The motorcycle is going to hit me!

(Necessary groundwork for what I want to write:

I've always seen things at night, made of tiny dots.  They're always in color.  The dots take the shape of different things, normally machinery.  The things made of the dots look real.  I can only barely see that they're made of dots.  If I were an artist, I would have drawn them long ago!

The most common thing I've see were trains.  One would often go in a circle, around through the air and down through my belly, round and round, over and over.  Other times they would be going above me,I could see the wheels turning fast, but they would not move an inch.

No, I didn't see these sleeping.  I would see these things when I was awake but only at night, in the dark.  At first they made me afraid, but after a few times, it simply became interesting. It has been about 33 years since I've seen anything made of these dots.  I was about 22 when I saw the last one.  I miss them and wonder why I no longer see them.  I have only talked to one person who has also seen things made of these tiny colored dots.

I don't know how young I was but I was in a crib.  Perhaps we had company and Mother and Daddy put me in their room, temporarily in a crib, while our guests were visiting.

I asked Mother about this event several years before she died and she didn't remember it.  I know exactly where the crib was - behind the door of their bedroom against the wall.  I don't remember the wall having enough room for my crib and I asked her if the closet had been built after I was born. She said yes, the closet that filled that space wasn't always there.  All the questions I asked fit my memory except that she didn't keep the crib there.  As we talked about times when we had visitors, we both realized that the event I was talking about had to be when the house was full, probably at convention time, when the house was stuffed with guests.)

I see the event clearly to this day.  I see it as if I am still there in the crib, not from the angle of someone looking on.  I remember desperately  trying to climb out of one corner of the crib, screaming.  "The motorcycle is going to get me, the motorcycle is going to get me".  (I was old enough to be able to tell then that "the motorcycle is going to get me".)  Mother and Daddy came to the crib.  I was screaming and the crib had to be rattling, as frantic as I was to get out.  They asked me what was wrong.  I repeated it over and over. They asked me where it was. I pointed to the motorcycle, about two feet away, about 8 inches above the crib rail in the air.  I know they must have thought I was dreaming.  What else could they think?  I could see the wheels turning and the dust flying.  It was later that I realized that it never did get closer to me.  It was suspended in the air, going super fast, straight at me, but never came closer.


They assured me over and over that there wasn't a motorcycle. They assured me that nothing was wrong.  That sure didn't help.  I could see it clearly. And it was STILL coming at me and they weren't helping me!


I remember my panic, my fear, my frustration that they would not help me.  My memory of the event stopped there.  I was old enough to be able to tell then that "the motorcycle is going to get me", however old that was.


I am sure they took me out of the crib quickly although at that time, it sure didn't seem quick.  As real as the motorcycle was, I sure wasn't going to settle down again.  

I had to be much older than in this photo.  This is way too young to be able to say, "the motorcycle is going to get me".

Stirring the potatoes ...

Stirring the potatoes …

Grading okra was a big job.  So was washing peanuts and yellow summer squash.  The younger we were, the less real help we were.  The whole family would be involved with the farm jobs, from hoeing to picking up rocks to washing peanuts to whatever needed to be done.  The list of what we’d all be involved in also included eating green and boiled peanuts. 

When I was about 8, I would ‘help’ grade okra by taking out the largest okra pods.  They were inedible.  These were the ones that the hands had missed two days ago. Okra pods grew so fast, if they were missed during a picking, they might not be marketable at the next picking.  But my ‘help’ wasn’t as much as I thought, I’m sure.  Little children always think they’re helping more than they are.  They simply can’t help as much as older children and adults.

Mother would quit working outside to go inside and start supper while the family was still out working.  She would start cooking meatloaf in the oven, potatoes in the pot, beans simmering, and other vegetables on the stove, all cooking or simmering.  After she had been back outside for a short while, she’d turn to me and say, “Edith Ellen, go stir the potatoes”.  At age eight, I’d start helping with supper in this way.  I would go in, take a big  spoon, and slowly stir up the potatoes to make sure that they were all cooking evenly. 

Then I’d be back outside, ‘working’ as long as there was room for me to work. When everyone was working, the youngest would be freed to go play (within sight) to allow room for the older siblings to work (more effectively).   

After a short while Mother would say again,  “Edith Ellen, go back and stir the potatoes and beans again”.  Off I’d go, back to pull up a chair and stir the pots.  Mother would come in every so often with me to check the pots too.  After all, Edith Ellen had to learn and she didn’t want my learning process to mean that supper was burnt. 

Finally she would call me, Sandra, and Stanley to go inside with her while she finished up supper, teaching me how finish up meals.  I didn’t realize that she was teaching me, of course.  I was either proud to be big enough to cook or wished I could go play with Sandra and Stanley. 

One of my best memories is of Daddy mashing the potatoes with the potato masher.  The pot would be full of potatoes.  I’d watch the potato masher go up and down, up and down, up and down, over and over.  Soon everyone was inside and we’d all sit at the table, Daddy would give God thanks for the food, and we’d eat.  Mmmm, I learned cooking the way most farm gals learned cooking.  Real food, cooked as other jobs were being done at the same time, and everyone tired and hungry when we sat at the table. 

What I do not remember is leftovers.  I reckon that with at least 8 others children at the table (from very young to grown) as well as Mother and Daddy (and sometimes family staying or living with us) there was never anything left over!

Age 10

His name is not Robert E Lee ...

I remember nothing about Mother expecting my younger brother and sister.  I was about 4 when Sandra was born and about 6 when Stanley was born.  It would seem that I'd remember at least part of it, but no.  

I do have a vague memory of Mother coming out of a door of the hospital.  We kids were in the car. There was a long flight of stairs that I could see when the door opened.  Mother came out (I can't even remember if she was in a wheelchair) and I remember looking over the seat to see the baby when she sat down in the car.  I don't remember seeing the baby.

What I do remember is that there was discussion about the name of the last baby if it was a boy.  

Harold's birthday is on the 23rd of January.  He is 6 years older than I am.  He wanted the baby to be named 'Robert E Lee'.  He was told that if the baby was a boy and was born on his birthday, he could name the baby 'Robert E Lee'.  I don't have a brother named Robert but I do have a younger brother named Stanley.  Stanley was born on the 24th of January.  

I grew up with 5 older brothers and sisters and 2 younger brothers and sisters.  Mother and Daddy had adopted a cousin (Mother's sister passed away) and she was an older sister too.  There were 9 of us young'uns that Mother and Daddy raised.  

It has always amazed me that I have no memories of Mother expecting a baby.  

Stanley is middle front

Harold is furtherest right

Left to right: Jimmy, Sandra, Jean, Stanley, Donald, me, Harold

Spanish Moss = Okra

Spanish Moss = Okra

Daddy and Mother grew acres and acres of okra every year.  Men and women (often with children) came early in the morning and picked okra all day, acres and acres of it.  In the 60’s, they were known as ‘field hands’ while they were in the field.  When they weren’t working in the field, they were friends, classmates, acquaintances, and strangers.

Two days after picking the field of okra, the same field needed to be picked again.  Then it needed to be picked again in two days.  The field was picked three times per week.  I knew some of the field hands by name.  I played with Allie Mae’s daughter in the back of truck when she and I were allowed to do so.  David Taylor, Allie Mae’s husband, was Daddy’s right hand man and his good friend.  Scrappy was always in the field picking okra when it was ready to be picked. 

Each field hand took a bushel basket and picked the okra one by one, cutting or snapping the stem, and dropping the okra into the basket.  At the end of the day, the field hands would tell Daddy how many bushels they picked and he would pay each one according to how many bushels he/she picked.  Mother, Daddy, and the rest of us would take over.  The baskets were picked up from the field by my brothers and Daddy, beginning earlier in the day.  They were brought to the platform, a covered area next to Daddy’s shop, and the okra were dumped bushel by bushel the sorter.  We lined the sides of the chute, as soon as we were old enough to help, sorting by size and quality. Daddy or Mother often at the end, doing the last bit of sorting.  If the okra was sorted into the bushel baskets by grade properly, Daddy would receive a better price.  There were normally #2’s (large but edible), #1’s (the best of the best, small and tender), and culls (too big or too damaged).  On some occasions we would also grade out #3’s (between 2’s and culls).  I can’t imagine how many bushels of raw okra (the best way to eat it) we consumed over the years, while standing there grading okra.

Sometimes when Daddy would dump a bushel of okra into the grader, a big clump of moss would be revealed. Some of the field hands who were new to the area would fill the bushel basket ¾ of the way to the top, scoop out a hole in the center, fill the hole with a lot of Spanish moss, then top it off with okra.  Because okra is light in weight and only the center had moss, no one could tell that a bushel had moss until it was dumped. 

Daddy had to make a new rule.  He would only pay for baskets that had the picker’s initials on the side.  After the bushel was filled, the picker would take a large okra leaf, ball it up, and use it to mark his/her initials on the side.  This stopped the theft.  (Taking money for work a person didn’t do, using trickery to make it look as if he/she had done the work, is simple theft.)

I imagine that there are few people who look at Spanish moss hanging from a tree and automatically think of okra!

Bushel Basket

If anyone has a photo of grading okra, picking okra, or a more appropriate photo that you'd like to share, please let me know!  edith@buyabutterfly.com

Aerial view of the farm. The long white building is the tractor shed. The platform was part of the tractor shed.

Harold was knifed in the back ...

Harold was knifed in the back ….

The first nightmare that I remember began with me playing in the driveway, out front of our house. I am not sure if I had started school yet.  I was a young thing at the time.

I was playing in the drive, very close to the road.  I was allowed there because Harold, one of my older brothers, was closer to the road than I was.  I saw a man with a knife coming down to road toward Harold and I ran and ran and ran.  Although the house was very close in real life and in the dream both, it was amazing how long I ran to get to the door.  I looked back and saw Harold with a knife in his back.  I ran into the house, opened the stairs door, and sat in the dark behind the stairs, hiding and crying. (Adding to the terror was the fact that I was not allowed on the stairs without permission.  I was aware of that even in the nightmare.) I heard noises as the house door opened and footsteps can toward the door.  I didn’t know if it was Harold (he slept upstairs and I would have been in his way if he was going to his room) or the man with the knife.  (Never mind that the knife was in Harold’s back, he was still the man with the knife as far as I was concerned.)   As the noises came closer to the door and I cowered down on the steps in the dark, I finally woke up.     

When I woke up, I felt guilty.  Why did I dream that someone knifed Harold?  I felt that I was a 'bad sister'.  Before too many years, I had realized that different events of the day and things I read and heard would fall together with imagination and create dreams and nightmares that were no reflection of my true feelings. 

I always dream.  If I am wake up at any time during the night, I wake up from a dream.  I claim that the reason I find it hard to wake up is because I’m as active (or more active) at night than in the day.  Whether I wake up from a loud noise, kids knocking on my door, alarm clock, or waking on my own, it’s always from a dream. 

Sometimes I need to talk about the dream and Stephen has to endure me detailing the dream; 10 minutes, 15 minutes … I remember them in great detail.    Occasionally, talking about the dream is the best way to break the hold it has on me.  I try not to tell him about my dreams unless I need to do so to break the hold it has on me.  He is quite tired of my dreams and the LONG time it takes me to tell the very detailed dreams. 

About five times in my life I remember waking up without the awareness of dreaming.  It is a very odd feeling.  It’s as if I went from non-existence to existence.  For most people, this is normal.  For me, it’s very unsettling. 

Of course, waking up is a jolt, going from one existence (or universe) to another.  Sometimes I’m in space, other times in school, or in many other situations and places.  I’ve woke up with fast heart rate (the guy chasing me nearly grabbed me), tears on my pillow (finding dead children or worse and yes, there is worse), or with hands clenched tight to hold on so I won’t fall a thousand feet to the bottom of the cliff.  If I wake suddenly instead of a slow wakening, it takes a while to adjust to real life. 

I used to have horrible nightmares; words can’t express the horror of them.  The one about Harold was very minor compared to some of the nightmares.  I’m sure many of you relate and have had dreams worse than mine, if it’s possible!  I’d call out, be kicking my feet, or be crying.  The noise and movement would wake Stephen and he would wake me up.  He’d hold me until I was able to relax again. 

Finally, after a series of particularly bad nightmares, Stephen did what we should have thought of long before then; he prayed.  Since that time, I’ve had very few of those horrific nightmares.

The stairs door is right behind daddy. three steps then the door.

Stairs with the door open.

Me 'swimming' and Harold is on the right.  (Left is Donald and Judy is in the middle.)

Where did 'Edith' come from? It isn't the name I had when I was very young ...

I still regret that I lost my name.  I didn't want my name to be 'Edith'.  I wasn't 'Edith' when I was born.

I was named after my Daddy's mother (who died before I was born) Ella and my Mother's mother (who also died before I was born) Edith.  I was always called "Edith Ellen" other than when I had colic as a baby.  I'd cry for hours, Mother said. That's  when I was called "Edith Yellin(g)".

Most children are called by both their names when they're in trouble.  Not me.  Edith was NOT my name.  I was "Edith Ellen". 

I was a shy kid for a long time.  Mother took me into first grade and told me to ask the little gal sitting at the table if I could sit by her.  I obeyed and asked very quietly, "Can I sit by you?"  Vicki looked up at me and said I could.  Today, Vicki is a facebook friend, living on the other side of the US. 

Mother took me to the teacher who asked me what my name was.  I was too shy to say more than I absolutely had to - the least I could get away with.  I answered quietly, "Edith".  I was sure Mother would tell her "Edith Ellen".  She didn't. My first grade teacher took me at my word and from that day on, people at school called me "Edith". 

Mrs. Jones, my first grade teacher was my Daddy's first grade teacher too. 

My family still called me "Edith Ellen" for years but as I grew older and became a teenager, even my family started calling me "Edith".  Sigh ... I feel like I've lost my identity in some ways. 

There are two or three people in the world who call me "Edith Ellen". Lila Jane and June do.  When I hear them say or see them write "Edith Ellen", I feel like I've reconnected with my real identity and as if I have received a big hug from yesterday. 

Lila Jane (photo below), a cousin who lived next door (a mile away by road) married and moved away before my family quit calling me by my 'real' name.  I didn't see June (photo below), a cousin, very often. I don't think she was ever really aware that people started calling me "Edith".  I love hearing them call me "Edith Ellen".

But I do guess my real identity is "Edith".  Stephen never knew me as "Edith Ellen".  I never ever introduced myself as "Edith Ellen" that I ever remember.  As much as I'd like to blame others for the loss of my real name, I can only blame myself and my (past) shyness. 

Deep inside, I still know me as "Edith Ellen".  Everywhere else, I know me as "Edith".

Lila Jane holding me

Francis, Aunt Lora, and cousin June

Our Granddad is a Busy Man

Daddy was driving the tractor in the field one day when he saw his Granddad drive up into the yard - fast - in his pickup truck.  George and Jimmy were playing in the yard and Daddy was concerned for a minute that he might hit them, he was driving so fast.  As his Granddad climbed out of the truck and went into the house, this started composing in Daddy's mind.  The result is a poem that tells me more about my Great-granddad than anything else could.

  (Daisy and Ernest Lee, Roy Lee - Great Granddad is in the middle.)

Our Granddad is a busy man,

He rides all around in a Ford-tin-can.

He is out bright and early every morn,

Riding through the country and tooting his horn.

He'll ride down town without a thought,

Of the gas, oil, and parts that he has bought.

He'll ride to the corner to get a drink,

While his wife has to get one at the kitchen sink.

He'll ride out in the field to look around,

And if there's a sand bed its sure to be found.

He'll drive right in it for a joke,

And sit there and spin till his wheels do smoke.

If he's got a dollar, he's bound to say,

Think I'll go get some fish today,

And off he'll sail without any heed,

To the way he's driving or thought of his speed.

But even for all this he's not quite gay,

Until he rides to Mills on auction day.

He'll sit in his chair and whistle and shout,

While all the hogs and cattle run about.

He comes back home at half past eight,

And GrandMa bawls him out for being late,

Gets off to bed at half past nine,

Tired but happy and feeling fine.

Willie E. Lee

Grandson