family stories

A Hog a Day Part 13

With eons of sermons stretching out before me, life looked grim. Occasionally, there was a bright spot.  Sometimes the preacher told a joke, though they were rarely really funny. I truly enjoyed church music, especially if it was something lively, like “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I sung along enthusically, though lots of the words didn’t make sense.  For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why we sang about laundry, as in “Bringing in the Sheets (Sheaves).” There was also a Christmas carol about laundry.  “While shepherds washed their socks by night (watched their flocks by night.)  I thought it odd, but so much adults did seemed odd.

One special Sunday, God had a startling surprise in store for me. Mrs. Simmons, the pianist, brought her brother Eddie, a handsome young man, along to play the organ.  His boogie-woogie style hymns were a vast improvement over sedate hymns. I could see some of the old ladies exchanging shocked looks, but  I was entranced.  

I was practically bouncing in the pew when suddenly he dropped to the floor in a seizure.  Mrs. Simmons shrieked and rushed to his side. He rallied and they trooped out, along with the rest of her family.  I was so jealous.  The preacher made an anemic attempt to salvage the service, but his flock was clearly anxious to get out and enjoy a good gossip.  I genuinely enjoyed church that day.

 

Dining With Mr. Floyd

Daddy had always wanted a place in the country, but was overwhelmed at the magnitude of work facing him on that totally undeveloped acreage.  It had been homesteaded and farmed shortly after the Civil War, but hadn’t been under production for many years, long enough that most of it was covered in mature timber.  A tangle of locust trees was matted over the old homeplace beneath three huge oaks.  Though we worked hard at clearing  and burning the growth, locust thorns worked up through the ground and pierced our feet for years to come, even through our shoes.

There was more work than one man could do so Daddy hired Mr. Floyd to help harvest the timber and clear the land for pasture. All that timber would finance the payments on the place and make improvements.  Mr. Floyd lived on the fringes of society getting by on odd jobs.  Mr. Floyd was unkempt, rarely bathed, and kept to himself, but had a reputation as a hard worker, He lived in a shack in the woods with his brother, who was not so successful.

Daddy couldn’t afford to pay Mr. Floyd much, so they worked out a deal on a small wage, meals, and lodging in our fine school bus camper. When Mother got a whiff of Mr. Floyd, she told Daddy the camper was dead to her after that. So, Daddy set the camper up on the far edge of his place.  Mr. Floyd moved in with instructions to leave propane off since there might be a leak.  There shouldn’t be a problem anyway, since he’d be taking his meals with us.  

Mother put some old bedding in the camper and Mr. Floyd moved in.  The next morning, he showed up for breakfast before daylight. He didn’t wash his hands, just dove in to the biscuits, grits, and eggs.  His manners served as lessons, thereafter.  “You’re eating like Mr. Floyd.”  He didn’t hog the conversation.  He was too busy with biscuits.

The men and Billy went to work right after breakfast.  It was early summer, but hot as blazes.  When they came in for lunch, Daddy pointed out the bathroom so Mr. Floyd could wash up.  He wasn’t worried about that.  He took the the chair nearest the window Mother had offered him at the breakfast table.  Daddy always sat at the opposite end of the table, the one that got the best breeze from the attic fan.  He sat downwind of Mr. Floyd just long enough to get a whiff of seasoned body odor marinated with the piquant aroma of fresh morning sweat the fan pulled over our guest before jumping up.  “Here Floyd.  Sit here.  It’s the coolest spot.”

Mr. Floyd also taught Mother to cut the cornbread before putting it on the table when he reached for the plate and broke off a big piece before passing it. Phyllis and I both declined cornbread and passed it right along.  I didn’t keep up with who else was feeling picky, but there was a lot of cornbread left after lunch.  None of us kids ever learned to enjoy Mr. Floyd’s company, but he was a necessary evil.

One night, over in the winter, long after work was finished, we heard what sounded like a sonic boom, which was surprising to hear at night.  A few minutes later, Mr. Floyd knocked on the door.  The boom had come from the camper. Mr. Floyd had run low on wood for the heater and opted to use the propane stove, instead, the very same stove Daddy had warned him not to use because he suspected a leak.  Mr. Floyd had lit up a cigarette before bed and came near burning himself up.  It’s bad he got some burns, but good he didn’t gas himself. He was done with the camper after that, so that’s when Daddy let him work out a deal for a 1953 Chevy Sedan Daddy could spare.

The camper was deemed unfit, not only because Mr. Floyd blew it up, but because his strong smell lingered.  You can’t get rid of a fifty dollar just because of that.  A farm can always use storage. Daddy pulled the camper up behind the house to use for feed storage and a place for the dogs to sleep. Mother was furious to have it so near her new house.  From that time on, whenever Daddy had no particular place to store something, it went in the camper. It wasn’t long before the dogs were crowded out of the nice smelly bunks.  Whenever they could, the chickens slipped in and helped themselves to the chicken feed and tried to set up housekeeping.  Rats also liked chicken feed.  Black snakes love eggs, so between the smell, spooked chickens, rats, and snakes it was fairly unappealing.

Rascal Boy

Charley’s appearance was deceptive. A slow-speaking, stodgy little guy, you could have been forgiven for thinking him unobservant. He used this to his advantage, taking in everything around him.

When he was about three, he noticed his dad emptying his pockets one day after work. “What’s that, Daddy?”

Daddy worked for the telephone company and often had to go in yards to do work when customers weren’t home. “That’s dog repellent. I use it if a dog gets after me. Don’t mess with it.” Both went on their merry way.

It just happens, Charley had history with Granny’s mean little dog. Boochie snapped at Charley every time Charley got close. I expect, not without cause. The next time Charley went to Granny’s, Boochie came after Charley, who was armed and ready. Boochie was heard squealing and made a hasty retreat out the doggy door.

Stodgy little Charley trudged out behind him. In a minute, Boochie was heard squealing a couple of more times in rapid succession. That got dad up to investigate. It seems young Charley had appropriated Dad’s dog repellent and was putting it to good use. He had poor Boochie on the run. All’s well that ends well. Dad confiscated the dog repellent. Boochie never interacted with Charley again.

Aunt Ader’s Place Part 2

dog-trot

House much like Aunt Ader’s

Not understanding the nature of inebriation, I assumed Uncle Dunc, a great name for a drunk, was just playful when he laughed at all our jokes and fell off the high porch chasing us. No one bothered to explain for years that Dunc was a drunk. He was one of my mawmaw’s youngest siblings, younger than some of her own children.  Her mother, Cynthia, was a scandal, having been twice divorced before she married John Miller.  John only lasted long enough to father a daughter and twin boys in quick succession before dying of lead poisoning.  He was shot in a bar fight, likely saving him from the heartbreak of his fickle wife’s habit of spousal abandonment.  Presumably, his son Duncan was the bad apple that didn’t fall too far from either parental tree. 

Aunt Lucille’s demeanor didn’t match Uncle Dunc’s.  She was a dour, strait-laced woman not given to smiling, though it’s not likely she had much to smile about, considering her life with Dunc.  She looked a lot like Smokey the Bear in a dress. I have not seen a woman more hirsute before or since.  Her unibrow and mustache dominated her round face and coarse, black hair, resembling pubic hair covered her legs, though I had no knowledge of pubic hair at the time. After a visit there, Daddy always warned against us girls against shaving our legs or we’d end up with legs like Lucille.  I was far too young at the time to be aware of leg-shaving anyway, but I certainly didn’t want Smokey the Bear legs.

Most of the time when we visited Uncle Dunc’s place, many other aunts, uncles, and cousins were there. Huge dinners of fried fish, barbecue, or fried chicken were served up, the first shift to ravenous children who ate scattered about the floor or maybe on the porch. This was in the days before paper plates, so dishes were quickly washed before setting the second table for adults. By this time knee babies were nodding off in their father’s arms and younger babies put to the breast. After dark, a propane lantern hanging on the big front porch cast a cone of light where dozens of cousins chased each other hysterically in and out of the shadows. Parents visited in the cool of the front porch.  Mamas rocked babies and put them down to sleep on pallets just inside the house where they could be heard if they cried out. 

Sometimes times there would be home-made vanilla, peach, or banana ice-cream made in hand-cranked freezers.  The evening usually ended when exhausted kids were called in for ice-cream, but on the best nights, the old folks launched into deliciously terrifying ghost stories, made all the better because the teller believed them.

cousins

A few of my forty first cousins.

To be continued

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20 thoughts on “Aunt Ader’s Place Part 2”

  1. Pingback: Aunt Ader’s Place | Nutsrok – Br Andrew’s MusesEDIT
  2. patriciaruthsusanGreat memories, Linda. :) — SuzanneLikeREPLY EDIT
  3. Aunt BeulahAh, the fun of screeching around with cousins big and small as dusk falls and our parents talked and laughed on the porch or in the house. I’ll never forget it. And don’t you think everybody has an Uncle Dunc of one failing or another in their family tree? I know we did. Great post, one that opened me to many memories.Liked by youREPLYEDIT
  4. http://www.salpa58.wordpress.comOh Linda, this is hysterical. I can relate to most of it and I am sitting here laughing out loud. Your aunt with all the bear hair sounds like she might have had some Italian in her. Very hairy group, I can attest to that. On the bright side you don’t see too many bald Italians. :o)
    Loving this one and looking forward to reading more.Liked by youREPLYEDIT
  5. Let’s CUT the Crap!So nice to have family around you. :-D Forty cousins. Wow.
    Your stories are every entertaining.
    Woe is me. I come from a family of women once my dad passed away. Thank goodness one of my four sisters had a boy.Liked by youREPLYEDIT
  6. Annette Rochelle AbenHook me up with the ice cream… Crazy but my mom had an older brother named Duncan. He passed very young, in fact she never met him.Liked by youREPLYEDIT
  7. olganmAnother great image. And I like the sound of the ghost story telling…:)Liked by you and 1 other personREPLYEDIT
  8. Soul GiftsThe image of the hirsute Smokey the Bear is now stuck in my head !! Thank God I stopped shaving my legs :)Liked by you and 1 other personREPLYEDIT
  9. Judy MartinThis is great Linda. It must have been such fun for you at the time. I am so glad you have such a good memory and are sharing your stories of your colourful relatives with us! :-)Liked by you and 1 other personREPLYEDIT

Nutsrok Illustrations by Kathleen Swain

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Becky in the Drain
Wuppin Mama redo
Appreciation
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Surprise party

Aunt Ader’s Place

Aunt Ader’s House was reminiscent of the two pictured here. I am reposting a serial from 2016. Most of my followers have not seen this

dog-trotI had no idea who Aunt Ader was, or that her name should actually have been pronounced Ada, but her old farm house was a wonder.  Uncle C H, my Aunt Jenny’s on-again off-again husband apparently enjoyed some claim to it, because over the course of my childhood, several of my relatives rented it, probably when they’d fallen on hard times.  It stood high on a hill surrounded by several huge oaks.  A rutted red-dirt drive curved its way up toward the house, dusty in summer and rutted deeply in rainy weather.   In the spring and early summer weeds sprigged up between the tire tracks, kept short courtesy of the undercarriage of the vehicles making their way up the hill.  Though Aunt Ader’s forebears had been prosperous landowners a couple of generations back, the land had been subdivided and sold off long before I came to know it.  To the eyes of a small child, it was welcoming with its deep front and back porches and wide, breezy dogtrot.  An enormous living room and kitchen opened off one side with three bedrooms on the other.  Fireplaces on either side furnished the only heat.  Bare lightbulbs dangling on cords sufficed to light the big, high-ceilinged rooms, welcoming ghosts to the shadowy corners. Rain on the tin-roof could be pleasant or deafening, depending on the intensity of the storm.   I was never tempted to stray far from the light, though the sunshine from the huge windows flooded those rooms in the daytime.

A water heater stood in the corner of the enormous kitchen next to the galvanized bathtub hanging on the wall.  The old wood stove was still in use, though the only indoor plumbing was water piped in to the sink in the one piece enamel sink and cabinet combination standing beneath the window, looking out over a large field with several pear and fig trees.  Several unpainted shelves served as storage for everything that couldn’t fit into the sink cabinet and pie safe.  A cord exiting the round-topped refrigerator was plugged into an extension cord connected to bare light bulb dangling from the center of the kitchen ceiling.  The light was turned off and on by a long string.  Strips of well-populated fly-paper hung near the windows.   An unpainted toilet stood slightly downhill about three hundred yards off to the left of an old barn.  We were warned away from the hand-dug well, enclosed in a wooden frame with a heavy wooden trap cover that stood a few feet from the back porch.  Mother was so adamant we not go near, I was sure it was surrounded by quicksand, just waiting to suck a foolish child in.  A bucket hung from a chain from the roof of the creaky structure.  Pigs were pinned up near the barn, though not far enough away to miss their smell, explaining the fly problem.

To be continuedwarhome2

Awful Friends Part 4

The barnyard turned out to be just a bedraggled fence enclosing a chicken house with a row of nesting boxes.  The chicken house had seen better days and leaned crazily to the left.  Someone had thoughtfully propped it up enough so the eggs didn’t roll out of the boxes.  Jamey picked up a pencil-marked egg and slung it against the barn.  “You’re not gonna believe this, guys!” It exploded with a nauseating sulfurous smell and resounding pop, whereupon Jamey explained, “ Them ol’ rotten eggs explode just like a bomb!” it had been left for the hen to “set on” and had rotted.  

I was familiar with the concept of “setting hens” and knew not to touch precious eggs.  Mother had made it clear eggs were precious, not playthings.  Nonetheless, Jamey took an egg from another nest and hurled it.  It also exploded and turned the air to sulphur to the delight of the party-goers.  Kids started flinging eggs madly.  Knowing they were older and wiser, I joined in.  Before long we’d exhausted the supply and moved across the road to the pig pen.

My parents had frequently complained about the malodorous pig pen, but in a rural community, only consideration governs location of noxious livestock.   “I ought to call Sheriff Copp on JP, but he ain’t gonna do nothin’” Daddy complained “He don’t have to smell that porcine excrement.”(paraphrased) Fortunately for the Awfuls, a vacant house with an enclosed back lot stood between our place and theirs.  They had wisely appropriated the abandoned back lot for their pig pen.  It was much closer to our house than theirs, a wise decision on their part.  The small pen was home to a couple of sows, their extended families, and millions of flies. Due to their wise location of the pig lot, we undoubtedly got a lot more effect than they did.  My mother, in particular, was offended.

Jamey, our fearless leader climbed on the rails.  The smaller of the sows and her babies fled, squealing.  The larger sow the size of a sofa, didn’t seem too disturbed from where she lounged in a muddy wallow across the pen.  The baby pigs were so adorable! Jamey was generous “Let’s git us one!”Jamey was a wonderful host, dropping into the pen in pursuit of a little pig, followed by me and a couple more kids.   I was pretty lucky. My dress tail caught on a fencepost, hanging me upside down from the top rail.  

“Help! Help Git me down!” By this time I’d noticed Mama wasn’t taking any of this well.  She lunged directly under me with a guttural growl, “Rrrrroofff!” running them back over the fence.  Fortunately, suspended above the action, adrenaline saved my hide, though my fancy dress was done for.  I wasn’t the only one who suffered wardrobe loss. As Jamey sailed over the fence, the mama pig got one of his new birthday tennis shoes.  

“Oh no! Mama’s gonna git you about that shoe!” Bugeater assured him, collapsing in merriment. Clearly he anticipated his brother’s trouble amiably.

When we got back to the house, Mrs. Awful little into him. “ You little devil! Your daddy’s gonna tear you up when he gets in! We just got them @83”&$! Shoes! You ain’t had ‘em a day yet! Now you dang kids get out there so he can open them presents and get this )@/$!! party overwith!” I rarely got to hear such language.

As I said, this was my first birthday party.  I was proud of the flashlight Mother had wrapped for me to bring to the party and couldn’t wait to get it back.  Mother showed up just as I learned I was expected to leave it for Jamey.  I wasn’t falling for that one.  I was wrestling with Jamey for possession of the flashlight just as she walked in the gate.  My behavior, coupled with the destroyed dress, put an end to the coffee-klatch.  Mother dragged me home bawling without the flashlight, my tattered dress tail dragging in the dirt, my first big social fail. She had plenty to say.

Old Lady Borden: The Meanest Christian | Opinion and Troublemaker

witch 2 Old Lady Borden was a saint! We had it on good authority, hers. She had been widowed longer than anybody knew. Hateful as she was, had I been her husband, I would have claimed to be dead, too. Though she was devout in another denomination, she was in attendance at our little country church every time the doors opened. Her own church was twelve miles away and she didn’t want to bother anyone for a ride to services so far afield. It was much more expedient walk a few hundred feet and stir up no end of trouble closer to home, inserting herself fully into all matters related to church business, be it financial, theological, or just some sinner in need of her hateful opinion.
Mother was very particular about our language. We would have never been allowed refer to Ms. Borden by the B word, but she turned a deaf ear when we referred to her as an Old Bat. Old Lady Borden played a vital role pointing out flaws that might have gone unnoticed for a while, a pregnant bride, a baby with a crossed-eye, a child who stuttered, a woman who’d gained weight, or was a bad housekeeper. She begrudged any good fortune coming to a neighbor, such as good crops, or getting a good job. They were “gittin’ uppity.” Should a church member appear too prosperous, they were probably “gittin’ in the c’lection plate.”
Old Lady Borden was the first to the home of the bereaved, making sure to crowd the younger women out at the kitchen sink, then complaining loudly about how “lazy them gals was. “ Any one unfortunate enough to be handed a drying towel would be treated to her acid tongue about what a pitiful job they were doing. Nothing excited her more than a tragedy. Long before the days of cell phones, or even many house phones in our rural community, the school principal got the word that Mr. Barnes, the school bus driver’s father had collapsed and died a few minutes after his daughter Becky left on her bus route. The principal got in his vehicle, hoping to catch up with her before she home and found a shocking scene. When she stopped to let off Old Lady Borden’s grandson, the old woman rushed out to meet her at the bus stop with the horrible news. “Becky, yore daddy just dropped dead. He’s still a’ laying out in the yard a’waitin’ for the coroner.”
Naturally, Becky and her young children were distraught. There were still a half-dozen other children, some of them relatives, on the bus who’d heard the whole thing. They became overwrought at hearing the news of Mr. Barne’s death. Becky had no idea how to manage till the principal caught up to comfort and relieve her. He had to finish her route with her and the upset children still on the bus, since there was no other way to get them home. It was a shocking situation but at least the old bat had the pleasure of delivering the terrible news.
Old Lady Borden kept trouble stirred up.  She made every church business meeting to  make her opinion known, despite the fact that she wasn’t a church member and could not vote.  She bullied everyone she dealt with and tried to dominate her Sunday School Class, making it clear she had God’s ear and wouldn’t hesitate to use her influence.  She was the meanest Christian I ever met.

Rattlesnakes, Bullfrogs, and Saran Wrap

imageBud really took offense with Bubba, his college suitemate just because Bubba was trying to pick up a little easy money.  It seems Bubba’s biology professor paid five dollars apiece for snakes.  One Sunday evening, Bubba came back from a trip home and tossed a burlap bed under his bunk and went on his merry way.  After a while, his roommate heard rattling, investigated, and found a sack full of rattlesnakes.  Bubba was rounded up and he and his snakes were evicted.

The roommate and the suitemates felt a little payback was in order.  The next night, they rounded up a bullfrog and left it in a bag under his bunk.  As soon as the lights went out, the frog started croaking.  In case that wasn’t enough, one of them stretched Saran Wrap tightly across the toilet so Bubba got a shower when he went to pee.

It got ugly after that!

Bumps in the Road Part 16

Update: Kathleen and Bill have just arrived at her parents to inform them of their marriage.

Kathleen felt a sudden pang of guilt about marrying without Mama’s and Daddy’s blessing but Mama had broken up an earlier engagement. She hadn’t wanted to risk that again.

“I know this is sudden but we didn’t want to wait or put you to any trouble “ she babbled. Mama had a stern look, pursing her lips. Was she about to denounce her? Daddy stepped forward and extended his hand to Bill. “Welcome to the family. We’ll be counting on you to take good care of our little girl.”

“Thank you, Mr. Holdaway. I sure will. I have a good job making good money. She won’t go without, I promise you. I know I’m lucky to get a girl like her,” replied Bill.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Daddy replied. “She has always been such a good girl.”

Mama thawed a little. “Can you stay for supper? I’ve got a fryer shut up to kill.”

Kathleen looked to Bill to answer. “ No, but I wouldn’t say no to a cup of coffee,” he answered.

Kathleen was relieved. She hadn’t looked forward to a long evening with them after announcing their uncomfortable news. Bill seemed to have read her mind.

“Come on in,” Mama directed. I’ve got a cake ready to frost. Roscoe, will you bring me in a bucket of water?” Kathleen followed Mama in the house while Bill went to the well with Roscoe. Bill looked so tall and healthy compared to Daddy’s frail frame.

Dreading questions, Kathleen volunteered, “Mama, we didn’t have to get married. We just didn’t see any point in waiting.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you that,” Mama returned, still pursing her lips. “I raised you better than that. How long have you known him?”

“Almost a month,” Kathleen answered, thinking it sounded better than three weeks.

“That long?” Mama scoffed. “Well, good luck. I hope you haven’t made a mistake. Here they are with the water, “ signaling the awkward conversation was done. She filled the kettle, put it on the stove, and poked up the fire. “Now, let me get this cake frosted. That’s a beautiful dress, Kathleen. Is it new?”

“Yes, Bill bought it for me this morning. It cost sixteen dollars!” She bragged, proudly, then suddenly felt ashamed, fearing she’d hurt Mama’s feelings, Mama who’d painstakingly sewn almost every dress Kathleen ever owned.

Happily, Mama’s expression softened. “Bill, I’m proud you can give Katleen nice things. We always wanted the best for her.”

The atmosphere warmed up after that.