In Part I of Miss Meada’s Yard I mentioned Trumps.
Perhaps there is a person from your childhood who, if you’ve spent time thinking about it, had a profound influence on your life. For me that person was Trumps.
What can I say about Trumps? His real name was Ohenio, but the only person I knew who called him that was Miss Meada.
He was a mystery. Whose child had he been? Who was his family? How/why had he come to live in the tiny shack in Miss Meada’s yard? At least that’s where Erva and I assume he lived, near the ancient lignum vitae tree in an area of the yard we never went. How old was he? I remember him having a smooth skinned face with thin chin whiskers. Yet he was ancient to me.
As a little girl of five, six and seven, I was fascinated, repulsed, afraid, and felt terribly sorry for him all at the time.
Trumps was small, wizened, and deformed. A large head sat atop narrow hunched shoulders. His shoulders were hunched because he had a large hump on his back which bent him forward. His left arm was thin and small and shrunken. Permanently bent at the elbow, his hand at the end of it was curled, a near useless claw.
A lot of kids teased him. Erva and I did not. We hadn’t been told not to, but maybe our experience of being white and different and being teased, taught us a sub-conscious lesson; it wasn’t right to tease, it hurt. Why inflict that hurt on someone else, particularly someone like Trumps, who, except for snarling and raising his broom threateningly, could do little to defend himself?
Despite his physical handicap, Trumps had a job which he performed with slow, deliberate care. Possibly in return for a place to live and food to eat, he kept the Park (an area next to the yard that was bordered by mahogany trees and had benches and a swing-set) and Miss Meada’s yard swept clean. My best guess it that it was about an acre of land that he kept meticulously, spotlessly clean.
He used a broom made of bound sticks. He raked and swept up every leaf, twig and fallen flower. Where he had been the ground was clear of the tiniest mahogany leaf. The twigs from his broom left behind tiny trails, marks like those made in a Zen sand garden.
Every day, except Sundays or when it was raining, there he was, sweeping. Sweeping, bent over, slow, working the broom with his good arm. Sweeping leaves, flowers and twigs into small piles. Then he’d scoop up the piles onto a piece of tin and carry it to a place in Miss Meada’s yard where all kinds of leaf debris was deposited. Palm fronds, coconuts, branches, everything went onto the midden. The chickens liked to scratch around on it.
Everyday, sweeping. He was part of Miss Meada's yard, part of the yard culture.
I wanted to befriend him, but my fear of him kept me from it. Never once did I ever speak to him.
But I have never forgotten him. The years have given me time to think about the part he played in my life and the person he helped make me. I give Trumps the credit of instilling in me a love for the underdog. I give Trumps the credit of my coming to understand that everyone can have a place, a job, a reason for being. I give Trumps the credit of learning to respect those who are “different” from myself.
In one of my novels, which needs a lot of work, I gave him a major role. It is a small way for me to honor him, a twisted, bent little man, who must have spent the majority of his life in physical pain and discomfort and yet, who despite his being an outcast, was cared for by Miss Meada and developed the Zen of sweeping into a fine art.
I wonder why, even now, after all these years, his memory brings tears to my eyes.
Showing posts with label Yard Culture. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Yard Culture. Show all posts
Thursday, April 2, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Miss Meada's Yard - Yard Culture - Part IV - In Which We Learn How to Open a Coconut
Erva and I learned to dehusk and crack open coconuts in Miss Meada’s yard. First we’d run around and shake ripe brown coconuts that had fallen from the palms to make sure they had milk in them. When you hear liquid sloshing around inside that means they are good.
The next thing was to find a big heavy rock, preferably one that was kind of flat. If it turned out to be a particularly good rock it was saved and kept some place safe. Next, the coconut got stood up on its broader, fatter end, the pointier end sticking up in the air. Erva, or one of the bigger, stronger kids, would throw the flat heavy rock as hard as they could onto the pointy end of the coconut.
What followed was the coconut dance as feet and legs leapt and danced to get out of the way of a coconut going off in one direction and a rock going off in another. You never knew which directions rock and coconut would go flying, so you had to be alert and on your toes. I don’t recall anyone getting hurt, but certainly the potential was there.
Rock smashing against coconut continued until good-sized fissures formed in the tough fibrous husk at which point the husk could be pealed off. Once the nut was cleaned off holes were bored in two of its three eyes with a nail or ice pick and we’d take turns drinking the sweet cool milk. Then we’d smash the nut on the rock to break open the hard shell and reveal the crunchy white meat. The meat was pried out with somebody’s pocket knife. (Pocket knifes were a necessity. Most every boy carried one. They were used for everything from cutting fish bate, digging holes, whittling, to eating.)
I don’t know how many coconuts we broke open, but I bet it was a lot. We’d eat so much our jaws would get sore and tired from chewing the hard crunchy meat. Green coconuts provide a lot more milk and the meat is a soft jelly. They are just as delicious as ripe coconuts but require the use of a machete to open, something we kids were not allowed to handle.
Today only one small section of Miss Meada’s yard remains; an area by the lignum vitae tree. (You can read more about it and see pictures.) All around the parameter of her property are concrete buildings housing restaurants, offices, shops, and the post office. In the center of her yard where her restaurant once stood, is another restaurant where you can get exotic food cooked in an exotic manner served on exotic plates in an exotic atmosphere for an exotic price.
Oh, and the tortoises are still there.
I treasure the memories of The Yard, its smells, its noises, its multitude of hiding places, its room to run, its safety. I treasure the memories of Miss Meada and Miss Myrah, two proud, strong, gentle, independent, women who gave their time, their smiles, their gifts and their reprimands, without prejudice.
I am one of the lucky ones. No one has replaced them and yard culture no long exists.
The next thing was to find a big heavy rock, preferably one that was kind of flat. If it turned out to be a particularly good rock it was saved and kept some place safe. Next, the coconut got stood up on its broader, fatter end, the pointier end sticking up in the air. Erva, or one of the bigger, stronger kids, would throw the flat heavy rock as hard as they could onto the pointy end of the coconut.
What followed was the coconut dance as feet and legs leapt and danced to get out of the way of a coconut going off in one direction and a rock going off in another. You never knew which directions rock and coconut would go flying, so you had to be alert and on your toes. I don’t recall anyone getting hurt, but certainly the potential was there.
Rock smashing against coconut continued until good-sized fissures formed in the tough fibrous husk at which point the husk could be pealed off. Once the nut was cleaned off holes were bored in two of its three eyes with a nail or ice pick and we’d take turns drinking the sweet cool milk. Then we’d smash the nut on the rock to break open the hard shell and reveal the crunchy white meat. The meat was pried out with somebody’s pocket knife. (Pocket knifes were a necessity. Most every boy carried one. They were used for everything from cutting fish bate, digging holes, whittling, to eating.)
I don’t know how many coconuts we broke open, but I bet it was a lot. We’d eat so much our jaws would get sore and tired from chewing the hard crunchy meat. Green coconuts provide a lot more milk and the meat is a soft jelly. They are just as delicious as ripe coconuts but require the use of a machete to open, something we kids were not allowed to handle.
Today only one small section of Miss Meada’s yard remains; an area by the lignum vitae tree. (You can read more about it and see pictures.) All around the parameter of her property are concrete buildings housing restaurants, offices, shops, and the post office. In the center of her yard where her restaurant once stood, is another restaurant where you can get exotic food cooked in an exotic manner served on exotic plates in an exotic atmosphere for an exotic price.
Oh, and the tortoises are still there.
I treasure the memories of The Yard, its smells, its noises, its multitude of hiding places, its room to run, its safety. I treasure the memories of Miss Meada and Miss Myrah, two proud, strong, gentle, independent, women who gave their time, their smiles, their gifts and their reprimands, without prejudice.
I am one of the lucky ones. No one has replaced them and yard culture no long exists.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Miss Meada's Yard - Yard Culture - Part III - Smells
Miss Meada’s yard had a distinct smell, a medley of aromas. There was the smell of her cooking: pan fried fish and fungi (fungi is boiled corn meal with okra) red pea soup (kidney beans with Hubbard squash and dumplings) baking bread, salt fish and of course, Johnny cakes.
There were other smells too. There’s a tree called the painkiller. It has very large rubbery leaves. You can put the leaves on your skin under your clothes and it will act like a heating pad, soothing sore and aching muscles. Its fruit, however, is quite disgusting. It is the fruit which gives the tree its other name; devil apple.
The devil apple, when ripe, is a whitish-yellow-grey; pus colored. It has with black spots, like eyes. The spots are seeds that can be seen through its almost transparent skin. It’s altogether a very ugly fruit and when it’s ripe…when it falls to the ground and splats…well, to put it delicately, it stinks. I can’t relate the smell to anything because it has an odor all its own. The only thing the fruit was used for was as pig food. Nobody that I know of, at least nobody in their right mind, ever ate it.
The tree is native to Southeast Asia and has in the past few years become famous for its various medicinal qualities. It goes by its more “romantic” and Hawaiian name; Noni. You can see pictures and read about it here. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noni
Personally I think I’d have to be tortured to even consider drinking Noni juice. Or maybe drinking Noni juice would BE the torture and I'd spill the beans rather than drink it!
Other smells in Miss Meada’s yard included peacock and chicken poop. Yes, she had peacocks both the traditional colorful kind and albinos. They had the run of Cruz Bay and could be seen strutting along the roads or perched in the trees. The only animal sound I can reproduce with any accuracy is the loud raucous call of the peacock which sort of sounds like a person screaming, “He-lp!”
She also had a large chicken coop and chickens running around her yard. Not only were they used for egg laying, but I'm sure they ended up in pots of her chicken stew. For a long time I wanted a chicken. I asked her if I could have one and in her soft brown voice she said, “If you can ketch it….” Of course I never was able to catch one for which I’m sure my mother was relieved.
There was also the smell of oleander flowers, the smell of the hard packed dirt of the yard itself, the smell of the privy, the smell of the charcoal pot, and the smell of the sea.
All of these smells and others too, mingled and mixed into a kind of soup, that was unique to her yard, and her yard alone.
If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still smell it.
There were other smells too. There’s a tree called the painkiller. It has very large rubbery leaves. You can put the leaves on your skin under your clothes and it will act like a heating pad, soothing sore and aching muscles. Its fruit, however, is quite disgusting. It is the fruit which gives the tree its other name; devil apple.
The devil apple, when ripe, is a whitish-yellow-grey; pus colored. It has with black spots, like eyes. The spots are seeds that can be seen through its almost transparent skin. It’s altogether a very ugly fruit and when it’s ripe…when it falls to the ground and splats…well, to put it delicately, it stinks. I can’t relate the smell to anything because it has an odor all its own. The only thing the fruit was used for was as pig food. Nobody that I know of, at least nobody in their right mind, ever ate it.
The tree is native to Southeast Asia and has in the past few years become famous for its various medicinal qualities. It goes by its more “romantic” and Hawaiian name; Noni. You can see pictures and read about it here. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Noni
Personally I think I’d have to be tortured to even consider drinking Noni juice. Or maybe drinking Noni juice would BE the torture and I'd spill the beans rather than drink it!
Other smells in Miss Meada’s yard included peacock and chicken poop. Yes, she had peacocks both the traditional colorful kind and albinos. They had the run of Cruz Bay and could be seen strutting along the roads or perched in the trees. The only animal sound I can reproduce with any accuracy is the loud raucous call of the peacock which sort of sounds like a person screaming, “He-lp!”
She also had a large chicken coop and chickens running around her yard. Not only were they used for egg laying, but I'm sure they ended up in pots of her chicken stew. For a long time I wanted a chicken. I asked her if I could have one and in her soft brown voice she said, “If you can ketch it….” Of course I never was able to catch one for which I’m sure my mother was relieved.
There was also the smell of oleander flowers, the smell of the hard packed dirt of the yard itself, the smell of the privy, the smell of the charcoal pot, and the smell of the sea.
All of these smells and others too, mingled and mixed into a kind of soup, that was unique to her yard, and her yard alone.
If I close my eyes and concentrate I can still smell it.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Miss Meada's Yard - Part II - Games
HAPPY BIRTHDAY ERVA! (March 19th)
Like most kids, we played a lot of games. One of the boys had a cricket bat so sometimes we played cricket. Mostly though we played hide and seek, freeze tag, Mother May I or Simon Says. If there were enough kids, at least 8 or 10, we played singing circle games.
There were the traditional ones like Farmer in the Dell, London Bridge and Ring Around the Rosie. Less traditional ones like Thread the Needle, Cock-Robin and Blue Bird. And then there were singing games that had a decidedly West Indian flavor. Like:
Watch the brown girl in the ring
tra-la-la-la-la
watch the brown girl in the ring
tra-la-la-la-la
watch the brown girl in the ring
tra-la-la-la-la
she sweeter than sugar than plum
Or:
One, two, three, four
follow me Mariah,
before my mamma say Mariah
give me the ball 'o zoop.
And a chummalacka, chummalacka
and a chummalacka, chummalacka
and a chummalacka, chummalacka
my mamma say, give me the ball 'o zoop.
At the words chummalacka, chummalacka the “it” person did a shimmy dance in front of the person they’d chosen. Ball ‘o zoop translates to bottle of soup. It was probably the singing games more than anything else the helped Erva and me learn "Calypso," the lilting, melodic English dialect spoken in the islands.
Sometimes we held musical concerts. Our instruments were grass blades, the trumpet shaped flower of the Geiger tree (which toots when you blow into it. See a picture here) and combs with a piece of tissue paper draped over the teeth. Most anything could be turned into a percussion instrument, like clacking two rocks together.
Playing marbles was big among the boys. Erva and I were the only girls who played marbles. I remember three different games. One was putting all your marbles in a circle and then trying to knock them out. The second was lining all the marbles up in a row and trying to knock them off the line. In these two games you got to keep the marbles you knocked out of the circle or off the line. It was the third game I liked best, probably because it wasn’t about capturing marbles and was more about skill. It was kind of like playing golf. Three shallow holes were dug at equal distances apart and the object was to shoot your marble into the holes and make the trip (if I recall correctly) three time. You could shoot at your opponent too and knock his marble way off course. Erva and I got very good at marbles. Dad gave us these nice big ball bearings to use as shooters. It was every boy's dream to have one. They were called steelies.
There were other stand-bys like jump rope and jacks. I don't think our jump rope rhymes were different. "Sally and Johnny sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Sally with the baby carriage. How many children did they have?" And then counting the number of times you jumped the rope. As for jacks, if we didn't actually have the jacks we used small pebbles.
The flower bud of the flamboyant tree provided a fighting game. We’d each get a stamen from a bud and try to hook our opponent’s large anther. The object was to pull the anther off. The winner was the last one remaining with stamen and anther in tacked. Below is a picture of flamboyant flowers with green buds.
Sometimes we went fishing for ground spiders, a cousin of the tarantula. We’d get a long piece of grass (there was one kind of grass that worked best) with a dried seed head on it and we’d push the seed head into a ground spider hole and gently twirl it around. You can feel, through the grass stem when a spider grabs hold of the seed head. When it does you pull up quick and smooth and there it is, a large brown spider. Sometimes the boys would put two together to see if they would fight. One time Erva was spider fishing and it crawled right up the stem of the grass and bit her on the finger. No harm done. It hurt. The spot got red and swollen, like a bee sting, but she didn’t get sick. Tarantulas may look terribly fearsome but are usually non-aggressive. I read somewhere that there's a tarantula in South America that's quite poisonous, but the ones in the islands are not. Erva can attest to that.
On rainy days we played board games in The Parlor of Miss Meada’s home. It was the only room in her house we ever went into. A favorite game was Chinese checkers. But we also played checkers, whist, and pick-up sticks.
When you were growing up, was there a house or yard where kids gathered? What were your favorite games?
Like most kids, we played a lot of games. One of the boys had a cricket bat so sometimes we played cricket. Mostly though we played hide and seek, freeze tag, Mother May I or Simon Says. If there were enough kids, at least 8 or 10, we played singing circle games.
There were the traditional ones like Farmer in the Dell, London Bridge and Ring Around the Rosie. Less traditional ones like Thread the Needle, Cock-Robin and Blue Bird. And then there were singing games that had a decidedly West Indian flavor. Like:
Watch the brown girl in the ring
tra-la-la-la-la
watch the brown girl in the ring
tra-la-la-la-la
watch the brown girl in the ring
tra-la-la-la-la
she sweeter than sugar than plum
Or:
One, two, three, four
follow me Mariah,
before my mamma say Mariah
give me the ball 'o zoop.
And a chummalacka, chummalacka
and a chummalacka, chummalacka
and a chummalacka, chummalacka
my mamma say, give me the ball 'o zoop.
At the words chummalacka, chummalacka the “it” person did a shimmy dance in front of the person they’d chosen. Ball ‘o zoop translates to bottle of soup. It was probably the singing games more than anything else the helped Erva and me learn "Calypso," the lilting, melodic English dialect spoken in the islands.
Sometimes we held musical concerts. Our instruments were grass blades, the trumpet shaped flower of the Geiger tree (which toots when you blow into it. See a picture here) and combs with a piece of tissue paper draped over the teeth. Most anything could be turned into a percussion instrument, like clacking two rocks together.
Playing marbles was big among the boys. Erva and I were the only girls who played marbles. I remember three different games. One was putting all your marbles in a circle and then trying to knock them out. The second was lining all the marbles up in a row and trying to knock them off the line. In these two games you got to keep the marbles you knocked out of the circle or off the line. It was the third game I liked best, probably because it wasn’t about capturing marbles and was more about skill. It was kind of like playing golf. Three shallow holes were dug at equal distances apart and the object was to shoot your marble into the holes and make the trip (if I recall correctly) three time. You could shoot at your opponent too and knock his marble way off course. Erva and I got very good at marbles. Dad gave us these nice big ball bearings to use as shooters. It was every boy's dream to have one. They were called steelies.
There were other stand-bys like jump rope and jacks. I don't think our jump rope rhymes were different. "Sally and Johnny sitting in a tree, k-i-s-s-i-n-g. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes Sally with the baby carriage. How many children did they have?" And then counting the number of times you jumped the rope. As for jacks, if we didn't actually have the jacks we used small pebbles.
The flower bud of the flamboyant tree provided a fighting game. We’d each get a stamen from a bud and try to hook our opponent’s large anther. The object was to pull the anther off. The winner was the last one remaining with stamen and anther in tacked. Below is a picture of flamboyant flowers with green buds.
Sometimes we went fishing for ground spiders, a cousin of the tarantula. We’d get a long piece of grass (there was one kind of grass that worked best) with a dried seed head on it and we’d push the seed head into a ground spider hole and gently twirl it around. You can feel, through the grass stem when a spider grabs hold of the seed head. When it does you pull up quick and smooth and there it is, a large brown spider. Sometimes the boys would put two together to see if they would fight. One time Erva was spider fishing and it crawled right up the stem of the grass and bit her on the finger. No harm done. It hurt. The spot got red and swollen, like a bee sting, but she didn’t get sick. Tarantulas may look terribly fearsome but are usually non-aggressive. I read somewhere that there's a tarantula in South America that's quite poisonous, but the ones in the islands are not. Erva can attest to that.
On rainy days we played board games in The Parlor of Miss Meada’s home. It was the only room in her house we ever went into. A favorite game was Chinese checkers. But we also played checkers, whist, and pick-up sticks.
When you were growing up, was there a house or yard where kids gathered? What were your favorite games?
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Miss Meada's Yard - Yard Culture - Part I
In the islands there used to be a thing called “yard culture.” Yard culture was all about somebody’s house that had a yard, usually a large yard where kids, who’s parents worked, gathered after school. Under the watchful eye of a mother hen the kids were looked after. A kid just couldn't get into trouble. If there was any kind of misbehavior it was for sure you’d get reprimanded and/or disciplined and it was for double sure your parents would be told, which meant you’d be reprimanded and/or disciplined a second time.
I believe my sister, Erva, and I are part of the last generation to know what “yard culture” is.
In Cruz Bay on St. John there were several homes with large yards where kids gathered after school. But the best and biggest yard was Miss Meada’s.
In fact it would be safe to say Miss Meada’s yard was the center of down-town Cruz Bay as it occupied a whole block. Her yard included her home, a small shack that was her kitchen/restaurant, The Inn, which was a house she rented out, her tortoise pen, a two-seater privy, a large chicken coop, and the shack were Trumps lived. (More about Trumps later.) If you told anyone, “I’ll meet you in the yard,” it was understood you meant Miss Meada’s yard, because that’s what it was called, The Yard.
Miss Meada had an older twin sister. Miss Myrah was a registered nurse and midwife. If you had to get a shot, you were blessed if Miss Myrah gave it. I was one of those kids who hated getting shots, particularly penicillin when I’d get tonsillitis which meant getting a shot in my butt. There I’d be stretched across Mom’s lap, squirming and squalling and Miss Myrah would do this trick of slapping my butt. By the time I felt the sting of the slap, the shot was given. She was fast. She was good. The Myrah Keating-Smith Community Health Center is named after her. (You can see her picture and read more about her here.)
Miss Meada’s gift was being an excellent cook. In the early days her kitchen/restaurant was the little wooden shack in the middle of her yard with a few tables where people came to get a good meal. Later on she replaced the shack with a concrete building that had a real dining room.
The first thing to happened, when we kids starting arriving in her yard, is that we’d get something to eat. What I remember best were her Johnny cakes. They were the perfect blend of baking soda and sugar, a wonderful salty-sweet. And they were just warm, not hot from the fat they were fried in, or too cold from having sat too long. We’d get something to drink too, like lemon or lime aid. If it wasn't Johnny cakes it was something else, like a piece of hard bread with some nice sharp rat cheese or a coconut cake or a hard-boiled egg. Or we might get whatever fruit was in season, like mangos or sugar apples.
After we had a snack, the older kids had chores to do. Erva helped out with these. I don’t remember doing chores, but I probably did. Children were not really allowed to be idle. Even the youngest were required to help out and were given small tasks they could easily perform. I do remember feeding her tortoises which were quite large, but then I was quite small. Those tortoises are still there, having out-lived their owner. They may well out-live me. They are not so big as I remember them.
After chores it was time to play; stories for my next blog.
If you go to the St. John Historical Society site and click on slides 43 and 44 you can see pictures of Miss Meada and Miss Myrah with their cousin Theovald "Mooie" Moorehead. There are a lot of other wonderful pictures from the early days as well.
I believe my sister, Erva, and I are part of the last generation to know what “yard culture” is.
In Cruz Bay on St. John there were several homes with large yards where kids gathered after school. But the best and biggest yard was Miss Meada’s.
In fact it would be safe to say Miss Meada’s yard was the center of down-town Cruz Bay as it occupied a whole block. Her yard included her home, a small shack that was her kitchen/restaurant, The Inn, which was a house she rented out, her tortoise pen, a two-seater privy, a large chicken coop, and the shack were Trumps lived. (More about Trumps later.) If you told anyone, “I’ll meet you in the yard,” it was understood you meant Miss Meada’s yard, because that’s what it was called, The Yard.
Miss Meada had an older twin sister. Miss Myrah was a registered nurse and midwife. If you had to get a shot, you were blessed if Miss Myrah gave it. I was one of those kids who hated getting shots, particularly penicillin when I’d get tonsillitis which meant getting a shot in my butt. There I’d be stretched across Mom’s lap, squirming and squalling and Miss Myrah would do this trick of slapping my butt. By the time I felt the sting of the slap, the shot was given. She was fast. She was good. The Myrah Keating-Smith Community Health Center is named after her. (You can see her picture and read more about her here.)
Miss Meada’s gift was being an excellent cook. In the early days her kitchen/restaurant was the little wooden shack in the middle of her yard with a few tables where people came to get a good meal. Later on she replaced the shack with a concrete building that had a real dining room.
The first thing to happened, when we kids starting arriving in her yard, is that we’d get something to eat. What I remember best were her Johnny cakes. They were the perfect blend of baking soda and sugar, a wonderful salty-sweet. And they were just warm, not hot from the fat they were fried in, or too cold from having sat too long. We’d get something to drink too, like lemon or lime aid. If it wasn't Johnny cakes it was something else, like a piece of hard bread with some nice sharp rat cheese or a coconut cake or a hard-boiled egg. Or we might get whatever fruit was in season, like mangos or sugar apples.
After we had a snack, the older kids had chores to do. Erva helped out with these. I don’t remember doing chores, but I probably did. Children were not really allowed to be idle. Even the youngest were required to help out and were given small tasks they could easily perform. I do remember feeding her tortoises which were quite large, but then I was quite small. Those tortoises are still there, having out-lived their owner. They may well out-live me. They are not so big as I remember them.
After chores it was time to play; stories for my next blog.
If you go to the St. John Historical Society site and click on slides 43 and 44 you can see pictures of Miss Meada and Miss Myrah with their cousin Theovald "Mooie" Moorehead. There are a lot of other wonderful pictures from the early days as well.
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