An autobiograhy of James Arthur Casey (Part 1)

 An autobiograhy of James Arthur Casey (Part 1)

originally written on September 18, 1995

Slightly revised on August 17, 2021

My mother's name is Rose Marie Vanzant. She was, I think, a middle child of a large family which included 4 sisters and a brother. My aunts were/are Wanda, Joy, Delores and Shirley and my Uncle's name was John. He passed away a few years before this manuscript was written. 

My grandfather's name was Arthur - it is from him that I get my middle name. Unfortunately I didn't get much of a chance to know him, as he died when I was very young. His wife, my grandmother's name was Helen and though I was only 13 or 14 when she passed I regret that I have very few memories of her. 

Her house was spotless. That's something.

Thanksgivings were mostly spent at the Vanzants (my paternal grandmother, Anna Casey, went from house to house to each of her children for that holiday). At grandmothers' house the grownups sat at the big table in the dining room while me, my brother and our cousins would share a small table in the kitchen. 

Grandmother Helen was a very devout religious person and I seem to recall that Arthur was a deacon in a very small country church that we would attend. If memory serves it was of the Freewill Baptist denomination but I was way too young to understand anything about that. I used to think my visits to that church were a dreary experience which let up only when us children were allowed to sing during a service. Actually that's not the truth at all. I don't know why I've tainted that memory with the rebellion I was possessed by in my young teenage years. Might have something to do with my corrupted memory of her funeral. Those issues are for a psychologist to figure out. Truth be told I have a strong memory of one particular instance in which we sang "In the Garden" for the adults during a Sunday morning service. One of the most touching songs I've ever heard. Look up the lyrics or stream it sometime, you'll see what I mean. I spent most of the services outside, I'm guessing they didn't let kids under a certain age in the sanctuary on Sunday morning. 

I couldn't find that old church building now if I tried. I would guess that time has taken it's toll on its' wooden frame and the lumber that held it up. I said earlier that it was "dreary"...that's just the rebellion in me that's talking. If I'm honest, if I really had the ability to go back in time and see myself on those weekend mornings, I would have to admit that I was happy there. I loved my family and that's where we knew we would see each other at least once a week. That's worth something, right? 

At any rate I think of that building now as a beautiful place filled with bushes, flowers, trees...but it was so much more to everyone that congregated there...I kind of learned to likeall that quaint country church stuff. I sat through many Sunday School lessons and absorbed very little of what I was being taught.  For a long time in my life I've assumed that this was the case with all children being "trained" and "brought up" into the Church. I don't think that way anymore and the older I get the more I realize that there was a lot more going on in those classes than any of us could attempt to explain. 

Sacred stuff. 

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

My grandmother used to make home-made butter. She had a churner and did it all by hand. The butter was very good. This was when Arthur and she lived out in the country, I suppose they were farmers at the time though I'm not certain. When grandpa died she moved into the "city limits" of Paden (Paden Oklahoma is the dictionary definition of "small town" but it's where my mother and her sisters and brother went to school). She lived in a nice home in the street behind my aunt Wanda and her husband Coy Shivers along with my cousins Terry, Gray, Kathy and Kristi (also affectionately known as Jeanie).

()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()()

The earliest memories I have of my mom are from pecan season, I'm guessing that could be any time of the year but my folks knew when there were more pecans on the ground than other, I suppose we could call it "peak" season for gathering them. It was also the season when they could be sold to the other folks in town. I think there was at least one "buyer". 

Anyway every year when the pecans fell from the trees my mom would take my brother Charles and I, along with Wanda and some of her brood (my cousins)  and we would go into the fields and woods near Paden where we would pick up what pecans we could find, then we'd put them in old potato sacks. Sometimes we would walk away with several of these sacks filled to the brim with nuts. The grass on the ground looked barren after we were finished picking them. The farmers who owned the land were probably ecstatic to have this done for them and it was worth the money they shelled out for the "service".

Truth be told Charles and I rarely picked any pecans. We were too busy romping around and playing in the pastures and fields. We loved to get inside of the empty grain silos just to holler and hear our voices bounce back and forth off of the cylindrical (?) metal walls. 

It was natural reverb.