Memories of my Life During WWII

I as born during the Depression years our family lived  near the University in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. My parents and I shared a shotgun house on 10th Street three blocks west of Bryant-Denny stadium with a widowed aunt with two young daughters, and two single aunts.

Daddy often joked that when I was born he had two nickels in his pocket, He spent one on a telephone call to tell everyone that I had arrived, and the other to celebrate with a cup of coffee. Then he added, “I’ve been broke ever since.”

Daddy bought an antebellum home that was being torn down  near the Warrior River in Tuscaloosa and used the lumber to build a house for his family on the Graham farm in Romulus. The mansion was reconfigured as a  two bedroom bungalow. My brother and sister were born before Pearl Harbor. Clouds of war were threatening even down to the small farm in Tuscaloosa County.

Later we moved to Pascagoola, Mississippi where Daddy was a mechanic in the government boatyard across the bay from Ingalls Shipyard. We were there when the news of Pearl Harbor was broadcast and the town became a boomtown,  so crowded that workers in the shipyard rented rooms from families who lived nearby. Neighbors from Ralph, Ethard and Mutt Styres, were two of our boarders.  Our living room became a dormitory for men who worked in war production. Our family all slept in one bedroom. Mama provided meals and laundry for the boarders and made more money than daddy, they told us later.

We lived a mile from the Gulf of Mexico and often went to the beach and saw huge anti-aircraft guns covered with camouflage netting a hundred feet from the waves in the trees along highway 90. Soon there was rationing of gas and food. Children bought war stamps to go in their books, saving stamps to buy war bonds. There were black-out shades for the windows in case enemy planes made it to the Mississippi coast.

We watched as fathers and big brothers went off to war, but were fortunate that my father’s work with the Corps of Engineers protected him from the draft. The influx  of workers and the shortage of building supplies made it necessary for existing schools to have morning and afternoon  shifts of students in very crowded classrooms. Despite the war we were happy there until my brother’s asthma grew so severe doctors advised that we move away from the coast if he were to survive.

We returned to the Graham family farm in the community of Romulus, in Tuscaloosa County. My father had been able to redeem the farm after his father lost it during the Depression. We have lived here since. My great grandchildren make the seventh generation to live on this ever-diminishing plot of ground. My children only inherited five acres each.

My Children will never understand the love my generation has for this land.

The Home of John C. and Preasha Graham

Romulus Community

Buhl, Alabama

In 1914 John Graham built this home for his growing family. As a lumberman he moved his household from community to community, as his business expanded. Beside Eula and Raymond born to his deceased wife, he and Preasha had Lawrence, Lyman, Lucille, and Lois and brothers, Charlie and Jesse rescued from the T. B epidemic in his home state of Missouri.. Ithe location was on a hill just east of New Hope Baptist church that reminded him of his Baptist Church in Piedmont, Missouri.

Eventually they would have 9 children of their own, but helped raise many children of both extended families. Later during the Depression there were 32 people who stayed there at different periods when times were hard. This house was in walking distance of the school and teachers often boarded with the Grahams. Although they lost all their business and turned to farming to survive, there is no record of any seeking food or shelter ever being refused help.

Preasha had just turned 17 when she married the 28 year old widower and began her own family. She was tiny and disciplined. well organized and competent even in her youth. John worked hard and made much money before the crash, he gave most of it to those worse off. This practice he continued until his death long after his income was an “old age” pension.

They had first settled at Gordo, Alabama where my father, Lawrence and her oldest son was born. As Gramdpa bought land with timber to cut, they lived in temporary “tarpaper shacks” alongside his employees’ families. The pictured house was the only permanent one they ever owned.

 

I love bears. Not the seven foot grizzlies that chase careless tourists for their picnic baskets, but the manmade fluffy varieties carried by firefighters to calm frightened children after trauma. The kind teenagers leave on their pillows each day and the kind grandmothers rest their arthritic elbows on as they watch television. Little ones with velvet fur, and huge ones with soft bushy fur.

Several years ago I met a couple who gathered clothing, shoes, books, and toys to distribute to needy families on Indian reservations. When I volunteered to help gather the objects, I went to the source that would provide the most toys for the little amount I could spare from a Social Security check, a local thrift store that benefited charities.

The store I visit most often has a schedule that provides mark-downs after merchandise has been on the shelves for month. Each week new entries receive color price tags for that week. After the first weeks, items with a green tag would be reduced an added 30%, a blue tag would be 50%, and an orange tagged toy would be 70% off the original thrift price. A large teddy bear that had been $30 new might be marked $2.99 and could be purchased for $.90.

From September until the middle of December, I search the shelves, looking for the best values. There should be no visible damage, the bears should be washable and easy to dry, and should be attractive to youngsters. Sometimes those I liked least would be the most desired by the receivers.

There were honey colored bears with round faces and round ears, chocolate colored bears in seasonal costumes, and soft black bears that looked like their live counterparts. Some sat not taller than a man’s hand; others as large as a bed pillow. Each had a distinctive personality and was suitable for a child.

I set a limit of $20 on what I would spend each week. The chosen toys were taken home, stripped of unwashable attachments, and washed in cold water with a product that killed bacteria, viruses, mold, and mildew and left the fragrance of flowers. The second rinse held a double portion of fabric softener to leave the restored bear better than its first trip to Walmart. The bears were dried on delicate setting in the dryer then were allowed to visit me for a week to be sure that they were completely dry and ready to become a child’s best buddy. Accessories were added to make each bear special.

Bears are bagged by the dozens and sent by my friends to their new owners. Each was tagged with a letter that said.

I am a preloved bear,

chosen because I have so much love

to give to someone who wants a new friend.

I have been washed, sanitized,

and prepared especially for you.

I am unique, just as you are,

the one and only that is just for you.

I listen to secrets, but never tell.

Now choose a name for me.

If you pass a car with teddy bears stacked to the windows of the back seat, you can assume that this year’s crop is being given a ride to finish drying and soak up a little more loving before moving on to their new homes.

Dorothy Gast

Ddgast1@aol.com

During the years after World War II rural families in the South were still living in substandard housing. Many homes were no more than two room shacks that had served as tenant houses without running water or electricity. Many people had no hope of better conditions at the existing cost of building.

In the 1950’s brochures began arriving in country mailboxes showing one, two and three bedroom homes completely finished on the outside, partially finished on the inside giving the buyer a choice of completing the work themselves. The best known of these was Jim Walter Homes. The company would sell most of the inside building material, including sheetrock, insulation, doors and carpet. Anyone who had a deed to an acre of land could sign a contract, make payments for twenty years and be debt free. A starter house with two bedrooms sold for $2400 and could be financed, finished, and added on to, and still be paid in full before the first child finished high school.

A lumber truck would drive up to the site, unload framing, door and windows, sheetrock, nails flooring, paint, and linoleum.   Workers covered supplies with tarps and left. The next day or so a framing crew laid concrete blocks for foundations, built subflooring, and framed walls, while the new owners watched in amazement as the structure they had chosen developed before their eyes. The frame of an 800 square house could be ready for ceiling joists by the end of the first day.  The oak floors were the last things finished by the company.

A drilling truck could drill a well and place a water pump into place and connect it to the house plumbing as the plumbing crew joined the pipes and as electricians wired the lights, base plugs, and laundry connections to the fuse box .Sometimes three different crews worked on varying tasks.

Our three bedroom house was built by a Walter competitor. Ait was 34 by 22 feet with a living room-kitchen at one end and tiny bedrooms around the even smaller bath. The girls’ bedroom was papered with state maps obtained free from service stations. They could lie in their bunk beds and trace trips on their travel wish lists

The shell home division of Jim Walter Homes was closed in 2010. All over the South these homes still shelter families though most have been improved and changed enough to be unrecognizable. For some families it was the first inkling that they could own their own home and aspire to a more comfortable life. Propane hot water heaters, stove and heating released the owner from the time consuming wood cutting and fireplaces. Sixty years ago an acre of land, a Jim Walter home and an affordable mortgage allowed even manual laborers the security of their own home with electricity and running water.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jim_Walter_Homes#Jim_Walter_Homes

Wikipedia says

Jim Walter homes were “shell” homes, meaning the company would complete the outside so that the house was water tight, then allow the customer to finish the inside with their own labor. The company would also sell most of the inside materials, including sheetrock, insulation, doors and carpet to the customer and include them in the purchase. The result was very affordable mortgage payments, usually for 20 years. The only requirement from the company was that the customer must own the land on which the house was constructed. During the 1970’s and 1980’s, when mortgage rates went as high as 15%, Jim Walter offered 10% financing with no money down

.

James W. Walter, Sr. (September 18, 1922 – January 6, 2000), of Tampa, Florida in the United States, was a home builder who started Jim Walter Homes and Walter Industries , now doing business as Walter Energy, Inc., a leading producer of metallurgical coal for the global steel industry, in 1946 with $1,000 he borrowed from his father. Walter eventually sold the company in 1986 for $2 billion to Kohlberg Kravis Roberts (KKR).

Walter was the son of Ebe and Mabel Walter. The book Building a Business: The Jim Walter Story tells his story. His wife, Monica Walter, died in 1982, leaving two sons, James W. Walter Jr. Jim Walter Homes

MAY 7, 2010

Dear Kyle, and whoever else might read,

Every day I think of something I’d like to ask Mama Annice then realize that she’s not available on this plane. There will be a time when I won’t be around either. When your children ask about a family tree for school, you can look back and see what things were like “back then”

I hope you will get to know the people who meant so much to me and to your mother. These pages are the product of many years of work, Some were written when Mama Annice was a teenager, some are excerpts written almost a century ago.

You can be proud of your heritage. There are lots of ordinary people who did many extraordinary things. Your families were respected and individuals made a difference in the world.

Most of this is on computer, but there may come a time when I ask to borrow it to make copies for others. There ain’t no way I could make one of these for 15 grandchildren and 16 great-grandchildren.  Much of this was passed down to me from both Daddy Buster and Mama Annice. Now I pass it on to you. I was waiting for someone to ask about family and you were the one.

If you ever want more, go online to Ancestry.com, Legacy.com, or alabamapioneers.com and put in my name. You can’t read it all in one sitting, but you can check it out at your leisure. May it remind you of a grandmother who loves you very much. (Whether I’m on this earth or peeping over the rails in Heaven)

The Bible tells us that God sends blessings down to four generations of a righteous man, and you have many faithful Christian ancestors. Be blessed.

Grandma

Aka  Dorothy Graham Clements Gast

Cali

“Sure, I eat molasses with my peas, I’ve done it all my life,

It ain’t because it tastes so good, It keeps them on my knife.” Old country folksong.

 

PEAS, PLEASE

Peas, corn, okra, tomatoes, squash, and sweet potatoes are as nutritious as they are tasty. Mainstays of southern diet, they provide a healthy alternative to meat and potatoes menu. One restaurant in Northport, Alabama, features a different kind of field pea on each day of the week. Reports of peas go back to 2300 BC and are eaten by an estimated 200,000 people a day worldwide. Paired with cornbread, peas provide protein to replace meat.

So you thought black eyed peas were a country form of the more elegant green pea southerners call English pea. There are stories about dry peas being the only edibles let behind after Yankees had taken livestock, potatoes and corn. The dry pods kept for eating during the winter and planting the next season, sustained survivors left behind when the males of the households did not return from war. Peas, brought from Africa with the slave cargo, provided the protein and calories to keep families from starving.

Field peas, often called cowpeas, are a staple of the Southeastern United States with controversy about their origins. They are legumes grown in Asia, Africa, parts of southern Europe, and Central and South America. Peas flourished in the hot, dry fields that had nutrients exhausted by cotton and tobacco. Its ability to pair with other plants like corn increased the food value from limited field space. The large seeds could be sown or scattered, in lightly cultivated soil, sprout quickly, and provide nitrogen for corn. The long runners climbed the corn stalks, fertilized the soil, and by heavy shade from leaves reduced the weeds that steal the limited moisture of hot, dry August days.

Farmers learned that when peas were picked and leaves grew sparse, they could cut the vine back to a hand’s length and watch the plants renew in the autumn rains. New growth meant that fresh peas graced the table until frost.

The many varieties have names like Purple Hull Pink Eye, Whippoorwill, Lady Pea, Red Ripper, California Blackeye, Black and white Holstein, Blue Goose, Monkey Tail, and Ozark Razorback. Since farmers saved seed to plant many families had crossbred distinctive varieties that bore the family name, like. Regional favorites were debated but the many advantages of the multipurpose crop are accepted in many parts of the world. Farmers often sow seeds in the fields where corn has been harvested to provide green foliage for farm animals and wild animals. The dry foliage is easily stored for animal feed.

Peas are the subsistence food of many nations, the poor man’s manna.

 

Recipe for cooking green

Pinkeye Purple Hull Peas.

 

1 quart fresh shelled peas, washed                         1 tsp salt

2 quarts water                                                                   2 slices bacon or ½ cup cooking oil

Cook in boiler at moderate heat for 30 minutes.

Serve with Cornbread, fried okra, corn on the cob, sliced ripe tomatoes and sweet potato pie.

Enjoy.

Dorothy Gast

bri (Body)

The Christmas I was ten, I asked for and received a 10 book set of reading classics.  It had Heidi, Robinson Crusoe, Black Beauty, Little Women, Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Tale of Two Cities, Call of the Wild, Alice in Wonderland, The Secret Garden, and Treasure Island. I read and reread these and finally began to loan them to family and friends. The Bookmobile, a library van, brought fresh material to Romulus School every month and to our house during the summer, since our family read more than the rest of the community put together. Later we  had the Reader’s Digest Condensed Books. They became the most passed around books of all.

Reading was a priority in our home in the last half of the 20^th century. Every member of the household had their own favorite genre and media. Magazines like Good Housekeeping, Farm Journal, Lady’s Home Journal, and Reader’s Digest were considered as essential as a new pair of school shoes in September.  In fact there may have been times desire for reading meant toes were squeezed into outgrown footwear a little longer.

In the mahogany bookshelf Daddy had bought at the scratch and dent sale at Rosenbush Grocery and Feed Store was a set of 8 Mark Twain books, a set of World Book Encyclopedias, a set of Lands and Peoples books, a huge Webster’s Dictionary and atlas.  There was another set of Collier’s Encyclopedias in the bottom shelf that were too heavy in weight and subject matter to tempt us children. A secondary book area was made from apple crates stacked under the double hung windows in the living room. The Bible was by each person’s bed with their Sunday School book.

When suppertime debate became too spirited, Daddy would send us to the bookshelf to find support for our arguments. Often there might be 3 or more encyclopedias on the table as we presented our views. You had to be very careful since the books very considered priceless and no marks, stains, or turned down pages were allowed.

Everyone in the neighborhood knew what a bookish family we were and that books could be read or borrowed at our house.  Report and project times might have students from County High School coming by to do research.

The summer between 5^th and 6^th grade there was a contest at the school to see who could read the most books. Charles Livingstone, who lived over the hill, and I tied with 104 books.  No baby books accepted. We read books by Grace Livingstone Hill and Zane Grey, Mark Twain and the brothers Grimm , Jack London and Charles Dickens,  and most of the Tarzan books. No cheating because an adult would pick the name of a book and the reader had to report on it. I thought it unfair that Charles had as many as I, since our family had to chop cotton and his didn’t.

March 27, 2014

Dorothy Gast ddgast1@aol.com

I was just ending my Blue Birds reading group when someone knocked on the door of my second grade classroom.

“There is a telephone call for you in the office.”  The messenger said.

I put extra assignments on the blackboard (really green) and hurried behind the messenger to the school office. Who would disturb me at school? My family knew not to call during school hours short of a dire emergency.

“Hello, Mrs. Gast, Just calling to remind you that you are to do the invocation at the District 5, Business and Professional Women’s banquet tonight at the yacht club. That means you will be sitting with our guests from the state executive board.”

“Can you get someone else? I don’t see how I can make it.” I pleaded.

Report cards go out day after tomorrow and committee meetings every day this week meant it would be 5 o’clock before I could drive home and get back to Tuscaloosa by 7. My husband’s patience was wearing thin since we’d been putting extra time preparing for accreditation.

“You are already in the program. You’ll have to be there. Don’t forget you’ll need an evening dress at the head table.”

“But I can’t-.”

The voice on the phone interrupted. “Be there 10 minutes until 7”. Disconnected.

I knew I shouldn’t have missed that planning committee meeting last week, but my daughter had a school program and I had to be there. I grumbled as I hurried back to the classroom before chaos erupted.

Evening dress!! Oh, no. Nothing that fit that description would fit since that last 15 pounds. No money in checking for a dress for one event. How did I ever get into this fix?

As I opened the door to my room the talking ceased suspiciously. Why did other occupations assume that teachers could answer the phone at any time. The caller must have been very persuasive or insistent to have me called away from class. Elementary teachers are on duty all day even during lunch.

As we tackled borrowing and carrying, I tried to think. Could I borrow a dress from one of the other teachers?  How could I find time to get this done, drive 15 miles home, cook for my family, and make it to the banquet? That minor headache was becoming a migraine.

The faculty committee was short. We handed in our reports and left school by 4.

“Evening dress?” “Where? Who?” My thoughts whirled as I met a highway patrolman and hoped he hadn’t clocked my speed. He kept going.  He must be on a call. I breathed a sigh of relief, but slowed to the speed limit.

“Hey, kids, how about hot dogs tonight. You can make them yourself.”  I asked hopefully.

“Do we have to have vegetables, too?” the youngest said.

“No, tonight surprise Daddy with a picnic. No veggies.”

I ran a hot bath and frantically looked for something that could be formal. At the top of the closet there was a aquamarine tablecloth the kids had given me for Christmas. 60 by 90 inches. It’s the same color as my ankle length nylon nightgown. Um-m. I place the tablecloth and gown side by side. They matched perfectly. I folded the lace cloth in half lengthwise and again sidewise. I  slit the lace in the center along the design of the fabric just enough to get my head through.  I can zigzag it back together tomorrow.

When I put on the gown, put my head through the slit and checked out the reflection in the full length mirror, I was surprised.. I thought.,”Not bad. It looks like a fancy caftan.”

After a hot bath with lots of bubbles, I realized my headache was gone. By the time my husband arrived, make up and hair style was complete.

“Looking good,” he said. “Where did you get the dress?”

“We’ll talk later. I’ve only got 30 minutes to get to the banquet.” I said as I attached the glittering pin that matched the dangling earrings, sprayed on perfume,  and slid my feet into silver slippers.

At 5 until 7 I pulled into a parking space, checked my makeup, and entered the ballroom.

“Wow, you are looking GOOD,” a guy I had worked with said. His wife turned and smiled.

“Pretty dress,” she said.

This was becoming fun. I was seated three chairs down from the microphone. The place was packed and I had a secret. Everyone liked my dress and I hadn’t paid a penny for it. My confidence level was sky high and the smile was hiding a wonderful secret.

“Dear Lord, thank you for the provisions you make for us. Guide us with your wisdom and give us understanding that we may accomplish those responsibilities that are assigned to us. Bless this food to our bodies and us to Thy service. Amen”

Two hours later my husband said, “Don’t sew it up. Even if you never wear it again, it will be nice to know you had a night to remember.”

SITTING ON THE FRONT PORCH WATCHING THE SUN GO DOWN

My earliest memory is watching the sun set as I leaned against my grandfather’s wicker rocker while he held my little brother. I must have been three. Grandpa’s house faced west and we loved to watch the clouds change color and shape as the sun sank beyond the horizon.

Grandpa might say, “Do you see the purple cloud that looks like an elephant?” and I looked among the shapes in the colorful sky to find his choice. Then we’d notice that the next cloud looked like frying pan and giggle at the thought of frying an elephant in a skillet.

When the last bit of orange sun sank out of sight, we’d sigh and look for the evening star so we could recite “Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight” so we could make a wish. As dusk settled objects lost their color and became black silhouettes against a blackening sky. We counted stars as they became visible and anticipated the call to come in and get ready for bed.

Before television and air conditioning, whole families escaped the evening heat in chairs on the front porch talking about the day, or plans for tomorrow. Whole genealogies were traced so often that small listeners could anticipate phrases and sentences describing their long dead ancestors.

“Sunset and evening star” was about more than “crossing the bar”, but a regular part of living. It was a time of reflections, meditation, of sharing the beauty of nature and the sweetness of family harmony.

Now it seems only honeymooners and retirees grab the luxury of watching the sun go down.

Dorothy Gast           April 10, 2014