My mother, Inez (known by friends and family as Ines) Ulalah Chilton Sheppard, was born to Albert and Jettie Chilton on Thursday, February 18th, 1909 in Stokes County, North Carolina.
Mama, as my sisters and I always called her, was the youngest of seven children. It has always been an interesting fact to me that my mother, the youngest of seven, married my father who was the oldest of seven, and that the oldest of my mother's sisters eventually became the mother-in-law to the youngest of my father's brothers. In fact, several of my aunts are also my first cousins through intermarriage between these two families.
I have never been able to either spell or pronounce Mama's middle name, Ulalah. I have no idea how her parents ever came by such a name, my having heard it used by no one else even in the farming community in which we all grew up. I usually have avoided using it, like my own middle name, Leake. In fact, for some period of time when I was young I substituted for my middle name "Lee" instead, especially when a girl asked what my middle initial stood for. I never knew Mama to do that about her middle name, but then again being a married woman she had Chilton to fall back on.
Mama was spoiled by her parents. I believe that she freely admitted this. She was probably very cute, very lovable, and considered special in the eyes of her aging parents having come along late in life. All her childhood memories from what I have been told were happy ones.
One favorite memory of hers was the time when she and her father took a train north to visit relatives. It lasted a week or more I suppose and whenever she remembers it, she always does so with a smile of great contentment and a definite sparkle in her eye. Invariably, she accompanies the story with the remark that her father was the very best dad ever. He apparently loved her very much and treated her like a princess.
Mama met her future husband, my father, when they were in elementary school. The school house was I believe in Asbury and was a one-room affair serving a variety of grades. My parents liked each other early and never looked back. When they were old enough to date, they did; and when they were old enough to marry, they did -- on Monday, December 26th, 1927. They were the very best of friends and lovers until by father died in 1990.
Daddy decided to try his new barber license in the big city of Winston-Salem and so they moved there into a small apartment. In the same apartment building was a German family I believe who often invited my parents to delicious dinners of rich foods. Mama was rather slim when she married but probably began to add a few pounds during their stay in Winston.
Mama probably did little except stay around the apartment all day while Daddy went to work. With many opportunities for boredom, having grown up very close to her large family (and pampered by them), I expect that she began to work on Daddy to take her back to the farm. Her brother Jim also helped to move events along since he was also close to his sister.
In time they arranged to purchase 42 acres of the family farm from her brother Floyd Chilton. There was a house on the property too, not very nice but livable. They moved into this house, planted a crop of tobacco and in the fall, made less money than they spent. Nevertheless, together my parents began to carve out a living on that piece of land which supported them for the remainder of their long lives.
Within a few years my oldest sister and their first child, Patsy, was born on Monday, December 28, 1931 and on that day, the young wife became a mother. Her second child, Phoebe, was born on Monday, January 4, 1937. (I also was born on Monday and my parents married on Monday.)
My mother suffered a bout of depression during the period of time just prior to my birth, spending a lot of time crying. She suffered two miscarriages between the births of Phoebe and me which may have contributed to the ailment. My sisters have remarked that they frequently would have to leave the house just to relieve themselves of the emotional strain of being around her. They comment very favorably on Daddy's kindness and patience during this time, as all other times. Finally, she was admitted to the Baptist Hospital where she underwent shock therapy in an attempt to snap her back to normality. She was in a room in the psychiatric wing with another patient who was in worse condition than she. The totality of the experience served to improve her condition considerably.
The storm clouds lifted just prior to my birth and my mother returned to her old self. Being born to my mother at the age of 42 after such a dark period in her life and being her only son, I suspect, as my sisters have hinted, that I may have received some extra special treatment from her, but I know she loved us all the same as have been evidenced by a lifetime of activities toward all her family.
My memories regarding my mother is of unbroken contentment and happiness. In this day of so many broken families, I wish everyone could experience what I did.
I lived within the same house with my parents from birth until I moved to Winston-Salem at the age of 29. Throughout all those years and for all the years afterwards, I always felt wanted, appreciated, and loved. I was the object of her compassion and tenderness. I, along with the rest of the family, was served magnificient country meals which to the day I die will bring a smile to my lips at the quality and quantity. I was always beaconed to eat and to eat plenty. In the country it was a sign of hospitality to provide food for others and my mother always did it in a grand way.
I always felt welcome and at peace, and never once in my life did I sense that I was an inconvience to her or her lifestyle for even a moment. I sometimes wonder how children feel when, with today's busy parents, kids are often deposited with relatives or day care centers or multi-week summer camps or hotel playrooms, etc. while the parents go off to their own activities. I was never made to feel insecure by my parents, and never made to feel that I was cramping their lifestyles. They treated me, and I'm sure my sisters as well, as special gifts from God. I would not begin to know how to repay them for this priceless feeling they have left with me, except to emulate it with my own children in some worthy measure.
When I was around ten years old, my mother and I would often take day trips to wonderful places on Saturday while my father worked in Stuart, VA as a barber. One frequent destination was Mt. Airy. For a country boy this was a wonderful experience which presented all manner of activities, especially a movie theater. Daddy would typically drive us up in the early morning on his way to work. He would then swing back by about 5pm to pick us up.
Besides the movie theater, there was a large drugstore that had a diner near the back. Metal stools, a lot of them, with vinyl cushions beaconed me to mount one and spin back and forth. There were glass cases of pies on the counter, along with large glass containers of sugar with metal tops with a flipper pourer. Matching salt and pepper shakers and paper napkin dispensers added to the excitement and anticipation.
For whatever reason, I ordered the same thing every time: a toasted cheese sandwich. I rarely ate toasted cheese sandwiches at home and didn't even know how one would go about making such a thing. But here, they had the equipment and the people whose job it was to make them perfectly. Plus, there were the bonuses which could not be usually assembled at home.
The white bread was buttered, cheese was added, perhaps even mayonnaise, and the whole thing was placed onto an aluminum foil toaster bed and the similarly covered lid was pulled down to begin the process. While that part of the meal was toasting, a clean plate was retrieved from a stack of clean plates and placed onto the worktable. The person reached into a gigantic bag of potato chips and extracted a large handful. Next a serving-size spoon or fork was used to dip into a mammoth pickle jar to fetch a bunch of sliced bread and butter pickles. These items were carefully arranged on the plate leaving just enough room for the cheese sandwich. The toaster lid was lifted revealing a golden brown product which then was removed and sliced diagonally and placed perfectly onto the plate. The plate was set before me along with a fountain Coke. The moment could not have been improved upon.
Mama worked in the fields alongside the other family members. As lunchtime neared she would quit the fields and head to the kitchen to begin to prepare a large luncheon for her family and the other field hands. As a youngster I was always envious when she left while I still had to slap away tobacco bugs in the hot sun. Of course I knew nothing of hot stoves and steam and other such incidences of cooking, and so in my naivete, I was somewhat envious.
I cannot describe the shear pleasure of hearing the words from Daddy, "Dinner's ready!" On the farm, "lunch" was a city term and so the better term "dinner" was substituted. "Supper" was the evening meal. "Dinner" was probably more appropriate due to both the size and variety of the meal set before us.
The anticipation while we washed up was joyful. First we washed in kerosene to remove the tobacco gum, then in soap and water to remove the kerosene before sitting down to the table.
Spread out on the clean tablecloth before us were large colorful bowls of green beans, crowder peas, creamed corn or corn-on-the-cob, baked or fried apples, hot biscuits and cornbread, fresh butter, molasses, honey, and pear preserves. Waiting on a table nearby were hot cobbler pies of either peach, strawberry, or apple. To wash it all down was ice cold milk, buttermilk, tea, and coffee.
We all ate ravenously until we were full and well satisfied. The men then sat and rested while the women worked in the kitchen to begin the clean-up process. I expect that they sometimes rested at the same time the men did. It sounds unfair, and it was, but some justification was realized when the men went back into the hot sun and fields while the women (or just Mama if no other women were present) lingered behind in the coolness of the house. It didn't last of course as they joined the men later on.
My mother always insisted that her children attend the various family reunions which were held at several local churches. The two key ones were the Sheppard and Chilton reunions. The Sheppard Reunion was traditionally held at Asbury Presbyterian Church. The Chilton Reunion was held at the Friends Church in Westfield. These reunions, especially the Chilton reunion, harbored tables which were ladened with everything conceivable that was capable of holding fat or sugar. Every dish was heavy and delicious. There was laughter and sometimes singing and much talk. I always enjoyed having went and seldom looked forward to going. I think it was just the anticipation of having to endlessly repeat one's recent life to each and every person. As Mama loved to talk and hear talk, she of course loved these get-togethers. There was NO talk of not going in her presence.
Mama was very good at cooking, quilting, cleaning house, food preparation, asking people to stay and eat, and sad to see people leave after a visit, especially her children. She enjoyed being with people (especially of course Daddy and her children), going shopping, reunions, reading the newspaper (a habit she acquired from her father), watching TV, and talking over the phone with friends and relatives.
