A colleague once told me that someone who had known me practically my entire life (a person I had considered a life icon) made a statement to the effect that I had forgotten where I came from. This was purportedly because I would neither heed to nor seek this person’s advice at work. May I respectfully disagree.
(Consequently, this person once told me never to tell that I got the majority of my clothes from Goodwill, for people would make fun of me. One of my stepson’s male nurses once saw me in a Tommy Hilfiger bathrobe that probably came from Goodwill. He laughed at the pink pin stripes, so I inquired if he would rather I be naked? End of that discussion.)
I have never forgotten where I came from. Just in case I were ever tempted to do so, I have proudly lived and worked my entire life in the county in which I was raised.
I haven’t forgotten my family, either. I was lucky to be born into a very loving, in many cases, colorful family. My father was an alcoholic for most of his life. There are still a few people around who knew him that tell me I’m “his spitting image” and that “Frank Mincey will never be dead as long as you live.”
I am proud to look like my father, and I do appreciate those who tell me I resemble him. My father, though he had an overpowering weakness, had many good points. I remember when he would be sober that he would tell me, just like in the Kenny Rogers song, “Don’t do the things I’ve done”.
Dad and his first wife had nine children, and though I’m sure they weren’t perfect, especially the boys, none of my father’s children became alcoholics. Dad was sensitive about those who “got above their raisin’.”
He made the statement once, “All my young’uns have got above their raisin’, except Ronnie here, and he will when he grows up.”
My father and his sister Vallie could not get along. For one thing, Vallie would bring a milk carton with the top cut out to go to the bathroom when she visited “the country” (that equated to Union and Grainger counties, particularly the “Thomas Holler”).
Being a thrifty woman, and as our house was always the last stop on the way back to Knoxville, she would leave her carton in the roof joists of our outhouse for use on her next visit.
Dad would cuss after she left as he threw her carton away, saying, “Aw, @#$%^&*, she used to have to squat behind a tree or anywhere she could get when we was growin’ up in the country. She’s above her raisin’.”
Dad and Vallie used to argue about who was in the worst physical shape. Vallie, a highly nervous person, always complained with stomach ailments. She was a very sparse eater, as most everything hurt her stomach. She ate lots of baby food.
Dad told Vallie the only thing wrong with her was that she wouldn’t eat. He told her if she would get her some beans and “taters” that she’d feel the @#$%^&* of a lot better.
Dad would then use himself as an example of what suffering with ulcers could do to a man. Vallie always won these arguments, because she could always come back with, “Frank, there wouldn’t be a thing wrong with you if you didn’t drink yourself to death.”
Then all “you-know-what” would break out, and Vallie, her husband “Purse” (short for “Percy”) and sisters Fleetie and Duskie would leave Mother and me to Dad’s wrath for the rest of the day.
I did not know it, and neither did Dad, but Vallie wore a wig. One day at our house, in the days when many country houses had never known air conditioning, Vallie was sitting on the arm of our couch.
All of a sudden she said, “This thing is burning me up,” and jerked off her wig. Her natural hair was totally gray, very short and sparse, pinned with bobby pins (Have you, Faithful Reader, conducted that Google search yet?). Dad blared his eyes and said, “What . . . in . . . the . . . devil . . . have . . . you . . . done . . . to . . . your . . . head?”
Vallie’s sister, my aunt Fleetie, also wore a wig, but no such dramatic events occurred with her. In later years Fleetie gave up her wig, and I was in the car with Purse, Vallie, Fleetie and Duskie when Vallie started “pickin’” at Fleetie’s hair.
“Git your hand out of my hair!” Fleetie said.
“O, just let me fix this little part.”
“Git your hand out of my head, I said.”
Purse wisely kept driving, Duskie never said a word, and I laughed joyfully at this free entertainment.
Duskie was the oldest of the sisters, and she was usually not into pretense. Like a lot of good country women, she lost her teeth at a young age, but never a denture did Duskie wear.
She said she “knowed” she couldn’t wear them and she “wouldn’t” goin’” to waste her money on them.
Duskie was reputed to be stingy, and though her husband Roy had been disabled for many years, Vallie insisted that Duskie pay for part of the gas used when she rode with them to the “country.” They never asked Fleetie, the youngest, to contribute, for she was a widow.
Duskie did once decide she was going to try wearing a wig. Duskie reminded me of Olive Oyl, the character in the Popeye cartoons, and of Granny on The Beverly Hillbillies.
She was a short, slim woman (like Granny) with a high-pitched voice (like Olive Oyl) and gray hair which she wore in a bun (like Granny and Olive Oyl).
She always wore what I call simple shift dresses, though she had “dressier” clothes for her infrequent trips away from home.
Duskie was always afraid to leave the house unattended as someone might break in and steal everything she and her husband Roy had.
One day she came to our house with Vallie, Purse and Fleetie on a visit. She had on a gray wig that helped me imagine what Little Orphan Annie would look like when her hair turned gray. This must have been a phase, for Duskie did not wear the wig for long, and when she put it away, it never returned.
What wonderful memories I have of those sweet, eccentric aunts of mine!
Not very long ago I read a wonderful book that someone recommended to me — Hillbilly Elegy, by J. D. Vance. I just learned from Google that the book is being made into a movie directed by Ron Howard. I am quite excited. The anticipated release date is November, 2020!
Not to ruin the film for any Faithful Reader, but the author of the book described his journey from the hills of Kentucky via Ohio to his attendance at an Ivy League law school and into the professional world. Much is said in the book about the changing perceptions both of him and those with which he came into contact along his journey. The book was a number one New York Times bestseller. If the movie is half as good as the book, it will be a treat.
In closing, there is not one thing wrong with people improving their qualities of life. It is so sad, however, when wealth and position change people to the point that they look down on those who are presently in the same situation from which they rose. Such people’s attitudes remind me of those with bed bugs — not a disgrace to have them, but a disgrace to keep them.
Until next time, Faithful Reader, I leave you with a thought from my email world:
As incredible as it sounds, men and women took baths only twice a year (May and October). Women kept their hair covered, while men shaved their heads (because of lice and bugs) and wore wigs. Wealthy men could afford good wigs made from wool. They couldn't wash the wigs, so to clean them they would carve out a loaf of bread, put the wig in the shell, and bake it for 30 minutes. The heat would make the wig big and fluffy, hence the term 'big wig'. Today we often use the term here comes the 'Big Wig' because someone appears to be or is powerful and wealthy.