Little Hands

Between 1934 and 1947, my parents bore nine children. Many of my friends and associates are aghast when they consider these numbers. They ask the obvious question. Why?


Grandparents on both father's and mother’s side were slaves. Life expectancy was short. You secured yourself and your family by what you owned. In our time, at that time, the only thing you really owned, with which you could secure your life and the lives of your family, was your children. If you had a small farm, they were your farm hands. In the late autumn and winter of your years, they cared for you. When in harms way, they were your fortress.



My father was born in 1899, the youngest of eight or nine children. His survival instincts were honed at the foot of his parents. My mother was probably born between 1920 and 1925. She would never divulge her age. “Never ask a lady her age. That's rude!“ she said on more than one occasion when we queried her. I don’t think she really knew. She never knew her mother. She was raised by cousins. Shortly before her death, as she lay on her bed, never to rise and walk again, she revealed to me that one of her great sadnesses was that she knew what it was like to say, “Mother.” I looked at her, even then, soft, tan skin and ...


I was later determined that she was the descendent of slaves who were born, and or served on a plantation of Dutch descendents. Her maiden name appears to be Dutch. Slaves inherited the surames of the plantation owners.


During slavery, some of the more articulate and dynamic slaves became itinerant “preachers” allowed to move freely to the outlying plantations. They would spread the gospel, “Honor your masters today, and you will receive your reward in heaven.” I have a picture above my fireplace of my mother’s great-great-great grandfather, (I think that’s enough greats) with long beard, light brown skin, hat and jacket that makes him look more like a caricatured Quaker. He was one of those traveling preachers. Many of his and other descendents of those wandering ministers to the minions of yesterday are today, controlling and shaping the lives and psyches of their congregations with the admonition, “Suffer today. You will receive your rewards in Heaven.” That however, is discussion for another day.


My mother had soft tan skin, perfect teeth, and flashing eyes. It was the soft brown eyes that could freeze you on a spot and never release until she moved. Her voice was also soft and textured. When she spoke, we all listened, particularly if she did not raise her voice. If anyone dared to question her, she had a strong yet subtle mode that would stop us in our tracks – with one exception. One of my sisters, whom we simply called Sister, was the rebel. She tried to challenge mother, would not cry when spanked, when scolded to would try and engage in conversation with mother. She never tried that with Dad. But then, Dad knew her, as he did all his children. He knew when to let them run and when to tighten the reins.


The children were divided into two groups, the four oldest and – the rest. The four were a hierarchy that managed the house in the absence of the parents. When they were away, whoever was the oldest was in command. Casanna, because we could not pronounce here real name, was the oldest. She was more like Mother than Dad, stern, not prone to joking, and the early artist that I would later chaperone to piano lessons. I was second. Eula whom we referred to as Sister was third and Doris, who became Baby Sister, the quiet one, was fourth.Once, when I was probably 10, we received word that Sister had been hit by a bus while on her way home from school. It was later determined that she actually ran into the side of the bus, not the bus into her. She became, in some sense my strongest, closest bond among the siblings. She was probably the better athlete of us all, and throughout our childhood could be controlled by no one. More on this rebel later!


Another of my specials was Eva, of the small soft hands, with a soft pretty face like mother. She was four years younger than me, and I loved to pick her up and toss her toward the ceiling and catch her, tickle her, all the things that big brothers do to little sisters. We had little hand fights where she giggled with her childish little squeak. Even at a young age I could see her evolving agility to control people around her.

One of the great treats for the family was when Mother went to Sears to get patterns and materials to make clothes for the girls. She would return with all the goods, and a large bag of popcorn. She evenly distributed portions to all of us. Little Eva would wait until all we had gobbled all of ours. She would then eat hers, one grain at a time while we looked on. Her tiny hands would tease us with the little nibbles that we all wanted. She would not share.