Sudden memories

Grandmother and Grandfather Nordyke on
the farm in Callahan County, Texas. The
grey Chevy is parked in front under the
cottonwood tree.

Have you ever been reading a book and suddenly swept up by it, you land right in the middle of your own memories? That’s what happened when I read the first chapter of The Sound of Windmills by Jackie Woolley. She so described life on a hard scrabble Texas farm in the 1940s that all of a sudden I was back in the grey Chevy going to visit my grandparents on that on-the-edge farm where my Lewis grew up.

Here’s the review I wrote of this book for Story Circle Book Reviews. ( You can read my review at http://storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/windmills.shtml.

The Sound of Windmills

Jackie Woolley

The trip to see Grandmother and Grandfather on their family farm on the semi-arid, windy, and lonely edge of west Texas delighted this little girl. As we drove up the dirt road in our old gray Chevrolet, I bounced all over my side of the back seat knowing I was going to have so much fun--gathering eggs, watching Grandmother milk the cow, walking down to Greenbriar Creek to gather dewberries, not to mention gobbling up the dewberry cobbler that came out of the woodstove just a little later. All of this played out  to the background serenade of the whirring windmill. It was lots of fun for a city girl, but not so much for the couple who wrestled their living from these 287 acres for most of their adult lives. It remains a memory I treasure: not only for the fun but, now, for the character and good natures of these two strong people.

            All these memories and many more, came rushing back as I read Jackie Woolley's multigenerational saga of the Taylor family. Myra and Joel Taylor live with their daughters, Marilyn and Rugene on a working farm, much like my grandparents', near the fictional town of Langor, Texas. It's a hard life, and Woolley has an excellent eye and ear for it. I do not know exactly how much of this story is autobiographical; I suspect, quite a bit.

            The hardness of farm life is made even harder for the Taylor family because as the story opens, Joel, a polio victim, is dying. Myra, who has done most of the farming and managing for years, expects to carry on with the help of her daughters and a trusted hand, but after Joel's death, their long-time landlord (they are sharecroppers) mercilessly tosses them out within days. Stricken, Myra lands on her feet, and begins to form a new life for the three. This is the true beginning of the long story.

            The focus is primarily on the younger daughter Rugene, a strong spirit and sometimes lonely bookworm. She is determined to go the college and find a life for herself but not in Langor. At the same time she is determined that "I'll be back someday. I'm going back to buy the old farm.” Rugene manages to live much of her dream. Meanwhile, Marilyn and Myra also struggle with their own lives and as well as with holding the three of them together as a family.

            Because the novel spans several decades, it might have been confusing to a reader. What is happening to whom and when?  Woolley handles this problem skillfully by working historic happenings into her story without being obtrusive. The book is no one-night read. It is a rather daunting 545 pages, and is full of twists and turns; however, the main story moves nicely along holding the reader's interest. By the time it comes to a close most of its issues are resolved and three strong women are at peace with themselves and with each other.

Nancy Narcissus Coffey Nordyke--Happy Mother's Day!

In honor of Mother’s Day a few words about Lewis’s mother, Narrie Coffey Nordyke.

I was always a little in awe of Grandmother, not just because she could wring a chicken’s neck without ruffling her starchy newly ironed apron, but because she had been a pioneer.         

            Narrie (Nancy Narcissus Coffey) was born in 1874 in Dalton, Georgia to Molly (Mary Catherine—Katy, my Catherine is partly named for her) Ferrington and E.N. Coffey, a Confederate veteran of  the Battle of  Chickamauga. When Narrie was small the Coffeys pulled up their Georgia stakes—land was scarce and mostly farmed out—and headed for Texas. As a kid I envisioned the covered wagon, the campfires, the winding road, until one day I asked Grandmother, “What was it like to be on a covered wagon?”

            “I have no idea!” She pulled herself up to her full six feet and said with her usual dignity, “We came on the train.” My vision changed. White gloves were Grandmother’s thing. She wore them to the beauty shop in Baird, to the café downtown; almost anything was worth putting on her good suit and white gloves. Now I saw a parlor car with a little girl in white gloves and a Sunday dress walking down the aisle. Later, I learned they came on an immigrant train sharing a boxcar with their livestock, household goods, and several other families. I can only guess that they wished for the open trail and a campfire.

            I think about Molly, getting onto the train with her youngsters knowing full well that while there would be many letters (wish I could find them) sent with love, likely she would never see her family again. Far as I can tell, she didn’t.

            Narrie grew up in Callahan County, Texas surrounded by Georgia family and friends. But when it came time to fall in love, she picked a sort-of Yankee fiddler from Limestone County who’d come to visit relatives before heading for fiddling jobs in the saloons of Alaska.

Nancy Narcissus Coffey and Charles T. Nordyke
Married in Callahan County, Texas, December 24, 1899.

            On December 24, 1899 Narrie and Charlie Nordyke married. After a brief stint in Limestone County, and, yes, this time they did go in a covered wagon, they lived and farmed in Callahan County the rest of their long lives. Lewis was the middle child and middle boy in the family of seven.

On the farm, probably in the late 1920s.

At the 50th wedding anniversary celebration.
I'm the imp in the jumper planning mischief with
my cousin Charles Reid. (Can't you tell?)
Poor little Paul Gene--the likely victim--is in the middle.

            They retired from the farm (Lewis bought it.) and moved to Baird, the county seat, after 50 years of marriage.

Funny thing I noticed in my paltry collection of photographs. I have several of Charlie alone, but he is in every picture of Narrie. Soon as I get Photoshop up and running, I’ll take care of that! 

What a nice young man. . .

Dottie, the people I rode with (all but the old man) were wonderful to me, and I can’t see why they should have showed so much interest in me. What is harder to understand is why so many of them went out of their way to help me. I told no hard luck stories, and I tried not to look like a subject of charity. I took extra clothes along and changed in Oklahoma City. It has me puzzled. The man in Oklahoma City requested that I write him as soon as I reached home.

This is probably Lewis's graduation picture.
I'd stop and pick him up too

So Lewis mused toward the end of this first letter. I suspect he knew some of the answers, I certainly do, and Dottie surely did as well.

           

            Imagine the side of the busy highways of 1933 in the teeth of the Depression. Hitchhikers everywhere. Even if a kind-hearted driver wanted to give a ride, how to decide? How about a nicely dressed young man, white shirt, probably no tie, but I’ll bet one was in his pocket, a straw fedora shading his squinting eyes, his suit jacket tucked under one arm, carrying a beat-up suitcase and striding briskly toward his destination. (I’m partly imaging this and partly drawing on family lore.) Compared to the guys sitting on their suitcases and more than a little in need of a bath, whom would you chose to spend a couple of hours with?

Daddy never picked up a hitchhiker when Mother, my sister and I traveled with him. I suspect he did when he drove alone across the state, which was often. He did, however, often remark about them.

            “That fellow ought to get moving, nobody wants to pick up a lazy fellow,” he’d say as we passed a man sitting on his suitcase. Or, “Looks like he’d know he can get a shower at the YMCA.” Not only was he remembering his own journey; he knew what worked.

I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker, and given my ripe years, probably I won’t. My daughter confided (hope I’ve got this right, Katy) that she did once when she was driving back to college. She then spent the entire ride listening to a lecture on why she shouldn’t pick up strangers.

            Although  I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker, I’m convinced that I should return the favor to the “man from Oklahoma City” and the rest of those good souls who helped Lewis get home and start his life (and, of course, mine). It’s not the same, but here’s what I do—partly for Lewis and partly because I’m flat tenderhearted. I keep dollar bills in the outside pocket of my purse and in the console of the Jeep. We live in Houston, where times are hard and lots of folks are down-and-out. If I see, and I often see, a fellow or gal on a corner or perched on the sidewalk by a store looking hungry—don’t lecture me—I give them a couple of bucks.  I don’t need to know why their luck is out, I simply know that even the best of folks can hit hard times and need a helping hand.