Waffled Whispers: Mementoes evoke childhood memories

The year was 2015 when I was standing on the porch of our home on Edisto Island. Below me, the water resembled the Colorado River while rushing underneath the front porch. It was stealing our decorative oyster shells only to carry them possibly as far as Big Bay Creek or perhaps beyond.

At that precise moment, I decided my days on this beloved island were numbered; that I wanted my life to be about far more than maintaining a home at the beach. Concerns would no longer mount regarding the wear and tear of salt water and salt air taking their toll on our appliances, our boat, and many aspects of housekeeping. Agonizing about high tides, full moons and hurricanes never again could stress me out once I relocated. The worry, expense, and responsibility of remaining on Edisto overwhelmed this widow. I knew full-well that the time had come for me to return to our rustic cabin on a dirt road next to the South Edisto River. Yes, the decision had been made. While taking a much-needed deep breath, a relaxed, peaceful smile covered my face.

My sons were called and told of plans to return home after living on Edisto for the past 23 years. Those were wonderful times with beautiful memories. It just so happened that my move back to the river fell only two weeks shy of being one full year since deciding to return to the cabin husband Mitch and I had built together. September 16, 2016, was my arrival date. I was older, and that river water was colder!

It was my sister, the late Etta Holland Mixon of Barnwell, who asked, “Exactly what do you plan on doing when you come back home?” The only reply I could offer was, “I hope to write stories about Barnwell’s history plus tales of our growing up years.” So, almost seven years later, here we are!

Yet, to write about our past, sometimes it actually takes something or someone to trigger old memories. Such was the case recently when I spied two items, the very sight of which stoked fond ­recollections long since put to bed in my memory box.

One special occurrence surfaced when my eyes fell upon a brass lamp with a yellow shade. Secondly, I was thrilled to see a return vent in a hotel bedroom when traveling to Niagara Falls! This was a wall unit with a waffle-shaped grate. While eagerly snapping a picture of this contraption, I felt certain a storyline would follow. Both items together caused an adventure to resurface from around the year 1949. Joy! Coming upon these two fixtures brought to mind a childhood happening of sorts that we all may enjoy together. Please pull up a chair and prepare “to listen.”

Oh, sister Etta and I grew up in Barnwell during the 1940s when “children were seen and not heard!” Also, “little pitchers have big ears!” Our parents, Mockie and Hettie Holland, were not ones to gossip in front of us nor to speak ill of anyone, above sod or six feet under. This was indeed an unwritten rule in our home which today is located at 9540 Marlboro Avenue. Currently, Parks and Emily Coble are rearing their children at our former homestead.

At a very young age, I figured out a way to eavesdrop on Mama and Daddy undetected when they shared their “adult time” every evening in the little living room.

Great news! Etta and I slept directly above this bit of a cozy nook. Thankfully, sister fell fast asleep after reading about three pages of her book. Not me. There was work to be done, so to speak. Somehow, I actually felt as if it were my solemn duty to “stand guard” each evening the instant that lamp with the yellow shade lit up the room below.

Talk about having a front row seat! Quietly, ever so quietly, I would ease out of my bed, open the floor vent above where Mama and Daddy assembled for their private discussions. My actions took place prior to their arrival. Through the waffled-shaped vent in the floor, I would watch as Mama readied “her nest”. This was a signal that adult talking was about to commence. Besides, the brass lamp had already brightened the room. This sat atop our console radio which housed a record player that could spin 78” records with tunes such as music from the Broadway show “Oklahoma”, plus others. At this young age, I already knew each and every song by heart!

With that lamp burning brightly, I positioned myself as best I could. From above, I readily saw the tops of Daddy and Mama’s heads. Daddy would take off his Brogans and sorta rub his tired feet. His massive hand holding a Lucky Strike cigarette (lsmft: Lucky Strike means fine tobacco) sent spirals of smoke ventward, causing my nose to run a little, but not too much.

Hmmm. Mama’s hair did not look as jet black from my perch, but I knew that she never dyed it. Why did Mama keep her shoes on? Maybe her feet didn’t hurt; however, they surely could have! She spent hours and hours standing at that stove, as if her foot were nailed to the floor, cooking for us and for everybody else. But right now, as always, she sat knitting a sweater for some lucky person, drinking a Coca-Cola, and talking to Daddy, this time in whispers.

Now, this posed quite a problem for me. You see, when it was difficult to hear their muffled voices through the waffled-shaped vent, I realized that it was absolutely necessary for me to press my right ear down harder upon that dark brown airway. The metal hurt. This being the case, I was as much worried about the next morning waking up with my right ear resembling a waffle as I was worrying that they would discover my spying on them. Yikes! If they ever had even the slightest inkling that I was above listening, my chances of survival were slim to none!

One thing was for certain. Each morning my very first self-imposed task was to grab the mirror I had hidden between the mattresses of my bed and hopefully see that my right ear possibly appeared normal. At a glance, so far, so good, I thought with much relief. Just checking!

Now, back to the vent. Seems like it sounded to me as if my mama said, “Marvin, I heard that the Methodist preacher is going with Mrs. So and So.” (Because this lady has long since been dead, I see no need in mentioning her name here and now.) Going with our preacher…. Where? All of that grown-up stuff just did not make any sense to me. “Where were they going, the preacher and this lady?” Why didn’t Mama tell Daddy more? All too soon, their voices dropped while my right ear began to suffer.

Honestly, I cannot begin to tell you exactly how many years I enjoyed this almost nightly ritual. But you can bet your bottom dollar that I never breathed a single word to one ­living soul. Nope, not to one person! My eavesdropping was completely “top secret”! Cross my heart and hope to die!

Well, all good things must come to an end. The day that Hercules, Daddy’s helper, came in the back door to the kitchen/den area, toting a piece of furniture with a glass screen on it, my eavesdropping adventures came to a screeching halt.

Our parents held no more nightly whispers once that television set became the focal point of our den, perhaps of our lives. Why listen to baseball games on the radio when you could watch all of the action on that small snowy screen?

With the arrival of television, our family’s way of old socializing somehow ended. It just dried up! Never again did anyone suggest sitting on the porches and enjoying the company of friends who just happened to drop in for a visit. Sadly, the metal vent in our bedroom was only opened for heating purposes. Change had indeed arrived forever at the Holland house on Marlboro Avenue!

Etta and I were growing up, and Daddy and Mama’s whispers were the least of our concerns. We had discovered boys, or they had found us. The mirror between the mattresses proved to be far more useful when trying to put on lipstick. Thankfully, there were no more extreme worries about my right ear; it matched my left ear perfectly, and that’s all that mattered.

In the whole scheme of things, each one of us knows that when we leave this old world, most possessions will remain here. Perhaps now we are clamoring frantically to grab hold of “things” that our children and future generations will value as highly as we do. Forget it! This is not reality, my friends.

As I recently discovered, sometimes we just gotta be happy or satisfied with viewing, not possessing, items which trigger fond memories of yesteryear. It is impossible to place a price on such familiar treasures. Besides, memories can neither be bought nor sold. That’s why we call ‘em “price….less”.