memoir

Kathleen Carries On or Breathing In and Out

Mother was widowed at fifty-four. A couple of widowers in their seventies called showing interest. One was an elderly Pentecostal Preacher who showed up with a three-page poem he’d penciled on pages torn from a three ring spiral binder. The kicker was, he’d admired the way she’d waited on Daddy hand and foot. He knew she’d make him a good wife, too. Hard to believe she’d turn down such an attractive offer.

After a time, Mother moved into town and developed a tepid friendship with a neighbor man, Maury. Unfortunately, Maury’s health failed, but not before Mother’s interest in him. She realized then she didn’t want another man friend. When another neighbor man, John, showed interest in Mother, intending to discourage John, she explained she had a friend, Maury, who wasn’t doing too well. Some weeks later, the Maury died. John stopped by a time or two to see how her friend was doing. Evasively, Mother told him. “He’s about the same.” I suppose he’s still “about the same.”

Afterwards, when asked if she’d ever thought of marrying again, Mother always replied,”No, the only thing wrong with men is they keep breathing in and breathing out.”

If you enjoyed Kathleen’s stories, check out her memoir on Amazon. Authored by Linda Bethea Illustrated by Kathleen Swain

Bumps in the Road Part 15

Bill was in a ebullient mood as he maneuvered Bobo’s borrowed truck off the blacktop onto the dusty red dirt road into Cuthand, Texas. His dainty bride squealed irresistibly as he centered a deep pothole, thrilling him to see her little girl reaction.

“Bill, slow down! You’re going to wreck us!” she implored.

“Hang on! I’ve driven in lots worse places than this!” He knew what he was doing.

“Bill! This dust is ruining my new dress!”Dust was fogging in the open truck windows. He looked down to see dust settling on the cuffs of the white shirt he’d just opened from the laundry.

“Oh Lordy! We can’t go to your your folks looking like this.” Enjoying her reaction, he’d not noticed the effect of the dust on their clothes. He pulled over. She took off her headscarf and they dusted each other and the truck seat. Satisfied with their appearance, he took her in his arms to kiss her.

She pushed him away. “Not here, Bill. She turned away as a car passed. “I don’t want people talking about me. I’m not that kind of girl!”

“You’re not any kind of girl,” he laughed. “You’re my wife and I want everybody to know it.”

“You’re so bad.” she giggled as her smacked her bottom, as she climbed in the truck. She felt delightfully wicked.

“You better get used to it.” he assured her.

Kathleen had butterflies in her stomach as they neared her parents home. She and Bill had been so caught up in each other they had barely touched on their families. She only knew Bill’s mother was a widow living in Louisiana with a couple of girl left at home. Her family was poor. She assumed from his looks and demeanor, she was marrying up. His family might look down on her.

Though she’d only been gone a month, she saw her home through Bill’s eyes as they pulled in. It was shabbier than she remembered. Her anxiety rose at surprising them with a husband unannounced. Mama was in the front yard working in her flowers. The hollyhocks towered over the paling fence. Rows of proud zinnias claimed dominance over the front yard. Bees buzzed around the bee balm and the sweet peas climbing the porch rails. The four o’clocks were just starting to open. Tall sunflowers nodded in the backyard. The scent of her childhood was heavenly. Daddy sat in a straight chair on the front porch, smoking and reading his Ranch Romance Magazine, just like he did every Saturday afternoon. Her throat drew tight with emotion.

Bill took her arm as he opened the gate. Mama dropped her shovel as Daddy walked down the steps to greet them. “Mama, Daddy, I want you to meet my husband, Bill Swain.” She flushed with sudden emotion, hoping they wouldn’t think she’d had to get married.

Snotty Girls

Good baby0002

See this beautiful dead baby photographed outdoors in front of a black drape.  He was the cause of my first major social failure.  Before you get too outraged with me, bear in mind this child was my grandmother’s baby brother, stillborn in 1898.  Even she never knew him. From the time I could remember, whenever I caught Mother busy, I’d slip into her closet and rifle through a small box of pictures and letters, which I enjoyed all the more because they were forbidden.  I’d sit cross-legged on her closet floor, pouring over the taboo loot.

One day when I was in third grade, I ran up to Margaret Green, who played with me only if she didn’t have a better offer.  I was a friendly kid, the kind who’d have played with a rattlesnake if it hadn’t bitten me too much.  Today, Margaret wanted no part of me, having hit the jackpot.  She and Rita May Bowers, the snooty daughter of the principal were bonding tearfully, comparing notes upon discovering they each had a long dead stillborn baby sister in their past. They hugged each other and wept luxuriously.  Bored, I went on my way.

Determined to compete, I queried Mother that afternoon.  “Mother did you ever have a baby born dead?”  Hugely pregnant, she wasn’t partial to this question.

“No!  What an awful question!”

“Well, did you ever lose a baby?”  (I had no idea how one could be so careless, but I’d heard it whispered.)

“That’s enough of that kind of talk!  Go do your homework, now!”

Nothing was left but for me to visit the closet, slipping the dead baby picture into my Arithmetic book.  At recess the next day, Margaret and Rita May were still deep in mourning, freezing me out as I trotted up.  “I have a dead baby sister,too.”  I bragged.  I happily waved the picture.  “Looky here!”  They couldn’t deny it.  It was a dead baby, alright!

Rita May grabbed the picture, studying it, reluctant to admit me to the club, even with this proof.  She was softening when the jealous Margaret grabbed it for a gander.  She studied it before flipping it over, to find written on the back, Floyd Franklin Perkins, born and died May 3,1898.  I was out!

Emily Philip’s Self-penned Obituary

“It pains me to admit it, but apparently, I have passed away.  Everyone told me it would happen one day but that’s simply not something I wanted to hear, much less experience.  Once again I didn’t get things my way!  That’s been the story of my life all my life.

And while on that subject (the story of my life)… on February 9, 1946 my parents and older sister celebrated my birth and I was introduced to all as Emily DeBrayda Fisher, the daughter of Clyde and Mary Fisher from Hazelwood.  

I can’t believe that happened in the first half of the last century but there are records on file in the Court House which can corroborate this claim.

Just two years later when another baby girl was born, I became known as the middle sister of the infamous three Fisher Girls, and the world was changed forever.

As a child I walked to the old Hazelwood Elementary School where teachers like Mrs. McCracken, Mrs.  Davis and Mrs.  Moody planted the seed that eventually led me to becoming a teacher.  

I proudly started my teaching career at that same elementary school in January 1968, and from there I went on to teach young children in the neighboring states of Virginia, Georgia, as well as Florida where I retired after 25 years.

So many things in my life seemed of little significance at the time they happened but then took on a greater importance as I got older.  The memories I’m taking with me now are so precious and have more value than all the gold and silver in my jewelry box.

Memories … where do I begin? 

Well, I remember Mother wearing an apron; I remember Daddy calling Square Dances; I remember my older sister pushing me off my tricycle (on the cinder driveway); I remember my younger sister sleep walking out of the house.

I remember grandmother Nonnie who sewed exquisite dresses for me when I was little; I remember grandmother Mamateate wringing a chicken’s neck so we could have Sunday dinner.

I remember being the bride in our Tom Thumb Wedding in first grade and performing skits for the 4-H Club later in grade five.  I remember cutting small rosebuds still wet with dew to wear to school on spring mornings, and I remember the smell of newly mowed grass.  

I remember the thrill of leading our high school band down King Street in New Orleans for Mardi Gras (I was head majorette).  I remember representing Waynesville in the Miss North Carolina Pageant, and yes, I twirled my baton to the tune of “Dixie”.  It could have been no other way.

I married the man of my dreams (tall, dark, and handsome) on December 16, 1967 and from that day on I was proud to be Mrs. Charlie Phillips, Grand Diva Of All Things Domestic.  

Our plan was to have two children, a girl and a boy.  Inexplicably we were successful in doing exactly that when we were blessed with our daughter Bonnie and then later our son Scott.  Seeing these two grow into who they were supposed to be brought a wonderful sense of meaning to our lives.

This might be a good time to mend fences. 

I apologize for making sweet Bonnie wear No Frills jeans when she was little and for “red-shirting” Scott in kindergarten.  Apparently each of these things was humiliating to them but both were able to rise above their shame and become very successful adults.  

I’d also like to apologize to Mary Ann for tearing up her paper dolls and to Betsy for dating a guy she had a crush on.

Just when I thought I was too old to fall in love again, I became a grandmother, and my five grand-angels stole not only my heart, but also spent most of my money.  Sydney Elizabeth, Jacob McKay, and Emma Grace (all Uprights) have enriched my life more than words can say.  

Sydney’s “one more, no more” when she asked for a cookie; Jake saying he was “sick as a cat” when I’d said that someone else was sick as a dog; and Emma cutting her beautiful long hair and then proceeding to shave off one of her eyebrows … Yes, these are a few of my favorite things.  

They’re treasures that are irreplaceable and will go with me wherever my journey takes me.

I’ve always maintained that my greatest treasures call me Nana.  That’s not exactly true.  You see, the youngest of my grand-angels, William Fisher Phillips and Charlie Jackson Phillips call me “Nana Banana”.  (Thank you Chris and Scott for having such spunky children.) 

These two are also apt to insist that I “get their hiney” whenever I visit, and since I’m quite skilled in that area, I’ve always been able to oblige.  (I actually hold the World’s Record for “Hiney Getting,” a title that I wear with pride.)

Speaking of titles…I’ve held a few in my day.  

I’ve been a devoted daughter, an energetic teenager, a WCU graduate (summa cum laude), a loving wife, a comforting mother, a dedicated teacher, a true and loyal friend, and a spoiling grandmother.  And if you don’t believe it, just ask me.  Oh wait, I’m afraid it’s too late for questions.  Sorry.

So … I was born; I blinked; and it was over.  

No buildings named after me; no monuments erected in my honor.  But I DID have the chance to know and love each and every friend as well as all my family members.  How much more blessed can a person be?  

So in the end, remember… do your best, follow your arrow, and make something amazing out of your life.  Oh, and never stop smiling.

If you want to, you can look for me in the evening sunset or with the earliest spring daffodils or amongst the flitting and fluttering butterflies.  You know I’ll be there in one form or another.  

Of course that will probably comfort some while antagonizing others, but you know me… it’s what I do.

I’ll leave you with this…please don’t cry because I’m gone; instead be happy that I was here.  (Or maybe you can cry a little bit.  After all, I have passed away).

Today I am happy and I am dancing.  Probably naked.

Love you forever

Religious confusion

Communion charmed me.  It pained me to see the perfect little glasses and morsels of wafer in the gleaming trays pass me by.  I suspect Mother’s thoughts weren’t sacred as she warned me off with dark looks and shaking head.  It seemed wrong to waste communion on adults when those cups were obviously child-sized.  Glenda Parker boldly reached in and took two tiny cups right under her mother’s eye.  She slurped the juice from one cup, then poured the juice from the other back and forth a few times before spilling it.  Her mother sweetly wiped up the pew with a dainty hanky, never shooting her “the look.”  With my head bowed during prayer, I saw Glenda stack and restack those cups and slip them in and out of the little slots on the back of the pew in front of her while her mother piously bowed her head in prayer.  Why couldn’t God have given me to a mother like that?

Baptism was even more interesting.  The first baptism I witnessed took place in a pond.  The congregation gathered around as the preacher led the candidates in one by one and dipped them backwards into murky water.  I yearned to get in that line, but had been warned not to move from Mother’s side.  The next baptism took place in our church’s new sanctuary.  The curtains behind the choir loft opened to reveal a glass-fronted tank before a lovely mural of the Jordan River.  The preacher stepped  in and spoke a few words before assisting Miss Flora Mae down the steps into the tank.  Miss Flora Mae’s full-skirted white skirt ballooned on the surface of the water as she descended, revealing chubby legs and white panties, an unexpected thrill for me and other less-holy onlookers.  A few even snickered as Miss Flora Mae struggled to recover her dignity.

By the next baptism, the baptistry’s glass front had been painted.

Kathleen Carries On Part 11 or I Need a Duck Suit

“The teacher said I gotta have a duck suit Friday,” announced Billy, a second-grader. “I gotta be a duck in a stupid play, Friday”

“What?” demanded Mother, feeling panic rise in her gut.”where am I supposed to get a duck suit?”

Fortunately, the next day was Thursday, payday, but where in the world do you get a duck suit? In a panic, she called her friend who had a kid in the same class.”

“Ruby, Billy has to have a duck suit Friday for a play. Where am I going to find a duck suit? I don’t have time to make one.”

“He’s not gonna be a duck. He’s gonna be a duke and escort a duchess in a program. The boys have to wear suits and the girls have to wear their best dresses.”

“Oh, so now all I have to do is come up with a suit by Friday.” She moaned, dreading the cost.

I am sorry she found out the truth. It would have been so much mote interesting if he’d shown up in a duck suit .

Praise the Lord and Save Your Kitties From the Heathen

Our little church held periodic revivals. For the benefit of those not blessed with a Southern Baptist upbringing, a revival is a series of nightly evangelical preaching services culminating with a baptismal service on Sunday for converts. There was a good bit of Hell-fire promised, so a quite a few errant souls joined up. Our small church had no baptistry, so baptism was conducted in a creek, exciting business for kids.
Dressed in old clothes, a stark contrast to usual his usual church garb, a stalwart deacon led the candidates to the preacher waiting in waist-deep water. After a few words and a prayer, the preacher dipped the candidates for baptism backwards in the murky water, then raised them up a moment later, gasping, sputtering, and cleansed of sin. It must have been quite a workout for the preacher and an unnerving experience for the baptized. Seeing the redeemed folk led from the water with their clingy garments served as a pretty good anatomy lesson for us kids, as well. Afterwards, the crowd quickly dispersed, out of concern for the soaked.
I chafed, all through the prayers and scripture, awaiting the creek side baptism, anticipating an outing with a picnic and swimming. Verily, there was no swimming for us, only baptism for the redeemed. Though Mother had warned me not to expect such a party, I’d thought perhaps I could engineer the opportunity to fall in the creek, resulting in a swim, after all. Lo, it didn’t happen with the death grip Mother had on me and Billy. My major impression of the day was disappointment.
My brother Billy and Cousin Evil Larry took the opportunity to put all they’d learned in practice the next morning. Our cat had hidden away a litter of kittens, but apparently not well enough. Billy and Evil Larry rounded up those sinful kitties and went to work on redeeming their mewing, little souls. After dunking them in the repeatedly in the water trough, a couple of them straight to Heaven, assuming the baptism worked. Mother caught the boys and saved the rest. I guess she just wasn’t into religion.

Kathleen Carries On Part 10 Or Peel It Off

Long ago in a land faraway, no decent woman, no matter how svelte, would have been caught going without a tortuous girdle. Mother was a decent woman. Just before embarking on a train trip to visit her family in Texas, she updated her wardrobe with the latest in girdles, a latex model interspersed with tiny holes for ventilation. After struggling into it on the morning of her departure, she was gratified to notice it was all its designers had promised. Her backside and belly were flat as a board, just as she’d hoped. Moreover, the girdle fit snugly without lines to show through her sleek skirt. Though she craved a backside and belly flat as an ironing board, she felt a curvy bosom was just the look she needed, an easy fix. Sliding foam rubber falsies into the empty cups of her new bra, she looked good!

Rounding up her six-year-old and three-year old daughters and eight-month-old baby, she slipped into her new patent leather high heels so Bill could take her to the train. It felt wonderful knowing she looked so shapely.

The long train trip was an intimidating prospect for a mother traveling with three little ones. Her diaper bag, travel bag, and purse were stuffed with bottles, snacks, toys, books, drinks, lunch, and changes of clothes for the little ones. The little girls helped with the parcels and bags, but Kathleen was constantly on the alert for their loss. The high humidity and heat made all of them miserable. The baby whined and the three -year-old fidgeted. Kathleen drank and ate as little as possible to keep bathroom trips to a minimum, but naturally, the girls made up for it. Six long hours later, her folks met them at the depot. The grandparents joyously relieved her of the children and her burdens. Because the fierce heat had dehydrated her, she’d only had to relieve herself once early in the trip, a mercy. She was dying for a drink of water and the bathroom once she got to comfort of her parent’s house. The bathroom was her first stop. The girdle had gotten really snug with the cooperation of her body temperature and the blazing South Texas heat. Dancing with the demands of her bladder, it took a bit to work her fingers under the damp, rubbery girdle. Impatiently, she gave it a tug, snatching it down in desperation. Aghhhhh! It felt as though she was being skinned. As she had perspired and moved about, her much more compliant skin worked itself into the ventilation holes of the industrial strength girdle. Upon removal, rubber monster left her covered in tiny red blisters from her waist to her thighs. As if that weren’t enough, the rubber falsies had blistered her bosoms.

The foundation garments hit the trash and on her trip home, she sported a flat chest and bouncy bottom. Live and learn.

Cousin Mavis and the Heartbroken Philanderer

imageI 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.