Kokomo Kid: Reflections of Growing up in Indiana’S City of Firsts

By Cheryl Soden Moreland

Kokomo Kid is about more than just growing up in a medium-sized Indiana city, where factories flourished and neighbors were actually neighborly. Its about the human dynamic and how our past forms and sometimes even predicts our future, whether we like it or not. It is what we do with those feelings and memories rising from good and bad moments that defines our character as we meander toward our golden years. This simple and sincere book is a sentimental journey to a time of innocence, love, and lost lovesa nostalgic, introspective, inspiring peek into the diary of the atypical childhood of a midwestern gal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Feb 12, 2014
• ISBN: 9781452587943

Cheryl Soden Moreland

Cheryl Soden Moreland is a born-and-bred Hoosier who has been writing since she was a mere eight years of age. She has been a freelancer for magazines as well as local newspapers in Indiana. Cheryl was a contributing essayist in Urban Tapestry—Indianapolis Stories as well as Undeniably Indiana, both by Indiana University Press. She was among the poets in the award-winning And Know This Place: Poetry of Indiana by The Indiana Historical Society, as well as many other poetry anthologies locally and nationally. She is the author of Kokomo Kid ~ Reflections of Growing Up in Indiana’s City of Firsts, her first memoir. Cheryl is married and lives in Indianapolis with her hubby and two Schnoodle pups, brother and sister Domino and Dixie, respectively. She loves to garden, decorate, read, write, and has always had a deep passion for fashion. Cheryl is dedicated to helping the homeless as she also volunteers her time and efforts for various outreach programs in her city and region.

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Copyright © 2014 Cheryl Ann Soden Moreland.

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ISBN: 978-1-4525-8793-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8795-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4525-8794-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013922143

Balboa Press rev. date: 02/10/2014

Contents

Acknowledgments

Introduction

The Brady Bunch X 2 + 1

Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth

The Family Who Watches and Eats Together Stays Together

A Real Education

Big Brother Watching Over Me

Gramps and His Shadow

Doin’ It Her Way

Movers and Shakers

Time Bombs

Atlantic and Pacific

Old Joe, Not a Merry Old Soul

Neighborhood Tapestry

I Taut I Tau a Puddy Tat!

We All Screamed for Ice Cream

Biker Babe

The Good Books

The Sickening with the Sweet

Lady in Red

You Don’t Say

Down On the Corner

Dr. Nelson, Medicine Woman

The Hair Has It

My Daly Bread

Friends, Teachers, and Stalkers—Oh My!

To Forgive and Forget

Not Only in Kansas…

Two Wild and Crazy Gals

Buses, Trains, and Automobiles

Old Time Religion

Something’s Rotten on Plate

No Baywatch Babe

Puddin’ Pals

To the Beat of Our Own Drums

What Happens in Junior High Doesn’t Always Stay in Junior High

Don’t Fail Me Now

The Greatest, Coolest, Grooviest Generations

Timberrrrrrrrrr

The Decadent Decade

Brown Sugar

Seeing Red

Fair of Face

Rocket Girl

First Wheels

To Know Know Know Him….

Putting Me in My Place

Chip Off the Old Block

Annie Got Her Guns

Not Just a Matter of Black and White

Behind Every Good Man is an Even Better Woman

Candy Pieces

Oh No We Didn’t

Clothes Call

A Guy, Some Gals, and Lots of Ghouls

Guess Who’s Coming to Town?

Blue Bayou

Daddy’s Home

About the Author

FOR VIRGINIA

I kept my promise

FOR MAMA DALY

My most ardent supporter, my loudest cheerleader

& God’s greatest gift of unconditional love

THE PAST IS NOT DEAD. IN FACT, IT’S NOT EVEN PAST.

~ William Faulkner

SUCCESS IN LIFE IS FOUNDED UPON ATTENTION TO THE SMALL THINGS RATHER THAN TO THE LARGE THINGS, TO THE EVERYDAY THINGS NEAREST TO US RATHER THAN TO THE THINGS THAT ARE REMOTE AND UNCOMMON.

~ Booker T. Washington

I HAVE LEARNED THAT SUCCESS IS TO BE MEASURED NOT SO MUCH BY THE POSITION THAT ONE HAS REACHED IN LIFE AS BY THE OBSTACLES WHICH HE HAS HAD TO OVERCOME WHILE TRYING TO SUCCEED.

~ Booker T. Washington

Acknowledgments

T hanks for the memories—friends, relatives, neighbors, classmates, teachers, and even strangers on the streets of Kokomo. I am what I am today—for better or worse—due to you being a major part of my life. I feel blessed for having shared so many good times with each of you, and those precious moments are what I will carry with me and hold deeply for the rest of my days. Here’s to photo albums full of pictures, scrapbooks full of mementoes, and sound minds to remind us that our past has never slipped away from us, is not far behind us, but is just within our heart’s reach.

To Ken~for being my go-to-guy when Webster wasn’t bringing it to me and for being such a perfectionistic photographer

To Sarah~for being my role model for focus and discipline—and most gracious gift from God

To Ronnie & Sharon~for helping fill in the memory gaps here and there as well as for being my fill-in parents when needed

To Mama Daly~for helping stir up even more memories that could fill up yet another book, and for showing me what God put us all on earth to do—to put others first and serve them with passion

To Dan~for 16 years of continual reminders to always keep it tight

To Kurt & Jill~for making a fairy tale come true for a simple Kokomo Kid and helping me realize that anything is possible; that fame doesn’t have to spoil a name; and being open, honest, and direct is admirable

To Wendell & Tanya~for showing me that intention is at the heart of who and what we are; that dedication along with hard work and a love for our land—with its humans and animals that walk upon it—are the keys to our survival and contentment

Introduction

It Ain't Over Till the Skinny Lady Speaks

A couple of years ago I thought I was dying. Evidently the ER docs and more than a few others were thinking along the same vein (no pun inte nded).

I had undergone some simple surgery, or what should have been routine, run-of-the-mill work. I unexpectedly had been given more drugs during that procedure than I had throughout my lifetime, and obviously the wrong drugs or a bad combination thereof. It ended up being an unanticipated nine-hour ordeal resulting in life-threatening reactions. I suffered for months afterwards, and right when I thought I might be improving, something else would rear its ugly self, directly or indirectly related but still very much connected to that one medical event.

Anyway, my life was put on hold while I contemplated The End, even going so far as giving some of my valuables away and taking care of unfinished business, unsure of the next time my throat would swell and just how far it would take me to the edge—or over it.

One of my dearest friends from as far back as early grade school happened to call me one day when I was in the throes of choking during this recovery (more like discovery) period. I was unable to say much if anything, a rarity for me, so Valerie Bagwell had to do most of the talking while I practiced my listening skills.

What a surprise, a heavenly gift, to hear from her at that precarious and desperate time, for she is someone whom I’ve always admired for being spirit-led, who listens to that God voice that comes to her as it does to those of us who are truly connected to a higher power we know exists and that we have such faith in. Sometimes it makes itself known loud and clear, and that is the reason why Val was calling for she knew a message she had just received was unmistakably meant for me and had to be shared at that moment. Ironically, she had not known how very ill I had been, so when she relayed that God whispered to her, Cheryl has something to say, her words were medicine to me physically and spiritually and just what I needed to hear. Given the fact this was the first we had gotten in touch with one another in over two decades—since the time she came back to Kokomo from her new home in Houston, meeting me at her father’s home along with my newborn daughter—it made the contact even more special, almost surreal.

For weeks, I’d been barely able to talk, mainly writing down my comments and requests for family. Now Valerie was contacting me out of the blue after years of distance just to tell me I had something of value to say and I needed to share it. I didn’t know what to make of this revelation, but I knew if Val had gone to the extent that she did to forward this information, then it was something important, relevant, and worthy. But most of all, it gave me hope that I was going to pull out of my illness and move on, perhaps positively affecting others, resulting in something good.

Within weeks, albeit not without struggle, I indeed was on my way and with plenty to say. I guess I was making up for lost time, too, but I especially felt that there was something more to come out of me, at some future date yet unknown, that would be beneficial, if not critical, to an issue of importance or to someone in great need. Then I thought, well, maybe I was to interpret Val’s comment to be just a general statement that I had lots of things in me yet to express on an ongoing basis, that it’s not time for me to shut my big mouth yet, or to stop writing. I sensed Valerie’s enlightenment especially had to do with the latter.

So I zealously listened to my own spirit, looked deep within, and realized I was definitely ripe to speak, to let out some things I had been holding in for decades, and in the process heal myself like no medical professional could.

Thus, the reason to write this memoir. For better or worse.

LET NOT MERCY AND TRUTH FORSAKE YOU; BIND THEM AROUND YOUR NECK, WRITE THEM ON THE TABLET OF YOUR HEART. Proverbs 3:2

The Brady Bunch X 2 + 1

R umors have been swirling since I escaped from my mother’s womb about when and why I became a Kokomo kid in The City of Firsts when I happened to draw my first breath in The Capital City. If ever I do learn the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, perhaps that might be yet another book for me to write. But until then, and in spite of the unknown, I will take heart in the general consensus of family and close family friends that I was taken to raise by my grandparents (a phrase they adopted, if not me) at around six months of age. After years of hearing the stories my grandfather liked to repeat to me and to anyone else who would listen about the cute and not-so-cute things I did as a baby and toddler in his and Grandma’s committed care, I feel pretty confident that those who came before me knew what they were talking about when it came to my history, and there were many who made up this entourage of loved ones.

My grandparents raised about a dozen children of their own, with Gramps having had about a half dozen babies with his first wife while Grandma had about the same with her first husband. Combined, they became The Brady Bunch times two. Once those kids were grown and out the door, I came along, making me perhaps Number 13. Not necessarily a favored number for many, but as it turned out, I felt pretty good being the last in a long line of much older aunts and uncles, half not even blood related but I felt as if we had been born of the same mother, with them being more like siblings to me as they often treated me like their little sister, and many times I even felt like one of their own children. At Christmas I excitedly yet embarrassingly got more gifts than anyone. My birthdays were huge celebrations with the kids of my grandparents’ kids in attendance at my parties as well as my own siblings, friends, and classmates during my grade school years.

It may sound as if I was spoiled. Perhaps. I felt like I was at times. I’ve heard others enviously say that I was. Yet I never felt I lived the princess life. Far from it. Nothing came that easy for me. And sometimes I solemnly believe that through the years, the negatives were certainly greater than the positives, especially when I compared myself to others (which no one should ever do). Outsiders may not have perceived my life that way, but then I kept most of the bad stuff to myself out of fear of repercussions from exposure. I decided early on to take advantage of the bushels of lemons at my service and make lots of lemonade, preferring to enlighten and embrace those loving and joyous moments instead of dwelling on the darker, hurtful ones. I carved out my own little happy hole in a corner to dwell in, mentally and emotionally, and by all means, spiritually. Having shared that, I have still felt very blessed, nevertheless, and very grateful for what I’ve had. In abundance. I learned early on to hold tight to what was pure, to let go of what was not, and to forgive and forgive and forgive those who may soil my soul, or try to.

My grandparents fell into the pure category. Not that they were perfect, though, but what parents or guardians are? I discovered that if we as children don’t find flaws in them as we are growing up, perhaps someday we’ll look back and perceive them differently, a little stained, through our adult eyes. If we do, then we’ll see ourselves in them, and we’ll forgive them, for we’d hope to be forgiven, too, by our own children.

IF YOU SEEK IT AS SILVER AND SEARCH FOR IT AS FOR HIDDEN TREASURES Proverbs 2:4

Too Many Cooks Spoil the Broth

G randma quit her chef position at Kokomo’s most elegant and exclusive restaurant to tend to a new baby in her lif e. Me.

It had to be a big loss of income for her tiny but needy household and possibly an even bigger loss for the Kokomo Country Club itself where she was well-known and in demand for her savory salads and one-of-a-kind coconut cream pies, as well as other Lenora May specialties.

While she may have been a popular face in her work kitchen, Grandma was more an unpopular force in her home kitchen. As great of a cook and baker as she was, nobody liked being around her as she worked because she didn’t want a room full of folks under her feet as she used to complain. Granted, the many houses she and Grandpa rented while raising me all had quite small kitchens, so it was understandable she would consider three a crowd, but she wasn’t shy about letting us know when she wanted her kitchen all to herself. Sometimes company staying for a while would offer to join her at the stove, sink, or table, asking her if she needed any help. Granny would even send those kind guests high-tailing it for the living room, or anyplace else where she would not feel threatened and they would not be in earshot of her cussin’.

Having shared how possessive Grandma was of the room of her greatest and proudest accomplishments, you can imagine then how she felt about sharing her recipes, which she rarely put in writing, making it hard for me to borrow those that I wanted to try out on my friends someday. If I wanted to know how she made a particular dish or delicacy, I had to watch her to get the recipe, and of course I had to do it lurking from a distance, usually from an adjoining room, which wasn’t always easy. Even then she was usually onto me, and would give me that look, which meant for me to get lost…NOW. I am surprised I was able to sneak enough peeks to get a few of her most secret recipes, but even that took place over many years. I put them in a little three-ring recipe binder I uncovered recently in my old musty trunk in my basement, with the booklet’s corners tattered and its cover golden, depicting fruits and veggies that obviously are reminiscent of the ’60s artwork at the time I bought it at a downtown dime store while I was in junior high. And like Granny, I share with no one. She did keep a big, heavy, dark green glass cookie jar (possibly an antique passed down from her elders) with recipes in it that she would tear out of magazines and newspapers which she’d refer to on rare occasion, but mostly she would work her magic from memory stemming from repetition of her own concoctions.

Depending on her mood at any given moment (while wearing her favorite apron, usually over one of her many colorful housedresses), Granny might salt to taste in excess or leave out a condiment altogether, doing likewise with other called-for ingredients. Sometimes she would have to improvise when she ran out of a necessary additive but she always came up with a decent substitute, sometimes even a tastier one.

Out of the few little masterpieces I did steal, I got at least two of my favorites—one being her southern biscuits and the other her simple ol’ flour and grease gravy. As easy as the latter sounds to make, it wasn’t. She put in ingredients others didn’t. (I tried making her gravy once on my own without her recipe and came up with paste. But my siblings, who I was visiting and serving breakfast to at the time in Indy, didn’t seem to notice—with a lot of salt and pepper and ketchup on it, bless their hearts.) Those two fattening foods were probably not the healthiest or at the top of the nutrition chart, but oh how delicious, especially with the bubbling gravy (from her super heavy iron skillet) poured over the top of the right-out-of-the-oven, sky-high biscuits. They were nothing like Pillsbury’s canned (and nothing against those when in a pinch). Grandma’s biscuits were super thick and soft as a giant marshmallow with just the right amount of browning. Cutting them in half left the top and bottom each looking big enough to be considered a full biscuit all on its own. And if they weren’t buried under her gravy, they were usually topped with her homemade jams and jellies. Either way, I was in breakfast heaven.

I don’t think I’ll ever be the cook Granny was, but as long as my taste buds have a memory, I’ll still feel like I am at least sitting and salivating at her vinyl tablecloth-covered dinette set, waiting anxiously for her to tell me it’s time to shout out to the rest of the family, Come and get it!

The Family Who Watches and Eats Together Stays Together

T elevision was a very big pastime in our house. Actually it was more than a pastime, something we looked forward to as if it were a special event or welcomed company. Each family member had their own favorite shows.

My grandparents’ youngest child still lived at home. Uncle Ronnie was only eleven years older than me, so as a big brother figure, we had similar tastes in tv shows, as well as lots of other forms of entertainment.

He and I loved to watch the afternoon sitcoms and game shows after he got off of work at Chet’s Car Wash (on East Markland Avenue) and after I got out of school at Elwood Haynes Elementary (on South Cooper Street). He couldn’t wait to see reruns of I Love Lucy and I couldn’t wait to join him. I was excited to catch my fellow Mouseketeers on The Mickey Mouse Show (especially Annette Funicello and a girl named Cheryl, of course). Later on came The Match Game, Gilligan’s Island, and Dark Shadows. And naturally, in my teen years, The Dating Game was a definite can’t-miss. I’d put off homework (or at least would lie to Granny that I had none) just to see the guys and gals make complete fools of themselves with their silly responses to even sillier questions. We could not want for variety then, and we certainly got our fill for every appetite.

Grandma loved her stories as she called them (soap operas to the rest of us), especially during rests in-between her daily chores of laundry (done on a wringer washer and hung outside on a wire clothesline if weather permitted, or on a plastic line in our basement if not), ironing (even starching our pillow cases—they could stand on their own), preparing three humongous Southern-style meals (as if it were Thanksgiving at every sit-down), or cleaning toilets and sinks with Mr. Clean (while spraying Lysol throughout the house as if she were killing germs left over from bouts of tuberculosis).

On Sunday evenings when Grandpa and Uncle and I would gather around the set to watch Lassie and The Wonderful World of Disney, Grandma would be in the kitchen whipping up something sweet to eat, my favorite being a batch of either peanut butter or chocolate fudge, and if she were especially energetic or in a good mood, she’d make both flavors and surprise us with a platter, although we could smell that candy boiling on the stove all the way to the front of our bungalow long before she carried the cavity-causers to our doilied coffee table.

Grandpa was a very sedentary soul, never doing any kind of physical work on the job or around the house (never saw Gramps even mow our lawn…Uncle did all that, and then some) but instead simply sitting all day driving a garbage truck for The City as he’d say, then coming home to sit all evening, first through reading The Kokomo Tribune (which he never missed), sometimes listening to warm and soothing, deep-voiced Earl Nightingale on the radio, then staying glued to his beloved programs, as he called them, which usually fell into categories of westerns, courtroom dramas, and murder mysteries. Alfred Hitchcock, Perry Mason, and Gunsmoke were some of his favorites. Oh how he loved him some Miss Kitty and Marshall Dillon and always wanted to see them have a full-blown love affair, which I thought was odd for an old man who rarely showed any signs of romance or passion towards Granny. And he’d belly laugh at ol’ Festus as if he were a clown instead of the marshall’s sidekick.

Even though we only had one television set in our home, located in our living room, I don’t recall any of us arguing over who was going to watch what. Of course, grandparents ruled so grandchild here knew better than to contest, and so did their son. Thursday nights were my nights, when my all-time favorite show, Bewitched, came on. I remember it debuting on September 17, 1964, my eighth birthday. It was like a birthday present I kept receiving for the next eight years as new episodes began every autumn, ending in 1972. I was not allowed to watch Saturday morning tv, so no cartoons for this kid which meant I couldn’t wait to visit my siblings in Indianapolis on those occasional weekends for they never missed Popeye, Bugs Bunny, or Tweety Bird, but then, most kid shows were on Channel 4, one of our main four stations out of Indianapolis that our signals could not pick up easily, if at all, anyway. There was one prime-time cartoon on back then which they did let me watch—The Flintstones. Even my grandparents seemed to enjoy it along with me, but then I think the show’s true target audience was adults, especially given some of its weekly themes, or why else have it on a weeknight unlike all the others?

Saturday morning, as well as all through the afternoon, was for Grandpa. I sat either on his lap or beside him as he rested in his fake leather recliner, or pleather as we called it, since it was actually plastic or vinyl. With his brass and glass cigarette stand to his right (a die-hard and to-his-death Lucky Strikes man he was), he watched his comical (a word he liked to toss around as if he originated it himself, and he rarely if ever used the word funny) Ma and Pa Kettle or The Three Stooges and laughed till he couldn’t catch his breath, or began to cry, never getting his fill of slapstick comedies. Tarzan, and his escapades with Jane, Boy, and Cheetah, was a favorite of his, but I didn’t like the quicksand episodes which gave me nightmares, so I couldn’t wait for a sweet Shirley Temple movie to pop up on our screen, with her bouncy curls, cute dimples, and talent for singing and tap dancing. On The Good Ship Lollipop is where I wanted to be.

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