A Charm Bracelet of Stories

By Sheri Keyes

As I wrote some of the stories for this book, I shared them with my brother, requesting that he fill in my memory blanks and verify some of the details. Recently, I sent an email to him with the latest tale attached and asked, “Do strange things happen to me, or am I just strange?”

“You are strange, definitely strange,” he returned.

Read these accounts and decide for yourself if life has handed me a unique set of experiences, if I am indeed strange, or if maybe both are true!

*****

These narratives will prompt you to remember your childhood, remind you of simpler times, and perhaps—probably—make you chuckle.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jul 11, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662464638

Book preview

Preface

From before I was born to when he died, my granddaddy was a preacher. Once my grandparents moved to the country, he served at a very small church about a mile down a dirt road off US 96. Small as in twenty people was a huge turnout—and that included Momo (my grandmother), Granddaddy, and me. Momo was the pianist. During the sermon, she would sit in the pews with me and any of my cousins who were also in attendance.

Sometimes she would open a hymnbook to the preface and, apparently remembering from her childhood, recite "Peter Reeter Eat a Fish, Alligator Caught an Eel, Eel Caught an Alligator, Fish Eat a Raw Potater" while moving her finger from letter to letter and then backward in the word preface. I guess she was trying to keep us relatively still and quiet as Granddaddy briefly visited with each person present before beginning his sermon. However, all she accomplished was to make me curious.

Curious about just who was this Peter Reeter? And wasn’t that poor grammar? And why did an alligator catch an eel and then an eel catch an alligator? Why were they even living in the same place so that they could catch each other?

Why would a fish eat a raw potato, and how would it even get one in the first place? I often thought I would come up with a new, improved! version; but when I look at the word, I hear her voice rolling out that ridiculous little ditty.

*****

This is a good segue into the remainder of this book, which is full of a variety of stories—mostly from my childhood and younger adult years—and some of my poems and other writings. Some—like Momo’s Preface story—are silly, some take me back to simpler times, and some are painful to read but too painful to forget.

Letters, Poems, and True Stories from My Life

Stories from My Childhood

When I was a young girl, I spent a lot of time at my grandparents’ farm located between Hemphill and Bronson, Texas, on Highway 184. Though I lived with my mother and stepdad and went to school in Houston, my summers and most weekends were spent on my grandparents’ sixteen acres. They had a few beef cattle, Granddaddy tended his garden, and for several years, Momo kept a milk cow. They also raised chickens commercially—first broilers for Purina and then Cornish game hens for Gold Kist.

Their youngest son—my Uncle Ricky, his wife—Aunt JoAnne, and their four kids lived just down the highway during many of those years. Cindy Lee was two years younger than me, John Wesley was two years younger than her, Daniel Leon (Danny) was three years younger than John, and Joseph Warren (Joey) arrived four years after Danny. We spent a lot of time together—especially Cindy, John, and me.

There were no electronics, we only had a party-line telephone, and television reception—on a black-and-white set—was bad. Every time a car or truck drove past the house, the picture would get worse. Granddaddy swore he could tell if it was a Ford or not because he could hear its electrical system affecting the sound on the TV. Every day after dinner (Momo’s word for lunch), Granddaddy would take his nap, and we would all sit down to watch Momo’s stories with her. Days of Our Lives and General Hospital held our attention during the heat of the afternoon. Momo always admonished us to be quiet so as not to wake Granddaddy, but we knew the real reason: she didn’t want to miss one word of her soaps. Sometimes on rainy afternoons when no amount of antenna turning would result in a recognizable picture or sound, we played board games. Chinese checkers, bingo, and Yahtzee were the regulars.

Momo played the piano—by ear and well. We always laughed at how she would open up a songbook and place it on the music rack even though she could not read a note. After her stories ended, she would usually sit down to play for a short while. (Maybe she and Granddaddy had an agreement that this would be how she should wake him.) Our favorite song was St. Louis Blues, and we would request it endlessly. Sometimes she would play a song and sing along. These were usually old songs from when she and Granddaddy were courting. My favorite was Big Chief Buffalo Nickel.

As the oldest of our trio (I had a brother who was five years older than me, so I really enjoyed having the opportunity to be the senior of the group), I usually controlled what games we played in our spare time. For several summers, I had a fascination with the TV show The High Chaparral. My favorite character was Manolito, and I thought he was the most handsome man alive. I remember reading that he lived in Puerto Rico. Not knowing exactly where that was, but thinking it must be to the south—perhaps below Mexico or maybe even in South America—I vowed to walk there to meet him. During those years, I dictated that we would play High Chaparral, and I got to play the part of Manolito. Cindy would be his sister, Victoria, and John would alternate between being Big John, Buck, or Blue Boy—depending on who we needed him to be.

I had a stick horse and a nylon rope that I used as an upgraded bridle. I would prance around as Mano on my golden palomino. In our pretend game, we didn’t try to reenact any scenes; we just went about our day as those characters. Anytime they tried to disobey my orders, I would say, I won’t give you any chocolate bubble gum! Conversely, if I really wanted one of my cousins to do something, I would say, I’ll buy you chocolate bubble gum! Despite the fact that I not once produced a single piece of this confectioner’s delight (probably because no such thing existed), apparently the allure of chocolate and bubble gum all in one delicious mouthful was enough to keep them in line and obedient.

One day we wanted to go into the woods and have a cookout as if we were on a camping trip. We talked Momo into letting us use one of her smaller cast-iron skillets in which to heat chili. We also got her to let us use the hallowed Granddaddy’s Knife so we could cut sticks on which to roast our wienies. We spent hours planning and gathering equipment for our afternoon excursion. Granddaddy had taught us all how to build fires using dead branches and leaves for tinder. We also knew about clearing space around the fire area so the flames would not get away from us. Probably against her better judgment, Momo let us go, but the thrill of getting to watch her stories on a clear afternoon without a bunch of kids yammering was probably the main reason she accommodated our desires.

As we walked down chicken house road to the back of the pasture, we planned how we would handle the emergency of someone being bitten by a snake. If Cindy were bitten, John would run back to the house for help while I—the senior, most wise, and most experienced cousin—would suck the poison out. If John were bitten, I would stay behind and suck the poison out while Cindy ran back to the house. However, if I were bitten, I wanted Cindy (the next oldest) to suck while John (the fastest) would be charged with running at top speed for grown-ups to come provide critical first aid.

We arrived at the back fence, spread the wires for each other, and crawled through. We knew well the pathway to the creek and had already agreed upon a spot near where it forked. Once there, we set about gathering firewood and locating branches of sweet gum trees that were green enough not to burn while near the flames, but thick enough to support the weight of the wienies. Having spent a great deal of time working together in the chicken houses, we knew about delegating tasks, doing a job well, and having a cheerful attitude while taking care of the matter at hand. I, being the eldest, was of course in charge of The Knife, so I did the cutting.

Mano, Victoria, and Big John (or Buck or Blue Boy) enjoyed the most delicious hot dogs of their lives that day. The horse didn’t run off from the tree to which he was tied, we didn’t set the woods on fire, and no one got bitten by a snake. We felt so mature. Once finished, we rinsed the skillet in the creek, doused the fire, gathered our belongings, and began the trek back home.

*****

Those years in Hemphill were the best. In the chicken houses (which represented the bulk of Momo and Granddaddy’s livelihood), I learned about working in hot, smelly, dirty conditions—and enjoyed it. We would tell jokes and stories, sing songs, and talk about what we were going to be when we grew up. If we were lucky, Momo would tell a story from her past—like the time when her mother was washing clothes at the creek, and she and her siblings tried to scrub the black off the little Black children whose mothers were also washing clothes. We especially loved hearing about her and Granddaddy’s years during the Depression. The idea of work as a pleasure—so often lacking in today’s world—has never left me. Even today, I sometimes forget that I get paid for my efforts as a teacher.

In those chicken houses, I learned that if a job was worth doing, it was worth doing well. We were taught that the welfare of the chickens depended on our taking good care of them. Healthy fat chickens brought more money—though that was never the focus. The focus was always on doing the tasks correctly and taking good care of the animals that depended on us. Jobs were doled out according to our age and ability level. It was an honor to get promoted to a more responsible or more difficult task. We were free labor to Momo and Granddaddy but never realized it. In fact, we didn’t even see it as work. It was just what we did every day—sometimes twice daily. When we got older and had our driver’s licenses, we were allowed to drive over to the leased chicken houses and complete all the various duties.

During those years, I learned that a person should be kind to others. Granddaddy was a Methodist preacher, and we witnessed on more than one occasion his serving others. Sometimes it was just a small thing, but we always noticed. Our Granddaddy was someone to be admired and emulated.

Each night, Granddaddy would read a chapter from the Bible and then lead us in prayer. We would all get on our knees and lean onto the various chairs and couches upon which we had been sitting. One night during prayer, we heard a car go screaming down the highway at what we estimated must have been ’bout a hunnerd an’ twinny! We could barely contain our giggles when Momo exclaimed, "Mercy!"

This happened in the latter half of the 1960s. East Texas at that time had barely emerged from the Great Depression—much less assimilated all the civil rights that had been enacted. The common thinking at that time was that there should be a separation between Whites and Blacks. This was not done disrespectfully or with animosity—it was just the way things were. In our family, all people were treated with dignity. When Blacks were encountered at a store or other locale, kind words were spoken—but then everyone went their separate ways. However, there was a lingering fear of Black men by many older White women.

As was his custom, Granddaddy went to bed after prayer time. We watched, as was our norm, The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson while Momo churned milk to make butter. At its conclusion, we, too, went to our beds upstairs in the attic. After a few minutes of giggling, the peaceful sleep of youth draped over us like our blankets.

Sometime later, the phone’s harsh ringing crashed into our dreams. It was Mrs. Force from the next house down the highway. Because it was late, Granddaddy answered—something he rarely did. "Mr. Wright, there’s a Black man on my porch," she cried. Her whispered announcement could not hide the fear in her voice. Granddaddy told her not to open the door, that he would come right over. However, she then stated (with relief) that he was walking away. Not long afterward, there was a knock at our door. (He must have seen all the lights that had been turned on, even from down the road.)

We had been taught to stay in our beds unless we were called to come down or it was time to get up. However, a knock on the door in the middle of the night was just too much. We snuck quietly down the stairs and peeked around the corner. My brother Steve, who had decided that he would become a doctor someday, was cleansing the man’s various cuts and scratches and bandaging them. Though no one had ever drunk alcohol around us, we somehow knew that the smell we were experiencing was that of booze and tobacco.

The man was from Lufkin, which was about an hour’s drive away. It was he who had been driving the fast car hours earlier. He had lost control around a curve and crashed into a pine tree several miles down the road. He had walked back to the direction from which he had come because he had seen houses with lights. With his car crashed, he had no way home.

Granddaddy instructed us to put on our coats. He loaded Momo and us kids in the back seat and the man and my brother in the front seat with him. We drove him to his home in Lufkin. I will never forget how the man offered two twenty-dollar bills first to my brother for providing medical care, and then to Granddaddy for his time and gas. Both refused the money. Granddaddy told him that he knew the man would have done the same thing had the tables been turned.

That night, my granddaddy helped a person who was in need. He didn’t see the man’s color or drunkenness or irresponsible behavior. He only saw one of God’s children and exercised the Golden Rule. Oh, how I wish the world were still a safe enough place to respond in such a manner when we see others stranded on the side of a road.

*****

Momo and Granddaddy had a hound dog named Carla. She was the runt of a litter owned by Uncle Walter and Aunt Ivy from down the highway. She was named after the hurricane that hammered the Gulf Coast in 1961. She was really a mutt but had more hound in her than anything else. Carla loved to hunt and had a nose on her that would not quit.

I was always amazed at how, once she bayed (a specific type of bark or howl, pointed upward, announcing she had treed some critter, frequently a squirrel), there was always an animal up there. If you followed her line of sight, you could always find the frightened creature, doing its best to look like a leaf on the tree. We never trained her in any way—she just knew how to do these things.

Sometimes she would hunt in the nighttime—especially if some animal was so bold as to