Uncle Jerry drank a little. In fact, Uncle Jerry never drew a sober breath from the time he cashed his paycheck at the liquor store on Friday after work until he got back to the shop on Mondays with a killer hangover. One time he told Bud, “I get paid today and I gotta get drunk. I had the flu all week and feel so bad I cain’t hardly drag. I shore dread it.”
Bud, who’d never been initiated into drinking at the time asked, “Uncle Jerry, if you feel so bad, why do you HAVE to get drunk? Can’t you take a weekend off?”
“Oh no!” Uncle Jerry told him. “I always stay drunk on the weekends.”
He must have been concerned about his reputation. He was Aunt Myrtle’s second husband. At the time I knew them, they’d been married over forty years. If Aunt Myrtle stuck by Uncle Jerry, I can’t imagine what her first husband must have put her through.
Mother went over to visit Aunt Myrtle one Thursday morning, not realizing Uncle Jerry was on vacation. They went out to the garden first to admire Aunt Myrtle’s tomatoes and the green beans that were starting to put out, picking a few for Mother. When they made their way into the kitchen, they encountered Uncle Jerry down on his hands and knees in front of the icebox (not refrigerator). He’d pulled the drawer out and was eating onions and turnips raw with the garden dirt still clinging to them. Considering it was Uncle Jerry, neither one said anything.
He looked up at them and remarked. “This is my icebox and I’ll eat anything I G__ D____ please.” They got their coffee and took it out to drink in the shade.
“Don’t let Jerry worry you none. I forgot to tell you Jerry was on vacation when I told you to come over to get tomatoes,” noted Aunt Myrtle.
“Oh, that’s okay. It is his icebox after all,” Mother replied.
memoir
Do Not Label Me
Reblog. We. Are all the same.
Meet Guest Author Linda Bethea…
Reblog fed on Nutsrok
Being born with a love for stories and storytelling is both a gift and a curse. I talked early, hanging on every word, especially if the subject seemed intense, secretive, or perplexing.
I stayed in trouble through my childhood for repeating word for word a story I wasn’t necessarily supposed to have been privy to.
My superior language skills, and commanding demeanor ensured that the tales went to the worst possible person, like my first-grade teacher, Miss Davis, “My mama said she wouldn’t take her sick dog to Dr. Davis.”
My little speech didn’t endear either me or my mother to Miss Davis. I felt she was quite rude at her retort. “Well! You can just tell your mama my daddy is a fine doctor!”
Returning home with the whole story, I was surprised to find my report to Miss Davis hadn’t won me any points with Mother, either.
My…
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Just A Reminder…
Reblogged from Joyful Process
I Couldn’t Hear if it went in Park.
A few days ago, a lady who shall remain forever nameless, came to call and pulled her little old lady white car where she could take out Bud’s Jeep and the camping trailer, if she couldn’t make up her mind which was best. I suspect she got a phone call as she pulled up to park, since she dawdled in her car for a a while before getting out. Buzzy went wild, desperate to get out and welcome her, but finally forgot as she took her time. I went back to what I was doing, knowing she’d eventually be at one of the doors. Since Bud was in the shop, I thought she might go out to speak to him first.
After about ten minutes, I heard an impact and a scrunch. “Oh no!” Running out, I saw she’d rolled into the camper, but by now had backed up.
“Oh my gosh, when I pulled in, I thought I’d put the car is n park, but I guess I hadn’t. I know it’s because I am having trouble with my ears and couldn’t hear if it clicked in park!”
As we looked for damage, I didn’t mention I never listened to see if my car went into park.
The only obvious damage, was a tiny dent she didn’t mention.
“If they’re’ any damage, I’ll pay for it. She repeated this twice, just st because she was rattled.”
“I don’t see a thing,” I assured her.
Bud came sprinting up just then. “What happened? Did somebody run into my camper?”
Before Mother (uh oh, I wasn’t going to tell) could launch the into her long explanation and excuses, I jumped in, praying Bud would just look and hush. Mother’s obsessive-compulsive explanation followed by endless apologies and self-recriminations are hard to bear. We seriously downplay problems to save ourselves.
He has suffered through this before. He’s a smart guy. “I don’t see a thing.” He declined coffee and went back to his shop.
While I fixed coffee, Mother cranked up, “Bhah,blah,blah, sure thought it was in park. Blah, blah, blah, now if anything’ wrong, I insist on paying. Blah, blah, blah, natter, natter, natter.” More reassurance given, but not nearly enough to satisfy her.
Finally, I had to redirect her. “Mother, there is no damage and nobody’s mad. Now, we have to change the subject.”
She finally let me off the hook. When Mother messes something up, she is not satisfied till the injured party convinces her the accident was the best thing that ever happened to them.
After she left, Bud and I went out to inspect. The damage was minor. I thanked him for keeping his cool.
“Yeah, well. I was about to get me a piece of cardboard and make a sign so I could wave it at cars going down the street. “Come bust my camper in the ass!”
What a guy!
I might be wacko follow up
.
Initial post:
Just got a text from my daughter.
Her: Just got another box of stuff from you. Can the kids open them now?
(I had ordered them some things the week before and asked her to not to open it till this box got there. Stuff for Isaac was in first box and didn’t want to cause upset.)
Me: sure. Let me know what they got n how it wkd out.. I forgot what I sent.
Her: Oh lord.
Me: well, did I send good stuff?
She never got back to me. Now, I am dying to know what I sent. I wish she wouldn’t complain about my texts.
Follow up:
For my grandson, I had sent oil crayons and sketch pad, swim trunks and shirt,self-inflating Whoopee cushion which made me grandma of the year. I also sent underwear which my daughter insists marked him for life. I should think you’d be marked for life if you never had underwear.
The baby got a swimsuit, a toy phone, a Hello Kitty fork and spoon, and a great big box to play in. She loved the box and went after her brother’s Whoopee Cushion.
Five tips for helping out an author . . . or any artist really
Try this.
Monday Funnies…
Reblogged from Christhestoryreadingape! Ah ha ha ha!
Meet Guest Pre-Published Author Alma White…
Check out this author.
My name is Alma White and I live in upstate New York, in the Adirondack Mountain range. It’s beautiful here, my neighborhood is bountifully populated by white-tailed deer. They are out early in the morning and late in the afternoon. I love watching a family of them move silently but clandestinely through the woods connected to my back yard.
Occasionally I go into New York City and take in an opera or go watch the Christmas tree lighting at the Rockefeller Center and have visited all the major landmarks such as Lady Liberty, the NY Metropolitan Museum.
When I’m not doing those things I’m at home reading, or writing.
I started writing these stories because it was becoming more and more difficult to find novels I wanted to read. I’m not very choosy but I didn’t like the idea of nearly every novel in the stores being a cookie cutter…
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