Storytelling

Night Terror

My young John’s imagination was wild.  All through the day he was a superhero vanquishing monsters and besting villains, feared by evil-doers, all.  Sadly, even superheroes have to sleep in the dark. When he was quiet abed, he could feel them creeping out of the shadows, coming for him. Every night, I kissed him, tucked him in, and checked under the bed and in the closet to show him there were no monsters.  

Switching off the light, I’d leave the door ajar.  Soon the light would flip on and I’d hear,a little voice at my ear. ”Mommy, I’m scared.”

Back  to bed we’d go,  me assuring assuring him there was nothing hiding in the dark.  Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  After a few trips, I’d enlist Bud’s help.  Eventually, fatigue would overtake his fear and he’d drift off.  

I’ve never been a good sleeper. Every time I awoke, I’d peek in on the kids to make sure they were covered and cozy.  One memorable night as I tiptoed in to check on John my toes squished in something cold and wet, not a good feeling for a dog or cat owner.  

“Crap!” I said, an expletive and likely description of what was squished up between my toes.  I hobbled on my heel, toes in the air, driving a spire into the heel of my other foot.  Dropping to my knees, I landed on a firetruck. Even in my agony, It was identifiable as a fire truck by the siren and flashing lights.

By this time, John was screaming in terror at the invading monster. Bud stormed to the rescue, flipped on the light, ready for action, only to find me me on the floor, PlayDo between my toes with a jack stuck in my heel.

It turns out, my adventurous  son had gotten up and constructed traps for monsters about his room. PlayDo  mounds were scattered about the carpeted floor.  Metal jacks, cars, trucks, and all manner of wheeled toys encircled his bed.

Only a winged assailant could have gotten to him.  Needless to say, it took a while to figure out what was going on and get the terrified little boy settled back in.  

My throbbing foot kept me company till morning.

Izzy, the Runaway

We’ve had our little dog, Izzy, less than a year. Our former dog, Buzzy had died not long before. Our big dog, Croc, was lost without his friend. My niece, a rural mail carrier, called us about Izzy. It seems a lady on her route had several dogs. Izzy strayed up to her house, begging to be let in. She was kind enough to rescue him but busied herself hunting him a new home.

He is adorable but almost instantly we discovered his little secret. He’s a runner! That’s likely how he got to his foster home to start with. He’d not been with us two hours. He took the opportunity to scoot out the door and run, just a streak of white.

I followed calling him but he was gone. I got in my truck to look for him but he was nowhere to be seen. I was sick with dread fearing I’d never see him again. Eventually, I saw him resting on a doorstep, exhausted. I scooped him up and brought him home. He managed to run a couple of more times, despite our vigilance. I suspect he’d run today, given the chance.

I apologize for three lower images. I erroneously inserted them and can’t get them out.

Sex Education in the ‘50s

I learned all this valuable information back in the 1950’s with absolutely no sex education! Probably until about the time I started school, I thought when people wanted a baby, they went to the hospital and picked one out from a collection there. Those that were not chosen grew up to be doctors and nurses.  

The sex of the baby was determined by the way the parents dressed it and fixed its hair.

After I noticed pregnancies, I drew some conclusions. The  unborn baby breathes through the mother’s naval.  If she submerged, it will suffocate.

Before I found out about sex, I thought women had babies because they had breasts, sort of like, “which came first, the chicken or the egg?”

When a friend enlightened me on the “facts of life,” I didn’t believe her.  I told “That’s stupid!  Nobody would do THAT!”

Uncle Albutt Part 6

Aunt Jewel had several nieces and nephews I saw from time to time. Her sister Lucille, of the hairy legs, who was married to Daddy’s Uncle Dunc, had three daughters, Alma, Eunice, and Gladys.  

I guessed Lucille wanted to keep to her family’s tradition of inflicting horrible names on kids including her boys,  Hambone, Mookie, Teeter, and twins Fats and Snake. I can’t imagine how she settled on Fats for one of the twins.  They both were skinny as snakes, though neither bit me.

I was most impressed with Alma. Mother said she was a tramp because she wore her swimsuit and moved the grass when a road crew was working in front of their house.  It made no sense to me.  I thought she looked beautiful with her bright red lipstick, blonde ponytail tied with a scarf, teetering along in high heeled wedge sandals.  The mower gave her a lot of trouble and a couple of the guys came to check on her.  

Her sister Eunice came out in her swimsuit, but she was not so popular, probably because she was extremely thin.  Her suit bagged over her hips like a toddler’s training pants.  Alma got a boyfriend that day.  Eunice didn’t.  No matter, Eunice had somehow snagged a boyfriend named Moxy.  I think he followed her home from her carhop job.  

Mother also thought carhops were trashy, dashing my career hopes.  I was impressed when Eunice got married at the age of sixteen and had a baby shortly thereafter. Eunice and Moxy were great favorites of Aunt Jewel’s, so I heard of them from time to time over the next few years.

Gladys was nearest me in age. Apparently still under the influence of her religious, fundamentalist mother, her clothes inspired no envy in me. Her hair was tightly braided.  She wore a dark, long-sleeved dress and brown leather oxfords I did not envy.  Her mother kept her busy, leaving her little time to play with me.  I helped her wash dishes and mop the kitchen so we could escape outdoors.  

That afternoon, we waded in their pond in our clothes.  Gladys said her mama didn’t allow her to wear a swimsuit.  Afterward, I  wore one of her Pentecostal dress and flour sack bloomers while my clothes dried on the barbed wire garden fence.  I wanted to keep the flour sack bloomers, but mother insisted I give them back.  I never wore anything more comfortable.  

We each got a quarter of watermelon from their garden that had been cooled in their well. Late in the day, the men fried fish while we chased fireflies in the dusk.

Uncle Dunc, became progressively rowdier as the evening drew on.   Though I didn’t know it at the time, It was my first experience with a drunk.  Uncle Dunc began playing wildly with us, chasing us as we jumped off the high porch fronting their house into the darkness.   I enjoyed the day tremendously, though sadly, never got to visit again.  

I lay that deprivation directly at Mother’s feet based on a conversation I heard as we drove home late in the night.  She took a dim view of drunks frying fish and chasing her children into the darkness.  What a pity!  I thought I was having fun.

I later got the impression he was named Dunc because it rhymed with drunk.  Still makes sense to me.

 

Hangover Cartoons

Just so you know, I don’t even drink.

Delicious Crockpot Venison and Beef Stew

Buying markdown meat is an excellent practice. I typically shop after the weekend and really stock up. I overdid it a few months ago and overfilled my freezer. Please don’t judge me but I’ve been reading about the health benefits of cooking for dogs. My vet suggested I cook one third good quality meat, one third brown rice, and one third veggies. That sounded easy enough. I put about three pounds of mixed venison and beef in the crockpot on high, added three cups of brown rice and two pounds of mixed vegetables. After an afternoon of simmering, it smelled wonderful. The dogs kept coming through, checking out the enticing aroma.

They weren’t the only ones. Bud found his way to the kitchen. “What are you cooking?” He asked, lifting the lid. “That smells great!”

It occurred to me, this was not the time to mention I’d planned to reheat the homemade chicken noodle soup I’d made the day before. Lo and behold, the concoction experienced a conversion. Hallelujah! “Oh, just some stew. I need to add some onions and garlic.” It will be ready soon. You might want to get a piece of fruit in the meantime.”

I got busy with onions, garlic, and parsley as well as seasonings. It smelled heavenly. Before long, Bud tucked into a big bowl of stew as the dogs watched mournfully. They may have to be satisfied with chicken noodle soup.

Uncle Albutt Part 5

Quite often, our family and friends would gather for a late evening meal.  While the kids ran wild in the dusk and on into the darkness, the women prepared a filling meal of beef stew or chili and cornbread.  It would be near bedtime by the time they called us in, hysterical  with chasing each other in and out of the darkness.  Of course we’d been warned against running in the dark, but staying in range of the lights was for sissies.  I’d be in a delicious frenzy of terror till I stepped back into the light, where all horrors vanished.   They would be so many kids we’d be settled on the floor with our supper in a pie or cake pan.  This was before budgets stretched to include paper plates.  It was an honor to sit on the floor with the big kids.  Babies and toddlers sat at the tables where their mamas could keep a grip on them.  Two or three dinners were always dumped on the floor and there was squalling a’plenty as mamas cleaned up the mess and resettled the messy kids.  The kids finished in short order and tore back outdoors while the adults took their turn at the

After the meal, it wasn’t unusual for the men to load up their guns, flashlights, thermoses of coffee, and the dogs for a night of hunting, leaving the women and children to visit.  Mamas gave their kids a cursory wipedown with a washcloth before bed, since it wouldn’t have been possible to bathe that many children and settled them on pallets on the floor, sometimes as many as six to the bed.  Mamas rocked the knee babies and lap babies to sleep before putting them on a bed flanked by pillows once the settling down started, the women started their stories.  I loved these nights, especially if Mawmaw was there.  She believed in ghosts and could make our blood run cold.  Mother worried about nightmares, but lacked the courage to shush her mother-in-law, for which I was grateful.  I NEEDED those stories. Mawmaw thrilled us with tales of babies buried alive, girls who died of broken hearts when their dead sweethearts appeared to them, and big black ghost dog, and ball lightning rolling through the house. The kids didn’t dare move off the pallet, they were so terrified. Fatigued by their play, finally they drifted off to sleep, one by one.

As the women talked, they thought they heard an intruder trying to get in the front door. Someone else scurried to check the back door, unsure if it was locked.  .  Had there been an intruder, he’d have had a horrible shock breaking in on half a dozen  terrified women and a gaggle of children.  Meanwhile Mother hurried to the door.  Thinking she’d scare him away with a bluff, she called out.  “I’ve got a gun.  I’m gonna shoot through the door!”

Aunt Jewel stood right behind her.  Obviously terrified, she shouted out.  “Well, don’t just stand there!  Go git your gun.  You ain’t got no gun!”  Fortunately, there was no intruder, or he thought he’d better not break in, since nothing happened.

 

Little White Lie

This story can never get back to Mother.

Quite a few years ago, Mother went to a cute bobbed hairstyle. It cost her thirty-five dollars.

Kathleen Swain

Everything was fine until she slipped up on setting up an appointment with the hairdresser. She asked if I could trim it. Foolishly, I accommodated her. While it didn’t look good, it probably wasn’t the worst home haircut anybody ever got. I’d inflicted that one on my sister many years earlier. Mother appreciates a bargain and the price was perfect. I was trapped. She never made another appointment.

As time went on, I got less enthusiastic about doing the job. I made a deal with my hairdresser. If she’d cut Mother’s hair and charge ten dollars, I’d pick up the rest of the tab. Mother loves Diane and looks forward to their appointments. That’s how its been ever since.

Mother recently moved to an independent Living facility which she loves. The good news is, they have a hairdresser on site. The bad news is. She charges forty-five dollars. That relationship never got off the ground. Mother couldn’t wait to get back to Diane and her ten dollar appointments.

Here she is, getting her $10 bob.

Uncle Albutt Part 4

Uncle Albert had an interesting vocabulary.   Even when he didn’t get words right, he forged bravely ahead.  When his energy was low, he didn’t have much image.  When the doctor diagnosed him with emphysema, he referred to his ‘zema. Air conditioners were air positioners. He called my sister Phyllis, Phillips.  I liked that one.  I was Linder.  I didn’t like that quite so much. My mother Kathleen was Kathaleen.  He called Daddy “Willie”, his real name instead of Bill, the name Daddy gave himself once he left home.  

Daddy cringed every time he was called Willie. The only other person who got away with it was his mother.  I wouldn’t have wanted to be Willie, either.  For some reason, Daddy’s brother Parnell named his daughter Willie Carol.  She was a whiny, sullen kid, maybe because of that name. It makes perfect sense to me.

On occasion, we saw some of Aunt Jewel’s relatives.  Her sister, Lucille, who incidentally had married one of Daddy’s cousins, had the hairiest legs I’ve ever seen, man or woman. The wearing of seamed stockings only made it more obvious.  A good proportion of the wiry hairs worked their way through the stockings, trying to escape, while the rest were imprisoned flat against her legs.  I don’t know which fascinated me more, the swirling mass of flattened ones, or the wild escapees.  I never got to look enough, and certainly wasn’t allowed to comment. Mother warned us off when she knew we’d see Lucille.  Daddy swore her legs had gotten hairier because she shaved them!  That just sounded nuts.  How would hair roots know a razor threatened?  He was death on leg-shaving, ascribing to the old wive’s tale that shaving made hair grow back thicker.  I don’t know what planet he was from that made his daughter’s legs, shaved or unshaven, his business, but Daddy thought he was God and his wishes,  commandments.  More likely, he may have feared he’d be stuck with his girls forever should we sprout hair like that. 

Of course, Mother never volunteered the information that she shaved her legs.  I guess she didn’t want Daddy to know what was in his future.  Naturally, I shaved my legs as soon as I could get hold of a razor.  I can’t tell you how happy I was to get away from home.

Daddy’s methods did ensure he never had to deal with adult children boomeranginghome.  Times just didn’t get that hard.