Several years ago, I dreamed of camping by a mountain stream. About 3:30 am, Bud got up to go to the bathroom, stepping into about two inches of standing water. The plumbing under the bathroom sink had sprung a leak, flooding the house, hence my dream about the babbling brook. We were both sloshing around like mad, though clearly, nothing we did was going to make a great difference right then, except for cutting off the flood and opening the doors to let the house drain. We were surveying the damage when Bud went back in the bathroom for solace and discovered the greatest loss of all, soaked toilet tissue. I can still hear his heartbroken cry. “Well, <%#>*^. ;3~#}”£! I spent my last two bucks on toilet tissue and didn’t even get to take a s___!
memoir
Brother Gobel and Lost Love
Just days after Daddy’s death, Brother Gobel, a Pentecostal preacher, paid a condolence call to Mother. A Bantam Rooster of a man, he was bow-legged, bald and not much taller than she, a stark contrast to the tall, handsome husband she was still mourning. He drank coffee, prayed with her, as ministers on visits normally do, and took his leave. Thinking no more of it, Mother was shocked to get a letter from him a few days later. Even more startling, was the fact that it included an epic poem of love telling of his devotion and hopes for their future together, followed up with a marriage proposal, and some appropriate Biblical quotations about the role of wives, remarking that he’d always admired what a dutiful wife she had been, waiting on Daddy hand and foot. Wisely, she pitched the letter in the trash. Unwisely, she told me about it. One of my great regrets in life is that she never shared that poem with me. It would have my life, and yours, so much richer.
Tale of the Hair of the Dog Sweater
Mother and Buzzy
My son John lives to torment my mother. Buzzy, our American Eskimo Dog sheds incessantly, making up vacuum every day to stay ahead of him. One day my husband Bud noticed a big paper bag on the mantle stuff full of Buzzy’s combings, hair pulled from his brush, and hair swept from the floor. Amazed, Bud asked, “What in the world is this bag of dog hair doing up here?”
Mother chimed in, “Oh, that’s Buzzy’s hair I saved up for your sweater.”
This was the first Bud had heard of his dog hair sweater. He thought maybe Mother had finally come unhinged. “What dog hair sweater?”
“The one you’re going to get the woman at work to make for you out of Buzzy’s hair.” Mother thought Bud was losing it. “John told me to be careful to gather up all the hair I could find every time I came over so that woman you work with can spin it and make it into a sweater for you. How long do you think it will take to get enough?”
Poor Bud had to break her heart. “John’s been pulling your leg, again. There ain’t gonna be no dog hair sweater.”
My son, looking his best.
Photo of hair I brushed out of Buzzy this morning, pictured next to pint jar.
Framed!
I spent most of the summer away from home this year. My friend Ann, the charming lady in the background above was my gracious host. One morning, she asked me if I’d like to pay a visit to her favorite resale shop. She’d found some bargains and had to go back with the cash to pay for them It was a great sale; everything was five dollars. In fact, earlier that day, she had gotten a pair of Gucci Loafers and the gorgeous leather bag you see me clutching above. Jackson, her little dog was snuggled in the bag for the duration. I should have known from the worried look on his face that Ann might be plotting to rid herself of her summer-long guest. The store was packed. Women were trying on clothes in the aisles. One customer’s skirt was sold while she was busy trying on another in the aisle. As Ann rifled the racks hoping for one last bargain, I held Jackson and her purse, moving to stand in a breeze near the front door. The shop owner, recognizing the beautiful bag Ann had bought there just that morning, called out to warn her I was stealing her bag. Not realizing who she was talking to, I stood there like a dope, looking around for the purse thief. In a minute or two, Ann realized what was going on and saved me from arrest. It’s a good thing I had Jackson concealed on my person, or she might have just let them haul me off.
That “Kathy Bates” Look
Though it’s been awhile since I inflicted any mayhem upon him, my brother says it still gives him the “willies” when I get that “Kathy Bates” look. I think he’s referring to the Annie Wilkes character she plays so winningly in the movie “Misery.” To set the record straight, I love Kathy Bates and am delighted to be compared to her. I find her personality sunny and delightful. I don’t know what his problem is. My brother and I had a few dustups as we grew up together, but goodness gracious, what children didn’t? True, I had to set him straight from time to time, but never actually broke his legs with a sledgehammer. We were raised in a Christian home and both knew Mother would murder us if we ever harmed each other to the point that one of us had to have stitches or a cast. Money didn’t grow on trees. Is there anything at all in this sweet face to suggest a “Kathy Bates” look?
First Grade School Picture
Time and Again
As I hold my tiny granddaughter, I remember melting into my grandma’s pillowy softness and smelling her Cashmere Bouquet Talcum Powder unaware she’d ever played any role but “Grandma.” Though I’d always heard Mother address her as “Mama” I stung with jealousy when I found out Grandma actually was her mother. I felt as though they’d somehow cheated me by knowing each other first. My first conscious memory was of toddling barefoot behind Grandma as we headed out to see her chickens. I spotted a road-grader and strayed off the path to investigate, stepping into a nest of sand-burrs, those mean little stickers that hide in short grass. I howling as Grandma hurried over with her flat-edged shovel and seated me on it as she pulled the stickers out of my tender feet.
We went on to check on the chickens where Grandma praised Della, her Dominecker Hen for laying a double-yoked egg yesterday, remarking to the others they might consider doing the same. She told Sally not to start acting “Broody.” She didn’t have enough eggs to “set” her yet. She counted her chickens and found Susie missing. Grandma got a long stick and poked under bushes till she flushed Susie out from her “stolen” nest. I felt so important crawling way under the bush bringing ba
ck two warm eggs. Chiding Juanita, a ornerny red hen, she threatened to invite her to Sunday Dinner, saying “You’ll make some mighty fine dumplings if you don’t lay a couple of eggs this week!” I wasn’t that invested in Juanita and don’t recall whether we had dumplings or not.
The barn fascinated me most of all as I peeked through the crack between its chained doors at the child’s table and chairs stored in its mysterious shadowy interior. My grandparents and uncle had only rented the furnished house. The barn and its contents were off limits to me. Nothing could have made it more desirable as I imagined the treasures it held. Surely, there was a tricycle, a wagon, and since it was a barn, of course, a pony! The longer I was denied, the more the list grew. Never was a child so deprived or tormented by desire.
I do hope my little one recalls sweet stories of our our times together one day.
Banana Pudding Bowl Blasphemy
See this innocuous-looking dish. It doesn’t look like it could break up a marriage, but you just wait. Bud chose this dish when he and his sisters divided his mother’s belongings shortly after her death. He brought it home, showed it to me, and told it was what she’d always made banana pudding in. Not realizing the significance of that statement, I callously baked a chicken in it less than a week later.. He came in, was delighted to see “The Banana Pudding Bowl” sitting on the stove. He attempted to lift the lid to admire the pudding and burned his fingers. I never heard such howling and deprecations before or since. I came to understand that bowl was only for banana pudding
Fifty Dollars Worth of Camper
See this great old school bus. It is so much nicer than the one Daddy acquired for the unbelievable sum of fifty dollars. He purchased it from his brother-in-law, who’d gotten stuck with it as payment body work. Daddy was ahead of his time In acquiring this Tiny House. Mother was furious. Fifty dollars would have bought more than two week’s supply of groceries. Though he gave Mother no end of grief about her extravagant spending at the grocery store, he wasn’t short-sighted and saw the great potential in this bus-camper. It would be a wonderful shelter when he and his buddies went deer hunting, and oh yes, the family could use it for camping, too! Now our camper wasn’t nearly so nice as the one pictured above. It had been partially hand-painted bright silver and lacked a motor. The good news was, we could finish it up any color we liked and motors take up a lot of unnecessary space better used for storage. In that special storage area, items were stored in boxes on one deep shelf or in boxes on the floor beneath the shelf. While the rest of us were out fishing, swimming, or just running wild in general, Mother drug boxes out and dug through them for dishes, pots and pans, and food, all this with two babies in diapers. She complained about her back constantly. What a whiner!
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See how comfortable and well-appointed the camper pictured above is. Ours was nothing like this. There was no refrigerator, lighting, water, bathroom, hard-wood floors, or Benjamin Franklin wood burning stove. There was, however, an ancient gas range Daddy hooked to a propane bottle. It had two functioning burners and a defunct oven. That was okay, since Mother insisted it had a propane leak and she was scared to use it longer than it took to heat a can of beans or cook eggs. She cooked with all the windows open and made Daddy cut the fuel off every time she got through. In fact, it did have a propane leak in the line, but that’s a story for another day.
Two full-size bunk beds filled the rear of the camper. Two sets of old army bunks were stacked along either side. Of course, we fought over the top bunks. The lower bunks served as seating. A lantern and flash lights served when light was needed.
It was perfect. I remember one wonderful camping trip when Daddy pulled it to a creek bank. We swam, fished, swatted mosquitoes, cooked outdoors, only going in to sleep, so exhausted we hardly moved till morning. Mother got up several times every night to spray to camper with bug killer and spray the covers and any exposed skin with mosquito repellent. We scratched bug bites and poison ivy for days after we got home.
That was our only family camping trip. Daddy used it a time or two for hunting, then gave it up as too much trouble. It had a couple of other incarnations as a home for a farm laborer who confirmed the stove fuel line leak before it descended so far down the social scale it ended life as a junk shed on Daddy’s farm.
To me, that camper was worth every cent!
Not Far From the Tree
I recently asked my son if he’d pick me up in the airport upon a return flight if I came into Dallas instead of Shreveport, since I’d been fortunate enough to find a forty-seven dollar ticket. Thinking what a good son he was, since I hadn’t seen him in a few weeks, I happily purchased the cheap ticket, telling him I’d email him the gate and time details later, knowing he’d already agreed to the date. A few days later, completely out of the blue, I got this text. “Mom, we are at the airport. Which gate is it?”
I was horrified. Dallas is two and a half hours from Shreveport. Surely I hadn’t somehow given him the wrong date. I tried to return his text. No reply. After a few minutes I got him by phone. He was laughing hysterically, enjoying my panic. Of course, he was just tricking me.
Realizing I owed him, I decided to send him this horrible picture, hoping he’d be repulsed. He certainly deserved it. Instead, I got a return email, asking me if they made matching pants so me, him, and his grandmother could get a matching set.
My apologies to the artist.
Nutsrok 