JOY ALONG THE WAY: AND THEN THERE WAS ONE

There are some advantages to being the baby in a family of seven. The seven, in my case, being paternal grandparents, parents, two sisters and myself all living together in a big farm house in the earlier part of the century. It was nothing unusual for three generations to live together at that time.

I, being the baby, was supervised and cared for by the six others. That was an asset, I suppose, but somewhat confining. I couldn't wander very far away on my own, exploring the pretty wildflowers, slopes and hollows, although I did manage to get lost twice and had to be hunted for by the six others.

A major advantage of being the youngest is that you can learn from all the others. I watched and learned from Dad and Grandpa how to harness a horse and hitch it to the buggy and amazed them one day when I said, "Let me do it," and did.

I watched the order in which Grandma made her famous hickory nut cake and soon was able to do it all by myself. I watched Mama cut out cloth and make a garment. I did that too.

I watched older sister, Lillian, file her fingernails and copied that, although it seemed tiresome to me, especially since I could cut them with the scissors, at least on one hand.

But most of all, I learned from sister Lou (Lucille). "Shoot, we can do that," was, more or less, her motto. When the waters of the St. Francis River were beginning to overflow the floor boards of our swinging bridge, I balked. "Shoot, we can beat that water," she said and began to limp across where the floor boards were supposed to be. Limped, because she was crippled from polio since infancy.

When we wanted some high heels and Mama said we weren't old enough, shoot, we made 'em. Tied empty thread spools in a most creative manner, to our Red Goose shoes and walked around as sophisticated as our minister's wife.

Perhaps Lou's biggest coup was the little wagon. Dad had been a blacksmith and wagon repair man before moving to the farm. When he did move, he brought along some spokeless wagon hubs which, of course, would roll if turned sideways and given a kick.

Lou and I wanted a little wagon. "It'll be easier for you to get around," I said. Looking at the wagon hubs, Lou said, "Shoot, let's make one. And we did, with the aid of broomstick axles and a wooden box for a wagon bed. When finished, we sat in it, gave it a boost and rolled all the way down through the orchard, across the slanting meadow and into the river. It didn't steer easily and we didn't want to abandon it.

Ability to get around, cover space, that was the thing, so after many braces, crutches and operations, recently, in her mid-80s, she bought an electric scooter, her pride and joy.

"Handles better than our wagon," she joked.

One by one, they went. Grandma first, then Grandpa, Dad, Mama, Lillian, until there was only Lou and me.

"Shoot," Lou said to me the last time we talked ... "I'm not goin' to be here much longer either, but I know where I'm goin'." Then, to lighten the moment, she added, "You turn out the lights and shut the door." It was a variation of our old farm days' caution to "Blow out the lamps and shut the door" should we all be leaving the house after dark.

"Go slowly, so I can catch up," I started to say, but looking at her smaller and shorter leg which always slowed her gait, it didn't seem the right thing to say, so I, stumblingly, changed it to, "I imagine they have special gates for scooters." And that was our last talk about that subject.

So, now she has gone and it is down to one, me. Being the baby isn't always an advantage. Sometimes you have to go through all the passings, one by one. But, shoot, I know, by this time how to "turn out the lights and shut the door."

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.