community. I was different. I was set apart. I felt pushed away.
That evening, there it was: the moon. It hung, pale and mysterious, giving me light in my darkest hour. I tried to see the faces in the moon for myself, to feel its craters, and to experience its texture firsthand.
The baby was well and happy.
A couple weeks later, school started.
The school system had no kindergarten, so at age five, I entered first grade. The church, my father, and the Saturday night “street meetings” at the main intersection of the business district became well known. The music and the shouting attracted the townspeople and the country folks. Saturday nights were like a festival. People gathered around the main section of town to shop, stroll, eat, drink, and listen to “The Preacher” and his singers perform.
So when I entered school, everyone knew who I was. I was the preacher’s daughter; and, being five, I was also the youngest. Immediately, I became known as “the baby.” Furthermore, I didn’t look like the other kids. I wore clothing that covered all parts of my body and brown heavy cotton stockings (on special days, I wore white ones). Not looking like the other kids and being called “the baby” and “the preacher’s daughter” didn’t meet my expectations of being accepted, approved of, or appreciated. In today’s world, we would call it bullying, and it was mostly done by my teachers and school officials. I do think they thought they were embracing me, giving me attention, and really enjoying me, but if they only knew how their words cut through and tarnished my soul. I felt I was a big girl and had already done some really big-girl things. I had survived a lot. I was no “baby.”
After a few months of school, December 10th rolled around. It was my birthday. And what a birthday present: Aunt Juanita and Uncle Milford had a newborn, a little girl they named Dorcas Darlene. My cousin Gloria had a little sister. I had just seen Gloria at camp when I was headed to her cottage with the diapers. Gloria was big enough now to be a great pal. She had blond curls and a cute, upturned nose. She wore beautiful clothes. Gloria and her family did not live far from us, so we could meet on holidays and play. I had a playmate, so to speak, at least on occasion. Nine days later came the dreadful news that Dorcas Darlene had died of a respiratory infection. I was so sad. I really did not know about death, dying, and what it all meant, but I did know that someone wonderful and precious was here and then gone before I ever had a chance to see, touch, or hold her. The whole family rushed to Washington, Indiana, to be together and comfort each other. I believe I was the first to break the horrible news to my pal Gloria. Had they not told her? How could they keep this a secret? Grandmother Hine described Dorcas as an exquisite, delicate, angelic, perfect little girl. She had no flaws; she was flawless. I remembered I had a bruised head, olive-colored skin, and other features that Grandmother didn’t seem to care for, so Dorcas was really special. And now she was gone.
Not many days later, it was Christmas. I received the New Testament, inscribed inside “to Martha Ruth, Christmas 1945.”
We were off to visit Grandma and Grandpa Hine in Lebanon, Indiana. My mother’s brother, Robert (Bob), was the firstborn, and he and his wife, Margaret, lived close by. Uncle Bob and Aunt Margaret had a daughter, Margie. Margie was third in line of the grandchildren. Margie had a delayed birth due to the doctor’s arriving late when Aunt Margaret needed assistance. The baby did not come out naturally, resulting in brain damage. Margie had a neurological disorder characterized by epileptic seizures. Margie had epilepsy. Her episodes varied from brief to long periods of vigorous shaking. This was serious. She suffered from developmental delays and intellectual disability. Since the seizures came from one side of Margie’s brain, they led to paralysis in her opposite side, which was noticeable in her dragging one leg and mild speech problems. Margie was the apple of her father’s eye. He adored her. Aunt Margaret and Uncle Bob were inseparable.
Together, they ran a grocery store, managed apartments, assisted the church, and cared for Great-Grandmother Henderson, Grandfather Henderson, and Grandmother Henderson’s two sisters, Nan and Ona.
My first shoes were a gift from Uncle Bob and Aunt Margaret.
Bob had an eye out for his own parents when he started his business of building houses. My first introduction to migrant workers was with Uncle Bob’s helpers and handypersons. Once they were established, the whole family moved to the area and became active participants in the community and in the church. I wondered how they felt about their new lives and about leaving their family, friends, and surroundings behind and starting over.
Well, it is Christmas 1945. We arrived at my mother’s parents’ (my grandparents’) house. Uncle Bob, Aunt Margaret, and Margie were there; the Burchams drove in; and my mother’s youngest sister, Barbara, came. Barbara was a traveling guest singer and children’s worker for special church events, so it was great she was in the area to stop by.
We were all gathered for a holiday celebration. The house was decorated with a tree, wreaths, lights, stars, bells, garlands, ribbons, and beautifully wrapped gifts—a magical place. Grandpa would play Santa Claus, dressed appropriately and with the celebratory “HO! HO! HO!” Early in the year, we drew names so that each of us had someone to present with a gift. It was fun and always a wonderful surprise to discover who my gift-giver was. I still treasure the cuff links my cousin Gloria gave me one year. We had lots of good food, music, storytelling, and gifts, as well as Uncle Bob’s caramel corn. After the meal, when you felt you could not eat another bite, I found there was always room for caramel corn if it was Uncle Bob’s. As a child, Christmas in Lebanon with my grandparents was a tradition.
Family get-togethers were important times for the Hine family. All holidays throughout the year—Memorial Day, the Fourth of July, Labor Day, and sometimes Thanksgiving—were times to celebrate together. The men would rise early on Thanksgiving morning to go hunting for rabbits and squirrels. Grandpa was the only one interested in hunting, but it gave the guys a chance to bond. Grandpa introduced me to the Indy 500. He kept track of the racing families, their skills, and their accomplishments. He enjoyed baseball, and so I grew up with Dizzy Dean, the notorious baseball announcer. I decided most people enjoyed Dizzy Dean more than they did the game itself. Often, we would meet for a potluck. Everyone would bring their own specialties along with the staples of fried chicken, baked beans, and macaroni and cheese. Uncle Bob and Aunt Margaret had a grocery store, so their treats were always the surprise of the day; and you can’t forget Grandmother’s squash pies, sugar cream pies, and angel food cake with no icing (her favorite). Meeting places varied depending on the day of the week and the time of the year. Frequent outings included trips to zoos (St. Louis or Cincinnati), Lafayette Park for its lake and the rowboats, or the local park in Lebanon.
It really didn’t matter. We just enjoyed being together. Gloria and I had such fun times going to animal shows, riding the rides, rowing boats on the lake, swinging, sliding, and running from one activity to another without supervision. Freedom to explore! What a joy!
My grandmother loved her garden and her sunflowers.
