Month: February 2016

Rudy the Rooster and his Boosters

imageThe Austins lived just across the pasture from us. Jody Austin “drank.” In our neck of the woods, “drinking” meant a man was considered disreputable, prone to beat his wife and children, and probably didn’t work. It sounded a lot like today’s alcoholic. Jodie qualified magnificently. It was rumored that he had shot a man in a bar. Folks left Jody alone. Every Saturday night Jody hosted his “drinking” buddies for a binge. The festivities started with a huge bonfire. As they sat around on barrels, old cars, and broken lawn chairs, they tossed their cans out in the darkness. They got louder, sometimes had a friendly fight, occasionally rolling all around the fire, finishing off with a little singing…a treat for all the neighbors.

Jody and his gang of rowdies got sufficiently drunk, they started crowing trying rouse the rooster! Jody had a fine crowing voice, but roosters are territorial, determined to keep their harem to themselves. Since roosters habitually are “early to bed and early to rise,” it usually took about four tries to get Rudy the Rooster going.  His initial response was usually half-hearted and anemic. Roo-ooh- ooh-ooh-ooh-oooooh. He obviously needed his rest. Jody’s buddies took a turn crowing. Rudy was riled now and ready for a rooster fight, but couldn’t find a single rooster to whip. The partiers thought this was high humor. They all took turns crowing. After a particularly authentic crow, Rudy called back “ROOH-OOH-OOH-OOH-OOOOOOH!!!” The longer the competition went on, the madder Rudy got. He must have hated Saturday nights and drinking.

First in a series

It’s Snot What You Think

Reblogging one of my old posts.

lbeth1950's avatarNutsrok

Snotty girl0004Illustration by Kathleen Swain

Unless you’ve been cursed with a prissy, goody-two-shoes older sister, you couldn’t possibly appreciate this, so just go on with whatever you were doing. If you want to commiserate, jump right in. Phyllis was three years older than I. This put her just far enough ahead of me that all the teachers and Sunday School teachers were still raving

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How Miss Tillie Tittillated the Heathen

imageMiss Tillie, my Sunday School Teacher held my attention like no other before or since, giving the class candy, bubble gum, and tiny little paper umbrellas if we learned our Bible verses. Mother thought she ought not to bribe us to do our lessons. I thought Mother ought to mind her own business. Miss Tillie had already taught Sunday School for thirty years by the time I had her in 1956. She still wore lacy dresses left over from her daughter’s high school days when she didn’t opt for gabardine suits with oversize shoulder pads from the forties. She showed up once a month with robin’s egg blue hair that faded over the next three weeks to a pale lavender. We always complimented her when it was at its brightest and she’d shyly say, “Can you believe I don’t even have to color it?” I couldn’t. She still wore seamed stockings long after the other ladies wore seamless. I always looked forward to seeing a special one with a mended run she wore every third Sunday. I got to know Miss Tillie before I was old enough to know she was a little wacko, so I admired all her differences.

Miss Tillie was so sweet I wouldn’t have wanted to misbehave. The naughty words in the Bible caused her a big problem. She couldn’t bring herself to say the bad words like lie, sin, Hell, and ass, so she made modest substitutions such as fibbing, doing wrong, the bad place, and donkeys. The lesson of Samson versus the Philistines was a challenge for her. Starting out fine, she described Samson’s great strength and glorious hair, reminding us of his obedience to God. Things were going well until the battle reached its zenith. With her modesty, she couldn’t possibly say, “Samson slew ten-thousand Philistines with the jawbone of an ass,” so after a great deal of obvious preparation and practice, she concluded the lesson with a flourish, “and so Samson picked up the assbone of a donkey and slew ten-thousand Philistines.” That lesson is still burned in my brain.

Outcry as Pre-Menstrual Whitechapel Woman Cleared of Murdering ‘Whistling’ Husband With an Axe

Reblogged from Whitechapel Whelk.

The Whitechapel Whelk's avatarThe Whitechapel Whelk

axe-woman-chop-lady-laugh-crazy-250x375 Mrs Terry poses happily for reporters after being cleared yesterday

Women’s support groups were jubilant yesterday after a 38 year old London woman was allowed to walk free from court, despite being found guilty of murdering her husband, in what was described in court as: “a frenzied and sustained attack” with an axe in June 2015..

During the six weeks trial, the court heard how Mrs Mary Terry from Whitechapel in East London, was close to the onset of her menstrual cycle at the time of the murder. The court was then told how she had been subjected, to what her barrister described as, “a sickening catalogue of abuse” at the hands of her 45 year old chartered accountant husband of 18 years, Miles.

A number of female jurors wept openly as defending counsel, Penelope Barrington-James QC, described how, during their marriage, Mr Terry had repeatedly made a slight squeaking…

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How to Get Your Yard Work done in Three Simple Steps

My dad had a fool-proof plan to get his yard-work done easily and painlessly (for him).  Let the leaves and tree debris pile up pretty high in the fall and spring.  Mention casually a couple of times, “You kids are gonna’ have to clean up this yard in a few days.”  Let a couple of days pass so they hope you’ve forgotten or gone blind.  Come home from work on Friday afternoon in a jovial mood.  This works best if you are normally a real grouch.  It’s best if one of your brothers is visiting and your kids ask to spend the night with Cousin Becky, Susan, or Joey.   Implement step #1 

“No, Y’all  have to clean the yard tomorrow, but they can stay with you if they want to help.”  

He was serious about them staying, always hoping to get a little of work out of them.  Even though there were no Einstein’s in our family, no cousin was ever that dumb.

“No, I am not staying!  I don’t   wanna’ clean the yard!”  They were in the car before the screen door slammed. 

Traitors!

Step #2   The next morning he’d roll us out at six am, anticipating a good day.  We didn’t talk much at breakfast, especially avoiding the words yard, sweep, work, and leaves.  It’s amazing how often a word jumps out when you are studiously avoiding it.  “Billy didn’t LEAVE any jelly for me.” 

“Don’t worry.  You’ll get all the LEAVES you want today.”  He made crappy jokes, playing on our dread.

Finally, he’d push his chair back, “Time for the friendships to end and the work to begin.”

I would have enjoyed flailing the genius from whom he’d picked up that cruel witticism.  He routed us into the one-acre yard where the lecture began.  “Now, get the wheelbarrow, rake, and yard broom.  I want all these sticks picked up first.  Then one of you can rake, the other sweep and the other pick up the leaves and haul them back yonder to the burn pile.  Now, I mean for this yard to be clean when I get home.”   

With that, he was off to whatever he had planned that day.  The task looked endless, with drifted leaves from dozens of trees, shrubs, and fallen sticks.  I would have gladly traded places with Sisyphus and his rock.

We had to fight a while before we got started.  Phyllis was the oldest, so she commandeered the yard broom, the prize implement.  Billy and I got stuck with the rake and wheelbarrow for loading and hauling leaves.  Of course, we had to fight a while before we made a good start.  Mother usually brought the little girls out and redirected us before she got back to her work of the day.

Step #3   Cleaning that yard would have been a huge job for a yard-proud person.  Three fighting kids cleaning a yard didn’t go that well.  The first time or two, we were of the mistaken belief we could make a pathetic excuse and get by with a half-done job.  Daddy was of the opinion that no well-balanced kid could get through a day  without a good whooping, anyway, so he was happy to oblige.  He frequently quoted, “I might as well whip y’all first thing in the morning and get it over with.”  A few stripes paid off handsomely in the next day’s efforts, and he had the satisfaction of knowing he hadn’t “spared the rod and spoiled the child.”  We were motivated to do the job right.      

Yes, indeed, Daddy knew how to get his yardwork done in three easy steps.  Just so you know, I am not advocating this plan.  

How to write a One-Page Synopsis & Write a Query Letter Infographics…

Great info. Got this from Chris the Storyreading Ape

Chris The Story Reading Ape's avatarChris The Story Reading Ape's Blog

To read the TWO associated articles by Amanda Patterson,

medium_Amanda_Patterson

click on the links or Infographics below:

How to write a One-Page Synopsis

medium_How_to_write_a_one-page_synopsis_by_Amanda_Patterson

How to write a query letter in 12 easy steps

medium_How_to_structure_a_query_letter_by_amanda_patterson

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How to write a One-Page Synopsis & Write a Query Letter Infographics…

To read the TWO associated articles by Amanda Patterson, click on the links or Infographics below: How to write a One-Page Synopsis How to write a query letter in 12 easy steps

Source: How to write a One-Page Synopsis & Write a Query Letter Infographics…

How Not to Get in Good With the Snotty Girls

imageAs I ran to the playground, I spotted my “sometimes friend” Betty Green deep in conversation with Rita Lawson, the principal’s snotty daughter. The choice of friendship each day was Betty’s. Her mother and mine were friends, so when when we we at my house or hers, chances are she’d be nice to me, unless she wasn’t.  I was a friendly kid and would have played with a rattlesnake. When Betty saw me running up, she turned her back, making it clear she didn’t want my company when she finally had Snotty Rita all to herself.  Ignoring her cue I tromped right in. “Wanna play chase?” They didn’t. They were both squalling and loftily resumed their tearful conversation, bonding over shared grief. It seems each had recently discovered the existence of a baby sister, dead and buried long before either of these two snotties were born. I listened in awe, caught up in the drama, knowing I had nothing to offer on the altar of their shared grief.

I rushed in and questioned Mother as soon as I got home. “Did you ever have a baby that died?”

No she didn’t. I had heard women whisper of losing babies. I had no idea what that meant, but it might be worth a try.

“Did you ever lose a baby?” She was hugely pregnant at the time and quite touchy.

“No, now get started on your homework. If you don’t have any, help me with supper.”

I recalled lots of homework. Remembering an ancient picture in a box in Mother’s closet, I prowled till I found it. Aha! This will surely get me in the dead baby club!  I slipped it into my math book, the first time that book had been opened at home that year.

Betty and Snotty Rita were still best buddies at recess the next day. I ran up, ignoring their cold looks, as I pulled my prize out of my jacket pocket. “Look, I have a picture of my dead baby sister. She died before I was born.” The sad image of an angelic baby in a white Christening dress, laid out in a homemade wooden coffin, her eyes closed in death was undeniable. Her black hair curled around her tiny face. They examined the picture somberly, giving me sympathetic looks as tears sprung to their eyes. I enjoyed their friendship for about thirty seconds until Betty turned the picture over and found scribbled, “Carrie Louise Perkins, born and died July 7, 1904.” I was out!!!

How to Live All Your Life

Pencil sketch of Roscoe Holdaway by Kathleen Holdaway Swain done in 1941 when she was twelve.Kathleen's Pencil Sketch of Roscoe 1941On her last visit with her father, she tried to spend a lot of time with him, knowing it was unlikely she’d see him again.  Overwhelmed with the demands of a large family, she often felt her life was not her own.  Most afternoons, she struggled to get both little ones to nap at the same time and used that precious time to catch up on her laundry and whatever she couldn’t get done with them underfoot.  She’d come to visit with the intention of staying two weeks, but extended her visit to a third week, trying to get a lifetime of visits in before she lost him.
Up since five-thirty with a teething baby, she finally got both little ones down for a nap after lunch.  Though she yearned for a nap herself, she joined her father on the porch.  Watching from the open door, she memorized him before going out, think how frail he looked in his wool coat and old felt hat humped over in his straight chair in the brutal, August of the afternoon.  He’d laid his paperback Western open-faced on the porch-floor.  Inferring he must be heartbroken, knowing he couldn’t live much longer, she took a seat beside him thinking he might have something to say.
“Kat,” he started.  “I’ve been watching those ants on the ground down there.  Look how they are so busy on their little trail.  Some are rushing forward to pick up a load, and some are headed back to the nest all loaded down.  Every once in a while, a few of them stop to talk then turn round and round in the trail before getting back in line. Isn’t that something?”
Surprised to hear of his pleasure in the ants, she realized he wasn’t sad at all, just absorbed in their activity. She sat with him till her little ones awoke and called her back to the ant trail of her life.
That was the last time she spent alone with him.