memoir

Traffic Joke Sitting on the side of the highway waiting to catch speeding drivers, a State Police Officer sees a car puttering along at 22 MPH. He thinks to himself, this driver is just as dangerous as a speeder!” So he turns on his lights and pulls the driver over. Approaching the car, he notices that there are five old ladies — two in the front seat and three in the back — wide eyed and white as ghosts. The driver, obviously confused, says to him, Officer, I don’t understand, I was doing exactly the speed limit! What seems to be the problem? “Ma’am,” the officer replies, you weren’t speeding, but you should know that driving slower than the speed limit can also be a danger to other drivers. Slower than the speed limit? No sir, I was doing the speed limit exactly… Twenty-two miles an hour! “The old woman says a bit proudly. The State Police officer, trying to contain a chuckle explains to her that 22” was the route number, not the speed limit. A bit embarrassed, the woman grinned and thanked the officer for pointing out her error. But before I let you go, Ma’am, I have to ask… Is everyone in this car OK? These women seem awfully shaken and they haven’t muttered a single peep this whole time, “the officer asks. Oh, they’ll be all right in a minute officer. We just got off Route 119.”

Grandma J

Knowing Grandma J was a pure pleasure. Having spent fifty years on an isolated Kansas farm, she truly enjoyed her cushy life in town with a gas stove, refrigerator, and wringer washing machine. She’d raised eight wild boys and three girls. Though she’d lost a young baby early in her marriage, it had been so long she no longer mourned. She’d been widowed many years by the time I knew her, and was well- satisfied in her neat little house in town. Should one of her many children not come by, she could walk to the store, beauty parlor, or church. She had neighbors in or went to their kitchens for coffee.

Though she was built like a refrigerator on spindly legs, she was a very attractive lady. She always dressed in floral cotton dresses with a freshly-ironed apron tied around her waist. Her silvery hair was always softly curled. Should she be going out on a windy day, it was ensconced in a hairnet for summer or scarf for wind or cold. Before Grandma went out, she always donned a freshly ironed housedress and good apron, both of her own making. She always picked up her big black purse last thing before heading out the door.

She still adhered to many lifelong habits: washing on Monday, ironing on Tuesday, and baking bread and pies on Friday. It would have been a rare weekend to not have some of her huge family or to visit in their homes.

As you might expect, her house was filled with beautiful hand-made items, quilts, rag rugs, doilies, and embroidered dresser scarves, napkins, and tablecloths. We still have a pair of crocheted trivets she made us for a wedding gift fifty-three years ago.

As you can see, they are well-loved.

Grandpa and the Corn Thief

Grandpa J was a mighty man. Though of average height, a lifetime of farming and good genes he was barrel-chested with the arms of a blacksmith. A man to be reckoned with, he didn’t tolerate fools lightly. It was unlikely any of his neighbors would have wanted to tangle with him, so he was mystified to find someone had been slipping in and stealing corn from his corncrib at night, but it was the depression and times were hard.

Determined to put a stop to the theft, Grandpa and his son,Frank, made their way to the shed well before daylight, Frank carrying a shuttered lantern. Grandpa whispered, “When I open the door, open the shutter.”

Sure enough, when Grandpa flung open the door, the lantern revealed the thief. A half-grown white-face yearling stared blindly at them. Reacting instinctively, Grandpa hit the surprised bovine between the eyes, knocking him out.

Grandpa jumped back, cursing and cradling the fist he’d just pounded into the unconscious yearling’s bony head. Enjoying the story later, one of the family asked Frank, “Did you laugh?”

“Hell no!” He replied. “ He still had one good fist.!”

Making an Ass of Myself at a Funeral

On the ride out to our old neighbor’s funeral, Billy told me about “a friend” of his who had embarrassed himself in the drive-through line of a hamburger joint earlier that week.  The “friend” had gotten stuck in line, right next to the speaker.  He called out several times with no response.  He was wedged in.  It was hot.  He was hotter! He couldn’t order, go backward or forward, so did the only reasonable thing.  He cursed loudly about waiting in the heat, abusing the reputation of the restaurant, the employees, their forbears, and hamburgers joints in general, pounding his steering wheel to make a point!

After a bit of this infantile behavior, the speaker clicked on.  “May I take your order, please?”  Relieved, he gave his order and pulled up.  When he got to the window, he found a sea of faces waiting to see the idiot they’d heard throwing the fit.  The speaker had been on the whole time.

He finished his story just as we squeaked into the churchyard.  We filed in with the mourners, taking a seat.  As the services started, it was pretty warm.  Before long, it was hot as Hades. Obviously the air conditioner was on the blink.  Billy grinned and whispered to me, “It’s hot.”  Remembering his ‘friend’, I stifled a giggle.  As the eulogy continued and mourners sniffled, I struggled to maintain my composure, not daring to look at him.  We were both shaking silently, as though overcome by grief.  The blazing heat miraculously unstopped my sinuses.  Suddenly, a river of snot cascaded from my nose as I burst into maniacal laughter.  Vainly, I instituted an ineffective snot management manuever while futilely trying to give the impression of being overcome by grief, not insane laughter. It might have been more convincing had brother, Bozo the Clown, not been beside me in the same state. We fled without trying to console the family, figuring we’d done enough.

Bad Words

I suffered painfully through a childhood of deprivation, denied the use of titillating words, a victim of being “raised right.” Mother took pride in being ladylike, totally unconcerned about my needs. Worst of all, she set a good example, never uttering an expletive worse than “Durn!” except on two notable occasions. Once she muttered “Damn!” under her breath when I rounded a corner too fast with a grocery cart and pegged the back of her heel while she was on tip-toe reaching for a bottle of ketchup. I was sure she kill me when she recovered. Fortunately, she was too horrified and guilt-ridden to ever mention it again or I wouldn’t be here to tell the story. Some years later, she banged her head on an open cupboard door and swore. She probably concussed herself and self-righteously denies saying “Damn!” to this day.

My bevy of lucky cousins enthusiastically filled me in on titillating words. Their happy chatter was enticingly peppered with butt, doo doo, ka ka, pee pee, and even dookey. My “bottom” was warmed nicely the first time I tossed out “dookey.” From then on, every time I was around the incorrigibles, Mother warned me not to acquire any new words. I had to say “gee gee” and “wee wee” instead of the good ones we all know and love. I can’t convey how humiliating it was to be a gee gee person in a world of doo dooers, so I learned to keep my silly business to myself. Should it be absolutely necessary to mention anatomy, “bottom” should be whispered. There were no “titties” in our world, just chests,; no “titty babies”, just crybabies. Worst of all, Mother had me convinced I couldn’t sneak anything in. “Mothers know!”

Then I started school. I’d been with Mother in public bathrooms and delighted in graffiti, till she rushed me out.The school bathroom serving the playground was glorious with graffiti and scribblings I couldn’t wait to decipher. The proudest day of my life was when I worked out “piss on the wall. S—-on the floor. I fell in love with reading that moment.

Life improved after I married and set priorities My mental health and Bud’s survival necessitated some vocabulary modifications. Life has been so much smoother since then.

The Old Lady the Cow and the Pig

The time in our doctor’s waiting room became unexpectedly enjoyable as we sat with an elderly lady and her family. No one had said much beyond “Good morning” till the elderly lady asked her daughter to push her closer so she could admire the ornaments on the tree The doctor had so generously decorated for her patients’ pleasure. She laughed and said, “I am eighty-three years old. I’ve come all the way from chopping wood to people walking on the moon. Oh, I’ve chopped lots of wood.” As she talked on, she cackled as she told this one. “I’ve milked many a cow in my time, many a cow. I remember one time, I was ‘a milking two titties and a pig was ‘a sucking on the other side.” She had us all laughing along with her. We would have loved to spend the rest of the day with her. What a wonderful visit we had!

Healing…….Noooo!

My children took frequently took advantage of one of my fatal discipline flaws. Should their behavior cross the line and require discipline, activating my funny bone rendered me useless. The pastor in our small Methodist Church offered healing by laying on of hands at the end of the regular Sunday Service. I suspect that was one of the few times John, age ten, had ever listened. He made a move as though he were heading to the front. I was totally surprised, and caught his arm, thinking he’d misunderstood
”Where are you going?” I asked.
”I’ve got a heat rash!” He giggled.
”Sit down.” He got me

A Sin a Minute

In the unlikely event I’ve not mentioned this before, I was raised Southern Baptist in Louisiana back in the fifties. That theology would pretty much pass for Christian Evangelical now, not to mention the “What will the neighbors think?” factor. No drinking, dancing, or provocative dress such as short or tight skirts, shorts, or swimsuits for women or girls. Most church members gave lip service to the rules and went on their way, but my Dad fervently embraced any rule that backed him up in rendering his daughter’s lives joyless.

Fortunately, it wasn’t one of those extreme cults that required long hair, dresses for girls, and no makeup, a fact I was truly thankful for. I soon understood that most sin resulted from trashy women leading men astray since “boys will be boys.” The subject of sex was off limits, except in sermons with scriptures and admonitions against fornication and iniquity, which flew way over my head as a young child. After a tentative question or two that seemed headed toward sex, I learned “That’s none of your business.” That was wildly incongruous coupled with the admonition we could talk to our parents about anything. I soon learned any question had consequences. By the time I actually garnered any true information about sex, I had amassed a fascinating compendium of misinformation from my friends, who were as clueless as I.

Way too many times, Mother rushed to turn the television off if it appeared a woman was about to go into labor. Should Red Skelton get too risque, the screen went black, which was a real shame, since we had no idea what he was referring to. The point was, anything suggesting sex was a sin. That promiscuous laboring woman and the evil Red Skelton had to be censured.

Fun was suspect, particularly fun not experienced and executed under the watchful eyes of a parent or stuffy chaperone at the youth group. I soon learned it was a sin to even ask about attending a dance or the school’s end of year party at the lake. “Don’t you have any morals?”

I knew better than to give a truthful response, “uh…..no. I just want to go the party or go swimming with the other kids.”

Nubile girls parading around in the modest swimsuits of the sixties was sure to incite uncontrollable lust in the hearts of schoolboys. Hayrides were pure iniquity. Imagine carelessly throwing boys and girls together to ride around on a wagon full of hay after dark unleashing their devilish hormones!

Lust inciting lovelies

Don’t Spin Your Greens, Granny!

greens 2

When you live in the South and visit old folks in the country, the first thing you have to do is admire their garden. If you run out of excuses, you’ll come home with a “mess of greens.” I hate dealing with greens. For the unenlightened, greens include turnips, collards, or mustard greens. Boiled down low, with a bit of pork, and garnished with a splash of “pepper sauce,” greens make a delicious meal. A true connoisseur polishes off by sopping up the juice, or pot-liquor with cornbread. If you’re above the Mason-Dixon Line, try a roll. That’s the happy ending.

Now, we get down to the nitty gritty, literally. Greens have to be “looked and washed.” The first step is dispossessing the wildlife who habituate greens. Nobody wants to find half a worm or a cluster of bug eggs in their pot-liquor. You have to give both sides of each rumpled leaf a good look, wash, and then rinse copiously. I’d heard the glorious news that greens could be washed in the washing machine, cutting down tremendously on prep time.

The next time Bud visited an elderly family member, he came back wagging a bag of greens. I didn’t moan like normal, having recently heard the good news that greens could be washed in the washing machine. As usual, the basic information registered, not the total technique. I loaded the washer with dirty greens and detergent and hit the start button. Quite a while later, the alarm sounded, and I went to retrieve my sparkling greens. Alas, no greens remained, just a few tough stems and a few bits of leaves. A follow-up conversation with my friend revealed that I should have only washed them on gentle and not continue on to spend.

Though I hoped he’d forget, Bud came in that night expecting greens. I feigned innocence. “What greens?” It didn’t fly. “The greens I brought in yesterday.” It’s hard to come up with an excuse how precious greens went missing. I gave up and told the truth, though I don’t like worrying Bud stuff with that gets his blood pressure up. I’m considerate that way.

“They went down the drain.”

“How in the Hell did they go down the drain?” I don’t know why he gets all up in my housekeeping and cooking business. “

“They just did. Now don’t keep asking nosy questions!” “

“Exactly what drain and how did that happen?” “

“The washing machine drain.” I

I hoped if I answered matter-of-factly, he’d move on. I didn’t work. “

“You put greens in the washing machine? What in the Hell were you thinking?” I

I hate it when he apes back what I’ve just said. I’ve told him it gets on my nerves. “It takes forever to look and wash greens. Jenny told me she puts hers in the washer and it works great. I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to put them through spin.”

“Grouch, grouch, grouch @^%&( , #@$%! Don’t ever put )(^%&# greens in the washer, again!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t go on forever about it. I get tired of your nagging” Since then I’ve been careful not to spin them. It works great.