It’s February 17, 2023, it’s a cold day in Pennsylvania, so it’s time to get back to writing again.

As I have previously said, I was the youngest of four in our family, with George being six years older. So, during the school year, I was home alone with Mother each day, and living out in the country as we did, I never had a playmate outside our family. That didn’t bother me since I didn’t know any different and was quite happy with my imagination and all that I could do around the farm. I didn’t realize until many years later what a blessing I had in George, and the way he would patiently allow me to tag along with whatever he was doing. He was a great influence, and I learned so many things by observing him and his instruction. I learned to hunt with him, utilizing our .22 caliber rifle and 16 gauge shotgun. He showed me how to skin squirrels and dress robins and blackbirds for Mother to cook. He invested in oil-painting supplies, which I later used to try my hand at art painting, and led me to choose art class in Junior High. He also bought tools for working in leather craft, which I also did in my mid-teens, making and selling purses, wallets, belts, and Bible covers. The only thing that I had no desire to follow was his affinity for tinkering with automobiles.He also had a very quick wit and was always coming up with some statement or response that would have the family laughing. I remember one of his jokes on me was when we were sitting at the table and I would take a drink. As I had the drink to my mouth he would say “spoosh”, and without fail I would start to laugh, while trying to avoid spewing liquid all over the place. While I tried to regain my composure, he would simply sit there with a big smile on his face! But, I remember once when the joke was on him when we were out with the pigs and he decided to try riding one of the larger sows. As soon as he jumped on the pigs back it took off fast and immediately ran between two trees. It turned out that there was only enough space between the trunks for the pig, such that George’s knees hit the trees, scraping him off the pig and onto the ground. It was hysterical to me, but he ended up with some very sore knees! It was most rewarding having an older brother like him.

The consequences of growing up as I did became evident when it was time for me to start school. Prior to starting first grade, I had no interaction with other children my age, save some cousins that I saw three or four times a year. And I knew no other children in the area around our town of Vidor, Texas. When time came for that first day of school, I was not ready. In fact, it turned out to be one of the most traumatic days of my life! Mother and George escorted me to school that morning, and as soon as we entered the building I started to cry. We sat for quite a while outside the classrooms, with both of them trying to console and distract me, while I sobbed continuously. I was fortunate to have a very patient elderly lady as my teacher, who allowed me to quietly cry on and off throughout that day. George came by the room to get me after school and take me with him to the school bus. The next morning was more of the same until Mother decided to accompany me to school and sit in the back of the room through the day. She had to do that for a couple of days, until I began to settle in to the routine. My teacher was wonderful, allowing me to help her with various little tasks, like cleaning blackboard erasers and handing out materials to the class. I really didn’t know how to, or desire to introduce myself to other children, so I would just observe their interaction among themselves. I can’t remember how long it took to make my first friend, or whom it was. I can remember boys discussing plans for getting together on the weekend. I didn’t particularly want to join them, but I felt very much alone.

We had a large and very rural school district, so there were a lot of busses that were parked in the school lot every afternoon. I was afraid of not being able to find my bus, so I expected George to meet me and lead me to the bus. However, he was already in Junior High, and his last class of the day let out about thirty minutes after mine. His class was in a small two room building behind the elementary building, so I learned how to go to his room to wait for him. His teacher allowed me to enter and sit with George until class dismissed. There were a couple of girls in his class that thought I was so cute and would want me to sit with them as well. I didn’t mind the attention at all. Then, one day, I showed up at his room to find it empty. His class had gone to the library that day. I didn’t know what to do but sit on the steps and wait, but they never returned. Eventually, I wandered out to look for him at the busses, but the busses were all gone!! I stood around crying until a janitor saw me. The superintendent of schools had a residence on the school grounds and the janitor took me there. Of course, with four Nauck children in attendance, he knew our family well and where we lived, so he took me home. I was seriously reprimanded for causing such a situation and the next day I was taught how to find my bus! Whether I liked it or not, I was on my own at school for the duration!

I eventually made some friends and accepted the fact that school was inevitable, but I never developed a fondness for it. In fact, I hated school until I reached Junior High School and had a number of close friends. Even so, I never liked school work or studying, and only really enjoyed the extra-curricular activities, all of which carried over throughout college. It was not until I was in the Army at Artillery School that I finally truly enjoyed the learning process!

I have previously written about my early childhood, but there are so many more memories of growing up in the 1950’s. There were many times hanging around Daddy’s shop watching him doing his auto work and observing the radiator mechanics. I could always find used parts like the auto brake cylinders, springs, and gaskets that I could re-imagine in the sand pile, and the steel ball bearings from wheel bearings, which made great “steelies” for playing marbles in the sand at school recess. Since Daddy worked on Saturday’s until noon, I would often go with him and walk into downtown Beaumont where the “Jefferson” and “Peoples” movie theaters were. Every Saturday morning was kid’s day, where for twenty-five cents, I could spend all morning watching cartoons, movie “serials” and a feature movie. And a nickel would buy a box of Junior Mints to enjoy. Daddy would come into the theater and pick me up when he was finished with work. Occasionally, the family would pack into our car and go to one of the drive-in theaters, if the mosquitoes weren’t too bad. I remember times when a truck would drive up and down the drive-in spraying a fog of mosquito repellent to make things more pleasant. The odor was a lot better than the pesky insects!! I can’t help but wonder now, what the long term health effects might have been from breathing those chemicals! We routinely used DDT and Chlordane around our home; both of which have now been banned from use.

One of the activities that I loved was going crabbing. There were several places that we would go, but my favorite spot was a sand bar on Cow Bayou. To catch crabs, we tied one end of a string around a piece of slab bacon and the other end to a stick anchored in the sand. Then the bacon was thrown into the water and after a minute or two we would slowly pull it out onto the bank, almost always with a blue-claw crab hanging on tightly. We would knock it off into a wash-tub and repeat the process over and over. With several pieces of bacon, it would only take a couple hours to collect a lot of crabs. Aside from the fun of catching them, the eating was the best! We had a brick barbecue pit in a side yard near the house where we would build a fire and put crabs in a large pot to boil them. We used plier-like pecan crackers to break open the claws and shells to get to the meat. Delicious!!

Armadillos were a scourge to our flower beds, and George and I would chase and shoot them as often as we could. Once we chased one to it’s burrow near my grandparent’s house. My grandfather told us to dig it out and he would cook it for us. We were able to find it and kill it. Papa cleaned it and cut the meat out of the shell, and Mama fried it. The meat was very white and “tasted like chicken”! It would be the only time we did that, because getting the meat out of that armor was an ordeal, and not worth the effort with all the other animals we had to eat. It was a great once-in-a-lifetime event.

There were times when one of our cows would die, as well as our horses, Buster and Snips. We had no means of digging holes large enough to bury them, so our only choice was to drag the corpses out into the big field between our place and my grandparent’s. We had a 1938 International pick-up truck that we used to drag them into place and then drive around the edge of the woods, gathering loads of dead wood and dried debris to pile on top of the animal. After wetting the pile with gasoline, we would torch it, creating a huge hot blaze that would burn for most of the day, and completely eliminate the carcass. It was kind of sad, because we grew attached to our animals, but it was part of the life cycle on the farm, and we were accustomed to it.

At Christmas, when I was eight years old, Mother and Daddy gave me a new Huffy 24 inch bicycle. I didn’t know how to ride yet because all we had were larger adult bikes. Unfortunately, my sister had given me a two-gun holster set that I had longed for, and it was the first thing that I noticed under the tree. They had to call my attention to the bike leaning against the wall, and I dismissed it summarily! I’m sure that they were very disappointed, but they didn’t make a big deal of my reaction. Time went by without my interest in riding until springtime, when Mother tried to help me learn to balance on it. After several days of trying, I eventually took a spill and ended up with the end of the handlebar punching me squarely in the stomach. And that was the end of riding lessons; I wanted nothing to do with that bike! It reminds me of Charlie Brown’s Snoopy and the folding chair!! So, during the summer of that year, one of my cousins visited on a Sunday afternoon, and rode my bike all around our driveway and yard. I was quietly ashamed that my girl cousin could ride and I couldn’t! So, on the following morning I took that bike out to our front gate and began trying to coast down the slight incline of our driveway. Holding my feet out to the sides to keep from falling over, I slowly developed my sense of balance, and by that afternoon I was riding like a pro!! Mother didn’t know what I had done until I proudly showed her. I can’t imagine how happy she must have felt. She and I would spend many hours riding up and down the highway. I had no idea of the freedom that bike would give me to roam beyond our property, and I had put many, many miles on it before I had outgrown it!

From the time I could remember, I was afraid of the dark. I would go just about anywhere in the daylight, but I would not be caught outside by myself at night. My imagination of all sorts of bad things out there was robust, but the fact that there were wild animals in the woods solidified my fears. I was willing to venture out with someone, and especially if they carried a light, but I still kept my guard up against anything lurking in the shadows! Even when I was in bed, when the lights went out, I would cover my head with the bed sheet. I suppose that I reasoned, if I can’t see them, they can’t see me. I can remember a night when a screech owl decided to camp out in a tree over our bedroom. It seemed like hours that I endured the horrifying screams, while I lay curled in a fetal position. I could imagine a black panther lurking outside, searching for an open window to leap through to devour me.

Such fears were, no doubt, reinforced by actual events, such as the evening when our family was gathered around our dining table playing games, when there was a sudden banging on the back porch door next to where we were sitting. Daddy jumped up and looked out upon a man in a tattered naval uniform, pleading for help. Daddy opened the door and ushered him to a chair. His clothes were ripped, wet, and dirty, his face and hands covered with scratches, and a look of terror in his eyes. Mother got him a glass of water and a washcloth as he told his story. He had been on leave and was hitch-hiking back to his naval base. A man had given him a ride, but pulled a gun on him and threatened to kill him. He had jumped out of the car as it slowed for a curve a mile from our house. He ran into the woods and kept running until he saw the lights from our house. At that time, there were no other houses on our stretch of road for that mile. He had made his way through some of the densest forest filled with brambles. I don’t recall what happened after that. I’m not certain if we had a telephone at that time; I was still very young. If we couldn’t call for help, Daddy may have taken him somewhere. Gladly, that was the most unnerving thing we ever had happen.

Even living so remote, on a major US route, we never locked our doors at night; I don’t recall locking them when we were away from home. As a young child, it was quite common to see men, who were referred to as “hoboes” at the time, walking along Highway 90, and occasionally have one come to the house and ask Mother for a glass of water, or even something to eat. I never saw her turn anyone away, and we never had any issues with them. Before I was born, a lady by the name of Golphy and her young daughter stopped in as they walked the road to wherever they were going across the country. They had all their possessions in a wheelbarrow and Mother took a photo of them (which I posted on my 1930’s photo page).