SANDRA WALDROP DOOLITTLE AND MEMORIES FROM MY GUEST WRITER BRENDA BROWN

Brenda S. Brown grew up in Georgia, thirty-six miles south of Columbus, and writes about her memories of growing up in the south. She resides in Baldwin County, near Milledgeville, with Otto, her husband of forty years. They have two grown sons and daughters by marriage, Scott and Kimberly Brown and Arlin and Brenda Brown, and four grandchildren; Joshua, Caleb, Catherine and Christen.

S &H Green Stamps

Long before priority points, frequent flyer miles, and in-store customer discount cards, an innovative strategy that was designed to garner and maintain customer loyalty, was presented to the public. Today the practice is recognized as a pioneering giant in the world of commercial promotions.

The unusual purchasing phenomenon, which continues to promise a comeback, caused women in particular, to participate in a silly-looking lick and stick activity, sometimes for hours. If you don't remember S&H Green Stamps, then you must have been residing in a synthetic orb.

The Sperry &Hutchinson Company began the distribution of S&H Green Stamps in 1896, and during its heyday, the company was printing three times more stamps than the postal service. The practice became so popular that in 1965, Andy Warhol captured the likeness in a lithograph.

The purchaser earned a unit for each ten cents expended; in the beginning our local merchants only dispensed stamps in denominations of one, ten, and twenty. Then later they began distributing a fifty stamp, and finally a one hundred. Rather than wasting time pasting single stamps, a fifty unit filled a page, a one hundred validated two pages; twelve hundred points completed a quick-saver book.

Nanny carefully studied the full-color catalog, which was possibly the largest single publication in the country, and eagerly anticipated our excursion to the redemption center in Albany, to collect her rewards. If she came up short, I managed to transfer my reserve collection to her accumulated stacks, to make up the difference.

During the heyday of hoarding points, it is estimated that eighty percent of households saved coupons. The more merchandise purchased, the larger the reward; businesses used the vouchers to maintain customer loyalty. Over the years Nanny traded stamps for a shiny toaster, a star shaped ornamental wall clock, and a set of gourmet kitchen knives. Each treasure delivered great satisfaction and years of enjoyment; in fact after she passed away I discovered countless books of stamps stockpiled in her hope chest.

This is an interesting trivial fact, although a complete book of stamp has a cash value of only a dollar and twenty cents, the trade-in value is immeasurable. There is a law guaranteeing that they will never lose their value; consequently they can still be traded for cash or merchandise.

Visiting Nanny's House

The furniture that adorned Nanny's house was basically the same as we use today; any substantial difference was in the name by which it was called. Rather than being selected for magnificent beauty, the earlier versions were generally utilitarian and fashioned to last for generations. Pieces were handmade, inherited, or purchased from neighbors, but rarely acquired commercially.

In the early years, there were only two closets in the spacious farmhouse at the Scott place, and both storage areas were small in size. Because the closets were tiny, clothing items were kept in what she called a chiffarobe. The piece is smaller than an armoire, and equipped with a rod for hanging clothes, a small vanity mirror, and several drawers.

Individuals living in the country utilized wooden blanket chests, but Nanny was considered lucky to be the owner of an authentic cedar chest. Because the strong woody odor discouraged varmints from invading the contents, she accumulated valuable belongings and secreted them in the timbered coffer. That cherished piece, complete with a custom-made tray that fit in the top, was where she stored priceless heirlooms. As a little girl, I begged to glance into the chest, because it was filled with treasures. After being instructed not to touch, I peered into what she called her hope chest, and dreamed of one day examining the contents.

The entryway of my great-grandmother's boarding house was once adorned with a hall-tree; the tall piece of oak furniture has hooks on which to hang coats, gloves, sunbonnets and caps. A hidden compartment, that appears to be an ordinary seat, was storage for household tools, shoe shining equipment, and whisk-brooms. It was one of the only pieces of furniture that was moved during the late 1920s, from the rooming house in Fayetteville, to the farm in southwest Georgia.

A sizeable storage cupboard that was painted white, but had faded to gray occupied one corner of Nanny's kitchen; today it's identified as a primitive pie-safe. Although the outside finish needed attention, the inside of the cabinet was customarily filled with cakes and pastries declared good enough to delight a connoisseur. As a child I believed that it contained an endless supply of delicious tasting tea-cake cookies.

The dining room was the permanent location of Nanny's china closet. She and her mother collected glass serving pieces over the years and displayed it behind those sparkling-clean glass doors. Although they didn't consider their collection to be valuable, it included fine Buffalo china, and emerald-green beverage containers distributed by the Tetley Tea Company. It's hard to believe, but most of the objects were given away by merchants, in exchange for purchases of certain commodities.

From my earliest memories, I never wondered what might happen to the possessions that were so valued by our grandparents; there was no doubt that the pieces held too much sentimental value to be sold, damaged, or discarded. Brother David and I, and our family members, take copious care of the objects that we are trusted to preserve.

Here is my memory of visiting Wells Dairy Bar.

David Sanford Mayo was my maternal grandfather. He was the father of two daughters, and along with his wife, managed the movie theatre in downtown Dawson. Sadly, he died unexpectedly when the girls were still teenagers, passing away at thirty-nine years old, from a massive heart attack.

Leeila Mayo Marshall, my maternal grandmother, lived alone for several years after his death, and worked as a senior bookkeeper in Dawson, and then transferred to Albany. Later, when I was five years old, she married Dave Marshall, and they bought a home in a quiet neighborhood north of Columbus, which became part of the campus of Columbus State University.

In their house was an unusual space called the sleeping-porch. I never remember spending the night in there, but I thought that the name was unique. There was a large ceiling fan that kept the area cool, even on the hottest evenings. The space was surrounded with shuttered windows that could be opened to catch a soft summer breeze. There was a small space heater in the corner area, but the room was too cold to occupy during the winter months.

Our family enjoyed visiting with them in Columbus; mamma made a generous dish of potato salad, and some deviled eggs, to share for dinner. I remember the heavy amber colored container that she used to transport the salad, and the clear cut-glass dish designed especially for eggs. Both containers were heavy, and the amber dish had a matching glass top.

Grandmother fried chicken, cooked vegetables, made buttermilk biscuit, and we shared a fine southern meal. When the table was cleared and the kitchen was clean, everyone settled down to rest and leisurely enjoy the Ledger-Enquire newspaper. Late in the afternoon we drove several miles across town to the Wells Dairy Company. The business was located in the Wynnton district; in fact the large gray building was situated at the corner of Brown Avenue and Wynnton Road.

In the back of the large building, they processed dairy products, but in the front area was where we visited the dairy bar. During the weekend, the area was packed with hungry people in search of an ice-cream delight.

Shiny partitions surrounded the preparation section; orders were placed at the front counter and customers waited while the ladies prepared the desserts. I was too short to see over the tall counter so I peeped through the openings between the partitions. As we stretched our legs and waited for our order to be completed, we enjoyed viewing colorful pictures of the many frozen delights. We studied the photographs, and made plans for our next visit to dessert heaven. One of the most ordered items was the deluxe size banana split, which was large enough to feed several hungry patrons.

This is just one of the fond memories acquired while as a youngster, visiting that glorious city known as Columbus, Georgia.

Brenda S. Brown

One thing about reading other's memories is that they bring back memories of your own.

I was reading about Brenda's grandmother and I thought about my own mamaw. Mamaw was born in 1874 in Girard, Alabama. She was one of those Southern Ladies who would hold her cup of tea with two fingers and her little finger straight out.

One of the stories that was told about Mamaw was she was inside the house at 1139 13th Street reading and there was a commotion going on outside. The black lady who helped Mamaw with her house cleaning walked in and asked if the Gentleman outside could have some water. Mamaw wanted to know who he was. The lady told her she didn't know who he was and asked her did she want her to go and find out. Mamaw said," No I will ask him myself". The house sat high on the hill near the corner of 13 th street and 13th Ave. Mamaw walked down her wooden steps and then down the cement steps to the street.

Mamaw approached a man that was sitting in an army jeep with a couple of officers from Fort Benning. She looked them over and then wanted to know why they were stopped at her house. They told her they were planning to meet the others closer to town. They also told her they were going to be in a parade in Columbus. "Why", she asked, one of the men spoke up and said," this is Gen. George S. Patton and the Parade is for him and he is thirsty, he wanted to stop here before the Parade began."

Mamaw told them, " You are welcome to all the water you need, but when you are through please clear my drive way, my children and grandchildren are about to arrive for lunch and you are blocking my driveway." So with this, Gen. Patton and the men in the jeeps drank their water and moved on.

It was not until the next day that the children and grandchildren found out that the man their mother and grandmother had given water to was Gen. Patton. When they told Mamaw who Gen. Patton was, she replied, "Well that's well and good but he didn't have to block my driveway."

The formation of the Armored Force in 1940, Gen. Patton was transferred to the Second Armored Division at Fort Benning, Georgia and named Commanding General on April 11, 1941. Two months later, Patton appeared on the cover of Life magazine. Also during this time, Patton began giving his famous "Blood and Guts" speeches in an amphitheater he had built to accommodate the entire division

Gen. Patton meant many things to many people, but to my Mamaw, he was just the man who blocked her Drive way. Until later on her own son, Nathan Cyrus Richardson, served in the United State's Army. She didn't know who Gen. Patton really was at that time. Then Gen. Patton and all the Generals, she had read about in the newspapers had a different meaning to her. But in the early 1940s, Mamaw didn't know who Gen. George S. Patten was.

Thank you for letting me share my memories with you all,

Sandra