My Security Blanket Has a Hole in It and I Can’T Sew

By Carol Wiggins Gigante

This book came about as an assignment in a therapy session. I couldn’t relate my story smoothly because of the many moves we had made throughout my childhood, so in order to expedite the telling, Dr. Blank wrote an order on her prescription pad: “Using all five senses, describe how each house you have lived in affected the person you are today.” As the tale began, I had to fight the inclination to number or bullet each one, and as it progressed, I began to see the houses as separate entities and drew them in, as if under my wing, to nurture, cherish, and believe in. “He is happiest, be he king or peasant, who finds peace in his home” (Johann Wolfgang von Goethe).

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Sep 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9781973638162

Carol Wiggins Gigante

Carol Wiggins Gigante lives in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains in Tennessee with her husband, Joe, and their three pets. She is an avid reader, amateur photographer, loves being involved in her church and the local chapter of the Genealogical and Historical Society and, of course, loves writing. She has published two books fairly recently: The First Family and Their Struggle to Survive, relating the story of Adam and Eve (2013), and My Security Blanket Has a Hole in It and I Can't Sew, the story of her life (2018). Carol and Joe have two grown sons, Shannon and James.

Book preview

My Security Blanket

Has a Hole in It

and I Can’t Sew

Carol Wiggins Gigante

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Copyright © 2018 Carol Wiggins Gigante.

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 author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the King James Version of the Bible.

Scripture quotations marked (CEV) are from the Contemporary English Version Copyright © 1991, 1992, 1995 by American Bible Society. Used by Permission.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

1663 Liberty Drive

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.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-9736-3815-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-3814-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9736-3816-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018910222

WestBow Press rev. date: 09/12/2018

Contents

Preface

Happy Birthday!

Stop on Your Way Home

Poor Pitiful Pearl

Authentic Log Cabin

Snow on the Mountain

She’s my Mama!

Where the Roses Never Fade

Daddy’s Home!

Death Trap

Brush, Brush, Brush

Mama, That Rag is Dirty

School is Learning and Learning is Fun

Draw Me a Turkey

Penguin Walk

The Stopping Place

I Hardly Knew You

Establishing Credit

A Watery Grave

Merry Christmas, Mama

The Cinder Bank

Two Little Boys

Third Desk, Fourth Row

By God’s Grace

Prayed-for Baby

Bus Stop

Water, Water Everywhere!

Big Yellow Bus

Waiting for an Ambulance

Waiting for a Fire Truck

Hey! Mrs. Secretary

No Room in the Car

I Must Tell Jesus

Take a Back Seat

Be Still My Heart

Golden Years

Go into the Water, Child

Dolly Parton is on TV

The Rattlesnake Story

Teacher! Teacher!

Desperate Prayer

They Never Knew

Best Friends Forever

Ouch!

Blue with Jealousy

My Coat! My Coat!

Run!

I’m Sorry. That Line is Busy!

Open Wide

Yes, Sir

Boys to Men

Ms. Connie Sears

Concert

He Talks with His Hands

No Hosannas

Tomato Soup

A Good Apple

Ring, Ring

A Friend Indeed

Rabbit, Rabbit

Spice Girl

Be Careful What You Pray For

Answered Prayer

A Real Teacher

Forget Me Not

Moving On

Carol Who?

Farmhouse School

Going to the Chapel

Picket Fence

Splitting Wood

Here, There and Everywhere

Mama

Take Your Pain Meds

Gideon’s Fleece

Westward Ho!

Brave New World (my apologies)

New Was Everywhere

Twenty-One Days

Writing Letters

Where is Home?

Broken

Family

Banana

Get Up and Move

Heart of Love

Who Are You?

Learning Abilities

One More Test

Where Should We Put the Puppies?

Picnic in the Park

Will the Titanium Last?

Oh, Brother, Where are You?

Cry Me a River

Gloria Mitchell

Urgent Care

Piggly Wiggly

A Green Spring

Pray About It

Just a Matter of Time

See for Yourself

Sweep, Mop, Dust

Walk, Walk, Walk

Go Home

Nightmare

Head Start

Deal with It

Flat Foot

What Did You Say?

Dear John

Proof

Mattress on the Floor

You Can’t Do That!

Well Done, Thou Good and Faithful Servant!

Published at Last

Epilogue

This book is

dedicated to my brothers and sisters as I first knew them, with honor, respect and love. May you who remain know that I am strong and daring, and my heart is full because of you.

Preface

It has been said that you can’t go home again and at first glance through this book, you might surmise that I tried. Not so! It was never my intent to try and return to a time that served its purpose and then slowly faded into the mist. There was little to no happiness in any of the abodes in my growing up years. My security blanket was not in the brick and mortar (or wood and tar paper) housing, but in my relationship with my family. Some of the security connected with them has been shattered, either by death or his own actions. There was a gaping hole in my heart, a longing for something stronger, different, better but never a separation from my mother and siblings

This book came about at a time in my life that I could not deal with the heartache or even the few happy memories that haunted me, and I had to seek help. A very wise psychotherapist led me through my sessions with the belief that the little girl from my past needed to be brought forward and reckoned with in the present.

The nightmares came from every place I had ever lived, so my assignment was, invoking all five senses, mentally revisit each house and its environment, get it on paper and report back!. By the time I had reconciled with my past, some said I had written a book.

So, you see, it was a selfish endeavor. Whatever you take from my experience may change your perspective of things past, but I can only offer what I know.

I pray that your security blanket is grounded deeply in your relationships with your family and that it will never have a hole in it.

Happy Birthday!

The old argument of nature vs. nurture has never really been won, but we do know that both play an important part in human development.

Tying knots in the sheet was a clever idea – then someone secured it to the rickety bedpost and it held. She still sought a hand to hold and he was there, silently making all the right moves, encouraging her when the pains became unbearable. Help me, she whispered fiercely, but there was nothing any one could do. Only a measure of time would stop the agony. She gripped one of the knots with both hands and struggled with all her strength to finish what they had started. Suddenly, the doctor rushed to her bedside and, with the utmost care and professionalism, delivered her baby. It’s another girl! he cried happily. Look, Mom, it’s a girl. A little squished and kind of ugly but here’s your new daughter! He quickly wrapped the baby in a soft receiving blanket and laid her across her mother’s tummy. Everyone sighed with relief – it was over. No one noticed Dad slip quietly from the room, his head bowed low.

At least that’s the way I’ve always imagined my birth, but it must have been drastically different. I was born on a sultry August afternoon in the back room of our already overcrowded shanty, third in line to Bonnie and Jane. When I say I know nothing of the details you’ll think that’s a joke because how could I possibly know? What I mean is nobody ever told me. Was there a doctor present? I don’t know. Was my father there? I don’t know. Mama had already been through this twice so maybe it was routine by then. I waited too long to mine the answers. I’ll never know.

So, it never occurred to me that a written account of my life might be interesting to someone else. I just decided I might enjoy taking a little trip into the past all by myself and recall exactly what it was like to be a Tennessee hillbilly in southern Appalachia and survive.

I now truly believe that God has a plan for our lives and plants us exactly where He wants us to be, but I was a long time getting there. Why was I born into a family that was already struggling in a little coalmining town called, appropriately, Coalfield? Why was I born ugly on the outside? Even though well-meaning people have always told me that that’s not what matters in this life and especially to my Creator, it’s been a long hard road. I used to think that being the third child you get the worst of both parents – looks, characteristics, personality. But looking around at other thirds, I don’t see that, so at this point in life I still don’t have much of an answer.

I once jokingly asked Mama why she didn’t just drown me in the spring at the foot of the hill when I was born, and she answered, Why would I do that when I went through so much to have you? When the time came that I would have my own precious babies, I had learned enough to know in my heart that I would love them and keep them no matter what. My friend, I ask, ‘Who do you think you are to question God? Does the clay have the right to ask the potter why he shaped it the way he did?’ (Romans 9:20 CEV)

Stop on Your Way Home

Coalfield and the surrounding areas are divided into hollows, which back then were called hollers, and Mama and Daddy happened to live in Adcock Holler, named after my Grandmother Lillian’s family.

Nestled in a thicket of towering pine trees, the fragrance of rambling roses permeating the air around it, our house happened to be just on the outskirts of the family cemetery, where we observed the comings and goings of bereaved people every few weeks.

Everyone in the community worked, some harder than others, but the money seemed to be spent before they got home. First there was the stop at one of five grocery stores to pay off your bill for last month, and buy more for this month, then to the feed store so your animals were cared for, a stop in to order a load of coal even in the summer because you kept the heat stove going year-round for cooking, canning, dishes, laundry and finally baths. Then, with the exception of a handful of men that I knew through the years, you would stop off at the local joint for a drink and after that first round you became very generous and bought a round or two more for the other hardworking blokes.

Meanwhile, down in the holler, a supper of pinto beans, fried potatoes and cornbread would be dehydrating on the back burner of the hot kitchen stove. If you were lucky enough, you might bring home a nice piece of meat the grocer had saved for you and that would get fried up at the last minute even if someone had to get out of bed to do it. But you were staggering around, criticizing the person who had stood over the hot stove, ranting about just how hard you had worked all day and deserved a smile or at least a friendly face no matter how late it was when you came through the door. And then after you had eaten, you would decide that it wasn’t a good meal after all, and angrily turn the table over onto its side, crashing everything onto the splintery floor, breaking the mismatched dishes that your mother had given you as a wedding gift, making an ugly mess.

Then you would stagger off to bed, wake up in the morning and start all over again. Remorse, apology and reparation were foreign words in this one household, so after awhile, family members became angry, sullen, and hateful in the short periods when the man was at home. I suppose forgiveness never entered the door either. Such was the life with an alcoholic father.

Since I have already brought God into this I will mention Him throughout, but I have to admit that I didn’t know Him very well early on. I knew His name because I heard it a lot but not in a loving, comforting, I’ll take care of you way. So when I finally learned that you could talk to Him, I wasn’t very nice.

Poor Pitiful Pearl

To this day, when I think of my sisters during those early years, I feel loved and cared for, a beautiful patchwork quilt wrapping me head-to-toe, a warm fire, or soft, fuzzy mittens. Maybe that was God’s reason for making me third. Bonnie had barely reached the tender age of four and had already become my surrogate mother. I have always heard whispers and innuendoes that Mama had a breakdown sometime in those years, but I don’t know if it involved my birth or not. Maybe Bonnie just wanted a Pitiful Pearl doll to play with.

I always assumed I was breastfed but then I remember stories of throwing my bottle on the back steps, evidently just to hear it crash. I mention this because breastfed babies seem to do better later in life and we have found through the years that my immune system has been compromised from the beginning. Any relation? I don’t know.

One of my earliest memories is taking my first steps while visiting Pap and Granny Moore, Mama’s parents. The family always told me I taught myself to walk at a much younger age than most kids, but, of course, I have to admit that Bonnie had done her part to encourage me so I wouldn’t be afraid when I finally let go of whatever I was holding. This time it was a broom handle held horizontally and oh what a feeling of freedom when I slipped away and walked on my own!

We lived close enough that we saw our grandparents several times a week. I loved Pap Moore, not just because he would bring me new bottles to smash on the big rock, but because as I got older, he took me under his wing. I don’t remember ever getting any information from him about his family but Mama would tell us little bits and pieces through the years, then recently I did some research on my own. Pap’s parents were Robert Moore and Catherine Goddard Moore. Robert was from Kentucky but moved to Roane County, Tennessee where Catherine’s family lived. There’s no record of any more of his family moving with him so maybe he struck out on his own and met the girl of his dreams. They had four boys, William (Bill), Sam, and twins, one of which died, leaving my grandfather, Arthur Morgan Moore. We called him Pap, but for some reason everyone in the community called him Tommy. Bill was disabled with war injuries and suffered greatly so he was never at our house, but I remember lots of visits from Uncle Sam. He was funny mostly because he was almost always drunk; working as a carpenter must have been tricky. Catherine was a good grandmother to Mama – she had good memories of playing in a big beautiful yard, delicious home-cooked meals and always a bountiful garden.

Authentic Log Cabin

A couple of years later, when I was becoming a real person to Pap, I was allowed to help him gather eggs from the hen house up the road. He would hold my hand and say, Come on, Pap. Let’s go get some breakfast. What a privilege it was to feel that rough, work-worn hand wrapped around mine, knowing that Mama and her siblings had experienced the same thing so long ago. He and Granny, (Daisy Hill) lived in an authentic log cabin around the ridge from us and Mama would take us there quite often. I loved walking in the orchard in all seasons, but especially enjoyed the fragrance of the fallen fruit and the sweet taste of apples in the winter time, where bushels of them had snuggled deep in the cellar just waiting for a cold day and popcorn.

I never knew that much about Granny Moore’s early life. She was born somewhere in Morgan County to John Wesley and Mary Kendrick Hill in 1900. It was a big family but they all worked hard and provided for each other even after the children were grown with families of their own. We would visit Granny and Grandpap Hill when I was very small, and although it didn’t occur to me then, I have often wondered how they all squeezed into that small house. Maybe they had a bigger one before my time. We were living in Illinois when Mama got word that Granny Hill was on her deathbed, so we tried really hard to get back home in time to see her, but we were too late. Mama always regretted that but she looked forward to seeing them both when Jesus comes again.

There were a lot of deaths in Granny Moore’s family and then two of her babies died within two years of each other from pneumonia. I think she grieved more over her brother Carl than anyone, though; at least he’s the only one I ever heard her mention, maybe because it was so unexpected and senseless. He was killed by a train while working one day. I can only imagine how the family felt when they were told the details.

We never knew the real reason besides just genuine love, but Granny chose Jane as her favorite grandchild. I’m sure she doted on Bonnie at first but the favoritism was obvious as we grew older. I didn’t really mind except for the times that Jane would stay with them for days at a time and I missed my sister. And I never got to do things with Granny that girls usually do. She was a wonderful cook, gardener and seamstress but I was never invited to help and learn. I cannot tell a lie – I did prefer to be outside running like the wind, but I like to think I would have slowed down if she had asked me.

My other Granny, Lillian Adcock Wiggins, died before I was born so I have an empty place in my heart for her. Maybe she would have taught me to cook and sew. From the little bit I’ve learned about her, she must have been an awesome lady. I know that my father mourned her until the day he died. She was the daughter of William and Lula Adcock, born in Morgan County in 1902, also to a large family with a lot of deaths. I have enjoyed doing the research on the life and times of people born in that era - they were either excited about all the happenings around them or terrified they wouldn’t last to another birthday!

Snow on the Mountain

The first house I lived in was a thorn in my side from the first time I realized it was home. It was an eyesore and unsafe, never really being finished. Built like a two-story, it was constructed of rough lumber with windows set in at a slight angle and doors that either didn’t close or didn’t open, and a high porch that we swore caused vertigo and nosebleeds. My father’s parents had lived there as a build as you go project, and then given it to him a little while after he and Mama married with the stipulation that he finish it. We managed.

The first thing you would see in the morning was the bright, golden sunlight beaming through, no, not the windows, but the cracks in the walls! The rays would make magical, sometimes geometric designs where they