So there was this Grandma who was late for a meeting. She is going 65 on a street where the speed limit is 40. A cop pulls her over and says “ma’am, can I please see your license?” She says “I’m sorry, officer, but I got it revoked two years ago for drunk driving.” His brow furrows and he straightens up. “Well, can I please see the registration of your car?” She says “I stole the car and I killed the driver; he’s in the trunk.” “Ma’am, DON’T MOVE, I’m calling for backup.” He mutters furiously into his walkie-talkie… Five minutes later, half the squad pulls up, the Chief of Police walks over to the woman’s window. “Ma’am, can I see your license?” he asks sternly. “Of course, officer,” she smiles demurely and pulls out a license from her purse. He squints warily at it. “This looks legitimate,” he mumbles. “Can I see the registration to this car?” She pulls it out of the glove compartment and hands it to him. “Ma’am, stand back!” He bangs open the trunk of the car and flinches: but it was completely empty… The woman brandishes a finger at the first cop and says accusingly, “And I’ll bet that liar told you I was speeding too!!”
memoir
The Bearded Lady and the Stork’s Visit
I remember the day my brother was born. I’d just turned three. I woke up to find Mother gone, something I’d never experienced. Grandma had come to stay a few days to help out, but had broken a rib in a fender-bender the day before, so she wasn’t up to much, but that’s a whole other story. A neighbor stayed till with us till mid-morning, when a bearded Amazon identifying herself as Aunt Cynthia showed up to take care of us all. I’d never seen such a thing in my life. She must have been overdue time off from the circus to be free on such short notice.
The whole crazy scenario was too much for my tiny mind, especially, the strange bearded behemoth. I wasn’t buying any of it, so headed for the hills, in this case, the shrubs in our front yard. Eventually, tiring of calling me, “Aunt Cynthia” hoisted Grandma out of bed long enough to gain my trust, luring me in with the promise of scrambled eggs and strawberry jam. I was mortified to have wet my pants while in hiding. It took me forever to make Aunt Cynthia understand I needed “panties” not “pennies.”
Despite the psychic trauma, it ended well enough. Mother got home in a day or two with my new brother. Grandma was back on her feet. Aunt Cynthia went home, but for some reason I never really bonded with her, maybe because she kept offering me pennies instead of dry underwear. That’s kind of weird.
See No Evil
I didn’t like having syrup for breakfast on school mornings when I was a little kid since I was lazy about washing up afterwards. In class, my papers stuck to me all morning till I went out at recess. Then I usually romped around and came back in with dirt sticking to the syrupy patches. I never saw much point in washing up before meals anyway. I knew something as tiny as a germ couldn’t possibly hurt me.
Now, there were occasions I had no problem with washing, but really felt soap was overrated. I had my standards and expected to wash after contact with earthworms, snails, slimy animal carcasses, blood, axle grease, or chicken poop between my bare toes, sometimes even using soap voluntarily. I was on the fence about frogs. I wasn’t altogether sure they didn’t cause warts. Sue Lunsford played with frogs all the time and had lots of warts, so I erred on the side of caution, washing with soap after quality time with frogs. After I smelled a dog once who’d tangled with a skunk. I put that on my list, too. I figured if you could see dirt or it would rub off on people or furniture, it was good to wash. I also believed in washing loose sand off. I hated walking barefoot on gritty sand on smooth floors. I was also happy to take a bath if I’d been playing in sand. I hated the way it made the sheets feel. We threw sand and dirt at each other a lot, so I’d done the research.
Unfortunately for me, Mother didn’t share my philosophy about washing, insisting I wash my hands and arms up to my elbows with soap and water before every meal. Naturally, I fell short as often as possible, often just running my dirty hands and arms under the running water and drying on the towel by the sink. The dirty, streaked up towel ratted me out quite a few times.
Washing after meals would have been insane.
The Great Gum Heist
My mother broke me from stealing. It’s just as well. I wasn’t any good at it anyway. She was having coffee with her friend, Miss Frankie. I was bored and used my ingenious ruse. “I gotta go to the bathroom.”
Mother warned me. “Okay, but don’t meddle and don’t touch anything!” No wonder I took a wrong turn. She never trusted me. I dawdled as I made my way to the bathroom off Miss Frankie’s bedroom. This was the 1950s. This wasn’t the master bathroom. It was the only bathroom in her Quonset hut with an add on in the back. Delightfully, for me, Miss Frankie was a relaxed housekeeper so I could see a lot without meddling. Clothes and shoes covered the floor. The open closet doors displayed shoe boxes, handbags, dresses, and nighties. I walked around in her red high heels while I surveyed the lipsticks, lotions, scarves, and a hairbrush decorating her dresser. I considered trying her lipstick when I spied an open pack of Dentyne Gum. Immediately, I peeled a piece and popped it in my mouth.
I shed the shoes. Chomping my gum happily, I strolled back in to join Mother and Miss Frankie at coffee. “What is that in your mouth?”
“‘Uh…..gum.”
“Where’d you get it?”
“Uh…I found it….on Miss Frankie’s dresser.”
“You are not allowed to take things. That is stealing. Take it out of your mouth and tell Miss Frankie you’re sorry.”
i took the gooey wad out of my mouth and held it out to Miss Frankie. Reluctantly, she accepted it. “I’m sorry, Miss Frankie.” I’m sure she was, too.
“That’s okay , Honey.
That was the end of my stealing. I have never even wanted to steal again.
Dirty
I just get dirty. I don’t mean my shoes have little smudges. I look like I fell in the garbage every day. I don’t understand it. When I worked, I dressed and left the house just like everyone else. By the time I got to work, I had stepped in something, spilled coffee on myself, or rubbed up against something and gotten a spot on my clothes. As the day went on, I was sure to end up with ink spots on my hands and/or clothes and have a few spots. I sponged the worst off, but still got home a mess.
I wear my oldest clothes in the yard and make no effort to stay clean. After a few hours of digging, hauling, moving rocks, and planting, I look like I have been rolling in the mud. That doesn’t bother me in the least. When I am done working, I just drop the clothes in the washer, and get straight in the shower.
My mother and two of my sisters stay crisp and clean. Mother can wear white and work all day and look like she’s dressed for a garden party. My other sister is like me. She looks like she works on a garbage truck. What in the world do people do who stay clean? Is it magic?
Finally!! Here it is! My First Published Book and I am bawling out my eyes and smiling at the same time.
Congratulate a friend’s new book!
I feel a deep sense of release. I don’t know how to express my thoughts. It’s been a climb and sometimes a dip, but I knew that one day, I will arrive at this juncture.
Except I sit with you over a cup of tea, maybe only then will you really understand my journey – one day, I shall speak of these things.
To all those who have supported me to this point, I remain ever grateful. You have no idea what your friendship means to me and how far it’s taken me.
I present to you – even though some of you had a sneak cover peek, it was tweaked a bit – my poetry book. I laughed writing some, I bled writing some, I sighed writing some and I cried writing some.
It’s all Glory to Him. He made it possible.
It’s available on Amazon-Kindle and Smashwords and…
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Maniac in the Wilderness
I don’t know how my baby brother Bill ever survived my mother’s brutal abuse. When he was only a tiny lad of eighteen, he was six feet four inches tall. I think the fact that she wasn’t even acquainted with five feet added to his raging hormones gave him a feeling of superiority. While I won’t say he had a smart mouth, I will allow it was extremely well-educated. I am sure they only reason my mother hadn’t already killed him was because she hated to go to prison and leave her younger daughters motherless. It certainly wasn’t because the thought hadn’t crossed her mind at least a thousand times a day since puberty attacked him and her by proxy.
Anyway, on occasion, they had to travel places alone together. It was a misery to both. It didn’t help that the car was a tiny Volkswagon Beetle. It’s always worth a person’s time to stop and watch a huge guy unfold himself and crawl into or out of a Beetle, a pleasure Bill dreaded providing mirthful onlookers. It didn’t improve his mood on arrival, a mood already blackened with inevitable conflict he’d shared with Mother.
At any rate, on this particular day, they started home with Bill driving. According to Mother, he was driving like a maniac: driving too fast, following too closely, cutting people off. I have no doubt this was true. It was his typical manner. She insisted he slow down. He crept along at ten miles an hour, hoping that was slow enough to please her. She’d finally had enough, telling him to pull over. She’d drive. He critiqued her driving as soon as she started. “Speed up! Don’t ride the clutch! Change Gears!”
Finally, she’d had enough. She pulled over. “Get out!” Delighted, he hopped out, thinking she’d come to her senses and wanted him to drive. She drove off and left him standing on a country road, thirty miles from home. She enjoyed the rest of the peaceful drive. At home, Daddy wanted to know where Bill was. “I left him somewhere close to Bossier City.”
Daddy was shocked she’d left the little fellow all alone in the wilderness. “Well, You’d better go get him! It’ll be dark soon!”
“You go get him if you want to! I don’t care if he never gets home!”
Daddy was a lot better at giving orders than taking them, but he jumped in his truck to rescue his precious son and heir. Billy met him at the end of the driveway, brought home by a Good Samaritan. He’d somehow survived his abandonment but I think he still drives like a maniac. I don’t think he and Mother voluntarily ride together till today
See attached picture if you care to put out APB on either
Miss Laura Mae’s House Part 13
A gigantic red motorcycle claimed a place of prominence front of ol’ lady Duck’s house for a day or two, till it moved over to the long-abandoned shot-gun house next door. Now I’d had my eye on that shotgun house and its environs since I’d admired many times on the way to Miss Laura Mae’s house. It had everything to recommend it. Unpainted, its broken windows, door hanging by one hinge, a huge tree with a ragged tire swing in the front yard, a caved in storm-cellar in the side yard, and several plum trees called to me. It everything a kid could dream off. Best of all, there was a ramshackle car up on blocks.
Mother never let me out of the yard. Only her eagle eye and short leash had kept me away so far. Mother constantly warned me of danger. I could fall out of a tree and break my neck, drown if I played in the creek, burn up if I played in the fire. So far, I had fallen out of trees many times, played in the creek as often as I could manage, and even been caught playing with matches. None of these had killed me yet, though playing with matches did result in damage to my bottom when Mother caught me. My cousins hinted at ghosts and maybe a devil in the ruined storm cellar. Always concerned about nightmares, Mother had assured me there was no such thing as ghosts, and the devil wasn’t interested in children. Is it any wonder I was wild to explore, having always yearned to see a ghost or a devil.
The motorcycle in front of the house was a good omen. Maybe a family with children had moved in.
I chattered about the motorcycle while Miss Laura Mae buttered my biscuit. I was lucky enough she had already made a batch of mayhaw jelly this morning and she slathered the steaming stuff on my biscuit. She hadn’t even had time to “jar” it yet. “I need to tell me if this tastes good. Don’t burn your tongue. It’s still hot. ” she told me. Boy, did it ever. I closed my eyes as I carefully licked the cooking syrup from the sides of the biscuit. It was tangy and sweet, almost making my teeth ache.
As happy as I was with my biscuit and jelly, the word motorcycle caught my attention. “Did you see that motorcycle outside ol’lady Duck’s house?” Miss Laura Mae asked.
“I sure did.” Mother said. “I figured it must be her boy Rudy’s.”
“Nooooo! It’s his wife’s. He got him a mail order bride out o’ one a’them lonely hearts magazines. She come down from Nebraska with a big ole young’un on back to marry him!” Miss Laura didn’t bother to whisper.
“Really?” asked Mother. “How did you find out?”
“You know Gertha Nelson in my quiltin’ group? Well, she’s his sister. She told me. She said ol’ lady Duck is furious. She don’t want him marryin’ no motorcycle woman. But she tol’ her mama, it ain’t like anybody around here is breakin’ down the door to marry Rudy. Beggars cain’t be choosers. Anyhow, he moved her an’ her boy into that ol’ shotgun house next door. He aims to fix it up some.”
“I saw the motorcycle moved over there, and thought I saw some work going on,” Mother said. “Well, maybe they’ll make a go of it. Rudy’s always been a loner.”
“Not if his mama’s got anything to do with it. He’s always lived at home an’ took care of her. Anyway, listen to this. That boy’s mama is callin’ that big ol’ boy o’hearn “Little Rudy” after Rudy. That’s crazy. You cain’t call a kid “Charley” all his life, then up an’ change his name to “Little Rudy” after a man you just married. She thinks it’ll make him and Rudy git along better.” Miss Laura Mae said.
About three weeks later, I was lucky enough to get an update. “Well, the honeymoon’s over down at Rudy’s. His wife done left in his truck. “ Miss Laura opened the conversation.
“Well, that didn’t last long.” What happened?” I was at least as curious as Mother. Why would anybody take a truck if they had a motorcycle?
“Oh, they done had a big bust up. Rudy come home one evenin’ with a big load o’watermelons an’ peaches he was gonna peddle the next day. He had a taste for some ham an’ went out to his smokehouse an’ found one’a his hams whittled almost clean to the bone. He was mad as hops. He’d been piecing that ham along, just cuttin’ off a slice fer his breakfast oncet in a while. When he found it sliced clean down to the bone, he went roaring in the house and lit into ‘em. Turns out that boy had been workin’ on that ham off an had just about et it up. Rudy took a whack at the boy with the bone an’ his wife wrestled it away from ‘im and whooped him good. Her boy jumped in an’ they ‘bout beat Rudy to death. While Rudy was laying up, her an’ that boy took Rudy’s ol’ truck, peaches, watermelons an’ all. They even took Rudy’s ol’ huntin’ dog and the last two hams.. Now ain’t that pitiful?”
https://atomic-temporary-73629786.wpcomstaging.com/2016/04/29/miss-laura-maes-house-part-12/
A small request of all my readers …
Yes, I know this news is going to be hard to believe, but after 4 years in publication (both as an eBook and in print) Island in the Clouds will finally have a sister-novel to share your shelf or space on your eReader! I finished writing an umpteenth draft of One Woman’s Island a week-and-a-half ago and now it’s in the hands of my editor, Rachel Small. I think at this point in time, after writing and rewriting the story of Mariana on Bequia these past 12 years, I’m more relieved than excited. Now comes the ultra hard work of preparing the final edited manuscript for ePublication, sometime later this year.
That publication date has been moved back further, however, because yesterday I discovered this link to a competition for which the new novel qualifies. But the novel needs to be unpublished. Might as well give that a shot…
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Nutsrok 