memoir

Consequences

A straightforward, impressive woman, Eva was a CPA working for a prestigious business firm in Washington DC. Her husband Charles was a CPA for the federal government. Together, they had built an enviable life including a beautiful home in the suburbs with five children. A nanny/housekeeper cared for their home and children.

Things went well for about fifteen years until an audit revealed that Eva had been doing a bit creative bookkeeping. When it all unraveled, Eva was given the choice of prosecution or repayment. As you would expect from someone who was embezzling, Eva and Charles had no cash reserves.

They sold their house. Charles borrowed from his retirement and both cashed in their whole life insurance. By hook or crook, Eva was able to repay what she’d stolen and avoid prison. Of course, she lost her CPA credentials. Charles’s job was unaffected.

They took the last of their meager funds and bought a tent which they pitched in a national park. Along with their children, they crowded into the tent with their business clothes. Eva got another job in business, though not as a CPA.

Every morning, the family dressed in the bath house at the park and headed off to work and school. The kids caught the bus at the park entrance. They lived this way for six months until they managed to save up for an apartment. They had to move their tent every two weeks to meet park requirements. The kids rather liked the perpetual camping though Eva and Charles were heartily glad to get a roof over their heads again.

Despite their setbacks, the couple managed to stay together till most of their children were grown, eventually divorcing for some other reason. When I knew Eva, she was in her sixties and my children’s summer caregiver. I was thoroughly surprised when she told me this story and often wondered how her story played out afterwards.

Porch Party

Several years ago while visiting with my daughter,I bonded with her appealing cat. Thinking he’d enjoy a treat, when next I was out and about, I brought home and potted a lush catnip plant. Upon learning he’d already had catnip and vomited profusely. I had to reclaim my gift. I put it on the front porch, out of his “inside cat” territory. My room was adjacent to the front porch. About midnight, I heard an uproar. It sounded like a convention of Shriners. The neighborhood cats were partying. When I got up the next morning, all that remained was a shattered pot, soil, and shreds of catnip from one end of the porch to the other.

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Lighthearted Moment

This is my paternal grandmother, Mettie Martha Knight Swain. I never knew her to look this lighthearted. With forty-one grandchildren, she probably had PTSD from bad kids since she usually lived with her fertile daughters.

One Liner Wednesdays

This was one perfect day in my life.

One-Liner Wednesday – I love my neighbourhood

Elementary, My Dear Watson

Watson on my son John’s lap. Watson has no idea he’s too big to be a lap dog

Watson sleeping in the cool of the bathtub. When he snores it echoes down the drain and sounds like ghosts wailing.
Watson found a football and carried it everywhere till it got stuck in his food dish. Now he has a real conundrum.
Watson cooling off in his wading pool.
Watson with his precious Christmas Bone. He wouldn’t turn loose of it even to sleep.

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.

Chicken-Killing Dog

A chicken-killing dog can’t be tolerated on a farm. When I was a kid, we had a young dog who started chasing chickens. Sadly, for Bowser and the chicken, before too long, he caught and killed one.

Mother didn’t want to traumatize the kids by dispatching Bowser to “live in the city” as opposed to city people who send their dog to “live on a farm.” So, she decided to traumatize the dog, by flogging it a few times with the dog chicken. fastening the dead chicken to Bowser’s collar

It took about three days of shame for Bowser to rid himself of that stinking chicken carcass. Bowser was a pariah, outcast from human and dog companions. Forever afterward, he cut a wide circle around anything chicken.

The Sad Saga of the Beakless, Tailless, Gizzard-bobbing, One-leg Hopping chicken

Repost of an earlier post.

Being a farm kid is not for sissies and cowards. The dark side of the chicken experience is slaughtering, plucking, cleaning, and preparing chickens for the pot.  I watched as Mother transformed into a slobbering beast as she towered over the caged chickens, snagging her victim by the leg with a twisted coat-hanger, ringing its neck and releasing it for its last run.  We crowded by, horribly thrilled by what we knew was coming.  It was scarier than ”The Night of the Living Dead”,  as the chicken, flapping its wings, running with its head hanging crazily to one side, chased us in ever larger circles until it finally greeted Saint Peter at the Pearly Gates.  It looked horribly cruel, but done properly, a quick snap of the wrist breaks the chicken’s neck instantly, giving a quick death. Of course, this is my assessment, not the unfortunate chicken. The chickens always looked extremely disturbed.

Afterward, my mother grabbed the dead chicken, plunged it into a pot of boiling water, plucked the feathers, slit its pimply white belly, removed its entrails, cut off its feet and head, and prepared it for dinner.  I was repulsed  when Mother found  unlaid eggs in the egg cavity and used them in cooking.  That just didn’t seem right.  I was happy to eat the chicken, but future eggs….disgusting.  It kind of seemed like genocide, or chickenocide, to coin a new term.

Mother looked out one day and saw one of her chickens eating corn, oblivious to the fact that her gizzard was hanging out, bobbing up and down merrily as she pecked corn with all her lady friends.  Apparently she had suffered injury from a varmint of some kind.  Clearly, she wouldn’t survive with this injury, so Mother and I set about catching her.  At least she could be salvaged for the table.  Well, she could still run just fine.  We chased her all over the yard with no luck.

Finally, Mother decided to put her out of her misery by shooting her.  She missed.  She fired again and shot the hen’s foot off.  I knew I could do better.  I shot her beak off, then hit her in the tail.  By this time, we both felt horrible and had to get her out of her misery.  Her injuries had slowed the poor beakless, tailless, gizzard-bobbing, one-leg hopping chicken down enough so we could catch her and wring her neck.

All chickens didn’t end life as happily.  The LaFay girls, Cheryl, Terry, and Cammie raised chickens to show at the fair for 4-H, with a plan to fill their freezer with the rest.  Late one Thursday evening while their widowed mother was at work, they realized tomorrow was the day for the big barbecue chicken competition.  Mama wouldn’t be in until way too late to be helping with slaughtering and dressing the chickens.  After all the time and effort they had put in on their project, they had no choice but to press forward without Mama’s help.  They’d helped Mama with the dirty business of putting up chickens lots of times.  They’d just have to do manage on their own.

Cheryl, the eldest, drew the short straw, winning the honor of wringing the chicken’s neck.  She’d seen Mama do it lots of times, but didn’t quite understand the theory of breaking the neck with a quick snap.  She held the chicken by the neck,  swung it around a few times in a wide arc,  giving it a fine ride, and released it to flee drunkenly with a sore neck.   The girls chased and recaptured the chicken a couple of times, giving it another ride or two before the tortured chicken managed to fly up in a tree, saving its life.

Acknowledging her sister’s failure, Terry stepped up to do her duty.  She pulled her chicken from the pen, taking it straight to the chopping block, just like she’d seen Mama do so many times.  Maybe she should have watched a little closer.  Instead of holding the chicken by the head  and chopping just below with the hatchet, Terry held it by the feet.  The panicked chicken raised its head, flopped around on the block, and lost a few feathers.  On the next attempt, Cammie tried to help by holding the chicken’s head, but wisely jumped when Terry chopped, leaving the poor chicken a close shave on its neck.

indian-dress-and-henBy now, all three girls were squalling.  Cheryl tied a string on the poor chicken’s neck, Cammie held its feet and they stretched the chicken across the block.  By now, Terry was crying so hard so really she couldn’t see.  She took aim, and chopped Henny Penny in half, ending her suffering.   Guilt-stricken, they buried the chicken.  Defeated, they finally called their Aunt Millie, who came over and helped them kill and dress their chickens for the competition, which they won.  All’s well that ends well.

Hurricane Beryl is Coming!

Even though we live in North Louisiana, we are preparing for hurricane associated weather. We are currently under a tornado watch with severe thunderstorms on the way. We made sure we have batteries, water, and food prepared ahead. A crockpot full of roast with onions and garlic gravy is simmering with potatoes now. Fortunately, we have a gas stove so we can easily reheat for dinner if the electricity goes out. It will go well with the leftover purple hull peas left from last night’s dinner. There is a quarter of an apple pie left, just enough to start a good fight. I can pull a peach cobbler out of the freezer in case of a dessert emergency. We have those sometimes.

I am hoping the people on the coast don’t get slammed. I am grateful to be retired. Health care workers who get caught on their shifts in bad weather are likely not to get relieved. I have gotten stuck at the hospital as long as four days during bad weather. I am always concerned for all essential workers who have to stay at their jobs, too many to name, fire fighters, police officers, utility workers, maintenance people, and so many more. When we are snugged in at home, they are at their posts, and so many directly in harm’s way. I am grateful for all they do.

Thank you for all you do.