Category: Commentary

I’ve traveled all over the world, but one of my most memorable trips was with my family in the summer of 1956, when my parents decided to visit my grandparents on their farm in Caddo Gap Arkansas. My brothers and I shared the long bench seat in the back of our Pontiac as we excitedly drove through east Texas and into Arkansas for our first ever peek at Grandpa and Grandma’s place. It was a long ride and we got more and more anxious as we crossed the state line. Before we knew it Daddy was driving across the Caddo River and onto a narrow rocky road with many twists and turns. We glanced at an old suspended bridge that spanned the river high in the sky as we advanced into what seemed like a wilderness. Each time my father rounded another outcropping he had to honk the car’s horn to warn anyone who might be on the other side that he was advancing on the one lane road. That part of the drive was an adventure in itself.

Soon we were turning into the driveway leading to Grandpa and Grandma’s house which looked surprisingly much like their former home in the Houston Heights. Their border collie, Lady, greeted us with a wagging tail and a welcoming bark. She was soon followed by my grandparents waving on the front steps with big grins on their faces. I was so excited that I could hardly wait for Daddy to park the car and turn off the engine.

The landscape was beautiful with a profusion of flowers and fields of crops growing in the summer sun. Near the house was a big barn and a chicken coup where a cow and chickens bellowed and chirped their own hellos. A huge peach tree shaded the driveway with branches bearing luscious fruit. It was a truly idyllic scene that insured us that we were going to have much fun.

Daddy and Grandpa brought our luggage inside while Grandma showed us the rooms where we would be sleeping. The boys and I had three twin beds in a sunny room with rows of open windows bringing a cool breeze. Our parents would be in the room next door. After taking us on a tour of the house, including the basement which was something I had never before seen, Grandma announced that she had prepared dinner for us, We gathered eagerly around the familiar dining table to enjoy her famous cooking made even better with all of the fresh vegetables grown on the farm. Over the coming days we would feast on homemade biscuits, milk and butter from the cow in the barn, fresh eggs gathered each morning, fish caught in local lakes and streams and mouth watering meats and vegetables. 

My grandmother warned us that we might have a visitor for dinner each evening. She laughed while explaining that a nearby family had a strange habit of sending one of their members around at dinner time with various requests. When Grandma politely asked whomever came if they like to eat dinner that person always eagerly accepted her invitation. Sure enough there was soon a knock at the door. 

While we ate my grandparents told us about a diamond mine where folks had been known to find precious stones. They also related how they had found many beautiful quartz crystals on their property and urged us to be sure to take some home when we left. They talked about how much work and fun and they had experienced since they came, almost laughing with joy as they described planting and harvesting and canning the fruit and vegetables that they had grown. They promised that they would take us to visit with some of their neighbors and show us the scenic areas nearby. 

We spent that first evening on their front porch that was screened in to keep all of the bugs buzzing through the air from annoying us. We were enthralled by the brilliance of the lightning bugs that filled the air with their little lights. Grandpa told us his tales the way only he always did. Grandma worked on crocheting, embroidering and sewing while promising to make me some new dresses out of the flour sacks that she had saved. It amazed me how quickly her hands moved to create the most beautiful things at the same time I could not hear enough of my grandfathers fanciful stories. I could think of no other place I would rather be. 

In the following days we would accompany Grandpa to a country store where he picked up his mail each day. He would dress up for the occasion after working in the fields before we even awakened. He always brought along his pipe from which smoke filled the car with a delightful aroma. At the store he gathered his posts and discussed the local news while we sipped on sodas. It was fascinating for a little girl from a city to be in such an old fashioned place. The locals told us how the Caddo Indians had once lived in the area and that for a time there had actually been a tiny town with a one room schoolhouse.

When we returned Grandma would lead us on excursions into the hills behind their home. She instructed us in the rules of safety that meant being careful not to step anywhere without first probing for snakes with a long walking stick and checking for ticks after the journey. She demonstrated how to talk to the local birds with chirps and songs that mimicked the creatures of the sky. She made butterfly nets out of coat hangers and old cloth and showed us how to carefully catch the beautiful monarchs that were in profusion. We’d store them in jars whose lids had holes to allow the lovely insects to breathe and always we would free them after we had observed them for a time. 

One day we helped pick peaches. Grandma and Grandpa wore long pants and flannel shirts with sleeves that covered their arms even though it was exceedingly hot. They tried to convince us to cover ourselves but we did not want to get too warm. Before long we learned that getting the peach fuzz on our skin was a painful experience and we took their advice to cover ourselves. 

We visited the family that had a habit of coming to dinner. Even as a Catholic girl whose friends came from very large families, I had to admit that I had never before seen such a large number of children from on mother. It seemed like Mrs. Weehunt had been perennially pregnant for about twenty five years. Their house was so small that I found it difficult to imagine where everyone slept. The yard was filled with old abandoned cars that did not appear to have any reason for being there, but my grandmother had warned me not to stare. In fact, she insisted that Mrs. Weehunt was a gracious and refined woman who deserved our total respect. 

Another day we drove even higher up the mountain to sit with a lady that my grandparents called the woman on the hill. She held court from a rocking chair under a tree., chewing on tobacco as she spoke and periodically spit into a tin can. Grandma had warned us to use the bathroom before going there because the lady did not have indoor plumbing. In fact, we learned that very few of their neighbors had graduated to modern facilities. That was the first time I learned about an outhouse and my grandparents embellished the experience by telling about the outhouses of their youth and the hilarious things that had happened inside them. 

Each morning Grandma took us to gather the eggs in the hen house. Then she turned us over to Grandpa who taught us how to milk the cow. At first it felt strange and even a bit icky to pull on the teat, but soon my brothers and I became experts and would not have missed an opportunity to show our skills. We were becoming addicted to farming and living off of the land. 

Grandma used all kinds of creatures for dinner. Her specialty was creamed squirrel, a dish that I declined to even try. My brother Michael, however, told me that it was delicious. On anther occasion Grandma decided to have fried chicken and I was quite excited for that. Little did I know that she was going to go outside and wring the neck of one of the fowls. I watched that tiny women who was not even five feet tall and never weighed over a hundred pounds chase down a chicken, grab it by the head, and break its neck with one twist of her wrist. Then she chopped off the head, plucked the feathers and cleaned it for cooking. I was fascinated, in awe and disgusted at the same time. The fried chicken was incredible!

One day we went to my grandparent’s favorite fishing hole. They told us to stay in the car until they felt that it was safe for us to follow them. We waited and waited but they never came back so I screwed up my courage and went down a path that appeared to go to the lake. Suddenly I was screaming as I saw water moccasins poking their heads out of the water in a profusion that seemed endless. I have often believed that my aversion to snakes of any kind began on that day. Grandma chided me and then rushed me back to the car and I never again disobeyed her. 

We were quite sad to leave knowing that we might not see our grandparents again for at least a year. My father had wanted to visit Chicago and Wisconsin as long as we had come that far. It was time to go. On the last night the two men spoke of something they called desegregation that would soon affect the lives of school children in the south as black children would little by little be allowed to attend school with white children. Somehow it did not sound like something that would be bad, but I could tell that they worried that there would be trouble. 

We finished our trip up north in the Midwest. I became curious about all of the talk about integration. I already knew that black people had to ride in the back of the bus when we rode to downtown Houston. I never really understood why that was so, or they there were different water fountains and bathrooms for whites and “coloreds.” I had never really noticed that there were no black children at my school but I didn’t think it would be a bad thing at all to let them come be with us. Kids were kids as far as I knew. Then in Chicago I saw that black people were eating in restaurants with us and riding on the trains as well. It puzzled me that it was different from the rules where I lived. I had yet to learn about slavery and the Civil War, but even in my very young mind something felt amiss about it all. 

When we went to Wisconsin my father wanted to purchase some of their famous cheese. We stopped at a tiny store in the countryside. We waited in the car with our mother and suddenly I noticed a sign over the door of the place that read, “No Dogs or Indians Allowed!” I thought of those incredible native Americans that I had seen in Oklahoma and I became very sad that anyone would treat them so badly. I still had a great deal to learn about history but somehow my naivety was gone. I had become painfully aware that some people were not treated as fairly as my family and I were. I thought about how poor my grandparents’ neighbors were and I think it was the very first time that I felt a sense of gratitude for the luxuriance of my own life. The vacation was not only fun, it was an awakening.

The summer of 1956, was golden from start to finish. Seven year old me felt as happy as I have ever been in my life. It was a time for exploring, asking questions and being with my family and friends. If my life were a corny movie it would feature that brief period of perfect joy when everything seemed to be about adventure and love, beginning with Sunday gatherings at Clear Lake with all of my aunts and uncles and cousins. It became an instant tradition for all of us to descend on a choice spot early in the morning to set up chairs and barbecue grills so that we might celebrate our togetherness under the Gulf Coast sun. 

My mother and her siblings held court while us children ran free to play. We’d ride the waves in the water, sit on the end of the long pier watching the motorboats go by, dangle from the trapeze in the playground, try our hand at fishing or catching crabs. Sometimes just sitting with the adults and listening to their banter was as much fun as our youthful exploits. Those Sundays meant freedom from worries and the joy that comes from knowing love. 

Mama was the baby in her clan, the end of a long string of ten children, two of whom died as infants. Hearing them joke and quibble and vie for attention told me that my Grandma Ulrich must of have quite a woman to keep them in tow. Each of them had been given a traditional Slovakian name at birth that became Americanized over time. The eldest was William (Wilhelm) who quietly presided over his siblings as the voice of reason and kindness. Then came Paul (Pavel) his father’s namesake and a roaring force of strong will. Valeria (Berta) was the first girl who was almost immediately destined to be responsible for the care of her younger siblings. Andrew (Andres) was a quiet and stoic kind of man, almost a puzzlement. Louie ( Louis) was the youngest boy, handsome and confident. Then came the twins, Polly (Pauline) and Claudia (Wilma) who was better known by her nickname, Speedy. Somewhere in the birth order there had been a baby who died so soon after birth that the name is unknown. The brothers and sisters seem to think that the child is buried in a church yard somewhere in Houston. Then came another boy, Stephen, who would not live to see his first birthday in spite of Olympian efforts by my grandmother and grandfather to save him. Finally there was my mother, Ellen, (Elena), a beautiful and intelligent sprite whose charisma lit up every room she entered. 

It made me feel special to be surrounded by my aunts and uncles. I loved listening to their banter and hearing their views on the world. Each of them had unique personalities that brought out their best qualities. Uncle William was the sweet one, the steady one, the wise one. Uncle Paul, a bachelor, was loud and volatile as a pit bull but almost secretly just a loving puppy who would give his heart if someone needed it. Aunt Valeria was stable, practical, responsible just as she had been trained to be. Uncle Andy was an enigma, a quiet man who seemed content to observe the world without comment. Uncle Louie was bright and jovial, a fun person who connected quickly with my father. Aunt Polly took center stage around her siblings, making herself heard in all the hubbub. Aunt Speedy was smart and beautiful, a thinker whose reserved personality seemed to be the opposite of her twin’s. Then there was my mother who often reminded us that she was capable of holding her own in any situation because she was the youngest of eight children. 

My aunts and uncles from marriage were interesting as well. Aunt Florence, the wife of William, was the quintessential lady who always arrived with her hair perfectly coiffed and her nails manicured. She mostly sat quietly observing the sometimes circus like atmosphere. Uncle Dale, Valeria’s husband, was a handsome man who resembled Charlton Heston. He was an amiable soul who listened before speaking his measured words. Roberta, Andrew’s wife for a brief time, was a tall and thin woman who wore her long black hair slicked back into a ponytail that bobbed up and down when she walked in her stiletto heels. Aunt Maryann, Louie’s wife, was a pretty and sweet woman who seemed to always wear a smile on her face. Uncle Jack, was a tall slender fellow with jokes on the tip of his tongue who just might have become my favorite after my Uncle Bob died. Then there was my father who got along with each of the members of the cast as though he had been born into the family. With his infinite knowledge of just about everything he managed to hold interesting conversations with everyone. 

On those glorious summer Sundays I suppose that I enjoyed my aunts and uncles as much as I did my cousins. I’d sit quietly on the periphery soaking in their ideas, learning about their lives, marveling at how much they loved one another even when they became entangled in disagreements. I felt so lucky to be part of such a diverse group and I marveled that they had grown up to continue to be so close. I followed them around like a little puppy, quietly learning from each of them. I suppose they never really knew how much they meant to me, how much I loved them.  

Just when I had become accustomed to my routine of sharing with two brothers and attending school my mother and father announced that we would be moving to a new house in a new suburban subdivision. Daddy was working for Petro-Tex Chemical and one of his co-workers had told him about an upcoming new neighborhood called Overbrook where he had recently moved. Overbrook was a burgeoning suburb just southeast of downtown Houston. On a clear day you could sometimes see the Houston skyline from the area, but it still seemed like it was far from the hustle and bustle of the city. There were still fields and groves of trees surrounding the new development and there was something wild and exciting about its location near a nature filled bayou.

Daddy’s workmate, Mr. Lacombe, invited us to his home for dinner one weekend and my mother and father were both sold on the idea of building a home nearby. Perhaps it was because my father seemed to really enjoy Mr. Lacombe’s company or that mama learned that Mrs. Lacombe’s mother was from Czechoslovakia like my grandmother. Whatever the reason, unbeknownst to me, they had visited a local architect and purchased a tract of land within days of seeing how vibrant the area was. They assured me with unbounded enthusiasm that I was going to delight in the school there and in having children my age everywhere. 

I wasn’t totally convinced that it was going to be as wonderful as my parents had boasted, but I enjoyed accompanying my dad on inspections of the house as construction progressed. He showed me the blueprints and explained how they showed the layout of each room. He promised that I would have my own bedroom and my brothers would share one. He noted that we would have a whole room devoted to our evenings together that he called a den. Nobody else that I knew had such a thing as den, so I was ever more intrigued. Daddy drove me around and pointed out the church and school that I would attend. After seeing all of the kids riding bicycles and playing in their yards I became somewhat convinced that it might not be a bad place to be, and besides Merrily had already moved from my street, so I was in the market for a new best friend and confidante.

Just before the beginning of my second grade school year a moving van came to our house and took all of our belongings to the new place. We followed the van down South Park Boulevard, turned right on Long Drive, took another right on Mykawa Road, hug a left on Bellfort Boulevard, went over a set of railroad tracks, and then turned right on the Northdale Street until we had gone almost all the way I had to the end. There stood our new home in all its red brick glory.

I admit that it was quite fantastic, much bigger than our house on Kingsbury. We would be living just a block or so from the tree lined Simms Bayou. The place was beautiful with its gleaming wooden floors and a huge living and dining room area. By this time my parents had purchased a lovely mahogany dining set that coordinated with the pieces in they already had for the living room. They also bought comfy furniture for the den and my father surprised me with a beautiful bedroom suite. Mama chose a pink bedspread for my white wooden bed and hung pictures of ballerinas on the wall. Daddy even gave me my very first jewelry box which was like the one that my mother had, but just a bit smaller. Best of all the backyard was massive. I felt like a princess standing in front of a castle.

As soon as we arrived neighbors came rushing over to welcome us. From the moment I met the family across the street, the Barrys, I knew that everything was going to be wonderful. They had a daughter my age named Lynda and we connected with each other immediately. Little did either of us know that we would become lifelong friends. For the time being we fit together like a set of bookends.

I began second grade at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Catholic School shortly thereafter. It was a vibrant place filled with kind and friendly people. The school was fairly new so everything was gleaming and it seemed to have two or three times more students than St. Peters. My teacher was not nearly as nice as Sister Camilla had been and I often wondered how Virginia was doing but I quickly built new relationships and no longer wished I was back at my old digs. I lived close enough to the school that I was able to either walk there or ride my bicycle. I was seven years old and would soon be preparing for my First Communion with all of the other late bloomers in my class. I even joined a Brownie Scout troop with Lynda and met all of the kids who lived around me. We were a free range group unencumbered by fear or overly restrictive rules. It was heavenly.

I spent hours on my bicycle roaming the neighborhood. When I wasn’t enjoying the open road I was usually in the woods near our home creating adventures with Lynda and other kids from the area like Susan and Barbara. The times were idyllic. We were children with not a care in the world, inventing games and using our imaginations and ingenuity to stay perennially entertained. School felt like a repeat of first grade so I did well with my classes and even learned how babies are made from a girl named Diane who gave a fairly accurate description of the whole process on the playground one day. When I told my mom what I had heard she laughed, told me it was true, and then mumbled that she would not have to give me the talk one day now that I knew how it worked.

My biggest disappointment came when my grandparents moved away from Houston to a farm in Caddo Gap, Arkansas not long after I had made my First Communion. Working the land had always been a dream of theirs and even though they seemed happy to begin a new phase of their lives I missed our Sunday visits terribly. We somewhat made up for the loss by visiting with my aunts and uncles instead. I loved those times because I got to play with my cousins who were many. Sometimes the tables were turned and they came to visit us for Sunday dinner, marveling at my mother’s cooking and at how beautiful our new home was. It felt as if we had found a bit of Nirvana.

I was so busy playing with my bestie, Lynda, that I hardly noticed my brothers most of the time. We spent Saturday mornings watching cartoons in our den while our parents slept late. The boys were a bit too young for me to think of them as being fun, but I loved them nonetheless. Then one day Michael got really sick again and suddenly he was going to the hospital. I never exactly knew what had happened, but it must have been serious because Mama looked very worried and she spent whole days and nights with him rather than coming home. During the days I spent time with Lynda and her big family of six kids until Daddy came home from work. They often wanted me to spend the night but I somehow felt the need to keep Daddy company so I went home with him each time they begged me to stay. I never actually thought about where Patrick was which mystifies me now because I thought of myself as his protector. Looking back I suspect that he must have stayed with one of my aunts but I still feel a bit guilty that I did not even think to ask where he was.. 

I was definitely worried about Mama and Michael. There was so much mystery about what was happening and for once I had not surreptitiously figured it out. Realizing that I was anxious and confused Daddy sat me down at the kitchen table one evening and joined me in drinking a bottle of Welch’s grape juice. We talked for a very long time with him reassuring me that Michael and Mama would soon be returning home and everything would be fine. He even told me jokes and stories that made me laugh. Then he read to me from one of his books of poetry. There was something indescribably special about that time. I still remember how calm and safe he made me feel.

Another school year ended and my parents were planning a big trip to see Grandma and Grandpa in Arkansas. Daddy also decided that we would travel to Chicago and Wisconsin. He liked vacations more than anyone I have ever known. He boasted that he wanted to see all forty eight states (Alaska and Hawaii were not yet part of the nation) and he had already checked off about twenty. My mother had a collection of souvenir salt and pepper shakers to prove where the two of them had been. Among them was a set of miniature replicas of the Statue of Liberty that I dusted once a week when Mama was cleaning the house. I looked forward to our journey and felt that life was about as perfect as it might me.

I was only five years old, but I knew that something was wrong with my Uncle Bob. He had already told me that he had cancer. He had shown me is prosthetic leg which looked like it belonged on a mannequin. He explained that he had a form of cancer called melanoma. I remembered the name because it sounded sad to me. My mother and aunts seemed to believe that I knew nothing about Uncle Bob’s illness as they whispered around the kitchen table. I already knew that my Aunt Speedy was in town because Uncle Bob was in the Medical Center being treated. I obediently left the room whenever they shooed me away. 

Sadly Uncle Bob had already explained to me that he might not make it. He insisted that we would all be okay even if he had to go to heaven. He told me not to feel bad if anything happened. He wanted me to remember how much he loved me and how much fun we had together. Somehow I was prepared for the worst as it inevitably came. 

In the meantime my mother and aunts came to the conclusion that I needed to go to school, so my father enrolled me for the first grade at St. Peter’s Catholic School. I was unaware of this development until the last moment when my mother showed me the many school dresses she had made for me and presented me with a Roy Rogers lunch box. I did not tell my parents that I was terrified by this sudden revelation. 

On August 17, 1954, my brother William Patrick Little was born. When my father told me that I had another brother I was admittedly disappointed that once again I did not have a sister. In between knowing that Uncle Bob was very sick and that I would soon be going to school I pouted around the house. My pique mostly went unnoticed because the the adults in my world were so preoccupied with all of the happenings. 

When my little baby brother came home with my mother I showed little interest in seeing him. It did not take long for my curiosity to get the best of me, so I tiptoed into my parents’ bedroom where my mother was resting and Patrick was sleeping in a bassinet that had served both me and Michael. I was stunned when I saw how beautiful Patrick was. He instantly melted my heart and I no longer wanted to trade him in for a sister. 

After Labor Day my first day of school began. My father drove me there and took me to my classroom. I felt as though I was walking through a frightening dream as my teacher, Sister Camilla, greeted me and showed me to my desk. Then Daddy said goodbye and and I was all alone, wanting to cry but daring not to do so because I did not want anyone to know how I was feeling. 

At first my school days were like torture. I envied my brothers who had the privilege of staying at home with our mother. Before long I realized that Sister Camilla was a great teacher and a living angel. I also found a friend named Virginia who was incredibly kind to me, explaining the way things work at school. I realized that I enjoyed learning how to read and write and do arithmetic. Even the homework was fun because Mama sat with me while I read assigned pages, learned how to spell new words, and practiced making my letters. It was a special time during which I had her total attention and my progress made my father so proud. 

My Uncle Bob did not make it, just as I had feared. In February of 1955 he died leaving my Aunt Speedy to raise their daughter Sandra who had been born the previous October. There was little talk about his death. I suppose that the adults did not think that I understood the impact of such a thing. I’m certain that they thought they were sheltering me, but I knew and I grieved in my little girl way without telling anyone how I was feeling. I knew even then that he was one of the most remarkable people I would ever know.

Patrick only became cuter and cuter as time passed and I found myself feeling a special attachment to him, as though I was a secondary mother to him. My friends in the neighborhood often told me how lucky I was to have such a sweet and beautiful baby brother. Somehow I felt personally responsible for his perfection. Playing with him was so much fun and I loved him deeply. 

At school the members of my class prepared for First Communion but I was too young to receive that sacrament. Even though I went through all of the instructions with them I would have to wait until I was seven years old and in the second grade. I am certain that I understood the essence of that sacrament, but as usual adults around me seemed to believe that I was too immature to fully grasp certain concepts. 

First grade was the time when the polio vaccine became widely available for the school children of the nation. I remember lining up for my first jab with my classmates. My heart felt as though it was beating in my throat and my anxiety rose higher and higher as I inched toward the nurse who was giving the shots. I was admittedly frightened of needles so I said a few of the prayers that I had learned since starting school. When it was my turn for the injection I thought I was going to faint, but the ordeal was over more quickly than I had imagined it would be. 

Later my mother expressed her relief that I would be protected from the terrible scourge of polio. She reminded me that President Franklin Roosevelt had ben afflicted by the virus. She pointed out that the little boy at my school who walked with braces on his legs had contracted the disease and become paralyzed. Now, she assured me, I would never have to worry about that horrible illness. It get a few more jabs but eventually I only had to swallow a sugar cube to complete my vaccinations for polio.

My first year of school seemed to be the year of catching diseases. I was the first in our neighborhood to get the mumps which made me the center of attention. All of the moms sent their children to visit me because they purposely wanted their kids to get sick with the mumps as children rather  than waiting for later. The same thing happened when I came down with the chicken pox. I seemed to become the celebrated Typhoid Mary of the neighborhood as word spread that I was a good source for getting yet another childhood disease out of the way. 

All in all with the exception of Uncle Bob’s death life felt good. It had been a year of new beginnings. I left first grade able to read, write, spell and calculate with ease. I had many friends, including a boy who had a crush on me. I would never again have to worry about contracting polio, mumps or chickenpox. I loved my little brothers and my parents were wonderful, but as it always seems to be in life more changes were on the way.    

Michael was a good brother from the start. He was always quiet, good natured and curious about everything. He quickly fit right into the family. Sadly sometimes he became very ill due to his asthma. There were times when my mother would be rocking him for long stretches with a worried look on her face. There were even occasions when our family physician, Dr. C. Forrest Jorns, would make a house call to check on Michael. I remember Mama disinfecting the top of our kitchen table and placing a blanket on it so that the good doctor might examine my baby brother. 

Most of the time Michael was just a happy little boy who loved to be outside exploring the world. Because my mother wanted to be able to take us on excursions to the Houston Zoo and to visit with her brothers and sisters, my father purchased a used car called a Henry J. I thought the name was funny and the car itself was even more so. From the beginning Daddy complained that he had purchased a lemon that leaked oil and was mostly unreliable. He got rid of it rather quickly so that when Mama wanted to go somewhere with the car she had to drive my father to a nearby bus stop. 

I have no idea where my father was working at the time. Somehow I lacked the curiosity to ask him about that. All I know is that suddenly one day he announced that we were moving temporarily to Tulsa, Oklahoma for a big project that needed his expertise. We simply locked up our house on Kingsbury Street and headed for a place that really excited him because he had been born in Skiatook, Oklahoma in 1923. He had also gone to middle school there, so he was familiar with the area and looked forward to returning if only for a short time. 

We ended up renting an old home located in a tree lined neighborhood. Most of the residents seemed to be as old as my grandparents, but Mama became fast friends with them very quickly. We often visited with the older ladies while my father was at work. Everything about the house and the neighborhood felt ancient compared to the thriving area we had left behind. There were no children around so I spent most of my time attempting to create games with my brother who was only just beginning to toddle around. 

My favorite memory from that time was attending a Native American night time powwow. It remains one of the most remarkable things I have ever witnessed to this very day. The people were decked out in traditional clothing that included an abundance of colorful feathers, beads and leather. Their chanting was  haunting and beautiful. The drumbeats and flutes were like nothing I had ever before heard. I was enthralled. 

Back then the Howdy Doody show was a big thing with children. Michael and I watched it together virtually every afternoon. Imagine my joy when I learned that Buffalo Bob and Clarabell  the Clown were going to visit a local grocery store. Mama was almost as excited as I was that we were going to see such stars in person. I remember feeling breathless when I saw Buffalo Bill walking toward us, but a bit disappointed that he looked so normal. Somehow I had imagined that he would be bigger than life. 

On another day Mr. Peanut showed up at the store complete with his pince-nez. When he approached us with his hand ready to shake ours Michael uncharacteristically became hysterical. Not even Mama was able to calm him down so we had to flee from the store to halt his anxiety. I don’t think I ever again saw him cry until he was an adult when my mother was very sick. 

I was glad when we finally returned home. I had missed my dance classes at a studio that was just around the corner from our house. I wanted to see my cousins and visit my grandparents again. I also longed to go to the new mall that had opened up just down the street. Palm Center was a wonder with stores of every variety. It was literally a one stop shopping area that featured a pharmacy, a grocery store, a variety store, a furniture store and lots of clothing and shoe stores. Best of all there was always an organ grinder there with his pet monkey that was so cute that I always laughed when I saw him dancing around. 

There was a local kiddie show on television station KTRK, Channel 13. The star of the show was Kitirik, a woman dressed in a catsuit who celebrated children’s birthdays and showed cartoons. The day she came to Palm Center was a really big deal for all of us youngsters. I have to admit that I was a bit confused as to whether or not she was a regular person or a very strange looking cat.

My favorite thing about returning to Houston was visiting my grandparents again. My father’s parents lived in the Houston Heights at 1607 Arlington in a home that my grandfather actually built. I loved going there on Sundays for dinner. My grandmother, Minnie Bell, was an extraordinary cook. Everything she made was exquisite, but her berry pies and strawberry shortcakes were absolutely heaven. From an early time she taught me how to set the table with her silver and her china dishes that were called Happy Village. I felt like a big shot whenever I helped her to get ready for dinner.

Grandpa, William Mack Little, held court on their screened in front porch with a big box fan moving the air. I sat on the glider that was festooned with thick cushions and listened to his stories or tales about whatever book he was currently reading. He always puffed on his pipe as he spoke about an article he had read in the newspaper or one of his magazines. He was an imposing man who seemed to command respect wherever he happened to be. 

Our Friday nights were spent with my maternal grandmother, Mary Ulrich, who spoke only Slovak. She was almost as round as she was tall which was well under five feet. She wore her hair in a old fashioned braid that trailed down her back and she walked around in her bare feet. She was beautiful to me with her dark hair and stunning blue eyes even though her face was filled with wrinkles. She called everyone either “pretty girl” or “pretty boy” and was the consummate hostess. As soon as we arrived she would rush to her kitchen to make us a cup of weak milk and sugar coffee served in enamel cups. If she had a loaf of dark rye bread from the Weingarten’s grocery store she would offer us a slice as well. 

My paternal grandfather, Paul Ulrich, had died from a cerebral hemorrhage before I was born. I only knew that he must have liked to read because he had books of every kind inside lawyers bookcases. I was not yet reading but I was intrigued by the many shapes and sizes of the volumes. My mother told me that my Grandpa had read all of the time and often shared what he had learned with his children. I have always wished that I might have met him.

It was always fun at Grandma Ulrich’s house because my cousins came to visit at the same time with my aunts and uncles. The adults would talk at the top of their voices trying to get the floor while playing poker and filling the tiny living room with smoke. Even the smallest children played outside. It was like heaven to create games and just be ourselves with the adults hovering over us.

Sometimes my Uncle Bob and Aunt Speedy would come to stay at our house for a few days. They lived in Corpus Christi, Texas, where my father had gone to high school. Uncle Bob, Bob Janowski, along with a man named Lloyd Krebs, were my father’s best friends. They had all gone to high school together and then set off to Texas A&M College where each of them earned a degree. Aunt Speedy was my mother’s sister. Her real name was Wilma, put she officially used the name Claudia. My parents had introduced her to Uncle Bob when we all lived in College Station. Everyone was thrilled when they married, especially me.

Both Uncle Bob and Aunt Speedy were physically beautiful. When they came to visit the other children in my neighborhood were as in awe of them as I was. They drove a white Studebaker that was sporty and quite fitting because it made them seem like movie stars or celebrities of some kind. I adored both of them and they often spoiled me so their visits were always a highlight.

Otherwise life rocked along quite wonderfully and then my mother announced that another baby was on the way. I wished with all of my might for a sister and then waited for the day of birth. There would be incredible surprises ahead.