Bud,

Valentine Failure

Bud and I are not the best at commemorating special days. Despite this, we are coming up on fifty-five years so I guess things have somehow worked out.

One year, I was feeling appreciative of our relationship and bought Bud a really beautiful card. I left the card with a box of chocolates, the memento he’d really appreciate, on his bedside table where he’d see it as he came home from his nightshift.

It happened to be my day off, so I waited for his reaction. He came in carrying a bag of Valentine treats a co-worker had gifted the staff. His cheeks were puffed out with candy, so he was obviously enjoying the holiday.

In a few minutes he came back up front with his box of chocolates under his arm and settled in his recliner to enjoy the news. When I went back to check, I noticed he’d never even opened his card. I was infuriated.

“Where’s my valentine?” I demanded.

With his mouth full of candy, he replied. “I didn’t know it was Valentine’s Day.”

Amazingly, he survived.

Good Man

Describe a man who has positively impacted your life.

My husband, Bud, has positively impacted my life. He supports me in what I need to do. Though he shares his opinions freely, he understands I will do what I feel I feel is best. When I realized I was not cut out to be a teacher, he supported me in pursuit oof my nursing career. He is a strong, kind man. I wish there were more like him.

Grumpy Santa

As you can see, Bud has white hair and beard. It wouldn’t be a great leap for him to be mistaken for Santa Claus. One hot August evening we were in Target. Bud was wearing a red pullover when we stumbled up on a Christmas display. In his typical fashion, Bud launched into his familiar diatribe about rushing the season and the over commercialization of Christmas.

Amidst his complaints, I noticed a four-year-old boy staring at him in wonder. The tyke obviously thought he’d stumbled up on Santa in Target. I alerted Bud, who immediately changed his manner.

“Merry Christmas, kid.” he said.

Childhood Memories of Food and Family

Bud and I grew up together. He was raised like me, one of five. Like my home, there was plenty of food at mealtime but treats were rare. After school snacks were leftover biscuits, cornbread, or a grizzled flapjack left over from breakfast. Should a bag of cookies or chips miraculously materialize, ravenous kids would fall on it like a hoard of locusts. It brought new meaning to term, “first come, first served!”

Bud’s mom made cookies one evening. He ate all he was allowed before being dispatched to bed. Long after the house quieted, he lay sleepless, those cookies silently beckoning him from the cookie jar. He waited as long as he could stand it before slipping into the dark kitchen surreptitiously opening the cookie jar. Naturally, he was too wily to turn on the lights.

Slipping back into bed, he gobbled his bonanza under the covers. His appetite satiated, he laid back, finally ready for sleep. Moments later, Bud noticed a tingly, ticklish feeling on his hands. Upon investigation, he found them crawling with the remainder of the ants he hadn’t already consumed.

It was the same at the Swain house. I had some dainty little cousins. Their mother constantly worried that they wouldn’t eat. Invariably, Mother embarrassed me by remarking, “My kids eat anything I put in front of them!” Even a blind man could have inferred that by the smacking. It was hazardous to reach for the last piece of chicken. A slow kid might get a fork in the hand.

Anyway, I spent a few days with my non-eating cousin. Still smarting from Mother’s remark, I made up my mind to be a picky eater for the duration. Though it nearly killed me, I turned up my nose at every meal. I even spurned fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy, my favorites.

Aunt Bonnie tested me sorely when she emptied her freezer and offered up the remains of a carton of butter pecan ice cream before she tossing it. Along with her honestly snooty kids, I refused to consider it. I very nearly died of heartbreak as she rinsed the carton with hot water and ran the ice cream down the drain. I fear I would have lost my resolve and eaten out of the garbage if she’d left it in the carton in the outdoor garbage can.

By the time I got home, I was gaunt with hunger, having made a point to be pickier than her miniature children. Finally, my efforts were rewarded. The minute we got home, Aunt Bonnie claimed I was the pickiest eater she’d ever seen. I’d worried her to death!”

I was overjoyed! I rushed into the kitchen and snatched a dried out biscuit off Mother’s stove. I hid under the bed and ate it where Aunt Bonnie wouldn’t see me.

This is me and my cousin. We were about a year apart in age. Of course, I was the big one.

Perfect Happiness

It is so easy to make Bud a perfect meal, I don’t know why I don’t do it every night.

There are several interchangeable choices. All I have to do is cook steak, chicken, roast beef or pork, ribs, or meatloaf with gravy. My second decision is between rice, stewed or mashed potatoes. The third decision is the side. Black-eyed peas, always Bud’s first choice, either pinto, lima, red, or green beans.

Of course, we need a bread. Biscuits, cornbread, or rolls are always fine. Should I feel particularly industrious, dessert is in order, preferably homemade apple pie or yellow cake with buttercream frosting.

I can throw all the salad in the trash. Oh yes, Bud always volunteers to make the gravy if its not cooked along with the meat.

Patches: A Story of Our Calico Cat

I believe our calico cat, Patches, was mentally ill. From the beginning, she liked the men in the family. As for the women, she either treated us with disdain or total rejection.

Many times, Patches behaved as though she was having hallucinations, staring intensely at walls or furniture as though something was there.

She was a very picky eater, preferring one brand of boxed cat food. The only other thing she’d touch was tuna. One morning I gave her the last of the cat food. That afternoon, on the way home from school, I sent my daughter into a convenience store with a five-dollar bill, assuming that was plenty. In a minute she was back out with her purchase. I always let the kids keep the change if they went in the store.

When we got home, Patches was yowling. I tore the top off the bag and poured. Patches had her face almost in the dish as dust fogged in her face, nearly choking her. My daughter had bought the cheapest item on the shelf with a cat picture. That may have been the very moment Patches took a dislike to us.

Bud and I settled into bed one night when Patches decided to visit him. He was lying flat on his back when she jumped up on him and started purring loudly and making biscuits on his chest. Eventually, she quieted down.

“Thank goodness, she finally settled down.” I said

“Yea, but I’d feel at lot better about it if she didn’t have her butt right on my face.” The

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It’s been a while

Bud and I have been together for 73 years. This is our first photo together. I am the baby on right in fitst row. He is the little boy behind me. The photographer has us facing the sun, so we are shielding our faces. I remember always being posed facing the sun. Who know the rationale behind that?

Bud’s mother came to help out when I was born. She often said she should have pinched my head off when she had a chance. Live and learn. Our families were friends, so we grew up playing together. He was a nice boy, never mean to girls, so I always liked him.

He first started coming to visit on his own when I was seventeen. Our family was generally confused as to whom he was visiting. My sister and I thought he was interested in her, so I went to my room and read. I was always looking for a chance to read, anyway, since Daddy kept us really busy on the farm. My brother thought Bud was coming to see him.

The matter was further complicated since Bud had bashed his left thumb with a 24 lb. hammer . The doctor pushed the ball of his thumb back in place until it was approximately thumb shaped, stitched it to his nail, and splinted it. One week to the day, while he was still splinted, a sprocket fell on his right foot, breaking it. Consequently, he was effectively disabled on the right and left side, though his job kept him on, probably out of guilt. He didn’t feel much like a suitor during this period.

The next week, he pitched his crutches in the back of his truck on the way to the doctor. They blew out. He retrieved them but one had suffered the loss of a rubber tip, not optimal for a lame guy with no grip due to a smushed thumb. Bud managed to hobble in the doctor’s door before hitting a slick tile. One crutch went one way, one the other. Pulling himself up on receptionist’s desk,he inquired “Is there a doctor in the house?” It must have been horrifying to the staff who were trying to remain professional.

So, he did finally live through the indignities of his injuries. All the while, I got a good bit of reading done while Phyllis and Bill courted him. I suppose I was inadvertently playing hard to get. When he eventually got off the crutches, he asked me out. I don’t know which of the Swain kids was most surprised, me, Phyllis, or Billy.

We got married two years later, while we were still in college.

Don’t Spin Your Greens, Granny (Part 2 of Multi-Function Appliances

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When you live in the South and visit old folks in the country, the first thing you have to do is admire their garden. You’re liable to come home with a “mess of greens.” For the unenlightened, greens include turnips, collards, or mustard greens. Boiled down low, with a bit of pork, and garnished with a splash of “pepper sauce,” greens make a delicious meal. A true connoisseur polishes off by sopping up the juice, or pot-liquor with cornbread. If you’re above the Mason-Dixon Line, try a roll.

That’s the happy ending. Now, we get down to the nitty gritty, literally. Greens have to be “looked and washed.” The first step is dispossessing the wildlife who habituate greens. Nobody wants to find half a worm or a cluster of bug eggs in their pot-liquor. You have to give both sides of each rumpled leaf a good look, wash, and then wash and rinse copiously.

I’d heard the glorious news that greens could be washed in the washing machine, cutting down tremendously on prep time. The next time Bud came in wagging a bag no of greens, I didn’t moan like normal, having recently heard the good news that greens could be washed in the washing machine. As usual, the basic information registered, not the total technique. I loaded the washer with dirty greens and detergent and hit the start button. Quite a while later, the alarm sounded, and I went to retrieve my sparkling greens. Alas, no greens remained, just a few tough stems and a few bits of leaves. A follow-up conversation with my friend revealed that I should have only washed them on gentle and not continue to spend.

Though I hoped he’d forget, Bud came in that night expecting greens. I feigned innocence. “What greens?”

It didn’t fly. “The greens I brought in yesterday.”

It’s hard to come up with an excuse how precious greens went missing. I gave up and told the truth, though I don’t like worrying Bud stuff with gets his blood pressure up. I’m considerate that way. “They went down the drain.”

“How in the Hell did they go down the drain?” I don’t know why he gets all up in my housekeeping and cooking business.

“They just did. Now don’t keep asking nosy questions!”

“Exactly what drain and how did that happen?”

“The washing machine drain.” I hoped if I answered matter-of-factly, he’d move on. I didn’t work.

“You put greens in the washing machine? What in the Hell were you thinking?” I hate it when he apes back what I’ve just said. I’ve told him it gets on my nerves.

“It takes forever to look and wash greens. Jenny told me she puts hers in the washer and it works great. I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to put them through spin.”

“Grouch, grouch, grouch @^%&( , #@$%! Don’t ever put )(^%&# greens in the washer, again.”

“Okay, okay. Don’t go on forever about it. I get tired of your nagging”

Since then I’ve been careful not to spin them. It works great.

Bumps in the Road Part 9

After the wedding, they moved into the boarding house in the little community of Box Elder, not far from Clarksville. Bill’s construction crew also had rooms there. They had the biggest room on the second floor and took their meals in the dining room. Kathleen was shy of eating in front of Bill, so she barely touched her food. The landlady provided the men with a brown bag lunch. Bill left before six every morning and got home past dark. The men didn’t get a day off unless it rained, so Bill wasn’t around a lot.

Bill didn’t want her to work, so she gave up her waitress job and had time on her hands. Luckily, the house was on the bus route, so Kathleen could go into town when she wished. She’d visit Annie and the two would stroll around town and lunch at the cafe. Kathleen had spent her meager earnings after a couple of weeks. Then her period was due. Blushing, she asked, “Bill, can I get a little money? I need money for the bus and a couple of things from town.”

He was in a hurry. “I get paid tomorrow. I’ll be off Saturday. I’ll take you then. You don’t need to go into town all the time.”

Mortified, she had to explain. “I can’t wait. You know women need personal items once a a month. I have to go to the store today.”

Reddening, it was his turn to be embarrassed. “Uh, okay.” He dug some bills out of his pocket. “I have a five and two ones.” He held the ones out to her. Seeing her face fall, he put the ones back in his wallet and gave her the five. “Don’t spend it all in one place.” He kissed her goodbye and headed off to work.

Kathleen prettied herself up and caught the bus into town. Meeting Annie, they strolled around the square, stopping at the Rexall for her pads. She chose a bright red lipstick and a tiny bottle of Evening in Paris perfume so she’d look and smell pretty for Bill.

“Do you want to get a bite at the cafe?” Annie asked. “I have to go get ready for work at two.”

Kathleen counted her money. She had $1.76 left. Lunch and bus fare would finish off the five Bill had given her. “Maybe I’d better not spend all my money.”

“Okay, we’ll go to my room and make a fried egg sandwich in my room,” replied Annie.

They hurried to Annie’s room and made fried egg sandwiches on Annie’s hot plate. It was a good day. Kathleen loved being with Annie and looked forward to getting home to her handsome husband.