It’s amazing how much the surrounding environment influences a small child unconsciously. In 1914 my father, Arthur Horlock, and mother, Lily, brought me, five, and my brother, Fisher, three, to Houston from Navasota to live with Grandma and Grandpa Fisher. Way back in the creases of my mind I see the two story house sitting high above the cobbled street. I know it to be cobbled because one day I stood out in front anxiously awaiting the doctor to hurry and come see Fisher when he caught diphtheria. I remember looking at those round hard cobbles. It differed from the soft sandy street in front of our cottage in Navasota. We had lived in Navasota, a countryside covered in bluebonnets that looked like lakes instead of hills. But this house, my mother’s childhood home, 416 McKinney Ave, five blocks from Main Street, the center of town, was nestled close to a cottage on the right with only a driveway between them. There, whenever I practiced the piano, I could look out the window across the driveway and see the boy next door sitting at his window playing his guitar.
On the left a two story house stood about eight feet away. There was space for planting something which never got planted. Nothing grew in the backyard either. Instead of a car, the garage held Grandpa’s workbench and lots of drawers full of nails and building materials.
I spent time watching Grandpa build my dog, Queenie, a doghouse or going up in the attic to visit Grandpa in his office. He loved fruit drinks and I loved to watch him wipe his whiskers above his mouth. He would take me on his lap so I could watch him draw pictures of ships for me.
He and Grandma came from England. Grandma and Grandpa’s bedroom had a porch connected that was only large enough to hold a shower and a trapeze for Grandpa’s exercise. We had two bedrooms and a sleeping porch for summer. Uncle Clarence had the fourth bedroom and in his closets were steps going up to the attic.
We had one phone and one bathroom. I don’t remember ever seeing a maid, but I remember the bathroom always smelled like strong disinfectant. The fact that seven people used one bathroom did not cause any trouble in those days.
On Sundays my uncles and aunts dropped in to visit Grandma and Grandpa. We cousins always had a show. We sang and danced and slid the folding door back and forth for the curtain.In January 1915 we had a dinner party for some soldiers stationed at Camp Logan. The morning after the party at five a.m., my mother awakened Fisher and me and said, “Get up children, put on your coats and shoes and stockings; we have to leave.” Quickly and quietly we dressed and followed Mama, the smoke filling the house. Daddy carried Fisher. Outside the icy wind made us walk fast down Brazos to my friend, Lorna’s, house. We went to her upstairs window and watched in horror at the red blaze and listened to the fire engines shrill, terrible bells.
Baker Street
We moved to Baker Street to await the McKinney house’s repair. It was changed into a duplex.
Baker Street is now West Drew, which intersects Waugh Drive. We had come to the country. The houses had trees, lawns, shrubbery and flowers, and sidewalks, but the streets had shells and ditches. I loved the tall huge leaves of the banana trees growing between the front and back yard. I remember asking my Mama to make me a sandwich with strawberry preserves so my friend, Gladys Baron and I could have a picnic. Gladys and I walked up and down the block until we found a tree under which to have a picnic. Even today the smell of strawberry preserves takes me back to Baker Street. Gladys and I found a dead butterfly, so we went back by the banana trees and made a grave for it and decorated it with little white shells. We had fun despite the shell dust and roughness hurting our hands.
1915 Storm
It’s September. We are having a storm. It’s not as bad as the 1900 storm in Galveston. The wind howls. The rain beats against the windows. The plates on the plate rail around the dining room fall making a clatter as they hit the floor and break. Grandpa says: “We have to leave and go to a one-story house a block away.” He gets four covering blankets. Mama carries Fisher. Daddy carries me. Grandpa carries Elizabeth, a visiting cousin. And Grandma walks close to Grandpa. We step out the door into the storm. My blanket is covering me, but I am peeping out to see what’s going on. I can feel the wind blow Daddy, but he holds me tightly. Grandma leans against Grandpa. The four of us stay close together and walk carefully to a neighbor, Mrs. Freestone’s, and knock. She lets us in.
The next morning the hot sun reveals all the ditches overflowing with water and our house still standing. I am so excited I run to ask my Mama, “Can I go swimming?” And my mama not aware of the harm we feared when warm bodies got chilled in the polio epidemic, let me swim in the ditch by the street.
Christmas
In December, my Mama began to prepare for Christmas. All Grandpa’s nine children, their spouses and their children, and the same with Bessie, the oldest daughter.
I helped my Mama wrap presents. She asked me, “Do you remember their names?” I said, “Annie Mae, Mildred Ruth, Mary Pearle, Ruth, and Elizabeth.”
She wrapped presents and made name tags. I helped her fit the gifts into a suitcase. I could tell my Mama had a hard job to get presents for everyone; it was too many. I felt inundated with all the Christmas packages, tags, ribbons, lists, and worry over omitting someone. The Christmas celebration had to be in a large house to hold the crowd so our house was chosen.
The day came; the crowds of relatives came. Grandpa handed everyone an orange. (I guess oranges meant something special then.) A Santa Claus came in, laughing and shaking his fat belly and making “Ho Ho Ho” noises. I didn’t like him much. I kept my distance. I sat with my girl cousins. The suitcases from all those families began to empty. Santa called out names as he handed out gifts.
E.P. The Baker House taught me I had lots of relatives. I especially liked my girl cousins. I realized it was good to have relatives to band together for fun at Christmas and also in times of disaster like storms for safety, but I also learned it was not necessary to give gifts to everyone. Drawing straws and giving only one gift to one person was enough.
Back to McKinney
We moved back to a different house on McKinney. It was now a duplex, and we lived in the upper one. The staircase outside now made the two apartments separate. I was sorry to leave the banana trees and come back to a house even more crowded.
Uncle Clarence had gone to World War I. His room became a dining room. The steps in the closet from his room still went up to the attic. A porch had been added and turned into a kitchen with steps going down to the backyard. When I reached twelve years old, I lost Grandpa Fisher. He had been my friend, my playmate, the builder of my favorite things, like the playhouse, the tea
party tables and the dog house. After I went to Grandpa’s funeral, I dreamed I went down under ground with him. I felt fearful in the dining room near the attic stairs; I felt as if Grandpa was in the attic at his desk.
E.P. I learned two things at McKinney–the love of a grandfather and the fear of death.