Her Memories

In February 1926, I was born to Alice Violet Hackett and Harry Henry Hackett in Millville New Jersey. My mother died four days after my birth. I do not remember my biological father as he left me to be raised by his uncle and aunt.

Carolyn and Walter Lee Munyon and baby Annetta in 1926.

My daddy and mother were 54 at the time. My daddy died when I was 5-1/2. My daddy took me to Sunday school, and, on the way home we stopped at Doc Steadam's where ice cream cones and the Sunday papers were purchased for reading to me as I sat on his lap in the big Morris chair. We listened to Amos and Andy on the old Majestic radio and on Friday nights he would take me to happy hour at the church, where I saw the original Rin-Tin-Tin and the Perils of Pauline.
The latter would scare me and I would bury my head in his lap. My daddy always made me feel safe. He was nothing but love, and I miss him to this day.

It was depression time, and after my father's death, life was very hard, as it was for many. What money left to my mother was soon spent. There was no social security. The house fell into despair. Winters were very cold in New Jersey. The water pipes burst and I drew water from the next-door neighbor's outside faucet. We did not have money for coal, so we had no heat other than a kerosene stove located in the kitchen where we had a basin of water atop the stove for dishes and spit baths. We lived in the kitchen.

When bedtime came, I made a mad dash for the bed and pulled the covers up over my head because I was afraid of the dark. I sold chow-chow and pepper relish for 23¢ a pint or 50¢ a quart as well as molasses and sugar cookies for 30¢ a dozen all through my school years. I scrubbed floors for a dry cleaner, "Scotty " Caulking. I scrubbed the floor where he hung the finished clothes; the room where he did his pressing; and, if I was really lucky, I scrubbed the kitchen in their adjoining apartment. For these services, I received 75¢. 1 took 65¢ home to my other and went to the Levoy theatre with the remaining 10¢ to live in a make-believe world for a short time. In 1936, my mother lost her home due to $400 in back taxes. This became the start of my mother's heartbreak. She had lost her husband, the home she had since they were married, the flowers that she loved, and her garden. She passed away July 1945.

Me in the cemetery

Best friend, Connie Morgan, and I bought a submarine sandwich (30 cents) and a pack of cigarettes for 15 cents. (It was smart and cheap to smoke in 1941). We also took a camera. Playing hooky in the cemetery was such fun. Who would tell on us? What great pictures we took, sprawled on graves, leaning against the mausoleum hanging on the gate. Posing young and alive. Those were the days when dreams were made, with no thoughts of the stillness and finality of those among the silent ones.

I liked to play in the park when I was a child and was fortunate to have such a grand playground directly behind my home. Here I found adventure, freedom, and time to dream. In the summer when my chores were finished, l was freefree to run barefoot through the cushiony grass, to pick violets as a love offering for my mother, or after a puff of breath from my lips to watch dried dandelion blooms with their parachute petals float to the ground. A tiny stream flowed through a small rock garden and emptied into a
pond where polliwogs flashed back and forth, making a streak of "try and catch me if you can." Sometimes I carried a polliwog home to be secured in a jar, so that I might watch the miracle of it turning into a frog. Sweet smelling pines, sweeping, weeping willows offered adventures in climbing. Lying on my back, gazing through these same treetops to soft cottonlike clouds in a emerald blue sky made daydreaming a delight to an imaginative child. Those carefree days were long ago, but in my memory I still run, dream, and play in the park.

It is pleasant to recall at age seven, when I had my first kiss. Jimmy Hufsey and Johnny Wolf walked me home from Betty Branin's birthday party. Both wanted to kiss me goodbye, and since in my eyes Jimmy was the cutest, I kissed him first, then proceeded to kiss Johnny. After all I did not want him to feel left out.

I remember Jimmy being quite the mischevious boy. He spent a lot of time under

Mrs. Frederick's desk where she could be aware of his doings This was in third grade, and in fourth grade, Mrs. Hand always had him right in the very first row.

  I remember one incident in particular. I t was a beautiful sunshiny day. The windows were open, as in those days the schools did not have the luxury of air conditioning. l had placed a lollipop on my desk for later enjoyment. Since my desk was directly behind the seat where Jimmy was sitting ,he was fair game for a bee that flew in; however the bee was truly interested in my lollipop and proceeded to land
on it, whereupon Jimmy turned, saw the bee, and fell into the waste basket between Mrs. Hand's desk and his seat. I received underserved praise, when in actuality I was too terrified to move.

Jimmy and Faye, 1998.

I was only in fifth grade two months, skipped to sixth, but still managed to see Jimmy in my neighborhood, with other pals, and held hands in the movies, but never repeated the kiss. As I said in a previous story, of marriage, widowhood,and moving to California, I lost touch with many people, including Jimmy. I inquired as to his whereabouts at the 50th class reunion, and learned he is resideing in Kemp Texas, with his lovely wife Faye. Since that time we have had much contact via letters and phoning. A short time ago they visiteed Reno. It was wonderful to see him after so many years, and I hope we will have many more years to enjoy our longtime friendship.

Dorothy Hunter coveted a doll's hot water bottle like one I owned. lt cost 10 cents quite a sum when I was a chiid. You understand I knew right from wrong. Dorothy's happiness meant more to me than entering a life of crime. With no attack of conscience I traipsed up High Street into Grant's store, located the object of Dorothy's desire, snatched it up, ran from thestore certain the Devil was right behind me, that I was well on my way to Hell. l have remembered Dorothy and her pleasure. I am sophiscated enough now to know there are more legitimate ways of obtaining such goals. It looks as though I will never go to prison in spite of my early life of crime.

My foster father died when I was not quite six years of age. There being just my foster mother and myself, I had no male images in my life. I pictured life as I saw in movies or read about in books. My walls were decorated with pictures of Errol Flynn, Robert Taylor, and Clark Gable.

My first romantic attachment at 14, was with my handsome, 27 year old Science teacher, Mr. Post. He had a mustache and deep set blue eyes, and when he glanced my way, I would almost swoon. I am sure he was aware of my adoration.

To help with our household finances, I was selling home-made cookies. On my rounds, I always stopped at the house where he boarded hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

He left the school, but returned the year I was 16, surprising me with a visit to my home. He spoke of his coming marriage and his induction into the service. It was 1941 and war was upon us. When he was ready to leave, he gave me a wam kiss on the lips. I was enthralled! I rode my bicycle to my friend's house to tell her about the kiss. What 16 year old could keep that a secret! My friend said my eyes were like stars. I know I had trouble falling asleep that night.

My dearest wish was for Mr. Post to have survived the war. Now as a senior citizen, I should like to tell him how his visit, and his understanding of a young girl's adoration meant to me.

Mr. Post in 1998

Thanks to a fellow writer, my dearest wish came true. Because I knew Mr. Post's full name and
thanks to the internet, he was located about 70 miles from the high school where he taught and where I lived. I was given his telephone number which of course I called. His wife of 52 years answered. I identified myself. She said he is now 86, still has his mustache and except with difficulty in walking, is in good health. Then the magic moment came when we talked! He asked me if I had thrown pebbles at his window. I assured him I had not; evidently I was not the only young girl taken by his charm.

He had trouble remembering me until I mentioned his visit and the kiss. He said, "I believe I remember that." I read the last part of my story to him. We brought each other up to date on family and the like. It was wonderful to talk with him.

There is no bicycle for riding to a friend's house. However, the telephone was busy at my home for a long time and I am sure my eyes were shining just like a long time ago, remembering my first crush.

Later I was able to visit him and his lovely wife in Freehold, New Jersey, when I returned to attend my 55th class reunion.

Mr. Post seemed frail but in great spirit.

Jack and one of our two cats in 1978.

People may think we own our home, after a visit to our domicile, they will realize this home is in actuality owned by two cats Fat Jason and Hobo, who merely allow us to share this abode with them. Jason, our seal point Siamese, is a"Used to bite people cat" until Hobo, a stray emerald-eyed, pure white with one black whisker came to live with us and to be Jason's friend.

Jason was quite affronted upon Hobo's entrance into his territory, and there was a danger of Jason doing a job of neutering on Hobo before I could make a visit to the vet's for a professional job. I must say that Hobo's disposition remained sweet after his fixit job was completed, while Jason remained as mean as ever, just finding other areas on poor Hobo to bite. Jason likes early
morning lovin', nibbling on my house plants and Tender Vittles in that order. Hobo likes food, paper bag "peekaboo" chasing wads of paper we throw, lotsof loving at bedtime, where he is quick to make tracks where he thinks all "us cats" should be at a decent hour. Jason has a squeaky voice due to surgical removal of a cheese-baited fishhook my husband left in our camper and which Jason proceeded to swallow. If we inadvertently step on his tail, he hisses his outrage most effectively. Jason likes to give us love bites, while Hobo prefers giving us a wash job with his pink raspy tongue. Despite their differences in disposition, both our cats contribute to our joy of a cat owners house as we get love, companionship and a heck of a lot of fur flying fun.

In 1967, while living in another state, I was employed by a state funded school to help care for the mentally retarded; this became an experience I shall never forget, and I have wondered many times since, whether I wish to subject a child of my own, should it be so handicapped, to such a school. there were two requisites for the job: a chest x-ray to determine if I had tuberculosis, and a blood test to determine if I had social disease. There was no written test to find if I were of averaage intelligence, nor an oral examination as to whether I am kind or unkind, if I have empathy toward those less fortunate, or for that matter, what feelings I have, good or bad toward anyone else.

I was hired to work with five other attendants in caring for approximately eighty young cerebral palsey patientss, ranging from ages fifteen to twenty-five, who were not all mentally retarded. Some of them were above average intelligence and were only there because of their severe physical abnormalities. Over one half of the children were confined to specially built wheel chairs; most had spastic throats, which caused difficulty in swallowing and in speech. Imagine my fee1ings on the fiirst day of my job when in attempting to feed one such child, to discover she had such a condition. How kind it would have been if one of the other attendants had prepared me for such an emergency. She could have spared me much anguish, for I thought the child was choking to death. Due to the shortage of good competent help, other retarded adults were brought from adjacent halls to assist in the feeding of the children. After the meal was over, it was sometimes difficult to tell if the recipient of the food had more nourishment inside or outside the body, to judgefrom the amount spilled over into the lap, in the hair, and on the face. Sometimes the children sat in their own body waste, for want of someone to take them from their wheelchairs and put them on the bedpan.

These young people were at the mercy of the overworked and sometimes seemingly indifferert attendants, and I can only imagine what this did to their spirits. All children respond to love and caring, and certainly these young people
were no exception. They needed more than having their bare physical needs met in order to grow to their highest potential. Caring in some small way to meet their emotional needs was to me the real challenge of the job. When I began the work day I always left home with enough time to spare that i might greet each and every one of them upon my entry into the buidling. Of necessity I returned to California to live, but these children's faces burn in my memory, and I think and pray for the hope of a better future for them and for all those still to be in the need of such institutions.

Jack, the fisherman, 1978

My husband Jack is an avid fisherman. Early in the a.m., he prepares his fishing gear, selecting, what he hopes to be the best lures and bait to catch a fish. Maybe today he will catch the biggest, prize winning trout of the season. He patiently fishes, but the fish are elusive, and the end of the day finds his creel still empty. He decides to make one last try. I can guess the thoughts in his mind as he makes that final long cast from the boat. the lure makes a shiny, spinning, arc into the rippling water. He feels the tightening, catching movement of hte pole. Slowly he reels in the struggly fish to the boat. Momentarily he feels disappointment at the trout's sized. The feeling quickly passes. He relishes the thought of a savory finsh dinner to bring to one wife, two cats, and a tired fisherman. There is always tomorrow, and he knows that one prize-winning fish is lurking in the lake, waiting just for him and anothner day of fishing.

Today had been a bad day for me. I've done so few of my regular housewifely chores, for I've spent my time being pensive, poignantly haunted, by old memories all my thoughts turned inward, oblivious to sounds of children at play, the birds bursts of chatter, or any of the glories of nature that usually give my eyes, ears, and soul such pleasure, but gazing instead in my heart's eye down the paths of remembrance to a long time ago, and a young vulnerable me.

My reverie began with the postman's delivering a letter, a warm friendly letter from a very dear friend who still resides in m home town. She had enclosed an obituary clipping from the local newspaper, making mention as a postscript that "This may be the John you knew a long time ago." The obituary was short and cryptic,l giving only the date of his death and the survivors: a wife, two sons, and his parents. Oh, Yes! Know him I did, and if circumstances had been different, my name might have been on the obituary as a surviving wife.

Though long years have passed and I have spent my life in living and not in looking back to old dreams and feelings of "what might have been," I do owe this day to remembering my first sweet young adolescent love, and the boy who sparked and kindled those feelings within me.

Our Genesis began when John delivered me a note from another young would be swain who desired a date with me. John shuffling from one foot to another as he silently handed me the note, said not one word. But I, who in my young woman's heart wisdom, had
other plans in mind, for I had observed John working at his uncle's's service station across the street from my home, and discounting the handsomeness of the would be note sending Lothario, decided it was this young note bearing, embarrassed boy that I wished to enter my life. Therefore with quaking heart I uttered those famous words that John Alden had said to Priscilla so many long years ago, under these same circumstances when he, John, was requesting her hand in marriage for his friend Miles Standish. I said, "Why don't you speak for yourself, John?"

Surprised, red with confusion and blushing and with much encouragement from me, he asked me to attend a Saturday night movie. I sat on the front porch, dressed in my very best, waiting, rocking, and impatient for my young man to muster enough courage to come across from his uncle's station wagon and escort me to the movie. He was so shy and gangling, tall and young man slender, with burnished, curly read hair that I would learn much later in our relationship to curl about my fingers like shiny ribbons of static satin. And his eyeswell, his eyes were the brown color of woodsmoke and they crinkled at the corners when he gave me his sweet shy smile of caring. I cannot recall the title of the movie we saw, I only knew that my heart thumped and raced with anticipation as his damp boyman hand stole tentatively over to touch my waiting and eager hand and hold it throughout the show.

After that night there were more movies, with ice cream sodas at he corner drug store, that tasted of ambrosia as young eyes met evincing feeling so new and beautiful to both of us. There was much togetherness, as we were possessive in this embryonic wonder. Hand in hand to school, chicken peck kisses, summer swimming in the lake, young bodies touching in the water
and afterward, running drying, our hearts bursting with a strange mystical feeling, unidentifiable, but which I know must have been the exuberant, sensuous, innocent, artless and untried passion of all young virginal animals. Often we would have dinner at his house, afterwards pumping the old player piano in the living room, eliciting songs like "Margie" and "Honey" and the "Dark Town Strutter's Ball." One song I shall never forget though I have never heard it since. The lyrics went "Will you be sorry, just a little bit sorry, when this lovely evening ends. Will you remember that we once were sweethearts when we meet, dear, only as friends." The day would come when I would realize how prophetic those lyrics were.

Sometimes we sat in my front porch swing listening to Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey records and planning our untried young future together, pledging undying forever love for eternity. World War II intervened. He being a healthy young male joined the Navy. Before his departure to boot camp he bought me a diamond engagement ring, the stone so infinitesimally small to rival the rapture we felt.

We pledged all our young beings could encompass in absolute trust and fidelity. He promised to be true; I promised the same. When he came home on leave, handsome in his Navy blues, he brought me a small locket and a sweetheart pillow-top fringed verse, which I can no longer remember. Though I am a collector of memorabilia, i cannot find them among my souvenirs so I must have given them back to him with my tiny diamond and the fragments of my broken heart.

For that very prophetic song we had played and sung so many times did come true. There were rumors to my ears of other girls and other dates while we were apart, and I in my young girl's loving hear retaliated and broke my promise of fidelity.

Then my future was decided by a young blonde man many miles from my small hometown, so I was never to see Johnny again.

The ensuing years have been good to me. If there have been moments of regret as there are in all human alliances, I have never been sorry my life was decided as it was. I have been too busy living that life to give much thought to Johnny or what our life might have been, until today.

Oh Yes, today I am wondering if he found fulfillment and was happy in the years as I have been. Once on a visit to my hometown I called his home. I said I should like to bring my husband and visit with him for old time's sake. But he said he was going out of town and didn't have time for us. So you see I shall never know what his feelings were, if he still thought of me or if he ever forgave me for going away.

That 's why I am so sad today. Remembering the pangs and the innocence of my first love, the plans that never materialized, the dreams unfulfilled.

I cannot remember exactly the moment I heard of the bombing of Pearl Harbor and the beginning of World War II. I was still in high school.

After graduation, the young man who was my "steady" joined the Navy, and I went to work for the telephone company. There was an air base in my home town, Millville, New Jersey, where the telephone company placed me to direct pilots and other Air Force personnel to telephones, make change, etc.

One young man, a pilot named Elmer Mahlstedt, got my attention quickly. I was extremely shy at seventeenmost young girls of my era were. He asked the operator who handled the call, what my name was and if I was a nice girl. She answered affirmatively to the second question but told him he would have to get my
name by himself. He left the building and returned shortly with an apple and Life magazine. Where I had considered him "not too good looking" before, he now became quite handsome.

Just married: 1st Lieutenant and Mrs. Elmer Mahlstedt.

Things progressed naturally as most romances do and at eighteen; we were married. In three weeks he was ordered overseas. We wrote many lettersonce I even wrote on white shelf paper.

A few months later my foster mother became seriously ill with cancer, and I was forced to quit my job and stay home to care for her. I worried a great deal about my situation as my husband was from California and I could not desert my mother.

Fate decided the outcome.

My mother died on July 6, 1945.

The war was over in
Europe, where my husband had chosen to stay in service and to pilot planes from other countries back to England. I had no family left after my mother's death. The Red Cross notified my husband's commander that I needed him. The orders came through on
August 10th when he crashed on take off. He was pulled from the burning plane by German workers and taken to a hospital in England, where he passed away on October 17, 1945.

Married at 18, widowed at 19; the war changed my life forever.

Donald James and his mother, Annetta.

My son Donald arrived on December 2, 1950. He weight eight pounds, was 21 1/2 inches of perfection. The miracle child I had been told would never be. He arrived and conquered my heart forever, a joy to hold and behold. I did need much of both.

The time I was waiting his arrival was surely one of the happies times in my life, creating a new life, a feeling I am sure as all waiting mamas feel: I was the only one. this dear baby made me view him and the whole world with eyes of wonder. He made me realize the responsibility of being the best
mother I could be. My son is now 50, but in my heart's eye, he will always be my little boy.