memoir

Don’t Bother Reaching for Your Umbrella, It’s Probably Broken!

Baby group Kids small

Top pic:  Me and the kids in baby’s first days.  Notice how I don’t appear to know how to manage.  A picture is worth a thousand words.

Bottom Pic: Children about six months later

The baby was tiny. I hadn’t seen anything but tonsils, poop, and Sesame Street in three weeks. My three-year-old-jabbered non-stop. My ears were sore. Naturally, with the clear-thinking of a woman with near terminal post-partum depression, I took full responsibility everything that went wrong.

I don’t know if Bud was a good father or not, since he was rarely home. Just days just before the baby came, he’d been lucky enough to land a job where he worked six days on, three days off. We were ecstatic! For the first time since we got married, we were rich! Miraculously, we didn’t have to worry about getting the utilities cut off each month. There was no way either of us was about to complain about the demands of his job as long as he could stagger to work.

This time out, Bud been gone two days. The baby cried incessantly, with the exception of frequent poop breaks. Of course, I used cloth diapers since this was more than forty years ago. My son was happy as a clam, jabbering merrily behind me every step I took. All was going well till I foolishly left a poopy diaper to soak in the toilet. Of course, I knew what might happen.  Bud had pointed it out to me repeatedly when he left me to do all the rinsing! Though my son had no interest in toilet-training, toilet-flushing was high drama. The toilet plugged.

Our budget had only recently stretched to include regular utility payments. There was no way it would include a plumber. I did not look forward telling Bud what had happened when he got back.  Thank goodness, I was able to hook it with an unraveled wire coat-hanger, saving the day.

Apparently, the gods of Mayhem weren’t through with me yet! On the pre-rinse cycle, with the diapers still dirty, the washer threw a belt,  halting the first load of the morning. Still on a high from the joy of retrieving the diaper from the toilet, I thought. That’s not so bad, I can probably find enough change in the piggy bank to take a couple of loads to the laundromat. Bud would be paid in a couple of days. At least we have plenty of groceries, a roof over our heads, and all the bills paid.

Pulling the sodden, stinking mess from the washer, I wrung them out enough to get them in a plastic basket, heaving the heavy wad into the trunk of my car, along with a load of my toddler son’s essentials. Even though I put them in a plastic trash bag first, it leaked, leaving a malodorous, disgusting stream on my clean floors. I mopped the mess up with disinfectant, a pretty hefty job.

It was as cold as it gets in Louisiana, probably in the low teens. I dressed the kids warmly and strapped them in the car, dreading the trip to the laundromat. I needn’t have worried. The car wouldn’t start! I tried two or three times, hoping for magic since I’d been so blessed with the diaper in the toilet miracle. My luck was done for the day. I had also stunk up the trunk of the car for nothing.

I dragged the kids back in. By now, the baby was squawling and my son was disappointed. He’d been promised a treat! He hadn’t been out of the house in two days. I knew just how he felt! I got them settled. Brought the stinky diapers back in, did them in the bathtub, and cleaned up the floor again while they dried! Take it from me, diapers not spun in the washer take a long, long, long time to dry. So do toddler clothes.

Since my hard floors were freshly mopped and sweet-smelling, while the laundry was still drying, I reasoned it would be best to go ahead and vacuum the living-room and my bedroom, so the whole house would be clean at once! I could at least enjoy a clean house if I was stuck at home. Getting the vacuum out of the closet, I plugged it into an outlet in the living-room. Pop!! Sizzle!! Smoke and a sickening electrical smell arose as it snapped off. That was enough. I started boo-hooing then and there. Not to be outdone, both children joined in. We shared quality family time.

Finally, things settled down. I got the kids to bed. I didn’t fight the nightly battle to get my son to sleep in his own bed. I’d had enough! The baby awoke, crying for a bottle around midnight. I got up to feed her and felt a stabbing pain in my side. Oh darn it! I must have pulled a muscle dragging the sodden laundry around. Maybe it wouldn’t get too sore. My son padded in behind me to help as I fed the baby, jabbering non-stop and dragging his bunny. I sent him back to bed. I settled her and got back to bed. Later, I woke up sweltering and sweating. I felt like I was in a sweatbox and had difficulty getting a breath! I tried to sit straight up and felt an excruciating pain in my back. Was I dying alone here in the house with two helpless children? Bud wouldn’t be back for three more days! They could die, too. I had to try to save them! Only the courage of a dying mother explains what happens next. I forced myself to breathe slowly and deeply, rolling on my side. The pain was agonizing, but for the sake of my children, I pushed on. By now, I was on my stomach, slipping on my knees on the floor. I breathed shallowly through my pain, drawing in a little each time, making an effort to fill my lungs for maximum strength, not knowing what would happen when I tried to stand. My face was burning! The baby was three-weeks old. Did I have some kind of late-developing child-bed fever?

As I marshalled my strength to reach for the bed-side phone, it rang. Had Bud somehow psychically sensed my distress and called home to check on us? Gratefully, I croaked, “Thank God you called!”

It took the caller a moment to recover from the warm reception. “I’m beatin’ my meat!”

“What?” I wasn’t prepared for this, as I was expecting salvation.

“I’m beatin’ my meat!”

I hung up.  The diversion did get my mind off my troubles for a moment, till I remembered the agony of a pulled muscle. My son woke up and said, “Mommy, I’m hot!” Surely he didn’t have child-bed fever, too! Making my way down the hall to check the thermostat, I found his bunny hanging where he’d pushed the thermostat to max before heading off to bed. That explained my fever.

Some aspirin and a few miserable days took care of the pulled muscle. A new car battery and washer belt fixed things right up when Bud got back in three days later. The vacuum was toast. I had plenty to tell Bud when he asked, “What went on while I was gone?”

His Last Two Bucks

imageSeveral years ago, I dreamed of camping by a mountain stream. About 3:30 am, Bud got up to go to the bathroom, stepping into about two inches of standing water. The plumbing under the bathroom sink had sprung a leak, flooding the house, hence my dream about the babbling brook.  We were both sloshing around like mad, though clearly, nothing we did was going to make a great difference right then, except for cutting off the flood and opening the doors to let the house drain.  We were surveying the damage when Bud went back in the bathroom for solace and discovered the greatest loss of all, soaked toilet tissue.  I can still hear his heartbroken cry. “Well, <%#>*^. ;3~#}”£!  I spent my last two bucks on toilet tissue and didn’t even get to take a s___!

Homemade Dutch Oven Table and Bean Pot Tripod

My husband constructed this Dutch Oven Cooking Stand out of an old aluminum  truck toolbox using an old bed frame to attach legs purchased from Home Depot for less than $30.  All other materials were from his shop.  It is light, folds up well for travel and storage and shows no signs of heat damage or wear despite several years of use.  The wind screen latches in place with small holes at corner.  I put my coals directly on table and use it for hours.  You can see it is very heavily loaded.  I bake bread and desserts in Dutch oven as well, using a cast iron trivet to avoid burning the bottoms.

He also built this fine tripod from scrap using the hollow legs of a rack from a truck.  The actual tripod connector is made of 5/8″ cold roll heated in his forge and bent into shape.  I love this thing!

I have a nice collection of cast iron, though not nearly enough, of course.  I bought a few pieces new and picked up a lot at flea markets.  I don’t shy away from a piece without a lid.  You can get a good deal on them and pick up a lid some other time.  When I am looking for a lid, I measure the inside diameter of inside rim and keep a tape measure in my pocket. I picked up my !4″ Lodge Dutch Oven for $37 without a lid and ordered lid from Amazon (No shipping) for around $20.  Bought new, the Dutch Oven would have been over $100.

A flat bottom Dutch Oven works beautifully placed on top of pot lifter.

 

My Condolences

imageOne of the hardest parts of  being a nurse is comforting and supporting the bereaved family at the time of death.  Normally, family members are heartbroken, grieving at the death.  On a few occasions, I witnessed something different.  Mr. Jones, an elderly patient owned a successful insurance agency. Every morning, he donned freshly laundered silk pajamas.  When discharged,  He wore a fine finest suit, shirt, shoes, and hat and took great pride in being noticed.  He bragged of buying a new Cadillac every year, dining at the most prestigious restaurants, and enjoying a membership at The Country Club.

His son, Junior Jones was in his late fifties and had always worked for Daddy.  It appeared Mr. Jones was none to generous nor kind to Junior.  Junior dressed in cheap clothes and drove an ancient compact car.  It must have been miserable since he was so tall he had to fold up like a jackknife to fit in it.  When Junior came to the hospital to consult with Daddy about the business, Daddy was condescending, snide, and critical, never showing Junior the least respect.

One the morning Daddy died, we’d called to notify Junior his father’s death appeared imminent.  Junior came streaking into his father’s room just moments before Mr. Jones’ death.  I offered my condolences.  Junior ignored me, opened the drawer of the bedside table, dug out the keys to his father’s Cadillac, his father’s checkbook and left the room without speaking.  A nursing assistant who was a friend of the family walked him out to the parking garage.  He handed her the keys to his small car and drove off in his father’s big, black Cadillac.  That was different!  I guess he’d had enough.

Drive On

image

John was too lazy to work his farm.  His family would have starved if the neighbors hadn’t brought them something to eat.  Finally, a group of the neighboring farmers collected up and decided if John was too sorry to support his family, maybe they ought to just hang him.

They had him loaded up on a wagon to haul to the gallows when Charley felt guilty and spoke up. “We can’t just hang a man for being too sorry to work.  I’ll give him a wagon load of corn to get his family through the winter and he can make a fresh start next spring.  How about that John?”

“Is it shucked?” asked John.

“Well, no.”  said Charlie.

“Drive on.” said John.

Baby Blues

We were a good couple.  Long before we got married, we agreed completely on important things…foreign policy, religion, life plans.  Then we got married.  Life was idyllic.  We were both in college, working student jobs.  Bud had saved over $500 and student loans covered my tuition.

Budgeting was easy.  At the first of the month we paid our rent, utilities, bought some dried beans, rice, flour, meal, spaghetti, and coffee.   If we had a couple of dollars left, we could buy a little gasoline for Bud’s old truck.  We walked to class, work, and the grocery store.   Carrying home our four bags of groceries (once a month) was not a struggle.  Sometimes we fished in the afternoons.  This doubled as a budget assist.  If we caught fish, we ate them as soon as we got home.  No luck…we had grits.  Our social life was relaxed.  We visited other impoverished students for entertainment and had a wonderful time, cherishing this poverty since we wouldn’t always be this poor and carefree.

A couple of years later, we started noticing other people’s kids, and decided to see what we could cook up.  We were out of college, both working, and having a hard time figuring how to spend all that money after the poverty of college.  Unconcerned that we were just starting out, I knew we could handle a baby just fine.  I imagined a little guy with dark, curly hair, smart, sweet, and adorable.  As smart as we both were, our child was sure to be a genius.  It never crossed my mind that our kid was free to exercise the options of our genetic pools, with all their messy subsets.  With all the sisters and brothers between us, we knew all about kids.  Since we already agreed on everything, and got along great, what could go wrong?  Our main goal was not to mess up like our parents had.  We’d cooperate, back each other up, and never, never speak or act without thinking of the effect on a tender child.

Sure enough, before too long, that tender child was on the way.  Pregnancy wasn’t too bad, but finding out we had to pay the doctor ourselves when Bud’s insurance didn’t cover was startling, but good practice for the many surprises to follow.  Every one of our dollars had a place to go now.  At a hundred dollars per pound, John was a quality baby.

I couldn’t wait to get home from the hospital and get the baby to myself. The new grandparents were waiting at the house, just dying to get their hands on him.  I was miffed when they grabbed him up before I even got him settled in, passing him from hand to hand, just like I wasn’t there.  Mother rushed to change his first diaper at home and he washed her face for her.  I thought that was just right.  They finally put him down after his first feeding.  He looked so sweet in his crib.  Eventually everyone left and Bud and I had him alone.  I was exhausted and settled in for a nap.

Twenty minutes in, I heard the rustling of sheets and some grunting.  It didn’t disturb me much.  Bud knew what to do.  I was right.  In a minute and a half Bud and the baby came calling.  It seemed the baby’s pooper had kicked into overdrive and overwhelmed his diaper, clothes, crib, and Bud’s clothes.  Bud was literally in over his head, sliding the slimy, malodorous baby in bed with me and was racing for the shower.  Stripping and gagging, he left a trail of dirty clothes and baby poop splatters locked outside the bathroom door.  I was right behind him, trying to get the baby’s bath stuff.

It was hopeless, so John’s first bath was in the cold kitchen – not the relaxing, calm bath I had planned for tomorrow morning. No rubber ducky, no velvety baby bath cloths, hooded towels, or gentle baby soap.  I dangled him awkwardly over the kitchen sink, bathing him with dish detergent and rinsing him with the pull out sprayer, running mustard-colored baby poop down the drain.  I dried him with dishtowels, the only thing handy.  Between the three of us, we managed to mess up all our bedding, our clothes, the crib sheets and blankets, six towels, a throw rug, and several dishtowels.  I think that’s probably the first time I called Bud a Stupid A**hole.

By the time the baby was bathed, fed, and settled back in his nice clean crib, we had piled up two full loads of laundry. We were all exhausted and starving.  Bud hadn’t gotten to the grocery store while I was in the hospital, so we had grits, fish sticks, and orange juice for supper, before passing out at 8:30, too tired to even put sheets back on our bed.  Uttering “Please, God let this baby sleep till at least 08:00 in the morning,” I wonder, “What in the world have I done?”

Well, I won’t say God wasn’t listening, but if he was, the answer was , “Hah!” John was not concerned about stereotypes and didn’t care that babies could sleep for twenty-two hours a day.  At 10:00 P.M. he howled, furious at our neglect. I was in another world and took a minute or two to realize what was going on.  I grabbed him up and changed him while Bud fumbled to heat a bottle.   He took about an ounce and a half, produced another impressive mustard poop, and was ready to go back to bed, totally unappreciative of his second cleanup of the night.  Not knowing if refrigerating and giving him the rest of that bottle later would kill him, I pitched it.

The hospital had sent six four-ounce bottles of formula home with us. We hadn’t bought formula ahead of time, since we didn’t know exactly what to buy.  One down, five to go.  Bud was going to make a supply run in the morning, so we’d be fine.    We settled in for the rest of the night.  Short night!  At 11:30, John was ready to go again.  I had already noticed that he was moody when he first woke up.

Since the literature said babies only cried when they were hungry or wet, I changed him while Bud went for the bottle, even though it had only been an hour and a half.  He took another ounce and a half, pooped, and nodded off.  I was starting to notice a pattern.  Next time we’d feed, then change.  It didn’t occur to me that it might be a good idea to jostle him awake to feed a little better.  Another bottle gone.  We shared quality time again at 01:30 and 03:30.  Two more bottles gone.

He was up for the day by 05:00…wide-eyed!  I fed him, bathed him, in the nice warm bathroom with all the proper accessories this time. I rocked him again, and waited for him to start on that twenty-two hour nap I was promised.  Bud was whipped and slipped back to bed while I waited.  I thought about putting him in his crib, but thought he might die, so I rocked.  By this time, the formula situation was getting serious, so I woke Bud to go find a store that opened early.

While living in a tiny town can have its advantages, access to well-stocked stores is not one of them.  After checking three local stores, Bud drove eleven miles into the next town for formula.  He bought one big can of Ready to Feed, and a case of the kind you mix at home, squeaking back in just before John was due a feeding.

Satisfied that he had the day going his way, John knocked back four ounces of formula and slept six hours.  He woke up just long enough to feed and slept another six hours.  Bud settled on the sofa and got a nice nap, too.  Not understanding the situation I had gotten myself into, I cleaned up the bathroom, kitchen, remade our bed, and did three loads of laundry.  I was exhausted, but got a nap mid-afternoon.  Bud was a fast learner.  He assumed I didn’t want to miss anything, and made sure to rouse me as soon as John woke in the early evening.

For the next three months, John and I spent a lot of time together at night.  I had to entertain myself during the day while he rested up. I learned a lot about babies, Bud, and myself in the next few days.

  1. John’s agenda did not include sleeping twenty-two hours a day.
  2. Bud was a better critic, than provider of baby care and always knew just what I was doing wrong. He couldn’t stay up at night because he had to work.
  3. I was in way over my head.
  4. The person you married may bear little resemblance to the person with whom you share responsibility of an infant, deteriorating rapidly from “My Love” to “You Stupid %$#&^” in a few hours.
  5. It doesn’t take long to get over wanting the baby “all to myself” once it actually happens.
  6. I was in way over my head.

Eventually, things settled down and we figured it all out. John is sleeping all night now.  We’re hoping to get him out of our bed soon.  He will be forty-one his next birthday!

Lesson from a Blackbird

I grew up on a farm.  My brother and I were out in a field with his shotgun one day when a flock of blackbirds flew over.  I fired into the flock, hitting one unfortunate bird.  I was thrilled at my marksmanship, never having expected to hit anything.  Feeling victorious, I picked the little bird up, only to find he wasn’t dead yet.  He wrapped his little claws around my finger reflexively, like a newborn baby does.  It broke my heart that I had taken his life for no reason other than my own pleasure.  That was when I learned every creature’s life is as precious to it as mine is to me.  I’ve never wanted to harm another since then.

Afternoon Funny

'I dare you to ask Jeeves about the birds and the bees!'

Bnb 4Bnb 5

Beatrice wished her husband was around to have 'the talk' with their maturing son, The she remembered his absence was her fault,

Beatrice wished her husband was around to have ‘the talk’ with their maturing son, The she remembered his absence was her fault,

Hoping for a boy or girl?

Hoping for a boy or girl?

birds-bees 1

Until I was eleven the only knowledge I had of how boy’s anatomy was an occasional peek at a little boy during a diaper change and a quick image of a whirling behind if I happened to walk catch a brother, or a cousin sneaking a pee outdoors.  From that, I mainly felt envy that I couldn’t pee on stuff.

Imagine my surprise when my friend Margaret informed me exactly what the facts of life entailed. She even called it “The Facts of Life.”  Her story:  Mr. Brown who topped three hundred pounds easily, took off all his clothes, every night, and stuck his peanut in Mrs. Brown, who coincidentally weighed at least two hundred pounds.  He peed inside her and laid on top of her all night.  I knew this wasn’t possible.  Anybody that walrus laid on all night would be smushed.  Mrs. Brown was not smushed.  She had enormous breasts, and a pendulous belly.  I told Margaret she was lying and went straight to my mother.

I told Mother, Margaret had told me a big lie, the “Facts of Life.”  I guess Mother thought I had gotten a prettier version.  She was annoyed, saying she intended to tell me herself.  She went ahead and gave me her version, involving a boy and girl falling in love and getting married.  True, they did indulge in some “intimacies”, her word.  These “intimacies” would result in a baby.  I was never to even consider such a thing until I was married.

Armed with her confirmation of the truth Margaret had told me, the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Brown burned in my mind, I assured her it would NEVER happen!  They should teach this version in schools.

The Hilarious Truth Behind My Brother’s School Picture

 

My brother Bill realized he was a comedian just as he had his school picture made.  All his friends loved it, but Mother had no sense of humor.  “I’m not buying those ridiculous pictures!” She fumed.

”Oh yes we are!”  Daddy put his foot down.  His family had never been able to buy school pictures, so he was rewriting his childhood. He would not be shamed.

Daddy ruled the roost, so Mother seethed as she sent a check to school on the last possible day.   Billy wasn’t worried.  He’d already impressed his friends.  He had endured an impressive lecture and threat of grave repercussions should he pull that stunt again, but that was a condition he’d learned to live with, so it wasn’t a problem.  All his buddies wanted a picture.  He was flushed with pride.

It wasn’t long till the class picture came out.  His teacher opened her copy before she passed the envelopes out to the students.  She was livid, landing on him like an old wet hen.  He’d enjoyed so much success with his individual school pictures, that he’d repeated his trick in the class picture.  There he sat, sat prominently in the front row with his tongue out and crossed eyes. This picture would be in the yearbook!

The teacher was mad.  Mamas were mad.  I’m sure the photographer was mad since he wouldn’t  have sold many prints with a clown in the front row.  Needless to say, my parents didn’t buy one. I am sorry I couldn’t find one for this post.