Molly made me tell it
My name is Raynelda Sharp, and I am a storyteller. I came by it naturally, as some would say, for both my father and my mother were storytellers. They were avid readers, and Daddy was a speed reader before I had ever heard the word. He would read a book a day, and sometimes two or three. His stories were full of fantasy and often trickery. Mostly they were stories on demand--name the components that you wanted in a bedtime story and you got it. “Daddy, I want a story with a rabbit and a bird and a tree.” Daddy told a story about a rabbit, a bird and a tree, and in keeping with Daddy’s stories--much, much, more!
Being an educator, I was caught up in the myth that what you do is learned in school. I took classes in everything, and still enjoy a class in this or that. It was difficult to accept that I, too, could be a storyteller, but one day I was shocked to learn that I really was a storyteller.
I was teaching in an open concept school. It had no walls, just a low partition between my kindergarten class and the hall. In the hall a repairman was working on the leaking ceiling. The school was new, and of course it leaked. At one point as I told my story to the children, I saw the repairman, and thought, surprisingly, that he looked like he was actually listening to me. Later, after the children had gone home, the repairman walked over to me and said. “That was really a good story! But at one point your voice got very soft. I leaned over to hear you, and I fell off the ladder!” He wasn’t hurt, and I felt a certain elation. “WOW! I can tell a story.”
I didn’t realize that my personal stories were becoming stories of “long ago” until my granddaughter received a Molly doll for Christmas. Each of the American Girl Dolls represents an historic period, and has stories, clothing, and accessories from the period. I was reading one of Molly’s chapter books with my granddaughter, listening to her halting beginning to read skills, and filling in some of the sections, when suddenly a wave of memories consumed. This little fictitious girl was eight years old during World War II.
Her father was my father--a naval officer--and those pigtails and glasses were mine. They had a housekeeper in the story who told the little girl she must eat her rutabaga. “Remember all the starving children in Europe.” That was my rutabaga! I had to eat it, or to this day I would never get another bite to eat. But it was Grandma who was my sitter when Mother was volunteering for the war effort, and she loved me. “Two bites is enough.”
During the war, staying healthy was a vital concern. There were no doctors. You had to stay healthy, eat right, and do it all with ration stamps. I recall trying to explain rationing to my reading class in inner city Indianapolis. “Well, if you had the money, why couldn’t you buy meat.” I tried to explain that meat was not readily available and could only be purchased with the money, the stamps, and if the butcher had something to sell. That didn’t make sens to children who are accustomed to having Food Stamps. They could have anything if they just had the money!
Beans also needed ration stamps, but we did enjoy a bowl of chili. If Mother bought the hamburger, she had no stamps left over for beans. But during wartime, people did learn to be resourceful, and my mother was resourceful even in peacetime! The Cincinnati area had a large German population, families who had settled over a hundred years ago in that area, and some of the foods we ate were influenced by these neighbors.
Lentils were often grown, dried and served in stews or soup. Lentils did not need ration stamps. Mother soon concocted her wartime famous “Lentil-illi” a cousin to chili with browned ground beef, onions, chili seasonings, and LENTILS!! Incidentally, after rationing, this dish was relinquished to make way for real Cincinnati chili complete with luscious red beans. Whenever I eat the delicious lentil stew at the Rathskeller in the Atheneum, I remember Lentil-illi--and savor the stew!
Victory Gardens were in vogue. Mother and Grandmother (who lived next door) had always grown flowers in beds that bordered the yard, but now they grew vegetables, and much of the lawn had become a VICTORY GARDEN. Tomatoes, lettuce, onions, potatoes, beans, peas, carrots, and lettuce all grew in our yards. And a few flowers crept in too. My sisters and I had our very own tomato plants. They were special--little yellow pear shaped tomatoes. At least, the ripened versions were yellow, but we could never wait for them to ripen. They were usually light green, and if we were lucky we could find a nearly yellow tomato. For kids who never had candy or sweets, the little nearly yellow tomatoes were quite a treat!
Clothes were a problem too. There were shoe rationing coupons. Now there we were hurting. We could eat the food we grew in summer, and can it for winter. Mother could transform her old clothes into clothes for us. But we couldn’t make shoes. Our baby sister was wearing hard soled shoes that would not fit her feet for six months. They were outgrown and new ones were needed. When you only had one pair, it wore out rapidly. And three of us had growing feet. Some shoes did not require stamps, but they also were not made from current leather substitutes. At best they proved to be a waste of hard-earned money. Family and friends came to our aid, and gave us the shoe stamps we needed.
What about Christmas? Daddy and Uncle Royce were overseas. Families could usully guess where, but to kids it could as easily have been another world for all we knew. Our other aunts and uncles were older, and did not go war. They worked mostly in war plants. At Christmas time we celebrated together and cheered each other, praying that this would be the last Christmas without our whole family together.
Food was a marvel of saved ration stamp concoctions. And coffee. I remember mother had bought a pound of coffee for each of my aunts. She wrapped each package in a large white tissue paper and tied a narrow ribbon around it, gathering the paper at the top. I knew that was a mistake. Yuk, they were going to hate that. No one could appreciate that dark bitter stuff. Not even Mommy or Daddy drank coffee!
Which was why Mother had to stamps available for it. Imagine my surprise, when my aunts were thrilled with their gifts. Did I mention that they were coffee drinkers?
Toys were difficult too. One year my old baby doll got a make-over. Mother made her a new dress, hat and shoes (cardboard, ribbon and glue) She had her very own new blanket too. I think it was a not-so-worn corner of one of ours, but just the right size. It was difficult, no impossible, to get dolls, but Mother found paint, and re-painted the face and hair.
Years later I was a young mother, living in Orlando, Florida. My own two children went with me three afternoons each week to help a neighborhood friend who owned a day care center. She had several small children during the day, and cared for their older sisters and brothers after school. It was a short walk for the children from the elementary school to her house. I enjoyed the children, monitoring games, teaching songs, and sharing an art activity sometimes. But on this particularly lovely day the children were enjoying the sunshine, light breeze and their own games. And then the airplanes come roaring over the house in marvelous formations. We lived near the Strategic Air Command Base. At the opposite end of town, near the small airport, was another air base. The planes continued, in formation, The first ones were cheered; the children joined in fun, spreading their arms, making airplane motor sounds and flying about the yard.
Finally, the children lay solemnly on their backs in the grass. They just watched.
And I recalled without trying to do so--the words my mother sang as she played the piano in our house when Daddy was gone. “When the lights go on again, all over the world, and rain or snow is all that may fall from the clouds above. A kiss won’t mean good-bye...” How fortunate, I thought. These children will never have to fear war. They will not worry about bombs falling from the skies, just rain and snow.
That night President Kennedy announced that an attack had been made on Cuba.
Being an educator, I was caught up in the myth that what you do is learned in school. I took classes in everything, and still enjoy a class in this or that. It was difficult to accept that I, too, could be a storyteller, but one day I was shocked to learn that I really was a storyteller.
I was teaching in an open concept school. It had no walls, just a low partition between my kindergarten class and the hall. In the hall a repairman was working on the leaking ceiling. The school was new, and of course it leaked. At one point as I told my story to the children, I saw the repairman, and thought, surprisingly, that he looked like he was actually listening to me. Later, after the children had gone home, the repairman walked over to me and said. “That was really a good story! But at one point your voice got very soft. I leaned over to hear you, and I fell off the ladder!” He wasn’t hurt, and I felt a certain elation. “WOW! I can tell a story.”
I didn’t realize that my personal stories were becoming stories of “long ago” until my granddaughter received a Molly doll for Christmas. Each of the American Girl Dolls represents an historic period, and has stories, clothing, and accessories from the period. I was reading one of Molly’s chapter books with my granddaughter, listening to her halting beginning to read skills, and filling in some of the sections, when suddenly a wave of memories consumed. This little fictitious girl was eight years old during World War II.
Her father was my father--a naval officer--and those pigtails and glasses were mine. They had a housekeeper in the story who told the little girl she must eat her rutabaga. “Remember all the starving children in Europe.” That was my rutabaga! I had to eat it, or to this day I would never get another bite to eat. But it was Grandma who was my sitter when Mother was volunteering for the war effort, and she loved me. “Two bites is enough.”
During the war, staying healthy was a vital concern. There were no doctors. You had to stay healthy, eat right, and do it all with ration stamps. I recall trying to explain rationing to my reading class in inner city Indianapolis. “Well, if you had the money, why couldn’t you buy meat.” I tried to explain that meat was not readily available and could only be purchased with the money, the stamps, and if the butcher had something to sell. That didn’t make sens to children who are accustomed to having Food Stamps. They could have anything if they just had the money!
Beans also needed ration stamps, but we did enjoy a bowl of chili. If Mother bought the hamburger, she had no stamps left over for beans. But during wartime, people did learn to be resourceful, and my mother was resourceful even in peacetime! The Cincinnati area had a large German population, families who had settled over a hundred years ago in that area, and some of the foods we ate were influenced by these neighbors.
Lentils were often grown, dried and served in stews or soup. Lentils did not need ration stamps. Mother soon concocted her wartime famous “Lentil-illi” a cousin to chili with browned ground beef, onions, chili seasonings, and LENTILS!! Incidentally, after rationing, this dish was relinquished to make way for real Cincinnati chili complete with luscious red beans. Whenever I eat the delicious lentil stew at the Rathskeller in the Atheneum, I remember Lentil-illi--and savor the stew!
Victory Gardens were in vogue. Mother and Grandmother (who lived next door) had always grown flowers in beds that bordered the yard, but now they grew vegetables, and much of the lawn had become a VICTORY GARDEN. Tomatoes, lettuce, onions, potatoes, beans, peas, carrots, and lettuce all grew in our yards. And a few flowers crept in too. My sisters and I had our very own tomato plants. They were special--little yellow pear shaped tomatoes. At least, the ripened versions were yellow, but we could never wait for them to ripen. They were usually light green, and if we were lucky we could find a nearly yellow tomato. For kids who never had candy or sweets, the little nearly yellow tomatoes were quite a treat!
Clothes were a problem too. There were shoe rationing coupons. Now there we were hurting. We could eat the food we grew in summer, and can it for winter. Mother could transform her old clothes into clothes for us. But we couldn’t make shoes. Our baby sister was wearing hard soled shoes that would not fit her feet for six months. They were outgrown and new ones were needed. When you only had one pair, it wore out rapidly. And three of us had growing feet. Some shoes did not require stamps, but they also were not made from current leather substitutes. At best they proved to be a waste of hard-earned money. Family and friends came to our aid, and gave us the shoe stamps we needed.
What about Christmas? Daddy and Uncle Royce were overseas. Families could usully guess where, but to kids it could as easily have been another world for all we knew. Our other aunts and uncles were older, and did not go war. They worked mostly in war plants. At Christmas time we celebrated together and cheered each other, praying that this would be the last Christmas without our whole family together.
Food was a marvel of saved ration stamp concoctions. And coffee. I remember mother had bought a pound of coffee for each of my aunts. She wrapped each package in a large white tissue paper and tied a narrow ribbon around it, gathering the paper at the top. I knew that was a mistake. Yuk, they were going to hate that. No one could appreciate that dark bitter stuff. Not even Mommy or Daddy drank coffee!
Which was why Mother had to stamps available for it. Imagine my surprise, when my aunts were thrilled with their gifts. Did I mention that they were coffee drinkers?
Toys were difficult too. One year my old baby doll got a make-over. Mother made her a new dress, hat and shoes (cardboard, ribbon and glue) She had her very own new blanket too. I think it was a not-so-worn corner of one of ours, but just the right size. It was difficult, no impossible, to get dolls, but Mother found paint, and re-painted the face and hair.
Years later I was a young mother, living in Orlando, Florida. My own two children went with me three afternoons each week to help a neighborhood friend who owned a day care center. She had several small children during the day, and cared for their older sisters and brothers after school. It was a short walk for the children from the elementary school to her house. I enjoyed the children, monitoring games, teaching songs, and sharing an art activity sometimes. But on this particularly lovely day the children were enjoying the sunshine, light breeze and their own games. And then the airplanes come roaring over the house in marvelous formations. We lived near the Strategic Air Command Base. At the opposite end of town, near the small airport, was another air base. The planes continued, in formation, The first ones were cheered; the children joined in fun, spreading their arms, making airplane motor sounds and flying about the yard.
Finally, the children lay solemnly on their backs in the grass. They just watched.
And I recalled without trying to do so--the words my mother sang as she played the piano in our house when Daddy was gone. “When the lights go on again, all over the world, and rain or snow is all that may fall from the clouds above. A kiss won’t mean good-bye...” How fortunate, I thought. These children will never have to fear war. They will not worry about bombs falling from the skies, just rain and snow.
That night President Kennedy announced that an attack had been made on Cuba.