memoir

My Brief Career as a Religious Educator

 

Despite my parents’ earnest efforts, I never developed a taste for church. Church required dressing in starchy clothes, a miserable Saturday night hairdo session, major shoe polishing efforts, memorization of Bible verses, claiming to read my Sunday School lesson, and worst of all, not getting to spend the night with my heathenish cousins who didn’t have church inflicted on them.

It probably wouldn’t have been such an issue had my older sister not been the poster child for Christian kids. She could be mean as a snake all week, then nearly kill herself to be in church every time the doors opened. In all fairness, it is possible her meanness toward me was a result of torments I’d heaped on her, but if she was such a great Christian, you’d expect her to be thankful for the opportunity to turn the other cheek, like the Good Book says.

Any way, the summer after my junior year in high school, Mother came home from Sunday School with “Big News!” Mrs. Miner had asked Mother if I would take the primary class in Bible School. Mother assured her I would LOVE to, forgetting I wasn’t cut from the same cloth as my saintly sister. “Why, it was an honor to be asked,” Mother told me. “No one else your age was even asked.  Naturally Phyllis was also honored with an invitation to teach the juniors.  She was so excited you’d have thought the invitation was straight from God’s lips.

“I will not teach Bible School. I hate bratty kids and crafts, and I am going to enjoy the first year of my life not stuck in Bible School half a day.” I told Mother. This defiance came as a big surprise to her, since I normally went along with her. Daddy was so strict, that by the time I was that age, I’d pretty much given up on getting my way about much of anything, but this Bible School business was over the line. I’d had enough!

“Oh, yes you are,”. She insisted.” I’ve already told Mrs. Miner you would. Besides, she can’t get anyone else to take that class.”

“Mother, I hate Bible School. I won’t do it even if you beat me to death, and then I’d go to Hell for sure, getting killed over not teaching Bible School. Do you WANT me to go to Hell?”

Pulling out the Hell card was all that saved me. Mother considered and backed down. She’d made it clear on many occasions she had no intention of allowing any of her children to go to Hell.

Well, I didn’t teach Bible School and I didn’t have to go to Hell, but I got the next worse punishment. Mother gave up and taught “my class” but threatened me I’d better have the house spotless and lunch ready every day when she got in from Bible School. She was mad as hops for having to teach, which seemed odd when it was such an “honor” to be asked. Oh yes, I checked with my friends, all good Christians, and Mrs. Miner had unsuccessfully badgered them to take the class before she bothered cornering Mother about me. I guess they didn’t know what an honor it was.

That Monday morning the house was a real pigsty. Mother never was a meticulous housekeeper, but we’d had swarms of relatives in. Sunday evening supper was late, so the dishes waited for me in cold, slimy gray water ensuring they’d be as disgusting as possible for me.  I was always involved in housework, but this was the first time I was threatened with a job of this magnitude to accomplish alone in less than four hours.

Mother took pleasure in calling out over her shoulder as she headed off to Bible School. “This house better be spotless and lunch on the table when I get home…..and Oh, yes, clean out that refrigerator, too!”  The saintly Phyllis smirked as they got in the car.

I didn’t bother to tell her that she, Phyllis, and I couldn’t have gotten all that done if we’d been working like like our lives depended on it. It looked like a week’s mess piled up. I started in on the dishes, a Herculean challenge. All the countertops were covered, the stove, and a pressure cooker and several dirty pots waited patiently on the floor for their turn. Grandma apparently thought more pots was the answer to all Mother’s problems, so every time she went near a thrift store or replaced one of her pots, she sent her castoffs to Mother. Mother was a master of disorganization and grabbed a fresh pot for everything she cooked, tossing the used one on the dirty stack. A stack of crazily leaning miss-matched pots and lids always lined our counters, unless we’d just done the dishes.

I set in washing. The glasses, plates, and bowls went pretty fast. There were way, way more than the rack would hold, so of course, I had to stop to dry and put away several times. The dreaded silverware was next. I made fresh, hot dishwater to soak it during the drying and put away process. While they soaked, I tackled the refrigerator. It was a small, older model with few shelves. Never fear, those shelves were stacked two or three layers deep with ancient vegetables nobody wanted the first time, dried mashed potatoes, wizened onions, potatoes, and turnips with dirt still clinging from the garden. None of our bowls had lids, so leftovers quickly crusted over.  I scraped out the dried leftovers in a bucket for the hogs, and made a new stack to start after the silverware was done.

We didn’t have air conditioning, but our house boasted an attic fan.  For best effect, one closes the doors to unused rooms so the fan will pull a breeze though the areas in use.  I had the kitchen windows and back door open.  By the time I got the silverware done, a few wayward flies had worked their way in through a hole in the back door screen, not bothered at all by the cotton ball on the screen  that was supposed to terrify them senseless.  They didn’t share the family’s low opinion of the leftovers and were buzzing about them happily.  I took time out of my busy schedule to treat the hogs to that bucket of slop.  It’s impossible to climb up on the rails of a hog pen and dump slop into a trough with splashing some on yourself.  This just added to the fun.  A number of the flies journeyed with me to the hog pen, but a few slow learners lingered in the kitchen.  They were all over the slop I’d splashed on myself as soon as I got back in.  I didn’t have time for a shower, so I washed  my feet and legs with a washcloth.  The flies found a few spots I missed and pointed them out.  Of course, I had to swat them and sweep them up with the rest of the kitchen before I could continue.

About eleven-thirty, I realized it was way past time  to get lunch going.  We weren’t baloney and cheese sandwiches kind of people  We were big meal in the middle of the day people, a meat, dried beans, and two vegetables and biscuits or cornbread.  I couldn’t have made a quick lunch if my life depended on it.

In a panic, I perused the refrigerator and found nothing but a couple of eggs and a package of frozen sausage in the freezer.  Desperately, I scrambled the sausage and made a pan of sausage gravy and biscuits.  We often had biscuits and gravy for an emergency meal.  Just as I pulled the biscuits out of the oven, I put away the last dish away and finished mopping the kitchen as they got out of the car.  The rest of the house was untouched, but the kitchen sparkled.  “Don’t come in the kitchen.  The floor is wet!”

Even though the rest of the house still looked like a disaster zone, the kitchen looked good.  Mother looked self-righteous, but somewhat mollified till she asked what was for lunch.

“Sausage gravy and biscuits.  I forgot to put a chicken out to thaw and put beans on.”

Mother was furious.  It was summer.  I guess she’d thought I would somehow found time to gather and prepare okra and tomatoes from the garden like she would have if she’d been home.  “I can’t eat biscuits and gravy!  I am on a diet.  I have to have vegetables or I’ll put all that weight back on!”  In a huff, she went out and got tomatoes and radishes, and ate them with two fried eggs.

It still beat the Hell out of teaching Bible School,

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Jody’s rooster acted just like him, except maybe for the drinking.  He was in a chronic bad mood, always looking for a fight. We could hear him coming. “ Aruuh, aruuuh, aruuuh.”  He sounded like the screeching of metal rubbing against itself.  He entertained himself by stalking around and finding someone or something to attack.  We all despised Rudy, and ran when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh.”   I was visiting the neighbor kids, Lainy and her mean big sister Nita, when Rudy hopped the Austin’s fence into their yard.  If Nita ever played with us, we could usually count on a mean trick, like stomping our mudpies or kicking down the walls of our playhouses.  As we sat in the grass making clover chain necklaces, Nita jumped up and ran in the house.  She latched the screen door behind her, not saying a word.  Lainy and I just kept on making our necklaces when we heard, “Aruuh, aruuh, aruuh,” right behind us. Rudy had sneaked up on us.  We tried to escape, but he jumped high on Lainy’s back, hanging onto her hair, clawing and scratching her with his big spurs.  I made it to the front porch, but Rudy hung on to Lainy, flogging and clawing.  Every time she tried to make it to the porch, Rudy clawed her again, and off she went, his beating fueling her terror.  Poor little Lainy ran round and round the house, that sneaky Nita running from window to window, door to door, laughing and enjoying the whole thing.  When Lainy’s mother realized what was going on, she raced to Lainy’s rescue. Rudy kept spurring Lainy somewhere out in the yard . Finally, Lainy’s mother caught up to her and pulled Rudy off her.  Furious as a mama bear, she whirled Rudy around smartly to snap his evil neck, slung him a few times around her head to do be sure she’d done the job right, then turned him loose to do his final chase around the yard.  Even though his head hung to one side and flopped madly as he ran in circles, it wasn’t comforting to see the depraved monster coming at us again. Jody Austin had started over to save his property when he realized Rudy had gotten in over his head, but reconsidered when he saw Rudy’s sad fate at that enraged mama’s hands.  Nita didn’t fare too well when her Mama made time to deal with her, either.

I Never Claimed to be Donna Reed!

My daughter zoned in on the Donna Reed Show when I started falling short in the motherhood department.  In case you don’t remember, Donna Reed was the perfect wife and mother, always prissing around in cinch-waist dresses with petticoats, high heels and jewelry.  She played bridge, called her friends Mrs. So and So, and kept an immaculate house.  If Donna had slipped in the mud, she’d have fallen daintily and ended up with a charming smudge on her cheek, whereas, I’d have busted my butt, ripped my britches, and farted.  No one would have been able to help me for laughing.  I could have fallen in a rose bed, and come out smelling like manure.

When Donna’s children lapsed into naughtiness, she’d rein them in with an understanding, quizzical smile, knowing they’d fall at her feet and confess because she was such a good mother. They only got in cute scrapes, like maybe accepting two dates for the prom or losing a library book, never anything involving calls from the school counselor or requests for bail. The queen of her home, effortless meals appeared on her dining table out of the air, no budgeting, shopping, or messy kitchen to consider.  Naturally, her handsome husband adored her.  Even though he was a doctor, it was clear he’d married “up.”

Donna never lost her cool when her children announced they needed a million dollars for a school trip as she dropped them off for school.  I have been known to be annoyed.  Should Donna’s kids want to eat what she’d cooked, she’d coax them along in the name of nutrition. If my kids didn’t want to eat what I’d put on the table, I told them, “Fine, that leaves more for the rest. It won’t be that long till breakfast.”  Donna was vigilant about nutrition, whereas,  I figure kids eat if they get hungry.

I can lay so many of my motherly shortcomings at Donna’s door, but thank goodness, she’s gone and I’m still bumbling along.

Scary Words

Scary things I’ve heard coming out of my kids’ mouths:

To a messy neighbor:  “My daddy said you need to clean that mess up!”

To my dad: “Climb a weed, Papa!”

Comment as portly lady turns to leave checkout line:  “I was good not to call her a great big old fat lady, wasn’t I Mommy?”

To the dentist who encouraged her to floss:  My mommy won’t buy me any floss.”

Loud protest when I tried to shush my daughter in a restaurant: “He is so a fat man!”

In a grocery store:  “My mommy took my money to buy groceries.”

To the neighbor man:  “My mama’s ta tas are bigger than yours.”  Go figure.

To a kid who had been hitting him:  “My mama said I have to hit you.”  Whack!   There was a little story behind this.

To a visiting relative:  “My mama is tired of you sleeping here.”

To an elderly relative: “You smell like pee.”

To a relative:  “My mama hates your mean little dog.”

My young son to his grandma:  “Not by the hair on YOUR chinny-chin-chin!”

Worst of all:  “My mama said…….”

It’s been a while

Bud and I have been together for 73 years. This is our first photo together. I am the baby on right in fitst row. He is the little boy behind me. The photographer has us facing the sun, so we are shielding our faces. I remember always being posed facing the sun. Who know the rationale behind that?

Bud’s mother came to help out when I was born. She often said she should have pinched my head off when she had a chance. Live and learn. Our families were friends, so we grew up playing together. He was a nice boy, never mean to girls, so I always liked him.

He first started coming to visit on his own when I was seventeen. Our family was generally confused as to whom he was visiting. My sister and I thought he was interested in her, so I went to my room and read. I was always looking for a chance to read, anyway, since Daddy kept us really busy on the farm. My brother thought Bud was coming to see him.

The matter was further complicated since Bud had bashed his left thumb with a 24 lb. hammer . The doctor pushed the ball of his thumb back in place until it was approximately thumb shaped, stitched it to his nail, and splinted it. One week to the day, while he was still splinted, a sprocket fell on his right foot, breaking it. Consequently, he was effectively disabled on the right and left side, though his job kept him on, probably out of guilt. He didn’t feel much like a suitor during this period.

The next week, he pitched his crutches in the back of his truck on the way to the doctor. They blew out. He retrieved them but one had suffered the loss of a rubber tip, not optimal for a lame guy with no grip due to a smushed thumb. Bud managed to hobble in the doctor’s door before hitting a slick tile. One crutch went one way, one the other. Pulling himself up on receptionist’s desk,he inquired “Is there a doctor in the house?” It must have been horrifying to the staff who were trying to remain professional.

So, he did finally live through the indignities of his injuries. All the while, I got a good bit of reading done while Phyllis and Bill courted him. I suppose I was inadvertently playing hard to get. When he eventually got off the crutches, he asked me out. I don’t know which of the Swain kids was most surprised, me, Phyllis, or Billy.

We got married two years later, while we were still in college.

Pass the Chicken Please or Fowl Friends

Art by Kathleen Swain, my mother

We went places and saw people that normal people never encountered.  I think he just need a “trash fix” from time to time.  He’d heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had something he might be interested in buying.  He had to check it out, driving forever down muddy roads that looked like they might peter off into nothing.  Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack.  The old man was wearing unbuttoned overalls and nothing else. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, dead washing machines and other refuse behind the house, Mother and the kids sat in the car.  It was hot.  Daddy was gone.  It got hotter.  Daddy was still gone.  We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze. It got hotter and hotter. The baby was squalling.  Mrs. Tucker, a big woman in overalls came out in the front yard and started a fire, never even looking our way, probably thinking our car was just another junk car in the yard.  As the sun blazed overhead, we begged Mother to ask Mrs. Tucker for a drink of water.  Somewhere in the wilderness, Daddy was still admiring Mr. Tucker’s junk collection.  He could talk for hours, unconcerned that his family was waiting in misery.  It didn’t matter that he didn’t know the people he had imposed himself on.  We spent many a miserable hour waiting in the car while he “talked,” usually on the way to visit some of his relatives.

Finally, in desperation, Mother got out of the car, introduced herself to Mrs. Tucker, and asked if we could have a drink of water.  Turning without speaking, she disappeared into the house, returning with some cloudy snuff glasses.  Calling us over to the well, she drew a bucket of water, and let us drink till we were satisfied. That was the best water I ever had.  Mrs. Tucker pulled a couple of chairs under a shade tree and Mother sat down.  We all sat down in the dirt in the cool of the shade and played.  Daddy was still gone but things looked a lot better after we cooled off and had a drink.  Mrs. Tucker was interesting to look at, but didn’t have a lot to say.  She had a couple of teeth missing, greasy red hair in a bowl cut, and long scratches down both arms.

Mother tried to converse, but Mrs. Tucker didn’t have a lot to say.  I couldn’t take my eyes off the missing teeth and long scratches down her arm.  I started talking to her.  She didn’t have any kids. It didn’t take long to figure out she “wasn’t right.” I was fascinated and wanted to ask about what happened to the teeth, but knew what that would get me, so I asked instead about her scratched arms.  Mother hushed me up but that topic inspired Mrs. Tucker. It seem, she was going to put a rooster in the big pot in the front yard to scald before plucking. He scratched her and escaped before she could get the lid on.  Apparently she didn’t know she was supposed to kill him first.  Just at the point where things were getting interesting, Daddy came back and I didn’t get to hear the rest of the story.

Mrs. Tucker sent us home with a turkey that day, teaching me a valuable lesson. Don’t ever accept the gift of a turkey.  Ol’ Tom was to be the guest of honor at our Thanksgiving Dinner.  Daddy put him in the chicken yard and Tom took over, whipping the roosters, terrorizing the hens, and jumping on any kid sent to feed poultry. We hated him.  Mother brandished a stick to threaten him when she had to visit to the chicken yard.  He even flew over the fence and chased us as we played in the back yard till Daddy clipped his wings.

Before too long, we saw the Nickerson kids, the meanest kids in the neighborhood, headed for the chicken yard.  Mother couldn’t wait to see Tom get them.  Sure enough, Ol’ Devil Tom jumped out from behind a shed on jumped on the biggest boy, Clarence.  Clarence yelped and ran at Ol’ Tom, his mean brothers close on his heels, flogging Ol’ Tom mercilessly.  Unlike us, they didn’t run out with their tails tucked between their legs.  They launched an all-out attack on Tom, beating him with their jackets, sticks, and whatever they could grab.  They chased him till they tired of the game.  Tom never chased any of us again, but Mother never got around to thanking the Nickersons.

Funny Obituary

Danny Lloyd, aka Rooster, aka Winston, aka Pizza Pop, passed away on April 25th at the age of 64, “to avoid having to pay taxes for the past year and to avoid another year of his New York Yankees not winning the World Series.”  

 A celebration of life will be held at 5:00 pm on Sunday, May 20, 2018 at Davidson Funeral Home in Lexington.  The family will receive friends following the service.  

 Danny is survived by his sons, Frank Callicutt (Beth) and Chris Lloyd; daughters, Abbie Callicutt and Heather Lloyd, all of Lexington and five grandchildren; Mary Lloyd, Annabell and Abbie Callicutt, and Liam and Charlie Blackerby.  He is also survived by three siblings; James Lloyd (Tanya), David Lloyd and Suzie Lloyd.  He was preceded in death by his parents, Charles and Barbara Kimball Lloyd.

 He was a generous man – giving away many of his possessions in the months before he died.  He even left his car to twelve different friends, depending upon who visited him last.  He was a life-long ticket scalper and broker, or as he called it “a facilitator of supply/demand economics.”  Once when asked about any regrets from his ticket sales, Danny confessed, “There was that time I told a Carolina fan that he needed to buy my ticket immediately if he wanted to hear Dean Smith sing the National Anthem.”  

 Danny was cremated – for two reasons:  There could be no viewing since his family refused to honor his request to have him standing in the corner of the room with a sign saying “Buying Tickets” in one hand, and in his other hand a sign saying “Selling Tickets” so that he would appear natural and life-like to his visitors.  

 Because his brother played football for Wake Forest University, Danny was a lifelong Demon Deacon fan, and he had respectfully requested six Wake Forest pall bearers so that the “Deacs” could “let him down” one last time.

 Danny has informed Hampton Inn that they can finally reinstate their pledge to not charge anyone who is not 100% satisfied, as he will no longer be staying there.

 For those attending his memorial service, please ignore Danny’s scalper friends who might be offering to upgrade your seat for a small price.  To any crooks reading this:  None of the family and friends attending this service have anything of value.  Remember, he gave his car to a dozen of us.  And one of his sons is Chris “Country” Lloyd, so it is certainly not worth the risk. 

 Danny Lloyd loved his siblings a little bit, and his children even more.  But those grandkids…they stole his heart.  They were the reason he lived his final 4 years with a sober mind and a giving heart.

 We loved him.  And we already miss him.

Pee pee dance

Bud has four sisters. For some reason, they are all crazy about him, though he teased them mercilessly. His favorite thing was to get all four and his poor mother laughing, knowing they’d all be about to pee their pants. Out of respect, Mom got first chance at the potty and all four girls would be lined up on the side of the bathtub. That’s when he knew he’d scored!

Who in the Hell is Michael Jackson?

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Sometimes life serves up some incredibly sweet moments.  About twenty-five years ago, I mortally embarrassed both my high school children with no effort or planning on my part whatsoever. I was a dialysis nurse at the time and had worked all night the night before.  I had gone to bed about four that afternoon, knowing I was going to be called back.  At eight-thirty in the evening. The phone at my bedside rang, jolting me from sleep. I was sure it was my call back from the hospital, I was disoriented to hear a radio D J introduce himself. “This is ———- I am calling the Bethea Home in Greenwood, Louisiana, live.  We are on the air.  Is this Ms. Bethea?”

“Duh”. This was not the call I was expecting.  I was brilliant!

“You have the chance to be entered in the Win a House Contest if you can answer one simple question.  Are you ready?”

Remember, I’d just come off a sixteen hour shift and had had four hours sleep.

“Uh. Ok”

“All Right!  Here’s your question.  It’s so simple you couldn’t miss it.  What was Michael Jackson’s first million seller?”  By this time my kids, who were both listening to the radio had burst into the room to try to get the phone away from me, knowing what was bound to happen.

They were too late.  I answered loud and clear, disgracing them in front of all their listening friends.  “Who in the Hell is Michael Jackson?”

Fortunately, I already had a house.