The Whoop-dee-doo

    One of my favorite lessons in high school English class was onomatopoeia, words that sound like what they mean, like tick-tock, buzz, or meow. I suppose every family has its own unique vocabulary, but I think my mother went above and beyond in creating new words to keep us, and my Daddy, on our toes. It was surprising to us to find that others did not share or understand these everyday terms. We had Polish Egg Rolls, Buggie-boos, Mini-ha-has, and Whoop-dee-doos.

    I cannot say for certain that this word would be an onomatopoeia because, technically, it is more of a feeling than a sound. A Whoop-dee-doo was a special thing that we all enjoyed with giggles and glee. However, it is difficult to describe to the uninitiated.  Whoop-de-doos had a strong influence on how we navigated through town and how much we anticipated the trip.

    The earliest Whoop-dee-doo I remember was located on Jefferson Avenue in East Point, Georgia on the way to Mrs. Moore’s Wee House Kindergarten. In those days, kindergarten was not part of the regular elementary school program, so my parents paid for me to attend. My school was a Wee House located in an older neighborhood of tree-lined roads and sidewalks. There were rock walls, steps leading from the road to the front porches, and American flags flying proudly. Behind Mrs. Moore’s home, was a grassy area, a playground with a big swing set, and a small cinder-block building that served as our classroom.

    Getting ready for school in the morning can become tiresome and cause many children to dawdle, but I knew the ride to school would most likely include a Whoop-dee-do, so it was much easier for me to wake up and get ready to leave. It didn’t take long for me to memorize the route to school, and each morning I would anticipate the Whoop-de-doo long before we reached it.

    The location of the Whoop-de-doos varied with the direction of travel. Traveling east to west might be delightful, while traveling west to east on the same road might be disappointing. In addition, some Whoop-de-doos depended on going straight through the green light and some were not. Mama knew the secret to finding the best Whoop-de-doos regardless, and she looked forward to them with the same excitement that I did.

    Seatbelts were a thing of the future for us, so when we encountered a Whoop-dee-doo, we felt the full effect. Mama has always been a careful driver and did not need to increase her speed to make the most of the Whoop-dee-doos. When we encountered one, the car would roll over the bump in the road, we would briefly lift from our seats, our stomachs would flutter, and we would land with a small thud—laughing, with a loud, unanimous “Wheeeeeee.” 

    Mama was the one who took us to school and picked us up because Daddy was at work. As a result, Daddy was not informed about the location of Whoop-de-doos, the proper protocol for approaching a Whoop-dee-doo, or the correct emotional response. He lived in ignorance of our Whoop-dee-doo tradition much longer than we realized.

    Whoop-dee-doos are found in other locations, and Mama was always quick to identify them. So, when they moved to Hall County, Georgia, unbeknownst to Daddy, Mama started identifying the optimal routes for Whoop-dee-doos.

    One afternoon, Mama and Daddy were returning from a typical shopping trip. Hall County had recently extended McEver Road so that it crossed Browns Bridge Road at the traffic light. This was one of those supreme Whoop-dee-doos that was totally dependent on getting a green light. Daddy was driving a little Honda Civic and they were chatting and making plans for the evening. Mama was so involved in the conversation that she did not warn Daddy about the upcoming Whoop-de-doo until it was too late. Not knowing the proper protocol, he didn’t realize he should slow down a bit and was focused on getting through the light before it changed to red. In a split second, Mama said, “Bill, there’s a …” and the car became literally airborne and thudded back to the pavement. Daddy didn’t know the proper emotional response, so he responded with loud exclamations of gibberish. That’s how Daddy learned about Whoop-dee-doos. 

The Tinkerer

    

    Daddy’s workshop remained in the attic until after I completed kindergarten. As I got a bit older, I was allowed to carefully climb the attic steps and look around for a few minutes. A long-necked lamp illuminated Daddy’s worktable, but the rest of the attic felt mysterious, with light seeping through the shutter-like gable vent at the end of the house. In the shadows, I could see miscellaneous boxes and my old hobby horse straddling the ceiling joists. I had outgrown it and missed it, but I remembered the days when I would ride it so hard that it would bounce across the hardwood floors. To me, the most interesting part of the attic was Daddy’s worktable—because it was Daddy’s. It was filled with his newest project—usually another attempt at a radio-controlled model airplane that would take off, fly, and land where he intended.

    The summer before I started first grade at Eastern Elementary School, we moved to the new house, a red-brick split level home with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a living room, dining room, a family room, an attached one-car garage, and a half basement. The basement provided enough space for Daddy to finally have a workshop more suited to his talents and interests. One corner of the basement held storage and another corner was set up for washing and drying clothes. Daddy’s new workshop stretched from corner to corner along the longest wall. He began by building a long workbench with pegboard for hanging tools, small shelves for bottles and jars, drawers for rags, brushes, and clamps, and deep shelves underneath for storage.

    Then, gradually, new tools started appearing. The first power tool was a Sears Craftsman radial arm saw. The next was a lathe, which he used to make two wooden lamps, stained red to match my new bedspread. (I still have them.) All sorts of hand tools started appearing: clamps, hammers, saws, files, levels, and other assorted tools. The basement soon smelled like sawdust and Tide detergent. From upstairs, we could hear the high-pitched buzz of the saw, the banging of hammers, and WSB radio playing in the background. Those were comforting sounds to listen to as I lay in bed, waiting to fall asleep.

    It was about this time that Daddy started transitioning from building model airplanes to woodworking. He still had his original work table nearby with his model airplane materials, but over time it became dusty as more interesting projects gained center stage.

    I was playing outside one fall day. The wind was calm and the trees held only a few dried, crinkled leaves. Daddy came outside carrying something unusual. It was a dry-cleaner bag from one of his suits, a birthday candle, and two strips of balsa wood fastened together in the shape of the letter X. Of course, I quit what I was doing and ran to see what he was going to do. The opening of the bag hung down and was connected to the outside edges of the balsa wood, with the birthday candle securely glued in the center. From his pocket, he grabbed his lighter and carefully lit the birthday candle. As the air inside heated up, the thin plastic bag began to puff outward. Daddy held it out in his hands and gradually the contraption began to lift into the air. Then he explained that it was a hot air balloon. It was like magic as it slowly, gently rose a few feet into the air, and drifted into the nearby oak tree.

    The peaceful magic of the moment was shattered as Daddy began hollering and running towards the spigot to grab the long, green water hose. Everything happened so quickly that I can’t remember if I was more surprised by the noise, the sudden movement, or the fire. It was the best day ever!

    To be totally honest, Daddy declares that the water was just a precaution and there was not really a fire, but he sure moved fast!

    Over time, he built cabinets, end tables, shelves, and other necessary items. Those were beautiful, practical, and special. My friends had cabinets and tables and shelves, at their houses. But nobody else’s Daddy made a hot air balloon on a beautiful fall day just because.

Harlan Drive

       There are some things about Daddy that never changed. He always seemed to have a mechanical pencil with a good eraser poking out of his front left shirt pocket, a notebook—or the back of an empty envelope—or an IBM keypunch card—nearby for recording ideas and sketches, and a semi-secluded workshop space where he could think and build. When Bill and Nancy started thinking about buying their first house, a workshop was not at the top of the list, but it was on the list. However, knowing Daddy, while Mama was deciding where to put the Christmas tree, he was figuring out possibilities for his next workshop.

    When Bill and Nancy started looking to buy their first house, Nancy kept an eye on the home section of the Sunday Atlanta Journal-Constitution. One Sunday, she saw a post-war, two-bedroom, one-bath home on Harlan Drive, south of Atlanta, listed for $10,500 with a $5000 down payment.

    Mama explained to me that anyone interested in buying that house could probably not afford to put down such a large down payment. As a result, the house stayed on the market for quite some time, and Nancy kept tracking the listing in the Sunday paper.

    Finally, one Sunday morning. she saw that the house was still listed at $10,500, but now, it required no money down and no closing costs. They did the math and realized the house payment would be less than their rent. They decided to take a closer look.  

    It was a little white house, with a grassy front yard, and a walkway leading from the front door to the sidewalk along the street. The front door opened into the living room. To the left, the kitchen had a small eating area. From the kitchen, a side door led down two sets of steps to the driveway and the backyard.

    There was a hallway from the living room leading straight back to the bathroom. My bedroom was on the left and Mama and Daddy’s bedroom was on the right. The kitchen and bathroom had tile floors, but the rest of the house had real hardwood floors.

    My grandpa, Mama’s daddy, came over and inspected the house to make sure it was built well. Then Mama and Daddy were worried that Granddaddy, Daddy’s daddy, would get his feelings hurt. So, they invited him over to check out the house too. Both grandfathers agreed it passed inspection.

    Mama laughed when she told me that at the time they bought the house, Bill was 21 and she was 20.  This meant that she was not old enough to sign the legal documents for the purchase of the house. She had to sit beside him and watch as Bill, barely old enough to sign himself, signed for them both.

    At the time we moved into the new house, I was a curious toddler—emphasis on curious. Safety required a more secure area for Daddy’s tools, glue, and model airplane parts. He decided to make space for his workshop in the attic. To access the attic, he had to pull down a set of narrow stairs from the ceiling. He created space for his worktable and chair by laying sheets of plywood over the ceiling joists to fashion a makeshift floor. The space was not tall enough for him to stand up, but he could sit at his worktable and continue building radio-controlled airplanes.

    Normally, the heat in the attic would have been unbearable, but Daddy put in an attic fan. Before air conditioning became common, attic fans were installed to pull hot air out of the attic and draw cooler air through the house to make it comfortable during the summer months. With the floor installed, the attic fan in place, and all his paraphernalia carried carefully up the narrow attic stairs, his workshop was ready for his next project.

    Daddy probably imagined his workshop would provide some peace and quiet while he worked. However, I remember standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking up toward the attic. I could hear the hum of the big attic fan, see the inside of the roof, and, if I moved just right, I could see Daddy’s back as he sat at his work table. His quiet would have been interrupted by questions like, “Daddy, what are you doing? Are you making another airplane? Will it fly? Can I fly it? Are you done yet?” and on and on until mealtime, naptime, or bedtime.

    Years later, Mama explained to me why I was always standing at the bottom of the stairs.  One day, while Daddy was working in the attic, I decided to climb up and join him. I only made it up a couple of steps before they caught me. From then on, whenever he went up to the attic, Mama folded the stairs partway closed, so that I could not climb them. When Daddy was ready to come down from the attic, he had to holler for Mama to pull the stairs down so he could come back down.

The La-Bor-a-Tory

    Daddy’s workshop—or “la-bor-a-tory,” as he pronounced it, with the accent on the second syllable—was better than Santa’s workshop. Yes, he said it that way on purpose, and yes, I know the world says “laboratory” the normal way, but what fun would there be in that? He would fix a glass of sweet, iced tea, tell Mama where he was headed, and retreat to his favorite place—his la-bor-a-tory.

    When Daddy was growing up, his workshop was in the basement of Grandmommy’s house. He would gather with his friend Sarge and work on radio-controlled airplanes on the weekend. After Bill and Nancy married, the question arose about where to put his workshop in their tiny apartment. Trying not to crowd the small living space, Bill offered to continue working in his mother’s basement. Nancy wanted their life together to be their life together, even if it meant a workshop squeezed into their living room.

    Daddy’s newly married workshop was not a separate building or a room in the basement, but instead a corner of the living room in their first apartment. At this stage of life, he was into building radio-controlled airplanes. His tiny workshop was a card table layered with old newspapers, and covered with parts to be assembled, strips of balsa wood, hobby knife, airplane glue, clamps, copies of Model Airplane News magazines, and other assorted tools. In his mind, he knew where everything was, he could picture the assembled plane, and the construction site was only temporary.

    However, to Nancy—or Nancy Lee as he had started calling her—the construction site was an eyesore afflicting the living room. In her defense, the living room was the first room guests would see upon entering their apartment.  She was concerned about her reputation if guests or, heaven forbid, her parents should stop by for a visit. She sweetly asked him to clean it up a little bit, just in case someone dropped by. He agreed, “No problem. I will take care of it in just a little while.”

    Time passed. Bill was busy with work and his latest project, and straightening up the workshop table in the living room was postponed. Nancy Lee, like a loving wife, waited patiently.

    A second reminder and sweetly worded plea came, when Nancy Lee, asked again, “Bill, there’s no hurry, but I wish you would just straighten up your workshop area in case someone comes by.”

    Bill replied with, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. As a matter of fact, I was just fixin’ to do it.”

    Time passed. Bill’s attention was focused on solving the next problem, and tidying up his workshop was again postponed. Once again, Nancy Lee waited, not quite as patiently as before, but since she could not figure out a way to do it herself, there were no other options.

    The third reminder arrived in a sweet voice, but with a bit of an edge. “Bill, please straighten up your workshop area. If you don’t, I am going to move every last piece of it onto the front porch.”

    Bill laughed and assured her that progress was being made and the workshop would be tidied up right away.

    Bill knew that Nancy Lee meant what she said. He didn’t think she would actually do it.

    Time passed. Bill was coming home from work and noticed that their front porch looked like they were being evicted. As he came closer, he recognized a card table, a desk chair, stacks of magazines, assorted tools, layers of newspapers, and a partially assembled radio-controlled airplane. His entire workshop had migrated from a corner of the living room to the front porch.

    As he took in the scene, he remembered Nancy Lee’s promise, and realized she had been very busy that afternoon. He looked to find her watching him from the window, laughed, and winked. Then, he methodically began to reassemble his workshop—neatly—in the corner of the living room, exactly as Nancy Lee had requested in the first place. From then on, when Nancy Lee made a promise, Bill believed her. 

First Date

    Daddy was never one for algebra or musicals, but he rose to the occasion when necessary. In high school he was fascinated with electronics, radios, and eventually computers. He enjoyed history and dove into science, but algebra was his nemesis.

    One day, when his frustration peaked, he asked his algebra teacher the ubiquitous question students have asked for generations, “Why do we have to learn algebra?”

    The teacher confidently replied, “So that you can grow up and become an algebra teacher.” Daddy had no desire to become an algebra teacher, so he had no desire to master algebra.

    Twenty years later, I found myself in Coach Truett’s algebra class, wrestling with the same concepts. Daddy’s struggle was so embedded in the teacher’s mind that one morning, after explaining logarithms to me for the hundredth time, Coach Truett emphatically told me, “Buffingtons should not even take algebra!”

    Daddy was a senior and beginning to look seriously at his future plans. Because he was drawn to electronics, fascinated with airplanes, and wanted to explore the world, he planned on joining the Navy after graduation.  At that time, joining the Navy would give him an opportunity to work with radar, sonar, radio communications, and other sophisticated electronic equipment.  Daddy loved any gadget with gears or electricity.  As a matter of fact, his favorite toys growing up were soldering irons, resistors, capacitors, transformers—and basically anything with wires. He could take almost anything apart, explain how it worked, and put it back together. His plan was straightforward: after graduation, he would join the Navy—at least until his first date with Mama.

    After meeting at Collins Drug, Bill began driving Nancy to and from school. Suddenly, other classmates were curious about this cute sophomore arriving to school with the handsome senior. Within weeks, Bill asked Nancy out for their first date. Other than one blind date, neither of them had dated. Bill wasn’t sure where they should go, so he suggested the Stewart Avenue Drive-In, but he didn’t check out the featured movie.

    Friday night finally arrived and Nancy prepared for her date. She remembers that, of course, she wore a skirt and, of course, she wore a crinoline underneath. She insisted that the crinoline puffed out underneath the skirt and made her feel so much cooler in the early summer evening.

    When Bill arrived, proper etiquette dictated that he must come in and meet the parents. More importantly, even though Nancy was ready early and watching anxiously at the window for his arrival, she should remain calm—as if this were an ordinary Friday night.

    Bill made his way up the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. After a brief wait, the door opened, and to Bill and Grandpa’s surprise, they recognized each other. It seems that some mornings, when Grandpa headed to work, he would see Bill with his thumb out, walking to school, and trying to hitch a ride. Grandpa would stop and give him a ride to school. Over time, the two had become good friends. Introductions were made and Grandpa and Bill laughingly explained how they met. With Grandpa’s stamp of approval, Grandma allowed Bill and Nancy to leave, with a reminder of the 10:00 o’clock curfew.

    Nancy remembers that they were both “nervous as an ant on a hot brick.” After paying admission to the drive-in, Bill parked the car.  Nancy rolled down the passenger-side window, grabbed the speaker from the post, and hung the speaker inside the car window. The pre-movie ads for hot, buttered popcorn and the cartoon gave them a chance to adjust the sound before the movie began.

    The buttered popcorn sounded tempting, but Bill’s favorite movie snack was a bag of Lay’s chips and an ice-cold Pepsi. In a way that almost foreshadowed future events, Nancy also thought Lay’s chips and an ice-cold Pepsi were the perfect movie snack. When Bill shared that his very favorite Lay’s chips were the ones with a bubble or the ones that were folded over, Nancy took the bag from him, picked out his favorite, and handed them over with a smile. Happily, for the next 60 years together, Nancy continued to find his favorite chips and pass them to him with that same smile.

    When the cartoon ended, the movie credits began to roll. The featured movie for the evening was the musical “Carousel.” Overall, the movie didn’t grab their attention until a dance number featuring Navy sailors tap dancing. When the dance number ended, Nancy teasingly turned to Bill and asked, “When you go into the Navy, will you learn to tap dance?”

    Bill emphatically replied, “No!”

    Nancy grinned and added, “I think you’d be good at it.” For some reason, the Navy was never mentioned again. On September 23, 1956, Bill left for Basic Training in the Army.

 

 

Little Girl Time

    The Buffington household was not always filled with smiles and hugs, especially when hormonal teenagers were involved, namely me. Daddy worked hard to provide for the family, even working second shift at IBM because it paid more money. He taught us history by telling stories, showed us how to gather wood and build a campfire, and modeled love and respect for our country. He also taught me my favorite childhood song that has the phrase, “Nobody loves me, everybody hates, me guess I’ll go eat worms.”  

    Mama worked just as hard with the day-to-day child-rearing. Mama focused on practical skills—treating others with respect, proper manners, and taking care of yourself. She also handled discipline when necessary.  The system worked well because Mama knows things—like what I’ve done, what I might do, and what I’m going to do. She can read my mind, even as an adult. Mama and Daddy always presented a united front when handling a problem, whether it was children, family issues, or finances. Their division of labor worked well and played to their strengths. Preparing us for puberty and adulthood mostly fell to Mama, and she did her best with remarkable foresight and wisdom

    Of course, no one in our family said the word S—E—X. It was always spelled out like some secret code. Mama didn’t realize I learned about S—E—X in the sixth grade from the new set of World Book Encyclopedias while doing a report on Spain. It was my most interesting report and I worked on it diligently. Soon, other sixth graders were fascinated with Spain.    

    As I grew to be a young lady, my mother was especially careful in what she told us and how she told us. For example, I found out about female monthly cycles at an afternoon Girl Scout meeting when a nurse came to talk with us. Mama had to sign a permission slip and it was all very hush, hush. I was totally disgusted at a wasted meeting and never wanted to talk about it again—ever! My friend’s mothers would refer to “that time of the month” as “Aunt Flo’s visit,” or the “Red-haired Aunt’s visit.” But not my mother. She sweetly called it, “Your Little Girl Time.” It was a phrase that, in my teenage mind, evoked a deep sense of anger and hostility, like some ancient beast rising from a pit.

    One Saturday morning, I cautiously emerged from my bedroom, skulked downstairs for breakfast cereal, and hoped I could be invisible to the rest of humanity. My hopes for invisibility were dashed when Mama reminded me there was housework to do. Like most epic battles, no one can remember the exact spark that ignited the blaze. I can only remember my intense wish to be invisible, to hide from the world and maybe find some chocolate. In response to her simple reminder, I turned into a raving maniac. In less than two minutes I had brought forth the attitude, the smart mouth, and the disdainful roll of the eyes—the trifecta of teenage rebellion. In the back of my mind, a small voice was pleading, “You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die!” I knew, I was gonna die, and it didn’t matter. I could not quit running my mouth.

    It was at that moment that mama looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “Is it your little girl time?” That phrase was like invoking the name of a monster, filled with rage and fury. I could feel the energy and heat rise from the pit of my stomach. I answered sternly through almost clenched teeth, “YES MA’AM!” Now I knew the end was near. She was gonna kill me dead and it was my fault. Instead, she paused, took a deep breath, and stepped back. Her next words were true genius and saved her from jail time and me from bodily injury. She said, “Me too! You go to your corner and I'll go to mine!” She turned and headed to the kitchen and I fled to my bedroom.

    In a little while, after we had both cooled off, she did something else unusual. She said, “Today has not started off well. Let’s start over.” The miraculous thing is that she truly started over, as if my bout with insanity had never happened. There were no lectures, reminders of respectful behavior, or discussions of punishment. The rest of that Saturday was remarkably ordinary. She simply started over. Mama was great about that. Even King Solomon has nothing on my mother.

 

Puppy Love

   

  

    The nineteen fifties—with its soda shoppes, bobby socks, poodle skirts, drive-in theaters, and rock’n’roll music—formed the backdrop for my parents' romance. It is a love story that overcame youth, inexperience, parental objections, financial struggles, six children, sickness, and death. My grandmother would scold, "It's only puppy love," and quietly, as only a teenager could, my mother would smile and add, "Puppy love is real to the puppy." Mama still tells the story with that sly smile and a twinkle in her eyes. 

They both attended Russell High School in East Point, Georgia. Bill, my future Daddy, was a high school senior, driving a black 1947 Ford Business Coupe and working part-time at Pope’s Grocery. Nancy, my future mama, was a sophomore, walking to and from school each day, and dealing with her parents’ divorce. They lived around the corner from each other, but had never met.  That changed one spring afternoon at Collins Drug Store, the neighborhood hangout.

On this particular day, Grandma’s friends were visiting from Ohio. Mama affectionately called them “Yankees,” referring only to where they were from, not the more notorious southern expression “Damn Yankees.” There is a difference. To avoid sitting proper, listening to boring adult conversation, and making small talk with out-of-towners, my mother, Nancy, wearing her cotton blouse, poodle skirt, bobby socks, and flats, along with her younger sister Pat, made a quick getaway by taking a walk to the Collins Drug Store.

It just so happened that Bill had finished his shift at Pope’s Grocery and was hanging out at Collins Drug Store, with his best friend Weyman, who had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Bill and Weyman were seated at a booth, and Daddy had just ordered his favorite Vanilla Coke.

The soda shoppe was arranged with a food counter and booths. Nancy and Pat sat down in the booth adjoining Bill and Weyman. As fortune would have it, Bill and Nancy could look past Weyman and Pat, who were back-to-back.  From the corner jukebox, Fats Domino, Little Richard, and Chuck Berry took turns keeping the room rocking. Eleven-year-old Pat proudly marched her quarter to the jukebox to make her own music selection. Well, you know how little sisters can be. Maybe she thought the song was about a dog named Boxer? Whatever possessed her, she did not choose Elvis’ crooning out “Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Instead, she chose the 1949 polka called “When Charlie Was a Boxer” by Frankie Yankovic & His Yanks with The Marlin Sisters!

Just as Mama ordered her fountain Coke, the unexpected polka music filled the air, Nancy looked down, covered her face with her hand, and blushed beet red from the part in her ponytail to her rolled-down bobby socks. Just at that moment, her eyes met Bill’s. His eyes twinkled with merriment at her situation, and he winked. Daddy could say a lot with that wink. Nancy quickly assessed the tall, blond-haired, brown-eyed sweetie and decided she would need to thank Aunt Pat one day.

Mama knew Weyman because he was her friend Peggy's boyfriend, so Weyman began making introductions. When Weyman introduced Bill as Billy, Daddy quickly changed the name to Bill. Mama always remembered, and even though the whole world, at that time, called him Billy, she always called him Bill and eventually—her Bill. After introductions, the conversation flowed until dark was falling. As Nancy and Pat got up to leave, Weyman and Bill insisted on giving them a ride home in Daddy’s coupe, with its single bench seat. When Nancy feebly protested, Weyman insisted they were not strangers, and it was only a short ride. Nancy squeezed into the seat, next to Bill, with Weyman on her right. In the age before seatbelts, Pat ended up riding home in Weyman’s lap!