Lunch With Gregory Peck, Scout's Father

Harper Lee's book, To Kill a Mockingbird, was published in 1960 and it did not take long for this wonderful story to be made into a movie by the same name.  The movie, To Kill a Mockingbird, was not released until 1962.  Harper Lee's story takes place in a fictitious town much like Ms. Lee's hometown Monroeville Alabama.

It was in the early 60's that I lived in Montgomery Alabama with my mom. I had a sister and brothers too, and a father, but all of my family had left my life, excepting for my mom. My mom had not left my life - yet. As for my father I had no clue where he was living. All I knew about my father was my brothers were living with him because "boys" should be with their father; that is what I was told. My sister who was 15ish married her one and only love of her freshman year in high school. My sister, all grown up at 15, no longer needed to be at home and attend silly high school. My sister moved to Mobile Alabama with her good looking husband to start a life together. That left me and my mom together, alone, in Montgomery.

My mother had a knack for attracting the most interesting people into her life. While living in Montgomery, my mom being newly divorced, began dating. Mom was having a great time feeling alive again after feeling for years like she had died and no one buried her; my mom's words. My mom married my dad when she was 16 before she ever really had a life of her own. Once my mom left my father she had a blast, I know, I was there. My mother met Bob the newspaper reporter while having her fun and they began to date. One day, shortly after mom and Bob began dating, he told her he had arranged a meeting with Gregory Peck and wanted to take us along with him.

(Photo owned exclusively by Maryanne Mesple do not copy and use in anyway)

Gregory Peck was in Alabama to get a feel for his role as Atticus Finch so he visited Monroeville, where Harper Lee grew up. Harper Lee said her book was fictional except for the flavor of life the characters in her story led which reflected her young life in her hometown. Bob, being a reporter for one of the local Montgomery newspapers, was given the assignment to interview Mr. Peck. I guess that interview was about filming the movie and what it was like to be Atticus Finch and I really don't know the questions Bob asked of Mr. Peck.
Bob brought mom and I along for one of his meetings with Gregory Peck and my mom says she was awestruck. Mom says Gregory Peck was so laid back and spoke with such gentleness that she could not believe he was an actor. My mother told me recently she was expecting to meet a man who was arrogant and snippy based on her experience from when she had met several famous Country Western Stars. My mother said that some Country Western Music stars had their noses in the air so high it was a wonder they did not pass out from lack of oxygen. Gregory Peck was a normal person and not self absorbed at all. Mom said he even spoke with her like she was his life long friend and that she felt like she was somebody too.
In the photo above, and yes it is my personal photo of Gregory Peck, you see Bob and Mr. Peck walking and if you look closely next to Bob's right, you can barely see the tip of my mom's coat ... my mom was notorious for cutting herself out of pictures! My mother never liked how she looked (sound familiar anyone?) and I am grateful she did not use pinking sheers on this photo! Mom loved her pinking sheers and most of her photos that she chopped herself out of were altered with those sheers!  I am thrilled the photo survived my mom's moods and that she has given it to me.

(Gregory Peck with Mary Badham a.k.a. Atticus Finch and Scout)

I was so young that I did not appreciate who I was meeting. All I knew was I was meeting someone who was going to be in a movie about the story To Kill a Mockingbird. My mother shared part of the storyline with me so I could better appreciate the big deal that was happening in our lives. From what I was told by mom I fall in love with Scout Finch and I soon began to pretend I was her. Mr. Peck, in my world at the time, was second to the little girl Scout whom I immediately felt a connection with because of my own life experiences while living in Alabama. My mom was a good story re-teller because for years I truly believed Scout was a real little girl like me and my mom is also a good keeper of memories. 


(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé) 

Rollin Rollin Rollin Keep that Chief a Movin!

My mother and father knew how to pack a million hours into one day and six or more road trips into less than a year. Six road trips are equal to twelve trips when you include driving back to where you started.
When our family returned from Panama to the sweet soil of the U.S. we landed in a very haphazard way. I now think that the way our plane landed was symbolic of the life awaiting our return home to the United States. Being military, we re-entered the country via Shaw A.F.B. in South Carolina. The plane we were in came down from the sky with a thunk and a screech and a big jolt with noises that can only be described as ear piercing and deafening. The planes landing gear did not deploy. With no landing gear the solution was foaming the runway. The runway became a slip and slide, a big foamy slip and slide. I remember the sounds but I don't remember anything from the inside of the plane as we flumped and then whooshed along the foamed up asphalt. My mom remembers preparing us kids for the less than perfect landing. She clutched me tightly to her breast, I was 3ish, as for my siblings,  she says she screamed at them to bend over and hold onto their ankles. Once the sound of the plane's contact with the runway stopped the sounds of the sirens took over and in several blinks of an eye we were sliding down parachute slides, out of and away from the plane. Yep, this landing was a symbolic warning of the life waiting for us, the Hughes family.

Within a few hours we were aboard another plane that landed properly in Chicago. In Chicago I decided to wash my three-faced doll in a toilet. I had to. One of my doll's faces was dirty from the last plane ride I had been on. My mom tried to throw Baby, my now soaked doll away, and I screamed so loud she shoved the wet doll back into my arms and then carried me in her arms as she ran to catch a train. My siblings followed along like chicks behind Mrs. Chicken Little. Papers flying, a kid crying (me) 3 other children poking and shoving one another made boarding the train interesting, so says my mom. The train took us to Pittsburgh where we lived with my father's family for a few months until our family was finally allowed to settle in Florence Arizona. Florence Arizona is where I had been born 3 years earlier. In Florence, we occupied my mom's parent's home because they had moved to California. It was in Florence that my parents bought the 1955 Pontiac Sky Chief and it was in 1958 that my parents (more so my mom than dad) proved Sky Chief to be worthy of the Hughes clan. That car was magical.

The Pontiac Sky Chief was big, no, not big, it was bigger than big, Sky Chief was huge! Sky Chief, my mom's name for her prized possession was the most beautiful green with a hood ornament of Sky Chief flying. Sky Chief's doors were so heavy that when one slammed shut on my oldest brother's hand it pinched some of the flesh off and produced a scream so loud the citizens in Globe Arizona could hear him. There was no tussling between us kids for the front seat. The front seat seating assignment was my parents and my sister. My sister rode up front with my parents because she was the oldest and she was the official parental referee. My parents bickered worse than my siblings and their bickering was a constant in our lives and that bickering escalated in Sky Chief. My parents could fight over anything. Bill and Ellie could fight over whether a nickel was silver or if it was made of nickel. Their heated discussions about trivial information often lasted an eternity or at least 100 miles. My sister would yell at Mr. and Mrs. Hughes to shut up! With my 12-year-old sister's admonishment my parent's disagreements would turn into finger pointing and blaming with my father trying to speak in Spanish. My father loved anything Mexican, like my mom, and he tried all his life to master the Spanish language. He would say things like, "Cierre su boca Eleanor - Shut your mouth Eleanor" or "Déme un beso Leanor - Give me a kiss Eleanor!" Since he, my dad, did not know very much Spanish  he would switch back to English colored with a Mexican accent painted over his own beautiful Irish English lilt ... just imagine how that sounded! My mom, speaking very clear English, would then threaten to send my father to meet his maker. My sister would smack both my parents with rolled paper or with her bare hands and my father would yell, "Ay, caramba!" and my mother would start laughing.  It was continual.

Our trips from here to there included the expected pit stops along the way. We stopped at rest stops to eat and filling stations to fill up the Pontiac's gas tank and depending on the temperature my parents would sometimes buy a canvas bag filled with water to hang in front of the grill to cool the radiator.  In the late 1950's gas stations were referred to as filling stations, at least that is true for my world. Once stopped at a filling station bodies would begin to fly out of the car; my brother's shoving one another, my sister rolling her eyes, and my mom and dad flew out still bickering. I would hang out in the car. I wanted to sit in the driver's seat so I could admire Sky Chief. Sky Chief was beautiful. Behind a protective dome made of either thick glass or plastic, Sky Chief's 3 dimensional emblem was on display. Sky Chief's emblem was a piece of art in our car. The golden emblem was a profile of an Indian with flowing hair. Yes, in those days of ignorance and arrogance we referred to the indigenous peoples of this great land as Indians. I could tell you about all the other politically incorrect lingo used back in the 1950's but I am sure you can imagine. Sitting in the driver's seat, I would trace my finger around Sky Chief's profile over and over. I would wish I was an Indian so I could shoot my family with arrows and then I could ride away on my painted pony and never come back. My dream would be interrupted when my family returned to the car having used the bathroom and each carrying a soda and gum, and telling me to scoot. I would take my soda from my mom's hand, and I would assume my place in the giant car. We all had our places.

Being the youngest and not being quit four years old yet meant sitting in the back seat between two brothers. I would be between my brothers because both insisted on sitting next to a window plus neither one of them wanted to sit over the floorboard's hump. Sitting between my two brothers was like sitting between Moe and Larry of the Three Stooges. My oldest brother's name is Bill and my other brother really was nicknamed Moe. Moe was called Moe in honor of the battleship Missouri that was also known as Big Mo. Big Mo became grounded in 1950 and it was a big deal getting that battleship unstuck. My mom said my brother Moe's birth was the equivalent of the Big Mo incident.  To solve the comedy of slapping and poking over my head and me whining my mom would eventually insist that I lay down along the ledge between the back seat and the back window or I could lie on the floor board. I always chose the window because on the floorboard I had the stooges feet kicking me. The back window was a great place to watch the world go buy as we traveled from Arizona to California and back.  My mom decided to take us to California for Christmas with her family because she had not seen them since moving to Panama in 1954. The year we went to California the first time in Sky chief was 1958. And like I said, in less than a year Sky Chief carried a lot of luggage and baggage between California and Arizona and eventually to Alabama.  One of Sky Chief's magical attributes was the trunk. The Pontiac's trunk was so spacious there was never a problem fitting into it everything we needed, including my mom's travel kitchen. Our travel kitchen included cooking utensils and cast iron pots and an iron grill, fuel, camping supplies, food, and water. Along with our kitchen and tents we had suitcases with our clothing. Big brown, leather suitcases all scuffed up from miles and miles of travel.  My parents would pull into a rest area and in no time would have a kitchen set up and a parachute tent hoisted up and ready to rest under. I loved those rest area stops because it was time for me to stretch, and time for me to finally pee. I would rather pee behind a tree than use a spooky, dirty, filling station bathroom and that is true for me to this day.

The first trip of our six-road trip adventure in 1958 brought us to my uncle's ranch somewhere in Calaveras County, California.  All I remember is we always referred to the ranch as Calaveras and when I ask my mom where the ranch was her reply to this day is, " in the mountains".  Sky Chief got us all to my uncle's ranch safely in spite of the people driving him. At my uncle's ranch there was a small house, painted a deep green that my Nana and Tata lived in. I remember getting yelled at for swinging on Nana's garden gate and I recall my Tata trying to teach me how to not chew my food like a cow. Tata would say, "mire mire mire - look look look!" over and over again as he demonstrated proper chewing for me. Tata would take his fresh made tortilla, scoop up some of my Nana's fabulous refried beans, take a bite, and make me watch until he chewed and swallowed. It was then my turn to rip off a piece of warm tort, scoop my beans, then? Then I would fail my chewing lesson because I guess I am part cow. I never got the hang of not eating like a cow, at least not according to my Tata.

For the first time in my life, I was celebrating Christmas with an extended family. I was meeting people of our family for the first time for I had lived my first three years in Panama. My biggest memory of this particular Christmas Eve night is of my mentally handicapped Aunt Mona pinching me and pinching my other cousins. Mona would pinch by squeezing together one's skin between a rough finger and thumb and then twist while watching your face intently and making a sound like a goat. Mona constantly pinched us and we were all running around the room trying to escape her and not one adult would do anything about it. The adults were very busy making tamales, drinking anything that had the word alcohol on it, singing, catching barn owls with shirts, and laughing. The adults had no time for us kids, especially kids who were supposed to be sleeping and waiting for Santa. Mona kept us all awake out of fear of losing our skin and thankfully midnight finally came. The clock chimed midnight as we were released from the torture chamber to open presents. With Christmas celebrations finally over my family was back on the road heading toward Arizona once again. Sky Chief was packed with bodies and food and more because of Christmas.  Sky Chief accommodated all the extra "stuff" Christmas left without complaint.

We had not been home in Florence too long when my mother received an urgent phone call. My Aunt T was ill and needed her. Aunt T, one of my mom's three sisters lived in Oakland California. Back into Sky Chief and back to California for another road trip with all the same pit stops and all the same dirty filling stations. This time we traveled at night too and many miles of the highways we traveled upon were lit up with black cannon balls on fire. My mom said the flaming and sometimes smoldering cannon balls were a warning for drivers to be careful. The black balls could mean there was a lane closure because of an accident or whatever. I remember along one strip of the roadway as I was admiring the burning balls, I could see there had been a landslide. Along with the burning balls there were bulldozers, in the night, scraping away big rocks and dirt. I did not care why there were black balls on fire, all I know is I liked looking at them. This trip, my father was not with us because he had to go back to Williams Air Force Base where he was stationed. We arrived at my aunt's house and were there maybe one night. My mom gathered up my cousins, some of their clothes, and it was back into Sky Chief and back to Arizona. Sky Chief, being the magical car he was, expanded to welcome my aunt's four daughters, my three siblings, my mom, a dog, and of course me. There was a lot of punching and pushing while yelling "dibs" but because of my age and size I was not a part of placing dibs, ever. Before pulling away to begin the second leg of this road trip a seating arrangement had been established. My three oldest cousins all begging for the front seat got their wish and that wish squished them together against one another and against my mom. In the back seat the stooges had to put up with three more girls all of whom were 6 and younger. Staking claim to a window seat in the back turned into a slugfest between Larry and Moe and my cousin Terry who was not afraid to use her fist. Terry ended up with a window seat along with Billy and poor Moe and Dee shared the middle bump. My cousin Alice who was 2ish ended up on the floorboard at the feet of four pairs of feet and I glowed in my window seat.

On this trip back to Arizona we all got to pee behind trees along the roadside instead of using filling station bathrooms. I think it was just easier for my mom to keep track of us all. Ah, back home in Arizona meant running and playing outside with doodlebugs and horned toads.  I loved being in Florence. In Arizona we had dogs and a horse and the weather was always great. That great time did not last long because we no sooner settled into a new routine being that my four cousins were now living with us and the phone rang - again - we had to head back to California. This went on for just under a year. Back and forth and back and forth and then one day our home base changed without warning or maybe there was talk about the move and I just did not care or I did not really understand. Returning to Arizona after being in California this time the road trip ended in Gilbert Arizona where my father was fulfilling his military duties.
Strange and unbelievable as it may seem there was another trip back to California and this time it was to return my cousins to their mom. With Sky Chief filled to the brim, we headed out - again. Everyone staked their claim to his or her places in the car, and I remained in the window. I know I was the luckiest of all. On this trip, and yes I remember which trip it was, my brother Moe a.k.a. Clarence, developed a brilliant strategy for sitting by a window. Moe discovered that boogers wiped on a windows handle guaranteed he would sit by a window, with his boogers. Boogers, how can anyone eat a booger? I remember one of my aunts teaching me all about how boogers never left your stomach and if you ate enough boogers you would need to have your stomach cut open to get those boogers A booger eater would only be saved if a doctor could be found that did not mind boogers. My aunt made it very clear that there were not many doctors who fit that bill. I never ate a booger after that lesson!

When we headed home from this road trip Sky Chief was four people lighter and the end of our journey was at yet another place to call home.

My father, before leaving for France rented a place for us in San Jose California just off of Berryessa Road. This meant we were "home" in no time by comparison to all our other trips! Our new home was a Quonset hut in the middle of bell pepper and tomato fields with an abandoned chicken house behind. My mom did not want to move to another country after being back in the states for less than a year so San Jose became our new place to call home. My sister was very upset because with this move because she had to give up her horse Traveler.
There were two more trips; one back to Calaverus and one to Alabama. And yes, both trips were filled with dramas and family celebrations and animals and bickering and boogers and punches and me in the back window watching life zip by.  Sky Chief's biggest road trip ever was our move to Alabama after my father returned from France and it was in Alabama Sky Chief met his end on a bridge one stormy night in 1959.
To this day, I would much rather drive to my destination than fly. Maybe because I am nostalgic or maybe because I have had a couple rough airplanes rides.

(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé) 

Alabama Monsters

January of 1962 changed my life forever. My mom was called home to Arizona because her mom was very ill.  For reasons my mom has never been able to explain she did not take me with her and instead chose to leave me in Alabama with a woman named Mable. The first time I met Mable was the first day of staying with her. Mable. To this day I don’t like the name Mable.

Mable lived at the very end of a very long up hill dirt road. That dirt road was in Alabama somewhere close to Montgomery or Mobile, or maybe that ugly road was in Highland Home, I really don’t know. I do recall that before my mom left me with Mable, I was living in Montgomery for a small while.  My mom worked at a restaurant where I tasted my very first Lemon Meringue Pie. That pie made leaving the 331 worth it for a small while, well, at least until I licked the last smears of lemony meringue off my plate. My mom no longer owned and operated the 331 Roadhouse, which was my first home after my parents divorced. I loved living at the 331 because life was so rich and everyday was filled with something new and exciting. The best part of living behind a roadhouse in a cabin was the swimming pool and the backwoods. I loved playing in the woods with my friends but not so much with my sister. Nope, playing anything with a sister that is 9 ½ years older is only asking for trouble and pain.

I remember one day at the 331 I was really into pretending I was a horse. My imagination gave me a real horse snort and the ability to prance better than and rear taller than Black Beauty. I loved being a horse; it was almost better than riding a horse. One day, I don’t know what possessed me but I, being 4, was properly pesky with persistence and begged and begged Kathleen my sis to play horses with me. Kathleen did not want to play with a 4 year old. Kathleen wanted to play with the boys who flocked around her like she was made of chrome and beer. Finally, after pestering my sis sufficiently, I broke that last straw. My older sibling spun around so fast her tightly curled auburn hair swung across her face just like a horses tail! My sister gave me “that look” and then collected up a thin twine of a rope. Kathleen placed the twine in my mouth and tying it tightly around my head explained that if I wanted to play horses  – I needed to know what it was really like to be a horse. Kathleen then took my flip-flops away. Kathleen then peeled off a long green twig from a nearby bush and told me she was going to use it like a riding crop. I stood looking up at my big sister, bare foot with a rough piece of twine in my mouth and my big brown eyes were asking her what next? What next was her spinning me around, pushing me forward and then slapping that green stinging twig on my backside and yelling “giddy up horse!”

My loving 14-year-old sister made me run barefoot through dirt with rocks and stickers and grass and through briars thick with berries, all the while snapping the tip of the twig against me causing my skin to welt up. She ran me up the dirt road to the thick woods and then into the woods we went until I lost my imagination and began to cry. I learned when I was 4 what it is like to be a horse and I never asked my sister to play horses with me again.  But then, this was while I was still living my wonder filled life at the 331 and one of my last memories of 331 was learning what it really felt like to be a horse.

My memories of Mable’s were different in texture than my memories of other times in my life. Mable memories are coarse, sticky, cold, and scary. Mable’s house was a long way from the 331 Roadhouse and a long way from my sister who married the love of her young life at 15. Mable’s house felt cold like an icy wind that penetrates you to the bone. I had no choice but to be at Mable’s house and it took me several weeks before I fully realized that my mom had indeed left me behind with a stranger. I missed my mom. I missed my sister and all her frustration with me. I missed my friends at the 331 and I even missed my father and my two brothers. I had not seen my father or brothers since my parents divorce.

In the morning Mable would wake me up for school or for chores on weekends, with a razor blade attitude like I had done something wrong in my sleep. She would bark out orders and I would dutifully follow her instructions for I was afraid of her. I had to get up and make the bed I slept in then get dressed and within a certain amount of time I had to be in the kitchen for breakfast. If I missed getting to the table by 1 minute I missed breakfast. I missed breakfast a lot. As I would be walking toward the table a minute late Mable would be clearing the breakfast away scraping the food into a bucket as she verbally admonished my willful laziness. I would watch eggs and grits and toast fall into the bucket. The sound of the silver fork slamming against the plate pierced my ears making my small-framed body tight. I can still hear her ugly demeaning words to this day. I don’t believe Mable liked children and I do believe she was being paid to keep me. Fortunate for me, I was not that big of an eater so getting used to not having breakfast was easy but I did not dare show that I did not care.  I was taught by Mable and her hand to show disappointment and to demonstrate that I was sorry and vocally express that I was learning a valuable lesson. Life went from magical to nightmarish and my yearlong days became days of deep sadness when I had to be in Mable’s presence. With my magical child freedom gone I became a wounded child serving what felt like a life sentence with wicked witch Mable as the matronly jail attendant.

One day while playing outside where I have always preferred to be, a young boy close to my age, 6 or 7, walked up to me and asked if I wanted to play. I was in aw! Someone my age! I was not aware that any people lived anywhere remotely near Mable’s prison. Play?

You can guess what my response was.  “Oh yes!” was my reply which was a bit over the top with loudness that made Peanut smile. Peanut saved my world! Yes, my new friend’s name was Peanut. Peanut had blond hair with squinty blue eyes and Peanut was skinny like me.  Peanut and I became best friends in less than a minute.

Mable did not care about where I was or what I was doing so long as I was not in her house during the day. So, after school, as soon as I put my red plaid satchel away I was outside calling Peanut to come play.

Peanut and I had a secret call that meant “meet me at the water’s edge”. That secret call would get us in trouble almost daily and trouble sounded like the monster Mable screeching obscenities from her smoked filled living room. I did not care because I learned that Mable would not come out and hit me. I discovered that Mable preferred cigarettes and whiskey over tormenting me after school. Mable knew that after my call to Peanut I would be disappearing soon and that was what she wanted.  Once the screeching was done, off I would go and soon Peanut and I were building our own little world in the Alabama swamps. I was happy to have my magic back again.  Although I could not see Peanut’s house from Mable’s I knew he was close by. I could not see his house because his house sat behind a grove of thickly wooded Sycamore, Oaks, and Elms and other brush. I know the names of the trees because Peanut taught me. The trees kept Peanut and I apart for only a small while. I was so thankful he got up the nerve to come ask me to be his friend. I was also happy that his house was close enough, hidden behind those trees, so that we could communicate via our fire engine siren calls that truly were symbolic as a calls for help and we did help one another.

In the swampy soggy, green smelling woods, Peanut and I hunted for signs of squirrel and skunk and dug up grubby worms. We tested our tracking skills by naming what animal made the most recent tracks in the muddy banks along the moving water’s edge. I don’t know how but we had a boat that we often used to float out to the middle of the waterway where there was a sandbar. Once we had beached the boat on the sands we would get out and look for special sticks and rocks and moss that we could use for decorating our imaginatively constructed forts. We crafted forts from fallen, waterlogged branches. Big branches would fall from trees and float along with the current until coming up against the sandbar’s traps. Peanut and I would pile up the branches much like a beaver’s dam and crawling under or inside we would tell one another secrets. Secrets about our lives and I learned Peanut’s life was a lot like mine. We kept one another safe by staying away from that treacherous dirt road that led to pain and sadness. 

Peanut and I would get home from school and do our business like chores and homework and then scream like sirens so we could meet up in the woods. We did this almost everyday for what felt like months. Although it was winter in Alabama I did not care about cold winds or wet drizzles and Mable did not care if I blew away. Because Mable did not care, I was able to go play and pretend I lived in a different world. One day while Peanut and I were out floating along in the rotting wooden flat-bottomed boat, he told me a story about monster armadillos. He described armadillos as being pink and hairy with red beady eyes and claws that could rip your heart out! I was petrified! All I could see in my mind’s eye was the armadillo purse my mom bought while we lived in Panama. My mom’s purse was dark brown, not pink, but the eyes on the armadillo that was rolled into a purse were red! I knew Peanut was telling the truth. You can always dye pink armadillos brown.  We were floating along,in the boat heading toward a sandbar, when Peanut upped his story a notch. Peanut described how monster armadillos loved to gather on sandbars and wait for food floating by. In my mind Peanut and I suddenly became monster armadillo food. I began to cry and Peanut began to cry because he had convinced himself his story was true!  Just imagine, two crying 6-year-old kids bawling their eyes out, in a boat that was barely water worthy, gently floating along heading toward a sandbar must have been a sight to see! When the boat landed we refused to get out and sat on the boat's bench cuddled in each other's arms for protection, knowing a big pink armadillo would soon be coming out of our fort to eat us up! Then, as if someone had waved a magic wand, he and I began to giggle and the giggling turned into loud snot producing laughter and we knew that out laughter chased away all the pink smelly armadillos! Safe! We were safe! We laughed the whole time while beached on the sand bar making sure no monster armadillos would approach us. When the sun began to sink behind the trees we pushed off from the sandbar to head toward what we called our prisons. Night was always long and always lonely. And unknown to us, this was our last day together.

Report card day was my last day living with Mable. Report card day was the last day I saw my best friend who saved my life for a while and who saved me from pink armadillos with laughter. I arrived at Mable’s after walking up the dirt road eager to do my duties and screech for Peanut. I was not in the house 5 minutes when Mable approached me about my report card. Mable wanted to see my grades and unfortunate for me I could not find them. Mable went to the bathroom and wet a towel and then yanked me up by one of my arms. She literally picked me up off the floor and carried me outside almost pulling my shoulder out of its socket. When Mable put me down she began to pop me with the twisted wet towel as she screamed about how incompetent I was.  Mable demanded that I run back down the dirt road to where the bus dropped Peanut and I off and as I ran Mable ran behind me popping my back and legs with the wet towel.  I was not crying I was screaming with tears flying from my eyes like the rain of a winter storm. Mable did not care. Back at the bus stop, there in the dirt, was my report card that must have dropped from my grip when I got off the bus. I picked my school grades up from the dirty road and sobbing my heart out I apologized as I handed the card to the Monster Mable. Mable took the report card and ripped it up saying it did not matter since I did not care enough to hang onto it. Then, she began popping me with the wet torture towel as she drove me like an animal back to her house. The towel, as it snapped against my young skin that left bleeding welts on my skinny little girl’s body. Mable justified her actions, yelling it was my entire fault and made me clean up quickly. Mable informed me, as I sobbed and washed myself, that my father was coming to get me and she could not wait for him to arrive. That news was the best news I had heard in a long while.

My father was coming to get me. Life was about to change, again.  I whispered little prayers of gratitude knowing my father would save me and I asked God to forgive me. I asked for forgiveness because one of my prayers was for my father to punch Mable in the face.

My father arrived. He rescued me from Mable. He did not punch her.

Life did not get better.

to be continued ...


(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé) 

A Snippet of Life in Balboa Panama

Give a child freedom and that child will use every ounce of it and then some! Freedom of body mind and spirit was my blessing early in life at a time when I never thought of not having freedom. I did not even know what the word freedom meant much less understand what it was to not have freedom. I explored and played and lived in my imagination along with living in a world of wonder.

While living in Panama for 3 1/2 years my world was constructed of jungle, reptiles, insects, water, military events, and family. During the day my parents were involved with military life meaning my father was off teaching jungle survival and or drinking and my mom was at the NCO Wives club sewing for theater productions or playing softball. On weekdays my siblings, two brothers and a sister who were, 9 1/2, 7, and 5 years older than I, spent their days suffering body pinches, ruler whacks, and face slaps combined with loving prayer at parochial school. I remained at home with a nanny. As I grew in age my ability to explore and run and mimic airplanes in a nose dive grew also. My nanny did not have to worry about whether I would wander too far because the Panamanian Jungle created a beautiful boundary which I obeyed. The dense wall that separated our stilted home from hungry mouths and venomous bites was created by Mother Nature. Mother Nature wove everything green and vine like and tree like into a living tight knit community of flora and fauna and then glued it all together with the sounds of the jungle's  inhabitants. I knew by instinct that I was not to penetrate the jungle wall and my instinct was sharpened by stories my father recounted to us children. His stories included head hunters he met deep in the jungle and my father would show us kids a real shrunken human head to prove his story was real. I believed my father. I believed the sounds of the jungle. I did not enter the living green wall. 

(http://www.voodooneworleans.com/shrunkenhead.php)

Several times a week my father attacked the jungle wall with a machete. Slinging his machete arm way up over his head he then would drop his arm with a swinging force so hard the green of the jungle flew into the air as did rich smelling chlorophyll laden plant juice. This act of hacking at the jungle was necessary to keep the verdant labyrinth and its inhabitants away from the house. My father became a two legged Army Ant with a purpose. Part of the keeping the jungle away from the house was because of Army Ants and you don't want to be in their path. Nothing that can be dismantled with a their mighty jaws is sacred to Army Ants and the platoon does not like going around anything. I remember my siblings deliberately scaring me with stories of Army Ants carrying little children my size away. I believed them. I still believe them. I still respect the green wall of any jungle and its jaws.

(Panamanian Jungles courtesy of Google Images)

My mom is still upset and angry with Army Ants because of the night they devoured her prized Hibiscus bush. The army left nothing behind that would qualify as beautiful much less a beautiful Hibiscus. As for me? I did not miss the Hibiscus because I had other important business to attend to. My days were spent with my friends not with Hibiscus bushes. My friends were a parrot named Baby, a marmoset monkey named Monkey and a Doberman Pincer named Incus. Sometimes, even though I could run, I enjoyed playing with a baby walker. The purpose? There was no purpose but there was a lot of fun to be had! The walker was like a scooter, powder blue in color with pastel plastic beads to push back and forth and a wooden handle bar. I could get that scooter going fairly too fast around the yard while the parrot clung onto the handle bar screaming, "¡Momma el griterío del bebé!",  "Momma! The baby's crying!" The monkey would jump around nervously from me to the back of the scooter to me to Incus's back screeching, "Hey Parrot, will you shut up!". Incus the Pincer would keep pace just behind the rest of the show and protect me and my friends from anything that may have tried to creep out of the jungle.

(La Porte Baby Walker 1950's)

Being a child demands the use of imagination and the world I lived in made it impossible to avoid the use of imagination. My imagination allowed me to hear the jungle chewing. My imagination helped me see the head hunters peering at me as they clung to trees like big spotted leaves. My imagination helped my speak Marmoset when I needed Monkey to stop pulling on my wisp of hair.  I believe that Baby and Monkey and Incus could hear and see what I did because we would all talk about what we were seeing and hearing, and my imagination would not let my friends lie to me. I had no concept of 24 hour days, I only knew there was daytime and night time. Daytime was when me and my gang played all day only stopping long enough to eat something and then back to pretending I was hunting for sloths, and armadillos and red eyed toads while flying my bomber plane around and under the house. At night, the family was home and life was really different.

I loved my siblings and I so wanted to be a part of their life. I was so happy when they would come home from school because then I could hear all about their day as my mom pumped them for information. I didn't even mind that no one wanted to talk with me, because I was satisfied just listening to what it was like in the world outside of our house. Eventually, I would manage to make each brother and my sister yell at me as I would pester them to play. With so many years between us it was difficult for my siblings to relate to a young toddler such as myself. I wanted their school books. I wanted their model airplanes. I wanted my sister's glass horse collection. I wanted my mom to snuggle and hug and kiss on me and I wanted my dad to show us all his latest prize from the jungle. When my father would return from the jungle he would take us outside to see his latest acquisition of snakes and bugs he had collected. He would teach us the proper names for the snakes and insects and any identifying marks and features.  We learned what was poisonous and what was edible. Yes, we ate bugs and snakes. Maybe that is one of the reasons why today I will try anything because I have tried so many exotic foods in my life.We all would listen intently as my father spoke and demonstrated the "how to's and the what not to do's" because we knew there would be questions asked that had to be answered as proof that we had listened to our latest lesson. My father would say, in Spanish with a Gaelic accent, "look look" and if we were not paying attention we would receive a slap on the top of our heads. After our lessons we would all return indoors for a family meal that usually was accompanied by a heavy rain storm. It rained a lot in Balboa Panama where the average rainfall is slightly over 90 inches and where a 3 minute downpour can sometimes drop almost 3 inches of moisture. We were drenched a lot but that did not matter. Well, getting wet mattered to my mom because the rain would ruin her hair but to me? Nope, just more fuel for my imagination.
I lived so many adventures both real and in the land between my ears by the time I was 3 1/2 if I could have kept a journal I would love to be reading it today!
Maybe, after I get some rest, I will share more Panama with you and maybe I will leap back to Alabama or saunter on over to Mississippi or fly to Texas or road trip you to Arizona with me. Well, eventually I will take you to California oh, and Arkansas too!

(Maryanne Hughes Mesple in Panama 1955)

to be continued ...

(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé) 

Grilled Cheese with Gumballs and Jerry

(Road House, a 1948 film directed by Negulesco)

Having a parent that owned a Roadhouse was a blast. A roadhouse, as explained on Wikipedia is; "A local inn or restaurant, the 'roadhouse' or 'road house' commonly serves meals, especially in the evenings, has a bar serving beer or hard liquor and features music, dancing and sometimes gambling. Most roadhouses are located along highways or roads in rural areas or on the outskirts of towns. Early roadhouses provided lodging for travelers but with the advent of faster means of transport than walking, horseback riding, or horse-drawn carriages, few now have rooms available. Roadhouses have a slightly disreputable image similar to honky tonks". Thanks Wikipedia and the 331 Roadhouse along HWY 331 in Alabama did qualify as a honky tonk!

The time that we lived at the 331 in Alabama, I was very young and very aware of my surroundings. Aside from spending hours upon hours in the deep woods of Alabama I spent most of my late mornings sitting at the dinning counter in the roadhouse eating a squished grilled cheese sandwich for breakfast/lunch. I did not eat much as a kid and I will confidently state that I lived on grilled cheese sandwiches! Even though I was not well aged in life experience I knew my sandwiches. I knew a grilled cheese sandwich was not a true grilled cheese sandwich until it was properly squished almost flat. To grill a flattened cheese sandwich one needed to use a heavy metal spatula to press down on the sandwich as it browned and as the cheese melted. Grilled cheese all squished and hot with the cheese melted into orange goo. Yep, at 4, I was already a food snob. 

Along with my morning cheese sandwiches there was a young man who, for a small while, spent many late mornings and early afternoons at the roadhouse having breakfast with me. Together we would sit at the counter. I was always twirling the bar stool I sat on around and around while at the same time biting into my sandwich while at the same time chatting. Without taking a breath I would report about the latest baby bird I found or how many pollywogs I had caught or reveal my plans for lightening bug capture and torment or sometimes I would just humming and twirl and eat. He, my chow companion would be hunched over a cup of coffee with a side of grits and eggs. On a few occasions that man emptied the gumball machine, one penny click and twist at a time, just for me. He arrived at the roadhouse with his pockets full of pennies singing, "got a penny in my pocket, got an angel on my shoulder, found a four leaf clover and I put it in my wallet" while his fingers would play tunes in his pockets using the pennies as his musical backup. After I finished my twirling breakfast is when he would insert into the gumball machine enough pennies to buy up all the gumballs and all the little shinny charms. As each gumball dropped and each charm escaped the machine, this wonderful kind man would hand them to me one by one and I would stuff my mouth until I could not open my jaws and I would stuff my pockets with the reaming gumballs and the charms. I would take the charms out behind the roadhouse, and line them up on the picnic table provided for the customers who were not allowed to use the front entrance. 

 (gumball machine charms)

My breakfast partner was very nice and he and my mom talked and talked and talked about music, and food, and life. I loved all the gumballs but more than the gumballs I loved the man's generosity and kindness he demonstrated toward me. His attention was not in a bad inappropriate way. My breakfast date demonstrated genuine heartfelt kindness. I could feel the kindness and I could feel he sincerely enjoyed my company. Being 4, it was a rare experience to encounter an adult that actually paid attention, listened, and shared their valuable adult time. I learned early on that adults lived in a world where every second was too precious to play and talk with kids. Nope, adults had business to attend to and it was my job to find ways to stay out of the way. Now, today, I find myself wondering about my friend and I feel that the time he and I spent sharing gumballs and trinkets was shortly after his 3 year old son drowned. Of course I knew the kind man sang and played the piano but since he did so late at night at the 331 entertaining the customers,I never got to watch. It was the law that I had to be outside of the roadhouse when evening came and customers filed in. Since we lived in the cabins adjacent to the road house I did hear a lot of his music and wow! I did not really know who this kind man was until years later. Oh, I also met his talented cousin. 

  (Jerry Lee Lewis)

I now believe when I shared my breakfast time with Jerry Lee Lewis, he was doing roadhouse tours because of the slump in his career upon the discovery he had married his cousin's 13 year old daughter. And we all know that that slump soon eased and he went on again to big success and more controversy.

(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé) 

Burning My Innocence

Have you ever seen the KKK burn a cross with the intention of deliberately scaring people? Have you ever seen men with white hoods covering their faces? I have. Have you ever heard men wearing white hoods yelling obscenities about ( insert N word pluralized) and threatening to kill said person because of the color of their skin? I have. Have you ever seen a cross, sitting next to gas tanks, torched by men wearing white hoods in hopes of causing an explosion that would destroy structures and people in those structures? I have.

 (photo found on Google no credit given)

And here is my story.

Living in Alabama in the late 1950's for me, was like living in a magical world. I lived in Mobil, and Greenville, and Honorville, all in a short amount of time and each community or woodsy place had a special charm about it. My life in Alabama can be divided into two sections, before my parent's  divorce and after my parent's divorce. While my parents were still married we lived on Maxwell/Gunter AFB in Montgomery Alabama and life for me, was filled with a lot of fantastic fun filled days. I was happy.

It was right after my parent’s divorce that life began to change in bizarre, interesting ways. I use the word interesting because I can't think of another way to describe what I witnessed and experienced. Normal is not a word of choice here. My life became more stimulating because of all the characters that suddenly populated my life. These new people brought with them historical dramas and even my own parent's and siblings began to express themselves explosively and oddly. Everyone suddenly had a problem and everyone suddenly had to share their problem with everyone. I spent a lot of time confused when I was around grown-ups and or my siblings so I tried to spend most my time outside. Outside was normal, and magical.

As a young child do you remember how an hour could feel like a day? And a day could contain enough adventure to fill an entire year of an adult’s life? My life was like that. I lived my days filled with Huck Finn type adventure in the backwoods crawling with all the characters the backwoods of Alabama could sustain. I lived in a world of natures magic that created amazing beautiful adventures between me and birds and bugs and trees. I also lived in the confusion of being a small child living with my mother and sister post parental divorce at a road house. The 331 Roadhouse was owned for an instant in this life by my mom, Ellie, and the 331 sat alongside HWY 331 in Alabama. While living at the Roadhouse I gathered in my little head enough memories to last my lifetime. Memory collecting was part of my magical child experience, to this day I can tell you about the feel and smell of moments I lived through with my imagination as my guide. I lived life innocently, I breathed in without fear and I knew I was loved and that my mom and sister would always be with me. I had no fears, no worries. Not even my parent's divorce bothered me because I was not used to my father being around anyway, so his absence was normal to me. 
My lens of innocence was burned when I witnessed a horrific event that caused within me a fear I had never known before and I begin to see that not all people were nice; I began to see people like fractured pieces of glass that made it hard to know the whole person.

One beautiful night in the early spring of 1961 the 331 was hopping to great sounds of music and ladies and their gents were waxing their shoes as they slid into and out of their dance moves across the Roadhouse’s waxed dance floor. Being a place where one could legally buy alcohol it was not uncommon for there to be at least one person who could not hold their drink. This particular night that one person was an Officer’s wife from Montgomery AL and she did not want to drive her car; being that she was a bit tipsy. This lady, not versed in the ways of the Deep South thought she would ask for a ride home. This drunken lady leaned over the food counter and yelled at the Roadhouse cook, asking if he could drive her home when he was done with his work. Oh my.
Remember this is Alabama. This happened in 1961. The lady was asking “a man of color” she was asking a man who was referred to as “N” to give her, a “white” lady a ride home where they would be alone in a car together. No No No No.

The cook came to my mom and told her what had happened and told my mom that he was scared and wanted to slip out the back and go home to his family to protect them and himself if needed. My mom agreed, not really understanding the gravity of the situation, she went back to work tending to the fry cook position herself. There was an ABC Board man in the Roadhouse that evening, because he was one of my mom’s good friends. Ed was the ABC Board man’s name. Ed called for back up because he had a feeling and sure enough, Ed was right. Ed suggested to my mom that she make sure her children were not in the restaurant. Mom came to the back where the “Coloreds” were served because it was in "the back" that my sister and I hung out. My mom told us to go to the cabin. Now. We did so quickly because we could sense the anxiety in her voice.

Within an hour there were screeching tires and revving engines with several vehicles surrounding the 331 Roadhouse. In those vehicles there were men with their heads covered with white sacks and those men were yelling and shouting awful obscenities. People were scattering everywhere as we watched from the cabin. Several of those hooded men got out of their trucks and erected a cross right next to the gas tanks and set it on fire. Lucky for us, and many other people Ed from the ABC Board ran out and began yelling that other ABC officers were on the way and the hooded men, yelling back, got in their cars and trucks and sped away. Ed put out the burning cross and it felt like there was no air for any of us to breathe!

 (Google image no credit found)

My mom came to the cabin to check on us and took us back to the Roadhouse with her for a bit to keep an eye on us while she and others cleaned up. The clean up involved taking down the partially burned cross in addition to gathering what was left of any nerve they may have had. I was filled with confusion and fear and a huge lack of understanding. I could not understand why anyone would want to burn Jesus’ cross. I could not understand why anyone would want to dress up like it was Halloween and scare my mom and other people. None of anything I saw or thought I saw made any sense and you know what? To this day, none of what happened that night makes sense. Hatred and racism and bigotry never makes sense.  

That night opened up a window I had never looked through and that was the window into a world where people could be deliberately hateful and harmful to one another based on nothing but the color of skin. I began to worry about my moles because my moles where the same color as my friends who used the back entrance of the Roadhouse. My moles were the same color as my friends who played in the backwoods with me. I lived a life of fear after that. Fear that at any moment someone could take something good away and make it bad.
Life was a bit different around the Roadhouse after that night. The ABC officers posted someone there everyday for awhile because of what had happened and also because the Freedom Riders were on their way to Montgomery. 

The Freedom Riders caused a lot of much needed commotion that I am grateful for. I am grateful for the Freedom Riders and their the bravery  to step out in harms way and change the world for the better, or at least try.The world needed to change from the world I witnessed to a world where a person is accepted for the simply fact that they are human and that has nothing to do with the color of skin.

And as a side note ~ My older sister who was with me that night married one of the KKK member’s sons.


(All stories blogged by me are my property and protected under copyright laws. No part may be used or reproduced in anyway without my permission ~ Maryanne Mesplé)