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MAXINE
.....sweet voice of sadness
1940s-1950s
by Bruce Osburn

I think that in today's world of music what you hear coming over the air waves or from a CD player really isn't the true sound of the singer. After recording and re-recording, plus enhancing with multiple tracks merged into one, the result is often so far removed from the singer's own voice that one would be hard pressed to identify the singer if he or she were heard singing in the back yard. I think some of today's vocalists are great entertainers, but singers they are not, not capable of "carrying a tune in a water bucket." Nat "King" Cole was a good singer, as were Perry Como and Eddy Arnold, and so was my aunt Maxine!

Aunt Maxine was in her late teens or early 20s when she lived in an old rundown, ramshackle clapboard house with her husband William and two small children, Kathleen - forever known as "Cooter" - and Billie Jo. The house was near my uncle Richard's place and only about a couple hundred feet or so from one of Richard's tobacco barns.

Maxine's house had no electricity or anything remotely resembling modern conveniences of the early 1950s. Water was drawn from an open well by using a rope and pulley, toilet facilities were an old outhouse, meals were prepared on a hot, wood burning stove, winter and summer. I remember standing near a fireplace looking up alongside the chimney, up into the attic and through a hole in the roof to the stars shining brightly above.

Sometimes during the summer I spent a few days or weeks with uncle Richard helping him on his farm. Part of my chores included firing the tobacco barn furnace at night when tobacco leaves were being cured. I stayed there all night and usually made a pallet of blankets on a bench and dozed occasionally between checks of the barn.

Early on in the evening when I was at the barn I often looked toward Maxine's house and was unable to see anything, not even an outline, especially if it was a moonless night. But sometimes I saw through an open window the soft glow of a kerosene lamp as it was moved about the house, hardly lighting enough of the room to show the furniture. Later on the lamp became motionless, having been placed on a table or bureau.

Soon the soft scraping noise of a chair being moved to a favorite spot, or the slow squeaking of the porch swing told me Maxine was sitting with one or both of her babies and was about to treat me to some of the sweetest, heartfelt singing this side of heaven.

I think, deep down in her being, aunt Maxine was a sad girl. She didn't have a wealth of material things, in fact, she had very little, but she did have her family and I know she loved her two girls dearly. I think her sadness was relieved by singing, a release that let her continue in her lot for another day. She favored songs sung by Kitty Wells and could sing them as well as, or much better, than Kitty.

Without any accompaniment - no guitar, fiddle or radio - Maxine began to bare her soul to the world just as I had heard her do countless times before. Her voice rang crystal clear as she raised it into the darkness above the pines and blackjacks, drifting and floating into the stillness of the night, reaching to nearby neighbors' homes. Maxine's singing was so beautiful and heartfelt I felt the hair on my neck stand on end as she reached and held high notes, her voice easily heard at Richard's house. Her singing usually lasted ten to fifteen minutes and then it was off to bed, her spirits being lifted for another day.

Aunt Maxine died in 1963 - three months short of her thirty-third birthday - leaving two young girls barely into their teens for their father to raise. I still remember aunt Maxine because she made such an impression on my young self with her singing, singing that I clearly heard at a distance as I returned from an early night visit to Rex Taylor's house or when I fired the furnace at the barn. If she were here today I'm sure she would be number one on the country charts, putting to shame the likes of Reba McEntire, LeAnn Rimes and other pretenders to the top spot.

Bruce Osburn 7-26-2000

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MAXINE'S SURPRISE
.......out in the bushes
1945

Sometime in January, 1945, mom and her kids moved with grandpa from a farm on the Gun O Field in Marlboro County, South Carolina, to G. Walt Smith's farm in Richmond County, North Carolina. I was soon enrolled in first grade at Crossland School on US highway #1 south of Rockingham along with my brother Gene, a young uncle and a young aunt.

Crossland school was much like Whites Creek school we had just left in South Carolina. It was a three room building with six grades and just three teachers - with each teacher teaching two grades. It was typical of the rural schools in Richmond County; a clapboard building sitting high off the ground on several brick pillars, outdoor toilets - one for the boys and another for the girls - and a hand pump for water. It was near a wooded area to the rear and there was an open field extending to the highway about five-hundred feet in front of the building.

I attended Crossland for only five months and the fifty-five year interval since then has dimmed my memory of such things as uneventful days. I can't remember any of the kids I played with or even how I got to school. But most folks can remember their first broken bone or an event that was out of the ordinary. The reason I remember that school is because of an unusual event involving my aunt.

Maxine was a mature, robust girl fourteen-years-old in sixth grade. She was just one of several kids who should have been attending higher grades in Rockingham but had been held back for various reasons.

It wasn't long before Maxine attracted the attention of an admirer - one of the older boys who evidently was well versed in the "birds and the bees." I don't know what first prompted him to set his sights on her; maybe it was because she was a new girl there or perhaps it was because she just struck his fancy. But most likely it was because he thought she was "easy" for he had told some of the bigger boys what he would like to do if he could ever ....get her in the bushes.

Maxine soon learned of his plans for her and decided she would give him his wish and go into the bushes with him.

Yes, I remember the day my aunt told one of the big boys to find her admirer and tell him she had something for him ...out in the bushes. In just an instant her admirer came zipping around the building grinning from ear to ear. He disappeared into the brush and we boys heard a loud shout and hollering and the boy came flying from the bushes with my aunt close on his heels! She had smashed that would-be Lothario's dreams of conquest - and his head! - with a butt kicking he wouldn't soon forget.

I've heard there is an old proverb that cautions people to - "Be careful of what you wish for because you might get it." I suppose that would be true for that boy because if he had known what was in store for him he probably wouldn't have wished .....to get her in the bushes!

Bruce Osburn 12-5-2000

THE CONSOLE RADIO

When I was just a lad we had a big ol' radio that was almost as tall as me. I can't recall the name and I haven't seen it since 1953, the year we moved from Hamlet.

We must have had it for several years before we moved to Hamlet in 1948 because I can remember, when I was just a wee little boy, looking into the deep, dark recesses for little people. As I got older I came to accept that there were no little people hiding inside; but still, that was a marvelous thing to listen to. Saturday mornings brought us Archie Andrews and his gang of Veronica, Betty and Jughead. And there were others - the Green Hornet, the Shadow, and the favorite of all, the Lone Ranger.

When we first moved to Hamlet the radio was put in the living room where it stayed tuned to station WAYN in Rockingham. We listened to music, news and advertisements for the Jewel Box ( the ring of your choice for two dollars down and fifty cents a week!) and everyone's favorite furniture store, Raymond Goodman's. Sunday mornings brought gospel music from a nearby church.

But, eventually, it found its way to the boys' bedroom where, at night, it was tuned to WCKY in Cincinnati, Ohio. We boys went to sleep listening to bluegrass bands pluck their banjos and sing songs with a nasal whine only they could deliver. The music was interrupted often by an announcer hawking that foul tasting elixir of life every kid hated, Hadacol. Baby chicks by the hundreds - live delivery guaranteed - were pushed with the same zeal. And there was the Duke of Paducah who always shouted at the end of every show, "Boys, I'm aheadin' to the barn 'cause these shoes are akillin' me!"

And with just a few clicks of a couple of knobs we could get stations that must have been clear across the ocean. Adjusting the tuner knob until a green indicator merged into a solid light meant we were dead on the station. The sound was just as clear as could be, coming out of a speaker that was at least twelve inches in diameter. But not a word of it could we understand and, since we had just ended a war with Japan and that country was still fresh in our minds, we said it was Japanese. And they must have been all over the world because no matter where we turned the dial, they were right there, jabbering away and we couldn't understand one word they said!

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UNCLE SAM PEARSON

This memory was made when I was just a kid of six or seven years but I still remember my great-uncle Sam. The year was almost into the mid-1940s and we were living with my granddad in the sandhills of Richmond and Marlboro Counties.

I can remember visiting uncle Sam and aunt Jo in Bennettsville at their magnificent two story mansion with a wide staircase to the second floor. Now, of course, I had no idea where Bennettsville was but I do remember our visits to uncle Sam who I knew for sure was the most important man in the world. After all, I had heard my grandpa and aunts and uncles talk about him every single day, saying things like "You just wait, as soon as Uncle Sam gets our boys over there Hitler is going to catch hell! And so is Tojo!" I knew my daddy and some of my uncles were "off at war somewhere" and my uncle Tommie Lee had been killed "over there," but soon, my Uncle Sam was going to "take care of Hitler and Tojo and bring our boys home."

Yes, siree! My uncle Sam was a mighty important man!

Bruce Osburn 7-26-2000

"In the good old days" is a timeworn phrase used by generations untold to denote earlier, less troubled times. Those were the days when people were thought to be carefree with few demands placed on them, days when there were no pressing problems or hardships to cause stress, anxiety or loss of sleep. I have heard folks in the generation before mine use the phrase and I have heard my generation use it; in fact, I have uttered those very same words myself. And young people of today let the words roll off their tongues as if our generation grew up in the time of milk and honey without any hardships to spoil our days of ease and bliss.

A few years ago, while passing lunch time with some of my much younger co-workers, someone casually let the phrase come into the conversation and soon this "old-timer" was asked if I remembered "the good old days" when I was just a kid. I told them I did and recounted days when I had no worries at all, days when I played all sorts of games; tag, marbles, hide and seek, cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers and days when I did other things young boys were expected to do. I did things like swimming, fishing, tramping through the fields and woods looking for treasures, having snowball fights and more things than I could remember. I told them I wished my kids could have lived through that part of my childhood but then I surprised them when I said there was also a part of "the good old days" that I'm glad my kids and grandkids didn't have to experience.

Let me recall for you some of my younger days growing up in Marlboro and Richmond counties. Maybe some of you can identify with my experiences and then again you might think I've had too much time to reflect on the past; that I have unfairly compared the conditions that were accepted as normal more than fifty years ago to today's comfortable homes and availability of nearly everything imaginable.

Some of my memories are from the early days of 1944, when I was about five and a half years old. My dad had been sent "off to war somewhere" in June 1942 and in late fall 1943 we moved into mom's father's house in Marlboro County, SC. What I clearly remember about this farm (and the next one in Richmond County) was not just the fun we children had but also the conditions under which my granddad and his sons and daughters lived and worked. But, of course, at that time and young age I probably didn't know that things were any different in other places.

Granddad was a tenant farmer for Mr. Dockery, sharecropping on the Gun O Field which was about one and a half miles west of SC/NC route 177, very near the NC state line and quite possibly touching on the border. The farmhouse was typical for that rural area of South Carolina at that time; an unpainted, tin roofed, weathered clapboard house resting upon several brick pillars. The pillars did not ensure a firm foundation because they had settled into the ground over the years and the floors had become uneven. There was no electricity or indoor plumbing which meant the conveniences mom and her kids had become accustomed to, while living on base at Ft. Bragg and in a small house near Fayetteville, were nonexistent.

I don't remember how many rooms it had but I do remember it had a big front porch, the same porch most of the adults and big kids were sitting on the day someone delivered a telegram informing granddad that his twenty-two-year old soldier son, Tommie Lee, had been killed "somewhere over there." I don't remember uncle Tommie Lee but I do remember granddad and my aunts and uncles sitting there on that porch crying for the longest time.

I can remember the names of fourteen people living in that house. There was mom with her four boys and one girl, ranging in age from fifteen down to three years; four uncles from seventeen down to nine years; three aunts, the youngest two being fourteen and seven years; and the patriarch of the extended family, granddad. There were other family members working on the same farm but they might have lived in another house.

Sleeping arrangements were simple. Granddad had a room to himself and mom and aunt Cecil probably shared a room with the three younger girls. I know that mom's three youngest boys, which included me, shared a bed with my two of my uncles, ages eleven and nine. That arrangement was accomplished by putting three at the head of the bed and the other two crosswise at the foot. The three older boys probably shared a bed in the same room that the five younger boys slept in, either that or there were a lot of pallets somewhere!

As I recall, this farm was devoted mostly to growing cotton, a crop that required lots of manual labor. Besides plowing the fields with just a couple of teams of mules, there were also weeds to be chopped. The chore of chopping fell mostly to the women and adolescent children who trudged out into the broiling hot, sun drenched fields and attacked an ever growing infestation of grass and weeds with short, vigorous whacks and scrapes of a hoe.

It didn't matter how blistered and callused their hands became or even how close they chopped those weeds, they knew they would have to come back in a few days. For despite their best efforts the weeds and grass were green and tall the very next week, which meant their chore was neverending, lasting right up to the time the bolls ripened and burst open. That's when an even morebackbreaking chore began.

Dragging a coarse fabric sack by a shoulder strap the pickers began a task that was stoop labor at its worst. The sack was called by different names - tow sack, cotton sack or burlap bag - but all referred to the same sack. Bending over, and sometimes on their knees, the pickers pulled the little puffs of cotton fibers from the husks and stuffed them into the sack, which got heavier and harder to drag with each handful.

Picking cotton was a chore for everyone - men, women and children. Some of the men could boast of picking 300 pounds or more a day and some of the women could pick an impressive amount. Each child did not account for a large amount by himself, which was to be expected, but as a group their combined efforts were a contribution to the overall effort.

When it first came time to start picking one of my uncles made me a little sack so I could tag along with the smaller pickers but I probably didn't pick ten pounds in all my time in the fields.

Granddad left the Gun O Field early on in 1945 and moved to G. Walt Smith's farm in Richmond Co., taking all the Gun O Field family with him. This farmhouse was similar to the last in nearly every aspect. There was no electricity, no plumbing or anything else to make life easier. It was unpainted, sat high off the ground on brick pillars and there were the usual number of outbuildings for livestock and farm implements. The sleeping arrangements were the same as, or similar to, those at the Gun O Field.

I believe this was mostly a tobacco farm because I can remember watching my uncles "mud daub" cracks in the tobacco barn walls. They mixed tubs of cement and, taking small gobs about the size of baseballs, threw them at cracks high up on the log walls where old cement chinking had fallen out. Sometimes several throws were made before a lucky shot splattered into a crack, sealing it and preventing heat loss. That might seem like a waste of cement but it was probably easier than climbing and walking along the tier poles carrying a bucket of cement.

The men worked hard on those two farms and the women worked even harder. Not only did the women have to go into the fields but they also had to do an endless number of other chores that made the farm function. They had to make sure meals were ready, children were bathed, the house was cleaned and clothes were washed and ironed. During vegetable season they had to pick and shell peas and beans, some for meals and some for canning. Peach harvest was the time for peeling and preserving. In late fall they helped butcher hogs, helping cut, chop, grind sausage and render lard. (The cracklings made excellent "crackling cornbread!'')

Washing and ironing were not easy tasks. As far back as I can remember, and up into the the early 1950s, wash day at my granddad's house was always on Monday and was nearly an all day chore. Dirty clothes that had accumulated all week were taken out to the yard where one or two iron wash pots were sitting in a bed of hot ashes and firewood. Washing in cold water was unheard of and the water in the pots was boiling. Into the pots the clothing was thrown, along with pieces of homemade lye soap.

Vigorously stirring with a long wooden stick agitated the clothes and removed the dirt and sweat stains. (More stubborn stains got a hand scrubbing on a washboard.) After taking out the steaming clothing with the wooden stick the women set about hand wringing it, one person for small items, and two people for larger pieces such as sheets, spreads, table cloths, blankets and trousers. After the water was wrung out the clothing was put into another tub of hot water where it was again stirred with a stick to rinse the soap. After this rinsing and wringing the clothes were hung on a line to dry. (All that wringing in hot lye water produced some unsightly hands for the womenfolk.)

Wednesday was ironing day. The clothes that needed ironing - such as shirts and dresses - were sprinkled with water, rolled into tight bundles and set aside so the moisture would dampen every fiber of the fabric. Items that were to be starched - such as granddad's shirts and the women's cotton finery - were dipped in a starch solution and put in a separate pile.

Some of you might ask at this time how the women managed to iron all those clothes without any electricity. Well, they did it the same way their grandmas, great-grandmas and great-great-grandmas had done for more than 150 years - they used heavy flat irons. The flat irons my aunts and mom used were the same kind you might find today in an antique shop or flea market, except now they carry a price tag of $15 or $20 or more.

I can still see my mom and aunts preparing the kitchen for that chore. Stoking the wood burning cooking stove they placed four or six or more flat irons there to get hot. Some of the women used the dining table as an ironing board and some used boards placed between the backs of two ladder-back chairs. Taking up an iron from the stove and tilting it so the bottom was facing up, a quick little pewtooh! of spit onto the bottom told the ironer if it was hot enough or too hot. Some preferred to put a little dab of spit on a finger and quickly touch it to the iron, which in some cases brought a sizzle! at the finger and an "ouch!" from the ironer. But no matter which method they chose they made sure they wrapped the handle with a thick cloth before picking up the iron.

My dad came home from the war in June, 1945, and we moved into a house near Massey Hill. We never again lived in a house without electricity or running water.

Yes, I'm glad my kids and grandkids have bedrooms and comfortable beds of their own, washing machines to do a day's laundry simply by tossing it in and turning a knob, no cold outhouses to visit in the winter and any number of things we take for granted today but were nonexistent in the good old days. Were "the good old days" really as good as people think or are they .....just a myth?

Bruce Osburn 8-5-2000

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9-27-2000

When uncle Doug read this tale he commented that today's mechanical pickers leave more cotton in the field than the amount old-time farmers used to make as a crop.

And there is more than just a little truth in that statement for it can be be proven just by looking at a field that has been picked by today's mechanical harvesters. The harvested field still shows a sea of white stretching to the far side with puffs of cotton still clinging to the husks.

Aunt Inez said today's mechanical pickers wouldn't be good enough for her father. She remembers as a small child her father coming to the fields and telling the pickers to go back into a just-picked field to get all the "shirt-tails" they had left hanging in the husks. She said that when the fields had been picked to her father's satisfaction there wasn't a single whisp of white to be seen anywhere - the cleanly picked fields were brown and barren as far as the eye could see.

Sometimes dad, when he was feeling generous, asked if I wanted to go along for a ride while he took care of some business in town. I was always eager to go because dad often stopped at a black owned tavern for a few "cool ones" on the way home and I knew I would get a Pepsi and watch him have fun with some little kids.

The High Hat Club was owned and operated by Miz Dora Brunson, a fair sized woman in her 40s or 50s. I don't know if she was married or not, but I do remember her having a regal bearing, always well dressed and her hair in the latest style.

The club was situated on the east side of Bridges Street just a little south of the Buttercup Ice Cream plant. Bridges Street was a poorly maintained dirt road that was marked with huge, shallow, dusty holes in dry weather and huge, shallow, muddy holes in rainy weather. It began on the north at East Main Street and ended about a half mile away at a bend of Lackey Street. Most of the houses, beginning at the Buttercup plant and on to the southern end, were of the shotgun style and were on both sides of the street.

As best as I can remember, the High Hat Club was not an imposing structure. It was a long, low, wooden building just three rooms wide, running longways alongside the street. It was built flat on the ground so there were no steps to climb when entering or - more importantly - to fall down when leaving.

The biggest room was the one used most and was on the north end. Here the juke-box and dance floor were located, with a large number of tables and chairs scattered about. The room next to it, in the middle, was where the coolers and other things needed to run a juke joint were kept. Here could be found peanuts, tater chips, crackers, boiled eggs, pickled pigs feet, Cokes, Pepsi Colas, RCs, all flavors of Nehi and, of course, the necessary beer.

The southern-most room, which was the smallest, was where dad drank his "cool ones." There was just enough room for a couple of booths pushed against the south wall and they were separated from a counter in the middle room by a narrow walkway. This was the room where the young neighborhood kids came to buy their sodas and candy and other things a kid needed to have. Bellying up to the bar, with some on their tip-toes, they exchanged their pennies and nickels for chewing gum and candy, or maybe a Moon Pie washed down with a big ol' Pepsi or RC.

On the return trip from town dad usually parked in front of the club, directly in front of the smallest room. We entered and sat down in one of the booths and ordered our drinks; he got a "cool one" and I got a Pepsi and a pack of peanuts. While I took a big swallow to make room in the bottle for the peanuts, dad reached into his pocket and pulled out a pair of lensless glasses with a huge nose attached. He put those gag glasses and nose onto his face, removed his false teeth, hunkered down in the booth and waited for little kids to come in.

As soon as a little kid entered he just naturally looked over into the booths to see who was there and, in the smoky half light of the dim room, what he saw must have been rather strange indeed. For there, not more than six feet away was an old man whose chin was touching his nose, a nose that was so big it almost covered his whole face! Doing a double take, and sometimes a triple take, the kid would buy his goodies and leave, getting at least one more look at that strange looking man before backing out the door.

It wasn't long before more kids learned of our presence and came there. Some came inside to buy a goodie or two and some just stood in the doorway, staring unabashedly with wide eyed amazement at dad while he puckered his lips and sucked them down into a toothless mouth. But I didn't care how long dad put on his one man show because every time he got a "cool one" I got a Pepsi and a pack of peanuts and I could match him one for one.

Bruce Osburn 8-9-2000

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THE BOOGERMAN
....and other spooks
1940s
by: Bruce Osburn

When I was just a wee lad my mom, aunts and uncles had a sure-fire way to make me be quiet, stop misbehaving or anything else they thought a rambunctious kid shouldn't do. My brothers and sister and my young aunts and uncles didn't escape the adults' disproving eyes and ears either, for they, too, were subjected to the same form of discipline. It was a discipline which can only be described as scaring the bejeeze out of us because just a mention of the boogerman was enough to bring an end to our hooting and hollering, bringing instant peace and silence to the house.

All of us kids were terrified of the boogerman and, even though none of us had ever seen him, we knew he was real because our adults had said he was and would they... lie to us? Just one little reminder to "Stop doing that or the boogerman will get you!" was enough to make us quit whatever it was we were doing and be on our good behavior for a few more minutes. A loud warning shouted from a front room at night to "Hush up in there, young'uns, and go to sleep or the boogerman will get you!" brought instant stillness and silence from the bedrooms.

For kids wanting to stray out of the yard at dusk a simple "Ya'll be careful out there. I just saw the boogerman down at the barn!" was more than enough to cause a speedy return to the safety of the porch.

There must have been more than one boogerman or else he was one fast fellow. He would be under the porch, around the corner, down at the barn, under the bed or in the chifforobe all in the space of five minutes or so.

I suspect we must have had our own personal boogerman because no matter where we lived - whether in South Carolina, North Carolina or Georgia - he was always there, making sure we kids were on our best behavior.

We had a double threat at my granddad's farm on the Gun O Field in Marlboro County - the ever present boogerman and a ghost! That ghost was just as real as the boogerman because our adults had told us so and we believed them. Sometimes when we kids were in bed fooling around and making a lot of racket it would be the ghost who quieted us down. A shouted "Ya'll go to sleep in there or Mr. Lead will get you!" from a tired, sleepy adult brought instant results. None of us wanted to be got by Mr. Lead!

Mr. Lead (pronounced as in lead bullet) was a previous tenant who had died on the farm. We kids had been told that he had buried his money in the back yard. That was enough to make us dig holes all over the yard looking for his treasure. But I guess someone must have found it earlier because we didn't find one thin dime, even after spending several days digging with hoes and shovels and anything else that would move dirt.

Mr. Lead nearly got us one night and four or five absolutely terrified children ran crying and screaming from the house trying to escape what we knew would be a horrifying end if Mr. Lead got us.

In order for the reader to fully appreciate the terror we kids experienced that awful night you must first understand the mind-set of children in that era and know, also, that a lot of adults were superstitious to a fault. Their beliefs and traditions were passed on to their children who accepted them as readily as the parents had accepted them years earlier. Beliefs such as seven years bad luck for breaking a mirror, throw salt over your shoulder if you spill any, don't get out of bed on the wrong side, good luck charms, bad luck if a black cat crosses your path and an endless number of others.

All of those superstitions we believed, as well as the existence of the boogerman and ghosts, because our adults had told us they were true. When an adult told us they had seen a ghost in nearby Pleasant Hill Church cemetery we knew it to be true and ran as fast as we could the next time we passed by.

On the terrifying night Mr. Lead came into our lives a tangle of us kids were all in the same bed and some were most likely already asleep. The room was in total darkness with just a trace of light from the stars and the moon. Uncle Sidney, who was about twelve years old, suddenly says to no one in particular, "I see Mr. Lead coming out of the chifforobe!" And then, "Oh! He's coming this way! He's coming to the bed!" Sidney became more than just a little excited and started yelling, "He's at the bed! He's at the foot of the bed!" By now every kid in the bed was wide awake and bawling. Next Sidney screams, "He's got my toe! He's pulling my toe!" and with that said he leapt from the bed and bolted through the open doorway and out the back door, followed by the younger kids, screaming and hollering, right on his heels!

Sidney made a beeline for uncle Doug's house. Through the cotton field he flew, not waiting on the younger kids, but saving his own life!

I was the youngest of the bunch at five years old and was bringing up the rear, trying my best to outdistance Mr. Lead. I couldn't make much progress because I had become entangled in the bed covers and I was being snagged by full grown cotton plants. As I tripped and fell down amongst the cotton plants the other kids continued their escape from sure and certain ruin! Soon I was all alone in that dark ol' cotton field, crying my eyes out, still five hundred feet or so from uncle Doug's house.

All of us finally reached the safety of uncle Doug's house where we stood around watching him and his buddies play poker. I think granddad heard the screaming and hollering but by the time he got to the back of the house we were well on our way across the cotton field. He later came in his car to fetch us.

I know that uncle Sid believed in ghosts as much as any of the kids but surely he could tell if someone or something had grabbed his toe. I have long suspected that uncle Boyce, who was about seventeen - or maybe uncle Hoover, who was about fifteen - was responsible for our flight across the cotton field that night. I believe one of them had somehow hidden inside the chifforobe and then came creeping out with the intention of scaring the daylights out of us. I have accused both Hoover and Boyce of this prank and they both have denied it.

I remember too well my young days when the boogerman, ghosts and other scary things were just around the corner. Remembering how scared I became when they were mentioned made me resolve, after I had become a parent, to never scare my kids with demons or things that go bump in the night. Not one of my children or grandchildren has ever had to look undera bed or in a closet before going to sleep at night.

Bruce Osburn 9-12-2000

Nearly everyone knows at least one person in an extended family that fills the roles of care giver and counselor; someone that cares for the sick, listens to real or imagined problems and offers advice that, hopefully, will support the position of the one seeking solace. In my family those roles were filled by my aunt Cecil, roles she never sought but were thrust upon her by evolution.

Cecil Lee Patrick was born July, 1913, in Chesterfield County, SC, the sixth child of a family that by 1937 had grown to seventeen children. Her role as a care giver began early on in her life as soon as she became old enough to help her older sisters care for the younger siblings - the children of her mother and the children of her father's second marriage.

As she grew older that role also extended to taking care of young nephews and nieces whenever her brothers' and sisters' families increased in number. Traveling to a new mother's home she cared for the children, ran the household and took care of the mother in ...her time of confinement, staying there until the mother was ready to resume her chores.

She married Lawrence Fisher in 1939 and settled in on his family's farm at St. Pauls, NC, bringing her two-year old sister as part of the family. Uncle Lawrence was shipped off to Europe in the early part of World War II and aunt Cecil moved to her father's farm in Marlboro County, SC. Granddad was a sharecropper on the Gun O Field, a cotton farm that was worked mostly by his younger sons and daughters. It was here aunt Cecil resumed a routine she had been accustomed to for many years, a never changing routine that began before sunrise and ended long after sundown.

Aunt Cecil began her day preparing breakfast for her father, brothers and sisters on a room heating, wood burning stove - coffee, eggs, fatback, biscuits, grits and anything else available. There were at least three children to get dressed and made ready for school and that was followed by the ever present household chores. Mom moved there in late 1943 with her five kids, bringing the number of people sharing that old farmhouse to fourteen.

Uncle Lawrence returned to the States in 1945 and he and aunt Cecil moved into a house on MacDonald Avenue in Hamlet. Her workload was cut considerably here, in a two bedroom, upstairs apartment with all the conveniences of the mid-1940s. She had electricity, running water, indoor plumbing and a kitchen stove fueled with kerosene. With individual control of the burners the kitchen didn't become unbearably hot when meals were prepared and the amount of food to be cooked had been reduced to just enough for two instead of the usual dozen or more.

Aunt Cecil made some of the best meals in the sandhills on that old kerosene stove. She cooked fried chicken, pork chops, roasts, butter beans, peas, greens, cornbread, corn fritters, buttermilk biscuits and cakes. Her biscuits were famous throughout the family before she moved there and she continued to turn them out by the dozens. Whenever someone commented to her about making so many she has said more than once, "Shoot, that's nothing! I used to make seventy or eighty biscuits a day when we lived down on the Gun O Field!"

Nephews, nieces, brothers and sisters made sure they were close by and "just-dropped-in-to-see-how-you-are-doing" at mealtime so they could get some of those light, flaky, crusty favorites. Her landlady's two young sons, Billie and Bennie Sutton, made sure they got their fill and even brought some of their buddies in for jelly and biscuits. (Nearly fifty years later some of those then-young boys still remember aunt Cecil as the "biscuit lady.")

It was probably in that apartment that aunt Cecil began to fill the role of a surrogate mother, a role that eventually evolved into matriarch of the family. She and uncle Lawrence never had any children and this permitted her to take on responsibilities normally reserved for parents.

She again brought in her youngest sister - then about twelve years old - who lived there for almost a year. My oldest brother put up there for awhile, as well as my sister. Another of my brothers lived with her for a year while he completed 12th grade at Hamlet High School.

Aunt Cecil and uncle Lawrence moved a couple of times before settling down about 1966 on a small, eight acre farm on Grace Chapel Church Road. Here uncle Lawrence did what he liked to do best - raise vegetables for aunt Cecil and the extended family. Peas, corn, cabbages and anything else that would grow in sandy soil were given a chance to produce. That little farm provided a lot of vegetables for the family. Freezers were filled with peas and Silver Queen corn and cooking pots turned out lots of good meals.

There was always plenty to eat no matter what time of day or night someone rapped on her back door. Aunt Cecil was either cooking, had just cooked or there were plenty of left-overs that could be heated. Peas and butter beans, okra, corn, chicken, ham, corn fritters and biscuits disappeared with astonishing speed, especially her buttermilk biscuits! Visitors sat at her table and enjoyed whatever was placed before them, enjoying a fellowship that can only be experienced in close-knit families.

As the years passed relatives continued to visit aunt Cecil and uncle Lawrence, bringing their children to enjoy a meal and continue a tradition. I often stopped by when I drove from New England to Florida. Even after the opening of the Interstate Highways I made detours to Hamlet and a visit was not completed until I went to her house. A bed was usually available for overnight visitors and, if more space was needed, the living room couch welcomed anyone willing to be awakened by early morning foot steps.

Uncle Lawrence worked his farm right up until the time he became too ill to go into the garden. He died in 1982 at age 74 and his death ushered in yet another chapter in aunt Cecil's role as a care giver.

Cecil's older brother, Carl - whose wife had died earlier in Florida - wanted to come back to the sandhills so he moved in with Cecil. My mom was not well and she, too, moved into Cecil's house. Now there were two sisters and a brother sharing expenses and living their lives reunited as they had once been as children. But within two years both uncle Carl and mom died, leaving aunt Cecil alone for the first time in her life. But being alone did not mean she was lonely or forgotten, quite the contrary. Visitors continued to come in large numbers; almost every day someone rapped on her back door, there for a visit.

Fifteen years after Carl's and my mom's deaths her house is still seldom empty. Brothers, sisters, nephews and nieces from Florida, Georgia, South Carolina, North Carolina, Virginia, Delaware and other states make regular visits. Some come two or three times a year. Those in Richmond County come to take her shopping or to the hair dresser. Others come to haul off trash or take her for a doctor's appointment. And some come to ask for advice or to vent their frustration about something.

Sadly, aunt Cecil is now no longer the robust and buxom woman she once was. Time and toil have exacted their due and at 87 years of age she is stooped and frail, moving slowly about her house with the aid of a walker, sister or niece. She can no longer turn out meals for a dozen or more hungry visitors. No fried chicken, pork chops, greens, peas or other vegetables are now prepared by her hands but her kitchen is still just as busy as ever.

Children that had long ago snitched an extra jelly biscuit are now repaying a debt that was long in the making - a debt that had been incurred by their parents and siblings during the past decades. Weekend meals are now prepared by nieces and grandnieces in aunt Cecil's kitchen. With the addition of covered dishes brought from home an ample amount of meats, vegetables and desserts are placed around on the stove, counter tops and table. Serving themselves buffet style nearly a dozen kinfolk enjoy a family gathering, laughing and recalling events from the past. Nearly everyone tries their best to be heard over the noisy chatter and begins a question with "Hey! Do ya'll remember when.......?"

Her advice is still sought and she continues to give it. Everyone cherishes the time and memories we share with her for she is a remarkable woman, the matriarch of our family, loved and respected by all.

Bruce Osburn 9-16-2000

......aunt Cecil died 26 June 2001

I remember the day Miss McKinnon came into my seventh grade classroom at Hamlet Avenue School on a warm spring day and tilted her head slightly as she lifted her nose to test the air. After a couple of whiffs she casually commented that since the warm months were upon us we no longer had to wait until Saturday night to take a bath and further suggested that we should now bathe every day.

The phrase "Saturday night bath" and what it implies is not a myth. Those words identify an event - sometimes an embarrassing event - that some of the children in the sandhills endured during their young years. Some of the houses out in the country had running water to the kitchen sink so the kids usually had clean hands, faces, necks and feet. But, alas, those indoor conveniences of flush toilet and tub were a rarity and that all-important "all-over" bath was most times postponed until Saturday.

When I was just a little kid living on my granddad's farms my baths were taken in a galvanized tub. Water was heated on a wood burning stove and mixed with cold water in the tub until the temperature was just right. The order of bathing was oldest little kid first and then on down the line until the youngest was washed. And don't think for a minute that the wash water was thrown out after each kid. Oh, no! That would be a lot of water to be heated and thrown out! And after three or four little kids had been washed the water began to turn a little gray.

During cold months the washtub was placed near a fireplace or potbellied stove where most of the adults were crowded about trying to stay warm. Mom poured in hot water, off came our clothes and there we were, standing before our aunts and uncles naked as the day we were born! But we weren't embarrassed by this display of our nakedness; that is, not until we got to be about eight or nine years old. That's when we began to keep our backsides to those in the room, washed and got out as fast as we could.

Marks Creek was less than two miles from granddad's farm in Richmond County and it offered an excellent spot for washing away the dust and grime of hard working farm hands. The stream was about three feet deep near an old wooden bridge and although the water was about the color of weak tea it was still clean enough to bathe in. While the bigger boys and men tended to their bathing we little kids practiced holding our breath underwater, tried to learn to swim and chased water bugs.

Those little black, hard shelled bugs - which were no bigger than a watermelon seed - fairly zipped across the surface of the water. They zigged, they zagged, they darted every which way. They skidded, they slid, they doubled back, spun in circles and were absolutely the most elusive critters ever! We kids tried our best to catch one because our uncles had told us they were magical bugs. They had told us more than once, "Ya'll catch one of them water skimmers and put 'im under your armpit and squeeze 'im real tight and ya'll can hear the roosters crow in China."

But no matter how hard we tried we were never able to catch one of those fast little skimmers so we never got to hear the roosters crow in China. In hindsight it's easy to see how lucky we were that our uncles didn't tell us the same thing about the fuzzy red and black striped "cow killer" ant. They were easy to catch with a jelly jar and would have made us do more than just hear the roosters crow in China!"

In the late 1940s uncle Doug Patrick lived near the NC/SC border behind a general store in Osborne, North Carolina, and sometimes I stayed there a few days during the summer. When uncle Doug came home after a hot day's work of driving a truck for the State he'd grab a cake of soap and off we'd go to a nearby creek. Uncle Doug's creek wasn't as big as Marks Creek but still, it was an inviting little stream about knee deep and a dozen feet wide. The water in this little creek was also clean and tea colored and the current had made several sandbars on which we kids liked to play.

Cousins Shirley Jean, Mack Douglas and I would horse around and splash water on one another until uncle Doug gave us the soap, telling us, "Don't drop that soap in the water!" Uncle Doug really got upset if we dropped his soap into the water because it sank like a rock where, after hitting the bottom, it rolled with the current and collected more grit than there is on a piece of sandpaper!

When we moved into our newly built house near Hamlet in 1948 the bathroom was one of two rooms not yet finished. So, all of us had to trudge out to an outhouse and we kids had to take our baths in the den. After about a year had passed dad finally finished the bathroom and we pushed over the outhouse, filled the hole with dirt and removed all traces of our old two-holer.

With plenty of hot water at just the turn of a knob we kids began to take more than just one bath a week. But it seemed that no matter how thoroughly I thought I had washed, mom had her usual question: "Did you get your neck and ears clean?" And, even though I told her I had, she always took a look.

She took a cotton wad, dipped it into alcohol and rubbed my neck vigorously. She poked her cotton wrapped finger deep into my ears and then showed me the cotton.

Good grief! Where'd all that dirt come from? It was absolutely amazing! I came to believe that mom could rub a cotton wad on anyone or anything and find dirt.

After I made more trips to the bathroom mom finally got the results she wanted and I was declared clean enough to go to bed.

Bruce Osburn 9-26-2000

Mom and her five kids lived with her father during the early 1940s on two different farms, one in Marlboro County, SC, and the other in Richmond County, NC. Both farms were near a rural community in NC where farmers and orchard keepers went to purchase household items, farm equipment and to pass time with their neighbors. I don't know when this little wide spot in the road first came into being but from the appearance of the buildings it's safe to say that the 1910-1920s wouldn't be a bad guess.

Located about three-quarters of a mile east of NC Rte. 177, and within a stone's throw from the SC border, Osborne was a small community of three or four houses and two stores. The Seaboard Air Line tracks from Hamlet to Cheraw ran right through the middle, splitting it neatly between the two stores. The store on the west of the SAL tracks was a small "mom and pop" grocery and the one on the east side was one of several large general stores scattered throughout Richmond and Scotland Counties owned by Mr. Z.V. Pate.* There was also a rail siding with a loading dock; here peaches from the many orchards in that part of NC and SC were loaded for shipment to faraway markets and farm equipment destined for Mr. Pate's store was off-loaded.

Osborne's existence was closely linked to Mr. Pate for it was his store that drew most of the vehicular traffic - cars, trucks and horse drawn wagons. It was a "company store" that "carried" farmers until their crops were sold, extending credit throughout the year with just a promise from the farmer to pay off the debt when he sold his crops.

Mr. Pate's store was about twenty five feet wide and maybe seventy five feet long, It was made of brick and when viewed from the outside could be assumed to be a two story building. I don't recall ever being on a second floor there but I do remember the high walls of the store, with shelves reaching almost to the ceiling. There was always the pungent odor of animal feeds, leather equipment for horses and mules, fertilizers, oils and musty smells left over from previous decades.

The store was stocked with practically everything farmers needed: lamps, kerosene, seed, fertilizer, feed, bridles, collars, hames, trace chains, single and double trees, groceries, shoes, dresses, bib overalls, shirts, pots, pans, buckets, tubs, fence wire, guns, ammunition and more. Things that were too large for the shelves were placed in the center of the store and sweets and co-colas were there for any kid lucky enough to have a penny or a nickel.

Shopping in Mr. Pate's store during the early 1940s was much different than today's shopping. There were no shopping carts or hand baskets to aid in collecting the items. But that didn't present a big problem because not many items were purchased at one time anyway. Most of the goods purchased were things that could not be produced on the farm - things such as sugar, salt, rice, shoes, cloth goods, Mason jars, lamp shades, enameled dishware, farm implements and the like. Most food items were produced on farms and salted, cured, smoked, pickled, canned, dried or otherwise preserved to last until the next season.

The customer told the clerk what was needed and the clerk picked the item from a shelf. For things high up on the shelves he used a mechanical clamp attached to a long rod which he raised to the desired item, squeezed a handle and lifted the can or bag from the shelf. If the clerk wanted to show-off or speed things up he simply nudged the item off the shelf and caught it as it came tumbling from a height of eight, twelve or fifteen feet. For things that were too big to get with the clamp the clerk would climb a movable ladder mounted on rails in front of each wall of shelves.

I have no personal recollection of the following event but I have heard my mom repeat it a few times so I know it to be true. It's an example of stupid rules and blind obedience to them.

Mom had picked up a few items in Mr. Pate's store and, after paying for them, decided to get a treat for the few children she had with her. She placed twenty-five cents on the counter and asked for five candy bars. The clerk delivered a spiel about a war going on, rationing of sugar, etc., and said he couldn't let her have that many. Pointing to the young'uns she had in tow mom said that the candy was for them. Still not budging from his responsibility to uphold the rules, he adamantly refused to sell mom five candy bars at one time.

Mom turned the kids toward the door, marched them outside where she gave each a nickel and let them go back into the store, one at a time, until each child had a candy bar! How's that for getting around stupid rules and lack of common sense!?

Osborne gave up its soul many years ago, a community that fell victim to changing times, a community that had outlived its usefulness. Fewer farmers came less frequently to buy "on time," growing old and becoming weary from their life's work. The children didn't follow in the fathers' footsteps for they wanted no part of an arduous and uncertain future, electing instead to graduate high school and get a job they could depend on to provide for them and their families.

When the children left for better futures sharecropping became a relic of the past and peach orchards were abandoned. The trees died in the fields and the packing houses fell down around the foundations, to be swallowed by wild growth, forever removing the last vestiges of orchards that had once covered thousands of acres. Pine plantations now cover what was once planted in corn, tobacco, cotton and peach trees.

The last time I went to Osborne was about ten years ago. I wasn't into recalling and putting my past on paper at that time so I didn't make a close observation of the place (I wish now I had) but I can recall some of the images I formed as I passed by in less than thirty seconds.

Uncle Doug's little creek was no longer as inviting to passersby as it once was, having gone wild with overhanging brush and weeds. Mr. Pate's store was in a terrible condition and I wouldn't be surprised if it has completely fallen down by now. The SAL siding and loading dock were gone; gone because the peach orchards had ceased to exist and there was no fruit to ship, and gone, too, because there was no freight to off-load for Mr. Pate's failed store. I didn't notice if uncle Doug's rented house behind Pate's store was still there but it's doubtful.

The rail tracks still pass through Osborne, the trains roaring through without slowing. Osborne is still shown on some NC maps but not on others. Yahoo Map Site shows Osborne, even though it's misplaced on Rte. 177 rather than its actual location a short distance east at the intersection of county roads 1828 and 1803.

* Mr. Z.V. Pate was a well known merchant and land owner in that area. I know of two of his stores that are still standing, one in Laurel Hill, NC, and there is one in Gibson, NC, that closed its doors a few years ago. Some of you may know of others. In 1969 I bought property on Grace Chapel Church Road and when I walked my property lines I found on a cement corner marker the letters ZVP.

Bruce Osburn 9-27-2000

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10-30-2000
Today Osborne can't even be considered a proper "ghost town" for there is nothing to suggest a community had once been there. I passed through Osborne on 10-27-2000 and found not the slightest trace of the community that once was. I walked on the ground that Pate's store had occupied and couldn't find a single piece of evidence to show that a huge brick building had once stood there.

Not a trace of the other store and homes could be seen for the trees and brush had overgrown all evidence of the community. Uncle Doug's stream had been turned into a swampy area, having been dammed up by beavers. The only sign of life was a neat, well-kept double-wide mobile home about one-quarter mile west of the rail crossing. I wonder if the folks living there are aware of...... the community that once was?

---

VISITS TO THE DENTIST
....open wide!
ca 1948-1953
by: Bruce Osburn

Doctor Buck Edwards' dental office was on the south side of Main Street across from the Hamlet Theatre and, I believe, on the second floor of a building near Mabry's Drug Store. His office was not fancy, just the usual for that time period. But that part of it used for the treatment room was more than just a little intimidating to a youngster, especially for a kid who had never before set foot inside a dentist's office.

The memory of my first visit to a dentist hasn't escaped me for I still remember that awful day. That was the day I sat down in Dr. Edward's long, reclining chair and stared with wide eyed amazement at an array of instruments that must have been designed solely for the purpose of extracting maximum pain and discomfort from scared little kids.

In a nearby tray I saw long metal picks and scrappers and big shiny pliers. Snaking crookedly alongside the chair and extending overhead was a device with skinny rods and little round pulley belts and elbows that could be bent and twisted any which way the dentist wanted it to go. (I had never before heard of Rube Goldberg but surely that contraption must have been one of his earliest inventions.)

Dr. Edwards put a bib on me, adjusted the chair until I was lying almost flat and turned on a bright overhead light that was nearly as big as a dish pan. He aimed that light at my face, picked up one of those long skinny picks and said "Open wide!" I took a deep breath and opened wide, squeezing the arms of the chair until my knuckles must have turned white.

While I laid there too scared even to breathe, he probed and picked and scraped and then announced that I had some baaad cavities. That wasn't news to me 'cause I knew I had several; why else would mom send me there?

The next thing I saw was a big ole ugly needle in his hand! Whooee! That thing was so big it could've been used to pump up footballs! Somehow he managed to coax my mouth open to give me a shot of Novocain and not long afterward he reached for his Rube Goldberg contraption and said "Open wide!"

That drill was an improvement over a hammer and chisel, but not much. That darn drill turned so slowly that it mostly gouged out the cavity as it vibrated and rattled my jaw bone so badly I had trouble keeping my head still. And if that wasn't bad enough the drill sometimes got stuck in the tooth and he had to tug and twist to get it loose.

Eventually he finished his work and I started for home with my very first filling shining brightly in my mouth. More visits followed that first one and Dr. Edwards and I worked out a routine that eased my fear of his office. I was so terrified of the needle I let him begin grinding on a tooth before he gave me a shot of Novocain. If all proceeded well and I felt just little, quick flashes of pain, then I escaped the needle on that visit. But sometimes he struck a nerve which caused me to almost leave the chair and, after being pulled back into place, I got the needle and was thankful for it.

It's been nearly fifty years since I last visited Dr. Edwards and I believe I still have some of his handiwork in my mouth, along with other dentists' work from the following years. But it was Dr. Edwards who introduced this then-young kid to the mysteries of a dental office, working to allay my fears and making future visits less frightful.

Dentistry has greatly improved over the years and a visit today is not nearly as scary as it once was. It's not unusual for today's kids to make their first visit to a dental office as young as three or four years of age. And long before they get braces to correct overbites and crooked teeth some may have already experienced the needle and the drill. Dentists of today like to think of their profession as being painless and they are, for the most part, correct. By using water cooled, high speed air turbine drills they quickly remove that black, ugly mess from a tooth and fill it with whatever you want.

But, I still think the most scariest part of a dental visit, whether fifty years ago or today, is the thought of, and then seeing, that big ole ugly needle coming near your face and hearing the dentist say with a big grin ..."Open wide!" That's enough to make anyone get white knuckled and wiggle just a little deeper into the chair.

--thanks to Jeanne A. for confirmation of Dr. Edwards' name--

Bruce Osburn 10-7-2000

***************

Subject: Buck Edwards.
Date: Mon, 09 Oct 2000 23:51:13 -0400
From: "Jim & Nancy P." Organization: None
I meant to mention this to you earlier but forgot!! Must be that over 50 thing again! I also remember those trips to Dr. Edwards office. I think those times are the reason I hate the dentist to this day!! He was not a very gentle dentist as my recollection goes. Thanks -----I think-- for the memory.
Nancy [Pollard]

***************

10-30-2000
Sister Ginger told me that when she was about 17 years old she worked as Dr. Edwards' receptionist/assistant for a week. Dr. Edwards was known to have an eye for the ladies so mom made my younger brother Kenny go along and sit with Ginger all day at the office.

Aunt Cecil said that when she went to Dr. Edwards for treatment uncle Lawrence went along and sat in the treatment room until the work was done.

I attended Hamlet Avenue School from September, 1950, until June, 1953. I entered seventh grade and that was the year students from Pansy Fetner and Fayetteville Street schools were joined with the students of Hamlet Avenue. Some of the kids from Pansy Fetner and Fayetteville Street had ridden the buses together for years so all were not strangers on the first day. I had lots of experiences during that time that I remember and there are events that I have no recollection of whatsoever.

I'll begin by saying that that was the first school where I had more than just one teacher during the day. At Pansy Fetner, my previous school, one teacher taught all the subjects to her students; the three Rs plus geography, history, health and any other thing necessary for our proper education. There at Hamlet Avenue we 7th graders were introduced to the concept of teachers specializing in just two or three subjects, with one teacher holding sway over the class for a couple hours before turning it over to the next teacher. I suppose we kids weren't yet considered capable of finding our way about the halls because we remained in our home rooms all day and the teachers changed rooms.

The teachers for 7th grade were Mrs. Gibbons, Miss Mitchell and Miss McKinnon. I don't remember much about the first two, but I have a fleeting memory of Miss McKinnon. As best I remember she was just a little slip of a woman and full of energy. She was always fully charged when she came into the room, entering at such a rapid pace one would have thought she was late for class.

I guess we were considered just a little more mature by the time we hit 8th grade for that was the year we began to change rooms and the teachers were the ones that stayed in their home rooms. I can't remember either of the three teachers we had that year but my classmate, Doug Gray, has identified them for me as Miss Pruitt, Miss Hathcock and Mr. Winfree.

The teachers I remember from 9th grade were Mr. Moses - who was the industrial arts instructor, - Mr. Abdulla, Mrs. Phifer (I think she taught English) and Mrs. Moses, who I had just for "study hall." Another teacher I remember was an extraordinary young girl that made her first year there (I think) during the 1952-1953 school year. School yard rumor had it that she hailed from Monck's Corner, SC. That may or may not be true, but whatever the case, she was not a teacher to be taken lightly.

She was in sharp contrast to most of the teachers there. She was young, pretty, petite, feisty and bursting with a fiery energy to match her short, collar length flaming red hair. Even the biggest boy student deferred to her when she got her dander up because no one dared test the patience of Miss Maxine Hood.

In 7th and 8th grades we kids still had the pleasure of having a recess at some point during the day. I can't remember if we had more than one, but I know we had at least one. During those periods, and at lunch time, we engaged in many activities that only kids can do well.

The girls usually got up a game of hopscotch, of which there were at least two different styles. One style consisted of a grid closely resembling a cross with a set of spaces off to both sides near the top of the cross. Another style was shaped like a snail with the grid running in a spiral. But, no matter what style grid was used, the rules were the same; no stepping in another's square and no stepping on the lines.

But before anyone could attempt to make a jump they first had to toss a piece of glass or a coin or some other token into the next empty space. A successful "jump" on one foot to the top and back earned the jumper an "X" in her choice of a square and only she was allowed to put a foot in it afterward.

Another game for the girls was jump rope. There were single ropes and there were double ropes where a lot of "h-o-t-p-e-a-s" were whipped up. A few girls played jacks but not many 'cause they didn't want to get their knees or bloomers dirty.

School yard games were played during their own seasons. "HORSE" was played during basketball time, roller-bat during baseball season, marbles in their season and playing with yo-yos began when the yo-yo man made his yearly appearance on the school yard.

Every year, on every school yard, a Duncan Yo-Yo man came with an assortment of yo-yos. He put on dazzling displays of tricks that could be done with a Duncan Yo-Yo; rock the cradle, walk the dog, round the world and tuck one in the pocket. He got the kids worked into such a frenzy that every kid had to have one of those Duncan Yo-Yos. Twenty five cents from mom or dad or grandpa got a Duncan Yo-Yo and a kid would have loads of fun until the next game season came in.

Some games had no season and were played whenever a kid pulled out his Barlow and got up a jackknife game. Two of those games I remember were mumbly-peg and the other was land-stealing. It's been so long since I played mumbly-peg that I have forgotten just exactly how the game was played. But I seem to remember that the point of the knife was placed at different places on the body and then flipped toward the ground where, hopefully for the player, the blade stuck into the ground, thus earning the player another attempt from a different point on his body. The loser had the embarrassment of having to pull a peg out of the dirt with his teeth.

Land-stealing was a game played by two boys and began with a circle about six feet in diameter drawn in the dirt. The circle was equally divided with a line drawn across the middle and each of the boys attempted to take his opponent's "land". A kid took a turn by standing in his land and throwing his Barlow into his opponent's side of the circle, trying to stick the knife blade into the ground. If he succeeded in sticking the knife into his opponent's side he drew a line at that point from one side of his opponent's land to the other side, thus claiming the just won land as his own. He continued throwing his knife until he failed to stick it into the ground at which time the other kid attempted to recover his own land as well as take that of his opponent. When a kid did not have enough land remaining to stand in with at least one foot he was declared the loser.

The knife throwing games were played in the canyon between the two wings of the building. It was also here that the bicycle racks were located and more than one kid found a flat tire on his bike in the afternoon, it having been punctured by an errant throw by some unknown knife thrower.

One of my all time favorite memories is of the day one of the young boys got his comeuppance. I'm sorry to say I can't remember the names of the kids involved but I do remember something about them.

One of the kids involved was a boy that must have suffered from "little-boy" syndrome. He was smaller than his classmates and tried to compensate for this shortcoming by being a pest and obnoxious brat. He liked nothing better than to interfere and stick his nose into another kid's business.

The other kid in this tale was a girl about the same age and completely different than the boy for she was well liked by her classmates and had more than enough friends. Her father owned a chicken and egg farm in Hamlet but, even though I had been there several times, I can't remember the exact location. I only remember that it was somewhere just west of NC #177 and a little south of US #74.

Sometimes - when brother James let mom know he was coming home on navy shore leave bringing some of his shipmates - brother Gene and I would go there to get several dozens of eggs. (Each of those sailors could put away at least six eggs at a sitting.) While I sat in the truck waiting for the eggs to be brought out I often saw the girl helping to feed and water the chickens. With a full five gallon bucket in each hand she made her way about the farm putting out feed and water. (Just for you that are curious, five gallons of water weighs about 41 pounds.)

The day the boy got his just deserts found me trying to sweet-talk a girl standing in a group which included the girl from the egg farm. Obnoxious boy came over and began to pester and stick his nose where it didn't belong and, after a few seconds, the girl told him to go away and mind his own business. The boy grinned at her and told her to go do something to herself which was physically impossible.

He had barely gotten the last syllable past his grinning lips when the girl shot out a hand and grabbed him by his shirt collar, spun him around, grabbed him by the seat of his breeches with her other hand and lifted him clear of the ground. Holding that squalling kid horizontally at arm's length, with his arms and legs flailing about, she purposely strode toward a nearby water filled mud puddle left from an earlier rainfall and gave him a heave.

After she had thrown that hollering young'un face down into the mud puddle she calmly wiped her hands as if to say "good riddance" and returned to her group. She had tossed that kid into the mud puddle with no more concern than she would have given to a dead chicken she flipped out of a hen house.

In 9th grade one of my subjects was mechanical drawing, the first requirement of a course designed to get young boys involved in industrial arts. Mr. Clifford D. Moses was the instructor for the course and allowed the younger mechanical drawing students to go out to the shop when they had a free class. My last class of the day was "study hall" and I took advantage of being able to go there and watch the older boys work with lathes, table saws, wood planners and the like.

But before I could leave study hall I had to produce a permission slip to go to the shop signed by Mr. Moses. That wasn't hard to do because Mr. Moses would sign one for practically anyone who asked. But sometimes I forgot to get the slip while I was in drawing class and when study hall came around I lacked that necessary slip of paper. The study hall monitor was the wife of Mr. Moses and would not accept anything other than a signed note from her husband.

That presented a problem, but not for long. With a good deal of practice I learned to make an almost exact rendering of Mr. Moses' initials, "CDM." When I found myself without a signed note I simply wrote one for myself and my buddy, L.G. McKeithan. With a flourish I signed "CDM" and took it to Mrs. Moses. She looked at it, nodded her head and off we went. My forgeries were so good that Mr. Moses, after questioning why we were in the shop, simply shook his head when I showed him a note, saying he just didn't remember signing it.

One day while I was in the shop some of the older boys pulled a prank on me that I didn't even realize had occurred until it was over and done with. My older brother Gene was there at the time and he wouldn't even let me know that I was being made a fool.

On this black day one of the older boys that was working on a cedar chest or some other project called me over and told me to go to the tool room and get a board stretcher. At the tool room I told another older boy that "so-and-so" wanted a board stretcher and I was given a piece of machinery that must have weighed a hundred pounds. Struggling and banging it against my legs I finally got it to the cedar chest boy who told me to take it back because he didn't need it anymore. So, back to the tool room I went with just as much difficulty as before.

I have said elsewhere in these stories that if a kid kept his eyes and ears open he was sure to learn something new each day. Well, it was certainly true for that experience because I learned the next day I had been made a big fool. But that was a learning experience that kept me from being made an even bigger fool when I went aboard my first navy ship four years later.

Old navy salts got the biggest kick out of sending young kids fresh out of boot camp on errands for non-existant gear. Young boots who had just reported aboard their first ship were sent looking for spools of pipe thread, left-handed pipe wrenches, six-pound water hammers, grease guns filled with relative bearing grease and yes, even gauge glass stretchers. But that learning experience at Hamlet High School gave this eighteen-year-old boot enough courage to tell the old salts to kiss a certain part of my anatomy when they were about to send me off on a fool's errand.

Bruce Osburn 10-23-2000

I have said elsewhere in these tales that the boogerman and ghosts were sometimes called upon to keep me and my brothers from misbehaving or, for that matter, straying too far from the house at night. I won't deny that just the mere mention of either was enough to make us stop doing whatever we were doing or to come inside when the adults thought it was time for us to settle down. As we grew older we learned that our adults had fibbed more than just a little bit about those demons, but still, the fear of darkness that had been so deeply instilled in us during our young years was not easily overcome.

Even after we learned that there really weren't any evil things lurking about in the darkness we were still wary when we found ourselves away from home after nightfall. Being with another kid wasn't nearly as scary as being alone. In fact, the more kids in a group, the better, for there was safety in numbers. We thought that if there was a booger out prowling about maybe it would get your buddy first, leaving you to escape!

Sometimes I went to see a movie and found myself in darkness when it was over. On the way home, whether I was riding a bike or on foot, I always stayed in the middle of the road for I wanted to get as much distance as possible between me and the ditches. And I didn't tarry either for I pumped that old bike as fast as I could or ran until I couldn't run anymore, slowing to just a fast walk until I could get my second wind.

One night after visiting a buddy I started for home by way of a sandy, two-rut road that wound through the back part of our property. About fifty yards of the road passed through a swampy area and part of that route was a home-made corduroy road. As I made my way into the low area I noticed a strange glowing light off to one side of the road near one of the two small streams that fed into our pond. As I got nearer the glow got brighter and I got more scared. Picking up my feet just a little faster I sped over the log road and past that glow in record time.

Daylight drives away boogers and things that go bump in the night so my courage was restored enough the next day to investigate that strange light. After searching for several minutes I finally discovered my "booger" - a moss covered stump that became alive at night with fox-fire. After convincing myself that I wasn't going to be gotten by a booger I went there several nights just to see that curious sight. That was the first time I had ever seen that oddity of nature and I have never seen another since.

I think there were at least a few nights when mom wished she hadn't made us kids so afraid of the darkness and of things that go bump in the night. I don't have any personal recollection of the following two incidents but I have heard mom repeat them several times and she always got a good belly laugh from the kinfolk hearing them.

This tale begins on a rainy, stormy night when mom returned home after spending the evening with uncle Lawrence and aunt Cecil. When she tried to get inside the house she discovered that both doors were locked and all the kids were in bed fast asleep. She attempted to wake someone by banging on the door but wasn't able to do so.

So, mom sloshed through the puddles to the backside of the house and up to the boys' bedroom window where she could rouse one of us kids from our sleep. With rain pouring off the eaves and down onto her head she raised her fist and pounded on the window and, at the same time, let go with one of her shrill, patented screams - "GEN- neeeeeeee!"

Gene jerked upright, looked straight down the bed and saw something pressed against the window that scared the bejeeze out of him - that scary ol' boogerman mom had always warned us about!

Gene grabbed the bed covers in both hands, threw himself backward onto his pillow and, at the same time, pulled the blankets over his head! In fact, he pulled those covers with such force he uncovered himself from his feet clear to his belly! The only things covered were his head and chest! Several more shouts from mom finally got Gene out of bed and to the door.

This other incident also involved Gene. Mom determined she heard a noise outside the house one night and when she learned the key was still in the truck she told Gene to go get it. Gene flatly refused to go out into the darkness so mom ran outside and got the key herself. When some of the kinfolk learned of that incident they chided Gene for being a "scaredy-cat" and making his poor ol' mama go out into the darkness where she might be got by a booger. Gene's response to that was: "Hey, I'm just a fifteen-year-old kid and Mama is an old woman who has already lived her life!" (Mom was actually a youthful looking woman of 42 years!)

This tale is from my own experiences. I was about thirteen or fourteen-years-old and had been riding around in the early evening with two of the Caulder brothers - Billy and Arlo - and their cousin Aulton Brown. When Billy drove into our yard later that night it was apparent that no one was home so they asked if I wanted them to stay there until mom came home. Putting on a show of bravery I told them that I wasn't afraid to stay by myself and further added that I had a friend inside. When they asked who my friend was I said, "A shotgun."

I was soon lying nervously on the sofa reading a comic book while I waited for uncle Lawrence and aunt Cecil to bring mom home. Pretty soon I heard a rattling noise outside near the window. I got up, loaded the .410-gauge shotgun and then resumed my position on the sofa with the gun craddled in my arms.

The rattling continued unabated, moved away from the house out into the yard and again back near the window. And then I heard rattling against the steps and onto the front porch, not more than eight or ten feet from where I was rapidly approaching a state of panic. That noise was followed by a rapid rap, rap, rap just outside the door so I cocked the gun, pointed it at the windows in the door and waited. In less time than it takes to tell a moth lit on the screen door and I thought that it was someone pressing their nose to the door to see inside! I was so scared I couldn't pull the trigger!

When mom returned home she found the house ablaze with light. Every light in the house was on and I was still on the sofa, fast asleep with the cocked gun still in my arms. Uncle Lawrence somehow got into the house and crept into the living room where he gently disarmed me without making the gun go off.

The next morning I found out that one of our dogs had broken its chain and was responsible for the rattling and rapping. (Have you ever seen a sitting dog scratch fleas? That hind leg really bangs the floor with every scratch!)

I don't believe my early years were much different than those of other kids of that era. And being afraid of my own shadow had no lasting effects on me at all; heck, I can go outside tonight and not have to look over my shoulder more than four or five times!

Bruce Osburn 11-5-2000

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MISCHIEVOUS BUDDIES
...Aulton, Arlo and Bruce
lifelong friends
by: Bruce Osburn

In January, 1948, my family moved to Hamlet where I enrolled at Pansy Fetner School. I was placed in Mrs. O'Brien's 4th grade class and it was there that I first met Aulton Brown and his cousin, Arlo Caulder. We three were in the same grade and became fast friends, a friendship that continued for more than five years during the time we were classmates and has continued until today.

I think Arlo's mother was a sister to Aulton's dad - who, I believe, was named Lonnie but I'm not absolutely sure. The Caulders' home was about five-hundred feet from the Browns so we kids bounced back and forth at will. There were several children in the Caulder family and I remember their names by the use of a simple recitation of the alphabet. I remember them in order of the first letter of their name, not by order of age. They were Arlo, Billy (Thomas,) Carlton, Donald, Earl, Frances and Gerald. I remember the name Ilene but I believe that name goes with Frances, as in Frances Ilene. I don't know if any more were born after I left Hamlet in 1953.

Aulton and I were actually the "buddies" for I was involved in activities more with him than with Arlo. Sometimes I stayed overnight with Aulton and sometimes he would stay at my house. When I stayed with him I was treated just like I was one of the family and I addressed his grandmother as Granny, same as the rest of the kids. I helped Aulton with the few chores he had, such as feeding the chickens, getting eggs and tending to the cow. On Saturday mornings we, along with his sisters Lydia and Audrey, cut and made brush brooms so we could sweep the yards.

Yard keeping in that era was different than today. A well kept rural yard in those days consisted of smooth, hard packed soil and not the first blade of grass! Every new sprig of grass that managed to grow there was pulled out by the roots and tossed aside. All leaves and other debris that had collected since the last Saturday were swept into a pile and burned. When all was finished there was not a leaf, twig, cigarette butt, scrap of paper, chinaberry, rock or any other unsightly object to be seen because a clean swept yard imparted the same image of the home owner as does a closely mowed, edged lawn of today.

If I stayed for a weekend I had to go to church on Sunday with the rest of the family. I think every one of Aulton's uncles was a preacher and had a church of his own. And so, not wanting to offend any one of them, his parents took us to a different uncle's church practically every Sunday. (Well, that's the way it seemed to me!)

When I spent the night with Aulton we were a little more likely to do mischief the next day - not always, but occasionally. It seems that we were more likely to do something as a group than if we were alone, with no one daring the other to do something he shouldn't. I remember one day we decided to skip school so we got off the school bus and did just that. Several of us young boys played hooky and goofed off all day. I remember there was me, Aulton, Arlo, Carlton and Larry Quick, who was another of our gang.

I can't remember just how we passed the day but I do recall we had a good swim. The reason I remember this outing is because of the odd construction of the spillway at the pond we swam in. Most ponds in our neighborhoods had the spillways made into the face of the dam but this pond had the spillway out in the water, maybe fifty feet from the dam. There it was, just like a chimney poking its top through the surface and the water spilling over into the drain which extended from that point through the dam.

Sometime during those days Aulton and I found ourselves in Hamlet one afternoon. I can't remember why we were there or, for that matter, how we got there. All I remember is that we were on the Battley Dairy Road hitchhiking to his home, which was about a mile beyond the Outside Furniture Store. Several cars had already passed us by before one finally stopped. But instead of offering us a ride the old man scolded us for hitchhiking and then drove off, leaving us standing there no closer to home than before he stopped! That must have ticked me off because I remember grabbing a handful of still moist "road apples" from the roadside and splattering them on the rear of his car as he drove off.

On another afternoon when I was hanging out with the gang someone suggested we sell some watermelons to a grocery market so we would have a little cash to buy some much needed gas for Billy's car. That sounded like a good idea but we had one little problem - neither the Browns or the Caulders had a watermelon patch. But we knew there was one just down the road a piece just waiting for someone to come along and help themselves so we stuffed ourselves into Billy's car and took off!

Billy had a two door '39 or '40 model Chevy business coupe that could comfortably seat three on its one seat and two uncomfortably in a space behind the seat. That was the place a business man would normally hang his suits and other traveling gear. The passenger compartment might have been considered small for so many kids but that shortcoming was more than offset by the huge trunk, a trunk so big four or five kids could easily get into it if we ever decided to slip into a drive-in movie. The passenger compartment was small and the trunk was large because that's what a traveling salesman needed, hence the name "business coupe."

Billy parked the car on the shoulder of the road and we juvenile delinquents darted out into the field