WINTER DAY AT RURAL OAKS

It was one of those cold and snowy days out at Rural Oaks Farm that comes in February.  Our driveway was frozen solid with the packed snow making any effort to get down to the mailbox perilous.  Up the hill stood the big main farmhouse overlooking the entire 500 some odd acres of family land.  Several generations had been raised there.  Now, it was occupied by a family friend who loved it just as the owner did.  Huge boxwood led up the path to the porch and the large old trees surrounded the home like a Mother guarding her child.   They were bare now but in the summertime, hung over the enormous grounds providing cool shade for summer picnics.  A big barn, complete with all the farm implements stood to the left.    They were of little use nowadays since tobacco was not grown anymore and most of the fields were either leased out or used to raise sheep by another family member. 

The nearest neighbors are at least a quarter mile away in either direction, but everybody looks out for everybody else as is the custom in this small Virginia county, where everybody knows your name.  Up the hill, another small farm with a brick house sitting back through the field can hardly be seen but once you get there, the hill becomes a pinnacle for a view of the valley behind the home.  Beautiful fruit trees, summer crops, flowers, and everything good makes you want to just sit down and have a glass of lemonade in summer or on a cold winter day like this day, sit in the homey kitchen where cinnamon bread may be in the oven and a pot of navy bean soup on the stove.  Tommy and Betty Sue had raised a family here and never expect to leave.  It’s home.

Today, as usual when the weather is bad, Tommy goes out, cranks up his old tractor that’s sitting under the carport, and waits for it to warm up.  Betty Sue is inside the warm house making breakfast.   The usual routine is, once the tractor warms up good while they have breakfast, he backs it out, plows their driveway through the front field, and on down to the next house.  Once the snow is removed from this one, he drives down the road to the next one, until every driveway on the neighboring farms has been cleared enough for folks to at least get their mail.    Tommy was a quiet man, robust and happy.  He was a former Extension Agent so he was doing his thing.  Being outside in the elements winter or summer was no big deal to him.  In summer, he grew buckets of tomatoes, corn, squash.  It was not unusual to come home from work and find a huge bucket of produce sitting on my porch.  No note, nothing.  I knew Tommy has been by.

As time passes, Betty Sue realizes it shouldn’t take this long for him to come back inside while the tractor warmed up.  She wondered what’s taking so long and decides to check to see if he had left without coming back in for breakfast.  Tommy was there on the floor of the carport.  Tommy, our good neighbor had apparently slipped on the icy floor as he prepared to plow the snow from his friends and neighbor’s driveways.  

Seeing the emergency vehicles roar up the road, we knew something bad had happened.  Sol jumped in his truck and made his way up the road where he heard the story.    Good friends like the Barnes’s are hard to come by.  We’d just had Christmas dinner with them that year enjoying time with their whole family.  We were alone that year and they knew it, so they invited us to share their holiday meal around their table.  In just a few weeks, he was gone leaving a great void in his home, church, and Southside Virginia near Rural Oaks Farm.         

A PLACE AT THE TABLE

As I sit down at my table, one of the sweet servers sided up to me and whispers, "Girl, you are gone get you a boyfriend looking so pretty like you do"! I laughed and countered that there weren't many prospects in the dining room as the whole place is made up of about 99% women, and old women at that, and I wasn't about to go bar hopping.  At least, not yet.

She says "you got to get out!  you got to go someplace where they's people!   Go to the shopping center, go to Walmart!   They be lots of men out there looking for a beautiful woman like you!"  I smiled, thanked her for her advice, and took my seat next to my 92 year old classy lady friend who loves to brag about her wealthy family and complain about the residents.

Another resident drags up a chair and allows as to how she just doesn't feel comfortable at that other table anymore and she was going to sit at our table.  ( "Our" table used to be a table of one, until I started sitting with the classy lady because she was alone.)  The other two seats are now up for grabs.   The transient resident said she used to sit at that table over there,  but they started filling it up before she got there,  so she's moved to the other one where she doesn't feel "right" and now she's coming to ours.  What a mess!  

I allowed as to how I wished there would be assigned seating so that everybody had someone to sit with and nobody would be left alone or feeling like they were unwelcome at a table.  My 92 year old classy lady, black eyes flashing,  nearly threw a hissy fit when I said that.  She didn't care if anyone ever sat at her table and there were some she didn't want to sit at her table and she had been there 22 years and blah, blah, blah and all they did was gossip!

Now, I'm sitting here thinking that I chose to sit with this classy old lady because she was alone and I felt sorry for her sitting by herself, and she's ranting and raving about this and that person doing so and so and used a few choice words in the process.  I've heard over and over about how she's donated to our fine home and now I'm thinking, uh oh, I done got myself into a situation.   Maybe that rumor I heard about her just might be true.

  

Now I've already spoken to classy lady about her talking about people and told her that if she didn't stop it, I was going to move to another table.  I told her that nobody had been rude to me, tried to bully me, or talked too much.   She looked at me in disbelief that day, but I think she knows I meant it. 

I'm not sure I'm ready for life in the fast lane.   I could scope out Walmart or the shopping center after all.   I just hope I don't run into the dude again who wanted to look at my feet.  He definitely wasn't my type.  Bar hopping at the Ritz Carlton may be my last resort.  At least the clientele may be dignified.

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.