Author: lbeth1950

lbeth1950https://nutsrok.wordpress.comNow that I'm done with the bothersome business of workday world, I am free to pursue my passion, capturing the stories I've loved all my life. The ones you'll read on my blog are good old Southern stories, a real pleasure to relay. Here in the South, we are proud of our wacky folks. I've preyed shamelessly on my family, living and dead, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances, often changing the names to protect the innocent and not so innocent. My mother illustrates my blog. I come from a rollicking family of nuts, hence the name of the blog Nutsrok Enjoy.
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Bears Just Ain’t That Bad

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Growing up way,way in the country the last place bordering a game reserve, the nearest neighbor a mile away, I was always aware we didn’t live in the sticks, but I hoped to someday. The woods were full of wild pigs, deer, coyote, foxes, alligators, a few black bear, snakes, birds, and a plethora of other wild creatures.  It wasn’t a great idea to go stumbling around in the dark out there, especially without knee-high boots, a pistol, and a light.  

It was not uncommon for hunters to come walking up to our place, any time of the day or night, reporting being stuck in the deeply rutted roads and off-road areas of the reserve, muddy, fatigued, and bedraggled, desperate for help in getting out of a mud hole. Daddy or my brother sometimes cranked the tractor,  bounced them back to their disaster, and pulled them out.  It could take quite a while and was a lot of work.  More often than not, if they had no cash, they left personal property to be redeemed when they came back with cash.

One morning about daylight, visitors of a different type came walking up, a teenage couple who’d gone parking and gotten stuck.  The girl explained, they’d spent the night in the car, afraid to walk out, thinking a bear might get them.

I was amazed.  Her father must have been nothing like mine. There wasn’t a bear big or bad enough to warrant getting caught spending the night in a parked car with a boy.  I’d have faced a dozen bears rather than Daddy with a story like that!

Clutter

Where can you reduce clutter in your life?

Upon reading this prompt, I scanned my surroundings.

One picture is worth a thousand words, so here are two.

Mother Tried to Raise Me Right!  Part 1

Church was hard on me. I was sure church clothes had been designed by the devil. My mother was raised by Appalachian parents. I mention this because religion was the central influence on their lives. Bootleggers might have been rife among them but it didn’t mean they weren’t numbered among the faithful. It was not uncommon for preachers and the devout to reinforce their churching with moonshine.

At any rate, my mother was determined to drag her children into heaven, against their will if necessary. She translated her faith into works using her ancient treadle machine sewing dresses with twirly skirts, puffy sleeves, lace, fancy collars, and gigantic sashes that tied in a big bow. It mattered little that they might be made of printed feed sacks. The workmanship made them fancy. My brother was shined up in Sunday best that ensured his misery as well. Just in case we might get a little comfortable, she starched and ironed these clothes till they were so stiff they could stand alone.

If ruffles and misery could have gotten us in heaven, Mother’s kids had nothing to worry about. Getting ready for church started Saturday night with a bath and hair washing. No problem with that. The trouble started when Mother got out the hair pins and tissue paper. She clamped me between her knees and divided my straight, straggling hair into tiny strands wrapped in tissue paper. My hair was fine and dried quickly, so she continuously dipped her comb in a bottle of curling lotion the consistency of snot. I never got the connection between biting the plastic ends of hair pens and pain, so there was plenty of scalp scraping as she slid the pins into the curls. Knowing that my sister would suffer, too, did me little good, since she liked pretty hair and would do anything to look pretty. My wiggling and protesting didn’t help. Mother had her pride and would not suffer a daughter with straight hair on Sundays. As she clinched her knees tighter she hoped I’d have fifteen girls with straight hair. That didn’t bother me. I had no intention of having any girls or boys, straight-haired or otherwise. I was going to be a cowboy!!

My sister loved anything to do with church, making me look particularly bad. The only glimmer of hope was that she was slow and Mother threatened to leave her every Sunday.  She always came flying out as the car backed out carrying shoes, makeup, and jewelry, jumping in the front seat and twisting the mirror so she could get her lipstick on straight.  It was a waste of time anyway.   No-one was going to see past her clown hair to notice her lipstick.   When I tried dawdling around in hopes of getting left, Mother saw right through it.  It was obvious I wasn’t wasting any effort getting ready lying on the floor in front of the TV watching Davy and Goliath.

Sunday school was tolerable.  The teachers didn’t expect much, happy if we could just answer a couple of questions after the lesson. Usually, we got through a few minutes early we got to play a little before church.  I had to be careful not to get too rowdy.  Chairs were just waiting to snag skirt tails and snatch off sashes.  I knew from experience my mother would not be happy if I showed up in church with a torn, dirty dress or missing sash.

Church started well enough.  Singing was good.  The words didn’t always make sense.  I didn’t know why we sang about the laundry, “Bringing in the Sheets”(sheaves), but so much else didn’t make sense either so I sang along enthusiastically. It just didn’t last long enough.  I tried to be still and listen to preaching.  Sometimes the preacher told an interesting story when he started and another at the end, but there was a lot of not so interesting in between. 

Sitting still was hard.  I would try counting, finding people in church whose name started with each letter of the alphabet, looking at pictures in the Bible, reading ahead in my Sunday School Book.  When I wiggled or turned around , Mother looked sternly and shook her head.  I knew I’d be in big trouble if I didn’t behave.  It didn’t do any good to say I had to go to the bathroom.  Mother always made me go right before we went in.  Some kids got to look in their mother’s purse for toys or gum, but Mother wasn’t having any of that. Sadly for me, we never attended one of those

Some members of the congregation were dear to me, dependable for relieving the tedium of a long Sunday service.  Mr. Dick Peppridge sat just in front of us in his ancient, shiny black suit.  He was deaf as a post and never spoke to me, but I admired him breaking up the tedium of services periodically.  He’d relax and drift off to sleep and treat us to a flatulent recital.  There were no cushions on the pews, so the bursts echoed several times like a screen door flapping before dying out.  Good Old Mr. Dick. Once a rowdy four-year-old delighted us by tooting raucously during prayer and proclaiming, Gosh darn!  I farted!

Daddy was proud of his standing in church enforcing an unbreakable rule.  The seven of us had to sit together, setting a good example for the rest of the congregation. We sat in the fourth pew from the front, in the same order Sunday after Sunday.  Phyllis filed in first, seated the fartherest from Daddy, since she could be depended on to behave perfectly.  She was responsible for Connie, the next to the youngest.  I had to sit between Mother and Marilyn, the youngest, since I needed to be where Mother could give me dirty looks without drawing attention to herself. Billy had the worst spot of all, wedged between Mother and Daddy.  My older sister oved church and enjoyed the admiration of the saintly, making me look even more like a heathen. Instead of running wild in the parking lot after church services, she joined my parents as they talked to the other worshippers.  God answered my prayers and gave her what she deserved for her prissiness one Sunday morning.  Daddy and Phyllis were part of a group discussing some matter of grave importance to the congregation. Phyllis stood listening quietly as the conversation became more animated. Seizing a break in the tempo, Mr. Cornell Poleman burst in determined to make his point, even though his nose was near to bursting with congestion. Never one to waste an opportunity, he had his say, yanked his handkerchief from his pocket, ducked his head and snorted.  Luckily for Mrs. Poleman, he missed the handkerchief leaving one less disgusting handkerchief in Monday’s laundry. Simultaneous with the snort, Phyllis felt a warm, repulsive flop, looked down, and saw a huge slimy slug of yellow-green congealed snot on her forearm, still warm from nasal incubation.  Mr. Poleman brought her out of shock by grabbing her arm, smearing it wildly with his snowy handkerchief, while apologizing continuously.  Horrified, she fled the attentive crowd for the church bathroom where she scrubbed her arm with soap and water, then Comet scouring powder.  Still not satisfied, she looked for something she could use to amputate her arm.  Finding only a toilet brush and the deodorizer hanging in the toilet bowl, she finally doused herself with Clorox and came on out, with Mother falsely assuring her the crowd was gone and probably no one had noticed anyway.

Dogs, Dogs, Dogs

What is your favorite animal?

Without a doubt, dogs are my favorite animal. At the moment, I have two. Both are rescues. Croc is an enormous mastiff/lab mix. He looks big and mean but is super-sweet. He adores children and babies. When he’s fortunate enough to have a young visitor, he just prostrates himself in front of of them begging for their attention.

Here he is with his Christmas blanket.

Izzy is our little guy. He came to us because he’s a runner. He strayed up to a woman’s house and she fostered him till my niece, a rural mail carrier told us about him.

Izzy specializes in lap-sitting and yapping.

Online

In what ways do you communicate online?

I use email, WordPress , and post writing my writing on Facebook.

Prignant

Repost of an earlier post:

That was weird.  I heard tiptoeing and a door quietly locking.  I tiptoed to my parent’s room and found their door locked!  Their door was never even shut except around Christmas.  Mother must have gotten scared and locked it.   Assuming the worst, I pounded and screeched, “Mama!  Mama!  Your door’s locked. Help!  I can’t get in!!!” Continue reading →

Humorous Tales from Nurses: A Lighthearted Look at Healthcare

St. Peter and the Three Nurses

Three nurses died and went to heaven, where they were met at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter.

To the first, he asked, “What did you do on Earth and why should you go to heaven?” “I was a nurse in an inner-city hospital,” she replied. “I worked to bring healing and peace to the poor suffering city children.” “Very noble,” said St. Peter. “You may enter.” And in through the gates, she went.

To the next, he asked the same question: “So what did you do on Earth?” “I was a nurse at a missionary hospital in Africa,” she replied. “For many years, I worked with a skeleton crew of doctors and nurses who tried to reach out to as many peoples and tribes with a hand of healing and with a message of God’s love.” “How touching,” said St. Peter. “You too may enter.” And in she went.

He then came to the last nurse, to whom he asked, “So, what did you do back on Earth?” After some hesitation, she explained, “I was just a nurse at an HMO.” St. Peter pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Okay, you may enter also.”

“Whew!” said the nurse. “For a moment there, I thought you weren’t going to let me in.”

“Oh, you can come in,” said St. Peter, “but you can only stay for three days!”

Rectal Thermometer

A nurse walks into a bank totally exhaustedafter an 18-hour shift. She grabs a deposit slip, pulls a rectal thermometer out of her purse, and tries to write with it. When she realizes her mistake, she looks at the flabbergasted teller and, without missing a beat, says, “Well, that’s great…some asshole’s got my pen!”

Speaking of Rectal Thermometers…

Q: What’s the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal thermometer?
A: The taste.

Ten Quarters

I had to take my son to the hospital after he swallowed ten quarters. He was rushed to surgery. After half an hour I saw a nurse so I asked her how he was. She said, “There’s no change yet.”

Three Wishes

A nursing assistant, a floor nurse and a charge nurse from a small nursing home were taking a lunch break in the break room. In walks, a lady dressed in silk scarves and wearing large polished-stone jewelry. “I am Gina the Great,” stated the lady. “I am so pleased with the way you have taken care of my aunt that I will now grant the next three wishes!” With a wave of her hand and a puff of smoke, the room was filled with flowers, fruit, and bottles of drink, proving that she did have the power to grant wishes before any of the nurses could think otherwise.

The nurses quickly argued among themselves as to which one would ask for the first wish. Speaking up, the nursing assistant wished first. “I wish I were on a tropical island beach, with single, well-built men feeding me fruit and tending to my every need.” With a puff of smoke, the nursing assistant was gone.

The floor nurse went next. “I wish I were rich and retired, and spending my days in my own warm cabin at a ski resort with well-groomed men feeding me cocoa and doughnuts.” With a puff of smoke, she too was gone.

“Now, what is the last wish?” asked the lady.

The charge nurse said, “I want those two ambitious nurses back on the floor at the end of the lunch break!”

“WTH!”

Q: Did you hear about the nurse who died and went straight to hell?

A: It took her two weeks to realize that she wasn’t at work anymore!

Twenty-Seven Biscuits

image imageMother made twenty-seven biscuits for breakfast most mornings. The number wasn’t intentional; that was just how it worked out.   Her recipe wasn’t measured, just experience.  She started out by hollowing out a hole in the flour in her big biscuit-making bowl into which she plopped out shortening scooped by hand straight from the eight pound can and poured in an indeterminate pool of fresh cow milk.  Bravely plunging her right hand in, she squished the glob of shortening through her fingers, working it round till it gathered just enough flour.  She worked the dough carefully, never using all the flour,  thereby letting the gooey mixture adhere to the bottom of the bowl. I thought that looked horrible and never mastered the age-old biscuit making technique that had probably come to her through many generations.

Once she was satisfied with her mix, she tossed it a time or two to coat with flour, and started pinching off biscuits, which she gave a quick roll or two in her hands before placing smooth side up on her biscuit pan. Finally, she buttered the top of each so they’d brown nicely and popped them in the hot oven.  About twenty minutes later, biscuits!  She always ended up with twenty-seven, though she never measured.  They were wonderful.  The flour-filled biscuit-bowl was covered and went back into the cabinet till the next baking, which would be supper if she didn’t make cornbread.
I am a biscuit-making coward.  I measure and mix my ingredients in a bowl, dust them with a handful of flour, then pinch them off and roll them out in my hands.  I spray them with cooking spray rather than dipping a spoon in melted butter to butter the tops, but they are still pretty good. 

Age-Old Biscuit Recipe 

(Can be easily doubled or tripled)

Preheat oven to 420 degrees

2 ½ cups self-rising flour (For plain, add 1 ½ teaspoon baking powder and ¼ teaspoon salt PER cup)

½ cup vegetable shortening or softened butter

¾ cup milk (I prefer undiluted fat-free evaporated canned milk.  Note:  this is not the sweetened condensed kind that goes in desserts)

Cooking spray

Mix 2 ¼ cups self-rising flour with shortening or butter.  Stir in up to ¾ cups milk to make gooey, not drippy dough.  Should be about the consistency of mashed potatoes.  Use remaining ¼ cup to dust top of dough, turn dust again.  Pinch out small handful, about ½ cup and roll a time or two in your floured palms.  Turn best side up on greased baking pan.  Spray tops with vegetable or butter spray to enhance browning.  Bake at 450 for 12-15 minutes on center rack. Done when tops are starting to brown nicely and browning can be seen around edges.  Should yield 8-10 biscuits.

These can be rolled out on lightly floured surface and cut with a biscuit cutter if you prefer.  Don’t waste leftover dough.  Roll into strips, butter and sprinkle with cinnamon sugar and bake for five minutes.  Wonderful treat.  I have made entire batch into cinnamon sugar strips for a treat.  Watch carefully to keep from burning.

If you can stand the health risk, put your bacon in on a rack on a cookie sheet to bake on at the same time as your biscuits.  It will all come out perfect at the same time.

If you have leftovers reheat in microwave or slice in half, butter, and toast under broiler.

The previous part of the story was the easy part.  We lived on a farm.  There were five of us children ranging from thirteen to newborn.  From my earliest memories, Mother had to be up by five-thirty to get the biscuits in.  The cow would be bawling to be milked by six.  Daddy never milked.  He said the Bible said a man couldn’t take what he couldn’t give.  He never quoted the chapter and verse, but he knew it was in there.  The Bible said a lot of stuff that worked to suit him, but that’s a story for another day.

Anyway, Mother had to milk at six and get back in the house to have breakfast on the table and get things moving before the babies got up and the big kids got on the schoolbus.

That must have been so hard for Mother having to be up and out so early.  I was grown, caring for my family before I understood how hard.

 

 

Sausage Biscuit

What snack would you eat right now?

If someone showed up at my door right now with a sausage biscuit right now, there is no way I could say “No.” Even better, nothing compares to a homemade biscuit hot out of the oven. When I was a kid, Mother made biscuits twice a day. At the time, I had no idea how hard that was for her. Thank you, Mother