Storytelling

Overcoming Educational Insecurities: My Journey from Rural High School to College

Having attended a tiny rural high school, fearing I could never compete with those from large urban high schools, I was sensitive about my educational shortcomings. Expecting to be labeled a bumpkin and hustled back to the farm “with my own kind,” in my mind, I had gotten to college with little to recommend me but a good vocabulary, a love of literature, and motivation.  Not only this, my knowledge of profanity and vile language was unimaginative, another embarrassment when I met sophisticates who drank beer, smoked, ordered pizza, and cursed with abandon.  Drinking and smoking had never appealed to me.  I liked pizza but had absolutely no pocket money, so easily avoided that temptation.  Had I been inspired to curse a blue streak, it would have been an extremely short and awkward one, with my lack of knowledge and complete inexperience with profanity.

Back in the good days, before cell phones and caller identification put an end to it, the fascinating practice of obscene phone calls was available to perverts, whereby a caller dialed his “victim,” likely at random, and launched into a raunchy, heavy-breathing monologue, usually complete with a description of how he might be entertaining himself at the moment. The object, of course, was for the answering party to respond in some appropriately shocked manner, gratifying and rewarding the caller.

Well, one night about midnight, I got my call. He wasn’t much of conversationalist and got right down to business.  Unfortunately for my disappointed caller, his terminology was beyond me.

“Huh?” I asked.

Clearly frustrated, he repeated his message. It didn’t help a bit.

“Huh?” By now I realized I had been tested and come up short, just as I had feared from the day I first stepped foot on campus.  I was devastated.

I think my caller also knew the bitter taste of failure. “You don’t even know what that means do you?”

“No.” Without thinking, I acknowledged the humiliating truth.

“Oh, Hell!” He slammed the phone down in my ear.  We had both been tested and found lacking.

10 Ways to……..

I am a sucker for those stories that start out 10 ways to do something amazing, but never find anything that works for me. I am frugal by nature, very much aware of how hard I worked for every dollar.

  1. Start making coffee at home to save on Starbucks. I live miles from nearest coffee shop. Even if there was one at the end of my driveway, there’s no way I’m going to blow $2.75 to 3.50 on a cup of regular coffee when I can make a whole pot for less. I’ve probably already saved over a million dollars.
  2. Pay off your high interest credit cards. Boy, I would have never thought to do that. I thought it would be best to get the highest rate cards I could and max them all out. Maybe I could share them out among my friends and neighbors.
  3. Cut back on eating out and carry out food, another bit of useless advice. Why would anyone cook better, more nutritious at home when you could bankrupt yourself eating out, especially on credit cards?
  4. Avoid designer clothes, accessories, and handbags. I figured this one on my own. I’ve never been tempted to blow a month’s rent on a purse or bracelet. I don’t even know what statement jewelry is.
  5. I can’t get my list up to ten. I need to stop and take all this money I’ve saved to the bank, anyway.

Make a Joyful Noise!

imageDaddy was always right.  Custom and rules were for us, the underlings and nobodies of the family, and we’d best not forget it. He broke the news that some Church in the Wildwood was having a revival and we were going tonight.  I never liked going to church much anyway, so this ruined my day, but wait, there was a bonus.  In case that was’t bad enough, Phyliis and I were going to sing a special.  For those of you unfortunates not initiated into the strange goings on of Baptist Churches back in the sixties, it was common for a slightly talented, or not, fervently religious girl to do a solo, hold the congregation captive for what could be a few miserable minutes. Presumably, she had collaborated with the choir director and pianist, so as not to hijack order of the service.

Phyllis fit the bill perfectly, and had enthusiastically sung several specials in our church, delighting herself, Daddy, and hopefully, at least some people of the congregation.  A couple of times, he had even sprung for a new dress, so she’d really shine.  In all honesty, she sounded good.  

Despite the fact that I wanted no part in it, I’d even been dragged into it a couple of times as backup, kicking and screaming.  I did not sing with a joyful heart.

My heart was heavy with dread as Daddy drove manically through the back roads in search of this obscure church, throwing a fit the whole time because we’d made him late.  This was standard practice wherever we went, since he’d never bother to start getting dressed till after the time he’d say we were leaving.  When it was obvious we’d arrive after services started, I felt great relief, cheerfully offering, “Too bad!  We won’t be able to talk to them about singing a special.”

Always right, as usual, he shot me down.”Oh yes you will.  I’ll tell you when to go up and sing.  It doesn’t have to be arranged ahead of time.  Just be ready to go when I say.  Tell the piano player you want her to play ‘How Great Thou Art’.” I gave up.  We were going to be clomping up to the front of the church surprising the unsuspecting congregation with an impromptu “special” like a couple of clowns. At least, we’d never have to see any of these people again.

The seven of us filled a pew as the congregation finished a hymn, and launched in to another as I waited for the ax to fall.  Phyllis and I sat on the outside so we could make our way more easily to the front when the time came.  After the close of the offeratoy hymn and the collection of the offering, Daddy gave Phyllis “The Signal.” As she stood and prepared to stun the worshipers with our “special “, the choir director announced a “Special,” to be sung by a saintly appearing young lady.  Daddy’s face fell and Phyllis quickly sat down.  The singer limped through “How Greet  Thou Art” clearly enunciating “Greet,” not “Great” as we were prepared to do.  I never enjoyed a song more, the hilarity of the situation nearly undoing me.  As she finished, I stood as though I still thought Daddy expected us to sing.  He reached over, grabbing my skirt tail, stopping my progress.  I gave him a questioning look, as though I was confused at his shutting me down.

God is good.

 

 

Vacation Men/Women

Repost of an old post

Bud went camping and trout fishing with a buddy for a few days.  We shared the drama of list-making, packing, and lengthy instructions on all that needed attention while he was gone.  In the spirit of a true imbecile, I prepared enough easy food for an army, all homemade of course.  I never purchase quick foods.  He left with an ice-chest stuffed with boiled eggs, sausage biscuitDavis Creek campingts, chicken salad, and pimento cheese spread, all the high-cholesterol joy a couple of guys could wish for.  The guys left in high spirits.

While he was gone, I gardened, worked in the yard, wrote, went out to lunch a couple of times, and crocheted.  I didn’t cook.  I didn’t clean, till today.  I didn’t shop for groceries.  I wonder who had the best vacation?

A Hog a Day Part 14

Communion charmed me.  It pained me to see the perfect little glasses and morsels of wafer in the gleaming trays pass me by.  I suspect Mother’s thoughts weren’t sacred as she warned me off with dark looks and head shake.  It seemed wrong to waste communion on adults when those cups were obviously child-sized.  

Glenda Parker boldly reached in and took two tiny cups right under her mother’s eye.  She slurped the juice from one cup, then poured the juice from the other back and forth a few times before spilling it. Her mother sweetly wiped up the pew with a dainty hanky, never shooting her “the look.”  With my head bowed during prayer, I saw Glenda stack and restack those cups and slip them in and out of the little slots on the back of the pew in front of her while her mother piously bowed her head in prayer.  Why couldn’t God have given me to a good mother like that?

Baptism was even more interesting.  The first baptism I witnessed took place in a pond. The congregation gathered around as the preacher led the candidates in one by one and dipped them backwards into murky water.  I yearned to get in that line, but had been warned not to move from Mother’s side.  The next baptism took place in our church’s new sanctuary.  The curtains behind the choir loft opened to reveal a glass-fronted tank before a lovely mural of the Jordan River.  The preacher stepped  in and spoke a few words before assisting Miss Flora Mae down the steps into the tank.  Miss Flora Mae’s full-skirted white skirt ballooned on the surface of the water as she descended, revealing chubby legs and white panties, an unexpected thrill for me and other less-holy onlookers.  A few even snickered as Miss Flora Mae struggled to recover her dignity.

By the next baptism, the baptistry’s glass front had been painted.

 

 

Tiny House Help

  1. Davis Creek campingWith all the recent interest in Tiny Houses, it just occurred to me I have a gold-mine on my hands.  I OWN a Tiny House, also known as a camper.  I can market it as a trial Tiny Home, a 160 square foot slice of heaven. For the nervous novice, I could arrange Mentored Tiny Housing on beautiful two acre resort on a quiet tree-lined street, not far from the airport and city conveniences.  For an additional exhorbitant expense, Tiny House Relationship Counseling could be included.  “Don’t fart when the burners are on.  Don’t eat beans.  Resist the temptation to mention your partner is gaining weight when you are meeting yourselves coming and going.”

For those who are thinking of sizing down AND starting a family, I believe I could provide the full experence by inviting one of my many nieces and nephews to run amok through the small space perodically, for an impressive charge, of course. Should they need to experience life with a shedding dog or a geriatric cat with complimentary catbox, I can also furnish that.  Before you pare down your belongings and sink $60K into a Tiny House,  give me a call.  I can provide an enhanced experience for far less.

If all goes well, I may branch out and have my own reality show.

Nag! Nag! Nag!

Peggy Sue and her brother Clyde were in Mrs. Twiddle’s fourth grade class with me. Neither did well in school, but Clyde seemed to struggle more, already having been held back one year. I knew their family lived in an unfinished, unpainted house on my bus route , so I inferred they were poor.

While the other fourth grade girls wore the usual little girl shoes with socks, Peggy Sue went sockless in black flats of the type worn by teenagers and women.

For some reason, Mrs. Twiddle took issue with Peggy Sue’s shoes and lack of socks. Every morning, when checking attendance, the teacher lectured Peggy Sue about not wearing socks. I dreaded the lectures for Peggy Sue’s sake. A kinder person would have assumed the child simply had no socks and possibly discreetly supplied her with a few pair. The Twiddles owned a store and could have spared them. Instead, Mrs. Twiddle tormented her.

I’ve never forgotten Mrs. Twiddle’s cruelty. I’m sure Peggy Sue hasn’t.

A Hog a Day Part 13

With eons of sermons stretching out before me, life looked grim. Occasionally, there was a bright spot.  Sometimes the preacher told a joke, though they were rarely really funny. I truly enjoyed church music, especially if it was something lively, like “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I sung along enthusically, though lots of the words didn’t make sense.  For the life of me, I couldn’t fathom why we sang about laundry, as in “Bringing in the Sheets (Sheaves).” There was also a Christmas carol about laundry.  “While shepherds washed their socks by night (watched their flocks by night.)  I thought it odd, but so much adults did seemed odd.

One special Sunday, God had a startling surprise in store for me. Mrs. Simmons, the pianist, brought her brother Eddie, a handsome young man, along to play the organ.  His boogie-woogie style hymns were a vast improvement over sedate hymns. I could see some of the old ladies exchanging shocked looks, but  I was entranced.  

I was practically bouncing in the pew when suddenly he dropped to the floor in a seizure.  Mrs. Simmons shrieked and rushed to his side. He rallied and they trooped out, along with the rest of her family.  I was so jealous.  The preacher made an anemic attempt to salvage the service, but his flock was clearly anxious to get out and enjoy a good gossip.  I genuinely enjoyed church that day.

 

Mama, the Twins and Aunt Suzi

My friend Ellen planned to adopt her sister’s Suzi’s newborn due about the same time as her own. Ellen was Suzi’s birth coach and put the newborn baby girl to her own breast at its birth, taking it home with her the next day.  Suzi went back to college, missing only one day of class.

A couple of days later, Ellen sat in the obstetrician’s office, hugely pregnant, nursing her newborn baby girl amidst a bevy of confused pregnant women in the waiting room.  The next day, she gave birth to a baby girl.

The girls considered themselves twins, calling Ellen, Mama, and cherishing Suzi as their favorite aunt. It was a happy solution to a challenging situation.