Ah, the memories of childhood…so many pieces that fit together like a puzzle – often with one or two significant pieces gone astray. I have read that emotions act like a highlighter that emphasizes some experiences more than others. Those are the ones that become encoded in our memory. 

If that’s the case, the emotions that enabled me to store so many memories of Daddy would have to be love and joy. I was his baby girl and he was my hero. 

One of Daddy’s regular farm chores was inspecting the cow pastures for unwanted or toxic weeds. He would take along his scythe to cut down the offending vegetation. I often begged to go with him and we would set off across the branch with a jug of water and lots of energy. I was so excited to be “helping” Daddy. By late afternoon, the jug was empty and our energy expended – his by hard work and mine by hard play. More often than not, though, I would ask for and receive a ride home on his back. Once, as Mama greeted us at the back screen door, she scolded me for “making your Daddy carry you.”

“Oh, I didn’t make him! He wanted to carry me.” 

And even though I believed that, in the future I tried to reserve enough energy to walk home from our days in the pasture. Somewhere, deep in my heart, I imagined that in the distant future Daddy might need me to “carry” him. And I would be there.

Anytime Daddy had to run an errand or visit a neighbor, I begged to go along. He had good rapport with other farmers in the community and they often worked together. How exciting to visit the Patterson family at the end of the road! Their much-newer-than-our house was stately and white (the old, peeling paint made our exterior appear gray) with gables on the steep roof and a huge picture window into which one could glimpse the parlor. Just inside the front door was a majestic open staircase (so unlike our enclosed one), and every time Mrs. Patterson invited me in while Daddy conversed with Mr. Patterson, I felt like a princess. All of our neighbors were kind and we were always warmly welcomed, maybe with a colorful metal tumbler full of cold well water, or an apple picked fresh from a gnarly old tree just off a porch, or with a handful of tart scuppernongs from a vine climbing the split rail fence. 

Although I found it scary, one of my favorite places was the Stafford Water Mill where Daddy took corn to be ground. Water mills use the flow of water to turn a large waterwheel. A shaft connected to the wheel axle transmits power through a system of gears and cogs to the millstone. As I peeked down between the cracks of the worn wood planks that composed the rickety floor, it would scare me half to death to see and hear the rushing creek water beneath. I always held tight to Daddy’s hand when we visited the mill. 

Memories may also be affected by the importance your subconscious places on a particular experience. I remember this event, oh so well…Daddy had to go into town to pay a bill to a man that had done some work for him, and of course, I begged to go along.  After pulling into the gravel parking lot, we walked through the front door of the small brick building. The only furniture I remember was a large cluttered desk. A group of men, dressed in blue-collar work uniforms stood around talking and smoking. The man sitting behind the chair immediately stood and stretched out his hand in greeting, calling my dad by name. Daddy introduced me as his “youngest daughter, Ruthie.” 

As Daddy took out his wallet and settled his account, my six-year old eyes began wandering around the room. Uh-oh. Unfortunately, they landed on the calendar on the back of the door. My eyes grew as big as saucers as I looked upon the photo of the most scantily clad woman I had ever seen. Not knowing whether to just cover my eyes or run away, I felt Daddy’s gentle nudge on my shoulder. I turned to look at him, embarrassed that he had caught me looking at the awful picture. Gently, he just shook his head from side to side, as if to say, “You don’t want to look at stuff like that.” Having ended the business he had come to conduct, he took me by the hand and we left the building. Neither one of us mentioned the bad picture, and we never returned to that place.

In his quite, gentle manner, Daddy taught me an important lesson that day which has always stayed with me. As long as we live in this world, we will be exposed to tawdry images that are meant to appeal to one’s base nature. There’s no way to completely avoid them. This incident occurred in the fifties – and of course in the ensuing years crude images in public places has increased exponentially. But thanks to my dad’s response, I grew up knowing that, when confronted with vulgarity, I should turn away, because I just don’t want to look at stuff like that.