To all the children, grandchildren, friends, neighbors and beyond-- John Benjamin Oakley and Pearl May Cahill Oakley--were Ma and Pa.
”Jack, we’ll be going to Virginia in two weeks,” my grandmother said softly to my grandfather.
“Have you had a chance to clean out the trunk yet?”
I don’t want to call my grandfather a hoarder. He certainly wouldn’t qualify for a spot on the TV show, but he was almost one. On one occasion, I was visiting Pa in the kitchen, and he offered me some ice cream, encouraging me to get the carton from the freezer myself. First of all, the writing on the carton was faded. I did not recognize the name of the dairy. I carefully opened it up, not knowing what to expect. The carton was almost empty, and what was in it didn’t look like any ice cream I had ever seen. Not meant for human consumption. More like small clumps of pale mashed potatoes here and there with small ridges growing on them. All the while I was investigating, Pa was snickering non-stop.
“Here, have a dish,” he exclaimed.
“How long have you had this,” I asked, and “where did you find this brand?” “How long have they been out of business?”
I never got any answers, just more laughter. While the ice cream is an example of saving everything to shock and amuse his family, most of his hoarding was profoundly serious to him. Saving to him was no joke. He had a collection of eyeglasses--don’t know where he found them. He used them to read The Charlotte Observer from cover to cover each day. He never went to an eye doctor, or any doctor for that matter. So, my grandmother had every reason to ask about cleaning out the truck of his car before the trip.
Each year the car was loaded down with goodies for her relatives--clothes, shoes, coats, anything you may imagine. I have heard stories years later of how Ma would take her black coin purse that snapped shut and pull out some crumpled-up bills to pay for doctor’s appointments or dentists. One relative stated, “when Aunt Pearl came to town, it was like Christmas.” One year the car was so full and one special item had not been packed--a bird cage. There was not an empty spot left, so Ma said, “give it to me.” And off they went. She held it on her lap for the four-hour drive.
I don’t know when the tradition started, but a couple of grandchildren were chosen to make the trip to Virginia each year. It was exciting and thrilling with an element of not knowing what to expect. Most of us had never been away from home. I have heard their stories from my siblings and cousins so many times that I feel like I went to Virginia every summer for 12 years! In fact, I only went one or two times.
Because of the August heat and no air-conditioning, we would strike out in the middle of the night. I remember carrying my little suitcase down their long hall on Worthington Avenue and into the night to hear the cicadas and get hit by unwelcomed humidity. Even when we would all get settled in, it would take Pa more than a minute to “take off.” He rushed for no one. Those were the days before well-lighted superhighways. The roads we traveled were dark and narrow! Pa always wanted a navigator to help him. Anyone would have needed an extra set of eyes to see road signs. I remember being his navigator and I suppose it made me feel a little special.
First stop was always at the home of Mary Burke’s and her husband Jimmy. They lived on a two-lane highway about 8 miles from Chase City. Their peace and quiet was occasionally interrupted by the whirling sounds of an 18-wheeler barrowing down the highway. Mostly, however, it was a very tranquil place. The first challenge for me was trying to understand Mary’s accent. Had we crossed over just a state line or perhaps entered another country? Mary spoke very rapidly. For starters, her “out” became “ot.” “About” was pronounced “abot.” After listening to her awhile I relaxed and caught most of what she was saying. The breakfast she served was outstanding--eggs any way we wanted them, country ham, thick slices of bacon, sausage, grits and coffee.
After breakfast with Mary and Jimmy, we made our way to see other kinfolks. There were lots of family members living in a fairly spread-out area. The entire trip itinerary was set before leaving home through letters between Ma and her relatives. Many relatives did not have phones, and I doubt that Pa would have paid for a call if they had--but it all seemed to work out, and we covered a lot of ground. Sometimes a visit would be overnight--at other times, an afternoon or so. They were all so kind and generous and welcoming.
Next major stop? Pearlie and Chesley Adams had a white frame house with a tin-roof (oh, how I wanted it to rain) on a dirt road out in the middle of nowhere. Even so, there were a lot of activities going on. They had a big tobacco barn, fields of tobacco, chickens, livestock and a huge vegetable garden. I watched my cousins take tobacco leaves and quickly string them on sticks for the curing process to begin.
Pearlie cooked on a wood stove in the kitchen. Can you imagine what the temperature must have been--August, no air conditioning, wood stove blazing? I remember seeing tiny drops of perspiration over her upper lip. I would have to give her the “best cook” award--hard to do, as they were all incredibly good. Our lunch menu that day--fresh from the garden right outside the back door--creamed corn, green beans, okra, sliced tomatoes, and of course, fried chicken and biscuits. Oh, and country butter for the biscuits. The Adams had a well at the back of the house. Unlike wells I had seen in the movies--outside and far away--this one was a part of the house. The back porch surrounded the well. I watched as my cousin lowered the bucket and heard it splash when it hit the water. It took some muscle to get the bucket back up. Of course, we all had to take a drink of the fresh water when it came up. Everyone said it was better than “city” water. Not wanting to disagree, I remained quiet. To me it was simply good and cold. And Pearlie had a bathroom!
My grandmother was aware of who had bathrooms and those who did not. The sleepovers probably were scheduled for families with bathrooms. At any rate, I did become acquainted with several outhouses during the week. As Forest Gump would say, “that’s all I’m gonna say about that.”
Niece Georgia, pronounced “Geor-gee”, had singalongs on her back porch on Saturday nights. The singing group Alabama seemed to summarize what some of those times were like with their hit song Louisiana Saturday Night. “Get down the fiddle and get down the bow, take off your shoes and throw them on the floor.” Toe taping spirited music. Solos or duets of Christian hymns a Capella. Perhaps an original song written by someone. If the fiddler or guitar player got tired, they would turn on the radio and hear the plaintive sounds of Hank Williams or hear Patsy Cline singing about the sweet dreams she was having about the love who got away.
Truth was that my family could feel all of those emotions. Forgetting your troubles for a moment after working hard all week and letting yourself go with people you loved. Salt of the earth stuff to me. No pretenses, just authentic moments of being together and alive. Tomorrow it would start all over. They would “keep on and keep on keeping on.”
So, the annual trips to Virginia continued as long as Ma and Pa were physically able to go. Ma continued to remind Pa to clean out his trunk. He continued to fuss but did it anyway. He loved those trips.
Then, no more bird cages my grandmother to “tote”. No more trunks for Pa to clean out. Still, many vivid memories alive in my mind. I wouldn’t give a one of them away for anything. Those two, Pearl and Jack--Ma and Pa, left all of us a legacy of persevering and laughter and not taking ourselves too seriously.
