Musing Of MOTHER BY LEMMIE LACOUR MAXWELL 1950

To Odis, Lila, Paul and David- with all my love.

February 4, 1950

Will we ever get used to writing 1950?

Thus far, since the New Year began, the twins and David have had one bout of tonsillitis after another, and though David's tonsils are not diseased still as long as he has them tonsillitis in communicable to him. The twins must have tonsillectomies as soon as possible, the doctors say. We hate to think about it, but all three of the children have been ailing and cross and cooped up for over a month now. And the penicillin shots! David sits alone now and crawls, but he doesn't try to pull up nor stand alone - yet he can talk. He calls us all by name, and asks for what he wants. When he hears us say "the doctor," he begins to wail, "No! Shot! No! The twins spoil him too much. They cannot bear to have him cry. I have moved his bed into their room, and they welcomed him with open arms. I am afraid if they keep giving in to him, he will become selfish. One sure thing - no baby has ever had as much love as David, and what is more important to a baby than that?

When it was unfashionable to cuddle babies for fear of "spoiling" them, my friend Sterling cuddled hers anyway. "Babies need a lot of loving," she would say. Now, "the book" says the same thing!

March 1, 1950

The twins had their tonsils and adenoids out last week. Why we decided to have both operations done on the same day I'll never know. Living through one was agony enough.

They took Lila first because she was so frightened - showing her fright as always by being quiet, tense and big-eyed. After they had awakened from the ether, the nurse gave them each a shot of codeine. Lila went right back to sleep but Paul kept staring intently at the ceiling, hardly blinking his eyes. "Why don't you shut your eyes and go to sleep, Paul?" the nurse asked him. " 'Cause," he answered. "I'm watching that 'breautiful' horse up there on the ceiling."

 March 15, 1950

It seemed as though Bunkie had it's fill of tragedy Sunday when Dr. Jones took his own life, but several hours later nine year old Jeffery was killed instantly right before Hilda and Mac's eyes. They had taken him and a little friend crawfishing, and Jeffery fell from the back of Mac's pick-up truck. After the first horrible shock, Hilda and Mac were stoic. Their grief was dignified and controlled, even though we all knew their anguish was almost more than they could bear.

Was ever a child more beloved than Jeffery? Hilda and Mac had three other sons - all still born - and tiny, scarcely living Jeffery arrived prematurely. His very survival was a miracle. I was with Hilda when he was born, and after they had brought her back from the delivery room, we heard Jeffery cry. The tears began to roll down her cheeks. "Why are you crying, Hilda?" I asked. "He is living. Listen to him." "I know she sobbed. "My baby is crying. That is the most beautiful sound I have ever heard."

Sunday night at the funeral home, she told us, "I lost three babies, but God let me keep Jeffery for nine years and I am grateful. Some women are not put here to have children, and maybe I am one of them. Mary gave up her only Son too, and I know how she must have felt. I know too that I can never have another child, but I believe it is Divine Providence, and I will try to bear it as she did."

Jeffery's funeral was the saddest I have ever attended. He wore his Cub Scout uniform, Scouts formed an honor guard the length of the church, Cubs were pallbearers, St Anthony's pupils attended in a body, his whole class from Baton Rouge came and the children's choir sang.

Hilda and Mac wanted it that way, but we wondered how they must have felt seeing all those living, breathing children...

We read about the tragic deaths of young children and though our hearts stop for an instant, in a minute we have forgotten all about it. But it is altogether a different story when it strikes so close to home - your own cousin's child.

Sunday, March 12, 1950. As Curtis Earnest said, "This is a day Bunkie will long remember.

(foot note April 18, 2005)...Hilda was Monetta's sister. Paul and I were 4 years old. I remember the day very vividly even though it's been about 56 years ago. Monetta was at our house, leaning against the wall in the hall, crying inconsolably. (Paul and I did not know why at the time, as despite everyone's grief, they all wanted to protect us) Mamma and Daddy were on either side of Monetta and our Grandmother, Mydell had her arms around me and Paul. The accident happened when Jeffery's little dog jumped out of the back of their truck. Jeffery leaning over, calling to it, reaching out, trying to retrieve it, toppled out and hit his head. Mac was driving very slowly I remember them saying....I suppose the truck didn't have a tailgate, as it would have been up.....I do not remember the funeral, maybe Paul and I didn't attend...??

 April 24, 1950

Kathleen received the most wonderful birthday present possible - a beautiful little six and one half pound girl. And as usual they "got what they wanted," as the saying goes. Imagine having five children and having your wish granted every time! It is against the law of averages. She and Edwin, with fear and trembling, allowed Freddie, Alice, Kitty and Pierre to choose a name for the new baby, and they chose a perfectly beautiful one - Mary Elizabeth.

I wonder if it is a coincidence that the principal of St. Anthony's, and Freddie's teacher, is named Sister Mary Elizabeth?

April 29, 1950

David was invited to a birthday party this month, and I accompanied him to the affair. The ages of the young guests ranged from one year to eighteen month, and he was the only one who wasn't walking. He just crawled around and pulled up by my chair and watched the others. Several of the smug, young, first-child mother asked, "He isn't walking yet?" "No," I answered. "But he makes whole sentences," which, of course, he would not do at the party - and they probably thought I was lying. Anyway, when we had been back home about an hour, he began to walk everywhere. "See, Mama, see me walk!" he exclaimed.

Julia Quinn and the boys were here for the weekend and she said, "Well, that is the first time I ever heard a child comment on his own ability to take his first steps." But we were all relieved, even though the doctors have reassured us time and time again that, other than his eye, his serious illness has left no ill effects. So now he not only walks and talks, but everybody comments on how large he is for his age. I know one thing - packing him around was a chore for me because of his weight, so that is another relief about his deciding to walk at long last. I really believe he could have done it long before now if he had wanted to.

September 18, 1950

Sterling has moved to Houma, and I still can't think about it without crying. I have many friends and I love them all dearly and equally, but there is something special about Sterling. She is small and serene and bright eyed and cute as a bug - and strong and indomitable. She can weather any storm no matter how bad it is. She has borne the largest number of children of anyone I know in our generation - seven living and one still born, and she may bear more as she is only 39, one month older than I. Her birthday is the first of May, and though this will sound corny she is exactly like the first day of Spring.

I have many, many memories of Sterling, but the memory I treasure most is the first one, and it dates way back to when we were eleven.

After six years in Derry, our family had moved back to Bunkie to live. I remember how strange and forlorn I felt at school here. I had come from the small, sheltered Catholic school, in Cloutierville, where I had been made to feel important, and I landed in a big, bewildering class room in Bunkie Grammar School with thirty-odd strange, older seventh graders, all ignoring me. I was a very shy, sensitive child, and it never occurred to me to try and make friends on my own hook. At recess, I would just lean against the brick wall in the sun, homesick and miserable watching the other seventh graders pairing off, not deigning to notice me in the least. I would remember wonderful Sister Albin and the chapel and my friends and the homey, comforting, familiar class room where I was known as the "smartest" in the group of the six seventh graders - and I would cry inside, feeling sorry for myself.

After several completely miserable days, a cocky, sturdy, black haired little girl sauntered up to where I was leaning, non-chalantly eyeing me in a grave sort of way. I stiffened, and stared right back at her, too scared to smile. But in a minute, she gave me her wonderful grin, and said, "Hi, I'm Sterling Cappell and I'm in the sixth grade and this is my friend Helen Haas and she is in the eight grade. Wanna play?"

From that moment on, she, Helen and I were inseparable. And how quickly I rose in the estimation of those snooty seventh graders, who hastened to make friends with me. I did not know it at the time, of course, but it so happened that Sterling was the smartest, toughest, most looked up to girl in high school!

Before me, they had never, but never admitted anyone into their sacred closed circle of two.

September 10, 1950

The day finally arrived. That all-important, first day of school for the twins. They were completely unafraid and ease, and looked adorable - Lila in a stiff starched full skirted gingham dress, and Paul in short pants and a starched shirt, caring their new school bags proudly.

I walked the block to St. Anthony's with them, and my heart sank when I say how much older the other first graders looked and acted. Lila and Paul will not be six until December, and they are a year behind in maturity as most twins are. It is very foolish I know, but I worry about them. They are extra active and I have watched them closely, but despite my constant watching, they have had accidents and bad falls - especially Paul who seems to be accident prone. They have developed a "twin" system of crossing Rose Street which is a thoroughfare - they hold hands and Paul looks to the left and Lila to the right! I suppose all mothers feel like this when their children start school. After all, it is the first tiny slash in the silver cord.

September 20, 1950

Since the twins started school this year, Lila has talked continuously of a little classmate of hers named Carolyn. This afternoon after school, Lila brought Carolyn home with her to play.

"Mama," she said proudly, her face shining. "This is my friend Carolyn. Carolyn, this is Mama."

It was the first formal introduction she has ever made, and even for a five year old it was proper and polite, but it wasn't the aplomb with which she introduced us that impressed me most, it was the fact that, from her voice and manner, you could tell she was bringing two very important persons together.

 October 8, 1950

Not long after school started, Paul came home proudly announcing that he had a 'girl." It seems children no longer hide it when they are in puppy love.

She is a grade ahead and a head taller and almost a year older than he, but that was completely immaterial. "Her eyes are so blue, Mamma", he said in all seriousness. Yesterday afternoon, when Lila and I were alone, she told me, between gales of her deep, infectious laughter, that Paul and Alpha Lee had "broken up." "Why?" I asked. "Well, Mama," she said. "You see, they had a fight and Alpha Lee won." "A fight!" I exclaimed aghast. "Who picked it?" "She did, not Paulie, bet he hit her back and she won," Lila said. Poor little Paulie is crushed. I think his pride is hurt more than anything else. It seems it was the talk of St Anthony's all day. And having a girl "best" him in a fight, even if she is older and larger than he, must be awfully hard for a fellow to swallow.

Odis said we must not talk about it in front of him.

December 23, 1950

We have added a much needed room to the house - a new bedroom for Odis and me. At last Lila has a room of her own, and the little room she shared with the boys is not so crowded. She is beside herself, but Paul seems resentful. I do not think he is jealous. I believe he simply did not want her to move out. They have shared a room for so long, but the time had come when she had to have a room of her very own - a little girl's very private place. We need one more room - a den behind the kitchen. But, we had to choose and we decided a bedroom was more important.

Our new room is larger than the other bedrooms and airy and attractive. I feel so at home in it. It has windows on three sides. As Alphonse said, "This would be a fine room in which to be confined to one's bed." Heaven forbid.

It must seem homey and attractive to everyone, however, as they all suggest, "Let's go and sit in your new room." We butted it under the eave of the back bedroom, and the ceiling slants like in an attic room. Silly me - I have always wanted a house with an "Upstairs," so perhaps that is why I like the room so much.

December 30, 1950

The Rhythm Band, under the direction of patient, more patient, most patient Sister Mary Anthony and accompanied on the piano by Jackie Lemoine, is the pride and joy of St. Anthony's as a master of ceremonies expressed it once.

Just first and second graders are eligible for membership in the band which consists of the main body with its percussion instruments, a drum major and six majorettes, and no entertainment sponsored by the school is complete without selection from the Ribbon Ban' " as the members call their organization. As a general rule, when they are to perform they enter from the back of the auditorium and our hearts always beat a little faster when we know they are coming - especially those of us who are fortunate enough to have a child included in the band.

First comes the envy of every other little boy at St. Anthony's, - the all important, very responsible drum major with his whistle and baton, resplend in white satin, gold braid and high shako. Next come the majorettes! They are adorable in their short-skirted red and white satin costumes adorned with gold buttons and braid. Their batons are twirling and twinkling, the plumes on their hats are waving, and even the talssels on their white boots are bobbing up and down as they strut up the aisle.

Last come the instrumentalists in white uniforms and red capes and caps. They know they are very important , too, and are all on their best behavior to prove it. Quietly, they climb the stage steps, all but the drum major who takes his stand directly in front of the stage - and who is the only one unable to catch Mama or Daddy's eye. Then, just as quietly as they climbed the steps, the children pick up their instruments, which have been placed on the floor beforehand. The drum major blows his whistle, Jackie starts the melody, then counting silently, eyes intent on the drum major who is directing them, they began to beat perfect time to the music. After the selection is finished, they carefully lay down their instruments and then they sing the song - joyously and amazingly in tune. All during the singing and beating of time the majorettes are executing their charming and intricate drill. How does Sister do it, we wonder.

Through no fault of Sister's, there are minor catastrophes once in a while. A stick is accidentally dropped, or a cap falls off in the exuberance of swaying heads, the cymbal clashes at the wrong time, or a majorette misses a trick or drops a baton - and once, to mine and Odis' horror, and to the amusement of others in the audience, during one whole number, Paul used the head of the little girl right in front of him to beat time on the place of his triangle.

But they always bring down the house, and the fact that most of them have a few front teeth missing makes them all the more enchanting. At the Christmas "play" they sang "All I Want Are My Two Front Teeth," and a most appropriate song it was!

]Another time, they were singing a Mother goose rhyme which had been put to music. Not being babies anymore, they refused to swallow that stuff abut "rye>" There was no such thing as "rye" - everybody in Louisiana knew that, they said to each other, so despite Sister's constant correction, they insisted upon singing all together and in perfect accord "a pocket full of rice."

On occasion, when they have taken their places behind the drawn curtains and are as quiet as little mice waiting for the curtains to open, we wonder how Sister keeps them so "noise-less". She says, however, contrary to common belief, there is absolutely no truth to the rumor that, under their breath they are all reciting the rosary.