Miss Hattie Daniel 1878-1973

Funny thing about our memories. Sometimes we have vivid recollections of events that we didn’t actually participate in but have heard about so often that we truly believe our recollections are based on first hand experience.  I suppose Miss Hattie Daniel was one of those memories for me.

Every one called her Hattie or Miss Hattie.  She lived most of her life alone with the exception of her final years when she moved in with another elderly woman we all called Grandma Breland.  Hattie was considered to be a loner with few friends.  She could be difficult at times, but when you are answerable to no one, it’s a lot easier to be difficult.

Unlike my parents, two recent college graduates with high hopes for the future but empty bank accounts, Miss Hattie owned a house she had inherited and she rented it as the primary source of her income.  My parents lived in that house for approximately a year and a half, leaving it when I was three years old to buy a house three blocks away that would become the Dantzler Street ‘home’ for the Shields family that would eventually grow to six.

Miss Hattie’s house was on Griffin Street - a street that was still unpaved in the early 1940's when we lived there although it had provided the bed foundation for an old streetcar line.   The streetcar had run between Moss Point and the Pascagoula beach during the times prior to the depression when the local sawmill and timber industries led the world in exporting yellow pine lumber.  No one could have remotely suspected that after more than 60 years later, I would have lived at an address across the street from Hattie’s house for almost a half century.  I still do.

But true to the stereotype of the old spinster woman, Hattie’s reputation was that she didn’t like children.  Couldn’t abide them.  Wouldn’t abide them!  But as legend would have it, she made a single exception.  Me.  

According to my mother (and some of her friends) Hattie actually volunteered to baby sit me once during the time my parents were moving their belongings to the new address on Dantzler Street.  I have no idea whether or not I was being difficult (aren’t all three year olds?) but apparently Hattie thought I was and proceeded to admonish or threaten me…depending on whose version of the story you choose to believe.  But, as the tale progresses, she turned her back for a brief period and like a flash, I disappeared.  Could not be found. 

Hattie panicked.  What was she going to tell my mother?  Why had she agreed to do this anyway?  The search party was quickly formed although I suspect that my mother might have considered its ultimate function of the posse to be that of a lynch mob.  An hour passed.  Almost another hour elapsed before I was found.  Safe…sound…and hiding from Miss Hattie.  When asked why I had done it, I told them I was afraid of her.

I have no doubt that Hattie never considered for a minute that a three year old would actually be so fearful of her that they would run and hide.  And when she realized it, it made a huge impression.  Gifts began to come.  A solid wood wardrobe closet that was hand-made by her uncle from heart pine cut in the mill a quarter of a mile down the street. A mahogany bed that was used by one of her ancestors (probably Francis B. Daniel who is buried next to Hattie in Griffin Cemetery) to convalesce when he came home wounded from the Civil War.  And a steamer trunk that was alleged to have belonged to a ship’s Captain on one of the sailing ships that came up the river to the sawmills empty and sailed back loaded with lumber for the Caribbean.  All gifts to Richard from Hattie.  My Mother called them peace offerings. 

I called them great. They were my prized possessions. I slept in that bed for years and still have it in what I now refer to as a guest bedroom.  Still have the wardrobe and trunk as well.  But more importantly, I still have the memories of Miss Hattie  And they’re all good.

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When you're wrong...you're wrong!

A friend of mine was fond of the phrase, “If you want to start an argument, you’re going to have to change the subject”.  I suppose this is a classic way of saying that there is nothing that you can say when you can’t take issue with the obvious. Today, I found myself in that situation.

Several years ago, I set out to document some of the meaningful memories of my life and tried to tell them in a way that others might enjoy and keep at least some significant portions of truth in the telling.  For some reason, I stopped.  I told myself that I wasn’t inspired or that I couldn’t find a subject that I really wanted to write about.  The truth is that I probably just didn’t want to make the effort or that other priorities in my life came before the writing.  It just didn’t seem important.

Today, I had a wonderful experience!  An epiphany, if you will.  On a whim, I called a friend from my childhood to thank her for a kindness that she had honored me with and we proceeded to have a marvelous conversation.  We talked about things in our developmental years.  Our parents and the influence that they had on us. Our church…both past and current and the roles it played in determining what we were to become and who we are today.  We spoke of our children.  And their children.  We probably could have gone on for hours.  I know I could have.

And then the bomb dropped.  She asked why I had stopped writing.  After a couple of lame attempts to justify my actions (in this case, inactions), it dawned on me that every thing that we had been chatting about was actually fertile ground that just needed to be turned and planted.  (place comments regarding organic fertilizer here at your peril).  So I promised her that I would make the attempt without committing to a specific schedule.

There was a line in the movie, Dirty Dancing that said, “When I’m wrong, I say I was wrong”.  And I was.  Thanks, Sherry.

The ErmaFest

ErmaFest! That’s the name my brother Tommy came up with. And it fits.

Several months ago, my sister and favorite brother-in-law sat in my den and we began to tell stories. As always, it didn't take long before the primary object of many of the stories became my mother, Erma Shields. You've heard some people described as “people who make news'? My mother made stories. They seemed to breed wherever she was. She was a story incubator. Sometimes she was the teller, sometimes the subject, but never the spectator. She was always involved.

As the evening went on, we realized that twenty-plus years after her passing, there was an entirely new generation of her ancestry that had never had the opportunity to meet her or know her well, and who had never even heard many of the stories we were enjoying. So we decided to do something about it. And on the day before Mother's Day, we scheduled the ErmaFest. We would have a meal and invite family, friends, neighbors, and associates from her school teaching days. As the price of admission, attendees were asked to either bring a story they were willing to share or to bring a question about a story they had heard. And most did. But those closest to her enthusiastically did the most telling and the new generation was pretty much relegated to the roles of listeners and learners. It was hard to tell who had the best time.

The star of the day had to be Wayne Parker. Wayne was a young teacher when he began his association with my mother. She never became Erma to any of her workmates. She was always Mrs. (pronounced Miz in true Southern tradition) Shields. Wayne was always her strong right arm when she was at school. I’m not sure that she viewed him more as a friend or as a son, but I was always glad that she never had to make a choice between keeping Wayne or me. I could have been in trouble. With people like Wayne and Virginia Williams, I was privileged to hear a few stories that I had never heard before.

Wayne told of the time that an assistant superintendent of the school system sent out a directive to all of the teachers regarding professionalism. Unfortunately, the letter must not have been proof read and went to the distribution of more than 100 teachers with an undiscovered spelling mistake. Most people would not embarrass one of their bosses with something so trivial. Most people were not my mother. Wayne said, “out came the red pencil. She circled the error, assigned a ten-point deduction for the mistake, signed her name to the paper, and returned it to his office. We waited for the explosion. We never heard a word”.

Memories like this usually stir other memories of a related nature. My sister quickly followed with another story of a time when a friend had sent a note of some sort to my mother…likely a ‘thank you’ note…that also involved a spelling inaccuracy. Erma did not play favorites - not even to polite college graduates. Out came the red pencil. The paper was graded and returned. The offender was amazed that anyone took spelling so seriously. Erma was a teacher 24 – 7. Another lesson taught. Another lesson learned.

But the thing I enjoyed the most about the day was when one of my nephews, now 28 years old and who had known my mother only briefly, told his parents how functions like this had led him to understand how important family and heritage is and how he had come to appreciate it. That was my definition of success for the ErmaFest.

And that’s how I will remember it.

Transition Points

Transition points are times in your life that are defining moments...times that are highlights in your development...times that have major impacts in determining who you are and who you will become.

Research has shown that transition points are also the times that people past the age of forty - and I more than qualify on that count - remember most vividly. The beginning of the college experience is usually one of the graphic memories that people retain. I suppose that I would have made a good research subject, because this is one of the experiences that seems to have stayed with me. And, for some reason, I revisit it on a regular basis.

The year is 1959. A seventeen year-old finishes in the top ten in his high school graduating class of 156 without having to bother to develop any particularly strong study habits. He has a younger sister and two younger brothers. He has no particular strengths or weaknesses. He may feel a bit better than average were it not for his lack of confidence in himself and a lack of experience with some social skills peculiar to teenage boys.

His parents have spent most of their working lives as school teachers. His family has never missed a meal. In fact, they've never missed out on anything that they truly needed. But the prospect of financing college expenses for four children was an obvious and significant enough issue that even a seventeen year-old understood that the task could become daunting. He needed to find a way to help.

The local shipyard was the largest private employer in the state and they were beginning a co-operative education program. Two high school graduates would be selected. They will alternate attending school for a semester and working a semester and if their school work is satisfactory, they will be guaranteed a job each alternate semester until their senior year when they will attend school full time.

I was that seventeen year-old. I applied and was scheduled for an interview where I learned that all students must be engineering majors (whatever that meant, I had no clue). I would be required to attend either Mississippi State University or Auburn University. With Auburn being located in a foreign country (Alabama) that would require out-of-state tuition )that would come out of my pocket) the decision came easily. Mississippi State. Hands down!

My father was an excellent communicator. He had taken the time to teach me two of the basic facts of life. Fact One: High school graduation is not the end of anything. It is the beginning of something; either college or full-time employment...immediately. Fact Two: See Fact One.

In 1959, social security numbers were not issued until you were eighteen and you were required to have one to work in a defense installation. And, so, it came to pass that I graduated from Moss Point High School on a Friday night, slept late on Saturday morning, and packed my earthly belongings on Saturday afternoon. They all fit in one suitcase and an old footlocker.

On a Sunday morning in May 1959, my entire family, along with all of my stowage, fit into a Ford station wagon and began the trip North to a location where none of us had ever been for even a visit. Starkville, Mississippi.

I had no idea that this would turn out to be one of the longest-running memories of my life. So far, it has continued for a half-century. There is more to be written on this subject, but this is the way it began. And this is the way I remember it.

Little League Comes to to Moss Point

I've always claimed that the best form of youth baseball possible was one that eliminated all form of parental participation. I stand by that position when the object of the game is to have fun.

But I would be less than truthful if I failed to admit that organized youth baseball did come with some significant benefits…and some of them are experienced by the kids.

You got to play with better equipment and you got better instruction. And, most importantly, you met kids from outside your neighborhood. I was eleven years old. Little League baseball came to Moss Point.

It seems like yesterday when I set foot on the property that housed the first real baseball field that I’d ever seen. In fact, it WAS yesterday. The property is now a restaurant. And the one small original Little League field long ago moved to a property where an entire complex of baseball fields could co-exist, each feeding the needs of specific age groups. A good friend and I had eaten lunch and were talking about our children and grandchildren and the subject of baseball had come up.

Unbelievable! Standing there leaning against my truck, not fifty feet from where the old home plate was. Looking at cars parked where the small set of bleachers sat along the first base line. Seeing the small rise in the earth where the right field fence had terminated and remembering that if someone, usually batting left-handed, really crushed one, that little hill was what usually stopped the ball. At least I can use being right-handed as my excuse for never introducing a baseball to that hill or the old service station that was at its apex.

It all began with four teams in Moss Point and four more in the neighboring community of Pascagoula. The regularly scheduled games would be within your city but there would be an all-star game at the completion of the season between the best the two cities had to offer.

There were two primary assets to be chosen to one of the teams. Today, Little League teams (or equivalent programs) are basically regulated on the basis of the participant’s age. Eleven and twelve year olds were Little Leaguers and when they became teenagers, they moved on to Babe Ruth League. But in the fifties, there was another criteria. Talent. There weren’t enough kids in Moss Point (that played baseball) to fill the rosters of four teams that first year. So tryouts were held for kids younger than eleven and if they played at an acceptable level, they made a roster. It’s pretty humbling to be one of the wizened age-eligible players and to be on the same team as your eight year-old brother. And you immediately become concerned at the possible scenarios of all-star selection.

Fortunately, my experience in the neighborhood pickup games stood me in good stead. I had learned that if you were willing to play catcher, you were likely to play. And in this league, there was protective equipment! Our coach was Leon Hammond and he knew everything there was to know about baseball. And he shared it all with us. It never occurred to us that his age wasn’t a lot older than ours. He was a adult that we owed our attention and respect. And we had parents that insured that he got it.

Wilkerson Freight Lines, EMBA, Monroe-Woods, and PMP Bank were the team sponsors and team members immediately developed an affinity for their benefactors. Member of opposing teams become your enemies….at least on game night.

I don’t remember the outcome of the regular season that first year, but it must not have been too good for Monroe-Woods or I probably would have complete recall. And no one named Shields made any all-star teams. But we learned one of the most important things that any baseball player can learn; how to say, “Wait until next year!”.

In those days, you actually played baseball during the summer instead of the current practice of insuring that baseball is over by the close of school so that it doesn’t interfere with summer vacations or the plans of parents. What a contradiction! Kid’s activities scheduled to be convenient to their parents! Things have changed.

But year-two arrived quickly. The twelve year olds from the previous year were gone. The new twelve-year olds, including me, now were the senior members with set positions and the respect that the uniform insured. The word had gotten out that Little League baseball was a good thing. And kids from outside the corporate limits were trying to catch on with teams. This year, there would be no problem with filling rosters. This year, competition would be fierce!

Tryouts for teams would be a formal process wherein applicants would announce their preference of positions and show their talents that would qualify them for the limited openings. And those trying out for pitcher positions required a catcher to show their skills.

Us veterans would actually have an influence in selecting pitchers. Our importance to the teams was being recognized. Coach Hammond took me and the other Monroe-Woods catcher (an inexperienced eleven year old whose name escapes me) to the tryout area and assigned me a prospect to test.

My heart sank! A short, chubby, nonathletic looking twelve-year old from Wade. How could he even consider doing this to me? Where was some stylish southpaw like Lefty Posey? What about some tall fireballer like Jimmy Davis? I recognized that all of the kids couldn’t be legends in their own time, but this was surely beneath my dignity.

He said that his name was Joey. He was pretty quiet and we just tossed a few balls back and forth as he loosed up. “You ready?”, he asked. “Sure”. And he started throwing. Each pitch seemed to be harder than the one before. It didn’t take me long to figure out that this kid was throwing harder than anyone I’d ever seen or caught. And he was hitting my mitt wherever I put it. Until he unleashed a wild pitch that was far to my left. As I moved to make the catch, a miracle happened. The ball made a sweeping arc and I was barely able to knock it down on the RIGHT side of the plate.

Curve ball! I’d never seen one before. At least not one like that!

“Can you do that again?”. “Every time”. “And control it?” “Put your mitt where you want it”.

And he could. And he did.

Suddenly I found myself looking around to see if anyone was watching. Hoping that no one was. I quietly walked beside my new best friend and said, “Let’s find the coach”. I knew who I wanted for my pitcher. I’ve made a few good decisions in my life. This was one of the better ones. Joey was an instant All-Star. And he made an all-star out of me. No one else wanted to catch that curve ball. And the best part about it was that I didn’t have to bat against him. Until Babe Ruth League…but that’s another story.

More than a half-century later, I realize that not batting against Joey wasn’t really the best part. The best part was learning at age twelve that judging people by their appearance is dangerous and usually wrong. And that people should be respected for their accomplishments and not for their neighborhood. And that it’s often the case that when you try to do something for someone else, you are the one that gains the most!

Thanks, Joey.

That’s the way I remember it.

Cars

We’ve come a long way in a short time. In less than three generations, we’ve seen automobiles invented and viewed as temporary fads. They became fashionable but out of reach for the masses. They were virtually unavailable because of a nationwide war effort only to rapidly emerge as a viable transportation alternative in a post-war economy. And now it is not uncommon that they often outnumber the number of licensed drivers in a household.

I entered this progression about in the middle as the car was coming into its own after the war. In hindsight, that was probably the most fun.

In the late 1940’s and early 50’s, cars were rapidly becoming commonplace. So common, in fact, that programs were being developed in high schools to teach students to drive correctly Enter my Dad.

In those days, high school football coaches did not just coach. They taught mathematics and physics. They coached track when football was not in season. And, for an additional stipend, they taught driver’s education. When you reflect on it, it seems a little comical. The people teaching students how to drive cars were the ones who were least likely to be able to afford them.

There was usually a car parked in our yard starting in 1949. But it wasn’t ours. It was the Pontiac furnished by W. H. Nelson Motors to the high school. A brand-new Pontiac with an additional clutch and brake installed on the passenger side where the instructor rode. Rather than leave the car unattended on the campus at night, they preferred that the teacher bring it home and assure its safety. They couldn’t have picked a better protector than my Dad.

The idea of using it for personal business would never have occurred to him. It wasn’t our car. And it wouldn’t be the right thing to do. Even when we made the infrequent trips to see my father’s parents in Pelehatchie, MS, we went in a borrowed car and the driver's ed car stayed home in the yard.

There was a single exception, however. My mother, also a teacher, had a hard and fast rule that she would never teach in a school that had one of her children as a student. And when her school aged children occupied all of the schools in which she could have taught in Moss Point, she took a job in Ocean Springs, a distance of about 20 miles from our home. There were two other teachers from Moss Point and Pascagoula who taught in Ocean Springs and she was able to arrange transportation to and from work except for Thursday afternoons. So on Thursdays, the Shields kids had a great adventure. The high school approved the use of the driver’s education car and my dad would drive us all the way to Ocean Springs to pick up Mama. It seemed like a million miles away.

Across the toll bridge in Pascagoula, into Gautier (then not much more than a wide place in the road whose main industry was a truck stop and café with a few small detached cabins in the back called Earl’s Place. I was always fascinated by the fact that Earl’s Place actually openly advertised that it sold beer. No other place that I can think of was so brazen. I can assure you that my father never stopped.). Continuing on Highway 90, it wasn’t far before we came to the train trestle that crossed over the road. It was only about 13 feet in clearance. It’s still there, so I can verify the height. We had our ritual that when passing under the tracks, we must blow the car horn and hear the sound reverberate. Going and coming. Past the turnoff to the Fontainebleau Beach on onto Government Street to the Ocean Springs School. Pick up Mama and reverse the route. No side trips. It wasn’t our car!

The 1950’s brought change. The biggest one was my father leaving the teaching and coaching profession for health reasons and returning to the shipyard. While this was a decision made of necessity and not preference, it was also a decision that provided greater income to the family. And then, in 1952-53, it happened. A family car was purchased. And in 1955 a new one replaced it. We had arrived. And life was changed forever.

Today, children often have their own cars before finishing high school. They get new ones as graduation presents. They know of no other way of living life. They have my pity. I believe that there is no way anyone can appreciate what they have without fully knowing what it is like to not have it. Where is the fun in that? Perhaps that was the reason that I was so enthusiastic when I got my first car. I knew!

That’s the way I remember it.

The First Bicycle and the Western Flyer

It all came back to me yesterday when I saw my grandson show me his newly acquired skills riding a two-wheeled bicycle in his driveway. No training wheels required. Even today, this remains a major stepping stone on the rite of passage to manhood.

Will's bike is a new shiny Christmas present that has been waiting for him to have an appropriate place to learn to ride it. Hurricane Katrina took care of the old driveway and the rebuilding process has only now allowed the new drive to be available.

Will's six. The same age as I was when I got my first two wheeler. Mine was a bit different. The war was just over and bicycles were not readily available. In fact, there were none available in Moss Point or Pascagoula. Maybe there were just none my parents could afford, but that would never stop them. There was always a sign that needed painting and my father would take on whatever sideline of work necessary to provide us with things we really needed. Like bicycles.

So the nets were cast far and wide and a bike was found in Mobile. Uncle Pete and Aunt Mary negotiated the deal and delivered it on their regular Sunday trip. This was going to be the big (only) birthday present and presents didn't come any bigger than a new bike. Well, it wasn't quite new. But a Dad who was a wizard with paint could make it look that way and it would be the newest one in the neighborhood. But when it was unloaded from Pete's 1941 Ford, faces fell and hearts were broken. Not mine! Daddy's! It was a GIRL's bicycle! And in no way was that going to be acceptable!

All other activities stopped. The search was on. Within a couple of hours a piece of steel tubing or pipe was located that was approximately the size of the bicycle's frame. A welding machine was found. A welder was enlisted. (It is appropriate to remind the reader once again that this is a Sunday afternoon in November. No stores are open. People are spending their time with their families. Work is the last thing on their minds).

Tubing is cut and shaped. Welds are made and cleaned. Then ground smooth. Primer is applied. Painting is done to match the color of the fenders. Pin stripes and accents are done freehand by the resident artist. And all of this was still well underway when I went to bed that night. But the next morning, the paint was dry and the birthday present was ready. A new bicycle. A BOY's bike! And I was one happy kid. And my Dad was happier.

And that bike served me well until I made enough money to buy my next one, the Cadillac of all bicycles, the Western Flyer.

A lot of people think that Walmart is a recent innovation in marketing that has made our lives more convenient. How absurd!

Harold Monroe did the same thing for Moss Point more than a half century earlier (without the groceries - Albert Graham took care of that! And Mr. Graham delivered to the house!). There was NOTHING you could not get at the Western Auto store. Hardware, appliances, radios and later televisions, lawnmowers, knives, guns, and bicycles. Not just any bicycle. The coveted Western Flyer. With a bike like that, a boy could run his paper route in half the time, expand his route, increase his market, make more money, and be the envy of all his friends at the same time. There was no down side to this deal. It didn't get any better than this.

I remember the day as though it was yesterday. I finally had the money! The school day ended and I walked to the Western Auto without a thought because it was a one way hike. I'd be riding in style on the return trip. There was a small hiccup when we had to unpackage the bike and assemble it. And inflate the tires. And that put my paper route about an hour or so late. But it was a weekly paper. What would it hurt to wait another hour for week old news?

It was almost dark when I finally started my deliveries. In no time, I was riding under the street lights (on the streets that had them). For the other streets, I had a brand new light on the front fender. Another proof that I had made a wise investment. But for some reason, the longer I rode and delivered, the more difficult the ride became. And by the time I got home, I couldn't understand why my legs were so tired. It couldn't be the bicycle.

The last part of my paper route was through a new development called Griffin Heights. And the method of paving roads in those days was to lay down a coat of wet tar on the street and then pour loose gravel on top of the tar. And while I had been taking delivery of the Western Flyer, the city had been paving Griffin Heights. The more I rode on those dark, freshly tarred streets, the more tar affixed itself to my tires. Eventually, the tires and wheels were so caked with tar that it was scraping against the wheel supports. Remember me saying how happy my Father was with my first bicycle? He was equally unhappy with me that night!

I was telling my parents the truth about the streets. In the dark I never saw the tar. And in the light of my house, I could not only see it on my new prized possession, I could see it on my shoes and the bottom of my pant legs. I had that bicycle for years. It was the last bicycle I ever had as a child. And I loved it. But I NEVER got all the tar off of it!

That's the way I remember it.