It Was What It Was: My Memoir

IT WAS WHAT IT WAS

MY MEMOIR

DIANE HALEY TONEY

Published by Diane Haley Toney

Lavonia, Georgia

COPYRIGHT

IT WAS WHAT IT WAS

MY MEMOIR

© 2017 Diane Haley Toney

ISBN:  978-1-387-26691-3

All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author or publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

DEDICATION

This book of memories of my growing up years in Lavonia, Georgia, is dedicated to my six beloved grandchildren, each special and gifted in his or her own way.

Samuel Isaac Toney: 06/14/1994

Haley Susan Long: 12/30/1994

John Luther Toney: 12/14/1995

William Roberts Toney: 12/14/1995

Lucy Anderson Long: 11/04/1996

Casey Lee Long: 11/04/1996

Grandchildren, circa 1999.  Photo courtesy of the Toney Family Collection.  Used with permission.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

A special thank you to three friends who repeatedly encouraged me to write the stories that I remembered about Lavonia back in the day.  Without the ongoing dialogue (dare I say nagging?), it would have never happened.  And they are:  my long-time and close friend, Gayle Ehlers, who even gave me a journal to help me along the way; Ruth O’Dell, my BSS (an inside joke) who came to Franklin County as School Superintendent and became so much a part of my life; and Joyce Mathis, my bridge-playing buddy and new friend.  All three of these dear people were instrumental in making this book a reality.

Thanks, too, to Shari Spokes for her advice and to Anna McBath Shelton for organizing the chapters and designing the cover.

My two children were both supportive and helpful.  Muff prompted me on some timelines and Chuck, with his background in writing, did some serious critiquing.  Both added value to the authenticity of my writing.

But a really HUGE thank you goes to Dr. Jason Macomson, Lavonia’s Renaissance man.  He took this project on as his own and critiqued, proofed, edited, and formatted as thoroughly and confidently as any editor would have.  Having published his own trilogy for teens, he also walked me through the publishing maze.

Acknowledgements would be lacking if I did not credit my mother with encouraging me to soar and my father for keeping my feet solidly on the ground.

And I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge all my family, friends, and the many people in Lavonia who ARE this book.  Too many are long gone, but the stories linger and the memories are precious.  I only hope that I have somehow managed to resurrect those characters, those events, and that personal history that is truly Lavonia.

- Diane Haley Toney

PREFACE

This is a book of memories and memories only.  I have done no research and have had no conversations to verify what I remember.  I have left out certain names, places, and details to protect the privacy of individuals appearing in the stories.

I am comfortable with the fact that there will be readers who will perhaps recollect certain events, certain people, and certain circumstances in their own way.  And there’s nothing wrong with that.

But this is my book, my growing up years, my Lavonia.  And that is all it was ever intended to be and all it is.  I hope you enjoy the stories that I have told as much as I enjoyed the telling!

- Diane Haley Toney

I.  AND SO IT BEGINS

Chapter 1:  George and Martha (Haley, Not Washington)

George and Martha Haley on their honeymoon, Lavonia, Georgia, 1935. Lavonia First Baptist Church is in the background, and the couple is standing on the sidewalk of Vickery Street in front of the Roberts House (unseen).  The Roberts House was located across Bowman Street from the church. Photo courtesy of the Toney Family Collection. Used with permission.

My first memory of my life journey is wetting my pants.

Toddler in a crib, I pulled myself up with the rails, miserable and crying, and called out quite angrily to my parents.  My footie pajamas were soaked, my sheets and blankets were soaked, and my baby resentment was fully fueled.  Those were the days before central heat, so the cold in the bedroom made a miserable situation more miserable.  And I was quite vocal.

Of course, my parents responded right away.  I was their only one, and whatever the flaws our family had, parenting was not one.  I was much loved.

But that first vignette set the tone for the rest of my life.  Strong-minded, opinionated, vocal, and irritated when I was upset all played out in that one wet moment.

***

Small town living in the Deep South during the 40s and the 50s for upper middle-class families was a scene straight from To Kill a Mockingbird.  For the haves, life was easy, much like the song.  Small businesses thrived, cotton was king, schools were local, churches were filled, young people were disciplined, daddies worked, mommies stayed home and entertainment was visiting family and friends.

My parents, George Seaborn Haley and Martha Long Haley, were forward-thinking from the git-go.  I was born in Stephens County Hospital and brought home to a full-time baby nurse, who conceivably would become both housekeeper and nanny.  Her name was Clara, and she took care of me for several weeks until family issues called her home.

So, instead of Clara, enter her sister, Sara Lou, who became a virtual family member until I entered college and my parents moved to Griffin.  There is a chapter devoted to Sara Lou and the bond between a white family and a black domestic.  It says more about that relationship than can ever be found in a textbook.

As an only child and preschooler, I was loved unconditionally, but never blindly.  I was expected to respect my elders, whatever their gender or color, be polite at all times, play well with other children, and mind my parents.  When I crossed any of these lines, I received a whack to my fanny, and that misdeed was rarely repeated.

I was dressed in pinafores (do they even exist anymore, and, if so, what are they called?) in the summertime and in leggings in the winter.  I wore hats and gloves to church and was at Sunday School and worship every week unless there was a valid reason to miss.  I took naps and had a sandbox where I constantly tried to dig to China.  Friends were determined by family friendships and playtimes were carefully orchestrated. Misbehavior was never tolerated, only child or not!

As I grew older and started to school, nothing changed.  When I reached pre-adolescence, there were some important lessons for me.  At about age 12, I was taught to play bridge, that card game that requires teamwork, math skills, serious thinking, and a competitive spirit.  It is a game that lasts a lifetime and I play several times a week now that I have retired.  It was indeed a gift that Mother and Daddy gave to me.

At about the same age, I was asked to join them in the living room for a serious talk.  Not alarmed at all because I prided myself on being a good girl (not that that was always true by a long shot!), I looked forward to it.

The two of them suggested to me that there might come a time that I would like to test the waters with either tobacco or alcohol---and they wanted me to know that I could try either right there in that room with the two of them.  What a bummer!!!  What teenager in his/her right mind wants to smoke and drink with their parents???

Don’t know how many kids it would work with, but the approach was right for me.  I did neither during high school or college and have never smoked.  I do enjoy a glass of wine as an adult (and a Margarita with Mexican) but that came about much later, probably after our children were grown.  I give my parents credit for being master psychologists.

At about the time that my parents spoke with me regarding both smoking and drinking, Mother, who was the proverbial Southern steel magnolia, said that she wanted to speak with me about cursing---should I ever decide I needed to express myself in that way.

And this is what she instructed:  Honey, if you ever feel the need to curse, PLEASE use a good, clean 'DAMN.'  It's the only naughty word a lady would ever consider.

I was taught independent thinking, and although my daddy was fairly conservative in his politics and my mother quite liberal, and there were some healthy discussions, I always felt free to express myself, and my opinions were acknowledged and respected.  It led to my being right of left and left of right, more commonly called a centrist or a consensus-maker.  Not a bad place to be in this time of hostility and nastiness that has somehow become the norm in our great nation.

Reading has always been a strength and a love of mine.  My mother was an avid reader, and I was read to from the day I was born and have continued reading all my life.

At about age 11, give or take a year or two, I took the liberty of crossing from the children’s section in the local Carnegie Library to the adult section and choosing a book by Frank Yerby, a black Georgia writer, who was considered risqué at the time.  Needless to say, his books would be like nursery rhymes in this day and age!

However, when I got to the check-out desk, Mrs. Davis, older than God and forever in charge of everybody’s reading habits, told me to put the book back, that I could not read that book.  I, of course, obeyed, but could hardly wait to tell Mother.

The note sent back to the library was both succinct and to the point:

Maebelle, Diane can read anything she wants, anytime she wants!

- Martha

Frank Yerby and I became best friends . . .

***

When my social life opened up, I was expected to obey all rules of conduct, and other than slipping around to date Byron Toney, I adhered to that.  I had