Month: September 2024

Sex Education in the ‘50s

I learned all this valuable information back in the 1950’s with absolutely no sex education! Probably until about the time I started school, I thought when people wanted a baby, they went to the hospital and picked one out from a collection there. Those that were not chosen grew up to be doctors and nurses.  

The sex of the baby was determined by the way the parents dressed it and fixed its hair.

After I noticed pregnancies, I drew some conclusions. The  unborn baby breathes through the mother’s naval.  If she submerged, it will suffocate.

Before I found out about sex, I thought women had babies because they had breasts, sort of like, “which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

When a friend enlightened me on the “facts of life,” I didn’t believe her.  I told “That’s stupid!  Nobody would do THAT!”

Overcoming Self-Pity: A Tale of Compassion and Self-Reflection

A balmy January evening was followed by a frigid, icy day of the kind we rarely get in Louisiana. I wore warm clothing but never warmed up as I drove the thirteen slippery miles to work. I begrudged going in knowing there would be extra patients hospitalized due to the loss of power and water, Dialysis patients can’t forgo treatment. I’d be doing a sixteen hour day and have to spend the night at the hospital to be available for emergency admissions. I thought longingly of my family in my cozy home who’d be gathered before the fireplace later that day, eating stew my husband heated in a cast iron pot in the fireplace. I had a good pity for myself worked up. 

On my way in, I met a co-worker clocking out. I wondered how she’d been lucky enough to be relieved. Then I saw she was crying. I forgot myself.

“Gracie? What’s wrong?” I asked. Gracie wasn’t a crybaby. I’d known her for years.

”I gotta get home! Grandma had clothes hanging in front of the heater and burned the house down. Everybody got out, but everything’s gone! I don’t even have a toothbrush! “ she wept. “My brother’s coming to get me and I don’t even have a coat to wear home.”

I felt so ashamed of my self-pity. “Here, take my coat. I took my wallet out of my purse, leaving her my lunch, comb, brush, lotion, tissue, umbrella and tylenol. “Here, take my purse and coat. This will help a little”

Experiencing her misfortune firsthand made me ashamed of myself. I wished I’d had more to give. Ever since that time. I give what I feel called upon to share. I’ve never regretted anything I gave away. I feel better if I do what I should.

Hangover Cartoons

Just so you know, I don’t even drink.

Ideal Week

Describe your ideal week.

Everyday would start slow and easy.

Sunday I’d wake up early, settle in my comfy chair with my lapdog and a cup of coffee, open WordPress and enjoy for a while. I might drift off for a nap till Bud wakes up. Eventually, I’d fix breakfast and do a few things around the house. I’d go out with the dogs a few times. If the weather is nice, I might work in the yard for a while. Dinner, more chair time and then bed.

The rest of the week, it’s just rinse and repeat. my life is just one madcap adventure after another.

Uncle Albutt Part 5

Quite often, our family and friends would gather for a late evening meal.  While the kids ran wild in the dusk and on into the darkness, the women prepared a filling meal of beef stew or chili and cornbread.  It would be near bedtime by the time they called us in, hysterical  with chasing each other in and out of the darkness.  Of course we’d been warned against running in the dark, but staying in range of the lights was for sissies.  I’d be in a delicious frenzy of terror till I stepped back into the light, where all horrors vanished.   They would be so many kids we’d be settled on the floor with our supper in a pie or cake pan.  This was before budgets stretched to include paper plates.  It was an honor to sit on the floor with the big kids.  Babies and toddlers sat at the tables where their mamas could keep a grip on them.  Two or three dinners were always dumped on the floor and there was squalling a’plenty as mamas cleaned up the mess and resettled the messy kids.  The kids finished in short order and tore back outdoors while the adults took their turn at the

After the meal, it wasn’t unusual for the men to load up their guns, flashlights, thermoses of coffee, and the dogs for a night of hunting, leaving the women and children to visit.  Mamas gave their kids a cursory wipedown with a washcloth before bed, since it wouldn’t have been possible to bathe that many children and settled them on pallets on the floor, sometimes as many as six to the bed.  Mamas rocked the knee babies and lap babies to sleep before putting them on a bed flanked by pillows once the settling down started, the women started their stories.  I loved these nights, especially if Mawmaw was there.  She believed in ghosts and could make our blood run cold.  Mother worried about nightmares, but lacked the courage to shush her mother-in-law, for which I was grateful.  I NEEDED those stories. Mawmaw thrilled us with tales of babies buried alive, girls who died of broken hearts when their dead sweethearts appeared to them, and big black ghost dog, and ball lightning rolling through the house. The kids didn’t dare move off the pallet, they were so terrified. Fatigued by their play, finally they drifted off to sleep, one by one.

As the women talked, they thought they heard an intruder trying to get in the front door. Someone else scurried to check the back door, unsure if it was locked.  .  Had there been an intruder, he’d have had a horrible shock breaking in on half a dozen  terrified women and a gaggle of children.  Meanwhile Mother hurried to the door.  Thinking she’d scare him away with a bluff, she called out.  “I’ve got a gun.  I’m gonna shoot through the door!”

Aunt Jewel stood right behind her.  Obviously terrified, she shouted out.  “Well, don’t just stand there!  Go git your gun.  You ain’t got no gun!”  Fortunately, there was no intruder, or he thought he’d better not break in, since nothing happened.

 

Delicious Crockpot Venison and Beef Stew

Buying markdown meat is an excellent practice. I typically shop after the weekend and really stock up. I overdid it a few months ago and overfilled my freezer. Please don’t judge me but I’ve been reading about the health benefits of cooking for dogs. My vet suggested I cook one third good quality meat, one third brown rice, and one third veggies. That sounded easy enough. I put about three pounds of mixed venison and beef in the crockpot on high, added three cups of brown rice and two pounds of mixed vegetables. After an afternoon of simmering, it smelled wonderful. The dogs kept coming through, checking out the enticing aroma.

They weren’t the only ones. Bud found his way to the kitchen. “What are you cooking?” He asked, lifting the lid. “That smells great!”

It occurred to me, this was not the time to mention I’d planned to reheat the homemade chicken noodle soup I’d made the day before. Lo and behold, the concoction experienced a conversion. Hallelujah! “Oh, just some stew. I need to add some onions and garlic.” It will be ready soon. You might want to get a piece of fruit in the meantime.”

I got busy with onions, garlic, and parsley as well as seasonings. It smelled heavenly. Before long, Bud tucked into a big bowl of stew as the dogs watched mournfully. They may have to be satisfied with chicken noodle soup.

Little White Lie

This story can never get back to Mother.

Quite a few years ago, Mother went to a cute bobbed hairstyle. It cost her thirty-five dollars.

Kathleen Swain

Everything was fine until she slipped up on setting up an appointment with the hairdresser. She asked if I could trim it. Foolishly, I accommodated her. While it didn’t look good, it probably wasn’t the worst home haircut anybody ever got. I’d inflicted that one on my sister many years earlier. Mother appreciates a bargain and the price was perfect. I was trapped. She never made another appointment.

As time went on, I got less enthusiastic about doing the job. I made a deal with my hairdresser. If she’d cut Mother’s hair and charge ten dollars, I’d pick up the rest of the tab. Mother loves Diane and looks forward to their appointments. That’s how its been ever since.

Mother recently moved to an independent Living facility which she loves. The good news is, they have a hairdresser on site. The bad news is. She charges forty-five dollars. That relationship never got off the ground. Mother couldn’t wait to get back to Diane and her ten dollar appointments.

Here she is, getting her $10 bob.

Jackie Robinson

Name the professional athletes you respect the most and why.

I respect Jackie Robinson for breaking the color barrier in professional baseball. His drive and courage had to be tremendous to brave the difficulties he faced. He changed things for all of us who are different in any way. He was not just a baseball player, he opened doors for all who face challenges. Thank you, Mr. Robinson

Mother’s Infamous Flapjacks: A Humorous Culinary Tale

As long as I’m on the subject, I might as well tell about the absolute most heinous food Mother cooked: flapjacks! When I smelled the acrid smell of Mother’s flapjacks nearing incineration, I literally hoped for The Rapture before I got the call to breakfast. Mother ascribed to the theory that a person HAD to eat breakfast. If she’d had nothing to offer but a bowl of sticks and rocks, so be it. Though she was generally mild-tempered, on this subject, she wouldn’t budge. Breakfast would be eaten.

Mother’s flapjacks could never have been confused with lovely, golden brown pancakes topped with butter and dripping with maple syrup. We usually saw her dread flapjacks on Thursday morning, grocery day. The cupboard was often nearly bare by then with nothing left but self-rising flour, a little leftover grease, and possibly a little sugar.

That’s when we’d get flapjacks, a glorified, deep fried dough ball. They were most often no more than self-rising flour, likely made without benefit of milk or eggs. The flour was often just mixed with water. Should we be out of syrup, preserves, or jam, Mother would boil us up a bit of sugar syrup, an equal mixture of sugar and water boiled together. The only taste was sweet.

Mother’s flapjack technique was crude. She’d put the skillet of grease on to heat while mixing up a thick mess of tasteless dough. Once the grease was smoking and near to conflagration, she’d dump big gobs of dough into the near-blazing grease. The flapjack quickly plumped up about an inch thick on contact with the skillet. As often as not, smoke poured from the skillet. Just before they ignited, she’d flip them. The bottoms were burned black. As I’ve mentioned before, Mother was easily distracted by the madness always in progress with five kids. Distressed by the burned side, she usually managed to get the fat, black dough balls out of the pan before the bottoms burned.

Mother had a poor opinion of our intelligence. Despite the cloud of smoke circling our heads and the smell of the charred flapjacks, she optimistically took the trouble to plate them burned side down, sure we’d never suspect they were black on the bottom again.

Topped with sugar syrup and probably no butter, it was payday morning after all, we’d dig in. Invariably, due to the thickness of the dough and the inferno under the skillet, thick, white, maggotty-looking dough would ooze out when pierced with a fork. It was a nauseating addendum to a lost cause. I could never choke it down. Fortunately, we were always running late, so those of us with weak stomachs could escape to the bus after scooting them around a little.

The good news was, there were always plenty left on the stove for after-school snacks, should we be ravenous enough to chance another try.