The Bomb Shelter

Here it is Hump day again and time for a lil story. 

My Aunt Eula Morris was an enigma. She hadn't married, that I know of,  or had any children. That was unusual for being born in 1896. She was the older and only sibling of my Grandpa Admiral Dewey Morris.  She lived in a little house in Jay, and she had a secret. 

It was a fully equipped bomb shelter near her home. I think we girls stumbled over the hatch door one day and immediately ran to tell Aunt Eula that there was a door in the ground. 

She didn't look happy that we had found it, but she was a polite woman and said, " That's the bomb cellar."

" A bomb, Cellar?". We were intrigued as 7 and 9 yr old girls, and we really wanted to see what was beneath that door. Of course, I had heard about bombs because it was 1962,  and I was 9.  I had already had the "duck and cover" drills carried out during the day in school, but my little sister didn't know anything about it as she wasn't in school yet. 

Aunt Eula was reluctant to have a couple of little kids traipsing about her shelter. but we could be pretty persuasive looking, with puppy dog eyes when we really wanted something, and we really wanted this. 

We both looked at her and said,"ma'am can we see the shelter?". I still don't know why she said yes, but she did. 

We all walked across the road, and she opened this magical door shaped like a submarine with an iron handle on top. The door was heavy and locked, so we couldn't have gotten into it, even if we had tried. 

She went down the stairs first, turned on a lantern, and then motioned us down into the darkness below. 

The steps were so steep but had hand rails, and our eyes were as big as saucers as we surveyed the room. 

Shelves filled,  with every kind of grocery you could imagine were in there. I saw all my favorites.

 Peanut butter and dried cereal in those lil boxes that were such a treat at our house. Flour, sugar in bins, and coffee. I had never had coffee, but this experience would come a year later from another wonderful aunt. There were canned goods, stringbeans and potatoes, yummy fig and watermelon rind preserves. Many other canned items that us folk used to love to make. 

There was a bed, lanterns,  a table and chairs for two. The floor was concrete, and the sides looked like that, too. It was roomy. It was as big as my room back home, and it was underground. 

It had a water system of some sort in one corner, and it was the best playhouse I could ever imagine.  But this wasn't a playhouse. Back then, I didn't know that this shelter came to fruition from fear of a nuclear attack on the American soil. 

How daunting to think about today, and it was really fearful then. 

I remember the first time they showed the film in school. The one where the bomb blast hit and it showed the cloud enveloping towns, homes, and people. It made for a PTSD moment to see the faces melting. 

I still remember thinking when I was about 9 and yet another time seeing the film and being told to duck and cover. I was grown enough to know that ducking and cover wasn't going to help,  if a bomb dropped. 

I wish so much that I would have spent more time with her. She didn't pass until 1981, and I could have learned so much from her about our family. When we're young, we're rarely concerned with the old, and we miss so much. 

There were many more adventures at her house. My great-grandmother, Elizabeth McCurdy Morris, lived there with her until her death in 1961. I would have loved to talk with her, but I was grieving the loss of my world, Grandma Peacock.

I hope that everyone will have a blessed day today. I love you all so much. Always, Kimmee. 

Addendum: I have found a record that says a Eula Morris married Jim Cartwright, but I'm unable to substantiate that it's my aunt. Will keep working on it as it seems unlikely that there were two Eula Morris ladies born the same year in such a small town.

The Day The Music Left

 It's hump day and it's story time. 

Most of you know that I was a military wife and we were stationed on Okinawa for 3 years. During that time, I fulfilled a life long dream to "try" and play piano. I enrolled at the Ryukuyan Classical Academy,  where for the next two years I got to hear about my banana fingers from my professor. Lol. 

Professor Panginiban was tough, but he was so good. By the end of my tenure, I could passably play 6 hours of classical music from memory, along with other classic songs like, Send In The Clowns, Piano Man and Yesterday. 

(I have to spin ahead to NY here or else this will turn into a book. My very first piano is pictured in the 1st photo,  and the 2nd photo is the piano I had in my upstate NY home.)

I stopped playing piano after I came home one day from work, to discover my husband had chopped my antique oak piano into pieces,  and was using it as firewood. 

There were so many awful things in my last marriage and I haven't talked about all of them here.  Coming home from a long day of nursing and expecting to see my piano and finding it in pieces broke something in my spirit. I was in such shock and grief for so long over him taking another thing from me that I loved. 

 I NEVER touched another piano, *insert drum roll*, until NOW. 

I decided that 30 years was long enough to have that loss inside,  and I bought a keyboard. It was from temu, which means it was a low price, but also means it was, well, cheap. LOL. 

My hands are not what they were back then. If my poor professor saw my twisted, arthritic banana fingers now, he would laugh me right out the door, but I don't give things up easily. I'm practicing again. You would think I would have tons of muscle memory there, and you would be right. But my hands are so stiff and the keys are so tiny on this thing, that it sounds like a 2 yr old attempting Moonlight Sonata . Lol

If I have too, I will buy a slightly larger keyboard for me to play and some kid in the campground will get an early Christmas present. 

It feels really good to reclaim this part of myself. It's hard to explain how a body can carry a deep hurt for such a long time. They stay buried deep where we don't think about them. This gives us the ability to function in our daily lives. Then one day, you will be listening to music and you will see your piano in pieces on the ground. The heart pain is sharp like it was then, and you know that you're going to fix it, instead of carry it. 

I won't be the next Liberace, but my hope is to be able to complete Fur Elise. My spirit feels free now and I can view the piano in my mind,  as a symptom of his illness and forgive him. May he RIP. 

I wish you all the best mid week bump,  and hope that in all things we can find compassion for ourselves and others. 

I love you all so much. Always, kimmee ❤️

(This photo of the keyboard is from the seller)

Growing Up In A Theater On Saturday Night

When we were little, my sister and I were dropped off most Saturday nights at the Jackson Theater in Flomaton.  My sister shared with me recently an article that said the man that bought the theater originally  in the 20's was Mr Jackson's Father,  so it had been in the family for awhile. 

Our Mr. Jackson was named Samuel but I did not know that until many years later. Children in the South used Mr and Mrs and yes Maam and No Maam or else. 

The Movie theater was Segregated. To think of that today is incredulous. This was the 60's, over one hundred years after The Emancipation Proclamation freed the Slaves and yet here in Flomaton, there were colored sections. It just goes to show you how slowly change comes about, no matter how we might wish it to hurry.  

The "colored" people had to watch the movie in the balcony, while the white folks sat below. I wonder if the people of that day understood that the Balcony had the best seats in the house. 

There is some kind of irony in that.

For the balcony goers to get to the Movie, they had to walk up the outside of the building on the rickiest set of stairs I had ever seen. I walked around to the side of the building one day because I was curious as to how the theater goers got to the balcony and I saw the stairs. I can only imagine what a slippery slidey mess it was to go up those in the rain or when there was a bit of frost out or a stiff wind. It would have scared me to death.

Sometimes the balcony goers would throw stuff down on the ones watching the movie below. Popcorn or paper but never spit. A small amount of attitude for still being relegated to the dark balcony 100 years after the War that gave them freedom, ended. I understand it better today than I did then.

My parents would always pick us up, but it was usually late, after the theater and the bars were closed. My sister and I would be sitting on the darkened street waiting for them to show up. Mr. Jackson, the owner of the theater, would always wait with us for awhile. He was always so worried about 2 young girls, 11:30 at night on a darkened street, but I would tell him, "don't worry, we'll be alright."  And he would say, “I live right around the corner, and if you need anything, come over there."  He would walk so slowly down the street, shaking his head.  His children were grown, but I think his heart just about wept, when he had to walk down the street, and leave us alone in front of his theater. Sometimes he would leave his car, and say, "sit in this until they come"  and other times, we would be sleeping, huddled up together in back of the marquee trying to keep ourselves protected and warm, as we waited.....

My younger sister told me years later, that she had seen Mr. Jackson, and he told her how sorrowful he was, that we could not have been his children. He told her that he asked Daddy if he could adopt us, and daddy said no. That was quite amazing that someone other than my parents wanted us, but it did not surprise me. Even when we were little we knew kindness when we encountered it. It didn't happen all the time and when it did, it left a tiny spark of humanity in us both. 

Today, as I look back on those days and see two little girls aged 6 and 8 left after the theater closed at 11:30 until 2 AM in the morning, I think of my daughters and know that I would have never done that. I don't think Daddy would have either if not for the drink, although I am not sure. 

Parents back then let 10 yr old kids drive the truck to the store, a couple of miles away. Kids back then on the weekend, left their house in the morning and came back in the late afternoon after a full day of roaming 120 acres, drinking water from fresh streams, shimmying up a tree eating pears until we were sick. I don't ever remember telling Daddy I was going down to the old place or down to Grandma's or that I would be right outside playing. He never asked. He was always working.  Now if we told him that we were going to be somewhere, we danged sure better be there or else.  If we told him that we were going to be in 10 o'clock, we better be in at 10 o'clock, not 10: 01. He was a stickler about that. 

I still remember my first date that I picked. A Local Soldier whose name escapes me now but he had a green dart and picked me up for the date and brought me home a couple of hours later. When we pulled into the driveway and I did not exit the car immediately, it wasn't long after that Daddy would turn the porch light out and stand at the door. If I did not exit then, he stepped out the door in his boxer shorts and wife beater t-shirt and would say, "get out of the car little ole gal."  Talk about a buzz kill for a date and forget the second date. There wasn't going to be one. lol

My sister sometimes managed to get me in trouble at the theater. She was almost 3 years younger, and would always tell any bully, " you better leave me alone, or I will tell my big sister."

The big sister, being me. One time, in particular, she was sitting down front in the theater, and a big tall girl was kicking the back of her seat. She was getting really angry and told her to stop, repeatedly, but she would not. In her frustration she said, "I am going to tell my big sister on you." The big chick said, "Tell her to meet me outside, and I will kick her @#$." My sister just smiled because she knew that I was as tough as nails, having been beaten on a regular basis, and suffering beatings at the hands of some of my brothers too. My sister came and told me about it and I walked outside without fear. When I saw the girl across the street, she had 6 of her cohorts with her, all of them ready to hurt me.  I said, “you need all these behind you to kick my @#$."  I really had no fear at all, and she saw it. I said, “which one of you wants to get your @#$ kicked first?"  And then I saw her look over my shoulder at something. I stepped back and turned to look myself fearing a trick, but then just turned back and smiled. 

Coming across the street was "Crazy Betty". She was a friend of mine, if you could call her that. She was older, street wise, mad at the world, and because I was kind to her, she had my back that night. She had a beer bottle in her hand, although she was only about 17 or so. She proceeded to break it in half on the sidewalk, and then came across the street to where I was. I just stepped back, because I knew she would have no compunction in taking a life. 

The lead big girl saw her walk across the street, and I could almost smell her fear. Betty had quite a reputation and no one wanted to tangle with her, not even 6 girls on a Saturday night. The big girl turned around to tell her friends to back her up, and in that moment realized that she was standing there alone. I had a big ole grin on my face, and Betty and I smiled at one another, as she asked me. “Got some trouble here, Glorann?"  I told the girl that she and I would have a go at it, and I asked Betty to step aside, which she did. By this time the big girl had lost all her penchant for fighting, and she turned and ran.  You might think that was cowardice, but it was actually a smart move. Betty would have killed her, if she had laid a hand on me. 

 

Life is funny, in that you don't always know that how you treat someone will come back to roost. That night, the way I treated Betty came home to roost. She threw down her bottle, and walked away into the night a sad alone creature, until the next time she was needed to defend someone’s honor.  I saw her years later during one of my visits home, and she was still on the streets, never having known anything but hard times, and it sure showed on her face. 

Growing up on Saturday night at a movie theater is a unique experience. We were given a dollar and that was a fortune for that day and time. It cost 25 cents to get into the movies and candy, popcorn and soda were a nickel. We could eat all night for that price. I actually would pay for someone else to get in, if they did not have the money and my sister and I would eat less that night. That is how Crazy Betty and I knew each other. I had done that for her and bought her a candy bar one night. She took kindnesses very serious, as her life was filled with hardship. Mine was too, but I had my sister, and we were kind and supportive of each other most of the time.  

The movies that we watched would put the fear of God in me sometimes. It was a world of vampires, werewolves, and things that go bump in the night. It is no wonder that many nights as I left the theater and went to bed, I firmly pulled the covers up over my neck, thinking in my innocence that, that would stop a vampire. I giggle thinking about it now, but then that was some powerful mojo. 

Hope that other people have a fond memory or two of Mr Jackson. He was a good man and was protective of two little girls waiting in the night for our ride to arrive. 

God bless you all. With Love, Kimmee