Barbara Ferren - The Lemonade Stand

The Lemonade Stand

If life gives you lemons, make lemonade

Barbara Ferren

Copyright 2005 Barbara Ferren. Illustrations by Diane Lucas (Lucas Illustration)

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ISBN: 978-1-4122-3290-6 (ebook)

ISBN 1-4120-5070-7

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Contents

Calvin and Johnny, I have made this journey, with both of you in my heart always. Although, we were lost to one another for so long, the bond we have is much stronger than the fear we have known. I love you both very much. See you in the woods! To my children, you are the inspiration that gave me the courage to complete my journey. Mike and Darlene, thank you for your support and your love. We will walk into the future together.

In Loving Memory
Reverend Mack R. Ferren
1925-2005

Ne vieillissez jamais

To feel someone s pain, you must first, experience it

O NCE WHEN I WAS YOUNGER, a very old friend told me, If life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

At the time, I didnt quite understand what this old saying meant but as Ive gotten older, it makes perfect sense to me now. Im sure this saying means different things to all of us but to me its an analogy that Ive learned to live with, and one that took me from a terrible place to where Im at today. More appropriately, I grew up in a chaotic household, and because I had nothing to compare it to, I accepted it as the lot that I was given.

I was born in San Bernardino, California, on September 7 th 1947, and when my parents brought me home from the hospital my first bed was a fruit crate, a kind of wooden box used to put fruit in. My father had migrated to San Bernardino, California, to find work because this was post World War II, and there was no work to be found in Oklahoma for him. During the war he, and my mother, worked at Tinker Air Force Base, in Oklahoma City, building aircraft for the war effort in Europe.

During these times, there was plenty of work for people but after, nothing. It was with this that my father decided to come out to California, hoping to find a better life. My mother, pregnant with me, followed out later by train along with my two brothers, Calvin, and Johnny.

Lois Ray Hanks

Probably the best place to begin my story, and the pathos that followed, would be at the beginning when my mother met my father at a country fair, down by a lake in their home state of Arkansas. Mom was born in the Ozark woods, around Batesville, Arkansas, in a cabin with four brothers and sisters, and theirs was a picture of true southern living, in a time when the United States was reeling from the great depression.

Although she came from a poor southern background, its not as though hers was a poor life like so many people perceive of southerners deep down in the woods of Arkansas. Southern living is made up of country woods, intertwining creeks, caves, and changing colors so beautiful in the fall, that its dazzling to the eye. The changing colors of the Ozarks are so beautiful, that people from all over come just to see this spectacular sight, in the fall, when the leaves begin changing.

Theres a wonderful picture of my aunts and their friends, cascaded across an old bridged log. If youve been raised in the city, youll never be able to understand the depth of the country, and the people who inhabit a mystical place that has inspired some of the greatest stories ever written. A time and place where youre a part of your surroundings, and you derive both peace and inspiration from the sights and sounds, of the south.

The music of the countryBluegrass with its rich and compelling storytelling of a people who came from a place that began in Europe, and came to rest in a new country called America. Bluegrass is a blend of European instruments and melodies that brings forth both happiness, and gut-wrenching feelings of all human beings meshed by the salt of the earth.

My mother was a girl who didnt live by the conventional standard of most country girls in the early twenties. She was very much into her education and after high school she went to college, and graduated with an English Major. She wrote poetry, and at the age of fifteen, wrote a beautiful poem called,

Wild Geese

Her composition was very much in the style of Robert Frost the American Poet. Her poem, Wild Geese, was published in the local newspaper so this made her a celebrity of sorts. Ive gone through her memory box, and found poetry and letters that she had written when she was young. One, to a pen pal in Mexico, was especially striking. He was a handsome young man who looked a lot like Ricardo Montalban, the famous actor.

A young girl from the Ozarks would have had to be enchanted by his dark brown wavy hair combed back from his face, and his dark brown eyes with such depth. The letters to, and from him, were not filled with any romantic notions; but more of two cultures coming together and teaching each other English and Spanish.

Mom showed very early on in her life that she was different from southern thinking surrounding ethnicity. She did not fall into the trap of hatred toward other ethnic groups. Can something that is beautiful have ugliness to it? Yes, I believe it can. Just as a rose can have a scent so aromatic and beautiful to the eye, it can also have thorns that can prick so as to bring forth pain, and ugliness. My maternal grandmother was a true bigot and although she came from southern roots and deep religious beliefs, she exuded hatred of people who were not like her, and she tried to extend this to her children. My mother grew up turning her back on her roots, and this bigotry; separating herself from what she was taught, and insulating herself from something both beautiful, and painful.

I dont know what my mother and father saw in each other because thats really in the eye of the beholder, but their attraction must have been mutual enough to get married when they were twenty, and twenty-one. Probably, what happened next is the real beginning of my story.

They had been married for only three years when their first child was born and at that time, they were living in some back rooms of my grandfathers house.

My mother wrote:

Your fathers abuse of you children began about this time.

One night, I was holding your brother Calvin in my arms to console his crying, when your father walked up, and slapped my baby in the face. I slapped him back, so in a way, I struck the first blow. He chased me outside, hit me, and tore the collar off my coat.