PRETTY FEET

Today as I'm standing in the isle at Walmart frantically looking for a replacement cartridge for my printer and trying to figure out which one was the correct one was rolling around in my brain.  My thoughts are interupted by feeling the presence of someone standing next to me. I wasn't dressed to impress. I'm wearing some old gold colored clunker sandals and a pair of jeans that I grabbed out of the closet because they were the first things I saw. Now, my latest pedicure was on my birthday, July 8, so you can just use your imagination as to the condition of my dry, unpainted, arthritic tootsies with bunions and just a touch of toenail fungus on one big toe. Not a pretty sight.

The "presence" beside me mumbled something and as I turned to look at him he says, plain as daylight, "you have very pretty feet." ........ Humm, I'm thinking - ok - here's a live one with a loose screw. Being the polite person I am, I said "thank you" and turned back to the rack hoping to find my cartridge and that he would move on to the next isle. After a moment, he says something else to me.  As I turned to him with a questioning look, he repeated his statement. "Would you mind showing my your heels?" At that point, I said "WHAT??" He politely repeated his request. Now, I'm not believing what I am hearing! I blurted out "WHY?" "Why in the world do you want to see my heels?" He looked somewhat rejected and quietly said, I have a "foot fetish" to which I loudly said," well you go find someone's elses' heels to look at but you ain't seein' mine."

I quickly found my hubby, told him what happened and we went to the Service Desk and ask for Security.  I'm pretty worked up by now and ready to run for my life but expected some long drawn out report would have to be filled out.   You know, a little excitement. In a moment, a long tall dude in jeans and cowboy boots saunters up to us. Expecting to see somebody in a uniform, I asked "are you security"? He nodded, (apparently miffed because I asked) so I explained the whole thing to him. Not seeming too impressed or concerned, he said he would look at the video cameras and that in the last two years, they had something like this only a couple of times. Lucky me.

As we left, he laughed and said to me. "Well, look at it this way, it's nice to be over 50 and have someone think you're good looking enough to compliment your feet!" I could have decked him! I've never even been "hit" on before, and some jerk only tells me I have pretty feet? Dang!

Sink or swim!

On a sticky, hot summer day, probably a 4th of July, the Scott "clan" decided it was high time for a picnic.   Brown Springs, the swimming hole to die for, was the best place in the whole wide world to have a picnic.   Secluded, soft and spongy green grass, pine trees, and room enough to park the cars around the banks of the clear, icy cold bubbling spring was perfect.  You had to get there early  to claim your spot for parking or there would be no picnic for you that day.  The area was small.   The spring  was about the size of a small house, with a narrow sandy beach and shallow water, and the middle of the spring was an abyss of unknown proportions.   The bubbling water kept anyone from actually sinking so the kids were fairly safe. 

The "clan" consisted of those family members around  at the moment, but on this particular day, it was probably  like this:     Big Daddy with Big Momma, Aunt 'Cile, Donnie, Momma and me in his old ramshackled , black, aged to grey, 1930's something,  4 door car.  This thing  was  big enough inside hold a square dance.  It had a push button starter  to crank it, a long stick shift with a round knob,  in the floor,  and choke knob.  You had to be careful not to flood it.  If you flooded it , you were in trouble and you would have to wait and wait until it got unflooded before you could try again.  Big Momma always had trouble with that.  I can see her now, stomping the gas peddle trying to start it just right without flooding it.

Uncle Aubrey usually always had the newest car in the "clan."  Most of the time, it was a white, 4 door Ford, that looked sort of like a bubble with a rounded top.  But he kept it so clean you could lick  the seats.  I didn't get to ride in Uncle Aubrey's car much,  unless Momma had to borrow his car on occasion.  Tommie Faye and Buddy would load up with him on this day.

Uncle Waitus and Aunt Margie had a bubble car too.  It  was mostly new,  but he didn't mind getting  his dirty,  and we kids would stand up on the floor in the back and sometimes go splurging on Sundays.  That meant going to Quick's Service Station and getting a Dixie Cup of vanilla or chocolate ice cream with a pull off cardboard tab lid.  With them would be Gail,  and her Momma, Alice.

Gail was sort of my cousin.    As it turns out, she was as good as any cousin because she lived with my Uncle Waitus and Aunt Margie.  That was good enough for me.  We had lots of fun together and I spent many a day and night at their house, helping Aunt Margie can pears and peaches, swimming in the #2 washtub in the yard, and in  Uncle Waitus's turnip patch.

  

We all load up and head out North in a convoy of bubble cars and a jalopy of sorts, squealing children in bathing suits, and hot and sweaty adults.  I never saw any of them in a bathing suit that I remember.  To the contrary, voile dresses, white sandals, corsets, stockings, girdles, or who knows what, was worn to picnics, and any place else, even in the hottest days of a South Georgia summer, by the Scott "clan" women.  Uncle Aubrey and Uncle Waitus has a penchant for starched white dress shirts and rolled up the sleeves to mid forearm to give them a casual look, I suppose.  Uncle Waitus's black, lace up ankle boots were shined to perfection and he wore suspenders for his trousers and socks both.  I don't think he wore his black bow tie to the picnic, however.  Uncle Aubrey almost always wore a tie, tucked into his shirt opening between buttons and his trousers hiked up to his chest, complete with a Panama cigar.

The cars are unloaded, the watermelon put in the water for cooling, and the doors opened on all cars so the ladies could sit and fan.  We kids pile out, strike out for water so cold it took your breath away, splashing and pushing each other into the clear, freezing water.  We are allowed to stay in the water until our lips turn blue.

 

Now, being the timid little girl that I was, had never learned how to swim.  I had been led to believe by the powers that be, that a teaspoon of water could drown me.   Momma shrieked for help every time I got in water more than ankle deep, so I was more than cautious for fear of getting in the deep part where the hole was.  Uncle Waitus, being the jolly, and mischievious man that he was, came around and picked me up in his arms.  He gently walked around to the other side of the springs, and threw my flailing arms and legs into that spring as close to the center as he could get me.  "Now, LaRose, you can swim!"   Yep, I could swim alright.  I was practically walking on water by the time I got out of that hole, laughing, crying and screaming every inch of the way.  But in my desperation to survive, I had actually taken some strokes to glide me out of the mess I was in.  I've never forgotten how to do that.

By this time, all of us in the water had turned seriously blue, and the activity had us starving!   The picnic was spread, watermelon cut, tea poured, and we ate our fill of fried chicken, potato salad, cakes, fried pies, and some of Aunt Margie's emerald green and ruby red canned pears and peach pickles.

After waiting the allotted time before getting a promised cramp, we were allowed back in the spring

for more fun and frolicking on that summer day.  It was late in the afternoon before we  gathered up  towels, food, drinks, and toys to make the trip back home, happy and exhausted.

Picnics during war times were few and far between.  Many food staples were rationed with stamps and many families, including our own, had loved ones in harms way.  But the Scott "clan" is thankful for the memories of Brown Springs and for the family that was able to enjoy and share good times for a summer picnic.

Brown Springs is located on private property and isn't even on a map today and most people have never heard of it.  It is located north of Swainsboro near Coleman's Lake and Midville.

FIRE ON A COLD NIGHT..

 It was frigid that February 14, 1948. My Momma and I stood outside on the steps and watched as the sky blazed red. I remember that glow. I remember that freezing cold night,  wondering why my Daddy had gone out and there was tension and fear in our house. I felt it - but didn't understand it.

Later, much later, that night, I remember seeing Daddy walking up our dirt street holding the hand of a little boy about my age and a younger little girl in his arms. They spent the night at our house. Nothing was said that night about where they came from and why.

A young boy, his younger sister,  and their Mother, would never forget that night. They learned to cope, but they didn't forget. This awful memory remains tucked away in my mind too. Sometimes it creeps out and I still can see the red glow in the sky. My heart hurts for my strong Daddy and those children he carried in his arms. It's easier now, but the memories are indelible, and will never die.  

You see, the truth is, my Daddy, my cousins, and their Mother had witnessed the horrific death of their brother, father, and husband.   Some memories are best forgotten. Some are so painful that they aren't discussed, they are suppressed, hoping that the pain of the event, the moment of horror, will be erased because it is willed to be. But the pain never goes away. Lives are forever changed. 

Times to Remember

I was a wee little girl on Dec. 7, 1941 only three years old.  I remember very well those days when my Dad worked at the Shipyard in Savannah.  The nights we had our windows covered.  The ration stamps.  The red, white, and blue "Uncle Sam Wants You" posters, and the sirens.  The quietness.  The darkness.  Also, the soldiers who were killed and whose pictures were in the local paper.

I remember the night my Mom was standing in front of the fireplace, warming herself, and crying.  She was holding a letter.  I believe it was the letter calling my father into war.  Ultimately, he was deferred because he was working for the DOD.  Yes, I remember what war is like even though I was young.

My Granny Elkins saw three of her five boys go to war.  Different branches of service.  Different locations in the world.  My Big Mother Scott saw her baby boy join the service.  I cannot think of anything worse that having my children subjected to such horrific circumstances.  Not knowing where they were, if they were alive, if they were warm and fed, if they were scared, and knowing they were just boys themselves doing their part. 

Several of my ancestors served and some died fighting for a cause they believed in during the Civil War.  Some of them were sons of immigrants from Ireland and England.  Yet, they fought for what they considered detrimental to the future of their families. 

 

Indeed those were perilous times.  But our country survived because they pitched in and did what was necessary during war to save our homeland.  Thank you to all those who lost their lives that December day and to all those who have served before and continued since then,  to defend our freedom as we know and enjoy it every day. 

FOR ALL MY SAINTS

This morning as I watched the church service on television, I was reminded of how most of us had someone in our life who made a difference. In most cases, it probably has been our choice to surround ourselves with those who influenced us one way or another. Usually, we can identify a person, or a group of people, that had a negative influence just by the sequence of events in our lives. 

When we give it some thought, I imagine we can all name people who have given us inspiration, faith, and hope for the future. People that make us feel good. People that we love, and have made a difference, because of their impact on our lives. I doubt any of mine would consider themselves a Saint. 

But, as I listened today, my mind went rampant remembering those people in my life. There are so many that I remember for some small deed of kindness, some for the things they taught me, and for some, things they shared with me about themselves. I remember Sunday School teachers, Pastors, relatives, teachers, and friends. I remember seeing some suffer from illnesses, or endure financial hardships, some in despair over the loss of a loved one, but every one, in some way, radiated peace, grace, love, happiness, joy, or beauty to me through it all. Qualities and traits that I wanted. 

Several teachers showed patience and guidance by not accepting anything but the best from their students and showing the importance of a good education. A Principal taught character, when he cared enough for his students to actually check on them when they were missing from school. 

A family friend who tutored me in my piano lessons, read the Bible, and always had a sandwich and beverage waiting when I got there showed grace and manners.

I remember a wonderful lady who spent an enormous amount of her time with me and some classmates who needed an accompanist for high school competition events. She raised a family of five, was the musical director for the church, and battled cancer for the last years of her life, but was always there when she was needed by anyone. Always giving, always smiling. Always positive.

There was an aunt, who showed strength and perserverance in raising a child on her own, while suffering from a dibilitating illness , worked a full time job, when working outside the home wasn't the norm. . I can still smell the violet toilet water that sat on my aunt's dresser and see her tortise shell mirror and hair brush. She sang beautifully and she and my Mom performed, sharing their talents throughout the community. On his own merits, her son went to college, seminary, and graduate school. He served each appointment with outstanding success, gaining accolades for his service to the churches thoughout the state and even after retirement continues to serve quietly volunteering.

An uncle who never had formal education, was a Methodist minister all of his adult life and brought the word of God, joy and laughter to anyone he met. 

The husband of a cousin, showed amazing strength and courage when he lost his wife and son within one year, but he never gave up hope for the future and was solid in his belief that everything happens for a reason although we don't always understand. His faith got him through that unimagineable time of grief and loss. He used his experiences in founding a charity golf event in memory of his son, showing humility and generosity.

One friend in particular, showed such wisdom and character when she shared about her daughter who had been molested by a church friend. She offered consolation to me when I was at a particularly low point in my life and prayed with me.

My best friend as an adult was always there for me. We shared stories, cried together, laughed together, and prayed together. After she was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer, she never slipped in her faith and never lost her ability to make me laugh even when those last dark days loomed over us. Her husband and brother were brought up mostly on their own due to the hard times during the war and after the loss of their father. They were so aware of the importance of a loving family relationship. They always included us in their "family". 

Another friend who was such a happy and positive person that it was impossible to be around her and complain. Always asking what she could do for anyone who knew her. She had a unique ability to find something special that she could do in her life that was simply love pouring from her. She volunteered for Hospice and throughout her last years of life, after being diagnosed with cancer, she volunteered at a local hospital on a regular basis. She loved singing, loved here church, but most of all, was devoted to her children.

An elderly friend who welcomed me when I was new in town and always called to invite me to join in with her in activies in the community and her home. The "pound cake Queen", she always included me when she had something to share. We enjoyed many hours just talking and laughing and sharing recipes. A beautiful lady with true southern charm.

I've also been blessed to have relationships with people I have never met. One friend in particular, has given me prayers, support, encouragement, and love by way of the internet when I needed it most. There are others who stay in touch and offer words of praise and/or congratulations.

In my own words, I simply express my gratitude to these people, and many more, whose influence is indelible. especially my Mother and Father for giving me life. They all are truly the Saints of my life.

　T

　

　

SWEET SIXTEEN

I had two birthday parties growing up. One when I was eight, attended by Momma, Big Daddy, Big Momma, and my cousin, Donnie. Of course, Tippy, Big Momma's lap dog was at everything. The setting was outside in front of Biggie's house, with a card table covered with a red and white checkered tablecloth. I'm sure there must have been some neighborhhod friends there, but I have no recollection of them. 

I do remember how special it was to have a cake and all the attention that was directed at me that day. Biggie must have made my cake since my Mom went into a state of hysteria when she had to bake anything other than "cat head biscuits," and she didn't even make them very well. But there definitely was cake. Maybe ice cream. I can't remember any presents, but I'm sure Momma made sure that I had at least one present. She always managed to do that, no matter what. I've said before, we were poor, but I didn't know it. 

My other birthday party was on my 16th birthday. Now we're talking birthday parties! In my day, a birthday party on your 16th birthday was an occasion like no other in my hometown, unless it was a funeral or wedding. It meant weeks of preparation. Invitations had to be printed or engraved, depending on how "poor" you were, reserving the Community House, making your invitation list, again depending on how "poor" you were because you had to feed them. In our case, somebody had to borrow tablecloths, punch bowl and cups, appropriate utensils for the food, buy candles, order the birthday cake from Bazemores, make punch, arrange for the music, and chaperones. Yep, we had chaperones. They were usually friends or relatives of the parents. Roudy teenagers weren't tolerated, but nobody I knew was roudy anyway so the chaperones weren't really needed. Nevertheless, they were always there. Just in case. 

Dance cards for the girls were a definite must, so somebody had to get busy and make up those little folding cards, cut out with pinking shears from colored construction paper. They were made to look pretty with a ribbon attached to go around the wrist. It was numbered 1, 2, 3, etc. inside with a line drawn beside the number for your dance partner. The guys would scramble to sign their name on the cards of the most popular girls. I never saw many guys scrambling to get to my card at any party, including my own. The fact that I had a serious boyfriend may have had a bearing on that, but then again, I wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree. But I'd get a few signatures on my card, just to be nice. 

Back to my party. The Community House was decorated with crepe paper streamers, record player with all the top hits of the 50's and the wooden floor was gleaming and waxed to perfection. The beautiful two tiered birthday cake sat in the middle of the long table with the perfect punch of the day,  - Lime sherbert and ginger ale - in a beautiful borrowed crystal bowl with cups all lined up beside it. Petit fours, cookies, chicken salad, cream cheese with pineapple sandwiches were piled high on the borrowed silver trays. Nuts and little green and pink mints were in borrowed compotes. It was something to behold! Momma had worked herself into a frienzy, but she had "done good."   I was spit polished and all dressed up in a new dress for the occasion.  Looking good.

When the magic hour arrived, I was petrified that no one would show up. My stomach got tied up in knots, I was sweating like a hog,  and I followed Momma's lead and went into my own frienzy as the time approached and the long awaited event was ready to begin. I'm sure we had asked for RSVP's, but you never know.... Typical me - and Momma. I walked the floor, afraid that my party was going to be a big fat flop. 

Just about then, some cars arrived and out hopped girls, boys, and Momma's, who probably wanted to see how pretty everything looked.  I was saved!   Soon, the place was swarming with teenagers and the boys scrambled for the girl's dance cards. Yes! I was an instant, gleaming "birthday girl!" The night was danced away, cake and petit fours and sandwiches were eaten with a cup of green punch, presents were opened, and it was over. 

My own ladder to success had been completed. My dance card wasn't filled, but everybody had a good time and the coveted milestone of the 16th birthday party was over. Momma, Daddy, and all the chaperones cleaned up, washed cups, punch bowls, and trays and we turned out the lights on one of the best days of my life.

Life was good. We made the social pages in the Forest Blade. 

　

　

VEXED OR VENDICATED

Have you ever wondered if you're marching to the wrong drum?  Not doing something you should be doing, or worse, doing something you should not be doing?  Ever wonder why things happen the way they do?  Where did I mess up,  or what did I do to create such chaos in my life?  Why this?  Why that?  

Let me tell you about what it means when your brain has a tendency to have seizures.  Yep, seizures.  But before I do, let me tell you about my frenzied dreams.  I'm talking serious crazy stuff.......But,  I also wonder if they aren't more telling of my state of mind when the medication for seizures has been started, stopped, changed, or continued.

Last nights escapades started after three hours, but continued, after I had a "nature call" three times between midnight and 6:00 AM.  It went something like this...

I'm returning a large table which I had used for some unknown event,  to someplace,  over the state line into some adjacent state.  I'm driving a white van.....but, it operates like a mobile device "scooter" - sticks that go forward, backward, left, right.  No breaks.  It either goes really fast, or really slow.

I return the table without incident.  I return to my van scooter and mosey on into a large warehouse-like building that has a vendor displaying beautiful and classy looking blouses, tops, tunics, etc.  Hummm....... I decide I would go inside and try on a few.  The sales clerks were very nice.  Helped me try on several.  I twisted and turned and looked in the mirror at myself and after a while, I decided that they all were too long and made me look fatter than I already am.  I thanked the nice ladies and back into my van scooter and off I mosey.  - Literally.  Slowly and meticulously trying to find my way out of the building and onto a highway leading to home.  My van scooter had NO breaks.  I would push the stick forward and it sailed away.  I pulled the stick forward and it would slow down.  I pushed the other stick and it would go left. I pulled it and it would go right.  Frustration was setting in, big time.  Scared to death because I had no clutch OR breaks.  Out of control.

I managed to find my way back to the warehouse where there is a vendor selling mattresses.  I lay down on several trying to decide which was comfortable.  Some were, some weren't.  Some hard, some soft.  Then finally found the perfect one, but it was a king sized mattress.  Thought to myself, "why are you thinking about a king sized mattress?"  You don't have room for one and sold the one you had!  Stupid me.  So, I tell the man and go on my way.  He smiles and waves.

Somewhere in this maze of a warehouse, were boxes with shipping labels to Walmart stores in various locations.  I think, I probably shouldn't be buying a mattress from Walmart anyway.  I'm back on the road again.  Raining.  Pouring.  Frantic to get home.  So tired.  So scared.  So worried. 

I awake for the third and last time at 9:00 A.M.,  totally exhausted.  So spent.  So tired.  So wobbly with pain.  I grasp my way to the kitchen for my daily meds.   I know the drill.  Pain medication isn't an option for me.  Won't go there until I'm almost dead.   Two 650 mg. acetaminophen is my drug of choice.  "Three times a day, dammit!"  A direct quote from one doctor.

I've had at least three seizures in my life.  Two episodes,  I now recognize, had to have been seizures, but at the time, I was alone,  and didn't know any better.  Just knew I suffered from severe painful attacks and thought they resulted in my "fainting".   The third seizure left me incapacitated, incoherent, and exhausted and darn near scared my husband to death,  since he thought I was dead, or dying for sure.  Yep, the grand Mal.  Not a pretty sight!

As I thought about this, I wondered why I have had such difficulty in getting a medication that allows me to have a "normal" day.  One free of pain, free from becoming a walking, talking, zombie that can't remember squat,  but still will ward off the evil spirit that seems to dominate my life called "seizure tendency".  It ain't right.  Am I persecuted, vexed, tormented, grounded, in "time-out"?  Why did this momentous, life altering event start in my golden years?

 

I choose to believe I am firmly vilified, vindicated, approved of, and cherished.  Not angry, provoked, or troublesome.  I choose to have a life in spite of the seizures, not in lieu of them.  I choose to keep doing whatever is possible to help me to remain in the lives of those who want me there for being who I am, not for being what I am not.  Nobody, nobody can know what it is like until they have been there.  Nobody should decide,  other than doctors and patients, who takes any medication.  If cannabis oil would allow me to live a life free of seizures or tendency for seizures, then I want to go for it.  I would urge any parent to do the same thing for their child who has seizures.  It is life altering, life changing, and life threatening experience.

Does my dream have a meaning?  Am I seeking to get somewhere, in a slow moving, uncontrollable environment?  Am I trying to control circumstances where I should not have any control?  Do I have faith?  Am I a loony tune?  Am I lucky to be where I am today and have the life I do have?  You bet!

Cheers!