FINGER GRIPS ETCHED IN FAITH

THE WAR YEARS The years of the early forties found America deeply mired in World War II. On the home front, many families, schools, and institutions joined in the war effort. Many Schools held contest to see which could collect the most recycled resources. The children brought mashed tin cans, and bundles of used newspapers. I tried to understand the meaning of those red rationing coupons, and the pennies made of zinc to preserve copper. The government needed the copper to use in the manufacture of aircraft. Things were not explained to children, and slowly; I began to understand how serious the times were. People openly complained about the scarcity of items such as butter, meat, and nylon stockings. When my Daddy one day brought home horse meat for mother to cook, it all began to be very clear. America had entered the war just as the depression was ending. Everyone we knew was having hard times, just as we were. There were signs everywhere, encouraging enlistment into the Armed Services. There were posters of soldiers posing with their guns at the ready. Other pictures showed an older distinguished man with a little white goatee. Visually, it seemed as though he was pointing directly at the viewer. He wore a red, white, and blue Top Hat; a blue top coat. His shirt was white with a black bow tie. His trousers were red, and white alternating strips. The caption beneath his picture read Uncle Sam Wants You! This little man, dressed in the colors of the flag, was the Military’s official recruiting mascot. Other signs proclaimed; Buy War Bonds-Loose Lips Sink Ships, and Join the Red Cross. The air raids and emergency drills were frightening. We were encouraged to pray, and to trust God. Families who had a person; or persons in the service, displayed a large white star in their window. If they had lost a person in battle, they displayed a gold star. There was one, or several soldier’s funeral almost every day. It was sad to see a military car pull up to any home. Everyone knew it was bringing tragic news. To me there was a dreadful pall of unspoken grief, enveloped in patriotism, in the air; however, there were no tears shed. The headlines screamed Hitler’s threats daily, they were terrifying. It seemed like any day, the German’s would be in Nashville, coming down Scovel Street. I wondered how many other children were terrified by the war, because of the daily ominous headlines. By 1944, I was nine years old, and in Elementary school. When 1945 came, the war began to turn. As the German Armies fell, the Newspaper headlines screamed of the great celebrations going on in many of Europe’s capitols. German strongholds began to fall apart with regularity. By May 1945, news was everywhere that Hitler had committed suicide. His tattered mantel of authority fell to Admiral Doenitz who directed that all German Armies everywhere should surrender to the Western Allies. All hostilities ceased at midnight May 8, 1945. Paris was liberated amid tremendous celebrations and parades. There were news paper picture reports of thousands of French people filling the streets in celebration. The Allied forces marched through the Arch of Triumph in Paris and down the Champs Elyse's. On Armistice Day, November 11, 1945, World War II, was declared to be officially over. One sad commentary on the war that still vividly comes to mind is the death of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt on April 12, 1945. Our family was grief stricken, as though he were a member of the family. Neighbors were on their porches openly weeping, and verifying the news. The President did not live to see the work he had done to bring peace, come to fruition. President Truman was sworn in to finish out President Roosevelt’s term. At the young age I was, those memories are yet vivid to me. Daddy was a very patriotic individual. He was proud of his status as a Disabled American Veteran of World War l. He had served in the United States Army Calvary, his unit fought in France against the Germans. He received his injuries during trench warfare on the Western Front. From year to year, he could hardly wait for Armistice Day, celebrated every November. It was his joy to put on his American Veterans of Foreign Wars cap, and take his children to the Armistice Day Parade. It was held at Memorial Square, downtown, Nashville. With his cane, and cap, he stood straight, and at attention. When the soldiers marched by in military formation, Daddy stiffened and smartly saluted, holding it until the unit passed.   CHAPTER THREE BLACK MANNA AND WINTER SURVIVAL 1947 brought me to my twelfth birthday. My beloved Scovel Street was caught in the grip of a deadly winter. Worry was obvious on Daddy’s face. All of beauty and fun of summer, and the colorful fall had passed. Outside, the snowfalls, lay on top of each other. Ice continued to thicken. It was turning out to be a prolonged winter. Everything was scarce. The street had become impassable. There were deep ruts of encrusted, frozen snow, and ice in the tire tracks. Little ridges had formed above the ruts where the wheels had forced mud and snow out. What seemed beautiful to me weeks before, was now, a dirty; ugly brown mush, from many thaws, and freezes. Mud had drudged up from beneath the pavement and sidewalk, and refrozen. I knew that our supply of coal had dwindled down to a few lumps, and shavings. The fire in the front room grate was slowly dying for lack of coal. The middle room, Warm Morning Heater was cooling down because the fire in it had gone out. In the kitchen, white ashes mourned the dying of the fire in the cook stove. This winter day, with temperature very low, and more snow threatening, Daddy’s desperation was obvious. Suddenly, there was a great commotion; many excited voices, outside in the street. They were shrill, and urgent, as people blurted out in unbelief. It was the neighbors, running towards the commotion in the street. A huge old truck, loaded with coal, had sprawled in the middle of the street. The rear wheels had angled outward from the heavily loaded truck bed. The axel had broken, and the wagon, just sat down in the snow, between its wheels. Big black lumps of coal were all over the ground. The excited neighbors, my brother, and my Daddy were beginning to gather coal with desperate haste. The empty truck bed remained squatted, relieved of its burden, there it stayed until spring came. That blessed infusion of unexpected “BLACK MANNA”, lasted our family throughout that winter. I was thankful and had learned how to, “Etch Finger Grips, Into Faith”.