“Looking Back” – Stories by my grandfather

Sharing is good

Charlie Silbert (my grandfather) published monthly articles in the Jewish Augustan in Augusta, Georgia. I believe that his primary reason for writing these was to pay homage to my grandmother Goldie Silbert nee Puldy, who died of complications from MS in 1952 at age 42. He was married to my Bubbie Rae (technically step-Bubbie) when these stories were written. I can’t find the first seven articles, but here are the rest. Enjoy!
Article 8
by Charlie Silbert
When Rae got sick, one of the things that worried her was what to do about grocery shopping. I volunteered to buy the groceries and her response was, ”What do men know about finding bargains?” I assured her that I had done a lot of grocery shopping before we were married and, although that was many years ago, I still remembered how. My spouse was not convinced but there was no other alternative so I was elected by acclamation to be the family shopper.
Rae handed me an envelope that contained a list of the items that she wanted and whatever else I would need and she asked if I had enough money with me. I told her that I had $25 which I thought would be more than enough. My brother Nick lived with us for a number of years before he got married and I used to buy groceries for three adults and two growing children for around eight or nine dollars a week so, inflation notwithstanding, the $25 that I had should be plenty for just the two of us. Rae laughed and shook her head.
When I arrived at the super market I realized that many changes had taken place in the last 35 or 40 years. The first item on my list was tomatoes and I could not believe my eyes when I saw that they were marked $.59 a pound. Tomatoes by the pound, whoever heard of such a thing! The farmers used to come by our house on Lower Broad Street and we would buy a whole basket of tomatoes for $.50. The next item was fresh corn and I thought that it was surely a mistake for them to be $.50 each. We use to buy freshly picked corn from the farmers for $.20 a dozen. It occured to me that I had not seen any farmers selling fresh vegetables on the street in a very long time so maybe it would pay to ride out to the farms and save some money. It did not take long to realize that just about all of the farms from which those vegetables came were displaced by the Savannah River Plant and by Fort Gordon.
The next on the list was a loaf of bread and when I tried to find the rack with Calussen’s Baked Goods I was looked upon as if I had come from another planet. When it came to coffee I thought I would get Chase and Sandborne’s Dated Coffee. I always enjoyed the Eddie Cantor Show on the radio that plugged that brand so I thought it only fair to patronize them, especially since I use to buy it for $.39 a pound. The package nearly fell out of my hand when I saw that it was marked $2.79. If it were not for the fact that it takes a cup of coffee to wake me up in the morning, I would have passed it up.
The store where I use to trade years ago had round loaves of delicious cheese and a special device that would cut a neat wedge for $.25 a pound. It seems that had gone out of style and I had to settle for a celophane wrapped package of cheese at $2.30 a pound although I was sure that Rae would give me hell for paying so much.
When I got to milk on the list I found that the glass milk bottles that they used to use that showed how much cream was on top had gone the way of the $.5 Cola and the nickel candy bar. I had to accept milk in a paper carton and take a chance on the cream content.
After near heart attacks, I finally reached the check out counter. When I used to shop at Unity Super Market on Ellis Street I always went to the same checker who knew me by name and always asked after my family. Since I was new in this store I thought that I would make friends with one of the checkers and she would recognize me next time. I began by remarking about the weather and the only response I got from the lady was ”NEXT” and she started dragging my groceries over a hole in the counter with a light in it and the whole time she never even looked at the marked prices.
When I got home Rae wanted to know how the shopping went and I told her that there were quite a few changes in the last 45 years but I made out alright. She looked through the stuff I brought in from the car and she wanted to know where the Empire chickens were that she wanted. I was tempted to tell a little white lie and say that the store was out of them but we have had a wonderful marriage, mainly because we have never lied to one another or withheld the truth so I had to confess that I had run out of money. Rae said, ”I told you so.” Rae then wanted to know if I had used the coupons in the envelope as the store was giving double discount that day. Coupons? I thought that they were pictures that she cut out of the news paper to help me understand what she wanted. When I got through shopping I threw them away.
With a good doctors, good nurses at the hospital and probably a lot of help from ABOVE, Rae is doing much better but I cannot help but feel that one important factor in her recovery was her determination to get well so that she might never have to put up with my shopping or cooking again.
Article ?
by Charlie Silbert
I arrived in Augusta on a hot July afternoon in 1933 and I parked the family Essex on McCarten Street next to the YMCA building, which was to be my home until I could find an apartment and be joined by my family. It was still early in the afternoon and I knew that I had two things to do before settling down for the night. One was to find a place to eat and the other was locate the synagogue, as it was not yet a year since my father had passed away and I was still saying Kaddish.
All places of business were concentrated on Broad Street in those days so finding a place to eat was no problem. About two blocks from the YMCA, in the spot now occupied by Sky City Discount Store, I saw a sign pointing out the location of Furst’s Bakery and Delicatessen. If some one happened to miss the sign, he or she could easily be guided to the place by the delightful aroma of freshly baked goods and the delicious smell of home made dill pickles.
I was told that the synagogue was on Ellis Street, ”The next one over, you can’t miss it.” So that was my next destination. After walking down the two darkened steps into the room that served as daily chapel, Hebrew School, Social Hall and meeting room, I was greeted by a tall, slightly stooped gentleman with a friendly smile and a warm handshake and I knew that I had met the Shammus.
By definition a Shammus is a sexton or care taker of a synagogue but in reality he was much, much more. When I announced that I was still saying Kaddish, the Shammus sensed that my knowledge of Hebrew at that time was very scant, so he showed me the place in the prayer book and he gave a silent signal at every point where I was required to stand up and say the Kaddish.
During the stark days of the Great Depression in the thirties and in the tumultuous years of World War II the synagogue was often without a rabbi, and it was during those absences that our Shammus was most appreciated. When our son was born soon after we settled in Augusta, it was the Shammus who made sure everything would be just right for the briss and, realizing that we were new comers and had not gotten around to knowing many people, he made sure that the event was well publicized. We were delighted to find the conference room at the Old University Hospital filled to capacity with well wishers and with newly found friends. In later years when Mendel was Bar Mitzvah it was the Shammus who made sure that everything was done correctly. When our beloved Goldie passed away, he conducted the funeral with dignity and dispatch in the absence of a rabbi.
When I had a Yahrzeit coming up, I could invariably count on a visit from the Shammus several days in advance to make sure that I didn’t overlook the date. If I happened to have been absent from services for any length of time, I could count on still another visit from the Shammus along with a fatherly scolding.
The Shammus somehow remembered every one’s Hebrew name as he called them up to the Torah and when necessary, he would recite prayers for the sick or memorials for the departed as he clutched lovingly to the Torah. If someone needed a Tallis or a set of Tfillin or other religious articles, the Shammus always managed to have them on hand or he would order then out of New York. During the High Holidays it was the Shammus who sold the honors, and who can forget his auctioneer-like chant as he intoned, ”……Finnef Toller tsoom ershten mohl und tsoom tsveiten mohl……”
The era of the Shammas has faded into history and Augusta and Adas Yeshurun Synagogue were indeed fortunate to have had for so many years the dedication and the love of a man like Mr. A.L. Goldstein.
Article 9
by Charlie Silbert
On several recent occasions, Rae and I had the good fortune to enjoy the company of Abe Fogel at a local restaurant. Since all of us seemed to like to reminisce, the discussions delved into the past and eventually focused on the earlier days of Adas Yeshurun Synagogue. This was probably inevitable, as Abe was a big ”Mocher” in the synagogue and served it for many years in numerous capacities.
Perhaps the electronic age has gotten us ”Television Oriented,” for the conversations with Abe turned my mind to a vision of a tall white building in the 100 Block of Ellis Street that was once the home of Adas Yeshurun Congregation. It was forty or fifty years ago. I was standing in front of the fifteen or so steps that started out at the front doors and widened towards the side walk to form a sort of grand stand, a use of which they were often put. During Torah readings, many people would leave the synagogue and head for the steps, where the discussions usually centered around politics or sports — as the High Holidays often coincided with political campaigns and World Series baseball games.
The reading table was in the center of the room, most likely for better acoustics, since microphones and amplifiers were still not in general use. The Berma was at the North end of the large room, and at the opposite end was the balcony where the ladies sat in accordance with orthodox tradition. A huge candelabrum hung in the center of the high ceiling and a dozen ceiling fans whirred overhead, vainly trying to dissipate some of the heat and the flies and gnats that were all prevalent at that time of the year.
One of the high points in synagogue life in those days were the ”Shool Meetings,” which were always well attended and spirited. Besides carrying on the business of running the synagogue, these meetings were useful for socialization, for ”getting things off one’s chest,” and for exercising the lungs. Sometimes enthusiasm would run so high that it appeared violence might erupt — but it never did.
During the years of the Great Depression, the congregation could not afford to pay much in salaries, and since rabbis and teachers had to make a living, there was a rapid turnover of both. Continuity was somehow maintained by a devoted Shammos and a handful of dedicated ”Bal-Habatim” who saw to it that the needs of the synagogue were fulfilled.
Adas Yeshurun took a new direction with the arrival of Rabbi Henry R. Goldberger, of blessed memory, in the middle forties. During his first High Holiday service he announced emphatically that there would be no more exodus to the ”Grand Stand” while the Torah was being read. A lot of grumbling followed, but folks not only remained in their seats during the readings, they even sat quietly.
Under the Rabbi’s guidance the synagogue touched almost every home, and ours was no exception. During the many years of our beloved Goldie’s illness she seldom had more than an occasional random visit from a rabbi. When Rabbi Goldberger took over he and the ”Rebetsen” came to our house twice a week on a regular basis, forging a link between the synagogue and our home. When the rabbi discovered that I happened to have a few useful skills, he promptly put me to work installing electric wiring in his office and repairing broken equipment that had been cast aside.
Rabbi Goldberger’s expertise in leadership and in recruiting people to work were responsible for initiating plans for the new edifice on Johns Road, and for laying the foundation for the ”The Golden Years” of Judaism in Augusta in the fifties and the sixties. It was during those years that the Jewish Community of Augusta evoked the admiration of Jews everywhere.
There was the new and beautiful building on Johns Road, and at the same time the old synagogue on Ellis Street continued to function for those who would stick to the tradition of separate seating. There were ongoing ”Minyans” in both places.
An article in the Augusta Herald on March 18, 1965, pointed out that there were over 100 children in the daily Hebrew School, 24 students in the Day School, 10 in the Nursery and 14 in Edan Shapiro Pre-1A Class. A Shocket-Mohel was on the staff of the synagogue and the community had a Kosher bakery and delicatessen and a thriving Kosher meat market. All of these were envisioned by Rabbi Goldberger — but like another great leader in Jewish history, he never got to see the ”Promised Land,” for he died tragically before the fulfillment of his dreams.
Article 10
by Charlie Silbert
I see by the calendar that I have recently observed the 15th anniversary of my Bar Mitzvah and before I get accused of being careless with my mathematics, I would like to explain that I was Bar Mitzvah for the first time at the age of 66. We grew up on a farm in rural Canada that was remote from Hebrew schools and synagogues so my 13th birthday went by like all of the others.
Living on the farm was also responsible for my introduction to synagogue service being somewhat unique. When I was going to high school we boarded in Hamilton during the week and we went home to the farm on weekends. My beloved mother tried to prevail on me to stay in Hamilton on some weekends so that I might attend services at a synagogue but I usually found a reason to come home. On one weekend it snowed so hard that the roads were impassable and we had to remain in Hamilton and that removed any excuse I could have put forth not to go to synagogue services.
Hamilton was a city of some size with a fairly large Jewish population. There were five synagogues there at that time. Each had a Hebrew name but they were more often referred to by the name of the street they were on and/or by the country in Europe where the founders hailed from. There was the Hunter Street or Litvisheh Shool, the Cannon Street or the Polish Shool, the Hughson Street or the German Shool and so on. For my introduction to synagogue services, I chose the Hunter Street Shool but that day it turned out to be the wrong place and at the wrong time.
I decided to take note of everything that went on so that I might remember for the next time. At one point in the service a Rabbi with a long white beard mounted the bema and began to speak. A fellow on one side of the room went over to the Rabbi and aid something and he stopped speaking. Another man on the opposite side of the room motioned for the Rabbi to go ahead. Being naive and not being able to hear everything on account of my ear problem, I took that to be part of the services. When the two men started shouting at one another and the Rabbi……????? (Children, don’t fight over me), I realized that a fight was going on. I learned later that the rabbi was passing through and he was invited to speak without consulting the president of the congregation whose feelings were obviously hurt.
Over the years I have attended orthodox Conservative and Reform services in numerous places and I found them all to be meaningful, enlightening and beautiful, in spite of my somewhat stormy initiation.
When we moved to Augusta in 1933 we became affiliated with Adas Yeshurn Synagogue, which at that time was situated in the middle of the 1100 block of Ellis Street. I was told that the building had formerly been a church and it was bought by Adas Yeshurun around 1913 or 1914.
The synagogue was a two-story structure with the lower level housing a coal-fired heating plant, a kitchen, a Mikvah, a Shalah Shudos room and a large area that alternately accommodated the daily minyans, the Hebrew School and on occasions meetings and social events. Entrance to the lower level was gained by a small side door and a narrow stairway connected it to the upper level.
The sanctuary covered the entire upper level and, since the synagogue was strictly Orthodox, thee was a balcony at the rear for the ladies. The ceiling was about 24 feet high and in addition to a number of individual lights, there was a beautiful chandelier in the middle. There was of course no air conditioning but a number of ceiling fans were supposed to cool the place. What they actually did was re-arrange the hot air. The sanctuary was reached from the outside by a series of steps that extended from the entrance to the sidewalk, somewhat resembling a grand stand. The Ark was at the Southern end of the room and the Torah reading table was on a platform in the middle of the room.
The synagogue was deeply rooted in the past and in customs acquired over the years and it appeared that it was going to remain that way and in that location forever, until the late Rabbi Goldberger, of blessed memory, assumed the pulpit in the middle ’40’s. He could see ….? Yeshurun and he went to work.
By quiet persistence he eliminated talking and socializing during services. His next move was to insist that everyone remain inside for Torah reading and not congregate on the front steps. Some folks feared that the restrictions would reduce attendance but on the contrary as the services became quiet and … attendance actually increased.
A teacher was hired to assist the Rabbi and give him more time for his rabbinical duties. He refitted one of the store room downstairs for a private office to be available for counseling when needed. He visited the sick regularly both in their homes and in the hospital, and I well remember how my beloved Goldie used to look forward to his coming …?? prolonged illness.
As things became more organized at the Synagogue, the Rabbi turned his attention toward acquiring a new and modern building. It was through his efforts and planning that the congregation was to eventually have the beautiful edifice on Johns Road. Like Moses who was to never see the promised land, the Rabbi died tragically before the fruition of his dream.
Rabbi Henry Goldberger, who himself descended from a number of generations of Rabbis, left a great legacy to Judaism as well as to our own community. His son Daniel is a Rabbi in Denver and we hear that his grandson is a Rabbi in Baltimore, Maryland.
Article 11
by Charlie Silbert
A half century and four years ago in a tiny synagogue in St. Augustine, Florida, a tall slim man, a short stocky fellow and two of medium build held a Talles aloft. It was under this improvised, slightly lopsided chupah that I stood with my beloved as the nervous young rabbi pronunced us man and wife.
There could not have been a more ideal marriage. We were not only very much in love, but we understood and respected each other; that love and respect grew deeper and more abiding during all of the twenty-one years that we shared together. The whole country was in the depths of a Great Depression, but when is young and in love the Depression seemed to be no obstacle. We made plans, we were going to raise a family, buy a home and when we had left our mark on the world we would grow old together. The whole world was ours and the doctor told us that the occasional tingling feeling in some of Goldie’s fingers was nothing to worry about.
Shortly after we moved to Augusta Goldie’s knee gave way as she was about to get into the car. This, too, was dismissed by our doctor as nothing to worry about. Soon the attack-remission cycles kept coming more frequently and with greater severity until she lost the use of both of her legs. Although multiple sclerosis was suspected, we were unable to get a positive diagnosis from any of the doctors that we went to. When we heard that the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota was doing a lot of research on MS, we took our two children to Florida to stay with their grandparents and we set out for Rochester in our little Chevrolet.
It would take more space than we have to adequately describe that wonderful institution in Rochester. To say the least, it was a combination of the supreme in science and the ultimate in human compassion.
With the diagnosis of multiple sclerosis confirmed, we settled down to learning to live with it and to make the most of what we had. Back in the thirties there was very little on the market in the way of equipment to alleviate the problems of the handicapped. With a few skills with which I have been blessed and with the machine shop at my disposal at my place of business, I was able to construct a wheel chair that would negotiate sidewalks comfortably using two balloon-tired bicycle wheels and the tail wheel of a Piper Cub. A surplus winch from a B-18 bomber formed the basis for an elevator that would bring the wheel chair from the house to the street levels, and we were able to go for walks and go shopping together.
I had plans for motorizing the whel chair, but she eventually lost the use of both her hands in addition to her legs — so that project had to be set aside. The automobiles of those days did not even have a trunk for luggage; we built a trailer to carry the wheel chair and other necessary equipment to go on trips.
Goldie was an amazing person. Even though for many years she was entirely dependent upon some one to lift her in and out of a wheel chair and for some taken-for-granted things as going to the bath room, she never lost her cheerful disposition and her keen love and understanding of human nature. Our six year old announced angrily one day that he was tired of the way he was being treated and he was going to run away from home. Instead of disciplining him, she had a paper sack filled with some of his belongings, along with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich ”for the road,” and kissed him good bye. The poor child was flabbergasted. He went as far as the front door, then turned around and announced that he had thought it over and decided to give us another chance. That was the last time he ever mentioned running away.
Although it became progressively worse as time went on, MS is never a fatal disease. One day, twenty-one years after that lovely moment in St. Augustine, my beloved had a heart attack and expired as I held her hand.
Her loss was a terrible blow; I am not sure that I could have withstood it except for the love and the bravery that I had been witness to for so many years. I must have done something worthy of Divine notice, for in due time I found an angel to take the place of the lone I had lost. Rae and I were married and together we have been able to make a good life for ourselves — together we have been privileged to serve our community in many ways.
Looking back, I see more meaning than ever to the immortal words of Job when he said, ”The Lord gives and the Lord takes away, blessed be the name of the Lord.”
Article 12
by Charlie Silbert
As one drives up Walton Way, the medical complex makes an impressive sky line. There are the University Hospital, Talmadge Memorial Hospital, The Veterans Administration Hospital, the Medical and the Dental Colleges and countless doctors’ offices and clinics. In addition to these, the local community can find treatment at St. Joseph Hospital and Humana Hospital for anything from bandaging a finger to a heart transplant but it was not always that way. Back in the thirties the main medical facility was the old University Hospital that was housed in the ancient brick buildings that still stand near the corner of Laney-Walker Blvd. and 15th Street. There were also a couple of small private hospitals on Harper Street and as I recall, one of them specialized in treating children and the other one was for the tuberculosis patients. There were very few specialists and nearly all doctors made house calls.
When Goldie became ill soon after we moved to Augusta, the doctors that we went to were not able to do much for her or to know for sure why both of her legs had become paralyzed. In desperation, we decided to see Dr. Manhoff in Jacksonville, Fl. as he was not only a practitioner of many years but also a good friend of the family. What we needed most was counselling as we wanted to be sure that we were doing everything possible.
After spending much time with us and making numerous examinations, Dr. Manhoff concluded that Goldie’s condition was due to Multiple Sclerosis. He explained that there was no treatment for it at that time and not even a certain way to make a diagnosis. He added that the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minn. had been doing extensive research on the disease. To make certain that we were not leaving a stone unturned, we decided to go to Mayo’s and we asked Dr. Manhoff to arrange an appointment.
Going to Rochester, Minn. today would merely mean driving to Bush Field, boarding a jet and arriving at our destination in a few hours. Commercial flying was still a long way off in the thirties and the only public transportation was by train or bus. Since neither of these had facilities for a person who was unable to walk, we decided to drive and we set out for Rochester in our little Chevrolet.
Driving back then was also a marked contrast to what it is like today as there were no interstate highways and very few federal roads. One navigated by taking the best road from one city or town to the next one and these were not always paved. There were no Holiday Inn or Howard Johnson type motels along the way and getting ready to spend the night meant watching for a house with a ”Tourist Accommodation” sign or looking around for a tourist cabin. Though primitive by today’s standards, one got a closer look at the country and was able to socialize with their hosts or with the nice fellow at the gas station as he went about cleaning your windshield and checking your tires and under the hood. We drove through cotton fields of South Carolina, over the mountains of North Carolina, past the tobacco farms and mines in Tennessee and Kentucky, beside the lush corn and grain fields of Iowa and Illinois, through bustling cities and sleepy little towns until we arrived in Rochester on a Sunday afternoon and took up temporary residence at the Cross Roads Tourist Cabins.
Early on Monday morning we went to the admitting office of the Mayo Clinic and we were treated more like guests than like patients. The clerk already seemed to know all about us and his first concern was to make sure that we had found a good place to stay. Noting that we were Jewish, he told us of several local families who served Kosher food to visiting patients. He brushed aside questions as what the charges would be and said that their main concern was to see what they could do for Goldie.
It would take more space than I have here to begin to describe the thoroughness and the compassion of the folks at the Mayo Clinic. They left nothing to guess work and they explained each step in the tests in lay terms that we could easily follow. When we went to the St. Mary’s Hospital for one of the tests, the Head Sister greeted us warmly and told us that if we had been there a day earlier we would have been able to meet Mrs. Elinor Roosevelt. (I would certainly have loved to meet that great lady.)
The tests were over in about 8 days and when I went to the office to pay the bill, which was surprisingly small, the cashier would not accept our money. Since we had a long trip ahead of us, he pointed out that we might need extra cash along the way and we could send them the money after we got home. He added that if it would be a hardship to pay the entire bill at one time, we could send them a little each month until it was paid. Unfortunately they were not able to find a cure for Goldie’s problems as there was none at that time but they did put us at ease and for a number of years we heard from them regularly, asking about any progress she had made and explaining anything new that had come out.
If a list is ever compiled of the men and women who made America great, near the top would surely be the names of Drs. Charlie and Will Mayo and the wonderful folks at their clinic.
Article 13
by Charlie Silbert
”A woman of valor who can find? For her price is far above rubies…” so wrote King Solomon in Proverbs Chapter 31, verse 10. This beautiful tribute could apply to a number of women in my life but I am thinking about one in particular.
The year was 1931 and I had decided to leave Canada and move to Jacksonville, Florida to be near by beloved so that we might get married as soon as I could get settled there. The Great Depression was in its second year. I had not been able to find steady employment and had depleted much of my savings so I was grateful when I found that a Mr. Harry Levit would pay my expenses if I would drive his Cadillac limousine to Miami. It might have been an uneventful three day trip but several things that happened along the way made it turn out otherwise.
First we were detained for three days in Niagra Falls, New York while the immigration authorities tried to define the nationality of Mr. Levit’s niece, who was born in Canada of United States parents. When we reached Baltimore Mrs. Levit became quite ill and arrangements had to be made to leave her in a hospital while we continued our journey. Even though our car was almost new and one of the most expensive models of that time, it began to give trouble after we left Washington, causing numerous delays so there was no way that I could tell my folks in Jacksonville when we could get there.
We arrived unexpectedly in Jacksonville at 11:30 on a Sunday morning and the Puldeys insisted that we stay for lunch before continuing on to Miami. Before Mr. Levit could decline because he thought that it would be too much trouble to prepare food for four extra people who were not expected, several tables were pushed together and, as if by magic, a hot meal appeared that would have been fit for a king. All the way to Miami Mr. Levit kept wondering how such a delicious meal with so much variety could have been put together on such short notice. I might have wondered too but I found out the secret when I was called to the back door, handed a set of keys and told to take a certain Dodge to 1025 Tenth Street and bring back the two pots of food on the stove. It was then that I learned that all of the married children had pooled what they were cooking and together produced that scrumptious meal.
I learned that ”TOGETHER” was the way the Puldey family, of which I was soon to become a part, did everything. I discovered that it was not by accident but they all worked at it diligently under the direction of the quiet, soft spoken kindly mother of the household. Many families depend upon Weddings, Bar Mitzvos and funerals to get together but with the Puldeys it was a weekly ritual. All six children along with their spouses and offsprings arrived at the parental home every Sunday evening for a delightful dinner that was prepared and presided over by Mother Puldey.
Beside the social angle, these get togethers served as a medium for intra family communications, which are so necessary for the development of love and understandings between family members. In all of the years that I was intimately associated with the Puldey family, I never knew of a spiteful act or word spoken in anger by a single family member.
One of the family rules that was explained to me at the outset was that the ”in-law” suffix was never to be used, it was Mamma, Pappa, brothers and sisters. This at first presented me with a problem. My own mother, whom I loved very much, was still living and I did not think that I could bring myself to use the same form of address on some one else. One day I did something that I should not have done, I didn’t even remember what it was, and Mother Puldey waited until we were alone so as not to embarrass me and she gave me a good going over. I was at the age when it would have been normal for me to resent being told what to do by an older person but instead of resentment, I felt a nice warm feeling that could only come from the love of a parent for a child. Instinctively I replied, ”I am sorry Mamma…”
Times were hard during the Depression years and after Goldie and I were married, we lived with her parents to save on rent. In spite of the fact that there was only one kitchen, one bathroom and one car between us, there was never anything but love and understanding within that household. When we moved to Augusta in 1933, there were quite a few tears shed at the parting and I am not ashamed to admit that some of them were my own.
When our children were born and during the years of Goldie’s illness Mamma and Pappa rode the bus all night many times between Jacksonville and Augusta when they felt that they could be of help and the support of my new brothers and sisters was invaluable. I was most fortunate to have married into such a wonderful family.
Mamma and Pappa have been gone for many years and time has taken a heavy toll of the Puldey Family but their legacy of love will go on forever.