Remember When: hemlines, baptisms, and the uniqueness of one’s memory

By Guest Columnist Mary Jane Boutwell

Recently, there was a baptism at the church. At the request of the person making her profession of faith, there was a covered dish meal afterwards. 

As a young child, her family would go to her grandmother’s church for a baptism and dinner on the grounds. This was in the northeast of the county. It was a small Baptist church - a tradition of food goes on in some places and with some people. 

I can understand if you do not want to read about personal “backwhen.” If you like, just skip over. My feelings will not be hurt – but I may cause a lot of conversation.

In town the other day, a lady walking by caught my eye and brought back memories. She was wearing a dress that almost touched the ground. Both my mother and I were taller than average; and, at 5’10” at sixteen, I was the shortest in my family. During my early teenage years, dresses came down below the calf – bought with slips, On Mama and I, they came almost to the knee. When home sewing machines were made that could sew nylon fabric (finally) on the Home Markets Home Demonstration, agents taught its members how to sew the stretchy sliding fabric. Mama set to it with a will to make slips of the correct length for us. At the same time, fashion dictated shorter dress lengths. 

I remember walking east on Capitol Street during the days of state band contest with my long, thin-materialed dress and short slip. The shorter-than-it-should-be slip was obvious. 

My church, Old Madison Presbyterian Church, as most other churches, did not allow females to wear pants to church; skirts kept getting shorter. The final length was known as microskirts. I can remember a teenage girl sitting on the pew, and the hem of her skirt did not touch the seat. The session voted to allow females to wear pants.

Although we were not Baptist, no dancing was allowed on the church grounds. There was an active 4-H Club meeting in the annex. The leader, a church member, persuaded the session and members to allow square dancing. The club leader was the wife of the ruling elder. But it still took a lot of talking to get permission. 

Out by our mailbox is a pile of woodchips; growing all over are our maypops, known as passion plants by horticulturists. When picking cotton, it was a treat to find one that was ripe – tart and sweet. 

The few times we grew peanuts in Canton, they were dug and piled. This was done carefully, so they could dry and not spoil. Then we went out and pulled the peanuts off of the plants. My biggest memory is the peanuts piled in a U shape, with the nuts to the side. I don’t know why. 

One fall, Mama shelled a dish pan full of peanuts and made peanut brittle. That was the last time we had homemade peanut brittle. 

So many things in your memory have no explanation. As long as Daddy lived, we never had a Ford vehicle. But Ray Thompson, the Ford dealership owner in Canton, was the other person who could donate blood when an older brother had surgery. Surgery was common for him in years recovering from polio.

EDITOR’S NOTE: Mary Jane Boutwell is a passionate historian and is thrilled to share stories about “way back when”.