THE TUPPERWARE PARTY

Any housewife who lived during the 50’s or 60’s remembers Tupperware.  It was all the rage!  It was almost like a rite of passage for young marrieds to have a Tupperware party which was hosted in their home with the hopes of getting a free pie carrier, cake carrier, or bowls of different sizes that fit nice and neatly into each other.  Without the lids, of course.  With the lids, you could stack them on top of each other.  Either way was a beautiful addition to your kitchen cabinets which were probably sparse like mine.  After a few years, they began to branch out their line to Popsicle molds, tomato aspic molds, juice glasses, and all sorts of other things.  They were all pale pastel colors.  And they ALL had that seal cover.

Now the idea was, that these things would seal up themselves so tight that you could keep your food covered in the refrigerator for days, maybe even weeks.  Heck, I saved some things for a few months although it did grow hair and when I remembered what was in there and opened them up, had to jump back a few feet to miss the atomic explosion of crud.  But, if you burped them like you were supposed to, they would be tight as a drum and not SUPPOSED to let in air to contaminate the food.  Therein lies the problem.  Burping them correctly.

We had just moved into a brand spanking new house so I decided it was time for me to brush up on my social skills a little and give a Tupperware party.  After all, all the beautiful wedding gifts were too pretty to store leftovers in and like I said, it was all the rage so I had to have me some Tupperware.  I invited several of my friends over for an afternoon party and spruced up my bare dining room with a card table complete with a white cloth and maybe a vase of yard flowers.  We sat around an ate petit fours, nuts, and probably some of that green punch made from lime sherbet and ginger ale while everybody looked at the beautiful display of Tupperware.  Then came the time for the demonstration to begin on how wonderful this stuff was and how it would hold gallons of water without spilling a drop even if you dropped it on the floor.   I got the largest bowl I could find, showed everybody how to put the lid just right in the little grooves, and properly burp the lid at the lip, so it would be sealed up tight as the ancient pyramids and Dick’s hat band.    Then I dramatically held the bowl up high with my two hands, and let go. 

After I  mopped the water off the floor, and asked just how many of my dearest friends couldn’t live without one of those mint green bowls and got out my pad to write up orders, they just sort of started chatting among themselves about how cute so and so’s baby was, how they just loved the new preacher, and did you know so and so is PG?  I’m not real sure how many of those little green bowls I sold, but I don’t think I got more than a sippy cup for my reward on the day’s take.  I know I didn’t sell a pie saver or cake carrier. 

Eventually, I collected, by going to somebody else’s party, enough of those bowls to stack three of them up and they looked nice with my collection of Cool Whip containers.  I lost two of the lids during one of our moves.   After the Tupperware party rage, came make up parties, art parties, jewelry parties, fashion parties, lingerie and on down the list.  Can you imagine what kind of mess I could have gotten myself into with some of them?   So, I mostly stuck with the bridge parties after that.  You can’t do too much damage with a deck of cards.

UNACCEPTABLE BEHAVIOR

There is more than enough news recently about sexual harassment in the workplace.   Sexual harassment is when you are expected to endure or perform some type of sexual behavior to gain a higher position, more money, or simply to continue an association with some jerk who thinks he can get away with it.  I find it difficult to imagine tolerating harassment as an adult who can make a choice to walk away from the situation.  Anything a person can’t walk away from such as sexual, psychological or physical abuse is another whole subject.   

It simply isn’t ok for anyone to use their position of “importance” to entice someone to be part of behavior that they are not comfortable with. There are also instances where walking away might remove you from the immediate situation, but can place you in an uncomfortable situation.    You could ruin the reputation and cause extreme heartache for an unsuspecting family or friend or both.  Public figures are at a great risk for this very reason.  Remember the “swinger” web site scandal?  Ouch. 

In small towns, everyone knows everyone.  You sit next to them in church.  You are class with them.  You are in class with their children.  You may babysit for them.  You might sing in the church choir or go to parties with them and you wave at them on the street passing by.  You’ve known these people all your life and you trust them because they are like family.

When I was in high school, I took a class called Vocational Office Training.  Part of the class included working in a business at a nominal wage for a short time to gain some experience in a work place setting.  I was at my desk typing one day and my employer, touched me inappropriately.  He said nothing.  I said nothing.  I immediately covered my typewriter, got my school books and purse, and left to walk home.  He followed me in his car almost all the way home calling to me to let him give me a ride.  All I could think of was that if I told my folks, my Dad would be out for a showdown and it wouldn’t be pretty.  Embarrassment would surely follow as this was a member of my church with a fine family.  I couldn’t think straight.  I just kept walking.  The next day, I knew I had to let my teacher know, since she would have to make the arrangements for another place for me to work because I had no intention of going back to that office.  I told her in confidence and asked her to never place another student in that business again and to please not betray my confidence.  I never told my Daddy.  I didn’t tell my Mother until the man had passed away and I had grown children of my own. 

I don’t tell this story to accuse someone who waits years and years before coming forward with their accusations.  I make no excuses for allowing a grown man with children get away with what he did to me. In my opinion at the time, the consequences would have hurt too many people who were innocent and, thankfully I wasn’t hurt physically.   I tell this simply to say that sometimes we don’t know the right thing to do or say.  We stay silent because it’s the least complicated way to handle a situation.   Sexually abused young children may simply not want to cause a fight at home or experience punishment.  They may have been abused by the most trusted member of their family and they are so confused about love that they allow themselves to believe it is ok and that’s a way of showing love to them.   Some of them live the rest of their lives trying to sort out the wrongness of it all, sometimes blaming themselves and feeling they deserved to be treated that way.   Sexual, physical and psychological abuse is more prevalent than most people know.

Currently, it seems that the more prominent, more powerful, more visible people who should have our respect because of their accomplishments and positions, have dirtied not only their own families and friends who supported them, but our nation.   When our President can face the nation, and lie, be proven guilty, and even impeached but remain in the highest position in the land as if it were a minor school yard offense, surely, we must know there’s trouble on the horizon.     Our society has become so complacent that we just listen intently to the news and then wait gleefully for the next scandal to break.      It’s just a matter of time.

MEMORIES - Reflections of My Life

Recently, I have been doing a lot of family research for membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution.  I don’t know why, at my age, suddenly it has become a mission other than the fact that I never knew I would remotely qualify for admission.  So, after finding out my gggg grandfather had served in the Revolutionary War, I set out to become a member of what my impression had deemed a coveted and special “club”.  It is still special, but I have a greater understanding of the requirements.   Not as easy as it sounds.  I may never reach my goal due to strict guidelines of proving lineage.  I’m almost there, but not there yet.

That’s not the focus of this story, however.  While reading everything I can get my hands on that may give me any history of my heritage and pedigree, I have read and re-read my Mom’s special log book “Memories – Reflections of My Life” looking for clues.  What I really want to tell you about it is how precious it is to look at her entries and in my mind’s eye, be that chubby little round faced girl who grew up to become that amazing woman that I called Momma.  I can visualize so clearly her wide brown eyes and little fingers as she tiptoes to reach the piano keys.  I can see her playing around in the dirt at Big Daddy’s shop with her hammer he “loaned” her to make her table from scrap wood.  I imagine the excitement of the little ones getting a “sack” when Big Daddy came home from the store and always remembered to bring them some stick candy.  And the time when they took a trip to see her brother in the Model T ford which had to be cranked by hand and they tried to cross the river when it was swollen with flood water from a storm.   And as she grows older, I can imagine how she swooned over my Daddy when she first saw him and was asked out on a date with him when all the girls were asking “who’s the new good looking boy in town”?

The family of Tom and Nona Scott never had much in terms of material things.  They worked hard raising seven boys and three girls in the country near Dellwood, Georgia.    According to Momma’s memories, her father was a tall, sturdy and good looking man, quite muscular and emotionally stable.  He was a happy family man, not so well off financially, but always worked hard and made a living for them all.  He wasn’t a social man much, but had many, many friends that loved and respected him.  He was a blacksmith.  Something we don’t know too much about today, but had his own shop where he worked every day repairing wagons wheels and buggies, and shoeing horses.  Mother would play with the little scrap pieces of spokes from the wheels and make her a little table using the spokes for the legs.  He never used profanity, spoke well, and taught the children never to use slang words.  He was beyond reproach as a father and husband.

Nona, my Grandmother, was everything a Mother should be.  Her home and children were central to her life.  She was a happy person, singing hymns while cooking, sewing, and cleaning.  She was content with what she had, although she never acquired many worldly goods.  Her outlook on life was one that never dwelt on gloom.  With just a meager education, she managed to teach her children good grammar and didn’t accept anything less.  She loved pretty things, and though nothing she ever owned could have been very expensive, she was a stickler for neatness. 

Attendance to church was mandatory to the family and family prayer was held each night as they knelt around the fire.     Of the people who my Momma admired the most in her life, she says “First and foremost, as a child, I most admired my Mother and Father.  They were the greatest two people on earth because they taught us all the right things to say and do and to become.   They were special people!

Reading Momma’s memories of her first day of school, her Christmas seasons, her first date, her marriage, and people who most influenced her in life is like having a sweet conversation with her.  It hasn’t given me the information that I seek, but I keep reading through my tears, as I remember who I am, who she was, who her Mother and Father were and how my life was shaped forever by those who loved me and sacrificed for me.  

SWEET VIOLETS

“Can I go barefooted, Momma?”  These were probably the very first words I said when we all jumped out of the cars on Highway 80 somewhere between Swainsboro and Adrian for the Easter egg hunt.  Going barefooted was the first signal that spring had sprung and it wouldn’t be long before it was bathing suit weather! Easter baskets were generally used year after year.  Most of us didn’t get all the store-bought trinkets in our baskets every year.  I would be lucky to get the green grass in mine with a few scattered jelly beans.  I liked the black ones best.  My Easter basket was used to gather the eggs, not for showing off

Back then, permission wasn’t needed or asked for picnic’s or to cut down Christmas trees unless there was a good reason.  Most everybody took to the woods and usually claimed the same spots year after year, since they had been proven to be just right for their family and there was no need to mess up a good thing.  Easter baskets were generally used year after year.  Most of us didn’t get all the store-bought trinkets in our baskets every year.  I would be lucky to get the green grass in mine with a few scattered jelly beans. ( I liked the black ones’ best.)  My Easter basket was used to gather the eggs, not for showing off.

There would be a passel of young’uns all decked out in their Easter finery and the most beautiful pastel colored eggs that the grown-ups would hide in the sweet smelling, green grass of the woods in the forest of scrub oaks and pines.  The eggs would be secretly hidden under fallen pine straw, fallen logs and branches, and in places that nobody would ever think to look.  Of course, after a few years, we knew the drill and could pretty much nail it as to where the eggs would be hidden.  But we feigned surprise really good.   We always drug out the whole affair as long as we could, and it would usually always end with someone having some candy to share from their baskets or that had been carefully hidden along with the eggs.  There weren’t many candy eggs.  Just enough to drive us wild looking for them because they were smaller and we couldn’t see them as well.  I can taste those candy eggs now!  Hard on the outside sometimes with a slightly bitter taste probably from the dye.  But the inside was very sweet and chewy.  Worth the fight to get them.

After the egg hunt, we had our picnic which usually consisted of Big Momma’s fried chicken, potato salad, the boiled eggs from the hunt, and pies or cakes.  The kids always had to crack at least one egg on a cousin’s head.  All the family women had pitched in and brought food, but Big Momma’s was the best to me.  Chicken fried in lard just can’t be beat!  And that potato salad with boiled eggs, green onions, and mayonnaise was the best!  The most memorable part of those Egg hunts for me was gathering violets.  I don’t ever remember an Easter egg hunt that I didn’t run around the area where we picnicked, and picked, one by one, the tiny little purple wood violets with a tiny yellow center but no leaves.  Just a straggly long stem.  I would pick them until I had a fist full.  They had the sweetest smell.   Aunt ‘Cile had some “toilet water” that had a violet fragrance.  I always thought it was so special!  It was a pale lavender color and smelled so good, it made me want to bathe in it! 

Back to the going barefooted.  If the day was warm, Momma would usually let me pull off my socks and white shoes and run through the cool grass as we played Hide and Seek or Mother May I.  But if the weather was a cool day like we sometimes have in late March, the answer was the same.  “You’ll catch a cold and get sick”!  Funny thing is, Momma always seemed to know when Easter was going to be a cold day.  She would make me a “Bolero” to wear with my Easter dress to keep me warm.  She knew. She had this secret sense about a lot of things, including the weather.   Momma’s are like that.

STONE SOUP

It was a beautiful, sunny fall weekend with blue skies and a crisp in the air.  The three of us somberly loaded up the car and headed for Crescent City, Florida. Any other time, we would have been so excited to be taking a family road trip together, but this time was different.   We had no idea what to expect but were hopeful that the “school” we had been referred to by the Psychologist would be the answer to our prayers.

We stopped at a fruit stand in the small town and asked for directions to Stone Soup School.  (Yes, you read it right.)  The gentlemen offered us vague directions but we followed them out to the Palmetto ridden forest down a dirt road.  If you’ve ever heard of Plum Nelly, well this was it.  Plum Nelly nowhere. We were looking for a specific street address.  Not seeing any street numbers anywhere, we finally started looking for signs.  Surely the place had an entrance with a sign.

After a few miles, we finally spotted a wooden sign tacked up on a tree, revealing the grand entrance of Stone Soup.  It said, “honk your horn three times and proceed slowly”.  It was little more than a pathway and wide enough only for a car of normal size.  That should have been enough to raise some questions about the “school”.   But, we were there, had committed to an interview, so we honked three times, and proceeded very slowly down the path which was flanked on either side by palmettos and brush so thick you couldn’t see ten feet.  Oh, Lord.  Where are you leading us now?

We finally came upon a clearing with an Octogen shaped “building” covered with odd shaped and squares of aluminum (used in the 70’s for the Orlando Sentinel Newspaper) and, several little “cabins”.  An abandoned yellow school bus sat off in the woods barely visible.  A pathway off to the side led to a small spring fed lake with crystal clear water.  A man came out and greeted us.  He and his wife were the “administrators” of the school and he invited us down to their little cabin to have our interview.  As we wandered down the pathway.  I was glancing both ways observing the layout.  Some chickens squawked from somewhere, but I didn’t see them.   We went inside Frank and Esther’s cabin and were offered a seat.  Describing the furniture is difficult.    Early Green Box, maybe.  A lazy dog found himself a place at the feet of Frank, and we began our interview.

Stone Soup School was modeled after a school in England.  Its sole purpose was to teach the youngsters who attend to survive on their own and to learn that life has responsibilities, everyone is accountable for their actions, and that there are consequences for bad behavior.   Plain and simple.  Once a person commits to living there, they will do their part to sustain the school, they will gather at the drop of a hat if someone has an issue about anything, and they will be accountable to each other.   They will cook, wash their own clothes, build their own place to live, and study.  They will not be able to call their parents for the first three months they are there.  They may not leave the premises without a staff member.  They will get up and go to bed according to the school rules.  No indoor plumbing and no frills unless they figured out a way to have them.  A fancy preppy boarding it was not!  We were told the cost for a student if we could pay it, but helping the child was more important than receiving money.  No child would be turned away for lack of funds once enrolled.    None of the kids there were bad kids.  They were just misguided and one was autistic who never spoke a word.  There were perhaps 18 to 20 in total. They came from all walks of life.  Some came from what could be considered wealthy families and some were there because they had exhausted all avenues to a better life elsewhere.  No matter the reason, they were there to learn how to survive and respect authority and each other and hopefully make a good life for themselves.  Many pursued higher education and graduated college.

After our interview, we all turned to our daughter.  “Well, what do you think”?  “Oh, I love it!  I really want to come here”!  Now, here’s where I will tell you we had already made a trip to the beautiful hills of Rabun Gap-Nacoochee which was paradise, compared to Stone Soup.  She allowed as to how she didn’t like it because it was too “preppy”.  We knew that the real reason she didn’t like it was because smoking was not allowed anywhere on that campus.  She secretly smoked anywhere she wanted and could get away with it.

 So, we “toured” the grounds of Stone Soup and the main “big dome” (which was the kitchen, meeting house, game room, school house, library, dance hall, or whatever they decided it to be).  Then on to the outhouse and shower, the dorm cabins, and the lake.  We were shown the “bell” which was rung whenever there was an incident, or a meeting was called for any reason whatsoever, day or night.  We were introduced to the rest of the “staff” which looked to me like homeless mission rejects.  Oh Lord, help us!  I can’t believe we’re doing this!

Then we piled in the car and headed home with the list of “gotta haves” for admission and plans to return in a few weeks to deposit our beautiful, precious 16-year-old girl.  She seemed excited.  I cried all the way home.

The day arrived for us to return to Crescent City and leave our baby girl.  We made the trip down and spent one last evening with her on the banks of the St. Johns river in Palatka where we enjoyed a great meal overlooking the water.  She seemed excited but I could tell she was somewhat apprehensive at this point about the whole thing.  But as we arrived, she got her gear out of the car, was taken by one of the girls to her new quarters and we said our goodbyes.

If you have ever had a broken heart, you know how badly it can hurt.  The pain is immense and the emotions we felt as we left our daughter cannot be described.  We cried all the way home trying to convince ourselves that we were doing the right thing.  Her high school years had not been easy.  She had made some bad choices.  She knew she was headed in a direction that she did not want to go.  It was a very painful time in her life.  And we felt a huge amount of guilt for not being there when she needed us, so it seemed.  But, despite all the heartache and guilt, we acted out of love and prayed that in the end, our daughter would come away from Stone Soup with the skills to either get a good job or go on to college.

She made us proud!  She graduated Stone Soup as one of a class of three.  We often teased that she was the valedictorian, salutatorian, or another “torian”.  One chance in three ain't bad.   It was definitely one of those “you had to be there” moments, but we were there with bells on!

• More about Stone Soup as details are provided to me.  Some of the funniest stories I have ever heard in my life come out of those years.   

WORDS, SNIPING, AND BLAME

If we are truthful, we all have said or done things we aren’t proud of.  But if there is one thing I am, it’s truthful.  Having said that, I ain’t no shrinking violet and have been known to put my foot in my mouth a time or two.  I don’t do it because I want to be seen or heard. It’s just the way I roll and I do have a pretty stubborn streak about what’s right and what’s wrong and tend to want everybody to have the same.  I don’t see gray.  It’s black or it’s white.   But that’s another subject for another time.

Recently, there has been a whole lot of finger pointing that has become downright disgusting to me.  Not because I’m a Republican and a whole bunch of other folks, including some friends and family who are not, but because there seems to be an extraordinary amount of people who are ok with the use of profanity and street talk.  I see it in children, young adults, and mature adults.  It slips out when we don’t mean it to and it slips out when we want to make real clear what we are saying, and it slips out because people don’t have enough sense to use a better term.   Now, I know what the word hypocrisy means.  Go back up to the first paragraph.  I’m admitting my transgressions.   “Miss Nell” would be so ashamed and disappointed in me and I know God is.  Once again, go back to the first paragraph.  I am honest. 

When some of us start talking about how people have insulted or offended us because of something that person said, it becomes a pretty lame argument when the people who know us remember some posts, comments, or remarks that we made ourselves.  Have you ever called someone stupid?  Have you ever called them fat?  Have you shared a post that is hateful in its intent?   Do you get angry when you see a post that promotes something you don't agree with?  Do you retaliate with an equally nasty post?  It’s a whole new ballgame then.  So, I guess my point is this:  Not a single one of us is perfect.   Can we stop trying to put out the best “gotcha” post and try to remember that we all fall short.  It serves no purpose to try and get the last word and it serves no purpose in throwing out the “I told you so’s”.  I’m tired of fighting for Donald Trump.  I’m tired of hearing about what a jerk he is and I'm tired of hearing about Hillary Clinton and Bill's past.  I’m tired of seeing and hearing ugly and profane language in my feed and I’m dang sure tired of seeing and hearing some of the junk that is going on and posted on social media that is just flat out false.  I hold no malice against anyone because of their political views.  I hope you’ll hold none against me for mine.   Remember, we're all Americans first.  

And that's all I'm going to say about that!

---

 [LT1]

TORNADO OF 1929

Described as "resembling a red, whirling funnel coming up Main Street", a tornado struck in the evening hours of April 25, 1929.  Beginning just south of Macon, it spun wrath on to Cochran, Dexter, Emanuel County, and Bullock County, apparently coming out of nowhere other than clear skies.  The terrible storm took the lives of at least 87 people and injured scores more throughout the middle Georgia area.  34 souls were lost in Statesboro with 70 injured.  19 were taken in Metter, a short distance away with 9 children in one home, 4 children in another and yet 3 in another.  Rain and hail destroyed crops and damaged peach orchards.  My Granny Elkins who was living in that area was spared disaster but as was her custom, she prayed and remembered those who were injured and whose lives were lost.  Following is her account of the devastating tornado in her own words.

THE GEORGIA TORNADO

It was late one April evening, back in nineteen twenty-nine,

A great tornado struck our land, and left a dreadful sign.

All those who saw it coming were filled with terrible fright,

It was like black smoke rolling and followed by a light.

Sometimes it soared higher and then would touch the ground,

It was like a mighty airship and had such roaring sound.

It split great trees into splinters and shattered houses down

The mansions like the cabins were scattered over the ground.

So many were made homeless, not a shelter over their head,

There were many laying wounded, and many laying dead.

It was a bad destruction, just thinking of the cost,

But it did not stop at that, so many lives were lost.

Although it was the work of God, and we should humbly say,

It is He who giveth everything, and He who takes away.

Mary Ella Thigpen Elkins

HUNTING SQUIRRELS AND A COAT OF ARMOR

The best years of my life were those when Sol and I were in our 50’s and 60’s.  Usually, when folks get to that big 50 point in life, they pretty much assume, well, it’s all over.  Not so.  That’s just when life begins for many of us.  How quickly time flies by and you hold only a memory of some friends or family members with whom you experienced some of those life experiences people refer to as, “you have to have been there” to really appreciate.   And you smile with your eyes leaking.

A couple of times stand out in my memory that were so hilarious that you just had to have been there to appreciate.  Sol loved golf.  But, honestly, he wasn’t much good at it.  Fair, at best in the overall picture.  But through the years he did hit some awesome drives and make a few good putts.   Ray said Sol was the only person he ever played golf with that would actually run up to the tee.  I think he really must have had a problem with hyperactivity because he never could just take a stroll anywhere.  He was always in a hurry, which probably explained why he wasn’t the best golfer.  He just had a hard time relaxing those strong muscles!

One year, we were invited to Augusta to my cousin and her husband’s house for the week-end.  The four of us went for out for dinner on Friday evening, and got up the next day ready for a round of golf at West Lake Country Club.    Sollie was so excited.  He couldn’t wait to get out on that beautiful course.  Our foursome was Don and Sollie and Tommie and me.  (She and I just went along pretty much for the ride, but did attempt to play while we caught up on the news.)  The guys mostly walked, and we drove the cart.  Everything was going along pretty much as it should while Sollie would hurry up to tee off and Don would mosey out.  We get along about the 5^th or 6^th hole and Tommie and I see the guys walking on up ahead.  We just kind of waited and chatted while they went on up to their balls.  As we sit there, we notice that they are kind of standing on the left side of the fairway staring down at the grass.  They would shake their heads and walk about in a circle and shake their heads again.  Whatever it was must have been pretty bad, since they weren’t playing their balls.  So, we ride on up and they are gazing at a poor male grey squirrel all sprawled out with all fours up in the air.  Dead as a doornail.  Hit between the eyes by Sollie’s drive.  Tommie and Don were too nice to really laugh much.   They did snicker though.    I laughed until I cried.  Pool squirrel.  As time went on, through the years, Don would tell Sollie that they needed to get together and go squirrel hunting. 

Fast forward a few years later where we were in Santa Rosa Beach with our good friends for the week.  Frankie and I spent the time shopping and Sollie and Ray went to the club to play some golf.  They were only going to play nine holes so we dropped them off with our instructions to come back in a couple of hours.  When we got back to pick them up, Ray staggered up to the car, holding an ice pack over his face and had a golf ball sized lump on his cheek!  He was standing behind Sollie as he drove his ball and it ricocheted back giving Ray a shiner like you wouldn’t believe!  He said, “damn, I need to wear a coat of armor if I ever play golf with Sollie again!” After that day, he was very careful where he stood when playing golf with Sol. But play they did.  Many times, many years, and many laughs.

Yep, those years when we were empty nesters, retirement hopeful and enjoying being together with friends and family were indeed the best years of our lives!

Remembering Mother's Day

Remembering Mother’s Day causes me to recall all the sweet childhood memories of a little girl dressed up in her best Sunday clothes, going out to the back yard and looking for a red rose to pin on my dress and Momma’s dress and a white one for Big Momma’s and going to church where the oldest and the youngest Mother was always honored.  

At the time, the significance of the red and white roses didn’t mean much, except I knew that was the tradition for my family, and most all others in my generation.  It’s a poignant moment in my childhood.   Now, I'm reminded of the small sacrifices that go so unnoticed of , not only Mothers, but Fathers as well as they endeavor “to bring up a child in the way he should go.”   If you were fortunate enough to have parents who subscribed to that teaching, you’ll know exactly where that phrase comes from.  It’s just like “do unto others as you would have them do unto you” was part of the daily mantra.   I remember the “golden rule” being printed on the 12” ruler that was given to each student in my school while growing up.  It was a rule to teach children in that day.  I look back and remember the standards set for children and young adults then, and wonder how it became, not only an “old fashioned” way to do things, and definitely, not cool conduct for today.   Poor manners, foul language, and street talk have become perfectly acceptable to some adults, so why wouldn’t the children think it’s standard behavior? 

I sure do miss seeing a young man rise from his seat when a woman enters the room.  I miss him opening or holding the door open for a lady.  How about males sitting in a restaurant wearing baseball hat?  Or any other kind of hat for that matter.   Trousers that drag the ground?  (Say no to crack) And nothing meant more to a girl on a date than to have a gentleman open the car door for her.  She’d sit until the cows came home waiting for him to get out and open it for her upon arriving at their destination.  I won’t mention “yes, mam or no, man” as that seems to be a southern thing, but there are other polite ways of responding to your elders.  The female population seems to have picked up on a whole new way of presenting themselves as well.  Of course, the fashion industry doesn’t help the situation, but age-appropriate apparel is never out of order.  Isn’t it true that those who demand respect are the ones who receive it?  A female can be just as successful and treated equally as a male without demeaning herself to any level beneath her education and background?

There are some great kids growing up today.  I know them.  I see them everywhere.  I appreciate that parents have taken the time to instill in them good manners.  Most of the time, these kids are the successful ones in life.  Not always, but most of the time.    I see children from impoverished neighborhoods growing up with mentors and teachers who are teaching them what they can’t learn from home, through no fault of their own.  Thank God for these people.  Many times, these little children become targets for bullying by other students just for being polite and honest.   

Parents have awesome responsibilities.  On one hand, we’re told we must let them be themselves.  Let them find themselves.   You can't make them do that!  They have rights!  Well, I believe we have an obligation to our future generations to teach respect, honor, and dignity.  It has no denomination.  It costs nothing, and the return on our investment will be worth its weight in gold.    Maybe someday, living Mothers may even be remembered with red roses in the lapel and white ones for those who have gone on to another place.   Wouldn't that be grand?

AUTHORS AND ARTS

On a recent road trip from beautiful downtown Madison, GA, I scrolled through the stations on the radio and found very few stations.  NPR was loud and clear so I settled on it.   Featured that segment were a couple of authors whose names did not ring a bell, which isn’t unusual for me, but I listened intently as the moderator prompted them with questions regarding the subject for the day.  The subject matter – and I’m paraphrasing – was that we need to have more books on the shelves in our libraries that have people of color as their main character.  No lie.  

I listened to them, with my mind thinking, something doesn’t sound right here.  Now I’m not a college educated person, but I do read a lot.  Not only books, but informational materials about different things that come to my mind.  I remember words that aren’t familiar to me, and try to get familiar enough with their meaning that I can use them.  It’s just a habit I have.    That being said, there are books that interest me and books that don’t interest me.  There are things I want to know more about, and there are things that I haven’t the least bit of interest in.  I also write my own stories about personal events in my life and take pride in doing so, trying to carefully punctuate and spell correctly what I do write.

If I were to be a real author, one that wrote stories and books for publication, I cannot imagine that I would have my mind wrapped around the fact that this must have a main character of color.   I was under the impression that an author wrote a story that made logical sense to the reader, that is, unless they are writing science fiction.  Even a fiction book would, in my mind, need to have a main character that fit into the plot, setting, and common sense of the work.   This whole experience, riding down the road, listening to these two young authors (they were YA genre authors) prompted me to wonder exactly what NPR is thinking.  The moderator made no attempt to contradict or counter their claims.   They complained that if they went to a library and asked for a book that contained a person of color as the main character that there is very little, if anything on the shelves.

Which brings me to my whole point.    Here we have two young ladies, hoping to sell their own publications, with the idea that an author must have someone tell them subject matter and/ or who to write about.  Now, last I heard, an author of notoriety doesn’t normally write what somebody suggests, but writes from their own talent and research on subject matter.   I don't think you can make an author write a best seller any more than you can make a soprano sing bass.  It’s an art.  A talent. 

NPR is funded by our tax dollars.  So is the National Endowment for the Arts.    

https://www.arts.gov/grants/recent-grants/grant-announcements

After looking through the whole list of grants given for the past year, I didn’t see one single grant that would benefit a rural, poverty-stricken community that would give them an opportunity to explore the arts.   One small town was included, but as you will recognize, it is an affluent community and my guess is that they could fund any arts programs they wanted, by raising funds on their own.   The whole premise and mission statement of the Endowment seems somewhat overblown in their effort to educate and assist opportunities in the quest for art for all Americans.    What do you think?  You may be a little surprised at exactly where your tax dollars are going if you examine the lists from the past years.  

https://www.arts.gov/

Cleansing

I have read there are several stages of grief.  I believe that.  I’m not sure if I’ve gone through all of them.  Just when I think I’m ready to move on with my life, I see a red bird.  Just when I’ve grown accustomed to being totally alone, I see him peek around the corner of the bedroom door, just to see if I’m still there in my chair.  When I read a post on Facebook that I want to share, I remember that I can’t tell him.  And when I hear of a friend passing or the birth of a new child, I realize he isn’t there to share those precious memories or rejoice for the new life.    It wasn't all without tears, petty disagreements, big disagreements, and hurtful misunderstandings.  Far from it.  But, in the big scheme of things, we pouted, but we never gave up on each other.   

Putting my life back together after so many years is almost an impossible task.  I laugh, I joke, I talk to people, but my mind no longer focuses on the “now”.  I wonder about the “what if’s” and the "it is what it is."    I berate myself for not doing enough to overcome this immense sadness.  I hate myself for things I have said, that can never be unsaid.  I remember the times of my selfishness and pious thoughts.  I’m angry that the times we waited for, will never come and I want to say, “I told you so!”  "Why, why?"   

Things that weren't said, are just as important as things said.  It breaks my heart that we didn’t get the chance to say our sweet way we always told each other, even if just to go to the grocery store.  “If I don’t come back, I love you.”   We said it in jest, but now, I know just how much it really means to have spoken those words to each other.  It happened so fast.  Our quick parting words, “see you later” haunt me.   Oh God, how I miss him. 

I need a cleansing of my spirit and soul.  I need to know it's ok to cry, but I need peace and joy and laughter.  I need to move away from the past and look to the future.   I need to know it’s ok to be sad or mad.  I need a purpose for living.  I long for the desire to enjoy life.  I need to know he's ok,  peaceful and happy, and I need strength and determination to realign my thoughts for a meaningful life and happiness again,  wherever I may be.  I don't ask for pity, I ask for healing of mind and body.    It will take time.

TENT MEETINGS, GOAT MAN AND GYPSIES

Growing up in my house, attending the church was not optional.   It was a given.  No matter how much I fussed, cried, or feigned sickness or injury, I was going to Sunday School and church right up until I got way bigger than my little Momma.  Then, I had a little leverage, but not much.  Daddy didn’t go much to morning services but occasionally he went to the evening services.  He was a good man; he just didn’t go with us to church so he and Uncle Aubrey went off to fish.  And he didn’t tolerate me not going with Momma.  I still don’t understand that, but I sure never asked.

From time to time, Big Momma would see in the Forest Blade about a tent meeting coming up, and she and Momma hauled me off with them to get a little extra religion.   I don’t remember the denomination of any we ever attended, but what I do remember is, the weather would always be hot and sticky.   I don’t sit still very well as an adult, so you can just imagine how miserable this little girl was sitting on the folding chair, under a steaming tent, with only a funeral home fan to swat the gnats and mosquitoes.  How Big Momma could sit there and get any religion in her corset and voile dress, stockings and white shoes is beyond me.  The meetings would last for hours, with singing, prayers and preaching and more singing and prayers and Jesus calling the sinners home.  I remember one of these meetings on the south of town where the tent sat in a cleared grassy area, and the cars parked all around the tent.   I never hear of tent meetings anymore….  I guess we don’t need extra religion now.   

The old man who traveled through town with his Billy goats pulling his wagon with pots and pans clanging, was a novelty that everybody in town talked about, passing the word from one to the other, and folks would get in their cars to take a ride just outside town where the old man would be camped.  He never seemed to mind the attention, and neither did the goats.  You could smell the sight long before you could see him.   He traveled all over the eastern seaboard, but made his home place in Jeffersonville, Ga. 

Sometimes, there would be a band of gypsies camping outside town.  They didn’t like for you to get too close to their camps where they played music, banged tambourines, and danced, but I always wanted to talk to them to see where they were going, and why.  Momma didn’t let me go see them, but I usually heard about them being in town.  Sometimes, I would catch sight of some of the women with brightly colored skirts and lots of dangling bracelets and big loop earrings.   Their hair would be dark and long, streaming down their backs and sometimes they would have kerchiefs on them to tie back the long hair.  I thought they were beautiful when I did see them.   I often wondered why their children didn’t have to go to school.   They camped for a day or two and moved on.  Some people said they were thieves.  I’ve often wondered why they said that.   I’m sure there must have been honest gypsies. 

Sometimes, the local paper would advertise that there was going to be a “sing” at a local country church.  They were very popular, always with a crowd of hardy music loving Christians, who would listen to the quartets, soloists, and duets from popular gospel singing groups that came from all over the state. Gospel music was a staple for the old timers.  Sometimes, these “sings” could go on all night, or at least till the wee hours of the morning.  I don’t remember ever going to many and when I did, they fell into the same category for me as the tent meetings.  Sitting still wasn’t then, and still isn’t, my forte. 

     

SITTING UP WITH THE DEAD

         

I haven’t mentioned my Big Daddy Scott too many times in my memories.  That’s because he passed away when I was seven years old.  He was only 71, but to me, he seemed like a very old man, as did most people over the age of 50.   Now, being very old has graduated to a whole new level. 

What I remember most about Big Daddy was that he was always happy or appeared to be.  He played games inside the house with us children, and Big Momma sat in her wooden rocker next the window and crocheted.   When it was cold, we would laugh and have fun with a stupid game we called “hide the comb”.  That’s all the game was about.  Hiding a comb.  But we did it with such enthusiasm in that one little bedroom which had a small black potbellied, coal fired stove.   After several rounds of the game, Tommie and I would sometimes spend the night and sleep in the extra bed in their room which was piled high with feather mattresses.   On the mantle stood a large mantle clock that ticked and ticked so loud it made me crouch under the covers to keep from hearing it. 

The front bedroom was frigid with no heat that I remember, except maybe a fireplace, so it was always cold.   It was seldom used.  I remember Big Daddy and Big Momma sitting on the front porch with the plant stands loaded with pots of ferns and various plants, rocking and watching.  The dirt road was dusty in front of the house and we children always liked to try to catch a ride on the back of the big yellow road scraper, which got us in heaps of trouble with Biggie, saying we were going to get killed.   I think we proved her wrong, thank the Lord.

In April, 1945, I remember coming home to a somber, quiet house.  Mother was next door where Big Momma and Big Daddy lived and soon she came over and told me that Big Daddy had died.  She said he had a blood clot in his leg.  At seven years, I guess children don’t have much of a handle on what death means and it intrigued me that people were coming and going and bringing food, and saying “bless your heart” and “he’s in a better place” and all the kind of things that are said to family when someone dies. 

The next evening, Mom took me over and the cold bedroom door was opened to the hall and living room and there were folding chairs lining the room.   A big casket was there in the center and there was Big Daddy looking fine, in his best suit with that sweet, kind expression on his face that was always present.  It was dark, and there wasn’t much light.  Probably a single bulb hanging from the ceiling like the rest of the house, but people would come and sit and stay for long periods of time.  Then another “crew” of people would come in and take over.  There was always someone there.  Day and night.  Sitting with Big Daddy.   

The tradition of sitting with the dead has pretty much been eliminated now due to the modern conveniences and beautiful funeral homes.  People still go and visit with the families and pay their respects, both at home and at the funeral home.  But as I think of this time now, I remember this time worn tradition with a lot more reverence.

 

WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN

I cried again this morning, Lord.

I know you heard my prayer.

But Lord, I’m not at peace today

I still need for you to care.

I cry for what might have been,

The years that we have lost.

While searching for the rainbow

We paid an enormous cost.

We took our eyes off the prize

And through the years we stumbled,

When all that time we might have been

More grateful and much more humbled.

Now I sit in quiet solitude and

Think about our past,

Still yearning for what we lost

And remembering the cost.

MORAVIAN STAR AND BROKEN PINKIES

Losing your eyesight and ultimately your independence, is a terrible thing at any age.  It forces you to take a hard look at your circumstances and make some hard choices for your future.  And it’s especially hard when you live alone with no family close by.

My sweet little Momma had made a new life for herself when she left the hometown where she grew up, married, and raised me and my brother.  She had become accustomed to having lots of people her age around her that loved her, had become active in the church, volunteering at the nursing home, visiting her friends, shopping, and her favorite, going out to eat with her friends.  She had been diagnosed with macular degeneration earlier in the year, but I don’t think any of us realized the extent of the disease.  When she didn’t see a stop sign, crossed through the intersection and drove into someone’s front yard, it was time.  Change was imminent. 

Teresa had driven Mom to Virginia for a visit so she knew we had the perfect situation for her to live with us having her own bedroom, bath, and the “run” of the house downstairs.    She also knew it meant she would have to give up her “ride.”  Now, Momma wasn’t one to stay home if she could drive.  She’d get in her car, put that Grenada in drive, and whiz downtown or wherever she wanted to go, for that matter.  She nabbed a couple of concrete pillars at Covington Square when she could see good.  She earned her nickname,  “Fireball Roberts.”  (Only old racing fans will appreciate that one)   

And so it was, that my brother, daughter, me and Sol, packed every little piece of newspaper clipping, sermons on cassette tape, several hymnals, old sheet music, trinkets, art supplies, and a recent gift of a beautiful glass Moravian Star.   Oh, and her shrouded in a plastic bag, completely decorated Christmas tree with the handmade ornaments from the “home” residents where she lived.  We loaded up a U-Haul van and off we went to her new home in Blackstone.  The Moravian Star went missing during the move.  Mom pilfered through boxes for years looking for it.

Momma was thrilled to be able to live with us.  She decided that her job was going to be that of chief cook and bottle washer.  She didn’t know I knew it, but she did this because she ate her main meal at noon.  We had always eaten ours at night.  So, if she cooked, she had some assurance that she would be fed on time.  That worked out well for her and made her feel good that she could contribute to the household.   I loved it.  I could spend my mornings in the yard, planting and replanting, going to club meetings, playing bridge, or whatever, and Sollie could come home at lunch since he was just two miles away, straight shot.

Now Mom was about the most resilient 80-year-old I have ever seen.  She could fall, roll over on her all fours, and walk her way back up to a standing position really good.  It’s amazing that in all her life, she only broke two bones.  One day, as I’m hoeing in the tansy (which I hated ‘because it had an awful smell), sweat dripping from me like a faucet, and I look up to see Mom coming down the walkway towards me.   She yelled that dinner was ready, and promptly toppled over on the walkway.  I see her when she stumbles, throw down my hoe, and start running through the tansy patch towards her hoping to catch her, but instead stumbled on my own big feet and did a number plowing through that black dirt.  The fall wasn’t pretty.  I rooted up the dirt with my face and snout looking like a hog in a pen.   So, there we were, both of us sprawled out in the yard, stunned.  I yelled for her to stay put until I could get up and then slowly crawled and scratched my way over to her.

After we laughed a few minutes, we decided we better see if we could get up.  She was the first up and she helped me.  Now, we’re both looking all over ourselves to see if we were ok, and decided that the only thing that hurt was our little pinkie fingers.  I called Sollie who came in two minutes and took us to the local clinic where they x-rayed our hands.  Yep.  We both broke the same finger on the same hand.   We sported our splints on our pinkies for several weeks.  My pinkie is still crooked to this day!  Hers was straight.  We made the local newspaper the next week, after young Billy came over and took our picture, sitting in the porch swing holding up our left hands, for his Dad’s paper.   Young Billy is now the Mayor of the town, and Editor of the paper.  His Dad and Mom were great friends of ours.  She and I did a great “fall” together while practicing on the set of a Rotary Musical production a few years later.  I ‘bout broke my leg trying to break the fall for her!  Ah, what precious memories…. But, more changes are on the horizon.