The Orphans' Nine Commandments

Chapter 11

q11Q In the spring of 1936, I still lived on “orphan time,” shadowed by Pop Hall, Olga Tuttle, and the damnable bells, and always fearful that my guardian might return and snatch me away. I worked alongside Leroy to finish the first term of the fourth grade at the University Heights Grade School. Myrtle Critchfield, our favorite teacher, often wore a purple dress with a white silk collar. She was plump, short legged, and small footed like a bird, and her hair was streaked with gray. She drilled us nine students in history and geography, her favorite subjects. “Just think, boys and girls,” she reminded us, “upon Red Hill, the Creek and Kickapoo Indians hunted buffalo not too many years ago. You should be alert for arrowheads or unusual burrows in the soil where the wild herds might have wallowed.” This pointer, along with markings on the Oklahoma wall map, inspired us to clip magazine articles and paste them into a class scrapbook illustrating the Indian Territory. One day in May, after class let out, I walked down Grand Avenue and approached the Rose Hill Cemetery. The mausoleum’s stained128 glass windows, like watchful eyes, seemed to recognize that I had been that way many times before. I traipsed along the cemetery’s winding road and into the meadow below the orphanage. This was my crying field, a secret haven where I sowed my fantasies of being a special child for one special family, not one child among the many in an institution. I sat down on a blanket of yellow buttercups and looked out over Belle Isle Lake and the forest of trees to six miles away where the skyscrapers of Oklahoma City glimmered in the fierce sun. I wondered if Momma still rode the trolley in to visit Uncle Paul and have checkups by our family doctor. I stretched out and entered my dream world. Including Momma’s, this was my eighth home. Though the orphanage provided food, clothing, and a bed, I didn’t see a bright future. I cherished tenderness from Bessie, but with so many boys and girls, she could only bestow occasional scraps of attention. I felt slighted when she strolled down the hall without giving me a hug. “Love” was a word never spoken. I wanted a new beginning. I sought a home uncrowded with children . I resented the discipline and the frightening hours spent in the Dark Room. And I wanted to live in a far distant town where Mr. Wheeler could never find me. Several of my friends said they were happy in the orphanage. They accepted the bells, the marching in line, the pinched ears, the endless bed checks, and the lack of freedom. They had learned how to cope with Pop Hall and Olga. One was Johnny Henshall, a handsome twelve-year-old, bright and with an eager zest for life. “If I have two clean sheets I’m happy,” Johnny said. “We are like one happy orphaned family living on a calm lake.” Like the levelheaded boy he was, he never felt a ripple. “When I leave here, I’ll be homesick for the home.” Despite the hours I spent playing on Belle Isle Lake, I didn’t see a smooth body of water; I felt a turbulence underneath the surface. I couldn’t understand my conflict, but I believed grown-ups were the 129 problem. My yearning to escape and find a loving home never diminished . I had yet to gain the maturity to appreciate the gift of board and room. “Will, you’re one of the rebels,” Bessie said. My rebellious nature must not have been too uncommon because Reverend Maxey, some years later, wrote that the unsettled conditions in the home were the result of the Depression. Not only were there 150 children, but he found an institution in crisis. One hundred and forty-three windowpanes were broken in the buildings. “The children had gravy, sand plums, red beans, and lard. Mrs. Riney couldn’t care for so many boys and girls. Just to contain them was almost impossible.” He reported that the orphanage’s delivery truck driver was told to pick up a youngster who had been told to stand near a rural mailbox on a certain day. The truck came by, and a total stranger picked up a total stranger and brought him to the home. Reverend Maxey asked if it...