Outhouses and Drop-Seat Pajamas

In 1953 the island still had no electricity or plumbing, so going to the  bathroom after dark meant carrying a lantern and making your way across the wet grass to the outhouse.  In the winter time, while not especially cold, my mother dressed me in thick, cotton, footed pajamas.  Now the way they worked was that they buttoned all the way up the front in a long row of buttons and in the back, four more buttons held up a big "butt flap" at about the waist.  After a few washings, the cotton was a little stretched out and that helped when trying to reach the buttons in the back to try to lower the flap and sit on the wooden planks across the seat in the outhouse.  I would have to sit the lantern down so I could see and where it wouldn't tip over and catch the whole place on fire; reach around to my back to undo the buttons,; make sure the flap was out of the way of the stream of pee; and still be able to reach a bit of paper to wipe myself without getting myself wet or falling in the hole.  Invariably I either pulled off a button or tore the fabric when trying to contort my body to reach behind myself and I can remember quite distinctly the feeling of a cold wet butt as I scampered back across the yard to the house with my flap waving in the breeze.

Saved by the cow

The pasture where Sparksie milked her cows was across a small inlet between our house and hers.  At morning low tide, it was our job as children to take our 3 cows across the inlet to the pasture for grazing and return them to our place at evenin' tide.  We would often get distracted by a game of tag or hide and seek as we rounded them up and the water would begin to rise before we started back across.  One such summer evening, we had played longer than usual and the tide was fully in when we started back.  Although below my knees on the way over, the water could rise up to my 4 year old neck when high tide was in.  Although there had been numerous attempts to teach me, I still was unable to swim well enough to keep my head above water.  My mother had buckled a man's belt around my waist and held me as I thrashed around kicking my arms and legs despite her gentle directions and demonstrations.  On this day, as the sun settled into the marshy fields, I stood at the edge of the water, watching my brother, sister and the cows, swimming and walking to the other side.  As the fear that I could be stranded in this field overnight descended upon me, I began to whimper and cry.  One of the  cows turned and looked at me.  Before I knew it, she was back at my side, kneeling in the mucky, muddy edge of the water at just the right height for me to scramble onto her back.  I held on for dear life as she easily carried me across to the homeside of the inlet where my mother met us and pulled me off.
I have had a special affection for cows ever since.  In Buddhism, cows are the symbol of docility and devotion. 

Life on the Island

Virginia Dare at Hatteras

We lived in a 2 story house with a wrap-around-porch typical of east coast beach homes at that time.  I remember there were gas lamps in the living room and the second floor bedrooms but I remember very little of the house except the kitchen and occasional shadowy stairwells climbed reluctantly by tired sleepy children.  I hated going to bed, probably because I had been forced to spend so much time there alone recovering from pertussis.  So I would always fight it and beg to sleep with whoever would take me into theirs.  Many years later the opposite would be true and my bed would be my refuge; a place of solitude that I defended with all the resources at my disposal.  But when I was 3, I wanted to remain connected to others, to life, especially to my mother, who I felt was slipping away from me, further and further every day.
The kitchen was a place of constant activity.  My mother continued to bake bread and rolls and sell them to the mainland restaurants in Morehead City and Beaufort.  Her specialty was Parker House rolls: buttery circles folded over to form a pocket where more butter and jam could be tucked inside and consumed like heavenly mouthfuls of comfort.  These were for the dinner houses frequented by more wealthy tourists from the north who came down the east coast to sport fish and bask on the sunny beaches.  She also created a hamburger-like bun that could be sliced in half for a lunch menu that specialized in "Hot Taylor Sandwiches":  thick rounds of fried baloney placed atop big slices of tomato with lettuce and lots of mayonnaise.  Oftentimes she would pick up what had gone stale and take it back to the kitchen where she would combine the chunks of stale bread with milk, eggs, butter, sugar and cinnamon to make bread pudding for our breakfast or to return to the restaurant for their dessert menu.
She would deliver her trays and go to the store to buy more supplies.  Flour came in large 40 pound bags of printed cotton.  As the bags were emptied, this material became dish towels, quilts, aprons and our clothes.  My sister and I took turns choosing the print on the flour sacks for our  blouses, skirts, playsuits and rompers. Alice was always looking for the pink flowers and delicate patterns she associated with her girlhood, while I preferred the blue checks and plaids, or better yet, a green stripe or solid  yellow.  Alice liked ruffles with additions of lace or fancy buttons, I liked plain and simple or, at the most, pleats and tucks.  Occasionally I would have to give up a plaid or a stripe to my brother Joe who couldn't have cared less except that my mother insisted he have a button-up shirt or 2 for church and family gatherings.

Ollie Mae, Calamathelda, Dallas Daniel, Alice Rae, others

There were lots of family gatherings on Harker's Island.  We had numerous aunts, uncles, but mostly cousins twice and thrice removed with interesting names that illustrated the minimal acculturation that had occurred between those native to the island and their mainland relatives.  I am sure my mother must have been viewed as something of a "worldly woman" by some of them because of her wide travel and experience with my father who had carried her off to honeymoon in New York City and live in his home town of Auburn, Maine when they were newlyweds.  We had cousins named Clamathelda, Ollie Mae, Dallas Daniel and Alice  Rae. They had thick, unusual accents and quiet, serious ways.  My mother was none of those things.  She was full of life and fire.  Although always smooth and graceful, she was fully engaged in whatever she did and, like her mother, wanted to laugh and be surrounded by life.  My mother's best friend, who I never really knew whether we were related to or not, was called "Sparksie".  She was married to a man with the last name of Sparks who operated the draw bridge on the  bridge that opened after we moved to the island.  Before that bridge was built, people went back and forth from the mainland by boat, or infrequently by ferry.  The ferry served all of the islands up to Nags Head and Hatteras.  Ferries continue to this day, connecting island to island along the barrier islands of the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Sparksie was a real "downeaster".  She always wore rubber boots for walking through the marshy fields where her cows and ours grazed.  You never knew when a cow would get caught in one of the many sand traps on the island where the movement of earth, sea and sky would create pockets of air in the marshy grassland forming powerful "quicksand" that could pull in a full grown heifer in a few minutes or a young child in a matter of seconds.  So Sparksie kept a  close  eye out on whatever living things were about.  I learned a lot about island life and safety from Sparksie.  She taught me about the fields; their beauty and their dangers; paying close attention to teaching me what to do if I ever came upon a patch of quicksand.  The more you fight the pull, the quicker you will get sucked in.  Stand still as possible while reaching for some strong marsh grass or tree branch while yelling like the devil for help.  When trying to pull someone out, make sure you are on solid ground before throwing them a rope or branch and pull slowly and steadily, backing away from the trap as you pull. She taught me how to milk a cow and while demonstrating, she would squirt the warm liquid at my eyes, laughing gently and good naturedly.  She taught me that cows are proud and intelligent and extremely faithful to those they love.  I had the opportunity to learn this firsthand while living on the island.

Jim Jones and Harker's Island

My mother's father was a shrimper and he docked at a little barrier island of the  Outer Banks called Harker's Island.  It is part of the "Down East" area of Carteret County; the southernmost end of the Outer Banks, and was isolated from the mainland for so long, you can still hear a bit of "High Tider" accent the island natives are known for.  Many of those natives are distant relatives of mine and there are roads and landmarks named Guthrie and Jones accordingly.  My granddaddy was James John Jones (Jim Jones), a tall, big boned man who lived by "The Book" and spoke only when he had something to say.  I never knew what my brother thought of Granddaddy Jones, but my sister loathed him and I adored him.  He was never reluctant to take a "switch" to an unruly child and I can remember him chasing after the 3 of us through the marshy expanses of the island.  I usually caught the worst of the switchin', being the youngest and slowest, but I never seemed to mind; maybe he didn't switch quite so hard on my bare legs because of my "condition".  Whooping  cough had left me with a heart murmur that the doctor had warned my mother against allowing me to run and engage in excitable play.
The thing I remember most about my grandfather was how comfortable I was when I was with him. Years later he would visit us in Norfolk and take me for long walks on the beach as they brought in the fishing nets.  He would point to strange and prehistoric looking sea creatures caught in the nets and tell me some fascinating fact about their habits or habitat.  Sometimes he would  find a mussel or clam and pull out his pocket knife and open it up, scooping out the tender morsel and slurping it down, or offering it to my little bird mouth.  I felt safe whenever he was around. He taught me some of the mysteries of the ocean; a place where he was most at home; where his silence was intent upon reading the signs of sky and surf; where he had connection to other living things.
Jim Jones was born in 1888 in Wales and was orphaned at an early age.  He worked in the coal mines until the age of 9 when he was hired as a cabin boy on a frigate headed for the Carolina coast.  He landed on Harker's Island and was taken in by Henry Jones, working on one of his fishing boats until he met and married Alice  Reed, an Irish immigrant with marital ties to the Guthrie family, also of Harker's Island.  Alice was a fiesty, gregarious beauty with a wicked sense of humor and a mischievous Irish smile.  He doted on her adoringly, I was told by many, and when he would leave on long fishing voyages, he took great care to hire on someone to care for the small farm and home they had established in Beaufort on the mainland.  Inevitably, I am told,the hired hand would  end up sitting in the kitchen with neighbors and friends, trading jokes and tall tales, while Alice and Jim's dozen or so children ran around the place, happily unkept.  My grandparents were as different as night and day, but somehow made a life in this wild marshland for their 13 children; all of whom grew up independent and strong.
But in 1952, my mother, the youngest of those 13 children, was widowed with 3 children herself, the youngest of whom was sickly and dependent.  She had no consistent means of support and, for whatever societal or familial reasons, was on her own in the midst of few opportunities for stability.  My granddaddy found a home for us on Harker's Island.  Those were some my happiest memories of my childhood.

Day of Caring

Virginia Dare Jones Freve

So...I am going to try to keep in a chronological order, the events of my life....but cannot guarantee it will work that way.  Like Billy Pilgrim I am  kinda "unstuck in time" and like Mary Daly, I tend to spiral back and forth from  places and people to others.  I rather like this for several reasons:  I don't have to say "goodbye" as much because I am always spiraling back to things unfinished; if I am not finished processing things, I can explore alternative solutions, thus gaining further insight from  the experience; I can avoid unpleasant  situations until I am ready to deal with them (or I find an acceptable  rationalization for my mistakes); there is a sense of freedom in not being held to a linear timeline, unwavering and rigid, and making up my own where I can be whatever age I am feeling at the time and can pretend to have had whatever life experience fits into the characteristic I am exploring.  None of this may make sense to you, but that's the way it is for me.  One thing  about getting older is you give up the fight on a few things about yourself...I am beginning to care less about what others think.
But I am supposed to be writing about my toddlerhood here.

Only picture of Yvonne as an infant.

My earliest memories are when I was sick with whooping cough.  My mother had moved us to a house in Morehead City and I was confined to my bed most of the time.  As I gained strength, I would sneak over to the window or the screen door and watch my sister and brother run and play outside, but if I laughed or got too excited watching the intrigues of hide-and-seek, I would break into an unstoppable cough and my mother would come running in admonishing me to return to the prison  of blankets and immobility.  She had purchased a small record player and some little yellow children's records for me to listen to and sing along with and I spent many many hours with the tunes of "Alexander's Ragtime Band", "I'm called Little Buttercup", "I'm Gonna Make a Paper Doll", and my favorite:  "Whenever I Have to Stay in Bed".   Despite the pleasure I found in all those songs and the fantasies they stimulated, I remember feelings of loneliness and isolation.  My mother was busy with household chores and baking trays and trays of dinner rolls that she would sell to restaurants frequented by tourists along the crowded  summer beaches.
As I have reviewed what I know of this  time and all the things my mother did to cope with a sick child, the loss of a husband, and the limited resources  she  had; I am amazed that we fared as well as we did.  My mother cultivated a small garden; kept some chickens for eggs; and worked long, tiring hours baking items to sell to the restaurants.  Many years later I learned that she was under pressure from some of her family members to give her children up for adoption.  In post war North Carolina, single women with children were less likely to find a husband and without an education or opportunity for employment, her economic future and that of her children was bleak indeed.  My mother had an 8th grade education (more than many) and had worked as a waitress for a short time as a teenager.  Other than that, she was trained to keep house and care for others....to be a homemaker.  She was ill-prepared for what life had presented to her.  I like to  think that it was the joy of her time with my father that sustained her.  It matters if you have known joy.  It makes it easier to survive fear and oppression and chaos.  None of us knew how much of that would come into our lives in  the years ahead.  We thought we just had to survive this.  We all believed that the end was just around the corner.

Getting Started in Life

Freddy and Ginny Freve

I really don't know much about my babyhood.  I was born at Cape Fear Hospital in North Carolina; about 6:40 am on October 17, 1949.  My father was a "Yankee" 30 years older than my mother and I was the 4th child born to them.  Since they had a son who had died as an infant, it left three:  my sister Alice and brother Joe...and of course, me.  In April of 1950, when I was 6 months old, my father died of a sudden heart attack.  He was 54.  My mother had just had her 25th birthday.
By all accounts, my parents were very much in love and, although not rich, were happy and planning for a long life together raising a family.  My father was an electrician in partnership with someone named Barr who was a plumber.  The two provided heating, electrical and plumbing services to the residents of Wilmington, NC and surrounding New Hanover County.

What I know about this early life of my parents comes mostly from my aunt and cousins who were close to them when their children were being born.  Later, after his death, when I was old enough to wonder about him, and to miss what I had never had, my sister, brother and I would beg my mother to tell us stories about him.  "Tell us about Daddy."  I would demand...and climb onto her lap, laying my head on her chest.  My cousin Juanita and her husband Norwood lived next door to my parents and she would tell me that they could hear my father singing every morning as he shaved and prepared for work.  He would sing an old World War I song:  "Oh, How I Hate to Get Up In the Morning.  Oh How I Wish I Could Stay In Bed."  Juanita was a fun-loving woman who adored his laughter and inclination to break into song and told me many stories about how he cared for his wife. Her stories became very important to  me later, when  I would  have done anything to bring some joy into  my mother's life.

Alfred J Freve with Alice and Joseph

My parents were married in Myrtle Beach, SC when my mother was 18 years old and my father was 48.  I think they met through my grandfather (my father knew him through business somehow).  Perhaps my father did some electrical work for my grandfather and accidentally ran into his youngest daughter, Virginia,  and it was love at  first sight.  That is how it was in my fantasies anyway.  I never knew what brought my father from Maine down to North Carolina.  Before he met my mother he sang in the grand Opera; served in the infantry in WWI; was a cop for the city of Boston; and married a woman named Mary with 3 children (2 girls and a boy).  From all the information I  was able to gather, she was most likely close in age to Freddy Freve and the children were nearing adolescence when they married.  She died and he left Maine.
I have had many questions about this marriage:  What was his relationship with his stepchildren?  Why did he leave New England and what did my mother think about his previous life?  My parents left North Carolina shortly after their marriage and lived in Maine for a few years.  My mother always said she hated the cold so much, they came back to NC, but I never quite believed that.  Juanita was no  help with any of these questions and I was never brave enough to ask anyone else.  I visited his home town of Auburn Maine in 1985 and met his remaining 2 sisters and brother; but they were no help with that part of his life.

September 1, 2011

Many people have suggested that I write a book about my life and indeed, I have fantasized many times about how that would go.  As I have entered the crone years of my sixties, it seems that I should give it some serious thought or cast the idea aside with a smile.  So this blog is my first attempt at putting some structure around the thing.
At one time I thought I would write about my first year of college, a turning point in my life.  A time when everything seemed to be changing; when none of the rules that had gotten me to that point in 1968 seemed to be working anymore:  when I was challenged to find my personal truth about who I was and what made sense in the world.  But I haven't written that book yet.
Another time, awed and amazed at the courage of so many; I set about to write an anthology of the women who had come in and out of my life with so much wisdom and compassion:  truly amazing women living everyday lives.  My mother was one,and if this goes well, I will write quite a lot about her throughout this blog.  Others include the mother of a serial killer, survivors of suicides and victims as well.  Life and death are everything and nothing.
Somewhere inside me, I always thought there was a children's book...or rather a book about being a child....perhaps a "Pan's Labyrinth" or "Secret Life of Bees" kind of story.  Children live such fascinating lives full of exploration and wonder, often set against a background of larger than life events.  Some of my childhood feels like that when I look back.
When i was in the 7th grade, my teacher (Mr. "B") encouraged me to be a writer and asked me to dedicate my first book to him.  This acknowledgment may be the only one he gets, but at least he will know that I always remembered that commitment.  Here's to you Mr. B!
For a while, I was the grateful participant in a women's writing group in New Hampshire.  I learned a lot about life, courage, and writing.  Those times, sitting in a circle, sharing our words from the paper or screens in front of us, are like memory gems for me.  Very special.  Although I still know little about the day-to-day details of most of those women, I know something much more important about them:  I know what touches their spirit; what brings them joy; and what sorrow has been like for them.  Some of them have gone on to be published; some continue to be part of that same group.  One that I hear from occasionally is living the creative life on another continent.  Each of them conjures up a distinct and wonderful memory.
So here goes.  Today I have started a blog.  We'll see where it takes us.
Thanks for reading.