family stories

Mr. Bradley and the Old Floozies

imageMr. Bradley died! Mr. Bradley died!

This was unbelievable! I had seen people get shot on “Gunsmoke,” but I’d never known anyone who had actually died. I knew I was supposed to cry when someone died but I couldn’t manage it. First of all, Mr. Bradley was an old grouch. He wore khaki pants and shirt and an old gray felt hat with oil stains around the hat band. He was really selfish. He had built us a chicken house. When I went out later to investigate, I found thirteen dollars rolled up lying In the chicken poop just inside the chicken house. I went flying in the house with my treasure to show Mother. I was of the opinion, “finders keepers, losers weepers” but Mother took me straight to the Bradleys’ to see if Mr. Bradley had lost money. He had…thirteen dollars. I held the money out to him, expecting him to say, “Just keep it” like my parents did when I found a nickel or dime they’d dropped. He snatched that money and stuck it straight in his pocket, grumping something at me. I was very disappointed in his bad manners.

Anyway, a few days later he died, probably of selfishness. Mother baked a three layer chocolate cake and took to his house without even giving us one bite!! Now he had my thirteen dollars and my chocolate cake. I didn’t know what a dead man needed a chocolate cake for, but nobody asked me. The good news was, his funeral was the next day. I was in the second grade and wise to the ways of funerals. Kids got to skip school for funerals. The bad news was, I wasn’t skipping school. Mother pointed out kids only got to skip for a family funeral. I looked around hopefully at my family, but they all looked disgustingly healthy.

Billy hadn’t started school yet, so he was going. That really made me mad. Little kids got everything. While I trudged off to get on the bus, he waved and grinned.

He was waiting for me at the door that afternoon with all the details. The funeral was scary. “Miss Alice and the big girls cried a lot. Miss Alice kissed Mr. Bradley’s cold, dead lips, he sat up in the coffin, held his arms out and said, ‘ Ughhhh, Ughhhh, Ughhh.’ Miss Alice screamed and fainted. It took two men to wrestle him back down and shut the coffin lid on him. Everyone else screamed and ran out.” I was furious he got to see all that while I was stuck in school. Mother said none of that happened. “Billy talked during the service and had to be taken out.” I knew better. I had missed the most exciting event of my life while I was stuck in school.

Not long afterward my luck changed. A family member died. I was going to a funeral!! Even though I’d never heard of her, Great Aunt Nora was now my favorite relative simply by being gracious enough to die and provide me with my first funeral experience. I would have loved her more had her funeral gotten me out of a day of school, but I was still thrilled!! We got up early Saturday morning, put on our best clothes and started the long drive to the funeral. Mother didn’t bake a cake since we were “family” and would go to her home afterwards for visitation and a meal. Hot dog!!!! Maybe someone would bring chocolate cake.

The funeral was more than I had hoped for. The church was old, dark, and obviously haunted. We were late as always and crept into a back pew. I was disappointed not to get to sit with family, but the back pew was better for getting the full show. Mother lined us up on the pew in hopes of maintaining maximum control. She held Marilyn, the little baby and made Billy sit right next to her. Phyllis sat in the middle, holding Connie, the big baby. I was stuffed in between Phyllis (Miss Perfect) and Daddy. I gave the funeral my full attention. . Aunt Nora was laid out in a coffin in front of the altar with only her beaked nose visible over the edge. All I could really see was the backs of the mourners, two old ladies together with some of my aunts, uncles, and cousins who got there in time to be “family.” The old ladies cried some during the hymns, but the real show started at the end when the family filed by for the final viewing. Anna Mae and Theo, the ancient, bereaved daughters were supported by my uncles as they approached their mother’ body. They had to have been in their late seventies since Aunt Nora was ninety-eight. I’d never seen anything like them. They were the skinniest women I’d ever seen, wearing satin dresses and hats from their much earlier and plumper days. Anna Mae was in an crusty black satin dress. It was shockingly low cut, especially on an old lady with no bosoms to flaunt. Theo wore an equally interesting red dress with a daring sheer lace bodice. Both girls had probably been enchanting when they last wore those outfits back in their twenties. Their black hats had sequined veils draped alluringly over their faces. They were both so emaciated their seamed stockings drifted in the breeze around their legs. The rhinestones going up the seams their stockings more than made up for the roomy fit.

The best was yet to come. Uncle July held Anna Belle and Uncle Ed held Theo as they stood before their mother for the last time. They each kissed their Mother’s cold, wrinkled lips and erupted into howls of grief. They were pretty lively for old ladies. Theo fainted first, inspiring her sister. My uncles looked like they wished they were any place else as they lowered them to the floor while trying to keep the oversized clothes in place. Just as they got one situated, the other would rouse up. Buoyed by her grief, she’d would rush to the coffin and start all over. Eventually, they wore themselves out and allowed themselves to be led out.

Aunt Nora’s house was a relic from the Civil War era, not a well-maintained showplace, just a relic. It was in the older part of town. The fence was so overgrown with bushes the house was not visible, even though the front door was no more than twenty feet from the street. The house was huge, but decrepit. We had to walk carefully to avoid holes in the porch. There was actually an organ in the creepy entry way, just like in horror movies. The living room was cluttered beyond belief. Spider webs hung like draperies in the corners. Cats lounged on all the furniture. Mother looked around briefly for a place to lay her sleeping baby. Anna Mae tried to shoo a big Tom Cat off the sofa, but Theo said, “Leave him be. He’s dead.” Mother said not to bother. She’d been sitting all morning.

The best was yet to come. When Anna Mae and Theo took off their mysterious hats, I couldn’t believe their faces. They were heavily made up, faces powdered deathly white, blood red lipstick feathering out into a multitude of wrinkles surrounding their lips, circles of brilliant pink rouge on their bony cheeks. Jet black eyebrows were drawn in the approximate eyebrow areas, giving the overall impression of startled mania. Wispy crowns of frizzed, jet black hair bushed out, apparently relieved to free of the musty hats. I couldn’t take my eyes off them.

I could hear the sounds of a meal being prepared in the next room. Maybe there would be chocolate cake. We were summoned into the enormous dining room, where someone had recently cleared the table of rubbish and cat hair. Mother looked around in a panic and said, “Oh no, we just ate.” an obvious lie since we had all just come from the service with the rest of the group . Daddy shot her a look, and we got in line.

Mother went first, fixed us paper plates from the dishes with covers, and sent us out to the porch to eat, far out of cat territory. Sure enough, there was a beautiful chocolate cake in the center of the table, complete with fluttering cat hair, but Mother wouldn’t let us have any. She warned us not to even ask for coconut pie. She and Phyllis fed the babies, shooing the cats out of their food, while Daddy reminisced with his relatives. The cats resented the invasion of their territory, and spent the entire time trying to jump on the table. They walked daintily, stepping over plates and utensils, never disturbing anything but prissy guests. One of my aunts tried discreetly to remove some of the dishes the cats had stepped over, but Theo said not to bother. The cat hadn’t dropped any fleas. The old ladies fed the cats off their plates. When I asked to use the bathroom, Mother told Daddy we had to get on home. He said he wanted to visit a little longer, but for once, Mother got her way and we left. She must have had to go, too. She made Daddy stop at a service station, let everyone use the bathroom, and made us all wash up. Even the babies got a washup and they hadn’t touched anything

Daddy had an incredible capacity for overlooking bizarre, inappropriate, or hormone-driven behavior in his relatives while zeroing in on anything Mother and us kids might do, attributing our shortcomings to “Mother’s crazy family.” His family could have frolicked naked on the town square and he’d have only complimented their grace, while we got in trouble for wiggling in church. I had a million questions and knew asking the most interesting first would end the conversation. Daddy was always on the lookout for opportunities to keep us on the straight and narrow, so I played stupid first. “Those were beautiful dresses. I’ve never seen anything so fancy.” Daddy explained they must have had those dresses for years. “But they’re so fancy with all those diamonds and lace, and the backs of their stockings had diamonds. Mother, can you get stockings with diamonds?” Daddy answered for her. “No she can’t. Now be quiet. “

Knowing I had overshot the mark and would glean no more information, I smothered my grief with boredom and slept the rest of the way home, dreaming of the next funeral I’d be lucky enough to attend.

I Want A Bite

imageBilly was about two and a half years old, Daddy and Mother stopped by the A &W Rootbeer Drive-In for a treat after supper one night, way back when the brought those frosty mugs out to the car, no to-go orders. You had to finish your Rootbeer before leaving. We’d already had dinner, so we knew we were getting Rootbeer. A fellow who pulled up next to us ordered a hotdog. In the heat of the July evening, everyone had their car windows down. Billy was always ready to eat! Naturally, when he saw the guy’s hotdog, he wanted one, too. Mother reminded him he’d already eaten and he’d only be getting rootbeer. As the young man raised his hotdog to chomp down, Billy called out, “I wanna bite!”

imageSurprised, the fellow looked over to see a small boy on his mother’s lap, leaning out a car window, begging for a bit. Quickly, he tried to resume his meal. Again, “I wanna bite!” It’s really hard to shut a hotdog hungry little kid up, though Mother tried. I know we would have left if we hadn’t still had Rootbeer to finish and mugs for pickup. After trying a couple more times to eat despite Billy’s plaintive begging, he cranked his car and left.

Terror Most Delicious

Maw Maw by CarPictured 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.”

cousinsTop 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.

Conquering Corwin (Part 1)

Pooped pantsIn my family of “Mixed Nuts” Cousin Corwin was the winner, hands down.  When he was about twelve, he and his twin Kelvin got in a little “dust up” with the police, so it seemed like a good time to get out of town.  Aunt Essie called Daddy, asking if the twins could come spend a few days.  Now if the image “twins” brings to mind thoughts of “barefoot boys with cheeks of tan,” think again.  Kelvin to all intents and purposes, could have passed for normal, but Corwin was nuts.  At five foot eight and two hundred and sixty pounds, he was physically intimidating.  His pale blue eyes blazed with madness.  He ripped through a fried chicken like a chain saw.  Mother had to double the amount she normally cooked the minute he arrived.

Aunt Essie’s call for relief was well-timed.  Mother and Daddy were just about to leave on a much-anticipated vacation.  Though Mother could only hear Daddy’s end of the conversation, it was clear he was assuring Aunt Essie “taking the boys will be no problem.  I’ll straighten them out. We’ll come get them as soon as we get back.  They can stay as long as they want.  They’ll always have a home with us.”  He hung up, turning to Mother.  She was murderous!  Like any right thinking human with twelve years’ experience with Corwin, she despised him.  She’d spent most of those years defending her girls from his attacks.

“Are you crazy?  I don’t want that maniac out here!  He is not coming!”

“Yes, he is!  I’ve already told Essie we’ll come get them as soon as we get back from vacation. I’m going to bring those boys out here, put ‘em to work and straighten ‘em out.  There’s not a kid in the world I can’t conquer!”

“You can’t straighten them out.  You deserve what you get!  Go get them whenever you want to.  We’re not going on vacation!”

Conceding that point, Daddy left, returning several hours later returning with two sullen, hostile boys.  Since neither Mother nor the girls had anything to say to him either, it was a quiet house except for chicken bones crunching when Corwin ate.  Corwin was exhausted after his big supper and brush with the police so Mother showed him to his bed right after supper.  As soon as she cleaned up the kitchen, she went on to bed, leaving Daddy up by himself.  He was horrified to find Corwin in his bed when he got ready to turn in.  He went to find Mother.  She bunked in with the girls, partly to protect them.

“Corwin’s in my bed!” Daddy roared.

“Yep.  You may as well go ahead and get started straightening him out tonight.”  She turned over, the bed shaking with her giggling.  Daddy knew when he was whipped.

He got up, blasting the boys out of bed the next morning about six.  They were sullen, rubbing their eyes.  He was full of false cheer, enjoying the prospect of teaching them to work, turning them into productive humans.  They dragged away from the table, out into the dawn’s early light.  They were back at noon, to eat and rest in the heat of the day.  The boys were unhappy.  I don’t think their morning had gone well.  Daddy was trying to force a good mood on everybody.  After an hour and a half’s rest, he had them back at it.  They ate, bathed, and fell in bed that night.  The next morning, he had to drag them out of bed, openly hostile.  They took potshots at him at breakfasts before he dragged them off.  By noon, things clearly had heated up.

By the fifth day, Daddy was sick of them, but stuck in the nightmare he’d created.  He had alienated everybody.  In one camp, Mother and the girls hated him.  In the other, he was spending his vacation trying “straighten out” two juvenile delinquents who openly despised him and made his life a misery on every turn. It was a challenge having to having work like a dog trying to teach them to work when he’d planned to be on vacation.

There was no escaping the nightmare as he spent his nights with the corpulent, malodorous, psychopathic Corwin, snuggled up against him.  One morning Daddy got up to find he had no clean underwear in his drawer.  While he was searching, the putrid scent of feces drifted from the general area of his closet.  He investigated, finding that Corwin had suffered digestive issues, soiled his dainties and concealed them deep in Daddy’s closet, rather than admit to his weak sphincter.  Exhausting his underwear wardrobe, he’d helped himself to Daddy’s, which he also soiled and concealed.  Daddy had had enough.  He made Corwin take the whole disgusting pile outdoors and wash it. Corwin found he didn’t care for washing aged crap out of his (and Daddy’s) drawers, retching the whole time.  He felt Daddy ought to wash out his own, even though Corwin had crapped them all and was doubly insulted when Daddy insisted he scoop up the piles of poop and haul the filthy wash water far from the house to dump it.  He would have had absolutely no problem leaving the slimy, stinking mess lying on the ground next to the faucet. To everyone’s relief, Corwin called Aunt Essie, begging to go home.  That saga had ended with Daddy finding a kid he couldn’t conquer.

To be continued

https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2014/09/24/mixed-nuts/

Farm Life Ain’t for Kiddies and Cowards

indian dress and henOriginal art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken-raising experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing of chickens for the pot.  I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast towering over the caged chickens while we shooed them into the corner of the chicken-yard.  She seemed particularly calculating as she stooped, giving the poor chickens the impression the threat was over. Running her hooked wire clothes hanger at ground level into the midst of the terrorized multitude, she snatched a startled chicken who’d never expected to be attacked at the foot. Exiting the enclosure with her victim, she held it firmly by the head, giving its neck a quick snap before releasing it to turn its last crazy race.  Chickens take a while to get the connection between a broken neck and the end of life.  We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming.  It was scarier than “The Night of the Living Dead” as the chicken flapped its wings, ran with its head hanging crazily to one side, and chased us in ever larger circles until it  finally reached the Pearly Gates.  It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death.  Sometimes, Mother killed several chickens for the freezer, treating the waiting chickens to a taste of what they were in for.  It didn’t calm them down a bit as the watched the dearly departed flop around the yard.

Roosters are necrophiliacs, turned on by the sight of floppy-necked hens racing by. If one is enticing, just imagine the effect of a yardful! Lustful roosters have no problem resorting to violence toward moralistic humans trying to get between them their fascinating harem. For some reason, Mother was equally determined her chickens not be interfere with her chickens.

Once the chicken was disabled or dead, Mother grabbed it, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly and removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner or the freezer.  I was repulsed when Mother found  unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and saved them for  cooking.  That just didn’t seem right.  I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs…disgusting.

Mother looked out one day and saw one of her laying hens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out.  It bobbed up and down gaily as the chicken pecked corn off the ground.  Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint.  Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I tried to catch her.  At least, she could be salvaged for the table.  Well, Her running skills were still intact.  We chased her all over the yard with no luck.  Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her.  She missed.  She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off. I knew I could do better.  I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail.  By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery.  Finally, the combined fatigue and her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-legged chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.

All chickens didn’t end life as happily.  The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens for 4-H completion with the of the flock destined to fill their freezer. Late one Thursday evening while their mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the 4-H barbecue chicken competition.  Mama LaFay wouldn’t be in until way too late to help with slaughtering and dressing the chickens.  After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help.  They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times.  They’d just have to manage the grisly business on their own.

Cheryl, the oldest sister, drew the short straw and won the privilege of wringing the chicken’s neck.  She’d seen Mama do it lots of times but didn’t understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap.  She held the chicken by the neck at arm’s length and swung it around a few times in a wide arc giving it a fine ride, but no real injury.  When she released it, it just ran off drunkenly.  The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the drunken chicken flew up into a tree, saving its life.  Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty.  She pulled her chicken from the chicken yard, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times.  Maybe she should have watched a little closer.  Instead of holding the chicken by the head and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet.  The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers.  On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but fearing dismemberment jumped when Terry swung the hatchet. The poor chicken only got a slice on its neck.  By now, all three girls were squalling.  Cheryl tied a string on the maimed chicken’s neck.  As Cammie held its feet they stretched the chicken across the block.  By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see.  Taking steady aim, she chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering. Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.
Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition.  They triumphed and won second place in a field of two.  God only knows what the other team’s chickens may have endured.  All’s well that ends well.

Rudy Carries On

imageJody’s rooster acted just like him, except maybe for the drinking.  He was in a chronic bad mood, always looking for a fight. We could hear him coming. “ Aruuh, aruuuh, aruuuh.”  He sounded like the screeching of metal rubbing against itself.  He entertained himself by stalking around and finding someone or something to attack.  We all despised Rudy, and ran when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh.”   I was visiting the neighbor kids, Lainy and her mean big sister Nita, when Rudy hopped the Austin’s fence into their yard.  If Nita ever played with us, we could usually count on a mean trick, like stomping our mudpies or kicking down the walls of our playhouses.  As we sat in the grass making clover chain necklaces, Nita jumped up and ran in the house.  She latched the screen door behind her, not saying a word.  Lainy and I just kept on making our necklaces when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh,” right behind us.

Rudy had sneaked up on us.  We tried to escape, but he jumped high on Lainy’s back, hanging onto her hair, clawing and scratching her with his big spurs.  I made it to the front porch, but Rudy hung on to Lainy, flogging and clawing.  Every time she tried to make it to the porch, Rudy clawed her again, and off she went, his beating fueling her terror.  Poor little Lainy ran round and round the house, that sneaky Nita running from window to window, door to door, laughing and enjoying the whole thing.  When Lainy’s mother realized what was going on, she raced to Lainy’s rescue. Rudy kept spurring Lainy somewhere out in the yard . Finally, Lainy’s mother caught up to her and pulled Rudy off her.  Furious as a mama bear, she whirled Rudy around smartly to snap his evil neck, slung him a few times around her head to do be sure she’d done the job right, then turned him loose to do his final chase around the yard.  Even though his head hung to one side and flopped madly as he ran in circles, it wasn’t comforting to see the depraved monster coming at us again.

Jody Austin had started over to save his property when he realized Rudy had gotten in over his head, but reconsidered when he saw Rudy’s sad fate at that enraged mama’s hands.  Nita didn’t fare too well when her Mama made time to deal with her, either.

God is Great, God is Good, Pass the Beans

Our firstOur first photograph together.  Bud is little guy in back row on far right.  I am the diapered baby just in front of him.

Bud and I share a unique relationship stretching back to a time before I remember.  Our families were neighbors and friends long before I was born.   The two Bethea Brothers, Odell and Lou, worked in the shipyards in California during World War II with Willard Johnson.  When the three traveled home together after the war, the Bethea Brothers stopped off in Kansas and married Mary and Mildred Johnson, Willard’s two sisters.  Before long, the Bethea Boys went to work on the pipeline and moved their families to Northwest Louisiana, where my parents had settled.  The couples spent a great deal of time together, becoming friends for life.  The children of all three families grew up together.
When I was born, Odell, Bud’s father was working out of town, so Mary, his mom brought Bud and Betty, his sister, to help for a few days till Mother was back on her feet.  Mary often said afterward, she should have pinched my head off when she had the chance.  It probably would have saved him a lot of trouble.
Our families continued to be friends as we grew up.   When I was about three years old, I asked permission to “say the blessing” one evening when we were sharing dinner.  Both families reminded me for years that I bowed my head piously and quoted, “God is great, God is good.  Pass the beans.”
Before he started school, Bud’s parents bought a little place with a country store and a tidy little house they could rent till the owner moved it in a couple of years.  Mary ran the store to help with the expense of house-building.  The understanding was, they’d get plenty of notice.  Odell  began construction on his outbuilding so he’d have a place to work and keep his tools dry while building.  In less than six months, they got the news they’d have to vacate the in days.  Odell hurriedly got the building in the dry and ran power and cold water to it.  Lightbulbs hung down on wires for lights.  He set up Mary’s gas stove in the center and in they moved with their three small children.  An outdoor toilet was hastily erected behind the barn, a galvanized tub serving as a bathtub.  They ran lines across the rafters to hang quilts and divide the open barn into rooms.  Space heaters heated the cavernous space. Footfalls echoed on the bare concrete floors.
Bud loved living in the barn, likening it to a perpetual campout.   I was wildly jealous.  They often moved the quilt partitions to set the rooms up in different configurations.  The only thing never moved was the kitchen stove and heaters, since they were hooked to gas lines.  I was fascinated to look up and see the rafters and stars winking through the tin roof, my pleasure enhanced by the story of Odell bagging a large barn rat running across the rafters.  He’d gotten rid of the rat and the resulting hole was easily dealt with.  I hoped in vain for a rerun but was disappointed when the rats kept to safer quarters.  Life in that barn looked perfect to me.
One night, my dad and Bud’s Uncle Lou worked the late shift.  My mother and his Aunt Mildred decided they’d spend the evening with Bud’s mom.  His Aunt Mid had a new driver’s license she needed to try out.  It must have been a weekend night since we got to stay way past our usual bedtime.  Our departure was delayed by a light rain.  Mary dealt with the drips by putting a pot under the leaky roof, an entertaining solution to me.  Rain on the tin roof was rhythmic and lovely till the weather escalated and the constant lightning, reverberating thunder, and pounding of the rain on the tin roof became overwhelming. The wind whistled around the eaves, giving the impression that the storm was coming for us.  Though Mother reassured me there was nothing to be worried about, I wasn’t convinced.
Betty, Bud’s older sister used her time wisely by pulling out the family Bible and showing us the picture of the Prophet Elijah ascending into Heaven in a chariot of fire.  Then she threw in a few stories about Hellfire and Brimstone she’d gleaned from a revival meeting.  It seemed a perfect personification of the storm.  I was petrified.  Finally, the tortuous storm abated and the stars came out.  Aunt Mildred, a timid driver, waited till she thought the roads were dry enough she wouldn’t slide into a ditch.
The women piled six wide-eyed kids in the car.  Though I was afraid to close my eyes, fatigue got the best of me.  I was probably asleep before the car left the drive.  The next thing I knew, I was awakened by a crash, screaming, and blinding light.  We were spinning around in a whirlwind.  Instantly, I realized we were ascending to Heaven in a chariot of fire, but then remembered the Hellfire and Brimstone which I was pretty sure that would involve bright lights, too!
The screaming kids were slung off the seats and scared mamas rattled around in the spinning car till it came to rest in a ditch.  Kids were pulled out and a head-count confirmed we’d all survived.  Mother noticed blood dripping from her forehead and felt for damage, finding a bloody skin flap hanging over her right eye.  Realizing her eye was gone, she held a baby diaper to her forehead to staunch the flow and hide her injuries from us.  I remember seeing blood dripping on her yellow circle skirt and the diaper pressed to her head.  She was clutching my little brother Billy and had Phyllis and me by the hand.  For once, I was happy to do as she said.
The supernatural force we encountered that night was not from Heaven or Hell, just the son of a prominent business owner driving home drunk.  He’d hit us head on, despite the fact that Aunt Mid (Mildred) had swerved to miss him. We spun wildly, landing in the ditch. One of the neighbors heard the crash and came to our assistance.  Like all new drivers, Aunt Mid’s worst nightmare was having a wreck.  To make matters worse, she was hysterical when she realized she’d come off without her Driver’s License.  Her helpful neighbor flew to her house to get it since we were less than a mile from her home.  All was well with her license long before the officer got there, though frankly, in small towns, little things like drunk driving and lost licenses can be swept under the carpet.
While Aunt Mid got her problems squared away, someone took Mother to the hospital where she was relieved to learn her eye was undamaged.  Her blindness was caused by a skin flap from a cut hanging over her eye.  Fortunately, a few stitches restored her vision.  For a long time, she worried that her looks would be ruined, but the cut healed beautifully.  She did have to fill her eyebrow in with a pencil for a few months.  She’d always been proud of her eyebrows.  Incidentally, the blood stain did not come out of her pretty, yellow, circle skirt.
All’s well that ends well.  The drunk driver’s daddy gave Mother two thousand dollars in damages.  Aunt Mid’s car was repaired and she didn’t get a ticket.  Mother got a used automatic washing machine for eighty dollars.  We took a trip to see one of Daddy’s old Navy buddies with three hundred dollars of Mother’s settlement.  The washer stayed on the blink most of the time, aggravating Mother incessantly.  Daddy talked Mother out of the rest to buy a used sawmill.  He made money sawing cross ties for the railroad for a few months before the demand failed, then moved the saw home to sit behind the barn.  Many years later, a burning brush pile got away from him and burned it up.

Doggonit, Give Me Some Directions that Make Sense

            I’m not good with directions.  In fact, I’d have to improve considerably to even be bad.  Useless terms like left, right, North, South, East, and West annoy me.  If people actually expect me to get somewhere, they need to be more specific.  “Turn off the interstate at exit 5.  Go the opposite direction you’ve been going and go three streets past Brookshire’s.   Drive just a minute or so and you’ll see a restaurant with the big cow in the parking lot.  Don’t turn there.  Drive to the next red light and turn on the street that turns between the WaWa and that hardware store with the inflatable lumberjack.  Watch for the ugly house with the silk flowers in the bucket of that tacky wishing well.  Pass it up, but now you need to start driving pretty slow.  You’ll see a big, old white house with a deep porch and all those ferns, kind of like the one Grandma lived in at Houston, the one where the woman living upstairs tossed her dirty mop water out on my head when I was sitting on the sidewalk playing. Boy, did Grandma have something to say to her!  Remember, it was just across the street from that big, old funeral home.   I just love those old houses, but I’ll bet they are expensive to heat.  About six houses down on the other side, there’s a little, blue house. I believe it used to be gray. If you look hard, you’ll see an old rusted out 1950 GMC like Aunt Ada and Uncle Junior used to drive, up on blocks way off to the side of the shed.  Remember how they used to toodle around with all those mean boys bouncing like popcorn in the back?  Anyway, our house is the yellow one with the big shade trees just across from it.  You can’t miss it. There’s a bottle tree out front.”

            Now I can’t miss with those directions.

More Travels with Mother

hotmama.https://nutsrok.wordpress.com/2016/01/05/the-low-down-on-lunch-with-mother/
Travels With Mother (Part 2)

The Most Fun You’ll Never Have, Kathleen’s Amazing Bathroom Tour!

It’s Not What You Tank!

 

God was with us.  We got to our destination, Hot Springs, Arkansas without a lot more drama.  We checked into our room, a nice suite with two king-sized beds and an extra bed for the fifth in our party.  For some reason, though it was 104 degrees, we freshened up a bit before going out to see the town, allowing us to start out with a less vintage sweat.  Within minutes, we were rank.  Not to be deterred by a little thing like heat exhaustion, we explored every shop on Main Street, till Mother found a little shop selling belly-dancing costumes. She wouldn’t be budged.  Now, as I’ve said before, Mother is tight.  She had no intention of making such a frivolous purchase, but had to admire herself in one. Every inch of the stifling shop was crammed with exotic outfits with no space devoted to dressing rooms. The proprietor obviously didn’t expect belly-dancers to be overly modest. Not to be denied, Mother just slipped her favorite on over her clothes, despite the heavy customer traffic. She is a little old church lady, after all.  I would never have expected so much business in a store selling belly-dancing costumes. 

Mother had us hold her things while she tottered and struggled into her racy choice, bumping customers at every turn.  They had to have thought her mind was gone and we should have looked out for her better, or that we were in geriatric sex-trade, pimping her out to some perverted creature with a fetish for demented, antique belly-dancers.  Neither choice made us look good.  Eventually, she pranced a bit and had us take a picture or two for her Sunday School Class, before being convinced to leave.  The store clerk was not amused by any of this, but I figured if she thought she was big enough to straighten Mother out, she could go for it.  I know when I am whipped. 

Bigsmilemotorcyclemama

An amused motorcycle guy and his girlfriend were taking all this in and invited Mother to meet their friends waiting on their bikes just outside. I think the burly guys exact words were, “She reminds me so much of my mama!” With him as Mother’s escort, we escaped the wrath of the store owner who was obviously thought it was past time we left.

Mother charmed his friends.  Her new friend invited her for a ride, which she refused, but she did climb behind him on his bike to get her picture made.  Regretfully, he helped her off, after telling her, “Ma’am, you don’t have to go home with these girls if you don’t want to.  We coaxed her away after she exchanged phone numbers and addresses with them, insisting they all come visit.
Later that evening, we made it back to our hotel, only to find the air-conditioning and bathroom both out of order in our room.  Mother took charge, went to see the manager, and got us transferred to the only room they had left, the Presidential Suite, complete with a hot-spring bath.  I suspect the manager thought, “She reminds me of my mama.”  For once, a bathroom drama with Mother worked in our favor.

We enjoyed the rest of our visit.  On the way home, my sister Connie hung her purse strap on a toilet handle and broke the toilet in a station.  She takes after Mother.