Sing sweet and low, Aunt Nancy

   

Nancy Jones Hollifield

 This week, my family lost another member--my mommy's sister, my Aunt Nancy. It is difficult as the family of my childhood slowly leave this earth. My Grandma Crenshaw, Grandmother Crenshaw, Daddy, Mommy, Granddaddy, Granny, Aunt Frankie, and now my Aunt Nancy are all waiting for that final reunion in heaven.

     Aunt Nancy was one of my mommy's younger sisters. I remember how short she seemed next to Mommy! And how different! My aunts, unlike my mommy, embraced make-up and fancy hair-dos. Mommy only used powder and lipstick, but my aunts--oh, they used powder, eye shadow, eye brow pencil, mascara, and nail polish. To me, they were so pretty, and Aunt Nancy went even further than Aunt Frankie. Aunt Nancy was a petite woman--maybe 5' 2", if that. What she lacked in height, she made up for with towering hair. In the mid-1960's, she started wearing a beehive. And that beehive got redder and taller each passing year. Mommy's hair was mousy brown and never so fancy. I remember Aunt Nancy would sleep on a satin pillowcase, and she'd wrap her hair in toilet paper, all in an attempt to keep that beehive high and proud. As a child, that fascinated me. Mommy had her hair-hat, but she never wrapped her hair in anything but a scarf or a hair net.

     Aunt Nancy's fascination with all things stylish extended to me. The summer of 1969, she introduced me to eye brows. Actually, she introduced me to the plucking of eye brows. "Come on, Donna Jo, let me fix those bushy brows," she absolutely cooed at me. I was seduced; I admit it. Her eye brows were always perfect. I sat still while she went after those unruly brows with tweezers. "Ouch! No more, no more!" But, she said that once we started, we had to finish. My eye brows were a perfect arch, stretching to a fine line. Sure, they were swollen, but she got me a warm wash rag, and I got over it. That same summer, she did my hair, which was in a short Sassoon cut, teasing it out as far as it would go, spraying it, and placing a bow, right in the center. That only happened once--teasing had to be done every time to keep the hair; the brows didn't grow back as quickly. I know more than one Jones cousin has had her hair done by Aunt Nancy. She was a beautician, denied.

    What Aunt Nancy was was a waitress. She was a single mom, and she worked most of her life as a waitress--a server--to take care of her daughter. Like many Jones women, she had an untold capacity for work and sacrifice. I remember her coming home from the Horne's at YeeHaw Junction, where she worked, and I'd help her count up her tips. If her arms ached, or her back hurt, or her feet throbbed, I never knew it. She did what she had to do. On her days off, she tried to make my summer fun by taking me over to Ft. Pierce or to downtown Okeechobee. Those trips were just the two of us and special. I know she must have wanted to rest, but she also cared for me. All those years of serving others caught up to her as she aged, and she had problems with her knees, back, and shoulders.

     She was also fun. She'd come  to visit Mommy, and they were always laughing.  Mommy was always more serious than she. One year, both aunts came for visit--just them, no husbands--and they took me to the beach. Just us girls. They took me to a burger joint, right on the beach, and persuaded me to try a Lime Rickey. That vacation was the first time I ever heard all the sisters sing. I played a song from my hymnal, and they would sing together. Mommy sang soprano; Aunt Frankie sang second; and Aunt Nancy sang the sweet, low alto. Their voices blended perfectly.

     Aunt Nancy used her sweet, low alto to worship the God she loved. She sang in church choirs at every church she was a member of. Aunt Nancy was a woman of faith. The evidence of this faith and her following Christ is in how she forgave me for the years of my holding a bitter grudge against her. At the end of that summer of 1969, she married my father. He was widowed nine months before, and they married. That marriage only lasted about seven months, and she divorced him. When Aunt Nancy and Daddy divorced, it seemed, to me, that the Jones family divorced us as well. No more trips to Granny's, no more holidays with them. It was all too awkward. I held a grudge against her for many, many years. When I finally came to the place where I could let the grudge go, I called her and confessed what I held against her. She could have answered me with bitterness. She could have just pushed me away, as I pushed her away for so many years. No, Aunt Nancy forgave me, and she gave me the explanation of that brief marriage that I needed to hear for so many years. She went further; she came down to see me, to meet her great-niece, and her great-great niece and nephews. She came again, after I had a kidney transplant, to help care for me. She forgave me, both in spirit and in deed.

     Now, Aunt Nancy is with her family. But, she has left behind a legacy of strength, love, and forgiveness. The circle of sisters is complete, and I truly hope that they are singing together again. Aunt Nancy, I loved you more than you knew, and I'll miss you.

Granddaddy, holding Larry, with his girls--Sissy, Frankie, Nancy

Happy Birthday, America????

Tomorrow is July 4th. I was thinking about the street in Ives Estates where I lived--206th Street. July 4th was always a special day! Our neighbors the Enterlines always had a huge party. Mr. Enterline was a cook, so he'd make slabs of ribs--boiled in his secret sauce and then grilled. So tender! We'd have hamburgers and hot dogs, always with a tinge of lighter fluid, because Daddy liked pouring it on the fire and watching the fire flare up. Cold watermelon. Chips. Baked beans (from several sources, of course Mommy's were the best!). Popsicles. What seemed like vats of ice tea. Wash tubs filled with ice and all kinds of Coke. Ice cream. Cole slaw and potato salad.  And we always had a huge, decorated birthday cake!

Happy Birthday, America????

Well, we had birthday cake, but it sure didn't say "Happy Birthday, America!" Nope, our cake said "Happy Birthday, BOB!" Mr. Enterline was a July 4th baby. In fact, he had his kids convinced, for years, that the whole country was celebrating HIS birthday on the 4th. Bob Enterline was one of the most generous men I have ever met. He threw a party for himself, but also for the entire street. 

That's not the end of his generosity, though. When my mom and dad died, he brought us food for weeks. He and Mrs. Enterline gave of themselves to anyone who needed help. To their credit, they taught their children to be just as caring and generous. Their son Tim used to help my great-uncle care for our yard, after Daddy died. Tim would do anything to help. It's not a surprise that he became a fire fighter. He loved to serve.  Their daughter Kathy would give away anything she had to help others. Mrs. Enterline became a surrogate mother for me. The 4th of July never passes without my remembering the Enterlines and their generosity and kindness. 

Our celebration didn't end with supper. Tim had a large collection of 45's, and he'd be in charge of the music. We sit and listen or dance to the best of the Oldies. Just the families of 206 Street hanging out and enjoying each other. We kids would play tag, hide-and-seek, Bloody Bones, football, cards, whatever we could have fun doing. 

As darkness fell, Tim was in charge of fireworks. My family strictly held to Florida's laws, so we only had smoke bombs, bottle rockets, and sparklers. The Enterlines always stopped at South of the Border and bought boxes and boxes of REAL fireworks. Our neighborhood fireworks were just as beautiful as "professional" fireworks shows. 

I was able to bring my son to one of Mr. Enterline's birthday parties. I loved being able to continue the tradition, if for only one time. Thank you, Enterlines for the great memories!

Daddy, Part II

Joe Crenshaw, c. 1935

I've written one blog about my daddy. I wrote about his humor, his work ethic, his teaching me how to be a good employee. I also mentioned that he became a widower in 1968. He had three children to care for--my brother (9), my sister (2), and me (12). Until I was 35, I didn't realize how young he was and what short time he had with Mommy--just 13 years. I think for all of us, those first two years were very difficult. His mother, Grandmother to us, came to help take care of us at first. Then my brother and I were sent away to Okeechobee for the next summer. The most difficult thing is when Daddy remarried only nine months after Mommy's death. When we got home from Okeechobee, there was new furniture, new sleeping arrangements (well, for me--we also gained a step-sister), new household rules. It was a trying time for all of us. More change came when our new step-mother left, and they divorced after only seven months of marriage. 

Daddy, who really had been good-natured, seemed to change overnight. He was angry at my step-mother, at first. However, slowly, that anger turned against my brother and me. Especially me. He punished us by not letting Grandmother move back in to care for us; he just expected me to clean, to cook, to go to school, and to care for my brother every day. The daddy who took us to the beach for evening swims, who made us a go-cart, who rarely punished us became cold and emotionally hurtful. Finally, Grandmother persuaded him to let her come and care for all of us.

Things were a little better. Grandmother could have a calming effect on Daddy when he was very angry. He decided to stop buying me things like clothes and school supplies. He figured that I could baby-sit and use that money to buy what I needed. And I did. I can remember Grandmother arguing with him about getting me clothes for school, and he finally gave in and gave her money to take me shopping. Still, I had lost the daddy of my childhood. 

He rarely praised me for anything. To be honest, I stayed in my room as much as I could. There were still times of laughter and fun, but we did not have the same relationship I saw my friends have with their dads.

I wish there was a happy ending to this tale. After I graduated high school and worked for  year, I started college. I can remember during my second semester, Daddy starting asking me about what I was studying. He noticed that my friends and I would sing while I played the piano, and he got the piano tuned for me. Daddy actually liked my friends coming over and hanging out. He no longer made me pay rent. I can remember one Tuesday afternoon so clearly. I was sitting at the kitchen table, typing up my first long college paper. I was tapping along, and he came over. He picked up my finished pages and started reading. "Did you write this yourself?" "Yes." He just shook his head and murmured that Sissy would be proud. Something in me broke, and I felt that MY daddy was coming back--that maybe our relationship could be mended.

The next night, I was at work. When I came home, my brother came rushing up to my car--"Daddy's in the hospital! He had a heart attack!" I just shook me head in disbelief. "Nah. Really?" "Yes, we're going down right now!" I opted to stay home. It was then that our neighbor, Mrs. Enterline, came over to sit with me. I was eating a snack, and I looked at her and said, "He's dead, isn't he?" She nodded yes. He had been with a friend, and he collapsed in her yard, and he died on the way to the hospital. I excused myself, went to my room, and opened my Bible to Philippians 4:7, "And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus." I knelt and prayed for that peace. 

I did have peace. Even though my daddy was gone, I had peace knowing that our relationship was on its way to being mended.  I had peace because, for the first time in years, I knew that Daddy had loved me. I had peace because I knew he was reunited with Mommy--a joyous reunion. And I have peace now because I can focus on the good memories of Daddy, and not just relive the difficult ones. 

The Cat Doc

We always had cats. I remember my Granny Jones's cat "Scamper," and my first cat "Mrs. Grey." Back then, though, cats didn't have to be indoors. Ours would go in and out, at will, and sometimes that freedom led to kittens.

                                                                Donna Jo and Scamper

My first experience with kittens came with our cat "Buffy." Buffy got herself in the family way. I must say that we were excited about it! As she progressed, she no longer roamed at night (which led to her pregnancy in the first place). When it was bed time, she was making herself comfortable in the house. Grandmother was living with us, and Buffy decided that she liked sleeping on Grandmother's bed--Buffy would curl up in the crook of Grandmother's legs and sleep there all night.

Grandmother starting getting concerned that Buffy would have her kittens right in the bed with her. She'd scold me, "Donna Jo! That cat is going to have those kittens in my bed. You better do something!" So, I did. My brother and I set up a nice box with soft rags in it in my dad's closet (with his permission). We'd try to put Buffy in her box, and she'd stay--but not for long. Every night, Buffy would end up back in Grandmother's bed. We tried everything to make that box attractive for Buffy. But, she'd have none of it. I was convinced, however, that Buffy would use that nice, soft, dark, quiet space when it came time to have her babies.

I was fast asleep and dreaming. Dreaming of a baby crying and crying and crying. Then, in the midst of my dream, I heard Grandmother's voice, "Donna Jo! Get up! That cat has done had its kittens in my bed!" I looked over, and there was Buffy, lying in the crook of Grandmother's legs, and she had a couple of wet, mewling kittens with her. Grandmother carefully got out of her bed and just stood there, muttering , "I done tole you that that cat would do this. I done tole 'em all and nobody ever listens. Cat done have her kittens right in my bed. Dumb cat done had her kittens."

By this time, Buffy was done with her kittens, and I starting screaming, "She's eating one! She's eating one!" I had never seen an animal give birth, and I didn't know she was eating the afterbirth. Granted, I was worried she was eating her kitten, but I didn't go over and try to take it away from her. Next thing we know, Daddy comes stomping into the bedroom. The miracle of birth didn't seem to be much of a miracle to him. "Donna Jo! Billy! Billy, get in here and help Donna Jo clean up this mess. You've let that cat have its kittens in the bed!"

My brother came in, took one look at the bloodied, wet kittens and Buffy eating something bloody, and he turned pale. "BILLY, help clean up this mess!" Billy leaves the room, but he comes back, walking in with his hands up and gloved in Grandmother's dish-washing gloves.

Daddy took one look and burst out laughing. "Here comes the Doc!"

Buffy gave us three new kittens. I witnessed the miracle of birth. Grandmother was right about the cat, and she never let us forget that. Most importantly, my brother Billy gained a new nick-name. Daddy called him "Doc" ever after. And he is Uncle Doc to his niece and nephews. All because Buffy chose to have her family in Grandmother's bed.

Miami's "Mayberry"

     Say "Miami," and people think of "Miami Vice," South Beach, Little Havana, "Cocaine Cowboys," or the celebrities living on Star Island. However, growing up in Miami-Dade, specifically North Dade, in the 1960s and '70s was more akin to growing up in Mayberry than South Beach. The neighborhood I grew up in was Ives Estates. Bordered on the north by County Line Road (dividing Miami-Dade from Broward County), to the east and south by I-95, and to the west by the remaining dairy land, Ives was a community which was isolated from the urban sprawl of Miami proper.  This isolation served to build a strong community spirit among the people of Ives.
    Most of us attended Madie Ives Elementary. No school buses were needed; we all either walked or rode bikes to school. The school was built to take advantage of the breezes from the ocean, as there was no air-conditioning. Unfortunately for the students, we still had vestiges of rural life, and we got the smells from the local pig farm and Wolfie's egg farm in that ocean breeze. The egg farm was directly next to the school, and often we'd find chicks from eggs the hens had hidden from the owners. No inside gym--we had a huge field to play in. An old-fashioned metal jungle gym, metal slides, and a black-top with basketball hoops, box ball squares, and hop-scotch squares all ready for us. Those of us who went to Madie Ives in the 1960s remember having to do exercises while listening to "Go, You Chicken Fat, Go!"

     Like Mayberry, we had a "main street." Well, we had a strip mall with a 7/11, Phil's Barbershop, a hair salon, and Harris Drugs. Even as a child, I was allowed to walk up to the 7/11 to bring back bottles for the deposit and buy candy. Harris Drugs had a lunch counter, and I remember getting free ice cream after getting a shot at Dr. Dobbrunz's office. Mr. Harris kept watch on us. I remember trying to buy a pack of cigarettes one time, and Mr. Harris, knowing my parents didn't smoke, questioned me and then called my mom. Never did get those cigarettes, but I got in trouble with Mommy!  My dad knew Phil from the barbershop, and I remember when he and my brother would go for a haircut, they would take at least an hour. I wasn't allowed to go in the barbershop--it was for men. I envision the men sitting and talking about sports or doings at the Optimist Club or whatever it is men talk about. Joe's wife owned the hair salon, and that was the first place I had my hair professionally cut. Ives also had Walker's Ranch. I could go to the corner of 206 and 12th Ave and watch the horses for hours!
    In those days, almost everybody went to church on Sunday. For the Baptists, it was at North Dade Heights Baptist Mission. My Catholic friends went to Visitation. The Methodists and Lutherans went to churches outside of the general Ives area. On my street, 206th Street, you'd see the families, all dressed-up, getting into their cars on Sunday morning. The Enterline boys would be clean and in dress shirts; the Jones girls would have on their chapel veils (which I envied!), and my brother and I would be dressed in our Sunday best as well. I still remember Preacher Jim and the fish fries we had at North Dade Heights. I also remember our whole street going together for Vacation Bible School at North Dade Heights.
    The Optimist Club was THE community center for Ives. We had Brownies, Girl Scouts, and Bingo using the Optimist building. In fact, Daddy made the first electric Bingo board for the Optimist.  They ran the Little League, football teams, and softball teams.  What fun to walk up to the fields on a spring night and watch Little League games, visit the concession stand, and visit neighbors! And all of Ives was excited when the TV show "Gentle Ben" actually filmed two episodes using our Optimist fields.

Ives Optimist Field photo by Craig McWhorter

     Like Mayberry, we had our special characters whom everyone knew. Mike Verle' (RIP) was the de facto Mayor of Ives. The Enterline family--Mike, Pat, Danny, Timmy, and Kathleen--provided me with friendship, entertainment, and, many times, excitement. The Phillips family. The Dunkmans. The Rabins. The O'Chipas. Mr. Perfetti, the school principal. The Burnsides. Coach Eunice Frost. The Emroes. The Consuegras.  I could go on, but I'll add just one more. My favorite paperboy, and first crush, Jimmy Philbreck.
    Maybe Ives sounds like a typical neighborhood, but it was so much more. We pulled together when a family had problems. I remember the visits, meals, and kindness of Ives when my mommy died. Moms watched out for each other's kids, even administering punishment when necessary. There were several bad hurricanes that came through in the 1960s. On 206 St., the electric was out for a couple of weeks. As we kids skid-boarded on the deep puddles, the moms rotated cooking at the homes with gas stoves. The dads helped clean up the whole street--not just their yards. The residents of Ives were an extended family; when one family hurt, we all hurt. When there was joy, we were all joyful. There was pride in our little "Mayberry" that other neighborhoods did not have. Truly, I have not lived anywhere that was like my childhood home in Ives. 

Daddy, Part I

Joseph Anderson Crenshaw 1933-75

      Joseph Anderson Crenshaw--my daddy.  Daddy could be fun. I loved going to the beach with him because he would get out and swim and bob the waves with us. He'd also throw us out into deeper water, which was thrilling. One summer, he got some wood and made us a little cart, stilts, and a see-saw. He also was one of the first on our street to take apart skates and put the wheels on a board--viola'--skateboard! Billy and I had the dog pull us on the skateboard, rather than riding it the correct way. Daddy loved hosting watermelon parties for the street during the summer. He get several melons, put them in metal washtubs with ice for a few hours, and then we all feasted on the coldest, sweetest watermelon! Someone told me that if you ate the white part of the rind, you'd be poisoned, so I always left plenty of pink, but Daddy would eat it all and spit out the seeds. He also taught us that people in the know always put a little salt on their melon. It was also a great treat for us when Daddy made home-made ice cream in an old hand-cranked freezer. We'd crank it, at first, but it would get too hard, then Daddy would take over. I loved tasting the cold salty water that would dribble down the side of the freezer. Daddy could make anything, and he made a grill from a giant metal drum. He seemed to love applying the lighter fluid with a very heavy hand because everything had the faint taste of petroleum.

The watermelon and I

     People would always tell me how funny Daddy was. Really, I didn't get it. I still don't think of him as being funny. I do remember, though, when the guys from the neighborhood would sit around on the front porch, and they'd all be laughing at whatever Daddy was saying. He'd pull pranks on them, especially Mr. O'Chipa who was a wee bit gullible, but well-loved by Daddy.  I remember one of his pranks. We spent Easter afternoon with our friends the Hulseys. Of course, we had an Easter Egg Hunt. Back then, before everyone was concerned about salmonella, the adults would hide real boiled eggs. Well, we kids found all the eggs except one. Mrs. Hulsey and Mommy were worried about that egg going rotten in the Miami sun. So, we searched and searched for at least an hour.Finally, Daddy and Mr. Hulsey, smiling like possums, admitted that Daddy had eaten the egg. At least they found that trick hilarious! I don't think the moms did.
    After Mommy died, Daddy changed, and he became a harder man. I didn't understand then, but I understand now. A widower with three children--my sister only two years old. He had to shoulder more responsibility, and he had to deal with a teenage daughter. Daddy was an only child, so he had no clue about raising girls. Especially a hyper-emotional teen. But, he did his best. And I learned some very valuable skills from him.
    Daddy was a perfectionist. I, by nature, am not. But, he taught me that when you have a job to do, then you do it right. When you're working, do more than what is asked of you. When I got my first job as a popcorn girl at a local movie theater, he told me to work hard, and, if I ran out of things to do, to always ask the manager for more work. I've followed that philosophy all of my working life. And I have reaped the rewards of Daddy's work philosophy. He also reaped the rewards of his philosophy. He was a diesel mechanic and worked on all kinds of engines. He also worked on people's cars and yachts. The rich people who lived down on Star Island passed his name around as a man who was an excellent, honest, and hard-working mechanic. Daddy's reward? He worked for the president of FPL. He was so impressed with Daddy's skill and work ethic, that he hired him as part of the management team. Here he was, a man with a high school diploma from a vocational school, part of FPL's management team. I saw that hard work and giving extra would pay off and was, really, just the right thing to do. I also learned by watching him always to be myself. As he advanced in management, he was just Joe. I remember a picture he had of the management team of FPL. Everyone was in a suit and tie; there was Daddy in a short-sleeve shirt, no tie. He even had an old fashioned fish fry to which he invited the management team. We still lived in working class Ives Estates, but Daddy didn't care. He cleaned out the carport, cut a metal barrel in half to use as the fryer, set out paper plates, cheap wine, and plenty of folding chairs. He was just being who he was and they loved it. I, a little surly at having to attend, ended up playing duets at the piano with one of the vice presidents.Thanks, Daddy, for teaching me to be genuine!
    
    

The Cracker Girl's Guide to Creepy Critters, Part II

     Florida Cracker Jim Stafford sings: "I don't like spiders and snakes, and that's not what it takes to love me." This Cracker Girl would rather have spiders and snakes than the creepy insects that live in Florida.
     I really don't mind spiders. In fact, I was taught never to kill a spider because they are good luck. There were the little grey spiders that I'd play with, if I could catch one. Even now, if there is a spider in the house, I'll take her out and release her. We always have at least one big spider web and its occupant in our front ivy garden--she is welcome to stay and eat as many insects as she can! However, there is one Florida spider that I don't handle and that, even I, find a bit intimidating--The Banana Spider. Now, these were never found in the Miami suburbs. I first saw one on a childhood camping trip. Admittedly, I backed off a bit. Biggest spider I had ever seen! However, they are really beautiful, with their bright colors. My brother has been known to pick them up and let them rest in his beard. I'm not quite that friendly with them. There are many people who do not like spiders, so I'm sure they would not want to encounter a Banana spider!

Banana Spider

There is one insect that I have always been terrified by, and I have been assured that they don't DO anything to people. I don't really believe it, though. That is the Lubber grasshopper. Nothing I hated more than being out playing hide-and-seek in Grandmother's hedges and coming across one of them. They are so big. Big ole boogly eyes. I suspect they can fly pretty well. Mommy told me that when I was maybe 3 or 4 that I kept one in a glass jar as a pet. I do not remember that, nor do I want to. My uncles James and Larry had them, so I insisted on having one as well. When there was one on our plants, Grandmother would just grab her shoe and smash it, while I was running far, far away! When we moved up to North Central Florida, I discovered the juvenile Lubber. One year, we went up to Ginny Springs, and as we walked, there were literally hundreds of black hoppers with a red or yellow stripe down their bodies. A little research, and I realized I had been introduced to baby Lubbers. Nope. I don't like them any more than the adult ones. Grandmother had good reason to smash them; they are very destructive to gardens.

Juvenile Lubber

Lubber Grasshopper

 Finally, no discussion of Florida critters would be complete without discussing our roaches. Now, I don't mean the little German roaches; I mean the big, flying cockroaches that every Floridian has encountered sometime in his or her life. Many people mistakenly call them "Palmetto Bugs," but that is a whole different roach. I'm talking about the big roaches that really don't live inside in large numbers, but they do come indoors, especially during rainy season or if you have uncovered dog food! People from Up North have a difficult time understanding that the odd flying roach or two is just a fact of Florida life.I learned very early in life that these roaches will show up in the most unexpected places. My best friend Dana, her sisters, and I decided, one summer day, to pull down the "bark" that surrounded the top of their coconut palm with intentions of making hula skirts.  Imagine our surprise when hundreds of roaches came flying out at us! Four little girls shrieking at the top of our lungs and batting away flying roaches as we ran. To this day, there is nothing more frightening than sitting quietly, watching TV, and then hearing IT. The whir of the wings, then the silhouette of the roach--body hanging down--as it flies across the room and lands on the wall. General confusion ensues with someone finally getting brave enough to squash the roach. In my time, I've squashed them with shoes, magazines, newspapers; I've sprayed them with spray starch and hair spray. Mostly, I get my husband to take care of it, while I cower. Everyone has "that" roach story. My husband had one fly into his mouth while he was sleeping. I had one crawl onto a student's long hair during class. And only one boy was brave enough to squash it and throw it away--in the outside trash can. I would almost claim that once you've battled--and won--against a Florida flying roach, you can call yourself a True Florida Cracker.