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
I 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.
With thirty years in nursing, you can well imagine I have my share of strange stories. I worked in acute dialysis in the hospital, so knew my patients very well. We talked about their lives, familis, dogs, whatever was on their minds. One of my favorite patients was Curtis, a huge man, perfectly delightful, but developmentally challenged. His thinking was about on the level of a eight-year-old. Curtis had somehow gotten credit at a furniture store, bought a houseful of furniture, and not made a single payment. He was being hounded for payment, so decided the best course of action was to go in the hospital, where he wouldn’t be bothered. When he told the nurse at the outpatient dialysis clinic he needed to go to the hospital, she explained he couldn’t be admitted unless sick. He did some thinking and called her back to his chair telling her he had something for her. (I can’t imagine how she fell for that.). He dropped an impressive lump of excrement into her outstretched hand and was admitted into the psychiatric unit of the hospital in short order.
He was happily ensconced at the hospital, soon moved to the medical floor. One day he walked into my unit asking for a large patient gown. He went on his way. Curtis was not on my mind when I heard a lady out in the hall exclaim. “Oh my God! Take it!” It seems she had been bringing a pecan pie to her hospitalized friend from church when she encountered seven-foot-tall Curtis, walking naked down the hall, looking for hospital staff to help him with his gown. Curtis, hadn’t seen a pecan pie in way too long. He dropped the gown, grabbed the pie and raised a clumsy fist when the poor woman resisted. She gave up on the pie and fled shrieking. Eventually, the whole thing smoothed over. Curtis had his pie and his gown. The hospital gave the lady another pecan pie and an apology. By the time Curtis got home, his furniture had been repossessed, so he wasn’t harassed any more. They all lived happily ever after, except of course for the nurse who got a handful of doo-doo.
Three nurses died and went to heaven, where they were met at the Pearly Gates by St. Peter.
To the first, he asked, “What did you do on Earth and why should you go to heaven?” “I was a nurse in an inner-city hospital,” she replied. “I worked to bring healing and peace to the poor suffering city children.” “Very noble,” said St. Peter. “You may enter.” And in through the gates, she went.
To the next, he asked the same question: “So what did you do on Earth?” “I was a nurse at a missionary hospital in Africa,” she replied. “For many years, I worked with a skeleton crew of doctors and nurses who tried to reach out to as many peoples and tribes with a hand of healing and with a message of God’s love.” “How touching,” said St. Peter. “You too may enter.” And in she went.
He then came to the last nurse, to whom he asked, “So, what did you do back on Earth?” After some hesitation, she explained, “I was just a nurse at an HMO.” St. Peter pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Okay, you may enter also.”
“Whew!” said the nurse. “For a moment there, I thought you weren’t going to let me in.”
“Oh, you can come in,” said St. Peter, “but you can only stay for three days!”
Rectal Thermometer
A nurse walks into a bank totally exhaustedafter an 18-hour shift. She grabs a deposit slip, pulls a rectal thermometer out of her purse, and tries to write with it. When she realizes her mistake, she looks at the flabbergasted teller and, without missing a beat, says, “Well, that’s great…some asshole’s got my pen!”
Speaking of Rectal Thermometers…
Q: What’s the difference between an oral thermometer and a rectal thermometer? A: The taste.
Ten Quarters
I had to take my son to the hospital after he swallowed ten quarters. He was rushed to surgery. After half an hour I saw a nurse so I asked her how he was. She said, “There’s no change yet.”
Three Wishes
A nursing assistant, a floor nurse and a charge nurse from a small nursing home were taking a lunch break in the break room. In walks, a lady dressed in silk scarves and wearing large polished-stone jewelry. “I am Gina the Great,” stated the lady. “I am so pleased with the way you have taken care of my aunt that I will now grant the next three wishes!” With a wave of her hand and a puff of smoke, the room was filled with flowers, fruit, and bottles of drink, proving that she did have the power to grant wishes before any of the nurses could think otherwise.
The nurses quickly argued among themselves as to which one would ask for the first wish. Speaking up, the nursing assistant wished first. “I wish I were on a tropical island beach, with single, well-built men feeding me fruit and tending to my every need.” With a puff of smoke, the nursing assistant was gone.
The floor nurse went next. “I wish I were rich and retired, and spending my days in my own warm cabin at a ski resort with well-groomed men feeding me cocoa and doughnuts.” With a puff of smoke, she too was gone.
“Now, what is the last wish?” asked the lady.
The charge nurse said, “I want those two ambitious nurses back on the floor at the end of the lunch break!”
“WTH!”
Q: Did you hear about the nurse who died and went straight to hell?
A: It took her two weeks to realize that she wasn’t at work anymore!
Mother and Daddy were bipolar, as a couple, not individually. Daddy was generous with tales of his life on the wild side intended to edify and occasionally entertain. In his youth, he’d selfishly used up the family quota of sin, carousing, drinking, gambling, fighting, and honky-tonking to his heart’s content. Reforming after marrying Mother, he put all that behind him so he could rest on his laurels, be a good example, and watch us like a hawk. Knowing the bad apples probably wouldn’t fall too far from the tree, he was suspicious of the crop he was reaping. Mother, on the other hand, apparently had always had an over-developed sense of guilt and expected we’d just naturally behave well. When we did mess up, she was “hurt, not mad.” With five kids, it’s a wonder she survived the casualties.
Once my brother Billy managed to snag some girly books and hide them under his mattress. Mother found them and righteously confiscated them. Lecturing him in her squeaky Minnie Mouse voice, she plunged them in the trash destined for the burn barrel. Connie and Marilyn, our younger sisters enjoyed the whole production off to the side, always glad to see Billy in trouble. Pained at the loss of his valuable property, Bill tolerated her complaints while he considered a better place for his next treasure trove. Mother went on about her housecleaning and foolishly sent Connie and Marilyn to burn the trash.
What a bonanza! While the rest of us had had to rely on conjecture and misinformation from our ignorant friends, these two had been blessed with a virtual illustrated encyclopedia of forbidden knowledge and filthy jokes. Life just isn’t fair. Mother was always was partial to them!
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.
Of course, our family has familiar phrases we use a lot. We have been known to get so comfortable, we forgot to mention to the kids the terms were nonsense. One such word was “bungarendeen” which Bud commonly used to describe the potential for harm. For example: “Don’t eat that potato salad that’s been sitting out too long. It might give you Bungarendeen!” Another:” Let me clean that cut and put Neosporin and bandage on it. You don’t want to get Bungarendeen.” Again: Always wash your hands after going to the bathroom. You don’t want Bungarendeen!”
After a lifetime of indoctrination, one of our kids was in college biology class. The instructor was covering pathogens and neglected to mention the all important Bungarendeen. The unfortunate student raised their hand, “But what about Bungarendeen? You didn’t cover that.”
(Continuation of story of Jamey Awful’s birthday party, without a doubt, the most fun I ever had in my life. If he gave a party today, I’d be there!)
Jamey’s birthday party was incredible. There was no sappy “Pin the Tail on the Donkey”, no party hats, just fun, fun, fun. Mama Awful didn’t concern herself with us, leaving us on our own. Of course, we ran wild, ripping through mud puddles, jumping out the barn loft, and robbing chicken nests. We splatted eggs against the side of the barn and climbed into fig trees breaking off a branch or two. My sandals were long gone and the skirt of my dress ripped from the waist band. The sash ties were mud-caked. From the look on Mother’s face when she walked over to get me, I could see she was not happy, not even going in for coffee like she usually did at neighbor lady’s houses. “I ought to tear you up for running wild like that, losing your shoes and tearing up your new dress.”
“But Mama, we was just playing. We didn’t mess up nothing in the house!” I protested. I usually got in trouble for meddling with people’s whatnots when we went to visit, a terrible wrong.
“ Don’t dispute my word!” she hissed through clenched teeth. “”You’re never going over there again!” My heart fell. Surely she didn’t mean it!
I figured Mother would forget after a few days, but no……….No visits to the Awfuls. If they noticed they were being snubbed you couldn’t tell. We were always ready to play with them if they rambled through our yard on the way to bigger and better things. During this time Daddy brought home a huge, mean turkey, to fatten for Thanksgiving. He was a monster jumping, spurring, and flogging us with when we had to feed the chickens and gather eggs. He even got bolder and started flying over the fence to attack us in our own territory. We stayed as far away as we could, but he ambushed us if he caught us off guard.
My personal favorite among the Awfuls was Junior who enjoyed a special claim to fame. He ate bugs and other strange items. He ate his first bug on a dare and liked it, saying it tasted like peanuts. From that time forward, he was generally known as Bugeater. The kids in the neighborhood took pride in finding the biggest, strangest bugs for him to eat. Bugeater did have standards, refusing to eat worms.
Before too many days, we were lucky enough to have Jamey, Bugeater, and Davey pay us a call. “Where’s that bad turkey? I wanta see it.” demanded Jamey.
“He’s out in the chicken yard but you better leave him alone! He’s real mean!” I pointed out. I watched them head for the chicken yard, wanting no part of that turkey.
Sure enough, that old devil turkey flew at them, ready to do battle. They screamed and ran like crazy, but not in the cowardly way we had. “Whoo whoo! Turn turkey run!” they shrieked, chasing him all over the chicken yard, flogging him with their caps and sticks. The terrorized turkey finally escaped up into the trees and stayed there till they sauntered off.
“That ol’turkey ain’t so bad,” Jamey said as they banged the gate shut on the way out.
”Wait, where are you going? Don’t you want to play?” I liked them even better now.
”Nah, We’re going crawfishing over in Donnie Parker’s ditch.” Jamey replied, ruining my day.
That turkey’s spirit was broken. He never bothered us again. I liked those kids even better than ever after that.
I gave Mother a little time to forget before asking to go to the Awfuls. One golden day, she had a headache and wanted to rest on the sofa until her head felt better. We played quietly for a few minutes till she went to sleep. “Mother, can I go play with the Awful’s?” I whispered. She didn’t say no, so off I went.
The Awfuls had the best place in the neighborhood. Overgrown bushes tangled into the fence so the yard was a jungle, a great place for adventures. Tall grass and junk in the yard made it easy to hide. We chased the sleeping hound dogs out of the abandoned cars and played cops and robbers. We pulled broken boards off the barn for fort-building. Best of all, there was a big tree with low-hanging branches by the front door. “Look at this!” Jamey shouted. I followed the boys up the tree and through a window into the attic. From there, we dropped through a hole into the living room ceiling and sneaked behind the furniture into a back bedroom where daft, old grandma was in the bed.
“Aigheeeeeeee!” she screeched, clutching her blankets like she’d seen a ghost.
“Y’all git out’a there! Don’t git your Granny stirred up. I got a headache” yelled Mama Awful over the TV.
They showed us a secret way out through a hole in the floor of her closet. Pelting each other with dirt clods from their bare yard, I’d never felt so free.
Eventually, Mother came stomping over. “What are you doing over here? Don’t you ever go off without asking!” she said. “I’m gonna tear you up!”
“But Mama, you said I could go!” I whined. dreading a switching. “ I asked when you was layin’ on the couch.” I told her.
I could see she remembered. “You knew I was asleep. Don’t you ever pull that again.” she threatened. Sadly, that was my last visit to the Awful’s house.
Not too long afterward, the Awfuls showed up with little Becky Awful in tow. She was about three and overdue to join their traveling show. Daddy was unhappily cleaning out a clogged septic line, bailing nasty stuff into a wheelbarrow. Not in a great mood, he sent the Awfuls on their way, not noting that Becky had remained behind playing quietly off to the side. She was making mud pies with clean white sand and septic drain sludge. As soon as he saw her, he howled for Mother. “Kathleen, get this kid out of here! She’s playing in this excrement(paraphrased) and nasty as a pig! Do I have to do everything?”
“Bill, I didn’t know she was out there.” Mother washed Becky a little under the hose and led her home. Becky was so filthy and smelly it would probably have been easier to get another little girl than to try to clean her up. As it turned out, that wasn’t a problem. Becky showed up two days later in the same malodorous outfit.
Since we couldn’t visit the Awfuls anymore, we had to make do with whatever crumbs of joy they tossed our way. My parents had their noses out of joint because Mr. Awful had shut his pigs up in a small lot between our house and theirs. Not surprisingly, it really, really stunk. Mother had us helping her hang laundry on the line when we heard a huge ruckus next door. It seems Mr. Awful had noticed Jamey’s missing birthday shoes. “You boys get out there and find them shoes or I’m gonna tear you up. We ain’t got money to waste on shoes.” he roared. I could have told him where one of them was, but Mother shushed me up. The boys made for the pigpen, wading around, looking in the muddy black hog-wallows seeking the lost shoes. Of course, it wasn’t long before Bugeater slipped and fell, then Davey, then Jamey. They forgot about the shoes and were streaking through the pig mud. Mud showered everywhere. The beleaguered pigs cowered in the corners, trying to save their bacon. Eventually, Mr. Awful came out in the yard to check the progress of the shoe search. Finding them in the pigpen meant big trouble. He pulled a spring of grass and threatened to switch them if they didn’t find the shoes.
“No don’t whoop me,” whined Jamey. Then the other boys chimed in.
“He backed down. “ Well, I won’t whoop you, but you gonna have to git a bath before bedtime.
It did my heart good to see they could get in trouble. It’s hard to live next door to kids with a perfect life.
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.
My favorite comfort food is biscuits, buttered hot from the oven. Mother made twenty-seven biscuits every morning. I’d wake to the squeal of the oven door and the scraping of the pan just before she called out, “Biscuits are in the oven.” That was our cue to hustle out of bed. The bedrooms were frigid in winter, so we’d jostle for space to dress in front of the kitchen space heater. When I was little, it was solid comfort to slide into clothes Mother had just warmed before the flames. Once dressed, we’d tie into breakfast with that pile of biscuits, the little guys draped in towels.
Ingredients
3 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 tsp salt
4 tsp baking powder
1/2 tsp cream of tartar
3/4 cup COLD butter
1 cup evaporated milk
Preheat oven to 450 degrees.
The secret to excellent biscuits is COLD BUTTER. Really cold. Many times the biscuit dough gets worked so much that the butter softens before the biscuits even go in the oven. Try cutting the butter into small pieces and stick back in the fridge pulling out only when ready to incorporate into the dough.
Combine the dry ingredients in a large bowl.
Cut cold butter into flour mixture. Mix will be a bit lumpy.
Add in the milk and mix just until the ingredients are combined. The dough will be sticky but don’t keep working it. You should be able to see the butter pieces in the dough.
To roll out, turn mix on to floured surface. Sprinkle with flour and turn two or three times. Cut with biscuit cutter.
To hand roll, dust with flour and roll in flour dusted hand two or three quick turn to smooth a bit.
Brush tops with melted butter and bake 10 to twelve minutes till tops brown. Yields 12 Wrap in damp paper towel to reheat 15 seconds in microwave.
I 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.
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.
Nutsrok 