memoir

On Melvin

fire and brimstoneOn Melvin’s good days, he was eccentric.  Other days, he tipped toward fanaticism.   While he was in the army in Korea, he wrote home asking Mama how she’d like a Korean daughter-in-law.  Mama wouldn’t like that at all.  Answering her it was just a joke; that was the end of it.  After mustering out, he came home and married Maggie, a young widow with a son.  Almost immediately, they had a son, then a year later, a second who was born with birth defects.  Melvin became was inconsolable and melancholic, sure his child was being punished for his sin of abandoning the woman and child in Korea he’d not having the courage to marry and bring home to his disapproving family.

Isolating himself, Melvin gave his life to God becoming an evangelical, Hell-fire and brimstone preacher in a sect of his own concoction.  Sadly, his fanaticism made life on his family so hard, poor Maggie left when he tried to force her into following his fanatic beliefs.  Eventually, his membership abandoned him to preach to an empty church, which he still does.  He brushed the divorce aside, insisting that “What God had put together, no man could put asunder.”  Though she could barely tolerate him, he considered himself still responsible for Maggie under the eyes of God, visiting her periodically and providing her with things a man should provide a wife, clothes, assistance with upkeep on her house, and money.  She wasn’t afraid of him and really needed his financial help.

He was unyielding in his beliefs, demanding that his children follow rules he lay down, disowning his adult son, a fine man, for drinking beer, alienating the second with his bizarre demands of fealty.  Eventually, he “adopted” a family of immigrants who were faithful to his religious beliefs, cutting his own children off.  He eventually got so deep in debt supporting the family, that he filed bankruptcy.  At the age of seventy-eight, he still works full-time to pay off debts he co-signed for them.  Maggie has since died.  From time to time, I still see Melvin, standing on the rural roadside, holding up his Bible, hoping to find someone to preach to.

I feel for this lonely man who has alienated himself from society and everyone he loves for what looks to me like to be an unnecessary sacrifice in the service of God.  I hope there is a blessing for him, sometime, somewhere.

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Sweet Hour of Prayer

imageMaggie married Melvin shortly after her first husband died.  Maybe she should’ve waited longer, but she was exhausted after her long struggle to support Ray through his illness and then Little Ray after he died, so she was glad to have Melvin’s companionship and support, even though he was odd from the start.  Things went well enough for several years, but by the time Melvin reached his late forties, he’d developed religious delusions that made him impossible to live with. Continue reading →

Y’all Got a Snake in Y’all’s Tree!

eve and serpentIt’s not everyday one hears a dynamic statement like this! Melvin was the ex-husband of Mother’s old friend, Maggie. A good man, he’d gone just a bit “off the rails” and Maggie, had reluctantly left him as a result of his increasingly fantical religious leanings. Mother and Daddy had long been faithful congregants of their church, only missing services if unable Continue reading →

Fancy Dan, the Coffee Man

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We splurged and bought a Fancy Dan coffee maker in 1987.  It was heavenly staggering into the kitchen to find a carafe of freshly made coffee waiting at five in the morning.  True love!  We enjoyed it precisely one month before we got a recall notice and a gift certificate for a replacement to use while we waited for the fine new Fancy Dan.  It seems the original was setting houses on fire.

We went into mourning and trashed Fancy Dan, picking up his replacement, a very plain model.  About a year later, our new Fancy Dan arrived.  Dan had our steaming coffee waiting when we awoke.  All we had to do was “sasser and blow it.”  It saved our marriage.  Alas, a mere six joyful months later we received word that this model was also likely to be an arsonist.  Out came the plain old replacement model till we made it to the store with our gift certificate for a new pot.

Since1987, that faithful coffee-maker has one back on the shelf six times, only to be called back into service when the fancy new one failed.  Less than a month ago, we were once again seduced by a coffee-maker with lots of great features.  It had a water filter, reuseable basket instead of filters, several cup size settings, and a beeper to let us know when coffee was brewed.  Of course, it would have our coffee ready when we got up, which by now, we had no intention of using, having no wish to roast in our bed.

We hurried home and moved Old Faithful back to the shelf.  We couldn’t wait for the first pot.  As soon as we hit the brew button, water poured all over the counter.  We reseated the pot and tried again.  We were rewarded with a second gusher.

Old Faithful went right back to work.  When I’m gone, my kids can draw straws to see who gets Old Faithful.  The loser gets the family fortune.

Rattlesnakes, Bullfrogs, and Saran Wrap

imageBud really took offense with Bubba, his college suitemate just because Bubba was trying to pick up a little easy money.  It seems Bubba’s biology professor paid five dollars apiece for snakes.  One Sunday evening, Bubba came back from a trip home and tossed a burlap bed under his bunk and went on his merry way.  After a while, his roommate heard rattling, investigated, and found a sack full of rattlesnakes.  Bubba was rounded up and he and his snakes were evicted.

The roommate and the suitemates felt a little payback was in order.  The next night, they rounded up a bullfrog and left it in a bag under his bunk.  As soon as the lights went out, the frog started croaking.  In case that wasn’t enough, one of them stretched Saran Wrap tightly across the toilet so Bubba got a shower when he went to pee.

It got ugly after that!

And the Jawbone’s Connected to…..

cow jawboneAfter losing a tooth and getting a visit from the Tooth Fairy, my little guy was mighty impressed.  He set to work on his other teeth, hoping to increase his fortune.  Alas, no luck.  He thought he’d stumbled up on a bonanza several days later when he found this cow jawbone in the field next to our house.  He came wagging it in, intending to put it under his pillow that night, looking forward to a great haul.  He did find a dollar and a note from the Tooth Fairy, saying she was impressed, but wouldn’t be collecting cow teeth in the future, jawbones were just too heavy.  He was thrilled!

My Condolences

imageOne of the hardest parts of  being a nurse is comforting and supporting the bereaved family at the time of death.  Normally, family members are heartbroken, grieving at the death.  On a few occasions, I witnessed something different.  Mr. Jones, an elderly patient owned a successful insurance agency. Every morning, he donned freshly laundered silk pajamas.  When discharged,  He wore a fine finest suit, shirt, shoes, and hat and took great pride in being noticed.  He bragged of buying a new Cadillac every year, dining at the most prestigious restaurants, and enjoying a membership at The Country Club.

His son, Junior Jones was in his late fifties and had always worked for Daddy.  It appeared Mr. Jones was none to generous nor kind to Junior.  Junior dressed in cheap clothes and drove an ancient compact car.  It must have been miserable since he was so tall he had to fold up like a jackknife to fit in it.  When Junior came to the hospital to consult with Daddy about the business, Daddy was condescending, snide, and critical, never showing Junior the least respect.

One the morning Daddy died, we’d called to notify Junior his father’s death appeared imminent.  Junior came streaking into his father’s room just moments before Mr. Jones’ death.  I offered my condolences.  Junior ignored me, opened the drawer of the bedside table, dug out the keys to his father’s Cadillac, his father’s checkbook and left the room without speaking.  A nursing assistant who was a friend of the family walked him out to the parking garage.  He handed her the keys to his small car and drove off in his father’s big, black Cadillac.  That was different!  I guess he’d had enough.

Musings on My Father, on His Birthday (Part 2)

Five kids

Back left, Linda Swain Bethea, holding Connie Swain Miller’s hands, Middle Back Billy Swain, Back Right Phyllis Swain Barrington holding Marilyn Swain Grisham.  Picture made about 1961

parents wedding pic

Bill Swain and Kathleen Holdaway Swain, June 29, 1945

Musings on My Father, on His Birthday (Part 1)

When I reflect on my father’s life, it is odd to think I am several years older now than he was when he died at fifty-seven.  He had retired, all five of his children were grown and on their own, and his life was no longer a struggle.  He had realized his dream and had large herds of cattle on two farms.  He had mellowed out and life was good.  He died only three weeks after being diagnosed with a brain tumor in December, 1981.

When puzzling out his behavior, I now realize Daddy’s moods were bipolar.  He was extremely quick to anger, irritable, easily offended.  The worst thing his children could do was to embarrass him.  Quick to reach for a belt or switch like so many parents of his era, he considered himself strict, though he would be classed abusive now.  Many times, we wore stripes for days after a whipping.  His goal was to raise children who were law-abiding, respectful, and hard-working.  Though his methods were beyond strict we might have rebelled had we not had our mother’s softening, comforting influence.  She had as little control over her life as we did ours.

The whole family’s life got harder after we moved to the farm.  Land had to be cleared, brush piled and burned, barns and fences built.  It was more work than any one man could do in a lifetime.  Daddy must have been overwhelmed by all the work to be done.  We were all pressed into service.  My brother and I worked right along with Daddy, along with occasional help Daddy could afford to hire.  When the day’s work started, Daddy always said, “Time to the friendship to end and the work to begin.”  He was difficult to work with, not taking time to explain how to do a job, lashing out when we didn’t read his mind.  I learned to hate summer and school holidays, knowing farm work was waiting.  My poor brother, being three years younger than I, caught the brunt of the work, laboring on that farm almost every day he wasn’t in school from the time he was eleven till he left home.  Thankfully, I was fourteen when the heavy work started and only sentenced to four years hard labor.  All that farm work certainly motivated me to get an education.  I had no intention of ever being subservient to anyone again.  From the time I was ten or eleven, I had a miserable relationship with Daddy and avoided him whenever possible, which wasn’t often, since I had to help so much.  Though I was definitely not grateful at the time, I did learn valuable skills that have helped me throughout my life.  I am very strong, have good problem solving skills, and am not intimidated by difficult tasks.  There was also the added benefit of developing a thick skin.  I yet had to work for anyone as critical as Daddy.

With the arrival of grandchildren, he demonstrated the kindness and caring we never enjoyed.  He was everything a grandfather should be.  I admired a lot of things about Daddy and think we would have grown close had he lived longer.

Musings on My Father, on His Birthday (Part 1)

parents wedding pic

Bill and Kathleen Swain’s Wedding Picture, June 29,1945

family3   My father and some of his siblings.  He is the small boy with the wet pants holding his cap.

If my father had lived, he’d be ninety-one today.  I’ve been thinking about him all day.  He was born to share-croppers during the deepest of The Great Depression.  He was shaped by it, just like everyone else.  He was fourth of seven children.  His father died young, leaving a widow and three young girls still at home.  Bill was thirteen and never really lived at home again.  He worked and lived wherever he could for something to eat and maybe a little something to bring home to his mother and the three sisters left at home.  He said he worked a whole day chopping bushes in the winter rain one for a five-pound bag of meal.  He spent a lot of time at his Uncle Albert’s home.  Though Uncle Albert wasn’t always kind, he always provided him a home and something to eat when Daddy showed up.

He was over six feet tall at fifteen, and passing for seventeen, got his first job for the public, as a watchman at a drill rig.  It wasn’t far from his mother’s house, and sometimes he’d slip home to get something to eat.  His older brother got him on as a greaser in the oilfield soon afterward.

He joined the Navy at seventeen at the start of World War II, knowing he’d be drafted, choosing the Navy because he heard they got regular meals.  He never intended to be hungry again if he could help it.

Upon discharge from the Navy, he joined a construction crew running heavy equipment, and met and married my mother in East Texas.  They barely knew each other. Before long, they moved back to Northwest Louisiana, where he got on at International Paper Company and worked thirty-five years.

I knew my father as a driven, difficult man.  He was very loving to us when we were younger, but didn’t deal well with older children.  He made it clear he preferred having our “respect” than “love.”  I don’t think he understood he could have had both. I loved him dearly as a small child, but he wasn’t comfortable with girls and distanced himself from his girls as we grew older, thinking we were Mother’s responsibility then.

Daddy bought remote, unimproved acreage to build a cattle farm in my early teen years.  I thought that was wonderful till I learned the reality of what that entailed.  The place hadn’t been farmed in decades.  The house place under three huge oaks was overgrown in a locust thicket.   Locusts bushes are covered in long, sharp thorns, almost as hard as iron.  We had to help clear that thicket, pile it and burn it before the slab for the house could be poured.  Many times one of us stepped on a locust thorn and had it pierce our shoe and go into our foot,  sometimes more than an inch deep.  When you pulled it out, the tip was left to get infected and fester for days before it swelled and shot out in a purulent core.   The process was hurried along by soaking the pierced foot in hot salt water.  I don’t think any of us ever went to the doctor; it was such a common problem. We learned to dread those locust thorns.  For several years after we moved there, those locust thorns would turn up in our feet.   (to be continued)