Prologue

I am in my seventy-third year of life. Why I decided to write this little history of my younger life had its beginning by opening my email one day from a gentleman by the nameof Robert Roberts.

He had seen my genealogical information on the computer, and had thought that I might be his first cousin - a first cousin that I never even knew existed. And, as it turned out, he was correct. It seems that our fathers were brothers.
I knew, of course, that I had an Uncle Frank, my dad's younger brother. But I
only knew of Uncle Frank's children , Johnny and Jackie, who were born of his first wife, Ella.

My mother and father would sometimes visit Uncle Frank and Aunt Ella in their home in Shreveport, Louisiana. These visits would have taken place when I was younger than nine years old, because that was my age when my mother and father divorced and I moved with my mother to Arizona.

After my mother and father were divorced, I never saw Uncle Frank again and had no clue about what happened to him or his whereabouts or the whereabouts of my cousins Johnnie and Jackie. Well, what happened to Uncle Frank was that he and Ella divorced and he remarried to a young lady by the name of Mary Francis Chisolm with whom he had four children, Frank, Mary, Robert and Susan. .

After Robert chanced upon my genealogical information on the internet, we
began to correspond over the computer. Robert would ask me questions about those years when I lived in Texas with my father and mother. Questions that I had to think about to answer. Then I remembered! Some years before, I had begun to put down on paper some of the early events of my life, and, on a whim, I began a search for the little story buried somewhere on the recesses of my computer After some searching, I found it , zapped it up, made some changes and emailed it to my cousin Robert.

I had also written some historical facts about the Houston, Texas that I knew in the 1930's when I lived there. Since Robert and his brother Frank were interested in these early memories of Houston. I began to expand on them with pictures and other data such as addresses and other small historical clips that I have been able to find over the internet. After the day that Robert Roberts found me, I began working on this biographical sketch from time to time and what you read now is the product of my mind's eye looking at those
younger years.

I dedicate this endeavor to my sons, Patrick, Randy, Michael and Sean. And also to my beloved grandchildren, Brandon, Chad, Morgan, Dustin, Brooke, Parker, Jackson, and Cameron and to those of my grandchildren whom I have yet to know. A special dedication to my very first great grand child, Rowan Bays.

With all my love,
Patricia Anne Roberts Bays

ii
BUNK

The Early Years

Until I was five years old and my brother, Danny, came onto the scene, my family consisted of me, Patricia Anne (who my mother called Patricia Anne and my father called Bunk) my mother, Agness Gross Roberts, whom my father had renamed, Gracie, after Gracie Allen, the famous radio comedian, and my father Dan Roberts, whose name, he said, wasn't Dan at all but was really John Henry. My father was a Texas oil man.
DAN
FRANK ROBERTS UNKNOWN BOY ETTA LOVELADY DAN ROBERTS
My father left home when he was eleven years old, with a fifth grade education. He began working in the oil fields as a water boy. Over the years, he worked for various companies throughout Oklahoma, Arkansas, Texas, and Louisiana. When he was eighteen years old he met a young, 16 year old girl in Arkansas, by the name of Evelyn Atkinson and they were married. In 19 30, according to the US Federal Census they were living in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, and had two children. A daughter, Florene Irene, aged six, and a son, Billy Joe, aged 1 year. Dad was working as in the oilfields near Oklahoma City. Later, Dad and Evelyn divorced and Dad married a second time to a woman by the name of Allene, (last name unknown). They were married a very sort time, maybe less than a year. In 1932. At the time he met my mother he was a tool pusher for the Harry L. Edwards' Drilling company in Texas.
Dad was putting in a well near Cold Springs, Texas and he would come into the Mitchell's cafe for many of his meals. Dad was a distinguished (older) man. Mother, a waitress for the cafe, was a cute little black-haired, blue-eyed, 5'2 bundle of personality. When Dad left Cold Springs for the new well in the next new town, Mother went with him. I was grown and married myself when I discovered that Mother and Dad were not married until 1935 when she was already pregnant with me.
My mother was a little orphan girl whose mother died in child birth when my mother was only five years old. After her mother died, Mother had been sent, by her stepfather, to live with my mother's grandmother and grandfather, Louisa Whatley Lewis and John Henry Lewis. My mother's younger sister, Aunt Lottie, had just married and she thought that it would be nice to have a little girl to raise, so she and her husband, Frank Morgan, took her in. Frank Morgan worked for the rail road in those days, so his job took him, my Aunt Lottie and my mother to different town in Texas. When my mother was about ready to start to high school, Aunt Lottie decided that she didn't want to be married to Uncle Frank any longer, and, quite literally, ran off. Uncle Frank was away working on the railroad somewhere so when Aunt Lottie left, my mother was all alone.
The year was 1932. My mother was 19 years old and had set out on her own. She was working as a waitress in a restaurant at Cold Springs, Texas. The restaurant was owned by the Mitchell family a man, his wife and their two daughters about the same age as my mother. Mother lived with them and worked in the restaurant.
What being in the oil business meant to my family in those early years when my Dad was still with Harry L. Edwards was that my father followed the new oil fields from town to town and from state to state as the company acquired new leases and opened up new oil fields. My mother and I moved with him - we lived mostly in Louisiana.
It wasn't until after Dad went with Commerce Oil that we were permanently situated in Houston, and Dad began to make more money. He not only received a salary, and a percent of each new well, but he would invest heavily in the oil leases that Commerce Oil was developing.
The Palms Hospital, Abbeville, Louisiana
When I was born, on October 20th 1935, my father was putting in a well near Abbeville, LA, in Vermillion Parish. So that is where we lived. I was born in the Palms Hospital, a Victorian structure that had its beginning in 1906 as the Fenwick Sanitarium. In 1935, the Fenwick Sanitarium was renovated and became the Palms Hospital with forty private patient rooms. Each room had a lavatory, a brass bed and a mirrored dresser. A majestic stained glass transom and cut glass door gave the Palms Hospital a look of distinction. (I returned to Abbeville in the 1960's and was impressed with the quaintness of the town. Abbeville is situated on the bayou Tesche, made famous in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's epic poem, Evangeline. )
My father was not excited about the news that my mother was expecting a baby - at least that is the story that my mother told me, but things must have changed after I was born because my father wanted me ever at his side until I started to school. I was his constant companion and a drinking buddy of sorts
In 1935, the year I was born, my father drove a Ford Business Coupe. Each year he bought a new one. These automobiles had two doors, a front seat, and a large trunk. There was a shelf of some size behind the front seat directly under the rear window. This area had plenty of room to accommodate a couple of good size pillows. This is where my father made the bed for his infant daughter on my trips to the drilling rig with him. I was less than one month old when my father began these forays with me. These trips to the oil fields with my Dad continued until I was required by law and my mother to begin attending school.
My father made my bed of pillows on the shelf behind the front seat while we were traveling. A new wooden tool box was constructed by the men on the rig and the pillows and bedding was placed in this tool box when we arrived at the rig. There I slept. When I was awake, my father carried me in his arms as he went about his business at the rig. He carried me right upon the drill floor, all the while explaining to me - this indifferent infant - the workings of the oil business. A drilling rig is a noisy, dirty place but my father told me that I loved to be there.
When it came time for me to drink my bottle, my father's automobile would be started and my bottles were heated on the radiator of the car - many a rubber nipple was burned and melted in the process. Extra canned milk was brought from home or a nearby store and boiled water carried in a large thermos jug. It was the talk of the Louisiana oil fields - Dan Roberts and his little daughter. I guess I became a sort of mascot.
Of course I do not remember the early years. The events of these years before the age of three, I learned from my mother. Her telling of the stories of my trips to the oil fields and other times with my father always fascinated me and gave me reason to wonder. But eventually I became old enough to remember certain periods with my father.
Some years later, when I was older, I can, however, recall with vivid detail traveling, in his little car, on roads made through swamps. The roads were planks laid end to end in parallel lines to form a track looking course on which the automobile traveled for miles into the marsh. This plank road wound itself through the gloomy, dark forest of the swampy Texas back country. Moss hung in long trails from the branches of the trees. Vines entwined the branches and draped from tree to tree like Christmas garlands around the holiday fir tree. It was an adventure riding through the dark eerie bog- we were in another world inhabited only by the two of us in our automobile planet. There was no air conditioning in automobiles in those days, the cars were air cooled naturally with the windows rolled down and the vents open. With the windows down in the car the sounds of frogs and swamp insects filled the air. Occasionally my imagination would overtake me and I would fear that the tires would miss the planks and we would be swallowed up by the quagmire, but the tires stayed true and we never fell into the muddy abyss that made up the swamp.
Although not always in a swamp, oil leases were almost always in remote areas that could only be accessed by rutted, dirt tracks that stretched for miles into the horizon. The word road could never have applied to these rutted, bumpy tracks that were created by heavy trucks laden with the equipment and material to build the rigs - the blade of a grader had never touched the surface of these furrowed imprints in the dirt. When we would get off the farm road or highway and onto the bumpy track that would eventually lead to the rig, Dad would stop the car and I would climb up on the front fender of the car. Dad would start the car back up and I would hold tightly on the hood ornament. I loved to feel the wind in my face and the frightening feeling that it gave me when the car would go fast over bumps and holes in the road. I would hold on for dear life to the hood ornament crying out to my indulgent father, Faster, Faster! I can imagine what modern, safety-conscious adults would say today about an irresponsible father who would endanger his precious little daughter in this way. But thank goodness there was no one was around to disapprove of my father and I in our private universe and I loved it!!
I can remember the trips on the drill floor; walking behind my dad, working the lever that controlled the drill, climbing high, high to a platform above the drill floor.
The trip up the ladder and down the ladder to this platform scared me because the steps were without backs and I could see the wooden drill floor below as I climbed. I was so small and the gaps at the back of the steps so large that I envisioned myself tumbling through. I never let my father even suspect that the steps frightened me, because he was so proud of my daring - and what I wanted more than anything was to make my father proud.
When I finally reached the platform high above the drill floor and was far aloft, it was frightening and at the same time thrilling to stand at the top and look down on the busy scene below. Men bustling with their jobs, trucks coming and going, tools and heavy pipes being delivered, large pipes being lifted by heavy chains up through the center of the rig and then lowered slowly and guided in place by one or two of the workers on the drill floor. These pipes were connected to the drill stem with gigantic wrenches, larger than I was tall. With each additional length of pipe, the earth was penetrated to a deeper and deeper level. I had an understanding of the work and feeling of elation in the excitement for the search of the Black Gold of the Texas Oil Industry. Rigs are dirty, oily smelling, noisy, dangerous places to be and I embraced it with all my being!
There are no 9:00 to 5:00 jobs on the oil rigs. Work on the rigs runs twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week until the oil comes in or they hit salt water. The men who work in the isolated oil fields are loaded daily into large trucks and driven to the rigs for each shift. The men from the previous shifts are driven back to whatever small town that they calling home until their work is finished. The men lived in boarding houses, tourist courts (as they were called) and cheap hotels. The oilmen were drifters, most without families or roots, going from one oil field to another.
At night the rigs are lit with lights attached to the triangular frames. As the black of the night engulfed the oil field, the rig itself and the immediate surrounding area, the rig lights would come on. And on the drilling rig it was as bright as the brightest day which further emphasized the pitch black dark beyond The rigs look like groves of giant Christmas trees It was as though the rig was floating in a black silent sea, alone in the world. At night the noise and smells of the rig were more pronounced than during the day. The world was polarized into this tiny space of lights, noise, and danger - this was my life until I started to school.
In Texas there were Honky Tonks. A Honky Tonk is a tawdry dance hall that features country music and waitresses with additional talents. Oftentimes there were cabins or rooms in the back where the waitresses slept and entertained special customers. My father and I frequented these Honky Tonks quite regularly, along with some of the men who worked for him in the oil fields.
Mother continued to try to counteract my time with my father with culture. I began dancing lessons at three and piano lessons at four. After I started dancing lessons at age 3 my father would put music on the juke box, stand me on top of the bar, and I would entertain the customers and waitresses alike. Sometimes Dad would disappear for a while and I would continue to prance, whirl and strut to the music. I loved the attention that was afforded me during these Honky Tonk visits and developed into quite a ham. Again, modern day people - don't shutter at a father taking his young daughter into a bar - then leaving her in the care of women of questionable virtue while he was enjoying another form of entertainment - this was a different, albeit simpler, place in time.
When I was about three and one-half years old, my mother insisted that a permanent home be purchased. The house that they purchased was a buff brick four bedroom home in the Aldine School District of Houston, Texas. There was a four car garage with several servant's quarters attached at the ground level and a large apartment above that could have been used for either servants or a rental unit. Beyond the garage and slightly north on the lot was a large fish pond. I remember sitting on the bank of the pond with my dad and we would throw our lines into the water. I don't know how much actual fishing was going on in the pond, but I know that it was stocked with fish. Between the garage and the pond was my play house. This was a wooden building about 10 x 10 with a covered front porch across the front. The garage and play house were painted a beige color with brown trim. This color seemed to match the buff color of the brick that made up the construction of the house proper.
My playhouse was furnished with miniature furniture; rocking chairs, doll cradles and beds, a table and chair, a kitchen cupboard and sink - all in a diminutive size to fit the needs of a young girl. There was a bookshelf with books to read as I whiled away the hours in my make-believe home. There were no other children available for me to play with - living isolated on a 10-acre homesite as we did. My only companions were the dogs, my parents and the servants whom were employed to assist with the running of the household. It was seldom that I ever had the opportunity to speak with another child.
A lady by the name of Mrs. Minor lived across the road from our home on Gulf Bank Road. She had a granddaughter, Marilyn, who would come infrequently to visit with her during the school breaks. Marilyn was slightly older than I was and I remember playing with her on occasion. At other times, I would still go with my father to visit the oil leases in Thompson, Texas that were managed by my father's brother, Bob Lovelady.
In 1937, Aldine was a very rural area of Houston and all the properties were small farms or estates with various amounts of acreage. Our home sat on ten acres of land with a creek running through the far end of the property. The house, garage and pond sat on about 3 acres, planted with a beautiful, full St. Augustine grass lawn. Beyond the lawn there was a large hay barn, with stalls for horses and a large coral. At one time one of the owners of the property had farmed a small section of the property and this plowed field was located directly behind the horse coral. There was a long path that led from the back lawn all the way to the creek which was tucked in a tangle of tall trees, blackberry bushes and thick Texas underbrush. I loved the thought of going to the creek, but was frightened of the musty smell and dark quiet of the forest of trees.
After the purchase of the house on Gulf Bank Road, my father promptly purchased a horse for me and hired a man to come on a regular basis to give me riding lessons. My horse's name was Bess. She had no particular breeding that I was aware of and I never knew her age, only that she was mature, sedate and good with children. She was a dark chestnut with a white star on her forehead. I adored her!
We had a Negro boy on the place by the name of Willis. Willis was the one that saddled Bess for me each morning and held tightly to the guide rope as I rode with Bess around the property. Willis kept Bess fed and groomed and her tack sparkling clean.
Willis had been with us for several years and moved around with us even prior to us purchasing the house on Gulf Bank Road. He was only 12 or 13 years old when my father found him in some rural area in southern Louisiana. He had no family other than an aunt with whom he lived, who, I was to understand, really didn't want him. When my father saw this small, skinny black boy walking barefooted and bare armed down this dusty county road in the middle of winter, he stopped his car and asked the boy if he wanted a ride. The boy had been pulling a wagon behind him that was loaded with firewood. Dad helped the boy load the firewood in the trunk of the car along with the rickety old wagon. As they drove along Willis' story came out. His mother had died in an accident a couple of years before. He never knew who his daddy was. He lived with his mother's aunt - Aunt Bell. Aunt Bell had 10 kids of her own, so one more little black boy didn't take up that much room.
When Dad got to Willis' house, he had already made up his mind to ask Willis if he wanted to come to live with us in Lake Charles. Once he got a look at the unpainted, shabby 3 room cabin that Willis called home, nothing would do except that Willis had to come live with us. Although our house was only 3 bedroom one bath bungalow that Dad had rented while he was putting in the well for Mr. Edwards, there was a small storage room that my mother turned into a spot for Willis. In those years, Willis helped my mother around the house, and she in turn helped him to learn to read and write. In those days, there was no requirement for black children to go to school, they got whatever education that they could before they were deemed too old for that nonsense by their parents. Willis lived with us until he was seventeen years old, got involved with a woman with a shady past, and stole my mother's diamond wrist watch - but that's another story.
After we moved to the Houston suburb of Aldine, my life changed. Although I still went occasionally with my father to the oil leases, it was more difficult because my mother and I were stationary in Houston and dad still had to travel out of town to the location of the current leases. We no longer moved along with him.
By the time that I was four or so, Dad was the Vice President in charge of production for the Commerce Oil Company - a Texas-based company founded by John Hepburn Blaffer. The Commerce Oil Company was situated on the 20th floor of the then modern Commerce Building in beautiful down-town Houston
Uncle John, as I called John Blaffer was the son of Robert Lee Blaffer, founder of Humble Oil Company, and Sara Jane Campbell. He married Camilla Davis, whose family was also in the oil business, in about 1937 in Dallas, Texas. My mother and dad were invited to this wonderful Texas social event which blended two prominent oil-rich families together. My mother wore a one-of-a-kind black lace dress, designed by the young Oscar de la Renta. It was a very special dress. The dress fabric was actually tiny strips of black lace sewed together to form a solid piece of material. The dress was then cut from this beautiful lace fabric. It was lined with silk batiste.
Mother was so very excited to have such an exquisite garment and was proud to tell all that it is one of a kind. It hung on a special hanger in her closet until the time came for it to be transported to Dallas for the wedding. If Mother tried on the dress at home to model it around for me, I certainly do not remember it because, I do remember trying to imagine her in it fantasizing that all heads turned when she walked in to the wedding reception on Dad's arm. I was totally convinced that my mother and father were the most beautiful and handsome people in the world. I would sometime look at it in her closet and wonder what she looked like that day in Dallas when she was part of the most elegant wedding of the day and mixing with all the Texas oil nobility. It wasn't, however, until several years later that I did have occasion to see her in the dress - but that is another story.
I loved going to his office with my father. He would dress in a starched white shirt with french cuffs, an elegant silk suit complete with matching felt hat. Before we would go to the office, my dad would stop at a barber shop to get a shave, haircut and manicure. I thought that Dad looked very glamorous laying back in the barber chair with a towel on his face while a young lady in a crisp uniform, sat at his side and manicured his nails. I loved to be with my father in the barber shop. Dad would order a special tonic for the hair and face. He would always let me smell the fragrance and feel the smoothness of his skin after a shave. I thought he was the most attractive man I had ever seen. I truly loved him.
After the barber shop we would go to lunch at the Ship Ahoy, a tony restaurant in down town area of Houston, specializing in sea food. I would order trout with tartar sauce, french fries with catsup with iced tea and chocolate pie for desert. Dad would order raw ousters. I would eat a few raw ousters off of his plate. After lunch we would go to his office. While Dad was conducting business, I would be entertained by Helen the company secretary and would type letters at her desk. Across from Helen's desk was a beautiful worn brown leather overstuffed couch with down cushions so fluffy and soft that when you sat on them they billowed up around you like a big, toasted marshmallow. The couch was so large that if my father placed me on the oversized cushions to wait for him while he conducted business in one of the inner offices, my legs would extend out straight over the edge. The smell of the fine old leather still lingers gently in my memory.
After the office, we would usually go to Battlestein's a wonderful clothier in Houston. The owner and founder of this exclusive clothing store was Pap Battlestein a short stocky elderly gentleman. He could always be found walking around the store handing out dimes to the children of his patrons. Prior to Sakowitz opening up, Battlestein's was the place to shop in Houston. Dallas had Nieman's Houston had Battlestein's. Mr. Battlestein had a story to tell. He had immigrated from Europe to the United States about the turn of the century. When he originally came to this country he purchased a hand push cart and peddled used clothing, household items, and general merchandise from this push cart. Living frugally and working long hours he was able to open a small clothing store in the 1920's. By 1930 he opened the exclusive Battlestein's in Houston, Texas. When my family frequented the store in the mid 30's and early 40's, Pap had semi-retired and his children ran the business. He was a wonderful old man and I will always remember him.
Shopping at Battlestein's was a grand treat for me whether I was shopping with my father or my mother. The lady's department was on the second floor. Beautiful french provincial side chairs covered in rich silk brocade with matching side tables sat on the thick luxurious carpets that covered the second floor of the store. The walls were covered with a fine moire silk looking wall covering in a delicate pastel shade. There were expensive wooden moldings outlining the doors and around the ceiling. The feeling was one of opulence and grace. The clothing was kept somewhere in the back with only a few dressed mannequins placed here and there. When mother arrived, almost always by appointment, her sales lady would seat her in one of the beautiful chairs located outside the dressing room that she would use. A lovely wine, coffee, tea or punch and small cakes were laid out on the side table. Mother would sip wine, smoke, and look over the new collection. From my position in the matching chair on the other side of the table, I thought that my mother looked extremely glamorous sipping her wine and smoking her cigarette which was held in a long gold and rhinestone cigarette holder. The clothing selected to be tried on was hung in a large mirror- paneled dressing room furnished with a side chair or two, similar to the ones on the floor. The experience was one of unhurried luxury and sumptuosity. Shopping with my father was a different experience altogether.
The men's department was on the first floor. There were no delicate side chairs but large overstuffed chairs covered in fine brown leather. The floor covering was wood and the walls were covered with a rich cherry paneling. The shirts were folded neatly in glass cases, as were the ties, belts, cuff links and handkerchief. The clerks stood behind the glass cases. Behind the clerks were 6 foot high wooden cabinets with glass fronts that held the excess of merchandise not in the glass cases. A few hats were displayed on head mannequins that were placed on top of the back cabinets. Stacked in various interesting designs were miniature hat boxes which contained small replicas of the hats that were for sale. What a treat when dad ordered a new hat! The salesman would give me a small hatbox with my own little miniature of dad's hat. I was given dozens of these little hat boxes with a small felt hat inside. I have often wondered what happened to these treasured possessions.
On at least one occasion, I went shopping with my nurse, Nettie. This is a great story, and some idea of my early life. At the time of this incident, the spring of 1940, I was about 4 years old .
I loved to go into town with my nurse, Nettie. Sometimes Horace, our driver, would drive Nettie and me in to town in Mother's black Buick sedan, but on other times we would ride the city bus. Nettie was black and in those days in Texas, Negroes (as they were referred to then) had to sit in the back of the bus. I thought that it was really great that I got to sit in the back of the bus with the Negro people. I loved hearing the Negro people talk to each other in that slow, southern, drawl filled with speech patterns common only to the South. They used words like pulley bone, snap peas, light bread, taters And phrases like, I, jist bout gave you out. Meaning, I had just about given up on you. To this day, nothing relaxes me more than hearing someone speak southern.
On this particular day, we rode with my father into town and we were to ride the city bus back. I was looking forward to a great day. Our plans were to do a little shopping and then go to a movie.
I loved going to the movies with my mother, but it was exciting to go the movie with Nettie because we did not sit on the main floor like when I went to the movie with Mother or Dad. We sat way up at the very top of the movie theater where all the Negroes were supposed to sit. We didn't even go through the front entrance to the Majestic, the Metropolitan, or the Loew's State at all. In fact, I'm not certain which movie theater that we did go to, but whichever one it was, we went around the corner on a side street and purchased our ticket there and entered through a single door in the wall of the theater that led to a flight of stairs that climbed and climbed until we reached heaven. I can't remember where we would buy our popcorn when I would go with Nettie to the theater, but I know that we did. I also can't remember where the colored restrooms were. I assume that they were accessible from the upper balcony sitting area. The entire experience of attending a movie with Nettie was an emotional sensation that bordered on a moderate fear and exhilarating excitement all at the same time.
These movie theater's were not just places to see the movies, they were palaces with themes - Egyptian temples, Spanish gardens, or whatever the design architects of the time envisioned. The Majestic had a ceiling with moving clouds and twinkling stars. The Loew's State had a large dome area in the ceiling with a beautiful crystal chandelier. The lobbies of all these beautiful theaters were richly carpeted with elaborate furnishings of plush couches and side chairs. At the Loew's State, the lobby was furnished with antiques from the Vanderbuilt estate. The stairs leading to the lounge area of the theater were lavish and ornate. There were maids in the woman's restroom that assisted with towels for drying hands and lotions for dry skin. All three of these theaters were beautiful and lavish, but the most outstanding was the Majestic.
The Loew's State and the Metropolitan theaters were on main street, near the Lamar Hotel. There was another theater called the Kirby that was also on Main Street, but, for whatever reason, my mother never frequented this one. We never went to the Ritz or the Rialto either. I not certain, but I think that these theaters featured early cowboy movies and some lesser prominent mystery stories.
But remember the point of this little story, Nettie and I were going shopping before we went to the movie.
Now, Nettie didn't frequent Battlestein's - they had no accommodations for Negroes. The Negroes in Texas had other stores and shops that they frequented, and I am certain that we were heading toward one of these other stores. As we were walking down the street, I spied Battlestein's. I insisted that Nettie take me there so that I could purchase a present for my mother.
I assume that it must have been near the May 26th date that was my mother's birthday. I knew just what she wanted, White Shoulders Perfume - her favorite. I knew my way around this store and led Nettie directly to the perfume counter. On my way I met Pap Battlestein who spoke briefly with me and handed me my usual ten cent piece, which I dropped into my small white patent leather handbag.
Good, I thought, that dime gave me fifty-seven cents to spend on my mother's present.
I went directly to the perfume counter and asked the sales associate if she had White Shoulders Perfume. I wanted to purchase some for my mother's birthday. A bottle of the perfume was placed on the counter. I asked her how much it was. The price was many dollars more than my fifty-seven cents. I then asked her if she had a less expensive perfume - to which the sales lady suggested that I might want the cologne or toilet water instead of perfume as it was less expensive. Okay, I answered. What about some White Shoulders Cologne? The sales lady returned with a small bottle of the cologne, which she placed on the counter and announced the price. Again, many dollars more than my fifty-seven cents. At this point I stamped my foot and said to the sales lady Doesn't this store have anything for fifty-seven cents? Not knowing what to say the sales lady looked over in a direction behind me.
Unknown to me, Mr. Battlestein was watching and listening to this dialogue between me and his sales staff. It was at this point that Mr. Battlestein approached me and asked very politely if I had not come into town shopping with one of my parents. I told him that my father had driven me and my nurse into town but, that he had gone on to his office because he had important work to do. I further told him that it was near my mother's birthday and I wanted to surprise her with her favorite perfume. Mr. Battlestein asked me and Nettie to come with him. We followed Mr. Battlestein to the elevator. When we boarded the elevator, Mr. Battlestein took out a small key from his pocket that was attached to a gold chain that looped from his watch pocket to the left pocket in his trousers. Inserting the key into a keyhole on the metal plate above the buttons. And as he turned the key, the elevator began to rise. What a great experience to ride up the elevator to a floor beyond the highest button on the metal plate. I wondered what wonderful things we were going to see in the private place that ONLY Mr. Battlestein knew about.
When the elevator came to a stop, the doors opened up to a large foyer where a lady sat behind a somewhat tall desk. She had a headset over one ear and a small microphone in front of her mouth. Before her was a switchboard with lots of small holes into which she inserted metal-tipped cords that came up from the table below the switchboard. There were a series of small toggle switches across the table in front of the row of metal-tipped cords. Even if nothing else happed that day, I would have been impressed with the memory of seeing a telephone operator at work for the first time in my life. Although I was beginning to be a little anxious at why I was being taking on the great elevator trip with Mr. Battlestein, I still had the presence of mind to wish that he wouldn't hurry by the telephone operation so quickly. What fun to just stay and watch her at her work.
But off we hurried through one of the large doors down at the end of the great foyer. Mr. Battlestein led us to a large office with the largest desk I had ever seen in my life. He asked me to be seated in one of the chairs while Nettie stood beside me. Mr. Battlestein went behind his desk and sat down. He picked up his telephone and told someone on the other end to get Mr. Dan Roberts on the telephone. He sat the telephone back on its cradle and offered me a piece of candy, which I took. He then spoke to me about my mothers birthday present and that he knew how important that it was me to be able to buy her something nice. About that time the telephone rang and Mr. Battlestein was speaking with my father.
Mr. Battlestein told my father that he had me and my nurse in his office. That we had been in the store shopping for my mother's birthday gift but that Patricia Anne was short of funds. Mr. Battlestein listened on the telephone for a while, and Mr. Battlestein then told my father that he thought I was old enough to have my own account at the store so that I would be able to shop for my parents gifts without being in the embarrassing position of not having funds available to me. Evidently my father agreed.
At the age of 4 and ½ years of age I had my own charge account at Battlestein's the most exclusive store in Houston, Texas. Mr. Battlestein escorted me and Nettie back down to the perfume department where I purchased my mother the most exquisite bottle of White Shoulders Perfume I have ever seen. It must have cost a fortune, but whatever it cost, it was gift wrapped and I was told that it would be sent by courier to our home in Aldine. The sales lady asked if I could sign my name. I told her that I could print it. To complete the transaction, the sales book was offered to me and I meticulously printed Patricia in large bold printed letters. Over the years, I had many shopping excursions in Battlestein's, but none so memorable as the first one.
After that day, when I had to do my birthday or Christmas shopping for my mother and father, I simply had to get a ride into town with Horace or ride the bus with Nettie. I was able to shop for my parents, secure that the sales persons knew my parents tastes and the brands that they preferred. The bills were sent to the Commerce Oil Company and they were, I assume paid by Helen.
I still went out with Dad whenever I could to the oil rigs. I especially liked to go out to Thompson and visit with Aunt Irene, Uncle Bob, and their family. Uncle Bob and Aunt Irene had several children; a daughter, Anna Marie, who was about my age, a younger daughter, Bobbie Lynn, several years younger, and an infant son, Levi Herschel. Aunt Irene was a Cajun from Louisiana. I remember meeting her mother once and was struck with the fact that she only spoke French. I loved my Aunt Irene and Uncle Bob very much. They lived right in the middle of a swamp forest with great trees with vines and moss hanging down. What a great place to play jungle - the game that Anna Marie and I played by swinging from tree to tree hanging on the strong thick vines that grew from the branches of the trees.
But what I remember most about Uncle Bob and Aunt Irene's family was when Levi Herschel was diagnosed with leukemia when he was less than one year old. He had pale blond hair and translucent blue eyes, a large head and skinny little lifeless arms and legs. He could never walk, talk, sit up or do anything that any other toddler could do. He died before his second birthday. This was such a sad and tragic time for the family, and if they laughed or had good time, I never knew about it. Their lives seemed to be taken up with concern for Levi Herschel. The year that Levi Herschel lived was a sad time for us all.
They had another baby boy after Levi Herschel died who also had pale blond hair and translucent blue eyes. This new baby's name was Alan. Although Alan was a strong child with no apparent illnesses, I always considered him a stand-in for Levi Herschel. When I was little, I kept my distance from this new baby and thought that maybe he would die too.
One day in June in 1941 when I was about 6 years of age, Dad, Mother and I were visiting Uncle Bob and Aunt Irene and my cousins in Thompson. Uncle Bob had just purchased a new horse. I loved to ride horses. I had begun riding lessons after we purchased the Houston house in Aldine. Dad, Uncle Bob, my cousin Bobby Lynn, and I all went out to the barn. There was a large grey stallion in the coral. He was several years old, in his prime really, but Uncle Bob said that he was great with kids. Of course I wanted to ride this beautiful horse. At first Dad was reluctant to let me, but I insisted and I imagine that Dad was secretly proud of my confident bravery. The horse was saddled and I was lifted on top the large grey. My Uncle Bob adjusted the stirrups to fit my short legs. My cousin, Bobby Lynn, by this time was anxious to ride also. And with some urging from me, Uncle Bob lifted Bobby Lynn behind me and led the horse out of the coral.
There was a dirt road that ran north and south in front of the lease house in which Uncle Bob and his family lived. This same road led to the drilling rigs to the south and dead ended at another dirt road ran to the side of the house and led to Thompson to the west and I don't know where to the east. Uncle Bob told me to take the horse up the road in front of the house to the other road, then ride east for a while and then come back. The horse started up with the sound of a cluck from me and a sharp tap from my heels. We walked out of the coral and up the drive and turned north on the dirt road. As we passed the house, my mother (pregnant with my brother) yelled at me to be careful. I could see from her expression that she didn't think too highly of this idea of my father's to let me on a strange horse. But Dad usually did just what he wanted.
When we reached the corner, I turned the horse east on the road and Bobby Lynn and I ambled along on the back of the large grey horse. When we had been riding for several minutes, Bobby Lynn became anxious to get off, so I turned the horse around and we began to head back the way we had come. As we began to get closer to the house, the grey began to pick up his pace. I pulled back on the reins and he went faster. When he got up to a trot, I realized that I was not in control. Bobby Lynn began to cry and begged me to slow the horse down. I told Bobby Lynn that I couldn't that he wouldn't slow down. She wanted to get down!! I told Bobby Lynn to listen to me. She had to let go of my waist and that when she did I was going to push her off the horse and then she could walk home. She was so frightened at the ever increasing speed of the horse that I had to reassure her that she would be alright if she would only do as I told her, but she tightened her grip around my waist even tighter. I reached down and took Bobby Lynn's small arms from around my waist and as hard as I could I pushed her backward off the horse. She was crying even louder as she hit the dirt road. I screamed for her to get up and walk home. By this time her house was in view. The horse continued to pick up speed and I turned it onto the road that ran past Uncle Bob's house. By the time that we were in front of the house the grey was at a full gallop. My dad, Uncle Bob, mother, and Aunt Irene were all out on the front porch standing, and staring in amazement at me and the horse whizzing by. I screamed for them to get Bobby Lynn. As I turned I saw Aunt Irene running toward the road where Bobby Lynn was running crying toward the house.
What am I going to do? I silently asked myself. The horse flew past the coral, past the barn and was headed toward the thick tangle of south Texas thicket. The forests in south Texas are thick with trees, vines and low hanging branches covered with moss and more vines. It is a dangerous place to be and most especially dangerous on the back of a galloping horse. I had to get off and get off quick. I shook my right foot out of the stirrup. Then I shook my left foot free. My plan - such as it was- was to slowly let myself slip off the left side of the horse without being trampled by the frantic horse's sharp hoofs. I knew it was imperative that nothing of my clothing or body get hung up on the horses tack or I would surely be dragged to death. I made certain that my hands were free of the reigns, then I slid over to the far left side of the saddle, my right foot resting squarely in the middle of the seat of the saddle, and my left hand still gripping the saddle horn, my right hand holding on the back of the seat. At this point I steeled myself for the final push to throw my body completely off the side of the horse without becoming trampled. I looked ahead to see if there were any trees close enough to hit me. It looked clear! Now! I thought. Now! Do it. Let go Now!
And I did. My eyes were closed, as I bent my right leg to get enough leverage to push myself away for the horses pounding feet. Remembering to push also with my left hand still gripping the saddle horn I did it!. I pushed away! Bump! I hit the dirt hard. But the forest floor was covered with leaves, moss, vines and the forest debris. I was not hurt!. I was alright! Not only was I alright, but my thinking also saved my little cousin Bobby Lynn.
I had picked myself up from the forest floor and was walking on wobbly legs toward the edge of the forest. My dad was running toward me. Uncle Bob close behind. My fat pregnant mother bring up the rear. On rubbery legs, I stumbled toward my dad. In just a minute I felt his strong arms lift me straight up in the air. I was safe now! I was with my Dad!
I have often wondered about the mature mental process that surfaced in the mind of a 5 year old child on that frightful day. I was able to recognize immediately that I no longer had control of the horse. I was able to assess the fact that I first had to get Bobby Lynn off the horse before I could think of saving myself. And then I rationally planned a way to get myself off the horse while galloping at breakneck speed through a heavily forested area. I have always felt proud of myself for how I handled that potentially life threatening episode. I still marvel at my calm.
The Ballet Lessons
******
I mentioned before that my mother had enrolled me in dancing school when I was 3 ½ years old. The Hallie Pritchard School of Dancing. What an exciting time for me. I had fancied myself a great dancer even before my first lesson. I was forever whirling and twirling to the music on the radio or phonograph player. I could hardly wait for the first day of dancing school to come around. My mother took me into Houston to shop for all the clothing that was on the shopping list given to her by the school - pink leather ballet shoes, black tap shoes, leotards, tights and a dancing skirt.
Ms. Pritchard had been teaching dance for many years by the time I became a student. I know of two very prominent students of Ms. Pritchard - Nan Grey and Ann Miller.
The school was located at 3218 Main Street at the corner of Main and Elgin. As I remember the school was on the second floor of a red brick building with narrow stairs that led from the street to the second floor. At the top of the stairs there was a sort of wide space with an office to the left. Straight ahead were double doors to the dance studio. The studio floors were highly polished wood and kind of slippery. Along the walls to the right and to the left were the practice bars. At the far end, directly opposite of the doorway was a performance stage. There was a large old piano sitting diagonally in front of the stage facing toward the dance floor. A lady sat on a bench at the piano, playing the music to which the young student dancers would practice. Immediately to the right and left of the front door was a row of chairs where the mother's sat during the lessons and where I would sit beside my mother to change from my street shoes to my dancing shoes. First ballet then tap. Also along this wall, in the corner, were rolled up mats that were unrolled to be used during the limbering-up exercises.
For several weeks, after my mother had told me that she enrolled me in dancing school, I imagined donning my new leotards and ballet slippers and dancing, twirling and pirouetting away to the music - just like the beautiful ballerinas that I had seen in the stage performances that my mother had taken me to. Although Houston did not have a ballet company of its own in the 1930's there were, on rare occasions, visiting dance companies that came into town to provide some cultural advantages to the art-deprived populace of Houston.
For weeks after attending a ballet performance, I would imagine myself one of the beautiful ballerinas in the corps de ballet, with my hair pulled back in a bun at the nape of my neck wearing a shimmering tutu with row upon row of pale tulle, and a crown on my head. Nothing would do but for me to have someone put the wonderful music of the classical ballet on the phonograph player so that I could relive the moments of the performance over and over again. I thought that the ballerinas the most lovely persons in the world. This was my chance to learn how to dance, to study the ballet, to wear the beautiful costumes of the ballet. Oh, to be part of this !
I looked forward to dancing lesson day. The days seemed to drag every week until it was there - lesson day. My bag would be packed several days in advance, so eager I was to be there. After we arrived at the school, Mother and I would sit in the chairs along the back wall of the studio, where I would change into my ballet slippers. Mother and I would sit in the chairs waiting for the class ahead of us to be finished. Since, I was just beginning, all the other children were at least a year more advanced that I was. I would look at them with envy, thinking that I wished that I could dance just as well as they.
After the earlier class ended and the children found a chair next to their mothers where they could change their shoes, I would watch the teachers retrieve the mats from the corner of the room and begin to unroll them for my class to begin our limbering up exercises. I would suffer through the limbering and tumbling part of the lesson, just knowing that the bar work for the ballet class would be next. As soon as the gymnastics were over, the mats would be rolled up again and placed back in the corner until the next class.
Next, came the ballet class. We would all line up at the bar with our right hands grasping the bar and our left arms left free to perform the arm movements. 1st position, 2nd position, 3rd position, 4th position, 5th position, 6th position. The pile, the demi-pile, the grand pile. All the time the teacher counting in time to the piano music, one, two, three, four!
I loved every aspect of the school - the music, the pink ballet slippers, the black patent tap shoes with the grosgrain ribbon ties, the different colored leotards, my little round suitcase that held my dancing clothes, the other children, the teachers, the music and especially the dancing.
About the second year of dancing lessons, I remember the school being in a great excitement over our recital that year. For some reason, I really can't remember why, it was going to be a larger or more elaborate production than in previous years. At any rate there was great excitement among the teachers, mothers and older students. The feeling was infectious.
One day, the pianist told us all the characters in the ballet would be from fairy tale stories. Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs and the like. She further stated that we would be able to pick the character that we wanted to portray in the recital ballet production that would be presented to our family and friends at the end of the year.
I had the most beautiful picture of Cinderella in one of my books as she was dancing with her Prince Charming at the ball. Her dress was an elaborate off -the-shoulder creation with scallops and ribbons and fine pearls sewn into the lovely gossamer fabric. Her fine blond hair was a mass of curls on top of her head framed with a jewel-studded gold tiara. This was my favorite story and she was my favorite princess. Cinderella! I shouted out, waiving my hand in the air for attention. Oh, can I be Cinderella, please? The pianist looked at me and smiled. Alright, Patricia Ann, she said. You will dance the Cinderella part. My heart swelled within my bosom. I AM Cinderella, I thought. I have always been Cinderella. Now everyone will see how beautifully I can dance, and how wonderful I will look in my fine, beautiful dress of ribbons and pearls, dancing with my own Prince Charming.
I didn't hear anyone selected for the part of Prince Charming, but maybe I wasn't listening. Well it didn't matter anyway, I thought. All the men dancers ever did was to hold on to the lovely ballerinas so that they wouldn't fall when they did their turns. I wondered when I would begin learning some of the finer points of ballet so that I could do justice to Cinderella when she danced at the ball.
That year, I really studied hard at ballet school. I didn't just want to learn the steps that Ms. Pritchard was teaching me, I wanted to really excel so that she would feel that I would be worthy of the trust that had been placed in me by allowing me to dance a main story book character. I practiced endlessly at my steps. They were very simple, really. It was difficult for me to imagine what I was learning in the context of my vision of the scene at the ball. And when,I wondered, would I put the steps together with everyone else's steps?
Right after the different roles had been cast, a lady came in to the studio and measured us for our costumes. She had a long yellow tape measure around her neck and a list of names on a clip board. She would call out a name and a student would stand and walk over to the costume lady who would measure the height of the student then write down the figure on the paper on the clip board. She would then measure waists, hips, under the arms, around the arms, around the necks, and around the thighs of each student. Each measurement was written down on the clipboard. When it was my turn to get measured, I reminded her that I was Cinderella - just to make certain that she was measuring me for the right costume. I certainly didn't want her to think that I was one of the seven dwarfs or the fairy godmother, Mother Goose, or any of the other myriad of characters that made up the cast of dancers for the recital performance. Assuring me that she knew the character that I was to dance, she efficiently went about her measuring and writing on the clipboard. Each measurement was a validation that it was really going to happen. I was really going to dance as Cinderella in the recital. When finally the last measurement was taken and the last mark was made on the clipboard, I was excused to return to my seat next to my mother and wait for the class to start. I almost glided across the floor as I closed the space headed toward the rows of chairs at the wall next to the entrance. As I walked I effectuated the pose of a ballerina, head high, chin extended, neck long, arms at a graceful angle, I was Cinderella, the envy of all.
Finally, near the end of the ballet school year, we learned that the following week we would be fitted for our costumes that had been designed and sewn by a company that did such things for dancing schools. When my mother and I arrived at the school that afternoon, I immediately spotted the costumes hanging on hangers on long poles at the rear of the stage. We were to wait in our chairs until our name was called by one of the costume persons that were assembled on the stage with their lists of costumes and dancers and characters. Two or three persons were called at a time as there were several ladies on the stage to take charge of the fitting of the costumes. As the students heard their names called they would go to the side steps that led to the back stage area and then on to the stage. There were different areas cordoned off back stage where the students would change into their costume with the help of one of the aids from the costume company and several of our own teachers.
My eyes tried to find the Cinderella costume hanging among the others on the poles. But, I just couldn't seen anything that resembled the Cinderella dress. They called Snow White and one of the girls in my class left her chair and went upon the stage. A lovely dress of white tulle with sparkles sewn on the skirt and a lovely sequined design on the bodice was removed from the pole. She had long black hair, so I knew that she would look good in the beautiful white tulle ballet dress.
They called Mother Goose and one of the older students went up on the stage. It was a shinny fabric with a fitted bodice. She was also to wear a tall peaked hat. Nice, I thought. They called another name and another, then, finally, they called Cinderella. Happily I went across the floor, my ballet slippers hardly touching the floor at all. Up the steps and back through the doorway the led to the back stage area, then on to the stage. The lady that called my name smiled at me and put her hand to my back to guide me over to the long rod where all the costumes that remained were hanging. When we approached the hanging costumes, her hand went to a clothes hanger that held a limp piece of grey blue fabric that was tattered and had jagged holes in the skirt and a patch or two of varied colored fabric sewn over other holes. She checked the little tag that dangled from the arm hole. Satisfied and to my horror, the lady removed the hanger with the tattered fabric from the pole. Holding it in her right hand, she started to walk toward the place where the others were trying on their costumes. I stood transfixed in place. Why was she walking toward the change room place? I thought. My eyes searched the costumes for the Cinderella costume. Where was it? The lady stopped and beckoned to me to follow her. But I stood planted where I was. I didn't want to follow her until she had the right costume. Please, I told her in a rather loud voice, I am Cinderella. You have the wrong costume. The lady was no longer smiling kindly at me. She was looking very impatient as a matter of fact. Now, young lady she said., this is the Cinderella costume. Please come with me. I need to get this costume on you to see if it is going to fit.
I was so horrified and revolted by the thought of me dancing before my parents and their friends in that filthy looking rag, that I was moving toward the dressing room in a dazed panic. I just couldn't be wearing a rag in the recital. This could not be right. I finally reached the little cordoned-off area that had become a dressing room for the trying on the recital costumes, but I couldn't bring myself to go into the enclosure. The now, stern-faced lady, from the costume company was holding back the curtain impatiently waiting for me to enter. But, I didn't want to enter. To enter and try on that rag would seal my fate. It would mean that I had accepted the terrible mistake that had been made. I would have surrendered to the unthinkable.
The lady held the rag on the hanger in her right hand and held the curtain back with her body as she reached her left hand out and grasped my right arm, pulling me in to the small curtained make-shift dressing room. She hooked the hanger over the rod that held up the curtain and the reached down to slide my leotard down so that I could step out of it. She told me that I could leave my tights on. She reached for the hanger and removed the rag from the hanger. She slipped it over my head and brought my right arm through a tattered armhole. There was no real armhole for the left arm, just a ragged tear in the fabric. The limp skirt had a jagged hem of which the longest shred of fabric reached about to the top of my knee.
Someone had actually created this horrible ragged costume. Someone really thought that Cinderella looked like this - and, finally and reluctantly, I realized that she did. I was to dance the pitiful Cinderella who was forced to sleep by the hearth and was covered with soot and ashes. I was to be the Cinderella that was laughed at and tortured by her stepmother and evil, vain step sisters. I was the Cinderella before the fairy god mother came to change her into the beautiful princess.
Although I danced the part in the recital, I never forgot the sense of horror I felt the first time I laid eyes on my costume. I never forgot how my imagination had betrayed me. It was, I suppose my very first realization that life could be very cruel without even meaning to be. And that not all things in life will turn out the way that you thought they would.
Did I learn a lesson? I don't think so because I continued, all my live to imagine things differently than how they later turned out. If I did learn a lesson, it was how to deal with the disappointments that life will inevitably bring to you, even when it wasn't at all like you had planned. And sometimes, when life suddenly threw me for a loop, I would remember little Cinderella with her tattered dress and - smile.
The Ranch Mink Fur Coat
It was about this same time in my life, my mother was being fitted at Ralph Rupley's, a Houston furrier, for a beautiful full-length, ranch mink coat. Now, in 1938, before it became politically incorrect, a new fur coat would make any woman, or her daughter, smile!
Mr. Rupley opened his first store in 1923 with only five fur coats in a single room. This was located on the third floor above the old Queen Theater at 800 Main Street in Houston. During the first few years, Mr. and Mrs. Rupley did mostly repair and restyling work on furs. Later Mr. Rupley opened Ralph Rupley Furs at 1000 Main Street in Houston.
An art deco facade was installed on a 1929 building to create the three story Ralph Rupley Salon . It was for many years the leading fashion fur store in Houston. There was a glass show-window on either side of the centered front entrance to the store. The second floor featured an additional glass show-window behind a low balcony. The next two floors were defined by a large, opaque square glass brick windows separated by an art deco cement carving. Beautiful full length mink coats, elegant ermine stoles, and kolinsky mink pelts were displayed in all the glass show windows. Immediately to the right of the Ralph Rupley Saloon was the elite Ship Ahoy Seafood restaurant, located at 1007 Main Street. Just across Main Street were two of Houston's finest movie theaters; the Majestic and Loew's State.
The interior of Rupley's was elegance itself. The

THE CONVENT YEARS
Sister Camillus on Sister Agustine
Front Porch of With Lamb at School
Incarnate Word Picnic c. 1941
Convent
I started to school in September 1940, when I was almost five years old. The school's name was the Incarnate Word Convent and was a Catholic Boarding School operated by the Sisters of the Incarnate Word and Blessed Sacrament. The principle of the school was Sister Mary Agustine. My first teacher's name was Sister Mary Camelus. She taught me from Kindergarten to the third grade. Every nun in the convent had a first name of Mary but a different last name. Of course these names were not the ones that they were born with, these were the names they chose when they became nuns.
I remember the first day that my mother took me to the convent. The convent was in an area of Houston, Texas named Bellaire which was on the south west part and one of the most beautiful parts of the city. To get to Bellaire you must travel almost the end of South Main through the stately tree-lined boulevard bordered on the west by parks and monuments and on the east by the old fine homes of the Houston aristocracy. The drive passed Hermann Park and the mounted bronze statue of Sam Houston.
The school itself was a three story buff brick building with a large center portico and wings on either side. From the road you must travel through wrought iron gates up a long tree-lined gravel drive around a center fountain which divided the drive just before you came to the front portico. The tires of the auto crunched happily on gravel drive - defying my not so happy demeanor. I could hardly conceive the idea of a boarding school, but one thing I knew - it meant that I would not live at home any longer. I would not sleep in my bedroom just off the bedroom shared by my mother and father.. I would sleep at the convent. Not today, though! Mother said, ˜Not today. Today was just a meeting between my mother, the sister superior, and myself. Today I would go back home with my mother. Tonight I would sleep at home. My stomach was a lump worrying about the time when we would again make this trip and I would be left behind. I wished that the ride had been longer. I wished that the sister superior wouldn't like me. I wished that my mother wouldn't like the school. I wished that I could have another year with my father on the drilling rig. If wishes were horses then beggars would ride, if turnips were watches I'd wear one by my side.
It was early August and there were birds flying to and fro between the trees. Off to my right as we headed up the long drive I could just make out an arbor covered with vines and some bright colored flowers. There seemed to be something standing or someone standing in the middle of alcove. On either side of the arbor there was a cement bench with ornately carved legs. There was a path which led from the rear of the building to the little arbor and then away again winding behind a hedge that seemed to encircle the small garden. The setting was gracious and lovely.
My mother slowed our car and came to a stop near the center point of the long covered portico. There were eight or ten steps from the drive to the covered porch. The steps were cement but the floor of the portico had been inlayed with large granite or marble slabs in a muted beige color, polished to a high gloss. I was later to discover that this same beautiful flooring was throughout the convent.
The entry to the convent was large 10 feet high double doors in a pale, richly carved wood with dark massive hardware. There was a doorbell imbedded in the wall of the curved arch that framed the doorway. When my mother pressed the buzzer there was no sound of the chimes ringing inside the thick convent walls. The door was like a silent buttress, there was no clues of those who lived on the other side, no sound of life or tinkling of doorbells could penetrate the solid wooden doors. Did the bell ring within? Did anyone hear it ring? The heavy silence of the strong wooden doors emphasized the light, happy singing of the birds flitting through the trees.
While we waited on the porch, I looked at my mother. She was so beautiful with her dark almost blue-black hair curling around her face and blowing gently in the wind. She wore it parted in the middle with delicate waves cascading into a fluff at her shoulders. I thought of my own straight almost white hair and again wished that I had the black hair of my mother and father. Mother was wearing a smart Nettie Rosenstein designer chartreuse suit. She was carrying small black patten leather bag and had matching high heel sandals on her smallish feet. She stood 5 foot 2 inches tall and was very slim. I thought my mother was the most beautiful person in the world. When I would tell her this she would say, all little girls think their mother is beautiful, and I would think, How can that be when some mothers are so plain? Mother turned to me looking with a critical eye. She brushed a stray hair back from my forehead and smiled. She knew that I was nervous - maybe she was too.
The sound of a key turning in the lock, broke the silence and the door opened. Instantly, I stepped back a step or two, hidden partly by my mother's skirt. Shyly peering around, I glimpsed what would be my first view of a Sister of the Incarnate Word and Blessed Sacrament. There in the doorway stood a nun. She had on a long off-white dress, black veil and red apron that hung to the floor in front and back. A large black wooden rosary hung down her right side and a red leather strap hung down the left. Both the rosary and leather strap was affixed to a belt around her waist. Only the front part of her face could be seen because of the starched stiff white band around her forehead and another stiff white fabric that hung from under the chin to form a bib in front and disappeared at the back of the head under the black veil. She was covered from head to toe with various pieces of clothing that made up the habit for the Sisters of Blessed Sacrament and Incarnate Word. Only the front of her face and her hands could be seen. I cannot remember what she looked like or what her name was - but she was the first nun from this order that I had ever seen and I thought that her habit was beautiful.
My mother introduced herself and said that she had an appointment to see Sister Augustine about registering her daughter for school. The nun invited us into the convent. We entered into a long, wide foyer that led to a corridor that met another corridor that ran the length of the building. The foyer was decorated with original oil paintings of various religious themes with ornate expensive frames. A statue of the Virgin Mary mounted on a pedestal and several antique side chairs completed the foyer decor. There was a doorway on either side of the foyer that led to small sitting rooms, each room was elegantly furnished with beautiful antique couches, chairs, religious figurines and a small writing desk The floors in these sitting rooms were covered with rich oriental carpets centered over the marble flooring. The feeling was one of formal austere richness.
The young nun directed us in to one of these sitting rooms and asked us to be seated. She backed from the room and silently closed the thick interior door. In the hushed silence of the room, I became aware of the ticking of an old grandfather clock which whiled the time in one corner of the room. The friendly ticking seemed almost too congenial in the formal setting. The tall windows opened onto the front porch, and although there was no sounds from within the building, the sweet sound of birds singing could be heard from without. The ticking of the clock the singing of the birds and the smell of polish, starch, old furniture, and candles. This is what I remember most about this first day at the convent. My mother didn't speak and neither did I. We were, I suppose too overcome with the strangeness of the place and the overwhelming silence - what sin would we commit by breaching the quiet? It was hard to imagine that these same silent walls could encapsulate the activities of fifty giggling little girls.
Without the forewarning of approaching footsteps, the door quietly opened and in walked another nun who introduced herself as Sister Agustine. Her dress was an identical copy of the young nun that answered the door. Sister Agustine had olive complection, a small rather pointed nose, a rosebud mouth and large brown eyes that smiled behind thick glasses. She conducted herself with a businesslike efficiency of motion - ˜right down to brass tacks attitude. Only her eyes betrayed her. I decided right then that I would like her. Actually over the years I came to love her.
Sister Agustine was the Sister Superior of the convent. In other words she was the principal of the school. She had a huge responsibility in managing the educational needs of the fifty little girls who attended the school and both the secular and ecclesiastical activities of the women of the convent. In all the years that I went to school there I never knew just how many nuns lived in the convent. Some were very old and seldom ventured down from the third floor where the nuns slept. Some worked in the kitchen, some in the laundry, some cleaned the floors. They were, however, almost invisible, except a meal time when they would silently file into the nun's dining room for their meals. It was, however, only with the nuns that taught us with which I would have daily contact.
The first floor of the convent was the school proper, the student store, the student diningroom, the reception rooms that I have mentioned before and a small chapel The east wing on the ground floor was the kitchen and the nuns dining room. There was a driveway that led to the rear of the convent and ended at a triple wide covered driveway just off the kitchen where delivery vans parked to unload their merchandise. Directly across from this drive and directly north of the kitchen door, separate from the convent proper was a small squarish building that was the laundry for both the students and the nuns. This, I came to learn, was the domain of Sister Mary Benedict Joseph.
This first meeting with Sister Agustine was to determine if I would be accepted at the school. Mother was very determined about me attending a school that would give me the proper environment. I think that any environment other than a drilling rig and Honky Tonks would have been satisfactory to her, but she probably wanted the extra assurance that I would have sufficient amount of propriety in my life to counterbalance what she considered my father's corruptive dominance of my early life. My acceptance into this school was her assurance that I would turn out alright in spite of my father's influence.
As my mother and Sister Agustine spoke of the myriad of topics that needed to be discussed with respect to a young girl being admitted into the school, my mind begin to wander back to that day that my mother finally came to the decision that brought us to this place and time.
What brought my mother to this point in our lives was an incident that I now only vaguely remember. It was several weeks prior to this sunny August day. Mother had joined some sort of woman's auxiliary, The Houston Art Museum Guild. The best I can remember, they met a couple of times a month, discussed money making projects for good works and volunteered for some worthy causes connected to the art museum. At one of these semi-monthly meetings there was an afternoon garden-party tea. For whatever reason, I was brought, by my mother to this gala event. Caterers had set up a large tent and there were many round tables with white linen cloths covering them arranged under the tent's canopy. Each table was set with white china edged with silver, a crystal water goblet and champaign flute completed the place settings. On every table were lovely pale pink linen napkins and small bowls of mints. The wooden chairs were completely covered in white linen that was pulled to the back and held in place with a large pink bow with streamers that fell almost to the ground. The decorations were simple, understated and classy.
I remember the smell of roses and lilac - some growing in the garden, some in vases on the tables, some in baskets placed here and there under and around the perimeter of the tent
My mother looked elegant in the beautiful black lace sheath, designed by Hattie Carnegie. It was the same dress that she had worn to the John Blaffer and Camilla Davis wedding in Dallas earlier that year. She looked beautiful! Since I had not been allowed to go to the wedding, I had been yearning to see her in this wonderful dress and today was my premiere viewing.
I was dressed in a very pale yellow yoke dress with knife pleats that hung from the yoke to about 1 inch above my knee. The yoke itself was embellished with dainty silk embroidered flowers. I wore white lace trimmed anklets and white Mary Jane shoes.
My mother was very proud that she had been accepted into this rather selective woman's group and was anxious to make a good impression. With me in-hand, my mother milled around speaking gently with the different ladies, I was busy taking it all in. I wanted to make a good impression too. One particularly elegantly dressed lady stopped and spoke with my mother. When the lady noticed me, she made a comment to my mother about how sweet I looked - or some such compliment. As she extended her hand to take my little hand in hers I spoke to her in a very loud voice. I'm NOT sweet! I'm tough! I'm plenty tough! I cut my teeth on a beer bottle.!
I'm not certain what the elegant lady said or what my mother said, how the luncheon ended or what happened after that moment. But, I do know that in that instant my mother decided that I would go to that convent school she had been thinking about. This was too much! My fate was sealed!
Sister Agustine and mother spoke of many things that afternoon; where to purchase the uniforms that all the girls were required to wear, the schedule of events, tuition, rules and regulations. My mind wandered while mother and Sister Agustine spoke. To be honest, I was frightened at all the strangeness. What would happen to me here? What would it be like? The school was beautiful, but it wasn't home. The nuns seemed to be nice, but they weren't my mom. After this day, my life changed forever and I changed too. Sometime during the next few years at the convent, I would loose Bunk and all that she was. I would become Patricia, Pat, Patricia Anne. And, although I would forever love adventure and stand fearless in the face of the unknown, I would never be Bunk again.
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Mornings at the convent began at 6:30 am. A bell would ring, lights would be turned on and 50 sleepy pajama-clad little girls would reluctantly climb out of bed, kneel obediently beside their beds, hands clasped, heads bowed. A nun stood at the door of each dormitory room and led the tosseled headed charges in the morning prayers.
Hail Mary full of grace...
Each dormitory held 10 girls, 10 cots, 10 night stands with one drawer, a small storage cupboard, and a towel rack and 10 closets, each with one bottom drawer. The closet held all our uniforms and blouses our one large drawer held our underwear and socks. The night stand accommodated our toothbrush, towels, wash cloths, bar soap, etc. The floor of the closet held our shoes and our laundry bag was held by a hook on the inside closet door. There was a strict schedule for waking up, brushing teeth, washing faces, taking baths, and getting dressed. At night there was a schedule for putting on our pajamas, and brushing our teeth. These activities were performed in the large community bathrooms that separated the 1st through 3rd grade dormitory room from the 4th and 5th grade dormitory. All our bathroom activities were monitored by an older resident of the convent. The youngest girls in the convent were monitored by the seventh and eighth grade girls in our preparations for school and preparations for bed.
After we were dressed for the day, we made up our beds, put our pajamas and toiletries away, and waited for the bell to ring for us to line up at the door to our dormitory room and wait for our monitor to lead us down the stairs and into the student dining room for breakfast. The dining room was large enough to accommodate 50 girls and 5 nuns. The nuns sat at a long table that ran the width of the room and was situated at the same end of the room as the doorway through which we entered. The students also ate at 4, 16 foot tables, that were placed lengthwise in the room. Five girls sat on each side and one older girl sat at one end. There were also two square tables that sat four. These two tables were reserved exclusively for eighth grade girls. Each student had an assigned seat for the entire school year.
We would enter the dining room single file. The lead girl was usually seated in the first seat of the far long table that ran the length of the room. She would enter the room cross in front of the nun's table and stand behind her chair with her back to the windows that opened out to the portico. The second girl in line would follow her and stand behind the second seat at the far table and so on until that table was completely filled. Our monitor sat at the end seat facing the nun's table. We all remained standing behind our chairs until all the students had entered the room and were standing behind their respective chairs. Then Sister Agustine would begin our formal day with In the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen while making the sign of the cross. Fifty little voices repeated all the prayers with Sister Agustine. At the end of the last prayer, we would again make the sign of the cross and we then took our seats. After we were seated, we placed our napkins on our laps and the Sisters from the kitchen would bring in our breakfast on large trays. Sometimes it was hot cereal with toast and jelly, sometimes hot cakes with syrup, other times scrambled eggs with toast and jelly, sometimes cold cereal with a fruit and toast.
If we spoke at all during our meal times, it had to be in very soft voices, and only if it was necessary. Meal time was for the most part - quiet.
After we finished eating, we rolled up our napkins and placed them in the napkin ring at the side of our plate. This napkin would be used for all three meals for the day and a new, clean napkin would appear the next morning for breakfast. The we placed our eating utensils diagonally across our plate or bowl and folded our hands in our laps.
At the end of breakfast we would again say prayers, afterward, the bell would ring and we would line up opposite of the way that we entered the dining room. The first girl who entered was the last girl in line with, of course, our monitor always at the front of our line of ten girls. The respective table monitor would march her charges to their class rooms and would wait at the doorway until all of her ten charges were quietly standing beside the desk to which they were assigned. That monitor would then leave for her class and the next monitor would watch as her charges filed into the room and stood beside their desk. When all the youngest girls were safely delivered to their classroom and standing quietly beside their desk, Sister would enter and begin the morning prayers before class.
Just for the record, we said prayers upon arising from our beds, before and after breakfast, before class, before recess, after recess, before leaving our classroom for lunch, before lunch, after lunch, upon returning to our classroom after lunch recess, before afternoon recess, after afternoon recess, before leaving our classroom at the end of the school day, before dinner, after dinner, and before bed. You count the times per day that we prayed - it was many times. We were 50 very holy girls, or the nuns were certainly trying to make us so if we weren't.
My first teacher at the Convent was Sister Camelus. She taught 1st, 2nd, and 3rd, grades in a large class room at the far left end of the building as you faced the front. There were probably 20 or so children in the classroom divided between the three grades. The room across the hall housed the 4th , 5th and 6th grades. The 7th and 8th grades were in a smaller room down the hall on the far side of the chapel toward the dining room.
We had class from about 8:00 until 10:00 and then a 15min or so recess in the morning. Lunch was at 12:00 noon and there was about a half hour recess after we ate our lunch. School was over at 2:30 or 3:00 in the afternoon.
About 8:30 or so a older student would come into each classroom with a list of names of those students
After school we lined up and marched upstairs to our respective dormitory rooms where we changed from our school uniform to play clothes and play shoes. After we changed into our play clothes, our school uniforms were hung neatly in our individual locker closets. After we were changed, our monitors came to the doorway, checked our dormitory to be certain that all was neat and clean, then led us single file down the stairs to the first floor and we were free to run, play, swing, see-saw, or whatever we wanted to do for at least two hours.
I had a special friend, Cherie Hall Duckworth. She had blond hair and blue eyes and was just a little chubby. We loved to see-saw. And we hardly ever tired of it. Every day that it wasn't raining we would run together to the see-saw at the far east end of the playground and climb aboard the seats for a long wonderful period of just gliding up and down and talking of whatever little girls of seven and eight speak of. Of course we both were going to be nuns when we grew up, so a lot of the talk must have been about what we would do when we became novices at the convent. Cherie Hall Duckworth was a wonderful friend. I often wonder whatever became of her.
At about 4:45 PM the bell would ring and we would all run from wherever we were on the playground to the back door of the kitchen that was located under a covered driveway at the far rear- right of the building . Out of the kitchen door would come Sister Benedict Joseph with a large tray of some sort of treat for us - fresh baked oatmeal cookies, cinnamon buns, a cup cake or whatever wonderful confectionary she could dream up for our afternoon snack. Whatever it was, however, was freshly baked and still warm from the oven, and deliciously wonderful.
After we had eaten our snack, it was time for all 50 girls to go into a long frame building that sat behind the convent proper and north of the main sidewalk that ran east and west behind the convent. This building was called the study hall. It had an old upright piano in one area, a library of sorts in another section, shelving with games and puzzles, a couple of couches and several rows of long utility tables with chairs. It was to these tables that we went for either studying, reading silently to ourselves, or doing research in the several sets of encyclopedias that were housed in the book shelves. It was also where the piano students went to practice their piano lessons at the time that was allotted to them on a carefully typed sheet that hung on the bulletin board that hung on the wall just to the right of the front door of the study hall. The flooring of the hall was covered with a linoleum.
For those of us whose parent's paid for piano lessons, once a week we were called from our class sometime during the school day to have our piano lesson upstairs on the second floor in a small piano studio. The lessons were taught by Sister Mary Augustine. Woe to that student that did not put in the proper amount of practice time to assure that they were well prepared for their lesson, which I seldom had. I hated to take time from see-sawing with Cherie or playing mass with my classmates to take time to practice. Many the day the old upright piano that stood in a nook in the study hall would stand silent during my assigned time to practice. Sometimes one of the older students, seeing that the piano was not being used for practice, would check the schedule, and bring me from wherever I was to the study hall to finish out my 1 hour scheduled practice time. And although the older student would not report my misadventures to Sister Augustine, my lessons were proof enough of my willful negligence.
Our dinner hour began at 6:00. The bell would ring and we would rush out to the line of sinks at one side of the study hall to wash our hands before dinner, then we would all line up along the sidewalk in order of our table seating with our monitors at the head of each table division in the line. When we were lined up and silent, we entered the rear door of the convent building and march in a straight line directly to our tables. The nuns would all be standing behind their chairs at the head table. When we were each one standing behind our respective chairs at our assigned table, Sister Agustine would begin our dinner prayer. In the Name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Amen
After dinner we would quietly march upstairs to our dormitories, some to bathe and some to wash our hands and faces, brush our teeth, and put on our pajamas. We had a roster for bathing. There were 4 enclosed bathtubs and at least as many sinks and toilet stalls in each lavatory. Our lavatory was shared by 20 girls, so, bathing had to be accomplished on a fixed schedule. Each girl got three tub baths per week, unless there was a special circumstance whereby someone needed to have an additional bath for some reason. On the days that we did not bathe in the bath tub, we took monkey baths in the sink. Once a week our hair was shampooed by our monitor bending over the bath tub and sticking our heads under the faucet.
The bedtime for the younger students was 7:30 pm. This meant everyone was to be kneeling by the side of their bed for the final prayer of the day. After our prayers we climbed into our beds and covered up. One of the nuns would come by to each bed and make certain that we were tucked in properly, tenderly touch our heads and smile a good night or a God Bless You. When all 20 little girls had been tucked in, the nun would walk to the door and turn out the light.
For awhile after our light was out, you could hear some activity from the other dormitories as the same ministrations went on for that flock of 20. At eight o'clock, the final bell was run for the seventh and eighth grade girls. Then, finally, the last drawer was shut, the water could no longer be heard running, the final door shut, the last light turned out and all was quiet. It was time to dream or maybe think of your mother and dad. Wonder where they were and what they were doing and wish, with all your heart that you were with them.
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Once a week, the nuns in the kitchen would make the Holy Eucharist or altar bread. There were to kitchen appliances that look somewhat like large waffle irons. One of the waffle irons made large altar breads for the priests and one of the waffle irons make altar breads for the communicants attending the daily mass. The batter, which was thin and runny, was poured into the large waffle irons and cooked for a few minutes until the altar bread was ready. It was then popped out of the waffle irons and then the edges around the round hosts were meticulously snapped off and discarded. It was these discarded bits of altar bread that plays a main role in my next story- Playing Mass and Nuns
The little girls in the lower grades were all, without exception, going to be a Sister of the Incarnate Word and Blessed Sacrament when we grew up. Therefore, we dispensed with playing house as most little girls did at this age and we played nuns that prayed and went to mass. Our props for this game were our bathrobes, hand towels for the veils we wore, our rosaries, and our little missals.
We need first, however, to ask permission to go upstairs to our dormitory and don our bathrobes, affix our hand towels over our heads, string our rosaries through our bathrobe belt at our right side, and secure our missals. Then we would head down stairs, in masse, and knock politely at the kitchen door to ask Sister in the kitchen to let us have some of the holy communion scraps. Who could resist the dutiful little nuns who were preparing for mass? Sister would oblige us with our little scrapes of the holy bread (not yet bless by the priest, of course) in some sort of small container that would serve later as the chalice at our pretend mass. After we received the Eucharist scraps we would march in single file along the side walk, pass the laundry, pass the study hall, and straight to the set of bleachers which had been set for years overlooking a portion of the play yard, but had never been used for any sporting event that I knew of, since we had no sporting events at the convent.
As we walked along the sidewalk, the girl that had been chosen to be the priest walk at the head of the line holding the container of Eucharist. The rest of us walked with heads bowed, reading our missals - or as we said, saying our office,in mimicry of the sisters who would, each evening, walk along the lovely gardens of the convent, heads bowed, reading their prayer books in a deep devotion. So there we were, several little girls in various colored chenille bath robes, with our white hand towels on our bowed heads, reading and praying from our little missals walking behind our bath-robed priest to holy mass at the bleachers.
There was some sort of table that could be easily moved near the area of the bleachers. This table was the altar. Since the girl who was priest did not have to use her hand towel as a veil, her hand towel was laid across the table as an altar cloth. The priest would stand dutifully behind the table as the nuns would file into the rows of the bleachers, and then kneel on the board where the feet would normally go, resting our folded hands on the seat of the bleacher. We rarely took up more than the first row - not everyone was in to mass in the afternoon.
In the Name of the Father, the priest would begin. Then we would be led in several prayers that we all knew by heart, and if we were lucky, our chosen priest could read some of the prayers from the missal that she had at the altar. After the prayers, the priest would walk to the bleachers, and distribute Holy Communion to the little nuns kneeling at the bleacher altar rail.
After mass the priest would lead us again from the bleacher, along the side walk, and back to the kitchen, where we would dutifully give Sister the left over Eucharists. Then we would as permission from one of the nuns to return to our dormitory to remove our bathrobes and put away our hand towels so we would be ready for the afternoon snacks at 4:45.