memoir

I Can’t Hear You!

I’ve neglected my WordPress friends the last week or so. Mother had a bad cold with extreme head congestion, so severe, she lost her hearing for a few days. I have a new respect now for people with disabilities. Mother is doing much better as the fluid in her ears resorbs, and expects to totally regain her hearing over the next few weeks, thank goodness.

I was really busy taking her to several doctors visits.  When visiting an unfamiliar doctor for hearing issues, I could tell that due to her age and deafness, they could have easily  have inferred her biggest issue was cognitive, not hearing.

She stayed with us several nights. She had to put medication in her ears several times a day and insert cotton to give it time to absorb. Mother is obsessive. Since her doctor said “a few minutes” she decided continuous cotton plugs might be better. Naturally, this didn’t improve her hearing a bit. Mother is garrulous, to say the least. When she couldn’t hear conversation, she’d shout, “I can’t hear you. I’ve got cotton in my ears.”

I urged her, “Take the cotton out. You’ll hear better,”

Her shouted reply was, “I can’t hear you. I’ve got cotton in my ears!”

When we picked up her medications, including an antibiotic, she bought yogurt to avoid antibiotic-related problems. She has meticulously eaten yogurt when to avoid antibiotic problems as long as I can remember. In fact, she is a great champion for yogurt with antibiotics, reminding the general public, even in the line at the pharmacy. She’s had way more experience with this than I have, even though I am a nurse.  Since she’d been away from home several days and was feeling better except for deafness, she decided she’d rather go to her own house.  I was a little worried how she’d manage, but took her home, knowing I could easily go back and get her if she had trouble.

At any rate, not ten minutes after she got home with the antibiotic and yogurt, I got a call.  “Does it matter what kind of yogurt I eat?  I got the vanilla yogurt in the carton, not the frozen kind.”

I knew she could barely hear, so I spoke succinctly and clearly.  “That’s fine.”  I know she had just put cotton back in her ears, since she could hear a little in the doctor’s office.

“What?  I can’t hear you.  I’ve got cotton in my ears!”

“Take the cotton out!”  Like I’d never met her, I waited.  By the time she came back on the phone, I’d kicked my phone volume to max.   “That yogurt is fine! It’s fine!”

Her response, “I can’t hear you with this cotton in my ears.  Did you say this vanilla yogurt is right or wrong?”

I don’t know what she was doing while I was holding for her to get the cotton out of her ears.  “It’s right!  It’s right.  Vanilla is right!”  The neighbors probably heard me.

She patiently tried again to clarify, making it more hopeless.  “I can’t hear you.  Did you say it is right that vanilla yogurt is wrong or that not getting the frozen kind is right?”

I knew now the conversation was so convoluted, there was no way we’d ever straighten this out.  I would have tried to text her, but Mother is hostile to texting.  That would have gotten me a furious phone call. I cut my losses and headed back to her house.

While on the way over, I got a call from my sister who is also a nurse.  “Mother is asking about yogurt, but she can’t hear me answer.  Do I need to go see about her?”

Just so you know, she is getting better every day.

 

I Miss My Grandma

You can hear my sister, Phyllis Barrington reading aloud here and learn why I loved her reading so much. She has her own blog at Anchors and Butterflies. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vw7eCQarWyk

Wonderful Times of Reading Aloud

It has always been a joy to hear my sister Phyllis read aloud.  Till my last days, I will cherish a few days during school Christmas vacation in 1961.  Phyllis was enjoying reading Great Expectations in her ninth grade English class and offered to read a few pages aloud. Daddy was working second shift at the paper mill, so once he left and the remains of the noon meal were cleared away, we settled in the cozy living room for a reading.  I would have been eleven, Billy, eight, and Connie and Marilyn, two and a few months old.  Enraptured by the story of Pip, the cruel Estella, and the mad Miss Havisham, I would have probably saved the book first had the house caught fire.  I loved the kindly Jo and despised Mrs. Jo, his mean sister.  Phyllis read for several hours as the babies played on the floor in the warm front room, enjoying being in the middle of us all clustered together around the reader.  We broke only long enough to get a simple supper together and do evening chores.  Soon we were back in place, where she held us till bedtime, happy captives.

The next day, we rushed through chores to be free for reading again, settling in as soon as Daddy left.  Phyllis read on and on, as we did whatever chores we could that didn’t, interfere with her reading, folding laundry, ironing, watching the babies.   Mother hemmed a skirt and hand-worked buttonholes in a blouse.  Mother just felt we couldn’t through another afternoon listening to Phyllis read.

The next day, and the next, Phyllis read as we hung on every word about foolish, arrogant Pip.  Finally, late on the fourth day, Phyllis finished Great Expectations,

leaving me questioning and hungering for more.  Why had Miss Havisham gone to so much trouble to be cruel?  How could Pip be so ungrateful and foolish?  What happened afterwards?

Phyllis read us many more books, to my great joy, introducing me to some great literature.Great Expec

Fashion Parade

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'When I arrived I was cleanshaven.'

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Not too long ago Bud and I spent some time waiting to get our taxes done. Anxious waiting is the best kind. Several other couples were sharing our misery. They were sitting far enough away that I couldn’t initiate a conversation like I often do, so I had to content myself with giving them a thorough inspection, since their conversation held little interest. I admired the woman’s sweater of cheery buttercup yellow, well-made, and obviously high quality. It fit her perfectly. She saw me admiring her and smiled. What a nice lady. I’d like to visit with her.
Whispering, I pointed her out to Bud, “I love that woman’s sweater.”
Bud gave a cursory look, then commented, “I like her husband’s shirt.”
I hadn’t even noticed. The man was wearing the same Walmart shirt Bud was sporting, both a little worse for the wear.

Chicken Soup, Good for What Ails You

imageMother has a cold, so I have a pot of homemade chicken soup to take as soon as it gets done. Some of my warmest memories are of days I was sick enough to stay home from school and be coddled by Mother all day. The very best part was having her all to myself. I loved having her spread one of Grandma’s quilt over the sofa, putting a pillow at the end, and draping the warm quilt over me. If it was winter, she’d warm the quilt in front of the fire before wrapping me in it. It was heavenly. I loved her settling me on the sofa with a tray for meals. When she had time, she’d read to me. When she was busy, I enjoyed my books and toys on my own. I frequently called out for a delivery of fresh books or drink, till I’d worn out my “sick credit” with her. Best of all was the envy of the other kids when Mother reminded them, “Leave her alone. She is sick.”
A few times I was able to convince Mother I was sick when I wasn’t. One day, I waved at Phyllis getting on the bus and foolishly slipped out to play as soon as the bus ran. Mother hustled me down to the corner to catch the bus at the next stop. It wasn’t long till I had to produce fever or throw up to get the chance to miss school. I broke the thermometer once holding it near to fire to simulate a fever. All the got me was a warm bottom. Thermometers don’t grow on trees.

Homemade Chicken Noodle Soup
One quart deboned chicken
One quart chicken broth
Large can Cream of Chicken Soup
1 to 1 ½ cup vegetables (today I tossed in diced turnips, potatoes, and carrots)
3 TBS parsley
2 cloves garlic or to tast
I large diced onion
3 TBS chives
2 TBS oregana
Salt to taste
Fresh ground pepper to taste
I use fresh herbs and vegetables but frozen will do
½ lb noodles, fresh, frozen, or dried. You may want more for thicker soup. Add with caution or it may get too thick and stick.
Simmer chicken, broth, herbs, vegetables, and cream of chicken soup. Reduce to simmer and add noodles, stirring constantly for at least 20 minutes. Sometimes I simmer much longer. Serve with crackers or cornbread and butter.

The Joy of Delivering Bad News

witch 2 Old Lady Borden was a saint! We had it on good authority, hers. She had been widowed longer than anybody knew. Hateful as she was, had I been her husband, I would have claimed to be dead, too. Though she was devout in another denomination, she was in attendance at our little country church every time the doors opened. Her own church was twelve miles away and she didn’t want to bother anyone for a ride to services so far afield. It was much more expedient walk a few hundred feet and stir up no end of trouble closer to home, inserting herself fully into all matters related to church business, be it financial, theological, or just some sinner in need of her hateful opinion.
Mother was very particular about our language. We would have never been allowed refer to Ms. Borden by the B word, but she turned a deaf ear when we referred to her as an Old Bat. Old Lady Borden played a vital role pointing out flaws that might have gone unnoticed for a while, a pregnant bride, a baby with a crossed-eye, a child who stuttered, a woman who’d gained weight, or was a bad housekeeper. She begrudged any good fortune coming to a neighbor, such as good crops, or getting a good job. They were “gittin’ uppity.” Should a church member appear too prosperous, they were probably “gittin’ in the c’lection plate.”
Old Lady Borden was the first to the home of the bereaved, making sure to crowd the younger women out at the kitchen sink, then complaining loudly about how “lazy them gals was. “ Any one unfortunate enough to be handed a drying towel would be treated to her acid tongue about what a pitiful job they were doing. Nothing excited her more than a tragedy. Long before the days of cell phones, or even many house phones in our rural community, the school principal got the word that Mr. Barnes, the school bus driver’s father had collapsed and died a few minutes after his daughter Becky left on her bus route. He got in his vehicle, hoping to catch up with her before she home and found a shocking scene. When she stopped to let off Old Lady Borden’s grandson, the old woman rushed out to meet her at the bus stop with the horrible news. “Becky, yore daddy just dropped dead. He’s still a’ laying out in the yard a’waitin’ for the coroner.”
Naturally, Becky and her young children were distraught. There were still a half-dozen other children, some of them relatives, on the bus who’d heard the whole thing. They became overwrought at hearing the news of Mr. Barne’s death. Becky had no idea how to manage till the principal caught up to comfort and relieve her. He had to finish her route with her and the upset children still on the bus, since there was no other way to get them home.
It was a shocking situation, but at least she had the pleasure of delivering the terrible news. She was the meanest Christian I ever met.

Doo Doo Bossier

In college, I suppose I was just a bit slow to catch on when Bud and his cousin Freddie kept talking about a guy in one of their classes named “Doo Doo Bossier.” I was always hearing, “Doo Doo did so and so.” or “Wait till you hear what Doo Doo did now!”

As I was walking to class one day, I met, Judy, Bud’s cousin’s wife walking with another girl. She introduced us, “This is Becky Bossier. Her brother has a lot of classes with Freddie and Bud.”

I am friendly, if not too smart. “Oh, then you must be Doo Doo Bossier’s sister.”

She made sure I knew her brother’s name was Gerald. We never became friends.

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.

Watson, the Great Hunter

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My granddog, Watson, managed a successful hunt, despite overwhelming odds.  He found this plush toy beside a trashcan.  After valiant pursuit, he was able to wrestle it into submission and drag its sorry carcass home.  At last report, he was still standing guard over it.

Watson and football

In the shot above, Watson has slain an unfortunate football that landed in his yard from the schoolyard across the street.  As you can clearly see, he has placed it in his food bowl in preparation for dinner.  He is not a catch and release kind of dog.  I am concerned that he will never be able to pass this ball even if he is successful in eating it.Watson in BathtubIn the shot above, you see Watson snoozing in the bathtub.  He sleeps with his snout at the drain where his snores can be amplified throughout the house.  He is like a two-year-old child.  He thinks he should get a bath anytime anyone else does.  Should they forget to lock the door, he pushes his way in to get in the tub with them.  If he gets in before they dry off, he wants to lick water droplets off.  He is not a good shower friend.