Before--Chapter 1

Most of you know that Ron is the real writer in our family and has a wonderful way with words. Seeing that he is the oldest of the five Truscott children and has a better memory of our early childhood we have asked him to write about our growing up years. He has given me permission to share those memories with the rest of you. Here is the first installment. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for sharing Ron. LaDonna.

BEFORE--Chapter 1

It was 1948. People were beginning to believe the awful war was really over. Like a sleeping giant the nation was awakening from the twin nightmares of a decade of economic depression followed by a horrendous global conflict that had caused the deaths of millions of souls worldwide.
Laurence Olivier’s Hamlet won the American Academy Award for best picture, but I knew nothing of that. I had never seen a movie, or knew that such a thing existed. Entertainment for me was uncle Monte on mandolin, Uncle Jay playing guitar and everyone singing, mostly church songs. And there was singing at church, but when the singing was over you had to sit still and be quiet, while a man spoke endlessly in a loud voice, followed by soft music and people crying, all very entertaining, but inexplicable to a five year old boy.

The house was built like a fat L, with an outhouse in the back next to a chicken coup, although I don’t remember it being occupied by the feathered delicacy that year.
In 1948 the Saturday night bath was the norm, so one was sparkling clean for Sunday school and church the following morning. Due to a lack of an indoor bathroom a round metal tub was filled with a combination of cold water moderated by warmer water heated stove top. Whether or not the water was changed between occupants is doubtful and not in my fuzzy recollection. I do remember that the same tub accompanied by a scrub board was used by Mother during the week for laundry purposes.
The home was situated on a dead end dirt road with only a few houses lining its short expanse. The rural neighborhood was on the outskirts of Sand Springs, Oklahoma. If the street had a name it escapes memory.
I have vague and hazy recollections of lazy, warm summer days playing in the yard with my little brother and constant companion, Keith. There were little sisters, Judy and LaDonna, but they were kept closer to our mother in the house. A white dog named Spitsy kept us company outside taking turns playing chase.
A freckled face girl from next door occasionally intruded on our adolescent male utopia, at one point cornering me in the chicken coup out back, managing to kiss me on the lips before I managed a successful escape.
A welcome visitor was a boy my age from the first house on the street. He was a full blood Native American. He could climb trees with speed and agility that was beyond my capability. His war dance was authentic as it had been passed down from his ancestors. When we played cowboys and Indians, the cowboys lost, especially when Spitsy sided with the natives.

The warm summer gave way to autumn and harvest time. Fruit ripe from our grandparent’s orchard brought forth among their delights, delicious apple pies.
The fall of 1948 had the added excitement of a presidential election. Harry Truman was president, and was running what appeared to be a losing battle against Dewey. My curiosity was incited from a picture of two old men in the newspaper and everyone crowded around listening to the radio, hour upon hour of what to my uninformed, immature mind was a car race around the country from state to state by the old guys pictured in the paper. The whole affair and agitation of the adults was very entertaining.

My memories of that year culminated in a storm that left behind a sheet of thick ice completely covering the ground. The usually short and pleasant walk from our house to Grandma Nunley’s was fraught with slipping and falling on the slick, cold ground. Only our dad did well on the surface because of the blades attached to the bottom of his shoes.