family story

A Rose by Any Other Name

Mother was born at home in 1928 four miles outside the tiny town of Cuthand, Texas. The irascible old doctor who was summoned to attend her delivery arrived after she did. He hastily checked out mother and baby and headed to his next call.

Kathleen’s impoverished parents didn’t send for a copy of Kathleen’s birth certificate till she was thirteen and neede it to qualify her for an allotment as a military dependent during World War II. To their surprise, after a lengthy investigation, they found out the ancient doctor had forgotten the information he’d been given and randomly filed Kathleen’s name as Bessie May Rosie Holdaway.

Kathleen had never been particularly been fond of her given name until she found she could have been laboring under the burdensome name of Bessie May Rosie.

The Journey to My First Bike: A Childhood Story

Despite not getting a one fot Christmas, I was obsessed with learning to ride a bike. In case you didn’t know, kids with bikes aren’t interested in sharing them. I couldn’t just borrow an hour of “bike time.” I felt sure that the hard part was getting my hands on a bike, not the learning part.

Finally, my hopes were realized. My dad decided to visit an old Navy buddy. Conveniently, the family had three boys in my age range, each with a bike. I was in heaven. There was a bike available to me at all times. I didn’t waste the opportunity. I’d push a bike alongside a fence, or porch and push off. In my frantic determination to learn, I could actually ride by to evening of the first day. I spent the remainder of that trip in non-stop riding.

My parents were impressed that I’d learned to ride. My success made me even more desperate. The following Christmas, I actually got a bike! It wasn’t the blue Schwinn Spitfire I’d been hoping for but a perfectly adequate used bike with a new paint job and new tires. I was ecstatic! It was a bike! I felt like I’d been given wings.

Wheels

By the time I was in second grade, it seemed like all the town kids had bikes. I was wildly envious of them parking their bikes as I stomped off the bus like the clodhopper I was. Fortunately, bikes were off limits on the playground so I didn’t have to feel deprived about that.

Of course, as Christmas approached, I started in on Mother. I knew just what kind of bike I wanted, a blue Schwinn Spitfire. A realist, Mother let me know I definitely wouldn’t be getting a bike.

“Can’t Santa bring me one?” I asked.

“No, parents have to help pay for the things Santa brings. We don’t have the money.”

That cleared up all my questions about Santa Claus. I wanted to stamp my foot and say “Darn!” but I knew better.

Nostalgic Christmas Gifts: A Tricycle Story

I got a bright shiny, red tricycle like this one might have looked the Christmas of 1953. My older sister got the big kid version. It had a gigantic front wheel and step for an additional rider. That was fortunate, since in the manner of three-year-olds everywhere, I carelessly abandoned it where I finished riding, right behind the back tire of Daddy’s truck.

Of course, he backed over it, destroying it. Naturally, it scared the pudding out of him. In the manner of 1950’s parents, he wore my behind out for scaring him and making him ruin my tricycle. That was a wasted lesson. He’d already demonstrated what a truck did to a tricycle. To make it worse, the smashed tricycle lay near the front gate for a while before hitting the trash.

Fortunately, my sister let me ride behind her all over the yard. When she was otherwise occupied, I appropriated it and propelled it like a scooter. I remembered my previous lesson and didn’t park it behind Daddy’s truck.

In the prosperous days before my parents indulged begetting, we got bigger Christmas gifts. One memorable Christmas, I got a Radio Flyer Red Wagon, my second set of wheels. I convinced my parents to let me bring it to my uncle’s house on Christmas Day. My cousin and I got one unforgettable ride down a steep gravel road narrowly missing plunging into a deep creek before it occurred to my parents to set limitations on its use.

Fortunately, my precious red wagon wasn’t damaged.

Battery Socks

My brother was an avid deer hunter. That Christmas Mother bought him a gift of battery-powered heated socks. This seemed like a great idea, since deer season fell during cold weather. Bill was up long before dawn, dressing for the hunt. Sadly, the Christmas budget hadn’t extended far enough for the purchase of hunting boots. Never fear. His new socks would keep his feet warm. He layered his clothes down to his fine, new battery socks. To ensure his comfort, he pulled plastic bread bags on over his shoes.

He set up in his deer stand, knowing he’d be comfortable. All went well for a few minutes until the heated socks encased in plastic bread bags made his feet sweat. It felt like ants were eating him up. Frantically, he stripped of bread bags, shoes, and his fine, new battery-powered socks, leaving him standing on the cold, cold ground with his sweaty feet. What a treat for a frosty morning!

Childhood Memories of Food and Family

Bud and I grew up together. He was raised like me, one of five. Like my home, there was plenty of food at mealtime but treats were rare. After school snacks were leftover biscuits, cornbread, or a grizzled flapjack left over from breakfast. Should a bag of cookies or chips miraculously materialize, ravenous kids would fall on it like a hoard of locusts. It brought new meaning to term, “first come, first served!”

Bud’s mom made cookies one evening. He ate all he was allowed before being dispatched to bed. Long after the house quieted, he lay sleepless, those cookies silently beckoning him from the cookie jar. He waited as long as he could stand it before slipping into the dark kitchen surreptitiously opening the cookie jar. Naturally, he was too wily to turn on the lights.

Slipping back into bed, he gobbled his bonanza under the covers. His appetite satiated, he laid back, finally ready for sleep. Moments later, Bud noticed a tingly, ticklish feeling on his hands. Upon investigation, he found them crawling with the remainder of the ants he hadn’t already consumed.

It was the same at the Swain house. I had some dainty little cousins. Their mother constantly worried that they wouldn’t eat. Invariably, Mother embarrassed me by remarking, “My kids eat anything I put in front of them!” Even a blind man could have inferred that by the smacking. It was hazardous to reach for the last piece of chicken. A slow kid might get a fork in the hand.

Anyway, I spent a few days with my non-eating cousin. Still smarting from Mother’s remark, I made up my mind to be a picky eater for the duration. Though it nearly killed me, I turned up my nose at every meal. I even spurned fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, my favorites.

Aunt Bonnie tested me sorely when she emptied her freezer and offered up the remains of a carton of butter pecan ice cream before she tossing it. Along with her honestly snooty kids, I refused to consider it. I very nearly died of heartbreak as she rinsed the carton with hot water and ran the ice cream down the drain. I fear I would have lost my resolve and eaten out of the garbage if she’d left it in the carton in the outdoor garbage can.

By the time I got home, I was gaunt with hunger, having made a point to be pickier than her miniature children. Finally, my efforts were rewarded. The minute we got home, Aunt Bonnie claimed I was the pickiest eater she’d ever seen. I’d worried her to death!”

I was overjoyed! I rushed into the kitchen and snatched a dried out biscuit off Mother’s stove. I hid under the bed and ate it where Aunt Bonnie wouldn’t see me.

This is me and my cousin. We were about a year apart in age. Of course, I was the big one.

Fire!

I was not envious of Bud when I was a kid. He lived directly across from the Baptist church. He’d never have been able to come up with an excuse to skip church if his feet worked.

As was usual in that day, the parsonage was alongside the church. Also, as usual, the preacher’s kid was a rotter. Although there were no kids his age at the Bethea household, they’d made the mistake of tolerating him, so he haunted Bud’s poor sisters. He never bothered to knock, just made himself welcome.

One day, he showed up just as they were taking brownies out of the oven. The brownies were intended for an upcoming social event. Nonetheless , without waiting for an invitation, he helped himself. Finding them to his satisfaction, he remarked, “That was good. I’ll have another.”

On another occasion, he let himself in the front door without invitation, as usual, announcing he had a box of matches. Cognizant it was the fall of the year with tempting piles of dry leaves lying about the yard, one of the girls reminded him to keep those matches in his pocket. Her direction went in one ear and out the other. Within five minutes, he was tearing through the house shouting, “Fire! And I don’t know how it got started!”

Lovely Trip

I have to catch up with all my WordPress friends. We visited Mountain View, Arkansas for a few days. We stayed at a rustic cabin on the shores of Syllamore Creek.

We did absolutely no touristy things, only leaving the cabin once to buy groceries. We spent one afternoon watching buzzards glide on the updrafts from the creek up the cliff. Their ability to glide indefinitely was something to see. They seemed to exert no energy. They were still circling when the heavy rain ran us from our rockers on the back porch. The rain pounding on the tin cabin roof was relaxing.

Note the mansion on the bluff above the creek. Though we were at the cabin three nights, they never invited us up for coffee.

Navigating Life with Seniors: Lessons Learned

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imageI wonder if I do a lot of “old person” stuff? It’s probably one of those things your kid would have to tell you. Let me explain. After we went to the grocery store, I took Mother to Gateway to pick up her car. She took her small bag of groceries with her and went in to pay and get her keys while I waited in the lot off to the side, To be sure everything worked out okay. I knew I should have gone in with her. A few minutes later, she pulled behind me, blocking me and two other drivers. As the other drivers honked, Mother left her car in the drive and came over to talk to me.

“They just had to fix the front brakes. The back ones were fine! It only cost one hundred twenty-one dollars.” She was beaming.

“That’s great, but you need to move your car. People are honking!”

“Well they’re just gonna have to wait. I have to get my groceries.” She replied, huffily.

“Mother, you already put your bag in the car.”

“Oh, I forgot. Anyway, I had to tell you everything was okay.”

Annoyed at my nerve, she got in her car, pulled out and cut it too short, running over the curb as she pulled out.

About fifteen minutes after I got home, I got a call, “Could you see if I left my phone in your car. I can’t find it, anywhere.”

She had.