Kathleen Carries On  Part 5 or Kathleen Tries to Takeover Windsor Castle

Kathleen surprised
Kathleen, Surprised

Windsor Castle Attempted Takeover

It’s not likely you heard this on the news, but I suspect my mother, Kathleen tried to stage a takeover of Windsor Castle about twenty years ago when she was merely seventy-five or so. You see, Kathleen has been jealous of Queen Elizabeth ever since she knew there was such a person as Queen Elizabeth. She was only a year younger and probably a much more deserving person of all that went along with being a princess. For instance, in her pictures, Princess Elizabeth always had curly hair. Kathleen’s hair was, blonde, straight, and fine. Worse yet, Kathleen’s father kept her hair in a bowl cut. She felt sure the king didn’t perch Princess Elizabeth on a stool in the kitchen and lop her hair off. Besides, if it was naturally curly, that was even more unfair, Princess Elizabeth’s family had plenty of money to get her a perm. Kathleen was poor with straight hair.

The magazines were full of photos with Princess Elizabeth going here and there in sumptuous clothes. What had she done to deserve all that fuss? Kathleen worked hard in school, behaved in church, and helped her parents in the house and garden. She was much more deserving. The princess probably did nothing all day except play with snooty kids, go to tea parties, and sit on a cushion in her crown. It just wasn’t right.

Worse yet, when she got married and had children people went crazy for her. Kathleen had five children and had to manage on her own no matter how hard things got.

Considering all this, I believe when Kathleen got to Windsor Castle , she tried to stage a coup. The story I heard was, “We were the last group of the day. I didn’t want to miss a thing, so I put off going to the bathroom as long as I could. I darted in the bathroom for just a minute, and when I came out everybody was gone. I had to look around and find a guard to let me out. It took a while.” I don’t doubt the part about ducking in the bathroom. Mother knows everything bathroom between her own and Timbuktu. The part I don’t believe is the “just a minute” part. We’ve timed Mother. Her shortest bathroom visit is thirteen minutes. I don’t know what she does.

Meanwhile, her tour group was waiting outside, twiddling their thumbs and questioning where she could be. They would have probably left her had my sister not been with them.

I fully believe had that nosy guard not interfered, Mother would have perched herself on the throne.

Bumps in the Road Part 7

Roscoe married Lizzie Perkins from a prominent family in Virginia. She had obtained a teacher’s certificate and was hired at a school. Sadly, her father, a schoolboard member, interfered, put a stop to that. He didn’t want the neighbors to think he couldn’t support his daughter. At twenty-two, she married Roscoe and moved to Texas. He was an excellent farmer. Though many went hungry during The Great Depression, his family never went hungry. Fortunately, they lived in East Texas, not The Dustbowl. He and Lizzie never owned a farm, just rented.

Kathleen was born into a quiet, well-respected family. Roscoe Holdaway was one of twelve children born to John Holdaway and Elvira Perkins Holdaway. John was a Texas Ranger who was conscripted, along with his entire company, into the Confederate Army.

Kathleen was the third of their children, born to them late in life, sheltered but not spoiled, an excellent student and a regular at church. After completing the ten grades at Cuthand School, her parents rented a house in Clarksville, Texas so Kathleen could graduate. She lived with her sister Annie who had just been discharged from Women’s Army Corp her senior year. Annie worked at the phone company. The girls boarded at the local hotel. It was the best time of Kathleen’s life. While attending high school, she worked at a nearby cafe for two dollars and a meal every shift.

Kathleen Carries On Part 4 or Locked in a Museum Garden

Kathleen , Surprised

Mother was showing her septuagenarian visitors around town when they made a late afternoon stop at the museum garden. One of her visitors had a bad foot and was on a cane, so she thought a gentle stroll would be just what they needed while they killed time waiting to go to Cracker Barrel, the designated old folks watering hole.

Mother led them from one unique corner in the garden after another. She is an enthusiastic host, if nothing else. Eventually, Cracker Barrel’s siren song wooed them. They made for the tall wrought-iron gates, only to find them locked. They’d overstayed visitor’s hours and were incarcerated.

There was nothing to do but call 911. The ladder truck showed up to hoist the seventy-somethings over the fence. It took some maneuvering but the firemen eventually even liberated the lady with the cane and the bum foot. A good time was had by all! The firemen had a good laugh at their expense. They’d certainly worked up a good appetite by the time they finally got to Cracker Barrel.

Kathleen Carries On Part 1

surprise
Kathleen, Surprised

Mother is sensitive about her age and height, so I can’t mention the fact that she is past ninety-six and “not tall.” In fact, she got busted by the nurse at her last exam. “How tall are you?” asked the nurse.

Mother looked her in the eye and said, “5’2,” bold as brass.

The nurse stared her down. “Let’s measure you.” They came back in a minute and the nurse said. “I’ll give you 4’ 9 3/4 .”

1.  She asked a nice young police officer to “jack her off.” 

2. She once crashed a formal wedding in cut off blue jeans.

3. She was once locked in a museum garden and had to be rescued by the fire department.

4. She was locked in Windsor Castle. More on that later.

5. She rolled up a car window up on a camel’s lip.  These things happen.

6. She made change in the offering plate at church and came out twenty dollars ahead

7. She lost her bra at church one Sunday.  She never could explain that!

8. When two intruders broke in her house, she made one of them help her into her robe and refused to give them more than eleven dollars. Go figure.

9. She threatened a rapist.

10. She won’t say “Bull.”  That sounds crude.  She substitutes “male cow.” God knows she tried to raise me right!  

Carrying on #1:

Mother parked her car at the mall, got her sweater and purse and went in to shop and enjoy a leisurely lunch with friends. More than two hours later, she came out and discovered her car wouldn’t start. She’d left her lights on! She didn’t want to call her kids for help, so she flagged down a young police officer, planning to buffalo him with her sweet old grandmother act. “ Officer, my battery’s down. Can you please jack me off?” Luckily, she was neither arrested nor jacked off.

To be continued

Familyisms

Like all families we employ time-honored phrases that seem nonsense to others:

“Don’t go crazy, Sue!” My cousin’s husband, a real doofus, employed this when he really messed up, intending to temper her reaction. example: He backed over the dog after she’d told him it had slipped out. It didn’t calm her down a bit.

“I don’t like what I wanted.” My three year-old-niece had a quarter. She’d been hounding her mom all morning to take her to the store. Finally, the time came. Chelsea ran up to the vending machine outside the store , popping her quarter in before Mom could stop her. Out popped a tacky little plastic car. Furious with disappointment , smashed it to the ground. Mom chided her. “I thought you wanted a prize out of the machine!”

Chelsea spouted back, “I don’t LIKE what I wanted.”

That phrase is perfect for so many of our choices in life!

“It couldn’t be helped.” Mother is a ditz, scatterbrained and chronically behind in whatever she had to do. When the beans burned, she forgot to pick a kid up at basketball practice, forgot to stub a check, or messed up in any way, she justified it by saying, “It couldn’t be helped.”. This was rarely true.

“It’s starting to get some better.”. Daddy was a hypochondriac.  When he managed a malady, he clung to it tenaciously. About two weeks after wasps stings, Mother facetiously asked how it was.  Mistaking her sarcasm for concern, he replied, “It’s starting to get some better.”

“The head’s as dangerous as the rest of it!”. My sister was warning us to stay away from a decapitated snake.  “Stay away from that snake head!  It’s as dangerous as the rest of it!” Duh!

“Only fools f___s with snakes.”. A guy Bud worked with coined this wisdom.  Since we had little kids at the time we had to amend it.

” I salted it, but not enough.”. Mother was the master of confusion.  Putting a plates of eggs on the table one morning, she advised us, ” I salted them, but not enough.”. Where do you go from there?  Salt or don’t salt.  By the time you decide, your egg’s half gone.

Bumps in the Road Part 3

At one desperate point, while Eddie was about the slow business of dying at Grandma Swain’s, Mettie gratefully moved her family to her brother Albert’s recently acquired farm, miles and miles from town. Red dust fogged up with the rare passing conveyance. In foul weather, the red dirt road was impassable. There was no possibility of the kids attending school since the nearest bus stop was ten miles away where the dirt road joined a hard surface road. School attendance was not mandatory at this time.

Mettie’s focus was on survival. Fortunately, in addition to the farmhouse he and his wife moved into, a battered, unpainted house was available for the poor band. Had Mettie not been in such need, he would have used it as a barn  Again, it was free. They could get milk and butter from Albert’s cows if Mettie helped with the milking. Albert’s wife, Mary, kindly passed along a hen with twelve chicks and young rooster. They could eat from Mary’s garden if she and the girls helped with gardening and canning. Of course they would! They settled in the hovel where wind sailed through the rickety walls and rain poured through the leaky roof. The uncles put the boys to cutting  and splitting wood for shingles, then set them to roofing.  A toilet leaned crazily out back, but the deep well provided cool,clean water.  Of course the rural farm had no utilities, no matter, since Mettie hadn’t funds to pay. Her brothers, Willie and Albert, did what they could to help, from plowing her garden, providing her a pig to fatten and slaughter in the fall. Willie traded a fine sow with a litter of pigs and gifted her bony milk cow.  Fortunately, when the old cow freshened, it was a heifer, ensuring Mettie would have a young cow to replace the old one at her inevitable  This was a Godsend.  A family without a milk cow was in trouble.

When Eddie eventually died in 1937, the four younger children qualified for seventy-four dollars a month Aid to Dependant Children. Mettie was able to move to a better house near town so the little girls could go to school. Mettie had a penchant for moving till the day she died. Daddy said she’d start crying and nothing would satisfy her till she got to move. No doubt, she had mood issues.

The same year the family got on “relief,” her eldest son joined Civilian Conservation Corp for which he was provided clothes, wages, food, and lodging for working on government conservation projects.  He was paid the princely sum of thirty dollars a month, twenty-five of which went directly to his mother.  Three years later, the second son joined.  The boys had never lived dressed or lived so well.  At thirteen, Daddy was six feet tall.  He was able to pass for fifteen, snagging a job on an nearby oil rig as a night watchman. He slipped home most nights to eat  a late supper.  All three boys had given up school long ago to look for work.  At any rate, Daddy said they couldn’t face the taunting of hateful kids over their bedraggled clothes.

My father is boy in front row holding hat
Eddie Swain

Grandpa J and the Summons

When Grandpa J got up at four-thirty, everybody got up. The women headed for the kitchen and the stove. At Grandpa’s orders, the menfolk headed for the barn to milk the numerous cows, bring the milk in, slop the hogs, and get the tractors and equipment ready for the day’s farm work. By six am, they’d have scraped their boots and cleaned up enough to gather around the large, rough table for breakfast. Grandma stood before the large wood stove , her face flushed with its heat, flipping pancakes and eggs on its many griddles. She served them cups steaming coffee, and pint jars warm rich milk fresh from the cows. The girls and women were kept busy, passing passing pancakes, eggs, bacon and molasses, and pouring refills on coffee and milk. The women didn’t even try to eat before the men got out of the way. It was the first item of business to get the men off to work before they could get the kids off to school and start their day of taking care of the milk, cooking, housework and gardening.

The busy farm couple had eleven kids between nine and twenty-one at this particular time. One brutal, icy day shortly after Christmas, the older boys decided they just weren’t getting up at four-thirty that day. There wouldn’t be any farming in that weather. It wasn’t fit for man nor beast. They cows could just wait. By golly, they were going to stay in bed, for once.

Grandpa had been working on some plow lines before the fire the night before. He called up the stairs to the boys a couple of times, before warning them he’d be up to get them if they didn’t get down in a minute. Feeling confident he couldn’t get them all at once, they lay abed.

Unbeknownst to the old man, just as Grandpa made his way upstairs, plow lines in hand, a deputy from town was about to knock on the front door to deliver a summons to jury duty for Grandpa. Grandpa commenced whaling on the boys with the plow lines, deaf to the pounding on the front door. The boys, most over six feet tall, tumbled down the stairs and burst out the front door, trampling the deputy on their way. Terrified, he joined the boys in flight, being flogged right along with them.

He refused to come back and deliver the summons.

Don’t Spin Your Greens, Granny!

greens 2

When you live in the South and visit old folks in the country, the first thing you have to do is admire their garden. If you run out of excuses, you’ll come home with a “mess of greens.” I hate dealing with 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 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 visited an elderly family member, he came back wagging a bag 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 on 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 that 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

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

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.

Things Happen

“They’re in the dishwasher, but should be finished by now.”I told him.

During my errands yesterday, I got a phone call from Bud. “Didn’t you tell me you washed those jars of corned beef you canned? I was going to put them in the pantry and I can’t find them. Where did you put them?” He sounded totally bewildered.

“Why in the world did you do that? Oh, never mind!” He blustered.

We’ve been married more than fifty years, but Bud still forgets it makes perfect sense to me to wash jars of canned goods in the dishwasher. We paid a lot for that dishwasher and need to get full value. Why run a sink full of soapy water to wash them by hand and risk having a slippery jar crash and break? The dishwasher does a great job.

I’ve always felt appliances should be multi-functional. I’ve already done my own research and can tell you some pitfalls, but the idea is great.

Ovens make excellent emergency dryers, but don’t do your hair. Putting your head in the oven makes a bad impression. Properly done, ovens could be used for clothes, shoes, and other stuff you might not want, or be able to put in your clothes dryer. Also, the dryer might be on the blink. (Possibly from Multi-Function Appliance Use)I do have a couple of cautions, however. When drying your dainties in the oven, pre-heat it to a nice warm temp, then turn it off. Be sure to put them on a nice cool cookie sheet before you slide them in. When mine hit the hot oven rack they sizzled and melted. Long crosswise burns across the butt was not a look I could live with.

I ran into a little problem drying my son’s tennis shoes in the oven before I’d worked all the kinks out of my system. His only pair had to be dry for school the next morning, so in the oven they went. It’s a lot easier to set the temperature higher than you think, believe me. I forgot to set the timer. In just a bit, I smelled rubber burning. By the time I got to them, melted shoe soles dripped to the oven floor. Still thinking they could be salvaged, I worked the shoes free, hoping I could saw the drippy soles off smooth. Didn’t work. The toes curled up till the shoes looked like skis. We ended up making a flying trip to the store with him in his socked feet, getting there just before the store closed at nine.Bud was totally unreasonable about the whole situation

To be continued