The morning weather outlook. Cold and snow. The snow seems to wrap our front yard in a soft white cocoon. Everything is quiet. "I", went out and it even rubbed off on her. She made a silent sweep around the yard. Ears raised, listening for sounds. She headed back to the porch. Our neighborhood got to sleep in a little longer.
My sister called me a couple of days ago to tell me to go to MY SPACE and look at my great-nephews page called,"Dreams become reality." He and another boy have some music on their site. And Jeffery, my grand-nephew has written the words to the songs. They are young and into rock, but these two songs were more on the softer side and I am enjoyed them. If you have a spare minute check them out.
I have mentioned here before my Mother wrote Christan songs, poetry and stories. She was very talented. Now years has passed and she has three great grandsons showing signs of writing talent. Two of my neiece's Lori's sons, Michael and now Jeffery. My niece Mickie's boy Russ. It is funny sometimes how the genes in family's will lay quiet awhile and they rear back up. It makes me feel good to know part of my Mother is still living on. Some of her talent passed through the years and is coming forth in this younger generation. she would be thrilled to know they are showing signs of loving to write. It doesn't matter in what capacity, rock songs or lovely poetry, or short stories. My Mom and her talent still alive today.
I talked to my brother on the phone the other night and was telling him about Jeffery's songs. And how it seemed sometimes talent skipped generations. I told him I had been surprised how none of his children had been interested in playing the guitar and singing. I joked and told him maybe in this coming generation. He has his first great-grandchild right at the point of being born. He said maybe so.
I got to thinking about the new baby soon to be born. It's a boy. And the way I hear it is suppose to be called Jayden Olds. I like that name. It would make a good name for a country singer and picker. So if twenty years from now you hear of a new singer named Jayden Olds, you'll know who he is. I think maybe the paper will interview his Mother Miranda and she will say, "Oh he takes his talent after his granddad. So here's to you Jayden Olds. I sure hope I am around to hear you play and sing.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
DADDY PLAYED THE HARMONICA
There is snow. The snow that wasn't here yesterday, is here today. "I" is outside now and seemed surprised by how deep it was. She looked at me as she stepped off the porch. As if to say, "This is cold." I am very glad I do not have to go outside to take care of that kind of business. Not much would be taken care of.
My Dad was twenty-eight when he and my Mother married. He had never been married before, of course neither had my Mom. They knew each other only two weeks when they married and it lasted forty years until his death. My Dad was handsome, a true introvert and he loved my Mother. Two weeks seems like a very short time but it worked for them. I think they both wanted a family and to settled down. She was twenty-four. They had corresponded for several months before they met. So when she went to western Kansas to visit her sister, she told her other sister she was getting married and she did,
Dad worked so hard and you just grew up thinking that was the way all men were. They worked, six days a week, twelve hours a day. They gave their money to their wife. What a big surprise life had in store for me when I grew up. I know that is where my brother learned his work ethics, from my Dad.
The trait I remember about my Dad so plain was how neat he was. He worked in a Filling Station back in the days they were real stations. Not a convenient store with a gas pump. They washed cars, they greased cars, they changed oil. But every night when Dad came home from work, Mom pulled out the old wooden bench. She worked on his back and then he took a bath. He had so much back trouble and she would pop his neck and rub his back. Then he took a bath changed clothes, cleaned his fingernails. Then he ate supper. By that time it was getting late. But these are the events that happened everynight before bed. After twelve hours of work, He still always cleaned up before he ate. I would have skipped a bath sometimes I am sure but he never did.
Dad also when he went somewhere other than work wore a hat. As a small child I thought he was so handsome, tall, slender, with a mustache and he wore a hat. The kind men wore in the movies back then. As a kid I loved that, seeing my Dad in a hat. He had this hat box that was lined with satin and the hat went into it upside down. On his day off if we were going somewhere, Dad got the hat box down and carefully took it out. Standing in front of the mirror he would place it on his head at just the right angle. I always thought he looked just like one of the movie stars I watched on the big silver screen.
Dad also had a sweet tooth. Which I will blame mine on him. But when you have all these kids running around its hard to keep candy very long. So in the hall we had , just a narrow little slip of a hall, Mom kept winter coats hanging on nails. One day when I was hiding under the coats, don't ask why I was, its hard to tell. I found stuck down in the pocket of Dad's over coat the bag of pink peppermint candy. Hidden! Dad never mentioned his candy stash was going down. He never moved it from the pocket. Each new bag Mom bought for him still went in there. But from that day forward I shared Dad's candy. And never told another soul about my find.
Sometimes when he wasn't too tired, he would take out his Harmonica. He kept in a cloth bag and he would play. I am not sure how many songs he really knew. He played the,"Irish wash woman," that one I remember for sure. He would smile and cup his hands and he would play. Memories flood me as I write about it. Sitting in that old kitchen on ninth street. Dad sitting in his slacks and white undershirt, playing the harmonica.
He was a good man, a quiet man. I have wondered after I was grown if he could have resented how hard he had to work for a bunch of kids who probably never gave him thanks until long after we were grown. But I remember his smile. And the harmonica. Thanks dad.
My Dad was twenty-eight when he and my Mother married. He had never been married before, of course neither had my Mom. They knew each other only two weeks when they married and it lasted forty years until his death. My Dad was handsome, a true introvert and he loved my Mother. Two weeks seems like a very short time but it worked for them. I think they both wanted a family and to settled down. She was twenty-four. They had corresponded for several months before they met. So when she went to western Kansas to visit her sister, she told her other sister she was getting married and she did,
Dad worked so hard and you just grew up thinking that was the way all men were. They worked, six days a week, twelve hours a day. They gave their money to their wife. What a big surprise life had in store for me when I grew up. I know that is where my brother learned his work ethics, from my Dad.
The trait I remember about my Dad so plain was how neat he was. He worked in a Filling Station back in the days they were real stations. Not a convenient store with a gas pump. They washed cars, they greased cars, they changed oil. But every night when Dad came home from work, Mom pulled out the old wooden bench. She worked on his back and then he took a bath. He had so much back trouble and she would pop his neck and rub his back. Then he took a bath changed clothes, cleaned his fingernails. Then he ate supper. By that time it was getting late. But these are the events that happened everynight before bed. After twelve hours of work, He still always cleaned up before he ate. I would have skipped a bath sometimes I am sure but he never did.
Dad also when he went somewhere other than work wore a hat. As a small child I thought he was so handsome, tall, slender, with a mustache and he wore a hat. The kind men wore in the movies back then. As a kid I loved that, seeing my Dad in a hat. He had this hat box that was lined with satin and the hat went into it upside down. On his day off if we were going somewhere, Dad got the hat box down and carefully took it out. Standing in front of the mirror he would place it on his head at just the right angle. I always thought he looked just like one of the movie stars I watched on the big silver screen.
Dad also had a sweet tooth. Which I will blame mine on him. But when you have all these kids running around its hard to keep candy very long. So in the hall we had , just a narrow little slip of a hall, Mom kept winter coats hanging on nails. One day when I was hiding under the coats, don't ask why I was, its hard to tell. I found stuck down in the pocket of Dad's over coat the bag of pink peppermint candy. Hidden! Dad never mentioned his candy stash was going down. He never moved it from the pocket. Each new bag Mom bought for him still went in there. But from that day forward I shared Dad's candy. And never told another soul about my find.
Sometimes when he wasn't too tired, he would take out his Harmonica. He kept in a cloth bag and he would play. I am not sure how many songs he really knew. He played the,"Irish wash woman," that one I remember for sure. He would smile and cup his hands and he would play. Memories flood me as I write about it. Sitting in that old kitchen on ninth street. Dad sitting in his slacks and white undershirt, playing the harmonica.
He was a good man, a quiet man. I have wondered after I was grown if he could have resented how hard he had to work for a bunch of kids who probably never gave him thanks until long after we were grown. But I remember his smile. And the harmonica. Thanks dad.
Friday, January 29, 2010
THE SOUND OF DISTANT DRUMS.
It is snowing, not very hard. I don't think very long, but it is snowing. "I" and I hit the floor about fifteen minutes ago. She was jumping and running around, The great outdoors beckoned. I stumbled to the door, she hurried out, and stopped in her tracks, she made a hurried about face. No great outdoors at 4:30 am, when a cold wind is blowing mixed with snow and a little sleet. We will try it again later.
My sister has been calling me the last few days to ask if I am hearing the drums. I told her I was blaming my headache on the drums. before I start this out by making my sister sound mean. I have to do a little confessing. The last few years, right before my sister and my brothers birthday, I call them. Several times just to ask if the noise is getting louder, the pounding on the doors, the drums. I tease them both, her especially. Because all those sounds are a good sign old age is approaching fast. Well, the drums are beating, louder and louder. at my house.
When we are young we wait each year with great anticapation. Birthdays are fun, presents, cake, feeling special one day a year. The day of your birth. Also when you are young years can stand for milestones. Sixteen, getting your drivers license,twenty-one old enough to drink and vote,though its eighteen now to vote. Thirty is not bad either. But then we start looking at forty, and age begins to start to lose its appeal.
I have had a easy way to deal with age over the years. I lied. Lied about it so much I have to stop and think to remember for sure how old I am. My daughter said the other day, one of her sons asked how old I really was. Because I lied so much he didn't know. Of course this is the grandson who asked me last fall when I was going to start dressing my age. Which I immediately answered, never.
I am sorry but I do not do polyester. Polyester and I parted ways in the seventies and will never get back together. I do not do print house dresses either. Or those little cotton dusters that snap up the front. Now I like cotton, just not the dusters. Now in all fairness to the grandkids. When you are grown and your grandmother shows...how do I say this. Oh I know her cleavage. It has to be difficult.
The honest truth is I don't dress trying to look younger. I dress because I hate the clothes that are made for older women. No elastic waist pants please. Give me jeans and a cute top.
Over the years my kids and my grandkids have seen my hair every color you could bring to imagination. No sir no little blue haired lady hair for me. Give me blond, brown or every color in between. I have surely tried them all. I just refuse to be a blue hair.
So the drums are beating. The day is getting closer. I can hide but they will find me. The only alternative to old age is dying and I am not ready for that one yet. Will this year be the year I start acting and dressing my age. Naw, I don't think so. I will walk on the wrong side of the street probably, with my frizzed whatever color hair. I will stick out my tongue at the years and try my best to give them a foot race. Let them beat them dang drums. I'm ready for them.
My sister has been calling me the last few days to ask if I am hearing the drums. I told her I was blaming my headache on the drums. before I start this out by making my sister sound mean. I have to do a little confessing. The last few years, right before my sister and my brothers birthday, I call them. Several times just to ask if the noise is getting louder, the pounding on the doors, the drums. I tease them both, her especially. Because all those sounds are a good sign old age is approaching fast. Well, the drums are beating, louder and louder. at my house.
When we are young we wait each year with great anticapation. Birthdays are fun, presents, cake, feeling special one day a year. The day of your birth. Also when you are young years can stand for milestones. Sixteen, getting your drivers license,twenty-one old enough to drink and vote,though its eighteen now to vote. Thirty is not bad either. But then we start looking at forty, and age begins to start to lose its appeal.
I have had a easy way to deal with age over the years. I lied. Lied about it so much I have to stop and think to remember for sure how old I am. My daughter said the other day, one of her sons asked how old I really was. Because I lied so much he didn't know. Of course this is the grandson who asked me last fall when I was going to start dressing my age. Which I immediately answered, never.
I am sorry but I do not do polyester. Polyester and I parted ways in the seventies and will never get back together. I do not do print house dresses either. Or those little cotton dusters that snap up the front. Now I like cotton, just not the dusters. Now in all fairness to the grandkids. When you are grown and your grandmother shows...how do I say this. Oh I know her cleavage. It has to be difficult.
The honest truth is I don't dress trying to look younger. I dress because I hate the clothes that are made for older women. No elastic waist pants please. Give me jeans and a cute top.
Over the years my kids and my grandkids have seen my hair every color you could bring to imagination. No sir no little blue haired lady hair for me. Give me blond, brown or every color in between. I have surely tried them all. I just refuse to be a blue hair.
So the drums are beating. The day is getting closer. I can hide but they will find me. The only alternative to old age is dying and I am not ready for that one yet. Will this year be the year I start acting and dressing my age. Naw, I don't think so. I will walk on the wrong side of the street probably, with my frizzed whatever color hair. I will stick out my tongue at the years and try my best to give them a foot race. Let them beat them dang drums. I'm ready for them.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
AMAZING GRACE
It is almost 5:30. It is cold but the snow they say may come has not yet arrived, Thats okay with "I" and me. We both are dragging around this morning. She went out and didn't bark once. I am worried about us both.
I am usually a bouncy person. Sort of like a older Tigger. So is "I". A dog version of Tigger. . We are not bouncing this morning. I am not sick. I don't believe she is. we are just kind of subdued, I smile at the notion of that idea. A subdued me. I guess that will probably never happen if I am honest. Maybe semi-subdued. I can not quite put my finger on how I feel this morning. No creative juices are flowing. No great expectations for the day ahead. I am always one who believes you should get up with the expection something good is going to happen to you. My Mom believed that very idea. She had this complete trust in God and believed if you placed your trust in him, with his protective hand over you. Good things would happen. Now of course not only good things happened to my Mother. She had many rough times in her life. But she was always the eternal optimist. And I believe she was because she had such a strong faith in God. If we truly believe there is a greater power that loves and cares for us. Then we can be optimistic.
I read a little short article once. Where there had been a man who was a good man but had never really had lived his life with a strong belief in God. He became very sick. His daughter had her Pastor come to see him. He was dying of cancer. In the last stages, he was in bed all the time. The preacher came, saw him, told him of Jesus. The man believed and was saved. The Minister came everyday to visit with the man. One morning his daughter came into his bedroom and he was laying over on a chair that was next to his bed. He had died there. After the funeral was over the Minister was talking to the daughter. She told him how happy she was that her Dad had been saved before he died. But she just couldn't understand why her Father had died with his head over in the chair.
The Minister smiled and told her how he had prayed with her Dad. And had told him when he was in pain or worried just pray. That God loved him, Jesus had died for him. He could tell Jesus when he was feeling alone. The man said he just didn't know how to pray. He was having a hard time trying to pray. The Minister said he pointed to the chair next to the bed. "Just think about Jesus sitting right here by your bed and talk to him he cares, just talk to him. So that is what the man did from that day forth. Talked to Jesus in that chair. And there he died, resting his head on Jesus. I love that thought. Just being able to rest on Jesus. What would I do if I didn't believe. Believe there is a God, who cares when I am not bouncy and trouncy. Who sees in me what the world will never see. And his love is called "Amazing Grace.'
I am not sure where this blog went today. Not where I fully intended. One of those rambling days again. I seem to have many of them. I am grateful for a Mother who told me about God. Taught me to believe. My friend the world will let you down. We in turn let others down. But I believe as sure as I stand here that God will never let me down. I am covered by his"Amazing love and grace."
I am usually a bouncy person. Sort of like a older Tigger. So is "I". A dog version of Tigger. . We are not bouncing this morning. I am not sick. I don't believe she is. we are just kind of subdued, I smile at the notion of that idea. A subdued me. I guess that will probably never happen if I am honest. Maybe semi-subdued. I can not quite put my finger on how I feel this morning. No creative juices are flowing. No great expectations for the day ahead. I am always one who believes you should get up with the expection something good is going to happen to you. My Mom believed that very idea. She had this complete trust in God and believed if you placed your trust in him, with his protective hand over you. Good things would happen. Now of course not only good things happened to my Mother. She had many rough times in her life. But she was always the eternal optimist. And I believe she was because she had such a strong faith in God. If we truly believe there is a greater power that loves and cares for us. Then we can be optimistic.
I read a little short article once. Where there had been a man who was a good man but had never really had lived his life with a strong belief in God. He became very sick. His daughter had her Pastor come to see him. He was dying of cancer. In the last stages, he was in bed all the time. The preacher came, saw him, told him of Jesus. The man believed and was saved. The Minister came everyday to visit with the man. One morning his daughter came into his bedroom and he was laying over on a chair that was next to his bed. He had died there. After the funeral was over the Minister was talking to the daughter. She told him how happy she was that her Dad had been saved before he died. But she just couldn't understand why her Father had died with his head over in the chair.
The Minister smiled and told her how he had prayed with her Dad. And had told him when he was in pain or worried just pray. That God loved him, Jesus had died for him. He could tell Jesus when he was feeling alone. The man said he just didn't know how to pray. He was having a hard time trying to pray. The Minister said he pointed to the chair next to the bed. "Just think about Jesus sitting right here by your bed and talk to him he cares, just talk to him. So that is what the man did from that day forth. Talked to Jesus in that chair. And there he died, resting his head on Jesus. I love that thought. Just being able to rest on Jesus. What would I do if I didn't believe. Believe there is a God, who cares when I am not bouncy and trouncy. Who sees in me what the world will never see. And his love is called "Amazing Grace.'
I am not sure where this blog went today. Not where I fully intended. One of those rambling days again. I seem to have many of them. I am grateful for a Mother who told me about God. Taught me to believe. My friend the world will let you down. We in turn let others down. But I believe as sure as I stand here that God will never let me down. I am covered by his"Amazing love and grace."
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
MY HERO'S
We have started the Day bright and early "I" and I. The minute she goes out the front door, she heads for the fence, barking. She is so sure there is something out there she doesn't want out there. Its a comical ritual we have every morning. I'd like too think it keeps me young.
Sunday I went with my daughter and son-in-law to Kansas City to visit my grandson and his family. Since I have started this blog about a month ago, I have not mentioned Mikayla. Not because her and her family are not a constant on my mind. But because they have a blog for Mikayla. It's called " Mikaylas Fight." I did not want it to look like I was trying to get attention for my blog by talking of her. But I have decieded today I will talk about her. Their family to be more exact.
On July 6th 2009 Mikayla was diagnosed as having Leukemia. She had only been sick a few days. The diagnoses came from way out of left field. They never expected when the Doctor ran blood tests that would be the result. What a terrible blow to hear your five year old has cancer. The way they reacted to this besides pain and horror was what has touched my heart so much.
In the first moments of in the diagnosis there is always fear and confusion. But they immediately closed ranks. Pulled their family in tight. Buttoned up so to speak. Their unit was never divided. When they were rushed to Kansas City, they all went to Kansas City. When school started in August, Mike brought the two older children back for school and they all went back for the weekends. Many people offered to keep the older two here but their constant goal was to keep them all together. And they did. Together at the hospital, together at Ronald McDonald house. Always together. As a family.
The months have been full of very painful, hard times. At times faith faltered but always came back with a vengeance. They said, "No Lukemia, not my child. You cannot have our Mikayla." And they fought. Through long hours, painful times, long and sleepless nights. But they were always there for her and their other three children. Always together, always united.
In November little Malachi who just turned one gave his marrow in a bone marrow transplant. The transplant went well. In a couple of weeks they moved to Ronald McDonald house. Then within days a terrible reaction and a long painful bout for Mikayla that threatened her life once again. But they fought, together.
I watched them Sunday, all six of them in a small apartment at Ronald McDonald house.The kids laughing, teasing their Dad for cooking breakfast. Mikayla stays at Ronald Mc Donald house now, her and her Mom during the week, all of them on the weekend, going to the hospital on a out patient basis. I see them with love. And they don't even know they are hero's. Malachi, who gave his bone marrow to save his sister's life. Damien and Darian who have went to Kansas City over and over,spending long hours at the hospital, tense desperate hours. And still they smile. These kids are at a age where kids gripe when they have to be around their parents for more than twenty minutes. Hero's they are hero's.
Then we come to Mike and Rea. How do you find words to say, "I am in awe of you." You have endured, been brought to your knees but you never let go. Not once. Mike you with your soft voice trying to explain to Mikayla each step of what was going on. Trying to be a constant strength for your family. When there was times I know when there was no strength for yourself. I am proud of you. Then Rea who many times had to be at the hospital alone. Fighting Doctors, nurses, whatever it took to get the care, the explanations that were needed to keep your daughter safe. Who crawled in bed with her child so she wouldn't be afraid. A mother bear. Who fought to keep all her family together. A hero, both of you my hero's.
Then Mikayla. I looked at pictures on facebook today. Of Mikayla in that terrible chair when they gave her radiation, strapped in for hours.It was like a torture chamber.Most of us would have screamed, complained but she endured. And after all was said and done, she was still smiling. The chemo took her hair, but nothing took her smile and her spirit. A hero. My hero.
Mikalya is recovering, slowly but recovering. There will still be a long road ahead of them. They want to go home. I want them to go home together. Who would have thought a year ago here was a family of hero's. Everyone of them. The Bassetts!
Sunday I went with my daughter and son-in-law to Kansas City to visit my grandson and his family. Since I have started this blog about a month ago, I have not mentioned Mikayla. Not because her and her family are not a constant on my mind. But because they have a blog for Mikayla. It's called " Mikaylas Fight." I did not want it to look like I was trying to get attention for my blog by talking of her. But I have decieded today I will talk about her. Their family to be more exact.
On July 6th 2009 Mikayla was diagnosed as having Leukemia. She had only been sick a few days. The diagnoses came from way out of left field. They never expected when the Doctor ran blood tests that would be the result. What a terrible blow to hear your five year old has cancer. The way they reacted to this besides pain and horror was what has touched my heart so much.
In the first moments of in the diagnosis there is always fear and confusion. But they immediately closed ranks. Pulled their family in tight. Buttoned up so to speak. Their unit was never divided. When they were rushed to Kansas City, they all went to Kansas City. When school started in August, Mike brought the two older children back for school and they all went back for the weekends. Many people offered to keep the older two here but their constant goal was to keep them all together. And they did. Together at the hospital, together at Ronald McDonald house. Always together. As a family.
The months have been full of very painful, hard times. At times faith faltered but always came back with a vengeance. They said, "No Lukemia, not my child. You cannot have our Mikayla." And they fought. Through long hours, painful times, long and sleepless nights. But they were always there for her and their other three children. Always together, always united.
In November little Malachi who just turned one gave his marrow in a bone marrow transplant. The transplant went well. In a couple of weeks they moved to Ronald McDonald house. Then within days a terrible reaction and a long painful bout for Mikayla that threatened her life once again. But they fought, together.
I watched them Sunday, all six of them in a small apartment at Ronald McDonald house.The kids laughing, teasing their Dad for cooking breakfast. Mikayla stays at Ronald Mc Donald house now, her and her Mom during the week, all of them on the weekend, going to the hospital on a out patient basis. I see them with love. And they don't even know they are hero's. Malachi, who gave his bone marrow to save his sister's life. Damien and Darian who have went to Kansas City over and over,spending long hours at the hospital, tense desperate hours. And still they smile. These kids are at a age where kids gripe when they have to be around their parents for more than twenty minutes. Hero's they are hero's.
Then we come to Mike and Rea. How do you find words to say, "I am in awe of you." You have endured, been brought to your knees but you never let go. Not once. Mike you with your soft voice trying to explain to Mikayla each step of what was going on. Trying to be a constant strength for your family. When there was times I know when there was no strength for yourself. I am proud of you. Then Rea who many times had to be at the hospital alone. Fighting Doctors, nurses, whatever it took to get the care, the explanations that were needed to keep your daughter safe. Who crawled in bed with her child so she wouldn't be afraid. A mother bear. Who fought to keep all her family together. A hero, both of you my hero's.
Then Mikayla. I looked at pictures on facebook today. Of Mikayla in that terrible chair when they gave her radiation, strapped in for hours.It was like a torture chamber.Most of us would have screamed, complained but she endured. And after all was said and done, she was still smiling. The chemo took her hair, but nothing took her smile and her spirit. A hero. My hero.
Mikalya is recovering, slowly but recovering. There will still be a long road ahead of them. They want to go home. I want them to go home together. Who would have thought a year ago here was a family of hero's. Everyone of them. The Bassetts!
ISH CREAM, OR ICE CREAM, LETS ALL SCREAM FOR ICE CREAM
The dogs have been out and now both back to bed. They are pouting. I pulled a trick on them and really do feel bad. They love to go for a walk. I can pull out the collar and chains and they go wild. Jumping up in the air , they get very excited. So sometimes in desperation to get "I" to come in,. I go to the door and rattle the chain. Here they come, just like they were well trained and I said come. Of course when they see they are going no where, they stalk off and I see hide nor hair of them for awhile. Only an occasional wolf comes from somewhere. So this morning that's what I did. My husband has been gone over night and I did not want to run around the yard . Afraid I might fall as I don't see well. So my best friends except for Nancy and my sister Geri are not interacting with me today.
When I was a kid my Dad was usually off on Sunday's. In the afternoon dad would say, "Momma, lets go for a drive and blow the stink off the kids." I spent a good deal of the time growing up, trying to smell myself. Because if you had to have it blown off it must be pretty bad. So there I was at six trying to stick my head down my dress, sniffing..
Dad had several places he liked Mom to drive too. Dad could drive but didn't very often. So Dad rode, we rode, Mom drove. Sometimes we went to Racine. Just a little spot on the road outside of Joplin. We actually didn't go to Racine but as she turned a bend on the road towards Racine was a over hanging cliff and a spring came out from under the rocks. Water cress grew there, trees surrounded it. A truly beautiful spot. Of course we all climbed over or under the fence to get to it. But all of us did. Dad had taught us how to lay on our stomachs and cup our hands to make a cup. Then you would drink, the sweetest, clearest, water of all times. A memory etched in my mind. The birds singing. Dad would do bird calls back to them. He would call sometimes, "Bob White" and sometimes you could hear it echo back. A picture painted in my mind.
Some Sundays we would drive to Shoal Creek. It was right outside of Joplin. A creek that of course is still there today and it winds around a long way. When we arrived once again we all trooped out of the car and went to the waters edge. Dad taught us how to skip a rock across the water. He could make it skip several times. Bud learned it, I never did. I don't know about Geri. But with the sun in the sky and we all on the creek bank skipping stones, at least I trying, A picture painted in my mind.
Then the best time came. When we got back to town, many times Dad would say. "Ish crean or ice cream. We would yell,"Lets all scream for ice cream.' Does that sound dorky to you? Maybe it was but we didn't think so back then. Mom would drive to fourteenth and Wall, where there was this ice cream place. Everyone told their favorite and Mom went inside and bought the cones. One of us kids going along to help carry. Of course I wanted to be the one to go but had to take my turn. It was so difficult deciding, chocolate, strawberry or vannila. Which would it be or there was always other flavors too. Good hard ice cream, dipped carefully onto the cone. We sat in the car and ate our ice cream. Why I ask myself now did I not realize that I was painting a beautiful picture in my mind. A treasure. A thing of beauty I would take out and look at over the years. I can still hear the words, "Ish cream or ice cream," lets all scream for ice cream. " We paint pictures everyday in our children's minds. Memories they will never forget. What kind of pictures are you painting?
When I was a kid my Dad was usually off on Sunday's. In the afternoon dad would say, "Momma, lets go for a drive and blow the stink off the kids." I spent a good deal of the time growing up, trying to smell myself. Because if you had to have it blown off it must be pretty bad. So there I was at six trying to stick my head down my dress, sniffing..
Dad had several places he liked Mom to drive too. Dad could drive but didn't very often. So Dad rode, we rode, Mom drove. Sometimes we went to Racine. Just a little spot on the road outside of Joplin. We actually didn't go to Racine but as she turned a bend on the road towards Racine was a over hanging cliff and a spring came out from under the rocks. Water cress grew there, trees surrounded it. A truly beautiful spot. Of course we all climbed over or under the fence to get to it. But all of us did. Dad had taught us how to lay on our stomachs and cup our hands to make a cup. Then you would drink, the sweetest, clearest, water of all times. A memory etched in my mind. The birds singing. Dad would do bird calls back to them. He would call sometimes, "Bob White" and sometimes you could hear it echo back. A picture painted in my mind.
Some Sundays we would drive to Shoal Creek. It was right outside of Joplin. A creek that of course is still there today and it winds around a long way. When we arrived once again we all trooped out of the car and went to the waters edge. Dad taught us how to skip a rock across the water. He could make it skip several times. Bud learned it, I never did. I don't know about Geri. But with the sun in the sky and we all on the creek bank skipping stones, at least I trying, A picture painted in my mind.
Then the best time came. When we got back to town, many times Dad would say. "Ish crean or ice cream. We would yell,"Lets all scream for ice cream.' Does that sound dorky to you? Maybe it was but we didn't think so back then. Mom would drive to fourteenth and Wall, where there was this ice cream place. Everyone told their favorite and Mom went inside and bought the cones. One of us kids going along to help carry. Of course I wanted to be the one to go but had to take my turn. It was so difficult deciding, chocolate, strawberry or vannila. Which would it be or there was always other flavors too. Good hard ice cream, dipped carefully onto the cone. We sat in the car and ate our ice cream. Why I ask myself now did I not realize that I was painting a beautiful picture in my mind. A treasure. A thing of beauty I would take out and look at over the years. I can still hear the words, "Ish cream or ice cream," lets all scream for ice cream. " We paint pictures everyday in our children's minds. Memories they will never forget. What kind of pictures are you painting?
Monday, January 25, 2010
THE RED RIDING LAWN MOWER
It is another Monday again. The days are speeding by us. Tick, tick, I hear the clock. Wait a minute life don't let the sand slide through the hour glass quite so fast. But thank-you God I am alive today. Lets see what I do with it.
In April of 2003 I had been saving my money and seen in the paper where some people had a red convertible for sale. Oh I had always wanted a red convertible. The answer to a dream. So I had my husband take me to see it. We pulled onto their street and halfway down the block you could see it in the driveway. Sun shining down through the trees. Sparkling off the shiny red body. The top was down. Right then on the spot I fell in love with that car. Every inch of it, down to its fours tires. I felt wonderful driving it. It made me feel good. The only little thing I didn't bother telling anyone was that for months I had been having trouble seeing to drive. Just a small piece of information I had kept to myself. I had nerve damage to my eyes and was not aware to what existent. So to make a long story much shorter. Aren't you proud of me? By November of that year I had to give up driving. I was never to drive again. I sold my beloved little car. And faced the terrible truth that my days behind the wheel was over. Not news I took very well. But after time I become more able to handle it. Sometimes you just have to face what you have to face. But losing the freedom of just jumping in the car and going to do what you need to get done is very difficult. Especially when you know that freedom will never be yours again.
Two years ago my husband bought a brand new riding lawn mower. Guess the color, yes it was bright shiny apple red. I watched him ride around the yard with envy. The sun beating down on his head, just like when I had my convertible. I wanted to ride that mower, I wanted it badly. After watching him mowing a couple of weeks, I told him I wanted to ride it, try it out. "Well," he said we'll have to move everything out of the way so you won't hit anything." So we did. I drove around the house smiling, around and around. Just like a little kid. "Look at me, I can drive." It went very well I thought It was so much fun. Once again I had a steering wheel in my hands. I was totally thrilled.
The next week when he got the mower out, I came out to sit and watch. After he was done I asked. "Can I drive it again." So once again everything was moved out of the way. I drove around and around. But the complete time my eyes were on the fence and the big gate in the back. The big gate that led to freedom.
"Let me drive down the alley," I pleaded. "Just down the alley, I will stay right in the middle." He looked doubtful. "You have to careful," he said very serious. "You could hit some thing. Stay right in this block." I nodded back. "Oh yes I know," I said. "Just right in this block. He opened the gate. I drove out, straining against the sunlight to be able to make things out clearly. I drove up and down, up and down. Then on about my third trip I got to the end of the alley at eighth and I peered at what lie ahead. Another block, another alley. It led to busy seventh street. I looked to the right, it seemed no cars. I looked to the left, the same there. I looked behind me, He wasn't there. I gunned the motor and off I flew I crossed the street, seeing maybe half of what lay before me and that blurry. The wind blew in my face. The sun beat down on my head. Freedom, freedom at last. I laughed. I was driving, all alone. The steering wheel in my hands. I was in control. I did have enough sense that when I got to seventh I turned around and started back.
When I got back to eighth I looked both ways and carefully crossed. I looked ahead. What was that in the alley? It was moving, it had arms. It was flagging the arms around wildly. The it had words coming out of it's mouth. I strained to hear. It was my husband. "What are you doing ?" he screamed. Scream is the descriptive word here. "You could have been killed." He had the gate wide open. "Get that in the yard," he said. He didn't ask please. "That's it," he fumed. "You are grounded, you can never drive again." I pulled in and cut the engine. My glory days had ended almost as fast as they started. But for just a few minutes I was driving. I pretended I was back in my little red convertible. I am here to tell you it was great!
In April of 2003 I had been saving my money and seen in the paper where some people had a red convertible for sale. Oh I had always wanted a red convertible. The answer to a dream. So I had my husband take me to see it. We pulled onto their street and halfway down the block you could see it in the driveway. Sun shining down through the trees. Sparkling off the shiny red body. The top was down. Right then on the spot I fell in love with that car. Every inch of it, down to its fours tires. I felt wonderful driving it. It made me feel good. The only little thing I didn't bother telling anyone was that for months I had been having trouble seeing to drive. Just a small piece of information I had kept to myself. I had nerve damage to my eyes and was not aware to what existent. So to make a long story much shorter. Aren't you proud of me? By November of that year I had to give up driving. I was never to drive again. I sold my beloved little car. And faced the terrible truth that my days behind the wheel was over. Not news I took very well. But after time I become more able to handle it. Sometimes you just have to face what you have to face. But losing the freedom of just jumping in the car and going to do what you need to get done is very difficult. Especially when you know that freedom will never be yours again.
Two years ago my husband bought a brand new riding lawn mower. Guess the color, yes it was bright shiny apple red. I watched him ride around the yard with envy. The sun beating down on his head, just like when I had my convertible. I wanted to ride that mower, I wanted it badly. After watching him mowing a couple of weeks, I told him I wanted to ride it, try it out. "Well," he said we'll have to move everything out of the way so you won't hit anything." So we did. I drove around the house smiling, around and around. Just like a little kid. "Look at me, I can drive." It went very well I thought It was so much fun. Once again I had a steering wheel in my hands. I was totally thrilled.
The next week when he got the mower out, I came out to sit and watch. After he was done I asked. "Can I drive it again." So once again everything was moved out of the way. I drove around and around. But the complete time my eyes were on the fence and the big gate in the back. The big gate that led to freedom.
"Let me drive down the alley," I pleaded. "Just down the alley, I will stay right in the middle." He looked doubtful. "You have to careful," he said very serious. "You could hit some thing. Stay right in this block." I nodded back. "Oh yes I know," I said. "Just right in this block. He opened the gate. I drove out, straining against the sunlight to be able to make things out clearly. I drove up and down, up and down. Then on about my third trip I got to the end of the alley at eighth and I peered at what lie ahead. Another block, another alley. It led to busy seventh street. I looked to the right, it seemed no cars. I looked to the left, the same there. I looked behind me, He wasn't there. I gunned the motor and off I flew I crossed the street, seeing maybe half of what lay before me and that blurry. The wind blew in my face. The sun beat down on my head. Freedom, freedom at last. I laughed. I was driving, all alone. The steering wheel in my hands. I was in control. I did have enough sense that when I got to seventh I turned around and started back.
When I got back to eighth I looked both ways and carefully crossed. I looked ahead. What was that in the alley? It was moving, it had arms. It was flagging the arms around wildly. The it had words coming out of it's mouth. I strained to hear. It was my husband. "What are you doing ?" he screamed. Scream is the descriptive word here. "You could have been killed." He had the gate wide open. "Get that in the yard," he said. He didn't ask please. "That's it," he fumed. "You are grounded, you can never drive again." I pulled in and cut the engine. My glory days had ended almost as fast as they started. But for just a few minutes I was driving. I pretended I was back in my little red convertible. I am here to tell you it was great!
Saturday, January 23, 2010
KEEP ON THE SUNNY SIDE
I have been singing this chorus for days. "Keep on the Sunny side." Life just goes better if we walk on the sunny side. Rain comes, troubles come but we can make it sunny if we try.We all like to be around happy people. It makes us feel better. As silly as it seems, as simple. Life goes better with a smile.
We all have days when we wake up that we would like to just call life and cancel the day. Nothing goes right. Then you get started late for work. Someone cuts you off in traffic. You call the guy a bad name. Holler it in fact. You sure don't feel like singing that old song, "Keep on the sunny side." In fact sometimes we kind of take pleasure in being miserable. They say a smile is contagious. Well having a bad day can be contagious too. its like if we are miserable, we'd like at least for part of the world to be miserable too.
But after you have slammed around all day, frowned a lot, snapped at people. You stop at the store. Long line, yeah right, what else could you expect. You stand there muttering under your breath and then look at the woman in front of you. She has a cart. There is a little child sitting in the seat. He peers around his Mom at you. He ducks back. He looks again and then he smiles. And in spite of your terrible day, you smile back. Keep on the sunny side.
I basically think mentally we choose what kind of day we are going to have when we crawl out of bed. We without realizing it sometimes choose if our day is going to be good or suck. I think that's called attuide. Kind of Corny but very simple. Just choosing to have a wonderful day in spite of whatever comes at you. Just a smile can sometimes make all the difference in how anothers day may turn out. Your smile may be the very act that will keep someone from despair. Keep on the sunny side.
This hasn't made much sense today. But just remember the child in the grocery store. A smile can make all the difference. The chorus to that song. It was sang by the Carter Family.
"Keep on the sunny side
Always on the sunny side.
Keep on the sunny side of life.
It will brighten up your day,
It will help you on your way,
Just keep on the sunny side of life."
We all have days when we wake up that we would like to just call life and cancel the day. Nothing goes right. Then you get started late for work. Someone cuts you off in traffic. You call the guy a bad name. Holler it in fact. You sure don't feel like singing that old song, "Keep on the sunny side." In fact sometimes we kind of take pleasure in being miserable. They say a smile is contagious. Well having a bad day can be contagious too. its like if we are miserable, we'd like at least for part of the world to be miserable too.
But after you have slammed around all day, frowned a lot, snapped at people. You stop at the store. Long line, yeah right, what else could you expect. You stand there muttering under your breath and then look at the woman in front of you. She has a cart. There is a little child sitting in the seat. He peers around his Mom at you. He ducks back. He looks again and then he smiles. And in spite of your terrible day, you smile back. Keep on the sunny side.
I basically think mentally we choose what kind of day we are going to have when we crawl out of bed. We without realizing it sometimes choose if our day is going to be good or suck. I think that's called attuide. Kind of Corny but very simple. Just choosing to have a wonderful day in spite of whatever comes at you. Just a smile can sometimes make all the difference in how anothers day may turn out. Your smile may be the very act that will keep someone from despair. Keep on the sunny side.
This hasn't made much sense today. But just remember the child in the grocery store. A smile can make all the difference. The chorus to that song. It was sang by the Carter Family.
"Keep on the sunny side
Always on the sunny side.
Keep on the sunny side of life.
It will brighten up your day,
It will help you on your way,
Just keep on the sunny side of life."
WE HAVE A ARTIST IN THE FAMILY.
We are up at our house. At least the dogs and I. They are both outside and I m hoping for the best. Cool and a little damp outside at 5:00 am, in case you are interested.
Small children are so neat. They look at everything around them with wonder and awe. They are funny. quizzical, always exploring and asking why. They can spend hours watching a bug. Take a box and make a house. It is called imagination. The sad fact is as we get older we tend to lose our imagination and the magic of our life's are sometimes lost.
Yesterday a young member of our family let his imagination kick into high gear. And the results were hilarious. At least I think so. Let me tell you and you decide for yourself.
Ryan is four years old. Ryan is a charmer.. White blond hair, my brother calls him cotton top. Eyes that are so blue. As he gets older there will be many a girl fall under the spell of those beautiful blue eyes. He is ornery, funny and can captivate your heart with one smile. Ryan definitely has an imagination. A stick in the yard can become a tool for him to work on the swing. Always thinking.
Yesterday I called my daughter. Just to check on everyone. She didn't answer. A few minutes later she called back, out of breath. "yes", she said sounding a Little stressed out. "Just wanted to see if you are all okay," I said quickly. "Your grandson is giving me problems." Then I heard her call out, "Ryan keep scrubbing." Well I knew from those words something had happened. She proceeds to tell me what had transpired.
Before I tell you, I would like to tell you how I think the following events came into play. Ryan, she said had been watching Television. She was in the other room. I think Ryan sitting there on the couch, watching TV and he looked around restlessly. Kids you must remember are always thinking, thinking ahead. His eyes fell on a new bottle of fingernail polish. Before you think oh no, let me assure you it gets even better from here on. I think he picked the bottle up, his eyes lighting up. He knew what they did with nail polish. But he also knew if he polished or tried to his fingernails his grandma would see and know he did it. He looked at his bare feet. He always takes his shoes off. His toe nails, no she would see that too. What could he polish that she would not see. A idea was born. I told you at four they have very strong imaginations. He would paint his winky. Men and boys are fascinated with their winky's from the day they are born. As they get older they usually name them. So his winky probably seemed like a cool idea at least at the moment.
Billie said he came to her and said his winky hurt. She told him to go pee. "You haven't went for awhile" , she told him. He went, she heard him again, she followed. Big tears were flowing down his face. "My winky hurts," he said crying. She looked closer. Good grief, he had painted his winky. By this time I was laughing very hard.
She put him in the tub. She gave him a wash rag.
Scrub, Ryan ," she told him. I would say she was probably hollering by this time. "You have to get that polish off quick." He scrubbed. She said as he scrubbed so hard, crying. The problem began to grow larger if you get the meaning here. This was going on as we talked. It was funny, very funny. "I have never ever had this problem with any of the others.," she said very exasperated. Well maybe none of the others are artists, I thought. Most of it came off finally. I worried that maybe it could cause infection around the tip. She thought it would be okay. I think she did not want to take him to the emergency room with a nail polished winky.
Isn't it fun having kids around. They definitely keep you on your toes. But for you big guys out there. If you are sitting around bored some afternoon and spot a bottle of polish on the coffee table. Let me give you a word from the wise. DON'T DO IT.! Ryan says it hurts. And Ryan knows from experience.
Small children are so neat. They look at everything around them with wonder and awe. They are funny. quizzical, always exploring and asking why. They can spend hours watching a bug. Take a box and make a house. It is called imagination. The sad fact is as we get older we tend to lose our imagination and the magic of our life's are sometimes lost.
Yesterday a young member of our family let his imagination kick into high gear. And the results were hilarious. At least I think so. Let me tell you and you decide for yourself.
Ryan is four years old. Ryan is a charmer.. White blond hair, my brother calls him cotton top. Eyes that are so blue. As he gets older there will be many a girl fall under the spell of those beautiful blue eyes. He is ornery, funny and can captivate your heart with one smile. Ryan definitely has an imagination. A stick in the yard can become a tool for him to work on the swing. Always thinking.
Yesterday I called my daughter. Just to check on everyone. She didn't answer. A few minutes later she called back, out of breath. "yes", she said sounding a Little stressed out. "Just wanted to see if you are all okay," I said quickly. "Your grandson is giving me problems." Then I heard her call out, "Ryan keep scrubbing." Well I knew from those words something had happened. She proceeds to tell me what had transpired.
Before I tell you, I would like to tell you how I think the following events came into play. Ryan, she said had been watching Television. She was in the other room. I think Ryan sitting there on the couch, watching TV and he looked around restlessly. Kids you must remember are always thinking, thinking ahead. His eyes fell on a new bottle of fingernail polish. Before you think oh no, let me assure you it gets even better from here on. I think he picked the bottle up, his eyes lighting up. He knew what they did with nail polish. But he also knew if he polished or tried to his fingernails his grandma would see and know he did it. He looked at his bare feet. He always takes his shoes off. His toe nails, no she would see that too. What could he polish that she would not see. A idea was born. I told you at four they have very strong imaginations. He would paint his winky. Men and boys are fascinated with their winky's from the day they are born. As they get older they usually name them. So his winky probably seemed like a cool idea at least at the moment.
Billie said he came to her and said his winky hurt. She told him to go pee. "You haven't went for awhile" , she told him. He went, she heard him again, she followed. Big tears were flowing down his face. "My winky hurts," he said crying. She looked closer. Good grief, he had painted his winky. By this time I was laughing very hard.
She put him in the tub. She gave him a wash rag.
Scrub, Ryan ," she told him. I would say she was probably hollering by this time. "You have to get that polish off quick." He scrubbed. She said as he scrubbed so hard, crying. The problem began to grow larger if you get the meaning here. This was going on as we talked. It was funny, very funny. "I have never ever had this problem with any of the others.," she said very exasperated. Well maybe none of the others are artists, I thought. Most of it came off finally. I worried that maybe it could cause infection around the tip. She thought it would be okay. I think she did not want to take him to the emergency room with a nail polished winky.
Isn't it fun having kids around. They definitely keep you on your toes. But for you big guys out there. If you are sitting around bored some afternoon and spot a bottle of polish on the coffee table. Let me give you a word from the wise. DON'T DO IT.! Ryan says it hurts. And Ryan knows from experience.
Friday, January 22, 2010
THE MEANING OF A BLOG
It is only about 4:30, I have been awake since 3:30. It is cool, rainy and both dogs have been out and in. We did not break the early morning silence this morning, thank-goodness. I love the sound of the stillness in these early hours. No television, no neighborhood nosies. Of course when "I" and I are outside we shatter the neighborhood stillness. I looked up on ask.com for the meaning of what a blog is. Of course I knew but I wanted a true definition of the meaning, This is as follows.
A blog is a personal diary. A daily pulpit. A collaborative space. A political soapbox. A breaking-news outlet. A collection of links. Your own private thoughts. Memos to the world.
Your blog is whatever you want it to be. There are millions of them, in all shapes and sizes, and there are no real rules.
In simple terms, a blog is a web site, where you write stuff on an ongoing basis. New stuff shows up at the top, so your visitors can read what's new. Then they comment on it or link to it or email you. Or not.
Since I have started this blog on December 28th. I have waffled back and forth on it. Some days I feel good about at and other days I think what a silly dummy, writing all this babbling drivel. But I guess really that is what a blog is, someones emotional drivel. I read the old memories back that I write, the endless opinions I have. I wonder if I really believe someone could possibly be interested. I have written here before I love to write. I have always had unknown thoughts come and go and from them sometimes find a thread that weaves into a story. I never really minded if people didn't care for my stories, they were my children, I loved them no matter the reaction of others.
This seems to be much different to me. I guess because these written words are me, the old memories of ninth street, they are who I am.
I am a Mother, a sister, a wife, a grandmother. I am a person who hates prejudice of any kind. Whether it be against race, sexual preference. I am starting to see as I read these blogs back, what is happening. When I stray away from my old memories, the me I am comes seeping through. The opinions, the silly ideas, the feelings I have. I just wanted to be sure I was not veering off the beaten path too much of what a blog is.
I am committed to this, to prove I can. I have been trying hard not to get up on a soap box too much. Anyone who knows me, knows I stay up there quite often. I feel a little better, knowing that is what a blog is all about. I also wanted to clear the creative cob webs that have gathered in my brain. Sweep them away and see if anything remains in there. The memories I have of growing up will always remain there, in my mind and in my heart. We all have them, tucked away somewhere in the back recess of our thoughts. Some good, in some cases, some not so good.
I have been trying to keep many of my personal opinions to myself. But as I wrote a minute ago, I am starting to see them seep through.
At the bottom of this page I have a daily Psalm, and a daily quote from Martin Luther King. A man who I think was one of the greatest oraters of our time. So as or if you look closely you will see the things I care about. I am a dreamer, I talk to much. I am opinanated, I have a tendency to be loud and not be always dependable. Doesn't sound too good. But I will keep this blog going. I will dust off the memories. I will tell you my opinion. And gripe about what ticks me off. After all, that's what a blog is. Ask.com said so.
A blog is a personal diary. A daily pulpit. A collaborative space. A political soapbox. A breaking-news outlet. A collection of links. Your own private thoughts. Memos to the world.
Your blog is whatever you want it to be. There are millions of them, in all shapes and sizes, and there are no real rules.
In simple terms, a blog is a web site, where you write stuff on an ongoing basis. New stuff shows up at the top, so your visitors can read what's new. Then they comment on it or link to it or email you. Or not.
Since I have started this blog on December 28th. I have waffled back and forth on it. Some days I feel good about at and other days I think what a silly dummy, writing all this babbling drivel. But I guess really that is what a blog is, someones emotional drivel. I read the old memories back that I write, the endless opinions I have. I wonder if I really believe someone could possibly be interested. I have written here before I love to write. I have always had unknown thoughts come and go and from them sometimes find a thread that weaves into a story. I never really minded if people didn't care for my stories, they were my children, I loved them no matter the reaction of others.
This seems to be much different to me. I guess because these written words are me, the old memories of ninth street, they are who I am.
I am a Mother, a sister, a wife, a grandmother. I am a person who hates prejudice of any kind. Whether it be against race, sexual preference. I am starting to see as I read these blogs back, what is happening. When I stray away from my old memories, the me I am comes seeping through. The opinions, the silly ideas, the feelings I have. I just wanted to be sure I was not veering off the beaten path too much of what a blog is.
I am committed to this, to prove I can. I have been trying hard not to get up on a soap box too much. Anyone who knows me, knows I stay up there quite often. I feel a little better, knowing that is what a blog is all about. I also wanted to clear the creative cob webs that have gathered in my brain. Sweep them away and see if anything remains in there. The memories I have of growing up will always remain there, in my mind and in my heart. We all have them, tucked away somewhere in the back recess of our thoughts. Some good, in some cases, some not so good.
I have been trying to keep many of my personal opinions to myself. But as I wrote a minute ago, I am starting to see them seep through.
At the bottom of this page I have a daily Psalm, and a daily quote from Martin Luther King. A man who I think was one of the greatest oraters of our time. So as or if you look closely you will see the things I care about. I am a dreamer, I talk to much. I am opinanated, I have a tendency to be loud and not be always dependable. Doesn't sound too good. But I will keep this blog going. I will dust off the memories. I will tell you my opinion. And gripe about what ticks me off. After all, that's what a blog is. Ask.com said so.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
DOWNTOWN IN THE FIFTIES
here I am with the weather report, it is raining. I was totally surprized that "I" went out. She didn't stay long. I can hear the steady beat of the rain on the window air unit and think it might lull me back to sleep. But I know it wouldn't so I will just stay up.
As I am getting older, I am like many other older people. Think of by gone days and remember them as better than the present. But I truly believe that the inventions of Malls were our downfall. I am smiling because Mallies would cringe at this, Oh I know all these wonderful stores, all in one location. Warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Places to eat, movies. You can enter the Mall, stay for hours and do anything you want just about anyway. I am not a mall fan. Because at the birth of the mall, came the death of down towns. The death bell tolled when some guy muttered the words, "I'm building a mall." I wish I could draw, paint or something. Show you a picture of downtown Joplin as I was growing up. It was wonderful
Back then I was allowed from the time I was about eight to go downtown if I wanted. We lived only four blocks off on Main. From seventh and Main, till at least third and Main, it was stores, movies, resturants. The Frisco building, tall and majestic stood at sixth and main. It was twelve stories, now I know that is nothing these days. But it was back then. All the Doctors, Dentist's, lawyers had their offices there. And they had stairs and a elevator. The beautiful black and white ceramic floors, the staircase that curved down. A radio station that was on the bottom level. Where you could stand at a large glass window and watch the DJ's. I loved the Frisco, it still stands today, it was empty for years but has apartments now. I was happy to see they saved it by making it into housing. I had been afraid they would tear it down. I would have loved to have bought it and lived on all the floors. This place was my Saturday ritual. I would ride the elevator up to the top floor. The friendly older elevator lady smiling at me and then I walked the back stairs down. I did not come down by the fancy front stairs. I loved the old ones in the back of the building. There was a window on each floor with a fire escape. I loved to look out at the train depot and dream about all the places I wanted to go. They would chase a kid out of a place like that these days. A young kid wandering around, Probably call child endangerment but they didn't.
I would leave there and go straight across the street to Newman's. It was a department store. It was six floors. Between the first and second floor was a mezzanine. The bathrooms were there and soft chairs that you could sit on and look out over the store. Guess who sat there every Saturday afternoon, viewing her kingdom. Yep, me. I loved the mezzanine. I rode the elevator up. I rode the elevator down. Newman's and the Frisco were my favorite haunts.
There was three other department stores, Christman's, Penney's and Ramseys. . There was four dimestore's. Kids today have no idea what they are missing. Dime stores had everything, plus a soda fountain. Then there were movies. The Orpham, Fox and the Paramount. Plus one at second and main called the Deray. The Deray leaves a sad memory for me. Because that was the only movie black people were allowed to attend. And then only to sit in the balcony. Of course anyone that knows me, knows this is not a subject I should go into. I get angry thinking about a time when people with the money to watch a movie was not allowed to do so, except at the Deray and then oly upstairs. The one good idea about the new era is finally most people are starting to get the hang of what, "Created Equal," is suppose to mean. But back then, it wasn't that way. So even I have to say, maybe the good old days wasn't perfect after all.
There was a pet store behind Ramsey's, across the alley. Not a pet store like you know today. Sure not Petsmart. It was a old building and you went upstairs. They had rooms of birds. You could look in the windows at the doors, they were covered with screen. All colors, all kinds, flying freely in the room. Usually there would be a parrot or two in the main room, in cages. I loved to stand and listen to them talk andsquawk. It was wonderful.
I cannot tell about downtown, without telling about Sherman's orange juice stand. A little store tucked between Penney's and Bob Millers Restaurant. Just a tiny slip of a place. They had a counter, no stools at this counter to sit down. But on the opposite side wall was a narrow counter, with maybe eight very short stools. Where you could sit, if you were not on your lunch break, taking your sandwich with you. They served sandwich's. Not burgers or fries. Nothing cooked to order. But the best ham, ham salad, tuna salad sandwich's in the world. All made ahead of noon hour rush and wrapped in wax paper, sealed tightly. But their wonder drink was what people loved. You could get a half and half. Half orange juice, half grape. Now I'm not talking the make believe drinks with no real juice. I'm talking real juice. I still can taste it on my lips as it slid down my throat. Ambrosia.
And we had two hotels downtown back then. The Connor on one side of fourth and Main, where the library sits now. A glory place in it's day. And across the street was the Keystone, not quite as fancy, but a nice hotel. The Connor had a ballroom, a sweeping staircase. I grew up wanting to stay there at least one night but never was able to do that.
Downtown Main street is still here in 2010. But there has not been a real downtown since North park came in. Boo North park. When my daughter was small and we both lived with my parents. I would take her on Fridays when I got paid and go downtown. I would always give her a half dollar, she called it a big nickel. We walked and hit Woolworth's first. She was about three and loved the baloons on a stick. They always had several colors to choose from. We picked that up first. Then we strolled downtown. We rode elevators, we looked at the toys. We ate at Newberry's dime store or Woolworth's. We walked back home. Her little hand held tight in mine. The big Nickel clutched tightly in that hand because the beloved balloon on a stick was clutched in the other.
I wish I could have one more Friday afternoon with her downtown. The way it was back then. Magical.
As I am getting older, I am like many other older people. Think of by gone days and remember them as better than the present. But I truly believe that the inventions of Malls were our downfall. I am smiling because Mallies would cringe at this, Oh I know all these wonderful stores, all in one location. Warm in the winter, cool in the summer. Places to eat, movies. You can enter the Mall, stay for hours and do anything you want just about anyway. I am not a mall fan. Because at the birth of the mall, came the death of down towns. The death bell tolled when some guy muttered the words, "I'm building a mall." I wish I could draw, paint or something. Show you a picture of downtown Joplin as I was growing up. It was wonderful
Back then I was allowed from the time I was about eight to go downtown if I wanted. We lived only four blocks off on Main. From seventh and Main, till at least third and Main, it was stores, movies, resturants. The Frisco building, tall and majestic stood at sixth and main. It was twelve stories, now I know that is nothing these days. But it was back then. All the Doctors, Dentist's, lawyers had their offices there. And they had stairs and a elevator. The beautiful black and white ceramic floors, the staircase that curved down. A radio station that was on the bottom level. Where you could stand at a large glass window and watch the DJ's. I loved the Frisco, it still stands today, it was empty for years but has apartments now. I was happy to see they saved it by making it into housing. I had been afraid they would tear it down. I would have loved to have bought it and lived on all the floors. This place was my Saturday ritual. I would ride the elevator up to the top floor. The friendly older elevator lady smiling at me and then I walked the back stairs down. I did not come down by the fancy front stairs. I loved the old ones in the back of the building. There was a window on each floor with a fire escape. I loved to look out at the train depot and dream about all the places I wanted to go. They would chase a kid out of a place like that these days. A young kid wandering around, Probably call child endangerment but they didn't.
I would leave there and go straight across the street to Newman's. It was a department store. It was six floors. Between the first and second floor was a mezzanine. The bathrooms were there and soft chairs that you could sit on and look out over the store. Guess who sat there every Saturday afternoon, viewing her kingdom. Yep, me. I loved the mezzanine. I rode the elevator up. I rode the elevator down. Newman's and the Frisco were my favorite haunts.
There was three other department stores, Christman's, Penney's and Ramseys. . There was four dimestore's. Kids today have no idea what they are missing. Dime stores had everything, plus a soda fountain. Then there were movies. The Orpham, Fox and the Paramount. Plus one at second and main called the Deray. The Deray leaves a sad memory for me. Because that was the only movie black people were allowed to attend. And then only to sit in the balcony. Of course anyone that knows me, knows this is not a subject I should go into. I get angry thinking about a time when people with the money to watch a movie was not allowed to do so, except at the Deray and then oly upstairs. The one good idea about the new era is finally most people are starting to get the hang of what, "Created Equal," is suppose to mean. But back then, it wasn't that way. So even I have to say, maybe the good old days wasn't perfect after all.
There was a pet store behind Ramsey's, across the alley. Not a pet store like you know today. Sure not Petsmart. It was a old building and you went upstairs. They had rooms of birds. You could look in the windows at the doors, they were covered with screen. All colors, all kinds, flying freely in the room. Usually there would be a parrot or two in the main room, in cages. I loved to stand and listen to them talk andsquawk. It was wonderful.
I cannot tell about downtown, without telling about Sherman's orange juice stand. A little store tucked between Penney's and Bob Millers Restaurant. Just a tiny slip of a place. They had a counter, no stools at this counter to sit down. But on the opposite side wall was a narrow counter, with maybe eight very short stools. Where you could sit, if you were not on your lunch break, taking your sandwich with you. They served sandwich's. Not burgers or fries. Nothing cooked to order. But the best ham, ham salad, tuna salad sandwich's in the world. All made ahead of noon hour rush and wrapped in wax paper, sealed tightly. But their wonder drink was what people loved. You could get a half and half. Half orange juice, half grape. Now I'm not talking the make believe drinks with no real juice. I'm talking real juice. I still can taste it on my lips as it slid down my throat. Ambrosia.
And we had two hotels downtown back then. The Connor on one side of fourth and Main, where the library sits now. A glory place in it's day. And across the street was the Keystone, not quite as fancy, but a nice hotel. The Connor had a ballroom, a sweeping staircase. I grew up wanting to stay there at least one night but never was able to do that.
Downtown Main street is still here in 2010. But there has not been a real downtown since North park came in. Boo North park. When my daughter was small and we both lived with my parents. I would take her on Fridays when I got paid and go downtown. I would always give her a half dollar, she called it a big nickel. We walked and hit Woolworth's first. She was about three and loved the baloons on a stick. They always had several colors to choose from. We picked that up first. Then we strolled downtown. We rode elevators, we looked at the toys. We ate at Newberry's dime store or Woolworth's. We walked back home. Her little hand held tight in mine. The big Nickel clutched tightly in that hand because the beloved balloon on a stick was clutched in the other.
I wish I could have one more Friday afternoon with her downtown. The way it was back then. Magical.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
KEEPER OF A HEART
I start out mornings telling you if "I" is in or out. I am sure you could care less if she is or not. I love her, I care. We bought "H" our first Mini-Pin eight years ago. He is a silly little dog, we love him dearly. He is my husbands Bud. His best pal. Then five years ago, a wonderful girl, Brandy, who had a Mini named Princess . Gave us one of Princess's puppies. So when she become old enough, her and "H" could mate. And we could all have a another puppy. We called her Incredible, "I" for short. So now we have HI, "H" and "I". They have never had puppies. "H" has never really become clear on just how that works. "I" seems to understand very well but has not yet been able to teach "H" just how it goes. But it really doesn't matter to us, we love them. And they love us. They have our hearts and they ours. It is very possible to love a little four legged anilmal. I say he plays favorites for "H".He accuses me of favoring "I", but it matters not. We love them,
There is different kinds of love for sure. The love we have for our familes. The super strong love we have for our children. For our parents, love for a friend and the bond that friendship forges can be very strong. The love we develop for another person, someone who comes along and for some reason seems to be that special one. Our hearts race when we see them, our breath gets short.. We think about them night and day. Of course those feelings , especially when we are young can be that other four letter word. But whatever, love is a feeling. An emotion that can consume us quickly.
But sometimes we give our heart to the wrong person, or vise versus, they give theirs to us and maybe we just don't, or they just don't, treat it very well. I was reading a letter the other day. This person sent a poem he had written,, it was beautiful, but very sad. This person has a broken heart, written between the lines of his letters and his poems is a broken heart. I am sure we all have had our hearts broken, Someone carelessly takes promises they have made us and steps on them as easily as we would crush a cracker.
I do not understand or will I ever just what motivates our emotions. Some people seem to be able to recover more quickly when someone tosses us aside as if we were yesterday's trash. Some people maybe just hide it better than others, some get bitter and never are able too truly open up to another again. I find that very sad, though I have been hurt to a point it colored my life gray for a long time.
Love is what makes the world go round, or so they say.
I find that to be true. Loving someone makes our smile brighter, our step lighter. But oh the tables can turn so quickly when that person lets us down. But we let others down too. People I don't think set out to hurt us or us them, but it happens.
When someone we love decides they can live without us. And we don't feel we can live without them, it is rough. Then before we can get our heads on straight, they have bounced out and found someone new to whom they are pledging their undying love. We are left feeling like a Mack truck has just hit us. So if there is a moral to this rambling today. Is be careful who you trust your heart too. And who you allow to give their heart to you. Because when you become a keeper of a heart, there is responsibility to handle it with care. Here is another Yeats poem.
Never give all the heart
by W. B. Yeats
Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
There is different kinds of love for sure. The love we have for our familes. The super strong love we have for our children. For our parents, love for a friend and the bond that friendship forges can be very strong. The love we develop for another person, someone who comes along and for some reason seems to be that special one. Our hearts race when we see them, our breath gets short.. We think about them night and day. Of course those feelings , especially when we are young can be that other four letter word. But whatever, love is a feeling. An emotion that can consume us quickly.
But sometimes we give our heart to the wrong person, or vise versus, they give theirs to us and maybe we just don't, or they just don't, treat it very well. I was reading a letter the other day. This person sent a poem he had written,, it was beautiful, but very sad. This person has a broken heart, written between the lines of his letters and his poems is a broken heart. I am sure we all have had our hearts broken, Someone carelessly takes promises they have made us and steps on them as easily as we would crush a cracker.
I do not understand or will I ever just what motivates our emotions. Some people seem to be able to recover more quickly when someone tosses us aside as if we were yesterday's trash. Some people maybe just hide it better than others, some get bitter and never are able too truly open up to another again. I find that very sad, though I have been hurt to a point it colored my life gray for a long time.
Love is what makes the world go round, or so they say.
I find that to be true. Loving someone makes our smile brighter, our step lighter. But oh the tables can turn so quickly when that person lets us down. But we let others down too. People I don't think set out to hurt us or us them, but it happens.
When someone we love decides they can live without us. And we don't feel we can live without them, it is rough. Then before we can get our heads on straight, they have bounced out and found someone new to whom they are pledging their undying love. We are left feeling like a Mack truck has just hit us. So if there is a moral to this rambling today. Is be careful who you trust your heart too. And who you allow to give their heart to you. Because when you become a keeper of a heart, there is responsibility to handle it with care. Here is another Yeats poem.
Never give all the heart
by W. B. Yeats
Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy, kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
THE NEIGHBORS
My little friend is still outside. Her and I slept in this morning, untill almost five. Which is late for us. So far she has not started her yapping. There is a white cat who loves to get close to the fence just to antaganize her. I feel it definately is a male cat. But maybe the cat is sleeping in too this morning
I have written about 9th street several times now. About growing up there in the late forties and fifties. There was two houses that faced Kentucky. Then there was two more that faced 9th street. None were very large, but Those were the 9th street house's, our homes.
Mrs. Hood was our first neighbor. Looking back now it's hard to recall how old she was. She had a teenage daughter, a friend named Don that lived with them. She worked long hours at a shirt facatory and he was a carpenter. Other than that there is not many memories of her.
She did rat me out once for playing on the train tracks. But I didn't really hold grudges back in the day. The one thing about her I will always remember is Saturday, it was her wash day. Now Mom had a old wringer washer and that was a good size job once a week.Mrs. Hood took it to a whole new level.
It didn't matter what the weather was, all but if it was pouring down rain, even if t was freezing cold. Mrs. Hood would drag a big, heavy cast iron pot out to the alley. She sat it on two cement blocks, a fire was started under it and filled with water. While the water boiled she brought two galvanised tubs out and filled them with water, Then this was followed up by a scrub board. At least we were uptown enough Mom didn't have to wash on a scrub board. But Mom said that Mrs. Hood thought that was the only way clothes got clean enough. When the water in the cast iron pot started boiling Mrs. Hood and her daughter put the clothes in the boiling water and with a big stick they stired them. Boiling out all germs. Then they dug them out, washed then in the first wash tub with soap and the scrub board, rung them out by hand and put them in the rinse tub. Then they were rung out again and hung on the clothes line. This woman worked all week and spent her Saturdays going through this crueling process. The next time you raise the top on your washer and throw in a load and grumble about having to do this hard work. Please remember Mrs. Hood.
The neighbor on the other side of us was Goldie Spell. Goldie lived in the house on the corner. She was short, she was heavy, she was the corner gossip. Our neighborhood was filled with kids. We ran the streets, hollering, caring on. We were the bane of Goldies exsistence. She would have loved to have bundled us all up and shipped us far away. She had a rocker at her kitchen window and spent much of her time vilgently watching the neighborhood for misdeeds to report. There was nothing that passed Goldies eyes.
Next door to Goldie was Lena Wisher. I smile when I remember Lena. Crazy little frail woman. With gray hair, she smoked a corn cob pipe, talked to herself as she by her stove and had a boyfriend named Jess> I think Lena tipped the bottle some. Everyone knew Jess did. He drove a beat up old panel truck and peddled fruit. Sometimes he would give me several boxes at a time and I would hawk them in the neighborhood, selling them for a dime, out of which I got to keep a penney a box. I loved making money, the big bucks.
Jess came quite often and was usually drunk. Out behind the four houses sat four sheds. One for each house. These had no paint either. Lena had a pet Banty Rooster she kept in hers. This was her pet, her baby. One day Jess was there and they got into a fight over her Rooster,. Bud thinks Jess was jealous over the Rooster. They were both drinking, Jess so drunk he could not hardly stand up. The backyard full of kids playing. Jess and Lena came out the back door. He had a double barrel shotgun. Lena clutching his arm. "I'm gonna shoot that damn chicken," Jess was shouting. Lena crying, "No Jess , don't hurt my baby." He stumbled to the shed and grabbed the chicken, Kids scattered everywhere, out of the line of fire. Leana crying. Now this is where the story gets a little foggy. I thought he tried several times to hit the chicken. Bud who was older, almost nine said that is not the way it went down. He said Jess so drunk he was literaly weaving took aim and in one shot took off the poor little Rooster's head. The amazing thing about this story and I just asked Bud yesterday to make sure I was remembering right. Nobody called the police. Jess picked up the chicken. I guess they ate it later and they staggered into the house. This day and age he would have went to jail, then rehab. We kids came back out and played. Nobody seemed to be traumatized by the ghastly deed. Just another day in the neighborhood.
Charles Dickens wrote in "The Tale Of Two Cities. "They were the best of times, they were the worst of times." To tell you the truth as they march forth from my memory they all seem like the best of times to me.
I have written about 9th street several times now. About growing up there in the late forties and fifties. There was two houses that faced Kentucky. Then there was two more that faced 9th street. None were very large, but Those were the 9th street house's, our homes.
Mrs. Hood was our first neighbor. Looking back now it's hard to recall how old she was. She had a teenage daughter, a friend named Don that lived with them. She worked long hours at a shirt facatory and he was a carpenter. Other than that there is not many memories of her.
She did rat me out once for playing on the train tracks. But I didn't really hold grudges back in the day. The one thing about her I will always remember is Saturday, it was her wash day. Now Mom had a old wringer washer and that was a good size job once a week.Mrs. Hood took it to a whole new level.
It didn't matter what the weather was, all but if it was pouring down rain, even if t was freezing cold. Mrs. Hood would drag a big, heavy cast iron pot out to the alley. She sat it on two cement blocks, a fire was started under it and filled with water. While the water boiled she brought two galvanised tubs out and filled them with water, Then this was followed up by a scrub board. At least we were uptown enough Mom didn't have to wash on a scrub board. But Mom said that Mrs. Hood thought that was the only way clothes got clean enough. When the water in the cast iron pot started boiling Mrs. Hood and her daughter put the clothes in the boiling water and with a big stick they stired them. Boiling out all germs. Then they dug them out, washed then in the first wash tub with soap and the scrub board, rung them out by hand and put them in the rinse tub. Then they were rung out again and hung on the clothes line. This woman worked all week and spent her Saturdays going through this crueling process. The next time you raise the top on your washer and throw in a load and grumble about having to do this hard work. Please remember Mrs. Hood.
The neighbor on the other side of us was Goldie Spell. Goldie lived in the house on the corner. She was short, she was heavy, she was the corner gossip. Our neighborhood was filled with kids. We ran the streets, hollering, caring on. We were the bane of Goldies exsistence. She would have loved to have bundled us all up and shipped us far away. She had a rocker at her kitchen window and spent much of her time vilgently watching the neighborhood for misdeeds to report. There was nothing that passed Goldies eyes.
Next door to Goldie was Lena Wisher. I smile when I remember Lena. Crazy little frail woman. With gray hair, she smoked a corn cob pipe, talked to herself as she by her stove and had a boyfriend named Jess> I think Lena tipped the bottle some. Everyone knew Jess did. He drove a beat up old panel truck and peddled fruit. Sometimes he would give me several boxes at a time and I would hawk them in the neighborhood, selling them for a dime, out of which I got to keep a penney a box. I loved making money, the big bucks.
Jess came quite often and was usually drunk. Out behind the four houses sat four sheds. One for each house. These had no paint either. Lena had a pet Banty Rooster she kept in hers. This was her pet, her baby. One day Jess was there and they got into a fight over her Rooster,. Bud thinks Jess was jealous over the Rooster. They were both drinking, Jess so drunk he could not hardly stand up. The backyard full of kids playing. Jess and Lena came out the back door. He had a double barrel shotgun. Lena clutching his arm. "I'm gonna shoot that damn chicken," Jess was shouting. Lena crying, "No Jess , don't hurt my baby." He stumbled to the shed and grabbed the chicken, Kids scattered everywhere, out of the line of fire. Leana crying. Now this is where the story gets a little foggy. I thought he tried several times to hit the chicken. Bud who was older, almost nine said that is not the way it went down. He said Jess so drunk he was literaly weaving took aim and in one shot took off the poor little Rooster's head. The amazing thing about this story and I just asked Bud yesterday to make sure I was remembering right. Nobody called the police. Jess picked up the chicken. I guess they ate it later and they staggered into the house. This day and age he would have went to jail, then rehab. We kids came back out and played. Nobody seemed to be traumatized by the ghastly deed. Just another day in the neighborhood.
Charles Dickens wrote in "The Tale Of Two Cities. "They were the best of times, they were the worst of times." To tell you the truth as they march forth from my memory they all seem like the best of times to me.
Monday, January 18, 2010
NAMES AND THINGS
It is the start of another week. Monday morning. "I" is still outside. I have made a couple of dashes around the yard with some turkey but she will not give up the chase. So as I write, I am running in and out the door.
I have wondered, who in the heck gave names their names. Who decided Monday would be Monday, Tuesday and so on. I keep meaning to Google that some day . Strange things worry my mind. This is one of them. Monday could have just as easily been Friday, Friday Monday. Or they could have gone a completely different way, and gave days names like hot or cold. Why Monday, Tuesday, so forth.
I wonder the same about the seasons. Why did they give seasons the names they did. Now I can kind of work out spring. In spring the flowers, grass spring from the ground. Leafs spring from the branches. So I guess the person in charge of names walked around and said, "We will call this Spring." I understand that somewhat, but who first gave the meaning of spring to that word? Now comes summer, hot, humid, sweaty. This season was called summer, why Summer? At three in the morning I lay and think about that name. Fall I can work out. Leaves fall from the trees. Tempatures fall. I can get into the meaning of fall. But then here comes winter. Cold, sleet, ice. The name man shivered, "Brr," he said, we'll call this Winter. Where in the heck did that come from. Now you see why I don't sleep good.
While I talk of names, you have to mention people's names. These days they give kids some of the most awful names, that they have to live with for years. Never giving thought to the torture that child will be enduring at school. Have you ever heard of a song called,"A boy named Sue?" My parents were prime example of why kids should be born with their names already assigned to them. My parents first had a dughter, they called her Geraldine. Break that up you basically have two boys names, Gerald and Dean. Though the spelling is a little different. My brother was not so bad, Roy but they gave him Niel for a middle name. But oh boy they were waiting for me. They had a girl, then a boy. Mom always said they had been sure they would have another boy. So they picked out Stephen Randolph. Not bad I could have lived with that name. But here I came, a girl. A few hours after I was born Mom asked Dad, "What shall we name her?" Dad didn't know. I think he was still on Stephen Randolph. I'm with you Dad. Then Mom says, "Lets call her Willamina." Excuse me, who gives a newborn, seven pound baby the name Willamina. Please why could I have not just been called Stephen Randolph. They could have called me Stevie. My hair would probably have turned out blond with a cute nose. But instead I have horror hair and a big nose. But that's the breaks I guess.
I read that hundreds of years ago they gave people last names, reflecting what kind of work they did or what they were associated with. Like a baker was called Baker, a carpenter, Carpenter and so on. But I have always wondered if that was true why is there black people called White and white people called Black. Think about it.
These are the questions that haunt me while I am lying awake in the middle of the night. Oh I know,I have always known, I am strange. But if you know the answer to these mind worrying questions. Let me know the answer. Maybe I will start sleeping a little better.
I have wondered, who in the heck gave names their names. Who decided Monday would be Monday, Tuesday and so on. I keep meaning to Google that some day . Strange things worry my mind. This is one of them. Monday could have just as easily been Friday, Friday Monday. Or they could have gone a completely different way, and gave days names like hot or cold. Why Monday, Tuesday, so forth.
I wonder the same about the seasons. Why did they give seasons the names they did. Now I can kind of work out spring. In spring the flowers, grass spring from the ground. Leafs spring from the branches. So I guess the person in charge of names walked around and said, "We will call this Spring." I understand that somewhat, but who first gave the meaning of spring to that word? Now comes summer, hot, humid, sweaty. This season was called summer, why Summer? At three in the morning I lay and think about that name. Fall I can work out. Leaves fall from the trees. Tempatures fall. I can get into the meaning of fall. But then here comes winter. Cold, sleet, ice. The name man shivered, "Brr," he said, we'll call this Winter. Where in the heck did that come from. Now you see why I don't sleep good.
While I talk of names, you have to mention people's names. These days they give kids some of the most awful names, that they have to live with for years. Never giving thought to the torture that child will be enduring at school. Have you ever heard of a song called,"A boy named Sue?" My parents were prime example of why kids should be born with their names already assigned to them. My parents first had a dughter, they called her Geraldine. Break that up you basically have two boys names, Gerald and Dean. Though the spelling is a little different. My brother was not so bad, Roy but they gave him Niel for a middle name. But oh boy they were waiting for me. They had a girl, then a boy. Mom always said they had been sure they would have another boy. So they picked out Stephen Randolph. Not bad I could have lived with that name. But here I came, a girl. A few hours after I was born Mom asked Dad, "What shall we name her?" Dad didn't know. I think he was still on Stephen Randolph. I'm with you Dad. Then Mom says, "Lets call her Willamina." Excuse me, who gives a newborn, seven pound baby the name Willamina. Please why could I have not just been called Stephen Randolph. They could have called me Stevie. My hair would probably have turned out blond with a cute nose. But instead I have horror hair and a big nose. But that's the breaks I guess.
I read that hundreds of years ago they gave people last names, reflecting what kind of work they did or what they were associated with. Like a baker was called Baker, a carpenter, Carpenter and so on. But I have always wondered if that was true why is there black people called White and white people called Black. Think about it.
These are the questions that haunt me while I am lying awake in the middle of the night. Oh I know,I have always known, I am strange. But if you know the answer to these mind worrying questions. Let me know the answer. Maybe I will start sleeping a little better.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
AMERICA'S GOT TALENT
I woke up hours ago very draggy. I did my best to get into the day. But my mind said,"Leave me alone." So I tried writing my blog. I know this blog too many is just another one of my silly ideas, but I would really like to follow through with this. So I sat at the computer, trying to get some words to make sense but I could not get them to come. I saved what I had writren but didn't try to edit it. I'll just have a throw away day, I thought. Then a little while ago I went on facebook. Larry had written he was trying out for "America's got talent." Way to go Larry.
I have known Larry since the day he was born. Larry is a dreamer. Thank God for dreamers. We humans are assorted bunch. Some very dependable, never straying off the beaten path. And thats good, we need those kind of people. We'd all be in trouble if there wasn't people like that around. There are many folks that try to stay on the beaten path, but the call somewhere out there entices them off and into realms unknown. These people are out there trying their dreams, chasing them in fact. That's why we have so many new inventions all the time. Why we have painters, writers, singers. Some people just get out there and show themselves to the world and if they fall on their faces, they get up and go on and usually try again.
many people sit on the porch when they are old and talk about what they could have done, or should have done. Now don't get me wrong, thats perfectly alright to live your life that way. I am not a singer but I am a dreamer. I was always wandering off to new places, chasing something I never knew quite what. We dreamers usually are not the most dependable. Being a dreamer can sometimes be hard on familes, I know.
Larry is a good singer, he takes that from his Dad. There will be many singers trying out for the show. Will Larry be able to catch the judges eyes and get through. I certainly hope so. That would be way cool, as the kids say. But the most important thing is, he is not afraid to try. Walk out there alone and show himself to the world. Way to go Larry. I am proud of you.
I have known Larry since the day he was born. Larry is a dreamer. Thank God for dreamers. We humans are assorted bunch. Some very dependable, never straying off the beaten path. And thats good, we need those kind of people. We'd all be in trouble if there wasn't people like that around. There are many folks that try to stay on the beaten path, but the call somewhere out there entices them off and into realms unknown. These people are out there trying their dreams, chasing them in fact. That's why we have so many new inventions all the time. Why we have painters, writers, singers. Some people just get out there and show themselves to the world and if they fall on their faces, they get up and go on and usually try again.
many people sit on the porch when they are old and talk about what they could have done, or should have done. Now don't get me wrong, thats perfectly alright to live your life that way. I am not a singer but I am a dreamer. I was always wandering off to new places, chasing something I never knew quite what. We dreamers usually are not the most dependable. Being a dreamer can sometimes be hard on familes, I know.
Larry is a good singer, he takes that from his Dad. There will be many singers trying out for the show. Will Larry be able to catch the judges eyes and get through. I certainly hope so. That would be way cool, as the kids say. But the most important thing is, he is not afraid to try. Walk out there alone and show himself to the world. Way to go Larry. I am proud of you.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
THE BUNK BED EPOSIDE
There is a light mist outside this morning. My dogs neither one like rain. They go out willingly in the snow but are very adverse to rain, I put "I" out. I slip back in. She hovers at the front door as if I have put her into a torture chamber. She bounces up looking in the window of the screen door, her long ears standing out from her head. Please her eyes plead. I let her in. She runs for the safety of the bed. My neighbors are grateful for the rain. No loud barking this morning.
I have written before about the little house on 9th street. Three of the rooms was what you called a shotgun house. Front room, bedroom, kitchen. Off the bedroom was a small hall, bathroom and a door to another bedroom, where my Mom and Dad slept. My older sister and I shared the bedroom, Bud had a cot in the kitchen, Brenda when she was young a small bed in the folks room. My older sister moved to Maryland for eighteen months, While she was gone Mom bought a old set of Army bunk beds, they were wooden and not nearly as tall as bunk beds today. They were a ugly color. But Mom was happy to find them. They had been cheap and gave two separate beds. Something good for a packed house. My sister moved back home, she was nineteen, myself fourteen. I was immediately moved upstairs, the top bunk and she given the bottom. I didn't mind.
But she came home nervous, but Geri was always sort of nervous. I learned at a very young age sharing a bed with her, DO not touch her while she sleeps. The results can be dangerous. For the one touching that is. She experienced a very bad trauma when we were young. Something that left a terrible memory in her mind that would stay forever . When I was about three or four, she slept next to the window. A man took off the screen and was trying tp pull her through the window. Her screams woke me, Mom and Dad heard the screams and came running. The man ran knocking over a potted plant in his haste to get away. But I am sure it left a great fear in her and she never sleeps really deep, even after all these years.
Back to the Bunk bed night. We were fast asleep, I being on the top bunk awoke to being kicked straight up in the air. She had her feet against the bottom of the mattress, shoving upwards as hard as she could. And screaming as loud as she could. "The man," she was screaming. My heart almost came out of my chest. A man, there was a man in the house. I fell, literally off the top bunk. My sheet tangled around me. She was yelling, "He has my arm". I grabbed for her arm. Thinking any minute someone was going to get me from behind."Geri", I gasped, "Are you okay?" She whacked me across the face. I slid out of her reach and staggered to my feet. She came out of bed. Her sheets wrapped around her as if it was a toga. I started yelling and reached for her again. She hit me again and this time I went down. I figured it was time to get away from her before she hurt me. I started crawling for the hall. Towards Mom and Dad's bedroom. They had started towards us and what they saw when they got to the door was Geri flinging her arms, the sheet wrapped around her yelling. I on my hands and knees crawling, they of course thought the worst. Bud in the meantime awoke during all the commotion and heard Geri and the words a man and run outside with something in his hands. To get the bad man. There was no man.
After it was all said and done. The story was put together. I in my sleep had knocked my sheet over the side of the bed. It touched Geri's arm. Geri in her sleep thought a man had hold of her. She was fighting him in her sleep. Her knees together she was kicking the man, which was the bottom of the my mattress. I waking up with a jolt thought someone had her. And the circus started at that point.
We laugh her and I when we talk about it. What a shock it must have been for our folks to see me crawling on the floor, Geri standing there screaming. So funny now. Poor Mom and Dad, they had to get up at five in the morning. This was about two, so I am sure it was a good hour before everything got settled down enough to go back to bed. There are days I would give the world just to go back for one more day of those crazy times on 9th street.
I have written before about the little house on 9th street. Three of the rooms was what you called a shotgun house. Front room, bedroom, kitchen. Off the bedroom was a small hall, bathroom and a door to another bedroom, where my Mom and Dad slept. My older sister and I shared the bedroom, Bud had a cot in the kitchen, Brenda when she was young a small bed in the folks room. My older sister moved to Maryland for eighteen months, While she was gone Mom bought a old set of Army bunk beds, they were wooden and not nearly as tall as bunk beds today. They were a ugly color. But Mom was happy to find them. They had been cheap and gave two separate beds. Something good for a packed house. My sister moved back home, she was nineteen, myself fourteen. I was immediately moved upstairs, the top bunk and she given the bottom. I didn't mind.
But she came home nervous, but Geri was always sort of nervous. I learned at a very young age sharing a bed with her, DO not touch her while she sleeps. The results can be dangerous. For the one touching that is. She experienced a very bad trauma when we were young. Something that left a terrible memory in her mind that would stay forever . When I was about three or four, she slept next to the window. A man took off the screen and was trying tp pull her through the window. Her screams woke me, Mom and Dad heard the screams and came running. The man ran knocking over a potted plant in his haste to get away. But I am sure it left a great fear in her and she never sleeps really deep, even after all these years.
Back to the Bunk bed night. We were fast asleep, I being on the top bunk awoke to being kicked straight up in the air. She had her feet against the bottom of the mattress, shoving upwards as hard as she could. And screaming as loud as she could. "The man," she was screaming. My heart almost came out of my chest. A man, there was a man in the house. I fell, literally off the top bunk. My sheet tangled around me. She was yelling, "He has my arm". I grabbed for her arm. Thinking any minute someone was going to get me from behind."Geri", I gasped, "Are you okay?" She whacked me across the face. I slid out of her reach and staggered to my feet. She came out of bed. Her sheets wrapped around her as if it was a toga. I started yelling and reached for her again. She hit me again and this time I went down. I figured it was time to get away from her before she hurt me. I started crawling for the hall. Towards Mom and Dad's bedroom. They had started towards us and what they saw when they got to the door was Geri flinging her arms, the sheet wrapped around her yelling. I on my hands and knees crawling, they of course thought the worst. Bud in the meantime awoke during all the commotion and heard Geri and the words a man and run outside with something in his hands. To get the bad man. There was no man.
After it was all said and done. The story was put together. I in my sleep had knocked my sheet over the side of the bed. It touched Geri's arm. Geri in her sleep thought a man had hold of her. She was fighting him in her sleep. Her knees together she was kicking the man, which was the bottom of the my mattress. I waking up with a jolt thought someone had her. And the circus started at that point.
We laugh her and I when we talk about it. What a shock it must have been for our folks to see me crawling on the floor, Geri standing there screaming. So funny now. Poor Mom and Dad, they had to get up at five in the morning. This was about two, so I am sure it was a good hour before everything got settled down enough to go back to bed. There are days I would give the world just to go back for one more day of those crazy times on 9th street.
Friday, January 15, 2010
HAITI
"I", the dog has been out and about in the yard this morning. Somewhere close by at five o:clock lurked a cat. I know this to be true because 'I' knew it. The cranky lady who lives a couple of houses away probably knew it too because "I" told us. her loud yapping, that word describes it better than barking, cut through the darkness. Cheese was my form of enticement but she didn't give up easy.
My son has been very upset the last couple of days because of the disaster in Haiti. He went there a year ago on a mission trip and has friends there. It seems when a disaster in such magnitude
happens it is hard to grasp the full severety of it. We know it is horrible,thousands losing their lifes. But when it is far away and so many it is as if it is unreal. There is 50,000 people in our town. We are talking as many died as there are people living in this town. Can you even grasp something like that happening and everyone in our town dead. You cannot get your mind around it. We should, we should be concerned that so many life's have been lost. It is such a poor country anyway and this is devastating to them.
It is easy to get wrapped up in our own little world. Human nature I know. We have no money, not enough for things we want anyway, someone hurt our feelings, our leg hurts. Just everyday happenings that seem so important. Then in a small country where sometimes just having enough food for your family is a big task this happens, pictures flash across the television screen. Bodies in the street, a man carrying a fifteen day old baby who's mother is dead and the baby has a bad head wound. Not even enough bandages and medicine have arrived yet. People in terror and pain.
I am aggravated because I had to chase "I" down. I have a fenced yard to chase her down in. Across town a man is mad because his car won't start to get to work, he will be late. Someone wakes up with a headache. Little problems that will solve themselves as the day wears on. We can't many of us rush to Haiti to help. Most of us has very little if any money to send. But we can all care, be aware of others suffering. In some small way be our brothers keeper. I am including a poem I wrote many years ago. I hope you will not mind.
I am,
The sun, the moon, the stars , the sky,
The small black child with the hungry eyes,
I am.
The pregnant girl who is so afraid,
The old man who died alone today.
I am.
The sea of faces everywhere,
Happiness, sorrow, joy, despair.
I am.
My son has been very upset the last couple of days because of the disaster in Haiti. He went there a year ago on a mission trip and has friends there. It seems when a disaster in such magnitude
happens it is hard to grasp the full severety of it. We know it is horrible,thousands losing their lifes. But when it is far away and so many it is as if it is unreal. There is 50,000 people in our town. We are talking as many died as there are people living in this town. Can you even grasp something like that happening and everyone in our town dead. You cannot get your mind around it. We should, we should be concerned that so many life's have been lost. It is such a poor country anyway and this is devastating to them.
It is easy to get wrapped up in our own little world. Human nature I know. We have no money, not enough for things we want anyway, someone hurt our feelings, our leg hurts. Just everyday happenings that seem so important. Then in a small country where sometimes just having enough food for your family is a big task this happens, pictures flash across the television screen. Bodies in the street, a man carrying a fifteen day old baby who's mother is dead and the baby has a bad head wound. Not even enough bandages and medicine have arrived yet. People in terror and pain.
I am aggravated because I had to chase "I" down. I have a fenced yard to chase her down in. Across town a man is mad because his car won't start to get to work, he will be late. Someone wakes up with a headache. Little problems that will solve themselves as the day wears on. We can't many of us rush to Haiti to help. Most of us has very little if any money to send. But we can all care, be aware of others suffering. In some small way be our brothers keeper. I am including a poem I wrote many years ago. I hope you will not mind.
I am,
The sun, the moon, the stars , the sky,
The small black child with the hungry eyes,
I am.
The pregnant girl who is so afraid,
The old man who died alone today.
I am.
The sea of faces everywhere,
Happiness, sorrow, joy, despair.
I am.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
THE SNOWBALL EFFECT
Little patches of snow lie scatterd here and there on the ground but for the most part it is gone. Gone too is the fridged air that seemed to cut deep inside your body. It is still cold but not like last week. I am already thinking about warmer weather and flowers and maybe a garden. But I always think about a garden but never get it planted.
Have you ever noticed how words once they leave your mouth seem to take on a life of there own. It's as if you give birth to them and when you hear them again you do do not recognize them, for they are not the same. They have grown, changed and usually not for the better. Now I know this, know how innocent remarks can turn on you in a heartbeat.
Last Sunday I was alone all day. Nobody here but the dogs and I. Surely there could be no way I could possibly get into trouble. Wait a minute, we're talking anout me here. About noon a person called me, I will call this person the party of the first part, I being the party of the second part. She very innocently said to me,"She did not know why they all had left so early." A little while later the party of the third part called me, I said the party of the first part wondered why they had left so early." Do not ask me why I repeated that she had said those words. I did not say she was upset. But those little words should have stayed in my mouth. For when he hung up the phone he promptly told the party of the fourth and fifth part what I had said. So then the party of the fourth part called the party of the first part and asked why she was upset. She of course said she wasn't, which she wasn't. Now the party of the first part called me and said she had not been upset, I said I had not said she was upset. Are you getting the picture here folks? Words once they fly out of your mouth never stay the same once they make the rounds.
I remember a article I read once. A little story how a woman had gossiped about another woman. She felt bad afterwards and went to the priest and asked what she could do to make it right. He told her to take a bag of feathers and go through the village and put them on every doorstep. She did and came back the next day. "I have done it," she told him. "Now what do I do?" "Go back ,"he said and pick them up and all will be be forgiven." She was shocked,"Why it will do no good to go back, they will all have blown to the winds." He sadly shook his head, "That is how our words are," he said, "Blown too the winds."
So the moral to this little tale is if you do not want a large snowball rolling down hill out of control. Do not stand at the top of the hill and give it a push. So to the party of the first part, I'm sorry. I promise to stay away from large snowballs and hills.
Have you ever noticed how words once they leave your mouth seem to take on a life of there own. It's as if you give birth to them and when you hear them again you do do not recognize them, for they are not the same. They have grown, changed and usually not for the better. Now I know this, know how innocent remarks can turn on you in a heartbeat.
Last Sunday I was alone all day. Nobody here but the dogs and I. Surely there could be no way I could possibly get into trouble. Wait a minute, we're talking anout me here. About noon a person called me, I will call this person the party of the first part, I being the party of the second part. She very innocently said to me,"She did not know why they all had left so early." A little while later the party of the third part called me, I said the party of the first part wondered why they had left so early." Do not ask me why I repeated that she had said those words. I did not say she was upset. But those little words should have stayed in my mouth. For when he hung up the phone he promptly told the party of the fourth and fifth part what I had said. So then the party of the fourth part called the party of the first part and asked why she was upset. She of course said she wasn't, which she wasn't. Now the party of the first part called me and said she had not been upset, I said I had not said she was upset. Are you getting the picture here folks? Words once they fly out of your mouth never stay the same once they make the rounds.
I remember a article I read once. A little story how a woman had gossiped about another woman. She felt bad afterwards and went to the priest and asked what she could do to make it right. He told her to take a bag of feathers and go through the village and put them on every doorstep. She did and came back the next day. "I have done it," she told him. "Now what do I do?" "Go back ,"he said and pick them up and all will be be forgiven." She was shocked,"Why it will do no good to go back, they will all have blown to the winds." He sadly shook his head, "That is how our words are," he said, "Blown too the winds."
So the moral to this little tale is if you do not want a large snowball rolling down hill out of control. Do not stand at the top of the hill and give it a push. So to the party of the first part, I'm sorry. I promise to stay away from large snowballs and hills.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
THE COMPUTER
I was walking across the dining room, into the kitchen when I heard a voice call,"Hey you, come here." I stopped in my tracks, looked around, nobody there. I started on."Hey," the voice said again. "I,m talking to you." I looked over. All I could see was the computer,"You talking to me I said" Well this is it for me I thought. I now am talking to a computer It seemed the computer screen got just a little brighter.. "What about your blog,"the somputer asked? I blinked, "What do you mean, what about my blog.." "You never edited it or published it today." I swear it sounded as if the computer whined. "What's it to you?" I snarled back. "I just didn't feel like it." The computer made a funny noise, I peered closer, moving in just a little. But not too close. After all computers don't talk to you every day. "I just don't understand," the computer whined again, "You took the time to write it, you said on there you would write every day and now you didn't" A catch in its throat. I moved one step closer. "Was that dang thing crying? I moved again and sat on the chair, but only on the edge. You never know what a talking computer might do. I cleared my throat, feeling just a little silly,. "I had a bad day," I tried to explain. The computer gave a lttle growl. "Where's the dang commitment you been talking about?" Now its voice got sarcastic. "You said for one year. Get your feelings hurt a little and there you go No blog.
I scooted back in the seat. "Hey, you peiece of junk. I didn't get my feelings hurt. I had a bad day. And just didn't edit it.. Thats it, all the story." I glared at it, just as mean as I could.. It wasn't good," I was whining now. The computer laughed. I swear it laughed. "Well you're no Hemingway, thats for sure, but its okay for a blog. "Watch it Buster," I growled. "Come on Honey," the computer coaxed. "Show for once you can finish something you start." I sighed and then took a deep breath.
So tomorrow my blog for this morning will be posted. My computer assures me I will do okay.
"
I scooted back in the seat. "Hey, you peiece of junk. I didn't get my feelings hurt. I had a bad day. And just didn't edit it.. Thats it, all the story." I glared at it, just as mean as I could.. It wasn't good," I was whining now. The computer laughed. I swear it laughed. "Well you're no Hemingway, thats for sure, but its okay for a blog. "Watch it Buster," I growled. "Come on Honey," the computer coaxed. "Show for once you can finish something you start." I sighed and then took a deep breath.
So tomorrow my blog for this morning will be posted. My computer assures me I will do okay.
"
REFRIGERATOR BISCUITS
the snow is starting to finally melt. "I" and I have just started the morning with our usual front yard antics. it is cold but the sub zero temptures have finally left us but it is a cold, crisp morning. Quiet, at least till we came out. I love the early mornings.
I have written before, growing up we were poor. My Dad worked in a service station. Long hours, little pay. He got a check every two weeks. Mom handled the money, what there was to handle. So when Dad got paid, Mother bought grocires to last for two weeks. The first week we ate pretty good. But the second week was usually slim pickings. Mom could make a pound of hambuger last for at least two meals, if not three. Goloush consisted of a handful of hambuger, very little hambuger, onion, a can of tomtoes and macaroni. I grew up thinking everyone hate water gravey. When we had beans, which was quite often. It was more bean juice than it was beans. But somehow we always ate. Mom could make a small meal stretch to include any strays that might stumble in. And there was always a extra or two at the table.
Somewhere in the early fifties Mom heard about a new product on the market. Refrigerator biscuits. Now Mom when she bought groceries on payday always had to put some up. A hungry pack of kids will eat everything up in the first week., if it is all in the cabinet for all eyes to see. So Mom kept a box under the bed. There she put canned goods, other items for that second week. I must point out here. My Mother was a very smart woman.She went to college, had taught school. But remember this was back in naive days. The media did not invade your home via Television, of the latest fads and how they worked. mom saw the shiney tubes of prepared dough at the store. Not long after they hit the market. A miracle, biscuits in a can. No more mixing dough, rolling patting them out at five in the morning. Just one swift rap on a the edge of a cabinet and instantely, ten little rounds of dough was at your fingertips. A miracle. You popped them in the oven, stirred up water gravey. There was breakfast, Dad ate and Mom drove him to work. The new age had arrived.
So Mom bought and brought home the precious biscuits. Now what to do. If she put all ten, shiny tubes into the refrigerator they would not last two weeks. So five of the cheriesed tubes went under the bed in her second week box. The only problem being, the box was not refrigeratored. A few days alter we sat at the table having supper. Aloud pop cut through the air, then another loud pop. Everyone looked nervously around.this was before the day of drive-by shootings. So nobody thought we were being attacked. After the third pop, we all ran to the bedroom. From whence the noise was coming. Mom got down and pulled out he box. The cans lay open, dough oosing from the split cans. Dough caught up in the bed springs. This was back before box springs, at least at our house. There was a thin matress, and metal springs tossed onto four or five wooden slats. There was dough everywhere. So that is how we learned that refrigeratored biscuits were meant to be kept cold.
I think of Momma sometimes when I open the door of my kitchen cabinet. There is always food. Cans of Tuna, vegetables. Cereal, the list goes on. I can skip the store for a couple of weeks and we won't starve. Mom was always hustling around, trying to make food last over that two week period. I never realized back then, how very tough that was. And Dad working 12 hours a day to bring home thirty-five dollars a week. Oh I know things were cheaper back then. But even then, supporting a family on the meager wages was not easy. But somehow we always ate. The electric only got cut off about every four months. And Mom would franically scramble around to get it back on before Dad come home at six. Yes my friends those were the good old days.
I have written before, growing up we were poor. My Dad worked in a service station. Long hours, little pay. He got a check every two weeks. Mom handled the money, what there was to handle. So when Dad got paid, Mother bought grocires to last for two weeks. The first week we ate pretty good. But the second week was usually slim pickings. Mom could make a pound of hambuger last for at least two meals, if not three. Goloush consisted of a handful of hambuger, very little hambuger, onion, a can of tomtoes and macaroni. I grew up thinking everyone hate water gravey. When we had beans, which was quite often. It was more bean juice than it was beans. But somehow we always ate. Mom could make a small meal stretch to include any strays that might stumble in. And there was always a extra or two at the table.
Somewhere in the early fifties Mom heard about a new product on the market. Refrigerator biscuits. Now Mom when she bought groceries on payday always had to put some up. A hungry pack of kids will eat everything up in the first week., if it is all in the cabinet for all eyes to see. So Mom kept a box under the bed. There she put canned goods, other items for that second week. I must point out here. My Mother was a very smart woman.She went to college, had taught school. But remember this was back in naive days. The media did not invade your home via Television, of the latest fads and how they worked. mom saw the shiney tubes of prepared dough at the store. Not long after they hit the market. A miracle, biscuits in a can. No more mixing dough, rolling patting them out at five in the morning. Just one swift rap on a the edge of a cabinet and instantely, ten little rounds of dough was at your fingertips. A miracle. You popped them in the oven, stirred up water gravey. There was breakfast, Dad ate and Mom drove him to work. The new age had arrived.
So Mom bought and brought home the precious biscuits. Now what to do. If she put all ten, shiny tubes into the refrigerator they would not last two weeks. So five of the cheriesed tubes went under the bed in her second week box. The only problem being, the box was not refrigeratored. A few days alter we sat at the table having supper. Aloud pop cut through the air, then another loud pop. Everyone looked nervously around.this was before the day of drive-by shootings. So nobody thought we were being attacked. After the third pop, we all ran to the bedroom. From whence the noise was coming. Mom got down and pulled out he box. The cans lay open, dough oosing from the split cans. Dough caught up in the bed springs. This was back before box springs, at least at our house. There was a thin matress, and metal springs tossed onto four or five wooden slats. There was dough everywhere. So that is how we learned that refrigeratored biscuits were meant to be kept cold.
I think of Momma sometimes when I open the door of my kitchen cabinet. There is always food. Cans of Tuna, vegetables. Cereal, the list goes on. I can skip the store for a couple of weeks and we won't starve. Mom was always hustling around, trying to make food last over that two week period. I never realized back then, how very tough that was. And Dad working 12 hours a day to bring home thirty-five dollars a week. Oh I know things were cheaper back then. But even then, supporting a family on the meager wages was not easy. But somehow we always ate. The electric only got cut off about every four months. And Mom would franically scramble around to get it back on before Dad come home at six. Yes my friends those were the good old days.
Monday, January 11, 2010
RAMDOM RAMBLINGS
it is 5:00 am. My little pal has not gotten up with me. Still nesteled under the covers, fast asleep. This amazes me and it is even a little warmer than it has been.. Here it is the 11 th of January and I am already counting the days until spring. "Do not wish your life away," my mother use to say. And at this stage I guess I better heed her words.
The weather seems to be something we are never satisfied with. When it is hot we want it to be cooler. When it is cold, we want it to be hotter. Our age also seems to be one of those catagories where we are the never satisfied. When we are young we yearn to be older. When we are old we yearn to be younger and so it goes. We long for the future, when the future is here, we long for the past.
Reading back over these blogs since I started about two weeks ago, I find that I seem to have taken the path of going back into my past many times. Touching on yesterday. My first thought was I did not plan do this. I never started this blog just to ramble on about my yesterdays. Then I think what did I start this blog for? I smile to myself. I guess just to ramble on. I also wanted to prove to myself that I could start writing and stay with this for at least a year. I find I write this simalar to the way I write a short story. Something pops into my mind and kind of grows from there. But today I seem to have no clear objective in mind.
My childhood was golden to me. I am not sure others look back in that peorid as quite that golden. But it was to me. have you ever noticed how we can hold a priceless treasure in our hands and never even know it is a treasure. Our childhood seems to be the same way. Growing up usually with brothers or sisters, we vye for attention. Thinking you loathe that person you have to share a bedroom with or stare across the table at them every night. Then the years roll by and they are such a part of you, miles and years can never seperate you. my family and those years are that way for me. All of the people and events sewed in together to mske us who we are today. Golden is how I remember my childhood. Threads of happy thoughts, happy events. Some funny, some sad. This is our pasts. There are many who did not have the luck that I had. The family I had, the memories I have. But whatever our past is it has played a large part of who we are today. i am greateful for the golden threads in my life.
My little blog is weak this morning. Not very interesting. I just laughed because I know it probably never is too interesting to anyone but me. Someone who writes, just writes because the words are there, so many. I have had peroids when I write, peroids when I have not. But the words were always there, rattling around in my head. Trying to slip from mind to the written word. I am not a good writer I have said I think I might be more of a story teller than a writer. But the characters that have walked across my mind over the years have always been real to me. I have not always done justice in bringing them to life. So to all my make believe friends, I am sorry. But thank-you for still hanging around.
The weather seems to be something we are never satisfied with. When it is hot we want it to be cooler. When it is cold, we want it to be hotter. Our age also seems to be one of those catagories where we are the never satisfied. When we are young we yearn to be older. When we are old we yearn to be younger and so it goes. We long for the future, when the future is here, we long for the past.
Reading back over these blogs since I started about two weeks ago, I find that I seem to have taken the path of going back into my past many times. Touching on yesterday. My first thought was I did not plan do this. I never started this blog just to ramble on about my yesterdays. Then I think what did I start this blog for? I smile to myself. I guess just to ramble on. I also wanted to prove to myself that I could start writing and stay with this for at least a year. I find I write this simalar to the way I write a short story. Something pops into my mind and kind of grows from there. But today I seem to have no clear objective in mind.
My childhood was golden to me. I am not sure others look back in that peorid as quite that golden. But it was to me. have you ever noticed how we can hold a priceless treasure in our hands and never even know it is a treasure. Our childhood seems to be the same way. Growing up usually with brothers or sisters, we vye for attention. Thinking you loathe that person you have to share a bedroom with or stare across the table at them every night. Then the years roll by and they are such a part of you, miles and years can never seperate you. my family and those years are that way for me. All of the people and events sewed in together to mske us who we are today. Golden is how I remember my childhood. Threads of happy thoughts, happy events. Some funny, some sad. This is our pasts. There are many who did not have the luck that I had. The family I had, the memories I have. But whatever our past is it has played a large part of who we are today. i am greateful for the golden threads in my life.
My little blog is weak this morning. Not very interesting. I just laughed because I know it probably never is too interesting to anyone but me. Someone who writes, just writes because the words are there, so many. I have had peroids when I write, peroids when I have not. But the words were always there, rattling around in my head. Trying to slip from mind to the written word. I am not a good writer I have said I think I might be more of a story teller than a writer. But the characters that have walked across my mind over the years have always been real to me. I have not always done justice in bringing them to life. So to all my make believe friends, I am sorry. But thank-you for still hanging around.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
PEOPLE'S HOME MISSION
It is quiet here at the homeplace. Steve had to leave early, before 5:00. So he is gone, the dogs out and back in without much drama. They have gone back to sleep. Until these two I never realized just how much dogs sleep. Now I know where the saying comes from, "Let sleeping dogs lie." Because that is what they do. At least our two.
I'd like to tell you about a little church here in Joplin. It stands on a alley between Grand and Kentucky on 9th street. In the forties there was a woman named Mrs.Wiles. She owned a pie shop off 20th street and also a house at 7th and Pennslyvana. It was a two story house that sat on a corner. Mrs. Wiles decied this part of town needed a Sunday school for the many children in this area and there was no church. She started one in her house. We moved to Joplin in 1944, when I was three. Mrs. Wiles canvassed the neighborhood, knocked on our door and asked Mom to bring us three and come. We did. The little Sunday school grew fast and in 1946 Mrs.Wiled bought land at the corner of 9th and Kentucky, right across from where we lived. She had the top of her house removed, the downstairs moved onto the corner and had a little church built on the alley. It stands today looking the same as it did the first day we had chuch in it, on a Sunday in 1946. There was one small addition built onto the back of the building in the sixties, but not much, just a small extension on to the platform. Back in the then that small church would pack them in. It was nothing to have close to 100 in Sunday school. It was built to be a Mission. It was a poor neighborhood, many children. Four blocks up the street at ninth and main were many taverns. It was nothing to have a Sunday night service and some old drunk would wander in. squeezing into a pew. Not smelling too good, but he was never turned away. Sitting in his slected seat, sometimes he would doze. Nobody was ever asked to leave. Everyone shook his hand afer service. A little Mission built for service to the people.
I have so many memories of that little church. Good memories. For most of those years my Mother was the song leader. Did I ever tell you my Mom had a beautiful voice, well she did. But being song leader she always put on the Christmas play. We were a small church but always had a wonderful Christmas play. Children recited poems, there was special singing, Then the big final. The nativity scence. Oh I loved that ending. First Mary nd Joesph came down the asile,both in their bathrobes, up onto the stage they would go, A sad inn keeper sayed loudly "No room in the inn." Then the little home-made curtain would close. It opened quickly again, there the humble couple stood, well Joesph stood, Mary kneeling. A bale of hay strewn across the floor. A doll laid in the center of the hay. Then the front foor would burst open again. Here comes two shephards, then three wisemen. All in their bathrobes, the Kings with paper crowns on their heads. Then a angel would step from behind the surtain, step up on a stool behind Mary and announce Jesus had been born. Oh I loved that play, I wanted to be in it, badly. Mother being the director of this extravaganza, she was the one to go to. At twelve I begged to be in the play. "Please Momma," I pleaded. "Let me be the angel." I was tall for my age, so finally she gave in. I was thrilled. This friends was my big chance. I was going to be on the stage. I would perform Just like all those people that I saw on Saturdays in the musicals. I praticed, over and over. I climbed upon that stool behind Mary , threw out my arms and annouced my lines.
I was most thrilled by the fact I was wearing a real costume. Which consisted of a white sheet, with slits in it for your arms to go through And there was wings. Have you any idea how much I was thrilled over those wings. Mother made them from white poster board, carefully tracing the wings on two seperate pieces. They were tied together, then shiny tinsel glued on the sides. "Wow,! The halo was made from a bent and twisted metal coat hanger, tinsel was glued to the edges of that and then attached to the wings.Two old pices of white sheet tied all this around your arms for strap's to keep it on. This was the peak of my life, wings and a halo. It may very well be the closet I ever come to wearing any. The anticapated night came. The little church was packed. I was behind the curtain, my Mother standing along the wall just off the platform. To give the nod for everyone to start, to run everything smoothly. I was giddy with excitement. Here they came, each set of people moving , gliding down the asile. They were all in their places. Time for me, I jolted out from behind the curtain. Yes jolted is a good way to describe it. I stumled over my long sheet. Bravely I regained my composure. I scamperd quickly on to the little stool. Yes I am afraid scampered is the right word here. In the process of scrambling up I fell off. The audinece gasped, my Mother closed her eyes. I valiently jumped back up. By this time the wings had shifted, which meant the halo had shifted. At this time it was pointing somewhere to the west. I tried to adust them but to little advail. But back onto the stool I jumped. By this time the whole audience was in hysterical laughter. I being the brave little actor did not let this deter me. I threw out my arms and in a loud screech I announced,Hark, the baby Jesus has come." Not exactly the right words. My mother looked pale. The Mary shot evil glances at me the rest of the play. Needless to say it was my only shot at being in the main play. my poor Mother, her alien child had done it again.
As I said the church sill stands., after sixty-four years. Different people run it now. But I love to go by it. I do not think as many goes there today as back then. But it still is a small Mission for the people. Back in the day so many groceries were gave away to needy people by people who had very little themselves. There was Bible studies, song conventions, chili suppers. A truly wonderful place. My childhood is sewn up tightly with that little church. I pray it always stands.
I'd like to tell you about a little church here in Joplin. It stands on a alley between Grand and Kentucky on 9th street. In the forties there was a woman named Mrs.Wiles. She owned a pie shop off 20th street and also a house at 7th and Pennslyvana. It was a two story house that sat on a corner. Mrs. Wiles decied this part of town needed a Sunday school for the many children in this area and there was no church. She started one in her house. We moved to Joplin in 1944, when I was three. Mrs. Wiles canvassed the neighborhood, knocked on our door and asked Mom to bring us three and come. We did. The little Sunday school grew fast and in 1946 Mrs.Wiled bought land at the corner of 9th and Kentucky, right across from where we lived. She had the top of her house removed, the downstairs moved onto the corner and had a little church built on the alley. It stands today looking the same as it did the first day we had chuch in it, on a Sunday in 1946. There was one small addition built onto the back of the building in the sixties, but not much, just a small extension on to the platform. Back in the then that small church would pack them in. It was nothing to have close to 100 in Sunday school. It was built to be a Mission. It was a poor neighborhood, many children. Four blocks up the street at ninth and main were many taverns. It was nothing to have a Sunday night service and some old drunk would wander in. squeezing into a pew. Not smelling too good, but he was never turned away. Sitting in his slected seat, sometimes he would doze. Nobody was ever asked to leave. Everyone shook his hand afer service. A little Mission built for service to the people.
I have so many memories of that little church. Good memories. For most of those years my Mother was the song leader. Did I ever tell you my Mom had a beautiful voice, well she did. But being song leader she always put on the Christmas play. We were a small church but always had a wonderful Christmas play. Children recited poems, there was special singing, Then the big final. The nativity scence. Oh I loved that ending. First Mary nd Joesph came down the asile,both in their bathrobes, up onto the stage they would go, A sad inn keeper sayed loudly "No room in the inn." Then the little home-made curtain would close. It opened quickly again, there the humble couple stood, well Joesph stood, Mary kneeling. A bale of hay strewn across the floor. A doll laid in the center of the hay. Then the front foor would burst open again. Here comes two shephards, then three wisemen. All in their bathrobes, the Kings with paper crowns on their heads. Then a angel would step from behind the surtain, step up on a stool behind Mary and announce Jesus had been born. Oh I loved that play, I wanted to be in it, badly. Mother being the director of this extravaganza, she was the one to go to. At twelve I begged to be in the play. "Please Momma," I pleaded. "Let me be the angel." I was tall for my age, so finally she gave in. I was thrilled. This friends was my big chance. I was going to be on the stage. I would perform Just like all those people that I saw on Saturdays in the musicals. I praticed, over and over. I climbed upon that stool behind Mary , threw out my arms and annouced my lines.
I was most thrilled by the fact I was wearing a real costume. Which consisted of a white sheet, with slits in it for your arms to go through And there was wings. Have you any idea how much I was thrilled over those wings. Mother made them from white poster board, carefully tracing the wings on two seperate pieces. They were tied together, then shiny tinsel glued on the sides. "Wow,! The halo was made from a bent and twisted metal coat hanger, tinsel was glued to the edges of that and then attached to the wings.Two old pices of white sheet tied all this around your arms for strap's to keep it on. This was the peak of my life, wings and a halo. It may very well be the closet I ever come to wearing any. The anticapated night came. The little church was packed. I was behind the curtain, my Mother standing along the wall just off the platform. To give the nod for everyone to start, to run everything smoothly. I was giddy with excitement. Here they came, each set of people moving , gliding down the asile. They were all in their places. Time for me, I jolted out from behind the curtain. Yes jolted is a good way to describe it. I stumled over my long sheet. Bravely I regained my composure. I scamperd quickly on to the little stool. Yes I am afraid scampered is the right word here. In the process of scrambling up I fell off. The audinece gasped, my Mother closed her eyes. I valiently jumped back up. By this time the wings had shifted, which meant the halo had shifted. At this time it was pointing somewhere to the west. I tried to adust them but to little advail. But back onto the stool I jumped. By this time the whole audience was in hysterical laughter. I being the brave little actor did not let this deter me. I threw out my arms and in a loud screech I announced,Hark, the baby Jesus has come." Not exactly the right words. My mother looked pale. The Mary shot evil glances at me the rest of the play. Needless to say it was my only shot at being in the main play. my poor Mother, her alien child had done it again.
As I said the church sill stands., after sixty-four years. Different people run it now. But I love to go by it. I do not think as many goes there today as back then. But it still is a small Mission for the people. Back in the day so many groceries were gave away to needy people by people who had very little themselves. There was Bible studies, song conventions, chili suppers. A truly wonderful place. My childhood is sewn up tightly with that little church. I pray it always stands.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
BRENDA, MY ANGEL
It is 4:40 am. "I". the dog and myself have made more friends this morning in the neighborhood. I feel I am known as the loud lady with the loud dog in the middle of the block. It is so beautiful outside. Especially in the early morning. It is white, cold and quiet. Then I awake and "I" awakes" and it goes downhill from there. This morning the cold air did not stop her from patroling the yard with her crazy yapping. I always armed with a trusty piece of something run after her. Frantically calling her name. I am sure you think, "Why let her out so early." Because she has not been out to the bathroom since nine the night before. Her and I are early risers, so we both go to bed early. So together we shatter the peaceful neighnorhood.
I have written the last two days about my older sister and brother. I have done this because I can. They tell me that is what a blog is, getting to say how you feel about different topics. I wanted to tell you about them, I have one sibling left. My baby sister. She is not as easy to talk about. We lost her to the world as we know it in 1993. To breast cancer,
I had been the baby for almost nine years and it was a very good reign I thought. When all of a sudden my Mother had a baby. Not just a baby who took away my title as the baby of the family. But a blond, curly haired little doll. Who at first sight my folks fell madly in love with. Gone were my days of glory. She was beautiful, cuddly and sweet. With two older sisters and a older brother she become the most spoiled child in the history of America. At least I felt that way at nine. But I loved her. She made my life angony. But I loved her anyway. When she was three I took a box and made a doll house. I told you we were very poor. I cut out pictures of families, furniture, a dog and pasted them inside. I had a doll house, complete with a family. Proudly I set it in my bedroom. I spent long hours playing with it. One day she came in as I sat on the floor. Smiled sweetly at me and promptly stepped on it, the sweet smile never left her face. I lunged for her, she started screaming for Mother. it took at least five loud minutes to get the facts straight. I had not tried to randomly kill her, the battered box left proved that I was provoked.
I never saw a movie all the way through from the time she was three until she was at least seven. I loved to go to the movies on Saturday afternoon. And Mom would usually come up with the dime. "Take your sister," those was always her words as she handed me the coveted dime. The dreaded words, I could go to the movie but I had to take the brat! Fifteen minutes into the first movie she had to go to the bathroom. Then at close intervels she had to go again. I would march her up the asile, pulling the chubby little angel along, muttering under my breath. Then about 30 minutes before the end of the movie she would say loudly. "I want to go home," I would try to keep her quiet, after a few minutes of angry glares we would leave, The ending lost forever. Because I never saw it.
Brenda become my friend. As the years passed the years between us shrunk away. She was pretty, she was fun. She was an introvert. Another quiet, neat one in the family. Mother use to say, "Brenda is so bashful."
Brenda would say to me, "I am not bashful, I am quiet." And she was.
To her heartbreak after she was married she learned she was not able to get pregnant. It was a terrible blow to her. So Brenda and her husband adopted a baby. He quickly become the love of her life. This was her boy. And there was nothing she would not do for him.She loved him, protected him and bought him powdered sugar donuts. She tried so hard to be the perfect Mother. At the age of forty-two Brenda learned she had breast cancer. At a advanced stage. Within a year she was gone. The light of our familes life. It was the saddest time. And she left behind her beloved son. He has grown to be a man. A good man, a good father. He is very close with his birth mother and sibblings now. I know that Brenda is so proud of him and the man he has become. I know she is happy he is close to his Mom. And those great kids of his. I feel the sky must light up when Brenda smiles because of them.
As I close this off I will say the words I have never been able to say since her death. I was the big sister, the one who should have been able to protect you, fight the bad guys away. I wasn't there to do it. I was off fighting my own drama. I know I let you down. If only I could turn back time and be there, holding your hand. The sadness I feel will never leave nor despair for not being there for you. I believe we are all only one heartbeat away from a different life. Life not as we know it now. Wait for me little sis. With your blonde hair and smiling face. For when my last heartbeat that seperates us is no more. I will meet you and I know you will be waiting for me.
I have written the last two days about my older sister and brother. I have done this because I can. They tell me that is what a blog is, getting to say how you feel about different topics. I wanted to tell you about them, I have one sibling left. My baby sister. She is not as easy to talk about. We lost her to the world as we know it in 1993. To breast cancer,
I had been the baby for almost nine years and it was a very good reign I thought. When all of a sudden my Mother had a baby. Not just a baby who took away my title as the baby of the family. But a blond, curly haired little doll. Who at first sight my folks fell madly in love with. Gone were my days of glory. She was beautiful, cuddly and sweet. With two older sisters and a older brother she become the most spoiled child in the history of America. At least I felt that way at nine. But I loved her. She made my life angony. But I loved her anyway. When she was three I took a box and made a doll house. I told you we were very poor. I cut out pictures of families, furniture, a dog and pasted them inside. I had a doll house, complete with a family. Proudly I set it in my bedroom. I spent long hours playing with it. One day she came in as I sat on the floor. Smiled sweetly at me and promptly stepped on it, the sweet smile never left her face. I lunged for her, she started screaming for Mother. it took at least five loud minutes to get the facts straight. I had not tried to randomly kill her, the battered box left proved that I was provoked.
I never saw a movie all the way through from the time she was three until she was at least seven. I loved to go to the movies on Saturday afternoon. And Mom would usually come up with the dime. "Take your sister," those was always her words as she handed me the coveted dime. The dreaded words, I could go to the movie but I had to take the brat! Fifteen minutes into the first movie she had to go to the bathroom. Then at close intervels she had to go again. I would march her up the asile, pulling the chubby little angel along, muttering under my breath. Then about 30 minutes before the end of the movie she would say loudly. "I want to go home," I would try to keep her quiet, after a few minutes of angry glares we would leave, The ending lost forever. Because I never saw it.
Brenda become my friend. As the years passed the years between us shrunk away. She was pretty, she was fun. She was an introvert. Another quiet, neat one in the family. Mother use to say, "Brenda is so bashful."
Brenda would say to me, "I am not bashful, I am quiet." And she was.
To her heartbreak after she was married she learned she was not able to get pregnant. It was a terrible blow to her. So Brenda and her husband adopted a baby. He quickly become the love of her life. This was her boy. And there was nothing she would not do for him.She loved him, protected him and bought him powdered sugar donuts. She tried so hard to be the perfect Mother. At the age of forty-two Brenda learned she had breast cancer. At a advanced stage. Within a year she was gone. The light of our familes life. It was the saddest time. And she left behind her beloved son. He has grown to be a man. A good man, a good father. He is very close with his birth mother and sibblings now. I know that Brenda is so proud of him and the man he has become. I know she is happy he is close to his Mom. And those great kids of his. I feel the sky must light up when Brenda smiles because of them.
As I close this off I will say the words I have never been able to say since her death. I was the big sister, the one who should have been able to protect you, fight the bad guys away. I wasn't there to do it. I was off fighting my own drama. I know I let you down. If only I could turn back time and be there, holding your hand. The sadness I feel will never leave nor despair for not being there for you. I believe we are all only one heartbeat away from a different life. Life not as we know it now. Wait for me little sis. With your blonde hair and smiling face. For when my last heartbeat that seperates us is no more. I will meet you and I know you will be waiting for me.
Friday, January 8, 2010
SMILING BUD
It is one degree, with the windchill at seventeen below. That dear friends is very cold. It is 4:30 am and "I" has made her front yard run. It is hard to bark non-stop with cold frigid air pumping into your lungs. She was back inside with no frantic plea's from me this morning, for which I am grateful. "H" is up but has not ventured out as yet,
I wrote about my sister Geri yesterday morning. So I thought it only fair to introduce you to my brother. I call him Smiling Bud. Yes you're right because he always smiles. You can just say the name Bud to me and it conjures up pictures of this tanned skinny little boy, a nervous little smile on his face. He never said many words but he always smiled.
Bud was the only boy in a family of four children, second born. He is quiet, neat, oh yes another neat one. Very talented, easy going. He has many good quailties. But one of his best I have always thought was his ability to stick to whatever he started. Bud worked at the same job forty years, has lived in the same house for over forty years, was married to the same woman for almost forty years, until her death in 2000. He has always been dependable. You can count on Bud. He has always suited up and faced life no matter was thrown at him. I find that awesome. I have always been a dreamer, and not always the most dependable. Bud on the other hand has always did what he knew he should do, no matter what his dreams were.
I am sure he had them. As I have written in this blog, Bud taught himself to play the guitar at age of twelve. He never had a lesson. He just wanted to play. We had a neighbor woman who taught him a few cords. He would faithfully take his guitar across the street to the little church we attended and sit on the front pew. When the two players on the platform changed their fingers on the neck, he changed his. He praticed constantely. I have always loved to hear him play and sing. And he has always played over all the years. But after his wife Dixie passed away he has sang very little. He gives many excuses, but I believe when Dixie died it was as if she took his music with him.
He met Dixie when he was not quite eighteen, she fifteen. He was in the airforce, home on leave, getting ready to go overseas for eighteen months. They fell in love. Bud went overseas, before he came back home they had drifted apart. But there was this love between them that was always there. It was almost three years before they seen each other again. Then another year before they were able to marry. I believe theirs was a true love story. Not a perfect one. But a love story.
There will probably never be a book written about Bud. He will never grace the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. But in my mind he is a hero. There had to be days he just did not want to get up and go to work,and work long hours. In the early years with little pay. But he just kept going. Did he dream years ago of making it in the music world. I don't know, I never asked him. But he had five children to feed and clothe. So he never let that thought linger for long if he did. He just kept going, day after day. What a legacy I believe.
So Bud this blog is for you. Probaby not more than one or two will read it. But you Bud are my hero You have made your life count. You live alone now. Listening to your beloved music on the radio. Watching a movie once in awhile. You are still quiet. I always use to believe your singing was your way of talking to the world. Now you very seldom sing. But over the years the smile is still there. I am proud to be your sister.
I wrote about my sister Geri yesterday morning. So I thought it only fair to introduce you to my brother. I call him Smiling Bud. Yes you're right because he always smiles. You can just say the name Bud to me and it conjures up pictures of this tanned skinny little boy, a nervous little smile on his face. He never said many words but he always smiled.
Bud was the only boy in a family of four children, second born. He is quiet, neat, oh yes another neat one. Very talented, easy going. He has many good quailties. But one of his best I have always thought was his ability to stick to whatever he started. Bud worked at the same job forty years, has lived in the same house for over forty years, was married to the same woman for almost forty years, until her death in 2000. He has always been dependable. You can count on Bud. He has always suited up and faced life no matter was thrown at him. I find that awesome. I have always been a dreamer, and not always the most dependable. Bud on the other hand has always did what he knew he should do, no matter what his dreams were.
I am sure he had them. As I have written in this blog, Bud taught himself to play the guitar at age of twelve. He never had a lesson. He just wanted to play. We had a neighbor woman who taught him a few cords. He would faithfully take his guitar across the street to the little church we attended and sit on the front pew. When the two players on the platform changed their fingers on the neck, he changed his. He praticed constantely. I have always loved to hear him play and sing. And he has always played over all the years. But after his wife Dixie passed away he has sang very little. He gives many excuses, but I believe when Dixie died it was as if she took his music with him.
He met Dixie when he was not quite eighteen, she fifteen. He was in the airforce, home on leave, getting ready to go overseas for eighteen months. They fell in love. Bud went overseas, before he came back home they had drifted apart. But there was this love between them that was always there. It was almost three years before they seen each other again. Then another year before they were able to marry. I believe theirs was a true love story. Not a perfect one. But a love story.
There will probably never be a book written about Bud. He will never grace the stage of the Grand Ole Opry. But in my mind he is a hero. There had to be days he just did not want to get up and go to work,and work long hours. In the early years with little pay. But he just kept going. Did he dream years ago of making it in the music world. I don't know, I never asked him. But he had five children to feed and clothe. So he never let that thought linger for long if he did. He just kept going, day after day. What a legacy I believe.
So Bud this blog is for you. Probaby not more than one or two will read it. But you Bud are my hero You have made your life count. You live alone now. Listening to your beloved music on the radio. Watching a movie once in awhile. You are still quiet. I always use to believe your singing was your way of talking to the world. Now you very seldom sing. But over the years the smile is still there. I am proud to be your sister.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
MY SISTER GERI
It is very cold outside. Not as cold as I expected but the wind is blowing scattering the snow widly through the air. Even "I" didn't stay out long this morning. She ran around the yard, warding off unseen advesary's. This morning I armed with a piece of cheese met her at the edge of the porch She came in without a fight, that cold, snowy wind was too much even for her. I have to finally confess something. Christmas eve I did a snow dance. I wanted a white Christmas. It started later in the afternoon to sleet, then snow. We have had snow on the ground ever since. I am not saying I caused this cold mess. But I do promise to refrain from any further snow dances,
I talk to my sister Geri every morning. She is like me an early riser. We talk, laugh, find out what each other is going to do for the day. This usually occours somewhere between 5:30 and 6:00. I love my sister. I tease her constantly, and she will say, "Elder abuse, why did I call you?" I always laugh and say, "It was me that called you." Geri is a good person, sweet, neat, quiet and always says the right thing, at the right time. Did I say she was neat? In other words, she has all the attributes I do not pocess. I love her very much.
But growing up in her shadow was not easy. I cannot even start to recall the times I heard, "Pull your socks up Billye, Geri keeps her socks up. Why can't you?" I was 5'9 by the time I was 13 and weighed maybe 90 pounds. In this day and age I would be accused of being anorexic. I was not. I was tall, lanky and skinny. I ate all the time but it never went to body fat. But believe me after thirty all those excess pounds that had been storing somewhere other than my body finally caught up with me. It has never been the same since. Geri had ankles, now Geri was not fat, but she had ankles. She dressed nice, she helped around the house. She was my cross to bear. "Try to be more like geri, I constantly heard. How in the world can you possibly be like Geri, when you are a wild child who is following music nobody else hears.
Geri had clothes, pretty clothes. She was five years older than me and went to work before I was old enough too. We had always been very poor and I wore hand me downs. Of couse the hand me downs were twice my size. But oh I longed for her beautiful clothes. And when ever she would leave the house I would wear them. I had a supply of large safety pins. I would fold the clothes inside and pin them. I believed they looked alright that way, they came in at the waist anyway. Looking back I shake my head at the memory. They did not look alright.
Geri had can can slips. Remember this was the fifties. They were glorious. Pink, black, red. They had beautiful bows and they were satin, and lace and made your skirts stand out. I would put one on and stand in front of the mirror. My dress standing out three feet from my body. Large safety pins holding it up. I would whirl and spin around. I thought I looked beautiful. The glory did not last long. My sister would vome home, find large safety pin holes in her slips and dresses, oh yes they were usually strewn all over the floor. She would scream, "Momma, Billye's been in my clothes again." I innocently would say, "No I wasn't," but of course I was. Those were the days.
The years have flown past, turning us older, greyer. slower. But those memories will never leave. Geri is still sweet, neat, quiet, did I mention neat?. Still says the right thing at the right time. I still the nutty one, still saying the wrong words at the wrong time. Still hearing music nobody else hears. I have lived in her shadow for years. But as I have grown older I found it quite comfortable here.
I talk to my sister Geri every morning. She is like me an early riser. We talk, laugh, find out what each other is going to do for the day. This usually occours somewhere between 5:30 and 6:00. I love my sister. I tease her constantly, and she will say, "Elder abuse, why did I call you?" I always laugh and say, "It was me that called you." Geri is a good person, sweet, neat, quiet and always says the right thing, at the right time. Did I say she was neat? In other words, she has all the attributes I do not pocess. I love her very much.
But growing up in her shadow was not easy. I cannot even start to recall the times I heard, "Pull your socks up Billye, Geri keeps her socks up. Why can't you?" I was 5'9 by the time I was 13 and weighed maybe 90 pounds. In this day and age I would be accused of being anorexic. I was not. I was tall, lanky and skinny. I ate all the time but it never went to body fat. But believe me after thirty all those excess pounds that had been storing somewhere other than my body finally caught up with me. It has never been the same since. Geri had ankles, now Geri was not fat, but she had ankles. She dressed nice, she helped around the house. She was my cross to bear. "Try to be more like geri, I constantly heard. How in the world can you possibly be like Geri, when you are a wild child who is following music nobody else hears.
Geri had clothes, pretty clothes. She was five years older than me and went to work before I was old enough too. We had always been very poor and I wore hand me downs. Of couse the hand me downs were twice my size. But oh I longed for her beautiful clothes. And when ever she would leave the house I would wear them. I had a supply of large safety pins. I would fold the clothes inside and pin them. I believed they looked alright that way, they came in at the waist anyway. Looking back I shake my head at the memory. They did not look alright.
Geri had can can slips. Remember this was the fifties. They were glorious. Pink, black, red. They had beautiful bows and they were satin, and lace and made your skirts stand out. I would put one on and stand in front of the mirror. My dress standing out three feet from my body. Large safety pins holding it up. I would whirl and spin around. I thought I looked beautiful. The glory did not last long. My sister would vome home, find large safety pin holes in her slips and dresses, oh yes they were usually strewn all over the floor. She would scream, "Momma, Billye's been in my clothes again." I innocently would say, "No I wasn't," but of course I was. Those were the days.
The years have flown past, turning us older, greyer. slower. But those memories will never leave. Geri is still sweet, neat, quiet, did I mention neat?. Still says the right thing at the right time. I still the nutty one, still saying the wrong words at the wrong time. Still hearing music nobody else hears. I have lived in her shadow for years. But as I have grown older I found it quite comfortable here.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
PRECIOUS MEMORIES
I have had ny early morning run around the yard. Today it was Spam in my hand. It is a game to her. I am running after her, shouting in a loud whisper her name. "I" barking loudly at the shadows that hover around our snow filled yard. I am sure that any minute a neighbor will call the police "I" is safely back in the house now, on the bed, under the covers, fast asleep, Our early morning run over for now.I am vowing this will not happen in the morning but I know it probably will.
For some reason memories from my childhood seemed to flood into my mind often lately. Maybe because it is a New Year and I am one year older. Walking into a future that shrinks as I write. My yesterdays lay stretched out behind me , a long winding highway. A highway that has been filled with hills, valleys and also mountain tops.
My childhood was a happy one. I always joke that I didn't know I was poor until I was twenty and my brother told me. We lived on 9Th street, a poor neighborhood .There were four houses,weather worn from many years of not being painted they set on the corner of 9Th and Kentucky. All four of the houses were small but we a family of six lived tucked into the one on the alley. Four rooms, my brother sleeping on a small cot in the kitchen. The house was filled with love, laughter and noisy chatter. It was also filled with the sound of my Mother singing along with my brother, who taught himself to play the guitar at the age of twelve. The first song he learned was, "The great speckled bird". You woke up in the mornings with the bird, and went to bed with it too. My Dad who worked twelve hours a day I am sure prayed for the soon demise of that speckled bird.
We lived four blocks off 9Th and Main. On the corner of Main street was "McGee's" drugstore. Drugstores weren't like they are today. We are not talking Walgreen's. McGee's was run by Mr. and Mrs. Mcgee. Their pharmacy was in the back of the store. When you walked in the front door and there was a soda fountain, just like the ones you see in the movies that were made in the fifties. Mrs. McGee run the fountain, disbursing, cherry cokes, ice cream soda's and the best of all, "green lime aids." I lived for the days I had a dime and would race up ninth street. I would climb up on a stool. Feeling very grown-up. I would say the wonderful words. A green lime-aid please. And drinking that cool sweet treat wasn't even the best part of the experience. Mrs. McGee would chat with me. This straggly haired, boney kneed little girl. She visited with me as if I was a grown-up. Memories of those wonderful afternoon lie in the back of my mind.
Also in the front of the store was a phone booth. A tall wooden booth, with a seat, a light that came on when you closed the door. Oh yes and a fan, a small fan that blew directly on you. I loved that phone booth. I would stand at the door, touching the glass. I wanted so badly to use that phone. But who would I call. We didn't have a phone at home. I dreamed of using it. Sitting down on the narrow seat, sliding the door closed and hearing the operator say, "Number please. The dream of having that experience haunted me for a long time. Then one day the magical happened. We got a phone at home. I was so excited, I could use the phone booth. I could call my Mother. I saved to get that nickel to use the phone. The day arrived, one minute I was playing in the yard. Without telling anyone I ran up 9th street. Carefully crossed at the light. I entered the store, my heart racing with anticipation. I entered the booth. with trembling hands I lifted the receiver. The operator's voice came quickly on the line. My mouth was dry, so dry I could hardly utter the number. I held My breath. Soon I heard my mothers voice, "Hello." "Momma,
I cried gleefully, "It's me Billye." Total silence came across the line. "Then I heard my mother call to one of the other kids, "Check the backyard for Billye. She is suppose to be playing there." I laugh now thinking about it. My Mother was not amused.
Gone are the days of "McGee's" drugstore. The building still sits there, empty and a For Sale sign in the window. The old run down neighborhood doesn't bring in many new business's these days. But locked inside me it still is there. The overhead fans whirling endlessly. The phone booth in the corner. And best of all, Mrs.McGee with her warm smile saying, "Hello there Billye."
For some reason memories from my childhood seemed to flood into my mind often lately. Maybe because it is a New Year and I am one year older. Walking into a future that shrinks as I write. My yesterdays lay stretched out behind me , a long winding highway. A highway that has been filled with hills, valleys and also mountain tops.
My childhood was a happy one. I always joke that I didn't know I was poor until I was twenty and my brother told me. We lived on 9Th street, a poor neighborhood .There were four houses,weather worn from many years of not being painted they set on the corner of 9Th and Kentucky. All four of the houses were small but we a family of six lived tucked into the one on the alley. Four rooms, my brother sleeping on a small cot in the kitchen. The house was filled with love, laughter and noisy chatter. It was also filled with the sound of my Mother singing along with my brother, who taught himself to play the guitar at the age of twelve. The first song he learned was, "The great speckled bird". You woke up in the mornings with the bird, and went to bed with it too. My Dad who worked twelve hours a day I am sure prayed for the soon demise of that speckled bird.
We lived four blocks off 9Th and Main. On the corner of Main street was "McGee's" drugstore. Drugstores weren't like they are today. We are not talking Walgreen's. McGee's was run by Mr. and Mrs. Mcgee. Their pharmacy was in the back of the store. When you walked in the front door and there was a soda fountain, just like the ones you see in the movies that were made in the fifties. Mrs. McGee run the fountain, disbursing, cherry cokes, ice cream soda's and the best of all, "green lime aids." I lived for the days I had a dime and would race up ninth street. I would climb up on a stool. Feeling very grown-up. I would say the wonderful words. A green lime-aid please. And drinking that cool sweet treat wasn't even the best part of the experience. Mrs. McGee would chat with me. This straggly haired, boney kneed little girl. She visited with me as if I was a grown-up. Memories of those wonderful afternoon lie in the back of my mind.
Also in the front of the store was a phone booth. A tall wooden booth, with a seat, a light that came on when you closed the door. Oh yes and a fan, a small fan that blew directly on you. I loved that phone booth. I would stand at the door, touching the glass. I wanted so badly to use that phone. But who would I call. We didn't have a phone at home. I dreamed of using it. Sitting down on the narrow seat, sliding the door closed and hearing the operator say, "Number please. The dream of having that experience haunted me for a long time. Then one day the magical happened. We got a phone at home. I was so excited, I could use the phone booth. I could call my Mother. I saved to get that nickel to use the phone. The day arrived, one minute I was playing in the yard. Without telling anyone I ran up 9th street. Carefully crossed at the light. I entered the store, my heart racing with anticipation. I entered the booth. with trembling hands I lifted the receiver. The operator's voice came quickly on the line. My mouth was dry, so dry I could hardly utter the number. I held My breath. Soon I heard my mothers voice, "Hello." "Momma,
I cried gleefully, "It's me Billye." Total silence came across the line. "Then I heard my mother call to one of the other kids, "Check the backyard for Billye. She is suppose to be playing there." I laugh now thinking about it. My Mother was not amused.
Gone are the days of "McGee's" drugstore. The building still sits there, empty and a For Sale sign in the window. The old run down neighborhood doesn't bring in many new business's these days. But locked inside me it still is there. The overhead fans whirling endlessly. The phone booth in the corner. And best of all, Mrs.McGee with her warm smile saying, "Hello there Billye."
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
EVELYN,MY FRIEND
I have just come inside from chasing my dog around the front yard, she was barking relentlessly and it is 5;30 AM. "I" is the one of our two dogs that is the barker. So I armed with a piece of bolonga am running around the front yard, trying to intice her back inside. But 'I' the dog was having none of it. It took about 30 seconds to realize how very cold it was. VERY! Finally the smell of the piece of meat brought her running to me. We made it back inside without me taking a tumble on the snow.
We bought our house five years ago We had been living in a apartment for a few years previous. I was thrilled, a house of our own. A front yard, fenced for the dogs. Neighbors. I was very happy. I was out in the front yard about a week after we moved in.From the house across the street came a woman, an older woman. she came right up to my gate. She smiled, I'm Evelyn she said, putting out her hand. "Evelyn," I thought excitedly. I have a nieghbor, a new friend. She will come over, we will have coffee. It takes very little to get me excited. Since my eyes have gotten bad, and I had to quit driving my world has gotten much smaller it takes very little to make me happy. but just as these happy thoughts raced around my head she produced two little pamplets into my hand. She talked hurriedly about the new kingdom that would be coming to earth soon. I froze. "Jehovah Witness" my mind screamed. Now please do not be offended. I am very comfortable with all beliefs, I have mine and am quite content to let others have thiers in what ever way they choose. But I had a mother who warned quite often, "Do not let Jehovah Witness's in the house. Keep the screen door closed. Do not let them fill your head with their propaganda. Do not be rude but at all costs stay from them. My heart started racing, the little pamplets clutched in my hand. I could hear my Mother, her words getting louder in my ears. "Run," I thought she was saying. "Run" But I couldn't I was disappointed my wonderful new neighbor was, "One of them." I invited her to sit with me in the chairs under the tree's. I tried to explain how nice it was to meet her but I did not believe the way she did. I told her how I respected her beliefs but I just wasn't intererested in learning anymore about it. I sure hoped my Mother was proud of the way I handled it but probably she would have been happier if I had just shooed her out of the yard. That was five years ago and though we have come close a couple of times to aguring, we haven't. She comes over faithfully every few weeks and always manages to get one good statment in favor of her point of view and I try the best I can to steer the conversation away from it.
But please let me tell you the kicker about Evelyn. She is about 5"1, weighs around 90 pounds and is 96 years old. She mows her own lawn, spends hours pulling weeds from the cracks in her sidewalk. She drives, reads fine print and gives 50 plus hours a week walking around telling people the glad news of how heaven will be on earth soon if you only will believe in their word. The Jehovah Witness way. Tell me how many people believe in anything strong enough to give 50 hours a week getting a door slammed in your face. Not many I believe. Her dedication has not led me to believe her words but I have great respect for her.
Two years ago I bought her a hat and scarf for Christmas. Eveyln always wears a hat. To keep the heat in your body in the winter and the heat out in the summer. She always wears a hat. I proudly took them over, she did not answer the door. I left them inside the screen door. About two weeks later she came over. I asked if she had found the gift I left. She thanked me and announced they did not believe in Christmas. "Dork," I screamed to myself. I knew that how could I have done that, gave a gift to someone who didn't even believe in the reason I was giving the gift. She thanked me, I said I was sorry. So thoughtless of me," I muttered. She smiled. She never mentioned what she had done with the present.I never asked. I never seen her wear it. I will never make that mistake again.
Evelyn has a vegetable garden every spring, gladly sharing her prized tomatoes with me. She makes the garden herself, the weeding, the picking, everything. And Evelyn taught me how to make Walnut Tinture. She swears by its magical powers, "It will make you healthy," she says. She faithfully takes ten drops a day in a cup of water. The recipe is very simple. You take six walnuts still in their green husk, placing them in a quart jar, you add one quart of 100% vodka over them. Seal the jar tightly, putting a piece of plastic over the top of the jar before you put on the lid. It has to be a glass jar. Let it stand about a week. It will turn very black, very. After a week you take out the walnuts, throw them away. You now have a quart of Walnut tinture. Eveyln says it will make you healither, she says your colon will work more regular, your hair will grow thicker. Just ten drops a day in a cup of water. How simple can a miracle drug be? I believe.
Evelyn is interesting, delightful, full of life. Takes very little medicine, believes in vitamins and natural cures. I wish for you all the wonderful experience of having a Evelyn in your life.
We bought our house five years ago We had been living in a apartment for a few years previous. I was thrilled, a house of our own. A front yard, fenced for the dogs. Neighbors. I was very happy. I was out in the front yard about a week after we moved in.From the house across the street came a woman, an older woman. she came right up to my gate. She smiled, I'm Evelyn she said, putting out her hand. "Evelyn," I thought excitedly. I have a nieghbor, a new friend. She will come over, we will have coffee. It takes very little to get me excited. Since my eyes have gotten bad, and I had to quit driving my world has gotten much smaller it takes very little to make me happy. but just as these happy thoughts raced around my head she produced two little pamplets into my hand. She talked hurriedly about the new kingdom that would be coming to earth soon. I froze. "Jehovah Witness" my mind screamed. Now please do not be offended. I am very comfortable with all beliefs, I have mine and am quite content to let others have thiers in what ever way they choose. But I had a mother who warned quite often, "Do not let Jehovah Witness's in the house. Keep the screen door closed. Do not let them fill your head with their propaganda. Do not be rude but at all costs stay from them. My heart started racing, the little pamplets clutched in my hand. I could hear my Mother, her words getting louder in my ears. "Run," I thought she was saying. "Run" But I couldn't I was disappointed my wonderful new neighbor was, "One of them." I invited her to sit with me in the chairs under the tree's. I tried to explain how nice it was to meet her but I did not believe the way she did. I told her how I respected her beliefs but I just wasn't intererested in learning anymore about it. I sure hoped my Mother was proud of the way I handled it but probably she would have been happier if I had just shooed her out of the yard. That was five years ago and though we have come close a couple of times to aguring, we haven't. She comes over faithfully every few weeks and always manages to get one good statment in favor of her point of view and I try the best I can to steer the conversation away from it.
But please let me tell you the kicker about Evelyn. She is about 5"1, weighs around 90 pounds and is 96 years old. She mows her own lawn, spends hours pulling weeds from the cracks in her sidewalk. She drives, reads fine print and gives 50 plus hours a week walking around telling people the glad news of how heaven will be on earth soon if you only will believe in their word. The Jehovah Witness way. Tell me how many people believe in anything strong enough to give 50 hours a week getting a door slammed in your face. Not many I believe. Her dedication has not led me to believe her words but I have great respect for her.
Two years ago I bought her a hat and scarf for Christmas. Eveyln always wears a hat. To keep the heat in your body in the winter and the heat out in the summer. She always wears a hat. I proudly took them over, she did not answer the door. I left them inside the screen door. About two weeks later she came over. I asked if she had found the gift I left. She thanked me and announced they did not believe in Christmas. "Dork," I screamed to myself. I knew that how could I have done that, gave a gift to someone who didn't even believe in the reason I was giving the gift. She thanked me, I said I was sorry. So thoughtless of me," I muttered. She smiled. She never mentioned what she had done with the present.I never asked. I never seen her wear it. I will never make that mistake again.
Evelyn has a vegetable garden every spring, gladly sharing her prized tomatoes with me. She makes the garden herself, the weeding, the picking, everything. And Evelyn taught me how to make Walnut Tinture. She swears by its magical powers, "It will make you healthy," she says. She faithfully takes ten drops a day in a cup of water. The recipe is very simple. You take six walnuts still in their green husk, placing them in a quart jar, you add one quart of 100% vodka over them. Seal the jar tightly, putting a piece of plastic over the top of the jar before you put on the lid. It has to be a glass jar. Let it stand about a week. It will turn very black, very. After a week you take out the walnuts, throw them away. You now have a quart of Walnut tinture. Eveyln says it will make you healither, she says your colon will work more regular, your hair will grow thicker. Just ten drops a day in a cup of water. How simple can a miracle drug be? I believe.
Evelyn is interesting, delightful, full of life. Takes very little medicine, believes in vitamins and natural cures. I wish for you all the wonderful experience of having a Evelyn in your life.
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