All It Takes Is A Little Love

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.

Life on Kingsbury Street was joyful. My mother and father slowly and carefully purchased furniture for the house and I usually accompanied them on their shopping days. I’d watch my father opening and closing drawers to be certain that they slid smoothly in and out. He ran his hands across the finish to determine if it was well done. He wanted to invest in timeless pieces that would last for a lifetime with my mom. The two of them would get so excited when they found exactly what they had hoped to encounter. There was even more celebrating when the tables and chairs and sofas and beds were delivered. 

For me the best purchase was a television which my parents placed in the dining room for which they had not yet found a table that they liked. It would become the focus of entertainment for us in those early days of television when everything was black and white. Shows were mostly of thirty minute duration and the bulk of them were comedies and westerns. For me there were wonderful children programs that my mother allowed me to view in the mornings. 

What I most enjoyed, however, was watching comedies with my father. I did not always understand the nuances of the humor but I thrilled at hearing my father laugh from deep down in his belly. I still remember his favorites, Sid Caesar, Jackie Gleason, Red Skelton. There may have been more but my mother limited my time in front of the television to an hour and a day and she monitored the programs to be certain that my young mind would not be subjected to adult entertainment. 

Our neighborhood was a child’s dream with neighbors who seemed to adore my parents. On one side there was an older couple with teenage children. They took my parents under their wings often providing help and advice to them. On the other side were a man and his wife, the Wrights, who had not yet begun a family with children. Mrs Wright was a professional artist and her husband was an architect. Their house was filled with modern avantgarde furniture, paintings and sculpture. To me they were exciting people much like Auntie Mame and I loved going to their house. Mrs.Wright taught me to draw and often told my mother that she thought I showed some talent that should be cultivated. I still remember the times under her tutelage as being wonderful.

Behind us were duplex apartments where a woman who was old enough to be my grandmother lived. She and my mother became fast friends immediately and the two of them shared a morning cup of coffee in our kitchen almost everyday. The woman cared for her elderly father so she was never able to stay for very long because she feared that he might leave the house and get lost. In fact, one day such a thing actually happened and i remember walking through the neighborhood with my mother hoping to find the poor soul. When we finally saw him he was crouching in fear wearing nothing but the skin with which he was born. I was shocked but my mother soothed my worries by explaining that the old man was sick and he did not realize he was unclothed. 

My best friend was a girl my age named Merrily. Her parents had divorced, something that was quite foreign to me. She sometimes lived with her mom and sometimes with her dad and new stepmother. Whenever she was back in my neighborhood her family invited me over to play with her and we enjoyed each other so much. I loved her name and her dog that was a Chesapeake Bay Retriever. She was a happy girl with beautiful hair that reminded me of my mom’s lovely locks. I had somehow been stuck with thin baby fine hair that always seemed inadequate for making ponytails and braids like Merrily sported so beautifully. We shared secrets and laughter as though we were sisters.

Around the corner from our home was a UTotem convenience store that I sometimes visited with my father. He’d let me have a cold soft drink from a huge cooler filled with ice. The proprietor of the store was a man named Shorty which I thought was hilarious because he was a large imposing soul with a smile as big as his girth. He and Daddy told each other the latest jokes and discussed sports, a topic that I knew nothing about but made be proud that my father was so knowledgeable. Daddy seemed to be able to to talk anyone while I always felt very shy. 

On Saturdays we often visited a music store where my father would purchase a new classical music recording. Back in the fifties the stores allowed customers to listen to selections before making the final purchase. I got a thrill out of wearing the headphones, listening to the symphonies and voicing my opinions to my dad who seemed to take my critiques quite seriously. I learned a great deal about music and famous composers from him even though I was not yet old enough for school. 

We had not been living on Kingsbury for very long when my mother and father announced that my mother was going to have a baby. In those days nobody knew whether a girl or a boy would arrive so my mother prepared a room with neutral yellow colors. I was excited about the baby but a bit sad that his impending arrival required my parents to dismantle the room that had served as my father’s study. It had held a draft table where he worked on designs for his mechanical engineering job. I loved watching him carefully create the schematics by hand. They were strange but beautiful to me. 

One time my father had used his tools to create a scale drawing of our house. Then he built a replica of the home using balsa wood. The finished project looked just like our house down to the smallest details of cedar shakes, bricks and roofing. I thought it was the most remarkable thing that I had ever seen, but more than anything I was in awe that my father was able to create something so magnificent. I never knew what eventually happened to the miniature rendition of our house, but after the room was converted to a nursery I never saw it again. To this very day I wish that someone had saved it. What a treasure it would be!

Things were changing and soon enough my mother was gone for a time. My aunts would watch me while Daddy was at work during the day. At night he came home after visiting my mom at the hospital to tell me that I had a new brother named Jack Michael Little who was born on January 6, 1952. Soon after the baby and my mother arrived to much fanfare. The house was abuzz with visitors and relations who cooked and cleaned and cared for me and my mother while she recovered from the birth. Michael as he would always be called slept most of the time in a bassinet in my parents’ room. If I was very good and promised to be quiet I got to tiptoe in to see the baby boy with his dark hair and dark eyes. Life would change but it would be quite nice. Not only was our family growing, but Houston was changing rapidly. It was on its way to becoming a major city and I would be privy to its rise.

I was there on the day I was born, but I do not remember anything about the occasion. My mother had to fill in the details for me. She tells me that it was a cold November day. She had spent the morning gathering pecans in the yard around the garage apartment where she and my father lived on Heights Boulevard in Houston, Texas. I can almost see her crawling around on the grass wearing my father’s wool Army coat to keep warm while hunting for the nuts and storing them in a paper bag. It was so like her to find joy in nature’s bounty. She was a young twenty two year old who was glamorously beautiful with her full head of wavy black hair and her sultry brown eyes.

No doubt she already had plans to use her pecans to create cookies or candies for the soon to come holidays. Instead her back began to hurt so she went inside to lie down for a bit. While she was resting her water broke so she knew it was time to go to the hospital. She called my father and he hurried home from work. Then then two of them traveled the short distance to Heights Hospital where her doctor was already waiting for her. 

Mama never mentioned anything about the birth process itself. It must have gone without incident or she would have said something. So I suppose that within a few hours I was born without incident on November 18, 1948, a bald headed wonder with a chubby face and blue eyes that would quickly turn brown. They named me Sharron Dianne Little with the double letters in each name because my mother thought they looked pretty that way. Being a mom was my mother’s greatest dream, so needless to say she was quite happy to have a little girl to love and cherish for the her rest of her life.

She and my father took me home to the garage apartment that is no longer there. The owners sold both their home and the apartment many years ago. For a time it was the site of a gas station. Later is became a United States Post Office. Now it is home for little shops. Back then it was a cute but small haven for Mama and Daddy who were both quite young and filled with a lifetime of plans. 

Mama tells me that members of the family flocked to the apartment to visit and help her during her first days home. A baby book that she completed for me is filled with cards and good wishes and lots of information about my sleep habits and my nighttime feedings. Pictures from that time show me dressed in sweaters that my grandmothers and aunts had crocheted in pastel colors. Mama bragged that she kept me warm by swaddling me in blankets that were handmade as well. I don’t have to remember those times to know how much I was loved. The care with which my mother created that baby books tells me all I ever need to understand.

My father was still a student at Texas A&M College studying Mechanical Engineering. The institution was not yet a university, but a land grant college founded in the late nineteen hundreds. It was still an all male institution and the arch rival of the University of Texas in Austin. Daddy took awhile graduating because he often had to suspend his attendance to work so that he might save money for food and housing while at the school. He was young and handsome and full of energy, so the pressures of being a student, husband and father didn’t seem to bother him at all. He loved learning and his quest for knowledge would never really end. Going to school was like a holiday for him so these would be some of his happiest of times.

Not long after I was born our family headed for the married student housing area of Texas A&M and my first adventure at a college. My father was a bonafide high spirited Aggie. He never missed a football game and he often dressed me in maroon and white gear. He sung The Spirit of Aggieland to me as though it was a lullaby. Meanwhile my mother joined cheerfully into all of the traditions and often spoke with a kind of reverence of how happy we all were while we lived there.

I have seem pictures of my father hoisting me on his shoulders as he smiled happily in front of the small apartment that we all shared. There are photos of me standing with my thumbs up wearing an Aggie emblazoned sweater. I suspect that maroon will always be in my DNA. To this day it is one of my favorite colors and I seem to wear it well.

I have no real memories of actually existing until my father had graduated and landed his first job. He and my mother immediately purchased a house on Kingsbury Street in southeast Houston. I can remember vivid details of our time there even though I could not have been more than three years old when we first arrived. It was a lovely house with gleaming wooden floors, three bedrooms, a large kitchen and a living room and dining room combination. On the back of the house was a screened in porch that looked onto a huge backyard. Since it was brand new everything about it was shiny and perfect. 

The only thing I remember from before moving to our first real house is a shadowy moment in which I am sitting on my mother’s lap on a boat. We are surrounded by lots of people and I can feel the ship rocking up and down. There is wind blowing in my face and even though I am safely with my mother I had the feeling that I was unsure of being okay. All of a sudden everyone began moving to the side of the boat and pointing to a huge figure that looked like a giant standing in the water. It scared me and I hid my face in my mother’s chest while she cradled me and told me everything would be okay. She and I later surmised that we had been going to see the Statue of Liberty when I was about two years old. Years later when I went there as an adult I had a profound sense of deja vu.

Memories of our new home on the other hand were not frightening at all and I would enjoy our time time there with the unbridled enthusiasm of a very young child. There would be many great times ahead as I went from being the center of all of my parents’ attention to sharing them with new members of my family.

One of my favorite shows is Finding Your Roots on PBS. Right now the program focuses on famous people who invariably find information about their ancestors that they never knew. Some of it is quite exciting and some is quite depressing. Whatever the story, it is a moving experience to learn more about the people from whom one has descended. Invariably those being featured become quite emotional about the information that they learn for the first time. 

I suppose that each of us has a kind of longing to know more about our ancestry. I’ve researched mine for years now and I keep hitting a brick wall when it comes to most of my forebears, but especially my paternal grandfather. I wish I had taken more interest in tying his stories down to specific facts while I had the opportunity to talk with him. I need to know names and places and relationships that I never thought to ask him to convey. Now I am filled with very specific questions the answers of which might unlock the story of one fourth of the people who came before me. 

I recently read an article espousing the idea that each of us should leave a written record of our lives for the descendants who will one day follow us. Every life is important and I can’t imagine anything that would bring me as much joy as actually finding a written self portrait of one of my ancestors. Of course I realize that the reality is no doubt that few if any of them were ever educated enough to learn to read or write. Nonetheless, even one document would be a treasure for me and my children and grandchildren. 

I imagine finding a diary or a sheaf of letters written by an ancestor. Even a small family tree with names and dates would be proof of a life. Instead I only know about my mother and father and a tiny bit about my grandparents. I suppose that writing about them will fall to me. At least it will provide those who come after me with impressions of the people that I have most loved and perhaps from my writings they will be able to understand who I have been as a person better than if there were no stories at all.

My maternal grandmother was illiterate but I have traced our mutual ancestry all the way back to medieval Vikings in Norway. I know that her father fought in the Union Army during our Civil War. I can speak of where her mother was buried and the church that she attended. I see our roots in England and the early days of the American colonies. It is a rich and interesting history that gives me a better idea of how I became the person that I am.

I at least know that my maternal grandparents came from the region that is now the country of Slovakia. I know who their parents and great grandparents were. I have proof that they were baptized as Catholics. I know where they were born and how they traveled on a steamship to come to America. I have access to my grandfather’s naturalization information. Later I even have copies of yearbook pages that featured my mother when she was in high school. 

Only my paternal grandfather remains a puzzle. He explained how is mother died shortly after he was born and he gave me a name for his father. In all of my searches I have found nothing to indicate that his father ever lived or that the grandmother who supposedly raised him existed either. I know who his guardian was after his grandmother died. Grandpa claimed he was an uncle, but nothing in the man’s family tree indicates any kind of connection with my grandfather. It is true that the guardian graduated from the United States Military Academy at West Point and subsequently died while on active duty Puerto Rico. None of his ancestors have ever heard anything about my grandfather being his charge. 

We would all do well to write autobiographies of ourselves to hand down to our children. I can’t think of anything that would be more of a treasure. I have written a book which is mostly about my mother, but I need to begin working on my own story, a kind of diary of my experiences and my thoughts. It almost sounds like a fun project that is long overdue. I might even turn it into an actual gift for my children and grandchildren. These days it’s fairly easy to find someone who will design a book cover and bind a few copies for little expense. It would be something quite special that I would think would also be exceedingly therapeutic for me. 

I’ve lived through some quite interesting times that now seem like the long ago to young people. A hundred years from now my journey will sound quite ancient and maybe a little bit interesting. I’m ready to begin. Maybe I might even turn my story into a series by writing a bit each day for my blog. Who knows even my readers might find my ordinary life a bit unique. I think I will begin.