PRICELESS MEMORIES

Every now and then, I burst out laughing at some weird moment – like while I’m in the shower or blow drying my hair.  You know, one of those times when your mind is wandering around and you think, “Why on earth did I think of that” kind of time.   Now, I savor those times when I can remember little things that I’ve tucked back in my memory and completely forgotten  because for the life of me, if someone had asked me about them, I couldn’t have told them a straight story.  But when they flash in my mind while I'm standing naked in the shower or some other inopportune time, I’m real tempted to run through the house to my computer to write it down so I’ll never forget it again.  It’s a priceless memory! 

Priceless memories…….Remember shy boy?  Well, we’ve been married 57 years now.  On a very hot August day, not long after my eighteenth birthday, my Daddy walked me down the aisle of the First Methodist Church where I was baptized at eight years old.  As we started into the sanctuary, Daddy looked at me and said, “Baby, it’s not too late to back out – are you sure?”  I smiled back and said, “I’m sure”….…….

As we rattled down the road at 90 miles an hour with tin cans behind our borrowed car and unknown to us, dead fish tied to the motor of the car,  we headed to Atlanta for a two day honeymoon with $50 in our pockets..  We came home with $11.    We had everything figured out and because we loved each other, thought that was enough to make our world complete

Well, let me tell you, we didn’t have everything figured out and loving each other didn’t cut it on making our world complete.  Far from it.  If anybody ever tries to tell you that love is all you need, you might want to steer clear of their marital advice. 

Almost ten months later thinking I had eaten too much watermelon, the most adorable, very hairy, 8 ½ lb.  baby boy appeared, complete with ten fingers and toes and blue eyes.  Not at all what I had secretly asked for! (A baby boy that looked like my little brother) but equally as beautiful.  I was like a mother hen!  I rocked and kissed and sang to that baby constantly,     I dressed him in the precious hand made baby clothes Mom had made for my brother and passed along to me.  Priceless memories……

Twenty months later, #2, an 8 lb 11 oz, bald head bundle of joy appeared.  Once again, we dressed this sweetheart in the now frayed handmade diaper shirts and long gowns made of batiste and lace.  No rocking and cuddling would do for this one, however.  I tried, but he wanted no part of that.  He did his own thing rocking on his all fours in the crib.  By the time he could mount on his all fours, he was rocking that crib from one side of the room to the other.  No pacifier, no walking the floor, no singing, no cooing, nothing seemed to soothe the constant movement and colic.  In the meantime, #1 child was underneath the crib with #2’s bottle watching the crib whiz by.   When #2 learned to walk at eight months, yes, eight months old, the two of them would start inside one end my kitchen cabinets and ramble through the pots and pans to the other end, a distance of some 10 ft or so. 

As they grew, their energy knew no bounds.  They could figure out how to do anything.  Once, #1 decided to see if he could clean up #2, so he placed him in the washing machine and turned it on.  Screaming, #2 yells for help and I come running to find him holding on for dear life as he swishes back and forth in my new Kenmore.   Priceless memories…..

Then there was the time when they stuffed the paper in the furnace where the pilot light burned.  My Mom happened to be baby sitting at the time and thought the house was on fire.  The fire department wasn’t amused. 

And who could forget how proud I was of my four year when he could recite the Pledge of Allegiance at Ms. Duffy’s kindergarten.  “I pledge allegiance to the flag of the nunited states of the merica and to the republic for which it stands one nation under guard with liverty and justice for all”.  ……….  Priceless memories…….

Of course, there was #2’s first broken arm that we didn’t know was broken, and the second one that we did know was broken which grew back bowed.  The time he escaped from school in the 3^rd grade and was half way across town before we finally caught him.  He allowed as how his desk stunk and he didn’t like that school!

Snow balls with rocks in them, gasoline on frogs, skipping school, and a whole lot of other unmentionables fall into the category of priceless memories as well.  Just because they are priceless doesn’t always mean they have to be good memories.  It simply means that they served a purpose in my life and they are tucked away never to be forgotten.

After seven years with two rambunctious boys, we were blessed with a beautiful baby girl.  The boys were so proud of their little sister and told the whole neighborhood of her new developments before I could!  Naturally, she wanted to do everything they did.  Typical little “tom boy”. 

Leotards and tutu’s were not her style.  I can see her now with the leotards inching down her legs and her fussing about having to wear them.  We enrolled her in dance classes hoping that would entice her to become “lady like”.  That was a hoot!  Leotards falling down with tutu’s and scarves flowing on the stage was definitely worth the price of admission.  But she was my little girl!  ……..

I’ll never forget the time the discussion somehow came up about telling lies and the fact that people burned in hell and four year old Teresa burst out in tears…..”You never TOLD me that!”  Or when Mom thanked her for something and she politely says "Don't mention it!"  And the time she said "Momma, have you got feathers?" which I'll leave at that is the best story ever!   Priceless memories…… 

When she was in 1^st grade, she would watch the neighbors across the street play tennis.  When she saw them go to the court, she’d run get her brother’s racket, run across the street to the courts, and sit on the benches watching.  They would see her and usually ask her to come hit some balls with them when they finished.  She would go on to be on the tennis team in high school.    Softball, soccer, any sport was right up her alley.   My little girl wanted no part of the fluffy stuff!  

Family time was almost nonexistent.  What shy boy and I didn’t have figured out was how to raise three children on that $11 we came home with from our honeymoon.  He was working all the time and I worked outside the home as well.  It was necessary to maintain the lifestyle we wanted for ourselves and the children.  We moved many times due to job changes and each time was supposed to make life better and give us more time together in the big scheme of things.   It didn’t happen that way.  Years flew by and the children grew up and now have families of their own.   I wonder how their lives might be different today if our choices, as parents, had been different for them growing up.   

Now, fifty seven years later, memories are just that.  But they are priceless.  The good ones and the bad ones.   I laugh spontaneously at the good ones and grieve at the bad ones.  There are many things that I would do differently as a parent if I had an opportunity to go back in time.   My hope is that somehow amid all the things that got overlooked and I didn’t do right, the one thing my children will always know is that I love them more anything else and they'll always be my special gifts from God..

MENTOR OR MEDDLER

I’ve made some wise decisions in my adult life and I’ve made some not so wise ones.  Sometimes, no matter how hard you try or how much you plan, your decision turns out to be a bad one.  And sometimes, no matter how much you think it is not going to be a good decision, it turns out to be a blessing in disguise. 

One of my decisions that became a great blessing in my life involved becoming a mentor to a local lady in a nursing home who had no family or friends who regularly visited.    I decided to try and give back some love and care to an elderly person who was lonely like my Mom had been when she was in a nursing home.  I remember how she had looked forward to the visits of the local people who stopped in once in a while. 

I came to love Mrs. P, who was grouchy and never smiled, but peeped through one eye when she thought I wasn’t watching to see if I was still there.   She was so lonely and always called for me when she had to go to the hospital.  She did have some family, but they didn’t live close by so she never had many visits unless I went to see her.  Sometimes I’d take her for a ride or sometimes take her an ice cream but usually took her a treat of some kind.  She didn’t say so, but I think she looked forward to it even if it wasn’t anything but a peppermint candy. I visited her for years but when I became ill myself, I wasn’t able to visit regularly and felt really bad.  I wondered what she must have felt about me not being there since she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, communicate with anyone. 

When I finally resumed visiting her, she was very ill and passed away just before her 100^th birthday.  I went to her room to visit her and it was empty.  No one had called me to tell me.  I felt like I had been hit in the stomach.  As it turned out, I was able to go to her funeral that very day.  I received letters from the extended family thanking me and letting me know how much she loved me.   What a blessing she was to my life.

Becoming involved in local government was not in my best interests.  Apparently my desire to become an informed citizen immediately labeled me as a “meddler” as was evidenced by a letter saying I was “harassing” the clerk.  Not good.  Clearly, I was in uncharted waters asking for information that nobody had ever asked for or received before.  How could I help plan to make things better without knowing what went wrong in the past?  Facts, figures, records, are the only things you have to go on.     

It isn’t my nature to give up or to turn my head if I see something wrong that I could make right.  I don’t believe that laws are written to apply to specific people unless it is spelled out that way and for good reason.  I believe tax payers have a right to say how their money should be spent and that transparency is essential, and a right.  Some might not agree with me and what a pity that friendships become shattered over differences of philosophy.  It shouldn’t be this way.  Maybe I am a “meddler” if these things are wrong.  

I’m going to count this experience as a blessing too.  I learned so much during my year and a half as a council person.  Serving in any form of government is an honor not to be taken lightly!  And no one, absolutely no one,  should make it a career!

When to make that call.......

Last week we lost our dearly beloved pet poodle, Peaches.  She was the light of our lives. We got her when she was only three months old.  She was thirteen years old last March.

How do you know when it’s time to euthanize your beloved pet?  How can you be sure that tomorrow she or he won’t be right back to the normal routine?   Oh,  how I agonized over that question.    Each situation is bound to be different and everyone has their own set of circumstances to guide them.  But for me, I asked myself over and over, was Peaches living the life she would want to live.

 I looked at how she could no longer run and jump up on the sofa or chair because of the arthritis in her back legs.  She struggled to get up from lying down.  I looked at how she could jump down from the bed and her little legs would give away and she would crumble in pain and struggle to get up off the floor.  Then she couldn’t get back up on the bed,  and would lie silently at the foot of our bed until we picked her up.  I looked at how when she went potty on her little pads, her little back legs couldn’t support her any longer and she would wet herself and she didn’t like that.   She couldn’t chase her ball anymore.  She couldn’t jump up for her treats.  She coughed a lot.  She started having seizures when she was six years old.  She had at least one seizure a month and sometimes more.  She was on three different medications.  Her liver enzymes were extraordinarily high.  Her stomach was bloated and her day consisted of eating and sleeping.  Nothing more.  Not very much fun for our beautiful Peaches who always was running to get her squeaky ball to play, especially when we walked in the door. 

And yet, was it time?  Should we make that call?  She looked up at us with such loving eyes.  She held on to us with her little legs just like she always did….Will she know?   Does she suspect something….?  What to do…..?  After much prayer and consideration, I came to the conclusion that just because she was breathing, she wasn’t living and if I were in her shoes, I would want to be held in the arms of someone who loved me, and gently and painlessly sent on my way to heaven.    And that is what I did and how it was. 

The loss of a pet is not unlike losing a family member.  You grieve deeply.   Grief for some is obvious.  There are tears and visible behavior which leaves no doubt about ones feelings of sorrow.  And then there is hidden grief.  Grief that is so intense and private that it is lies deep inside your being and can cause anguish and misery unlike anything anyone on the outside could possible know.   Sometimes, people feel both kinds of grief.  Sometimes they feel one or the other.  How they express grief doesn’t matter.  Grief is unhappiness in your soul. It hurts.

 Rest in peace my sweet little Peaches.  You gave us so much unconditional  love and joy and ple

asure!  I loved you so much.

     

PEOPLE WATCHING

I love to watch people when they don’t know that I’m watching them.  I don’t mean that I’m spying on them or anything like that.  I mean watching them at odd moments in time.  Like standing in line at the grocery store or maybe while I’m waiting at a red light.  It’s amazing what you might see!  And if only I could read lips!  Now that would really be neat! 

I remember when I used to sing in the choir, I would watch people in the congregation.  I couldn’t hear a word that the preacher was saying anyway because of my hearing loss, so I might as well amuse myself doing something during the sermon, so I would gaze at the people row by row and look at the expressions on their faces.   Oh, what a sight!  I often wondered if the people actually were trying to look so funny or it was just happenstance.  There would be those with their arms crossed like they was no way you were going to convince them of anything and their faces were just as determined.  Then those who were smiling like angels.  And of course, there would be the ones dozing with their chins on their chests or up in the air with mouths wide open.  I could spot them all and knew which ones would do which.    Some would be scoping out the crowd.  Checking on who was wearing what and who was with who.  It’s a great way to pass the time when you can’t hear in church.

Here's another great people watching place.  We have all seen the Walmart pictures circling the internet.  Well, they are pretty much for real.   Stand in line and look around you if you don’t believe it.  Then mosey on over to the local Dollar Store.  Nothing wrong with these folks.  They just march to different drums.  That's ok.

Then, there’s people watching in airports.  You get to see all kinds of folks there.  But then, we’re all different in some form or another to somebody else so I guess I probably looked equally as weird to some of them.  But, nevertheless, it’s a great way to spend an hour or two waiting for a plane to land just looking at people and how they sit, stand, squirm, twist, pick at their ears, noses, etc.  And the way they dress is always a hoot.  You can see some real Prada!

I got to thinking, if I’m watching folks and enjoying it so much, there just might be somebody out there watching me (God forbid) and I better try and clean up my act.  I need to watch my facial expressions and how I react to certain situations and probably smile a whole lot more when I’m in church and at the traffic light and Walmart.  Maybe even the airport.  Who knows, there just might be somebody important watching!

85 - SAY IT AIN'T SO!

Good grief!  How did I get here?……Turning 85 years old isn’t for sissies!   I’m a “wanna be” 50-year-old.  That’s right – 50-year-old!  I have no desire to go through all that hassle of hard knocks in life again.  Everybody goes through that; I don’t care what they say.  It’s a rite of passage for most every young adult.  You know the story.  We think we know everything, but we don’t have a clue.  Well, I’d just like to skip that part and be 50 years old and start from there again.    

It was somewhere around this age that I figured out I could actually do something other than cook, wash clothes, and raise a family and that it was alright to do it.  Prior to that, my entire married life had been wrapped up in the daily needs of my family, first and foremost.   Most of those years included working a job outside the home as well, so having time or energy for hobbies wasn’t an option.  The housework, going to work, ironing, polishing shoes, washing shoestrings, helping with homework, and all over again was my daily routine.   Then came the empty nest.   Who was I?

All of a sudden, I felt like a whole new world had opened up to me!  I wanted to learn how to do things that maybe I’d only thought about, or something I’d always wanted to do, but never had time.  I wanted to read more.  I wanted to volunteer and visit the elderly.  I had a real thirst for just learning, for the sheer knowledge of it.  Gardening, sewing, baking, books, art, choral music, travel, civic clubs and lots of things that I had not had an opportunity to be exposed to or participate in.  Even computers!  And the internet!  And then Google!  It was a miracle!  Life was wonderful!

Now I don’t want you to think that all this knowledge that I suddenly craved turned me into a walking encyclopedia or Queen of all things good.  Far from it!  I’m still dumb as a box of rocks and my attention span is about that of a five-year-old.  This is compounded by the fact that I was diagnosed with epilepsy a few years ago and will have to take anti-seizure medication for the rest of my life.  My claim to fame is that this medication is the whole reason I sometimes come across as somewhat goofy and therefore, it explains my occasional goofiness. But it hasn’t totally fried my brain and I still have the love for a good book, good music, beautiful flowers, antiques, especially textiles and fine needlework and exquisite silver.  I’m not an expert at anything and a master of nothing.  But I’ve managed to try just about everything on my bucket list and plan to keep trying.   

Age isn’t kind to most of us in many respects.  The miseries caused by natural processes now prohibit many of my exciting and fulfilling activities.  But I still love to learn.  I still find myself Googling words and phrases or looking for things that I hear about that I want to know more about.  My body doesn’t keep up with my mind as good as it used to.  And my mind doesn’t keep up with Google and the computer.  I don’t cook much, and my back doesn’t like to pull weeds and my fingers hurt when I sew.  My eyes don’t see as good to read, but I’m still doing my best to do all that I can.  What better way to laugh than to communicate and share funny stories with those you love!  Besides, I need to keep my smile muscles from atrophying. 

That, my friends, is what makes life worth living.  Doing something that gives you joy and creates in your mind and soul a peace and fulfillment that gives instant gratification.  Once that is gone, you lose a part of your life that is difficult to replace.  Sometimes, it is irreplaceable.    I’ve still got some living to do.  You only get to go around once.  

ENOUGH ALREADY!

Can we move on now?  Paula Deen has begged forgiveness from God and everybody in the whole world, including Matt Lauer, the hawk of  The Today Show, who kept needling her for that “gotcha” moment.  

I felt truly sorry for Paula as I watched Matt question her over and over while she tearfully tried to convince the whole world how she was raised.  I believe her.  I think she’s a good woman who loves to cook and from her past endorsements and success, I believe she’s good at what she does.  She’s not perfect.  Neither am I.  Neither are you. 

Why can’t we just leave it at that?  Enough already!  Done!  Over!  I hope Paula will leave it at that and move on.  Her actions will speak louder than her words just as they always have.

That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it!

Summertime

Ahhhhh, summertime, and the livin’ is easy.  Growing up in small town America in the late 40’s and early 50’s, nobody took a summer vacation away from home.  At least nobody I knew.  A few families did have beach houses that they either owned or rented.  Not many.   So, I really didn’t think I was deprived of anything.  The community swimming pool was open from 1:00 p.m. until about supper time and that was as close as most folks got to a vacation.

I can still smell the chlorine now!  It was sparkling clear water and the place to be on a summer day.   It would be packed with kids of all ages.  There was a small pool where Mothers would take their little ones to play.  They would chat and visit all afternoon while the little ones played until they turned blue and shivered with cold.

Most of the time, I would have to walk to the pool.  It was several blocks from where I lived and summertime in southeastern Georgia is not for sissies.  The pavement would burn your feet to a crisp and the sandspurs would send you howling to the nearest emergency room if you weren’t careful so I hated to have to walk but I didn’t have a choice.  Walk or stay home.  Those were the choices in my day.    

The girls I knew would carefully roll up their Catalina, Rose Marie Reid, or Esther Williams (these were all the rage of the day) swim suits and bathing caps in a large beach towel.  They had to be rolled just right or the whole thing would unwind and your suit would fall out.  Or worse, if you wore your suit to the pool and chose to roll up your clothes in the towel, your underwear might wiggle its way right out of that towel in front of the whole crowd at the pool.  I had that happen more than once. 

There was a grassy area near the sliding board where we would spread our towels and lay out in the sun after we had slathered ourselves with baby oil mixed with iodine.  That was supposed to give you a drop dead gorgeous tan.  It gave me a drop dead awful sunburn which peeled off in huge ugly globs of skin and left a million freckles in its place.  Just what I needed to complete my drop dead gorgeous beauty! 

Shy Boy was always there and he and the other boys would compete for who could do the most flips off the diving board, which they weren’t supposed to be doing anyway.  Then they would stand on their hands, play tag, run, jump off the diving board, and do everything possible to gain the attention of all the girls sitting on their towels getting their gorgeous tans pretending not to notice.    

There was a little store where you could buy cokes and candy and a dressing room where you could shower and change and re-roll your towel.  It didn’t matter this time how you rolled it up.   It’s getting close to supper time and the pool closes soon.  Swimming all afternoon can make you mighty hungry!

SHY BOY AND BABY BOOMER

I was always envious of my friends who had a large family.  I thought how much fun it must be to have a sister to talk to and play with.  Hand me down clothes was a big thing in my day and I was jealous of my friends who had big sisters who would give them their clothes when they outgrew them.  That sounds a little off the wall now.  Who would want hand me down clothes to begin with?   But, I guess it was the fact that I was lonely at home without a sibling. 

Living with Uncle Aubrey and not having any privacy with me sharing their bedroom must have presented some challenging moments for Momma and Daddy.  But they managed to present us with a “baby boomer” brother for me.  Of course, this event forced the evacuation of our living quarters at Uncle Aubrey’s to a brand new rental house which gave me a bedroom of my own at the age of 15.   I had some girl friends whose parents had also given birth to some “baby boomers” at that time, and some of them were not nearly so excited about their new siblings.  But let me tell you, I’ve never been so happy in my life.  That little baby boy was the most beautiful baby in the world and I took over his care as if he were my own.  He was then, and is now, a special part of my life.

Life was good.  High school was awesome.  Shy Boy was still the love of my life.  He was a handsome football player.  I was still an ugly fat girl wondering what he saw in me but happy he did.  To be a cheerleader was the ultimate goal of most high school girls in my circle of friends, especially if your boy friend played football.   It took four years of trying out before I finally got chosen.  I guess the judges felt sorry for me.   But I got myself a cheerleader sweater and skirt before I graduated high school!

Mr. Glenn, the principal, was everybody’s watchdog.  He knew your parents and you knew he knew them.  One day he called me into his office.  I was shaking and embarrassed at having been summoned, knowing it couldn’t be a good thing.  He told me that he had seen Shy Boy and me at lunch time out under the pine trees holding hands and he knew that my parents would be gravely disappointed if they knew we were engaging in such behavior.  I promised that it wouldn’t happen again.  And it didn’t.  At least not at school.  I would never do anything that would embarrass me parents or hurt them in any way.  I’m kind of quirky that way.  Oh well.   I never even played hooky for crying out loud!

Department of Common Sense

Something caught my attention today…….a picture of a billboard which said “What we need is a Department of Common Sense”.  Of course, it is frightening to think that we’ve come to that level of inadequate Government oversight and leadership that someone would actually make a joke such as this. 

I'm amazed at how uninterested the general public seems to be in what's happening in our governmental affairs.  Interestingly, many liberals have been noticeably quiet in regards to the news of the past week.   Where is the outrage?  Does this denote a lack of concern, ignorance, or agreement with the current administrations actions? 

No matter what your personal agenda is, no matter what your political aspirations are, what’s right is still right and what’s wrong is still wrong.  That’s true in your personal life and it’s true in your Government.   

I LIKE YOU - DO YOU LIKE ME?

My primary school years were mostly uneventful.  Recess was my favorite subject.  My girlfriends and I played jump rope and there was a jungle gym at school with swings and a see saw.  We all got along well and my friends were still my friends when we graduated  high school.   Those who survive remain friends today.  It was a close knit community where everyone looked after each other's children as if they were their own.  

Valentine’s Day was a special time of year.  Every year, our teacher would obtain a large hat box from a local department store and she and some of the children (usually girls) would decorate the box with special Valentine paper and cut outs of cupids and hearts.  Then when the lid was put on, there would be a slot cut in it for the cards to be put into.  On Valentine’s Day, everybody would bring their cards, put them in the box and then at the end of the school day, the teacher would pick somebody to draw the cards and give them out.  Naturally, everybody wanted to be the one who got the most cards.  That would mean you were probably the most popular girl or boy.  I never got the most cards, but I’d get a lot of cards.  I remember being worried about some of the kids in class that would only get one or two cards or no cards.  It made me feel bad.  I also felt bad for some of the kids who didn’t bring any cards to put into the box.  

School functions were well attended by parents and consisted mainly of chorus, band or short plays,  but you could count on the auditorium being full of parents and grandparents craning their necks to see their kids perform.  Christmas and Thanksgiving always held special programs and we could count on Turkey and Dressing in the Lunchroom.  The Pledge of Allegiance was a given.  Prayer was a given.  Not an option.  In class and in "chapel" as it was called.   

Now, I was a pretty homely looking kid.  Stringy, dishwater blond hair, fair skin with freckles, a crooked front tooth, and “pleasingly plump” as “Biggy” used to say.  I didn’t have a lot going for me.    When I was in the 3^rd grade, however, I happened to notice a shy boy in the 4^th grade whose brother was in my class.  The brother was not bad, but kind of a clown in class.  The shy boy was something else.  I was smitten!  This shy boy in his overalls with his long johns showing at the bottoms and half smile was about the best looking boy I’d ever seen.  I didn’t think he would ever give me a second look.  He could have any girl he wanted with his looks.  But I watched him for a year or two.      

As it turned out, Mr. Shy Boy with the long johns was watching me too.  We started passing notes in school.  You know the kind – “I like you – Do you like me?”   Then it was LT + ST and on and on.  All of a sudden, we were a “couple”.   I felt soooo special.  Here I was……this ugly, fat, “tween”, with a boyfriend to die for. 

And we were just entering eighth grade.

JACK OF ALL TRADES

Momma went to work after I started school.  She was a beautician and took pride in making women look pretty.   Now, getting a perm in your hair in those days meant getting a PERMANENT wave.  It was an electrical process with all sorts of wires and clamps and heat and stinky stuff and waiting for the exact amount of time or else you’d wind up with a scorched head of hair or worse, no hair.    Hair was rolled up with bobby pins and combed out with finger waves.  Nails were manicured and polished with precision and eyebrows were tweezed and sometimes, Momma would even give a facial to some of the ladies.  All the time they were chatting and laughing and some of the ladies were even smoking.  I remember going to the beauty shop where Momma worked many days after school trying to do my homework, but it was useless because there was just too much see and hear.  Watching and listening in a beauty shop in a small town is like being in the CIA!   You could really get the scoop there on everybody and everything.

Momma was a jack of all trades.  Sort of.  She wasn’t much of a cook, but she could cook up a pot of grits and that was always the start of a meal.  The rest of the meal just sort of fell into place.  She nearly had a heart attack once because she had to make a chocolate cake for the MYF ice cream social at church, and vowed she’d never do it again as long as she lived. 

But Momma could sew and she’d sit down in the floor with a bunch of newspapers or brown paper sacks and a pencil and draw out a pattern for me a dress. I remember her skill at making my costume for the school “Operetta” out of crepe paper.  I was the best looking fairy in the whole show!  It had a full gathered skirt, ruffled sleeves and I wore a large ruffled hat.   Boy that was something!   Then, for my very first piano recital in the 3^rd grade, Momma made my taffeta aqua evening gown, which was absolutely the prettiest evening gown in the world.  She topped it off with a corsage of pink sweetheart roses from the fence that grew out back, and I did a splendid job on my first musical solo piece.   Momma was proud. 

The next year when she got out the dress to try it on to see if it would work for my recital, it was a wee bit tight.  She told me to hold my breath and I sucked up a big breath and she yanked up the zipper.  Yikes!  She zipped up three inches of my skin in the zipper.  Needless to say, there was a whole lot of screaming going on for a few minutes while she unzipped the dress and begging me to forgive her.  I was a bit miffed.  She did let out the seams before I tried on that dress again, but I did wear it again for the recital.

I did a short stint in the Girl Scouts in the 3^rd grade.  I decided going to camp would be a great way to spend a week in the summer.  Besides, I had never been away from home without my Momma and Daddy so it was sort or a rite of passage.  It meant that I would have to join Girls Scouts but I figured I might as well give it a try.  Camp Juliette Low was in Savannah and I spent a week of misery weaving bracelets and swimming in waters infested with crocodiles and dodging spiders and snakes.  I was sitting at the gate of the camp on my suitcase waiting for Momma and Daddy on Saturday morning the last day of camp.

Since Momma worked, she had little time for washing and ironing which was all done by hand.   Down the road several blocks, in what was known then as the “Quarters” lived a black lady who washed and ironed clothes for us.  She had a bunch of little children.  I loved to go with Momma to get the clean clothes so I could see the newest baby.  Sometimes I could hold it.  I loved holding her babies. 

I remember how the clothes smelled of steam, bleach and starch.  The woman would always be ironing on the front when we came.  She had an RC Cola bottle with a sprinkler cap which she used to sprinkle the clothes.  There would be a whole bunch of them rolled up already sprinkled and ready to iron.  She washed and ironed for lots of people.  Her baby would be beside her in a crib and the other little ones around the porch playing in the dirt, chasing each other and laughing.  They’d always gather around when we’d come to get our clothes.  The house had no screens on the windows and looked just like all the others on the street.  They called them shotgun houses.  One room after another – usually just two rooms.  Momma paid her for the clean clothes and left the dirty ones.  She was happy and Momma was happy.   That was a normal way of life in those days.  

TADPOLES AND PINE BARK STEW

You’ve heard the stories from some parents about how they had to walk through snow and ice for miles to get to school?   Well, I didn’t have to walk miles and miles and in southeastern Georgia, a snowflake is a rarity.  But I did have to walk a little less than a mile.  I lived just inside the limit for the school bus route. 

Walking to school wasn’t so bad most of the time, however.   Walking home was even better.  If I was running late going to school, sometimes my Momma or Daddy would take me.  Daddy had an old beat up truck with wooden sides that would make the Clampett’s truck look like a Cadillac.   He loved taking me to school in that ugly truck.  I would have to be really late or it would have to be pouring rain for me to let him take me to school in that truck and then he would laugh and take me right up as close as he could to the school building.  I’d beg him to let me out at the corner.  But nooooooo, he’d drive right on up to the front.  He was such a teaser!  But I loved my Daddy!  Momma would have to borrow Biggie’s old Ford before we finally got a car of our own.  It was Mercury and I thought we were pretty rich to have Mercury.

Walking home from school allowed me the opportunity to lollygag.  If I went a certain way, I could cut through the backyards of some folks and follow a stream that had some neat tadpoles.  That way, if I had time, I could stop and play and catch a few.  Sometimes I’d catch some and put them in a canning jar.  Come to think of it, that wasn’t too smart.  Wonder what happened to the tadpoles.  Guess becoming a frog wasn’t in their future.

My Granny Elkins lived along the route to school so I could stop and visit her when I was very young.  Granny raised chickens and ducks.  The story goes that I would go out and pick up the little baby ducklings and love them to death.  Literally.  I thought they were so sweet that I just squeezed them so hard it smothered them.  I remember helping Granny gather the eggs from the nests too.   I wasn’t much of a farm girl.  I was a bit heavy handed and broke quite a few eggs. 

Granny was a super snow cone maker.  She could crush ice with a hammer and flour sack better than a commercial blender any day.  She’s chip off ice from a block of ice out of her ice box, put it in a flour sack, put a rubber band around the end of it and beat the heck out of it with her hammer out on the back porch shelf.  Then she’d take the fine “snow” and put it in a glass, pour some cool aid out of a little glass bottle on it (I liked grape) and top it off with some sugar.  Man that was something good on a hot summer day.  If I was lucky, she would have a left over piece of “Mary Ella” toast or a biscuit which I would poke my finger in and fill with syrup.  (“Mary Ella” toast is what I called her toast for some reason.  It was made in her wood stove and buttery crisp through and through.)

After Granddaddy died, my Granny moved to Atlanta, so I didn’t get to visit her on the way home from school anymore.  I missed that.  I loved Granny.  She was fun.

Daddy had some big heavy earth moving equipment like a tractor and other big things that I didn’t know anything about but he rode me on his Caterpillar tractor when he was doing the grading work for the new local golf course.  He scared me half to death when he was crossing a creek because I just knew the thing was going to turn over and we would be drowned and lost forever.  I trusted my Dad, but not that much.   I begged him to let me off, but he kept right on going through that creek instead of on the bridge.   Turns out we made it home ok.  Daddy took care of me just like he always did.   I was his “baby”.

Daddy and Uncle Aubrey fished a lot and they cooked a lot of fish and ate a lot of fish.  Many a time, we would get in Uncle Aubrey's car and drive all the way to Savannah, late in the afternoon, just so they could eat some fish or shrimp at the little fish camp they loved, on one of the creeks on the road to Tybee.  That’s a long way just to eat some fish and shrimp!

They also had this secret recipe for something they called Pine Bark stew.  It was a concoction of fish, rice, and catsup and various other secret ingredients unknown to man and they would get together in our kitchen at all hours. and cook up a mess of this stuff and eat their fill.  I wasn’t too keen on Pine Bark stew.  Uncle Aubrey had some weird ideas about some things and I wasn’t too sure I wanted to partake of that even with my Daddy.  I remembered several times Uncle Aubrey slipping some barbecued goat on the table with our real barbeque at our family reunions, so I was a little leery of his cuisine.

My Daddy lovingly teased me all of my growing up years.  But I know he loved me more than life itself.  My Daddy was my hero.  You see, I never saw anything but the good in my Daddy.  That’s the way it should be with children.  You love your parents, you respect them and you honor them.  None of us are perfect.   

Miss Nell - Pimento Cheese and Culture

We all probably have someone in our lives we remember as being one that helped make us who we are today.  It could have been a teacher, preacher, extended family member or a friend.  In my case, it was Miss Nell.  Oh, what a piece of divine work this lady was.

Miss Nell can best be described as the epitome of a refined Christian lady with dyed carrot red hair.  She wore powder blue and lace dresses with pearls, white stockings and shoes in the summer, and black wool suits, white blouses and pearls,  and black wool tams in the winter.  She attended the movies almost every weekday and sat in the last row in the back, hat and all, winter or summer.  Mr. Harry, her husband passed away not long after we moved to town,  so she lived alone in her lovely early 20th century home on West Main Street.   Ms. Nell rarely, if ever, cooked.  She ate all of her meals at local restaurants, always vigorously wiping the eating utensils with her cloth napkins. 

Now, my Momma was a lover of music.  She started her “career” when she was three years old tip toeing up to somebody’s piano picking out the beloved hymn, “O Holy Day”.  She never had money for music lessons, but her fingers didn’t need lessons.  She continued to pick and play until she formed chords and could play for anybody to sing.   The Scott family loved to sing, so there was always somebody to sing to her music.   Occasionally, she would fill in for the church pianist.   Enter Miss Nell.

Miss Nell was a skilled musician and knew her stuff.  Sometimes she would gently take Momma aside and show her the correct notes in places where Momma might need help.  Momma didn’t mess up much, mind you, but she might need some help playing the notes accurately according to the music.  Or, she would help Momma with the correct time, which is always important to music.  So, Miss Nell became a mentor of sorts for Momma and helped her immensely through the years.  They became life long friends.

I guess it was natural for Miss Nell to take me under her wing early on.  She decided I needed some “culture” training, I guess, so she asked if I would come over after school every Thursday after school to her house.  She lived just a block from my elementary school so I could walk through her neighbor’s backyard right to her house.  

When I arrived at Miss Nell’s house, she would always have waiting for me, a homemade pimento cheese sandwich and a glass of Coca Cola.  She invited me into her living room where I balanced the plate with the sandwich on my lap and sat my glass on the marble top table and gracefully as I could, managed to gulp that delicious sandwich down.  After polite conversation, Miss Nell would then proceed to read from her Bible to me passages she had previously marked for the day’s reading.  She would explain the meanings, ask me if I understood, and answer any questions I might have.  We’d talk a little and I’d look at the beautiful colorful pictures in her huge King James Version Bible.  I remember looking around her beautiful home at the beautiful furnishing and feeling so special to be there.   

My Momma had made sure that I had the opportunity to take the piano lessons that she never was able to have.  So I began music at the age and practiced daily the finger exercises and runs that were imperative to be the concert pianist that I was no doubt destined to be.  Well, Miss Nell was going to pitch in and help in that area too.  After the Bible reading, she ushered me over to her upright, and for twenty minutes, we did some practice runs and exercises and major and minor chords until she thought I had the hang of it for the week.  By that time, Momma was there to pick me up and off I go after thanking Miss Nell for the pimento and cheese and coke.

After I grew up, so many little things would flash in my mind that Miss Nell would gently remind me about social graces or “lady-like” little things that I should or should not do.  I remember thinking at the time, how foolish they were, and sometimes I would be silently critical of some of her quirky little social rules.  Oh, how I wish my little eleven year old granddaughter could be Miss Nell’s protégé.  I wish every little girl could grow up with the kind of love and attention that a stranger, basically, gave me and my Momma  just because she had the knowledge and the love for us.  Wouldn’t that be grand?  We need more Miss Nell’s in this world!

Floppy Hats and Funeral Home Fans

All of my family went to the First Methodist Church.  I remember Big Daddy would always kneel down right where he was sitting and pray when the time came for prayer.  Many a time he was called on to pray and pray he did.  It was prayer from the heart of a simple, hard working man who loved God.  It showed.  Tom Scott was a fine man.  Ask anybody who knew him.

I remember Momma and I would always go to Sunday school and church on Sunday morning and Sunday night.  Daddy seldom went to church with us, but if he did go, it would be to the evening service.  He and Uncle Aubrey usually went fishing on Sunday.  (I got the distinct feeling that Momma didn’t like that.)  She would make me sit on the seat beside her in church for the whole service and be still.  That wasn’t easy for me.  I’d squirm and turn around and look at the folks behind us and she’d pinch me hard right on the leg.  Big tears would well up in my eyes but I didn’t cry out.  I knew better.  That hair brush was waiting at home if I so much as moved a muscle again. 

I can see “Ms. Nan” now,  playing “Onward Christian Soldiers” with such a flourish!  Her floppy hat would just bounce up and down on her head and she would bounce up and down on  that piano bench in perfect time!  We all marched in from Sunday school with our little weekly picture lesson leaflet in hand and took our places in the front rows for Assembly and announcements. Then we'd go find our parents and wait for real church.  

Of course, there was no air conditioning in the summer.  Everybody had the funeral home fans and if you were lucky, you’d get a seat near the window.  But we usually wound up in the center of the row in the center of the church.  Bees, yellow jackets, and flies found their way inside and I had one eye out for the nearest exit if one of the stinging kinds came my way.  All the ladies wore big wide brimmed straw hats with flowers on them which probably attracted the insects inside.  They should have thought of that before coming to church endangering little girls like me who were scared to death of bees.

All the ladies that sang in the choir had the floppy hats too.  You know how older ladies sing and their heads kind of bob as they sing?  Well, you get the picture.  Bobbing heads, floppy hats, flowered gauzy dresses, makeup streaked with sweat,  Funeral Home fans swatting away -  well, those were the sights I remember from my seat out in the congregation sitting beside my Momma just wiggling and squirming, dying to get out of there and go swimming or splurging with Uncle Waitus.

Sundays were mostly a day for visiting with folks.  They either came to visit you or you went to visit them.  Sometimes the Preacher came home after church to Biggie's house to eat one of those awesome fried chicken dinners with all the Scott family extensions.  But other than that, on Sunday there was not a whole lot of action going on.   As I grew older, the rules relaxed quite a bit for everybody.  Things began to change and I guess that was the beginning of things to come as we know it today.  In retrospect, I’m not sure that was a good thing.  Maybe we should have left things as they were…….

Turnip Patch, Honey Bees and Bicycles

Next door to Uncle Aubrey’s house was Big Momma and Big Daddy’s house.  It was the same house where my Momma lived when she was going to school.  Just down the street in front of their house, was Big Daddy’s blacksmith shop.  On the next street, sort of behind the blacksmith shop, was Uncle Waitus and Aunt Margie’s house.  I remember both houses having privies out back,  complete with Sears Roebuck Catalogs. I also remember the joy of the added indoor bathrooms.    

Big Daddy died when I was eight years old so I didn’t get to go to his shop too many times but I do remember watching the bright red iron as he hammered it and being afraid he was going to get burned.  He was a giant of a man, and always had a sweet smile on his face.  Tommie and I would go over to their house and sit around the little wood heater in their bedroom where they had two wooden rockers and a couple of straight chairs for us.  We would put our feet on the heater until the soles of our shoes would almost burn!   We’d listen to Amos and Andy on the radio.  Big Daddy loved Amos and Andy! 

Now when the Scott clan got together for anything – weddings, funerals, Sunday dinner, Preacher visits, or just because, they did it with a flourish.  I’m talking about a food flourish.  Big Daddy raised some chickens in the back yard just for such occasions.  I remember peeking out there when he would somehow manage to shake a chicken just the right way and that sucker was out.  Then down on the chopping block and without a second thought he’d axe that head right off.  Yep.  There was our dinner.

Now, Big Momma was an artist at cutting that chicken up.  I didn’t know there were that many parts to a chicken!  I still can’t find one in a store today with a pulley bone!  We kids would ALWAYS fight over that pulley bone.  Sometimes, there would magically be more than one!  But there were never enough pulley bones for all the Scott children.

Big Momma, we called her “Biggie”, made fruit cakes in dishpans.  She made huge nut cakes.  That was Uncle Aubrey’s favorite.  She always had a nut cake available for him.  Pecan pies, check.  Sweet potato pies, the best.  Potato salad, butter beans, tomatoes, squash, turnip greens, whatever vegetables in season, she had on the table, and plenty of it.  Oh, and a big pan of homemade biscuits and tea to drink.  Don’t say “sweet tea”?  There’s no such thing as unsweetened tea! 

Big Momma had a brass bell which she rang from the back door to announce that dinner was ready.   We kids always begged to be the one to ring the bell.  She probably based her choice on whichever one of us had the loudest mouth at the time.  I don’t think there was a pecking order.  I was the lucky recipient in the family of the bell and have passed it on to my daughter, who has a collection of bells.  It was among my most prized possessions.

I used to love to go down to Uncle Waitus and Aunt Margie’s house.  Their niece, Gail who was near my age lived with them and we were “almost” cousins.  Gail joined me in many a wash tub swimming and in many a sand lot ball game.  In turn, I spent many a night at their house.  Uncle Waitus was actually the one who “taught” me how to swim.  He threw me in the water at Brown Springs and I had to swim.  Brown Springs was a local swimming hole out in the country with water so cold your lips would turn blue and it literally bubbled up out of the ground so fast that you wouldn’t sink.  I guess Uncle Waitus knew what he was doing but it scared me to death.  I’ll never forget that experience but I learned to swim that day.  In a hurry.

Uncle Waitus was also good for a Dixie Cup on a lot of Sundays.  He would pile us in the back seat of his Ford and we would go “splurging”.  That was a phrase he coined for taking us for a ride on Sunday afternoon and spending some extra money.   So, I always tried to be around when he felt like splurging. 

To get to their house, you had to go through his turnip patch and pass the bee hives.  More than once, I had a swarm of bees chase me through the turnip patch with me screaming my head off.  Uncle Waitus would say, “just don’t run and they won’t bother you”.  Yeah, right. 

I got my first bicycle when I was about eight years old.  I didn’t know how to ride it without holding on to somebody though and that wasn’t very cool.  Tommie already knew how to ride a bike.  My cousin Donnie, who was a couple of years older and lived in town, also could ride.  So I was forced to learn how to ride my bike.   Big Momma’s car was always parked in her back yard right outside her back door.  It had a running board.  Perfect.  I would get my shiny green bike up to the car, stand up on the running board, throw my leg across the seat, get on, push off, and wheee, away I’d go -  about six feet.  Then fall over.  Then back up and start over,  and over,  and over.  Each time I’d get a little further and a little further.  Finally, I made it and around and around Biggie’s house I’d go.  I was so bad!  I could ride my bike!

Ouija Board and Stick Frog

Uncle Aubrey was divorced and had two children who came to visit us every other week-end.  When they came, Momma would pick me up at school on Friday and we would drive about twenty miles to the little town where they lived with their Mother,  and pick them up.  We would always stop at the service station on the way out of town to get an ice cream sandwich to eat on the way.  That was a real treat in my day!

Tommie Faye was the oldest.  She was a year older than I and Buddy was about four years younger.   The sleeping arrangements were slightly crowded when they came since Tommie Faye and I slept in one bed (in the room with Momma and Daddy) and Buddy slept in the bed with Uncle Aubrey.  There was one bathroom.  But we had such fun!  Tommie was the sister that I never had.  We giggled and snuggled down under the cover and told ghost stories.   We played jackstones, paper dolls, and when we got older, went to the movies and went roller skating.  She was to later be Maid of Honor in my wedding.  We did everything together when she came to visit for the week-end or sometimes longer in the summers. 

Uncle Aubrey had a real little play house built in the back yard for Tommie and me.  Momma made little curtains and fixed it up so cute.  We had such fun playing in it!    When the weather was hot, we’d fill up a big old galvanized #3 wash tub full of water and put on our bathing suits and get in it cooling ourselves under the big pecan trees.  There was also a concrete goldfish pond next to the play house full of goldfish.  We weren’t supposed to get in the fish pond.  But we’d try to catch the goldfish.

Uncle Aubrey was a real gardener.  He had azaleas, camellias, roses, gardenias, and always cut the grass himself.    I can’t remember ever seeing him wear anything but dress clothes.  I mean this man always cut the grass in his white shirt and tie!  He was a curiosity, this man!  .   The lawn mower was a push mower.  Not electric, not gas, just push.    He also went fishing in the white shirt and tie!  Wherever he went, he would have on a white shirt with a tie.  The sleeves may be rolled up and the tie may be tucked in between the buttons, but he had it on with dress slacks.  In the winter, of course, it was a full suit.  He worked in a department store and sold menswear.  Obviously. 

Once, he bought a couple of horses and put them in a barn out back for Tommie, Buddy and me.  She was braver than me but I did get on the horse with her and we rode them together.  Man, I remember how sore my behind was after riding that horse.  I never would have made it as a cowgirl.  I think we decided that  wasn’t as much fun as we thought it would be.  Uncle Aubrey sold the horses.  

There was a small coal fireplace in our bedroom.  Messy thing, but it was nice to have a place to play jackstones on the hearth in the winter.  Tommie and I would get down on the floor and play jacks on a cold Saturday afternoon.  We had a Ouija Board too.  It ruled our lives for a while.  It told us what was going to happen to us and who we were going to marry and everything everybody else was going to do and marry!   I can’t believe we actually played with what would probably be considered witchcraft today!  It was a child's board game back then.

Summertime we would be found in the front yard late in the afternoon playing “Ain’t No Booger’s Out Tonight”.  Now if you’re from South Georgia, you know what that game is.  If you’re not, you’ll just have to use you’re imagination.  Of course, Simon Says, Mother May I,  Hop Scotch and marbles were big favorites.  Tommie could play a mean game of marbles.  She could whip me every time  It was no wonder she had such  great big "box car" marbles and a real nice bunch of beautiful colored glass balls of all sizes which she kept in a paper sack with her at all times.  She never left them at Uncle Aubrey’s house.  Guess she didn’t trust me with her prize collection.  

Sometimes, all the neighborhood kids got together for a game of baseball.  Now there’s an art to how you decide who was going to bat first.  You had to hold the bat a certain way on the end, swing it around your head three or four times by your fingertips without dropping it, or some such nonsense, etc.  But it was serious business and those were the rules and that’s the way the game was begun.  We’d play until dark and our Momma’s would be yelling for us to come inside.  The bathtubs would have a black ring around them that night!   Of course, Tommie and I could get in the bathtub together as long as it would hold us but that couldn't have been too many years since we both were rather leggy girls and bathtubs of that era were the clawfoot size.

I remember one time, sneaking the ice pick from the kitchen so we could play “stick frog”.  That’s another South Georgia game of skill.  I wasn’t too skilled at it because the ice pick landed straight up in my upper leg.   Not a pretty sight,  but I suffered through it and put the ice pick back before I got caught.  Then there was the time I swung on the limb of the tree that my Dad had told me not to swing on,  and broke the limb.  That one got me the only actual spanking I ever remember getting from my Dad.  It was just a stupid little pecan tree!

Of course, my Momma never heard of the word child abuse.  She knew how to use a hair brush and I’m not talking about brushing her hair.  Her hand was her weapon of choice but her hair brush made it’s way to my rear end a few times and I don’t even remember what for.  I probably deserved it.  I had a right sassy mouth.  A big sassy mouth.  Tommie and Buddy were safe.  They were never sassy to Momma. 

Poor But Didn't Know It.

I consider it my great fortune to have grown up in small town America.  My folks decided I should not go to school in the big city of Savannah, so we moved to their small hometown where I started my first grade of school at the age of six, learning to read from my blue “Dick and Jane” reading book and to scrawl my name in big letters in my first grade writing tablet.

I remember my teacher, Miss Thompson, was very nice, wore glasses on her nose, and had a few whiskers on her chin.  I was careful to be good.  Her method of discipline was paddling the offender in the palm of the hand with the Coca Cola ruler that we all were given at the beginning of the year.     The lunch room was a separate wooden building where we could eat lunch for a dime.  There was a “little store” that sold candy bars for 5 cents and pencils and paper.  Chewing gum was not allowed in school.   Bazooka bubble gum came along a few years later and it was treasured like gold so you did not dare chance trying it at school! 

When I was about eight years old, we moved into the house with my Uncle Aubrey.  I slept in the same bedroom with my Momma and Daddy until I was 15 years old when my Mother got pregnant and we moved into a house all to ourselves to await the birth of my first and only sibling. 

Now, my grown up sense tells me that we were poor, because moving into the house with my uncle in a two bedroom house and sleeping in the same bedroom with my parents until I was 15 years old just lends itself to that fact.  But, the fact is, I never knew I was poor back then.  I thought everybody lived like we did.  Nobody ever treated me like I was different.  I went to the same school and church as my best friends and the whole town was sort of like a “family”.   I don’t think there was much of a social or status class structure as there was a respectable and honest and moral system.  

But I know now, we were poor and everybody didn't live like we did.  I know now that Momma and Daddy struggled so that I could have everything that was important to a girl growing up in my day.  I always had Christmas presents under the tree from Santa Claus.  I always had a birthday present.  I always had a new Easter dress and bonnet, shoes, socks, and gloves.  Just like all of my friends in town.  No difference. 

As I look back now, I have a particular memory that I would like to get off my chest.  One Christmas morning, I could hardly wait to run to the living room and look under the tree to see what Santa had brought.  I tore into the boxes looking eagerly for that doll that I was hoping for.  When I finally found the doll box and opened it, my face fell.  Inside was a beautiful BIG doll.  I remember how disappointed I was to see such a big doll!  I threw the doll down and cried out to Momma and Daddy, “I wanted a little baby doll!”  I am so ashamed even now to think how they must have felt.  Oh, if I could only take those words back…..

You see, for me, being poor and not knowing it, meant that my Momma and Daddy sacrificed so much so I could enjoy my life as carefree as possible.  My husband likes to chide me saying, "I was poor, and I knew it!"   I didn’t have a clue how very special I was.  

Bullying - Death Too Soon

Today I read a story that broke my heart.  It concerned the death of a beautiful 15 year old girl who had tragically taken her life because of the senseless bullying she had been subjected to from her peers on Facebook.  This young girl had been photographed while being gang raped at a party with her “friends” who then mocked and exploited her on the social network.  After months of depression, she hung herself.  I cannot imagine what sorrow the parents of this young girl must feel.  Anyone of us could say, but for the grace of God, there go I. 

If I had to guess, I’d bet that the young people who are involved in the bullying and mocking and resulting death of this teenage girl will live the rest of their lives wishing they had done things differently.  They will wonder how they could have been so foolish and cruel as to cause a classmate to be so lonely and depressed that she would give up her life.  I wouldn’t want to walk in their shoes. 

We are all guilty of things that we wish we had not said or done.  Some things we can apologize for, some we can fix, repair, or correct.  Some are irreversible and our lives are changed forever.  I’m reminded of something my daughter recently told her children that I had taught her and her brothers.  Everything we do has a good consequence or a bad consequence.  We have to always be ready to accept the consequence of our actions. 

Each Tall Street

It’s hard for young people these days to understand what it must be like for our nation to be at war as it was in the 1940’s when I was a child.  Seeing men in uniform and Uncle Sam’s picture pointing saying “I Want You” was quite normal.  Theaters had news clips of our soldiers and allies.  It pictured war scenes with tanks, ships, airplanes, and guns and everyone was glued to the screen in hopes of seeing someone they knew on screen or hearing news of some of their family.  It wasn’t pretty, but it was real and it was necessary, and we were a proud nation.  When our flag was shown, we applauded.  We stood and pledged allegiance to the flag and sang God Bless America.   Going to the theater was great entertainment and it only cost a dime!   I went every Saturday when I was older to see Gene Autry or Roy Rogers.  But that’s another story for another day.

Sometime about 1943, my Daddy was working at the shipyard in Savannah, GA. We lived in a “row house” on East Hall Street that was paved with cobblestone.  We lived upstairs in an apartment which had a bedroom, kitchen and bathroom, which we shared with another tenant upstairs.  It was down a long hall from our bedroom.  The “row houses” were so close together you could raise the windows and almost reach across to the next door neighbor.  There was a narrow alley between.

Momma, being the over-cautious Momma that she was, made sure that she held onto my hand everywhere we went.  And we went everywhere.  The streetcar was the mode of transportation. It was a real treat to get on that streetcar and go shopping with Momma.  Now that lady was a shopper!  We would go from one end of Broughton Street to the other.  I can smell those boiled peanuts and fresh donuts now that the vendors made on the street.  Ummmm!  She drug me from shoe store to shoe store, trying on dozens of pairs of shoes.  We’d go to the Farmers Market which stunk like fish.  I’ll never forget that smell either.  Woolworths was always a great place to look at toys and spin around on the seats at the lunch counter.  I remember getting lost there, one time.  (That was why she held onto my hand after that.)  Then, when it was time to go home, she took me to Leopold’s Drug Store for lime sherbet.  Man, I was living!  Then, back on the streetcar we’d go and return before Daddy got home. 

I remember peeking out the windows early foggy summer mornings and looking down at the street when I’d hear the cloppety clop of the mules pulling the milk wagon which delivered milk and butter.  Soon there would be a large black woman pushing a wheelbarrow which was loaded down with vegetables.  She’d been calling out in her low, but sturdy voice, “green beans, butterbeans” just loud enough to be heard.  Neighbors would be scurrying out to her to get their fresh vegetables for their dinner.  It was an eerie sight in the fog.  Almost like a dream….

I decided my playmate next door needed a hair cut, so I found some scissors and gave her a nice new hair do.  Her Momma gave my Momma a piece of her mind.  So much for loving thy neighbors. 

Daddy bought me a pair of roller skates.  This was the kind of skates with a strap over the top and that you screwed to your shoe soles with a key.   It was impossible to skate on cobblestone, so Daddy and Momma would take me a couple of blocks down to the park where there was a covered gazebo and they would sit while I skated to my heart’s content.  Then we would walk hand in hand back home to our apartment.    

Sometimes on Sunday, we’d ride the street car as far as it goes  - Isle of Hope –  just the three of us spending the day together.    Some Sundays we’d go to the movies.  I told my Daddy I wish he was Gene Autry and he pretended to cry.  I’ll never forget how ashamed I felt after I did that.  I was five years old.  I loved my Daddy more than Gene Autry for sure.

I have a vivid memory of Momma sobbing in front of the fireplace with a letter in her hand.  I was worried and didn’t understand what was wrong.  I later learned that the letter was from the Dept. of Defense calling my Daddy into service.  He was deferred because of his employment at the shipyard.   He served his country with his skills as did many other men and women who were needed to provide the necessary equipment essential for war.

  

I wanted so badly to be able to walk by myself around the corner to the corner store where Momma would do some grocery shopping when she had some money or ration stamps to use.  She was afraid to let me out of her sight, however.  The story goes that somebody asked me if I were to get lost, would I be able to tell anyone my address.  I said “Of course, I live at 309 Each Tall Street”.  I knew exactly where I lived.   And I did.

Ah, sweet memories….

Sheep’s In the Meadow……..

Our farm experiences in Southside Virginia were so much fun for us.  I opened my antique business in the basement and spent my days refinishing furniture, polishing silver, or mending, cleaning, or ironing the beautiful antique linens which were my particular specialty.  Business and life was good.

My husband had a workshop out back and a “lean-to” of sorts that he had his prize 65 mustang that he was restoring in his “spare” time.  He guarded that whole area with his life.  It was entombed in plastic – out of sight – and NOBODY messed with his stuff where the mustang was. This is where things get a little nasty. 

I always did my refinishing furniture outside where I could hose off the furniture refinishing chemicals and kept buckets of water for my rags and my brushes, etc.  I had saw horses, etc. set up under some trees to keep out of the sun.  I usually just left my things where I worked.  My mess.  I’d clean it up when I finished. 

Sheep are kind of dumb animals.  But they’re smart enough to find a little tiny place in a fence to get out and when one gets out, he says, “OK gang, we’re free”.  So the whole flock of sheep goes ambling down the middle of the country road not bothering to move for any moving vehicle.  The moving vehicle has to move for them or blow the horn.  Then, they might move.

Well, just about every day, we could count on a flock of the dumb sheep ambling down the road and up our three acre driveway into our yard and proceed to do their business.  Not pretty.  Of course, we would shoo them off, by blowing the horn, running and shouting and screaming but they would just silently, slowly, eat their way back down the road from whence they came.  The manager of the farm would eventually see that they were loose or somebody would call them and they would round up the sheep put them back in the fenced area and so it would go until the sheep found another little place they could get out later on that day or the next.

One day I’m inside and hubby’s outside on the lawn mower yelling to the top of his lungs.  I run to the window and look out and see him like an angry driver with road rage chasing a big black faced buck sheep around and around the front yard.  Now, there are big pine trees out there, so they are going around and around the trees, in and out, round and round we go.  The buck would stop.  Hubby would crank up; head straight for him and buck would run back toward the house.  Hubby wants to head him down to the road but buck wants to go back to the back yard.  Round and round they go.  This goes on for a while and I’m running from window to window watching this fiasco.  Hubby looks like a mad man!  Buck is in back yard now.  Goes running through Hubby’s lean-to.  Uh Oh.  Not good!  Buck has diarrhea all the way around Hubby’s mustang!  Bad news!  Hubby runs in house!  Yelling to call Farm Manager!  Can’t get Farm Manager.  Hubby jumps in truck.  Drives up the road and gets Farm Manager.  They come back.  Farm Manager (Hispanic no speak English) lasso’s buck in the garden which cows have destroyed.   Buck sits down in garden.  Doesn’t move.  Lasso on neck.  Tongue is hanging out of buck’s mouth.  Husband is saying to Farm Manager “You’re going to choke him to death”.  Farm Manager says “I hope he die”!  Finally, Farm Manager drags poor buck to truck and leaves with him. 

Hubby calms down and goes outside to clean up around mustang.  Discovers dumb sheep has drunk all the water from Kutz-It Paint remover bucket that I left from refinishing my furniture.   We never saw the sheep again.