Storytelling

Three Quotes in Three Days

My friend Brian at his excellent blog Vancouver Visions has kindly nominated me to do the Three Quotes in Three Days Challenge.  Thank you very much, Brian.  Be sure to check his site out.  His photography is awe-inspiring.  I love the rambles and views of Vancouver he shares.  Brian has inspired me to do some good posts in the past, so I hope I don’t let him down.

My family, like most families uses certain quotes, based on our experiences that would be meaningless to outsiders without a lengthy explanation.  I think my favorite is, “Now, you have to buy the coffee.”

Many years ago my dad worked with a garrulous fellow named Slim.  Slim lied purely for the love of lying, not maliciously, for personal gain, nor to help himself.  He’d climb up on the house to tell a lie when he could stand on the ground and tell the truth.  After a while, the guys at work had a deal.  If one of them repeated a story Slim told, they bought the next round of coffee.  One day Slim came rushing by in a big hurry and one of them called out, “Hey, Slim, stop and tell us a lie.”

Without stopping, Slim rushed by them, calling over his shoulder, “I can’t.  Joe Marsh fell in stack four and I’m on the way to call an ambulance!”

They all dropped what they were doing to rush over to Stack Four to see if they could help.  When they get there, all was quiet.  Slim had pulled one on the whole group.

From that time forward, when one of us sites a suspicious source or repeats something that sounds suspect, we warn them they might have to “buy the coffee.”

i challenge any who wants to to accept the three quotes in three days challenge.

True Love

imageJerry and JoEllen had been childhood sweethearts.  He had Cystic Fibrosis but did really well. He and JoEllen drifted apart while he was in college. JoElllen had left an abusive husband and was struggling to raise two toddlers on her own by the time they reconnected.   He was well-established at his engineering firm and anxious to offer JoEllen and her boys a solid life.

Things were going well for them.  They were buying a house and planning a wedding when Jerry became jaundiced.  He was found to be in acute liver failure as a result of his long and complicated medical history.   I met them when it was my privilege to be  his nurse.  JoEllen never left his side if she didn’t have to. They were such a loving couple.  It was heartbreaking to know their future together couldn’t be too long.

When it was obvious Jerry was becoming rapidly worse, they made arrangements to get a marriage license so they could marry before his death.  They were married just a day or so before Jerry died, but not before he was able to make sure JoEllen and “his” boys would be well taken care of.

Babies and More Babies

I Connie and Marilyn's Toddler Pictures

I was I was eight years old when my whole world changed.  Mother had a baby.  Never having been much interested in babies, this one seemed like a waste of time.  Life was far better before the baby.  Mother was nicer; not constantly carping about being tired.  She’d also gotten incredibly lazy, now expecting me to fold towels, dust, and clear my own dishes from the table.  I hadn’t minded the first time or two, especially when she thanked me so effusively, but when it became obvious she expected it to be a regular thing, I was disgusted.

Not only that, Mother went on and on about how much things cost now.  It made no sense that before the baby, there had always been plenty of money for cowboy boots, the ice cream man, and trips to Grandma’s.  Now we were poor.  She got her stupid baby and now I got nothing.

Eventually, Connie started playing and I loved her  Before too long, Mother got the pathetic mopes again.  She got lazier than ever, sat around with her feet up or took to her bed for hours at a time, sometimes even crying a little.  In desperation, Daddy even hired a lady to help out.  I loved Miss Annie, but she seemed a lot more interested in Connie than me.  Mother did nothing but lie around and play with Connie, till she she started sewing.  She bragged to her friend one day that she’d hand-made and embroidered eight baby dresses.  My jealousy alarm went off.

Kids”

“Mother, make something for me.”  I had no use for dainty embroidered dresses, but surely she could come up with something!

“You’re too bigI can’t handmake anything for you.”

I made a point to be crushed, devastated by her selfishness, going out to pout as long as I could manage it.  Fortunately, I had a short attention span and soon got lost in play. The next day, Mother had Marilyn.  By this time, I knew babies quickly got cute, so I loved her from the start.

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Baby in a Basket

image

My beautiful three-week-old baby started squeaking into wakefulness as I took warm diapers out of the dryer.  I took her out of her bed, cradling her in the basket of warm cotton diapers as I walked toward the front of the house to feed her.  She got comfortable in the warmth and drifted back off. My three year-old called out just at that moment.  The brilliant sunshine pouring in glass door onto my beautiful baby in the basket was a wonder to behold as I looked back.  I got him out of bed, heading back to her.  She was gone!  I panicked!  It was no surprise someone would want her, just that that had managed to snatch her without my hearing something.  The backdoor and the glass door were still locked.  I called her name and got my little guy to help me look.  Just as I was about to report her kidnapping, the diapers moved and she wailed.  She’d moved just enough to allow a diaper to cover her.  That had to be the biggest relief of my life!

Outclassed and Outsmarted

schoolGetting our kids off to school used to be a dance with the devil. The devil definitely knew all the steps. I always laid out shoes and clothes, (no substitutions allowed) lunches, backpacks packed, papers signed with everything ready to roll the night before. That created the illusion of sanity and was good for a laugh. I was up at five a.m. to get my shower, dress, and cook breakfast. The kids always wanted hot breakfast, so I was guilt-ridden to make sure they had eggs, grits, and toast. As soon as it was on the table, I woke Bud and turned to circus over to him. He was supposed to railroad them through breakfast, get the dishes to the dishwasher, make sure they brushed their teeth and hair, and got out the door with everything. About fifty percent of the time it worked as planned.

Sometimes one of them would let the dog escape, fall in a puddle on the way to the truck and have to change or remember they’d hidden the note saying the Science Fair Project was due today and start bawling. Occasionally one would throw up or discover a rash at breakfast or the bus stop. Once Bud left them at the bus stop with some other kids and they all stayed there till after nine before walking home to call and let us know the bus never ran. (so they said) Once my daughter sneaked back in and changed pants. Bud had to pick her up as soon as she got to school because she had a “stomach ache.” As soon as she got home she changed pants and was miraculously cured. He took her right back to school.

I do miss those little daily struggles.  If only my fertility could be restored and I could started all over!  Ha!

Spilt Milk, Broken Dishes, and Trashy Girls

True 2 True confessions

Spilt milk or broken dishes were reason a’plenty to cry when I was a kid. Daddy was highly volatile. Nothing shattered his nerves like a broken dish. Life with him was like walking a delicate precipice. Catastrope could strike without provocation: milk spilled at breakfast, the crash of shattered glass, the shrill shriek of a child. Even when things were going their best, any startling or embarrassing incident could end in a conflagration with Daddy taking his belt to the unfortunate instigator and descending into an anger that could last for days.  Early on, we all learned we needed to keep Daddy happy.  He doted on babies and toddlers, but rowdy children with opinions and boisterous behavior easily triggered his thunderous disapproval. Talking too much was a sure way to blunder into trouble. I invariably repeated a joke or word I didn’t understand, much to my sorrow. Failure to be circumspect ensured punishment. Nothing triggered him faster than shame. He intended for his children to reflect well, never subject to the possibility of criticism, justified or not. He only had to suspect a behavioral rule for modest female behavior to exist for it to become law. For us older girls, that meant no shorts, no public swimming, no dancing, no talking to boys, or dating until sixteen. Fortunately for my younger sisters, the road to Hell was not so broad. The worst thing we could have done was “trashy” behavior, namely promiscuity. Drinking and smoking were too far beyond the pale to ever enter the conversation.

“Trashy” girls ran around with wild boys, smoked, drank, danced, skipped school, cursed, talked back, and of course, had sex. It was understood they were an abomination not to be tolerated. I had cousins who were “trashy” long before I knew the specifics of what it involved. I just knew Cousin Carly’s boyfriend honked the horn at the street. She ran right past my shouting aunt, jumped in the car, and the boy spun out. She stayed out late, smoked cigarettes, slipped out when grounded. She got a speeding ticket driving her boyfriend’s car sixty miles from home on a school day. There was no way this way going to end up any way but badly. Of course, she dropped out of high school.

Not long afterward, Aunt Lou announced Carly had married an Air Force guy. Nobody ever saw him. Carly had a baby. Aunt Lou went to the Air Force Base and got Carly a divorce one day while Carly was working at the Firestone Plant. Carly couldn’t get the day off. Shortly thereafter, Carly married Phil, had two more children, and became as dull as mud. Thereafter, her life was entirely unremarkable except for the excellent example of how “trashy” girls behave. Thank you, Carly.

If You Can Hear Us……..

Scary0004

Our community, like all small communities, had its well-loved ghost, Sally Macon. Like all kids, my sisters and Bud’s sisters, loved to play seance. We grew up within three miles of each other, so they spent a lot of time together. All the girls had gotten hooked on the Gothic Soap, “Dark Shadows,” featuring ghosts, vampires, and spooky seances. The girls were hidden in Connie’s dark bedroom around a flickering candle, calling to Sallie. “Aunt Sallie, if you hear us, make yourself known.” they chanted in unison. Mother saw the flickering candle light under the door and listened in long enough to realize what was up. She eased outside, scratched on Connie’s window and moaned, “Woooooo!”

Terrified they’d actually raised the dead, the four girls nearly beat each other to death tearing out of the room. In their haste, they ran over Daddy, stretched out napping in his recliner. In his panic, he started yelling, “Get out! Get out! The house in on fire.” By this time, of course Mother was back in, surveying all the excitement. The four girls eventually walked back from wherever they’d run, to find out Aunt Sally hadn’t come calling after all.

good pic of Dad

My Dead Aunts Coat ( from Memoirs of The Great Depression)

imageNot long after Aunt Ellie’s funeral, Cousin Katie brought her faded, old plum-colored coat to Mama.  “Mr. Blizzard bought this for Aunt Ellie years ago.  The material is real good.  It won’t fit me. Do you want to make it over for one of your girls?

“I sure do.  The cuffs on Kathleen’s coat are over her wrists.  I ‘ve been trying to figure out how I could come up with some heavy material.  This should do good, if you’re sure you can’t use it.”

That caught my attention. I hated that camphor-smelling old coat.  I’d seen skinny, old Aunt Ellie wrapped up head to ankles in that faded old coat, puttering around in the yard or sitting wrapped in it next to the stove on cold days.  The front was spotted and the cuffs slick with age and wear.  I imagined myself creeping around in that worn-out coat, looking just like Aunt Ellie, my white hair wound in a wild bun, like Aunt Ellie’s. A string of mean kids would be following me, pointing and laughing at the poor, pitiful kid in the raggedy, old dead-lady coat.

“Mama, I don’t want Aunt Ellie’s old coat.  The kids at school will laugh at me for wearing an old dead-lady’s coat.”

“Now Kathleen, this material is too good to throw away, and you need a coat.  That’s all there is to it.  When I’m through making it over, nobody will ever know it’s not ordered from Sears and Roebuck.”    She immediately pulled out the catalog to have me choose a style so she could cut a pattern.  Glumly. I pointed a coat out, knowing I was defeated.

I pushed the coat from my mind, though periodically, I’d come through to find Mama cutting the fabric, brushing it with cleaning fluid.  Though I had no interest in the process, she later told me she cut the coat apart, turned it, cleaned and reblocked, before finally pinning on her custom fitted pattern.  Truly, the reverse side of the fabric was a rich rose.  Stitching it and the freshly cleaned lining together, Mama polished it off with a new collar.  New buttons completed her masterpiece.  It looked nothing like Aunt Ellies’s faded old coat.  No one would ever recognize it!

I hated it!  Mama made me put it on and model it for her and Daddy.  I knew better than to complain.  On the first cold day, Mama made sure I wore my new, old coat.  Ashamed, I rushed to hang it in the cloak room as soon as I got to school.  At recess, I hung behind to put my coat on, hoping no one would remark on it.  I hid around the corner, hoping to avoid humiliation.  At lunch, Berenice and Christine admired my coat in passing, before moving on to a more interesting subject.  I was pleased but almost disappointed after I’d thought it so ugly.  In truth, it was a very nice coat, cut in a stylish pattern, but you’d never have convinced me.  The whole time I wore that hateful coat, I kept waiting for my shameful secret to be discovered.

You Poor Baby (Part 2)

vintage baby

part 1      https://atomic-temporary-73629786.wpcomstaging.com/2015/07/11/you-poor-baby/

Furious at finding her washing machine packed to the rim with freshly laundered diapers mixed with freshly- laundered gobs of poop, Mother roused Carol from where she snored on the sofa, oblivious to her miserable, bawling baby. “Carol, come here. Let me show you how to use this washer! You can’t just throw filthy diapers in it without rinsing this stuff out.” Mother got a tub, made Carol scoop the poopy diapers out and clean the washer, then sent Carol out to rinse the dirty diapers under the faucet before bringing them back to the washer. “Be sure you dump that dirty water from the tub behind the chicken house, not in the back yard. You may as well get the rest of this mess soaking.” She pointed to the pile of poopy diapers that had not yet had a ride in her abused washer. Carol looked furiously at Phyllis and me as she stormed off to do this demeaning task, clearly much better delegated to underlings like us.

We did have to tend her poor, miserable baby while she slaved over the diaper rinsing, but that was better than rinsing out poopy diapers ranging from rock-hard lumps to runny diarrhea, depending on the vintage. The stench was horrendous, as evidenced by Carol’s retching. I have no doubt Carol was sick when she came back in. She took to her bed(our sofa) to recover. Clearly accustomed to help with her baby, she was reluctant to leave her repose to wash bottles and prepare formula, preferring to call out for one of of kids to “bring me a bottle!” when he cried. The first time, Mother let the hungry little guy have a bottle, despite the fact it was an expensive, hypoallergenic formula prescribed for her own tiny baby. She quickly pointed the case of milk she’d bought for Carol’s baby, the kind Carol requested. “Oh this will be fine,” Carol said. “He likes it!”

“Carol, you need to fix your own bottles! I bought you what you asked for. This stuff is forty cents a can!” Mother explained.

Carol was clearly offended. She dawdled a bit after he finished his bottle, put him down, and shut herself in the bathroom for a good crying session. Eventually, she came out and made a collect call to her mother, insisting she come, NOW! Mama couldn’t come, NOW! More crying on the phone. We were stuck together till the weekend. Carol had no problems leaving his bottles lying about to sour after baby was satisfied. Should he cry out when a sour bottle sat handy, she had no qualms about trying to get him to take it.

The next three days lasted an eternity. At my parent’s insistence, Carol did end up giving her baby good care while they waited for Mama, but she turned him over to Mama as soon as she arrived. His bottom had healed, he’d plumped up, and even played a bit with good care. Poor little guy didn’t get much of a pass. He was soon back home to be joined by a brother and sister in rapid succession.

Alas, Carol’s marriage fell apart, but before long she found another man and launched into her addiction to having babies she had no interest or ability to care for, eventually delivering eleven sad children. At a family reunion once, I heard someone ask how long she was going to keep having babies. She replied, “As long as God wants me to.” It was heartbreaking to see her children suffer from her neglect and ignorance.