memoir

Lloyd and Too Little Too Late

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I just love this true family story, so I am sharing it again. I hope not too many of you have seen it. Many years ago, I had a Cousin Mavis, who’d inherited a really nice farm, together with her brother Beau, in an idyllic mountain valley.  She married Lloyd who greatly admired her farm.  They had a daughter, Sally.  Mavis quickly took issue with her husband’s carousing and tossed him out.  Quite willing and able to take care of herself, she continued to live happily on her farm with her brother Beau and Sally.  Beau did the majority of the farm work while Mavis taught school and kept the house running,   The three of them had a good life together, bumping along quite satisfactorily.  Beau never married though he was happy to keep company with a widow lady, saying, “No house was big enough for two women.”  In truth, I’m sure he felt he already had a wonderful homemaker who shared his expenses, a doting niece, and a prosperous farm he had no wish to divide. Her husband, Lloyd, was never quite reconciled to the divorce, realizing what a mistake he’d made in losing Mavis.  Though he never lost his penchant for women and drink, he bought land just across the road, building a house there so he’d have a chance to worm his way by into Mavis’ affections and be in his his daughter’s life .  Little Sally saw her father daily, just like he’d planned, but Lloyd made a point to keep an eye on what went on at Mavis’s place all the time.  Unfortunately, this gave Mavis a bird’s eye view of his social activities, not a wise move for a man seeking forgiveness from a wronged wife.  Despite his many raucous parties and interesting friendships, he was forever hopeful, lo these many years later, that today Mavis would welcome him back into her loving arms.  Whenever an unfamiliar vehicle drove up, Lloyd was sure to amble over to check the guest out.   The first time we visited her, Mavis said, “Oh Lordy, here comes Lloyd to see if y’all are my boyfriend.” Mavis, Beau, and Lloyd lived this way for more than fifty years, till the lovely Sally finally inherited both places, uniting them, as Lloyd had always hoped.

Miss Ruby and the Bagwells

The companionable thing about growing up in the fifties and sixties in the rural South was that everyone went to the same school and churches and knew everything about everyone.  The teachers at school taught your siblings and cousins and might have taught your parents. If a kid got in trouble at school you can bet his mama would be waiting for him with a switch even though our rural neighborhood had no phone service.

Once the women got the kids off to school, beds made, dishes done, wash on the line, and the beans on to soak for supper, they might have a little time to visit a neighbor for coffee before heading home to get the baby down for a nap, finish their afternoon’s work and get supper on the table.  I loved going to Miss Alice’s house.  She didn’t have kids, so she always made a fuss over us.  Instead of scampering off to play, we usually hung around long enough for her to offer us a snack.  Sometimes it was left over biscuits with butter and jelly or best of all, teacakes.  If I hadn’t been hanging around hoping for a teacake, I wouldn’t have heard about the scandal of Red Bagwell and his brother Floyd. They weren’t the sharpest guys around but got by okay on the little place where their parents raised them. Though they were in their forties, neither had ever married.  I always looked forward to hearing Red talk.  His consonants didn’t always work out.  The way he explained it, “I can’t sound out my rells.” Daddy stopped by one day when Red and Floyd were working on a shed.  Red put on a new door hinge and gestured to Floyd, “ Froyd, git me that rock.”  Floyd looked around, found a good-sized rock, obligingly brought it over, and propped the shed door shut.  Red gave it a kick and barked, “Not a rock!! A damned rock!” stomped over and picked up the lock where he’d laid it out on the ground.  My ears perked up anytime someone mentioned Red and Floyd. It seems Red had somehow snagged a wife.  The three lived in the family home, Miss Ruby fitting in well with the two brothers. She kept house, cooked, cleaned, slopped the hogs, and kept a nice garden.  The three were getting along fine.  She was a fine wife and a healthy-looking woman. Back then, healthy-looking meant she ate like a lumberjack and could wrestle a bear.   As time went on, it seems she was fitting in far too well with both brothers. One day Red rode in to town with Joe Jones to sell a load of turnips, but Floyd felt like he needed to stay home and work on the new hog pen.  When Red and Joe got home, ready for coffee, the doors were locked.  Red knew Ruby and Floyd were both home, because the wash was still on the line, the old truck was there and Floyd’s old dog was under the porch.  Floyd never went anywhere without Ol’ Blue.  Red beat on the front door.  No answer.  He checked the back door.  No answer.  He came back and hammered on the front door again.  Miss Ruby yelled out.  “Git on out of here and quit bangin’ on that door!  Floyd’s tryin’ to take a nap.”  Bewildered, Red squatted outside the front door, muttering to Joe, “umpin ‘oin on in ‘ere.”  Eventually, Floyd finished his “nap,” ambled on out to do chores.  The three did not have a cozy night.  Something like this might have broken up the relationship between most brothers, but Ruby saved the day.  When the feuding brothers got up the next morning, Ruby had eloped with Ol’ Blue and the truck.  As the brothers commiserated over the betrayal and bonded over their losses they worked things out.

Jump Frog

This guy poked his head up as I was just ready to plant. I jumped and shrieked like he was a monster. I wonder if he thought it was funny?

Andrew and Molly Part 25

They found Aggie on the cabin floor grimly clutching Bartle’s hand where he had collapsed. Blood leaked from his right ear. He made no response to Aggie’s pleas. The two little girls clung to Abbie’s dress tail, crying.

Perkins, the bondsman, and Andrew lifted the unresponsive man to the bed. Aggie gently got him settled and staunched the blood oozing from his ear. His breathing was raspy and irregular.

“I’ve seen this before,” pronounced Aggie glumly. “He’ll not live. He’s in God’s hands now.” Stoically, she pulled a chair to keep vigil.

Molly spoke to Rosemarie. “Take all the young ones over to my house and get them fed and abed. You’ll need to get supper for the men when their day is through. I’ll sit with Aggie.”

They sat quietly through the long evening. Aggie broached the subject of Andrew’s return. “Bartles deeply grieved Andrew’s capture. We had come to love you both and feared for your future. We were overjoyed when Master Wharton married you and took you under his protection. Your babes have filled our hearts with love. When Andrew returned, Bartles hoped you’d be joined again in marriage.”

Molly answered Aggie. “I loved Andrew. I prayed for his return. Things are not so simple since I have children. I don’t even know if I am still married to Andrew since I married the master. If my marriage to the master was true, his land will go to my children. The reverend who insisted I marry is dead and cannot speak for me now. If I am still married to Andrew, I might be judged an adulterer and sold back into bondage. My children might be judged bastards. I could be jailed. If questions are raised, who knows where the law leaves either me or Andrew? I fear approaching the law. Who knows what will happen to me and my children?

Traveling with Elderly Parents: Tips and Experiences

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I am traveling today so I am running an old post from several years ago.  Mother is not traveling with me today

Mother accompanied me to visit a relative a few months ago.  It was a route I flew often enough to get expedited security.  I explained to security I did not want to be separated from my elderly mother.  They saw her in her wheelchair, which she always requests for convenience.  She immediately put on her goofiest look, which is quite convincing.  Starting her Alzheimer’s act, she started firing questions at me and security.  They rushed her through.  Frankly, I considered abandoning her, she was making such a pest of herself.  I was glad when we got out of security and she got back to her normal goofy self.

Were You Born in a Barn?

I grew up in the fifties  and didn’t expect much.  I didn’t feel deprived, just understood the situation.  All the family toys fit in a medium-sized box and were shared. We had mean cousins who regularly tore them up, so storage wasn’t a problem.   If we realized they were coming and had time, we locked them in my parent’s  bedroom, but nothing was foolproof.  Those hellions could ferret out a steel marble locked in a safe and tear it up. No kid I knew laid no claim to a television, radio, or record player.  We were free to watch or listen along with our parents and act as the remote control as a bonus.

Most of mine and my brother’s time was spent outdoors.  We had the run of our property, including a large two-story barn, so we never had to stay indoors, even in rain or rare icy weather.  “Get your jacket and shoes and socks on before you go to the barn.”  I was more concerned about getting out than I was about bad weather, so I’d gladly have gone barefoot and jacketless, given the chance.  

Mother, a pessimist, foolishly believed in hookworms, stray nails, and broken glass.  I knew better, but she stayed on me.  It was a real downer.  If I got wet, I certainly didn’t come in to dry off. Most likely, I was wearing my only shoes.  

Should Mother notice wet feet or muddy clothes, we’d be stuck indoors for the day or till our jackets and shoes dried  I learned early that if you stay out in your wet things, pretty soon they lose that discolored, wet look.  Besides if you play hard enough, you generate some heat.

Our barn was two stories with a gigantic open door centering the second where Daddy backed up his truck up to load or unload hay.  It was a thrill to get a running start and fly to the ground eight or ten feet below.  Dry weather provided the softest landings since thick, shredded hay and powdery manure make a decent cushion.   Even the most determined jumper soon learned the folly of jumping on a rainy day.  It was too easy to slide into something horrible.  

Regular wet clothes aren’t too bad, but malodorous puddles and cow pies should be avoided at all costs. No one ever broke an arm or neck.

Playing on the square hay bales without damaging them is an art worth learning.  Tearing up baled hay quickly got us expelled from the barn as well as plenty of trouble.  It didn’t take long to discover which friend could be trusted to do right.  Billy and I policed them  and put a stop to tearing up bales.  Daddy had a stacking method we knew not to mess up.

The cats loved the barn, busying themselves with the rats who also made themselves at home. I’ll never forget the horrible feeling of a rat running up my leg.

Knowing rats hid in our playhouse made them no less scream-worthy, though we weren’t afraid of them, often hurling corncobs at them.  I don’t think I was ever fast enough to do any damage.  Sometimes we were a little more effective with slingshots or a BB gun.

A covered area below the loft was intended for equipment storage. Interestingly, only the broken equipment was under the shed. Presumably, repairs were started and abandoned there.  The good stuff sat out in the open.  Very little space was taken up for feed.   Mostly, it served as a repository for junk items.

One of the most interesting  was a rough wooden box with filled with letters and personal items both parents brought to the marriage. We were forbidden to open that box on pain of death, so were sneaky as we prowled through it, enjoying  the pictures and letters from old sweethearts, navy memorabilia including a gigantic pin used to close Daddy’s navy gear bag, six two-inch chalkware dolls in their original box, and two enormous carved ebony spoons featuring a naked man and a woman with pendulous bosoms.  

I can only assume Mother was too much of a coward to hang those shocking spoons on her kitchen wall.  Her sister, Anne, in the WACS had brought them home as a gift to Mother, a woman who wouldn’t  say butt or titty, euphemizing with “your sitting down place “or “chest” if absolutely necessary. What a waste.  If fondling ebony wood breasts makes a pervert, I signed on early. The man was not anatomically correct or the guilt would have undone me. The pity of it was, I couldn’t ask questions about any of those treasures since  the  boxes were strictly off limits.  

Sadly, the rats devoured the letters long before I learned to really read cursive, though Phyllis bragged she got to read some.  I prefer to think she was lying.

Lean-to sheds with stalls flanked the left side and back of the barn. We frequently snitched oats and  lured the horse near the rail partitions dividing the stalls while the other slid on for a brief ride, then switch around for the other to ride.  We badgered Daddy Incessantly to saddle the horse for us, until one fine day when I was about ten, he told us we could ride any time we wanted if we could saddle the horse ourselves.

We never expected that.  Billy and I did the old oat trick and had the horse saddled in minutes.  We rode any time we wanted after that.  I know the horse hated what was coming, but could never resist the oats. When he’d had enough, he’d scrape us off by walking under the low roofed stall.

That barn was the most glorious play area any kid ever knew. We were the luckiest kids around.

 

 

From Stump to Garden: Nature’s Circle of Life

Croc and Izzy helping with yardwork

The dogs hate being left alone in the house when we work outdoors. When I have a stationary project, I bring them along to lounge in the shade. Croc, my big boy, tries to put his leash on by himself if I’m a little slow.

This ragged stump is all that remains of a stately pine. When we moved here forty years ago, it was part of a thick stand. We cleared quite a few out for a lawn and garden but I was partial to this one.

I hung one end of my hammock on it. My children played in its shade, It survived tornado damage but was eventually done in by lightning. We planned to fell it but before we could, red-headed woodpeckers set up housekeeping in it.

The time was never right to remove it as they built nests all up and down its length. We loved the woodpeckers so we left it.

Finally, the wind blew it down before the nesting season. About thirty woodpecker nests lined with white dog hair stretched along its length. The woodpeckers abandoned their wrecked home to set up housekeeping in a neighbor’s snag across the road. We hear but never see them.

We built the flagstone patio and incorporated the stump into the landscaping. Last year, ants made it their home. I couldn’t tolerate the ants, so that’s another story. This sad bit is all that’s left.

Today, I drilled numerous holes in my old friend, filled them with earth and flower seeds. I’m in hopes we will enjoy another season together.

Rubbernecking Duckie

Rubberneck 1Rubberneck 2Original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

We endured periodic visits from Mother’s bizarre  relatives, Cookie and Uncle Riley. Whether or not they were actually deranged was debatable, they definitely teetered somewhere between eccentric and maddening. Most people who had to interact with them on a regular basis held out for just plain crazy. Both held Master’s Degrees, Cookie’s in Education and Uncle Riley’s in Mathematics. Cookie was head of a large public school system in Texas. Uncle Riley worked for the government as a mathematician in the 1950’s. I won’t press that any further, except to say that somehow, they miraculously collided and produced Cousin Barbie, The Wonder Baby. On their way to an Easter visit in 1957, Cookie and Uncle Riley made a few stops.

 

I digress, but needed to set the scene for their visit. Because my mother had married a blue-collar worker, a man they considered “beneath her” and had three children, Cookie and Uncle Riley held the impression that my parents ran an orphanage and would be grateful for any gift of apparel, no matter how useless they might drag in. This particular trip, they came bearing refuse from a fire sale: ten pairs of boys black high top basketball shoes in a wide range of sizes, six identical but slightly singed, size eight, red and green sateen dresses trimmed with black velvet collars and waist bands, six dozen pairs of size two cotton satin-striped Toddler Training Pants, and three six-packs of men’s silk dress socks in a nude tone, a color I’d never seen anyone wear. In addition to these useless prizes, they’d stopped by a fruit stand and gotten a great deal on a box of fifty pounds of bruised bananas and an Easter duck for Barbie. By the time they’d reached our house many hours later, four-year-old Barbie, Easter Duck, and Bosco Dog had romped in the back seat and pretty much-made soup of the bananas. Fruit flies circled the old black 1943 Ford merrily as it rocked to a stop. Uncle Riley, the mathematician, anticipating breakdowns didn’t believe in wasting money on new car parts. He always carried a collection of parts extracted from a junker in his back yard to keep his old clunker running. He also split the back of his old jeans and laced them up with shoe strings when they got too tight, but that’s s story for another day.

 

I know Mother must have dreaded their visit, with its never-ending pandemonium, especially since for some reason, the only thing they shared with Daddy was a healthy contempt and barely concealed animosity for each other. The five of us kids were always delighted to see them, in spite of their bizarre offerings. One pair of the smoky-smelling shoes did fit my brother, but shredded in a few steps, due to its proximity to the fire. The dresses were put back for “Sunday Best,” Thank God, never to be seen again, since neither of us girls was a size eight, nor was partial to singed, scratchy dresses. Fortunately, for my parents, at the moment, they had no size two toddlers for the training pants, though they did manage to come up with a couple just a few years later. Easter Duck, however, deeply interested four-year-old Billy.

 

Sensing misfortune in his future, Mother tried to run interference for Easter Duck, fearing for his health. For some reason she was distracted by the madness of intervening between Daddy and her whacked-out relatives, getting dinner ready for the whole crowd, dealing with out-of-control kids, and finding places to bed everyone down for the night. Not surprisingly, her concerns for Easter Duck were pushed to the bottom of the list. Never having been deprived of anything she wanted, ever, Barbie had no intention of being parted with Easter Duck. Billy needed a better look, and having had plenty of experience dealing with mean kids, patiently waited for his chance. Forgetting Easter Duck, Mother and Cookie went back to their visit, leaving the two four-year-olds to play. As you might expect, before long, they heard the screaming. Barbie held poor Easter Duck by his head; Billy had him by the feet. Between them, they had stretched the poor duck’s neck way past anything God ever intended, even for a swan. Neither exhibited the Wisdom of Solomon and was determined to maintain possession, at all costs. Poor Easter Duck paid the price! Though he was rescued, sadly his neck was not elastic and did not “snap back.” He didn’t get to spend the Easter holidays with his new friends, Barbie and Billy.

 

 

Kathleen Tells All