Dungarees vs. Dresses: A tomboy’s dilemma

Several people have asked what it was like for me growing up in our small town of Barnwell.

First off, let’s recap a number of what we shall call “statistics” just in case you have not read any of our previous articles.

Our parents were ­Mockie and Hettie Mathis Holland. Daddy owned and operated Mockie’s Esso station on the corner of Main Street and Rey­nolds Road from 1930 to 1980. Today, Enterprise Bank occupies this same spot. Our mama was a homemaker while sister Etta and I were growing up. Etta was two and a half years older blazing a trail of how and what to do correctly. Surely Daddy and Mama had high hopes that I (Louise) would follow in her footsteps, but, not so. Our home was at the current address of 940 Marlboro Avenue. Having caught you up to snuff, we shall proceed.

Back in the 1940s, Barnwell resembled pretty much of today’s nostalgic Mayberry: our residences and cars were never locked, we didn’t even have a key to our homes, policemen were our friends, neighbors looked out for each ­other’s children, and teachers were never wrong. Whatever punishment we got at school, we were already promised double when we returned home! Respect for others was an understood requirement! If you were so foolish as not to care about anything…..well, there was something wrong with you! Hmm.

As far back as I can remember, all that I wanted to be was a tomboy. Now embracing this lifestyle wasn’t all peaches ‘n’ cream. This carried a certain amount of responsibility: wear dresses only to school, to church and when Mama made me.

Otherwise, Dungarees or a cowboy outfit would let everyone know that I wasn’t prissy or a pushover. The message may have been: “Don’t mess with me!” Yet, this one episode presented obstacles for this second grader, but only for a brief, brief spell.

This way of life suited me to a tee. Besides, ­Alice Jo Mole and Sylvia Hogg were my sidekicks! On Saturdays, we would put on our cowboy outfits with the double holsters, cap guns, shiny cowboy boots and hats when heading to the Ritz Theatre for a whole day of westerns. All went well until that unexpected day when this trio got rambunctious and began firing our cap pistols at the ceiling. We were out of control until the owner, Mrs. Dobson, had the film stopped, marched down the aisle to the front and halted our fun. Henceforth, these three amigos were required to “check our guns in” with the proprietor before entering the hallowed halls of the Ritz! Still, we remained tomboys for a little longer!

It comes as no surprise that 70-plus years later my childhood friend Sylvia Hogg Gilmore of North Carolina, and I call one another frequently to reminisce about Roy Rogers, Lash Larue, Durango Kid and more. We laugh about our “glory days” at the Ritz with most conversations taking place on Saturdays, yet closer to noonday.

Now to the side of our family home was/is Simms Street. Oh, we were so fortunate or just lucky because behind our neighbors’ homes was a beautiful sight for sore eyes: a ditch! It was a deep one with sides rather steep for small children. You can’t imagine the fun all of the neighborhood children had! We spent countless hours digging tunnels, rolling mud balls and getting as dirty as homemade-sin!

Our childhood friends taught one another how to ride bikes, shoot marbles, roller skate and swap funny books. However, some time was spent holding funeral services for what today’s folks call “road kill”.

Our parents allowed Etta and me to use our back yard for a cemetery. Casualties such as squirrels, birds, rabbits, cats and dogs were put away nicely. Tampa Nugget ­cigar boxes or shoe boxes served as coffins for the smaller ones while camellias, daffodils or ragweed were our casket sprays. Etta would read scripture; I would sing a hymn. Tears were only shed when our family pets were buried.

So, you see growing up in Barnwell was fun and quite busy for this little tomboy. It was happy ­until that fateful day when Mama broke that unspeakable news which would shatter my carefree lifestyle forever….or would it?

“Louise, I have decided that you will begin taking piano lessons from “Miss” Nonie tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.” Back then there were no discussions to be had. Facts were facts, and I had to abide. But, I will assure you, as my heart began to sink, wheels in my head had already begun spinning. Surely I could come up with a way out of this predicament. Hmm.

For the remainder of that day, a dark cloud seemingly hung above my head. I remember going to bed hoping that tomorrow would never come. What if my friends wanted me to play in the ditch after school? What if my chum Linda Covington needed me to play hide ‘n’ seek? Sleep finally arrived. And wouldn’t you just know it? I did live through the night!

At least our Mama was all excited about my introductory piano lesson. Almost giggling, Mama told me to put on the new dotted-swiss dress she had just finished sewing. In other words, wearing my favorite dungarees was out of the question. No need to ask.

To top it all off, ”Spot” who worked for Daddy had washed and waxed Mama’s Chevrolet for her to drive us a whole two blocks to “Miss” Nonie’s. If that didn’t beat all!

We arrived for the piano lesson several minutes early with Mama coaxing me through the front door that “Miss” Nonie held wide-open. Somehow, I felt like a snake that was fixing to recoil.

Immediately, we three stepped into a large living room which was crowded to overflowing with antiques. Most were massive and rather spooky. The sunlight caught the brilliant sparkles of “Miss” Nonie’s many diamonds. “Why did she wear so many rings?” I wondered.

Oh, I had already known “Miss” Nonie from hundreds of visits to Best Drugs (later, Berley’s Pharmacy), where she enjoyed spending time behind the counter and chatting with all of the customers. You see, the owner was “Big Martin” Best Sr., her brother. Yet, this was totally different. Today, she would become my piano teacher.

Mama and I followed “Miss” Nonie into the next room which accommodated two large pianos, some straight chairs plus gobs and gobs of heavy antiques. At first glance, I feared never being able to play in that ditch again, much less get to spend time reading funny books with “milkshake” on his glassed-in side porch. Oh, my, but all of this newness was not good for the likes of me!

“Miss” Nonie sorta ushered me to the piano bench. There before me was the beginner’s book which all students of the piano must start with. The teacher continued talking while mashing the keys and pointing to the music on the page. One stern look from my Mama, and I decided to “look” as if I were paying attention. (Actually, I kept one eye zeroed-in on that clock.)

None too soon, Mama and I departed driving to Best Drugs for two much- needed Coca-Colas. With the beginner’s book clutched in my right hand, I fully realized this had certainly not been a tomboy’s zip-a-dee-doo-dah-day!

That evening, per usual, Daddy and Mama scurried off to the little living room to talk over the events of the day. Sister Etta was sleeping soundly. Early on, I had opened the air vent right above their heads so that I could hear the conversation below. Mama began, “Well, Marvin, I drove Louise to Nonie’s this afternoon for her initial piano lesson. All that I can say is that she resembled ‘a reluctant ­dragon’ if ever there was one. I can’t see Louise sitting still long enough to play even one piece, much less any more, but we shall see.”

It was a known fact that I had paid more attention to the furnishings of “Miss” Nonie’s home than to her instructions. In today’s world, playing the piano was just not “my thang!”

At my first real piano lesson, without Mama, it came as no surprise that when I hit a wrong note, “Miss” Nonie snatched a lead pencil from out of that knot of hair on the back of her head, and rap, rap, rapped the tops of my knuckles. Nearing the conclusion of this official lesson, I hit another wrong note. This time my teacher banged on the tops of the same boney knuckles with a ruler. My skills as a pian­ist never advanced from that point on.

So, with less than three piano lessons under my belt, Mama finally relented deciding that I would no longer have to take piano lessons. Ecstatic beyond belief, I questioned, “And I won’t have to be in the piano recital next week?”

Without so much as taking a breath, Mama retorted, “Oh, yes you will, young lady! I have made evening gowns for you and “little” Etta to wear, and you will be in that recital on Friday evening, so help me God!” Mama had spoken.

In Barnwell, “Miss” Nonie’s piano ­recitals were considered to be highlights of the year. With each performance, the auditorium on ­Hagood Avenue was always filled to overflowing. I was really shocked to see how nicely my piano teacher looked. For some strange reason, there was no lead pencil in the bun on the back of her head. Oh, she must’ve forgotten to bring that ruler, too. I wondered why … hmmm.

Being the most recent piano student, my name appeared first on the program. Grinning from one ear to the other, I walked confidently onto the stage, carefully positioned myself upon the piano bench, skillfully placed my boney fingers upon those ivory keys, and began playing from the beginner’s book the only tune I had mastered: “Here we go, up a road, to a birthday party!”

Standing and about to curtsy, I spied my ­Daddy in the audience as he jumped to his feet while clapping. I heard his words, but did not understand their meaning: “Longer than Pat stayed in the army. Yes, ma’am, long­er than Pat stayed in the army!”

Walking off that stage, I felt as if success were mine because I knew that when morning came, I could return to that ditch on Simms Street wearing my favorite dungarees to be a born-again tomboy! Hallelujah!

P.S. In a follow-up article, we will share with you the success stories of many of this piano teacher’s students whose music has enlightened audiences far beyond 290 Main Street, Barnwell, S.C. Coming soon: “’Miss’ Nonie’s house of music.”