselves. The officer in
charge telephoned to the Public Relations office and was assured
that Mr. and Mrs. Baker were expected.

“The others cannot go,” he said. “They will have to wait here.”

“How far is it?” I asked.

“About a mile.”

“Well, we cannot walk there, and this is our daughter’s car, and
she is driving,” I insisted.

“Oh, the driver may go with you,” said the officer, “but the others
cannot go. We have to be very careful.”

I looked at Florine critically, never having suspected that she
might be a spy. But with her curly blonde hair and innocent blue
eyes, she could not be the one! That left only Anne. Five year old
Anne, who also had curly blonde hair, but her eyes were brown.
Perhaps she was the spy!

We left them to the vigilant care of the officer and proceeded to
the Public Relations office, taking with us a paper indicating what
time to the minute we had left the gate house. We dared not go
anywhere but to the designated place, for the time clause would
Show it.

Upon reaching the office we were greeted politely by a WAC in
uniform, who informed us that the officer was not in. Would we sit
down, or come back again or something?

There seemed no point in hanging around, and we thought of

5

 
Florine and Anne in that hot little gate house, so we decided to
leave. The WAC carefully timed us and filled the time in the blank
indicated on the paper.

When we got into the car I said, “Emma Hall, let’s go back another
way. Maybe we can see something.” So Emma Hall drove as rapidly
as she dared around a corner here, down a street there, past a little
chapel and lots of barracks, up another way and around another
corner, and back to the gate house. We expected to be shot, but we
had seen that much. Florine said she and Anne had looked out of
the window as much as they dared. I must say, however, that dur-
ing the life of the camp here the Public Relations officers were usually
very helpful about giving me news.

A month or two later, when the camp was more nearly complete,
the newspapers and radio programs were filled with invitations to
the public to attend the grand opening of the camp. Buildings,
hangars, etc., would be inspected by visitors and explained by guides.
There would be music and speeches. This would be our opportunity
to see the camp!

Emma Hall had returned to her school, but Florine, Anne, and
my husband and I started out to the camp, which would be open
from one to five p. m. We drove to the corner of Ash and Slocumb
streets, three blocks from our house, and got in line. Hach car had
to be stopped at the camp gate, inspected for possible firearms,
cameras, and, I suppose, bombs. Then all cars in the line, which was
over two miles long, would move up the length of one car. At the
end of the first half hour, when we had progressed one block, my
husband got out and said he would walk home. The rest of us
determined to stick it out and see that camp.

In another hour we had moved two more blocks, and then saw
that a line of cars coming up Walnut Street from downtown was
being let into the line ahead of us.

“Florine, I am going to get out and walk home,” I said.

“Don’t get out. I am going home too,” said Florine, and we turned
down Walnut Street and came home.

Later in the afternoon two girls who were staying at our house
drove out there and said they got in easily and enjoyed it. We didn’t
try any more until a year or two later when we went there to an
open air band concert and drill given for soldiers and their “invited
friends.” This entertainment was held near the gate, and guards saw
to it that the guests got no farther than the bleachers.

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER II
THE CROWD POURS IN

This was a very different life from the one to which we were
accustomed, but in spite of the fact that my husband and I were
already past middle-age, we slipped easily into the new way of living
and enjoyed it. :
I was in my late fifties and my husband around ten years older
uss the war began. Both of us were retired school teachers and had
72 nearly twenty years been occupied with newspaper work, writing
Ocal news for North Carolina and Virginia papers. Though we have
very different personalities, we like the same things. I have always
been talkative and friendly, liking people and especially children.
My husband is quiet and dignified. He, too, likes young people and
aneeree but in a different way. He watches the children play, but
pi Not take part. He listens at the young people talk, enjoys them
nd helps them in any way possible, but lets them do the joking.
I ee Tespect him and go to him for information, and many a time
e ae Seen him looking up information for them in the Encyclopedia
ae meee or helping them locate some place on a map or arrange
tas as for me, I play with the children and joke with the young
ihe » and they do not hesitate to tease me or laugh at me whenever
Y want to.
ae is the neighborhood playground, and many a game of
beaneeat ae I seen played right before our front door, and I have

ree ‘ed out to umpire a baseball game. The neighbors’ children,
alison ge in cowboy—or girl—costumes, slip around our house and
istavane see other with guns made of pieces of wood or whatever
Conmease 2 and it is a frequent occurrence that some small child
oe Site the door after supper with the request, “Mrs. Baker, will

nae ase turn on your porch light so we can play in the yard?”

.» D1ess their hearts, sometimes they gather under the living room
é Ow and serenade us.

Hine while located on beautiful Park Avenue, is a modest

sige Sue painted white with green shutters. It is small on the out-

vee marvellously big on the inside, especially when homeless
hg folks need somewhere to live.

 
 

 

The best thing about the whole place is the back yard. It is large
and covered with grass, which we keep neatly mowed. At the eastern
edge is an enormous pecan tree, which shades the entire back yard
all the morning. Under this tree is a built-in sand pile, the joy of
the little folks. In the center of the yard is a beautiful mimosa tree
that fills the air with its perfume. At the west side are two smaller
pecan trees, and across the entire back of the yard is a large scupper-
nong grape vine. Flowering shrubs, a few rose bushes and buttercups
and jonquils grow close along the fences where they will not be in
the way of the children’s feet. This back yard was a joyful gathering
place for the young folks and babies who were at our home during
all the years of the war.

When the camp was nearly completed and most of the workers
had gone away, I thought that soon everything would be quiet and
we would have the house to ourselves again, but I was never more
mistaken! We were just beginning. Soldiers began to pour into the
camp, and with them came wives and a succession of visitors—
parents, relatives, friends and sweethearts. The hotels and rooming
houses of the city overflowed, and the Chamber of Commerce and
the USO issued calls requesting the people to open their homes and
help care for the visitors.

The need for rooms became so acute that housing desks were set
up in the railroad station, the union bus station, the USO building
and in the lobby of Goldsboro’s largest hotel. At the latter, two
women workers sat at a table, each with a telephone, trying to find
rooms to accommodate the crowds. Seats were arranged for the
applicants before the table, and as fast as a room could be located
an applicant was given the address and a card of introduction.

We had daily calls and kept all our rooms filled, some of the
visitors staying as much as a week, but most of them for only a
night or two. As our daughter’s school had now opened, and she had
gone away, and as Mr. West and his brother-in-law and Mr. Simmons
occupied a room together, we had two other rooms and the sleeping
porch that we could rent, and we kept them busy. Sometimes we
took the sleeping porch ourselves. We had to turn down applications
every day.

Finally I said, “The day bed in the living room can be opened to
make a double bed and it is comfortable, why don’t we let somebody
use it on weekends?”

“Because we can’t get out of this sleeping porch except by going
through the living room,” replied my husband. “But we might use
a step-ladder and climb in and out of the window,” he added.

8

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Yes, and a neighbor would see you and shoot you for a burglar,”
Said I.

That little joke ceased to be a joke, for it wasn’t long before not
only the living room, but the attic and occasionally even the hall
and kitchen were used as sleeping quarters. We were not too crowded
at first except for giving up the dining room, but one day the local
daily paper carried an urgent request for more rooms. The article
Stated that people were sitting up all night in the railway station,
hotel lobbies, city hall, and that some even got a night’s lodging in
jail. The union railway station kept open all night, and about twenty-
five people sat there every Saturday night, the article stated. 4

I went to the phone and called the housing desk. “Mrs. Palmer,
I said to the woman in charge, “I did not know people were sitting
up all night because they had nowhere to sleep. We could take a
few more.” So :

She was very grateful, and after that our living room was occupied
every weekend. We bought a light screen that could be set up in
front of the couch, and the occupants of the sleeping porch went
through the room when it was necessary.

We put a bed in a little unfinished half story room upstairs, and
my husband and I began to use that ourselves each weekend, coming
back to our room during the intervening week days. —

Such a succession of people! They came from practically every
part of the United States and were descendants of almost every
European nation. Some of the names were Desjardins, P’Simer,
Bourgeois, Sobieski, Eder, Chew, Fee, Schwartz, Skouboe, Karpt,
Zadowsky, Augi, Kries, Dzvonchyk, Oinstein, Boos, Sinkwich, Kuezuk
(pronounced like a sneeze), and strangest of all, Krazymowski. Of
course we also had Smiths, Joneses, Browns, and other plain every:
day names.

Many a time one of the regular roomers would call us in the
night to come down stairs and answer a call for a room. My husband
but a doorbell upstairs and attached a cord to it so the girls could
Call us without coming up or shouting at us. ;

Since we were now using the upstairs room so much, we decided
to fix it up—make it comfortable and attractive. A cool breeze came
in through the window. We ceiled the walls with cloth ourselves,
put in a little dresser, rugs and pictures, and invited the girls to
come up and see it. They were enthusiastic. Pleased with the result
of our efforts, we proceeded to fix up the other little attic room. We
ceiled this room with bright flowered chintz, put in some furniture
and—kept it rented. Frequently both of these rooms were occupied

by regular roomers.

 
 

The most pressed we ever were, however, was one night when a
sailor and his wife came in about one o’clock and wanted to stay
just that night.

“I am sorry,” I told them, “but every room in the house is occupied.”
They waited.

“Someone is even Sleeping in the living room,” I added. “Why
don’t you go to the USO?”

“We went there, but they had closed. You see it is now one o'clock,”
the sailor replied.

Hé said he would not mind for himself, but that on account of
his wife he did not know what to do. They kept standing at the door,
until finally, on account of their importunity, I said, “The only thing
I possibly can do is to give you some quilts and pillows and let you
sleep on the floor here in the hall.”

Joyfully they told the taxi driver to go on, and in they came. At
this point, a girl in the front bedroom opened her door and said,
“Mrs. Baker, my husband is not here tonight. The girl may come in
and sleep on this cot in my room if she wants to.”

But the girl would not leave her husband, so we took the mattress
from the cot, put it down on the rug in the hall, and there they
slept. When I started back to my room, the young man put his arm

around my shoulder and said, “You will never know how much I
appreciate this.”

Such gratitude for being allowed to sleep on the floor!

They told me they had to get up at six o’clock the next morning
to take a train. They were sure they would wake, but I, knowing
what a short time they had to sleep and how weary they must be
from their travel, was afraid they would not awake. At six o’clock
I went to the hall door and called them, but there was no response.
They were too sound asleep to hear me. I bent over and spoke. Still

no answer! I leaned down and shook them, and finally succeeded in
arousing them. Then I went back to bed.

In a little while a young woman in one of the rooms started to
the kitchen to heat a bottle of milk for her baby. Imagine her sur-

prise upon opening her door to find a man and woman dressing in
the hall!

The next visitors were a mother and her daughter from New York.
They had come to visit the young lady’s fiance, who was located at

the camp. The fiance had a three day leave of absence, and wanted
to stay here too.

“Just put a cot in our room for him,” the mother suggested.
“T don’t think that is a good idea,” I said.

10

 

 

 

“Why that’s all right,” said the daughter. “We are practically

oT alan think “practically” was enough, so I insisted that he take

i id.
ee Be ONE ee his wife, who occupied the sleeping porch
for a few days. Mrs. Neil had a very unusual occupation at home.
She said she was a fur worker. They wanted to go down town to
get lunch, but it was raining. I lent them my husband’s umbrella,
and when they reached the corner of Center and Walnut Streets at
the hotel, the wind blew the umbrella inside out. The corner is known
to be the windiest spot in town. A young man who roomed at gu
home after the close of the war lost his hat at that place once, Se
ran after it down Walnut street almost a block, while the hat Tolle
around between the cars, drivers dodging here and there trying e
miss it, and finally settled under a parked car, where the eae aate
and exasperated young man weer on his stomach to get it, w.
watched him.

rea ee were distressed about the umbrella and ee
to buy another, but I told them an unbrella mender came ae
frequently, and I was sure he could fix it. So they gave Be a Ce) i
to have it mended, and the umbrella man never came, and the ae
brella was relegated to the attic, then I suppose to the ta i
and my husband bought a new one—for much more than a do : i

Later Mrs. Neil came back to Goldsboro to stay, and they wan i
a room with us, but we were filled up and couldn’t take them. We
were r we liked them.

Deghoee excited over the next visitor, Pvt. son gas
4 paratrooper, who was here only one night while on his vee
Some other destination. He was the only paratrooper who ever ca:
to our home, in fact the only one I ever saw. We asked him some
Questions, such as whether he felt afraid when he was coming pee:
from a plane, how many jumps he had ever made, etc. Someone ne
Suggested that, since his room was upstairs, he might prefer to ju P
Out of the window instead of walking down the steps. He mee
the questions, but didn’t show much ae and probably
thought he had found a rather silly crowd.

Hoenn to have just about the attitude I would have ona
from a paratrooper—quiet, cool, as though he were equal to
Occasion. é

An elderly gentleman and his wife came in one day ne a
@ room. They were in no way connected with the Army, 4a we
Planning to move to Goldsboro in connection with some new business
that had sprung up.

 
 

 

 

 

 

It was easy to see who was the head of that family! The wife held
her head high and gave the orders, and her obedient husband, his
shoulders stooped under the burdens of life, especially the burden
of his wife’s personality, meekly said, “Yes, dear.” They came in and
she asked if we had a room. I said we did. The husband said, “T’ll
sit here, dear, and you can see the room.”

He knew that it was useless for him to look at it since his opinion
would be worthless anyhow. I took the lady to the room, which was
rather attractive looking, having been done over recently with
delicate pink walls, and as it also adjoined the bath room, she wasn’t
displeased with it. She asked if she might cook. I told her I had only
one kitchen, and that the roomers took their meals down town.

At this she raised her voice angrily.

“Isn’t it a shame,” she almost screamed, “that I can’t have a place
to cook? I have to get up in the morning, cream my face and go out
in the cold to get some breakfast, and we’ve got to stay here twenty-
six weeks!”

At the thought of twenty-six weeks in the house with this woman,
I was ready to faint. Twenty-six days of her would have killed me.
I didn’t say a word, but she stalked back to the living room and said
to her husband, “Come on, let’s go to LaGrange,” (a small neighboring
town.)

“Yes, dear,” replied the dejected looking spouse, and they left.

I knew that I had escaped a terrible fate.

Pyt. and Mrs. Phillips of Alabama took a room for a few days.
Mrs. Phillips had left her baby, Armetha, with her mother, and for
that reason could not stay here long. I asked her why she didn’t go
home and get the baby and come back and stay while her husband
was here in camp. I thought no more about it, but evidently she
did, for she came back, and her coming added quite an episode to
the ever increasing number of episodes in the household.

Several months later, a couple, who were here as regular roomers,
decided to go home for a weekend. I asked them if they would like
for me to rent their room while they were away, which of course
would save them the rent for that length of time and at the same
time provide a place for someone during the weekend. They were
glad to do this. ;

About four o’clock Friday morning one of the girls came upstairs
and called me from the door.

“A soldier and his wife and baby are downstairs and Want to know
if you can take them,” she said.

Hurrying down, I found—of all people—Pvt. and Mrs. Phillips and
Armetha.

12

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I thought of your home all the way from Alabama,” said Mrs.
Phillips. i

It was now November, and, especially at that time of the morning,
it was cold. I took them into the room, made a fire in the grate, and
made them as comfortable as possible, then went back to bed. The
next morning, when the girls learned that there was a baby in the
house, they could hardly wait to see her. She was a dear little thing,
nine months old, but somewhat the worse for her trip. During the
day she became sick and began to spit up her milk, and I learned
to my dismay that the mother had kept her bottle in the warm
room, and the milk had soured, and she had given it to the baby.

She didn’t know anything about what to give a baby or what to
do with one. She said her mother always told her what to do at
home. I helped her the best I could, Dae keep the milk in our
el i i r, and the baby got better.

ee Eee to the camp in the morning, but that night
he came back to town and phoned his ee take the baby and
co. and go to the movies with him.

rete art aa it is cold, and I don’t think we had better
take her out,” she told him. . ne

“Bri he baby with you, and come on, Bes

She pee yeah see little child in a stroller that cold night and took
her to the movies.

Sunday passed and Monday came, and I knew that the other
couple would be back Tuesday. I phoned the housing desk, but they
had no vacant room. I kept trying until I found a young woman
who had a room to rent and would give kitchen privileges, so the
Phillipses moved. I heard that the new arrangement was very satis-
factory, that sometimes Mrs. Phillips kept the landlady’s children for
her to go somewhere, and that she could leave Armetha with the
landlady when she wanted to go out with her husband. She also
Sot some help and advice from the other women as to the care of
her baby.

Meanwhile, every blanket that was in the room they had occupied
here had to be sent to the cleaners. It cost all they had paid us for
room rent and more to have the blankets washed, but what would
the poor mother and baby have done if we had had no place for
them that cold night? ;

Ellen Lenk was a shy Hungarian girl with a very foreign accent.
Her husband, Jim Lenk, was of German descent, but born and reared
in this country. They wanted a room for a week, as Ellen had a

vacation from her work in a Northern city, and had come to spend
it with Jim.

 
 

 

 

 

After a day or two she got up courage to tell me something of her
life. She said she was born in Hungary, and went to school there.
At the age of fourteen she came to America, where she picked up a
broken English. She never attended school here, but she had spunk
enough to write letters in English, spelling the words as they sounded
to her.

At the end of her week here, she returned to her home in New
York: A few months later a letter came, announcing the birth of a
baby. Ellen said it was a boy, “just what we want it,” she added.

With difficulty we deciphered the letter, after which I said to
my husband, “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

“No, it isn’t pathetic,” he replied, “it is fine. It is a much better
letter than you could write in Hungarian.”

I had to admit the truth of that.

Jim got a leave of absence when the baby arrived, and went home
for a few days. Several months later, Ellen decided to leave the
baby with her mother and visit Jim again. .This visit was to be a
surprise. She remembered our home and came here. A telegram was
waiting for her when she arrived, saying, “Stay there, I am coming.”
Jim had gotten a furlough and had gone home—his visit also planned
as a surprise. Like Evangeline and Gabriel, they had “passed each
other in the night.”

“What must I do?” wailed Ellen. “I only had the weekend off
from my work. I must go back Tuesday.”

Jim couldn’t get here until Monday, and by that time Ellen had
decided to risk losing her job. She stayed a week longer. Our house
was filled when she came, and our next door neighbor took them
into her home. Jim had to leave every night at twelve o'clock, since
he was on a night shift at the camp. Of course he planned to give
up the room and go back to his cot in the barracks after Ellen went
home.

The day came, and Ellen left. That night a roomer in the neighbor’s
house heard a strange noise in the hall like someone snoring. He
waked the man of the house, and they investigated. They found a
man asleep on a sofa in the hall. It was Jim. Grieved at Ellen’s de-
parture, he had taken too much and, remembering where he had
been staying, went back there and retired. It was already almost
twelve o’clock, so they waked him and told him to get up and catch
his bus for the camp.

The next day he came back and apologized profusely, but thanked
the people very much for arousing him, as he got to the camp in
time not to be counted tardy or have his privileges taken away.

14

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER III
MARCELLA AND CASSIE

Mrs. Palmer called me one morning from the Housing desk to
say she was sending us a very nice couple, Maynard and Marcella
Lonis of Stoney Point, N. Y. They came and liked the roomy and
moved in. Almost at once I realized that they were ‘homey’ sort
of young folks and that we were going to enjoy having them here.

Maynard was not a soldier. He was a civilian instructor in the
School of Airplane Mechanics at the camp, though after they left
Goldsboro he entered the service and served overseas. He had a
turn for doing nice handwork, and had constructed beautifully
decorated leather backed books for his notes and for scrapbooks.
The work was so perfect with its cleverly turned corners and spliced
edges that it was hard to believe anybody could have just made those
things. Marcella was interested in helping him make scrapbooks of
places they had been to and things they had done. I showed sae
my scrapbooks and family records, which were quite a hobby wit
me, and they were very much interested, and Marcella wanted to
help me with the typing, and did quite a bit of it for me.

This was the first couple that came and really lived with us, as
everybody else except Mr. West and his brother-in-law, James Bald-
win, had come in for a few days, or at the most, for a few weeks,
and then had gone. The Lonises fitted in pe they belonged with
us, and i as lovely to have them in our home.

eee Races had kept house at the last camp, and brought
with them their cooking utensils, canned fruit, bed linens, ete. Since
they had many things that they did not need here, they aecided o
go through them and repack the surplus and store it in our enc oe
back porch and attic. Marcella was distressed on opening one t We
to find that a glass jar of fruit had broken and ruined a beautiful
Silk dress. I don’t know why they had packed them together, but
T suppose they thought the soft material would keep the cans from
breaking.

Wess said her maiden name was Hoey. I told her we had a
Congressman, a former governor of North Carolina, by that name.
Marcella was not the kind to hold back. She sat down and wrote him
a letter, and in a few days received a very nice letter from Ex-

15

 
 

 

 

Governor Clyde R. Hoey. He said he did not know whether the
families were related, but was much interested and certainly hoped
to be able to see and talk with her while she was in the South. How-
ever, I do not think she ever saw him.

Soon after they came here, the number of soldiers’ wives looking
for more or less permanent rooms seemed to increase. Most of them
would have liked apartments, but were glad to get rooms. Many,
especially those who had cars, took rooms or apartments in farm
homes in the county, while others found shelter in the nearby towns
of Fremont, Pikeville, Mount Olive, and LaGrange. Sometimes our
door bell would ring a dozen times a day, and someone would ask
for a room.

Two soldiers, Howard Uhland and Freddy Webber of Bridgeton,
N. J., engaged our other two rooms for their wives, who were coming
soon, SO we were filled up. One morning a couple came, and while
I was telling them that we had no vacancies, the man looked beyond
me into the hall, spied Maynard and said. “Oh, there you are! I might
have known you would get the room ahead of us.”

“Why, hello, Claude,” said Maynard, and calling Marcella said,
“Come here, Marcella, here are Claude and Lucy.”

The two couples had known each other at another camp, were
good friends, and were delighted to find each other again. Claude
and Lucy came to the house frequently after that.

I was sorry for the homeless young couples who came, and
appointed myself a committee of one to help them find homes. I
would invite them in and offer to phone around to see if I could
find rooms for them. They seemed so appreciative of my help. At
first I succeeded very well in placing them, but pretty soon all avail-
able rooms in the neighborhood, and elsewhere that I knew of, were
taken, and it became increasingly hard for them to find anywhere to
stay. But they liked to come in and talk.

About this time Cassie Uhland and Reba Webber arrived. Their
husbands were students in the School of Airplane Mechanics. The
girls liked Marcella, and the three became good friends.

Cassie and Reba wanted to get jobs down town, so Marcella decided
she would too, and they set out job hunting. Reba, who was Italian,
though Freddy was not, was an experienced sales girl and goon
secured a position as head of the cosmetics department in a five and
ten cent store. Marcella and Cassie had a harder time. They went
to the employment office and to practically every store in town.
Cassie, who had a good sense of humor, said, “Marcella, I think you
and I had better go off and kill ourselves.”

Pretty soon Marcella secured a place as clerk in a store, and in

16

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a short time her ability was recognized and she was made head of
a department.

Poor Cassie! Nobody wanted an employee with no experience.
She had had plenty of experience, but it was not the right kind. She
had worked in a garment factory, beginning when she was sixteen,
and was very expert. I mentioned this to my son, who with his
brother had a wholesale business here. “Mother, she’s got a job,” he
said. “We need her to hem handkerchiefs.”

Before I had time to tell her, the phone rang and a merchant, to
whom Cassie had made application, said he had a place for her in
his store.

“Cassie,” I called, “come here. You are being offered two jobs.”

“Two jobs!,” she exclaimed, “Let’s jump up and down!”

She talked with both prospective employers and decided to take
the handkerchief job. My sons provided her with an electric sewing
machine and bolts of soft white material. She would take the cloth,
tear it into three strips the entire length of the bolt, which was
usually about thirty yards, put a strip into the hemmer and hem
it faster than anything I ever dreamed of. The strip would pile up
behind the sewing machine like a snowdrift as high as the machine.
When she would finish a strip, she would say, “I have finished that
one. Let’s jump up and down.”

Then she would cut it off into Squares and hem the other two
Sides. When Howard came home he would help her fold the handa-
kerchiefs, place them in cellophane sacks and clip them onto cards.
She was paid by the card, and was well pleased with the remunera-
tion for her work. I could hear the hum of her sewing machine before
I got up in the mornings.

All the week these girls worked and waited—waited for Saturday
night when their husbands would come home.

“Come on Saddy. Hurry up Saddy,” sang Cassie.

“What do you want with Saturday?” asked Marcella, whose
husband, not being a soldier, came home every night.

“Cause I won’t see my pooch any more ’til Saddy.” Cassie replied.

For this little time of happiness, these girls, and hundreds of others
like them, had left home and parents and comfort, and lived here
under cramped conditions and with people entirely unlike those they
knew. These Soldiers’ wives were brave spunky girls!

On the mantel in Cassie’s room was a framed photograph of her
Mother, a Sweetfaced motherly looking woman. Cassie idolized her.
She said, “She doesn’t seem to me like mother. She just seems like
a Mom.” Both Cassie and Reba called their parents “Mom” and “Pop.”

At that time, coffee, as well as many other things, was rationed,

alg

 
 

 

 

and hard to find even if you had a coupon. In one of her letters home,
Cassie wrote something about some coffee. Her mother wrote in
reply—‘“Coffee! What is the darn stuff?”

Cassie went down town, bought a pound and mailed it to her.

Whenever Howard came home, the first thing he did after greet-
ing his wife was to go out into the back yard and call two little black
dogs that belonged to a next door neighbor.

“Here Lassie! Here Nigger!,” he would call. The dogs knew his
voice and would come as fast as their short legs could bring them.
They would jump all over him, wagging their stumps of tails in an
ecstacy of delight. Then such a romp as followed!

We began to learn a strange thing. All dogs loved a man in uniform.
On the streets a dog would pass a civilian with scarcely a glance,
but would follow a soldier and love him to death. So many dogs
followed soldiers to the camp and took up there that they really
became a great nuisance.

For weeks Cassie went on with her sewing, but finally my son
told her he was having great difficulty in getting material. He said
only one store in town had any that was usable, and they refused
to sell more than one bolt to a customer.

“We will be glad for you to keep on with the sewing as long as
we can get the cloth, but I think it is fair to tell you so you can look
out for something else,” he said.

Nothing daunted, Howard said he would get material. He and
Cassie went down town and each bought a bolt. Then he took his
soldier friends in and each bought one. f

“What on earth do you soldiers do with all this cloth?” asked the
clerk.

Quick as a flash, Howard replied, “We string it up between our
cots so*we won’t catch cold germs from each other.”

But at Cassie’s rate of sewing, even this gave out, and the job had
to end. However, there was now so much demand for helpers in
the PX at the camp that she got a job there and held it as long as
they remained in Goldsboro.

The Government began to ask citizens to hunt up old iron, any-
thing that could be donated, to be used in war work. A big drive
was launched throughout the country, and Goldsboro went to work
on it. The Chamber of Commerce announced that on a certain morn-
ing stores would be closed in order that the clerks might get out
and search for iron.

Reba was always an enthusiastic worker, and had plenty of execu-
tive ability. She asked us if she could get some iron here. We had
already looked in our garage and attic, under the house, in closets

18

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and pantries, and collected more than we had had an idea that we
could. We told her we would be glad for her to donate it and get
the credit.

On the appointed morning, when the girls went out from the stores,
Reba appeared at our house with a bevy of companions. They
rounded up the metal, placed it on the sidewalk in front of the
house for a truck to pick up,—old stoves, iron bars, cooking utensils,
etc. Each girl had to bring something back to her store just to show
that she had been working. If the situation had been less serious,
they would have presented a comical picture as they went back down
town, Reba leading the way with a big old frying pan, and the rest
armed with iron bars and scrap iron of various types.

The course in the school of Mechanics lasted about three months,
after which the students were sent to other camps or overseas, except
a few who were kept as instructors for new classes. Howard and
Freddie finished in January.

I was in the kitchen, which adjoined Howard’s and Cassie’s room,
one morning just before Howard was to be sent to a camp of
embarkation, and I could not help hearing something that was said
in their room.

“Tl be right back. And it won't be long,” he said in soothing tones.

Not a word from Cassie, but I knew she was crying. Every word
Howard ever said, every thing he did, so far as we knew, toward
man, woman, child or dumb animal, was one of kindness.

One night Maynard came to the living room and asked if he might
Speak to me for a few minutes. He sat down and looked at me as if
he were about to announce a great catastrophe.

‘ “Mrs. Baker,” he said with hesitation, “We have found a room
Own town close to Marcella’s work and right where I can take a

bus to the camp, and also where we can have a kitchen. I wonder if
you will release us from our room here.”

= aN pOU are not under any lease,” I said. “Of course it is all
ae - I don’t blame you at all. It is exactly the right thing for you
©, and I hope you and Marcella will come to see us often.”

Vets brightened with relief. We went back to their room, and
She ie while Marcella came in and talked brightly of her plans.
hates me how much they had enjoyed living with us and that she

O leave. They were frequent visitors in our home as long as

tie lived in Goldsboro, and after they left we had nice letters from

Mh
hey came to tell us goodbye about the first of August, 1943, and

Wen A
t to Stoney Point, and from there we had a letter from Marcella.

19

 
 

 

In September Maynard write from the U. S. Maritime Service Train-
ing School at St. Petersburg, Florida. He said:

“I enlisted in the Maritime Service Aug. 9th at Raleigh. I had
three weeks vacation at my wife’s home and then was sent here
to St. Petersburg for my basic training. Following my five weeks
training here I expect to be sent to Radio school at Huntington, Long
Island.‘I have passed the required tests to receive training as a
radio operator. I enjoyed my stay in Goldsboro very much and
appreciate the friends I made there. I will let you know at some
future date how my training is coming along.”

Marcella wrote us in January, 1944: “Maynard is in the Merchant
Marines and at present is stationed in Boston, Mass., going to officers
training school. Upon graduation, which will be the end of April,
he will be commissioned as an officer. He will be a radio operator on
board a ship. He will get a month off before being shipped out to sea,
so we plan to come to Goldsboro for a short time to see some of our
dear friends.”

Of course I wrote her to come, and in March she wrote: “We are
planning to come down in May, but can’t tell the exact date yet. We
do want to stay at your home, but will be there only one week or
two at the longest. My cousin had a baby boy born yesterday, Feb.
29 (leap year.)”

But a letter received in May showed that their plans were all
broken up. Marcella wrote: “Maynard graduates May 25th as a
radio officer in the Merchant Marines, and his leave has been can-
celled due to the invasion. Therefore he will ship out on Saturday,
May 18th.

“We both feel rather badly about it, but since this is war and
his services are needed, we have to take disappointments as they
come. He is shipping out from New York City, and I am going back
home. I don’t know just how long he will be gone, it may be eight
months and then it may be for the duration.

“Pye put off writing because we thought we’d be coming to see
you folks. This war can’t last much longer, and some day we both
hope and pray that we'll have a reunion in Goldsboro at your home.”

She wrote again in December: “Maynard is somewhere in the
Pacific. He is chief radio operator on board a merchant vessel. I am
sorry we never did get to Goldsboro to see you folks, but we hope

to some day when he returns.
“May God bless you. You are a sweet couple and I love you both.”

Perhaps we shall see them again some day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IV
LOUISE AND DOROTHY

aoe morning just before Marcella and Maynard moved to their
PEAR room and while Cassie and Reba were still here, a pleasant
ee pa! corporal, Oliver Ramsey, applied for a room for himself
ate = wife for one night. Since the other rooms were occupied, he
ne he sleeping porch. His wife, Louise, an attractive looking girl
With dark hair and eyes, came, and I learned that she had come to
eo lsboro to stay. I think the “one night” was just to take care of

€m until Oliver found out whether Louise liked it here. He always
wanted her to have things like she wanted them.

Louise liked it and decided to keep the sleeping porch. The weather
Was warm for October, and when it became cool we bought a port-
able oil stove which heated the porch bedroom comfortably, and
besides, Oliver and Louise found themselves welcome by the fire
M our living room.
Areas Were much in love with each other and they were happy.
Wits showed her all the little thoughtful attentions that any young
he Re want, and she appreciated it. When her birthday came,
bee eee her some flowers and arranged them in a vase on the
aie n their room. She was away at the time, and when she came
The tise and saw the flowers, she was as happy as a six year old.

i pression on her face was one of pure delight.

Oulse was the daughter of a Swiss farmer named Bruegger, who

lived j : j
ee in Ohio. He had a gas well on his farm, which supplied the

pitied the nearby town. By some business arrangement the gas

tems a srg gas to the Bruegger home, where it was used for

afraid wo: ing, and heating the house. Strange to say, Louise was
_to light the gas oven in our kitchen.

Oulse was the eldest of a large family of children. The names

0. :
ees were Norma, Reta and Cleta, and there were several
a doll for ce youngest sister, Reta, was her special pet. She bought
watched ie , and when Anne came over, she let her play with it.
“Grand. c osely, however, to see that nothing happened to the doll.
ma, I think Louise is the sweetest one you’ve ever had,”

Said Anne : ‘
Mto the naa she always looked for Louise the minute she got

21

 
 

Oliver had a widowed mother at home, and he and Louise helped
her with part of their income. He had a twin brother, also in the
Army. Louise had graduated from High School at the head of her
class. She said she liked Latin and had done well in it, and when
she found that I was a Latin teacher and had a variety of Latin
books in the house she borrowed some of them and went to work
on them. She easily and quickly obtained a clerical position at the
Camp, which, by the way, ended her study of Latin.

We never had a girl who enjoyed the social affairs provided for
the enlisted men and their wives more than Louise. One of the
first things she did with part of her salary was to buy a rose colored
evening dress to wear to the dances, and she was beautiful in it.
When she put it on for the rest of us to see, one of the other girls
ran to her and hugged her.

Louise and Oliver took their meals down town or at the camp,
or sometimes brought something home for a little supper at the
house. One night they came in excitedly, saying they had not come
from the camp together, but met at an appointed place down town,
and that Oliver had gone into a little store on the edge of town to
buy some weiners. He asked for a pound, and the merchant, wrap-
ping them up, remarked, “You are lucky to get them; these are the
last I had, and they are hard to get.”

A half drunk bum stepped up and struck Oliver and said, “What
are you doing buying the last hot dogs in town? You are a soldier,
you can eat at the camp.”

Oliver’s inclination was to strike back, but the man was drunk,
and not only that, he was accompanied by several companions just

drunk enough to start a brawl, so Oliver quietly and wisely slipped
out of a side door, taking with him the weiners and some other

things that he had already paid for. He found Louise, and they came
home together.

“It makes me so mad!”, Louise said belligerently.

Safely at home and out of trouble, they opened the can of mixed
vegetables that Oliver had bought and boiled them with the weiners,
and heated the dozen rolls. What amused me was that I happened
along just as they finished their supper, and they had eaten every
hot dog, every roll, all the vegetables, and were drinking the last
drop of the soup!

One Saturday night Oliver brought home a friend from the camp,
a soldier, Raymond Phinney, who was perhaps forty years old. We
liked him very much. Mr. Phinney had bought some steak, and
Oliver brought some other things for supper, and the three went
into the kitchen to cook supper. I had not at that time ever thought

22

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

of givi A
fee eens privileges to any of the roomers, but always
frequently aa cook anything if they asked, which some of them
ee ae? they came back into the living room, and we talked
haves Wy for a while. Around ten o’clock Mr. Phinney said he would
ihe seca But,” he sighed, “it gets so tiresome, always staying at
ata A Do you have a room you could rent me for the night?”
ine 1e Tooms are filled,” I replied “but we have this day bed
es if you think that would do.”
te renee delighted, and I brought sheets and blankets and began
aioe e the bed while he sat in the room. The blankets were new
tha see pretty, but I was surprised when he said, “You have made
me bed look so comfortable I never will want to get up in the
e ning. Just look at that, and think of our army cots!”
6 en that he was a regular visitor, using the day bed (unless
nee Previously engaged) nearly every Saturday night for the
aoe ‘Wo or three months. My husband, who is methodical and
hee esslike, asked his initials and home address so he could put
Phi in his register. Mr. Phinney replied, or I thought he did, “ E. I.
inney, Auburn, Maine.”

aan can your initials be ‘E. I’ when you name is Raymond?” I

Tee ond,” he said.
nounes F realized that he pronounced the letter “R” as we pro-
har nate : Later when a girl came here for a few days and told me
Tepe re was Rita Routhier, and spelled it this way, or so it sounded,

“Yog > pager I said, “You are from Maine.”

“Been ue € replied, surprised. “‘How did you know?”

It a. you Pronounce your “R” like we pronounce “I.”

Y was interesting—we could often locate a new person by

Som. 3 2
1e local difference in pronunciation.

in P

cas a Simmons had gone home, Mr. West and James Baldwin
Maynard 5 take the southeast room, the one recently occupied by
fora a i Marcella Lonis, and we arranged the large front room
holi davect e. Emma Hall occupied the room during the Thanksgiving

One 7
Mornin
want

eae g Emma Hall called me and said a young Jewish couple
on Aa She said, “Mother, I think you will like them. They
ce.”

She F 5

front fon right; we liked them very much and rented them the
Schoo] The Emma Hall did not need it, as she had to go back to her
Daviq €y were David and Dorothy Kaplowitz of New York City.

Was a civilian instructor in the School of Mechanics, and

23

 
 

 

Dorothy was a student in the school. At that time, women were
taking the course in preparation for becoming instructors, thus
relieving some enlisted men for other duties, especially overseas
service. These women were paid while taking the course, and I
think they had to sign up for a given time.

They told us they had paid a deposit of twenty-five dollars as
reservation for one of the houses being built in the Eastern part of
the city for war workers and soldiers’ families. These were attractive
little five room houses all painted white. They were not a part of
the government War Housing Project, but were owned and were
being built by a corporation. That was November, and David's and
Dorothy’s house was not completed until the middle of May. They
stayed with us until that time.

Dorothy’s personality was wonderful, and i was interested in
every word she said. Her voice was soft and low, her English
excellent, and, though she always seemed busy and did not spend
much time talking with the rest of the household, sometimes she
came in and talked with us in our living room. I found in her a
kindred spirit, a girl who understood and talked my language.

She told me her parents were natives of Austria, and that her
mother came to this country at the age of thirteen with some other
people who were coming. She never saw her family again, though
she kept in touch with them through the years.

“Now that the war is going on, we cannot hear from them, and we
do not even know whether they are living,” said Dorothy.

The greatest heroine on earth to Dorothy was her mother, and
she sometimes spoke of her as “that girl,” with the utmost pride in
her voice. Dorothy insisted that she herself had been a wilful child,
and her mother’s management of her reminded me of my mother’s
of me. When Dorothy insisted on doing something that perhaps she
ought not to do, her mother would say, “Yes, you may do it, but
you will know that Mother doesn’t want you to.” That would just
ruin it, and she would give it up.

Dorothy was a graduate of a New York college, and before coming
South had done welfare work in New York. Some of her experiences
were interesting. One difficulty she said she had was to get the poor
ignorant class of people with whom they had to work to give their
children cold-liver oil even after the Welfare Department furnished
it for them. “They used it for furniture polish!” she said.

I wanted David and Dorothy to enjoy their stay here, so I phoned
the USO and told the man who looked after Jewish young people,
himself a Jew, about them. The next time they went to the USO he
greeted them warmly and told them he knew of them and had been

24

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fone for them. Dorothy told me about it and seemed to appreciate
invited Phoned some of my Jewish friends about them, and they
antes them to the services and social affairs at the Temple. Dorothy
awa oe mother was orthodox in her religion and had kept house
ihe ay, but that she never forced it on her children, and none of

oe had orthodox views.
diene and instructors in the School of Mechanics at the camp
were in overalls or “fatigues,” as they called them, since their
eke lies with machinery. Dorothy wore slacks and blouses until
nis a told by someone in authority that she ought not to attend

‘sses “looking like a million dollars.”

= didn’t know slacks looked like a million dollars,” she told me.
oe wrote to her father, who owned or conducted a “ready-to-
alias factory in New York, and he sent her some one-piece “cover-
aes ee made her look like a little girl—or a little boy. Our son,
ome eee to be at our house one day when she came running
little ‘rom, the bus stop two blocks away, said “That’s the cutest

on sirl running along there in overalls that I ever saw.”
lore night Dorothy and Louise came into the living room with

arenes I saw that some weighty matter was under consideration.
“M Y was the spokesman.

T's. Baker,” she said, “We are having a terrible time. We have

(0)
§0 to the camp so early in the morning that almost no eating

Pla
Ces down town are open, and we pay a very high price for a

iG
bee eee juice and toast. Then at the camp we have to walk a
Aftemnny to a place to eat lunch, and after we come home in the
supper On all tired out, we have to dress and walk down town for
Stl! ae thar just won't do,” I said, “We must work out a better
my iterate it do if you cooked your breakfast and supper in
ey, beamed. That was what they wanted, and I had offered it
Paid a n eir having to ask. So we began to work out plans. They
breakfage aoa fee for “kitchen privileges”, and not only cooked
the cam = nd supper here, but even made sandwiches to take to
West to me or lunch. And too, I arranged for them to ride with Mr,
Of gag th € camp every morning. They paid him less for their share
at least bate bus fare had been costing them, yet they were saved
Age < an hour each morning and the walk to the bus line.

Satisfieq at we began to realize that the girls were so much better

and even better fed if they had kitchen privileges that we

allow, q
the ee to all, and the kitchen became the most popular room in

25

 
 

 

 

David often helped Dorothy make sandwiches for their lunch.
He was deliberate in his movements,—just the opposite of Dorothy
with her quick little ways. They were working in the kitchen one
day and Dorothy was giving directions about the sandwiches. David
stopped, looked at her, and said, “You are not paying me anything.”

Glancing at my husband, who happened to be in the room, with
a twinkle in her eye, Dorothy said, “I don’t like inefficiency.”

After a while Dorothy graduated in Airplane Mechanics. She
then took an instructor’s training course, after which she became a
full fledged instructor. We were very proud of her,—but she still
had to wear coveralls. Her hours were then changed, and she made
arrangements to ride to the camp with a friend who had a ear.
Later in the spring as the weather became pleasant, David and
Dorothy bought bicycles, which they used to ride back and forth
to the camp.

The school became so large that the class rooms were not sufficient
to take care of all the classes at one time and three eight-hour shifts
were arranged. Sometimes David and Dorothy were on different
shifts, one coming in about three o’clock in the morning, the other
going out about three-thirty. This was a bad arrangement for them,
but the convenience of instructors was not consulted. One good thing,
however, was that they always had the same day off. Although some
classes were held on Sunday, each class met only six days in a
week, and everybody had one day off in seven.

About this time I saw in a local paper an advertisement of an
auction sale, which would be held at the home of a Goldsboro woman
who had died not long before, and all her personal effects would be
sold. Among other things offered was a large library. My husband and
I decided to bid on the books. On the appointed day I attended the
sale. To my surprise the books caused less interest among the crowd
than almost anything else, and I bought most of them and at very
reasonable prices, even though they were of a high class. These
included a set of Stoddard’s Lectures, a set of Shakespeare, some
other sets, and several hundred works of fiction.

We already had a good library of history, poetry, religious works,
reference books, and standard sets such as Dickens, Scott, and
Thackery, but not much modern fiction, so this big addition was
hailed with delight by our girls, especially Dorothy. We had a book
case built to fit the entire wall space in the hall between the living
room door and the next bed room door, and in this Emma Hall
arranged the fiction according to authors and style, using one section
for juvenile books, as those of Louise Allcott, Mark Twain, and books
like “Pollyanna,” “Mary Cary,” and the like.

26

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I was so pleased that I remarked, “I wish I had bought all the
books they had, and not let anybody else have any of them.”

‘What a Sweet unselfish thought, Mrs. Baker!” said Dorothy.

T didn’t let that bother me. The girls were always trying to tease
me, and I didn’t care, and I certainly did enjoy seeing them enjoy
the books,

There were many changes in the personnel of the household that
Winter, but Louise and Dorothy were with us through the entire
Winter and until late in the spring, and shared with us the many
€xperiences that came our way.

 
 

 

CHAPTER V
LUCILE AND SUDIE

William and Lucile Barfield, who were from a large city in the
Middle West, were looking for a room. They had lived for one week
at a private home in Goldsboro, but were very dissatisfied. They had
to pay ten dollars a week for a very small back room with a little
rusty heater, and not only did not have kitchen privileges, but
hardly dared to step out of their room into the hall, as the landlady
looked at them as if they had no business walking around in her
house. “I wouldn’t give two dollars for it,” said William.

We gave them the room recently vacated by Howard and Cassie.
Dorothy and Louise spoke kindly to Lucile, and she soon seemed at
ease and slipped into the ways of the household. We found that she
was jolly and good natured and one of the kindest hearted girls we
ever had in the house. She would do anything for anybody, and
didn’t expect much for herself, but her gratitude at any kindness
shown her was very evident. She was of French descent with the
maiden name “ Girard,” and was the eldest of several children.

She showed such a willingness to help that I made arrangements
with her to help me with the housework, and she took her meals
with us except on weekends when William was here, and then
they went out for their meals or she cooked them here. She was
strong and capable, and it was quite a relief to me to have some of
the housework taken off my hands.

I had heard of a number of people who received help with their
housework from some of their roomers who, having no other work,
were glad to find something to occupy their time and at the same
time make a little spending money. One woman had a spare room
that she offered for rent on condition that the girl do her housework.
A young officer and his wife, not at all in need of money, but much
in need of a room, took the room and the job because it was the only
way they could get the room.

William had a helpful turn in a mechanical way. He found things
that needed repairs and fixed them. He mended broken hinges,
sharpened the kitchen knives, and was a wizard at repairing
electrical appliances.

Lucile enjoyed a joke on herself or anybody else. “I get a kick

28

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Out of seeing Mrs. Baker with her hair net hanging down her back,”
She Said one morning. Sure enough my hair net had come unfastened
in front and I did not see it when I took a hasty peep in the mirror
before I hurried in to prepare breakfast.

But Lucile soon found a job at an eating place down town, and
my help was gone. Having found it possible to get help from a
Toomer, and knowing that some other people did too, I resolved to
apply for a soldier’s wife who would agree to take a job. I told
Mrs. Palmer that I would give a girl her room and board in exchange
for help with the house work. She promised to let me know if she
found one who wanted the job.

Ina few days they came—Ezra and Sudie Angers. They were from
the Middle West too, but were from a small country village, and
had none of the city airs of Lucile and William. Ezra was quiet and
timid; Sudie was friendly but simple. She wore a long heavy black
Coat and had her head tied up in a figured scarf. They had left their
belongings at the home of some people in a distant part of Goldsboro
Where they had spent the night, and had walked here after learning
that we had a room that wouldn’t cost them much.

It was one of the half story rooms upstairs, but as my husband
and I occupied the other room Sudie wouldn’t be lonesome or afraid
during the week while Ezra was at the camp. They were delighted
With the room and the job. Yes, Sudie would be glad to wash the
dishes and help with the cooking and cleaning.

They then walked back to their former room, a distance, I sup-
Dose, of ten or twelve blocks, and walked back here, each bringing a
big suit case. But that wasn’t all. After placing these in their room,
they set out again and walked back, this time bringing more baggage.

hus they travelled over the same route five times, walking every
Step of the way, and on two of the trips loaded with bags.

And the contents of those bags! Sudie had brought a strange
assortment of things and she showed them to me with pride—a half
finished bed quilt, little pieces of embroidery done in bright colored
thread, half made baby garments and odds and ends of pictures.
She added to these things occasionally, as one day she told me with
Slowing pride, “Look, I bought this picture of Jesus for a nickel.”

Ezra went back to the camp after he and Sudie finished their
treck, and Sudie, thoroughly exhausted, sat with us by the fire in
Hs living room that night.

l’'m having a baby in May,” she said. Poor little girl! She ought
Not to have taken those long walks that day.

She told me her maiden name was Whitley, but that her father’s
name was O'Malley until he came to America from Ireland and

29

 
 

 

then he decided to take a more American sounding name. She said she
had been a Sunday School teacher, and also that she had been an
employee of a filling station, that she wore overalls and washed
cars, sold gasoline, and did the usual work of an attendant.

In the night I heard her coughing and sniffling, and I realized
that she was sick. Next morning, however, she came downstairs and
said she was all right. I insisted that she see a doctor, and as neither
she nar I knew at that time that soldiers’ wives could have the
services of an army physician free, she agreed to go to our family
doctor. Lucile, who had the afternoon off, went down town with
her soon after lunch. A cold wind was blowing and I was sorry I
had let Sudie go out. They did not come home until nearly night
and then told me that the doctor said Sudie was very sick, and that
unless she went to bed in a warm room and stayed there she would
have pneumonia.

“I knew I couldn’t go out any more,” said Sudie, “and we were
already down town, so we went to the movies.”

“To the movies when the doctor said you were about to have
pneumonia!” I exclaimed horrified.

Lucile was so penitent that I didn’t have the heart to scold her
much, and Sudie was too sick to be scolded.

I don’t know what I would have done in the days and nights that
followed if it hadn’t been for Lucile. I had gotten Sudie here because
I needed help, and instead of help I had a very sick girl to wait on.
And furthermore, she couldn’t stay in her room upstairs. It was
unheated and was reached by out door stairs. I had to put her to bed
in the living room!

Sudie was sweet and quiet and made few requests, but she would
not take her medicine unless Lucile or I poured it out and gave it
to her each time. At night Lucile was near and would go to her if
necessary. However, she said Sudie seldom, if ever, called her in
the night.

Then Sudie began to get better and to get about the house a
little. She moved into Lucile’s room and stayed with her whenever
William was at the camp. One morning Lucile said, “Sudie, you
make up the bed and I will straighten up the room.”

“All right,” replied Sudie, and reaching for a magazine, sat on
the bed and began reading. Lucile put away the clothes, swept and
dusted the room, and then said, “Sit over here, Sudie, while I make
up the bed.”

Sudie obediently—and willingly—moved over to a rocking chair
and continued her reading, and Lucile made up the bed.

On Sunday morning when I came downstairs, the ground was

30

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Soaking wet. It had poured down rain all night. When I entered the
Kitchen I realized that something was in the air. Something was
Wrong. Lucile, Sudie and Louise looked so guilty and giggled at
€ach other, and then looked at me like bad little girls caught in
mischief,

“What is it?” I asked. d

“Mrs. Baker, ae Ks to the dance last night,” said Lucile, who

always told everything, good or bad.

“What! Not Sudie, in the rain!” I exclaimed aghast.

“Yes’m, all of us,” said Lucile. “and Sudie danced the heel off
her shoe.” i

Lucile told me after we were alone that she supposed Sudie danced
with twenty-five soldiers. As far as I could see, it didn’t hurt her,
as her cold didn’t get any worse, and she was getting better evens
day. The dance was one of those regular Saturday night informa
affairs held in the gymnasium of the William Street school just one
block from our home for the enlisted men and their wives and
Goldsboro girls. They were properly chaperoned by USO een

During this time, Ezra had paid me a small sum for Sudie’s board,
but Sudie wanted to begin helping me so they could save this. One
day she washed the breakfast dishes; the next day she peeled some
Potatoes. On the third day she decided to make a pineapple upside-
down cake. I ordered the pineapple and furnished all the ingredients,
and Sudie made a cake that was passable, with much instruction
and assistance from everybody. She was so proud of it that she
Senerously sliced it and passed it around, inviting everybody in
the house to “have some of my. cake.” Mr. Baker and I got Ons
Slice each—and Sudie had paid her room and board for that day!

We tried to teach her to sweep with the vacuum cleaner, but she
hever could hold it so it would take up any dust. I could not picture
her working on automobiles. I tried to have her at least wait on
herself, but she could not fix a slice of toast without burning it.
When Lucile or Louise would say, Sudie, you are burning your
toast,” she would reply, “I like it burnt.”

Though Sudie E reelcted the things Lucile did for her, all her
admiration was for Louise. She would have been the happiest girl
on earth if she could have looked, dressed, and danced just like
Louise.

“T think I’ll name my baby Louise Blanche,” she remarked.

“It would fit better if you named her Blanche Louise,” said Lucile.

“All right, ’l name her that,” she replied. _

One Saturday night about that time a soldier from the camp,
Pvt. Pete Dearborn of Texas, wanted to spend a night here. He just

31

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

wanted to “get way from the camp,” he said. The boys were allowed
a night off each week if they wanted it and if they had a pass from
their superior officer. As Sudie had gotten well and had moved back
to her room upstairs, the day bed in the living room was available
and we let him take it.

The next morning when breakfast was ready, I thought of the
poor lonesome homesick boy in the living room, and invited him
to breakfast. He accepted without hesitation. After breakfast I went
to Sunday School and church, and when I got home about 12:30 I
found Pete in the living room talking gaily with Louise and Sudie.

I prepared dinner and invited him to eat with us, which he did.
After a big and satisfying meal he went back to the living room,
sat down in my husband’s favorite easy chair and went to sleep.
Lucile and Sudie, Mr. Baker and I were sitting in the room talking,
but it did not disturb Pete. With head back, eyes closed, and mouth
wide open, he snored loudly and regularly, his tongue curling itself
into a long roll which vibrated with each snort.

I never will forget the expression on Lucile’s face as she watched
him with a horrified sort of facination.

Finally Pete finished his nap, but he didn’t go away. He sat and sat
and the day wore on. Sudie had a bright idea; she announced that
she was going for a walk and wondered if anybody wanted to go
with her. O, yes, Pete would go, and my hopes went up. Sudie would
shake him off somehow. She was showing more initiative than I
had known she had.

About an hour and a half later Sudie and Pete came walking in,
and Pete stayed for supper. Well, hadn’t he paid me a whole dollar
for the privilege of sleeping at my house? Surely I ought not to mind
just throwing in three square meals! He left about eleven o’clock
that night with an apology for leaving so early, but explained that
he was required to be back in camp at twelve.

Sudie told me that they walked down town and by the bus terminal
where the boys collected to take the buses back to camp, and that
she hoped Pete would stop there, but I suppose he was too chivalrous
to let her come home alone.

The next Saturday night Pete came back and spent the night and
stayed for breakfast and dinner. I went away in the afternoon, so
he did not stay for supper. He wanted to come again the next week,
but we didn’t have a room!

I finally had to explain to Ezra that Sudie couldn’t do my house
work, that she was sweet and we all loved her, but that I had more
work with her here than without her, besides the fact that we were
giving her her board and room.

32

 

 

 

 

_ “Well, I’ll pay you-uns” he said, and he did, and we let Sudie rest
Im peace. ; 4

A few days later she decided to go home, or rather Ezra decided it
for her. She did not want to go, for it was like a wonderful house-
Party to her, a delightful occasion in her life, the like of which she
had never dreamed before. Everybody hated to see her go, for she
had been like a sweet irresponsible child in the house. After she
Went home she wrote to Louise, but never a word to Lucile or me.

Lucile and William stayed here until March, when they told us
they had secured a room downtown right over the place where
Lucile worked. :

This, of course, would be very convenient. They were going home
on a furlough and would move as soon as they got back. They
Packed up their belongings so I could rent the room to someone else,
but left e. :

AnotREe See took the room, but when William and Lucile
returned to Goldsboro there had been some misunderstanding about
their new room and they couldn’t get it. We had no other, and they
had nowhere to go. They were really in a quandary, and something
had to be done at once. ;

We had a cot in a little alcove adjoining our room upstairs that
We had arranged for Anne whenever she wanted to spend a night
with us. This was really a part of our room and was separated from
ours only by a chimney in the center. I agreed for Lucile to occupy
this until they could find a room. William, of course, would sleep
at the camp. There was a window in the alcove, and Lucile and I
hung curtains on each side of the chimney, thus separating it from
us and making a cozy little room. ;

In the night I was suddenly awakened and astonished to hear
Lucile say, “Hi over, Willie, hi over.” I thought William was at the
Camp, but he had come in with Lucile and they had gone to bed
before we went upstairs. No wonder she said, “Hi over,” with both
of them trying to sleep on one cot! Next morning at five an alarm
clock suddenly pealed forth on the other side of the curtain and
not more than six feet from my head. William got up and dressed
and went out. I settled down for another good long nap, but at six
“b-r-r-r-r” went the clock again. I waited for Lucile to get up, but
She had changed her mind and didn’t get up until about seven
o'clock, and by that time I was too wide awake to go back to sleep.
The second night the cot fell down with them, and by that time they
were ready to go out and try to find another room.

They came back to see us sometimes, and several times I saw
Lucile down town and talked with her. One day several months later,

33

 
 

William came to see us alone. He said he was going overseas, and
Lucile was going back to her mother. We never saw them any more,
but I had some letters and cards from Lucile, and I wrote to her. I
shall always remember her as a kindhearted girl who was doing
the best she could and was moving along and upward in life.

 

 

 

CHAPTER VI
SALLIE EURE

David and Dorothy Kaplowitz said that they were going to have
a week’s seaeane BL tna decided to go home. They told me to
rent their room to someone else while they were away if I cared to.

The young man who came to take the room was Pvt. Thomas
Eure of California, and he said his wife was already on her way here
to be with him during the remainder of his stay. The next day she
came, and as soon as I saw her I thought, “There is a girl after my
own h ”

Well, she continued to hold that place in my heart, but she let
me in for some of the surprises of my life. I thought I had found
a kindred spirit, but I realized later that I was barely brushing the
Surfa inner life.

Sallie en eee eral hardly reaching Thomas’ shoulder. She had
an intelligent face, brown eyes and pretty curly brown hair. She was
unusually intelligent, well educated, refined and dainty. She was the
Soul of unselfishness, of thoughtfulness for others. f Ag

One day she said something about “when I am doing religious
work.” Interested in church work myself, I asked, “To what church
do you belong?”

Imagine my surprise when she replied, “I do not belong to any
church. We embrace all religions. I was brought up in the Catholic
church, but came out of it when I learned Truth.” That was all
then, for I didn’t know what to say.

Sallie fitted beautifully into the ways of the household. She went
with me to the Curb Market, which was a wonderful place to buy
800d things to eat. Since the market opened at eight-thirty and it
Was well to be there on time so as to have a pick of the best, she
had asked me to wake her in time. In two or three minutes after
T called her, Sallie came walking out dressed and with her hair
beautifully arranged. res ;

“I don’t see how in the world you had time to fix your hair,” I said.

“Oh, I didn’t touch my hair. It is just like I slept with it all night.
It always stays like I fix it,” she replied.

She said she had never had a permanent, but that her hair was
naturally curly and always stayed in place. Lucky girl!

35

 
 

I heard Sallie say she had used up her coffee coupons and didn’t
know what to do as she and Edward—as I learned was her name for
her husband, though he had told us it was Thomas—were so fond
of coffee.

“I will give you a coffee coupon,” I said. “We never use all of
ours. It is sugar we run short of.”

“Will you?” she said joyfully. “I will give you a sugar coupon. We
do not need all of ours.”

That was fine, and both of us were pleased.

Sally began to tell me something of her life. She had been married
before and had had a little girl who, if she had lived, would now
be seventeen years old. I was surprised at this, for I had thought
of Sallie as about twenty-five. We also had a surprise in store from
Thomas. He was a musician, and when my husband asked him what
instrument he played he replied, “Anything, but my favorite instru-
ment is the cornet.”

When we asked him about his work in the Army, we learned that
he arranged music for bands and was director of a band. In fact, he
was just everything in the way of a musician. I had never thought
of a man’s going into the Army to arrange music, but I began to
realize that it was important. The soldiers needed music and they
needed good clean recreation. Evidently he was well thought of by
officials at the camp, for he received promotions faster than any
other soldier I ever knew. He came here as a private, was soon
promoted to Private First Class, later to Corporal, and then Sergeant.

When he received this last promotion, he and Sallie, who were then
living with some other people in Goldsboro, came to see us to tell
us the good news. They said he was walking along a street at the
camp when he met an officer.

“Good morning, Sergeant Eure,” said the officer.

“Since when?” asked Thomas, as he saluted.

“Since right this minute,” said the officer.

Sallie and I were chatting over our work in the kitchen one
morning when something was said about the color of a dress.”

“White stands for frankness, so I always wear it when I lecture,
and I can get in closer touch with my listeners,” said Sallie.

“That is interesting,” I said. “I didn’t know you were a lecturer.
I thought you told me you were a professional toe dancer.”

“I was a toe dancer before I learned ‘Truth’ I have no more
time for dancing.”

Then she began to tell me about colors. She thought it most im-
portant what colors people wore and on what occasions. Blue, she
said, was an excellent color to wear, especially an indigo shade. “I

36

 

 

 

 

 

 

cured a woman of what had been considered an pevivew disease
by having her wear blue and by prayer,” she said. : >

Bright red was a good color, but dark red was the sign of aan
and should never be worn. “Yellow stands for intelligence, ee :
always wear it when I write poetry. Green is for prosperity, = és
always wear something green. Brown is for selfishness, and blac
for tragedy.” i

“But Sallie, you have on a brown skirt, and you are not selfish,
T said.

“Oh, I have overcome brown,” she said, “but I never could over-
come black.”

Sallie knew she could have the room for only a week, so she iia
every day to the USO desk to apply for a room and sat there a :
group of other young women while two workers phoned and phone
and tried to place them. Every day she came back with the same
report, “No room.” j ;

The week sped by rapidly, and everybody in the house was ae
ing more and more concerned over what was going to become oO
Sallie. She had to sit at the housing desk practically all of every day,
for whenever a room became available it was given to one of those
Seated there, never to one who had merely left an application.

In a day or two David and Dorothy would be back, and ear
had to be done, or else Sallie would have to go home. Two of t :
girls agreed to use a room together—for a discount on their eae
course—until Saturday when their husbands would be back. They
Were glad to do this, so I called Sallie to the living room and told her.

That would give her nearly a week longer.
“Oh, Mrs. Baker, my prayers are answered!” she exclaimed. “Wait,

I will show you something.” :

She HUEHEA ES ne ae across the hall and back with a peepee
in her hand. Opening the notebook, she showed me a prayer y e
had written the night before, in which she asked God to let her
find a room so she would not have to go back home and leave her
husband.

“Yes, Sallie,” I said, “that was an answer to your prayer, and I
believe He will help you find a permanent room by the time you have
to give up the room here.” And He did.

As ee as tie tere the room I called Mrs. Palmer at the USO and
told her about Sallie’s prayer. She said, “We do not usually save
@ room for anyone who is not at the desk at the time, but Mrs.
Hee I am going to get that girl a room if it is the last thing I ever

oO.”
Dorothy and David came home. Dorothy seemed interested in hear-

87

 
 

 

ing Sallie talk, and I told her some of the things Sallie had said

about colors—but we hadn’t heard all. One morning Sallie said some-
thing about a “celestial letter.”

“What is a celestial letter?” I asked. Dorothy pricked up her ears
as Sallie began to explain.

“A celestial letter is one that rhymes with the letter C, which is
the best letter in the alphabet. I know this is true and is important,
for my name used to be Sally, but “y” is the hardest letter in the
alphabet, so I changed it to Sallie, as “e” is a celestial letter. I got
on much better after that, and I got a one man show.”

“A one man show?” I asked uncertainly.

“Yes, a one man show for my paintings and drawings. It is very
hard to get a one man show.”

“T should think it would be,” I said. “I didn’t know you were an
artist.”

“Oh, yes,” she replied, “that is my most important work. Some
time I will show you some of my paintings.”

“T certainly would like to see them,” said I.

Then Sallie proceeded with her discourse on celestial letters.

“My husband’s name was Thomas, but I got him to change it to
Edward. Edward and David are the best names for men because they
begin and end with celestial letters. Since he changed his name he
has been given a much better place in his work and has received a
promotion.”

All this time Dorothy had stared as one facinated. She said, “Well,
I certainly am glad my husband’s name is David. I shall name all
my children David.”

Later I asked Dorothy, “What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know, Mrs. Baker,” she said, “but if you and I can’t under-
stand it, we needn’t ask the other girls; they can’t either.”

Before the week was over, Mrs. Palmer called me and said she had
a room for Sallie, and gave me the address. Sallie went at once to
the house, where she was welcomed by a lovely young woman who
said she was glad to have someone in the house just to keep her
company, and that she wanted her to feel free to use her living
room and kitchen—just to make herself at home anywhere. Her price
was very reasonable, and I thought Sallie was quite fortunate.

When my son came here one day soon after, I told him about the
prayer and about Sallie’s getting the room. I said, “It was a direct
answer to prayer.”

“Yes,” said he, “with a good bit of help from you.”
“That is the way God answers prayers,” I said. “He uses human

38

 

 

 

 

 

aid. You didn’t expect Him to just drop a room out of the sky, did
you?”

So Sallie moved away, but she was a dear little friend, and ae
back to see us often. Sometimes she explained more things abou
“Truth.” f : ia

“The Lord Jesus was Christed through His sufferings, and ie
Lord Confucius was Christed through his teachings,” she said, ;
have seen the Lord Jesus with my own eyes, and since I saw Him
have been able to heal many people through faith. I healed a woman
when she was in advanced stages of cancer. She was so grateful that
she wanted to pay me, but we do not accept money for our ie
We may accept gifts though. One day the woman came to see mea si
she had something wrapped in a package that she said ic a pee :
for me. When I opened it I found a beautiful leopard ee are mo
it to a fur expert to get him to tell me its value, and he (0) or me :
hundred dollars for it, but I did not sell it. I am going to have
coat s499

One ae ite came over to see us and brought some of her
Pictures, one of which, a portrait of a girl friend, she had ek cue
pleted. I was very glad, for I had been anxious to see me os
And I was especially glad that she had come while my daughter,
Florence, was visiting us. I had told Florence about her. waa

My husband, our daughter and I sat in the living room with Sa
and heard some of the most amazing things we had ever heard
before. First we admired the pictures, which were beautifully done;
in fact, I think I never saw more beautiful work. Each picture was
about twelve by fourteen inches. One was a portrait of an old Ae
With a beard, an Oriental type; one, the portrait of her friend; an
the other, a picture of a beautiful white curly haired dog.

“Where did take lessons?” asked Florence.

Sallie ae ‘eld Hie that she never had had any lessons, and that
8 celebrated artist had advised that she should not take lessons 2
all—that it might hurt her original technique, but I was totally
unprepared for her reply. ee ‘

“a neve have had Bay eased in this life,” she said, “but I studied
art while I lived in a convent in Germany about the fifteenth century.
I took dancing lessons when I was in Greece in another life. Once
I was an American Indian, and when I first began to talk in this
life, I spoke in an Indian dialect.” sh ee

“Do roth really believe that people live several lives?” I asked.

“Oh yes, they do,” she replied, “many lives. All new souls are
Colored, and they become white through repeated lives. Booker T.
Washington was at one time a white man, but came back again as

39

 
 

a Negro for punishment for a sin. He has lived such a good life this
time that he will probably be a white man again. People are often
punished for sins committed in a previous life. Jealousy in one life
will cause cancer in the next.”

I asked Sallie why she drew the picture of her friend with a halo
of lights around her face. She had enlarged the picture from a small
photograph that she brought with her, and the photograph did
not have the lights.

“Those are lights that I can see around her face,” she said. “Every-
body has lights around their faces, but some more than others. I
can see lights around your face.”

“Then why don’t I see lights around faces?” I asked.

“Because you don’t have extended vision. I did not have it until I
saw the Lord Jesus face to face. I was very ill, and I saw Him. His face
was brighter than the sun. I began to talk and said I saw Jesus.
Everybody thought I was going to die, but I wasn’t, I really saw
Him. Ever since then I have had extended vision. I am under the
direction of the Master John, and he lets me see into the past of
people’s lives, and I can tell how a person lived in a previous life,
but I am not permitted to tell them. I hope to live such a life that
I may some day become a Master.”

One of us asked some question, I have forgotten what, and she
said, “I don’t think I would be permitted to tell you that.” She
seemed to be concentrating, and then said, “Oh yes, I am permitted
to tell you,” and she answered the question.

She said souls chose their parents before they came into the
world. I wondered why some parents ever were chosen. Sallie told
us that she had often explained “Truth” in lectures before large
groups, but that “We prefer to talk to small groups just as I have
to you this morning.” She said that it was not religion she was
explaining, but just Truth. I do not remember that she made any
explanation of the “we” that she used, but I got the idea that she
meant the others of her belief.

Finally she said she must go. Florence and I went with her to the
door, and there on the front porch was Florence’s baby son, Sammy;
with his nurse. He looked up with his big serious blue eyes, and we
told Sallie this was Florence’s baby.

She looked at him rapturously. “Oh, Florence,” she said, “he is
wonderful! He is an old soul, much older than you. You must be
very careful in training him. He has a generous nature and will
want to give his toys to other children. Don’t stop him; let him give
them away.”

40

 

 

 

 

 

 

I told some of this conversation to someone afterwards, and I
was asked, “Didn’t you laugh?”

“No indeed! I didn’t laugh, and you wouldn’t either if you had
been here. I believed it,” I replied.

“You know you didn’t!”

“Well I almost thought I did at the time,” I said. “She was so
earnest and so evidently believed it herself.”

One thing about Sallie was that she did not try to force her beliefs
on any one or even talk it unless she was questioned. Then she told
it gladly, evidently feeling that she was doing missionary work.

Once I asked her if her husband believed as she did.

“Yes, he believes,” she said, “But he doesn’t talk about it much.”

For many months Sallie and Edward lived in Goldsboro and
often came to see us, and when they went away they wrote us cards
and letters.

 
 

 

CHAPTER VII
KATE AND MAYME

e

Mrs. West and Charles came to visit Mr. West again for a few
days. The only vacant room in the house was one of the little ones
upstairs, so we decided to give James Baldwin, who was Mr. West’s
roommate and brother-in-law, and Charles that room, so Mr. and
Mrs. West could have the one downstairs. Charles was very much
pleased. “It’s just like a tent,” he said, looking at the sloping walls.
I took him into Anne’s alcove and showed him a collection of toys
she had left there.

“Too little!” he said with the superior air of one who was almost
ten years old. He was interested, however, in a bat and ball, and
brought them downstairs to play with.

Mrs. West, who was James’ sister, was so sweet and gentle that
I did not want her to go away, and I tried to persuade her to stay
with us and let Charles go to school here. But Mr. West said he
knew his work at the field was almost finished, and that it would be
a useless interruption in Charles’ school work, so after a few days’
visit they went back to their home in Virginia, and a few weeks
later Mr. West and James went too. They had been with us ever
since work on the camp started eight or ten months before, and we
felt that we were losing an important part of the family. Mrs. West
wrote me a nice letter, and to my surprise sent me a beautiful white
satin slip for a Christmas present.

Before they left, a soldier, Carl Troop of Cleveland, Ohio, came
to reserve a room for Christmas week for himself and his wife. We
told him we had no room except a small one upstairs, which he

would find cold.
“To heck with the cold!” he said. “Just so we have a room! That

room is all right. I’ll take it.”

But before Mrs. Troop arrived Mr. West and James had gone
home, so the Troops had a good warm room downstairs.

Mrs. Troop, who was a very pleasant young woman, was full of
the Christmas spirit. She had brought from home a little folding
Christmas tree and lots of presents for her soldier boy husband. She
arranged the tree and the presents and called me into the room to
see. The lighted tree on the mantel, the soft rose and blue rug on

42

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the floor, and a bright glowing fire in the grate made a picture that
Would please anybody.

This was just the picture that presented itself a few days later
when Kate Stanley, wife of a student soldier at the camp, came to
look for a room. She was delighted, especially with the open fire,
and engaged the room to begin as soon as the Troops should leave.
Kate and Jimmy had come to stay, and Jimmy’s mother, one of the
loveliest women we ever had in the house, had come with Kate for
a visit of a week or two. On week ends when Jimmy was here, Mrs.
Stanley slept in the living room.

Kate was a delightful girl to have in the house, and we thoroughly
enjoyed her. Though she was quiet at first, we found her an unending
Source of fun. She was the only child of well-to-do and I think
aristocratic parents. She was dainty and pretty, had beautiful clothes,
and had had unusual advantages, including a trip to England, where
She visited her mother’s family. Her mother, now a widow, was
Probably very lonely with all her relatives in the homeland except
her only child, who was way down here in North Carolina. She sent
Kate boxes of beautiful clothes but wrote her depressing letters
telling her how unhappy she was without her dear child. A letter
from Jimmy’s mother was always bright and cheery and left Kate
im a happy frame of mind.

Kate seemed not particularly interested in the other girls in the
house, but set about getting a job at the camp. This she soon
Succeeded in doing, and took much interest in her work. Jimmy had
only Saturday nights and Sundays off, and usually they saw each
other at no other time. But Kate was happy. She had come here to be
With Jimmy, and it was worth waiting and working all the week to
be with him just that one day and night. She told me once, “I am
8oing to church today to thank God for Jimmy.”

Then came Mayme! Mayme, who was to be like a daughter to me,

a friend to all the girls in the house, and a blessing to all whose lives
touched hers. She and Kate became the closest of friends, and it was
a joy to see them together. Their husbands, Arthur Frey and Jimmy
Stanley, were also good friends.
; Mayme was a tall well-built fair haired German girl. She was born
In Nebraska, the daughter of a well-to-do farmer, John Bargen. Her
Parents, natives of Germany, had brothers and sisters still living in
the old country—or perhaps they were not living. There was no way
to know. Mayme was proud of her ancestry, though she and Art
Were loyal Americans.

On the farm there was plenty of everything, including plenty of
Work, and everybody knew how to do it. The farm was large;

43

 
 

there were lots of cows, horses, pigs, chickens, fruit, and vegetables.
I had never heard of freezer lockers until Mayme told me how her
father and mother kept their meat, fruits and vegetables in a freezer
locker and had them fresh any day in the year.

Frequently the postman would bring Mayme a box from home.
And such a box! Canned chicken, beef, fruit and vegetables, home
made cakes, cookies, and candy, smoked side meat, and even eggs,
each wrapped and packed with such care that there was hardly ever
a broken one. Mayme’s parents adored her, and she adored them.

Mayme had a beautiful voice, and we would listen quietly when
she sang, seated alone in her room or on the porch, all unconscious
of her audience. She knew how to wash, iron and keep house, and
she was always busy. Frequently I found my dishes all washed,
wiped, and neatly stacked away. I knew who did it! When I found
her making a dress by hand, I asked her if she would like to use
my sewing machine. This she gratefully accepted, and Art moved
it into her room. This made her room a sort of center, as the other
girls also liked to use the machine sometimes, and I too would run
in to stitch up a seam. With Mayme as director, dress-making became
quite the order of the day. Then late in the afternoon Kate would
come running in after her day at the camp, and shout to the others,
“Here comes that little tough guy.” And her coming was always
welcomed, for it meant more fun.

Mayme had a good laugh at my expense one day. I knew my
husband would expect dinner at one o’clock, but on this particular
day I was late. No use to have a hungry looking husband walking
around and asking if dinner was ready, so I turned the kitchen
clock back about fifteen minutes.

Pretty soon he came in and, looking at the clock, exclaimed, “Who
put that clock back? It was later than that when I was in here a
minute ago.”

Mayme told it half a dozen times that day, mimicing Mr. Baker's
way of saying, “Who put that clock back?”

Kate came home from the camp late, for her, one night and
terribly excited and frightened. She had worked overtime, and when
she came home it was dark. After getting off the bus she had to
pass the William Street School to come home. It was always dark
in front of the school, and still darker around the corner where big
oak trees shaded the street lights. Just as she reached the school, a
soldier, who had evidently been drinking, caught up with her and
said he would walk home with her.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“No,” said Kate, “I live near and I do not need anyone to walk
with me.”

“I am going anyway,” he said. j

When she insisted that he go back, he took a knife out of his
Pocket and said, “When girls talk to me like that, I cut ’em.”

Though thoroughly frightened, Kate put on a brave front. “Put
on knife back in your pocket,” she commanded, “I am not afraid
of you.”

“T like your spunk,” said the soldier as he put the knife up. But
he Walked on with her until she turned into our yard, and then went
on his Way.

About this time a young Italian engaged a room for his sweetheart
and her mother, who were coming for a visit of a few days. They
Were the most loving sweethearts I ever saw, and they didn’t care
Who saw them loving. I happened to be in the kitchen with several
of the girls when I saw them in the back yard. Perhaps I shouldn’t
nove said anything, but, not taking time to think, I exclaimed, “Oh,
Ook!”

Everybody hurried to the window, and there stood the couple
With a neighbor’s garage for a background, hugging and kissing.
They would kiss and kiss; then she would take her handkerchief
and wipe the lipstick off of his face, and they they would kiss again.

“Oh, I wish it was me! I wish it was me!” sighed Kate ungram-

matically but ecstatically.

F inally the show was over, but Kate didn’t forget it. Later when
Jimmy came home, she told us to watch through the kitchen window.
We Sot ready for another show. Kate grabbed Jimmy by the arm
8nd pulled him out into the back yard and to the garage.

We got a show, but it was different from what we expected. Kate
began to put her arms around him, but Jimmy was bewildered and
Suspected a trick of some kind. He looked suspiciously around the
Corner of the garage. Kate tried to pull him nearer, but he was
entirely uncooperative and undemonstrative. Glancing up with a
8tin at the audience at the window, Kate reached up, gave J neha)
Slap in the face and raced back to the house, leaving him standing
alone in the yard wondering what it was all about.

One night Kate lit the oil stove in the bathroom and, closing
the door so the room would be warming up, went back for her towels
and clothes. When she returned she saw through the crack of the
door that there was a light in the room, and supposed that someone
Was in there. Once in every little while she would go and look. Finally,
€xasperated, she came to me and said, “Mrs. Baker, I lit the stove

45

 

 
 

 

in the bathroom an hour ago to take a bath, and somebody has been
in there ever since.”

About that time, my husband happened to go into the back hall
and saw that smoke was coming out over and under the door. He
threw the door open, and a dense cloud of black smoke poured out.
No one had been in the room since Kate came out. She had left the
light on herself and unfortunately had not closed the oil stove pro-
perly, leaving it cracked open, which always caused it to smoke.

But what a mess! The entire room and its contents were jet black
with tags of soot hanging from the ceiling and window. The tub
and other bath fixtures looked like they were of ebony. We took
cloths and wiped down the ceiling and walls, each Swipe leaving a
broad white mark in the inky blackness. We wiped and wiped, and
then washed the bath -fixtures so the room could be used, but it
looked awful!

The next day we had a colored girl wash the walls, windows, floor,
everything, making it clean to touch, but leaving it looking so bad that
there was nothing to do but have the room repainted. A funny part
of it was that Kate never believed that she had left the light on and
that no one had been in the room but herself. We didn’t insist.

But the day came when Jimmy’s group received orders to be ready
for overseas duty. Kate gave up her work at the camp and waited
until the final orders came, and Jimmy left. Then she went home
to her mother. Some months later we heard that she had a little
daughter, Joanne. But Jimmy never saw the baby. He never came
back; he had made the supreme sacrifice.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER VIII
THE PASSING CROWD

Whenever a room was vacated, we freshened it up and called the
housing desk in the lobby of the Hotel, and in half an hour or less
the next renters would arrive. I visited the desk once just to see what
it was like. A worker sat at either end of a table with lists of possible
rooms. Each had a telephone. Seats were arrranged before the table
for applicants, and from six to a dozen people sat there eagerly hop-
ing for a room, while the workers called and called and located rooms
when they could.

Sometimes I would phone: “Mrs. Palmer, do you need a room?”

“Oh, Mrs. Baker!” she would say, “I certainly do. I will send you
a couple right now.” And they would come.

They sent us nice girls. Mrs. Palmer told me she picked them for
us because I helped her so many times and because whenever she
talked with any who stayed at our home they said they liked it here.

One night she called me about 12:30 and asked if we could take
two women who had just arrived in the city. They came, and the story
they told us showed something of the unselfish work of the USO
Workers, some of whom received no pay for their services. They said
they were walking along the street from the railway station, each
carrying a suitcase, when a lady spoke to them pleasantly, asking
if they were looking for a room.

“Yes,” they replied, “we thought we would go to the hotel.”

“The hotel is filled up,” said the lady, (Mrs. Palmer.) “I work
at the housing desk in the hotel lobby, but that closes at twelve
O'clock, and I was going home, but I will go back with you and try
to find a room for you.”

She could have gone home to bed, and I’m sure she needed rest,
but back to work she went when she was needed.

The East room that the Webbers had occupied and the little north-
€ast room upstairs were not rented to permanent roomers the rest
of the winter or spring, but were used by a varying stream of people,
Most of whom were here for short visits to husband, sweetheart or
Son,

The passing stream of humanity was like a panorama on a screen,
and my husband and I were the spectators, sometimes amused, some-

47

 
 

 

 

 

 

times pleased at finding really interesting people, and often filled
with compassion at the difficulties and heartbreaks that we saw.

Many things puzzled people who came from far away and knew
little of life in a Southern town, especially a war camp town where
even the regular citizens were puzzled. One thing that bewildered
many of the newcomers was the open fires. They never had seen one
before, and didn’t know what to do with it. One old gentleman, who
had come with his wife to visit their son, was seated in our living
room with his wife and us. After staring quietly into the grate for
a long time, he said suddenly, “That thing makes it real warm in
here!”

They didn’t know how to make a fire; one girl tried to start it
by sticking a match to a lump of coal. Most of them piled the coal
up so high that it was dangerous, and once we actually found a hole
burnt in the floor just off the hearth, where a lump had rolled down.
Fortunately the occupants of the room heard it and jumped out of
bed in time to prevent a conflagration.

Another couple made the biggest fire I ever saw on a day that
was almost too warm for a fire at all. They told me the reason they
put on so much coal was that the small fire they had made the room
so hot that they thought it would be best to cover it with a lot of
coal to hold the heat down.

Another girl washed her stockings and hung them wet on the
back of a dainty walnut parlor chair that had been handed down
in my husband’s family. Knowing that she had left the house and
that there was a fire in her room, I looked in to see if it was all right,
and saw the stockings steaming. The chair was just as close to the
fire as possible and was covered with blisters. We had to have an
expert to do the chair over.

We had frequent calls for a room for just one night, and if there
was no other vacancy we gave them the day bed in the living room.
Three girls occupied that room one night, two of them sleeping on
the day bed and the other on a mattress on the floor. They had come
to visit sweethearts at the camp.

Miss Miriam Rothenburg stayed one night while on her way to
Fort Bragg, where she was to serve as a hostess. I found her quite
interesting, but was suprised when she told me she was a Catholic.

“But your name!” I said.

“Yes, my father is Jewish, but my mother is Irish, and I belong
to her church.”

Pvt. and Mrs. George Seabolt and their little son, barely three
years old, spent one night with us. I told the little boy that I had
some grandchildren like him. He seemed quite pleased at that and

48

 

 

 

 

Proceeded to call me “Grandma.” Mrs. Seabolt was embarrassed,
but I hastened to assure her that it was all right, that I was glad
to be his grandmother. After that we had other children here who
also called me “Grandma.”

A sweet faced young woman, not sent by the USO, came one morn-
ing and said she wanted to get a room here because she had heard
that the girls had such a good time here, and that she was lonesome.

“My husband and I have a nice room, and the people are good to
us,” she said, “but there is no one in the house but an old lady and
her husband and us, and my husband is away most of the time, and

T am lonesome.” : i
I was sorry that we had no vacant room at that time and couldn’t

take her, for she seemed so sweet and so lonesome.
The next couple was Mr. and Mrs. J. DeRidder, who were here for

a few days. They wanted to stay, and we would have liked to have
them, but the room had been reserved after that time, so they had
to go. One day Mrs. DeRidder was sitting on the back steps in the
Sunshine, when her husband came quietly and unexpectedly around
the corner of the house.

“Jake!” she exclaimed with joy. ‘
They took their kodak to the front yard, and I saw them taking

Pictures of each other. I offered to take some pictures of them to-
8ether, and they were very appreciative.

A few weeks after they moved away, Mrs. DeRidder came back,
bringing with her another soldier's wife, whom she introduced as
“Jane.” Jane wanted to come here. They said the house in which they
lived was run something like a reformatory. There were rules stricter
than a boarding school, such as no talking after nine o'clock, lights
out at ten, no walking around the halls or visiting in other rooms at
any time.

“It doesn’t matter about me,” said Mrs. DeRidder, “as I am going
home in a few days, but I do hate to leave Jane there without me.

Poor Jane! I couldn’t take her, for every room we had was filled.
Mrs. DeRidder told me this story: ;

“One night I was in Jane’s room and we were scarcely talking
above a whisper. We were really saving money for Mrs. Jones as I
had no fire in my room, and both of us were sitting by eee fire.

Suddenly Mrs. Jones called, “Jane, is anyone in your room?

“Yes, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. DeRidder is in here with me.”
“Well, you know that isn’t allowed. Better get on back to your
Toom.”

I tried to console them by telling them that Mrs. Jones had been
Paralyzed, and perhaps that made her peculiar.

49

 
 

 

 

Another girl told me that her landlady wouldn’t give her roomers
any clean sheets. Finally she and another girl went to the rents office
and complained, and they were told, “We can’t do anything with
that woman. Everybody knows she is crazy.”

Yet many other couples had such wonderful homes. I’ve heard a
number insist that they had the best homes in Goldsboro.

One of my friends once asked me how I liked my roomers.

“They are the sweetest things I ever saw,” I replied. “It is a joy
to have them in the house.”

“T am glad to hear you say that, for that is just the way mine are,”
she replied, ““But I have heard some people speak so differently.”

It was true. There were all kinds of girls here, just as there were
all kinds of soldiers at the camp; and there were all kinds of land-
lords. One woman told me that she and her husband were out of town
one weekend, and in their absence the roomers had wild parties; all
got drunk and practically ruined the house and left every dish they
used while she was away unwashed.

Nothing like that every happened at our home, and almost all
the young people we ever had were lovely. I had a neighbor who went
to the seashore for the entire summer, leaving her house to the
roomers, who kept it in beautiful order, watered her flowers, and if
a couple had to leave Goldsboro they secured another nice couple
to fill the vacancy. The girls frequently came over to see my girls,
and we went to see them.

But of course there were exceptions. A lady told me that she had
a couple in her home who seemed very nice, but that after they had
been there about a week a chaplain at the camp phoned and said,
“Please tell Miss (giving the girl’s maiden name) and Sgt. So-and-so
they can come out here and I will marry them.”

The landlady said she told the girl as nonchalently as possible and
didn’t look at her. The couple went to the camp and were married!

Then came Mrs. Eubanks! A new type, absolutely different from
anyone who had been here before. She was a small wiry talkative
little woman about forty-five years old, who had come from Lub-
bock, Texas, to see her son. When she arrived he had already been
sent on to another field. It was too bad, for she did not feel financially
able to follow him.

She seemed in no hurry to go home; in fact I think she had no
special reason to go home. She was a widow, and the boy was her
only son, so unless she could be with him, one place was as good as
another. I never saw such an active energetic woman in my life.
She offered to do housecleaning for me for a part of the day for her

50

 

 

room and board. I was glad to have the work done, and left it to her
to decide what hours and how long she would work.

Then in her spare hours she started out to find a paying job. First
she put in an application to join the WAC’s, then applied at the
Employment agency for a job, and on to the USO and asked them
to help her get work. They gave her work for several hours a day,
Sewing on buttons and chevrons for the soldiers. She decided that
She needed a new dress, so she bought some pink figured print,
brought it home and cut it out without a pattern, and went in May-
me’s room and stitched it on the sewing machine. She made it in a
remarkably short time, and considering the fact that she had no
Pattern and was a wheelhorse of a worker rather than an accom-
plished seamstress, I thought it did very well. The girls enjoyed
having her come in with them and sew, and in fact everybody liked
her, for she was never at a loss for something interesting to tell.

She watched the want ads in the local paper and saw that the
Sisters at the Catholic school had advertised for a maid or house-
keeper. She hurried away to investigate this and came home an
employed woman. They had offered her a dollar a day and room
and board, so that was the end of the housework she was doing for
me. She had to keep her room here for a few days longer, however,
as the room she was to occupy at the school would not be available
yet.

“The Sisters are just like other people,” she told us. “I was afraid
they would be queer because they wear such funny clothes, but they
are all right,” she said.

She went to work the next morning, but each night she studied
the advertisements, not only in the local but in the state papers. One
night she found an advertisement that attracted her attention at
Once. The State Hospital for the Insane at Raleigh was advertising
for ten attendants, and named what seemed to Mrs. Eubanks as a
very good salary with room and board.

Mrs. Eubanks was straightforward and honest in her dealings. She
Phoned the Sisters that she could not work the next day or probably
eae and explained that she was going to Raleigh to investigate this
Job,

“That’s the kind of work I like,” she said. “My husband and I
were attendants at the State Hospital in Texas for years. I know all
about that work.” ’

“Aren’t you afraid of those crazy people?” one of the girls asked.

“Not me! I ain’t afraid of nothing,” she replied.

She went to Raleigh and at the end of the second day was back
here for her baggage. She had secured a position—not as an attendant

51

 
 

 

 

—but as head of the women’s suicide ward, and at a much higher
salary than that offered as an attendant. She had already worked one
day to find out for certain whether she wanted the job.

“Tt is easy,” she said. “I don’t have to do anything but see that
they don’t kill themselves or each other. One woman thought she
would scare me. She came up to me with her hands held as if she
was going to put them around my throat and said slowly, “I’m-going-
to-kill-you’”

“I grabbed her hands and pulled them apart and said, ‘Take your
hands down, I’m not ‘fraid of you.’

“She took ’em down. She saw I wasn’t scared of her and wasn’t
going to take any foolishness.”

So we lost Mrs. Eubanks after her ten days’ visit. All of us,
especially Mayme, Mr. Baker and I, were sorry for her to leave,
for she had been a live wire in the house.

A young civilian, Duncan Urquhart of Massachusetts, came for a
visit of a few days to his brother, Kenneth, who was stationed at
Johnson Field. He was handsome, well educated, and a good conver-
sationalist, and the young people in the house liked him, and he
and the Ramseys became especially good friends.

Kenneth came over to see us too, and after Duncan had gone, he
frequently took a room here for a Saturday night “just to get away
from the camp.” He was interested in music, had specialized in it in
college, and planned to go into some phase of it as a profession
after the war was over. They were fine boys and evidently from an
excellent family.

Sometime later Kenneth came to see if his father, who was coming
to visit him, could stay with us for a week or two. We had a double
room and told Kenneth to come and stay with him all he wanted to.

Mr. Urquhart was a real gentleman with every evidence of culture.
He gave us a picture of his wife, himself and Duncan taken in the
living room of their home. A photograph of Kenneth in his uniform
was on the mantel. A beautifully decorated Christmas tree was at
one side of the group, and on the other side an open door showed
a part of the dining room, and on beyond through a window, a
beautiful tree in the yard. It was a picture of a happy family and an
attractive home.

As soon as Mr. Urquhart arrived he called the camp to speak to
Kenneth, and to his consternation was told that his son was on the
alert and would not be allowed to leave the camp one single time.
I never saw anybody more upset than Mr. Urquart was. He said
he was going to call the commander of the camp and demand that,

52

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

after he had come all the way here from Massachusetts to see his
son, he should see him.

IT dont fee just what he did or said, but anyway, though they
did not allow Kenneth to leave the camp, they did allow his father
to visit him for hours everyday. Mr. Urquhart stayed here ten days,
after which time Kenneth was sent away. Mr. Urquhart gave me
a kodak picture of Kenneth taken in front of the USO building, and
we had cards from all three of them after they left. :

Long after Kenneth went away, Duncan, who was passing through
Goldsboro on his way to some station, came to see us. He was dressed
in the uniform of a Naval officer, and if we had thought him hand-
some in civilian clothes, we just didn’t know how he could look in
hi i

“The ee room was then taken by Pvt. and Mrs. Clarence Dix of
Wichita, Kansas. Mrs. Dix was the most beautiful girl we ever had
in the anced She was unbelievably beautiful. She reminded me of
Snow White in the old fairy tale, with her jet black curly hair, blue
eyes, and creamy white skin. But alas! Her hands were scarred and
drawn, having been burned in an accident several years before.

They were here for only a week, and Mrs. Dix said she had Aa
her baby daughter at home with ae grandmother. They had name
th a hy” for Dorothy Dix.

: Aue ee Bunice White of Flint, Michigan, who spent the
summer here while her husband was in the camp, told me: “Mrs.
Baker, today I was going out to the camp on the city bus and I saw
the most beautiful girl. She had black hair and blue eyes, but her

hands were scarred and drawn.
“That was Mrs. Dix,” I said. “She stayed here at our house once.

Who was she with?” ae
“She was with a man and a little girl about two or three years old.

“Was the man tall and good looking?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Eunice. a

“They are the Dixes, and I suppose they have an apartmen
the War Housing Project,” I said.

When Cpl. and Mrs: Carl Fee came for a week the Hast room ves
Occupied, so they took the little upstairs room, but Mrs. Fee sat mos
of the time with us in the living room or ee in her room,
Where both were busy sewing on tiny garments.

Almost all the pen had belonged to one of three classes: those
who had babies, those who were going to have babies, and those who
hoped they were going to have babies. This may have been partly
due to the natural desire to be in the style, but I think there was
also the lingering fear of being left alone, perhaps temporarily while

53

 
 

 

 

Joe was overseas, or perhaps forever—and the little one would be
all that was left of Joe.

Most of them sewed on layettes, and the exchange of patterns and
ideas was a matter of absorbing interest. One member of the hopeful
class began work on her layette, crocheting dainty little bootees,
embroidering little pillow slips, etc. Her baby arrived twelve months
later!

Inspired by the atmosphere around, and not liking to be left out
of things, I began sewing on a little dress for a prospective grand-
child. My husband looked up from the book he was reading, and
his glance fell upon the little garment. Looking at me suspiciously,
he asked, “What is that little thing you are working on?”

Calmly I held it up so he could see it and replied, “A baby dress.”

He smiled and turned back to his book, and I continued sewing
on our grandchild’s dress. He understood.

One Goldsboro woman who took roomers during the time of the
camp, told me later that every couple who ever lived in her house
sent her a birth announcement sooner or later. Mine weren’t one
hundred per cent, but there were so many that sometimes when I
had an announcement I would buy half a dozen presents at one
time to have them ready, and they were always used sooner or later.

After about ten days Mrs. Fee went home, and we had a nice
letter from her. When Christmas came she sent mea card, on which
she wrote, “The daughter is seven months old, and her Daddy has
been overseas eight months. I’ll forever be grateful for that little
attic room that brought us so much happiness those few days.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER IX
HORTENSE

I wish I could truthfully say that all of the girls Dees He ee
and lovable as these, but there were a few exceptions, an or
Swetser was one of the exceptions. his

Cpl. Albert Swetser came to engage a room for pe ae
Wife, who was expected to arrive soon. We found him p

and nice in every way that we were sure we would ae rae are
the minute she arrived I knew we had been nie eee ans
into the house wearing slacks, sepa tn cigaret, talking ,
Showin. f the gentleness of the others. es

She naaveone ce “the wrong side of the tracks a ie aie
Northern city and was ever on the defensive, expecting wa e i a ee
Upon, and determined to “do” the other fellow first. She 5 vel
didn’t want kitchen privileges and ue she, Md ne dome
town and therefore would have a fire in 0 onl
While each day, and somehow I let her talk me into giving her a
reduction in the rent.

When she had unpacked her things, I went to her room to speak

in front
. When I entered, she stood in
ee ron and something she was

hought I would object

ised
to her using the electricity for that purpose. She look a eee
When I asked her if she would like to use my Opmee sete oe
Accepted it. It never occurred to me that any of the gir
along without washing and ironing. :
The second day she was here she asked me if I car

her bed spread. sae rr
“Of course you may wash it if you want to,” I said, “but I

expect the girls to wash their bed linen. We have it done at the
laundry. But why do you want to was
one day.”

“It smells musty,” she said.

It was = Moh cored and there was no reason
musty, but I gave her another. ;

When she first came, my sewing machin
I told her we would take it out.

e if she washed

h it? You have used it only

for it to smell

e was in her room, but

55

 
 

 

 

 

“That’s all right, let it stay,” she said. “If I tear anything I can
sew it up.”

“You are welcome to use it,” I said, and I heard her sewing on it
a little once or twice. A

I thought it would be a good arrangement, since Mayme did not
want the machine in her room at that time, and as Hortense would
be working I would not disturb her if I used it. She soon got a job
at the Camp. One day I went into her room to sew on the machine
and raised the shade a little and moved a small box that was in
the sewing machine chair.

That night Hortense knocked at the living room door. I invited
her in and offered her a seat, but she stood at the door.

“Is it necessary for anybody to go into my room while I am away?”
she asked.

“No one has been in your room but me,” I replied.

“I found that someone had raised the shade of my window and had
moved a box that I left in a chair,” she said.

I felt myself grow sick. So this was the attitude of the girl who
had come to live in our home!

“Hortense,” I said, “I left my machine in your room at your sug-

gestion. I supposed of course that you expected me to sew on ip
but we will move it out.”

My husband was indignant, but the only thing he said was, “We
will move it now,” which we did.

I thought it over and the next day I said to her, “Hortense, I
want to tell you something. I never have disturbed or used anything
that belonged to any of our roomers. I never have opened or read
any of their mail; but this is our home; it is not a hotel. We have
given some of the young people a place to live here with us, and I
do not promise not to go into the rooms when I think it necessary.
We always look to see if the fires are safe.”

She flushed a little and said, “Oh, it is all right if it is anything
important.”

But she was ashamed. Sometime later I showed the girls a new
winter coat I had bought.

“I don’t know where I shall keep it,” I said. “I have so little
closet space downstairs.”

“Keep it in my closet,” said Hortense.

I thanked her and told her it was “mighty sweet” of her, but
I certainly did not keep it in her closet.

After Hortense had been here several weeks, she asked me if she
might cook.a spaghetti dinner in the kitchen one Sunday. Evidently
remembering that she had a rent reduction on account of not having

56

 

 

 

 

 

 

i h for
kitchen privileges, she added that she would also cook enous
my eee eel and me. I was very well pleased, for I didn’t care too
much about cooking anyhow. I furnished the onions and some other
ingredients and stayed out of the kitchen so she could have more
room.

i ici j Ate tense gave some
The dinner was delicious, and we enjoyed it. Hor A
to some of the girls, but I noticed that she excluded Louise and

Oliver, who had been very nice to her. ae i whe
T eks later, she again asked to cook a spa,
Giipee cast eae onions for her, kept out of the way in the
kitchen, and didn’t cook anything. When the dinner was ready, she
and Bert ate in their room, after which she threw all that left eae
the garbage can! I warmed up some leftovers and opened a can 0
Soup for our Sunday dinner. : :
There was quite a surprise for Hortense one Saturday night w: f
Bert came home from the camp accompanied by her brother, w. :
had just been sent to Johnson Field. She threw her arms ee
the brother’s neck and kissed him, whereas he muttered disguste re
“Rotten.” He knew that the demonstration was put on for the bene

of the audience. e

After that the brother became a frequent visitor to the house, in
fact so frequent that he would come during the day while Hortense
and Bert were at work and would make a big fire in their ae
and actually began doing his washing here. I never said ane me
though we now practically had three using that room instead of two.

One day a taxi drove up to the house and an elderly oe ne
a girl got out. They were Hortense’s mother and sister, an 4
come to visit her. She had known they were coming, but had ie
told me. While they were here Bert slept at the camp, one :
Mother and sister slept with Hortense. They stayed several ae
and did not offer to pay anything, though I would AGE have ma e ;
charge, since they used no room expect Hortense’s. sake! :
furnished their towels, and they used the bathroom and hot water,
but nothing was said about it. ;

When Christmas came, Hortense received several mice pores
candy, one from Bert and others from her people and his. She s owed
them to the rest of us, but not one chocolate drop did she ever giv:

anybody except perhaps Bert. 3 <u

After awhile Hortense told me she wanted eae Ne ae ene
Paid the small difference and began cooking break = a orice
here. One night she came home from the camp late, having

57

 
 

 

 

 

overtime, which she often did, receiving double pay for the extra time.
“Where is Bert?” she demanded.

“He has not been here,” someone replied.
“He knew I was working overtime, and he said he would come
home and cook supper,” she stormed.

She began to prepare supper, making a salad and frying potatoes.
About the time she had things ready, Bert walked into the kitchen.

“Why ‘didn’t you come home and cook supper like you said you
would?” she asked angrily.

“T could not get away from the camp. We were given extra duties,
and I came as soon as I could. I am sorry,” he said.

“You could have come if you had wanted to,” she said, and added,
“You may have some salad. I only cooked enough potatoes for my-
self” and taking up the frying pan, emptied its entire contents into
her own plate. I have no idea she was able to eat all of it.

At first we had only one electric refrigerator, and each girl had
a little corner. We made out pretty well and with practically no
unpleasantness, but one evening while I had visitors in the living
room, Hortense stormed in.

“Where is my sandwich meat?” she demanded.

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” I said.

“I had several slices, and it is gone,” she said.

It was really quite embarrassing to have such a thing occur be-
fore my guests. No doubt someone had gotten her few little slices of
meat mixed up with theirs, and I think it was a wonder there were
so few mixups. The next day I ordered some sandwich meat, half a

pound of the kind she said she had lost, and gave it to her, and she
accepted it.

But I had reached the limit, and realizing that having her here
would always be unpleasant, I told Bert that I would like for them
to find another room. I was sorry for him, for he was good and
kind and unselfish, and certainly deserved a better wife than Hor-
tense. He told me he was sorry she had talked like she did, and
went on to say that they had always lived in an apartment to them-
selves and that she didn’t know how to live with other people. He
uttered not on word of blame for her or me. I told him I thought
the trouble was that Hortense was working too hard, but I didn’t
know what I learned later—that she was working hard to get ready
for the little one that was coming.

They moved away in a few days, and I learned that they had found
a little apartment. Once Hortense came back to get some mail that
came after they left. She stayed a few minutes and talked pleasantly.

58

 

 

 

 

 

Later I met her on the street down town and we talked for a few
minutes. She told me about her apartment and seemed quite happy.
When the baby came, I went to see her at the hospital and took a
Present, and she seemed to appreciate it. Perhaps I didn’t under-
Stand her, or perhaps it was like Bert said, she just didn’t know how
to live with other people.

 
 

 

 

CHAPTER X
ROMANCE

“In the spring a young man’s fancy lightly turns to thoughts of
love.” Spring had now really come, and with it a host of visitors.
The east room, one of the upstairs rooms, and the day bed in the
living room were not occupied by regular roomers, but were in
constant though ever changing use by visitors. With these visitors
came romance. We lived in a world of romance. Many of those who
came were sweethearts of soldiers, and had come here to see them.
They were so much in love. Each visit was one of ecstacy, but ended
in tears of parting—happy tears though, in the hopes of seeing each
other again soon, and in promises of eternal love.

Mrs. Schultz and Miss Hoft arrived in Goldsboro from New York
City. They had come to visit Mrs: Schultz’s son, who was Miss Hoft’s
fiance. A worker at the USO housing desk called to asked if I could
take them.

“T have no vacant room except an unheated one upstairs,” I said.

“They have travelled all night in a day coach and want to go right
to bed, and we have no other room for them. They will come right
up,” was the reply.

I took them upstairs, gave them lots of blankets, and came down,
thinking they were taken care of for hours to come. In less than an
hour I heard them walking around, and downstairs they came. Mrs.
Schultz was shivering and half crying, and said she couldn’t get
warm, so I gave her a glass of hot milk, put her to bed in the living
room by the fire, covered her with blankets, and put an electric
heating pad to her feet. We really warmed her up!

After awhile she got up. “I had a feeling I ought not to come,”
she said, “and I am going home.” She looked in the mirror and said,
“T look like I am fifty years old.” I didn’t dispute with her, but I
thought she looked seventy. She called her husband on the phone
to come from New York, which he did, and she went home without
even visiting the camp. Her son came over, and they insisted on
having dinner with us, and though I protested that I did not take
boarders, I had to give them dinner.

But Miss Hoft had come to see her lover, and she meant to stay.
She found a room somewhere with another girl, the sweetheart of

60

» coming to visit him. Pvt. Bennett confided that he

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a friend of young Schultz, so she was with us for only a day or two.

A young Russian named Dzwonchyk engaged the east room for
his mother and his sweetheart, Miss Jean Garifolo, an Italian girl,
who was as beautiful as her name. She and young Dzwonchyk were
terribly in love. Dear old Mrs. Dzwonchyk was a very suitable
chaperone, as she sat quietly in the room where they were courting
and gazed into the fire, not understanding English well enough to
know very much about what they said. I offered her books and
Magazines, but she didn’t care to read. I gave her a book of kodak
Pictures to look at, and this she eagerly accepted. I do not think she

could read English.
She told us fiat at home she worked in a plant where rubber boats

for seaplanes were made. This seemed a queer occupation to me,
but I was learning not to be surprised at unusual occupations, fOr
We heard of many. Among others were Mrs. Neil’s fur work, Sudie s
work as a filling station operator, and Mrs. _Troop’s work in an
electric bulb factory. Mrs. Troop said her job was placing the
delicate filaments in the bulbs. She received an excellent salary for
this work, far more than the salary of any girl that I knew of around
here, but said it was a great strain on her eyes, as she had to look
through the bulbs as she held them between her and a bright light.

One girl told me that her work had been making little gussets to
be set in between the thumbs and forefingers of workmen’s gloves,
hundreds of these little things every day, day after day, every one
just alike! Even the thought of it bores me with its monotony.
Another said her work was packaging cookies and crackers. Of
course if I had ever thought of it I would have known that all the
boxes of cakes and crackers that are sold in the stores had to be
Packed somehow, but I had not thought of the hundreds of girls
Working at it day in and day out.

Phen Gaines Shain peaains Pvt. Harold Bennett came to engage
two rooms, one for his fiancee, Miss Dorothy Webb, and one for her
friend, Mrs. Rudolph Smith, who would be here Ge : ee fo

ith’ nd she o
Smith’s husband was located at the camp, a ae Wend

Would be married while she was here. j
The girls arrived. They were pretty, young and BREEN NE TPs
young men came over, and arrangements were made for the wedding,
which was to take place in about two days. I was consulted eae
corsages. The wedding dress was a light blue wool, and I opiates
a red or pink rosebud corsage, and they decided on red, Pvt. an
Mrs. Smith were to “stand up” with the bride and bridegroom at
the wedding, which was to take place in one of the chapels at the

61

 
 

 

 

 

camp, so a corsage of yellow jonquils was selected to go with her
brown dress. When the girls were dressed for the wedding I thought
they looked beautiful.

The two couples planned to leave after the ceremony for a bridal
trip to Raleigh, where they would spend a day and night. I had
asked them if I should rent out their rooms the night they would
be away, thus saving them the rent and at the same time giving
someone élse a place to sleep.

They agreed to this, and I offered the rooms to the USO. A man
took one of the rooms, and fortunately no one took the other. The
man had some kind of filing to do and spread his work out on the
table, but after the ceremony the couples decided that it was too
late to go to Raleigh that night, and that they wouid wait until the
next day, so back here they come.

Then we were in a quandary! What should we do? I had worked
out of difficulties before, so I went to work on this one. I phoned and
phoned and finally located a room for the night. Then the problem
was whether the man would agree to move or whether the bride
and groom would have to take a room across town. They hated to
do that, as they wanted to be with their friends, and also as the
bride’s belongings were here.

I put it up to the man. He was big and middleaged and good
natured, but he didn’t want a cold room or a single bed.

“I am a heavy man,” he said “and I can’t sleep on a cot.”

The landlady assured me that the room was warm and the bed
full sized and comfortable.

“Where is that bride?” the man asked. “I want to see her.”

“She is in the living room,” I replied.

He went into the living room, looked at the blushing bride and
said, “So you don’t want to give up your room, do you?”

“Oh, I would like so much to keep it,” she replied.

He joked and teased her a little, then said, “Okey, you may have
it.” We refunded his money and all of us showered him with thanks,
and he packed up his things and left.

The next day there was a joyful honeymoon trip. After their
return the two couples kept the rooms for a few days, then the wives
went home and we never heard of any of them again.

Then we had another wedding. Pfc. Harry J. Vanderhaar of
Cincinnati wanted rooms for his mother, his sister, Louise, and his
fiancee, Alice, who was coming here to marry him. We had only
one room to offer them, but were fortunate in being able to get one

for the girls at a next door neighbor’s. The girls were constantly
in and out of our house, and young Vanderhaar was here much of

62

 

 

 

 

the time. Everything was in a bustle of preparation for Ms pia geet
Louise was to be maid of honor, and one of Harry's frien

camp would be best man. Yay
The day came, and everything was ee The cater babies
i ‘ i i ’s pink.
alike except that Alice’s was white an ouise : a
i i der corsages of tiny rose '
Short veils over their heads and shoul t 5:
and they were beautiful. The wedding took place in oneatle
Catholic Church, and with it budded a new romance.

the best man had fallen in love!

Mrs. Vanderhaar and Louise went home in a ae ee ae a
Stayed here as long as Harry was at the camp. They pe aa
next door, and Alice came over frequently. Sas ees heheh
and all of us liked her very much. Mrs. Vander os pee wee
friendly, wrote me an appreciative letter after s Shoe Mae e

But all of the romances did not end so happily, an Sen eae
about true love not always running smooth ee Pr eateee
We saw some disappointments, some Dees Se
hearts bleed. A young man engaged a room for 5 pit Sea
the sweetheart never came. He came back to eae pints!
and the pain in his face when he had to tell us she

Was pitiful.
But even more pitiful was the disappol

isi d tha
came to visit her sweetheart and foun f
her. This a whose name I shall withhold, was sweet, pretty an

attractive, and if the man had ever loved her I Gone wees
Stopped. She was happy when she first arrived and ae inst
him on the phone. He told her he couldn’t get away fro A ae
that day. She called again the next day, but he cou a

hever did come or even telephone. She did all the phoning.

me

One day she and Mayme walked down town, and Me ee and
afterwards that suddenly the girl saw the ane ane only wasn’t
ran to him, joyfully calling him by name. The soldi He said he was
lad to see her, but he showed positive pote tae camp, and that
sorry, but that they hardly ever let him off trom nee to hurry
he was off for only a short time that day ong Bie that she was so
back. Mayme said it was terribly embarrassing, 4
Sorry for the girl.
es last the Be understood. Her sweetheart
the next train home. 1 Mi

The USO called one night to ask if we could take eure a ae
Janice Clark, for just one night. In a few es lover, piloted her
accompanied by three soldiers. One, evidently her ’

ntment of the girl who
t he had grown tired of

didn’t care! She took

63

 
 

 

 

 

 

into the living room and the others followed. After the introductions
the girl looked around excitedly.

“Sit down, sit down!” said the young man.

She took a seat, and he placed his chair close by hers, and as
the rest of us talked together they carried on a whispered conversa-
tion. They were infatuated with each other, drunk with love.

After awhile the soldiers left, saying they would be back in the
morning. When they were gone the girl said, “That was my husband
I was talking to.”

“I didn’t know you were married. They lady at the USO said you
were ‘Miss Clark’,” said I.

“We got married this afternoon,” she said.

“What is your husband’s name?” I asked, for in the confusion
I had not understood his name when he was introduced.

“James Clark.”

“His name is Clark too?”

“Yes, my name was Janice Clark, and I married a Clark,” she said.

The next morning Mrs. Clark waited impatiently and nervously
for her husband, but as he did not appear as soon as she expected,
she suddenly decided to go home to Mother. Taking her suit case,
she went to the bus station, bought a ticket and left.

Later Clark came.

“Where is Janice?” he asked.

“She said she was going home on the bus,” my husband told him.

“What!” he said in a startled tone.

After learning that it was really true, he said he would go at
once to the bus station and see if he could stop her. Mr. Baker asked
him if he had married the girl.

“Yes,” he said, “she is my wife.”

He hurried away, but I learned from the USO that he arrived too
late. She had really gone. I never understood it, just as I never
understood many of the queer things some others said and did. About
a month later the USO sent me money to pay for the girl’s night’s
lodging.

Now it was May, and the days were warm and pleasant. Mr. and
Mrs. Elwood of Illinois came to see their son, and accompanying
them was Elsie Bryan, young Elwood’s sweetheart. These two young
folks were so much in love that all of us loved them. “All the world
loves a lover.” We were crowded, but were able to take care of the
parents and the girl, but there was no room for the young man, and
I suggested that he go back to the camp to sleep.

“No!” exclaimed Elsie in dismay, thinking that would mean for
him to leave at once.

64

 

 

“But he can stay here as late as you would be up, and can come
back in the morning,” I said. a

She began to look relieved, and my next words fixed it just right.
“Why don’t you two go and sit on the porch or take some chairs out
under a tree in the front yard? Mr. and Mrs. Elwood can sit in here
With us.”

Ah, tha it! That was fine. It was a warm night and it was
Pleasant nee cea especially pleasant that night, and all was well.

Finally in May the house that David and Dorothy Kaplowitz had
been Waiting for since Thanksgiving was finished, and they moved.
David was inducted into the service, but was retained here as in-
Structor—the same work he had had as a civilian—all that summer
and fall, and Dorothy continued her work.

Emma Hall’s school closed, and she came home and took the room
the Kaplowitzes had just vacated. Now romance was in our own
family! Emma Hall told us she was engaged to John Martin, a
Sergeant in the Army, who was stationed at McDill Field near arg
Florida, and that they planned to be married in the fall. Meanwhile
She had resigned her teaching position and was planning to take a
S80vernment course in draftsmanship at summer school at State
College, Raleigh. John would probably go overseas, and she would
take a government position until he came back.

Soon after she came home, a young woman, Helen Cranford, from
@ Northern state, came here to marry a soldier, and Emma Hall
Suggested that we put a single bed in her room for Helen. This was a
Satisfactory arrangement, as they liked each other.

When Helen arrived she told us she was Miss Cranford, but that
after Thursday she would be Mrs. Nolan. The young man was quite
attentive, but when Thursday came they didn’t get married. Helen
Said they had to wait for the rings to be sent from home. She said
they had written for them. Several days later the rings came, but
they didn’t get married. Nobody knew why.

One day Emma Hall told me, “Mother, Helen has been crying and
crying all day.”

T was terrible concerned, but there was nothing I could do or say.
That afternoon Nolan came over and found Helen in tears. They
talkeq together a long time, and then she went into her room and
Put on her wedding dress, a light blue crepe, and they went out to
the camp and were married by one of the chaplains. When they
rame back, Helen was wearing a pink rosebud corsage and seemed
happy again.

 
 

 

 

 

 

Emma Hall and Mayme went down town and bought a wedding
present for Helen from all of us. Some couple had moved out and left
a room, so the bride and bridegroom moved in. Helen stayed a few
more days and then went home. We never knew what caused the
interruption of the wedding plans.

 

 

CHAPTER XI
JUNE, DOROTHY, AND MILDRED

Louise was beginning to grow tired of her work at the camp. The
hours Were long and the work confining, and she needed out of door
“Xercise and time to rest. She was also tired of being cramped up in
©ne room and wanted a little home of her own where she could cook
and sew on tiny garments and lead a domestic life, so she gave up
her Work, and she and Oliver found an apartment in another part of
the city and moved into it.

After they moved they found to their surprise that another couple
from their own home community had an apartment in the same house.

“And what do you think,” said Louise when she came back to see
Us, “T used to go with that boy, and Oliver used to go with the girl!”

T don’t know how two couples like that got along living in the
house together, but I suppose it was all right.

A few months later I heard that Louise had entered the Goldsboro
Hospital. 1 went at once to see her and her baby daughter and took
2 present for the baby, an illustrated baby book. The little girl had
been named for her mother, Louise Almeda Mae Bruegger Ramsey.

hen the Ramseys gave up the sleeping porch a soldier named
redlin engaged it and paid five dollars on it. The next day a sweet
little couple, Bob and June Stewart, came to the house and broupne
the receipt that my husband had given Medlin. They said Medlin had
pee a room he liked better and that they had given him five dollars

t his receipt for his room here. oe

I was delighted, for this new couple was much more to my liking.

©Y Were young and sweet and I was sure they would fit into our
household nicely. They were pleased with their room and began
unpacking and putting away their things.

Suddenly the doorbell rang, and I answered it. There stood Mr.
aoe Mrs. Medlin. Medlin said they couldn’t get the room they had
hought of and had come to take the one here. They came in and I
ee the Stewarts. Bob wouldn’t argue, but I said that since they
ane Paid for the room and had moved in I thought it belonged to
ee Mrs. Medlin, who up to this point had not spoken a word,

“ued to her husband and said, “Let’s go.”

After they left Bob told us that Medlin was a friend of his, and

67

 
 

 

 

 

 

that he would have given up to him, but it was plain that he was
glad I had taken their side. Later I heard a lady say the Medlins
had a room at her house and that they were very nice to have in
the home. I was glad to hear it.

Mayme missed Kate and was glad June had come. As soon as
another room was vacant, Arthur Frey told me he had a friend at
the camp, Clyde Middleton, whose wife was just leaving home to
come to Goldsboro, and who wondered if we could take them.

“Yes, we would be glad to have your friends,” I told him. “That
would be much better than taking strangers.”

Since Pvt. Middleton could not get off from the camp to meet his
wife, he wired her our address and told her to come here. Mayme
and June were enthusiastic over the prospective new comer, and
helped me get her room ready.

We expected Dorothy on a morning train, but she didn’t come.
Maybe the train was late, or maybe she didn’t get the telegram and
was waiting somewhere down town. Finally Mayme decided to go
to the hotel and look for her.

Sometime after she left, the door-bell rang and I answered it.
There stood a pretty girl with an eager and somewhat frightened
look on her face.

“TJ am Mrs. Middleton,” she said.

“Yes,” I replied, “We have been expecting you all the morning,
and Mayme has gone to the hotel to look for you. Come in.”

With a surprised look she came in. “June,” I called, “Dorothy has
come.”

June greeted her warmly, and we took her to her room. I phoned
to the hotel and had Mayme paged and told her Dorothy was here.
She hurried home and greeted the little stranger with affection. I
knew that I would not have to worry about her any more. Mayme
had taken her under her wing.

The three girls were inseparable. They bought their provisions
together, cooked, ate, worked and played together. Always Mayme
made the plans, told the others what to buy, what to cook, and how
to do it, and they followed her willingly.

“Mayme, what do you want me to do?” I frequently heard one of
them say when they began to prepare a meal. When the three washed
their dishes they washed mine too, and left the kitchen in perfect
order (Mayme would have had nothing less), and I believe they
would have done it just the same if we had not credited them for it
on their rent. Most of the time except on weekends when Art and
Clyde were at home, Dorothy slept in Mayme’s room.

In the pleasant part of the day they took folding deck chairs out

68

 

 

 

 

 

 

into the yard and sat, Dorothy and June calmly basking in the sun-
shine, while Mayme’s busy fingers plied her needle back and forth
on her layette. j

Some of the days were still rather cool, and sometimes I was afraid
the girls would take cold sitting out of doors, but it didn’t seem to
hurt them. I told them I knew how they wanted spring to come,
but I did not want them to sing like the frogs in the “Twee Deedle”
book my children had when they were little: 5 i

“Oh Sprig! Oh, Sprig! Oh, cub; Oh. cub! We've waided log for thee.

After Dorothy had been here for some time she told me that when
T met her at the door when she arrived she thought she had gone to
the wrong place. The first night she was here she wrote her mother,
“You were afraid I might be lonely and not have any friends. Don’t
Worry about that any more. I have friends. They were waiting for
me when I got here, Everybody is so good to me.” :

And June, dear little June! Every word she said, every thing she
did was full of kindness for someone; yet there was a little some-
thing that kept us smiling. When someone showed a new dress or
told of another who had brought a car, June sighed, “Why wasn’t
I born rich instead of just pretty?” When I said my daughter, who
Was a teacher, was coming home, June, who was only about seventeen
years old, looked a little frightened at the thought of having a teacher
in the house and asked, “Is she very old?”

“No, she isn’t old,” I replied, “and she will expect you all to call
her by her first name just like you do each other.”

June looked relieved, and when Emma Hall came she was accepted
by the girls as one of themselves.

June told me that her mother died when she was born. Her father
had been shell-shocked or gassed in World War I, and she had always
lived with her uncle and aunt and called them “Daddy” and “Mother.
She called her father by his first name. He could never look at her
Without crying.

The next couple that came to us were Roy and Mildred Lane. They
took the little upstairs room. Mildred was tall, blond, and rather
attractive. She had not been married as long as the others and had
never received an allotment check, and was financially embarrassed.
Her husband took his meals at the camp, and she made out somehow,
but I was really worried about whether she had enough to eat. The
other girls and I would offer her something, but she would refuse.
One day T had a brilliant idea. I told the girls I was not going to let
them go home after living in North Carolina and say they had never
Yet eaten any grits—that I was going to cook enough grits for every-
body in the house.

69

 
 

 

 

 

 

That was a noble dish of grits. Everybody ate grits and enjoyed it.
It did me good to see Mildred take her second and third helping.

Mildred felt obliged to work and tried to get some kind of job, but
the only thing available when she applied at the employment office
was housecleaning. She went at once to the place and was put to
work scrubbing floors and woodwork, and that night came home
exhausted and sick. I was indignant and advised her not to go back.

“I knew you wouldn’t let me do it if you knew it,” she answered,
but I felt like I had to have the money. You know the other girls
sew on their baby clothes, and I have no money to buy any material.”

“Well, let it wait. You can sew later,” I said. “You stay here with
us and let the work go.” And she did.

Then one morning the postman came and Mildred went to the door
to take the mail. Suddenly she screamed, “Money, oh, money!” and
came running to me waving a check for fifty dollars, her first allot-
ment check. I am sure I was almost as glad as she was.

The phone rang one afternoon and someone asked to speak to
Mrs. Lane. “Is that Roy?” I asked.

“Yes,” was the reply. é

I went to the stairs and called Mildred and told her her husband
wanted to speak to her on the phone, and then turned around and
there stood Roy. I stared in amazement. How could he have gotten
here that quickly when I had been talking to him on the phone the
minute before? Or maybe the man I was looking at wasn’t Roy Lane.
I shaded my eyes by holding my hand over my brow and peered
at him hard.

“Do you think you see a ghost?” he inquired.
“Well, maybe so,” I said. “Did you fly from the camp?”

It was his turn to look puzzled. By this time Mildred was coming
downstairs and was as puzzled as Roy and I. When she answered the
phone a soldier said, “Mrs. Lane, I wanted to speak to your husband.”
I had misunderstood. When the soldier had asked for Lane, not Mrs.
Lane, I had asked, “Is that Roy?” He had replied, “Yes,” thinking I
meant “Is that Roy you want to speak to?”

A Mrs. Campbell, who was here for a few days’ visit to her hus-
band, was sitting in the sunshine in the back yard one day, and
Mildred was sunning on the little upstairs porch, when I heard Mrs.
Campbell calling me excitedly. I ran out into the yard, and there
flying just above our house was something different from any air
plane I had ever seen. It looked like a big silver cocoon and was
flying so low that I felt as if I could speak to the pilot. Mildred insisted
that she had to duck to keep it from bumping her on the head.

70

 

 

 

 

Army planes zoomed over Goldsboro every day, but we never ‘had
Seen anything like that before. I think they called it a “blimp.

The time came all too soon for June and Mildred to go away. Bob
and Roy were sent to other camps or overseas, and the girls went
home. June wrote: “This is June. I am sorry I didn’t write sooner,
but I have been working so hard. ;

“T miss you both lots and lots and would give anything to see
you. My days at your home were wonderful, so I take time to let
you know that. Maybe I’ll see you again when the war is over, and
I only hope that is soon. Say ‘Hello’ to the girls and your son’s

little girl for me.” :
But like most of the others, we never saw her again.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XII
IRENE, EULAH, AND ANNIE

The next ‘application was from a couple with a baby. I hesitated
over this as I was afraid a baby in the house might annoy the other
roomers, though I didn’t think I would mind it.

I was assured by the USO that it was a “mighty nice young man”
who wanted the room, so I agreed. When he came I found him in-
deed a “nice young man.” He was Edgar A. Strunk of Dayton, Ohio.
He was tall, handsome, and well built and had the most beautiful
teeth I ever saw. I told him I would be glad to have the baby in the
house, but would take him only on condition that if we found that
the other roomers were annoyed that they would find a room
elsewhere.

A few days later Mrs. Strunk (Irene) and Mr. Strunk’s sister and

the baby arrived. Irene was very pretty, attractive and friendly, and
we were so much pleased with her; and as for the baby—everybody
loved him. Instead of not being wanted here, he became the pet of
the household. After they had been here for some time I heard
Mayme say, “I think little David gets sweeter and sweeter every day.”
The sister went home after a visit of a few days.

David was only ten weeks old when they came, and Ed had not
seen him since he was three days old. As soon as Ed had brought in
the luggage and had done his part of the “straightening up,” he
took his seat by the side of the crib and looked and looked at the
baby. I have never seen any father as devoted or as interested in a
baby as he was. During the months that followed, he was David's
constant and devoted nurse all the time he could be at home. Ed
was a Corporal and was an instructor—not a student—so he was
allowed to live here at the house. For hours at a time he carried
David around the yard or sat with him on the porch or rolled him
up and down the sidewalk or, when he was older, in his stroller.

“Look at him smile,” he would say to me, or “Look at him; just
as serious!” Hither was wonderful.

Every word or sound that ever came from their room was some
thing sweet and endearing. Irene sang sweet little rhymes and songs
to the baby, and the little fellow thrived and grew under the wealth

72

 

 

 

of love and care that he received. They stayed with us from April
through September, and every day of their stay was a joy.

I was glad to see how much Mayme and Irene enjoyed each other.
Both were members of the Lutheran church, and they often went
to church together, rolling little David along in his carriage. Some
of the ladies of the church conducted a nursery in the Sunday School
rooms and kept David and the other small children during the service.

One Sunday the two couples and David went to church and
Stayed so late that I thought something must have happened to
them. Finally they came home smiling. The ladies of the church had
Served dinner to all the soldiers and soldiers’ wives, so they had had
& good dinner. I thought it was fine. In fact it was such a good idea
that it was soon taken up by other churches and the ladies of our
church, the Methodist, began serving dinner and supper every
Sunday. I helped often.

One night after my husband and I had retired in the sleeping
porch, we heard a sudden noise right outside our window. Someone
shouted, “Halt!” There was a flash of light, the sound of a heavy
thud, then footsteps running.

We jumped out of bed and hastened into the living room just as
the front door opened and Ed came in excitedly. He came into the
living room and told us what had happened. He said he and Irene
had retired, but that it was warm and he got up to raise a window
shade. When he drew near the window, he saw a man in the uniform
of a soldier standing under the window. Ed stood back a little way
to watch the soldier, who had his back toward our house and was
looking into the window of a bedroom of the house next door, which
Was only a few feet away. Then the man turned toward the sleeping
porch, caught hold of the window sill and raised himself up to peer
into the window.

Ed went back to the bed and in a whisper told Irene what was
happening and told her to keep quiet. Then he put on his trousers,
took his flashlight and went quietly out of the front door and around
the side of the house until he was almost right on the soldier.
Suddenly snapping on the flashlight, he turned it directly into the
man’s face and shouted, “Halt.” The intruder could not run toward
the Street, as Ed was standing in his way. He didn’t know the
Premises and evidently did not think it safe to run to the back, so
he took the only way left—a jump over the hedge that separated our
yard from the neighbor’s, a run across the neighbor’s lawn to the
Street, and qa quick get-away down to the corner. The next day we
found plenty of tracks under the windows and in the soft ground
of the neighbor’s flower bed just over the hedge.

73

 
 

 

 

 

I think it would have been better if Ed had gone to the hall and
phoned the police department. They could have surrounded the
house and captured the man, but he didn’t think of that and decided
to face the intruder alone. We thought he was pretty brave, for he
was unarmed, and the man might have shot him.

Irene was excited of course. The others in the house didn’t know
anything about it until the next day, and of course everybody talked
about what might have happened, but I suppose things like that
might have been expected occasionally in a town where thirty
thousand soldiers taken from every walk of life were quartered. But
anyway it left us feeling none too comfortable, and when new couples
came to our home to live I thought it best not to tell them anything
about it. Nothing like it ever occurred here again.

About the same time came Anita Gaynor, blond, and efficient. She
said when she first arrived that her stay would have to be temporary
because she had a six months old baby at home, but her mother was
keeping little Faye so Anita could visit her husband here.

She secured a position as private secretary to a lawyer during
the vacation of his regular secretary. He told me he found her one
of the most satisfactory secretaries he ever had, but since she was
to be here only a few weeks he could keep her only during the other
girl’s vacation. I had heard my son say he needed a secretary, so I
told him about Anita. He hesitated because he felt that he would
have to train her for such a short time, but on hearing the excellent
recommendation of the lawyer, decided to give her a trial. He didn’t
have to train her! She was wonderful and the six weeks she worked
for him went by all too quickly.

But good secretary as she was, Anita did not know the first thing
about sewing. One of the sleeves of her house coat was partly ripped
out, and instead of sewing it back, she just ripped out both sleeves

and wore the coat that way.
Anita loved her husband with an almost worshipful love. She

admired everything he did or said, but the other girls, though they
liked her, thought he was conceited. They asked Anita if she and
her husband would like to go to church with them, but Anita said,
“No, he would not want to go; I wouldn’t ask him.”

One morning Mayme told me that the night before she, Irene,
Anita, and their husbands were talking together about the war and
when and how it would ever end.

“We will just have to hope and pray,” said Art.

“We can hope, but to h-- with the prayers,” said Gaynor.

“Everything got quiet,” said Mayme, “and we didn’t feel like talk-
ing any more. Pretty soon Irene and Ed went to their room, and

74

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Art and I went to ours. Mrs. Baker, you know Mr. Gaynor is an
atheist.”

Well, I don’t know whether he was an atheist or not, but that
was the impression the young folks got, and with their simple and
earnest faith, they did not like it.

We were sorry when the time came for Anita to leave. After she
went home she wrote me a nice letter asking about the girls and
asking if Egerton and George had found a secretary and if they
liked her. She said “Faye has grown a lot; is still a little red head.”

Emma Hall left in a short time for State College, Raleigh, where
she took a summer course in Draftsmanship given by the govern-
Ment, since draftsmen were so badly needed in the war work. She
had always had a talent for drawing, and this was just to her liking.
As Anita and Dorothy had just gone also, there were now several
vacant rooms, and three new couples moved in.

These were Pfc. and Mrs. Harl Payne of Bergoo, West Virginia,
Mr. and Mrs. Minton of Buffalo, New York, and Mr. and Mrs. Philip
Kelly of New York City. The Mintons and Kellys took the upstairs
rooms. Mayme and Irene were still with us. It was almost a new
household, but everybody liked everybody else, and they were just
like old friends.

Mrs. Payne was “Hulah,” and was one of the most lovable little
girls we ever had. Mrs. Minton was “Doris,” a very likable girl, and
Mrs. Kelly was “Annie,” the funniest girl in the house and the life
of the crowd.

Doris started looking for a job almost as soon as she got her
things Straight in her room, and in a few days was clerking in a
Store. She was a good clerk and continued with the store for many
Ree One afternoon her husband came in before she reached
aoe and brought a beautiful vase of gladioli and fern, a big birth-
sa cake and some ice cream. He said it was Doris’ birthday, and he
ee to give her a surprise party. We thought that was fine, and
eee and Eulah helped me get things ready. We put the ice
; se In the refrigerator, set the cake and flowers on the dining
able and got out my best china and silver.
ae Doris got home her husband proudly escorted her to the
a ze where all the young folks in the house were waiting,
Ane © began singing “Happy birthday, dear Doris.” It was the

St party we had had, though there were others later, and it was
a happy occasion.
etn Was small and only about seventeen years old, and in a
Sueee me I found that she was the busiest little thing I ever saw.

ad only recently graduated from High School, but her special

15

 
 

 

 

art was cooking, and in this she excelled. Such pies and cakes! All
of us became inspired and began to try to make some good things
like Eulah’s. I have some of her recipes now. Once when I had
guests EHulah made me a cream. custard pie, and it was delicious. She
also made lemon and chocolate pies and chocolate cakes, and she
could take a piece of pork, season it all up and roast it in the oven
with such savory odors that it was a wonder the rest of us didn’t go
in and take it away from her.

When she would have all the vegetables ready she would pull her
table out into the middle of her room, arrange the meal on it in a
most artistic way and always with a little vase of flowers in the
center, and then invite me and some of the others to come and
admire it before she called Earl in to eat.

“T know you are trying to kill him,” I told her one day. But it
didn’t seem to hurt him, and he enjoyed it and praised her until she
beamed with pride and happiness.

But cooking didn’t take all her time, and she had to be doing
something. She washed and ironed and cleaned up her room until
I was afraid her clothes and the room would be worn out. Then
she started on the rest of the house, and such a housecleaning I
never saw. Of course I was delighted and made suitable refunds on
her room rent, but she assured me that that wasn’t necessary, that
she liked to clean up.

“Why I used to keep the whole house clean at the last place we
stayed,” she said, “and the lady never paid me anything.”

She said the lady was very religious and always gave a tenth of
her income to the church. Eulah said she and Earl paid eleven
dollars a week for their room and didn’t have kitchen privileges,
besides the fact that Hulah did so much of the housecleaning. I
thought the lady would have been carrying on the Lord’s work
better if she had charged less rent and had given something more
substantial than just thanks for all that good help.

Earl was so proud of Eulah that he said to me once when I praised
her, “I know I will never go hungry and things will always be
clean where Eulah is.” But one day Eulah carried it too far. She had
gotten up at six o’clock in the morning because she had so much
to do, or thought she had. She didn’t take things calmly like Mayme,
but worked at a feverish rate, when suddenly she became very ill.
She called me and I ran to her room and found her nauseated and
almost unable to breathe. She could scarcely speak.

I was frightened and called a doctor on the phone and told him I
thought she had a heart attack. When I described symptoms he said,

76

 

 

 

 

“That girl has a nervous attack. Just give her a dose of ammonia
and she will be all right.”

It was true; she had worked herself into a nervous state. After
that I tried to keep her from doing quite so much.

Eulah had a funny way of talking, and one of her favorite ex-
pressions was a “poke full’ of something. She talked very rapidly,
which made it hard for me to understand her. One day she answered
the door bell and in a few minutes came to me and said, “There is a
colored woman at the door, but I can’t understand anything she says.”

I went to the door, and a comfortable looking country colored
woman standing there asked me in perfectly good plain Negro dialect
if we wanted to buy some “ros’in’ years.” After I bought the corn
and the woman left, Hulah said, “She talked so funny I couldn’t
understand a word.”

“Why Eulah,” I said, “I could understand her a whole lot better
than I can you.”

‘ Eulah seemed to think this was very funny and told it several
times. When Earl came home I heard her tell him about it and she
Said, “Mrs. Baker said she could understand that woman a lot better
than’she could me.”

Annie Kelly was good natured and funny. She had come straight
from the East side of New York City and was to be here as long as
her husband was located at Johnson Field, I had always heard and
Tead of the big tenement houses in New York, but this was the first
time I had ever known or talked with anyone who lived in one. She
told me something of what it was like. She said she was an orphan
and lived with her married sister, but that she didn’t like it.

“My sister has a four room apartment, and its just swarms with
roaches,” she told me. “Hivery time you open a door they race around
the floor. She uses one of the rooms just to put things in that she
doesn’t know what else to do with. When she sweeps the rest of the
apartment, she opens the door of that room and Sweeps the trash

aa She can have it; I don’t want it, and I am not going there any
re.”

“Where will you go when Philip leaves?” I asked.
I have decided to live with his people,” she said. “Of course I
know it is crowded there as they have ten children and only three
Tooms, but one more won’t make much difference, and besides, they

aun the country, and if I feel crowded there’s plenty of room out
hye

e Annie Was nice looking, well mannered, and had a low sweet
Olce. I told her that we had had another girl from New York City,

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and that their voices were exactly alike. I wasn’t prepared for her
reply.

“That is because in New York there are no drawls or peculiar
accents,” she said. That’s what she thought.

Annie was here during Florence’s visit, and since I had told
Florence about her she wanted to hear her talk. Annie warmed up
at once to the interest Florence was taking in her and confided, “I
have a perfectly awful disposition. I talk dreadfully to people.”

“Why, I think you have a very nice disposition,” said Florence,
“and Mother says you have been so sweet here in the house.”

“That is because I am on my good behavior here. You just don’t
know me like I really am.”

Philip and Annie stayed with us until the middle of the summer.
Word finally came that Philip was on the alert to be sent to a point
of embarkation for overseas, and was restricted to the camp. He
phoned Annie that she could come out to the camp, so she went out
and stayed with him several hours every day. They knew that the
summons might come at any time and they remained in a state of
suspense. The time dragged on, and one day it was so hot that Annie
phoned Philip that she would not try to came that day.

About two o’clock in the afternoon the phone rang, and Philip was
calling from the Union Station in Goldsboro. He told Annie that the
train would probably be there for awhile, and told her to call a
taxi and come to the station at once, that she might be able to get
there before the train left. She called the taxi and rushed to the
station, but arrived just after the train had pulled out.

Poor Annie! She came home in tears, blaming herself because she
did not go to the camp that day. We tried to console her; it wasn’t
her fault, we told her, she gone every day except that one.

She went to her room, packed her belongings and left on an
afternoon train for New York.

Then Doris went away. I think she hated to leave us, but it was
a long walk to and from her work, and she found a room down town.
I talked with her often when I would go into the store where she
clerked. Her room was taken by a young couple from Nebraska. I
liked them but was sorry for them because they were in such
financial straits. In about a week, however, the girl received her
allotment check, and I thought their troubles would be over.

She and her husband were delighted to have some money and
they proceeded to get rid of it as fast as possible. They took a trip to
Raleigh for the week end, and he bought her a locket and chain.
They literally “blew in” almost the entire fifty dollars in a few days,
and then were-as “broke” as ever. I decided it was not worth while

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for me to bother about feeling sorry for them any more, since that
was the way they wanted to do and were really quite happy about it.

A couple who had a six year old daughter, Shirley, moved into
Emma Hall’s room and were here for about a week. Shirley spoke
rather wistfully about her grandmother, who was so far away.

“If you would like it, ’ll be your grandmother while you are
here,” I told her.

This pleased her, and she seemed to take it as a matter of course
that I was her grandmother. One day our granddaughter, Anne, who
Was about the same age, came over to play with her. Everything
Was progressing nicely until Shirley called me “Grandma.”

Anne was indignant and maintained that I was not Shirley’s
grandmother. They came to me, each equally certain that I would
prove that she was right.

“Grandma, Shirley says you are her grandmother. You are not,
are you?” demanded Anne.

“You are my grandmother, aren’t you?” asked Shirley.

“Anne, I told Shirley I would be her grandmother while she is
here because her other grandmother is so far way,” I explained.

“Well, anyway I have three grandmothers,” said Anne.

“Have you?” I asked. “I didn’t know you had but two.”

“One is my great grandmother. She is dead,” said Anne.

The matter now being satisfactorily settled, they went back to
their play.

 
 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIII
EMMA HALL

About this time Emma Hall came home from State College for a
week-end visit and to tell us some important news. She and John
Martin were going to be married. We had known that they planned
to be married in the fall, but now John had learned that he would be
sent overseas much sooner than he had expected, so they wanted
to be married at once. Emma Hall had not finished the course at
State, but said she would go on with it after they married.

John could get only a three day pass, which was not long enough
for him to come from McDill Field, Florida, to Raleigh or Goldsboro
and return, so they decided to go to Savannah, Georgia, and be
married. I wanted to go with Emma Hall, but she is an independent
person, and she would not hear of it. They had made their own plans,
and they were going to carry them out.

I thought of the girls who had come here Way across the United
States to marry soldiers, brave independent girls. Our own child was
one of them, caught in the current of the war, and there was no use
for us to try to make plans for her. So all the family began to plan

wedding presents. We knew what she wanted was “silver in her .

pattern.”

I insisted, however, that she have her picture and a writeup in
the papers. She had some beautiful pictures made, and I sent them
with the wedding account to the Raleigh, Greensboro, and Goldsboro
papers, and all gave them prominent positions in the society section.
When she and I discussed the data for the writeup, she told me to
say that John was “chief aerial phototopographer” at McDill field.

“Emma Hall, you know there is no such thing as that! You mean
‘photographer’,” I said.

“Well, I ought to know,” she replied. “Don’t you know, Mother,
that topography is connected with maps and the lay of the land?
He goes up in planes and makes photographs and then uses. these
in making maps.”

Evidently I wasn’t the only skeptical one, for when the account
of the wedding appeared, two of the three papers said John was
“chief aerial photographer.” Only one said “Dhototopographer.”

So they were married, and John went back to the camp in Florida,

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and Emma Hall back to Raleigh, where she remained until she
finished her course and received her certificate. Then she went to
Florida where John had engaged a furnished apartment in the house
with several other young couples. She was very pleasantly situated,
and they stayed there about two months, after which John was sent
to a camp of embarkation in California. Emma Hall wrote us that
he “might be there a long time, or he might be there a short time,”
but that she and three other soldiers’ wives, whose husbands were
being sent in the same group, were going to California. One of the
girls would use her car, and the others would share expenses.

They took the trip all the way across the United States and found
a place to stay near the camp. Almost as soon as the boys arrived
they were restricted and were allowed to leave the camp only twice.
The girls were admitted to the camp each evening and could see
their husbands for about one hour in a sort of recreation room or
lounge. The husbands said they would not be allowed to tell them
when they would be leaving, but that whenever they (the girls)
came and did not find them it would mean they were gone.

Four times these young couples saw each other, but on the fifth
night the boys were not at the appointed place. I had a letter from
Emma Hall, in which she said, “Last night when we went to the
regular place at the camp, the boys did not come. We think they
have been sent away, but just in case something else might have
happened and they may still be here, we are going again tonight.
If they do not come, we will know they are gone.”

They went back the next night, but the husbands did not come.
Emma Hall did not see John again in two years.

As the girl in whose car the four had made the trip was remain-
ing in the West, Emma Hall and one other girl came home on the
train. They had to wait two weeks before they could get a reservation
on a Pullman. In a short time after she came home, our daughter
began working as a draftsman in the government ship yards in
Wilmington, a position that she held until “Johnny came marching
home.” She was like the rest, brave and ready to face whatever came.

John spent the two years in Australia and the Philippines. He was
Not supposed to be in combat, but the enemy did not want pictures
and maps to be made by Americans, and several times the plane
Was attacked and they were under fire from the enemy.

Then my brother’s son, Edward Egerton, Jr., a lieutenant in the
Army Air Corps, was sent overseas, crossing the Atlantic ocean by
airplane. The plane was forced down into the ocean, and the occu-
pants floated around in rubber boats until they were picked up.
They lost all their personal belongings, but no lives were lost.

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Three more of my nephews, Wingate Underhill, a lieutenant, and
Brantley and Frank Hicks, entered the Army. Frank spent a year
or more in the Aleutians. The war was coming closer and closer to
us. Four nephews and a son-in-law! But it had not come as close
yet as it was to come later. What we saw happening to other families
all over the country was to happen to us too.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIV
ANOTHER IRENE

We now lost Art and Mayme, who had been with us so long that
it seemed like losing our own children. Art was sent to another field,
and Mayme went home to have her baby. She was brave and looked
on the bright side of things and reminded herself that she had good
Parents and a good home to go to.

As it’ was very little out of her way she stopped for a visit of
a few days to Kate, then went on to her home near Superior,
Nebraska. She promised before she left that she wouldn’t forget
us and that she would write, and she kept her promise. We had
many nice letters from her, and she not only told us about herself
and Art, but also about Kate.

A few months after she left, the announcement came—a daughter,
Linda Marie. We sent her a little crocheted wool sack. When Mayme
wrote to thank us for it she said: “Art has completed his schooling
and is working as a first class mechanic at the National Airport near
Washington, D. C. He is trying to find a place for Linda and me to
Stay and if he succeeds, we will go there to him. He wrote that he
wished Mr. and Mrs. Baker lived in Washington, and we could make
our home with them again. We think of you so much and how nice
you were to us while we were there.”

She sent mea picture of Linda when the little girl was four months
old, and also a good kodak picture of ourselves that she had taken
while she was here, and the film from which it was made. On the back
of the picture she had written, “Taken on your thirty-third wedding
anniversary.” She remembered the date of our anniversary and on
the next one sent us an anniversary card.

The next April we had a letter written from Arlington, Va. “I
Suppose you are surprised to see from the address that we are not
far away from you. Art was sent out here on December the first, and
Linda and I came out on the twenty-fifth of January. We have a
lovely little four room government apartment. It is new and very
nice. We are very fortunate and thankful to be together and to have
our dear baby with us. Art is working in an office from eight in
the morning until five. He spends every night and Sundays with us,
and we are so happy. Linda has been a healthy baby all the time,

83

 
 

 

 

 

 

and is active and happy. We are so proud of her and enjoy her so. I
hope Art will never have to serve overseas, but one never knows.
We can only hope that our prayers will soon be answered and we
will all be living in a peaceful world. I wish so much that we could
come down to see you dear folks, since we are so near to each other.”

I wrote at once and urged them to come and pay us a visit, but
a few weeks later she wrote: “We would like so very much to come
to see you, but just can’t get away now.”

They never came. Another baby was born a few months later at
Arlington; then Art was sent overseas, and Mayme took her babies
home. She wrote: “Art was sent away on V. J. night, August 14. He
flew to California and from there flew to Okinawa.”

Nearly a year later Mayme sent snapshots of both of the children.
They were beautiful. Linda Marie was standing by a birthday cake
on which were two candles. She had blond curls like her mother.
James Richard (Jimmy) had dark hair like Art. “Art was discharged
the fourth of this month, so we really had a happy Christmas,”
Mayme wrote.

In a few days after Mayme and Art left, Sgt. and Mrs. Kenneth
Adams of Milton, Vermont, took their room. They were not sent by
the USO, and we had not even heard of them, but someone had told
them that we might have a room, and they came. They had the most
adorable five months old baby boy.

I called Irene and Eulah to meet the new girl. When she heard
the name “Irene,” she said, “My name is Irene too.” It was odd
how many times it happened that we had two or even three by the
same name at one time—three Dorothys, three Bettys, two Irenes,
and two Gladyses, also three Bobs at one time, and two of them had
babies named Bobby, and the other, a baby daughter named Barbara.

The new Irene was of French Canadian parentage and had the
beautiful maiden name, “Deranleau,” pronounced De-ron-lo. Ken
and Irene had brown eyes and dark hair, and Larry, like his parents,
had beautiful brown eyes. When they came he was dressed in a
little blue embroidered and ruffled sun-suit, and I thought I had never
seen a more beautiful baby.

Irene was so quiet and unobstrusive that it took us a week or
two to realize what a treasure we had in her. She was the most
thoughtful, unselfish girl I ever knew, always ready to do anything
she could for anyone else, but never seeming to think it worth while
for others to do anything for her. My husband often spoke of her
thoughtfulness. He said she was almost a mind reader, that if he
even started to reach for something she handed it to him. If some
one was ready to set a cooking vessel on the gas range, Irene lit

84

 

 

 

 

 

LinDA MARIE FREY

Age: 2 Years

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

the burner. Never one time in all those months did she do or say
anything that annoyed anyone, and after she went away, if we had a
particularly nice girl here and we wanted to pay her a very big
compliment, we would say, “She is almost as nice as Irene.’ Ken
and Irene lived with us for nine months, the longest of any of
the soldier couples.

The two Irenes and Eulah were congenial and happy together.
The two babies were exactly the same age and weighed exactly the
same. We had scales and weighed them often. One day Eulah and
Earl took Larry and David into the front yard and had their pictures
taken, Eulah holding one baby and Harl the other. They said they
were going to send the picture home and write their folks that
they had had twins. I have one of the snapshots now. In fact, I have
pictures of most of the roomers, and it is one of my great pleasures
to look over them. '

One day Larry became very ill. Just as soon as he would drink
his milk, it would come right back. We were frightened, and as for
Ken and Irene, they were pitiful. Ken looked at Irene and asked,
“Will he get well?”

“T think so,” said Irene, but she wasn’t sure. They had a physician
from the camp, who said it was nothing serious, and that he would
soon be over it. He did not advise any change in the baby’s formula,
but Irene did change it. She stopped the canned milk and began
giving him cow’s milk boiled, and he got well.

Larry was growing and learned to pull himself up. He had been
sleeping in a little crib that Florine had had for Anne and Little
Florence, but the sides of it were not very high, and I told Irene
that every baby that had used it had finally pulled up and fallen out.
Well, hers was one baby that did not fall out, for when she heard
that, they immediately bought a large crib with high sides. It was
hard to find things in stores at that time, and Ken bought one from
a soldier whose baby had outgrown it. He took it to pieces in the
back yard and painted it all over, and then bought a new mattress
for it.

Larry was now fixed up, but even then he had a fall, which
didn’t hurt him, but almost frightened his mother out of her wits.
Irene was lying on her bed ,and Larry was standing on the bed with
his arms over the tall footboard. Suddenly he turned a flip over the
footboard and landed on his head in his crib. Irene said she saw
him go over, and did not have time to remember that his crib was
in a position to catch him. He wasn’t hurt.

From the very first, Larry seemed to love me and would hold
out his arms whenever I entered the room. I would walk about in

86

 

 

 

the yard with him in my arms and show him the birds or one of
the many airplanes that were always flying over, and I would say,
“See, Larry, see.” These interested him very much, and he would
point up at an airplane and look at me to be sure I saw it. When he
was older, one of his first words was “See, see,” as he pointed at a
flying plane.

In the months that followed, other young people came, and Irene
always shared the new experiences and friendships with me.

 
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XV
BEULAH AND CARROLL

As soon as Annie and Lorraine moved away, the upstairs rooms
were taken by Sgi. and Mrs. Elton Reaves and Mrs. Vaughn and her
daughter, Carroll.

The Reaveses were a bride and groom of about a week. They were
good natured, but noisy and boisterous. Beulah announced soon after
her arrival that she was a tap dancer, and proceeded to prove it. She
could dance—there was no doubt about it—she was a professional,
and she had an interested audience. The other young people gazed
at her in astonishment.

When the time came for her to prepare her meals she completely
monopolized the kitchen, spreading her cooking all over the tables
and using most of the burners of the gas stove at one time. Eulah
told me privately, “I can cook with anybody in the kitchen except
Beulah.”

I had always allowed the girls to do their laundry here, but ex-
pected the boys to have theirs done at the camp or at a laundry.
However, if any girl wanted to wash a few pieces for her husband
I did not object. Sgt. Reaves came walking in one morning with a
big sack and announced that he would like to do his washing. And
he did it! I never saw one soldier have as many clothes. He hung them
on the line in the yard, more than a dozen shirts and as many pairs
of pants.

“T didn’t know soldiers had as many clothes as that,” I said to him.

“T work in the supply room,” was his reply.

“Oh!” said I.

One day, apropos of nothing, he nodded his head toward Beulah
and said to my husband, “She’s older’n I am.” Beulah paid not the
slightest attention. Another time he remarked to me that Beulah
could ride a motorcycle.

Carroll Vaughn, who was only sixteen years old, had come to
visit her sweetheart, who was located at the camp, and her mother
had come to take care of her. They seemed real sweet and nice, and
Carroll was pretty and the girls liked her, but she soon became
completely infatuated with Beulah. They went everywhere together
and did their cooking together. Their meals were noisy affairs, and

88

 

 

 

 

I was thankful that they ate out in the back yard under a tree.
While they were having one of their little picnics one day and
frolicing boisterously, the sweetheart leaned over to pick up some-
thing from the ground, and Carroll climbed up on his shoulders and
took a seat astride his neck.

“Won’t you two ever grow up?” asked her mother.

At the end of the week I happened to look out of the window,
and Set. Reaves and Beulah were putting their suit cases into a
taxi. They had not told us they were leaving.

“I wish you would look!” I said to my husband. As he reached
the window, they got into the taxi and drove away.

It was a relief! I went to their room, and I never saw such a mess.
I don’t see how in one week’s time they could have gotten things
as dirty as that if they had tried. Their unannounced departure,
however, was not rent skipping. They left on the day that their
rent ran out. Not once in the years that the camp was here did any-
one try to cheat us out of a penny of rent.

Sgt. and Mrs. Reaves had taken a room at a tourist cabin at Adams-
Ville, a village two miles out of the city and near the camp. Carroll
wanted to move out there with them, but Mrs. Vaughn wanted to
go home, but Carroll wouldn’t go. Mrs. Vaughn asked me what I
thought she ought to do. She said she felt that she ought to go
home, but that her husband would just have a fit if she left Carroll
here. I advised her not to leave her for more reasons than one, one
of which was that I was not at all willing to take the responsibility
of looking after her. She was now going to the camp, staying out
late at night, etc., but her mother had the responsibility, not I.

At the end of another week, Mrs. Vaughn and Carroll moved to
the tourist camp with the Reaveses. I did not see them any more and

. do not know how long they were here. The next two girls who took

the upstairs rooms were of a different type—just plain sweet girls
like the others who were living with us, who had come here to be
with their husbands because they loved them.

 
 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVI
MARY AND BETTY

Pfe. and Mrs. C. R. Simms of Meadow Bridge, West Virginia, en-
gaged the South room upstairs, the one recently vacated by Beulah
and her husband. They seemed to like it here, but they wanted a
downstairs room. Well, we didn’t have one, and that was that, but
the next day, instead of Pfc. and Mrs. Simms, Cpl. and Mrs. George
Finney of Caney, Kansas, came to take the room. They had exchanged
rooms with the other couple and had made financial arrangements
satisfactory to themselves. It was all right with us.

Mary Finney was pretty with brown eyes and black hair, a rather
Latin type. She seemed young, about sixteen, I thought. George, who
was about twenty-one, had curly red hair and was an instructor in
the school of airplane mechanics at the camp. They had been mat-
ried only two days before, here in Goldsboro, and Mary asked me to
write up their wedding, which I did, and we sent it to the paper
in her home town and also to our paper here. She was much pleased
with it and cut it out and saved it.

Some of the particulars of the wedding that I shall relate here
were not included in the newspaper accounts. Mary said that when
George started to the home where she was rooming it began to pour
down rain. He ran, but when he arrived his soldier’s shirt was
soaking wet. About that time the rain held up, and as it was only
about two blocks to the Methodist parsonage, they walked there. I
don’t think I ever heard of a wedding before in which the bridegroom
wore a wet shirt.

When they rang the doorbell, the minister, a kindly elderly man,
opened the door. He smiled and said, “I guess you want to change
your name.” As soon as the ceremony was over he said, “Now you
have changed your name.”

Mary was a fine little girl and one with a most interesting per-
sonality. She became a general pet and favorite in the household,
and everybody loved her. When she and George had been here about
two weeks, Pfc. Ernest Cornelius of near Cincinnati came to engage
a room for himself and his wife, Betty, who was coming to stay
during the remainder of his term at the camp. He showed us his
wife’s picture, and as she was very pretty and attractive looking,

90

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I showed the picture to the other girls, especially Mary, who I thought
would be interested because Betty would have the other upstairs
room, and I hoped the two would be good friends. But Mary didn’t
show much enthusiasm.

; In a few days Betty came. She was very pretty, though quiet and
timid. It turned out as I had hoped; she and Mary became the closest
of friends and were regular pals during the months that followed.
Some time later Mary told me she didn’t think she was going to
like Betty when she saw her picture because she was so pretty. She
thought she would be “stuck up.” The very thing that I thought
Would please was exactly what didn’t please. But it was all right
after they knew each other, and besides, Mary was pretty herself.

I always told all the young folks to read our books as much as
they pleased, and Betty availed herself of this from the first. She
read novel after novel, and meanwhile was so quiet and shy that
her real personality was kept a secret from us for a long time. One
day I asked her, “Betty, aren’t you afraid you won't have time to
finish your job before you go home.”

She looked a little puzzled at first, then smiled as my meaning
dawned upon her. “You mean read all the books?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I am afraid you might not get all of them read.”

“T have read more books since I’ve been here than I ever did in
all my life before,” she said.

The secret of Betty’s personality was that after her shyness wore
off she was the liveliest, jolliest girl in the house, the very life of
the crowd.

Mary read too, but not as much as Betty. She was like Eulah, too
energetic to keep still. She asked me once, “Mrs. Baker, do you care
if George and I clean up the attic?” It was all right with me, and
they not only cleaned up, but rearranged things until they made it
really attractive looking. She did everything she could to help me,
and I don’t see how I could have gotten along without her. She
certainly was going to see to it that I got a square deal. She told me
confidentially, “Mrs. Baker, some of the girls are using your washing
powder.”

“Well, never mind; don’t say anything about it,” I said.

“I am not going to let them do it,” said Mary. “I am going to
put it in this cabinet. When you want it, just look in there.”

When the kitchen floor had been scrubbed nicely, I found a sign
tacked on the door, which said, “Don’t come in this room before
twelve o’clock on pain of death,” and signed, “The Boss.” When
she found burnt matches lying around she put a tray in a con-
venient place and announced that anyone who left burnt matches

91

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

on the gas stove would “be shot at dawn.” When my birthday came
Mary found it out somehow and when down town and bought me a
glass fruit bowl and small bowls to match. And she didn’t forget
the date, for each year since she has sent me a birthday card.

One night some of the young folks were cooking supper, and
George said, ‘“We’d miss this garbage can if we didn’t have it,” and
threw a piece of potato peeling toward it.

“Yes, and«you missed it that time too,” said Mary. “You go and
pick up that peeling.”

Meanwhile Mary was having trouble about her coffee coupons.
George wanted coffee, but they couldn’t buy any. The soldiers were
supposed to eat at the camp, and even if allowed to take their meals

with their wives they had no ration books, and all the coffee coupons ©

had been torn out of Mary’s book. I gave her a coupon, and I think
maybe someone else let her have one.

One of the girls asked Mary why her coupons were torn out. She
replied, “Because I don’t like coffee.”

That seemed to me a very strange reason, as I had never heard
of anyone being questioned as to his likes or dislikes when ration
books were issued. One day Mary left her book lying on the kitchen
table, and one of the girls picked it up. It was made out in her
maiden name, and this is what was written on it—“Mary Ellen Hanks.
Aged fourteen years.”

So that was it! Coffee coupons were always removed from-books
of children under fifteen. And that child had come all the way to
Goldsboro from Kansas alone to marry her school boy sweetheart!
When she found out that the girls had seen her book, she owned up
that she was only fourteen. She passed her fifteenth birthday here
in our house a few months later. She said that when she asked her
father if she might come here and marry George, he said, “Yes, if
you will promise never to do it again.”

Mary told us some about her home life and her school. She said
it would get so cold there that when they went out of doors an
ordinary coat just felt like nothing at all, and that the wind blew
though it like icicles. She was very fond of her stepmother, and
said she was her stepmother’s favorite. Her older sister, she said,
was her father’s favorite. Besides the two girls, I think there were
some younger children.

Betty told something of her home life too. She teased herself about
her rather unusual name, “Bessie Elizabeth,” and said she couldn't
imagine why her father and mother gave her such a name. She said
she was called Bessie at home, but that she hated it and wanted to
be called Betty. She had a great many beautiful clothes, and whet

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I commented on it she explained that before she came here she
worked in some kind of manufacturing plant, and that every week
when she received her pay check she bought a new dress or some-
thing pretty to wear.

One morning Betty made the startling announcement that there
was a rat in her room the night before.

“You mean a mouse, don’t you, Betty?” I asked. “We don’t have
rats in the house.”

“No ma’am,” said Betty positively. “It was a rat. I heard a noise
and turned on the light and there was a rat with my box of Ex-lax
in his mouth. I paid twenty-five cents for that Ex-lax, and I wasn’t
going to let a rat have it. I jumped out of the bed and ran after him,
but he got away.” ‘

When Mr. Baker went down town that day he bought a rat trap
and we set it in Betty’s room upstairs. About eight o’clock that
night while we were in the living room I heard a yell in the back
hall. Rushing out, I found a terrified soldier standing up in a chair.

“A rat ran right by me!” he gasped.

“Well,” I said, “suppose it had been a Jap! I thought women were
supposed to be the ones afraid of rats. But Betty ran after him, and
you jumped up in a chair.”

In the night we heard the trap spring. “That’s Betty’s rat,” said
my husband. Her room was over ours, but strange to say, though
it woke us downstairs, Betty didn’t hear it in her own room. When
she waked next morning, the rat was lying dead near the trap, but
Not in it. Evidently he had tried to jump away and had been struck

on the head by the heavy spring. It really was a rat, but a very
Small one.

Sometimes I think I am growing terribly absent minded, as I
am always forgetting where I put things. The girls were a great
help to me in finding what I lost, and I often called on them to tell
me where I had left something. One morning I couldn’t find my
sugar bowl and asked, “Has anybody seen my sugar?”

“Do you mean Mr. Baker?” asked Mary.
“No, Mary,” I laughed, “I mean my sugar bowl.”

Mary and George were very affectionate, and Mary didn’t hesitate
to sit in his lap regardless of who was present. Many of the couples
at different times bestowed their caresses on each other at any time
and before any audience. Of course my husband and I did not, but
Mary pondered this over, and finally blurted out, “Mrs. Baker, I

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know I ought not to ask you this, but would you mind telling me
how long it has been since your husband kissed you?”
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” I said. “I think it has been about six hours.”
“Oh,” she gasped in surprise. “I didn’t think anybody as old as

that ever kissed his wife!”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVII
FLORENCE

Just after Mary and Betty were added to the family a new family
came, one not only of the greatest importance to my husband and
myself but who proved to be a welcome addition to the household.
They were our daughter, Florence, and her husband, Sam Watkins,
their baby, Sammy, and their little dog, Snookey.

They had been living in Durham and had a nice home there, but
Sam decided to go in business with our sons, Egerton and George,
So they moved to Goldsboro. The idea was that they would stay with
us until they could find a suitable house to rent, but a “suitable house
to rent” that wasn’t already occupied was something Goldsboro didn’t
have. After they had been here two months they bought a home but
had to wait two more months before the occupants found a place
to go.

That fall we had a happy crowd here with the exception of a few
flurries from outsiders. All the regulars were congenial and worked
and played together happily. Especially well did they get along to-
gether over their cooking all in one kitchen. One suggested that we
hang a red and green “Stop and Go” signal in the kitchen. My
sister-in-law, Mary Egerton, was visiting us one day, and she sat
for a while in the back hall where she could watch the girls going
in and out of the kitchen and moving about in the room. She laughed
and laughed and finally said, ”It reminds me of a communion service
in a Methodist church, ‘As these retire, let others come’.”

Florence and Sam kept house with my husband and me. They
brought their own electric refrigerator and set of kitchen shelves,
which proved quite an added convenience. After they went away we
bought another refrigerator, as one was certainly not enough, and
we had a set of shelves built like theirs. This gave each couple a
Separate shelf besides space in the refrigerator.

Sammy was a beautiful baby and had always been good, but when
they came he was sick with tonsilitis and felt so bad he would not
let anyone touch him except his parents. I told Florence that every
baby who came was fretful the first few days—that they didn’t under-
stand their new environment and had to become accustomed to it.
I always had to explain that to newcomers with babies, as the mothers

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Larry AND SAMMY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

would say, “I don’t understand it, he was so good at home.” The
babies may also have been tired from their long trips, but they al-
ways got over it in a few days and became their good little selves
again.

But Sammy was sick. Everybody in the house was full of sym-
pathy and wanted to help, though there wasn’t much they could do.
But with the best of medical attention he began to improve. One
day Eulah heard him cry or call out when he waked from his nap.
She went into the room, and he held out his arms to her, and she
came walking out proudly, bringing him in her arms. She was the
first one he went to voluntarily. Soon he was well again and began
to love everybody and was happy. So were we!

Snookey was a little black and white brindled bull terrier. She came
here already loving everybody, and soon found herself quite a pet.
She had a big rubber ball, and it was the joy of her life when one
of the. soldiers would play ball with her in the back yard. Sammy
was her idol, and she would stand or lie on the floor near his pen
and tremble with excitement when he would throw a ball or other
toy through the bars to her.

But Eulah didn’t enjoy Snookey! She was scared to death of her
and said she had always been afraid of dogs and just couldn’t help
it, but Snookey was so harmless and friendly I didn’t see how any-
body could mind her. Eulah was so good and kind herself that she
tried to be nice to Snookey at a distance, but one day she left the
door of her room open and Snookey innocently wandered in and
was taking a nap on the floor when Hulah entered. Hulah gave a
startled exclamation, and Snookey jumped up and started running
toward the door. When Eulah saw the dog headed right at her it
was more than she could stand. She screamed and, running into
the hall where my husband was sitting, threw her arms around his
neck. Everybody laughed and enjoyed it, but I don’t know which was
more embarrassed, Hulah or Mr. Baker.

It pleased me very much to see that the others in the house liked
Florence and Sam, and that they in turn liked the others. At night
almost everybody would cook at the same time because they wanted
to be there together, and the boys would line up around the room
to be sure they didn’t miss anything. After supper there would be a
big dishwashing, after which the young folks would play games, or
the boys would come into the living room to listen to “Gabriel
Heatter” in his regular news broadcasts about the war. Especially
interested in hearing these were Ken and Ed.

About that time I visited my sister in Louisburg for a few days,
and while there bought a good typewriter: from a man who lived in

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one of her apartments and brought it home. My husband had a
typewriter, and during the years that we had done newspaper work
he had done all the typing. I had kept thinking that some time I
would learn to type, but just kept putting it off. I had a typewriter
repair specialist to work on mine a little, and he offered me twice
the price I had paid for it, but I didn’t sell it, as now I was going
to learn to use it, and was going to learn right—the touch system. No
hunt and peck for me!

I took an instruction book that my children had used at school
and went to work. Eulah, who had taken typing in High school, was
my teacher, or at least she showed me the actual mechanical use of
a typewriter—how to use the spacer, how to make capital letters,
and how to change to the next line.

But the book’s methods seemed too slow for me. Where it said,
“Write the following exercise three times,” I wrote it only once and
went on to the next. I was determined to learn it all in a few days.
Soon I was way over in the book, but doing some awfully poor typing.
Florence, who is an expert typist, began to look over my work.

“Mother,” she said “you are not ready for this part of the book.
You must go more slowly.”

“Do you mean to say that I have got to go as slowly as the book
says and just sit there and tap tap it out?”

“That’s the only way,’ she answered.

Badly as I hated to do it, I turned myself back to the first of the
book and carefully, slowly, took it step by step, writing every exercise
as many times as the book said, and after a while I had learned the
key board and could actually write words with any letters of the
alphabet without looking at the keys.

Soon after Florence and Sam came, Ed and Irene Strunk went
home on a furlough, and we rented their room to Dennis Myers for
his wife and baby and his mother, who were to arrive that day for a
visit of about ten days.

Elaine was pretty; Mrs. Myers, Sr., was pleasant and motherly;
and the baby, Denny, was a darling child about nine months of age.
He had the most beautiful and appealing smile I ever saw, but
somehow he didn’t seem to have much appeal for Elaine. To her
he was a nuisance and nothing more. She was so impatient with him
that soon everybody in the house was mad and disgusted.

To make matters worse, when Dennis arrived his attitude was no
better. Dennis and Elaine rushed into each others arms, but when
Dennis Jooked at the baby, whom he had not seen since he was a
few days old, he remarked, “Huh, he’s got white hair!” Next morn-
ing they took Dennie into the bathroom and gave him a bath. When

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they came out I happened to be in the hall and said, ‘“He’s all clean
and sweet.”

“He’s clean,” said Dennis, “But he’s not sweet.”

We could hear Elaine in the bed room saying, “Shut up, Dennie!”
or “Cut that out, Dennie.” But outside, where there was an audience,
she would use the most beautiful and extravagant pet names for
him, such as “Bubbles,” and “Butterfly,” etc.

But there was one member of the family who loved little Dennie,
and that was his grandmother, Mrs. Myers. She was gentle, kind
and loving, and did all she could to make up to him what he missed
from his parents, but at the same time she never criticized Elaine or
Dennis or even insinuated that they were not perfect. She even told
me that she and “Lainie” always got along nicely together. She told
me that Dennie seemed like her own baby, that it seemed that he
was Dennis when he was a baby.

Dennie loved everybody, and there was something about him that
made everybody love him. Elaine was taking him through the hall
one day just as my husband passed through. With an angelic smile
Dennie held out his arms. He was irresistable, and Mr. Baker took
him and carried him out into the yard.

Elaine had some difficulty one day in getting enough milk for the
family. She needed milk for Dennie’s formula, and also for the others
to drink. She told Florence that she couldn’t get but one bottle.

“Well, anyway, you have some for the baby,” said Florence.

“No,” said Elaine, “We are going to drink this. Maybe we can get
some more for him.”

One night she told Florence laughingly, “I want to tell you the
funniest thing you ever heard of. You will kill yourself laughing. I
prepared Dennie’s formula and put it in the refrigerator in a milk
bottle, but I got the bottles mixed up and gave him our milk all day.
I didn’t find it out until tonight at supper when I poured out a glass
of milk and it was the formula.”

When Florence told me about it I said, “Yes, it is about as funny
as the Little Audrey joke, ‘When the baby fell into the river little
Audrey laughed and laughed. She knew that baby couldn’t swim’.”

Dennie was sitting in his carriage in the hall next morning drink-
ing milk from his bottle. He usually managed it very well for such a
little fellow, but this time somehow the bottle flipped and struck him
on the head. It was a hard blow and he cried terribly, and even
Elaine was frightened and took him up and tried to quiet him, but
he kept crying. Finally she became disgusted and with a “Cut that
out Dennie,” put him down and let him cry until Mrs. Myers left
the ironing she was doing and took him up.

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Mrs. Myers said that at home she clerked in a store and Elaine
did the housekeeping. She had a two weeks’ vacation, so they had
taken this time to come to see Dennis. Well, maybe it was a vacation,
but not for Mrs. Myers, only for Elaine. Every morning Elaine went
out to the camp, and Mrs. Myers stayed at home, looked after Dennie
and did the cooking and ironing. Elaine did do the washing.

Elaine ate lunch at the camp every day, and at night she and
Dennis came home’ to a good hot supper that Mrs. Myers had pre-
pared. One night they had steak and potatoes, hot biscuits, and a
delicious looking pie. When they sat down to the table Elaine re-
marked, “Well, I certainly hope that tomorrow you will have some
vegetables!”

The next evening they had vegetables in addition to the other
things. All the time Mrs. Myers was cooking she ran back and forth
to the baby, who was in his pen on the porch, and I didn’t see that
she ever got any rest.

When Elaine and Dennis came home from the camp one evening,
my husband was sitting on the front porch. They walked along from
the bus, arms around each other, and on reaching the steps, Elaine
said, “Mr. Baker, don’t you think we are an affectionate couple?”

“Oh, yes,” he replied, no other answer seeming possible.

On Sunday Dennis did not have to go to camp, so Elaine decided
to help cook dinner. Florence and I were almost through cooking
our dinner and were using all the burners on the gas stove when
Elaine walked in and said, “Can I get a burner?”

“We are just about through, Elaine,” I said, “and we will take
these things off and let you have the stove in a minute.”

She placed her arms akimbo and stood glaring at me with indigna-
tion. I didn’t say anything else, but we hurried our food off the
stove as soon as we could. All the girls had always been so sweet
and unselfish about the use of the kitchen, and I tried not to
monopolize it, but I had never had anyone to demand it before.

By this time the girls, Florence, Irene, Mary, Eulah and Betty, were
just about ready to do something to me because I didn’t ask Elaine to
leave. Florence said, “Mother, don’t you see it is making everybody
very unhappy to have her here?”

“Yes, Florence, I do, and it makes me unhappy too. But they have
only a few more days and they have nowhere else to go,” I replied.

Florence agreed that there was nothing to do but to let them
stay the few more days. Meanwhile, everybody had admired and
praised Dennie so much that Elaine began to open her eyes. “Was
he as nice as all that?”” she seemed to begin to wonder. And too, I
think she noticed the tenderness and love bestowed upon Sammy

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and Larry. I saw signs of a little more patience and kindness. She
said to me not long before they left, “I don’t know why I have such
a cute baby. I don’t think I deserve him.”

I don’t believe she had been intentionally unkind, selfish and
lazy; I think she was scarcely conscious of it. Dennis did not seem
to notice it, and appeared to be perfectly satisfied with things as they
were, and even Mrs. Myers seemed satisfied and willing to be the
family drudge. Truly, I believe Elaine’s stay here brought about
some improvement in her attitude toward her'baby and her mother-
in-law, and I surely hope it lasted.

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XVIII
CARMELA

Earl Payne was then sent to another camp, and Eulah went home.
They were a loving lovable couple, and their leaving was a sad
break in what had grown to be a happy family group, and to me it
was almost like losing my own children. Eulah’s letters were sweet
and most appreciative, and, though always bright and cheerful, they
showed an undercurrent of the sufferings and inconveniences that
the war brought to young wives. In her first letter, received Septem-
ber 6, she said:

“T arrived home Monday night at 11:00. They were ail surely glad
to see me. The buses were crowded all the way, and I couldn’t get
on the bus at Beckley, W. Va., and that made it 7:00 when I got to
Gauley Bridge, and no buses until the next morning at 8:45.

“T surely do miss you all. I had stayed so long it seemed like home.
I really appreciate the way I was treated and yours and Mr. Baker’s
kindness. I miss Earl, but I’m thankful that I have a sweet home
and friends to come back to.”

In December she wrote: “Earl was home from the 4th of December
until the 13th. He completed his gunnery school and got his wings.
They sent him to Tampa, Fla., for engineering school, and he is sup-
posed to be there until March. I may go to see him sometime in
February.

‘Ts Larry still with you? If he is I bet he has grown so much I
wouldn’t know him. I guess Florence and Sam have moved into their
new home by now. I would love to see Sammy and Larry. When I
first came home I missed the babies so much I could hardly stand
it. I'll never forget how kind and sweet you were to us while we
were there. It was just like home. The girls who are there now should
count themselves lucky, for you just can’t find many places like
your home. I’m thankful that I had the privilege to live in a home
with so many nice folks. It teaches a person a lot, and it really means
a lot to find a place like that to live.

“Since the weather has gotten so cool you can bake pies and it
won’t be so hot for you. I do a lot of baking and they all like it. I
wish I could be there to bake you a pie. We will hope and pray that

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this war won’t last much longer and maybe then we all can see

each other again. But a person doesn’t know what to do now days.

If we just put our faith in God, maybe it won’t last so much longer.
“Love,

Eulah.
“P. S. I certainly would like to see the babies.”

Exactly a year later, December, 1944, another letter came written
from her home in West Virginia. “I was with Earl in Louisiana from
February until September, but he was sent overseas September 10th.
He is somewhere in France with the 9th Air Force, the aerial
engineer on a B-26 bomber, and has completed eleven combat mis-
sions. When he completes fifty he is supposed to get to come back
to the States. We both are hoping and praying that this war will
soon end so our loved ones can come back home. I am staying with
my parents while Harl is overseas. It gets awfully lonesome at times,
but we will just have to keep our chins up.”

In that letter Hulah told me she was expecting a baby in February,
but the next spring a sad letter came in which she told me she lost
the baby, “but,” she said, “God knows best.”

Earl completed his missions and came home later in the year,
(1945).

When the Paynes went away I reported to the housing desk that
we had a room, and immediately they sent an Italian couple, Frank
and Carmela Cenami, (the C pronounced like Ch.) As soon as Carmela
began to talk I knew that we would like her. Frank was quiet and
let her do the talking.

Carmela fitted in with the other girls at once. Sammy loved her
from the first, and she really was a lot of help to Florence with him.
She was an excellent cook and knew how to prepare delicious
Italian dishes. Her spaghetti and meat balls looked so good that I
asked her to show me how to prepare the dish. She offered to cook
some for our dinner, and of course we invited her to eat dinner with
us. It was a delicious dish, and I cooked it several times myself, but
mine never was quite as good as hers. She told us that spaghetti
should never be cut with a knife, and showed us how to put the
fork down into it, twist it around and around, then take it up and
put it into the mouth without ever cutting the spaghetti.

I really learned lots of things from the girls, and they learned from
each other and from me. One girl, taught the rest of us to make
“porcupines.” You make meat balls as Carmela had shown us and
mix in some uncooked rice, then boil the balls in tomato juice until
the meat and the rice are done. The rice will swell and pop out of
the sides of the balls and look like the quills of a porcupine.

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A Polish girl taught us to prepare a very unusual and delicious
dish. Prepare balls of ground meat mixed with bread crumbs and
seasoned; roll them in cabbage leaves that have been softened in
boiling water and arrange these in a baking dish; cover with the
contents of a can of tomato juice and bake in the oven until done.

Eulah showed us how to make all kinds of pies, and Mayme Frey
taught us to cook a “boiled dinner,’ only I think it was a baked
dinner. Put a piece'of beef into a baking dish, surround it with pieces
of potato, carrots, onions, and whatever vegetables you choose, sea-
son well, add water, cover the dish and cook in the oven until well
done.

I have never considered myself much of a cook, but there were
things the girls asked me that I could give some helpful suggestions
about. My specialty was biscuits, and, as few of the girls made
biscuits, I usually made enough to pass around the crowd. The boys
especially liked them when they were hot and buttered. Mary Finney
said, “I bet Mrs. Baker has given away a thousand biscuits.” Some
of the girls asked me to show them how to make them, and they suc-
ceeded very well. But one thing they did not like was North Caro-
lina corn bread, old fashioned corn pone made with nothing but
meal and water and not ruined with eggs, milk, salt or shortening.
I think there is nothing better than collards and cornbread.

It was interesting to notice some of the differences in the dishes
cooked by girls from different parts of the country. Practically all
of the Southern girls made biscuits, but almost none of those from
the North. The Southern girls cooked grits and rice; the Northern
girls, Irish potatoes. Southern girls baked their sweet potatoes, and
the Northern ones boiled theirs.

Irene Adams was the first one I ever saw roll her pie crust on
the rolling pin after she had rolled it out, and then easily unroll it
over the pie plate. How many times I had broken mine in an attempt
to get it upon the plate! But it was not until the war was over that
I learned from a North Carolina girl that it was not necessary to use
a board for rolling out biscuits. She said her mother always used a
cloth, and I found it an easier way, but I learned from another girl
later that a piece of waxed paper is just as good and a little less
trouble.

Then we lost Ed and Irene Strunk and little David. David was the
first baby we ever had that stayed a long time, and everybody was
sorry for him to leave. I remember how Irene looked when she left.
She was wearing a pretty blue dress and a white hat, and she was
beautiful. And Ed had been so fine. I felt that no one could take
their places.

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Ed was sent to the Aviation Cadet Center at San Antonia, Texas,
and Irene and David went to her parents’ home in Dayton, Ohio.
The bright cheery letter that we received soon after she left, with
its friendly message for each one sounded just like her. “Mrs. Baker,
it was so nice living down there with you and Mr. Baker, and I want
to thank you for everything you did for us while we were there.
How is everyone? Everybody still around yet? Carmela, Mary, Betty
and Irene? Tell Irene I’ll be writing to her pretty soon.

“T hope Florence and Sam don’t have to wait so long to get into
their home. They probably won’t know what to do with so much
room after having all of us around. Hope George and Mary had a
nice trip home and back. Sorry we didn’t get to say good-bye to them.
And Carmela, does her husband know when he'll be sent out yet!
I hope he’s there for a long time yet so she can be with him.

“Hope Betty hasn’t had any more rats upstairs. Personally I don’t
care much for rats as everyone down there knows, including Ken
Adams. Are you still studying typing? Probably a real speedster at
it now.

“I imagine Sammy and Larry are bigger than ever now. David
has grown so much they must have too. David has really taken over
the household here. They think the sun rises and sets by him.

“Hid is in San Antonia, Texas at the San Antonia Aviation Cadet
Center. He says its a very nice place, so I wouldn’t mind if he was
stationed there for awhile. I’m sure we would like Texas.”

A later letter told that she and David did join Ed in Texas.

But the happy wish for Carmela that her husband would be here
for a long time did not come true. Almost immediately Frank was
sent overseas. Carmela’s first letter began “Hello Everybody,” and
told of her trip home. She said the trains were so crowded that she
had to wait eight hours in Wilson (only about thirty miles from
Goldsboro), and didn’t leave there until two o’clock in the morning.

The hardships of those trips were something that I think the girls
will not forget.

“T miss being there and hope all you girls will stay there for a
long time with your husbands,” she wrote. “Today is Friday, and I
know Betty must be happy to have Ernest with her. Sunday would
be my husband’s day off if I were there, but I will have to spend
it alone now.”

Three weeks later she wrote: “I feel so much better now that
I’ve heard from my husband. He sent me a cable that he arrived safe.
I don’t know where he is yet. I should receive mail from him this
week. I’m not working but helping my mother, but I’m going to

105

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

get a job in a defense plant in another week. I’ll do my part to help
win this war.”

January 13: “Dear Mrs. Baker: I have some bad news. My husband
was in North Africa for one month and last week I received a tele-
gram from the war department saying he was “missing in action”
since the 26th of November. I really can’t understand what could
have happened. He wrote his last letter Nov. 21st and said he wasn’t
doing anything, and as far as I know there wasn’t any action going
on. I have been heart broken. I hope to God he is safe somewhere.
The only thing that could have happened is that he must have been
sent out somewhere and got lost, or he may be a ‘prisoner of war.’

“I know you go to to church, and I hope you will say a few prayers
that he may be found safe.”

April 18: Received your letter and was going to write sooner, but
in the meantime I received a telegram from the War Department
stating that my husband “died of injuries.” He was on a troop ship
and they were attacked from the air by “30 German Bombers.”
Probably you heard in the month of February about the troop ship
that sank with 1,000 American boys missing and 1,000 saved. Well,
my dear husband was on it. He was on his way to India. Frank was
overseas only twenty-eight days.

“It’s been an awful shock to me. Guess the Lord takes all the
good boys. My husband was a wonderful husband to me.

“Will close now and write when I feel better. I have been so sick;
my nerves are very weak. Tell all the girls to write.

Your friend, Carmela.”

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XIX
JEANNE

More than a week before Ed and Irene Strunk left, a young man
of Polish parentage, Cpl. Edward Napiwocki, applied for a room for
himself, his wife, and their baby son. I told him we would have a
vacancy soon, and arranged with a neighbor to take them until they
could come here.

We were much pleased with the young man’s appearance and man-
ners, and in the meanwhile I was told by a friend who had had some
Polish young people in her home that she liked them very much.
One night the couple came over to talk with us. Mrs. Napiwocki’s
name was Jeanne, and the baby, who was eight months old, was
Edward, Jr., a fine boy with a most attractive smile. Jeanne said she
had been watching us from across the street, and that everybody
seemed to be having such a good time that she was looking forward
to the time she could move over.

Cpl. Napiwocki (“Ed,” we called him) showed an interest in our
old fashioned square piano and said that before entering the Army
he was a music teacher.

“Do you play?” I asked Jeanne.

“I play on that,” she said, nodding her head toward the typewriter.

When they left, Florence said, “Mother, we are going to like them,”
and sure enough we did. As soon as the Strunks went away they
moved in. Irene Adams was missing the other Irene badly, but she
found Jeanne so friendly and congenial that she didn’t have much
time to be lonesome. Ken and Ed became good friends too, and the
babies began to take a lively interest in each other.

While Jeanne and Irene were busy with their cooking they would
tie their sons in chairs in the kitchen, and I thought the little fellows
were very patient, since they would have much preferred to crawl
about on the floor. Sometimes they had their bottles and looked so
cute, each drinking hard at the same time.

Before Edward came I had made a pet of Larry, and whenever I
entered the room he would hold out his arms for me to take him.
Pretty soon Edward began to hold out his arms too. I loved both
and they loved each other, but they were jealous. If I took Larry,
Edward would quarrel, and if I took Edward, Larry would screw up

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his face to show his extreme displeasure. Sometimes I would take
both, one in each arm, and Jeanne would say, “Now Mrs. Baker,
you can’t do that!”

“Just for a minute, Jeanne,” I would say.

Our three little boys were the joy of the entire household, and
Florence, Irene, and Jeanne consulted each other daily as to what
kinds of food, what kinds of clothing and what kinds of training to
give them. And the girls who did not have babies hovered around,
helping wherever they could and showing the deepest concern over
these weighty matters.

It was really wonderful to see the varieties of canned baby foods
that could be bought, and I looked back to the time when my babies
were little and when I had to prepare whatever I could for them
myself, and I thought how much easier for the mothers and better
for the babies things were now.

Florence kept Sammy’s pen in the back yard in nice weather,
and he enjoyed being it it and watching older children and Snookey
and Lassie caper about. I suggested that the mothers put all the
babies into the pen together. They tried it, but in a few minutes we
found one baby standing on another’s neck. It looked terrible, but
it seemed satisfactory to them, even to the one being stood upon,
who accepted it as part of the game.

During the day the back yard was a social center, with babies
in pens and strollers, mothers sewing or talking, little dogs frisking
about, diapers flapping gaily in the breeze, and Ken, Sam, and Ed
working on their cars. Sometimes George Finney sat in a lawn
chair polishing his shoes or combing his wavy red hair. I have some
kodak pictures now of “the family” just like that. In some of the
pictures were also Anne, our oldest grandchild, and Josephine and
Dukes, children who lived next door.

At one of these times Mary went to the back door and called to
George, “Come here, Darling.”

“T’ll be there in a minute,” said Sam from where he was at work
on his car.

“You know I’m not talking to you!” retorted Mary.

All of us were interested in Jeanne’s story. Her parents were born
in Poland and still spoke the language, though her father had learned
English. Her mother refused to take the trouble to learn it. Jeanne
herself did not know a word of English when she started to school
at the age of six, but she must have been a very bright child and
must have learned readily, for she used the most correct English
of anyone in the house when she lived with us.

Her maiden name was Abremsky, and her full name was Jenina

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Wanda Abremsky Napiwocki. She said she didn’t like “Jenina,” and
called herself Jeanne, which was the nearest to it she could find.
She had studied two years in Poland, where she made a specialty
of folk dancing, that she might teach it to American children.

Ed’s parents were also natives of Poland, and he too spoke both
languages fluently. Both Jeanne and Ed, however, were born in
America. Edward was a good baby in the day time, but he gave
Jeanne a bad time at night. Sometimes he cried for two or three
hours. Ed would rock him, and I could hear him singing or humming
to him. I never hear “Merry Widow Waltz” now without thinking
of Ed. Jeanne said Ed rocked Edward so she would be sure not to
spank him.

“What does he want when he cries in the night?” I asked. “Does
he want to get in the bed with you, or to be rocked, or what?”

“No,” she said, “He wants to get up and play. He doesn’t want it
to be night at all!”

Jeanne had some very decided political ideas. When someone spoke
of Russia as an “ally,” she said, “Huh, I don’t think Russia is any
better than Germany!” Maybe she was right at that! She spoke
French well, and sometimes, she and Irene would talk in French a
little, though Irene was reticent about it, as hers was a picked up
French as the French Canadians speak it, and wasn’t very orthodox.

Jeanne seemed really distressed over the English used by some of
the girls in the house, and asked me if I thought we could say any-
thing to help them.

“I don’t know, Jeanne; you know you have to be careful about
criticising anyone’s grammar,” I replied.

But the opportunity presented itself beautifully. One day Betty
said, “She learned him how to do it,” and then corrected herself
and said, “I mean ‘she taught him’.”

‘ “T am glad you changed that, Betty,” I said. “That sounds so much
etter.”

- wish I had somebody to tell me when I say things wrong,” she
said.

“Do you really mean that?” asked Jeanne.

“Yes, I do,” replied Betty.

So then and there we organized a grammar class. Everybody was
to correct or criticise the grammar of anyone else, and there were
to be no hard feelings. Betty and Mary came in for the most correc-
tions, but they seemed to appreciate it and really were helped.

I had thought that my English was good, but now I found that
I had been using some expressions that the girls, especially J eanne,
thought rather crude. They could overlook*“you all,” since that was

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understood to be acceptable in the South, but not our use of the
word “fix,” as, “Are you fixing to wash your dishes?” or something
is “out of fix.” I told Jeanne that I had always heard this and had
never thought of it as peculiar, but that I would try to remember
not to use it any more. We never caught Jeanne but once, and that
was when she said, “I feel badly.”

I took her up on it at once, but she argued that “bad” was an
adjective and “badly” an adverb, and that she needed an adverb
to tell how she felt. My husband said I was right, and after awhile
Jeanne looked it up in an English grammar and found that we were
right.

A few days later I told the girls that I knew I was improving.

“Tast night my husband asked me, ‘Are you fixing to go to bed?’”

““No,’ I replied, ‘I am preparing to retire’.”

One day I had washed some doll dresses that belonged to Anne
and was hanging them on the line in the pack yard, when Jeanne
came out. She looked at the dresses and said, “Mrs. Baker, you are
too old for anything like that.” I found in her a kindred spirit. In
a glance a flash of understanding would pass between us over some-
thing that meant nothing to the others, and we could discuss things
like sisters.

Goldsboro people were trying to plan things to help entertain the
soldiers’ wives and even to help them find useful things to do.
Classes were held at the High School and in the Sunday School
puildings. After these classes were arranged, other people were also
invited to attend. Jeanne and I decided to join a French class that
was held at night for beginners or for those who wanted to brush up
on their French. The teacher was a native Frenchman, a soldier at
the field. I had had several years of French in college, but after all
the time that had passed I didn’t remember much of it. Jeanne had
had more and was pretty good, but thought that lessons under a
real Frenchman might improve her accent.

She left Edward with Ed, and we went. The class had been going
on for a few nights, but we found that we were almost the only ones
in it who had ever taken French. The teacher’s accent was all right,
put he wasn’t much of a teacher. Just being a Frenchman doesn’t
mean being a teacher, and this soldier didn’t know how to go about
it. It was so elementary and so slow that Jeanne and I decided not
to go any more.

Then I heard of another course that was being offered that I knew
would be much more valuable to me if they would allow me to take
it. Soldiers’ wives were invited to take typing at the high school.
Jeanne didn’t need this, as she was already an experienced typist, but

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I eagerly telephoned the principal and asked if other adults were
included in this invitation.

“Yes, Mrs. Baker, come on. We will be glad to have you,” he said.

So I started to school again, and entered the Freshman class. In
this class were many girls and boys whom I had taught in Sunday
School and others I had coached in Latin. There were also soliders’
wives who had come to brush up on their typing.

Florence and Jeanne would often ask me how I was doing in the
class.

“I am improving in the speed tests,” I said. “Today I made much
nearer zero than any time before.”

Soon I not only got up to “zero,” but began to climb until I actually
became a member of the upper section of the class. I continued with
the class for several months until I could type well enough to do.

Another class, or perhaps I might call it another convenience,
arranged for the girls was sewing at the USO. They could take ma-
terial there and receive instructions or help in cutting, fitting and
making dresses or other garments. Use of the sewing machines and
instruction in sewing were free to the war wives, and several of
our girls gladly availed themselves of this privilege.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XX
MIRIAM AND JULIA

Lieutenant and Mrs. Royce Bryant were the next applicants, and
they took the room that Frank and Carmela had had. Miriam had
blue eyes and fair hair and she was quiet and gentle. The fact that
she was a college graduate and an officer’s wife did not seem to
make her conceited. The girls didn’t care anything about her being
a college graduate; so were some others—but an officer's wife! I had
not even thought of that when we let them have the room, and it
certainly made no difference to us. Two of my nephews were officers,
and the other two were enlisted men, and it was all the same to us,
but with the girls it seemed to make a great deal of difference.

One thing that made it worse was that Miriam did not take
kitchen privileges and missed the social atmosphere of the kitchen,
and the girls hardly knew her. She ate downtown with her husband,
or when he was not here, with one or two lieutenant’s wives with
whom she had made friends and whom our girls did not know.
When she was here she wrote letters or read in her room. Florence
and I tried‘to get her into the crowd, but she sensed their feeling
and kept to herself, though we found her sweet and friendly when
we talked to her.

One night the young folks were sitting around a table playing
some kind of game. Florence and Sam had gone to their room. When
I entered I saw that an argument was going on. Mary and George
laid the matter before me at once. They said Miriam was in her
room alone, and they thought they ought to ask her to come in and
play the game with them. The others disagreed, and one girl said,
“My husband told me not to have anything to do with her because
she thinks she is better than we are.”

“JT don’t think so,” I said. “You all were here first, and you are
the ones to make the advances. I think Miriam is lonesome and home-
sick and not ‘stuck up’ at all.”

With my influence added to Mary’s and George’s, the others gave
in, and Mary was delegated to go and invite Miriam in. She found
her lying on the bed, lonesome and with nothing to do. When Mary
asked her to come and play with them, she gladly accepted.

The next day the girls admitted that Miriam was “real nice” and

112

 

 

 

 

that they liked her. One of them asked her to go down town with
her, and she went. For the rest of her stay, which wasn’t long, the
girls were friendly, and everything went on beautifully. Miriam told
me she had decided to take kitchen privileges and would like to
begin the next week, but before the next week came the government
had sent Royce to another field, and of course Miriam went with him.
I had an appreciative letter from her after she arrived at her new
destination.

Therg was something interesting connected with her home life
that she told me while she was here. Miriam was an only child and
grew up, went to college, graduated, and got married. Then her
parents had another baby! There never were but these two. Miriam
said, “I am nineteen years old, and my sister is not a year old yet.”

Before they left, Betty and Ernest Cornelius went home for a
week, and Hiram and Julia Bennett took their room for the week.
Julia was small and dark haired and lovable, and we told Hiram we
thought she was a fine girl.

“Yes she is, that’s why I married her,” he said.

As for Julia, she thought Hiram was the greatest, the most
wonderful and the wisest of human beings. He was the son of an
Episcopal minister and had been to college two years and planned
to finish his education after the war. He was good natured, and my
husband and I liked him. He would come into the living room and
select books of poems to take to his room, his favorite being Shake-
speare. He astounded the other young folks with the poetry he could
recite.

Betty and Ernest came back about the time Miriam and Royce
left, so Julia and Hiram took the room vacated by the latter couple.
Then Julia became very sick, had a hot fever and was nauseated.
We called our family physician, who said she had an acute kidney
condition. He prescribed for her and told me what to do for her. I
was quite busy preparing her meals, nursing her, and doing my
housekeeping and newspaper work.

Someone called me to the telephone, and I hurried up the hall,
tripped over a suit case that one of the boys had left there, and fell
with almost my entire weight on one knee. I think it fractured the
knee cap, as it was several months before I really recovered from it.

This made it necessary for something to be done about my patient,
so I phoned the hospital at the camp and asked if Miriam could be
taken there. They told me she could not, but that they would send a
doctor to see her. I thought this would be a good idea, as it would save
them a bill, but when the doctor arrived and learned that they had
had a civilian physician, he was very angry.

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“That’s the way they do,” he said to me. “They get a civilian doctor,
and then when they get in trouble they send for one of us. It cer-
tainly isn’t very complimentary.”

I assured him that it was all my fault, that I didn’t know the
wives of soldiers could have the services of an army physician until
I phoned the hospital, and that it was I who had suggested the name
of a civilian doctor.

This mollified him somewhat, but I found later that every time
a physician came from the camp to see anyone here, he had some
reason to be angry. One reprimanded me severely because I didn’t
phone him in the night when one of the boys was sick. I told him
I didn’t know it myself until morning, and then I did call him. Then
Mary had “flu,” and we called a camp doctor. But Mary had her
own ideas as to how a doctor should be received. When I told her
he had been called, she got up, put on her best dress, curled her
hair and rouged her face, and when he arrived she was in the living
room waiting for him. He told her that if she was well enough to
be sitting up dressed she was well enough to come out to the clinic
at the hospital for treatment.

Well, Julia couldn’t go to the hospital, but she was so sweet and
appreciative that all of us were glad to do all we could for her.

By the time she was well, Hiram had secured an apartment at
the War Housing Project. They wanted a two room furnished apart-
ment but had to take a three room unfurnished one. In the kitchen
was a cook stove and an ice box, and in the living room was a coal
heater. They bought a bed and some cooking utensils, and nothing
else. Hiram said he would get some orange crates and boxes and
use them for tables and chairs. I didn’t blame them, for the length
of a soldier’s stay was always uncertain, and I had known of numer-
ous couples who furnished their apartments, then had to sell every-
thing at a sacrifice in a short time.

They put the bed near the stove in the living room so they would
not need many blankets, and piled the kindling wood in the bed
room. Hiram bought a load of coal, but could not get it hauled nearer
their apartment than across the street, and he had to take it over in

a wheelbarrow that he borrowed. I lent them some blankets until

they could buy some. These they carefully returned. Several times
we lent something to some soldier or soldier’s wife. and they always
returned it in good condition.

Once a couple with a baby came here to ask for a room. I did not
have one, but phoned around until I found a place for them. The
landlady said she could not give kitchen privileges, but that if they
could get an electric hot plate they might use it in their room to

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heat the baby’s milk. I told them I would lend them a hot plate, which
they gratefully accepted. I had never seem them before and did
not even know their names. Several months later, after I had for-
gotten all about it, I came home one day from a trip down town,
and one of the roomers told me a soldier had brought home my hot
plate and had left a dollar and a half to pay for the use of it. He said
they were leaving Goldsboro and he wanted to thank me for letting
them use it. If I had been at home I would not have let him pay for
it, but he was gone when I came back.

Julia and Hiram did not stay long at the Housing Project before
Hiram was ordered to another camp. I was sorry for them to go
away, for my husband and I were very fond of them. When Christ-
mas came they sent us a post card with their picture on it. It was
a good picture, and I have it in my little treasure box with the many
others our boys and girls have given us.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXI
THE KATZENJAMMER KIDS

Time moved on, happily for the most part, for our regular “family”
that fall. The school of mechanics continued until spring, and as
most of our boys were instructors, and Ken was with the maintenance
department, there was not much danger of their being sent away.

The babies were growing and kept us entertained with their antics.
One day Irene brought Larry to the living room door and said, “Mrs.
Baker, Look.”

I was horrified. His face was spattered with something red—blood,
I thought. But the smile on Irene’s face told me it was nothing serious.

“What on earth is it?” I asked.

“Beets,” replied Irene. “Just as I started to put a spoonful into
his mouth he gave the spoon a slap and knocked it all over his face.”

Edward began to learn to walk. We couldn’t keep from laughing,
but the little fellow had a hard time. He would take a few steps, then
sit down hard. He sat so often and so hard that I thought I would
help him. I tied a sofa pillow to the back of him in the right loca-
tion for him to sit on it when he came down. But somebody suggested
that it might not be a good idea, for he would expect a soft seat when
he came down. Anyway he learned to walk without breaking any
bones.

He would walk about the kitchen, while Larry, still tied in a chair,
watched him. One day Larry was drinking milk from his bottle, and
Edward walked up, took the bottle from him and turned it up to his
mouth. Larry screwed up his face with that characteristic little ex-
pression that he used when he wished to show displeasure, but did
not make a sound. Jeanne, who was busily preparing a bottle for
Edward, turned around in time to see him scampering off with
Larry’s and Larry in great distress. A satisfactory adjustment was
made as quickly as possible.

Then Larry began to walk. At first he held to chairs or his
mother’s finger, but finally learned to take steps alone. One warm
fall day we found the kitchen sink stopped up. A plumber was called,
who, upon examination of the trouble, found that he would have to
dig in the ground in the back yard to unstop the pipe. He made a
hole in the ground and poked a stick into the pipe, but the water

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THE FAMILY

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

from the sink did not run off, but simply filled the hole in the yard.
The plumber went off for a steel cable to run into the opening.

Meanwhile Ken was working on something in the back yard, and
Larry was with him. Others were busy about different tasks or
games. I don’t know whether Ken forgot Larry was there or whether
he left him with someone else while he went into the house for a
minute, but anyway for almost the only time in his life Larry was
not being watched, and he made the most of his freedom.

He ventured near the inviting looking pool of water and decided
to go wading. In he went and liked it so well that he sat down. The
dirty water came up to his armpits, and there he sat until someone
looked around and saw him. What a shriek went up! Everybody
started running, but Ken reached him first. I shall never forget how
Larry looked when he was lifted out of that pond. His clothes were
dripping wet and greasy from the accumulated dish water, and his
shoes and seat were covered with oozy mud. Irene thought he was
ruined and was sure she was too.

But a good bath did wonders for him. How to get his clothes clean
was the hardest problem, for even his little shoes had to be immersed
and scrubbed. They looked cute, though, hanging on the clothes
line after they were clean.

The people who had been living in the house Sam and Florence
had bought at last found a place they could move to, so Sam, Florence,
and Sammy left us. It had certainly been a pleasure to us to have
them with us, but they were not leaving Goldsboro, and we could see
them practically every day. Their furniture had been stored in the
attic of their house for months, and we knew they did want to get
back into a home of their own.

Like everybody else, they rented their spare bed rooms to war
couples, and they had some very nice young people in their home.
One girl, Barbara, had been a member of the National Red Cross
committee. Florence liked her so much that she told me she didn’t
want Barbara ever to go away. Another was a little country girl
named Susie. Barbara was as nice to Susie as if she were her lifelong
friend, and treated her like her own little sister.

Jeanne and Ed moved into the room Florence and Sam had oc-
cupied. This was an excellent arrangement, for only the little bath
room separated this room from Irene’s, and one girl could keep both
babies while the other was busy hanging out her clothes in the yard
or something else that had to be done. If the bathroom doors were
open the babies could go through and visit each other, and the two
were devoted friends. When someone spoke of the two little boys

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playing so happily together, Jeanne said, “Yes, but no more so than
those two little boys out in the yard.”

I looked out of the window and saw Ed and Ken working busily
and happily together on some project.

Edward and Larry finally won for themselves the name, “Katzen-
jammer Kids,” and they were just about living up to the name. They
would scamper up and down the hall, take the brass umbrella pans
out of the old fashioned hat rack and roll them about. They would
race back to the kitchen and try to find something to get into, and
their mothers would run about distractedly after them.

Once both “kids” went into the bath room, and each mother
thought they were in the other room. This gave them an opportunity
to examine that interesting and mysterious piece of bath room
furniture that always held water and that had a little handle that
could be pulled and more water would come swooshing through in
a most delightful manner. They had a great time dipping their hands
and arms in until their sleeves were soaked up above the elbows.
And when Irene found them they were loath to give up such a
pleasant and unusual form of recreation.

The fireplace in Jeanne’s room had been opened, since there had
been some cool fall mornings that made a fire seem necessary, but
on one warm day when there had been no fire, Jeanne stepped into
the hall and left the “Katzenjammers” alone for a minute. The golden
opportunity that Edward had been longing for had come, and he
hurried to the grate and reached in, rubbing his hands in the soft
black soot in the back of the fireplace and in the chimney throat.
Larry joined him, and when Jeanne returned, not only were their
hands black and smutty, but the soot was all over their faces and
clothes. “Never a dull moment,” said Jeanne.

Larry made a discovery in the kitchen that pleased him greatly.
Somebody had a sugar bowl on one of the lower shelves, and he
would stick his finger in it and come away sucking it. He carried
this on for some time before anyone realized what he was doing,
and if he hadn’t started going to the shelf so often he might not have
been caught. Sometimes he or Edward would pull the canned goods
off the shelves and roll them about the floor. Their mothers placed
chairs in front of the shelves, but Larry could reach through the
chair rounds and stick his finger into the sugar bowl.

But there was one thing that disturbed Larry, and, though I
explained it to him as well as I could, he still worried over it. It
was a hole I had cut in the side of an old shoe to wear about the
house because I had a corn. Larry would stoop down, put his finger
on the cut place in the shoe, then look up at me and with the utmost

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concern and say something like “Eh! Eh!” In vain did I explain,
“Grandma’s foot hurts. She cut that shoe so her foot wouldn’t hurt.”
The expression on his face was as if he wanted to say, “Well, I think
it is terrible and I can’t understand it.”

Edward was quite literary and wanted to be read to. I would take
him on my lap and ‘show him pictures and tell him about them,
pointing at each picture as I read or explained. When I would stop
he would reach out for my hand, get my finger and point it at the
picture as if to say, “Go on, I want to hear the rest of it.”

The babies were now saying a few words, as “Daddy,” “Mother,”
“Bye-bye” or See!” However, they plainly understood anything that
‘was said to them. Edward had to learn two languages, since Jeanne
and Ed talked to him in Polish so he would be able to understand
his grandmother when he went home, and the rest of us, of course,
spoke in English, but he understood both. Larry, too, was learning
Polish as well as English, and the rest of us began to learn it. If
we said, “Huch, Edger, huch too,” both would come running. But
if we said, “Nie ruszaj,” (pronounced nee-eh roosh-eye) they would
stop quickly and run away from whatever they were meddling with.
“Bdger” was the pet name by which his parents called Edward.
Jeanne said it was the Polish diminutive for “Edward,” as we in
English might call him “Eddie.”

“tuch,” by the way, should be spelled c-h-o-c, but I couldn’t see
how to get “huch” out of that, especially as Jeanne said every word
in Polish was spelled exactly as it sounded. “Nie ruszaj” means “Do
not touch. ”When I said this to Edward and Larry, Ed said, “Mrs.
Baker, you speak Polish with a Southern accent.”

Even Mary began speaking Polish, and would say to one of the
babies, “Die Boo Jee,” which should be spelled d-a-j b-u-z-i, and means
“Give me a kiss.”

When Jeanne spoke of me to the babies, she called me “Babci,”
which means “Grandmother,” and is pronounced “Bobchee.” How
“Babci” did love those little Katzenjammers!

Edward had a real “Babci” at home who sent him the most
marvelous boxes of clothes. She sewed beautifully and loved to do it.
I could imagine what she would have made for him if he had been
a girl! One box contained a grey wood suit, coat, pants and matching
cap, a black velvet suit with Eton jacket, matching hat and white
gilk blouse, and a Peter Pan suit of brown and white checked silk.
They were lovely, but Ed wouldn’t let Edward wear the brown silk
suit because there were ruffles around the collar and down each
side of the front pleat of the blouse.

One Sunday it was the time for my circle of the Woman’s Society

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of Christian Service to serve dinner to the soldiers and their wives
in the dining room of the Education building of the church. This was
done by some circle every Sunday after church, and there was a
large crowd every time. I invited all the girls and boys at our house
to come to the dinner, but Mary and George, Betty and Ernest were
too shy to accept. Ed, Jeanne, Ken and Irene decided to go. Both
couples were Catholic, but denomination made no difference. They
took the babies, as I had told them to be sure to do.

I had a table all ready for them, and we had a really good dinner.
I was the “Baker” in name and reality, for I baked one hundred and
ninety biscuits that morning. Someone else made the biscuits and
brought the pans to me as fast as they could, while I baked four
racks at a time, two in each of the gas ranges, and burned only one
pan of the whole batch.

When “my folks” came in, I was through baking, and gave them
my undivided attention. I took the babies, one at a time, over to the
other tables and showed them off. They behaved like little angels,
and beautiful little angels at that. Larry had on a darling little blue
suit, and Edward wore his new black velvet. Then I took some of
the ladies to the table and introduced my young people to them. I
was indeed proud of them, and I think they enjoyed the occasion.
The ladies congratulated me on having such nice young people in
my home.

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXII
DAUGHTER OF THE WHITE HOUSE

Jeanne and Ed had moved into Florence’s room, and Betty and
Ernest, downstairs into Barbara’s, thus leaving two vacant rooms.
Also the girls who had their groceries on the lower shelves in the
kitchen moved up, leaving the lower shelves for the less fortunate
newcomers. We now had no outsiders—only our “family.”

One bright sunny day the girls called my husband and me and
said they wanted to take some pictures of all of us together. We went
out and, seeing a neighbor in her yard, asked her if she would snap
the pictures so we could get our entire household together. They put
us in the center. Around us in family groups were Ken, Irene and
Larry, Ed, Jeanne and Edward, George and Mary, and Ernest and
Betty. They had prints made for each couple and one for Florence
and Sam. I have one now, and it is one of the best in my collection.
I call it “Our Family.”

This peaceful condition was not to last long, and in a few days
two new couples arrived, destined, however, not to stay long. There
were two more babies, a four months old boy, Timmy, and a three
months old girl, Judy. My husband wanted to know why the four
babies were usually kept in the back yard instead of in the front.

“Tf they would play in the front yard, people who passed by could
see them,” he said.

“Qh, you want everybody to think all of them are your grand-

children,” I retorted.
Judy had dainty little handmade dresses, and Judy’s mother had

a knack for making things look pretty. She asked for material and
made pink swiss curtains for her room, put a matching vallance
around the dresser, and even ruffled the chairs. She gave Timmy
several embroidered sunsuits she had made for Judy, thinking
Judy was going to be a boy.

Timmy’s poor little mother didn’t know how to make anything
or even how to prepare her baby’s formula or sterilize his bottles
properly, though I think she learned much from the others while
she was here.

But it wasn’t Timmy’s mother we objected to; it was his father.
He was rough and uncouth and not kind to his wife. She told the

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girls that he always borrowed her allotment money as soon as she
got it and gambled it away or drank it up.

“T sometimes wonder why I married him,” she said, “but I thought
I loved him when I married him.”

But the girls were not afraid of him. They told him he ought
to be ashamed to talk to his wife as he did. It must have done some
good, for one night while she was cooking supper he started to
criticize her, and then stopped suddenly and said, “No, I didn’t mean
to say anything like that again.”

A beautiful girl came one day looking for a room. I was sorry we
could not take her, and phoned Florence, but she, too, had all her
rooms filled. I invited the girl to come in and sit with us in the
living room. Perhaps she was tired or perhaps she was lonesome and
wanted someone to talk to, for she came in, though I had told her
in the beginning that there was “no room in the inn.”

T liked her, and she must have enjoyed her visit, as she stayed an
hour or more. We talked on various subjects, and, since I was in-
terested in working on my family records when she came, the
Subject drifted in that direction.

She said she too was interested in family records, especially since
her great grandfather was president of the United States. Of course
I began to ask questions. She said that her grandfather, son of
President Andrew Jackson, died young, leaving his widow and
Several small children. Mrs. Jackson married again, this time to a
Mr. Jenson. Unfortunately they changed the children’s name to
Jenson. One of these children was this girl’s father.*

“My maiden name was Jenson, but it ought to have been Jackson,”
she said.

I do not know where she found a room, but I was sorry she could
not come here, not because she was the great granddaughter of a
president, but because she was lovely and I liked her, and because she
needed a room. The daughter of the White House and the daughter of
the slums trod the same streets looking for a place to stay so they
could be near their husbands.

When Timmy and his parents left I phoned the USO that we had
a room, so, as usual, it wasn’t long before they sent a solider’s wife
to see it. But such a soldier’s wife! She wasn’t the president’s grand-
daughter, but she was a captain’s wife, which she probably thought
Was more important. She was about forty-five years old and intro-

——__

*According to history, President Jackson had no children, but this girl’s grand-
father probably was the foster son, nephew of Mrs. Jackson, whom the president
and his wife are said to have reared as their own child.

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duced herself as Mrs. Harrison, wife of Captain Harrison. She was
haughty and had a superior air, (she thought) and was clearly very
certain that we would be most anxious to have her.

I showed her the room, which really was quite comfortable. She
looked around disdainfully and remarked in an aggrieved tone, “Not
even a wash basin!”

“Qh, T’ll give you a wash basin if you want it,” said I, though I
knew she meant running water.

Then I showed her the bathroom.

“Will others have to use this besides me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “we have only two bathrooms.”

This seemed to be the most unbearable thing she had ever heard
of, and she looked so unhappy over it that I said, “You may not like
it here. Perhaps you can find a room somewhere that you will like
better.”

“That’s just the trouble,” she said. “T can’t get another room.”

She then asked if she might use the telephone.

“Of course,” said I, and we went back to the living room.

She called the hotel and asked if she might be allowed to keep the
room she had there. They refused, saying that, as they had already
told her, the room was engaged in advance by someone else, and
that they had no other vacancy. She had no alternative but to take
ours (she thought.) She looked at the fire, which was burning
brightly in the grate, and asked. “Is that the only way my room
would be heated?”

I told her it was.

“you don’t mean I would have to bring in the coal and keep up the
fire myself, do you?”

“Yes, unless your husband will do it for you,” I said.

“T have arthritis,” she began.

By this time if I didn’t have arthritis I had something, and I saw
that my husband couldn’t stand much more.

“T don’t think we could make you comfortable here, and I would
rather you would get a room somewhere else,” I said.

She looked at me in amazement. Could it be that she was hearing
right? Could anyone hesitate to want her as a roomer?

“Do you mean that you will not let me have the room?” she asked.

“tT mean that I had rather you would get one somewhere else,”
I replied.

She started toward the door, and I accompanied her to the outside
door, politely holding it open for her. After she was on the porch,
ghe turned back to me and said, “After all it is owr husbands and
sons who are winning the war for you!”

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I did not take the trouble to tell her that I had four nephews and
numerous cousins in the service, and that our own son was soon to go.

When I went back to my girls, they were looking very serious.
They had seen us when I took the lady to the bed room and bath-
room and feared that I had rented the room ito her.

“Who was that sour puss?” demanded Mary.

Jeanne and Betty looked at me anxiously.

“She is someone who will never bother you,” I said.

Then I told them the whole story and all the conversation. They
ere y. enjoyed it, especially my reply to the question about the
coal.

Later I learned that the Captain’s wife had found a room at a large
rooming house in the city. I hope they had steam heat, “wash basins,”
and whatever “Mrs. Captain,” as the girls called her, wanted.

Those who had come to live with us had been so appreciative and
so glad to get rooms that this woman’s attitude certainly was not
pleasing to me, and at a time when it was so hard to find a place to
stay, I didn’t think she was very wise. I have wondered since then
if she learned a lesson and used different tactics next time.

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

. CHAPTER XXIII
HAZEL, MILLIE, AND GWEN

Not long before Christmas we lost part of our “family.” Ernest
was sent away, and Betty went home. Everybody was grieved, and
Mary was heartbroken. After they drove off in the taxi, I turned to
Jeanne and said, “That’s the way it is. They stay here until I think
they are my own children; then they go away and I will probably
never see them again.”

“So you can’t take it, Mrs. Baker,” said Jeanne.

“No, I can’t take it, if you want to put it that way,” I replied.

Betty wrote me a card as soon as she reached her home in Cincin-
nati, and immediately after Christmas we received a letter from her,
in which she said that Ernest left for California on Christmas Day,
and that since he expected to be there only a short time she did not
go with him. Later, however, he was stationed in Washington state,
and Betty went up there for several months.

As Christmas approached, the USO was so swamped with applica-
tions for rooms that they sent out requests through the paper for
every available room in the city. One request said, “If you have any
little nook such as the end of a hall that might be curtained off,
please let us have that.

Raymond Lawrence engaged the room that Betty and Ernest had
vacated for himself, his wife, and baby. The sleeping porch and the
east upstairs room were engaged by other couples. Our other rooms
were already occupied.

When Mrs. Lawrence arrived, she was accompanied by another
young woman, who came in with the Lawrence baby in her arms.
Young Lawrence introduced his wife, who in turn introduced the
other girl as “my nurse girl,” Mrs. Hillis.

I thought that was a joke, and took them all to the room that
had been reserved for the Lawrences. Mrs. Lawrence’s name was
Hazel, and Mrs. Ellis’ was Millie. Millie’s husband, Chester Ellis, was
also a soldier at the camp. I told her that I had no vacant bed except
the day bed in the living room, and that she and her husband might
sleep there if they could not find something better. She was glad to
have it, and as soon as her husband came told him, “Mrs. Baker has
a place we can stay.”

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Pvt. Ellis was greatly relieved, for he had not been able to find
any possible place. Millie certainly had taken a risk to come here
without a reservation at a time like that.

Soon after they arrived they asked about the best place to buy
groceries. I told them of the stores downtown and added that there
was a grocery store just two blocks down the street that they would
find convenient. Hazel asked me if she might leave the baby with
me while they went to get something to eat. I agreed, thinking they
were going to the corner grocery and would be back in a few minutes.
They left, and I didn’t see them again for over three hours.

My own girls, Jeanne and Irene, never left their babies with me
for more than a few minutes at a time. Even Florence didn’t think it
should be the nurse for Sammy, my own grandchild; but these people
whom I had never seen until that day, left me their baby for nearly
half a day.

As Hazel was going out she said, “If he wakes before we get back,
just give him this bottle.” Well, he waked! I gave him the bottle; I
changed him and bathed him; I rocked him; I did everything I could

‘think of for him, but he didn’t like me very well, and too, perhaps

the little fellow was tired from his long ride, and he fretted and cried.

The time dragged along. It was time for me to prepare supper,
my husband got his own supper. It was time for me to eat supper;
I didn’t eat any. It was time for me to write my news letters; and
by this time, Irene, having given her family their supper and put
Larry to bed, came to my rescue. Dear sweet Irene! Wherever she
was needed, she filled in. I gave the baby over to her, snatched a
biscuit, and went to my writing, but I knew that was the last time
Hazel was going to leave her baby with me.

The next day I noticed that Millie was caring for the baby, pre-
paring his formulas under Hazel’s preemptory directions, and wait-
ing on her generally. Hazel had meant it when she said Millie was
her nurse girl! I thought that made her introduction of Millie much
More unkind.

Mary complained to me about Hazel’s “bossing” Millie so much.
She said, “Mrs. Baker, Millie waits on her just like she was her
servant.”

“Mary, Hazel pays Millie to help'her with the baby, and I think
she also buys the groceries,” I told her.

“Well, she ought to!” said Mary, but she felt better about it.

Whenever a new girl arrived she would be so tired and be-
draggled after her long trip on a day coach that she wanted to
go right to bed. Several hours later when she got up and dressed I
would be surprised to find that she was a very pretty and attractive

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girl. One girl arrived looking like she was half dead. She had traveled
three days and nights on a day coach, and when she got here she
didn’t even call her husband; she just went to bed and slept for
hours. When she awaked about night, she said that nap was worth
ten dollars. Then she dressed up and phoned her husband that
she was here.

Gwen Arnold arrived at six o’clock in the morning. I gave her
breakfast and then took her to her little room upstairs. Gwen was
one of the most lovable, unselfish girls we ever had. From the time
she arrived until she left, she did something for somebody. Her
coming was the finest thing that could have happened for Mary, who
was missing Betty sadly. Gwen brightened Mary up until she was
like her old self again. The other new girls were just visitors in the
house, but Gwen was one of us, and she stands out in my memory
as one of our dearest girls.

Hazel Lawrence did not fail to make the most of Gwen’s un-
selfishness, and pretty soon Gwen found herself taking care of little
Ray while Hazel and Millie went to the moving pictures or any-
where they wanted to go. I told Gwen of my experience and warned
her to look out for herself.

My girls, especially Mary, were very much interested in having
a Christmas tree, not a tiny artificial one, but a big real Christmas
tree. I told them we would pay for the tree if they would decorate
it. This they were glad to do, so Mary and I went down town,
selected a tree and had it sent up. We put it up in the front hall,
and Jeanne, Irene, Mary and Gwen went to work on it. It was almost
impossible to buy decorations that winter, but the girls made gorge-
ous paper chains and popped corn on the kitchen stove and made
long strings of it. I got out last year’s tinsel and Christmas tree
decorations, and when the tree was finished it was a thing of beauty.
Mary built a log cabin of sticks of candy from a box we had gotten
from our sons’ store. Then the presents were put on and under the
tree, and I added a rattle for little Ray. I had insisted that the
presents should be simple and inexpensive, and this met with general
approval.

A big Christmas dinner was being planned for the boys at the
camp, and each was allowed to bring his wife for a nominal price.
The soldiers, of course, did not have to pay for their own dinner, and
all our young folks were planning to go. As for my husband and
me, we were interested in preparations for having all our children
and grandchildren to take dinner with us.

A day or so before Christmas I heard Millie say to Hazel, “Don’t
you think we had better buy a chicken for supper Christmas night?”

128

 

 

 

 

Hazel replied in her usual dictatorial manner, “Certainly not. We
are going to pay for a big Christmas dinner. We do not need two
big meals the same day. We have to have some regard for economy.”

Millie said no more. She always gave in pleasantly and with no
argument. I liked her and felt sorry for her. It certainly must be
unpleasant to be dependent on anybody like Hazel, I thought.

Then Gwen told me that Hazel had asked her to keep her baby
on Christmas Day so she and Millie could go to the camp and have
dinner with their husbands, and Gwen had told her that she would.

“Hadn’t you intended to go to the dinner with Harlan?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, almost in tears, “But what could I do when she
asked me?”

I was indignant: “You can tell her you had made plans to go your-
self,” I said.

I reminded her that she had come here to spend a short time with
her husband, and that it would not be right to treat him so, besides
that there was no reason for her to give up her pleasure for a
girl whom she had never seen until a few days before, and who
obviously was using her for her own selfish pleasure.

Gwen wanted terribly to go to that big dinner with her husband,
but had thought it would be selfish. Now she felt relieved when she
learned that I thought she owed it to him to go, so she told Hazel
that she was sorry she couldn’t keep the baby, as her husband
wanted her to go with him.

Hazel then asked me to keep the baby, but I told her I had my
hands full preparing dinner for all our family. I was sorry for Millie,
for now I thought she would have to stay at home with Ray, but
Millie fooled me. That was one time, nurse girl or not, that she
showed some spunk. She went to the dinner, and Hazel and her
husband stayed at home and ate bacon and eggs. They might have
had chicken if she had bought it!

One morning a few days after Christmas I was in the living room
with Millie, when she said, “Some people are so bossy that they
make me sick.”

“Who are you talking about?” I asked ungrammatically.

“You know who I am talking about,” she replied.

“Well, it is tiresome to have someone telling you how to do every-
thing,” I said, “but I suppose Hazel feels like she can do that since
she is paying you.”

Millie looked at me in astonishment.

“Paying me! She is not paying me anything.”

It was my turn to be astonished.

“Do you mean that Hazel does not pay you for waiting on her,

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nursing her baby, and cooking for her family?” I asked incredulously.

“No, she is not paying me. I have lots more money than she has,”
said Millie.

“But she buys the groceries, doesn’t she,” I asked.

“She pays for half of them, and I pay the rest,” said Millie.

I told her that everybody in the house thought she was employed
by Hazel. Millie was a silly little thing, but was friendly and good-
natured, and just the kind to let herself be imposed upon. She told
me her father was a Greek and her mother Irish. I thought it a
rather unusual combination.

As we had made other arrangements for the room beginning the
first of January, Hazel found an apartment somewhere else. It had
two bed rooms and a kitchen. Her family could use one bed room,
and Millie and Chester the other. She said it wasn’t very clean, and
she and Millie would have to clean it up. Poor Millie! I knew who
would have the job, or I thought I knew. But again Millie fooled me.

“T am not going with you,” she told me she said to Hazel.

“You are not going?” asked Hazel. “Why?”

“Because you are so bossy I can’t stand it. You are so bossy that
everybody in the house thought you were paying me.”

“Oh, I certainly wasn’t that bossy,” Millie told me Hazel said. Any-
way Millie wouldn’t go, and Hazel had to clean the apartment her-
self, though I doubt that anyone cleaned it. She phoned and tried
again to get Millie to move in with her. She complained bitterly that
she never could go anywhere, since she had no one to leave the baby
with. But Millie never did go.

As the couple who had taken the sleeping porch for the holidays
had gone, Millie and Chester took that, and we had the use of the
living room again. But poor Millie wandered about the house like
a lost child. I think she missed Hazel and really needed someone to
tell her what to do. It must have been a sort of feeling of dependence
that made her come here as Hazel’s satellite. She would walk into
the bed rooms without knocking at the doors and sit and talk until
the girls complained to me that she was a nuisance. :

“Millie is all right,” I said to Jeanne, “There’s nothing the matter
with her except that she is a moron.”

This seemd to please Jeanne very much, and she fully agreed
with me. In a short time, however, the government sent Chester to
another base, and Millie went with him. I never heard from her
or Hazel again.

Harlan Arnold was then suddenly sent to a camp of embarkation.
He had not expected it so soon, and it was quite a shock to Gwen.
The morning after he left, when she came downstairs she said, “I

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wish I had died last night.” She had a funny and positive way of
expressing herself sometimes. She said she thought Mary and
George were a “swell couple.”

Gwen went home, but her thoughtfulness continued. She sent us
valentines, Easter cards, and other things, most important of which
was a guest book, something I have enjoyed ever since. The book
had spaces for the names, addresses, dates, and hobbies of guests.
After that, each couple who stayed long enough to become a part
of the household registered in it. My husband kept a business register
of all comers all the time, but this book was to be a friendship book,
and as such I still enjoy it.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIV
ELEANOR AND MADELINE

Sometime during the fall a story had appeared in our local daily
paper written by Cpl. Howard R. Fisher of Findlay, Ohio, in which
he had said he was located at Seymour Johnson Field here and that
he wanted very much to have his wife and baby son here with him
and that he especially wanted to be with his little son on the latter’s
first birthday. He said he had tried to find a room for them but had
not succeeded.

The story appealed to me, and if possible I would have taken
them, but at the time we had no vacant room. Later when there was
a room, I had lost sight of this, or thought he had found a room.
About the first of December I was called by the USO to know if
we could take a couple and baby the first of the year. I told them
we could, and the young man came to make arrangements about it.
It turned out to be Cpl. Fisher.

“And have you never found a room?” I asked.

“T never have, and I have tried and tried,” he said. “The baby had
his birthday a month ago, and I haven’t seen him yet. But now I
have a furlough coming up, and I will go home and bring my wife
and baby back with me after Christmas.”

He paid the reservation on the room, leaving us the use of it for
other guests until the first of the year.

“Would you like to see a picture of my wife?” he asked.

“T certainly would,” I replied.

He showed me a photograph, one of the most beautiful faces I
had even seen.

After admiring the picture enthusiastically, I asked him to let
me show it to the girls. The day was warm, and Jeanne, Irene, and
Mary were in the yard, so I took it out and told them I wanted to
show them the girl who was coming to live with us. I should have
remembered that Mary didn’t expect to like Betty because her
picture was so pretty, and now the same thing happened again. The
girls thought Eleanor was beautiful, but they thought they would
not like her—(but they did.)

This was the room that Hazel and Raymond Lawrence had used
during the Christmas holidays.

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Right after Christmas Ed and Jeanne and Edward went home for
a visit of ten days. For some time Ed had been hoping for a furlough,
and when it came they left without making any reservation for a
Pullman. Travelling conditions were almost unbearable, especially
for anyone with a small child, but Pullman reservations had to be
made weeks in advance, and notice of furloughs didn’t come weeks
in advance, so a place on a day coach was all that could be hoped for.

When they tried to board the train, Jeanne told me after they
came home, every seat was taken and the aisles were packed. Ed
pushed Jeanne into the coach, but he himself stood on the platform
outside. At first Jeanne stood and held Edward, who was now a
big heavy boy. His weight was almost breaking her arms, but after
a little while someone took pity on her and let her sit down on a
suit case in the aisle. Finally a man gave her his seat. There was
nowhere that she could put Edward down, and she had to hold him
in her lap all night without having room to move or to change his
clothes. When the journey was ended he was badly chafed.

Such conditions made it seem best for the boys and their wives
not to try to take trips, but they had been away from home for
months, and the boys thought or knew that they would go overseas
and not see their parents again for months or years, if ever, and
they were willing to suffer almost any inconvenience or hardship
for one more visit home, and the wives wanted to go too.

Another girl once wrote me upon her return home: “We arrived
home safely after a good trip back. The baby slept very well all night
on the train, and the next morning in New York we were able to
get an early train. On the way home we were surrounded by young
mothers, with children all under two years or so. There were five
in all near us. Some of the children got pretty tired and fussy. One
little boy in particular would get way from his mother and race
down the aisle. My baby was quiet and good though, for which I
was thankful.”

The return trip was not quite so bad, but I think Jeanne and Ed
were glad to get back. Jeanne said her parents were astonished at
how Edward had grown, and her mother especially was delighted
that he really understood much of what she said to him in Polish.

Before Jeanne and Ed returned, Eleanor and little David Fisher
arrived. Eleanor was as beautiful as her picture and was a fine girl.
David was about fourteen months old and was as cute as he could
be, and the best baby I ever saw.

Eleanor was distressed over having lost a suit case on the way.
She said she and Gus (her name for her husband, and we called him
that too) and David spent the night at a tourist home, and next

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morning when they were ready to leave they put their baggage down
near the curbing and then into the car. Somehow they overlooked a
suit case and left it there.

After they had driven two hundred miles over icy mountain roads,
they discovered the loss, but Gus said it would not be worth it to go
back, especially as they probably would not find it if they did go.
They wrote the landlady and sent an advertisement to a newspaper
in that town, but never did get the suit case—and to make it worse,
the paper charged them eight dollars for the advertisement.

Eleanor told me that among other things in it that she hated to
lose was a plastic heart that Gus had made for her, and this was on
a gold chain. It was too bad, but it was characteristic of many of the
things that happened to the soldiers’ wives on their trips.

From the first I loved little David, and he liked me fine. He had
not learned to walk, and Eleanor was afraid he would take cold if
he crawled on the floor, so he stayed in his crib or pen and played
with his toys all the time except when his mother fed or dressed
him or took him out of doors. He never cried or fretted and seemed
perfectly satisfied.

Eleanor was another girl who was full of energy and always busy.
She liked to sew, and pretty soon we moved my sewing machine
into her room. Of course I went in there whenever I wanted to use
it. The minute I would enter the room, David would throw down his
toy and stand up in his pen. He was ready for a frolic.

Sometimes I would say, “Eleanor, I wonder if you realize what a
good baby you have. He is the best baby in the world.”

David learned to jiggle his crib so it would make a little creak-
creak sound. If he waked in the night he did not cry but juggled
the crib. I have heard that little sound in the wee small hours of
the night. Then he began to walk around inside his pen, and Eleanor
would take him out and walk up and down the hall or out of doors
with him. He set his legs far apart and took funny little steps at first.

When all the Christmas guests were gone, Pvt. and Mrs. Harold
Rohring of Niagara Falls and their three year old son, Mikey, took
the room next to that occupied by the Fishers. Mrs. Rohring, Mar-
garet, had left her two small daughters, Judy and Sharon, with their
grandmother, while she came here for a visit to her husband. Mar-
garet had a book of poems she had written, which showed some
talent. The rythm was good, and her thoughts were very good.

Mikey was an attractive child and very affectionate. He would
sidle up to me and ask, “Do you like me?” Anybody would have
liked him.

They were here only about ten days, and then the USO sent a

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MADELINE, GEORGE, AND ROBERT TRAVER

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

young man, Cpl. George Traver of New York, who wished to en-
gage a room for himself, his wife, and their baby son.

We now had four babies in the house, all boys and all bright
attractive children. At a banquet of some kind of conference held
at the Hotel Goldsboro, I remarked to someone sitting near me that
we had four couples with babies at our house. Mr. J. Arthur Best,
Wayne County superintendent of welfare, who was seated across
the table from me, heard me and asked, “Mrs. Baker, did you say
you had four babies at your house?”

“Yes,” I replied, “we have.”

“Well, I think that is wonderful,” he said, and had a good deal
to say about it and about the fact that many people would not take
couples with children.

He asked where they were from, and I told him New York, New
Jersey, Vermont, and Ohio. I didn’t know he was going to put it in
the paper, but in a few days a blocked story written by Mr. Best
appeared in the Goldsboro News-Argus telling that we had four
couples with babies in our home, and naming the states from which
they came. There was a good deal of comment on it.

One day my husband was sitting on the front porch and two little
girls were walking along the sidewalk. One of them glanced toward
the house and said, “Nobody but babies can live in that house.”

Madeline was a careful mother. The weather was cold, but she
took Robby out of doors every day, but sometimes I wondered
whether enough of him was uncovered for him to realize that he
was out of doors. Over his clothes, Madeline would put a wool
sweater and trunks, then his coat and mittens, and last, a white
wool cap that was made like a visor. She pulled it down over his
head, and it had a little opening for his face, but fitted snugly all
around his neck and up to his chin.

But with all Robby’s good care, he was terribly sick one night.
Traver, as Madeline and everybody else called Cpl. Traver, was at
the camp. Eleanor came to my door and told me Robby was very
sick. I hurried to Madeline’s room and found the baby in convulsions.
I never had seen anybody have a convulsion, but somehow I knew
what it was. I ran to the telephone, called a doctor, and described
the child’s symptoms.

“That is not such an alarming or unusual thing,” the doctor said.
Give him a fourth of a grain of aspirin and sponge him off with
cool water.”

Madeline, Eleanor and I worked with the baby a long time, and
the convulsion wore off and little Robby fell asleep. The next day
he seemed almost all right, but Madeline did not leave him a minute.

136

She had taken his clothes to the back porch to wash them, and left
them there. When she came back they were washed and hanging
on the line in the sunshine. Irene had done it.

After the baby was well, Madeline told me she thought she would
buy a pair of stockings for Eleanor and one for Irene to show them
her appreciation.

“Don’t do it, Madeline,” I advised. “They don’t want you to pay
them for what they did. They just want to be friendly.”

All the girls were good friends, but as Jeanne and Irene had been
together so long and were such chums, it was natural for Eleanor
and Madeline to pair off together, and they were very happy. Both
had now really become part of “The Family.”

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXV
“THE FAMILY” BREAKS UP

Though the call for overseas duty was always expected, when it
did come it came as a shock. Mary was called to the phone one
morning, and George told her he was alerted and would not be
allowed to leave the camp again before being sent to a port of em-
barkation and then overseas. The phone was in the living room, and
I was in there at the time. Mary began to cry, and I knew what it
meant. I put my arm around her, which seemed to comfort her some.

After that she was allowed to go to see George at the camp at
certain times. Every day the summons to leave was expected, and
every day postponed. Mary was kept in a state of suspense that was
more than a fifteen year old girl ought to have had to bear, but these
girls often had to assume the responsibilities of older women. Finally
when her nerves reached the breaking point, she said, “I wish they
would send George on.” But when the time really came her heart
was broken.

She talked to me about her plans. There seemed nothing to do
but to go back to her parents, but she said she was happier here
than she had ever been before. I begged her not to go home at all,
but to stay with us.

“T am great mind to do it,” she said, but of course she went home
and later she wrote me that she was back in school.

Her letters were characteristic. The first one began: “Hello Every-
body, (Irene, Larry, Ken, Jeanne, Ed, Edward, Eleanor, Gus, David,
and Mr. and Mrs. Baker.) I arrived here Saturday morning at 4:00.
It’s good to be home, but believe me I miss all of you so terrible
much. You'll never know how much I appreciate everything anyone

of you did for us.
“T haven’t gotten but that one letter from George, but he called

last night. All he could tell me was he was on the Hast coast. It sure
was good to hear his voice again. He didn’t have much to say except
that I couldn’t see him. At least I know he’s safe. I’m staying at
George’s folks, and they are sure good to me. If any of you ever get

this way please come to see me.
“TI sure do miss the babies something awful. I bet Larry is walking

good now. Kiss the babies for me. I love them so much.

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“When I got here they had around four inches of snow and I
haven’t gotten warm since I got here. You really have ideal weather
out there.” (She was in Caney, Kansas.)

On January 30, 1944 she wrote, “Dear Mr. and Mrs. Baker and all,
How is everybody? I sure wish I had taken your offer and stayed
with you. It was good to see the folks, but that soon wears off. I
don’t believe I would have gotten as lonesome out there as I do
here. I haven’t heard from George for about a week and a half. You
Sure can think of awful things when you don’t hear from them.
In his last letter he said he had been to New York. I bet if I had
followed him I could have seen him several times, but maybe not.

“Ts Irene still there? Boy! do I miss Larry and Edward! Gosh!
They seemed just like my own or something. They both were so
darn sweet. I bet they are cuter than ever now.

“I got a card from Betty the other day, I sure do miss her. Boy!
You just can’t imagine how I miss all of you. I felt more at home
there than I ever have any place else. I guess everybody was too
good to me. You just aren’t treated like that out here. I’ve told
Several people that if I was rich I would make a trip out there just
to see everyone.

Well, I guess I’ll close and write to Betty.

Lots of love,
Mary.
I sure miss Goldsboro.”

In her next letter, written nearly a month later, she acknowledged
the receipt of a letter from me. “Boy! did I love that letter. I get
So lonesome to see all of you that I can hardly stand it. Believe me,
if T had a little extra money I would come out and stay for a long
time, and I would want my same little room, too. I sure hope the
people who rent it keep it clean. I sure loved that little room. I’ll
never get done thanking everybody for treating me so good. I
dreamed that everyone of you came here to see me. Boy! was I
happy. I’m so glad that the other girls are still there. I hope they
get to stay with their husbands forever, because it sure is awful to
be separated from them. I get so lonesome. Gosh! I bet the babies
are cute. Kiss them all for me. I loved everyone of them like my own.

“I got a letter from George, and he is in England. I thought that
Was where he was going. I wish I could have seen Sammy and
Florence before I left, I would like to see Sammy walk. I loved him
SO much.

“Boy! Oh, boy! do I wish George and I were still out there. Mrs.
Baker, your home is the nearest thing I ever had for a home. I was
So happy out there. Everybody was just perfect. I never realized

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I liked everyone so terrible much till I got home. This old war is so
terrible, but I guess all I can do is hope and trust God. It has been
two months now since I saw George. It’s so hard to live without him.

“Jeanne and Irene, please write to me and send some pictures. If
you just knew how I want to see you. Several times I have almost
started, .but I’m trying to save all I can for our future. When the war
is over, George and I plan to take a trip to see all the swell people
we have met. I never dreamed that such people ever lived. Around
here everyone looks out for themselves and none else. Believe me,
I love Goldsboro and everyone and everything connected with it.

“Mrs. Baker, I am going to send your letter on to George, and
he will surely love it. He is an airplane mechanic and moves every
few days.

“I bet that Larry, Edward, and David are really sweet now, and
I bet the new baby (Robby Traver) is sweet too. Kiss Sammy for
me. He is terrible sweet too.

“It sure was terrible about Carmela’s husband. He was such a
nice fellow. Maybe it is a mistake. I intend to write to Carmela. I
know how she must feel. The war is such a terrible thing. I had
better close and write to George, but it is so hard to write him a
cheerful letter. I think of all of you constantly.”

And in November: “George is now in France, probably Germany
by now. It has been ten months now. He writes that he is terrible
homesick.

“How are Florence, Sam, little Sammy, Emma Hall, and all the
rest? I bet Sammy has really grown. Have you heard from Jeanne,
or Irene lately? I wonder so often where they are now and if they
are still with their husbands, which I hope very much they are.
Dear sweet little Larry and Edward. Boy! would I like to see them.
I hear quite often from Betty. She is going to have a baby soon,
and is she happy! I’m so happy for her. A day hardly goes by that
I don’t get out that group picture and look at it, and I never can
help the tears that come. Some day I pray that we can come back.
I often wonder what the couples are like that have our little room.
That little room holds so many precious memories. George mentions
it quite often in his letters.

“T am going to school now. I’m taking typing, shorthand and
other required subjects. I like it very much. Mrs. Baker, how are
you getting on with your typing? Swell, I bet.”

Then came a birthday card for me, a Christmas card for both of
us, and several months later this card: “T’m so homesick today that
I just had to write and see how you are. I haven’t heard from you
for so long. Goldsboro is just like a dream to me. Nothing as nice

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as that ever could have happened. Do you have many roomers now?
Remember, keep my little room, and some day George and I will be
back. George is somewhere in Belgium now.”

To use Mary’s own words—Boy! How I did love that little girl.
She was so darn sweet!

If Mary wanted her room kept clean, the next girl who used it
certainly carried out her wishes. Ned and Martha Harris of Penn-
sylvania were the next couple. Martha had gone to the USO and
told them she must have a room for about two weeks, and that it
must be as inexpensive as possible, since she had very little money.
Mrs. Palmer called me and asked if we had one of the little upstairs
rooms, and we did.

Martha was a pleasant faced young woman of around thirty. She
had come here to marry a soldier, after having gone from her home
in Pennsylvania to a middle western state and arrived there just as
he had been sent here. She took the next train for Goldsboro, and
they were married after she arrived here. The long trip had cost
her so much more than she had expected that her funds were well
nigh exhausted. She was perfectly frank about it and asked my ad-
vice about getting some sort of job, but I told her I was afraid she
would have a hard time to get a job if it were known that she meant
to stay here only two weeks.

She tried, but since she was too honest and straightforward to
conceal the fact that she would soon leave, she never did find a job.
She took it calmly, but things were getting serious, so I told her
she could do some house cleaning for me if she wanted to, and told
her the price I had been paying per hour. She was glad to do it, and
vastly relieved. She went to work and gave our house a thorough
cleaning. After the first morning I raised her pay, for she accomp-
lished more in an hour than some others did in two. She made her
expenses while she was here.

Martha had been married before and had a son about ten years
old. Her parents were Pennsylvania Dutch, and her father had been
a member of a religious sect called the Amish, but had joined her
mother’s church, which I believe she said was Baptist. She told me
Some queer things about the Amish, among other things that the
Women wore long black dresses and the men, long black coats, and
that they thought it a sin to use buttons, and their clothing was
fastened with little strings sewed on at the necessary places.

_ Martha was so likable and good that everyone in the house was
Sorry when the time came for her to leave.

At about this time the School of Airplane Mechanics closed or

was transferred somewhere else, and the government began send-

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ing boys to other camps, most of them to Greensboro. In one week
we lost Ed and Jeanne, George and Madeline Traver, and Gus and
Eleanor Fisher, and their dear little boys. Only Ken and Irene and
Larry were left of “The Family,” and they were soon to go. We had
had a happy time together, but the war was like that. Nothing could
last.

After Ed and Jeanne and little Edward went away, Larry would
wander around the house, peering into each room, looking for
Edward. Once I said, “Larry, where is Edward?” He drew his face up
into that characteristic look of distress, the little face usually
covered with smiles, and I thought he was going to cry. I was sorry
I had asked the question, and certainly never repeated it. Even the
babies had to suffer the heartbreaks of separation, the pangs of
loneliness.

Two new couples moved in at once, Sgt. and Eunice White of
Flint, Michigan, and their baby daughter, Sherry, who took the
large front room, the one just vacated by Ed and Jeanne, and Willis
and Grace Lewis of Indiana, and their baby son, Freddy.

Freddy was sick with a cold when he arrived, and Irene and
Eunice prudently kept their babies entirely away from him. It was
a good thing they did, for one morning Grace asked me to go to her
room and look at her baby, and I found him broken out all over.

“Maybe he has chicken pox. I have heard it is all over town,” I said.

“No, it isn’t chicken pox,” she replied. “He has measles. The
children had it where we were staying before we came here.”

This certainly was disturbing news. She knew it when she came,
and she moved into the house with two other babies and did not say
anything about it. But then, what could she have done? She had
to go somewhere, and some people wouldn’t take couples with chil-
dren, and those with children in the house wouldn’t take one with
measles if they knew it, so I do not know that she was much to
blame—but it cost us plenty!

Well, it couldn’t be helped, and we had to do the best we could
about it. We decided to call a doctor from the camp. I did the
phoning. When I called the hospital, a nurse answered, and I told
her the circumstances.

“Tell her to bring the baby out to the hospital,” she said.

“Why, she can’t take a baby sick with measles on the bus with
all those people,” I said.

“Tell her to take a taxi,” said the nurse.

“It is raining, and the baby is too sick to be taken anywhere,” I
insisted.

I didn’t know whether the doctor would come or not, and Grace

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said that if he did not she would call a civilian doctor. But after
awhile he came.

A few days later Ken was ordered to the camp at Greensboro, so
he, Irene, and my darling little Larry went away. Ken had his own
car, and they went in that. Willis Lewis was sent to the same camp
on the same day, and they went on the train and took their baby,
all broken out with measles. After they left, I called a physician
and told him about it. He laughed and said, “They have strewed
it up and down the state.”

He said that the period of contagion was from fourteen to twenty-
one days. He told me what to use to fumigate the room, so we
closed it up and fumigated it. Then we sent the crib mattress to
the mattress factory and had it renovated, fumigated, and re-covered.
We didn’t rent that room to anyone in three weeks, and Eunice
didn’t take Sherry out of the yard in three weeks. Sherry did not
take measles, and neither did Larry, so Irene wrote me.

Jeanne, who had been the first of the group to leave, wrote to
me and Irene the same day. She and Ed had gone to Scott Field,
Belleville, Illinois.

‘Dear Mr. and Mrs. Baker: Hello Babci! Have finally become a
bit organized in this new strange country, and so have a few minutes
to spend with you. Most outstanding in my mind and heart is that
I miss you all very much, and Edward misses his Babci. It was like
leaving home, and we hated to go. Thanks a lot for making it so
pleasant for us. We shall remember it always.

“The trip here wasn’t too bad. The first train was quite empty
and I managed fine. From Asheville to Danville, however, it was
very crowded and after standing a while some soldier offered me his
seat. Ed met us in Belleville and took. us to our new home. We now
have a two-room apartment—kitchen and bed room. It’s very private,
but I’d give it up in a second for another Baker residence. Wouldn’t
you like to move out here and establish such a place? M-m, that
would be nice!

“Yesterday Ed took us on a ‘Cook’s Tour’ of the camp, and it
really is beautiful. A town all by itself in red and white. Especially
pretty are the Sgts’ and officers’ homes. The PX looks like a depart-
ment store. But Belleville itself is just another town. Give me Golds-
boro!”

To Irene she wrote: “To just say we miss you would be putting it
mildly. Edward has been crying continually for his playmate. Every-
time I say, ‘Where’s Larry?’ he runs to the door, and then cries
even harder ’cause there is no Larry. I miss our adjoining rooms.

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It was fun to work and chatter away, and have the children run
in and out, always getting into mischief.

“My home now is a two-room affair of kitchen and bed room. I
have an icebox of my own, and a combination coal and gas stove,
also a washing machine at my disposal. One terrible feature, how-
ever, is that there is no tub, and the bathroom is in the cellar. This
seems to be true of most of the houses here, which amazed me, as
the homes are all so nice and modern in every other way. If it
wasn’t for the tub and it being so lonesome this place would be ideal.

“Just as I started writing to you, your letter came, so I’ll answer
it immediately. While you're sitting sweltering in the sun, we are
cooling our heels in the rain. Since I’ve been here, all but two days
have been cloudy or rainy.

“Gracious! Madeline gone already! Poor girl. Her break wasn’t
such a good one. I’ll drop her a line in New York. How is Eleanor
doing? It gets lonesome being by yourself—especially after the fun
we had evenings in the kitchen. What are the new folks like? Who
is in my room?

“Today is the first day Edward has amused himself. Up until now
I’ve had to play with him constantly, he’s been so lonesome for
Larry. He’s suddenly started picking up words and now says ‘Choo
choo’ for train, ‘bow-bow’ for dog,’ ‘birzee’ for birdie and ‘buty’
(Polish for shoes). Bet Larry’s new navy out-fit will look cute on him.
Wish I could see him in it. Just gave Edward half an orange with
the skin on, and he’s making more noise sucking the juice out.
You should see the front of him!

“So Ken is still uncertain. Wish you and he were coming out here,
then I would like Belleville. Hd likes his work fine. Thursday one
of the pilots gave him a half-hour jaunt, and his head is still in the
clouds. He threatens to buy a plane after the war.

“T have no supper to prepare tonight as Hd will eat at the Camp,
therefore I will devote the rest of the day to my shnoops. He’s
sending Larry a big hug.

“Best of luck to you all,

The Naps.

“Oh dear! Edward is wiping the floor up with his orange. This
morning he dumped the diaper pail over the floor. Never a dull
moment!”

In a letter Jeanne wrote me a month later she said, “A couple
of weeks ago I received letters from Irene and Madeline. I was
surprised to learn of their quick departure. Now only you and Mr.
Baker remain of ‘The Family’ that I knew and enjoyed being with
so much. But by now there must be another ‘Baker Family’ well

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organized. I would like to hear about it. Better still, I would like
to join it once again. Life here continues to be very lonely for Edward
and me. Otherwise everything is fine. Edward is more mischievous
than ever.”

When Irene reached Greensboro, she wrote: “We: arrived here
around 3:30 P.M.; had a flat tire before we reached Raleigh, which
delayed us a bit. Rooms and apartments are scarce now, as there are
a lot of soldiers coming in each day. We have an apartment in view
and we'll probably move in tomorrow night. Larry is fine. We cer-
tainly miss your home. Ken was saying the other day that he wished
it was down here. We both felt as if we were at home there.”

Two weeks later a letter showed that they were very well situ-
ated. “We have been in our apartment about a week and a half
and have everything pretty well under control. This house has five
apartments, and all of the couples seem to be very nice. Three of
the apartments are rented by soldiers, one by a navy man’s wife
with her baby, and the other by a civilian and his wife and son. Last

night the girl gave her husband a surprise birthday party, so we
got a chance to get acquainted with the other folks.

“Ken met Traver the other day. He was expecting to be shipped
out the following week, and Ken hasn’t seen him since, so he must
have left. Madeline wrote that she misses him terribly. I certainly
feel sorry for her.

“Ken is working for his old commander that was at Seymour
Johnson Field, whom he likes, so he will probably have it pretty
nice, although this field is really in an uproar.”

In July she wrote that she and Larry had gone back to the home
of her parents in Milton, Vermont, and that Ken was in California.
“Ken was sent to Camp Luna, New. Mexico, where he attended a
rifle school for a month, then he was sent to San Bernardino, Cali-
fornia, where he is now. He’s going to an airplane mechanic school
till October. He seems ito like it in California, for he says it’s a
beautiful state. Although it’s nice to be home with my folks and Ken’s,
I wish it were possible to be with Ken. It seems too far for me to
travel with Larry, and Ken is kept so busy and restricted to camp
most of the time, so I think it’s best for us to stay here.

“Received your letter which was forwarded from Greensboro, and
I certainly was pleased to hear about everyone we knew. I sent the
letter to Ken, for I knew he would enjoy reading it.

“Larry is getting to be quite a boy. He says quite a few words
now, tries to repeat what I say and he’s succeeding pretty well. He
still talks about his daddy.

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“Best regards to all the family, also to Larry, Eunice, and Sherry.
So glad they are still together.”

Irene wrote Christmas: “Ken is now somewhere overseas—in
England I believe. He came home on furlough the last part of
October and reported back to Washington, D. C., the tenth of
November, and flew over from there. Am sending you a picture of
Larry. Do you think he has grown?”

Madeline Traver wrote from the home of her parents in New York
City that her husband was shipped overseas in April, and was “of
all places—in Assam, India.” In December we had a good long letter
from her, in which she said:

“In May I went out to the Lake for the summer and returned in
September. It did a world of good for both of us, as we could go to
the beach each day, and Robby just loved the water.

“T’ve heard from Jeanne quite a few times, and she’s kept me
posted on the various events that have taken place in Goldsboro.
She and Ed are supposed to be home on furlough after January 1st,
and I hope she can get over to see me while they are here.

“Trene said Ken was in England, so Jeanne must be the only
lucky one out of the crowd. Don’t know anything about Eleanor
and Gus, as my letters to her were returned. Today we have our
first good snow fall and it’s really beautiful, but probably doesn’t
compare with the snow Irene has in Vermont.

“Guess I’ll never get over the fun we all had at your house, and
I'd gladly give up all my possessions to be there now with George.
Many times, when writing to George and referring to Goldsboro, I
say, ‘or was it Heaven, N. C.?’

“When I left, you wanted a snap taken in the back yard for your
book. It’s late, but here it is. The other snap was taken this sum-
mer and since then Robby has grown an awful lot. Runs wild all
over the house, and I need six eyes at a time, instead of two.”

The pictures she sent were among the most attractive I have.
One was a picture of Madeline, George (or Traver, as we called him)
and Robby taken together in our back yard with the ivy covered
fence as a background; one was Robby holding to a little tree, and
in the background were Jeanne and Edward; and the other, Robby
taken at the Lake, summer home of Madeline’s parents.

Ernest Cornelius, who had been sent away long before the others,
remained in the western states through the entire remainder of the
war. Betty spent the summer with him in Washington state, then,
when he was transferred to some camp where it was not practicable
for her to go, she went to her parents’ home in Waynesburg, Ken-
tucky. Their baby was born in February, and Betty sent us an an-

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nouncement of the arrival of Jerome Ernest, Jr., and later a picture
of him. He was a very attractive looking baby.

In June Betty wrote: “Jerry is a big baby now. He is four months
old and can sit alone a few minutes at a time. Ernest is still on
this side. He has been in the western states since he left North
Carolina, and is in California at present. He hasn’t been home since
last September, and he is almost crazy from wanting to see the
baby. If nothing happens, he will be home on a furlough the last of
August or September.

“T have done some traveling since I left there. I spent last summer
in the state of Washington. I like the west all right, but I will take
the eastern and southern states any time. I have two brothers in
the service now. One has finished his training and is ready for over-
Seas duty. The only thing we can do is pray for our boys to come
back. I sure hated to hear about Carmela’s husband.

“I hear from Mary Finney often. She is a nice girl. All often write
about living in your house and the nice times we had and the nice
People we met. I sure would like for us to be together again. Tell
everybody hello for me.

With love, Betty.”

Our “Family” was gone—every member, and they were separated,
husband from wife, father from son, and scattered over the face of
the earth. It seemed to me that their places could never be filled,
and really they could not, but we found that other soldiers needed
homes for their wives and babies, and we opened our hearts and
homes to them, and we were not lonely.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVI
EUNICE

But back to the coming of Eunice. As soon as Ed and Jeanne left,
their room was reserved by a young sergeant, Lawrence White of
Flint, Michigan, who expected his wife and baby daughter in a few
days.

“They will not be here until Thursday,” he said, “but may I rent
the room beginning Tuesday?”

“Certainly, if you want it,” I replied, though I wondered why he
wanted to pay rent on it for two extra days. But I found out.

On Tuesday morning he came in and arranged pictures of his
wife and baby on the mantel and dresser. He sat in the room and
enjoyed knowing that it was his and that they would soon be there
to enjoy it with him. Wednesday he came back and rearranged his
pictures and some other things and again enjoyed the room. He
said Eunice’s mother and a friend would come with her to help
her with the baby and would be here for a few days, and he wanted
to know if we had a room for them. We did, so he reserved another
room. He told us he was having a cake made for Eunice and would
come over Thursday morning and bring it, and would then go to
the station to meet Eunice and the others.

But before he arrived Thursday the door bell rang, and there was
Eunice with her mother, another lady and a beautiful little ten
months old baby girl, Sherry. Things were always happening like
that. Hither a soldier would wait at the station for hours or all
night for his wife, whose train had somehow been delayed, or else
the wife would come in several hours before she was expected, and
there would be no one to meet her. Fortunately, however, Larry, as
everyone called him, had wired Eunice our address, so she came
right to the house. She told me if Larry came, not to tell him she was
here, but to let him just walk in and be surprised.

After awhile he came, bringing a large box that I knew held the
cake. I said “Good morning,” or something equally informative, but
my husband couldn’t stand it and, just as Larry was opening the
door, said, “Don’t drop the cake.”

Then the shouts and laughter after he entered the room! Of course
we did not see the greeting, but we could hear it and we were an

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interested audience on the outside. Later we took Eunice’s mother,
Mrs. Larson, and her friend, Mrs. Brown, to their room. Their plan
was to stay here until the next day, then go to Greensboro to visit
Mrs. Brown’s son for a few days, and come back here before return-
ing home. They were using our room, and we, the sleeping porch, but
it would be less trouble not to move back until after their little visit,
SO we left the room just as it was. Two or three mornings later, how-
ever, I started into the room to get something from the closet, and
Saw that someone was in the bed. Startled, I closed the door quickly.
For an instant I didn’t understand it, but then realized that the
visitors had come back and we had not heard them. They told me
they got back in the night and did not want to disturb anyone, so

Went quietly to bed.
“Suppose when you opened the door someone had been in bed.

What would you have done?” I asked.

“Then we would have gone out right quick,” was Mrs. Brown’s
reply.

“Just like I did when I opened the door,” I said.

Eunice invited me in to see her cake. It was big and truly beautiful.
It was iced in white and decorated in pink and green and bore the
words, “Welcome, Eunice,” in pink frosting. Larry had had it made
by a friend of his, a soldier who was a professional baker. Larry
took a kodak picture of Eunice holding the cake. Later when they
cut the cake, they gave us a piece, and it was very good.

Mrs. Larson and Mrs. Brown went home after a few days, and
Larry, Eunice, and Sherry became fixtures in the home, staying with
us all the spring and summer and until the fall. ;

Eunice was tall and blonde, having inherited her flaxen hair and
blue eyes from her Scandinavian father, and certainly not from her
mother, who was part Indian and had dark brown eyes and black
hair. Sherry was blonde and cute and pretty. She was always beauti-
fully dressed and wore a tiny bow of ribbon on her hair to match
the color of her dress. /

Irene and Eunice liked each other, and I thought I was going to
See another good friendship, but in a few days, Ken was sent to
Greensboro, and we lost him and his family.

Larry and Bunice were probably the most congenial couple we
ever had. They were entirely interested in each other and the baby,
and each thought that whatever the other did was perfect. And
Sherry was the center of their universe. Larry rose early each morn-
ing and left for the camp, where he ate breakfast and dinner, leav-
ing Eunice and the baby to sleep as late as they wanted to. He came
home about the middle of the afternoon, and was off duty until next

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morning. Lucky Eunice! Larry helped her with her dishes and house-
work, and then they spent the rest of the day in glorious fun.

Though occasionally they went to the movies or somewhere, they
seemed really to have more fun right here than anywhere else, and
our big back yard was their regular play ground. The children in
the neighborhood adored them, and they were usually surrounded
by an admiring and interested crowd. I gave them some old quilts
to spread down on the grass, and on one of these Sherry and some
of the children would sit as spectators while a circus was in progress.
Larry and Hunice could really put on a creditable performance.
Eunice, dressed in shorts, could, while Larry held her hands, spring
to his shoulders and stand and then have someone pass Sherry up
to her. She could turn cartwheels and walk on her hands, feet up
in the air. Larry was so strong it was nothing for him to lift her
or swing her up above his head, or hold her and Sherry at the same
time.

Our granddaughter, Anne, Joan, who was visiting her grand-
mother across the street, and Josephine and Dukes, who lived next
door, would watch in wonder and delight and would try to do some
circus tricks themselves. Joan said she had a costume at home that
would be nice for a circus, so she hurried home and came back
dressed in a grass skirt and a garland over her body, and gave a
hula hula dance. She was a perfect little South Sea islander. She
said her father had sent her the costume from one of the islands in
the Pacific where he was stationed as an Army officer. :

The little girls admired Sherry tremendously, and when Eunice
would bathe her and dress her they would stand around and try
to help. Eunice told me that one of them said, “Oh, Eunice, Sherry
is such a sweet baby! I do wish I had one. Do you have to wait ’til you
are married to have a baby?” ;

“Well, it’s a good idea,” Eunice said she replied.

I learned the secret of the beautiful dresses that Sherry wore.
About once in every month or two, Eunice received a box from her
mother, in which were the most adorable clothes, some for herself
and more for Sherry. There were dainty little sheer smocked dresses
in pink, blue, and yellow, little pleated skirts and lace trimmed
blouses, a pale blue silk jumper with dotted swiss blouse, and little
prints and sunsuits for morning wear. Eunice herself said Sherry
was the “best dressed baby in the world.” Still, I used to tell her in
the hot weather that I thought she was the less dressed baby I had
ever seen.

Our clothes lines hanging in the sun were a delight to Eunice,
who said that at her home in Flint the clothes always had to be

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dried on lines in the basement. There was so much smoke and soot
in the air that it was impossible to use out of door lines, and also
in winter it was too cold to hang the clothes outside, as they would
freeze, and the one hanging them would just about freeze too.

Eunice didn’t know much about sewing, but she was willing to
try. At that time it was stylish for girls to wear very full print
skirts with white blouses, and Eunice decided to try her hand on
a skirt. She had white blouses. She bought some material printed
with red strawberries and green leaves, enough for a skirt for her-
Self and one for Sherry, and made them. There was enough material
left for a skirt for Sherry’s doll, so she made that too. It was a strik-
ing picture when Eunice walked down the street pushing Sherry in
her stroller, while Sherry held the doll, and all three were dressed
in the full strawberry print skirts and white blouses.

As to religion, Eunice was vague. She was industrious and helped
me a good deal with my housework. One Saturday she said, “To-
morrow I shall give this kitchen a big cleaning. I will scrub the
linoleum and wash the windows.”

“That’s fine, Eunice,” I said, “But don’t you think it would be
better to do it some other day than Sunday?”

She looked surprised, but answered, “Yes, if you want me TO

In a few minutes she said thoughtfully, “I knew another woman
like that. What is it? Superstition?”

“No, it isn’t superstition,” and I tried to make some explanation
about the fourth commandment. “Do you belong to the church?” I
asked her. “Well, not in particular,’ was the unexpected and un-
explained reply.

Eunice was not by herself as to religion. Another girl once asked
me, “Mrs. Baker, have you a Bible?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I have several. Would you like to borrow one?”
‘i “Yes, I would. The reason I want it is because I found a contest
in a magazine, and Nellie and I want to try to work it out. The
answers are in the Bible.”

Some of the girls were very devout, especially some of those who
were Catholic. One told me that what she dreaded most was going
to confession. I asked her what would happen if she went to con-
fession and held back something—didn’t confess all.

“Oh, that would be a mortal sin!” she replied.

Sherry, whose real name was Charmagne Lynne, was now almost
one year old, and Eunice began to make preparations for a birthday
celebration. She bought a flowered tablecloth, a birthday cake with
one candle on it, and ice cream, and made lemonade. The guests were
a few of the neighborhood children and our four grandchildren.

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Larry came home in time for the party and put a table in the
shade in the back yard. Hach guest brought a gift, and these were
placed on the table until the exciting time when Sherry should open
them. Larry took pictures of Sherry with the packages both before
and after she had opened them. Then he tried to take some of the
guests with Sherry in the center of the group. The girls were glad
to be in the picture, but Frankie and Sammy suddenly became
camera shy and positively refused to come anywhere near. The
pictures were made without them. They were beautiful pictures made
with colored films, and I was sorry our grandsons weren’t in them.

Sherry was rather small for her age, but she was smart. She was
beginning to say some words and said “Hello,” as plainly as if she
had been ten years old. Often in the afternoon she would play in the
front yard while Eunice sat on the porch. Every time anyone passed,
Sherry said “Hello.” The passers would be surprised and would stop
and talk to her. She looked so tiny that it was surprising for her
to say anything, and especially to say it voluntarily as they passed.
Eunice tried to teach her to say “Hello, you all,” so when she went
home she would talk like a Southerner, but Sherry was a true
daughter of Michigan and never would add the “you all.”

At about this time our oldest son, Egerton, was called into the
service. We had been expecting it. He was sent to Camp Jackson,
near Columbia, South Carolina, to take his basic training. Sam was
also called and was sent to Camp Lee, Virginia. We were very thank-
ful that both were near enough to come home almost every week
end. It was a blessing that George did not have to go, but could stay
here and run the business, in which all three were partners and
which was supporting the three families.

Sam had bought a new car not long before this, and they also
kept the old one. This was fine, as he could take one with him and
Florence could keep the other. She and I both liked the old car
best, as we were accustomed to driving it. They were generous with
it—that is, generous to me—and I really used the car more than
Florence did.

Egerton’s wife, Ruth, and their three year old son, Frankie, moved
into one of the Edgewood apartments, since Ruth did not want to
live in a house with no one but a baby son. Florence and Sammy con-
tinued to live in their home, as Florence had some soldier couples in
the house with her. Both Florence and Ruth had good servants.

I asked Frankie one day, “Where is your Daddy?”
“He’s in camp. Do you know him?” said Frankie.
“Yes, I know him. He is my little boy,” I replied.

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“He is not your little boy! He is my Daddy!” said Frankie in-
dignantly.

We thought we would send Egerton a box of good things to eat.
In it we put fried chicken, a chocolate layer cake, a caramel layer
cake, a box of home-made fudge, a jar of strawberry preserves,
home-made biscuits, and other things. We mailed it on Wednesday
and sent it special delivery, but it was late Saturday afternoon when
he received it, just fifteen minutes before he was leaving with some
other boys by automobile to come home for the week end!

“T opened the box, grabbed some chicken and a hunk of oe
put the candy in my locker, and told the fellows to eat the rest,
he told us when he reached home.

After the School of Mechanics was removed from Seymour John-
Son Field, various schools were held here, few of them lasting very
long. We had a fighter group, an aviation school, a POW (Prisoner
of War) group guarding German prisoners, and others. Larry and
Eunice were the only couple who stayed with us more than a few
Weeks during that whole summer. They were allowed to stay because
Larry was megs hall sergeant with the quartermaster division. The
Others belonged to the various groups that were sent from one place
to another.

The first couples who came after Larry and Eunice were Charles
and Frances Kunkler of Okmulgee, Oklahoma, and Bill and Lorraine
Berg of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. They came at the same time and left
at about the same time a month later. Hach couple had a beautiful
baby son, near the same age. Roger Berg was five months old, and
Gary Kunkler was only a month or so older.

Those two girls loved each other like sisters, though they had
never seen each other before and were together only a month.
Frances wrote me two or three years later that she and Lorraine
Still corresponded. A friendship could be very real in a short time
when both had gone through much the same thing and when they
really were congenial anyway. And, ‘too, their babies were a com-
mon bond of sympathy. Frances and Lorraine reminded me of Jeanne
and Irene with their plans together and their conferences over feed-
ing, dressing and caring for their babies.

Lorraine’s room adjoined one of the bathrooms, and several times
when I started into the bathroom I would find the door locked on
the inside while no one was in the room. I would have to call
Lorraine to open it. She was always distressed over having for-
gotten to unfasten it. I was amused one day to find a little note in
Lorraine’s handwriting on the door leading into her room, which

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read, “Lorraine, have you unlocked the door?” Really, she had been
much more disturbed over it than anyone else.

We enjoyed having these two families with us, and the end of
their stay came all too soon, but the time was to come when the
Kunklers would again be a part of our household.

Bob and Hileen Gemmill of Blufton, Indiana, took one of the rooms
and were here about two months. They had a fine little four months
old son, Selby. Hileen was one of the most interested young mothers
I ever saw, and Selby certainly showed the effects of his good care.
The weather was warm, and every day Selby took a thorough sun
bath. Eileen would take him into the back yard in his carriage, and
there he would lie on his stomach in the sun an exact number of
minutes. Then she would turn him over, and he lay an exact number
of minutes on his back. He had a fine coat of tan.

The other room was taken by Lieutenant and Mrs. Robert Hunter
of Birmingham, Alabama, and their little son, Bobby. Another Bob
and Bobby! Almost every family for awhile had those names. The
Hunters were here for only a short time before they were sent
away, and someone else was ready for their room as soon as it was
vacated.

It did not seem to matter to anybody now whether the boys were
officers or enlisted men. Everybody was looking for a place to live,
and usually did not live there long. Many were being sent overseas,
and their wives were going back home, and everything was in such
a turmoil that the girls, at least, seemed to pay no attention to the
ranks of their husbands. One soldier told us that during the past
twelve months he had been stationed in twenty-four different loca-
tion, and that his wife had gone to most of the places with him.

“T have no idea that I will be allowed to stay in this town more
than two weeks,” he said. And sure enough, at the end of two weeks
he was sent away. One day a soldier’s mother and sister came to the
house, paid a reservation of two dollars and a half on a room and
then went down town and never came back. We did not know their
address or the name of the soldier they were visiting, so there was
nothing to do but keep the money.

Larry, Eunice, and Sherry stayed until late in the fall, when
Larry was transferred to the camp at Wilmington, N. C. Mrs. Larson
paid them another little visit before they left. We had letters from
Eunice while they were in Wilmington and also after she went to
her home in Flint.

In a letter written on May 23, 1945, she said that Larry had been
sent over, and that she had had an airmail letter from somewhere
in the South Pacific. She said: “Sherry misses her daddy. She won’t

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go to bed at night without taking his picture with her. She calls him
‘her Daddy Boy.’ She can talk just as good as I can now, Mrs. Baker.
She amazes me. She puts whole sentences together so easily. When-
ever someone comes she surprises them by the way she talks to
them. I am sending you a picture of her the way she looks now.
Do you think she’s changed? How do you like her hair? I can’t
believe myself that she is as big as she is. It seems no time since
We were down in Goldsboro with her, and she was so small. She
will be 22 months old tomorrow. Pretty soon she’s going to be two
years old. Remember the party we had last year when she was one

year old?
“We really had a wonderful time in your home. We’ll never forget

it. I wish it could have lasted longer, us being all there together.
Take a picture of all of the children together and send me one, won’t
you please? How are they all! I always think of little Florence when
she would fall down and jump right back up, saying, ‘It didn’t hurt!’

That was cute. j
“Yd like to see all the girls that I knew at your house and their

babies, Roger, and Selby, Gary and Larry, Bobby Hunter and the
rest. They’re all over a year old now. Do you have a house full now?
I’ve been wondering about Seymour Johnson Field that if it is still
there and going like it was, or have they sent all of the boys away?”

I am glad to say that after the war was over we learned that

Larry came home safe.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVII
FORDYCE

A Goldsboro woman called one day to ask if we could take a
couple and their baby. She said they had spent the week-end in her
home, but that she did not have suitable arrangements for a baby,
so the girl found a room somewhere else, but that it was very un-
satisfactory. She said she was sure we would like them, and that
the baby was adorable. We did have a room, and they came. They
were Staff Sgt. A. W. Capron, Jr., of Denver, Colorado, his wife,
Fordyce, and nine months old Susan. Fordyce was a refined ladylike
girl with every evidence of gentle birth and background. The baby
was precious and was the image of her father.

Fordyce told me of the trouble about the room. She said that
when she went to the housing desk she was told that they did not
have a vacancy. While she stood there, a man, who gave his name
as Mr. Gunley, approached her and said he had a housekeeping room
for rent, that it was not furnished, but that he would furnish it for
her. He offered to take her to see the room. She went, but since there
was no furniture in it, she could not tell much about it except that
the walls and floor looked very dirty. However, Mr. Gunley said he
would have the room cleaned, and, as the house and neighborhood
were nice looking, she decided to take the room.

Mr. Gunley told her the house was steam heated, that she would
have a gas range in her room, and that he would furnish cooking
utensils. She was to pay ten dollars a week for the room and to pay
for the cooking gas. Gunley would have a private meter installed for
the stove. He would have everything ready by the next afternoon.
She paid him ten dollars, and he was to come back and collect a
down payment for the gas.

The next afternoon Fordyce and Susan moved in. Sgt. Capron was
at the camp and had not seen the room. When she arrived the house
was perfectly cold. It was not the home of the Gunley family, but a
house that he had bought or rented for subrenting. A roomer, who
had just come in, told Fordyce there was a furnace in the basement
and some coal, but that all the roomers worked downtown and did
not care enough about the heat to make a fire. One of them had a
son who was supposed to fire the furnace, but he hardly ever did.

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j The room had not been cleaned, but some furniture had been put
into it. The “cooking utensils” consisted of one old frying pan with
a hole in it. There was no separate meter. It was so cold that Fordyce
decided to fire the furnace. The only entrance she could find was
through a window, and then she had to walk over ashes and piles
of clinkers to reach the furnace. Entirely unaccustomed to such a
Proceeding, it was with the utmost difficulty that she finally suc-
ceeded in making a fire. From the time she entered the house until
her room began to warm up, two or three hours had passed, and
by this time Susan had begun to sniffle and sneeze. When Sgt. Capron
came home that night, the room was comfortable, and he did not
realize how much Fordyce had gone through to make it so. However,
he was not pleased with the arrangement. The next morning he had
to go to the camp early and could not take time to make a fire in
the furnace.

Susan waked sick with a cold, and Fordyce could not leave her
to try again to make a fire, so she decided to light the gas oven and
warm the room that way. She began to feel very sleepy and, sitting
down in a chair, began to doze stupidly, when suddenly she was
roused by the sound of footsteps hurrying down the hall, and her door
was thrown open. A roomer shouted, “Your room is full of gas. I could
smell it from my room.”

The gas stove was old and it was leaking. The roomer turned off
the gas and opened the window, which was necessary, though it let
in the cold air, and Susan’s cold became worse. The next day she
Was So sick that Fordyce called a doctor, who, after learning of the
conditions, told Fordyce to take the baby at once and go to the hotel
and stay there until she could find a room somewhere else. She went
to the hotel, where she stayed two days and nights, paying daily rates
for her room, until she moved to our home. Susan became better
in a few days.

Fordyce was apprehensive, expecting that Mr. Gunley would come
for the money for the gas. I assured her that he owed her money in-
Stead, but she said, “I know he will make me pay it.”

Finally he telephoned that he would be around after supper that
night to see her on business.

‘Don’t worry,” I told her, “I will stay with you, and you will
certainly not pay him anything.” I asked Mr. Baker to stay in the
room too, for though I wouldn’t admit it, I was a little scared myself.
: Mr. Gunley arrived. He was big and formidable looking. Fordyce
introduced him to us, and we gave him a seat. He told her he had
come for the money she owed him for the gas. Fordyce explained
that there was no separate meter, and that she stayed there only two

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days, and had paid him for a whole week. The man said he had
applied to the gas company for a meter, and that they promised to
install it, but that until they did there was nothing she could do but
pay a flat rate, and as for her not staying there but two days, she
had rented the room for a week and could have stayed there if she
wanted to.

Fordyce showed more spunk than I had expected. She talked
right up to him and told him it was his fault that she had to leave
in two days, since he had told her the house would be heated, and
it was cold and made her baby sick. She told him she thought he
ought to refund part of the ten dollars she had paid him. It was very
evident that he had no intention of refunding anything, and my
husband suggested that the best way to get it settled would be to
take the matter to the rents administrator and let him decide it.

“No, I don’t want to bother him,” said Mr. Gunley.

We knew he didn’t want to bother him! The last thing he would
want would be an investigation by the rents administrator.

“Well, if it is to be settled here,” I said, “suppose we write down
the various points and see how they balance.”

I took a pencil and a sheet of paper and said, “Now on this side
let’s write what was promised, and on that side, what she got. We'll
write, ‘Have room cleaned,’ and opposite, ‘Didn’t clean room.’ Then,
‘Separate gas meter’ and ‘didn’t have it’! Then, ‘Gas stove,’ and ‘leaked

badly.’ ‘Kitchen utensils, and ‘didn’t have any.’ ‘Steam heat,’ and
‘no heat’.”

“Look a here, lady,” Mr. Gunley began.

“Be careful what you say,” said my husband.

“T am careful,’ murmered Mr. Gunley, but he came back again,
“How do you know so much about what the room was like? Did you
ever see it?” he asked me.

“I know because Fordyce told me,” I said.

‘“Humph! Some other folks can tell the truth besides her,” he said.

“T also know because Mrs. Herbert Bizzell told me she saw the
room, and that it wasn’t fit for Fordyce and Susan to live in,” I said.

He wilted like an old lettuce leaf at that, for he had not known
that Mrs. Bizzell had seen it.

I told him then that Fordyce certainly was due to get back all
she had paid him except two days’ rent, and that that would not
nearly cover the extra expense she had had in the hotel bill and
doctor’s bill, and that I still thought the rent administrator was the
one to decide whether Fordyce owed him, or how much he owed her.

He arose suddenly, took out his bill fold, drew out a ten dollar
bill and handed it to Fordyce.

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“Here,” he said, “and I hope I never see either one of you again.”

“Thank you,” said Fordyce sweetly, and Mr. Gunley took his
departure.

In thinking of this afterwards, I was sure the ten dollar bill was
far too little for him to pay her. She really could have entered suit
for a large amount of money for her baby’s illness caused by the
cold house and leaky gas stove.

Fordyce stayed with us only a few weeks before her husband was
Sent to another camp. She decided to go home and then visit her
great grandmother.

“Your great grandmother!” I exclaimed. “Then she is Susan’s
great great grandmother.”

“Yes,” said Fordyce, and added that the five generations on her
maternal side were living—that is, Susan, Fordyce, Fordyce’s mother,
grandmother, and great grandmother. I suggested that when she
went out there the five have their picture made together. Later she
wrote me that they did this, and added, “Susan is a big girl now.”

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXVIII
DOROTHY SEXTON

Straight from the hills of Tennessee came Dorothy Sexton with
her two year old son, Lowell, to be with her husband, Pvt. Harlin
Sexton, who was in camp here. Harlin had been sent back to the
states after suffering a serious leg injury while in line of duty over-
seas, and could now be only a guard for German prisoners, since this
would allow him to sit in a chair most of the time and hold a gun.

Dorothy had beautiful big grey eyes with long black lashes and
a peach and cream complexion that only God had given her. Lowell
was a bright interesting little fellow, who was already talking and
saying the most unexpected things.

They were a musical family, and theirs was the music of the hills.
Harlin picked a banjo; Dorothy sang Hill Billy songs; and Lowell
picked his banjo, which was a fire shovel, and patted his foot and
sang. He was so cute with it that I would have loved to show him
off to visitors, but he was shy before strangers. He didn’t pick his
banjo for ws until he had been here at least a week.

When they first came from their home in Chucky, Tennessee,
Lowell was pitifully homesick. He would say, “Go home. Go home,”
until I almost cried, but I found toys for him and did all I could to
help Dorothy keep him entertained. The brightest spot in the day for
him, as well as for Dorothy, was when Harlin came home at night.
They were indeed a devoted family and so proud of Lowell!

But Lowell soon recovered from his homesickness and was ready
for fun. We had to watch him to keep him from picking up a
smutty shovel for a banjo. I found a wooden paddle, the kind you
buy in a dime store with a rubber come-back ball attached. It was
shaped near enough like a banjo—or like a fire shovel—but Lowell
would have none of it.

“Where is my old banjo?” he would ask, accenting the second
syllable as much as the first. Dorothy would have to wash a fire
shovel for him.

Lowell liked to follow me around, and he liked to try to do just
what he saw me do. If I took up a broom to sweep, he would get a
broom and begin to sweep. Sometimes he and I would sweep the
front porch together. When I would move a porch chair, he would

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move one. When I would reach over the railing with my broom to
Sweep the outer edge of the porch, Lowell would reach over with his
broom and try to sweep. I wonder if people realize how much in-
fluence they exert just by example.

Most of the young mothers had modern and scientific ideas about
training their children, but not Dorothy. Others might put their
babies to bed in a dark room to cry themselves to sleep, but Dorothy
rocked hers to sleep and sang to him, even if he was two years old.
And I couldn’t help sympathizing with her, for did I not rock and
sing to mine?

The songs she sang were always the Hill Billy kind, and pretty

loud at that. I asked her, “Dorothy, where on earth did you learn
those songs?”

“From the radio,” she said.

Her favorite bedtime song for Lowell was one in which almost
every line ended cheerfully, “with tears in my eyes.”

One day while she was rocking and singing, “I love you and I
can prove—” Lowell interrupted her with, “Ma, I want some cake.”

“You have eat cake and eat cake, and now you are going to sleep,”
She said, and resumed the song loudly, “I love you, and I can prove—.”

Harlin told me about his injury. He was on an army truck carrying
Supplies for the Infantry, when the truck was wrecked and he was
thrown out and his leg was broken above the ankle. It was a com-
pound fracture, and he was hospitalized for months, then sent back
to the States, where he was in a hospital in a western state for many
more months. Dorothy took Lowell, then a baby, and went out there
So they could be near him. I have a snapshot of the three taken to-
gether at the hospital. Harlin was on crutches. He had the Good
Conduct medal, the overseas Medal, or something like that, and
was promoted to Pfc. after he came here, but he never could have
the Purple Heart because, though wounded while on duty in essential
work and at the order of his officer, he was not wounded in combat.

But though he never received the Purple Heart, he had a heart
of gold, and Dorothy did too. They stayed with us from October until
February, except for a month that Dorothy went home, and they
made for themselves a place with our best loved young folks.

Dorothy’s mother, Mrs. Baskette, came for a visit of a few days,
and we found her just the kind of mother we might have thought
Dorothy would have—just my idea of what the mother of a large
family in the hills of Tennessee ought to be. She was smaller and
daintier than Dorothy, and I could see that she had been a pretty
girl. It was easy to see where Dorothy got her big grey eyes. They

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told me about a younger daughter in the family, a girl about thir-
teen years old.

“Harlin thinks she is the prettiest thing in the world,” said
Dorothy, “and I do too.”

Shortly after the Sextons came, Bill and Frances Price of Union
Star, Missouri, and their delightful baby daughter, Barbara Jo, came
for just a few weeks. Frances was so pleasant in the home that we
would have been glad to have had them much longer. And Barbara
Jo was so cute! She had not learned to walk, but could crawl so
fast that she could almost keep up with Lowell, even out in the yard.
She ran (it ought not to be called “crawled”) around the corner of
the house and before Frances could reach her had started up the
stairs. But she didn’t always try to go fast. With great diplomacy
she walked on hands and knees in the house one day until she
reached the chair where my husband was sitting. Then she pulled
up, placed one hand on his knee and looked up into his face with
the most engaging smile. His heart was won. He told Frances, “Your
baby certainly is pretty and attractive.”

“She’s a nosey little thing,” was Frances’ reply.

Lowell and Barbara Jo were so constantly in their play yard—the
back yard—that Mr. Baker decided to put up a swing for them. It
was a Safe little baby swing, one of the kind made in the shape of
a chair with a wooden seat and arms and crosspieces strung on
ropes. Both children watched every step of the work with interest,
and as soon as it was finished each wanted to sit in it and swing.
Here was another problem in teaching “turn about is fair play,”
and the two mothers worked it out as well as could have been
expected.

One morning I was in the kitchen talking to Dorothy when the
postman came, bringing a special delivery letter addressed in Eger-
ton’s handwriting and postmarked New York City. I knew what it
meant, but I opened it with trembling hands. Yes, he had been sent
to a camp of Embarkation and would soon leave for overseas service.
He said he couldn’t tell us when they would sail, but that he would
write every day, and if we didn’t get any more letters we could
know he had sailed.

I began to cry, and Dorothy ran to me and asked, “Oh, Mrs. Baker,
did I say something that hurt your feelings?”

“No, Dorothy, you are a comfort to me, but my boy has gone,”
I replied.

She was full of sympathy and so was Frances, who came out of
her room about that time, but there was nothing to do about it. My
son had to go like the rest.

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After that we had a letter every day for more than a week. Then
—silence. We knew he had gone. Later we heard from him in Eng-
land. He wrote often, and in every letter he begged us to write.
Every day we wrote, and Ruth wrote sometimes twice a day, but
in every letter from him he said, “I don’t see why you don’t write
to me. I haven’t had a letter from anybody since we left New York.”

Then he became afraid—afraid that something dreadful had
happened to Ruth, and that we were keeping it from him. He wrote,
“Has my little baby come, and is Ruth all right?”

Then the baby did come, a beautiful little girl, and Ruth named
her Joan. I went to the telegraph office and cabled him that he had
a dear little daughter and that Ruth was fine. I wrote to him and
sent it air-mail. Everybody in the family, including Ruth herself,
wrote to him, but in his letters he continued to beg us to write him
about his wife and Frankie and to tell him if the baby had come.

Finally the pastor of our church advised us to go to the Red Cross
and see if they could do anything, but the next mail brought a
jubilant letter. He had gotten our letters, dozens of them all at once.
The “bottleneck” was broken. One Goldsboro woman told me that
her husband received ninety-five letters at one time. Egerton said
he had a big time reading all those letters, but most of all he enjoyed
those that told of Ruth and Frankie and little Joan.

Dorothy and Frances had come here at almost the same time, and
now they left within two days of each other. Bill was sent to another
camp. Frances wrote in my guest book, “We’ve been so happy the

short time we’ve been here.” She wrote me a card after she reached
her home in Missouri.

Harlin was granted a furlough, and Dorothy decided not to come
back with him, but to stay at home with her mother. But after about
six weeks she decided to come back and was with us until February.

Immediately Dorothy’s and Frances’ rooms were filled, each by a
Lieutenant and Mrs. Anderson and baby, but in about a week Lt.
and Mrs. James Anderson moved to the War Housing Project. Lt.
and Mrs. W. A. Anderson and Bobby were with us as long as they
were in Goldsboro, which was about a month.

Carol was a fine girl, a college graduate, and a former assistant
supervisor of schools in one of the counties of South Dakota. Her
position must have been difficult, as she said most of the schools
were one and two teacher schools and far apart, which required much
traveling.

Bobby was a dear good baby, and was so cute with his red hair
and blue eyes that I asked Carol, “Where did he get his red hair?”

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“Oh, Mrs. Baker! she exclaimed. “Haven’t you ever looked at
Wallace?”

Well, of course I had, but I didn’t take time to notice what color
hair the boys had.

Bobby came in for almost more than his share of care. Carol had
a sort of mania for cleanliness, and Bobby and all his clothes and
everything else that belonged to her got a giant share of washing.
She was very much interested in having some pictures made of
Bobby, and I went to the photographer’s with her to help him pose
to show off his beauty to the best advantage. But before the pictures
came back Bill was sent on to Selfridge Field, Michigan. Carol left
the money for the pictures with me, and I mailed them to her. They
were excellent. Several times it happened just that way about photo-
graphs for other young folks, and I would send them on. There was
SO much uncertainty about the moves and changes that would be
made, that it was a wonder any of their photographs ever reached
the proper destination, but all that were ever left for me to send
were delivered, and I had appreciative letters telling me so. Before
el left, Carol gave me snapshots of the three together and of Bobby
alone.

As soon as they went away their room was taken by Norwood and
Alice Creech and their eighteen months old daughter, Carolyn. Nor-
Wood had been in the army, but had been discharged and was now
working in Goldsboro. He was the first “veteran” we had, though
there were others later.

Carolyn was a bright little thing, smart as a briar, and Alice was
the gentlest of mothers. She never raised her voice, and if Carolyn
meddled with things on the kitchen shelves, the worst punishment
she ever received was such an easy little tap on the hand that it
Was no more than the brush of a butterfly’s wing. I laughed at the
little spank.

“That’s all it takes to make her stop,” said Alice.

“I think it is fine,” I said to her. “If you spanked her hard, you
would always have to spank hard, but since this is all she ever
Sets, it is enough. I wish other mothers could learn that from you.”

Carolyn, like all the babies, loved to come into our living room
and explore. When they first came, she examined everything in
their bedroom for a day or two, but now she longed for new worlds
to conquer. One day she became interested in some books lying on
a low stand in the living room. She took the top book from the pile
and handed it to Mr. Baker, who was seated near. He took it and
thanked her very much. So she took the next one and gave it to
him, and the next and next, each time receiving gracious thanks.

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Finally she gave him the last book, and I thought she was through.
But no—she picked up the little table and handed him that!

When she was in the room and heard her mother coming, she
would get excited over the idea of having to leave, and would rise on
her tiptoes and teeter up and down, while watching the door.

One morning I was in the kitchen cooking dinner and looked for
a certain paring knife.

“Have you seen that smallest kitchen knife?” I asked Alice.

“Yes, I believe it is in my room. I’ll get it for you,” she replied.

A few days later I wanted another little knife and couldn’t find
it. Alice said she thought it was in her room, and brought it to me.
I didn’t care if she kept a knife in her room, but would look for one
without thinking of its being there. Finally she explained.

“IT keep a knife sticking above the windows so nobody can open
them from the outside when Norwood is away,” she said.

“Why Alice, nobody can get in your windows. The screens are
hooked on the inside,” I said.

“T am afraid they will cut the wire and reach through and unhook
them.”

“By the time anyone could cut the wires, unhook the screens and
get them open and raise the window you could be up and calla
policeman on the phone or tell us, and we could call one,” I said.

“Well, Mrs. Baker, if you had ever had anybody to scare you as
badly as I was scared while we were living in Wilmington, you would
understand,” said Alice, and then she told me the following fantastic
story.

She said they had an apartment in Wilmington while Norwood
was stationed at the camp there. One night in very warm weather
she and her husband had retired but were not asleep. The bed was
right by the open window, but even there it was too warm to have
a sheet over them. Alice said she was almost asleep, when suddenly
someone grabbed her around the ankle. She screamed, but was so
frightened that she did not move. Norwood jumped up, but the in-
truder had disappeared.

The next night before bed time, a soldier’s wife, who lived upstairs
in the same house, heard a knock at her bed room door. She was
alone at the time, but was not frightened, as she thought it was one
of the girls in the house. She unlocked the door and opened it, and
a man standing there threw a sheet over her head. The girl screamed,
and the man ran away.

“Now, Mrs. Baker,” said Alice, “do you blame me for being afraid?”

One morning early in December the postman brought a letter
postmarked, “Chucky, Tennessee.” A letter from Dorothy was good

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news in itself, but this one was too good to be true. Dorothy said
she missed us (was it us?) so badly that she wanted to come back,
and wanted to know if we had a room, and if we would take her.

Would we! I wrote her to come, and told her that was the best
news we had had. Alice was using the large front room, the one
Dorothy had had, but there was another she could have. In fact,
after the School of Mechanics closed, we were not crowded except
occasionally when a new group would come in.

Dorothy and Lowell came back, and everybody was happy. Dorothy
and Alice, now the only girls in the house, had much in common and
were congenial. Each had a little child to care for, and each was ex-
pecting another. Their children were good, and there was practically
no friction between them.

Christmas was almost here again. There were comparatively few
Soldiers in the camp now, and the prospects were for a quiet Christ-
mas, quite different from the one of a year ago. Norwood, Alice, and
Carolyn went home for the holidays, and only the Sextons were with
us. Lowell was the center of interest in the household, as Christmas
has to center around a child. Harlin and Dorothy had their presents
all ready for his stocking, and Dorothy and I were decorating a tree
In the hall for just her family and us. We had presents on it for each
of them, and they had presents for my husband and me, and in addi-
tion I had “Baby Ruths” for everybody.

Christmas came on Monday that year. Saturday night the USO
phoned to ask us to take a soldier and his wife and child for a week,
Pfc. and Mrs. Migioli of Chicago and four year old Rena, who was
very pretty and lovable except when she showed temper. Almost as
Soon as they arrived, I was shocked to hear Mrs. Migioli talk to
Rena. It was, “You are going to get a licking,’ and “Shut up. Ill
Slap you.” And slap her she did, right in the face!

I Was So sorry for the poor child that pretty soon I took her to
our living room and got out my doll, one that I kept for grand-
children, and other toys. I let her take these to her room when she
went back. On Sunday afternoon Pfc. Migioli came in, and Rena ran
to him joyfully. He did show her some affection. I asked her, “Rena,
who 1s coming down the chimney to see you tonight?”

“Oh, we are not bothering about Santa Claus, are we Rena?” Pfc.
Migioli said.

“No,” answered the child slowly.

Mrs. Migioli explained to me, “When we go back home our people
Will have some presents for her, so we didn’t think we would bother
about it. She is not going to hang up a stocking.”

I felt as if I couldn’t stand it! But what could I do? It was Sunday

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and the stores were closed, and we couldn’t buy anything, and I
couldn’t give her the presents we had for Lowell or for our grand-
children. I telephoned to Florine, our son’s wife, and asked if she had
any extra toy that she could spare or anything that I could give Rena.

“T have an illustrated picture book that came from the dime store,”
she said.

“Please let me buy it from you,” said I, and she or George brought
it to me. I put the book on the tree and fixed a bag of fruit and
candy for Rena, and that was absolutely everything she got from
anywhere.

The next morning Dorothy was full of excitement and wanted
everybody to come to the Christmas’ tree. Everybody, including the
Migiolis, gathered around. Harlin gave out the presents, and I gave
everybody a “Baby Ruth.” That was all Pfc. and Mrs. Migioli got, but
they beamed with pleasure over what we gave Rena.

Then it was time for breakfast. Lowell was busy with his presents
in his room; the Migiolis were eating breakfast in the kitchen; and
my husband and I were eating in the back hall, which had been
improvised into a dining room. The door was open between, and
we could see and hear what went on in the kitchen.

“T want an egg,” said Rena.

“You can’t have an egg. We only had two, and I have put them
on Daddy’s plate. You eat your oatmeal,” said her mother.
Then Rena asked for milk, “No, you can’t have milk.”

She wouldn’t eat the oatmeal, and Mrs. Migioli took a spoonful
and poked it into her mouth. Rena spit it out, and her mother slapped
her in the face. My husband and I were getting madder every minute.
But that wasn’t all. Mrs. Migioli said, “Now you go into the bed room
and sit in a chair and you can’t play with those toys all day.”

I was simply furious. It was Christmas Day! They had not done
a single thing for the child themselves, and now they were not going
to let her play with the toys I had let her take to her room. But I
might have known that anyone who knew no more than that woman
did about the proper way to treat a child would not keep her word.
She did let her play with the toys.

Rena had had no training except the worst, and she was high
tempered and disobedient. She got the slaps and knocks regardless
of her behavior, so she did not know that punishments were con-
nected with or were the result of bad behavior. She played badly
with Lowell, and did not hesitate to snatch things away from him.
Her mother said, “You must not hit Lowell. He is little and can’t take
hard knocks like you can.”

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Hard knocks! Who said a four year old child could take hard
knocks?
: I was present on one occasion when Mrs. Migioli struck the child
in the face. Without waiting to think whether it was any of my
business, I said, “If it is necessary to punish a child, don’t ever strike
her on the face or head.”

She looked surprised. I really do not believe the woman knew
that she was treating her child badly. She had probably been knocked
around all her life herself, and didn’t know there was any different
Way. She did not seem to resent my interference, but she told me one
time that when she went back home she thought she would have to
Stop living with her mother because she spoiled Rena so. Poor little
Rena! I thought it would be a pity to take her away from the one
Person who was kind to her.

Pfc. Migioli did some better, but not too well. I saw him swinging
Rena in the little swing in the back yard, and another time he took
her in his lap and was playing with her, but Rena was jumping about
and accidently struck him under the chin with the top of her head.
He uttered an oath and put her down roughly.

I might have thought that the lack of milk, eggs, and Christmas
Presents was the result of poverty, but they had money and bought
whatever they wanted to, and both Mrs. Migioli and Rena wore good
clothes. She bought a nice little pair of gloves for Rena and they went
downtown, and Rena lost them. Mrs. Migioli was distressed over it.
She told me that Rena put them down on a counter in the dime store
and that when they started away the gloves could not be found.
Evidently someone had picked them up.

Later I heard Rena crying in the bedroom. Mrs. Migioli was in
the kitchen, which opened into the room. She would open the door
and say, “Shut up.” She told me that she had told Rena that she
could not play because she lost her gloves. “I am going to make her
Sit in that chair all day,” she said.

“Why, she couldn’t help it. She is nothing but a baby!” I said.

“She is old enough to know better than that,” said Mrs. Migioli.

“If you make her sit there and cry all day, you will make me and
everybody else in the house very unhappy. It was your fault that
She lost the gloves, and not hers. You should have watched her and
not let her put them down on the counter.”

This seemed a very new-idea, and she did not reply, but soon the
child was out of the room and playing again.

Dorothy was affectionate with Lowell and called him “Honey,”
and such names, and Rena evidently caught it. She really seemed to

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love her mother, though I didn’t see why, and spoke to her and called
her “Honey.”

“Where'd you get that ‘Honey’ business?” demanded Mrs. Migioli.

Like many parents who like to think of their own children as
superlative in something, Mrs. Migioli told me with pride that Rena
had suffered concussion of the brain more times than any child she
had ever known.

“Why, I would be afraid to strike her on the head!” I said.

She really looked ashamed this time.

We told Pfc. and Mrs. Migioli that it would not be convenient for
them to keep the room longer than the week they had engaged it,
so they found an apartment at the War Housing Project. When the
day came on which they were to leave, I told my husband I would
never feel right unless we talked to Pfc Migioli about the situation.
Mr. Baker had already said it was a case for the police.

“Don’t you know Dr. Jones would have done something about it?”
I asked.

Dr. Jones was a dear old lady whom both of us loved and admired.
She was the gentlest of women except when aroused by some wrong,
and then she did “do something about it.”

“He can’t do anything to me, and it may help, and it certainly
can’t make anything worse,” I said.

My husband agreed, and I called Pfc. Migioli. Mrs. Migioli came
to her door and asked if I called her.

“No,” said I, “I want to speak to Mr. Migioli.”

She seemed rather surprised, but told him, and he came to the
living room door. We invited him in and gave him a chair. It was a
difficult thing we were about to do, and we got through with it better
than I expected.

“Mr. Migioli,” I began, “there is something we want to speak to
you about. We feel that we cannot let you go away without telling
you. You have a dear sweet little girl, and you love her. I have seen
enough to know that. But this little child is slapped, knocked, and
scolded all day every day. She is treated very unkindly by her mother,
and you are rough with her yourself sometimes.”

He did not look angry, but began to speak calmly. I wondered what
he would say.

“Well,” he began slowly, “I know she hits her, and I have said
something to her about it, but there is nothing I can do.”

“She is your child,” said my husband, “and I would do something
about it if I were you.”

He said he would talk to his wife about it, and try to make things
better. He thanked us and said he appreciated our interest. He went

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back to his room, and I don’t know whether he told her about it
then or not. In about an hour they left for the Housing Project. We
discussed it and decided that we might have done some good and
certainly no harm. A few days later Mrs. Migioli came back for
something she had left, and brought Rena with her. They came into
the living room and sat for a little visit, and everything was quite
pleasant. Of course no reference was made to the thing that was
uppermost in my mind. Rena seemed happy, which she usually did
when her mother would let her.

After the Christmas holidays were over Alice and Carolyn came
back for a short time, and then went home to stay. About the first
of February we heard that Alice had a little boy. We sent him a
present.

When Norwood and Alice gave up their room, Harlin and Dorothy
moved into it. It was the one they had occupied on their first visit.
The room next to this one, with the connecting bath between, was
taken by Lt. and Mrs. Ralph Poe and their two year old daughter,
Janet. I liked Mrs. Pope, (Myrtle) very well except for one thing.
She would put her child to bed and then announce to Dorothy or me,
mostly Dorothy, that she was going to the movies or a dance or some-
where, and would say she didn’t think Janet would wake, and then
without asking whether we were willing to listen for her, she would
80 away and sometimes stay until one o’clock. I believe that if she
had had an apartment at the War Housing Project she would have
left her baby there alone. Janet slept in a sort of harness with
only her head out, and Myrtle would say she couldn’t get up even if
She waked, which was true, and as a matter of fact she did not
wake a single time.

Finally Dorothy decided to go home. The night before she was
to leave she told me Myrtle had told her she was going out.

; Tam sorry, Myrtle,” Dorothy told me she said to her, “but I can’t
listen for Janet tonight. I have been packing to go home tomorrow,
aud I am tired and sick and am going to bed early.”

Oh, I don’t think she will wake,” said Myrtle, and walked out.

Dorothy came to me and told me about it.

‘You just go on to bed, Dorothy, and don’t listen. I will leave
my door open and I’ll hear her if she wakes,” said I.

IT retired at my usual bed time, but was afraid I might not hear
the child, and so did not go to sleep. Myrtle and her husband came
home after one o’clock. As they were here for only one week, we
made out without saying anything about it.

Dorothy had, said to me, “My baby is going to be a girl, and I
know I never will be satisfied about her name because I want to

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name her Brenda Kay, and Harlin says he is going to name her Lois,
and Mamma says she is going to call her Judy no matter what we
name her.”

“Don’t worry about it, Dorothy,” I said. “If Harlin wants to name
her Lois, you may be glad if you name her that. There are so many
Brenda Kays and Linda Fays that you might get tired of it.”

In February Dorothy went home, and in April we received a
dainty little card announcing the birth of a seven pound, seven ounce
daughter, Nancy Imogene.

That summer Dorothy came back and they took an apartment at
the Housing Project. This was her third stay in Goldsboro. She and
Harlin came over to see us, and brought the children. Lowell had
grown a lot, but he remembered us and was glad to see us, and
Nancy was a beautiful baby. Florence was here that day with Sammy
and the baby, Betty, who was about two weeks older than Nancy.

During the visit Dorothy said, “Mrs. Baker, I have something to
tell you that will make you feel good. You know what you told the
Migiolis when they were here. We live near them at the project,
and Maria is just as good to Rena as she can be. She said you told her
she ought not to hit Rena and ought to treat her better, and that
she has been trying ever since she left your house.”

After Harlin received his discharge, they went home, and we had
many letters and cards from Dorothy. In one soon after she went
home, Dorothy said: “I have been thinking about you all day,
and I just decided I would write to you this afternoon. I hope you
and Mr. Baker are well. We made the trip ok. I am mighty lonesome
since I came home; Lowell and I miss you so much. Lowell said
today he would like to see Grandma Baker. I hated to come home
and leave you so bad; I was so happy over there in your home. I will
never forget you and Mr. Baker, you all were so nice to me and
Harlin and Lowell.”

Later she wrote: “I sure was glad to get your letter, we have
missed you all so much. Lowell said thanks for the dollar. He
wrote his Daddy and told him about your sending him a dollar. He
has grown a lot since he came home. He loves the baby to death.
Mother is sending you all some ham tomorrow, and she is also writ-
ing you a letter. Mother liked you. She said you were so good to
Lowell and me.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXIX
A BULL FIGHT

Egerton served with the Army in England for a time, then in
France, later in the Philippines, and finally in Japan. He liked to
write, and his letters were frequent and interesting. The letters about
his experiences in the war may have been somewhat like those of
other soldiers, but he seemed to have a knack for seeing interesting
Sidelights. In a letter to Ruth he wrote: “We really have some char-
acters in this outfit. Want to hear about some of them? Of course
you know about Pop, so we'll skip him. Next is Words. He forgets
things—what few he ever knew. He could play the part of either of
the two drunks; one said to the other, ‘Say, do you know John
ame The other replied, ‘No! What’s his name?’ The first said,

0?

“He knows but few of the company—yet, and can’t think of their
Names most of the time. His section leader trys to keep an extra
hat and mess kit for him, but he misplaces them too fast for that.
They tell him to work with Corporal So and So today, and he asks,
‘Which one is that?’ They show him, and a little later (the first time
they move and the Corporal doesn’t say, ‘Come on Words’), he is
back. On being asked what he is doing back, he answers, ‘They went
off somewhere and I couldn’t find them.’ They call certain items by
Serial numbers. He doesn’t remember his, so they call his name
instead. Some officer asked him his name, rank and serial number
once. He answered, ‘Private Words,’ and laid his dog tags on the
officer's desk with, ‘There it is, right on there.’

The officer looked up and said, “Don’t you know your serial

number, Soldier?’ Words said, ‘Naw sir, I can’t remember the dad
gum thing’
___ He now has a stationary job—beautiful in its simplicity. He
ish't required to go far enough to get lost, and it doesn’t require his
knowing his corporal’s name. Trust the Army; they do the best with
what they have. [ll tell you about another character in the next
letter, and this one will be different.

I was so glad to get the pictures, and, of course, just as every-

oa wrote me, Joan is lovely. I would surely love to hold her in my
ms.”

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He wrote Frankie: “There are a little boy and a little girl who
live about a block from where we do. And guess what! I can’t under-
stand a word they say, and they can’t understand a word I say.
They say ‘Toot sweet’ when they mean ‘quick’ and ‘lavey’ when
they mean ‘laundry,’ and ‘samedi,’ when they mean Saturday.’ They
are French children and everybody except soldiers in France talk
that way. I’ll surely be glad when I can get back home where every-
body talks the same way I do.”

Everybody enjoyed the letter he wrote about the bull fights in
Southern France except me, who, being his mother and remembering
that he used to climb over the fence into the bull pen on a farm
near Goldsboro when he was a small boy, couldn’t help being afraid
he might try to get into one of the fights himself. He said:

“T have been seeing some bull fighting, as a spectator of course.
The latter phrase is not out of order, as anyone can participate in
certain phases of the fights, and the only reason I haven’t done so
is that I don’t have any tennis shoes—but let me begin at the
beginning.

“You know that I always wanted to see a bull fight—ever since
I saw Rudolph Valentino in “Blood and Sand” way back in silent
picture days. Well, to see them, or even to participate in them, these
days is a very simple matter.

“The first one that I saw was what the French call a clandestine
bull fight. It takes place in an amphitheatre. There is a small fence
about five feet high completely encircling the space in which the
fight occurs. Running around and about six feet back of this fence
is another, which is some eight to ten feet high. Both are made of

heavy boards. Encircling the second fence are spectators’ seats built
up similarly to a football stadium.

“The affair starts with some hundred or more French youths and
young men waiting for the bull. They don’t have long to wait, as he
comes rushing out of a gate in the end as mad as a wet hornet. His
horns are padded with hard leather, just enough to keep from sticking
into his victims, but not enough to keep them from breaking a
person up like a blow from a sledge hammer.

“As the bull rushes out of the gate, the participants scatter like
a flock of sparrows before a hungry cat. He selects a likely looking
victim and charges him, and there’s a race for the fence. At this
point I wish to commend the Frenchmen on their speed. They are
the fastest things on two feet, and the bull is seldom successful.
They can get over that five foot fence in nothing flat.

“The bull is plenty angry and plenty dangerous. As the first guy
he charges beats him to the fence, he rushes the next one. Maybe this

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fellow runs in a circle, and, before he has time to make the fence, the
bull changes his attention to someone else who is moving in another
direction. There is a lot in knowing what a bull will do under various
circumstances, and the participants are thoroughly familiar with
this knowledge.

“A bull will charge movements before anything else. He will rush
right by a man standing still or walking slowly, to attack a fellow
farther off, who is waving his arms or running fast. He is easily
confused, and everything going on about him competes for his
attention. I have seen two of the best participants waving red flags
at him from opposite sides. One waves and the other keeps still.
Then the other waves while the first keeps still. This is perfectly
timed, and the bull turns from one to another without attacking
either. He just swings his head from left to right. An extra long
or big wave of the flag on the part of either would bring the bull
on him like a ton of bricks.

“I also notice that you can’t depend 100 percent on what the
bull will do. His attention for a while may be attracted from first one
thing to another. He may be a perfect tornado of confusion. Then
those who can read his moods will see a change come over him.
He will establish a set for a certain direction, pick out a logical look-
ing victim, and rush him all the way to the fence in spite of any-
body or anything else that would normally turn him aside. Most
of the participants read these moods like a book.

“Occasionally somebody’s timing is bad, or maybe he misreads the
mood of the moment. Anyhow, there are a few accidents. The first
one was caused by the fact that the bull just plain outran one guy
to the fence. He hit him squarely in the middle of the back and
knocked him sprawling. Luckily the bull’s attention was attracted
to someone else before he could follow up.

“A half drunk soldier (American) was the next victim. He thought
he could sidestep a rush, but although it can be done, he didn’t
even come close. He just turned a little sideways, and the bull
turned him every which-a-way. He was thrown over the little fence,
but not seriously hurt. In fact, he came right back in again, but didn’t
compete very actively for the bull’s attention after that.

“There are, of course, various degrees of efficiency in bull fighting.
There are always a few of the most efficient of the participants who
are on the verge of becoming professionals. Some of them are really
good and really fast. Occasionally one is actually fast enough on
his feet to outrun the bull on a long straight stretch. In case the bull
is too fast for him, he knows enough to take advantage of some
split second opportunity to escape.

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“At this point I was interrupted to attend a class on malaria con-
trol. It wasn’t much fun, but an hour of it didn’t kill me. Let’s see,
where was I?

“Oh yes, the expert is being overtaken by the bull before he can
make the fence. He reaches back of him with one hand, puts it on
the bull’s head while running at full speed. As the bull’s head con-
tacts the runner’s hand, the beast tosses his head up. The expert
knows the bull will do this, so stiffens his arm and leans to right or
left. He is literally butted out of the bull’s path without being hurt.
I even saw one fellow, on being overtaken when practically at the
fence, just throw his feet up and let the bull’s toss vault him right
over the fence by the contact of his hand on the bull’s head.

“Of course these are rare instances, but they do happen several
times during the fight. The bull chases hundreds over the fence with-
out touching them, and they climb right back in for more. Many of
them with less skill or nerve just hang around the fence—often in
position to vault right over. Sometimes the bull will gallop or trot
around the edge, seemingly just to make these hangers on take to
the other side. They do it all right—the bolder of them waiting to
the last split second to move. Sometimes an expert will just throw
his feet back and up while holding on the fence. He almost does a
handstand as the bull rushes by, then flops himself back down be-
hind the bull. It’s all one motion, and if the bull pauses instead of
rushing by he’s in a pickle. They really go into a scuffle when they
get themselves into a tight. A pause at such a time would be their
last pause.

“The whole object is to come as close to getting killed as possible,
and still come out alive. The crowd cheers all close calls. It cheers
anything anyone does to make the bull look ridiculous, and even
cheers the bull when he succeeds in catching anyone or putting
anyone in a tough spot.

“Sometimes the bull jumps over the low fence, and you should see
the guys on the back side take off to the inside. Sometimes they let
in two bulls, and the participants have to be doubly careful. I’ve
seen one bull inside the arena while one ran around between the
two fences. The inside buil chased some guys over the fence directly
into the path of the bull on the outside. There was a merry scuffle
back and forth over the fence in avoiding both bulls.

“Many and peculiar highlights of the event turn up unexpectedly.
One fellow caught the bull by the tail, and around and around they
went. He turned loose and jumped over the fence, and the bull was
so mad he just bawled. Anything you do to a bull makes him just
that much madder, and if he can’t get at the guy who did it he'll try

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all the harder to mess up somebody else. Even after he’s about
whipped down, he’ll dig up energy from somewhere if anyone does
anything to him.

“One thing the experts do a lot is to run by in front of him after
he’s just slightly winded. The tireder he gets, the closer they go.
He always takes off after them, and sometimes faster than they
had anticipated. I’ve seen them have to suck in their hips as they
passed to keep from getting tossed. I’ve even seen them slap him on
the nose as they passed, and once one had to put his hand out
quickly and vault himself out of the way with a push on the charg-
ing bull’s head.

“Another high light is the chicken deal. A chicken will be brought
into the center of the arena with it’s legs tied about three inches
apart. The bull rushes up and tosses the chicken up into the air,
and continues tossing it until somebody grabs it and takes off. Then
there is a split second race between the bull and the runner with
the chicken for the fence. One guy was so fast he’d grab the chicken
on the ground or in the air just a few feet in front of the bull, and
then outrun him to the fence. Sometimes it was a fair sized run
too, as the arena is (strickly a guess) about half the size of Duke
Stadium.

“All this is taking place at top speed. The chances the participants
take are very real, and the bulls used are meaner and faster than
any in the States. I guess the reason that some of the guys can keep
right on taking such close calls is that they’ve been doing it all
along as they grew up. It’s a national pastime here, and they grow
better with time and experience. I imagine they didn’t take such
close calls when they first started. It’s an art the way they work it
here, and if the same chances were taken by the same number of
people without their years of experience the accidents and deaths
would be plenty.

“Tl mention here that there’s little chance of my getting in there,
and if I did, I wouldn’t take any real chances. So don’t be expecting
to read any death notices of my being killed by a bull. It just ain’t
going to happen here.

“All the fights are not platonic, or “Clandestine,” I believe the
word is. We saw a real one Sunday in which Spanish professionals
only participated. They killed four bulls, and really know their busi-
hess. This is pretty cruel, and if I were an artist at description I could
probably give you nightmares for the next few nights. ;

“It starts with the picadors, I believe they call them, being sta-
tioned at four sides of the arena. Each has a red cloth about the
size of a table cloth. There are four of them, and each is stationed

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by an upright extra section of fence which is about four feet wide
and juts out a foot or so in front of the regular fences. The nearest
one to the gate through which the bull enters attracts his attention
by waving his cloth. The bull charges, and the picador removes him-
self and his cloth behind his “gate.” As he disappears, the next one
attracts the bull’s attention, and disappears at his arrival. This con-
tinues around the arena for a lap or so. This is done to wear the
keen edge off the bull, as the next step would be impossible with
an absolutely fresh bull.

“Then one of the fighters steps forward with a couple of banderillos
(sticks about a yard long) wrapped in colored paper, and with metal
barbs on the ends. He stands directly in front of the bull with one
banderillo in each hand, and, as the bull charges, he aims them one
each at each side of the bull’s shoulders. He doesn’t move from in
the direct path of the charging bull until he is close enough to have
stuck them into the bull’s shoulders. Then he sidesteps so swiftly
that the bull misses him. It’s plenty dangerous, and even the most
skilled are not always missed. I was slightly late for one fight, and
even as I approached, I could tell from the noise of the crowd that
something out of the ordinary was happening. As I entered the stand,
I was told that one of the picadors hadn’t been swift enough in side-
stepping after placing the banderillos. The bull had caught him under
the belt and tossed him up in the air, then followed up and gored
and pawed him on the ground some before the others could attract
his attention. I didn’t see him and don’t know just how badly he
was hurt, but they said he had to be taken from the arena and was
unconscious.

“After the banderillos are stuck in the bull’s neck, he swings his
head from side to side trying to dislodge them; when he finds he
can’t he’s plenty mad and takes off after the nearest fighter. This is
expected and a fighter is waiting with a cloth to take him on.

“As the bull charges, the picador sidesteps and turns, and is wait-
ing for the next charge. Every move is as perfectly timed as a
dancer’s step, and the closer the picador allows the bull’s horns to
come to him, the more the crowd cheers.

“This goes on for a time, and a fighter comes out with another
set of banderillos. They are placed, and the fight nears the final
stage, which consists of manipulating the bull into a standstill, and
then killing him by sticking a sword almost up to the hilt in a
little spot about as big as a silver dollar where his neck joins his
shoulders. It’s the most dangerous stage. If the picador does it
exactly right, the bull drops in his tracks. If he does it almost right,
the bull will charge his tormentor not fast, and drop a few seconds

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later. If he doesn’t do it well at all he’d better be fast on his feet or
the bull will get him. I’ve seen all three of them happen. In the
latter instance the picador stood on his tiptoes with sword pointed
to the spot. As he lunged forward, the bull met him. His shot wasn’t
accurate, and the bull’s plunge flipped it out of his hand. He was
thrown into the air, but got up as another fighter attracted the bull’s

attention.”

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXX
BELLE

We were now alone for the first time in about two years, but
instead of feeling relieved, I missed the young folks and was really
glad after a week or so when the next couple came, and was especially
glad that they had an attractive little boy. They were Lt. and Mrs.
Bruce Strayhorn of Durham and their sixteen months old son, Larry.

Larry was good and pretty and unbelievably bright. He could talk
better right then than most two year old children—not just words
but whole sentences—and he had ideas of his own. When I came
into the room one morning in a bright flowered housecoat, he said,
“Pretty.” He would put his hands in his pockets and draw them out
and say, “Hard times. No money!” When introduced to a stranger
he would walk up and offer his hand and say, “Good morning.” I
delighted in introducing him, and then watching the astonishment
of the other person. One day he was playing alone in the back yard
and came walking into the house with a four leaf clover, which he
handed to his mother. That is a mystery to me yet. Why did he
pick the four leaf clover rather than one of those with three leaves?
I thought perhaps most of them had four leaves and went out to
investigate, but none that I found had more than three.

Thelma was a wonderful housekeeper, and had excellent taste in
arranging furniture and draperies, hanging curtains, et cetera. A
colored woman, Penny, was doing some house cleaning for us. She
wasn’t too efficient, but Thelma took over the directing of the work
and saw to it that it was done properly, which was a great relief to me.

Penny was honest but didn’t mind begging. “Mrs. Baker,” she said,
“please give me some of them medalias and some of your ferbenias
to plant in my flower garden.”

I gave them to her but wasn’t very enthusiastic a few days later
when she announced that all the “ferbenias” had died and that she
wanted some more. She was proud of her honesty and told me, “I
ain’t never been innercent of stealing nothing. None of my folks
ain’t never been accused of being innercent of stealing nothing.”
Once she remarked, “Some folks ain’t never dissatisfied ’less they
got somebody to talk about.”

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Thelma said one day, “I wonder if Larry should have some orange
juice.”

“Miss Thelma,” said Penny, “that ain’t necessary. He ought to
have orange juice.”

Well, between them, Thelma and Penny really put the house into
beautiful order, though we had to watch Penny to keep her from
throwing the empty washing powder boxes and used rags into the
front yard after she had washed the railings in the porch until they
were a gleaming white. I was glad we had the spring cleaning done
and everything in order before the next important event in the
household took place.

Pfc. Hadley Dotson, a rather shy and very earnest young man,
came to engage a room.

“Is it for you and your wife?” I asked.

He hesitated. “I’m not married yet. We are going to get married
when she comes.”

Ah! Romance again. He paid his reservation for the room to begin
about a week later.

After Lois arrived, the wedding had to be delayed for a day or
two on account of some legal technicality about getting the license.
Sitting with us in our living room one night, they were discussing
plans for the ceremony and asked my advice about where to have it.
I don’t know whether they had hoped we would offer them our home
or whether the idea had even occurred to them, but when I asked if
they would like to be married here they seemed very much pleased.
The next question was the preacher, and I was generous again and
offered them ours. That pleased them too, and they wanted me to
Phone and ask him, which I did. The wedding was set for 3:30
Sunday afternoon. :

The living room had to be arranged and decorated for the occasion.
Thelma certainly was a blessing! She had already put up fresh
curtains for me, but now she and I took out all the surplus articles,
such as typewriters, newspapers, and other extras, and arranged
vases of beautiful pink spirea and pink hyacinths that I bought from
the curb market,

The preacher came, and we had the wedding. The bride wore a
pretty dress of black and white crepe and trembled like a leaf all
during the ceremony. The next day I wrote up the wedding for
them and put it in our local paper and gave Lois a copy to send
her home paper.

Lois stayed here about a week and then went back home to her
Job. The next August she and her sister came back to visit Hadley
and, since it happened that we had two vacant rooms at the time,

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stayed with us. I had not seen Hadley since Lois left, and we were
really glad to see both of them again.

A few days after the wedding, Charles Kunkler came to see us
and said he had been sent back to this field and that Frances and
Gary were coming back and wanted to know if we could take them.
We certainly could, for Frances was one of our dearest girls, and
I was delighted to have her again.

How Gary had grown! When he left he was a little baby only
about five months old, and now he was a big boy almost a year
old, running around in his stroller and almost able to walk without
it. He was a darling child, good as he could be, not a bit spoiled,
and with one of the sweetest little mothers I ever saw. I love to look
back now and think of what good mothers most of our babies had.

In the latter part of April both Bruce and Charles were sent to
other fields, and of course Thelma and Frances and their little boys
went away. The next Christmas we had a card from Thelma signed,
“Bruce, Thelma, Larry and Janie.”

In March the next year, Charles and Frances sent us an announce-
ment of the birth of a daughter, Connie Frances.

Just before these couples went away, Cpl. and Mrs. Earl H. Douglas
and their baby son, Roy Earl, took a room with us. They were from
a Texas ranch near Aspermont.

Cpl. Douglas, who for some reason was called “Jack” by his wife
and also by us, was located at a camp near Kinston, but either be-
cause he couldn’t find a place for his wife and son in Kinston or
because he liked Goldsboro better, he had engaged the room for
them here. Whatever the cause, we were the more fortunate that
they chose Goldsboro, and that they stayed with us for many months.

Mrs. Douglas had the very unusual name of Rutha Belle, but we
called her Belle. Roy Earl was about nine months old and had not
learned to walk, though he could crawl pretty well. He was a fine
healthy boy, and Belle told me Jack said he thought he was the
prettiest baby he had ever seen in his life.

When they came, Roy Earl, like most of the other babies, cried
and fretted for the first few days. The first night, I was awakened by
the sound of his crying, since they were in the room adjoining ours.
Belle took him out of the room and closed the door, and I went back
to sleep. But as I dozed off, I remember thinking that I was sorry
she went to the kitchen, for then he would wake Frances and Gary,
but the next day I found out that she did not go to the kitchen, but
took the baby in one arm, a rocking chair in the other hand, and
went into the bathroom, which adjoined her room and was beyond
it, and rocked him there until he went to sleep. If I had known her

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then as I did later I would have known that she would devise some
way not to disturb anyone. After a day or two, Roy Earl was all
right and as happy a little fellow as I ever saw.

During the months that followed, there were many changes in the
household, but Belle was the leader, helper, friend of all, the
soothing spirit, where soothing was needed. If anybody made a cake
or selected a book to read, or had a real trouble, Belle was consulted,
and her advice was usually taken, and was always found good. In
spite of the fact that she was younger than my youngest child, I did
not hesitate to go to her for advice, help and comfort, and at the
same time she kept us laughing with her comical remarks.

I was bad about losing things, but usually Belle could find them
for me. After one search when I was particularly worried over some-
thing I had lost, she brought it to me with the words, “Here it is,
Mrs. Baker. I don’t know what you would do without me!”

“No, Belle,” I said, “I don’t either.”

I had a white rayon dress that I decided to dye blue. Belle told
me what kind of dye to get, how to use it, etc. The dress had about
twenty pretty white buttons down the front, and as I was afraid
the dye would ruin them. I cut them off and put them in a pill box
as a safe place until I was ready to sew them back on the dress.
The dyeing was quite a success, and then I went to get the buttons,
but they were not in the little box. After a search I found them
where my very helpful and sometimes over-zealous husband had
poured them into a big box of buttons of every color, kind and size.
I saw that I had to pick out my buttons one by one, and it was no
easy job. I was exasperated, but I didn’t say anything to him; I just
went to Belle.

“Doesn’t it beat anything you ever heard of?” I complained.

“Now, Mrs. Baker, you know he was just trying to help,” she said.

I was picking out the buttons and fussing along when he came out
on the porch where we were and started down the steps.

“Don’t you think,” I asked him,” that it would be a good idea if
we would take all those little boxes of tacks in your tool chest and
pour them into one big box together?”

“Now Mrs. Baker, now Mrs. Baker!” warned Belle, but smiling at
the same time.

My husband had gone too far to hear her, but he didn’t under-
stand why I had suggested such a silly thing and said, “No, they
are separated according to the different kinds, and if we mixed them
I could not find the kind I wanted.”

I didn’t say anything else, and never did say anything to him
about mixing up the buttons.

184

 

Jack was a college graduate; had graduated from the Agricultural
department of his own state college. He had a wonderful store of
information about plants and things, which often came in good, or
at least was a matter of interest to the rest of us.

Roy Earl was growing and trying harder to walk. As the weather
grew warmer, he shed most of his clothes and spent much time out
in the sunshine until he had a fine coat of tan such as many a girl
who spends a week at the seashore trying to get sunburned would
envy. He was healthy and lived in a healthful mental atmosphere—
that of being loved by two kind and sensible parents, who knew how
to take care of him, and yet knew how not to spoil him. But as he
began to walk he gave his mother a hard time, for he climbed up on
every chair, stool, or anything else he could reach, and fell off every
time unless she got to him first. And falling didn’t stop him from try-
ing it again the next minute. If she took him into the yard, he wanted
to spend the entire time crawling up and down the steps.

When Belle had to be in the house, Roy Harl played in the hall.
We kept the front and back doors open to get all the breeze we could,
and sereen doors hooked to keep the flies out and Roy Earl in. One
day I happened to look toward the front door and saw Jack getting
out of his car. Belle, who did not know he was in town, was in the
kitchen cooking dinner. I called Roy Earl softly and said, “Come here
Roy Earl. Look!”

Jack came quietly up the steps, but Roy Earl gave such a squeal
of delight and started running toward the door that Belle knew
exactly what was happening.

Another time Belle had left her pocket book, which was very large,
lying on a chair in the hall. Roy Earl, dressed only in a diaper, his
usual at home costume, took up the pocket book, which was almost
as large as he was, and started along to the front door. He looked
back at us, waved his hand, and said, “Bye-bye.” If the screen had not
been hooked he probably would have gone shopping. ,

When Thelma went away Belle moved into her room, the front
one, and for a short time she and Jack and Roy Harl were our only
roomers. Belle missed Thelma, for the two had become good friends
in the little while they were here together, but she had plenty of
resources of her own, and besides that, she and I were such good
friends that she wasn’t so lonesome. But the next girl who came was
not only Belle’s intimate friend but her protege. This was Albina
Heaslip of New York City, whose husband, Tech. Sgt. William (Bill)
Heaslip, was sent here from another camp. ;

Al, as she liked to be called, was a little Polish girl; at least her
parents were Polish, and Al called herself a “Polak,” a word I had

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never heard before. She had just lost her baby and was very pitiful.
Mrs. Palmer had phoned me from the USO that Al did not want to
go to a home where there was a small baby, as it made her sad,
but she did not mind a big boy like Roy Earl. It was well for her
that she did come here, for Belle’s cheerfulness and good sense did
more to bring her back to normal than a doctor or a course in
psychology could have done. Soon she was going about her duties
happily, but would quickly lapse into grief again when something
reminded her of her sorrow. I probably should not have let her read
Eulah’s letter telling ofthe loss of her little one and of her dis-
appointment. Al said, “I wonder why a girl like that would be the
one to lose her baby, while some others who don’t even want a baby
should keep theirs.” Al’s baby, Barbara, had lived two or three
months, I believe. Al even brought some of her toys here with her.

She was happiest when busy, and as she had a knack for making
things pretty she began fixing things up, beginning where Thelma
had left off. Lucky me! She was especially interested in making the
kitchen attractive looking, and covered all the shelves with bright
red paper, washed and ironed the curtains, and kept everything
sparklingly clean.

We three, Belle, Al, and I, had a problem every time Al received
a letter from her mother in trying to discipher or translate it. I
never worked harder over a lesson in Virgil. Her mother had picked
up a broken English and wrote as it sounded to her. Al couldn’t read
it any better than the rest of us. Whenever we found out what one
of her words meant we would write that down and refer to it when
we came to that word again. Usually we would finally succeed in
getting the meaning of most of the letter.

Pretty soon Al had the house fixed to suit her and then she
decided to get out and find a job. Her method of procedure was very
different from that of most of the others. Instead of waiting in
the employment office or applying at dime stores or eating places
she went with assurance to the largest department store in town,
asked for a position and got it. She was put in the linen department
and was so successful in her sales that she soon received a raise in
salary.

Bill was then transferred to a camp in Georgia, but as he did not
think it a suitable place for Al, she stayed with us and kept her job
until July, when she decided to go home. Later in the summer Bill
was sent back here, and Al came too, and they were with us three
more months. She went right back to her job and found it waiting
for her. Belle was glad to have her little protege here again, and
so were the rest of us. There was never a dearer sweeter girl than

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Al, and I was so glad to see that much of the sadness that surrounded
her at first seemed to have vanished, and that she now entered into
the fun of the household like the others. She and Bill were with us
from April until October except for the six weeks after Bill was
transferred temporarily to another camp. During this time many
others came and went, but Al was always a favorite with everybody.

The time came for them to go. We were sorry, but some months
later rejoiced to receive the announcement of the birth of a daughter,
Gail. I never had an announcement that gave me more pleasure.
We sent her a present, and both Albina and Bill wrote and thanked us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXI
RUBY

About the middle of that summer a call came from the USO for a
room for a soldier’s wife and baby. The soldier was located in a camp
in a far away state, a place that was unsuitable for his wife and baby.

When the young woman arrived and I met her at the door, I
could not help being surprised. She was a very pretty girl with an
unmistakably Southern accent, and in her arms was a beautiful
Italian baby. She gave her name as Mrs. Arthur Sabatina. I told
my husband, “The baby is the very image of his father.”

“Why, how do you know?” he asked. “I didn’t know you had ever
seen his father.”

“No, I haven't,” I said, “but the baby is just like him.”

Ruby had wanted an apartment, but since she couldn’t find one,
she was pleased with the arrangement here, since her room adjoined
the bath on one side and the kitchen on the other.

“Tt is just like an apartment,” she said.

Artie was about eighteen months old, could walk and was learn-
ing to talk. He had brown eyes and his mother’s beautiful red gold
hair and was altogether lovely. He looked like a painting of a child
by Raphael or one of the old masters.

He was absolutely a “Mommy’s boy.” I never saw a child so
devoted to his mother. He would hide behind her skirts and peep
around at me, but pretty soon he began to make a game of it and
would try to make me pretend that I was going to get him. In a few
days he and I were the best of friends. He soon learned about the
box of toys on the sleeping porch, and nothing pleased him better
than getting in there to play with them. He was altogether one of
the cutest children I ever saw.

One day Ruby asked if she might leave Artie with me for a little
while and go down town. I agreed and, knowing how he loved to
play with the toys, anticipated no trouble. But somehow he realized
that Ruby was gone and was very unhappy. He didn’t cry, but
asked over and over with trembling lips, “Where’s Mommy? Where’s
Mommy?”

He didn’t want the toys, and I couldn’t please him. In a little while
Ruby came back, and Artie rejoiced at seeing her, but after he was

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fully satisfied that she was in the house he wanted to go into the
sleeping porch and play with the toys!

Ruby, whose parents lived in an Eastern town, had held a secre-
tarial position in a city in New Jersey. She said that one day she
was standing waiting for a bus, when Arthur Sabatina first saw her.
He got a mutual friend to introduce them. It was a long time after
that before she married him. After they were engaged he took her
to see his parents, and his mother loved and hugged her and cried
over her because she was going to marry her son. Arthur said that
was just what he had told his mother not to do.

Ruby said Arthur’s people were nice to her, but that “My trouble
is that everytime I say a word about wanting anything they go right
Straight and buy it for me. I said I wanted a fur coat, and I meant
for Art to buy it, but they bought it. They say they are going to
give us a car as soon as Art is out of service, and then they are going
to build us a home.” Beside that, she said they were very nice and
Sweet to her.

“T think I could stand that sort of trouble,” I told her.

One day Ruby and Artie went down town and when they came
home Artie marched into the house pulling by a string the most
fantastic toy imaginable. It was a pink cow on a platform on wheels.
As the platform moved the cow turned round and round. She turned
her head about and switched her tail, and two white stars perched
on the ends of her horns whirled around.

“Well, did anybody ever!” I exclaimed. “That beats anything I
have ever seen in my life.”

Elsie made an interesting addition to Artie’s already plentiful
Supply of wheeling toys, and I think was his favorite. Ruby said that
as soon as he saw her in the store he wanted her so badly that she
didn’t have the heart to refuse to buy her. Artie hardly ever appeared
without two toys on wheels. He held one string in each hand and
pulled the doggies, cows, or whatever they were behind him. Money
was another favorite toy with him, and any stray quarters and half
dollars picked up about the house were always turned over to Ruby
or Artie, as we knew they belonged to them.

It was about the middle of July that Sgt. Preston Crawford of
Little Rock, Ark., his wife and their two year old son, Donnie, came
to live with us. Anne was tall, dark and attractive. Donnie was the
most beautifully built child I ever saw, which was easy to see, as,
in the hot weather we were having, none of the babies wore anything
but their little underpants.

Little Florence had left a rather dilapidated doll here, and the
first time Donnie saw it he held out his arms and exclaimed, “Baby!”

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I gave it to him, and he rocked and loved that old doll, and went
to sleep with it, saying softly, “Baby, Baby.”

“Doesn’t he have a doll?” I asked Anne.

“No, we never thought of buying a doll for a boy,” she said.

Donnie played with that old doll until Preston and Anne went
down town and bought him a new one.

Later in the month Roy Earl reached the first milestone in his
life. He was one year old. Belle decided to have a birthday party for
him. This was to be entirely a stag affair—no girls to be invited
except the ladies in the house. Invitations were sent to Frankie,
Sammy, Donnie, and Artie. These, with Roy Earl himself and the
ladies, made quite a party.

We set two tables under the mimosa tree in the yard, one for the
presents and one for the refreshments. The presents came first, as
everybody brought one and everybody was anxious to see his opened.
Roy Earl sat in a high chair at the table and with much help from
the guests opened the gifts. There were stuffed doggies on wheels,
an airplane that could be rolled about on wheels, little carts of blocks
and lots of other things. As soon as one present was opened and ad-
mired and Roy Earl started on the next, one of the little boys would
take the first one and begin to roll it about the yard or make it do
whatever such a wonderful toy was supposed to do. I noticed that
neither Belle nor Roy Earl made any objection or warned anyone
to be careful and not break the toy. It seemed just what they expected
that the guests should play with the toys as much as they wanted to.

Then came the birthday cake—big and white, decorated with pink
icing and centered with one little pink candle. It was placed in the
center of the table, which had been covered with a most beautiful
birthday tablecloth made of pink and white tissue paper and
decorated all around with pictures of birthday cakes and candles.
On the table were cups of pink ice cream and decorated cakes. It was
a beautiful sight. Every little boy wanted to be the one to blow out
the candle, but the mothers held them back and wouldn’t let Roy
Earl be that unselfish. So Roy Earl blew out his candle, and Belle
sliced the cake, and everybody ate. It was altogether delightful.

Then it was time for pictures. We arranged the little boys in a
group, Roy Earl and Artie sitting on the grass, and the other three,
who were a little older, standing back of them. This time Frankie and
Sammy, being a whole year older than they were when Sherry had
her party, had overcome their camera shyness and didn’t run away.
Belle took some really good pictures of the group, though in one of
them she caught Anne and me anxiously trying to arrange the
children and not knowing that we would show, as I was off at one

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side and Anne at the other. Some of the pictures were of Roy Earl
alone with his presents.

After this part of the program was over, Anne, deciding that
Donnie was too warm, took his suit off, leaving him in only his little
underpants. Sammy looked around at him and in surprise and asked,
“Donnie, who took your suit off of you?”

Donnie did not reply, and Sammy persisted, “Donnie, did you take
your suit off?”

Still no reply, and Sammy exclaimed in exasperation, “Donnie,
can’t you talk?”

The time came for the guests to say they had “had a good time”
and to go home, and it was “the end of a perfect day.”

Ruby had long been impatient at being away from Arthur, and
he was just as anxious to have her with him, but the Army kept
him moving about and she could not go until he was settled. Finally
the postman brought a letter in which Arthur said he had arrived at
a camp in Washington state, and that Ruby and Artie could come.
Ruby jumped up on one foot and then on the other and behaved
liked a child with his first toy balloon. The funniest thing about it
was the puzzled little smile on Artie’s face as he, pleased but not
understanding, watched her.

Arthur told her in the letter not to come until she could get a
Pullman reservation, and that if she couldn’t get it he wanted her
to buy an automobile and get someone to come out there with her.
She tried for weeks to get the reservation, but finally, with money
Arthur had sent her for the purpose, bought an automobile, and
when she found someone who wanted to go to the west coast they
made the trip.

After Ruby got there, she wrote us that, since Arthur never had
been satisfied because they were not married by a Catholic priest,

they were going to be married. She bought a wedding dress, and
they had a church wedding!

Oftén I cut out pictures from the society pages of newspapers of
girls that look like some of our girls, and Ruby had seen these. In
a letter, she sent me a picture of an elderly woman leaning over a
table with several small children who seemed interested in some
handwork, and wrote that she thought the woman looked like me.
She said she remembered how I had cut out pictures of the others,
and thought I would like this. Well, I wasn’t flattered, because I
thought the woman was too old, but the more I looked at it the
more I decided that Ruby was right, and that she wasn’t any older
than I was, though her hair was grey and waved artificially, but,

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oh yes, so is mine, and I believe it is a good picture of me with my
Sunday School class, so I have it with the pictures of the girls.

Later Arthur was sent back east, and they came to see us. Arthur
was tall and handsome, and Ruby and Artie looked lovely, but Artie
was shy and wouldn’t talk to us. After Arthur received his discharge
from the Army, they moved to Elizabeth, New Jersey, his home city.
I heard sometime later that they had a little girl named Sherry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXII
MARGE

As soon as Ruby went away her room was taken by Staff Set.
Lawrence West of California and his wife and child. Marge was so
much like Irene Adams (one of the finest girls we ever had) that I
felt like Irene had come back. Larry looked very much like Mr.
Charles West who was with us during the construction of the camp.
He was really so much like him, though younger, that I decided that
they must be related. However, when I asked him, he said he had
never heard of him, and I suppose the resemblance, plus the fact that
they had the same name, was merely a coincidence. Tommy was a
beautiful baby with brown eyes and brown hair and reminded me
of little Larry Adams. At least both had brown eyes, both loved me,
and I loved them.

Since Belle had lost her best friend, Al Heaslip, I was glad to see
that she liked Marge. They were good friends from the first. We
still had three little boys in the house, as we had had most of the
time for the two previous years, though not the same little boys. I
had attractive pictures sent me of some of the first ones, now grown
big, Larry Adams, Edward Napiwocki, Sammy of course, Lowell
Sexton, and others. I almost felt as if babies couldn’t be girls any
more. They were just always boys. I wonder if there is any truth
in a saying that I have heard—that in war years most of the babies
that are born are boys.

Our three little boys now were pretty good, but sometimes the
little fellows got spankings. The older I get the less I believe in
spanking, and I really believe that if I could raise my own children
again I could do it without any. Something like that I suppose is
the reason grandparents get the reputation for spoiling their grand-
children. Well, those who lived in our house were almost the same as
my own grandchildren.

The three mothers, Belle, Anne, and Marge, were in the kitchen
together one morning when I came in and said, “I am going to offer
a prize. I don’t know what it will be, but it will be a prize.”

They looked at me expectantly, wondering what on earth I was
going to say.

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“The prize is for the mother who does the least spanking and
scolding,” I said.

“Oh!” they said laughing, and each said she was going to try for it.

Later in the day I heard Anne speaking to Donnie in endearing
tones, calling him “Darling,” or something like it.

“Just listen at Anne trying to get that prize!” said Belle.

Two days later I bought three watermelons, which I presented
to the three girls. I told them it was impossible for me to decide
which of the three good mothers had been the best, and that I was
sure each deserved a prize. This was watermelon season,. and we
were on the lookout for good melons and often cut and ate them in
the back yard late in the afternoon after the boys came home from
camp, so these were quite acceptable as prizes.

Marge was an attractive girl with dark hair and eyes. She had a
rather serious manner, but I found her congenial and enjoyed her
very much in the following months. The entire personnel of our
household changed during that time except Larry and Marge, who
were with us until November. I thought Tommy belonged to me,
and he certainly thought so. I will never forget how he loved my
biscuits. I usually had a plate of cold ones on the refrigerator, and
Tommy, although he could not talk, would go to the refrigerator,
look up and begin to squeal, and all of us came to recognize that
little squeal as a request for a biscuit. Sometimes Marge remon-
strated, but when she realized that it was just as much pleasure
for me to give Tommy a biscuit as it was for him to get it she let
us alone.

About that time George needed a stenographer at the store, and
phoned and asked if we had any one who could fill the place. I told
him I thought so, and presented the matter to Marge. I had heard
her speak of some of the positions she had held, and was sure she
was experienced and capable. George said he could make out with
part time work.

Marge wanted to do it, but said she didn’t see how she could on
account of Tommy, but two young girls who had moved into an
upstairs room agreed to keep him a few hours a day for a remunera-
tion, and Marge took the job. Indeed she was capable. The boys
were delighted at having her in the office.

I kept Tommy the first morning, and after that he was to stay
with the others, but he meant to, stay with me regardless of what
the girls tried to do. I began to wonder whether I really had a baby
on my hands, but when he found that the others would take him

out of doors, even down town in his stroller, he gave in and went
with them.

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Belle came into the living room one day and told us she and Jack
had decided to take an apartment at the War Housing Project. She
said they hated to go, that they liked it here and loved us and the
others, but that it would cost less and they thought it best to go.
They had not yet found an apartment, but wanted to let us know
before they made any plans. That was like them—good, honest,
straightforward and open in all they did and said. I certainly hated
for them to leave. Belle had been such a help and comfort to every-
body that I knew how we would miss her. She promised to come
back to see us, and kept her promise. Jack had his own car, and
they came over often, which was a great pleasure to us and to the
other girls, every one of whom loved them. :

Preston, Anne and Donnie left soon after the Douglases did, and
this left Marge as the nucleus for the new group of young folks who
inevitably flocked in as soon as there were available rooms. The two
girls using the upstairs room were Gladys and Dell, who had grown
tired of farm life and wanted to come to town and live. They were
nice girls and were a pleasant addition to the family. :

The next couples were Pfc. and Mrs. Wesley Ninemire of Kansas
City, Kansas, and Lt. and Mrs. Joe Latacki of Windham, Ohio, who
took the middle and south bed rooms. I hesitated about Lt. Latacki
because he was an officer, and I spoke to him about it when he applied
for the room.

“T have been an enlisted man myself,” he said. “I know how they
feel, and I think you will have no trouble.”

He also told me that his wife was very friendly, and added with
a smile, “We have a baby girl about this long,” holding his hands
about sixteen inches apart. é

“Why, all my best friends have been enlisted men’s wives every-
where I’ve been,” said Esther when she came. “Joe was a private
when I married him.” 3

The Ninemires came too, and the two girls were devoted friends,
and were also congenial with Marge, Gladys and Dell. These girls
enjoyed being together, and all except Dell were here until nearly
Christmas, and Gladys stayed long after that. Marge said after they
had been here for some time, “We have had such a nice time since
the Latackis and the Ninemires came.”

Wesley was an unusually tall man and well built. Donna, who was
only seventeen, had a sweet Madonna-like face. Wesley, Jr., was
a great big fat baby, and as cute and good as could be, and his parents
were so proud of him. ,

Joe and Esther Latacki were not more than medium height, and
their little girl, Jo Anne, six months old, was indeed tiny. Esther

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played with her, dressed her up, took her about, and enjoyed her
just as Anne or Little Florence would a beautiful doll. She dressed
her in her christening robe and took her to a studio and had her
picture taken. Donna and Esther took pictures of the two babies
together in our yard. They tried to get some affectionate poses,
which was rather difficult for two little folks only six months old.
Donna’s mother and aunt came for a visit, and we found them
pleasant and nice like Donna. One afternoon we took them and
Donna and Wesley, Jr., to ride around the city and out to the State
Hospital where recent rains had caused the Neuse and Little Rivers
to rise until the water had surrounded some of the agricultural
buildings and even some dormitories. Dr. Whelpley, superintendent
of the hospital, was taking moving pictures of the water and of some
people in boats on the water, which had come almost up to the dairy
barns.

But all too soon this happy group was broken up, as Joe and
Wesley were sent on to other camps, and Donna and Esther and
the babies of course went too. They gave us kodak pictures before
they left and wrote us nice letters. Larry, Marge, and Tommy were
here longer, but they too had to go. Marge wrote us many letters.
The pleasant memories linger.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jor, ESTHER, AND JOANNE

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIII
NANCY

Staff Sgt. Al Pearson, a pleasant faced young man, came to the
house one evening and asked for a room for his wife, himself and
their month old baby for one week. The room Joe and Esther had
occupied was vacant, and we were glad io let him have it.

When they walked up on the front porch, I saw a tall girl with
a pleasant face. Nancy was pure Irish—not Irish by descent, but
born in Ireland, and not yet quite free of her Irish brogue. She was
a staunch Catholic and she was good and good natured, and every-
body liked her. Billy was a good little fellow but not yet old enough to
have developed any decided personality.

Nancy was glad to be with Al, but something kept her from being
quite happy. She had come for a visit of only one week to show
Billy to his father, who had not seen him since he was three days
old, but she had left their thirteen months old daughter, Nancy at
home.

“Nancy is so bad I have to beat her,” (which I knew she didn’t
mean) “but I do want to see her.”

I suggested that she bring Nancy with her next time and stay
while her husband was in camp. It did not occur to me that she
would take me at my word, but that is what she did.

One morning about two months later, with no warning whatever,
Nancy walked in with Billy, now three months old, in one arm and
leading fifteen months old Nancy with the other hand. The taxi
driver followed with two big suit cases. I was non-plussed. True, I
had a room, the one Larry and Marge had left, but this was Saturday,
and I had promised the room to a soldier and his wife, beginning
Tuesday. I explained that to Nancy, but told her we would be glad
for her to use the room until Tuesday. So we put the little crib and
the big crib into the room, and they moved in.

Nancy had traveled two days and nights with the two babies and
had not taken a sleeper, and she was exhausted. First, she said she
would call Al on the phone and then take a nap.

She called the camp and succeeded in locating his building, but
he was out and not expected back in several hours, she was informed.

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Lirrte Nancy, Big NANcyY, AND BILLY

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So Big Nancy, Little Nancy, and Billy retired for the rest of the
morning, all three dead for sleep.

When she waked, Nancy phoned again for Al, but could not locate
him. Again and again during the afternoon she sought to find him,
but in vain. Finally when bed time came, she and her little brood
retired, but she was worried. So was I, but we went to bed, thinking
that on the morrow he would be found.

About midnight the phone rang, and I got up and answered it.
A voice said, “Mrs. Baker, this is Al Pearson. Is Nancy at your house?”

I was so relieved that I wanted to shout.

“Yes,” I said, “she and the children are here. We have tried all
day to get you. Can you come on over now and spend the night?”

“T am afraid I can’t get there tonight,” he replied.

“All right, I'll call Nancy,’ said I.

In a minute Nancy was at the phone, and I went back to bed, but
I could hear what she said. After she had said, “This is Nancy,” and
waited for him to speak, she exclaimed, “My God!”

I listened, my heart in my mouth. What could be the trouble?

Then I caught on. Al had gone to their home in New Jersey on a
furlough, leaving here the same day Nancy left home. He was calling
from their home in New Jersey. Nancy had told her mother she was
coming to our house, so he called here for her.

There was nothing she could do but wait, and Al started back the
next day and spent his furlough in Goldsboro.

“T never mean to surprise anybody again in my life,” Nancy said
to me later.

After Al arrived Monday, they went out on a search for a room
and found a nice one with kitchen privileges and moved in. An hour
or two later the phone rang, and Nancy said, “Mrs. Baker, may we
come back and stay tonight? We’ll get another room tomorow.”

“Yes Nancy, I’ll come for you with the car,” I said, “but what is
the trouble.”

“T’ll tell you when I see you,” she said, “and we are at the USO now.”

I went to the USO and found the family waiting for me, and
brought them home.

Nancy said the room they rented was infested with bed bugs, that
she discovered them almost as soon as she entered the room, and that
she and Al took the babies and suit cases and hurried out. They ex-
plained it to the landlady, who assured them with tears in her eyes
that she did not know there was any such condition, and said she
would have the room fumigated.

Al knew the soldier who had just moved out of the room, and told

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him of it. “Yes, she did know it,” said the soldier, “she knew it all
the time. We moved out for the same reason.”

On Tuesday the man who had rented the room at our house came
with the news that his wife was ill and couldn’t come at all. I was
delighted, though I couldn’t say so, because now Nancy could stay
with us. But Nancy, who was sitting on the porch with me at the
time, was so distressed over the far away lady’s illness and so sym-
pathetic that I was ashamed of myself and almost believed she was
sorry.

The Pearsons then became a regular part of our family, and every-
body was glad. Little Nancy wasn’t bad; she was very good indeed,
and gave no trouble to anyone. She was beautiful, cute and smart.
And Nancy didn’t “beat” her. She was a kind, gentle mother, and
the children were well cared for. Billy was still good, and now, at
the advanced age of three months, had developed a very attractive
personality.

One day I asked, “Nancy how on earth did you manage to make
that trip all the way from New Jersey with two babies and two suit

cases?”

“Well,” she said, “people are nice. They will help you when you
need it.”

She said every time she had to change cars someone took Nancy
and someone else the suit cases, and that they always seemed glad
to do it, except once. That time there was no one to take Nancy
except a very dressed up young lady, who plainly did not want to
do it.

She gingerly took the child up, the said disgustedly, “She is wet!”

“Of course she’s wet,” replied the mother. “All babies get wet.”

“And then,’ said Nancy, “she took my child up and took her off the
train, holding her from her like she was a little piece of dirt!”

Nancy frequently punctuated her conversation with exclamations
that seemed dreadful to me, who had been taught that even “Dog
gone” was cursing, and that “I declare” was swearing.

“Don’t, Nancy!” I said.

“Don’t what?” she asked puzzled.

“Don’t use such words.”

“Why, Mrs. Baker, dont you know Irish people swear worse than
anybody in the world? But I’ll try to remember not to do it if you
don’t like it,” she said—and she remembered.

Florence brought Sammy over for a little visit one morning while
she did some shopping. I introduced him to Big Nancy and Little
Nancy, who happened to be in the hall.

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Sammy dismissed “Mrs. Pearson” with a glance, but his eyes
lingered on Little Nancy.

“T like Nancy,” he said, and then suddenly and tempestuously
exclaimed, “Grandma, I haven’t got any little sister named Nancy!
I wish she was my cousin.”

“But you have a nice little sister named Betty,” I reminded him.

, But I haven’t got one named Nancy.”

He hurried to the sleeping porch where he knew I kept the toys,
and selecting the best, presented them to Nancy. He fed her with
cookies and crackers and paid her such homage that all the house-
hold came to look. But to Nancy it seemed her just right, and she
accepted it contentedly and without comment. In fact, she couldn’t
comment since the only words in her vocabulary were “Daddy,” and
“Mamma,” and “Bye-bye.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIV
GLADYS AND DELL

Gladys and Dell were two pretty attractive young farm girls, who
wanted to try their fortunes in the city. I knew Dell’s mother, and it
was she who asked me if we could take them into our home. I told
her we had only a little upstairs room, but this seemed satisfactory,
and they came.

The girls had little trouble in finding positions in stores. They had
evidently been instructed by their mothers as to their responsibility
toward me, for they told me whenever and wherever they were
going out at night, and were careful to come in at reasonable hours.

Dell was little with black curly hair and blue eyes. She was delicate
and a little spoiled, evidently having been the family pet. Gladys
Letchworth was blonde and larger than Dell. I thought she was
pretty and sweet looking, but I was not prepared for the appearance
she could make. She knew how to wear her clothes and appeared
at times as glamorous as a movie star. I had a little party for the
girls and a few neighbors, and when Gladys entered the room, I
could almost hear the neighbors gasp. She wore a yellow silk dress
and had her hair upswept, and was so beautiful and sophisticated in
appearance that I hardly recognized her as the little blond curly
haired girl who ran about in knee length dresses. And as for photo-
graphs—she knew so well how to pose that I believe if some of her
pictures had been sent to Hollywood a talent scout might have come
to investigate.

She was so sweet that she soon became a general favorite in the
home. Her attitude toward Dell was almost that of a mother toward
her child. Anything was all right. If Dell didn’t feel like doing her
share of the cleaning up, Gladys did it for her. If Dell wanted to wear
Glady’s dress, she wore it. They were devoted to each other, and
easily fitted into the household.

The fall weather was warm and pleasant, and one day Little
Florence and Frankie were playing in the yard. They noticed that
the door on the upstairs porch was open, and although they knew
that they were not supposed to go up alone, they went. It evidently
did not occur to them that anyone might be up there. When they
entered the door, Gladys and Dell, who were in their room at the

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end of the hall with their door open, saw them and called, “Come
in and talk to us.”

Startled, the children ran out, closed the door, locked it on the
outside, (the girls had left the key in the lock outside,) and hurried
downstairs. The girls couldn’t get out, and the only thing they could
do was to call through the window until somebody heard and went
up and unlocked the door.

“The days went by, and I began to notice that a certain good look-
ing soldier often accompanied them home. Sometimes he came alone
and asked for Gladys: Dell’s sweetheart was overseas, but I suppose
Gladys was fancy free, for we soon saw that the attentions of Robert
Cease were not unwelcome. A romance was budding. After awhile
Gladys told me that she and Bob were engaged, but that they did
not plan to be married until he was out of the service and had a
position.

When she went home she told her parents, about it, and they in-
vited Bob to come out to the farm with Gladys and spend a week-end.
Poor Bob! He was scared to death. Suppose Gladys’ people didn’t
like him. Suppose anything!

When they returned, Gladys was jubilant. “Mrs. Baker, my folks
do like Bob,” she said.

“Of course they do,” I replied, “I knew they would.”

“Like who wouldn’t!” said Gladys.

As soon as there was a vacant room, Dell and Gladys moved down-
stairs. Soon afterwards there was a call from the USO for rooms for
two couples who were to be here just for the week end. Each couple
had a child. We had the sleeping porch and another room, but I had
been using the sleeping porch for a place just to put things to get
them out of the way, so this room had to be put in order.

I do not remember much about Cpl. and Mrs. Sanderson except
that she was pretty and that their child was a little boy about two
years old, but I have plenty of reason to remember Cpl. and Mrs.
Denver.

Before I had their room ready, the young folks came. I told Cpl.
and Mrs. Denver I would have the sleeping porch ready in a few
minutes. Mrs. Denver said it would be all right as she wanted to
give her baby a bath the first thing. They put their suit cases in,
opened one and took out some clothing for the baby. Mrs. Denver
also put some toilet articles on the dresser before taking the baby to
the bathroom.

While she was out, Dell came to the door and told me that she
and Gladys would be glad to sleep upstairs the short time the Denvers
would be here, and let them have their room where they could have a

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fire in the grate for the baby. She said, however, that they couldn’t
move their things out until the next morning as they were going out

that night, and didn’t have time to move them.
“I think that is sweet of you and Gladys,” I told her. “And I don’t

think you need move very many things. Just leave your clothes in
the bureau drawers; you can go in there and get them when you

want them.” ; :
When Mrs. Denver came back I told her what the girls had said,

and she seemed to appreciate it. She then put the baby on the bed
and turned to the dresser. Suddenly she exclaimed, “My watch is

gone!” : : ;
As I looked up startled, she said, “Maybe I took it off in the

bathroom when I bathed the baby.” ;
She ran to the bathroom, then hurried back excitedly.

“Tt is not there. I left it in here on the dresser. Who’s been in
my room?” :

“T have been here all the time,” I said, “and no one else has been
here except Dell, who came to the door to speak to me.”

“Who's Dell?” she demanded.
“She ig one of our girls who has lived with us for months, and

I know she didn’t touch your watch. I would know it anyway, but
I was looking at her all the time we were talking. Perhaps the
watch fell into one of the dresser drawers.”

My husband, who heard the commotion, came in and began to help
us look for it. Cpl. Denver helped too. I was really getting worried.
We took out every drawer, moved the dresser and looked under and
behind it. Mrs. Denver suddenly left the room, and rushing into the
hall where Dell, Gladys, and Bob were sitting, said, “My watch is
gone. Where is it?”

They looked at her in astonishment, and the girls said, “We don’t
know anything about it.”

“T left it on the dresser in my room while I bathed the baby, and
when I came back someone had taken it.”

Her husband asked her to tell him just where she had been, and
when she mentioned the bathroom he said he would go there and look.
“Well, you needn’t, for it isn’t there,” she answered.

But he went to the bathroom and found the watch on the shelf
directly over the lavatory where she had bathed the baby. It was in
an open soap box and had slipped down by the side of a cake of soap.

“I didn’t put it here, and I certainly wouldn’t have put it ina
soap box,” she snapped.

“The shelf is higher than your head,” I said. “If you took it off
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and put it up on the shelf you wouldn’t have seen the soap box, and
wouldn’t know that you dropped it into it.”

She rushed back to the girls in the hall and, facing Dell, shrieked,
“Somebody put my watch in a soap box on the bathroom shelf!”

“T can’t help it,” said Dell.

Gladys told me later that Bob was so mad that she was afraid he
was going to start a fight. My husband was angry too, and so was L

The next morning it had really turned cool, and the girls moved
some of their things upstairs and the Denvers moved into their room.
Mrs. Denver came to the living room door and asked for a key,
saying she wanted to lock her door when she went down town.

“You can’t lock the door because it is Gladys’ and Dell’s room,
and they might want something while you are away. You know they
moved out only to make you more comfortable; they are not being
paid to do it. We do not lock the doors when we go out. No one
lives here except those who are just like members of our family, and
if you are afraid to leave your things in there you had better get
another room,” said I.

“What do you mean, another room?” she asked.

“T mean a room somewhere else,” I said. “This is not a public
boarding house. It is our home, and everybody that lives here is
honest. As for your watch being lost last night, it is better for you
to be accused of carelessness than for you to accuse someone else
of stealing.”

“Well, just put that down to my carelessness,” she snapped.

But she might as well have locked her door, as Dell and Gladys
didn’t go into the room for anything. They said they wouldn’t have
dared go in, as she might accuse them of taking something else.

Cpl. Denver told me his wife often got so angry with him that she
wouldn’t speak to him for days.

During the day, Gladys came into the kitchen and told me she
wanted to explain why she and Dell didn’t come home earlier the
night before. She said they went to a party at a girl’s house, and
everybody stayed until twelve o’clock, and they hated to break up
the party.

“T think that was all right,” I said. “I wouldn’t want you to break
up the party. That is not like being out somewhere alone with a
man until twelve o’clock.”

“Humph!” Mrs. Denver, who was in the room at the time, said
sarcastically. “Wasn’t that a late hour!”

Gladys looked at her in surprise, but said nothing. Later she asked
me what I thought about it.

“Don’t worry about what she says, Gladys,” I told her. “You and

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Dell are doing right. Mrs. Denver probably thinks it is all right for
young girls to stay out until all hours of the night or morning, but
I don’t think nice girls do that. You are doing like your mother would
want you to do.”

After a few days the Denvers went away. My husband said they
did one thing he liked—they left.

Dell, never strong, began to break under the strain of standing
behind a counter all day, and her mother persuaded her to give up
her work and come home. Gladys missed her, but she made friends
so easily that she didn’t get really lonesome. She and I enjoyed being
together, but best of all, she had Bob, and no girl gets lonesome if
she has her sweetheart.

The next applicant was a young mother just out of the hospital
with a brand new baby. An elderly woman whom I knew phoned me
that this young woman was not pleasantly situated and wanted to
move. Her husband was in some distant camp, and his sister was with
her. They wanted a room together, and the sister would stay here and
wait on the mother and baby.

They came, and I thought they were very sweet, but imagine my
consternation when in about two days the sister announced that
she was going home. She said her husband wanted her to come home.

“Who is going to look after the patient?” I asked.

“Qh, she will be all right. She is getting on very well,” she replied.

Then I saw through the “unpleasant situation” they had had at
the former rooming house. The sister wanted to leave me to wait on
the mother and baby.

I remonstrated, “She isn’t even out of bed yet. You told me you
would stay and wait on her. Someone will have to cook for her,
wash for her and the baby, keep her fire up, and take care of them.
I am going to ask you not to go away and leave her here.”

All this time the mother said not a word. The sister looked dis-
pleased, to say the least. Of course I knew that I was within my
rights, but I was quaking in my boots for fear she would go anyway,
and that I couldn’t help myself, but the next day she packed up,
bundled the mother and her week old baby into a taxi and left.

The next folks had a tiny baby too, but the circumstances were
very different. These were Pfc. and Mrs. Shelbert Sawyer and their
month old son, Shelbert, Jr., who were here for about two months.

The baby was the best little fellow! He seldom cried and seemed
happy and content to lie in his carriage. My husband thought he
was too good, and that something ought to be done about it, but I
think he was well and well fed and had not been accustomed to
being held, and was happy in his own quiet little way. His mother

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worried some over his name. “Shelbert” seemed such a big name
for such a little fellow. She thought of calling him “Bert,” and I sug:
gested “Shelly,” but when she went away she had never decided what
to call him, though his father was calling him “Butch.”

As for Mrs. Sawyer herself, her name was Gladys. There were only
two girls in the house, and both were named Gladys. Little Florence,
who was a frequent visitor, had a way of her own to designate them,
“the Gladys that has a baby,” and “the Gladys that hasn’t got a baby.”

Florence had always loved Gladys Letchworth, and now she was
so enraptured over the Sawyer baby that she wanted to come over
every day. She was so devoted to him that I was sorry for her when
the Sawyers went away.

Changes now came rapidly. The war in Japan was over, but many
of the boys remained in service for months after, especially those
overseas. The camp remained in operation for a long time, and we
still had soldiers and their wives with us. Bob received his discharge
from the army and went home. He had written his mother about
Gladys, and she had written a letter welcoming Gladys into their
family.

In one week after Bob went home he was back, and brought a
lovely diamond ring for Gladys. He came directly to us and wanted
to know if we had a room that he could rent. Yes, we had a room,
and Bob moved in. Of all the neat and careful and orderly roomers
we ever had Bob was the most so. I changed his bed linen and gave
his fresh towels, but that was all I had to do for him. Every day his
bed was carefully made and every garment was put in place before
he left the room.

His father had offered him an excellent position in his business
in Rochester, New York, but Bob wasn’t ever going home without
Gladys. He secured a position in a local store and went to work.
Although Gladys’ parents like him, her mother could not bear the
thought of having her marry and go so far away, so the wedding
was postponed.

Christmas came, and with it a box of lovely gifts from Bob’s
mother for him and Gladys. There was even a present for me, a
beautiful handmade handkerchief trimmed with tatting. When I
wrote and thanked her for it, I told her about Gladys’ sweet dis-
position and that I knew she would love her, and of course I told
her what a fine young man we thought Bob was and how much we
thought of him. Later Bob told me his mother wrote him that she
had a nice letter from me.

Time moved on, and Bob and Gladys kept hoping.

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CHAPTER XXXV
ETHEL, RUTH, AND A WEDDING

Lieutenant John §. Wallace, who had reenlisted and was expecting
to be sent to Germany, and his wife, Ethel, were our next couple.
They said they thought they would be here for only two or three
weeks. The large front bed room was vacant, and they seemed
pleased with it.

When the arrangements were practically completed and they had
all but taken the room, Ethel said, “We have a little dog. She is
good and quiet and clean. You wouldn’t mind her, would you?”

I hesitated. I really didn’t want a dog here, but I remembered
one couple that had a little white dog that slept in their car and
gave us no trouble. Also considering the fact that the dog was small
and well trained and that they were going to be here only a short
time, I agreed.

Sure enough Cindy was just as good as Ethel said she was. She
never barked in the house, and if she even started to growl Ethel
would say, “Shut up, Cindy,” and Cindy would shut up. But—in
about two weeks Cindy had nine puppies, and then we had ten dogs.

Ten dogs! What should we do? Lieut. Wallace said he would take
them to the camp, which he did, but he couldn’t bear to leave them,
so every time he took them there he brought them back again. They
were cute though, and Cindy was so proud of them. She was a Scotch
terrier, I believe, and black all over. The puppies weren’t pure blood
and were brindled. One day John put them in socks and hung them
on the clothes line and took kodak pictures of them, and it made a
very attractive picture. But we made out with the puppies until
the Wallaces left, which was in only a few weeks.

A few days after the arrival of John and Ethel, Lt. Floyd Hibdon,
a friend of John’s, came with him to ask for a room for himself and
his wife ,who was expected to arrive soon. I was always glad to
have couples who were friends, so we gave them the middle room,
the one Shelbert and Gladys Sawyer had recently vacated.

In a few days Ruth came. She was wondrously beautiful, and
as sweet and attractive as she was pretty. She told me that they had
been married only three weeks, but I did not know then that she
had not seen Floyd since the day after their wedding.

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One night there was an officer’s dance at the camp, and both couples
were going. The boys sent orchids, and the girls dressed up and
came to the living room for us to look them over. They were truly
beautiful, Ethel in a lavender evening gown, and Ruth in pale green.

As Gladys worked down town, the other girls and I were together
here a good deal, and we talked and talked—that is, Ethel talked,
and Ruth and I sometimes joined in. Ethel said her father was half
Indian, and it certainly wasn’t hard to believe when she showed me
his picture in Indian costume. His name was Jones, though she said
her mother had said that one thing certain she never was going to
marry a man named Jones.

They lived in New Mexico, but for a time had lived in California.
Ethel said there were very few Negroes where she lived, and that
they attended the public schools with white students. In her class
her senior year was a colored girl named Ethel Jones. When the
' roll was called, one answered to the name, “Ethel D. Jones,” and the
other, “Ethel B. Jones.” When commencement came, all of the grad-
uates sat on the platform in alphabetical order, so Ethel sat
next to the colored Ethel Jones. She said she had gone to the princi-
pal and asked to have her name called way down at the end of the
list, and not where it belonged alphabetically. The principal refused
to make any exceptions, so when the diplomas were presented, the
names were called, “Ethel B. Jones,” “Ethel D. Jones, etc.

Ruth was indignant. “I wouldn’t have gone to that school,” she said.

“Oh yes, you would if you had lived there,” said Ethel. s

“Well, I wouldn’t live there then,” said Ruth.

One afternoon Ethel dashed into the living room wild with excite-
ment. “I left my pocket book in the car last night, and Johnny drove
the car to the camp this morning, and it’s been sitting out there all
day. I had two hundred and seventeen dollars in it,” she said.

She called the camp on the phone and began a search for Lieut.
Wallace, but it was sometime before he could be located, as he was
somewhere out on the field. After what seemed to her a very long
time, he did come to the phone, and she told him about it. He went to
the car and found the pocket book in a flap of the lining where she
told him she had left it, and there was the money all safe and sound!

Late in January Gladys told me that she and Bob had decided to
be married right away. They wanted to be married here in our liv-
ing room with only the members of the household present.

How interested and excited all of us were! Ethel and Ruth helped
me get things ready. We bought wedding gifts, and I bought flowers
from the Curb Market and a chocolate layer cake and ice cream.

Gladys’ wedding outfit was ready, and I had a new dress, for I

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was to be matron of honor. Mr. Baker bought a new suit, (he needed
it anyway) and was best man.

The time came, and the preacher was here. The guests assembled
in the living room, which was decorated with spring flowers, and
where a bright cheery fire was burning in the grate. When Bob and
Gladys entered the room together, a handsomer couple could not have
been found anywhere. Gladys wore a spring suit of light blue wool,
a white silk blouse, black shoes, and a beautiful corsage of red rose
buds that Bob had bought for her. Bob was so handsome in his dark
grey business suit. I stood with Gladys, and my husband stood with
Bob, while the minister intoned the wedding vows, and then pro-
nounced them “man and wife.”

We kissed the bride and shook hands with the bridegroom, and
then Ethel and I slipped out and sliced the ice cream and put it on
the plates that were all ready for it on the dining table. I was using
my wedding silver spoons, the beautiful china plates that had be-
longed to my husband’s mother, and monogrammed table napkins
that had been given me for a Christmas present.

The bride and groom, preacher, and wedding guests were invited
into the dining room, and a jolly time we had around the table. Then
Bob called the preacher into the hall, and gave him some money, I
suppose.

Later Gladys put on her pretty black hat and took her new black
bag, which matched her shoes, and they went to the home of a
friend, where they were guests of honor at a wedding supper. The
next day I wrote up the wedding in fine style and had it published
in the local and state papers.

Soon after this, Johnny Wallace received orders to go to a Camp
of Embarkation to be ready to leave for Germany. He had signed
up for reenlistment in the standing army. Floyd had also reenlisted,
but was not to go until later. Both of the girls were planning to go
to Germany, traveling expenses paid by the government, but they
could not go until after the boys were there and located.

Johnny went on with the company, and Ethel took the car and
drove alone to the home of her parents in New Mexico. She had
Cindy for protection and company, and three of the puppies. Two
of them had died, and they had given away the rest. I heard later
that before Ethel sailed for Germany, Cindy got lost. I was sorry to
hear this, for Ethel loved her like a baby and had planned to take
her on her trip to Germany. I had a letter after she reached Germany,
and I wrote to her, but never knew whether she received it, as I
never heard from her again.

Meanwhile Ruth and Gladys were with us for about two months

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longer, and we had a happy time together. Gladys kept her position
in the store, but Ruth was here with me most of the time. I had the
car, and she and I would go shopping, riding, and to church. She was
a member of the Methodist church, and seemed to enjoy going to
church meetings with me.

Ruth and Floyd were much in love, and when he was at home
they went happily about their affairs, sometimes attending social
functions given for officers and their wives. Sometimes when he was
at the camp, Ruth would attend classes held for officers’ wives. Once
she gave me a very attractive pin or brooch that she had made at
one of these classes by gluing on tiny shells.

My husband had been thinking about buying a record player so
he could have the music he liked instead of so much jazz and blues,
etc., that came over the radio. He located one in a music store, one
of the kind that is attached to the radio, and bought it. Then came
the selection of records. Ruth went with us and we would sit in
the little enclosed conservatory in the music store and try the records,
buying those that we found we liked. Ruth was so pleased with one
album of waltzes that she said, “When I hear you playing these I’ll
come a-running.”

But she didn’t stay long enough after we bought the record player
to enjoy it much, as the government interrupted our happy life
together and sent Floyd to Germany. Ruth gave me a kodak picture
of herself wearing a very full skirt that Floyd had sent her from
some place in his travels overseas. I think it is one of the prettiest
pictures in my collection. She went home, and we had a few letters
and cards from her before she sailed. I wrote to her at her address
in Germany, but she did not receive my letter, and we did not hear
from her again until more than a year later when she was back in
the States.

About this time I began to notice signs of uneasiness and unrest
with Gladys and Bob. Something was wrong. Gladys explained it to
me, saying that Bob wanted to go home, that he wasn’t satisfied
here, and had never felt that his stay was anything more than
temporary. I advised Gladys not to do anything to stand in his way,
and told her of a couple that came here once looking for a room,
and what a mistake I thought they made.

Their story was this: The man, a veteran, whose name I do not
remember, had a good position in a Northern city. He had a six year
priority, which was not broken by his being called into service, but
would be broken if he left it now. After his discharge from the Army,
he and his wife, who had come from near Goldsboro, and their baby
went to his home in the North, so he could go back to his work.

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They could not find an apartment or house and had to live with
his family, where they were crowded and unwelcome. He secured
a month’s leave of absence and came with his wife to visit her
parents. The girl’s mother was urging them to stay here, since she
knew her daughter had not been happy with his people. But this
home was also too crowded for them, and the man and his wife
were looking for a room in town, while the man looked for a job.
He still thought he ought to go back to his good position at home,
but wife and her mother were using every bit of influence they
could to get him to get a job here.

I advised him to go back to his work in the North when his leave
was over, and advised her to stay here with her mother until he
could find a place for them there, and then to go at once.

I learned later that he did get a job here at about a third of the
salary he had been getting, and that he had lost his priority in his
position at home. “He will probably blame his wife for the rest of
his life for making his life a failure,” I said.

Gladys listened with intense interest, and then said, “I am going
with Bob.”

They made their plans and told Gladys’ parents about it. Her
mother took it better than I had expected. But Gladys was frightened.
She knew Bob was his mother’s only child, the apple of her eye, and
she knew she would have to go to her home to live. But they went.
I had a letter from Gladys in which she wrote, “Bob’s mother and
I get on all right.” After awhile they succeeded in getting an apart-
ment near his home.

With Christmas came a tiny announcement—a daughter, June
Frances. We sent the baby a little pair of crocheted booties.

One Sunday afternoon about the middle of the next summer, I
heard the doorbell ring. There were Bob, Gladys, and little June! How
glad we were to see them!” The baby was cute and friendly and
seemed to like me. Gladys said Bob’s mother thought she was the
only baby on earth. “And as for my mother and father and brothers
and sisters, they don’t let her alone a minute.”

“This is the first time they have ever seen the baby, isn’t it?” I
asked.

“Yes, it is the first time they ever have seen us since we left,”
Gladys replied. It had been a year and three months since they went
away. It must have been hard for her at first, but I knew Gladys
would have nothing to regret, and that she would always have her
husband’s love and admiration.

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXVI
MERRIE

Merrie Brooks was the very appropriate name of the new girl
who moved into our home late that summer. And such a name would
also have been appropriate for the handsome young flight officers
who was her husband, but he had to be content with the prosaic
cognomen, “Bill.”

This couple and their three and a half year old daughter, Sandra,
were with us most of the fall. We loved them—anybody would—but
they gave us a hectic time.

Merrie was small, had black curly hair and brown eyes. She was
delicate, but full of energy and animation. Bill was tall, red-headed
and had the jolliest laugh—not loud or boisterous, but absolutely
contagious, and anyone who heard it just forgot his troubles and
wanted to laugh too. Sandra was an attractive little girl with long
straight yellow hair and big blue eyes. Usually she wore her hair
in two pigtails tied with ribbon, but “for Sunday” Merrie rolled it
up, and then she had pretty curls. She was as bright as a dollar and
wonderfully good—sometimes. Curiosity was the outstanding trait
in her character, and her most frequently used words were, “What
for?”

The following conversation that I heard in the hall is typical:

Sandra: “Where are you going?”

Other Person: “To the bathroom.”

Sandra: “What for?”

Other Person: “To take a bath.”

Sandra: “What for?”

Other Person: “So I’ll be clean.”

Sandra: “What for?”

By this time the Other Person could think of no more reasons
and hastened on to take the bath.

Bill loved and admired Merrie extravagantly and kept every pos-
sible hardship from her. He seemed to realize that she was not
strong and never allowed her to lift anything heavy. He brought the
groceries home, helped with the dishes, swept their room, and helped
look after Sandra. He was a model husband, but a queer person in
many ways.

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Having come from a Northern state, Bill and Merrie had formed
their opinion of the South even before they arrived, and somehow
they seemed to encourage each other in believing that Southerners
were people to be pitied. While he was here, Bill wrote an article
about the Southern farmer and had it printed in a local newspaper,
in which he told a pitiful tale of a poor farmer and his wife, who
brought their tobacco into town—seventy-five pounds—which he said
represented their entire year’s crop— and took it to a warehouse,
where they slept on it all night, waiting and hoping that in the
morning they could sell it and buy a little food for their half starved
children. With much pride he pointed out to me the story in the
paper. I was too astonished to say anything at first, but finally man-
aged to tell him that I didn’t think the farmers around here were
that bad off.

“Oh, you just don’t know!” he said. “You should ride out into
the country as I have, and see the conditions in which they live.
And they are the worst looking people I ever saw.”

“Don’t you remember, Dear,” interrupted Merrie, “that when we
drove through the mining sections of Pennsylvania the people looked
almost as bad?”

All this time one of our couples, Milton and Edith Overton, both
of whom were born and reared on North Carolina farms, were in
the room and were listening. Milton had recently been released from
the Army, and had located in Goldsboro. He was a handsome well
dressed young man, and Edith was a stylish looking girl. I caught
a twinkle in Milton’s eye, but neither of us said anything.

After Bill and Merrie went to their room, Milton asked me, “Don’t
you suppose he knew that we came from the farm?”

“T don’t think he thought about it,” I replied, “or that it occurred
to him that my parents might have been reared on the farm, or
that I had lived in North Carolina all my life and might have seen
as much in that time as he could see in a few weeks.”

Some days later Milton said to me that although he was working
in Goldsboro now, his ambition was to buy a farm and go back
to the country to live. I couldn’t help saying: “You had better not.
You would look worse than a Pennsylvania miner,” and both of us
laughed.

Merrie used excellent English, in fact she had a college education,
and she was most careful in training Sandra to use correct grammar,
but she was exceedingly careless as to the condition of her room or
any part of the house that she used. I was obliged to remonstrate
with her over the condition in which she left the kitchen or bath-
room, but could not be mad with her when she smiled sweetly and

216

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

said, “Well, Mrs. Baker, you know I told you I was just a spoiled
child.”

When Sandra first came, she had many questions to ask before
she could get everybody straight. Glancing at my husband and then
at me, she asked, “Is that your daddy?”

“Now, she’s got you,” said Mr. Baker.

“She’s fized you,” I said.

“T have not,’ said Sandra indignantly.

“Mamma, may I have a cookie?” she asked one morning.

“Yes, if you will be a good girl. You will have to earn it.”

“Mamma, you didn’t have to say ‘Dern it’!” said Sandra reproach-
fully.

When Florence’s maid came over with the children one day,
I introduced her to Sandra.

“Sandra, this is Mattie,” I said.

“What can you do with her?” was Sandra’s unexpected reply.

“Merrie said to her one night, “Sandra, I have asked you sweetly
to lie down in your bed.”

“That’s not sweet,” said Sandra.

Though Sandra was usually good, she had a high temper, and
I was astonished and troubled when she suddenly went into a
tantrum over not having her way about some trivial matter. She
stamped her foot and shrieked at her parents, “I am going to love
somebody else! I am going to kill both of you.”

They looked at her helplessly and neither said a word. Merrie
told me later that she didn’t know what to do, that she had tried
punishing her, and that it only seemed to make it worse. I couldn’t
do anything about it then, but I found out that Sandra could control
herself if she wanted to. Like all the other children, she liked to
come into our living room. She lost her temper once because I
wouldn’t let her meddle with the typewriter, and began to stamp her
foot.

“I never let anybody stay in my living room who isn’t nice,” I
told her. “If you do like that you will have to go right out.” And
she stopped.

I used the same argument, or rather threat, with effect on another
occasion. Frankie and Little Florence came over to spend an after-
noon. They were older than Sandra, which made her more anxious
to play with them. The weather was bad, so I got out some toys,
and the three were playing with them in my bed room, when Sandra
took up one of a set of paper dolls and tore the head off.

“Don’t tear the dolls, Sandra,” I said.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She caught up another and took the head between her fingers, at
the same time looking sideways at me.

“Tf you tear that doll’s head off you cannot stay in here. You will
have to go back to your room,” I said.

She hesitated a moment, then put the doll down and did not try
it again. Merrie and Bill had not been firm enough with her, but she
Saw that I meant what I said.

She did not hesitate to refuse positively to do what Merrie told
her, and Merrie was helpless. I didn’t much blame Sandra, for I
don’t think any child is obedient who doesn’t have to be. One day
I heard Merrie tell her to pick up her toys.

“T ain’t going to do it,” said Sandra.

“Sandra!” exclaimed Merrie reproachfully. “You should say, ‘I’m
not going to do it!’” and Merrie picked up the toys.

“It’s funny that her hair is straight and blonde,” said Merrie,
“when mine in curly and black. My mother had six children, and
everyone of us has curly black hair and dark eyes except Helen. Her
hair is straight and blonde, and her eyes are blue. She is quiet and
serious, and the rest of us are talkative. Mother says she always has
believed Helen got mixed up at the hospital. But Mother seems to
love her better than any of the rest of us.”

_ Merrie told the truth when she said she was talkative. She re-
marked to me after they had been here only a short time, “Bill is
so good to me, I love him now.”

“You love him now! Didn’t you love him when you married him?
I asked.

“T certainly did not,” she replied emphatically. “I couldn’t get the
man I wanted, so I took Bill.”

Then she proceeded to tell me the following story: “I had a
position in a large city when I met Bill. I dated him a number of
times, and he persuaded me to marry him. He bought a license, and
one afternoon we went to a justice of the peace and were married.
Bill said something about getting a room in a hotel, but I said, ‘I
am not going to a hotel. I am going back to my room in the boarding
house’.”

“But you have married me, and you ought to go and live with me,’
said Bill.

“T’ll live with you sometime, but not now,’ I told him.

“I went back to my room and cried and cried. My roommate told
me I could have the marriage annulled if I wanted to, but I didn’t
know what to do. The next day Bill came for me and suggested
that we go to the home of his parents, who lived in a suburb of the
city. We went, and his folks were real sweet to me. That night his

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mother took me to my room. She didn’t know that I didn’t stay with
Bill the night before.

“After she left the room, I looked all around and wondered, ‘How
can I get out? How can I get away?’ There just wasn’t any way to
escape, and I had to stay. After that I lived with Bill, and he has
been so good to me that now I think I love him more than he loves
me.”

Then fall came, and Jack Frost was just around the corner. The
pecans began to drop in the back yard. As soon as Bill noticed this,
he asked me to sell him about ten pounds, saying that he wanted
to send them home to his people.

“We never sell any,” I said, “But you are welcome to pick up some

to eat, and perhaps later there will be enough for us to give you
some to send home.”

I didn’t mean by that for him to eat all that fell, but that is what
he proceeded to do. Every day, while Merrie was busy preparing
their supper, Bill and Sandra picked up every nut that fell, and
cracked and ate it. We didn’t say anything, but one morning after
a rain and wind, I went out and picked up several pounds before
Bill came back from the camp, and put them away. He didn’t know
I had them.

On Sunday morning, after I had gone to Sunday School, Bill
decided, I suppose, that he was not getting enough pecans, and some-
thing must be done about it, so he climbed up on the fence and then
to the top of a neighbor’s garage and began to gather pecans from
the neighbor’s tree. An old woman who lived near and was accustom-
ed to working about the neighbor’s yard, walked up to the garage
and stared at him.

Looking down at her from his lofty perch, Bill said, “ I believe
all the folks over there have gone to church.”

“That’s what I thought when I saw you up there,” said the old
woman.

A young girl who lived in the house on the opposite side of
ours came to the fence and sang, “Somebody’s going to get in trouble.”
But Bill didn’t care. When I came home Edith told me about it. Of
course I was sorry it happened, but I couldn’t help it.

Sometime before the Brookses came, a girl name Rita had asked
me if we had a coffee maker.

“Oh, yes, several,” I replied. “Here are two percolators, and if
you prefer, you can use this dripolator.”

“I don’t know how to use those. I have always used a glass coffee
maker,” she said.

I didn’t have a glass coffee maker and didn’t know anything about

219

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

it, but was willing to buy one for her. I went to several stores, and
finally found a little one, just right for two cups.

Rita was pleased with it and used it regularly as long as she was
here. Sometimes I saw it over the burner with the water boiling
briskly in the lower part, and sometimes I saw it where she had
set it aside, the coffee dripping from the upper to the lower section,
but unfortunately I did not ask her to show me just how to use it.

I did not try it until after Rita had left us. One night I wanted
to make coffee and Merrie and Edith were using the percolators,
so I got out the coffee maker. I filled the lower part with hot water,
put coffee in the upper, and set it over the burner. In a minute the
water was boiling merrily, but nothing else was happening.

Milton and Bill, who were in the kitchen helping by being enter-
taining, became interested in the operation. Pretty soon we decided
that nothing was being accomplished, and everybody began making
suggestions. Bill especially was sure the steam could never pentrate
to the upper section because it was escaping through the lip of
the lower part.

“Are you sure there wasn’t a little rubber that fitted over this,”
he asked.

“No, Iam not sure, but I never saw one,” I said.

“I didn’t either,” said Edith, “and I was in here lots of times
when Rita used it.”

Merrie and Milton also had suggestions, and I tried to carry out
all of them. Sandra wanted to help too.

“T can make it work if you will get me a little rag to stop up
this place,” said Bill.

I brought some sterilized gauze, and Bill cut a strip and wrapped
it around the top of the little pitcher shaped section.

“Keep Sandra out of the way,” he kept telling Merrie, but Sandra
didn’t want to be kept away, and tried to get right under the hot
thing Bill was working on.

Finally it was ready, and while everybody watched intently, Bill
set it over the burner. Still no result except that the clear water
began to boil again.

“T know what it is,” said Bill. “You have to pour this hot water
over the coffee and let it drip down into the lower part.”

“When you pour it in, what is it going to drip into?” asked Milton.

“Back into this,” said Bill.

“Y’d like to see you pour it out of the pitcher and catch it in the
pitcher at the same time,” said Milton.

“Give me one of those little bowls,” I said, “and we will let it
drip into that.”

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I set the part that had the coffee in it in the bowl and poured the
boiling water into it.

“Now how are you going to get it out?” asked Bill. “I was going
to pour the water into the bowl, put this part over the pitcher and
pour the water over the coffee.”

“T guess you are right,” said I, and I tried to take hold of the cup
shaped glass, which was full of scalding liquid, to lift it out of the
bowl, but there was no handle, and I couldn’t do it.

“T’ll take it out if it scalds me,” said Bill, and he lifted it out and
set it in its proper place over the glass pitcher.

So intently had we watched all this that I had completely lost
sight of some toast that I had in the oven until the odor of burning
bread began to fill the room.

“Now I have burnt up Mr. Baker’s toast,” I said, as I disgustedly
pulled it out of the oven.

While I made more, the coffee was dripping nicely and really
looked good. Everything was going well, and Bill looked around and
said, “I really had forgotten to drink my cup of coffee.”

“Well, I have poured it into the sink,” said Merrie, who had been
washing her dishes.

Just at that time my husband came to supper, and I told him
that while Bill was helping me make coffee Merrie had poured his out.

“Give him a cup of ours,” said Mr. Baker.

“There is only one cup left after all the pouring back and forth
that we have done,” said I.

“Just make another cup for him. It will take you only a minute,”
said my kind and considerate husband.

“That’s what you think!” said I. “You ought to have been in here.”

After supper I looked in the box the coffee maker came in, and
found printed directions for making coffee by dripping it just like
we had finally done after all the experimenting.

After a few weeks Bill was ordered to another camp. In spite of
many things, we were sorry for them to leave. I bought a pretty
little doll for Sandra, gave Merrie a box of candy, and—gave Bill
the bag of pecans that I had hidden in the closet! Bill and Merrie
gave me something that in those days of rationing was a real treas-
ure—a five pound bag of sugar.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXVII
THE VETERANS

Though soldiers were now returning from overseas, our own son
and many others were kept in occupied countries for many months.
It began to look as if they never would come home. After serving
in England and France, Egerton was sent with a large group to the
Philippines. Three ships sailed from France toward America with
the intention of going through the Panama Canal and on across the
Pacific. Egerton was in the first ship, and this had passed through
the locks when news came of the American victory in Japan. This
ship went on toward its destination, the Philippines, but the others
were ordered to turn about and return to the States, where the boys
soon received their discharges from the Army.

Someone had given my husband a record called “A Tiny Little
Voice.” Whenever I heard it I thought of Frankie with his “Daddy”
“over there,” and even yet, though Egerton has long been safe at
home with his family, I cannot hear this record without a feeling of

sadness. I quote the words, though the tune is needed to give the
full meaning.

“God bless my Daddy, who’s over there,”

Said a tiny little voice in a tiny little prayer.

“Please tell my Daddy he must take care,”

Said a tiny little voice in a tiny little prayer.

“When the sandman is near, Mommy turns out the light.
Oh, I wish he were here, he could kiss me goodnight.
I hope in dreamland we’ll meet somewhere,”

Said a tiny little voice in a tiny little prayer.

From the Philippines Egerton sent Ruth several boxes of inter-
esting things, a pair of wooden shoes with elaborate carving on the
sides of the heels, queer knives, and a luncheon set woven of some
kind of grass. After he had been in the Philippines for several months
his group was sent to Japan, where they remained for a long time.
He sent Ruth the most beautiful laquered bowls and vases, jewelry
boxes, luncheon sets, a lovely kimona, and many other things.

Time wore on, and we had no idea when he would come home, but
one night after my husband and I had retired, we heard the front
door open, then a step in the hall and a tap at our door.

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“That’s Egerton,” said my husband.

The door opened, and he came in and quickly to the side of the
bed, and in an instant I was in my son’s arms.

Now that the war was over and continuation of the camp was
doubtful, we thought that our rooms would not be needed, and we
considered arranging two or three of them into a little apartment
for a couple or a couple and baby so we wouldn’t be lonesome, and
of keeping the rest of the house for ourselves. But we had not
reckoned on the veterans.

Men were being rapidly discharged from the Army, and veterans
and their wives were looking for jobs in town and for apartments or
rooms in which to live. Though Goldsboro was not as badly over-
crowded as some other cities in the state since the Johnson Field
Homes housed nearly three thousand people, yet there was a great
demand for rooms, and we had a number of these couples in our home.

Local and state papers were full of want advertisements in which
veterans begged for rooms. One read: “Veteran will gladly drown
three year old daughter if some kind soul will rent apartment or
house.”

The others were not sarcastic, but the large number that appeared
showed a drastic picture of the most critical housing shortage in
the history of our country.

Many of the veterans who came to Goldsboro had worked on
the farm before entering the service, but somehow going back to
the farm didn’t appeal to them. Life in the city seemed much more
attractive. Some of the wives had held jobs in town too, and felt no
inclination to go back to farm life and its accompanying incon-
veniences. These boys had no experience in office work, clerking, or
anything they could do in town, and with few exceptions after a
few months of small or no salaries, failure at this or that, they
decided to go home and live in tenant houses on their fathers’ farms.

One of these couples was Howard and Annie Evans. Annie was a
tall goodlooking blond about eighteen years old. Howard was older
and was rather small and delicate looking. He secured a job as an
unskilled laborer in a foundry. Hour after hour he stood and worked
over steaming hot metal, while a door at his back stood open to keep
down the blistering heat. Into this door blew a wintry wind. As
a consequence Howard soon fell sick and narrowely escaped pneu-
monia. He could not return to this work, and there was only one
thing to do—go back to the farm.

Back they went, cured of town life. Some months later, I saw an
announcement in a paper of the birth of their daughter.

Another couple was Elwood and Pattie Johnson. They were young

223

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and nice looking. Pattie had worked in town all the time Elwood
was in service and had kept and used their car. Now Elwood felt
that it was his place to support the family, and he wasn’t going to
have his wife working. Pattie begged and cried, but Elwood was
firm—she should not work, though he had no job and couldn’t find
one.

« They had the car and enough money to pay a week’s rent in
advance and buy a few groceries, and that was all, Elwood wanted
to clerk in a store, but the only work the employment office had
to offer was manual labor. I asked him if he were drawing unemploy-
ment compensation from the government.

“No,” he replied. “I can’t do that, for if I do, I will have to take any
kind of work they give me.”

“You would not,” I said. “As I understand the G. I. Bill of Rights,
you take ‘suitable work.’ And twenty dollars a week is a whole lot
better than nothing.”

“He began to look interested, and Pattie was enthusiastic. I asked
a veteran, who I knew had drawn this compensation, to explain it to
him. Elwood then applied for and received the twenty a week, and
this gave them shelter and food for the remainder of their stay in
town. Finally, however, Elwood despaired of ever finding work here,
and they went back to his father’s farm where a little house near his
parents’ home was waiting for them.

Next came Tommy and Sarah Burroughs. Tommy had secured a
job as a painter, and Sarah, a place in a local store. After they had
been here a week or two, one morning Sarah blew in.

“What are you doing home this time of day?” someone asked.
“Tommy has lost his job, and so I quit,” she replied.

“You quit because Tommy lost his job? That sounds like a funny
reason,” said the other girl.

“Well, if he isn’t going to work I don’t see any use for me to work
either,” she replied.

It seemed to me that it was more necessary than ever for Sarah
to work, but she knew what she was doing. Before the day was over
they had packed up and had gone back to the farm.

But not all had to give up and go home. We had a successful
insurance man and his wife, a telephone company employee, base-
ball players and others. Among the veterans wives were three who
were happily married to their second husbands. Two of the first had
been killed in combat, one of them in an air battle. The third girl
lost her husband through the changes that came over him in the
war and improper readjustment after the war, which ended in divorce.

224

 

 

I rejoiced to see her happy with the kind young man she afterwards
married.

One day a young woman, accompanied by a small girl, asked for a
room here just for the week end. She gave her name as Mrs. Terry
Smith, and said the little girls name was Rosemary.

This was just at the time that newspapers all over the country
were filled with stories of the disappearance of little Terry Taylor
of Charlotte and her nurse, Rosemary Johnson. “Could this be the
missing child and her nurse?” I asked my husband.

True, in the kidnaping case the child’s name was Terry and the
nurse’s Rosemary, but perhaps they had changed around just for a
blind. We were almost believing that we had found the missing pair.
Still, they did not look like the pictures in the papers, and this
woman was every bit of thirty-five years old, while the papers said
the nurse was nineteen.

They were sitting with us in the living room when the evening
paper was brought in. The story was again on the front page, and
Mrs. Smith laughed and said, “It is strange that they have the same
names as my little girl and I have. I have wondered if anyone would
think she was the lost child and that I had kidnaped her.”

Not just because she said that, but by putting two and two to-
gether and comparing the pictures and detailed descriptions in the
papers, we realized that these could not be the people.

The end of the war was by no means the end of experiences!

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE BALL PLAYERS

In April the baseball season opened for the first time since the
beginning of the war, and most of the players were veterans. Some
were married and had their wives and babies with them. Two couples,
Dan and Mildred Seiler and Norman and Aline Naccari, came to live
with us. The Seilers had a little boy, Danny, who was almost three
years old, and the Naccaris, a son, Wayne, who was about a year and
a half old. These were two of the most attractive children we ever
had in the house, and we had lots of fun with them.

Mildred had big grey eyes like Dorothy Sexton, and looked like
the movie actress, Vivian Leigh. Aline was blond, and both of the
girls were pretty. The boys were good natured and pleasant to have
around. But the children! They were the outstanding members of the
household.

The first morning after they arrived, when my husband came out
of his room, Danny said, “Good morning, Mr. Baker, I was just wait-
ing for you.” From that minute he was Mr. Baker’s boy. Naturally
Wayne didn’t say anything like that, but he was so sweet and win-
some anybody would have loved him. He and I were pals from the
very first. He had just learned to walk and was improving fast; and
whenever I entered the room he began running around in circles.
Aline said he never did it at any other time—that it was an accomp-
lishment he saved just for me. Another unusual thing he liked to
do was to get into the lint and dust when anyone was sweeping a
room. To keep him from rolling around in the dust in front of a
broom, we had to put the little fellow in his room and close the door.
You might think he would cry at this, but not Wayne! If he could
get what he wanted or do what he wanted to he was pleased, but
if he could not he turned his attention to something else and uttered
no complaint.

The girls went to the ball games almost every night and took the
babies. Of course this kept the children up late at night, but they
were well adjusted to the hours, sleeping late in the morning and
taking naps in the afternoon. Aline said Wayne played contentedly
between the seats in the grandstand.

As for Danny, he wouldn’t have missed a game for anything! He

226

 

 

was wild with enthusiasm over baseball and lived for the day to
come when he would be old enough to get out there and play ball
himself. Whenever Dan went to the bat, Danny was beside himself
with excitement and would jump up and shout, “Hit that ball, Dan
Seiler!” And the fans seated nearby would be as much interested in
Danny as in Dan.

And Dan would hit the ball! He was one of the best players on
the team, and his name was one of those most frequently heard on
the radio or seen in newspapers.

At home next day Danny would go into the back yard and play
a whole game of ball alone. He would hold a bat (some stick he had
picked up) all ready for the ball. Then he would strike hard, throw
the stick down and race to some point that he had decided upon for
first base. His efforts to steal a base or run to second when an
imaginary batter struck the ball were worthy of any ball player’s
emulation. Sometimes he would knock a home run and make the
entire circuit and then come up to the home base with as triumphant
a look on his face as if he were Babe Ruth himself. Sometimes Dan
went out and played with him.

But baseball was only one of his accomplishments. His adoring
father spent hours teaching him songs, which Danny had not the
slightest hesitation to sing for anyone who asked him. One of his
favorite songs was the following:

I went to the animal fair.

The birds and the beasts were there.

The monkey he got drunk

And sat on the elephant’s trunk.

The elephant sneezed and fell on his knees,
And that was the end of the monk-ty monk.

One day Florence phoned and asked me to bring her the car. I
took Danny, who was playing in the front yard, with me. Florence
and one of her neighbor’s, Mrs. Jeffrey, were going down town. I
asked Danny to sing for Mrs. Jeffrey, which he promptly did. She was
so pleased that she gave him a toy balloon that she happened to have
in her pocket book. It was not inflated, but Danny knew how to
manage it.

After we got home Danny asked me, “Who was that lady who gave
me this balloon?”

“That was Mrs. Jeffrey,” I said. “She gave it to you because you
sang so nicely for her.”

“I’m not bashful,” said Danny.

Then Dan hurt his leg. I do not remember whether it was hurt

in one of the games or not, but he couldn’t walk. While sitting or

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lying on his bed, he and Danny would play imaginary games of ball.
They didn’t use any bat or ball, but Dan would be the pitcher, and
Danny would do all the batting and running.

While Dan was still laid up, Danny’s birthday came around.
Mildred wanted him to have a little party, but as she did not want
Dan to be left out she had it in their bed room. The only guests were
those who lived in the house. All of us brought presents. Mildred
had decorated the table and had arranged cups of ice cream and
cakes on it. We stood around, since it wasn’t possible for everybody
to sit down.

Danny dropped his spoon on the floor, but not disturbed over it,
picked it up and resumed his eating.

“Look at you, eating with a spoon that you dropped on the floor.
You are three years old now. You are old enough to know better,”

said Dan.

“Oh, shut up, you old grouch!” said Mildred.

This struck Danny as something very delightful to say, so he
turned to Dan and shouted, “Shut up, you old grouch!”

There was nothing anybody could do but laugh, though Mildred
looked like maybe we expected her to do something about it. But,
relieved at the way the guests took it, she laughed too and let it go.

The time came for the Naccaris to leave. Norman had been re-
leased to another league. We were sorry to lose them, and I remem-
ber that when they drove away Mildred was sitting on the porch
erying.

Bob DeCamp, one of the outstanding pitchers of the local team,
hearing that the Naccaris were leaving, came at once and engaged
their room. He had not been able to find a place for his wife and
child, and they had not yet come to Goldsboro.

Mrs. DeCamp’s name was Arliss, and they had an eighteen months
old daughter named Karen. They were to arrive on a night train,
so I had the room ready and told Bob to come on in, as. I knew we
would be in bed at that time. Around one or two o’clock in the
morning, I heard the front door open and a spritely little voice say-
ing, “Da, da, da, da.”

I knew their baby was a girl, but somehow in my sleep I suppose
I thought all babies were boys, since they had been so predominant
here, and I murmured sleepily, “I like that little fellow.” And the
next day I found that I surely did “like that little fellow.”

Karen was a beautiful baby with big brown eyes like her mother.
She was a little shy at first, but in a few days was at home with every-
body and soon became the pet of the household.

I thought Mildred and Arliss would enjoy each other and go to

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the games together like Mildred and Aline had, and I am sure they
would have, but in a week after the DeCamps arrived it became a
certainty that Dan could play no more ball that season on account
of his injured leg, so they went home. I heard, however, that the
next year Dan went to a higher league. But just before they left, a
new companion for Arliss came and stayed with us most of the
remainder of the summer.

For some months the camp had been so inactive that we had had
no soldiers in the house and did not expect to have any more, but
about the first of July a young lieutenant, a student pilot, who had
signed up for the standing army and was located at Seymour John-
son Field, and his wife came to live with us. They were Graham
and Sue Montgomery, a very lovable couple.

Sue was small and blonde and “expecting.” She was intensely
interested in her layette and worked on it most of the time. In fact,
the entire household was called in to make suggestions and give ad-
vice as to how long the night gowns should be, which was the most
suitable kind of lace for each little slip, etc. Arliss and I felt a
personal interest in each little garment. Sue showed us some dainty
little articles that some friends had given her at a “stork shower”
before she came here.

Sue had a big beautiful cat named “Boots.” He was white with
dark brown markings. He was thin, not having fared well at the last
place they had lived, but we gave him excellent fare and he began
to show signs of improvement. A big black and white cat that
frequented the neighborhood considered Boots an intruder and
resented his presence here. The first time he entered the yard he
must have given Boots the cold shoulder or worse, but I was rather
chagrined that Boots fled in dismay and ran up the back steps cry-
ing to be let in. Sue opened the screen door, and Boots, once safe
on the inside, peered out while the big bully walked away in triumph.

Meanwhile Boots made friends with a little black cat that lived
next door. But that was just the trouble! Tom didn’t want Blackie
to like Boots, and was determined to keep him away from her and
in the ranks of an outsider. But in a few days, as good food and a
feeling of belonging came over him, Boots begans to stand up for
himself when Tom came around.

One morning Boots and Blackie were in our back yard when
Tom appeared in the adjoining yard. Boots went to the fence and
stood his ground. Tom began to make a yowling sound and Boots
became bolder and climbed up in the fence. Blackie crept up behind
him and gave him a slap on his rear end, which knocked him through
the fence into the other yard. He made a leap for Tom, and one of

230

 

the biggest cat fights followed that I ever saw. Boots came out
victorious, though he suffered a cut over his eye and was minus some
of his fur. After that when Tom came into the neighborhood he
watched for Boots fearfully and ran away at the first sign of a
threat from the latter. We now not only loved Boots but we were
proud of him. : :

The long summer days passed happily with Arliss, Karen and
Sue here with us. Arliss and Sue planned their meals and worked
together, and Karen played contentedly with her toys or with some
of those that I always had on hand. She loved to play in our rooms,
and would run into the living room and through the door into our
bed room and out into the hall and back into the living room, mak-
ing the circuit again and again. She was lively, pretty, and at the

same time obedient. gee
Day in and day out we watched with interest the successes of

our boys, Graham’s air plane flights and his increasing number of
hours in the air, and Bob’s baseball victories. Bob was an outstand-
ing pitcher, and showed such real prowess that before the end of the
season he was signed up with the New Orleans league. He was the
idol of the small boys of the town, and some of them would say to
me breathlessly, “Does Bob DeCamp really live at your house?” It
was as though they asked if the President of the United States lived
at my house, and it added several notches to my importance in their
estimation. Well, we really were proud of our boys.

Sue, in a talkative mood one day, told me about her wedding trip.
She said Graham had engaged the bridal suite in a hotel for the
night following the wedding. They were delayed and did not reach
the hotel until after midnight, and the suite had been given to
someone else.

At the desk Graham contended that he had reserved it and wanted
it. The clerk explained that if a room reserved was not taken by
midnight they cancelled the reservation. By this time onlookers
realized the situation and gathered around with interest and amuse-
ment. Graham and Sue became very much embarrassed and, anxious
to get away from the curious crowd, took another room.

In the night Sue said she awoke and found that she was alone.
Graham was not on the bed. Frightened,-she reached for the bed
lamp and snapped on the light. Graham was asleep on the floor! :

“Graham,” she called, “what is the matter? What are you doing
on the floor?” ee

“Oh, you know we don’t sleep on beds like this in the barracks.
I just couldn’t go to sleep,” he said.

About the middle of August Graham and Sue left us. We had had

231

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a happy time together and were sorry for it to end. It was the end
of more things than we knew of. Graham was the last soldier we ever
had in our home. A handful of soldiers were kept at the camp for
the next several months, and then the camp. with its millions of
dollars worth of buildings was declared surplus. The great airport
with its miles of concrete runways remains, and it is yet to be seen
what will become of it.

We gave Sue a present for the little expected member of the
family. In October came a tiny card announcing the birth of a son.

Bob, Arliss, and Karen were with us until the baseball season
closed in September. On the morning that they left I said, “Arliss,
you never did get me the kodak pictures, and I haven’t a picture of
any of you except one of Bob that I cut out of a newspaper. I have
some films in my kodak, and I want to take some pictures now.”

“I don’t know whether there will be time, she said. “We have
already called a taxi.”

“Maybe we can get them,” I said.

They posed in a group in front of the house, and I snapped them.
Then I took Karen alone, standing in the walk. The taxi still had
not arrived, so I went into the house for a little chair that Anne
had had when she was a baby, and Arliss placed Karen in it. Just
then the taxi drove up, and Karen and the chair fell over on the grass

together, and I snapped the picture. It turned out to be the best one
of all.

 

 

CHAPTER XXXIX
MARA

This chapter I can hardly bear to write, and yet, if I did not, my

story would be neither true nor complete.
an young couple and their nine months old baby daughter came

i handsome
to live with us for a few weeks. The young man was me,
educated, and so enthusiastic about his work. His wife was beautiful,
accomplished, and had the sweetest disposition of almost anyone I

ever knew. The baby was too dear for words. i
All day long this girl sang while at her tasks. She accompanied

i ry song of the radio with her beautiful voice or crooned
Been ane wacked her baby to sleep. The baby was friendly and
loved everybody. She gladly showed her little accomplishments—
“pat-a-cake” or “rock-a-bye”—when prompted by her adoring mother.
She played happily in her crib or in her pen in the yard.

On one particular day I watched her through the window as she
laughed and crowed in her pen. A black and white kitten drew near,
then narrowed its slender body until it slipped through the bars
into the pen. The baby reached out and touched its furry back, then
drew back. Again she reached out, this time grasping a handful of
fur. The kitten ran out, and the baby watched until it disappeared
through a neighbor’s fence. A big yellow butterfly flew down, poised
for a moment on the baby’s hand, then flew away when the baby
raised her hand to gaze in wonder and delight. ?

That night the little girl fell asleep happily in her mother’s loving
arms. The next morning her spirit had flown away like the beautiful
yellow butterfly. The physician said she died of a gland affection
of the throat. f

In a few days the young couple returned to their home in a far
away city. The memory of that morning is bitter, but the memory of
the baby is sweet. And her name was Mara.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XL
THE ENGLISH WAR BRIDES

Thousands of American soldiers who were located in other coun-
tries during the war had married there, and had then been sent back
to America, leaving their wives in the foreign countries. The United
States government began making arrangements for these girls to
come to this country and be with their husbands. A vast majority of
these wives, “war brides,” they were called, were from England.
Practically every day there were stories and pictures in the papers
about some English war bride who had come to North Carolina.
People welcomed them, gave them parties, and did all they could to
make them feel at home.

We had one such couple in our own home for a few weeks until
they could find a house. The girl, who was very attractive and smart,
had served in the Army herself before her marriage. They had two
little children, both of whom were born before the mother left
England. The man, taking advantage of government benefits for
soldiers, was studying law at the University of North Carolina six
months in the year, and working as a skilled carpenter the other
six to take care of his wife and children.

But it seemed that at least one man didn’t approve of the English
brides, and a letter appeared in the “Peoples’ Forum” of the News
and Observer on January 18, 1947, written by William I. Turner of
Magnolia, which brought a storm of protest, especially from the
brides themselves.

Mr. Turner’s letter was headed “English Brides.” He wrote: “To
the Editor: Listening to a news broadcast, I was told how English
brides were complaining how they were treated in the USA. I sup-
pose they think we over here are going to hang out signs just to
recognize them only. Well, I for one would like to emphasize to these
“limey parasites” that the poorest family here in the USA has more
comfort, more freedom than 75 per cent of all the limeys. Just be-
cause Roosevelt gave them everything but our country, they seem
to have the idea that if they come over here we will give it to them.
The English seem under the impression that their women have some-
thing the American women don’t have. Well, they have, and that
is the gift of make believe. We over here don’t. pretend to have that

234

 

we do not have, and pretending is only for the ignorant, of which
the English are very much in abundance of—that is, ignorance.
“Why doesn’t the American soldiers wake up to the fact that
ten English women all put together wouldn’t ever hold a light to
the intelligence of a small town American girl, and I mean one from

the God-beloved South at that.”
Then came the replies, which I copied from the files of the News

& Observer. The first one, dated January 19, said: “I am an English
girl. I have learned to love America. I think the Southern hospitality
ieee the stores here in Wilmington, N. C., where I live, full
of lovely things quite different from England after six years of war.
I love each and every one I have met, and they seem to love me
in return. i :

“Talking about putting out signs to recognize the English girls,
there was a sign put out for me, but it was a sign of, welcome.

“Now, Mr. Turner, have you ever had bombs to fall on your home;
did you ever spend sleepless and hungry nights in an air raid shelter?
No! You didn’t! Now, perhaps you will understand why the poor
people in England haven’t as much comfort as you. : ;

“I am sorry you have the wrong impression of the English girls.
It’s a pity you didn’t see some of your boys in England; but thank
God I found one good and true G. I.

“I want you to know that I am not a parasite. I always do my
share of the work willingly and I hope I have the opportunity of
meeting you some day so I can change your very cruel impression
of English girls.”

This letter was signed “Sheelah J. Sawyer.”

The next was not quite so mild. It was dated January 22, and was
from Nancy E. Murray of Middlesex.

“To the Editor; Being an ‘English bride, I felt I couldn’t let
Mr. Turner’s letter under that heading, in your January 13 issue,
pass without a few comments.

“T have often read Mr. Turner’s numerous letters to your paper
and thought of him as a harmless old gentleman without much else
to do but write to the press. But now—well, I wouldn’t like to state
my opinion. 4

“T am glad that, as yet, I have not met any Americans such as
he is. I have always been treated very kindly and found people
friendly and willing to help. I would like to inform Mr. Turner that
we don’t expect any ‘Welcome’ signs hung out, nor anything else
but just to be left in peace to live with the men we love. But we don’t
consider ourselves any better (or worse) than American women.

235

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“I don’t know anything about Mr. Turner, but his letter gives the
impression that he hasn’t traveled much further than his own back
yard, and displays quite a lot of ignorance, which he dumps on
everyone English. When he says ‘the poorest families in USA have
more freedom and comfort than 75 per cent of all the limeys’ he
is just talking through his hat. Both countries have their restric-
‘tions on ‘freedom.’ Electricity and telephone services, housing
schemes, roads and drainage, health, etc., are just a few of the many
things I could quote in which England is far ahead of America, and
all go for making more comfort.

“The last paragraph of Mr. Turner’s letter isn’t worthy of com-
ment, but just a plain case of ‘sour grapes’.”

But the third letter, which was from Pamela Ivey of Pinetops
and was dated January 27, touched me more than the others, and I
felt after reading it that I must write to her. Mrs. Ivey wrote;

“I want to answer William Turner’s letter in your January 13
issue.

“As one of the 50,000 odd English brides in the United States, I
want to put Mr. Turner straight; he has his statistics slightly mixed.

I didn’t know Roosevelt gave us anything that any soldier’s wife
wasn’t entitled to, and don’t try to tell one of the bulldog breed
that they have the habit of pretending or being ignorant. I’m sorry,
but it’s Mr. Turner that is ignorant. I have traveled all over the
British Isles, and I know 90 per cent of English folk have more
comfort and freedom than the average family here.

“Do you realize that almost every family in Great Britain has
running water and modern plumbing, cook and work by electricity,
and has a telephone? I read in my London paper only a few weeks
ago that the horse is almost a thing of the past on farms, and that
over 95 per cent of farms are mechanical. We don’t have to run
health schemes even after years in and out of air raid shelters; our
health and infant mortality rate are the finest in the world. We don’t
even have to arm our police. We don’t have swanky cars, but we
have comfort, and we are free to do and say as we please. We just
don’t shout about our golden isle.

“Right now my countrymen are living under terrible conditions,
but then we had cities burnt to the ground, and we have a gigantic
task of rebuilding. Maybe the ‘limey parisites’ that, like myself,
came just because we fell in love with Americans will help to bring
the. New World up to the standard of the Old World, where ‘ain’t’ is
not part of the language, where the poorest citizen has full medical
attention free, where every child has a pint of milk free daily, where

236

 

 

 

parents get a government grant for every child, and where everyone
receives a pension at 65. Bis f

“Most of the wives that have returned to Britian, and those doing
the complaining find they cannot live under conditions their husbands
seem quite content with—their intelligence is far above that. Were
they your ancestors that threw the tea overboard at Boston, Mr.
Turner?” j :

I did not think it fair for this girl to have to feel so bitter to-
ward all America because one man had written a letter against the

English brides, so I wrote to her. ‘
“Dear Mrs. Ivey,” I said, “I do not blame you for resenting Mr.

Turner’s letter in the “Open Forum of the News and Observer about
the English brides. I think it was inhospitable and evidently based
on some isolated cases. But Mr. Turner is only one individual, he
is not a chosen representative of the American people, and I think
it is a pity that you have let his letter give you a bitter feeling to-
wards America and Americans in general. d

“England is our mother country, and the American people are
proud of their English ancestry and are glad to have the English
people as their allies. President Roosevelt, who was chosen by the
people of the United States as their leader and representative, wel-
comed the English brides, and I feel sure that in this he voiced the
sentiments of the American people.

“It is fine that England has free medical attention for her people,
a pint of milk for every child and the other advantages you men-
tioned, but do you not think that by comparing the ages of the two
countries the United States has made pretty good progress? The
United States is a new country. She has been independant only about
170 years, while England is hundreds of years old. ;

“You decided, on account of your love for a young American
soldier, to leave your home and come here and become an American
citizen. You, no doubt, found many things that you did not like
as well as you did those in England, but would it not be well for
you to try to help this country of your adoption to become more like
you think it ought to be instead of criticizing it so severely?

“When the early settlers came to America from England, they
had to cut down trees and build log cabins to live in. They left
comfortable homes in England, but for love, or religion, or some
principle, they thought it worth the hardships. The women had a
hard time of it, but they helped their husbands develop a new coun-
try that was needed because there were too many people in the other

half of the world. ;
“How glad would those pilgrim women have been for anything

237

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

like the little four or five room house that one English bride some
months ago scorned, and left her husband after one look at the house,
saying that all she wanted was to go away! The house was without
lights and running water and was located on a little farm. The young
man had not doubted that his bride would be glad to share his home
with him, and she would if she had really loved him.

“Suppose all the people of the United States (except the American
Indians) should find that ‘their intelligence is far above,’ as you
expressed it, living in America, and would return to the homes of
their ancestors, and leave this country to the Indians, don’t you
think the Europeans would be a little overcrowded and would have
a hard time furnishing free medical attention, a pint of milk a day
and a government grant for every child and a pension for all over
sixty-five?

“No, it is necessary for the people to stay here and help make this
a better land for our children and grandchildren.

“And as for the ‘ain’t’ that is so freely used in the United States,
is the grammar used in England always free from errors?

“T am an elderly woman, have four children, and eight grand-
children. We are happy in our country, and would like for you to
be happy with us here. I would be glad to hear from you, and since
Pinetops is not so far from Goldsboro, perhaps you will come over
some time, and if you do I would be glad to have you come to see me.
We would be good friends, I think.”

In a few days the following reply came:

“Dear Mrs. Baker, I want to thank you for your kind letter that
I received yesterday. I have had many letters from every corner
of the state, but your offer of friendship touches me deeply. I did
something I had never thought of before and never intend doing
again—writing to a newspaper, for I am happy and contented in this
my new country, but I guess Mr. Turner’s letter hurt me, and I felt
that I had to hit back. I know I would never have written it had I
known that he was an elderly man and had never traveled. Britain’s
back is quite broad enough to stand the knocks, but then I did write,
and by the looks of my mail a great many people felt the same way
as I did.

“Don’t think I haven’t a love for this country, Mrs. Baker. I
served Uncle Sam throughout the war as a flight nurse, and I brought
nearly 2000 boys wearing ‘U.S.A.’ on their lapels out of Germany,
France, and Austria. That is how I met my husband, and of course
I never regret it. He told me we would have a hard time as he en-
listed straight from school, but we both felt we could take the bad
as well as the good, and neither of us minded how hard we had to

238

 

i in-laws to go to
work. Now in a couple of weeks we are leaving my ;
a small farm we have rented. My husband is working at esse ae
putting new floors in the house and sheet-rocking the wal a oe
both excited like a couple of school children, and my baby daughte:

i i I know!
11 be ours alone for the first time. Selfish, kr ‘
ee Mrs. Baker, will you come and visit our first little home

after two years and more of trying to eee It bee att
d hard to have comfort, and now we PPY-
meee oe hea a car that we might visit Goldsboro, and we might

i j traight if you will
ne day. I will write to you as soon as we are § A i
Tees a to, and then maybe you and some of your family will

isit us. I would like it so much.
ml have many girl friends now in the U.S.A., but they are scattered

over the forty-eight states, and traveling takes time, and with a
baby it’s trying, as I discovered crossing the eS eae

“Two English girls who came to live near here ae : ee
back home, and not because they were afraid of work. if (o) a
the doctor warned that she hadn't long to live. She was un ey, ae
losing weight, and her husband refused to allow her to eave ue
house. She didn’t even see our nearest town, Rocky Mount, in :
nine months she was here. I believe difference in get? tee ts
the rift. The other girl found herself married to a man who be :
and out of jail, and when he was on the outside, he was ease y to
drunk to care. Of course I know these are exceptions, but ey ae
the girls who have returned, and I’m ‘sorry to dil eee s
wrong impression of America. I hope girls like myself, Ms oe eee
ried wonderful, thoughtful and understanding men, can go bac.

put them wise. OS
“Thanking you once again for writing, Iam
Yours,
Pamela E. Ivey.”
ater, though I had still
lmost a stranger in this
hurt deep,

put now I am completely settled, and it would take a lot ue
me. I only hope I didn’t go off the deep end too bad in ny rep va se
you were so kind and understanding. Up to now we i Re es i
going anywhere, but we still have hopes and plenty a fai aie
future, and I assure you when we do start on a few trips

look you up.”

Our friendship continued, and two years ]

never seen her, Mrs. Ivey wrote me: “I was a
country at that time, and spiteful remarks like that letter

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XLI
CONNIE AND RALPH

Our son, George, and his wife, Florine, lived in a pretty little white
house with five rooms, situated in one of the best residential sections
of the city. They could not well spare any part of their house, but
at the peak of the camp when the crowding was worst, they arranged
their dining room as a bed room and offered it to the USO. A young
couple, Ralph and Connie Monroe of Indianapolis, moved in. Ralph's
rank was that of Private First Class, and he was connected with the
School of Airplane Mechanics. Connie was grateful for the room
and was so lovable and helpful that Florine felt fully recompensed
for giving up her dining room. The two girls cooked together, work-
ed together, ate in the kitchen, and were the best of friends.

“When the war is over, we want you and George to come out to
Indiana to visit us at our home,” Connie often said and Florine
promised to come.

After the war, George became interested in flying, and after taking
lessons at the civilian airport, bought a small airplane. Of course
I was uneasy; what mother wouldn’t be? I would run out into the
yard when I heard a plane, and if the plane was a yellow one, I
knew George was in it. After receiving several kinds of licenses, he
began taking Florine and the children to ride, and finally, would you
believe it? I went up with him.

Somehow I felt not the slightest uneasiness as we sailed over and
around the city, looking down and picking out different locations—
the business district, the housing projects, the small farms nearby.

Then George and Florine took long trips, once going to Florida,
Texas, and Mexico. At another time, George said he wanted to go
to a big airplane convention that was to be held in a middle western
state.

“Let’s go to see Connie and Ralph while we are there,” said Florine.

“That’s just what we'll do,” said George, and they wrote that they
were planning to come. Their letter brought a prompt and enthusi-
astic reply. Connie told them how she and Ralph had missed them
and how glad they would be to see them again.

“Wire us when to expect you, and we will meet you at the airport,”
she wrote.

240

i Ralph and gave him the ex-
ter the convention, George called 1 ani 1 t
ae of their arrival at the Indianapolis airport. Their Race
were waiting for them when they landed, and took an a iY re
to their car. Car? No, it was a limousine fit for a king and driven by
i d chauffeur.
i Here wee quiet at first, but Connie chattered aH Licata
i i talking over 0 imes.
that in a few minutes she too was : : ;
i ful part of the city, then
ve until they reached a beauti :
ae ee a driveway and took them through spacious grounds
until they reached the house—a stately and most beautiful mansion.

mnie were millionaires! f
ve See they intimated while in Goldsboro that they were

rich. Never had Connie hesitated at doing her part of the rai
seemed to mind living in one little room and eating in the kitchen.
aGeatee and Florine enjoyed the luxuries of ie Dea gent
i j i that their o. riends were
far more did they enjoy finding L
PRAT good fellows that they had known in the old days in

Goldsboro.

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XLII
AND NOW

Time rolls on, and we have at last realized our dream of a little
apartment across the hall and one dear young couple to live with
us and keep us from getting old or being lonesome. But we think
too and dream of those days when the house teamed with boys and
girls, the brave boys who were willing to give their all for their
country, and the brave girls who left their all to come to be with
their husbands.

Nor do they forget us, for we frequently hear from them, especially
at Christmas and when their families increase. With my collection
of kodak pictures is an ever increasing stack of announcement cards,
and bless their hearts, I feel sure that these sons and daughters will
some day be fine men and women like their parents, who have meant
so much to their country.

The girls write us that their husbands are in College or in busi-
ness, and tell us of the children. The letters are usually from the
girls, but Earl Payne wrote and thanked us for the present we sent
him and Eulah for their little girl, Peggy who weighed three pounds
and eleven ounces at birth, but a month later, according to Earl’s

letter “weighs 5 lb. 10 oz. She is doing wonderful, and the mother
is fine too and tickled pink.”

Dorothy Sexton wrote: “Harlin is going to school under the G. I.
Bill. Lowell and Nancy are real big now. They are very sweet little
ones, and I think they love each other. Lowell goes to school and is
doing fine. We hope to get to come to see you all. We love you very
much.”

From Ruth Hibdon after she returned from her stay in Germany:
“T hope you haven’t forgotten me.” (as if we could) “We lived with
you the first few months of 1946. We had just been married when we
were sent to Goldsboro. We got back from Germany in August of
1947. Then we were stationed in Austin, Texas. Last October Floyd
was sent back overseas. This time he is in England. If he doesn’t
get to come home soon I will go to him. While we were in Texas
we became the proud parents of a big baby boy. He looks like his
Daddy, and we named him Floyd, Jr. Floyd is still Lt. in the Air
Force.”

242

Donna Ninemire wrote that “Wes” had enrolled in College. “He
wants to be an Electrical Engineer. He is a radio announcer and
engineer now, but isn’t satisfied. Wesley, Jr., is taking his nap.”

A letter from Jeanne Napiwocki was always a delight. I had written
her a letter in which I used some of the Polish words she and Ed
had taught us, though I spelled them exactly as they sounded to me
without the slightest idea of the correct way. Jean said:

“T marvel at your memory—your Polish is fine. Perhaps a little
off in the spelling, but I can just hear you pronouncing every word
as we taught it to you. Edward, too, would enjoy your Polish, but
now he would answer you fully like a grown up. He speaks it as
fluently as English, and it makes me feel quite proud. He’s a cute
little tyke—and more impish them ever. Gives my Mother plenty of
daily exercise.

“Rd is now attending Julliard Music School in New York, and I
am doing secretarial work. Ed is a busy fellow. Besides going to
school five days a week, he teaches piano and violin. I see so little
of him—much less than in the good ‘ole’ Goldsboro days. How often
we speak of them and wish we could return to them—but as you
once said—‘they would never be the same.’ At least we could have
some wonderful memories.

A year later, when my circle of the Woman’s Society of Christian
Service had sent a box of clothing to a needy family in Poland and
had received a reply written in Polish, I sent the letter to Jeanne,
and she translated it for me, and sent it back with another of her
characteristic letters.

“It makes me feel good inside that others are helping the poor
Poles. From letters from my aunt and cousin, we have learned of
the terrible misfortunes they have had to cope with. We too are con-
stantly sending them packages of clothing, food and medicine. Theirs
is a terrible situation, and from the radio news, it seems there is
still more to come. I burn inside every time I read such letters as
the one your friend has received.

“At present Ed is giving lessons in piano and violin and also
attending Montclair State Teachers College—working for a degree.”

She signed her name: “Just me, Jeanne.”

This message came from Irene Adams: “I’ll be going home from
the hospital tomorrow with my 8 lb 15% oz daughter, Annette Carol.
We now have a boy and a girl, and we’re proud of them. Ken has
been back from overseas a year this coming January. He was sent
to Europe and was in Scotland, France, Germany, Austria and several
other places. He was happy when he got home to stay.”

Mary and George Finney sent us a snapshot of themselves when

243

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Prccy SUE PAYNE

 

 

 

 

 

 

they had been married four years, and Mary wrote: “George has
gotten on at the post office. He was very lucky because it is con-
sidered one of the best jobs in town. We are going to keep our apart-
ment for another year then we hope to build us a home. We have
bought all new furniture for our three rooms. Maybe some day God
will bless us with a child; then everything will be complete.”

A later letter told us that they had bought a home and that the
other wish was also coming true. Then came the announcement of
the arrival of Gwendora Avon and a lovely picture of Mary and her
baby.

is lovee from Carol Anderson contained the sad news that Wallace
had been killed in an air plane accident. He was working with an
agricultural group spraying fields from the air when the accident
occurred. Carol and her two sons, Bobby and Jimmy, went back to
her parents, but were planning to move into a home of their own
next door. Carol is a brave girl. She plans to go back to her teaching.

An account published in a paper in Kennebec, South Dakota, said,
that after Wallace left Seymour Johnson Field, Goldsboro, “he was
sent to Selfridge Field, Mich. for overseas training. His flight group
then went to Bluthenthal Field, Wilmington, North Carolina, and
then overseas.

“He spent six months in the Pacific theater on Guam, Tinan, and
Iwo Jima. He took part as fighter escort to bombing planes in several
air raids and was awarded the Air Medal. He returned to the United
States and spent another year in service. He was discharged with
the rank of Captain and remained in the air corps reserve with that
rank.

“Hundreds of people, many unable to get into the church, attended
the funeral of this popular young man.”

Irene Strunk wrote: “You should see Ed playing ball in the yard
with our three little boys.” When I remembered Ed’s devoted atten-
tions to David when they lived here, I thought, “Three lucky little
boys!”

Ernest and Betty Cornelius sent the announcement of the birth
of a son, Jerome Ernest, and two years later, of James Michael.
Madeline Traver sent a lovely picture of their family group, George
and Madeline, their son, Robby, and daughter, Cynthia. From Eunice
and Larry White came a picture of Sherry, now grown big, and from
Bob and Arliss DeCamp, a picture of Karen, grown big. Little Mara’s
parents announced the birth of a daughter, Rahni.

Among others who sent announcements were Larry and Marge
West; a son, David; Charles and Frances Kunkler, a daughter, Connie;
Norman and Aline Naccari, a son, Ronald Lee; Gus and Eleanor

245

 
 

 

 

 

Fisher, a son, Todd; and Arthur and Ruby Sabatina, a daughter,
Sherry. Most of these sent kodak pictures of the new babies and
also of the older children who were babies when they lived here.
I never grow tired of looking through my box of pictures and an-
nouncements and invitations to birthday parties.

I also do not grow tired of thinking of the fine young men and
women who were with us during those days of anxiety mingled with
happiness, and to them I dedicate my one and only poem.

 

 

 

When skies are blue and love is true
And sunny is the weather

Hand in hand across the strand
We'll stroll away together.

 

 

 

We'll bend our oars to other shores
Across the briny ocean,

And spend our days in joyful ways
With love and true devotion.

 

When skies are grey and dark the way,
And cloudy is the weather,

Then hand in hand we'll take our stand
And face the hour together.

 

THE END

 

Mary AND GWENDORA

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

UEC

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Mirbl ie japeerlataingbie