Barefoot: Growing up at Mound Grove

By Betty B. Cantwell

Barefoot, a memoir and sequel to Road to Mound Grove, continues the story of Betty Jean and her family in rural southeastern Oklahoma as they deal with the struggles of life during the Depression and benefits of Roosevelts New Deal leading up to World War II. Betty Jeans family and neighbors lacked the modern conveniences that town folk enjoyed. Some neighbors had water wells in their yards, but Betty Jean and her sister, Olaree, still had to carry water from a spring in the woods. They find themselves living in a chicken house, electricity illuminating the countryside, and a hunting tragedy shakes the community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781490878461

Betty B. Cantwell

Betty Beaver Cantwell grew up in the tight-knit farming community of Mound Grove, Oklahoma, during the Great Depression. Her home, like those of her neighbors, did not have electricity or running water, and all the children attended a two-room school. In spite of the hard times and difficult circumstances, Betty enjoyed a simple and happy childhood. Betty received a bachelor of fine arts degree from the University of Texas at Arlington, a master of education, and a master of fine arts degree from Texas Woman’s University. Her inspirational stories have been published in Guidepost Books and Christian Woman’s Magazine. Betty’s first historical novel, No Tattletales, records the rich stories her grandmother shared with her half a century ago.   Inspired by her childhood teachers, Betty taught school for many years and is now retired and lives in Arlington.

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Barefoot

Growing Up at Mound Grove

Betty B. Cantwell

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Copyright © 2015 Betty B. Cantwell.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Author Credits: Author of No Tattletales and Road to Mound Grove.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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Bloomington, IN 47403

www.westbowpress.com

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4908-7847-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7848-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4908-7846-1 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2015906617

WestBow Press rev. date: 6/2/2015

Contents

Preface

Acknowledgments

1 Mud and Straw

2 Miracle Water

3 A Hill of Beans

4 Hazardous Hens

5 Swish Swish

6 God and Paper Dolls

7 Hot Summer Days and Cold Ice Cream

8 Miss Vergie’s Room

9 November’s Surprise

10 Barking and Crowing

11 Little Survivor

12 Commodity Truck

13 Something Sweet

14 The Word Teller

15 Flowers for Little Girls

16 A Fun and Risky Place

17 The Secret Project

18 Chicken Feed Sack Makeover

19 The Sunshine Quartet

20 The Biggest Valentine

21 The Storm Cellar

22 Easter

23 Bad Day at School

24 Mailman and Letters

25 Miss Agnes’s Room

26 Lunchtime

27 The Picture Show

28 Acres of Tomatoes

29 The Greatest Rodeo

30 Critters and Crawlers

31 White Feathers

32 Eleven and Grown-up

33 The Pie Supper

34 Let There Be Light

35 Roses

36 The Little Country Church

37 H Is for Hard

38 Changes

For my sisters,

Olaree and Delores

Preface

A sequel to Road to Mound Grove, Barefoot: Growing Up at Mound Grove continues the story of our family in the close-knit farming community of McCurtain County, Oklahoma. We lived on Indian Road following the Great Depression and through World War II. During the war, shoes, sugar, and gasoline were rationed; this put an additional burden on families who were still recovering from the hardships of the Depression. Daddy Jim worked building roads for the Works Progress Administration (WPA), one of Roosevelt’s New Deal programs that employed more than 8.5 million people for an average salary of $41.57 a month. He also grew tomatoes and beans and raised chickens, which helped to make ends meet. Mound Grove School, just over the hill from our home, became the hub of the community. Our lives were enriched through the devotion of our beloved teachers, Miss Vergie and Miss Agnes, who taught classes in the two-room school.

Acknowledgments

Thank you to my dedicated critique group, Liza Maakestad, Diana Rosales, Cassandra Kay, Maria Curl, Eileen Vennum, and Randa Goode, for their helpful suggestions. I appreciate their friendship, encouragement, and support. Thank you to my friend Georgia Cunningham and my daughters, Susan Seaman and Carol Ann Braziel, for their patience in proofreading and formatting Barefoot. I am forever grateful to my friends at Mound Grove School who inspired these stories.

CHAPTER ONE

Mud and Straw

I heard my parents talk about the Great Depression, but I didn’t realize what that meant. I was almost six when we moved to Mound Grove. After many temporary houses, we finally found our own home. I thought it looked really old, but Mother saw reasons why it would be perfect for us. She was a quiet person who spoke softly, but her dark eyes sparkled as she explained.

It’s near Mama’s house. The school and the store are just over the hill.

She was right about all of that. I loved going to Mama Mitchell’s house. I couldn’t wait to go to Mound Grove School, and I liked the store for its penny candy and Poly Pop. Our new old house was near all of those special places.

Mother was pretty, tall, and slender, and her hair was the color of a blackbird. She brushed her dark hair from her face and placed her hand over her heart. Then she smiled and said, "I love this big fireplace and chimney."

Daddy Jim was slender too, but not as tall as Mother. He made friends with everyone in the neighborhood and enjoyed meeting people. Many of Daddy Jim’s friends never met my mother because she stayed home most of the time.

By the twinkle in Daddy Jim’s green Irish eyes, I could tell he knew something that we didn’t. He started the question game. I liked it when I knew the answers.

Why do we need a fireplace and chimney? he asked and waited.

I called out, I know, I know! So we can keep warm.

Good answer. Any other reason? he asked. I tried to think of another.

Olaree, my happy little sister, clapped her hands and bounced. For Santa, she squealed.

What a good answer. Why didn’t I think of that?

Anything else? He looked at us and waited.

While I was thinking, a faint flurry echoed from within the chimney.

Olaree turned her head to the side and listened. I hear little noises!

I couldn’t believe my ears. It’s a twittering chimney!

Daddy Jim looked up inside the chimney. We have a nest of chimney sweeps. I can see the nest stuck to one side, about halfway up.

Can we see them? I asked.

No, we mustn’t bother them. Their mama will feed and take care of them.

My eyes lit up. I hollered to get their attention. I know another reason for a fireplace and chimney!

For birds! Olaree squealed.

I wanted to say that! I frowned at her. She giggled.

Daddy Jim said, We can hear their chirping each time the mother bird comes with food.

Although I couldn’t see the birdies, I could enjoy their music.

Lucky for us, Mother said, we have honeysuckle vines for hummingbirds, a martin house for the purple martins, and a chimney for chimney sweeps.

Lots of birds! Olaree waved her arms and ran in a circle.

Daddy Jim examined the chimney. It looks like the stones are from here, our land.

Really? Mother said.

Too bad the rock wasn’t used everywhere.

What do you mean? I asked.

The rest of the fireplace, up inside the chimney and the outside, is all mud and straw.

Is that bad? Mother asked. The two stared at each other a minute.

Finally, he said, I hope it’s all right. Nowadays most folks use rock instead of mud and straw. I guessed that meant our house was really old.

The baby birds grew and then flew away that summer. After they had gone, the weather turned chilly. One cold evening, Daddy Jim built a blazing fire in the fireplace. Olaree and I sat on the floor with our feet toward the fire. We looked somewhat alike, I thought, both with short brown hair. Mine was straight with bangs, and Olaree’s had some natural curl.

My toes feel warm and toasty, Olaree said sleepily.

Mine too, but my back feels cold. I think the warm flew up the chimney. Still, we huddled around the fire and enjoyed what little heat it gave out. I could barely keep my eyes open and started to nod off … until our dog, Jiggs, barked. I heard a rustling sound outside. Someone banged on the door.

Your house is on fire! a neighbor yelled.

Daddy Jim dashed a bucket of water into the fireplace and rushed outside. We were right behind him. Flames shot out the top of our chimney, but sparks hadn’t caught the roof yet. In a matter of minutes, more neighbors showed up. The nearest water was the road spring in front of our house.

We need buckets, Daddy Jim called to Mother. She disappeared into the house and came out quickly with two water buckets and the milk pail.

More, we need more! he yelled.

I know where there are two, I hollered above the noise.

Get them! he shouted. I raced to the chicken house and grabbed the grain pail. The pig’s slop bucket by the fence was next. I dumped its supper leftovers and ran. Some neighbors had brought buckets too.

Folks seemed to know what to do. They handed buckets of water, one to another, from the road spring to the house. They dashed water on the old, dried shingles and threw more at the chimney top. Dark smoke billowed out with the flames. A black monster had crawled out of our chimney with flaming breath and orange wagging tongues that licked toward the roof. I tried to catch Mother’s hand, but she was running around too fast. She pointed to the neighbors’ kids by the chicken house.

Get over there and be still, she said sternly, and I did. Jiggs followed and sat at my feet.

I trembled. Olaree and the Honeywell kids watched, shaking and silent. So did Cousin Douglas and the Tadlocks. We backed up against the chicken house. I clutched Douglas and Olaree’s hands while I shivered. Crying didn’t help, but I did it anyway. I needed to wipe my runny nose, but I didn’t have a free hand to do it. I felt sad that my doll was inside.

The flames inside the chimney spread from one patch of dried straw to another and continued to burn. Our closest neighbor, Ance Honeywell, rushed up a ladder that took him almost to the top of the house and splashed water into the chimney top. It took some time, but after a while and with the help of other neighbors, the fire slowly died down. All that was left of the chimney monster was a wispy trail of smoke. One by one, all the neighbors left, except for the Honeywells. They opened windows to get the smoke out of the house. Later, it seemed my bed had never felt so good. I hugged my doll close and listened to my parents talk while I dozed.

We can be thankful that only the chimney was damaged, Daddy Jim said.

And that we have good neighbors who helped us, Mother added. Just think how bad it could have been.

CHAPTER TWO

Miracle Water

O ur house smelled smoky for several days. I was just glad it didn’t burn down. When I talked to God about it, I said, Thank you, God, for sending our neighbors to help, and thank you for making plenty of water in the road spring.

We depended on the road spring for gallons of water each day. Once when Uncle Bert visited us, he thought it too much trouble to carry water to the house to bathe. He decided to wash up a bit in the road spring.

What if a car comes by and shines its light on you? I asked, thinking he would be embarrassed.

He laughed. I’ll just wave.

Uncle Bert took off his shirt, rolled up the legs of his britches, and headed for the road spring. He didn’t care, but I was glad that no cars came by.

Some folks in the country had wells in their yards, but we didn’t. We had two freshwater springs nearby. The road spring trickled down a ditch and gurgled through a culvert in front of our house. There it poured into a small pool, where I filled my bucket several times a day. We used that water to wash our clothes, mop the floors, and bathe. We didn’t drink it because it had settlings of sand in it. Our drinking water came from the big spring across the road. Daddy Jim and Mother carried water from that spring. Olaree and I weren’t allowed to cross the road until we were a little older.

I want to see the big spring! I said one day, knowing that it meant a walk in the woods.

Let’s go, Daddy Jim said. He held my hand as we walked across the dirt road.

Watch out for that barbed wire, he warned as we climbed through the fence. It’ll tear your clothes.

Jiggs ran along with us. We climbed through the barbed wire fence and walked down the little trail past the huckleberry bushes. When we reached the spring, I saw a barrel that had been set deep into the ground. A piece of tin covered the top. Daddy Jim took one corner of the tin between his thumb and finger and flung it open. The barrel had no bottom, just white sand.

Who put the barrel in the ground? I asked.

I don’t know. It must have been someone long ago.

I gazed down into it. I could see all the way to the bottom. Water bubbled up from the white sand. What an amazing mystery. I wondered if it came from somewhere deep in the earth, maybe an underground river or ocean. My eyes took in the wonder of it for several minutes.

It’s a constant fountain that never stops flowing, Daddy Jim said. There’s another family down the road who also comes here for water. The barrel never empties or overflows. No matter how many buckets are taken out, it is always full.

It’s like magic! I murmured.

I’d call it a miracle, he said.

I couldn’t take my eyes off it.

You must always be careful when you lift the tin cover, he warned me.

I peered into the clear water. Why?

Because poisonous water moccasins like to be near water, he said. A little Choctaw girl was bitten on the hand when she came to this spring for water.

Oh no! I stepped back. I don’t want to come here by myself.

Most of the time you’ll be with Mother or me. But when you’re older, you may come here alone. Just be careful.

When I start school, will I be old enough?

No, you will need to be a little older, he said.

Good, I said with a sigh. I wasn’t in a hurry to find a snake.

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As time passed, I got old enough to go to the big spring alone, and I went often. Each time I climbed through the barbed wire fence, I remembered Daddy Jim’s warning about tearing my clothes. No matter how carefully I stretched those wires apart and squeezed through, they often snagged my blouse or ripped it. I also got a few scratches on my back.

I checked the huckleberry bushes each time I went to the spring. I picked the huckleberries as fast as they ripened. They were delicious. Always barefoot, I stepped with caution. Every time I thought of the Choctaw girl, fear grabbed me. My heart beat faster, and I jumped at the slightest movement. A frog or lizard could send me into a panic.

One day in the early summer, a pretty Choctaw girl stopped at our house selling fresh-picked blackberries. She looked to be a few years older than I was.

My name is Bertha Jane, she said with a smile. I used to live here.

My mouth flew open, Oh, oh, are you—alive? Let me see your hand, I blurted out.

You want to see the snake bite, she said, as a matter of fact.

Yes, I whispered.

She held her hand out and I saw two white scars, fang marks, on her middle finger.

I think of you every time I go to the big spring, I said. And I am always very careful.

She nodded.

Mother came to the door with money in her hand.

I need a quart of blackberries, she said. Bertha Jane was happy to sell them to her.

Blackberry cobbler—yummy! I could almost taste it.

Bertha Jane thanked us and walked down the road toward the Honeywell house.

It was my routine several times a day: through the fence, down the trail, past the huckleberry bushes. There, among the pines and cedars, was the amazing big spring that bubbled continually, day after day, year after year, as it had for a century.

CHAPTER THREE

A Hill of Beans

I skipped around the yard in the daisy dress that Mother had made from two flour sacks.