Sitting outside listening to insects and turtle doves while I closely watch my water hose, for fear of an expensive fine by the city (story for another day) I started to write about my Papaw Hoot Old, how he got the nic name....instead, once again my brain took a right to my Mamaw's infamous moldy soup.
My grandmother horded somewhat, guess bing hungry during the depression and what with my Papaw hunting, she needed a huge freezer to store the extra. Back then, we all had ice boxes. She didn't have to go to the ice house for blocks of ice, it was electric but did not keep food like our modern refrigerators.
About once every couple of months, Mamaw would would start pulling out leftovers from her icebox while slamming pots, shoving chairs and in general, becoming a creature I wanted to avoid. It was moldy soup time.
Mamaw kept all food that didn't make it to the compost. If we didn't eat it, she still kept it, if started turning bad, into her canning pot it would go and that lady refused to cook another thing until all the soup was eaten.
I loved my Mamaw dearly, have my own version of moldy soup, without the mold, but back then, I ate buttered bread with watery powered milk rather than lift my spoon only to meet a left over green bean wilted not from the heat of the soup, but from the fur that clung to it, refusing to let go even when shook. Yuck.
God bless you Mamaw and all you taught me but this is one tradition that will only live in my memory, not in my kitchen.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Friday, July 6, 2012
Lord Help Me Jesus.....My Grandchild is a Buddhist
I think of myself as a recovering Southern Baptist, then an Episcopalian, with a detour though Lutheren, almost to Catholic. Something like religion was simple when I was a child, either you were a born again Christian or you were going to burn in the fires of hell for all of eternity.
When I was told my middle grandson was Buddhist and his parents were searching for a temple, I calmly informed them of one near my home with little thought to, "What..... HE WON'T BE BAPTISED BORN AGAIN!!"
It occured to me that although all my children were baptised, none of my grandchildren are baptised. Unheard of when I was a youth. I didn't even know about Buddah until I was an adult.
My father and his family were deeply devout in their Southern Baptist roots. My mother never spoke of her beliefs and only went to church on special occations; a wedding, baptisim, or Easter. I thought it odd anyone would stay home on Sunday when I had been taught we could burn in hell unless we sorted out all the do's and don't's. To learn these do's and don'ts and avoid the eternal fires of hell, we were suppose to be in church.
My home church was quite sedate, like a soft spoken lullaby, it could lure kids and older adults into a soft snore which resulted in a lot of startled gasps as elbows found ribs. The songs were just as sedate.
When I went to church with my mom's sister, I learned there were other ways to worship. Aunt Betty was a rolling on the floor, speaking in toungues, foot stomping, hands clapping, arms raised over her head fundamentalist Pentencolstal.
In Aunt Betty's church, rather that the calm monotone sermon from our preacher, her preacher marched all over the stage as he shouted the Word and slapped the bible with his other hand. He never stopped shouting as he ran 0 to 60 from the podium to the front doors of the church then back up to the podium, ignoring and running around the women rolling on the floor shouting in a laugage I had never heard. I was told they were filled with the Holy Spirit.
I believe my dad went to the Heaven he sought, no matter that he sang slow songs, never raised his hands to heaven as he prayed and never spoke in tongues. I believe my Aunt Betty is in the heaven she belived in and that my grandson being a Buddhist will find his own heaven. His beliefs will not bar him from what ever waits for us all at the end of life. Even rock and rollers sought faith and comfort. "Give me something to believe in", Brett Michaels from Poison sang and Kris Kristofferson sang, "Lord Help Me Jesus". Some people choose to sing quietly, others shout, and now my grandson will meditate. It comes down to faith in something that can give hope and peace when needed.
As opposed to when I was a child, religion is not black and white any longer. I don't believe my grandchildren will go to hell if they are not baptised, "washed in the blood of the lamb" as I was, but it doesn't make their faith, belief, or their jouney though life any less. God Bless, my very young grandson that chose to look outside the box when seeking faith and a peace that passes understanding, as there are many boxes to choose from. To me, never giving up the belief there is something outside ourselves that can provide peace of spirit is the ultimate definition of faith.
When I was told my middle grandson was Buddhist and his parents were searching for a temple, I calmly informed them of one near my home with little thought to, "What..... HE WON'T BE BAPTISED BORN AGAIN!!"
It occured to me that although all my children were baptised, none of my grandchildren are baptised. Unheard of when I was a youth. I didn't even know about Buddah until I was an adult.
My father and his family were deeply devout in their Southern Baptist roots. My mother never spoke of her beliefs and only went to church on special occations; a wedding, baptisim, or Easter. I thought it odd anyone would stay home on Sunday when I had been taught we could burn in hell unless we sorted out all the do's and don't's. To learn these do's and don'ts and avoid the eternal fires of hell, we were suppose to be in church.
My home church was quite sedate, like a soft spoken lullaby, it could lure kids and older adults into a soft snore which resulted in a lot of startled gasps as elbows found ribs. The songs were just as sedate.
When I went to church with my mom's sister, I learned there were other ways to worship. Aunt Betty was a rolling on the floor, speaking in toungues, foot stomping, hands clapping, arms raised over her head fundamentalist Pentencolstal.
In Aunt Betty's church, rather that the calm monotone sermon from our preacher, her preacher marched all over the stage as he shouted the Word and slapped the bible with his other hand. He never stopped shouting as he ran 0 to 60 from the podium to the front doors of the church then back up to the podium, ignoring and running around the women rolling on the floor shouting in a laugage I had never heard. I was told they were filled with the Holy Spirit.
I believe my dad went to the Heaven he sought, no matter that he sang slow songs, never raised his hands to heaven as he prayed and never spoke in tongues. I believe my Aunt Betty is in the heaven she belived in and that my grandson being a Buddhist will find his own heaven. His beliefs will not bar him from what ever waits for us all at the end of life. Even rock and rollers sought faith and comfort. "Give me something to believe in", Brett Michaels from Poison sang and Kris Kristofferson sang, "Lord Help Me Jesus". Some people choose to sing quietly, others shout, and now my grandson will meditate. It comes down to faith in something that can give hope and peace when needed.
As opposed to when I was a child, religion is not black and white any longer. I don't believe my grandchildren will go to hell if they are not baptised, "washed in the blood of the lamb" as I was, but it doesn't make their faith, belief, or their jouney though life any less. God Bless, my very young grandson that chose to look outside the box when seeking faith and a peace that passes understanding, as there are many boxes to choose from. To me, never giving up the belief there is something outside ourselves that can provide peace of spirit is the ultimate definition of faith.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Hooked on Games?
Have you evern known anyone that was actully additcted to a computer game? Seemed to only think about the game when not playing it and talked about it as if all family and social life had disappeared?
I don't know if I have met anyone with that level of obsession with a game but I have met many who will risk trouble at school to play their game on the iPhone they didn't need in the first place. I'm talking about 4th and 5th graders who would rather be at their key board than outside in their tree house or riding bikes.
This fourth of July brought memories of my large family, aunts, uncles, and cousins gathering at my grandmother's which spilled over to my uncle's next door or go to a city park where there were horse shoe pits for my dad and his brothers. The city park was a treat because it was too far to walk and had larger trees to climb for us what liked to climb trees.
This would usually be a morning to dark event and our decade's equal to computer games was the televison. It didn't cause the frenzy personal comperters have, maybe they were not as fun as the other games us kids played.
My absolute favorite games for these long events, due to the time of year I am sure, had to do with bugs. Bugs we called Kattie dids were abundant and easy enough to catch. All of us managed to grab a spool of thead running out the door as I had visions of home made icecream and cold watermellon appearing like magic on the quilts scattered around for the feast.
After our bellies were full, off we went to have tree climbing contests and look for kattie dids. Once we had an insect, it quickly had a tread tied around it without binding the wings. We held our breath to make sure the knot was good or the thread didn't break as away it went. Those bugs would fly in circles until we either wore it out or the threat broke. I can still hear that buzz the insects made when they flew in circles, although I have been told it is actually tinnitus.
The other game involed lighting bugs or fireflys. They lit up the sky at dusk and there were so many, you could take your jar and after whipping in a circle, you would have captured at least a couple. After our jars were full, we would lay on our tummies in the cool evening grass, heads resting on hands folded under chins, until it was time to make jewlery.
Us girls would were as eager as the boys as they decorated themselves as American Indian warriors, with head bands and streaks across their faces. We usually made rings and ear rings. If you think about it, what was the only way this florscent material would stick to our bodies? We had to pull their butts off, the part that glowed stick them to our faces and hands with their guts. We would then strut our stuff in the dark, no street lights to dim the glow.
I never thought about what we did as being cruel. It was just what all the kids did so I did it too. This was our version of computer games, with the added benefit of exercise, being outdoors and unfortunantly, thinning the populataion of these lovely insects.
I still hear the kattie dids at night near my home and smile as I recall when the only thing I had to worry about on July the 4th was climbing trees and catching bugs. I don't think 10 kids wiped out the population.
Here's to the memories I made with my cousins 5 decades ago and my hope that somewhere in the United States, this lives on. Many thanks to the beetles and fireflys that made my summers extra special and gave their lives for my entertainment, you live on in my memory, for those that died for my entertainment, I salute you.
I don't know if I have met anyone with that level of obsession with a game but I have met many who will risk trouble at school to play their game on the iPhone they didn't need in the first place. I'm talking about 4th and 5th graders who would rather be at their key board than outside in their tree house or riding bikes.
This fourth of July brought memories of my large family, aunts, uncles, and cousins gathering at my grandmother's which spilled over to my uncle's next door or go to a city park where there were horse shoe pits for my dad and his brothers. The city park was a treat because it was too far to walk and had larger trees to climb for us what liked to climb trees.
This would usually be a morning to dark event and our decade's equal to computer games was the televison. It didn't cause the frenzy personal comperters have, maybe they were not as fun as the other games us kids played.
My absolute favorite games for these long events, due to the time of year I am sure, had to do with bugs. Bugs we called Kattie dids were abundant and easy enough to catch. All of us managed to grab a spool of thead running out the door as I had visions of home made icecream and cold watermellon appearing like magic on the quilts scattered around for the feast.
After our bellies were full, off we went to have tree climbing contests and look for kattie dids. Once we had an insect, it quickly had a tread tied around it without binding the wings. We held our breath to make sure the knot was good or the thread didn't break as away it went. Those bugs would fly in circles until we either wore it out or the threat broke. I can still hear that buzz the insects made when they flew in circles, although I have been told it is actually tinnitus.
The other game involed lighting bugs or fireflys. They lit up the sky at dusk and there were so many, you could take your jar and after whipping in a circle, you would have captured at least a couple. After our jars were full, we would lay on our tummies in the cool evening grass, heads resting on hands folded under chins, until it was time to make jewlery.
Us girls would were as eager as the boys as they decorated themselves as American Indian warriors, with head bands and streaks across their faces. We usually made rings and ear rings. If you think about it, what was the only way this florscent material would stick to our bodies? We had to pull their butts off, the part that glowed stick them to our faces and hands with their guts. We would then strut our stuff in the dark, no street lights to dim the glow.
I never thought about what we did as being cruel. It was just what all the kids did so I did it too. This was our version of computer games, with the added benefit of exercise, being outdoors and unfortunantly, thinning the populataion of these lovely insects.
I still hear the kattie dids at night near my home and smile as I recall when the only thing I had to worry about on July the 4th was climbing trees and catching bugs. I don't think 10 kids wiped out the population.
Here's to the memories I made with my cousins 5 decades ago and my hope that somewhere in the United States, this lives on. Many thanks to the beetles and fireflys that made my summers extra special and gave their lives for my entertainment, you live on in my memory, for those that died for my entertainment, I salute you.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
I Failed Home EC
Tomorrow is a breakfast for co-workers birthdays and I puzzle over what to buy. Not bake, not fry, not prepare; buy.
I failed Home Ec in Jr. High. Never wanted to take it, didn't ask for it, fought against it, lost, had to take it. I wanted to take shop. I wanted to cut wood, use the machines my grandfather used when he built things, I wanted to breath sawdust and wood stain that I could only get hints of as I walked near the shop room.
When I told my friends I came up with from elementary school, that I wanted to take shop, not Home Ec, the girls laughed, the boys made fun of me, one girl, older, said "To get into that shop door, I had to "do" the shop teacher." Do what? I was only in 7th grade, I didn't know what she was talking about. Do his chores, shine his shoes, wash his car, sweep the shop floor, clean the machines? I was willing to do those things. She laughed as she walked away calling me a "fresh fish" as if that meant anything to me either.
I was taught to respect my elders, never argue with adults, and do what I was told but this time, I spoke up. It was the 60's for goodness sakes, I should be able to take shop and ask for the change in elective without doing the shop teacher's laundry.
I lost. I had to take home ec, had to learn how to set a table, which spoon when where, which fork to use for salad, how to properly eat soup, how to place a knife on the plate and how to properly cut meat. COME ON!! All of us had been eating since we had teeth and my Mamaw told me, "God made fingers before he made forks!" at a picnic. I learned how to separate laundry, load a washing machine, fold towels and sheets. Something I had as a chore at my house since I was in first grade! I was the person in my home that did the ironing, had to sit on a stool to reach the ironing board because when times were tight at our house, my mom took in laundry for extra money.
First cooking class where we actually had to make something from scratch that the teacher taught us, I made my Papaw's biscuits and gravy. Shock, someone knew how to make something the teacher didn't teach! I was sent to the principals office.
Time to do laundry for the class, I stuffed everything into one tub and put twice as much soap. I went to the principal's office.
Time to turn in our folders with pictures glued onto the pages showing our dream home, room by room, I was stumpped. We didn't have those things in our house, I had no idea where to get them, I drew pictures of trees, told her was I was going to be a monkey when I grew up. I went to the principal's office.
Needless to say, this went on for the entire year until it came down to I gave in on some things. I joined the drill team, Mamaw made my uniform, not quite the red the other girls had but we didn't have the money for the uniform. I joined the FHA, Future Homemakers of America, although.... I was failing Home Ec.
I never learned to cut a right angle on a 2x4, I never learned to build bird house or a mail box. I also didn't pass Home Ec and had to take it the next year, same teacher, same walking with a book on my head, learning how to wash my face and again, how to separate cloths before they were washed. What a waste of time but I passed this time, with a D. Back then we acutally had a "D" for a grade if we were close to failing but they didn't want us in their class another year. My report card was funny. Science, B, Math, B, English, A, PE, A, Home Ec, a resounding "D"! I actually had to meet with the principal before I was given a D!
Tomorrow, I am BUYING a breakfast item, not cooking but all the talk about cooking by the WOMEN in my office took me back to the 60's at the end of 7th grade when I discovered, to my horror, what "doing" ths shop teacher meant and that I had more gumption that I realized. Although I only hurt myself by having to take Home Ec twice, that school year, I started to find my own voice.
I failed Home Ec in Jr. High. Never wanted to take it, didn't ask for it, fought against it, lost, had to take it. I wanted to take shop. I wanted to cut wood, use the machines my grandfather used when he built things, I wanted to breath sawdust and wood stain that I could only get hints of as I walked near the shop room.
When I told my friends I came up with from elementary school, that I wanted to take shop, not Home Ec, the girls laughed, the boys made fun of me, one girl, older, said "To get into that shop door, I had to "do" the shop teacher." Do what? I was only in 7th grade, I didn't know what she was talking about. Do his chores, shine his shoes, wash his car, sweep the shop floor, clean the machines? I was willing to do those things. She laughed as she walked away calling me a "fresh fish" as if that meant anything to me either.
I was taught to respect my elders, never argue with adults, and do what I was told but this time, I spoke up. It was the 60's for goodness sakes, I should be able to take shop and ask for the change in elective without doing the shop teacher's laundry.
I lost. I had to take home ec, had to learn how to set a table, which spoon when where, which fork to use for salad, how to properly eat soup, how to place a knife on the plate and how to properly cut meat. COME ON!! All of us had been eating since we had teeth and my Mamaw told me, "God made fingers before he made forks!" at a picnic. I learned how to separate laundry, load a washing machine, fold towels and sheets. Something I had as a chore at my house since I was in first grade! I was the person in my home that did the ironing, had to sit on a stool to reach the ironing board because when times were tight at our house, my mom took in laundry for extra money.
First cooking class where we actually had to make something from scratch that the teacher taught us, I made my Papaw's biscuits and gravy. Shock, someone knew how to make something the teacher didn't teach! I was sent to the principals office.
Time to do laundry for the class, I stuffed everything into one tub and put twice as much soap. I went to the principal's office.
Time to turn in our folders with pictures glued onto the pages showing our dream home, room by room, I was stumpped. We didn't have those things in our house, I had no idea where to get them, I drew pictures of trees, told her was I was going to be a monkey when I grew up. I went to the principal's office.
Needless to say, this went on for the entire year until it came down to I gave in on some things. I joined the drill team, Mamaw made my uniform, not quite the red the other girls had but we didn't have the money for the uniform. I joined the FHA, Future Homemakers of America, although.... I was failing Home Ec.
I never learned to cut a right angle on a 2x4, I never learned to build bird house or a mail box. I also didn't pass Home Ec and had to take it the next year, same teacher, same walking with a book on my head, learning how to wash my face and again, how to separate cloths before they were washed. What a waste of time but I passed this time, with a D. Back then we acutally had a "D" for a grade if we were close to failing but they didn't want us in their class another year. My report card was funny. Science, B, Math, B, English, A, PE, A, Home Ec, a resounding "D"! I actually had to meet with the principal before I was given a D!
Tomorrow, I am BUYING a breakfast item, not cooking but all the talk about cooking by the WOMEN in my office took me back to the 60's at the end of 7th grade when I discovered, to my horror, what "doing" ths shop teacher meant and that I had more gumption that I realized. Although I only hurt myself by having to take Home Ec twice, that school year, I started to find my own voice.
Monday, July 2, 2012
I'm a Hermit Horder, How'd it Happen??
Before I left the house today I lugged two large boxes out of my room and into the living room, as I have Wednesday off for the Celebration of the liberation of our Nation, I felt I should do some liberation a little closer to home. The boxes have been in the middle of my bedroom floor, on top of other boxes, suit cases, piles of cloths, Chistmas gifts yet to be wrapped or given, for many years! Okay, I know exactly how many years, five years.
I would like to say that is the only room in my home where such mountains of unorganization lurks but it would be a lie. Today, I am only focused on my bedroom, which the two semi-large closets would usually hold this type of junk, are over flowing with the same type of things.
I am forever fearful I won't have a gift for a birthday, Christmas, or I see something on sale and know it will fit, eventually. Never does. Maybe if I bought it in a larger size, I would have better luck with that plan.
When I clean the built in shelves of my half century + home, I put everything into boxes that found a home on the shelves. I dust and then rest, feel too tired to put all the things back, think, "I really need to get rid of half this stuff, even if I give it away so I will go through each box and sort, that's very organized and rational of me." Then it get's set on the pile from the last time I thought this and eventually new books, pictures, candels, frames awaiting pictures and school projects fill the space I was going to use and the cycle starts all over again, for five years!
Since I am off mid week, I am going to liberate the boxes of junk I am sure I don't need, never needed and won't miss. Before I left for work, I made another liberating decision. I decided as I was dragging 5 gallon dead plans in their plastic planters from the front of the the house to the carport that on the 4th of July, I would replace the weeds with flowers. The neighbors are used to seeing these weeds that have adorned my front yard for at least two years. I may get thank you cards. I bought flowers this weekend but was too bummed out by the mess in my house to plant them, so I ate cookies and watched TV instead. Reasonable.
Now that I decided to liberate at least two boxes and three planters on the 4th of July, I have to tell friends I can't go with them to a parade and spend a fun filled day with them that we talked about weeks ago. In fact, I feel so much anxiety about this that I would much rather stay at home by myself, althought I love all my friends. What is wrong with me?? This is the question I thought about on my drive to work.
I have an empty nest this summer for the first time in my life. The first 10 days after DJ left for his dad's, I cried all the way to work and sobbed all the way home, acutally puzzled where this flood of emotion was coming from and why in the world did it seem to have a schedule? My friends, who are also co-workers, have done many things to try and pull me out of the quicksand of despair that seemed to swallow me as I grieved over the empty house. I declined all offers saying I had plans. I did have plans, with ice cream, cookies, and take out food all eaten in a dark living room in front of the television. I am a hermit! A home cave dweller! For some reason, it seems to be the only place I feel safe. How did this happend?? I didn't use to be this way.
All I could conclude on my short drive was that my life centered around family when I was growing up. I was always with a cousin, a grandparent, a sibling, some gathering of family that always brought us together. Tons of people but it hit me today, we were all related and everyone seemed to gravitate to my grandmother's house. Then my siblings and their children began to gravitate to my mom's every holiday, for barbeques, to pitch horseshoes, Sunday dinners and all the next generation cousins became best friends and the cycle of my childhood was being replayed with nieces and nephews. Now it is my sister's house the grand, or is it great, nieces and nephews gravitate toward for all the same reasons. I am the lone ranger, so to speak. I moved away from not only the compound where all my siblings live but from the State where I was born. I started a new life. Now my kids are grown, my grandkids are mostly grown and I am raising a 10 year old grandson who will be going to live with his father next year. At that point, my house will be forever this empty, this lonely, every single day.
I find it hard to relate to friends, with the rare exception. It is not them, I realize this, I envy the ones with friends, dinners, going on trips together, it is most certainly me. I never learned how to be comfortable with friendships, only family is familiar and dare I say....safe? Hording is more of a puzzle. I never used to do this as a younger woman. Why now? My only thought on this is that it seems I have lost so much in life, I don't want to let another thing go, even if it weighs me down.
So, on the day of liberation, I will have a decision to make as I am sure I will be expected to meet with the folks I agreed to spend time celebrating. Will I use the time for opening the door to friends or will I hide in my home cave? Does that make me a coward? What could I be afraid of and how do I face fear without reason?
I wish all of you the very best of times as you cook out, laugh with family and friends and make memories that will last a life time. Maybe I will take a step toward this....... next year.
I would like to say that is the only room in my home where such mountains of unorganization lurks but it would be a lie. Today, I am only focused on my bedroom, which the two semi-large closets would usually hold this type of junk, are over flowing with the same type of things.
I am forever fearful I won't have a gift for a birthday, Christmas, or I see something on sale and know it will fit, eventually. Never does. Maybe if I bought it in a larger size, I would have better luck with that plan.
When I clean the built in shelves of my half century + home, I put everything into boxes that found a home on the shelves. I dust and then rest, feel too tired to put all the things back, think, "I really need to get rid of half this stuff, even if I give it away so I will go through each box and sort, that's very organized and rational of me." Then it get's set on the pile from the last time I thought this and eventually new books, pictures, candels, frames awaiting pictures and school projects fill the space I was going to use and the cycle starts all over again, for five years!
Since I am off mid week, I am going to liberate the boxes of junk I am sure I don't need, never needed and won't miss. Before I left for work, I made another liberating decision. I decided as I was dragging 5 gallon dead plans in their plastic planters from the front of the the house to the carport that on the 4th of July, I would replace the weeds with flowers. The neighbors are used to seeing these weeds that have adorned my front yard for at least two years. I may get thank you cards. I bought flowers this weekend but was too bummed out by the mess in my house to plant them, so I ate cookies and watched TV instead. Reasonable.
Now that I decided to liberate at least two boxes and three planters on the 4th of July, I have to tell friends I can't go with them to a parade and spend a fun filled day with them that we talked about weeks ago. In fact, I feel so much anxiety about this that I would much rather stay at home by myself, althought I love all my friends. What is wrong with me?? This is the question I thought about on my drive to work.
I have an empty nest this summer for the first time in my life. The first 10 days after DJ left for his dad's, I cried all the way to work and sobbed all the way home, acutally puzzled where this flood of emotion was coming from and why in the world did it seem to have a schedule? My friends, who are also co-workers, have done many things to try and pull me out of the quicksand of despair that seemed to swallow me as I grieved over the empty house. I declined all offers saying I had plans. I did have plans, with ice cream, cookies, and take out food all eaten in a dark living room in front of the television. I am a hermit! A home cave dweller! For some reason, it seems to be the only place I feel safe. How did this happend?? I didn't use to be this way.
All I could conclude on my short drive was that my life centered around family when I was growing up. I was always with a cousin, a grandparent, a sibling, some gathering of family that always brought us together. Tons of people but it hit me today, we were all related and everyone seemed to gravitate to my grandmother's house. Then my siblings and their children began to gravitate to my mom's every holiday, for barbeques, to pitch horseshoes, Sunday dinners and all the next generation cousins became best friends and the cycle of my childhood was being replayed with nieces and nephews. Now it is my sister's house the grand, or is it great, nieces and nephews gravitate toward for all the same reasons. I am the lone ranger, so to speak. I moved away from not only the compound where all my siblings live but from the State where I was born. I started a new life. Now my kids are grown, my grandkids are mostly grown and I am raising a 10 year old grandson who will be going to live with his father next year. At that point, my house will be forever this empty, this lonely, every single day.
I find it hard to relate to friends, with the rare exception. It is not them, I realize this, I envy the ones with friends, dinners, going on trips together, it is most certainly me. I never learned how to be comfortable with friendships, only family is familiar and dare I say....safe? Hording is more of a puzzle. I never used to do this as a younger woman. Why now? My only thought on this is that it seems I have lost so much in life, I don't want to let another thing go, even if it weighs me down.
So, on the day of liberation, I will have a decision to make as I am sure I will be expected to meet with the folks I agreed to spend time celebrating. Will I use the time for opening the door to friends or will I hide in my home cave? Does that make me a coward? What could I be afraid of and how do I face fear without reason?
I wish all of you the very best of times as you cook out, laugh with family and friends and make memories that will last a life time. Maybe I will take a step toward this....... next year.
Friday, June 29, 2012
Living Horsehair
When it would rain in our little town, as long as it was only rain, us kids could go outside and play. We went on grand adventured and explored the "sea life" of the Ozarks that typically remained hidden during long hot summer days.
Crawdads, now called "crawfish', were favorites to locate and do battle until one would lose a claw, we'd toss them aside and go look for others. If it was a down pour, forget finding crawdads, we ran to the ditches where we would ride the waves of fast moving water like snow sleding in winter. We'd dodge broken bottles, old tin cans, litter and all sizes of limbs too weak to hold on against the deluge.
At times one of us would get caught in a whirlpool and would have to be rescued by the rest of us running in to grab them. We'd yank them up and out of the rushing flood water and wait as the rescued cough, spitting out grass and mud. Crisis averted, we'd run back to the outspout where the drain shot out water like it was shot from a cannon. When I jummped in from above the outspout during a downpour, I can't recall ever feeling the grass hit my feet and of course we were all barefoot.
As the rain slowed, it allowed for a more intense search of the area Papaw told us to look for the most magically transformed creature animal know in the Ozarks,.....living horsehair. Papaw told us that big storms brought big magic in such a way that it could turn horsehair to life. He said we would find these rare animals if we searched the gutters as they would stand out. If we looked in the grass, we would never find them. The gutters hypnotized the transformed creatures. His eyes would almost glitter, as my Papaw rarely smiled with his mouth, he would lean forward then whisper as we all leaned toward him, fearing we would miss some tip that would let this living horsehair ellude our grasp, will be the hind end of the horse, the tail. The secret was they were so rare because they took longer to come to life, they were longer, it took more magic.
Us kids would search for these horse hairs and would rarely find one but once it was found, we'd watch it squirm, flipping this way and that way in the shallow water for what seemed like hours before one of us plucked it from the water and tossed it into a jar. Because it was a sea creature, we kept the jar filled with water. If I grabbed a horsehair and got it into my jar. I would watch it swim in it's watery home and think, this used to be something else, something that swatted flys away from the rear end of a huge beast but now with the magic of the rain, was a prized sea creature and I head home. Wet, cold, it was usually getting dark, I was always hungry and I wanted to show Papaw my prize catch.
The next day, it would inexplicably be dead! I didn't wail over a dead sea creature that may have been magic but never did anything magical for me, I saw dead things all the time. I would toss what at that point looked like a piece of over cooked spegetti noodle in the garden out back, wash the jar and put it back into the shed.
It wasn't until years later that I discovered these were really baby snakes that had washed from their nests into the gutters. The only possible way to catch snakes this young was when they were trapped in gutter water. I also learned the older the snake, the longer it was. Magic my hind end. We was tricked into snake hunting for my Papaw!!!
It was still great fun or I wouldn't be smiling right now writing about these adventures. I remember after a hot bath I would climb into my bed, crisp sheets smelling of outdoors after hanging on the closthsline before the rain. I would place the jar on my dresser and my gum on the back of the bedpost feeling very safe and content. I fell asleep after my prayers thinking it was a most perfect day, the best day ever to find a most magical thing in the Ozarks.
Crawdads, now called "crawfish', were favorites to locate and do battle until one would lose a claw, we'd toss them aside and go look for others. If it was a down pour, forget finding crawdads, we ran to the ditches where we would ride the waves of fast moving water like snow sleding in winter. We'd dodge broken bottles, old tin cans, litter and all sizes of limbs too weak to hold on against the deluge.
At times one of us would get caught in a whirlpool and would have to be rescued by the rest of us running in to grab them. We'd yank them up and out of the rushing flood water and wait as the rescued cough, spitting out grass and mud. Crisis averted, we'd run back to the outspout where the drain shot out water like it was shot from a cannon. When I jummped in from above the outspout during a downpour, I can't recall ever feeling the grass hit my feet and of course we were all barefoot.
As the rain slowed, it allowed for a more intense search of the area Papaw told us to look for the most magically transformed creature animal know in the Ozarks,.....living horsehair. Papaw told us that big storms brought big magic in such a way that it could turn horsehair to life. He said we would find these rare animals if we searched the gutters as they would stand out. If we looked in the grass, we would never find them. The gutters hypnotized the transformed creatures. His eyes would almost glitter, as my Papaw rarely smiled with his mouth, he would lean forward then whisper as we all leaned toward him, fearing we would miss some tip that would let this living horsehair ellude our grasp, will be the hind end of the horse, the tail. The secret was they were so rare because they took longer to come to life, they were longer, it took more magic.
Us kids would search for these horse hairs and would rarely find one but once it was found, we'd watch it squirm, flipping this way and that way in the shallow water for what seemed like hours before one of us plucked it from the water and tossed it into a jar. Because it was a sea creature, we kept the jar filled with water. If I grabbed a horsehair and got it into my jar. I would watch it swim in it's watery home and think, this used to be something else, something that swatted flys away from the rear end of a huge beast but now with the magic of the rain, was a prized sea creature and I head home. Wet, cold, it was usually getting dark, I was always hungry and I wanted to show Papaw my prize catch.
The next day, it would inexplicably be dead! I didn't wail over a dead sea creature that may have been magic but never did anything magical for me, I saw dead things all the time. I would toss what at that point looked like a piece of over cooked spegetti noodle in the garden out back, wash the jar and put it back into the shed.
It wasn't until years later that I discovered these were really baby snakes that had washed from their nests into the gutters. The only possible way to catch snakes this young was when they were trapped in gutter water. I also learned the older the snake, the longer it was. Magic my hind end. We was tricked into snake hunting for my Papaw!!!
It was still great fun or I wouldn't be smiling right now writing about these adventures. I remember after a hot bath I would climb into my bed, crisp sheets smelling of outdoors after hanging on the closthsline before the rain. I would place the jar on my dresser and my gum on the back of the bedpost feeling very safe and content. I fell asleep after my prayers thinking it was a most perfect day, the best day ever to find a most magical thing in the Ozarks.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Hiding in the Hamper
I can still remember the smell of dirty cloths when I dug deep into them, making myself as small as possible, trying to become invisilbe, when my mother was on a rampage. This was before the days when I would step between my sister and my mom, before my little brother was born, the days they don't recall my mother's rages and days I will never forget. The hamper could not have been more than the size of small washing machine. It had a hinged door for dropping in dirty cloths that sprung shut, snapping at fingers as it took the deposits of shirts, sheets, and dirty socks. These were the very things that I hugged to make me disappear only occationally peeking between the slit where the angry snapping door allowed some light and visual down the hall.
I could hear her angry march before I saw her and usually she would be cussing like my Uncle Bill, that was quite a vocabulary of dirty words for a woman in the 1950's. I would head to the hamper when I heard a tone in her voice, if it wasn't aimed at me, I didn't want to find myself in her sights. If I was not near the hamper, I would run outside and climb into the dog's house. Another story for a another day.
My mom had very dark moods at times and they errupted in fits of rage that on at least two occations sent me to the emergency room and resulted in new caps on two teeth. I loved my mom, I still do, but her moods were unpredictable, at least to me, until she finlly left us all and moved to another state for two years. When she returned, she was better, happier. She was divorced and starting a new profession, as she completed college while she was gone. This is the mother I try to recall when I think about her. The one that sang, danced and was beautiful. The one that would fix tomatoe soup and put a cool cloth on my head when I was ill. The one that on occation, said, "I love you" and I actually belived it most the time.
After I was an adult and moved away, I got a long letter from her when I was in my 30's. She told me a story of watching chickens when she had to gather eggs and in particular, mother hens that had many chicks. She described squating in a dusty area in the corner of the pen to see if the chicks would come up to her but they stayed with their momma chick. She began to notice momma chickens had a tendency to reject one little chick, to the point of pecking it away from the rest of the chicks and herself, at time harming the little chick. My mom told me I had been that baby chick for her. She didn't know why and didn't know how to fix it but did want me to know she was sorry for all the times she hurt me and didn't comfort me when she knew it was what I needed.
I saved that letter. I pull it out when I am in a dark place because it still means so much to me. My mother's mind is gone, my beautiful dancing mom who would sing when she was happy, she is gone. All I relly have is that letter and when I pulled it out last month, the words had faded to where I can only make out a few sentences. My heart is broken. This post was going to be about the loss of my father but somehow, my fingers found the keys typing about my mom.
I am happy that my last memories of my mother are the nice ones and I fight to keep the horror of her fists and hair pulling off to the side where we all put things painful, in the hope it will eventually disappear.
I don't think I want to completely forget that part of my mother, she helped to make the person I am today, along with the rest of my family, and I am forever grateful to her for giving when she felt she had so little of herself to give.
I can't proof read this, won't read it again so forgive so many errors in spelling and grammer, as I am sure there are many, but the spirit of my message today was that I honor my mother, even with the bad times, and I miss her dancing and singing most of all.
I could hear her angry march before I saw her and usually she would be cussing like my Uncle Bill, that was quite a vocabulary of dirty words for a woman in the 1950's. I would head to the hamper when I heard a tone in her voice, if it wasn't aimed at me, I didn't want to find myself in her sights. If I was not near the hamper, I would run outside and climb into the dog's house. Another story for a another day.
My mom had very dark moods at times and they errupted in fits of rage that on at least two occations sent me to the emergency room and resulted in new caps on two teeth. I loved my mom, I still do, but her moods were unpredictable, at least to me, until she finlly left us all and moved to another state for two years. When she returned, she was better, happier. She was divorced and starting a new profession, as she completed college while she was gone. This is the mother I try to recall when I think about her. The one that sang, danced and was beautiful. The one that would fix tomatoe soup and put a cool cloth on my head when I was ill. The one that on occation, said, "I love you" and I actually belived it most the time.
After I was an adult and moved away, I got a long letter from her when I was in my 30's. She told me a story of watching chickens when she had to gather eggs and in particular, mother hens that had many chicks. She described squating in a dusty area in the corner of the pen to see if the chicks would come up to her but they stayed with their momma chick. She began to notice momma chickens had a tendency to reject one little chick, to the point of pecking it away from the rest of the chicks and herself, at time harming the little chick. My mom told me I had been that baby chick for her. She didn't know why and didn't know how to fix it but did want me to know she was sorry for all the times she hurt me and didn't comfort me when she knew it was what I needed.
I saved that letter. I pull it out when I am in a dark place because it still means so much to me. My mother's mind is gone, my beautiful dancing mom who would sing when she was happy, she is gone. All I relly have is that letter and when I pulled it out last month, the words had faded to where I can only make out a few sentences. My heart is broken. This post was going to be about the loss of my father but somehow, my fingers found the keys typing about my mom.
I am happy that my last memories of my mother are the nice ones and I fight to keep the horror of her fists and hair pulling off to the side where we all put things painful, in the hope it will eventually disappear.
I don't think I want to completely forget that part of my mother, she helped to make the person I am today, along with the rest of my family, and I am forever grateful to her for giving when she felt she had so little of herself to give.
I can't proof read this, won't read it again so forgive so many errors in spelling and grammer, as I am sure there are many, but the spirit of my message today was that I honor my mother, even with the bad times, and I miss her dancing and singing most of all.
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