Growing up on Main Street

By Evelyn McCollum

Growing up on Main Street is my memoir beginning with my earliest memories when I was five years old. In addition, in two other sections I tried to capture the emotional and tragic time when my grandfather and aunt died two months apart. The third section is the illustrious story of my maternal grandmother and her siblings who remain on property where they were born and grew up for the rest of their lives

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669846727

Evelyn McCollum

In addition to writing freelance, I have worked as a bookkeeper, a journalist, a librarian, a church secretary, a sales clerk and payroll clerk, and as Lifestyle Editor of The Easley Progress. Because I chose to stay home with my children, my entire full-time working career lasted only twelve years; my other jobs were part-time. However, writing has always been my passion. My hobbies are growing plants, both inside and out, cooking, trying new recipes, reading, traveling, exercising and spending time with family and friends. My husband Marion and I have three married children and eight grandchildren, ranging in age from twenty-four to one year. Being with them is my greatest joy.

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Copyright © 2022 by Evelyn Nalley McCollum.

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Rev. date: 04/10/2023

Xlibris

844-714-8691

www.Xlibris.com

844600

This remembrance

is in three parts

Growing up on Main Street

Grandpa Gray and Aunt Nellie

Searching for our Oakway Roots

Dedicated to my immediate family

and

to the many members of my extended

Nalley, Gray and Carroll families

Preface

Growing up on Main Street is my memoir beginning with my earliest memories when I was five years old.

Grandpa Gray and Aunt Nellie died two months apart in August and October 1945. From letters, obituaries, tributes and more I have compiled their stories from information about this sad time in the lives of family.

Searching for our Oakway Roots is the story of Anna Carroll Gray, our maternal grandmother, and her family. As adults most of them lived on the same tract of land where they grew up, and inherited from their father, John Peter Carroll.

Introduction

Mama died on May 25, 1971, when I was thirty-five years old. Her death brought me, along with pain, grief and a grave sense of loss, a self-realization of myself—a deep look within. I had wanted to be a writer for as long as I could remember, and it was as if Mama’s death cleared the path for me.

With her death, I realized for the first time the person she was, the effect she had on my life, the way she reared me and my two sisters and brother through unbelievable adversity so that all of us are reasonably sane and normal. I feel compelled to tell her story which is, in effect, my story.

But I didn’t realize until after she died how much I didn’t know, how many questions I failed to ask. I think that’s what I missed most after Mama died--and still do--being able to talk to her and ask her questions about her life and the lives of our relatives. For months after her death a question would pop in my mind, my next thought would be, I’ll ask Mama, and immediately I would realize, No, I can’t ask her because she’s not here anymore. Feeling a great sense of loss, once again I would be forced to accept the finality of her death.

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Mary Gray Nalley (Mama) when she was in her early forties.

Contents

Chapter 1     Leesville, Louisiana

Chapter 2     Frank Ellison

Chapter 3     Life On Main Street

Chapter 4     Mama’s Wash Day

Chapter 5     My Insecurity Manifests Itself

Chapter 6     Matriarchal Society/Neighbors

Chapter 7     Mama And Daddy

Chapter 8     More About Mama

Chapter 9     Daddy’s Family

Chapter 10   Aunt Mabel

Chapter 11   Mama’s Death

Chapter 12   Aunt Lillie And Aunt Della

Chapter 13   Daddy’s Death

Chapter 14   More About Daddy

Addendum

Grandpa Gray and Aunt Nellie

SEARCHING for our OAKWAY ROOTS

CHAPTER I

LEESVILLE, LOUISIANA

December 7, 1941, is forever etched in my mind. Mama standing at the two-burner kerosene stove preparing our meal. Daddy coming in waving a newspaper. The Japs have bombed Pearl Harbor.

Fear, dread, disbelief flashed across Mama’s face. She put her hand to her forehead. Her face grew pale; she looked as if she might faint. Finally, she spoke, Bombed Pearl Harbor? What does it mean? she asked in a trembling voice.

War, Daddy replied grimly, taking off his hat and hanging it on a nail in the wall.

So our country had been plunged into war. I returned to my coloring book and crayons while my parents continued their adult conversation. Only five-years-old, I had already been subjected to more turmoil than most people experience in a lifetime, so I felt sure I could take War in stride.

According to my sisters, Louise and Bette, our family had been normal and happy at one time—a time before my birth. I knew only here and now—our home was a garage with a gravel floor, no sink in the kitchen, no bathroom, Mama working day and night in these primitive conditions to take care of our needs, to prepare our meals and to provide us with clean clothing.

This garage wasn’t home—home was over one thousand miles away—a three-day journey by car on a two-lane highway. I thought of the house we had left—a big, old, sprawling structure located on a huge lot in Easley, South Carolina. Our lot extended from Main Street in front to East First Street in back. Our two-story gray house with a tin roof, seven huge rooms and two porches—front and back—faced the railroad tracks that ran parallel with Main Street through the heart of town. In my mind I saw the front yard, a mixture of grass and red dirt, surrounded by a tall, vastly overgrown privet hedge, the backlot a wilderness. A gully running from one street to the other separated our lot from the neighbor below us. Our house sat way back off the road, surrounded by seven huge oak trees that three of us could not reach around, and a persimmon tree so tall I thought its tip must touch heaven.

According to Mama, we had come to Leesville, Louisiana on a wild goose chase. We had been here nearly a year. The most ironic part of our being in Louisiana is that Daddy had the best job he ever held in his entire life. He worked more steadily that year than ever before or afterward. At the time, Daddy was almost thirty-nine and Mama was thirty-seven.

The Louisiana episode turned out to be a fiasco, probably best forgotten, but after Mama died, I had to think it through from beginning to end. Seeing the other woman at the funeral home had triggered a flood of memories. Rachel and her husband Harvey stood first in line to pay their respects. Unbelievably their marriage survived her indiscretions, and they were growing old together. After the affair was over, Mama and Rachel remained close which seemed strange to me, but Mama never blamed Rachel as much as she blamed Daddy, most likely because she was only one of many, but I think she was the first.

I don’t know when it began, or how long it had been going on, but Daddy and Rachel, who lived on the other side of our house in Easley, were having an affair. I say the other side of our house, because the two rooms where she and Harvey lived with their two boys could not today be considered an apartment by any stretch of the imagination. Not only did their rooms not have any plumbing, they also did not have a connecting door. The family had to go out in the hall to get from one room to the other. Evidently not many people lived much better in the late thirties while the South still groaned under the strain of the Great Depression.

Louisiana began this way. One spring day in 1941, Daddy came home in the early afternoon and announced to Mama that he planned to leave for Leesville, Louisiana the next morning. Some of his relatives wanted to go there to find work, and since Leesville to them was only a name on a map, they feared starting out on their own. Daddy, who feared nothing, offered to drive them in one of the men’s cars. He left Mama and me and my two sisters alone in Easley so that he could taxi friends one thousand miles away to points unknown, having no idea how long he would be gone.

The other men went to look for construction work—Camp Polk was being built at the time. I’m not sure what plans Daddy had, or if he had even thought beyond getting to his destination, but soon after he arrived in Leesville, he went to the post office to mail a letter (to his wife or his lover?) where he found a postal clerk swamped with work.

Looks like you need help, fella’, Daddy said.

I sure could use some, the man replied.

I worked in a post office in Fort Lauderdale. Would you like for me to help you? Daddy asked impulsively.

Can you come to work in the morning? the man asked.

Sure, Daddy replied.

Thus, Daddy went to work in the post office in Louisiana without benefit of the Civil Service exam, a resume or even an interview, while his family remained in South Carolina. Daddy found a room with Mrs. Adams, who took in boarders, and sent for Rachel to join him. They planned for Rachel to drive our car to Leesville to rendezvous with Daddy, but Mama wouldn’t give Rachel the keys unless she went along. Adding to this comedy of errors, Mama didn’t drive, and Rachel didn’t own a car.

Mama didn’t want Louise and Bette to miss school, so she made arrangements for them to stay with Lawrence and Mettie in their house on Highway 8 in Easley. Lawrence was Daddy’s nephew (Uncle Elford’s son), but since they were almost the same age, they were more like brothers, and Mettie was one of Mama’s closest friends. Though Lawrence and Mettie had four children of their own, they made room for two more. Because I was a preschooler, Mama took me with her.

We were a strange group—a five-year-old traveling with her mother and her daddy’s lover. Two women going to meet the same man. What did they talk about on their journey? Were they hostile? Friendly? Silent? Did they ignore the reality of their mission? When the three of us arrived in the small town of Leesville, we went first to the post office. In his excitement, when Daddy recognized us, he jumped over the counter to greet us. I learned later that Rachel was so exhausted from driving that she didn’t go into the post office with Mama and me. Had she been there, I wonder who Daddy would have hugged first.

After I grew up and had heart-to-heart talks with Mama, she told me about a cousin who, with her husband, had shared an apartment with another couple somewhere out west. Our cousin’s husband carried on with the other woman right under our cousin’s nose, and Mama talked about how these actions upset our cousin.

Had the same thing happened with Daddy and Rachel? Was Mama describing her own life and couldn’t bring herself to say the words? The same way I can’t bring myself to visualize what went on? The hurt and humiliation she suffered? It’s one thing to suspect your husband is having an affair with another woman, but to actually be with them, spending your time confined to a car or a hotel room one thousand miles away from home, astounds me.

How could Daddy have been so cruel, so callous, so unfeeling-- so immature? How could Rachel, Mama’s friend both before and after the affair, have betrayed their friendship? Were these two so caught up in their passion that they could think of no one but themselves? Or did they simply not care how they hurt their families and their friends?

Mama told me after I married that had I not been with her when we went to Louisiana with Rachel, she would have committed suicide. Whatever pain or anguish she felt, her mothering instinct waxed stronger. While Mama and I stayed in Louisiana those few days a special bond was forged between us that was never broken. Even at that young age, I felt her agony and longed to help her. That might have even been the beginning of my becoming the parent and her the child. During all my growing up years, while she was the mother, and I looked to her for that ever- elusive security, I felt the need to protect her and to shield her from hurt or harm.

My other memories of this visit are scant, but I do remember our going to the beach with Mildred and Woodrow Lollis.

Wouldn’t Louise and Bette be jealous that I had seen the ocean and they had not—and waves washing over my white socks and white leather shoes because we stood too close to the water. I have pictures of all of us at the beach, all except Rachel. Maybe she took the pictures. It must have been a real treat for her to be able to travel this far and see the world, even under these bizarre circumstances.

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I am on the Gulf Coast with Daddy, Mama and Mildred Lollis.

Mildred was Daddy’s niece (Uncle Tom’s daughter by his first wife, Minnie. Woodrow was one of the men Daddy had driven to Louisiana. They lived in a little square house with a flat roof and no obvious foundation; it looked like a white box sitting on the ground. Because of their height, both Mildred and Woodrow had to duck their heads to get inside. Later when I read that Charles Lindberg’s plane had been brought back from Paris in a wooden box, I wondered if this could be the same box the Lollises lived in.

This trip must have taken place during Easter because I remember, in addition to my new shoes and socks, a big chocolate egg in the back window of the car. I kept nagging Mama to let me open the box, but she never allowed us to eat any treat immediately. When she finally gave me permission, I found a melted lump of chocolate inside the colorful container. It didn’t taste good, not like it would have tasted if I could have broken off the thin pieces of chocolate egg and savored them bite by bite.

Mama and Daddy had a reconciliation of sorts; they sent Rachel home on the bus. Since we had no more clothes with us than Mama could pack in a suitcase, and we had left my sisters in Easley, we headed back home--another thousand miles--to get some of our belongings and to get Louise and Bette situated with Lawrence and Mettie until school let out for the summer. When Lawrence and Mettie agreed to take Louise and Bette, I don’t imagine they dreamed the visit would turn into a month or more, but that’s the kind of people they were—trustworthy and dependable, always willing to help family and friends or even strangers.

After the trip home, Daddy, Mama, and I went back together and moved into the garage behind Mrs. Adams’ house; this was our second trip. I don’t have any particular memories about this trip or our stay there without my sisters.

When summer break began, we came back to Easley and Daddy built a wooden trailer that looked like a room on wheels; he covered it with tar paper to keep out the rain. They loaded it with necessities, and for the third time, we began the thousand-mile trek to Leesville, this time all five of us. This means that I was dragged five thousand miles back and forth from Easley to Leesville in a matter of months.

I remember feeling trapped in the car. As we rode on the two-lane road that took us back and forth, I remember lying in the back seat at night, all alone, listening to the sound of Daddy switching the dimmer control in the floorboard on and off. During the day we often saw a flock of buzzards circling overhead, waiting their chance to get at the roadkill which, judging by the smell, must have been deteriorating for days. At times we would sniff the horrible odor of a skunk; that scent seemed to follow us for miles.

I stayed thirsty all the time, so we carried a gallon thermos filled with ice water. When I had to use the bathroom, Mama rolled down a paper sack until it looked like a little bucket, told me to pee in it, then threw it out the window. I don’t know where she learned that trick or how she always managed to have a sack when I needed it. Littering the highways had not been declared unlawful in those days.

Back in Leesville with my sisters, Daddy attached the trailer to the garage, making another room. He built a make-shift bed, nailed against the wall, for Bette and Louise. Daddy was born about one hundred years too late. He would have made a great pioneer. He cared not one whit about appearance, and everything about him was make- shift. This never bothered Daddy, but it nearly drove my perfectionist mother crazy. Once while making up the bed Louise got a splinter in her finger and had to go to the doctor. Since we didn’t go to the doctor except in case of life and death, her finger must have gotten infected. For a long time, she had to wear a rubber protector when she put her finger in water.

They brought my white iron baby bed from Easley. I slept in this crib until I was eight years old. I probably would have slept in it until I grew up had it not been needed for my baby brother Ronny. Most likely sleeping in the same bed I had slept in since birth made me feel secure--heaven knows I needed something to make me feel secure.

Daddy didn’t get too excited about anything and often never made a decision or took action until forced by necessity. Mama, in contrast, always wanted to do better. By the time I grew old enough to understand what was going on, though Mama continued to wish desperately that she could change things, she developed a resignation about life, a what-will-be-will-be attitude.

For nearly a year we camped in the garage. Daddy bought an oven to set on the two-burner oil stove so Mama could bake, but the oven never cooked properly, and she complained constantly about how badly her cornbread and biscuits turned out. Baking a cake was out of the question. Daddy floored the kitchen area; the rest of the garage floor remained gravel, terribly rough on bare feet. That was so like Daddy, to begin a project and then lose interest. Later he put a ceiling in half of our front porch in Easley but never completed the job.

Mama carried water from an outside spigot. She heated water in a kettle on the stove. We bathed with a washcloth and a pan of water; we took baths once a week in a galvanized tub. Most people used chamber pots at this time; we called them slop jars. The jar was a tall enamel bucket with a rim to sit on, and a lid. I don’t know if Mama emptied it outside somewhere or took it to Mrs. Adams’ bathroom. Apparently, Mrs. Adams was a jewel, and I’m sure she liked Mama. Everyone who knew her did.

I must have played out my frustrations at living such an unsettled life. I recall several incidents when I was extremely obnoxious. One Saturday I felt madder at the world than usual because Mama and Daddy had gone somewhere, and I pouted at being left behind. As Louise poured boiling water from a kettle in the galvanized tub, getting ready to give me a bath, I stuck my foot under the boiling water. I was wearing a black, high top lace shoe, and Louise worked frantically to get my shoe off so she could treat my burn with Ungentine. She should have spanked me first before she doctored my wound. I don’t remember having any lasting effects from the burn.

Mama ordered a sweater, gloves, hat, and socks from Sears for me. I thought them the most beautiful clothes I had ever seen, but she sent them back because the quality didn’t measure up to her expectations. Mama made most of our clothes and she always complained that ready-made clothes looked cheap. She meant they were poorly constructed, and she didn’t like the added touch of a flower, bow, or plastic belt that all ready-made garments seemed to have. I could win some battles with Mama, but when it came to our appearance and her expectations, I was defeated before I began, no matter how much I cried or whined or pouted.

On another Saturday I remember walking down the street with my parents, barefoot and whimpering. Our mission was to get me new shoes. I felt neglected, like an outcast child, but now I can see how this happened. We had one of those unexpected cold snaps so common in the south. I had outgrown my shoes and they were taking me to get another pair. We had only one pair of shoes, and if our luck held, a pair for Sunday. I don’t remember ever going to church while we lived in Louisiana, so I didn’t have any Sunday shoes.

I remember various ways of amusing myself. Mrs. Adams’ stone house sat on a corner lot with the garage behind, and we played in Mrs. Adams’ yard just like it was our own. A pond filled with orange goldfish was located on the right side of the house; I loved to watch the fish swimming around in the quiet water with no one bothering them. Their life seemed so peaceful and serene; I envied them.

We also spent a lot of time on the sidewalk in front of Mrs. Adams’ house, riding our tricycles and bikes. It rained constantly in Louisiana, and I ruined my Christmas skates by skating in the rain. (I learned to skate at five!) We always stopped playing long enough to wave at the soldiers who continually rode by in convoys of tanks, trucks, and jeeps. Since Camp Polk was nearby, the place teemed with soldiers.

A dirt road separated Mrs. Adams’ property from the schools— both grammar and high school. When the school yard was vacant, Louise, Bette and I played in the school yard on the swings, slides, and merry-go-round. Our schools at home didn’t have any of this equipment, only the city parks. Soldiers often camped on the school grounds and fought mock battles that scared us to death.

Did my parents realize our country was preparing for war? War already raged in Europe. How long did they plan to stay in Louisiana? Were they biding their time, just existing as Mama often complained? Did she want to keep Daddy working at a regular job with a steady paycheck? Or did she want to keep as much distance as possible between Daddy and Rachel for as long as she could? Probably all of the above.

When school started back that fall, we went to town and purchased school supplies for Bette, a fourth grader. Among other things, she got shiny scissors with sharp points and red handles. I had such a fit that Mama went back and bought me the same things, except my scissors had blunt ends and metal handles. Fascinated with pencils, pens and paper—any kind of office supply, even at that early age—I played with them often, sneaking Bette’s scissors every chance I got.

Often while Louise and Bette attended school, Mama visited with Mrs. Adams. Come over for a cup of coffee, Mrs. Adams invited. I’m sure this pleased Mama because Daddy didn’t drink coffee and she thought it a waste to make it only for herself. (No small coffee pots existed then and probably not even instant coffee.) One of Mama’s real pleasures was to relax with a good cup of coffee. I think this is one reason I enjoy coffee so much now. She did complain about the chicory they added to coffee in Louisiana,

While Mama and Mrs. Adams talked, they expected me to sit like a little lady; they wouldn’t let me talk so I kept butting in. Mrs. Adams lectured me on interrupting adult conversations. I resented being made to sit still and listen to their boring discussions. Mrs. Adams gave Mama a lot of moral support, because she quoted her often, saying Any fish can swim downstream, but it takes a strong one to swim upstream.

To amuse myself while Mama worked in the garage and Bette and Louise were in school, I played inside a step ladder, pretending it was a store. I used a piece of paper attached to a rubber band as a scale. I hung it at eye level and weighed quantities of dirt that I poured in cans and placed on the risers of the ladder. I don’t remember anyone ever playing with me, and I’m sure Mama felt relieved when I could entertain myself for any period of time, however short.

Once I feared Bette would destroy my ladder-store by running over it as she tried to get away from a rooster. Mama and Daddy bought baby chickens and raised them both for eggs and meat. When the chickens grew to pullet size, an opossum started chewing on the leg of one of the roosters. Daddy heard the commotion and ran the opossum off. They brought the rooster in the garage, doctored its wounds with mercurochrome and nursed it back to health. Supposedly roosters rule the roost, and this one, since it had been petted, felt its importance more than most. We all tried to stay out of its way, to keep it from jumping on us.

However, one day the big red rooster began chasing Bette as she walked across the school yard toward the garage. Yelling at the top of her lungs, she ran round and round the big oak tree just outside the garage door with the rooster right behind her. Mama heard her screaming, opened the door, and Bette bolted inside the garage. Both my ladder and my sister were safe.

A little girl about my age lived up the hill behind the school, and sometimes she came over and played with me. When I whined more than usual about not having anything to do or anyone to play with, Mama would suggest I go visit this little girl. I went to her house one morning and she wasn’t dressed.