Several people asked for a follow-up on Ralphy, the kid I mentioned in a previous story. I still see Ralphy occasionally. He is a very pleasant, likeable guy, but never set the world on fire. He holds down a job and putters round. He married and divorced and lived with his mother between relationships, but has been a stable relationship with a nice lady for a couple of years. He is good to his mama, an excellent recommendation. Alas, he didn’t grow up to a be a poet, and I don’t know who he calls now when he wants to talk on the hone.
memoir
Happy as a Pig in Slop
Ralphy was a quirky kid who lived just down the road from us. When he was eight or nine, he’d call on the phone, asking to speak to Daddy. We were always interested in hearing what he had to say.
“Mr. Bill?”
“Yeah, what’s on your mind today, Ralphy?”
“My mama just bought some of that new White Cloud Bathroom Tissue. You should come try it! Bye.”
Another call:
“Mr. Bill?”
“Yeah, Ralphy. How are you today?”
“Fine. I just got my report card. I had all D’s and F’s.”
“No, Ralphy! Surely not!”
“Yep, and I’ve got the papers to prove it! Bye!”
Next call:
“Mr. Bill?”
“Hey, Ralphy. What’s going on?”
“I wrote a poem in school today. Want to hear it?”
“Why sure!”
“Rabbits love cribbage and cabbage.
Pigs love slibbage and slobbage.”
“That’s good, Ralphy. What did you make on it?”
“An F. It was supposed to be about the Flag. Bye.”
We all hung on those phone calls like a pig in slobbage.
My Trusty iPad
Reblog from Wendy’s Written Words
I was given a little iPad and I use it all the time
It’s protected in a case that’s the colour of ruby wine
I use it to play Scrabble and that other Word game
And check my many messages time and time again
I also update and download the latest offer of apps
They range from daily reminders to altered global maps
I can’t be behind the times, oh shudder, or perish the thought
Otherwise my efforts might as well be all for nought
I read the hourly news or tune into the trio “Il Volo
”
And can watch one-day cricket, or even water polo
Shazam is a dream if I need the title of a song
And the elusive artist’s name appears in under a minute long
I can explore the movie offers and buy my tickets online
Or Google questions that are puzzling or check…
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Terror Most Delicious
Pictured Above, Mettie Martha Knight Swain, my paternal grandmother
Desperate for ghost stories, I hung on the words of my superstitious Maw Maw. While the men were out hunting, the women and children of the family gathered to share the long evenings. As the evenings stretched on, lap babies were rocked to sleep and knee babies drifted off in their mother’s laps and were put on thick pallets of quilts on the floor to sleep. Earlier in the evening, the women took turns telling tales of their youth but as it got later and more little ones drifted off, they moved on to scary stories. At the peak of the evening, when the most impressionable had nodded off and the lights were low, one of the daughters would encourage Maw Maw to tell a story. She held her grandchildren spellbound with the scary tales. Should she falter, one of my aunts urged her on…”Mama, remember about the big black dogs running through the house.” Her stories were more terrifying because she believed them with all her being. Once she started, I was too deliciously terrified to even risk a trip to the bathroom alone.
“Oh yeah, lots of times, late at night, if the wind was still, and the night was dark, me and Granny could hear them ghost dogs, howling and scratching at the door, trying to get in…but once in a while, if the moon was full, we’d see them big, black devil dogs blowing right into the room where me and Granny was, made of black smoke from the fires of hell with blazing coals for eyes. We hid under the covers, ‘cause Granny said ‘if you ever looked in them fiery eyes, you was bound for Hell’.”
Opportunities to hear scintillating stories like these were rare, usually limited to visits to Maw Maw, my paternal grandmother. Mother could hardly snatch her spellbound children from the writhing mass of cousins clustered around Maw Maw’s knees. Daddy ruled the roost, and he liked the stories as much as anyone. Mother held the ridiculous notion that tender minds didn’t need to hear scary stories, more concerned about the nightmares she’d be dealing with in a few short hours than the extreme pleasure they afforded us at the time.
I do wish I could hear and savor those stories again, unmolested by that nagging voice in the background. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. Those stories are just pretend, like cartoons. Now, go on to sleep and forget about them.”
Top Left Cousin Ricky Compton, Sister Phyllis Swain Barrington holding Sister Connie Swain Miller, Cousin Allen Lee, Linda Swain Bethea, center, Standing Aunt Ola Bea Shell holding Cousin Trudy Shell
First row, Cousins Sandra Shell, Gary Shell, and Leslie Shell in right front corner.
IQ, IQ Tests, Jobs By IQ, How Much Does It Matter?
The discussion of IQ and type of occupation by IQ is discussed. A table of jobs by average IQ is included as well as an explanation of different IQ score classifications. How much impact should IQ …
Source: IQ, IQ Tests, Jobs By IQ, How Much Does It Matter?
Found this at Amanda Ricks. Thanks Amanda
The Threat of Typhoid Tomatoes
This is a story from my mother’s childhood.
Mama kept me close to her side we when were home alone. If she did let me go in the yard on my own, I had to be close enough to come running in an instant when she called. The only exception was a trip to the toilet. Since it wasn’t polite to answer from the toilet, I kept quiet knowing, she’d be watching for me to come out before mounting a search. She always warned me against falling through the hole in the seat, but that was a concern she could have spared herself. I’d have sprouted wings and flown had I felt myself falling into the quagmire beneath that toilet seat!!
A well-worn path led down the hill to the toilet located far enough to cut the odor and avoid contamination of our well. Mama was vigilant about sanitation and shoveled lime into the pit to aid decomposition and screened the open back to foil her chickens who considered the flies and maggots a tempting buffet. Chickens are not known for their discriminating tastes. Any chicken Mama planned to butcher, was penned up and fed a fine diet of grain and table scraps for several days prior to its date with the axe, till Mama was convinced it, “clean.” I now realize my brother didn’t bother with the long walk to the toilet at night, since a healthy crop of tomatoes had volunteered beneath his bedroom window. Mama noted the size and beauty of the crop, but said we couldn’t eat them. “They might not be clean.” They looked as “clean” as the ones from the garden, so John and I slipped off and enjoyed the finest tomatoes of the season, which had apparently benefitted from the trip through his digestive system. When Mama noticed the stripped plants, she whirled around and quizzed me “What happened to those tomatoes? You didn’t eat them did you?” My guilty look gave me away. “You did, didn’t you? Oh, My Lord, you could get typhoid from those nasty tomatoes.”
My heart fell. I knew this had to be serious since Mama said, “Oh, My, Lord!” I had no idea what typhoid was, but I did understand I was about to die.
“John ate most of them. I only ate a couple of little ones but nothing was wrong with them. They tasted real good.”
“Being raised in filth wouldn’t make them taste bad. They could still make you sick.” She went on about her business as I prepared to die.
I worked up my nerve. “Mama, will typhoid kill you?”
“It could, but maybe you won’t get it. I had typhoid when you were a baby and nearly died.” I already had a keen conscience and knew I deserved punishment as I waited anxiously all afternoon for typhoid to strike me down. I attributed everything to typhoid: a ringing in my ears, a rapid heartbeat, feeling hot and thirsty as I played listlessly in the shade that July afternoon. My last day dragged. Mama didn’t say any more about typhoid, but I knew it was only a matter of time. I dreaded going to bed that night since I wouldn’t be waking up tomorrow, but certainly couldn’t confide in Mama, since I’d brought all this on myself. During bedtime prayers, I got cold shivers reciting the line, “and if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.” Knowing tonight would be the night put a whole new light on the situation, especially since I’d disobeyed Mama. It hurt my feelings a little when she tucked me in as matter-of-factly as usual on my last night on earth. I fought sleep, but couldn’t hold it off forever. I bounded out of bed, thrilled to find myself alive and ravenous when I awoke and smelled dry-salt meat frying, biscuits baking, and coffee percolating before daylight the next morning. Typhoid would have to wait for another day!
101 Kind Quotes by Erika Kind, a Review
Just finished reading Erika Kind’s newest book, 101 Kind Quotes. If you enjoy Erika’s blog, you won’t be disappointed by her lovely book. I zipped through it in one sitting, but will be focusing on one quote a day. Erika has a wonderful way of making things better. Please check it out for yourself.
101 KIND Quotes – New Release!
Re logged from Erika Kind. Please check her new book out. It is inspirational!
The 5th book from Erika Kind is about the 101 daily quotes she has published on her blog, for 101 days. This is really remarkable and I congratulate her on this. You can find more details about the book on the link below and for previous publications of Erika Kind click here.
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Terrible Tale of Cell-Phone Torture
Mother is a tightwad, or careful with her money as she calls it, refusing to get a cell-phone. For my own peace of mind, I put her on my plan. I did get peace of mind in knowing she wasn’t out without a phone, but the cell-phone opened a whole new can of worms. First of all, I tried to convince her it was free, so she’d use it, but she didn’t buy that. When I finally admitted it cost ten dollars a month, no matter how much she used it, that was okay. She insisted she’d accept it only if I let her pay me. I agreed and that’s the last I heard of it. She doesn’t mind owing me forever but has no intention of being a freeloader. I am happy with that compromise.
She also has the habit of locking her keys in the house or car. I added roadside assistance, but she was reluctant to call the service till she realized there was a guy in her neighborhood who got the calls. Now she feels like she’s helping him and gives him all her business. I haven’t had the heart to tell her she is only covered for two calls a year.
She loses her phone a couple of times a week. Most of the time, it’s in a jacket pocket, or under a chair cushion or car seat, but sometimes she’s left it somewhere else. She panics and calls me the second she misses it, since I was foolish enough to provide it. By the time I get the call, she’s ranting at herself for losing it again and has to wear her frustration out before we can get down to the business of finding it. I don’t advise providing the instrument of your torture. Most of the time it’s at my house or in my car. I always try to check her out before we part ways, but sometimes I forget. I added phone insurance just in case, so she’s going to pay for that sometime, too. That’s the only way she’d agree.
Unfortunately, Mother sometimes get random text messages on her phone. She doesn’t text and is hostile to texting, so this is a problem. She’s always convinced one of her children are in danger and are trying to reach her by text this time, though any of us would rather die than deal with texting her. It puts her in a panic till I remind her none of her kids would ever text her. If one of them ever does, she’s going on their plan then and there.
I am still glad Mother has a cell phone, but just in case you wondered, she still has her land line for back up. Cell-phones can’t be trusted. I dread the day when Mother finds out her next phone will have to be a smart phone. She HATES the internet!
Nutsrok 