looking every morning under the dining room table to see if the baby had arrived. My mother was not feeling well, and she was disturbed that my dad was not around much. I am sure I was a handful, but I learned to do “mommy things” like standing on a stool to iron, gathering eggs, sweeping the back stoop, checking on the pigs and rabbits, and walking through the meadow with my dad to milk the cow. We had a little farm up the hill behind the house and the church.
Oh, yes, we had an outhouse. And I do remember the toilet tissue. It was the Sears & Roebuck catalog. No wonder we all grew up to be constipated. Now, living without a bathroom with a toilet, tub, or shower seems totally impossible, but I did it as a child. Millions of humans around the world still exist without a bathroom. I know the experience. I feel badly that many do not know the pleasure of having a clean, private place to go, relax, and relieve oneself of waste. As a child, it was a weekly Saturday night bath in a galvanized tub in the middle of the kitchen. My mother would boil a pot of water, mix it with cooler water, and fill the tub. We would place our bodies in the tub filled with the hot, soapy water and wash ourselves. This was our bath for the week; and there was no lingering, because everyone had to go through the same process. Between Saturdays, we took sponge baths, washing ourselves from a basin of warm, soapy water. Next, we would wash our hair, dipping our heads in the sink and scrubbing our scalps, usually with our homemade, lard-based lye soap. It was reliably rich and full of natural glycerin, which made it a good cleanser that was gentle on the skin. We collected rain in buckets for rinsing our hair. The rainwater was for washing out the soap from the follicles. Our hair was squeaky clean.
Monday was “wash day” (doing the laundry). We used a washboard, a tool used for hand-washing clothing. The clothes were soaked in hot, soapy water in the galvanized tub and then squeezed and rubbed against the ridged surface of the washboard to force the cleansing fluid through the cloth to carry away dirt.
Our house was heated with a wood-burning potbelly stove that sat in the dining room. The open register, an adjustable grill through which heat was released to the upstairs, was next to my bed. The register also gave me access to the discussions occurring after I was sent to bed. If I heard something puzzling, I would yell through the register and ask what was happening. Suddenly, everything would get very quiet.
After a night’s sleep in the upstairs room, a room that extended from the front to the back of the house, we were ready for Sunday. Sunday was a busy day, starting with Sunday school and morning worship, then the noon meal, a nap, youth service, and finally Sunday evening service. A really big day! At the end of every Sunday, if I had been good, I was rewarded with a fifty-cent piece for my piggy bank. I really didn’t know or understand what “good” meant, but I must have been, because I don’t remember a time that I didn’t get to drop the coin in my bank. I loved the sound of it. After collecting any money from my birthday or Christmas, at the end of the year, the money in the piggy bank would be deposited into my savings account. Each Sunday evening, after returning home and receiving my coin, we would sit around the table and have bread or crackers and milk. Dad, as usual, would read a chapter from the Bible, and we each said a prayer before retiring for the night. All prepared for the new week ahead.
My parents started preparing for the baby’s arrival. Dad called his mother, Grandma Hertel, to come and stay with me. Off to Lebanon, Indiana, with Mom. Mom felt secure and comfortable with her mom’s care and familiar surroundings, plus the town had a good hospital. On July 12, 1945, Dad called and announced the arrival of my brother. I talked to my mom, and the first thing she said was, “It’s a boy. What on earth do I do with a boy?” My first thought was, what difference does it make? Boy or girl, the baby had arrived. Furthermore, I had not thought about the gender of this baby. We had never discussed this. What’s difficult about a boy? What’s different?
The newborn baby boy was named James Wesley Hertel. What prompted this choice, I do not know—and does it really matter? Yes, I do think it matters—because in the long term, what does it mean, and how does it affect one’s life?
Later, I discovered that Grandmother Hine was partial to and fond of girls, which I am sure influenced Mom’s first reaction to our new baby boy. I did find it strange that Grandmother’s firstborn was a boy, Robert. Were they afraid of the male genitals? I really think my mother felt overwhelmed. Upon hearing the news, I danced around the dining room, my grandmother giggled, and we hugged each other. Off to bed. Sleeping with Grandma brought story after story until I fell asleep. It was always that way.
August 1945 arrived. August was a big time for the church at large, with a ten-day conference and camp meeting for all the churches statewide convening on the campus and tabernacle in Frankfort, Indiana. There were scheduled sessions for church business, policy-making, and the election of next year’s leaders; dedications and baptisms of newborns; three church services a day with special speakers and singers; eating in the community dining room; and sleeping in simple cottages, rooms, dormitory-style quarters, and tents. Our arrangement was tight: a small room for the three of us and our new baby. My cousin Gloria and her parents—my mother’s sister Juanita and her husband, James Milford Burcham—had a cottage down the street from our crowded room. My mother always thought she was living “hind tit.” Now, whether we could not afford more, or wanted to conserve, I do not know. We called James Milford by his middle name, Milford, since my dad was first in the family, and he was James. Milford was also a minister in the district.
I was Mommy’s little helper. The diapers were washed, so with three diapers in hand and five clothespins, I headed off for Aunt Juanita’s clothesline. Coming out of the building, I noticed a gathering of men working around the front. I passed a lady patrol person and spoke. As I was walking toward the cottage and looking back to watch what the men were doing, all of a sudden the world went black. I thought, “What has happened to the world?” I had fallen into an unattended open sewer. The next thing I remember was standing dripping wet at the hole. Hearing the splash, the men rushed to the hole; and when they saw my hair surfacing, they grabbed it and pulled me up. My head would hurt for years whenever my mother washed, brushed, curled, or combed my hair. It was discovered that I belonged to the minister and his wife, the ones with the new baby, who were staying in one of the nearby rooms. When my mother saw me standing in the doorway dripping wet, diapers in hand, with no clothespins and a half-dozen men, she screamed with fright. The campus nurse was called. The nurse immediately called the local doctor to visit. Fear engulfed the area—fear of cholera or typhoid fever. Both are infectious diseases caused by food or water that has been contaminated with human feces containing bacteria. Each is contracted by eating or drinking the bacteria in the contaminated food or water, which can result in fever, abdominal pain, headaches, vomiting, muscle cramps, and watery diarrhea. The diseases can be spread by a human carrier depositing bacteria in food or water. By the time the doctor arrived, the nurse and my mother had washed me from head to toe with hot, soapy water, and I was wrapped in warm, soft blankets. I sensed the doctor’s concern, and all I could think was, “My, oh, my, I have already given a neighborhood whooping cough. Am I going to give the camp cholera or typhoid fever?” The doctor gave me a shot, and as I fell asleep, I talked to Jesus. He was close by, still nestled in my heart. When I awakened, I was told that the whole camp knew about the incident and that they were praying for me; but I felt comforted because I had already talked to Jesus, who was residing in my heart. I recovered. No cholera or typhoid fever—just a tender skull. The incident was not forgotten. The church community remembered. I became known as “the girl who fell in the sewer.” For years, I would return to the Frankfort Camp in my finest apparel, clothes that my mother had made for the occasion and the coming year. But they didn’t see ME. They didn’t see my beautiful, neat clothes.
