Notes for Effie Eloise ROGERS

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Notes for Effie Eloise ROGERS

DEWEY AND EFFIE EADDY: THE REST OF THE STORY
As Told By
PHILLIP WALTER EADDY, Sr

Dear Uncle Vanik (Vanik S. Eaddy):

I have read your story on grandmother and grandfather and find it good
but unfinished. I understand that space can some times be a factor and
lives can only be told in so many words. I hope that the story you are
telling will be never ending and will not be confined to the size of a
server or the storage space of a hard drive. Where your memories grew
dim, mine had just began.

I remember trips through Roper's Woods with grandma on the way to Lake
City and stops along the way to pick up long leaf pine cones so we could
make turkeys for thanksgiving. There were fun trips with granddaddy to
the fish pond and a stop along the way to dig worms out of the rich black
and sandy bottom of boggy swamp. Great fish stews followed and questions
were asked such as, "Why do you leave the eyes in the fish when you clean
them granddaddy or why do eels taste like cat fish?".

My first real job was with grandma at Henry's Department Store. I still
savor the smell of the dry goods on the shelves. Unforgettable was the
taste of the lunches that she had wrapped in the used tin foil. She did
not waste anything. One cannot forget her never ending words of
encouragement.

I remember the great live oaks that were cut to make room for large farm
machinery. There was a huckleberry field to which every one from the
area came to visit and fill their baskets. They also took home with them
a large dose of red bugs (chiggers). The only prevention, as there was
no cure, was grandma's old diesel coated rag tied around the ankles.

I remember the wash house and the big fig tree that always had a fresh
supply of fruit. An artesian well provided a drink of the best water
that could be found in the county. I remember grandma fixing my leg when
I fell off that same wash shed and cut my right leg to the bone. She
fixed it with scotch tape, diesel fuel, a rag, and a lot of love. She
was good at improvising and could make a little go a long way.

Grandma made flat biscuits that were rolled and cut on wax paper that
seemed to have a never ending list of uses. The old stack of paper bags
that were stacked in the corner and when asked why they were there, a
smiling face just said so hard times won't be so hard. There was a
secret closet behind the kerosene heater, that had an endless supply of
surprises, to include a brass horn that could never carry a tune.
Questions were never answered about why did it take so long for the
butter churn to make butter.

There were vivid memories of driving into the front yard at night and
seeing the old yellow light come on and a soft voice saying why don't you
boys come in and get something to eat. I recall nights of laying in the
old iron bed and hearing the rain tap on the old tin roof or seeing the
plastic bellow out from the windows on a cold winter day. Fall days were
spent in the limbs of the pecan trees or slipping around the house to
climb the television tower without grandma catching me. There were trips
to the old chicken coup to get the eggs. There were many walks across
the field behind the house, in hopes of finding a spear head or two.
There is the memory of walking down the highway to grandma's and
granddad's, while thinking about how the paved highway in front of their
house never hurt your feet. It was easy to remember that sand spurs only
grew in one part of the yard because grandma always kept them pulled up
elsewhere.

I remember going to see grandma the day before she died and her asking me
in a child like voice to please take her home and feeling of being
powerless and empty of words. I remember daddy and me being called to
the old white house because granddaddy had died in the home he had
loved. I was reminded about how he had asked, "Where is my Effie?", just
the day before. I remember daddy and I having to wrap granddaddy in a
sheet and with tears in eyes that never cried, place the last memory on a
stretcher to the funeral home. Daddy and I took him down the old block
steps and by the old pear tree to the waiting vehicle that we both knew
would take the last memory home. Memories are like tear drops, they
just build up until one day they have to find their way back to the
seaaaaaaaa. Then one day when they splash on the shore again, maybe
there will be some young boy standing there to catch that memory and take
it to the next generation.

Phillip W. "Phil" Eaddy

See Dewey P. Eaddy for more notes for Effie E. Rogers.

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