Siblings and Poison Ivy

This was my brother Gene, a year or two younger in this
photo, who made me a stick and vegetation village.

With little to stimulate our Mom's creative mind, she often escaped to the great outdoors to rid herself from the boredom of hot sweltering summer days in the 1940s and 1950s.  Those were days before air conditioning.  One summer afternoon in Sikeston my brother Gene and I went fishing with our mother out to one of the LRDD[1] ditches on the outskirts of town.  Our mother loved to fish.  Gene and I neither one liked to fish and were not fond of tagging along with our mother to one of her favorite fishing places.  Back then, there were no iPads, cell phones, or the like to entertain us while waiting for her to decide to return home. 

  

We found a shady area along the side of the ditch and settled in for the long wait for our mother to conclude her fishing endeavor.  Like our mother, Gene was a creative person too and envisioned concepts others could not see.  He often drew cars and buildings when nothing was going on at the time.  That day, Gene decided to play big brother and entertain me.  He started to build a small village out of the sticks and vegetation found in the shaded area.  I helped by finding just the right size sticks for his village.  After an hour or so he built an impressive small village of seven or eight buildings, along with a road dug into the sand between the buildings.  He was pleased with his creation, and I was happy to have him along as company for the outing. 

Before long, our mother decided the fish were not taking her bait that day, and it was time to go home.  A few hours after returning home, Gene began to itch.  Once he started scratching his hands and arms, large red, watery, whelps began to surface.  My Mother looked at his itching body and said, “Well Gene, you have a bad case of poison ivy.  What were you two doing while I was fishing?”  He told her that we made a few buildings and a small village out of the sticks and vegetation in the area.  He explained it was the only shaded area we could find to wait on her.  He could not understand why I did not have poison ivy too.  Our Mother explained, “Sticks most likely were not covered in the ivy vine.  Therefore, your sister’s body didn’t touch the poison oil that causing the poison ivy rash.”  Poor Gene suffered from the results of that fun afternoon for about ten days.  He had large weeping whelps on his skin that about drove him crazy.

I remember that the treatments our Father used on Gene to rid him of the poison ivy was about as bad as the ailment itself.  Dad put some paste on him named “Blue Stone” and it burned Gene so bad that he ran outside, then ran in circles in the back yard.  As a little sister, I felt bad that Gene got the itchy rash because he was entertaining me; and that the Blue Stone treatment was painful.  However, I was sure glad I didn’t get it.  Since that day, I am careful when I venture into mother nature.  I look carefully for the dreadful poison ivy vine and avoid it.

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[1]  LRDD = Little River Drainage District

1950s Dating in Sikeston, Missouri

Tom and me with Monoply Board

My freshman year at Sikeston High School I enjoyed playing trumpet in the band, marching in the band at football games and parades, being with my girlfriends in Red Peppers, participating in the National Forensic League (a speech and debating club), and a few more activities.  But most of all I enjoyed spending time with Tom Harmon.

I remember that each day after school he would be waiting for me by the Band Building.  He would carry part of my things and we would go to Wag's and get a Pepsi and Fifth Avenue candy bar.  On the way home, we would share the 12-ounce drink, in a bottle, and 3 ounce candy bar.   We stopped at Heath Street to go our separate ways.  We looked into each other’s eyes and hating parting.  We must have looked ridiculous to others.  We were very young, only 14 and 16 years old my Freshman year, and yet thinking we were grown-up.  Surprisingly, I am still with that skinny, pimple faced boy.  He is no longer skinny and has put on weight over the years.  His skin is now clear and he is a handsome man.

Tom had no car, so we walked places.  I know that seems odd today, but in the 1950s and early 1960s people in small towns often walked places.  Most families had only one car that they shared.  Dad always had the last word on who got to use the car at any given time.  Partly because we walked, everyone was thinner back then.  People never ate in their cars, they ate together at the kitchen or dining room table.  In general, everyone was more active, and kids played outside until their mothers called them in at evening time. 

There was not a lot to do in Sikeston without a car.  We went to the movies one a week and went out driving around with friends in their cars.   Tom came over to my house almost every night.  My parents were not fond of cards, so we played board games at my house, like Chinese Checkers or Monopoly.  Most evenings we walked out back and sit on the picnic table and talked.  When my Dad came out and coughed it was time to go back inside, and for Tom to go to his home.

My parents tried to interest me in other things so I didn't spend as much time with Tom but that rarely worked.  I do remember my going to Band Camp one summer at Southeast Missouri State in Cape Girardeau.  That was a lot of fun.  I made new friends and interacted with students who all enjoyed playing music.

Oh, if we only knew then, what we know now.  I realize now that our youth is a time to explore opportunities and broad friendships.  Had I not been wrapped up in Tom Harmon I might have had a much richer High School experience.  I have had a good life and would change only a few things.  I look forward to my class reunions and will be in Sikeston attending my 55^th SHS Class of 1962 reunion this September.  I realize how much I missed in school when I listen to friends fondly recall all they did in high school, without being focused on a single person.  Sadly, we can only give young people advice to enjoy their youth, each one has to experience it their way.  What is good for many, is not always good for others.  Those differences make life and people interesting.  I remember that walking home with Tom Harmon made me happy then, and I still enjoy walking beside him today.

My Father's Hands

My swing that Dad built in 1951

There are many memories of my father, Curtis Henry Cline.  Here are two distinct memories. My Dad was physically strong due to working with his hands.  They were large, strong and tough from hard work, but when he touched me they were gentle.  I loved my Father’s hands and I thought he could do anything with those hands. On the emotional side, he was a tenderhearted man.  He used to read the Herald Of Holiness magazine from our church and tears would run down his eyes when he read of the needs throughout the world, or of an uplifting article.

When I was about five-years-old, I remember wanting a swing .   I kept asking my Dad to build me one in my sweetest voice. I knew he worked from sun up to sun down, but I was sure he could squeeze in time to make my swing.  He had a welding shop behind our home, and I guess I thought he would make it there.  One day he kneed down on his knee to my level and with tears in his eyes said “Margaret if you want a swing as badly as you say, I will build you one tomorrow.”  And he did!  He welded a metal bar across the top from our shed to another bar he buried next to our fence.  He hung log chains down from the cross bar to a wooden seat he made for me.  I thought my Dad was wonderful back when I was a little girl and continued to think so until he died December 21, 2002, at the age of ninety-one.  Curtis Henry Cline was my first hero.

Another time, I moved to St. Louis, Missouri and rented a small apartment on the third floor of the building.  Needing furniture, I asked Mom and Dad to let me use some of their extra furniture.  They agreed to help me and Dad loaded some furniture in his truck and drove from Sikeston, Missouri to my Aunt Beulah and Uncle Orville’s house where I was staying until I had furniture for the apartment.  He arrived about 10:00 am and we drove from the suburbs to St. Louis where my apartment was located.  I tried to help him move as much as possible, but it seems I was more in his way, with the furniture than a help.  Therefore, he strapped the dresser on his back and walked the three flights of steps to my new place.  He did the same thing with more furniture.  I carried the boxes and bedding.  When he got to the top of the stairs with the last piece of furniture, he stopped and asked me, “how much less are the rooms on the third floor than the ones on the first floor?”  I told him they were $30 a month less.  He said he would pay the difference for me to live on the first floor when I moved again.  He never complained, he only let me know he wished it had been on the first floor.  Whenever I needed anything, he was there for me with his usual smile.  There are many more memories I want to write but I want to concentrate on his ethics and character in the next blog about Curtis Henry Cline.

My Father's Hands

I wrote about my Dad, Curtis Henry Cline, in his early years a few weeks ago.  I want to reflect on him as a father today.  My father was physically strong due to working with his hands.  I loved my Father’s hands.  They were large, strong and tough from hard work.  On the emotional side, he was a tender-hearted man.  He used to read the Herald Of Holiness magazine from our church and tears would run down his eyes when he read of the needs throughout the world, or of an uplifting article.  He often picked me up in his arms and toted me around with him, when I was small, and I could feel the love he felt for me. I was a lucky child. I remember wanting a swing when I was about five years old.   I kept asking him to build me one in my sweetest voice. I knew he worked from sun up to sun down, but I was sure he could squeeze in time to make my swing.  He had a welding shop behind our home, and I guess I thought he would make it there.  One day he kneeled down on his knee to my level and with tears in his eyes said “Margaret if you want a swing as badly as you say I will build you one tomorrow.”  And he did!  He welded a metal bar across the top from our shed to another bar he buried next to our fence.  He hung log chains down from the cross bar to a wooden seat he made for me.  I thought my Dad was wonderful back when I was a little girl, and that he could do anything and continued to think so until he died December 21, 2002, at the age of ninety-one.  Curtis Henry Cline was my first hero.

Another time, I moved to St. Louis, Missouri and rented a small apartment on the third floor of the building.  Needing furniture, I asked Mom and Dad to let me use some of their extra furniture.  They agreed to help me and Dad loaded some furniture in his truck and drove from Sikeston, Missouri to my Aunt Beulah and Uncle Orville’s house where I was staying until I had furniture for the apartment.  He arrived about 10:00 am and we drove from the suburbs to St. Louis where my apartment was located.  I tried to help him move as much as possible, but it seems I was more in his way, with the furniture than a help.  Therefore, he strapped the dresser on his back and walked the three flights of steps to my new place.  He did the same thing with more furniture.  I carried the boxes and bedding.  When he got to the top of the stairs with the last piece of furniture, he stopped and asked me, “how much less are the rooms on the third floor than the ones on the first floor?”  I told him they were $30 a month less.  He said he would pay the difference for me to live on the first floor when I moved again.  He never complained, he only let me know he wished it had been on the first floor.  Whenever I needed anything, he was there for me with his usual smile.  There are many more memories I want to write but I want to concentrate on his ethics and character in the next issue.

Curtis H Cline – A Great Father and Role Model

This collage covers the early life of my father.  Curtis Cline enjoyed his parents, siblings and grandma Kline while growing up in a beautiful two-story home on the outskirts of Morehouse, Missouri.  He excelled in in his school work, especially mathematics, and wanted to go to college but the Great Depression stopped that dream.  He made All-State in Football and men who knew him from Morehouse High School, and Southeast Missouri said he could have played in the pros. 

Curtis loved his wife, Marie, and their three children and was very faithful to God and the First Church of the Nazarene.  He enjoyed teaching boys Sunday School class and stayed in touch with several of the boys after they graduated and left Sikeston.  Curtis Cline was the Sunday School Superintendent for a few years too.  Most of all, he loved working his mind and body.  He also loved food.  When he went somewhere with the family, often he took his bookkeeping with him because there was not enough time, he said, to get it done if we took time off to do leisurely things.  I remember him leaving the house at dawn and returning after the sun went down.  He was happiest when he was working or eating.  He was also happy when he was with family.  Often, he took his family with him when he drove one of the trucks to spread limestone, and to make collections.  Our family enjoyed eating out at restaurants too and some weekends, several families from church took the Tiptonville (TN) Ferry from below Charleston, MO over to Tennessee to eat catfish.  I enjoyed the ferry ride but I have never enjoyed fish or any food that comes out of the water.  I enjoyed the hush puppies.  I remember the restaurant in Tiptonville was on Kentucky Lake and most of the dining area was screened-in.  Of course, back then there was no air-conditioning.

My father was an excellent role model.  Every Wednesday, he came home at noon, went into the master bedroom, shut the door and prayed for one house.  He also fasted lunch every Wednesday.  Late in life, when he went to the nursing home in Sikeston, I received a call from the Director of the home complaining that he refused to each lunch on Wednesdays.  They tried everything but he would not eat.  They had to document it and could receive bad reviews from the State of Missouri if he did not eat.  I laughed and told her that was part of his religious belief and practice.  I had to send her a note in writing asking that he be excused from eating lunch on Wednesdays.  

He had one speed, fast.  He was funny, without trying to be, he was compassionate and had a temper now and then.  Once the temper exploded, he forgot about what made him mad within minutes.  He held no grudges and was honest as the day is long.  I feel privileged to have been the daughter of Curtis H. Cline.

Next week, I will talk about his middle to late life.

Memories of Sikeston, Missouri

                                         

Most of us who grew up in a small town have fond memories of our hometown.  For me, it was Sikeston, Missouri. We could walk anywhere, anytime and by yourself, if we wanted.  We knew the neighbors on both sides of our house and usually many more neighbors.  If my parents were not home for some reason and I needed an adult, I just went to a friendly neighbor.  We knew all the neighbor kids that went to school with us too.

I have posted pictures to bring back memories of the place.  From the library to the Bank of Sikeston with its painted mural (I believe it is a Thomas Hart Benton mural) on the back wall, to Kirby's Sandwich Shop.  Everyone knew you, and we were kind to one another.

  

Those of us born in the mid-1940s experienced a freedom of movement that children today could hardly imagine.  We could get on our bikes and ride all over town as long as we were home by the time our Mom told us to be home.  I was blessed with good loving parents, but I am sure there was some child abuse back then too.  We just never heard of it.  Not one of my friends talked badly about their parents.  Their siblings were another story.  That has not changed over the years.  It was not perfect, of course.  The relations between Blacks and Whites were not acceptable. Many Whites had a feeling of superiority over Blacks, and I was uncomfortable with that back then, and still am today.  As a child and teenager, you just seem to go with the flow.  Today, I defend my opinion, when different than the majority, in as non-offensive manner as possible. 

   

Who could forget the Jaycee Bootheel Rodeo?  I looked forward to purchasing my western clothes for the rodeo, the Rodeo Parade, and learning who the movie or TV star would be that year.  I wish I had saved some of the programs to remind me of all the stars that appeared at the Rodeo while I lived at home.

    

     

Another great memory is of the Gay 90's Village and all those moving and loud musical instruments.  I begged my Dad to take me there all the time.  We would go out to the Village about once a week.  Sadly, it is gone now, but I am grateful to Mr. Eakins for restoring all those beautiful instruments so they can continue to bring joy to old and young alike.  My husband Tom and I visited Eureka Springs, Arkansas in 2006.  In the lobby of one of their historical hotels stands one of the larger models roped off to the public.  In the front left corner is a sign stating, "purchased from Paul Eakins of Sikeston, Missouri."  Just think, I played the instrument in the Gay 90's Village weekly.  Today, it is by special invitation only.  I think a bit of each of us remains the child from our hometown.  Our hearts skip a bit when we connect to those formative years.