memoir

Annie’s Fish Hookectomy

We have a nice little wet-weather creek that runs along our property line, cutting through the middle of the wooded lot next door.  My kids played in the creek and in the woods all the time.  They were a few years older than Greg, our neighbor’s boy, so by the time he played there, he had Annie, our Dalmatian and other kids from the neighborhood with him. Sometimes, I think Greg was the only person Annie really liked. Greg got in from school and made his way straight to the pantry, just like always.  He filled up, chatted a while, and took Annie out to play. Before long, he and Annie were back.  “How do you get a fish hook out of a dog’s mouth?” I thought it was it was the lead in to a joke.  “”I don’t know.  How?” “I don’t know. But I was crawfishing with a piece of bacon for bait on my line and somehow, Annie jumped and swallowed the hook, bacon, and all. I just can’t imagine how it happened!” I could.  Annie pranced right behind Greg, proud of the long string hanging from her mouth.  Tentatively, I pulled it.  It was stuck.  Off to the vet.  As you can see from the xray above, the fish hook was imbedded in her stomach.  It had to be surgically removed, along with about five hundred dollars from my wallet.  Annie moped around for three or four days, with nothing to do but brag about her surgery.  Greg made himself scarce, not even checking on her.

Blackie and the Great Diaper Monster

Grandma had a stroke when she was fifty-eight.  The doctor came out to see her and said she’d never walk again.  Ignoring him, she scooted around in an old desk chair for about three months because she wasn’t about to waste money on a wheelchair she’d never use again.  After that, she put up with a cane for a few days till she was sick of it, then it was business as usual.  Ever afterwards, she was a little weak on the right side and her gait was off a little, but she didn’t let it hold her back.  She just carried her gigantic old-lady black purse on the left side to balance herself.  She crawled in every time the car started, and made every trip anyone else did, be it the hardware store, grocery store, or vacation.  Her stroke just made it a little easier for us to keep up with her. She lived far enough away that she always stayed a couple of weeks when she visited.  Upon her arrival, she insisted on taking over the family laundry, washing, hanging out on the line, and folding.  We always had mountains of laundry with five kids, including two babies in diapers, so Mother was glad to have the help.   Always afraid the neighbors would talk about her for letting Grandma toddle back and forth with the laundry, she always sent one of us to help.  I always volunteered, since Grandma was known to hand out nickels when she was pleased.  I endeavored to make sure the other kids didn’t stumble into this gold mine. The whole time I was growing up, we had a sequence of gentle black dogs, usually named Blackie

I have no idea how many we may have had, but we always had one.  Numerous though they had to have been over the eighteen years I lived at home, they all merged into one in my memory.  One hot summer afternoon, as Grandma tottered back from the clothesline to the back door, the poor dog must have awakened from his nap in the shade only to see a short-legged, top-heavy voluminous mound of diaper-carrying scariest monster ever advancing toward him, lurching from side to side. Terrified, he leapt up barking and lunged at the scary monster, pushing her over backwards, the diapers landing atop her.  Mother had seen the whole thing and rushed out to rescue Grandma from the jaws of the slavering beast.  As soon as the dog heard Mother coming for him, he took off.  We were all sure Grandma was dead.  Mother tore at the pile of diapers only to find Grandma laughing so hard she couldn’t get up.  She had to get her laughing fit over before we could pull her to her feet.  She was totally unhurt, except for the indignity of wet pants.  I can’t speak to the poor dog’s shocked condition.

Girly Girl

I once knew a young girl who was very precocious, not me, I was a rowdy tomboy. This other girl was all girl and craved lipstick, jewelry, fancy clothes from very early childhood. Her poor mother’s belongings were never safe from this aspiring fashionista. One cold rainy day, we got to a relative’s house before Mother discovered my sister, Phyllis (I may as well reveal her identity)had slipped off in a pair of Mother’s good high heel shoes, though of course they were way too big for an eight-year-old. Rather than make her go barefoot in the cold, sloppy weather as she probably should have, Mother gave her a stern threat about ruining the shoes and let her wear them. As you could anticipate, Phyllis spent a few cautious minutes indoors before indulging in a contest jumping off the porch into the mud. Needless to say, the green high heels didn’t fare well. She jumped those heels right off.

About the same time, Phyllis showed up dressed for school with Mother’s falsies in the bodice of her dress. They were wildly askew on her flat chest and caught Mother’s attention immediately. Phyllis just couldn’t imagine how Mother discovered her secret!

Yard Work Now and Then

When I was a kid, I never dreamed I’d enjoy yard work. It was a punishment then, literally, usually precipitated by Daddy’s anger. We’d get the bad news the day before. “When I get home from work tomorrow, there better not be a leaf down anywhere in this yard.” Daddy would proclaim. “I don’t want to hear any excuses.” My mood plummeted.

Daddy woke us before he left for work the next morning with a variable mood, either falsely cheerful or still angry from whatever precipitated the sentence of yard work. Yard cleaning meant raking leaves, picking up branches, and hauling the detritus to a burning area. We owned one good yard broom, one snaggletoothed yard broom , one rake, and a wheelbarrow.

We started out by fighting over the yard broom, the easiest and most efficient tool. Nobody wanted the snaggletoothed yard broom or rake. The worst job was hauling the leaves to the burn pile. None of us wanted that job, leading to another round of fighting. The shouts and insults usually brought Mother out to intervene before blood was drawn. That was one rule universally acknowledged. Never injure a sibling to the point of necessitating medical care.

Mother would threaten enough to get us properly started. She assumed a supervisory role and reminded us of our mission and consequences should we fail. In desperation and misery, we’d settle down to our task. After an interminable day of yard work interspersed with fighting, we’d finally finish the hated task. Should we not be able to finish for some reason, Mother would vouch for us, explaining to Daddy why we couldn’t finish. Maybe one of us ran a high fever and broke out with measles or perhaps Aunt Esther and Mawmaw stopped by asking Mother to let us play with our cousins while they visited. Mawmaw was familiar with the work/punishment principle from her marriage and interceded when she could. I admire her for that. It does a kid good to know someone’s on their side even if it doesn’t change their life much.

Failing that, there was no quarter for lazy kids. Punishment was swift and sure with whippings all around and an extra measure of work the next day.

Izzy

Izzy is our little rescue dog. He looks for all the world like an American Eskimo Dog, but weighs less than ten pounds, so I suspect there’s some Pomeranian in there as well. Like a Pom, he hates getting his feet wet. He’d strayed up a home on my niece’s mail delivery route. The homeowner was kindly fostering him but hunting a home. We’d recently lost our darling dog, so we ended up with him.

He’s adorable, so sweet and loving but has one quirk. He’s a runaway. I suspect that’s how we ended up with him. Given the slightest chance, he flees. He likes for us to follow him till he gets his run out, staying a couple of hundred yards ahead. When he’s journeyed far enough, he welcomes a ride home.

He’s a great lap-sitter and kisser. He’s fascinated with my glasses. One evening I took them off, laying them on my table. In a flash, he’d grabbed them, prepared to munch them up. Fortunately, I caught him in time. A few nights later, I knocked them off my nightstand. They bounced under my bed. I left them, thinking I’d retrieve in the morning when they were nowhere to be found. Then I discovered them where he’d hidden them in the bed, the earpieces chewed to a fare-thee-well. My new ones should be in Wednesday.

Tough Guy Bob

Several years ago I hired a remarkable young man. He’d completed a rigorous drug rehab program and afterward managed to convince the Louisiana Board of Nursing to allow him progress into clinical courses despite a history of drug use. He was concurrently monitored by the impaired nurse program and passed many random drug tests. He was required to attend regular Narcotics Anonymous Meetings and was given no assurance of licensure upon successful completion of all these requirements. He soldiered successfully through all this and was licensed.

I was fortunate enough to hire Bob in my acute dialysis unit. An excellent nurse, he was a quick learner and valuable staff member. In addition to nursing, he had a passion for music and was deeply involved in his church’s music ministry. I was fortunate to have him on my staff for a couple of years. I asked him how he was able to resist the lure of drugs. He told me he’d traded drugs for the high of music. I really learned a lot from him.

Some time later, my husband and I ran into Bob at a music store. I was so happy to see him, I hugged him tightly and kept my arm around him for a bit. He was clearly uncomfortable and kept looking at Bud. It had never occurred to me that a young black man might be uncomfortable being hugged by an older white woman accompanied by her husband. Of course, I introduced them and told Bob, Bud knew how much I thought of his work and accomplishments. I am so grateful to have known Bob.

Cool Mom for One Moment in Time

From the time my kids were preteens, either Bud or I stopped off a couple of afternoons to stock up the pantry. It seemed we were always low on fruit, milk, bread, and snacks. We encouraged our kids to stay home, meaning other kids hung out there. I rarely met a satiated kid.

One afternoon, I noticed some lemonade drinks that looked appealing. I picked up a couple of cartons, thinking the kids might enjoy them. Boy, was I right. They barely hit the fridge before the kids broke into them. I got busy with laundry or some other tasks while starting dinner. Before long, my kids were having a fine time, laughing and almost acting like friends. When John made a trip to the kitchen and asked his sister if she wanted him to bring her another, I knew something was off. Upon investigation, I found out the truth about California Coolers and really messed things up for them.

Working Things Out With Chris

Chris and Frogs0002
original art by Kathleen Holdaway Swain

Chris was the meanest kid around.  He threw rocks, kicked his dog, stole lunch money out of desks, broke in line for lunch, and was sassy to the teacher.  He had a giant pile of sand in his yard and dared anyone come near it.  All the kids avoided him.

This was a problem for me and my brother Billy when Mother visited Miss Alice, Chris’s next door neighbor. We sure didn’t want him to spot us so we always played in the far side of her shady yard.  One day, we were making villages of stick houses with mossy fields and sandy tracks for roads when, out of nowhere, POW!!  A rock popped me on the head, knocking me goofy.  When I quit seeing stars, I heard Chris laughing, “Ha!  Made you look!”

Look nothing!!  He nearly made me dead!! We jumped up and chased him, but he left us in his dust, fuming!  We had to come up with a plan to get that creep.  We puzzled and plotted the rest of the day.  He was the biggest, fastest, meanest bully around, so we’d have to outsmart him.  We decided to spy on him the next time Mother went to visit Miss Alice. 

We got our big chance the next day.  He glared when we went in her gate, just waiting to torture us.   The ladies decided to drink their tea in the backyard.  Even Chris knew he couldn’t  us get at us with adults around, so he skulked back to his own yard and kicked at his dog to cheer himself up.   We lay on our stomachs and crawled into the bushes to spy on him as he stomped over to where his mother was working in her flower bed.

Chris was even mean to his mother.  He sassed her when she told him to help, stepped on her flowers, sprayed the cat with water, and kicked over the flower pots.  Suddenly, he went crazy jumping and screaming.  When she finally caught up with him, she said, “Chris, it’s nothing but a little bitty frog!!!  He can’t hurt you!! Just stay still and I’ll get him. I don’t know why you’re so scared of a little bitty frog.”

That big bully was bawling like a baby.  “Get him off! Get him off!  Get him off!!! I hate frogs!” We had our plan!

We headed to the pond and collected a few frogs as soon as we got home.  The next morning at school I slipped in to the class room and got to work hiding frogs.  I put a couple in Chris’s desk, a couple in his pencil box, and slipped a really nice one in the pocket of the jacket hanging on the back of his desk.  I barely finished before the first bell rang.  Chris strolled in after the last bell.  All I had to do now was wait.  I did wish Billy could be here for the fun.

The frogs stayed quiet as we all settled down.  I kept waiting for the fun to start.  After a while, I got involved in a story the teacher was reading and forgot about the frogs.  That’s when it happened.   “Ribbitt!  Ribbitt!  Ribbitt!”   We all started giggling.

“Who did that?”  Miz McZumley was not amused.

“Ribbitt!!  Ribbitt!!”  Kids guffawed!  The class was out of control.

Miz McZumley whacked her ruler down on her desk.  “That does it!  Storytime is over!  Get out your pencils and workbooks.”

You can imagine what happened next.  Two fine frogs jumped out of Chris’s desk.  He screamed and ran in place.  The whole class was hysterical as they chased frogs.  The teacher was furious at Chris for bringing frogs to class.  He blubbered a pathetic defense “I didn’t!! I didn’t! I hate frogs!”  Two more frogs jumped out of his desk, looking for their buddies.

“Then where did all these frogs come from?”  She wasn’t convinced.  Chris got paddled and was sentenced to pick up trash at recess.  I couldn’t wait for him to put on his jacket!!!  My bully problems were over.  There were going to be a lot of frogs in Chris’s future.

 

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!