Bobo’s old truck rattled in one Saturday about four. White-headed kids in overalls piled out of the back, their bare feet kicking up a dust. Fishing poles dangled out of the truck bed. Grinning, Bobo slung a stringer of bream over his shoulder. Inez slid out of the front seat, wagging a newborn and helping her twin toddlers slide to the ground. One was diapered, Continue reading
memoir
Footloose and Fancyfree (Part 2)
Repost:
Even though the occasion of Bobo and Inez’s marriage preceeded my birth by a few days, Mother has told me the story so often, I feel I was there. Bobo showed up with his bride just hours after they married. No doubt, he was proud of her. He was twenty-seven; she, fifteen and visibly pregnant. Now, he’d be arrested. Quite a buxom lass, she was lovely. Continue reading
Footloose and Fancy-Free (Part 1)
repost:
Cousin Bobo was footloose and fancy-free, unperturbed by the economic responsibilities of four children in three years. He doted on his child-bride, Inez, living quite happily with her and their family in an old unpainted, farm house on her mama’s place. Despite his aversion to a regular work schedule, he and Inez managed fine. There was no power to the house, so no bills, the wood stove and fireplace sufficing for heat and cooking. The house was abandoned when they moved in, so he tacked wire over the open windows to keep varmints out, shuttering the windows for bad weather. Mama was real proud he did the right thing and married Inez, so she wasn’t about to stir up trouble, especially after the young’uns started coming. Bobo plowed and planted Mama’s garden, later helping get the peas picked and corn cut. Except for the few days he spent plowing, and cutting firewood, he fished and hunted every day. He happily peddled watermelons and turnip greens out of his old ’49 Ford Truck. They never ran short of game or fish. Sometimes he’d help a neighbor butcher a beef or hog, bringing in extra meat. He wasn’t averse to helping family with a little painting or carpentry work from time to time, as long as it was understood that his labor included a few days’s hospitality for his family. He kept Mama’s freezer full. That along with Mama’s chickens and eggs, the cow’s milk and butter kept them going just fine. Getting clothes for the kids wasn’t a challenge. Inez was the youngest of six spectacularly fertile sisters. Their cousin’s hand-me-downs were plentiful. All those little blonde tykes lined up in overalls year round was awe-inspiring. Most of the time, they wore shirts under their overalls in winter. Plenty of old tennis shoes lay casually around, should any of the kids decide they needed footwear. Some even had mates. Size wasn’t an issue. Should a shoe be too big, it worked fine to slide-style and let it flop. The kids weren’t partial to shoes anyway, unless they were picking around in a trash dump with old cans or broken glass. Strings were scarce, but I never noticed anybody complaining.
I loved it when Bobo, Inez, and the kids showed up. Mother wasn’t always so enthusiastic, figuring they had run out of groceries and needed a place to roost for a few days. They did seem more likely to show up in bad weather, when a warm house was helpful. Sometimes they’d stay a few days with this relative, a few with that one, moving one before the tension got too thick. Mother complained about relatives giving them gas money to help them down the road to their next hosts. I know I saw her slip Inez a little of her grocery money once, after Daddy went to work. They moved on. We ate gravy and biscuits till Daddy got paid the next Thursday.
to be continued
Awesome Life Down on the Farm: You Gotta Have Guts
Daddy loved home remedies and dosed his kids and livestock readily. Mother did run interference for us on cow chip tea and coal oil and sugar, but did let him load us with sulphur and molasses for summer sores. We never got summer sores, probably because we reeked so much we didn’t tempt mosquitoes. I do appreciate Mother for putting her foot down when his ideas got too toxic. No telling what kind of chromosome damage she saved us. Continue reading
Prignant
That was weird. I heard tiptoeing and a door quietly locking. I tiptoed to my parent’s room and found their door locked! Their door was never even shut except around Christmas. Mother must have gotten scared and locked it. Assuming the worst, I pounded and screeched, “Mama! Mama! Your door’s locked. Help! I can’t get in!!!” Continue reading
Getting Skinned at Lunch with Mother
Lunch out with Mother always starts with an understanding. I understand I will be paying unless she tells me otherwise. Let me give you a little background. She is a tightwad. If we stop at McDonald’s for a cup of coffee, she always holds her little yellow change purse where I can’t see it, pretends she has no change, even though it’s bulging, and asks, “Can you pay for my coffee? I hate to break a dollar for coffee.” Technically, this is true. She never said she didn’t have change. She just hates to break a dollar for coffee. If we went to a car dealership, she’d say, “Can you get this.? I hate to write a check for a car.”
Today was no different. We ordered our lunch, had a nice visit, and Mother disappeared to the bathroom. The check came while she was gone. She came back, totally surprised to find me paying check. “I didn’t know the check would come so soon. I’ll pay you back later……..if you’re not going to eat that chicken, I’ll put in my takeout box…..and if you don’t want the rest of your salad, and that roll……..”
Today was no different. We ordered our lunch, had a nice visit, and Mother disappeared to the bathroom. The check came while she was gone. She came back, totally surprised to find me paying check. “I didn’t know the check would come so soon. I’ll pay you back later……..if you’re not going to eat that chicken, I’ll put in my takeout box…..and if you don’t want the rest of your salad, and that roll……..and pass me four of those Splenda packets.”
Don’t Bother Reaching for Your Umbrella, It’s Probably Broken!
Top pic: Me and the kids in baby’s first days. Notice how I don’t appear to know how to manage. A picture is worth a thousand words.
Bottom Pic: Children about six months later
The baby was tiny. I hadn’t seen anything but tonsils, poop, and Sesame Street in three weeks. My three-year-old-jabbered non-stop. My ears were sore. Naturally, with the clear-thinking of a woman with near terminal post-partum depression, I took full responsibility everything that went wrong. I don’t know if my husband was a good father or not, since he Continue reading
Afternoon Funny
Beatrice wished her husband was around to have ‘the talk’ with their maturing son, The she remembered his absence was her fault,
Hoping for a boy or girl?
Until I was eleven the only knowledge I had of how boy’s anatomy was an occasional peek at a little boy during a diaper change and a quick image of a whirling behind if I happened to walk catch a brother, or a cousin sneaking a pee outdoors. From that, I mainly felt envy that I couldn’t pee on stuff.
Imagine my surprise when my friend Margaret informed me exactly what the facts of life entailed. She even called it “The Facts of Life.” Her story: Mr. Brown who topped three hundred pounds easily, took off all his clothes, every night, and stuck his peanut in Mrs. Brown, who coincidentally weighed at least two hundred pounds. He peed inside her and laid on top of her all night. I knew this wasn’t possible. Anybody that walrus laid on all night would be smushed. Mrs. Brown was not smushed. She had enormous breasts, and a pendulous belly. I told Margaret she was lying and went straight to my mother.
I told Mother, Margaret had told me a big lie, the “Facts of Life.” I guess Mother thought I had gotten a prettier version. She was annoyed, saying she intended to tell me herself. She went ahead and gave me her version, involving a boy and girl falling in love and getting married. True, they did indulge in some “intimacies”, her word. These “intimacies” would result in a baby. I was never to even consider such a thing until I was married.
Armed with her confirmation of the truth Margaret had told me, the picture of Mr. and Mrs. Brown burned in my mind, I assured her it would NEVER happen! They should teach this version in schools.
Move Over, Medusa, We Got Ya’ Beat!
First Grade School Picture
Repost of an old post few people saw
To curly-haired people Mother might have seemed mild-mannered enough, but beneath her calm exterior she nursed a sadistic streak, committing home permanents with malice aforethought, ignoring her helpless daughters’ protests that “I like my hair this way.” and “nobody but old ladies has THAT kind of hair.” squashing arguments Continue reading
Nutsrok 