memoir

Use it Up, Wear it Out, Make it Do, or Do Without

Some thing you just can’t get away from.   Everyday when I got home from school, it was the same thing..  Mother met us at the door.  “Take off your clothes and hang them up.  Take off your shoes and put them under the bed.  Get a biscuit out of the oven and do your homework.  Then you can go play.”

I hated hanging up my clothes, preferring to pitch them wherever they landed. I got sick of hearing how much work went into washing, starching, and ironing them.  After all,  she had a wringer washer, clothesline, and iron.  What else did she have to do anyway? She was a mother, not a person.  I got sick of all that nagging about my shoes.  I didn’t always have time to go back and put my shoes away when I tried to slip out to play.  Many times I’d kicked them off in the yard.  Once a dog chewed one up, a disaster, since getting new shoes involved pinching pennies and careful timing.  Daddy got paid on Thursdays.  Mother went to the bank and did all her shopping Thursdays.  There would be no money till  the next payday.  A Tuesday shoe emergency messed up the whole plan.  Daddy also had to be dealt with.  When we messed up, she was responsible.  It rained on the just and unjust alike.

Finally, the point of the story.  Despite my best efforts, Mother’s teaching, or genetic input took control. The instant I get home, I change and hang up my clothes and put my shoes in the closet. If I had one, I’d certainly have gotten a biscuit.  This just isn’t right.  You’d think after more than sixty years , I’d get a break.

Worse yet, I have to be frugal.  I have to use it up. Wear it out.  Make do or do without, just like people were directed during World War II.  Paper towels and napkins are wasteful, so I use dish cloths and cloth napkins.   Buzzy went into a clawing frenzy  and scratched a hole in my nice bamboo sheet a while back.  He is not frugal. I couldn’t bear to toss those  beautiful sheets and pillow cases, so I am making them into napkins and hankies.  Bamboo hankies are $19.99 per six pack.  Bamboo napkins cost $19.99 per twelve. So far, I’ve made a dozen napkins and a dozen hankies and some sleeping shorts for Bud. .  There is enough left over for more several more hankies, napkins , dish towels, dust cloths, and doilies for embroidery.  I am sick of the carcass of those  sheets , but can’t bear to throw them away when all this costs nothing but some work.  I think I need therapy.

 

Rock and Roll, Mama

When I was a kid, nothing would have shocked me more than the thought of hurting my mother. Despite this, when I was about ten, my brother and I came upon my mother rocking the baby, one of her few opportunities to take a break out of her impossible day. She had very little lap for the baby, since she was hugely pregnant with another.. Most often, she drifted off for a little nap herself. We thought it would be fun to surprise her by pulling on the back of the rocker, tipping her back. She must have been shocked or extremely good-natured, because she laughed out loud. Foolishly inferring we’d pleased her, we rocked her even further back, with her continued shrieks  of, “Stop! Stop! You’re going to drop me!” Because she seemed to be having so much fun, we kept it up till the chair tipped backwards, leaving her stranded, lying with the rocker back on the floor, swollen feet high in the air, under the weight of two babies, one on top of her belly, the other inside nearly ready to pop out.
We were horrified, thinking we’d killed her. The baby was howling at being upside down on her incapacitated Mama. Of course, Mother could do nothing to help herself, except shout, “Help, get me up! Get me up!” I thought we’d killed her, and probably the squalling baby, as well as the one on the way. The two of us struggled to get the chair up, learning a valuable lesson in physics at the same time. It’s a lot easier to tip a pregnant woman over than to get to her upright. Everybody did survive, despite our idiocy. The miracle was, the whole situation struck Mother as funny. Since then, I’ve never tempted to tip another pregnant woman over.

Healing……No!

 

My children took advantage of one of my fatal discipline flaws.  Should their behavior cross the line and require discipline, activating my funny bone rendered me useless.  The pastor in our small Methodist Church offered healing by laying on of hands at the end of the regular Sunday Service. I suspect that was one of the few times John, age ten, had ever listened.  He made a move as though he was heading to the front.  I was totally surprised, and caught his arm, thinking he’d misunderstood.

”What’s going on?”  I asked.

”I’ve got a heat rash!”  He giggled.

”Sit down.”  He got me.

Chicken Joke

A New York City yuppie moved to the country and bought a piece of land. He went to the local feed and livestock store and talked to the proprietor and asked to buy one hundred chicks.

“That’s a lot of chicks,” commented the proprietor. “I mean business,” the city slicker replied.

A week later the yuppie was back again. “I need another hundred chicks,” he said. “Boy, you are serious about this chicken farming,” the man told him.

“Yeah,” the yuppie replied. “If I can iron out a few problems.” “Problems?” asked the proprietor. “Yeah,” replied the yuppie, “I think I planted that last batch too close together.”

The Girls Part One

lbeth1950's avatarNutsrok

“I’m worried.  Mama’s getting worse. She got turned around in the grocery store last week and panicked when she couldn’t find me.  She told the manager her little girl was lost.  I heard them paging me and hurried to the front and she was crying like a baby. ” Louanne’s eyes filled with tears as she fidgeted in the high bistro chair. Her spoon clattered as she stirred sugar in her coffee. The sun streaming through the cafe windows highlighted her blue-veined fair skin. “Mama’s been trading there forty years! We’re going to have to do something.  She can’t stay by herself.  I’d take her home with me but I just can’t. I was ashamed to tell you, with y’all both doing so well,  but me and  Robert had to get his mama to go in with us on the house or we couldn’t have ever gotten it.  Then he…

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Misogynistic Cat

Patches was an appealing calico  kitten until you took her personality into account. She clearly had issues.  I have to admit, I never got her to a cat psychiatrist, so my diagnoses may not impress the more knowledgeable among  you.  At first, like any kitten, she was all teeth and claws as she frisked around.  My daughter was a sweet little girl, totally enamored of Patches.  That fickle feline  wouldn’t give her the time of day unless the child was opening cat food. Patches spit or hissed at me every time I got close.

Conversely, Patches couldn’t get enough of my son, even though he put forth nothing good.  He’d stick rolled tape to her feet and she’d come back for more.  He rubbed her fur the wrong way.  She loved it.  He never fed her.  My daughter would try to entice Patches to sleep with her.  Patches always struggled loose and sped into John’s room.  Should she be locked out, she yowled at the door till he let her in.

Patches might have been a Floozy in a previous life.  She loved Bud, too.  If John was not available, she’d cuddle up on Bud’s lap and purr like a washing machine.  I believe she also suffered from hallucinations.  From time to time, she’d be walking across the floor and seem to see something then panic wildly, before running to hide under a bed or sofa.  Other times, she’d wake from a dead sleep and run till she banged her head into the wall.  It was not uncommon for her to pursue an invisible mouse or yowl at nothing.  It never occurred to me me till now, but perhaps she was Seeing ghosts.

One night, John was gone, so Patches had to make do with Bud.   She hopped on him in bed,  moving several times, made a lot of biscuits, with her purring in overdrive the whole time.  It was impossible to go to sleep. Eventually, she settled down.  “Finally.  That’s a relief.” I said, “Maybe she finally went to sleep.”

In a muffled tone, Bud answered. “Yeah, well I’d feel a lot better if her butt hole wasn’t right over my nose.”

Louisiana Blonde Joke

Bible BloneThe couple started discussing pronunciation as they were approaching Natchitoches, Louisiana in their travels.  The wife asked a blonde girl in the restaurant, “Can you tell me the name of this place and please pronounce it slowly for me?  I’m not from around here.

“Sure, it’s Burger King.  Burrr……Gerrr…….King!”

Soft Place to Fall

Bill and Dana lived across from us for years, their kids Betsy and Greg in and out of the house all the time.  We visited in the yard but never socialized beyond that.  We were very fond of the children. Betsy was my daughter’s age, Greg about three years younger.  Greg tagged along with Betsey , or hung around with Bud and me on own his own for meals and whatever else that was going on.

We both had a soft spot for the children since their parents were uninvolved at best and unkind at the worst.  I know now I should have reported them. Though both parents drank heavily, Dana was a card-carrying, mean alcoholic and Bill, a defeated alcoholic.  Dana, who worked as a psyche nurse, didn’t seem to like any of her family.  Bill seemed fond of the children but couldn’t protect them.  One afternoon, Greg came bursting in our back door.  “Help.  Dad’s gonna whip me!”  He hid in a bathroom.

His dad pounded on the back door and tried to push in past Bud with a belt doubled up in his fist, none too steady on his feet.  Had he thought ahead, he’d have realized that was a bad idea.  Bud had four inches of reach and forty pounds on him, but Bud stayed calm.

“I’m coming in for Greg.  Dana said I gotta whip him.  Him and the Bailey kid got in the beer.  His mama told him what was gonna happen if he got in the beer.”  Bill looked shamefaced, his heart not in his errand.

“Now hold on.  I can’t let you go in my house and beat a kid.  There are better ways to handle this.” Bud told him.  “Go back home and sober up.  Looks like y’all have both had plenty of beer.”

“Alright, I won’t come bustin’ in over you, but I’m gonna beat his ass when he gets home.” Bill offered.

“I’d think real hard about that.”  Bud told him.  “If you do that, you’ll have to deal with me.  Go on home.  Your boy can stay here till you’re sober and we’ll talk about it.”  Bill left, seeming somewhat relieved at not having to deal with anything he’d stirred up.

Bud called Greg out.  “Boy, you know you’re not old enough to drink.  I wouldn’t let you drink either.  You can stay here till I talk to your Dad and it’s safe to go home.”

The next day Bill came over and talked to the three of of, Greg, Bud, and me.  “Dana said  he can come home, but he’s going to Pine Hill.  (Adolescent Psychiatric Facility)  Get your stuff, boy.”

Bud asked Greg.  “Is that what you want to do?”

“No sir.  Can I stay here a few more days?” Greg asked.

“That’s between you and your dad.  What do you think, Bill?”

“I gotta talk to Dana.  She’s still pretty worked up.”  Bill answered.

Greg stayed, not causing a minute of trouble.  We weren’t foolish enough to think the problem was solved.  We just wanted him safe.  Four days later, Dana came to see Greg.  “Do you want to come home.  We miss you. You’ve been punished enough.”

“Am I still in trouble?  Dad ain’t gonna whip me is he?  I don’t  want to go to the hospital.” Greg looked worried.

“No. I promise.  Dad ain’t going to whip you and we aren’t to put you in the hospital.  Just stay out of the beer.” She told him.

He went home to an apparently peaceful house, for the moment.

Over the next couple of years the family dynamics changed, not by choice.  Dana got cancer and didn’t live long.   She was heavily medicated and continued to drink, so her involvement was less each day.  When she got too sick to work, they had to find a cheaper place to live. The children grew up and we lost touch, except for a time or two.  The last I heard, Greg was doing well enough to move out on his own.  Betsey was in and out of a couple of relationships, but eventually settled down, married,  and had a couple of kids.  The last I heard, she was going to nursing school.

I hope for the best for this family.

 

 

 

 

 

Connie said, “Damn!”

My sister Connie is seventeen months older than Marilyn.  She was protective of Marilyn from the start, always giving over to “the baby,”. She wasn’t encouraged to do it, that’s just how she was.  Mother awas careful not make a difference or favor Marilyn.  In fact, she was felt bad at seeing Connie knocked out of the baby spot, so bent over backwards trying to be fair.

Marilyn had no problem asserting herself. Since Connie didn’t want Marilyn to get in trouble, she rarely hit Marilyn back or tattled on her.  I infer this worked well for Marilyn..  As country children often do, one day Connie didn’t want to take time to go in and wee wee.  She simply darted behind a tree to do the job.  Finding an abandoned hubcap that served as a dog-feeding dish, she squatted and filled it.  As she stood, Marilyn slipped up behind her and kicked it, splashing Connie liberally.  Instead of smacking Marilyn like a normal kid would have, Connie just exclaimed, “Damn!”  Marilyn was off like a shot, looking for Mother,  Connie ,right behind her as soon as she got her wet clothes pulled up.

””Mama, Mama!  Connie said “Damn!”  This was big trouble.  Mother wouldn’t tolerate trashytalk.

Mother whirled around, shocked, expecting Connie to deny the evil deed.  “Connie, did you say, “Damn?”

”Yes.” Connie whimpered.  Had she told Mother what Marilyn had done, they would both have been swatted.

”Get me the fly swat.”  Mother kept a plastic fly swat hanging by the back door ready for just such a occasion.  She gave Connie two or three quick swats and dismissed her, while Marilyn stood by self-righteously.  It was years before Connie told the whole story.

I wonder if the dogs thought “Damn” later that day when they smelled pee in their dish.

My family:  I am in the back row Left, holding Connie’s hands,  Billy Center, Phyllis  holding Marilyn Right.