I am thinking of a time 50 years ago. We live in a small house on the edge of a prairie on the corner of Wesleyan and Coleridge, Houston, Texas. It is August 1945.
Carl is working at the Petroleum Administration for War, going back and forth to Washington, DC weekly. Elaine is ten years old. Carol is 6.
Carol is an easy child in every way. She eats what she is supposed to; she has a good disposition; and she gives us much pleasure. Why have another child? Why not? It is the natural thing to do, most creative thing to do. Being an only child, Carl is agreeable for more children because he always wanted a sister or brother when growing up.
Carl is gone a lot, but when at home, all is happiness and light. We have our own little home, our two little girls and bask in love for each other.
I become pregnant and go about my chores with a feeling of elation and importance. Mrs. Illig lives in a little house behind us. We have a victory garden on the vacant lot next to her like many other neighbors, because war has made it hard to buy a variety of vegetables. We have stamps for many things like lard and sugar and gasoline. If a guest comes to our home for a meal the guest offers stamps to help with extra food.
The weather is hot as it is in Houston in August. We have no air conditioning and no fans, except in the kitchen. This is hard for people to believe in 1996. Every afternoon with the front door and back door open, we have a breeze from the prairie. I don’t remember suffering hardships.
As usual during the summer, Houston has one of her hurricanes. Wind beats against the house; rain pounds into the shingles making holes and leaks. Carl is beside himself with fear in case he has to take me to the hospital, and he knows Wesleyan is full of mud. “Suppose we have to go; how will we ever get the car out of the driveway?” he agonizes.
“Don’t worry,” I say calmly. “The baby’s not due yet.”
Carl runs around the house putting buckets to catch the water.
The wallpaper in the leaking room is ruined. We have the leaks fixed and change the wallpaper, thinking it’s a minor trouble when you consider our dear friend whose child plays with our children: she received a terrible letter from the government: “Your husband is missing in action.” We go about our lives, devastated when we think of him.Before Carl goes back to Washington, he suggests I go to see our dear friends in Wharton, Texas, Dr. And Mrs. F. J. L. Blasingame, as a little vacation. Ludy, my helper, goes with me to help with the children.
When we arrive, I say to Ludy, “Ludy, you go out and make friends with the servants.” Although she felt hesitant, she did so.
The rest of us felt at home. Dorothy and Bing are friends from long ago and our children get along fine. Since it was lunchtime, I say, “Dorothy, I’ll set the table.”
The table is large. Dr. Blasingame has a large home, a large family and a large country, medical practice.
“Good,” says Dorothy. “After lunch we shall pick vegetables in the garden for you to take home to can.”
I love to go to Dorothy and Bing’s home. Their kitchen/dining room bulges with people, echoes with laughter, harbors love. From the stove seep pungent smells of baking cornbread, simmering mustard greens with salt pork and steaming chicken in broth. Water from the faucet in the sink splashes over salad greens. Peas drop one by one into a pot in Ludy’s lap as shells fall to the trash basket on the floor.
Dorothy lifts the lid off the chicken as the steam envelopes her. Her hair hangs down in her eyes; perspiration rolls down her cheeks. She drops a tablespoon full of dumpling dough into the boiling broth.
I have finished setting the table and now I am enjoying arranging a container of red, orange and yellow zinnias with red, orange and yellow bell peppers.
The third little daughter, Rebecca, comes through the screen door crying because of her stubbed bare toe. Dorothy stops to hug and kiss her to soothe away the hurt. Betty Nan and Carol play dolls in the corner. From the window come sights and sounds of Elaine, Mary Lillian and John Chester playing ball loudly and happily.
As the clock strikes twelve, Bing, the father of the household, arrives for lunch. Activity ceases, children come in, wash their hands and take their places at the table. We all sit down to the table. Bing waits until everyone is quiet; then he reaches for my hand. The others also hold hands around the table. The doctor bows his head. We all bow our heads.
He prays, “Dear Lord, thank Thee for all our blessings and make us worthy of them. Help us to be thoughtful of others. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
While clearing the table, I quietly speak to Ludy, “How are you getting along, Ludy?”
“Well, I don’t think they like me,” she says unhappily.
I pat her on the shoulder. “You are a stranger from the city, Ludy. Just be nice to them and they will see that you are a good person, and they will be nice to you.”
“Yes’m, I’ll try.” Before the visit is over, Ludy makes friends and hates to leave
them.
We enjoy picking vegetables at the farm and pack a lot in my car to take home. The next day at home I wash and cut up the vegetables and take them to a public canning place in my neighborhood. (During the war the city has many canning centers to help people can their vegetables from their victory gardens.) We canned so many carrots we didn’t know what to do with them.
I go to a baby specialist because my regular doctor, Dr. Carlos Hamilton, is away in service in the war. Once a month I go for an examination and make friends with the other mothers-to-be that I see regularly. The first part of August my time is drawing near. At this visit my doctor says, “Mrs. Illig, your first baby weighed 7 1/4 pounds; your second baby weighed 8 pounds. It’s now two weeks until you are due. I don’t want you to wait out the full term. I want you to walk, walk, walk and bring the baby here today.”
“I’ll be glad to,” I say, anxious to bring the discomfort to an end. I am wearing a maternity girdle to save my back. I have cocoa butter all over my stomach to help it stretch since I have a scar from the operation I had from the birth of Carol.
The day is hot. It’s August 5, 1945. West University at Coleridge and Wesleyan Streets have no sidewalks. “Where can I walk?” I asked.
Mrs. Illig says, “You can walk down Main Street out by Rice Institute. All those oak trees along the sidewalk make it shady.”
“Grand idea,” I say, happy and glad to think this will bring the baby.
I am dressed in a large voile dress with short sleeves, made for me by Mrs. Illig. I have comfortable shoes. I am walking down Main Street near Rice. Mrs. Illig is driving her car either along side or behind me. I walk, walk, walk, turn around and go back under the trees and repeat. I am dripping sweat. My back is killing me. Finally I stop. Mrs. Illig stops the car. “Take me to the doctor’s,” I say.
The doctor examines me. “You did fine, Mrs. Illig.” Quickly he says, “Go right to the hospital; I’ll call your husband to come take you.”
The doctor stays with me all evening. Finally the baby is born. We have a fine boy. I just couldn’t believe I had a boy. It is wonderful. He weighs 7 1/4 pounds. His name is Dale Walden Illig.
The next morning, August 6, I hear running down the hospital hall. Then I hear hollering and laughter and loud talking, hysterical with happiness. Then shouting, “The war’s over! It’s over!!!” The atomic bomb had been dropped.
It was if the hospital people were rejoicing with me that we have a fine little boy.