Memoirs: My Birth -Part 1

Mother’s memory had no trouble bringing up events of the past. She added colorful details which made every story interesting. As a young child, I loved hearing her narratives describing each of our births. I was shy about asking her to describe mine for fear I would appear preoccupied with my own self importance; a trait she would not tolerate in any of her children.

Each sibling owned their own history. Mine was nothing outstanding except that it belonged to me. It was my personal beginning and how things were when I entered the world.

Mom and Dad lived in a small one-bedroom farmhouse northwest of Alfordsville. This small hamlet is located in the lower left-hand section of the state of Indiana. Three larger towns make up a triangle. Washington is at the northwest corner with Loogootee at the northeast and Jasper on the south. Alfordsville was located in the center of the three unnoticed by almost everyone.

My parent’s home consisted of one bedroom upstairs with a tiny living room and kitchen on the ground floor. A stone fireplace provided heat for the living room while a cook stove did double duty in the kitchen; providing warmth while cooking the family’s meals. The fireplace and stove were both fed on wood gathered from the underbrush and fallen trees off the farm.

The house faced South with a large stone step at the front door. Two windows starred across the front yard toward the gravel road which ran past, but was seldom used. When fresh water fell from the sky and ran across the tin roof, a rain barrel was waiting at the northeast corner to collect it for washday. A summer kitchen stood facing the backdoor. It housed mom’s washing machine.

When the clotheslines, which were stretched across the backyard, became laden with soggy clothes, a maze was formed for kids to run through. Fresh air and sunshine was the method for drying; not the method of choice, but the only one offered.

Dad and mom moved the family into these small quarters in the late fall of 1942. World War II was raging in Europe. Food was rationed. People used food stamps as money. Some folks suffered dreadfully, but since Mom and Dad had already been living below the poverty line, they considered food stamps to be a gift from God the same way the Israelites looked at manna. You can only go so far down until you have to grab hold of hope and simply hang on to life.