Yes Sister, you are. Love you, Vicki
Monday, February 20, 2006
Sunday, January 15, 2006
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIS
Hello everyone, this is Donna's older, prettier, wiser sister Vicki aka Junebugg here to announce that Donna is now offically ..................48 YEARS OLD!
That's right, she's now over the hill.
Revenge is sweet, Donna. Remember you and Wendi decorating my yard????
HAPPY BIRTHDAY SIS. LOVE YOU
Saturday, December 24, 2005
Tears for Christmas
Christmas has always been special in our family, a time for togetherness, unity and love; with noise and laughter and squabbles filling the house. This year, we five sisters celebrated it in the time honored tradition of our parents on Christmas Eve night. Going home for me is hard on any day, but for some reason on holidays it is even more difficult. No Mom in the kitchen, smiling and ordering us all to line up and start dinner and remember the kids get theirs first …….she was always the last to fill her plate and take a seat. No Pops in front of the television, remote control aimed at the box to raise the volume above the noise level of a house overflowing with children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren. The tree was different, a new tree my little sister bought and put up in a totally different place and room from the one Mom did. All so strange and out of place somehow. I made most of the desserts this year……..I missed her Graham Cracker Cake and Pecan Pies. Traditions die hard, especially the ones that bring a sense of normalcy and peace to us. The loss of them reinforces the fact that they are gone for good and nothing can ever change that. No matter that none of us would wish them back to the pain and suffering they endured before they died, each of us at one point voiced that we missed them and how strange it was to be there without them.
My sisters haven’t been close since our parents died, for whatever reason. It isn’t easy to be close with most working, living separate lives with different stresses and responsibilities. Tonight was the first time I felt they all cared, each and every one of us offered an invisible olive branch to the other, unqualified love and understanding and friendship. It was a wonderful feeling for me. I sincerely hope they all felt that way. Our parents would have been proud of us all……………make that were proud of us all, for I know they were there………..if not in fact, then certainly in our hearts and memories.
My sisters haven’t been close since our parents died, for whatever reason. It isn’t easy to be close with most working, living separate lives with different stresses and responsibilities. Tonight was the first time I felt they all cared, each and every one of us offered an invisible olive branch to the other, unqualified love and understanding and friendship. It was a wonderful feeling for me. I sincerely hope they all felt that way. Our parents would have been proud of us all……………make that were proud of us all, for I know they were there………..if not in fact, then certainly in our hearts and memories.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Simple Pleasures
What ever happened to the simple pleasures of life…those that cost little if anything and readily supply a plethora of lovely memories in our semi-golden years?? Now days, everyone is in a rush to buy the latest marvel of technology, to be the included in the stream to be one of the first thousand to view the latest Hollywood’s productions, or to own the largest and fanciest car or house money can buy…………….even if it means signing your next lifetime’s worth of hard earned paycheck over to someone else? I simply don’t understand the logic. How can it be pleasurable if you have to suffer to enjoy it?
Pleasure, to me, means something that one enjoys, either the doing of or the feeling it sensations it causes you to feel. It isn’t about money, or how someone else perceives you. It should be about feeling happiness and serenity……..not a constant race to one-up anyone. I remember simple joys from childhood. Things I still enjoy today, that are free for the taking if your imagination is up to the challenge. If you are daring enough to dream …
Growing up, life was simple, we worked when we were told to, we played at every opportunity, and we enjoyed most all of it with an enthusiasm I would give anything to have back. Chores shared became the simplest of tasks. Rarely, if ever, were we given a job without one or both of our parents involved to hasten the undertaking along. And with Mom, we sang together as we worked, be it the current Rock and Roll tunes blaring from the radio, or the golden oldies that Mom heard growing up in the 40’s and 50’s. Even church hymns. We sang them all, loud, off key, and with elation and exuberance in our voices and hearts. The chores were soon done, with little squabbling or fuss. That was a pleasure, because when the jailers are happy, the inmates tend to be as well.
Pleasure was home made ice cream…..rich in flavor, laden with eggs and milk and vanilla. We had an old ice cream churn, the wooden bucket and discolored with age and salt brine. Hot summer afternoons, Mom would whip up a big bowl full of this mixture and we knew what was coming. Layers of crushed ice and large flakes of salt would, after an hour or so, turn into heaven melting in the mouths of us kids. But only if you worked for it….if you didn’t turn the crank, you didn’t get any. That was the law. Every neighbor kid would soon come over to take their turn at the crank for just one small helping of the ice cold cream. I miss it. Oh, not the turning of the crank, but the rich taste of the ice cream.
Pleasure was wading the creek with my Sis. Knee deep, with the cool water rushing past our bare legs, the bottom slick with mud and fish darting about as we violated their sanctuaries. A deep thrill we enjoyed without Mom’s knowledge or consent. Neither of us could swim a lick. And the creek bottom was littered with craggy rocks, both large and small. If we fell, we could drown. ( The voice of doom………errrrr rather Mom). That was contentment, both in the doing and in the secrecy of the adventure.
Pleasure was tromping through the woods, the air icy and laden with snow. Barren grapevines hanging from trees, just begging to be used to propel ourselves across branches. All around was a stillness, the only sounds the rasp of our breaths as we climbed our way to the top of the ravine we had decided to explore. There was a cedar tree, surrounded by honeysuckle vines long stripped of their leaves by winter’s frigid air. And under these vines was a cave…..dark and dank, but just right for 2 girls to curl up in. It was our lair, a clubhouse of sorts. One we told few about.
Today, pleasure costs money or involves travel, possessions or other people. I am still a simple soul, much preferring a beautiful sunset to going shopping. My Grandchildren are going to benefit from my memories, I think. I plan to take them walking as soon as it is cold enough. I want them to hear the silence of the woods and see the beauty of that silence. To know peace and inner happiness comes from within ourselves and can’t be bought at the local Wal-Mart for any amount of money. Our parents taught us that. For that I am thankful.
Pleasure, to me, means something that one enjoys, either the doing of or the feeling it sensations it causes you to feel. It isn’t about money, or how someone else perceives you. It should be about feeling happiness and serenity……..not a constant race to one-up anyone. I remember simple joys from childhood. Things I still enjoy today, that are free for the taking if your imagination is up to the challenge. If you are daring enough to dream …
Growing up, life was simple, we worked when we were told to, we played at every opportunity, and we enjoyed most all of it with an enthusiasm I would give anything to have back. Chores shared became the simplest of tasks. Rarely, if ever, were we given a job without one or both of our parents involved to hasten the undertaking along. And with Mom, we sang together as we worked, be it the current Rock and Roll tunes blaring from the radio, or the golden oldies that Mom heard growing up in the 40’s and 50’s. Even church hymns. We sang them all, loud, off key, and with elation and exuberance in our voices and hearts. The chores were soon done, with little squabbling or fuss. That was a pleasure, because when the jailers are happy, the inmates tend to be as well.
Pleasure was home made ice cream…..rich in flavor, laden with eggs and milk and vanilla. We had an old ice cream churn, the wooden bucket and discolored with age and salt brine. Hot summer afternoons, Mom would whip up a big bowl full of this mixture and we knew what was coming. Layers of crushed ice and large flakes of salt would, after an hour or so, turn into heaven melting in the mouths of us kids. But only if you worked for it….if you didn’t turn the crank, you didn’t get any. That was the law. Every neighbor kid would soon come over to take their turn at the crank for just one small helping of the ice cold cream. I miss it. Oh, not the turning of the crank, but the rich taste of the ice cream.
Pleasure was wading the creek with my Sis. Knee deep, with the cool water rushing past our bare legs, the bottom slick with mud and fish darting about as we violated their sanctuaries. A deep thrill we enjoyed without Mom’s knowledge or consent. Neither of us could swim a lick. And the creek bottom was littered with craggy rocks, both large and small. If we fell, we could drown. ( The voice of doom………errrrr rather Mom). That was contentment, both in the doing and in the secrecy of the adventure.
Pleasure was tromping through the woods, the air icy and laden with snow. Barren grapevines hanging from trees, just begging to be used to propel ourselves across branches. All around was a stillness, the only sounds the rasp of our breaths as we climbed our way to the top of the ravine we had decided to explore. There was a cedar tree, surrounded by honeysuckle vines long stripped of their leaves by winter’s frigid air. And under these vines was a cave…..dark and dank, but just right for 2 girls to curl up in. It was our lair, a clubhouse of sorts. One we told few about.
Today, pleasure costs money or involves travel, possessions or other people. I am still a simple soul, much preferring a beautiful sunset to going shopping. My Grandchildren are going to benefit from my memories, I think. I plan to take them walking as soon as it is cold enough. I want them to hear the silence of the woods and see the beauty of that silence. To know peace and inner happiness comes from within ourselves and can’t be bought at the local Wal-Mart for any amount of money. Our parents taught us that. For that I am thankful.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
The Smell of Freedom...........or Dog
OK, I admit I am not the most knowledgeable person about equines……………………but having been around horses all my life……….I thought I remembered the basics. But apparently I don’t remember all that much. I made a terrible mistake yesterday and turned my back on a jackass who doesn’t like humans. Or dogs! Especially dogs. An error that won’t happen again anytime soon.
Now, having a pet is a wonderful thing. I mean I have fish and turtles, even a few cats outside, both wild and tame. What potential problem could one more little animal possibly cause? When my son asked me about getting these jacks, I was tickled to death at his thoughtfulness and caring for me and my little sister. We would have one apiece, to train, love and care for. Being in the barn and around animals would bring back memories of helping Daddy and be all to the good. Little sister has little time since she works, but I thought, well hey, I do nothing all day. I can feed and water these babies all alone. An added bonus was that I’d have to leave the house and get some exercise for a change. The depression makes it hard for me to get motivated, but I will do what has to be done, be it cooking, laundry or feeding. A noble endeavor with the added benefit that he could possibly be trained to pull a cart for my Grandsons……..
So yesterday, I left the house in the gusting wind, sweats and shoes on with a hoodie zipped up tight to my chin. I tromped uphill and across the lawn of my parent’s house to the barn, unlatched the front gate and went into the shadowy barn. I opened the stall and there they stood……….two beautiful sweet jacks giving me the evil eye. I could tell they had already been fed sweet feed and corn since some was still in the trough. I thought well, gee, I’ll grab em up some of this hay and put in here for them to much on later. After the 2 first armfuls of loose hay I pulled from the bale were in the trough, I turned my back and went back for one more, leaving the door to the stall open just like we have done all week. These animals were so afraid they never ventured to the door much less out of it. I heard a commotion as I grasped the last handful of hay and looked behind me……….and there was Zeke…………my ass, galloping out the stall door with a dead-eye beam on my little sister’s dog! He ran by me full gallop….or as full as a short jackass can get. I was thing oh my God…….what now. He is chasing this little speckled dog all over the lot in front of the barn and the dog runs towards the gate…….when suddenly I realized the gate wasn’t fastened!/ It wasn’t even pulled all the way closed!
I ran forward with my hands full of hay, yelling and waving it around to frighten the ass back away from the gate. The dog escaped under that darn gate and the ass stopped dead still and stared at me like I was an idiot. I was so humiliated! I ran to the gate and fastened it and turned around….and noticed the other ass had smelled freedom as well and joined his partner in crime. I slapped my pocket searching for my phone…which I had of course left at home. The house next to the barn lot is another of my sons and they were gone. My little sister was gone as well and I had no keys with me to get in to use her phone. So I walked around the lot, checked all the gates and stumbled for home.
When I got home, my daughter was on the phone. I said……….come on Windi. My ass got out. I need some help. Now! She yelled Mom’s ass has run off and she would call em back and we ran out the door lickedy split for the barn……well we ran to her car and she drove us there but ..oh well. I called my son Duane, the son who gifted me with this nice, nice pet. I had orders I couldn’t run them up, it would scare them. I was supposed to come down in the morning, put food in their stall, hide, and when they entered to eat….run out and lock the door. I thought NO WAY! After a lot of debate, with my suggestions being shot down quickly, Duane got on the tractor to go to the pasture to get some……….errrrrrr…………hmmmmm….he called them something but I have forgotten. Basically they look like gates but can be used to make a catch pen, chute, etc. anywhere. While he was gone……….I politely placed an old gate across the hallway of the barn, opened their stall door wide and walked them around the barn. She pranced and frolicked as if they didn’t have a care in the world…..and proceeded to walk into their nice warm stall. He was so angry at me for having bested him. Soon as he got back, I turned around and came home, all the while knowing Mom shouldn’t have pushed the envelope. Tonight……….I received a phone call….not irate, just with attitude…….when he went to check them after work today…they tried to kick him. I wasn’t even there and it was MY fault. I give up……
Now, having a pet is a wonderful thing. I mean I have fish and turtles, even a few cats outside, both wild and tame. What potential problem could one more little animal possibly cause? When my son asked me about getting these jacks, I was tickled to death at his thoughtfulness and caring for me and my little sister. We would have one apiece, to train, love and care for. Being in the barn and around animals would bring back memories of helping Daddy and be all to the good. Little sister has little time since she works, but I thought, well hey, I do nothing all day. I can feed and water these babies all alone. An added bonus was that I’d have to leave the house and get some exercise for a change. The depression makes it hard for me to get motivated, but I will do what has to be done, be it cooking, laundry or feeding. A noble endeavor with the added benefit that he could possibly be trained to pull a cart for my Grandsons……..
So yesterday, I left the house in the gusting wind, sweats and shoes on with a hoodie zipped up tight to my chin. I tromped uphill and across the lawn of my parent’s house to the barn, unlatched the front gate and went into the shadowy barn. I opened the stall and there they stood……….two beautiful sweet jacks giving me the evil eye. I could tell they had already been fed sweet feed and corn since some was still in the trough. I thought well, gee, I’ll grab em up some of this hay and put in here for them to much on later. After the 2 first armfuls of loose hay I pulled from the bale were in the trough, I turned my back and went back for one more, leaving the door to the stall open just like we have done all week. These animals were so afraid they never ventured to the door much less out of it. I heard a commotion as I grasped the last handful of hay and looked behind me……….and there was Zeke…………my ass, galloping out the stall door with a dead-eye beam on my little sister’s dog! He ran by me full gallop….or as full as a short jackass can get. I was thing oh my God…….what now. He is chasing this little speckled dog all over the lot in front of the barn and the dog runs towards the gate…….when suddenly I realized the gate wasn’t fastened!/ It wasn’t even pulled all the way closed!
I ran forward with my hands full of hay, yelling and waving it around to frighten the ass back away from the gate. The dog escaped under that darn gate and the ass stopped dead still and stared at me like I was an idiot. I was so humiliated! I ran to the gate and fastened it and turned around….and noticed the other ass had smelled freedom as well and joined his partner in crime. I slapped my pocket searching for my phone…which I had of course left at home. The house next to the barn lot is another of my sons and they were gone. My little sister was gone as well and I had no keys with me to get in to use her phone. So I walked around the lot, checked all the gates and stumbled for home.
When I got home, my daughter was on the phone. I said……….come on Windi. My ass got out. I need some help. Now! She yelled Mom’s ass has run off and she would call em back and we ran out the door lickedy split for the barn……well we ran to her car and she drove us there but ..oh well. I called my son Duane, the son who gifted me with this nice, nice pet. I had orders I couldn’t run them up, it would scare them. I was supposed to come down in the morning, put food in their stall, hide, and when they entered to eat….run out and lock the door. I thought NO WAY! After a lot of debate, with my suggestions being shot down quickly, Duane got on the tractor to go to the pasture to get some……….errrrrrr…………hmmmmm….he called them something but I have forgotten. Basically they look like gates but can be used to make a catch pen, chute, etc. anywhere. While he was gone……….I politely placed an old gate across the hallway of the barn, opened their stall door wide and walked them around the barn. She pranced and frolicked as if they didn’t have a care in the world…..and proceeded to walk into their nice warm stall. He was so angry at me for having bested him. Soon as he got back, I turned around and came home, all the while knowing Mom shouldn’t have pushed the envelope. Tonight……….I received a phone call….not irate, just with attitude…….when he went to check them after work today…they tried to kick him. I wasn’t even there and it was MY fault. I give up……
Sunday, October 23, 2005
The Smell of Ass
As I stated in an earlier entry, I am now the proud owner of an Ass! Not just any run of the mill Ass, but a genuine, full-blooded, beautiful gun-metal gray ass. I have named him Zeke. He is a bit on the short side, but being only 4 months old, I am assuming he will grow some. Not that being short is bad, a short ass will be just the right size considering I am 5 foot nothing. He is so cute, with his big lips and mobile ears that can twist and turn any direction at the drop of the proverbial hat.
Each and every day since I received the ass as an early Christmas present, I have treked up the hill and across a huge yard to play with my ass. But does he appreciate my thoughtfullness? NO!. I have yet to touch the thing more than a glancing blow as he backed away from my outstretched hand. Zeke isn't tame by any means. He and his......errrr.........stablemate are equally distant and scared of all humans. Go figure, me, who by no means is an accomplished brave woman, am now the owner of an ass that doesn't want to be petted.
Being of a noble nature, tho, I am determined that this ass will grow to accept me as his owner. To date, and I have only had him for a week, he is willing to eat sweet feed and corn from a bowl that I am holding out in front of me. But you can raise a hand to pet, and he runs away. Ah well, at least he doesn't turn his back to me anymore when I unlatch the stable gate. That is progress at least.
Yesterday as I entered the barn, dimly lit with the dust from hay and or manure wafting on the breeze, I encountered a horendous smell. I couldn't imagine anything smelling that bad.As I opened the stall door, my delicate nose was assaulted with the smell of manure. I looked at Zeke and Zeb and asked was that smell coming from them? Of course, they rolled there little eyes and stamped their hoofs..............which sent up another cloud of dust right into my eyes.
Why is it when we get older, our sense of smell seems to be enhanced? Sis and I spent countless hours locked into the dim barns of our childhood, constructing numerous mansions amoung the bales of hay. With hidden entrances, we could be assured of hours of time away from our pesky younger sisters. I don't remember it smelling that bad back then. I certainly don't remember the dust and smell stopping my nose up for days on end. It can't be the barn that smells so bad................so it must be the ass.
Each and every day since I received the ass as an early Christmas present, I have treked up the hill and across a huge yard to play with my ass. But does he appreciate my thoughtfullness? NO!. I have yet to touch the thing more than a glancing blow as he backed away from my outstretched hand. Zeke isn't tame by any means. He and his......errrr.........stablemate are equally distant and scared of all humans. Go figure, me, who by no means is an accomplished brave woman, am now the owner of an ass that doesn't want to be petted.
Being of a noble nature, tho, I am determined that this ass will grow to accept me as his owner. To date, and I have only had him for a week, he is willing to eat sweet feed and corn from a bowl that I am holding out in front of me. But you can raise a hand to pet, and he runs away. Ah well, at least he doesn't turn his back to me anymore when I unlatch the stable gate. That is progress at least.
Yesterday as I entered the barn, dimly lit with the dust from hay and or manure wafting on the breeze, I encountered a horendous smell. I couldn't imagine anything smelling that bad.As I opened the stall door, my delicate nose was assaulted with the smell of manure. I looked at Zeke and Zeb and asked was that smell coming from them? Of course, they rolled there little eyes and stamped their hoofs..............which sent up another cloud of dust right into my eyes.
Why is it when we get older, our sense of smell seems to be enhanced? Sis and I spent countless hours locked into the dim barns of our childhood, constructing numerous mansions amoung the bales of hay. With hidden entrances, we could be assured of hours of time away from our pesky younger sisters. I don't remember it smelling that bad back then. I certainly don't remember the dust and smell stopping my nose up for days on end. It can't be the barn that smells so bad................so it must be the ass.
Monday, October 17, 2005
Re - Rooted and Lovin It
I am turnin over a new leaf yall. I am goin back in time to my country roots, dang it! I have decided that the government is takin control of my life and I ain't standin for it no more. Gas prices are outrageous, it costs more for my ole man to drive to work than he makes. You can almost eat out at a fast food place for what it costs you to cook a decent meal every night. Heck, you can't even die without it costing a fortune. I, for one, am fed up to the back teeth with the government bleeding us dry.
I grew up with homemade clothes and hand-me-downs. We lived well in those days. Now it seems if you don't have a certain name brand of jeans or type of tennis shoe you are trash. We grew all our own vegetables and most of the meat we ate, canning and freezing all summer to provide for the winter. Now a can of beans can cost as much as a dollar! And some weeks hot dogs and mac and cheese are gourmet fare. Sheesh!
Next year, I will have a garden and grow my own food. I am determined to become more self-reliant and less dependant on the government to decide if I can afford hamburger or steak this month. I don't have a lot of use for fancy anything, be it clothes or shoes. Barefoot is fine and old sweats work great for what my life is day to day.
My son gave me an early Christmas present.............a baby jackass. So cute....for now. I aim to buy me a few chickens and a couple of goats. Farmer Donna will be back in business this time next year. Maybe even a calf or two. Who knows where I will go.
Feels nice to be back. Sis has been riding me to start this up again so here I am Vicki. Not a funny from long ago, but oh well. I WILL be back with more. This is fun again, for now anyway. Bye yall!
I grew up with homemade clothes and hand-me-downs. We lived well in those days. Now it seems if you don't have a certain name brand of jeans or type of tennis shoe you are trash. We grew all our own vegetables and most of the meat we ate, canning and freezing all summer to provide for the winter. Now a can of beans can cost as much as a dollar! And some weeks hot dogs and mac and cheese are gourmet fare. Sheesh!
Next year, I will have a garden and grow my own food. I am determined to become more self-reliant and less dependant on the government to decide if I can afford hamburger or steak this month. I don't have a lot of use for fancy anything, be it clothes or shoes. Barefoot is fine and old sweats work great for what my life is day to day.
My son gave me an early Christmas present.............a baby jackass. So cute....for now. I aim to buy me a few chickens and a couple of goats. Farmer Donna will be back in business this time next year. Maybe even a calf or two. Who knows where I will go.
Feels nice to be back. Sis has been riding me to start this up again so here I am Vicki. Not a funny from long ago, but oh well. I WILL be back with more. This is fun again, for now anyway. Bye yall!
Friday, October 07, 2005
HIJACKED
Donna, this is your Older but Better Looking (hee hee) and Smarter (etc etc) Sister, and I have temporarily hijacked your blog since you never write anything anymore. I've been playing with TypoGenerator and came up with these. Ain't they neat!! Now write something, dang it.
Love Ya, Vicki
Love Ya, Vicki
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
Memories of Daddy
When I think of my childhood, my Dad plays an important part in my memories. While Mom was the fun and games, Daddy was the one who instilled the value of working for what you want and earning what you get. The value of a dollar. Don't ask for a handout if you can acheive it on you own. Respect yourself and others. Or else. Although he had little education, my Dad is one of the smartest and wisest men I have ever known. He taught us the value of a hard days work and the honor of a job well done. His was the hand wielding the big stick whenever we crossed the line. And we often did. He expected us to give 100% to whatever we were attempting, be it in school or hauling hay or just playing in the yard.But, on the other side of the coin, I remember stripping second gear out of Daddy's black Ford truck learning to drive across the pasture because my legs were too short to mash the clutch all the way in and roasting wienies on the big flat rock at the edge of our woods on a hot summer Saturday afternoon. Or nights so dark and quiet as you slipped through the fields rabbit hunting with their eyes glowing red in the glare of a flashlight. Learning to load and shoot a gun and hitting what you aimed at. Slippin down to the pond in the summer with a tote sack in your hand and Daddy leading the way with his spotlight on his head and a frog gig in his hand. He taught all of us girl to check the oil and change a tire before we were allowed to drive. We learned to fix fences and run cows, milk goats and which tools were which and what they were used for. Probably the most important lesson he ever taught us was to believe in what you were and to stand up for what you believed in. We may not have been rich, with flashy clothes, a big fine home, or fancy cars, but we were loved. I think us Waters girls, all five of us, turned out just fine.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Missing Mom
It has been a year today that my Mom died. A year that has been filled with pain and heartache and loss for my entire family. Grief, stubbornness, protectiveness and anger has torn what is left of my family apart.
For two years, we had no choice but to watch our Mom slowly wither away, dieing a bit each day; little by little she slipped farther and farther away from us. No matter how we prayed, what we did to help, she just gradually eased away into God’s hands. And goodness knows, if I had the power to restore her to us, I wouldn’t dream of it. Returning her to the suffering she underwent and the anguish we suffered while she endured it would be more than we could bear. Where she is now, she knows no pain, and for me personally, I know that she is in a far better place.
Dealing with Daddy after Mom died was tough on all of us. We couldn’t give in to our grief, because we had to take care of him. For Mom, he was the center of her universe, and once she could no longer care for him, us girls did. Some more than others, time, money, jobs and distance being what they are, nothing is equal. But, all in all, we did what we could when we could. That is all anyone can ask, and certainly all our parents asked of us.
Then come April, we lost Daddy - he was gone in the blink of an eye. We lost both parents in ten months. My family has been blown apart. Grief is a strange emotion - so much pain; so much anger - total helplessness and a lack of control. Human beings do not deal well with any of these and my family is no different. With the anger, people lash out, causing pain and hard feelings. And god knows me and my sisters are some of the most stubborn people ever to grace this earth. Greed is maybe a big part of it - not that I don’t want something to remember them by. We could lose it all, every piece of property, every possession, and I would still have my memories. No one can take them from me. Those are mine, precious thoughts to brighten my days and warm my heart.
I wish I could fix what is broken in our family. I miss the team effort, the sharing and caring we always had no matter who was mad. We knew we could depend on one another, regardless. What should have brought us closer together has driven us apart. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I should even make the effort. For what it’s worth - Happy Birthday Sis. I love you. I love all of you - no matter what.
For two years, we had no choice but to watch our Mom slowly wither away, dieing a bit each day; little by little she slipped farther and farther away from us. No matter how we prayed, what we did to help, she just gradually eased away into God’s hands. And goodness knows, if I had the power to restore her to us, I wouldn’t dream of it. Returning her to the suffering she underwent and the anguish we suffered while she endured it would be more than we could bear. Where she is now, she knows no pain, and for me personally, I know that she is in a far better place.
Dealing with Daddy after Mom died was tough on all of us. We couldn’t give in to our grief, because we had to take care of him. For Mom, he was the center of her universe, and once she could no longer care for him, us girls did. Some more than others, time, money, jobs and distance being what they are, nothing is equal. But, all in all, we did what we could when we could. That is all anyone can ask, and certainly all our parents asked of us.
Then come April, we lost Daddy - he was gone in the blink of an eye. We lost both parents in ten months. My family has been blown apart. Grief is a strange emotion - so much pain; so much anger - total helplessness and a lack of control. Human beings do not deal well with any of these and my family is no different. With the anger, people lash out, causing pain and hard feelings. And god knows me and my sisters are some of the most stubborn people ever to grace this earth. Greed is maybe a big part of it - not that I don’t want something to remember them by. We could lose it all, every piece of property, every possession, and I would still have my memories. No one can take them from me. Those are mine, precious thoughts to brighten my days and warm my heart.
I wish I could fix what is broken in our family. I miss the team effort, the sharing and caring we always had no matter who was mad. We knew we could depend on one another, regardless. What should have brought us closer together has driven us apart. I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I should even make the effort. For what it’s worth - Happy Birthday Sis. I love you. I love all of you - no matter what.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
MEMORY MEME
My dear Sister Vicki has tagged me with this, this MEME thingy. And then did me the kindness to call and inform me that she did it. Ah well, here goes nothin. Been a while since I put any thought into anything more than getting thru each day. We'll see how it goes.
The rules:Remove the #1 item from the following list, bump everyone up one place and add your blog's name in the #5 spot. You need to link to actually link to each of the blogs for the link-whorage aspect of this fiendish meme to kick in.
1. Fistful of Fortnights
2. Feisty Repartee
3. Lollygaggin
4. Junebugg
5. Lifedroppings
MY MEMORIES:
1. I miss wading thru the creek barefoot, dodging sharp rocks and snakes; attempting to catch minnows by hand; cool clear water flowing over and between my toes on a hot summer day.
2. I miss Mama, she was my best friend, my confident, my release valve when life got to be too much. She was there, always.
3. I miss the carefree days of childhood, days when, once chores were done, allowed a freedom from life's stresses and cares that I will never again have.
4. I miss the love of my family, the acceptance and caring that were unconditional. The feeling of belonging and rightness of being part of a group held together by friendship and respect.
5. I miss walking barefoot behind Daddy's plow as he cultivated the garden early in the spring, soft, cool red clay covering my feet as the plow tore the hard crust from the soil. I even miss him yelling at me to not mess up his rows and having to plant tomatoes from only ONE side of the row else the row would be crooked.
I Tag:
1. Compleat Redneck
2. War Liberal
3.Possumblog
4. The Dissident frogman
5. Redneckin
The rules:Remove the #1 item from the following list, bump everyone up one place and add your blog's name in the #5 spot. You need to link to actually link to each of the blogs for the link-whorage aspect of this fiendish meme to kick in.
1. Fistful of Fortnights
2. Feisty Repartee
3. Lollygaggin
4. Junebugg
5. Lifedroppings
MY MEMORIES:
1. I miss wading thru the creek barefoot, dodging sharp rocks and snakes; attempting to catch minnows by hand; cool clear water flowing over and between my toes on a hot summer day.
2. I miss Mama, she was my best friend, my confident, my release valve when life got to be too much. She was there, always.
3. I miss the carefree days of childhood, days when, once chores were done, allowed a freedom from life's stresses and cares that I will never again have.
4. I miss the love of my family, the acceptance and caring that were unconditional. The feeling of belonging and rightness of being part of a group held together by friendship and respect.
5. I miss walking barefoot behind Daddy's plow as he cultivated the garden early in the spring, soft, cool red clay covering my feet as the plow tore the hard crust from the soil. I even miss him yelling at me to not mess up his rows and having to plant tomatoes from only ONE side of the row else the row would be crooked.
I Tag:
1. Compleat Redneck
2. War Liberal
3.Possumblog
4. The Dissident frogman
5. Redneckin
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Southern Rules
Not mine yall.........I 'borrowed' it. I don't have a clue who wrote it either. But I agree with every word. Enjoy!
In an effort to help outsiders understand the rules of the Southerner's mind, the following list will be handed to each person as they enter a Southern State. (These actually should be the rules in all states.)
1. That farm boy you see at the gas station did more work before breakfast than you do all week at the gym.
2. It's called a "gravel road." No matter how slow you drive, you're going to get dust on your Lincoln Navigator. Drive it or get it out of the way!
3. ! The red dirt -- it's called clay. Red clay. If you like the color, don't wash your car for a couple weeks -- it'll be permanent.
4. We all started hunting and fishing when we were seven years old. Yeah, we saw that Bambi movie, too. We got over it
.5. Go ahead and bring your $600 Orvis fly rod. Don't cry to us if a flathead breaks it off at the handle . We have a name for those little 13-inch trout you fish for: bait.
6. Pull your pants up! You look like an idiot.
7. If that cell phone rings while a bunch of mallards are making their final approach, we will shoot it. You might want to ensure it's not up to your ear at the time.
8. No, there's no "Vegetarian Special" on the menu. Order steak. Order it rare. Or, you can order the Chef's Salad and pick off the two pounds of ham and turkey.
9. Tea -- yeah, we have tea. It comes in a glass over ice and it's sweet. You want it hot? Set it in the sun. You want it unsweetened? Add a lot of water.
10. You bring Coke into my house, it better be brown, wet, and served over ice!
11. You have a sixty-thousand-dollar car. We're real impressed. We have a quarter of a million-dollar combine that we only use two weeks a year.
12. Let's get this straight. We have one stoplight in town. We stop when it's red. We may even stop when it's yellow.
13. We eat dinner together with our families. We pray before we eat--yeah, even breakfast. We go to church on Wednesdays and Sundays, and we go to high school football games on Friday nights. We still address our seniors with "yes, sir" and "yes, ma'am," and we sometimes still take Sunday drives around town to see friends and neighbors.
14. We don't do "hurry up" well.
15. Greens -- yeah, we have greens, but you don't putt on them. You boil them with salty fatback, bacon or a smoked hog jowl.
16. Yeah, we eat catfish, bass, bream, and carp. You really want sushi and caviar? It's available down at the bait shop.
17. They are pigs. That's what they smell like. Get over it. Don't like it? Interstate 75 goes two ways. Interstate 40 goes the other two. Pick one.
18. Grits are corn. You put butter, salt, and maybe even some pepper on them. If you want to put milk and sugar on them, then you want cream of wheat -- go to Kansas. That would be I-40 West.
19. The "Opener" refers to the first day of deer season or dove season. Both are holidays. You can get pancakes, cane syrup, and sausage before daylight at the church on either day.
20. So every person in every pickup truck waves? Yeah, it's called being friendly. Understand the concept?
21. Yeah, we have golf courses. Don't hit in the water hazards. It spooks the fish and bothers the gators --and, if you hit it in the rough, we have these things called diamondbacks, and they're not baseball players.
22. That Highway Patrol Officer that just pulled you over for driving like an idiot --his name is "Sir," no matter how young he is.
23. We have lots of pine trees. They have sap. It drips from them . You park your Navigator under them, and they'll leave a souvenir on your hood.
24. You burn an American flag in our state, you get beat up. No questions.The liberal contingent of our state legislature -- all four of them -- enacted a measure to stop this. There is now a $2.50 fine for beating up the flag burner.
American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God.
Thursday, February 24, 2005
To Boob or Not to Boob
Lets pose a question………………….where do big boobs come from??
For as far back as anyone has kept a written record, it seems women have always aspired to have large breasts, often employing ingenious methods of achieving the figure of their dreams. These oft times deceptive and devious contraptions of boob-u-lar enhancement varied with the age of the lady / girl needing to boost both her ego and her miniscule mammary tissue. From the age of puberty, anywhere from the 5th Grade to the 7th in most cases, gym class always a shocking proposition for those not yet caught up in the quest for unnatural chest enhancement. There they were, the same girls who you sat by during Math Class and History, changing into their gym clothes in the Dressing Room, the space above their ribcage either flat as a griddle cake, or already sprouting fledgling breasts, always, always encased in one of those white Training Bras with a tiny bow stuck front and center, the center made of a soft stretchy elastic-like fabric and not even a real cup designed to hold a breast. Considering they HAD no real breasts, I suppose this made some sort of sense. It always made me wonder what the Hell they were supposed to train them to do? I mean, I have to ask here, what tricks can the average Breast perform? It isn’t like they can “Sit Up“, or “Play Dead”.
And then, there was the other class of preteen girl, the ones who wanted breasts desperately but whom God hadn’t seen fit to bless with them. These girls were very imaginative in their methods of achieving their goal, that of appearing to have been turned into a women so as to not be left behind by all their overachieving classmates in the hierarchy of Boob-dom. These girls, in their quest for maturity and ergo, popularity with the males of the species, employed inventive methods of reaching the desired goal. Something as simple as a box of tissues, filched from home, could be and were inserted into a once empty bra, in a clandestine way, of course, giving the appearance of being all grown up. One of the dire consequences of tissue, I was told, was that not only did they rustle when you moved, they also, once mashed flat by something pushing against your chest, refused to plump back into their previous curvaceous form. One of the benefits of the tissue-filled bra had to be that if anyone found out that your budding figure came from a cardboard box rather than nature, you always had something to blow your nose on when you burst into tears of humiliation. Also used were gym socks, clean it has to be hoped, being likewise used as filler. These were difficult to use, being hard to the touch when rolled tightly and shoved into an empty bra and giving a lumpy appearance to the outside of your clothes. Both of these methods left a lot to be desired, I would think, the necessity of having to purchase and wear a bra that you had nothing to put into and then hiding it from your Mother would be enough to daunt even the most stout hearted. Added to that, once you had on the aforementioned bra, where did you conceal yourself to perform the necessary stuffing? It HAD to be finished before you got to school, so ……….on the School Bus? The Girl’s bathroom, after a mad dash into the school from the bus with your books glued to your chest in hopes no one would notice you were less amply endowed than the previous day? To say nothing of the hassle to maintain the overstuffed-bra look once you had completed the goal. This ritual would have to be carried out every day, which meant going through the same trials over and over, for under no circumstances could a girl, once publicly very Boob-a-lis-tic-ly gifted in public, go back to being flat as a tire that had been punctured by a sharp nail.
I have thought maybe there was a “Boob Gene”, an inherited cellular thing that caused generation after generation of massive Boobs to sprout in families, but apparently that isn’t the case. My Mother was “NORMAL” in the bustline, as were her Mother and her sisters. But for some ungodly reason, I and my four sisters were overly blessed by the Tittie Fairy, that fictional nymph of some otherworldly beginnings who flitters around with one broken wing, a bent halo and a crooked wand, bestowing burgeoning mammary glands to innocent female children in the dead of night while they dream of ways to get even with mean little boys. The little witch apparently imbibes heavily, for on occasion she stays too long on her visit (likely passed out from drink! ) and some unsuspecting little girl awakes the next morning with these horrible, embarrassing growths protruding from her once level chest. That is likely what occurred at my house, an explanation that while Mom was average, the 5 sisters of my family went from being the Boob-less wonders to Boob-a-licious in a short fashion. Personally, I remember having……..errrrr….. breasts far before any of my classmates. This not only brought unwanted attention from the males in my class, but also the unwarranted accusations of my females classmates of my own practice of Bra-Tampering in any form. Young ladies, regardless of what one might think, are spiteful and hateful to their peers when they have something they yearn for so anxiously and do not have.
High school brings changes in a girl’s life, for the boys who once wanted to harass and belittle the girls become creatures of Testosterone……..when the manly urge make them take notice of a girls figure and stand at attention, so to speak. Of course, Vicki, being the oldest, kind of blazed a trail for me and my younger sisters. I remember the exact summer when her boobs first got notice. While walking down the gravel road we lived on to a neighbor girl’s house, two of the “older” boys, teenagers who rode the same school bus as us, whistled and called out “Woo-Hoo! Teenie Boppers!”. They also mentioned how Sis had grown up over the summer. I was embarrassed for her, I must say. Bad enough that your very own body was betraying you in this hideous way, but for a guy to actually notice and comment! And it only got worse. Beings as I was only a couple of years younger than Sis, we took to rambling together. Although I couldn’t date, I could and did go on her dates…………as a would-be chaperone…….to parties and movies and such. The problem was, although I was interested in boys, they talked to my breasts instead of me! And being barely 5 feet tall, they had the opportunity to sneak a peek from their loftier height anytime they got close. From the age of 15 or so, both Vicki and I were more than amply endowed. It was a chore to buy bras much less find clothing that fit. And buying a bikini was next to impossible, for it the bra fit, the bottom fell off. If the bottom fit, it was a struggle to cram all the boob into the tiny cup, always leaving excess boob hanging from the sides or the bottom. Disgusting and not at all allowable by a Father who was sure that all the male animals in the world were just waiting to pounce on us the minute we walked into the world and removed our shirts!
With age comes wisdom, and alas, in my case, boobs. As the years have went by, I have learned many things in life are unfair. The disadvantages of being large chested far outweigh the advantages. Running of any sort became virtually impossible, for not only was it painful it was logistically difficult to see past the boobs flying up in your face with every step. Bras to fit me and most of my sisters generally have to be ordered, as stores have so little call for them they don’t stock them. And a discount store carry them ? No Way! The cost alone is anywhere from $25 to $40. Finding a button-up shirt is a aggravation, for if it fits across the shoulders, it will surely gap open across the chest, straining butt holes to the limits. Add the chronic back and shoulder pain and the deep grooves that wide bra straps, burdened with the task of supporting the weight of two large cantaloupes all day, cuts into both your shoulders. Mammograms, which as many know, Vicki discussed recently, are unbearable. While I understand the need to perform the x-rays, I would swear to you that the sex of the inventor had to have been male. No way would a woman force herself and millions of other women to undergo so painful an ordeal. That being said, if the man who invented the machine that tortures women daily worldwide would step forward, I, personally, would like to initiate him into the realm of Womanhood by placing his…….testicular organs into the slabs of glass and squashing the Bejesus out of them while he cringed and tried to pull away, about to scream in pain! I guarantee if men had to suffer that, there would soon be a new, less painful means of testing for Breast Cancer.
As I have gotten older, my breasts, while never perky due to the mass and weight encased inside, have no doubt sagged. Not far, mind you, for it is impossible to sag when a solid mass of tissue stands between them and my belly. Imagine folding over a full sack of dog food…..it won’t go flat as long as it is still full. And being short, I find that they are in very close proximity to my belly regardless. Makes a comfortable resting place at times. The main thing I have noticed as I have aged is sleeping on my back is more difficult. What once lay perfectly on my chest during sleep now has a tendency to fall over into my armpits, making lowering my arms difficult. It would, if I cared, be terribly humiliating for a woman who knows she is on the downward side of forty. Thank God I don’t care! Although going braless has never appealed to me for many reason, now days I look forward to the time when my house clears of teenagers and I can release the gruesome devise of torture I am forced to wear to protect the innocent daily. Although going braless did pay off for Sis once……..she entered a wet t -shirt contest and won a huge trophy. I can remember her bringing it into the parent’s house and them her trying to explain to Dad how she won it without causing a major explosion.
Far be it from me to whine and complain, but when I see these ladies who go to any expense and unnecessary pain in the pursuit of possessing deeper cleavage, it pisses me off! Here I am, overly Boob-u-lated and miserable, desiring nothing more than to wake in the morning to find a miracle, that my huge and monstrous breasts have shrank to a more normal and manageable size, that there are actually women who WANT them!
For as far back as anyone has kept a written record, it seems women have always aspired to have large breasts, often employing ingenious methods of achieving the figure of their dreams. These oft times deceptive and devious contraptions of boob-u-lar enhancement varied with the age of the lady / girl needing to boost both her ego and her miniscule mammary tissue. From the age of puberty, anywhere from the 5th Grade to the 7th in most cases, gym class always a shocking proposition for those not yet caught up in the quest for unnatural chest enhancement. There they were, the same girls who you sat by during Math Class and History, changing into their gym clothes in the Dressing Room, the space above their ribcage either flat as a griddle cake, or already sprouting fledgling breasts, always, always encased in one of those white Training Bras with a tiny bow stuck front and center, the center made of a soft stretchy elastic-like fabric and not even a real cup designed to hold a breast. Considering they HAD no real breasts, I suppose this made some sort of sense. It always made me wonder what the Hell they were supposed to train them to do? I mean, I have to ask here, what tricks can the average Breast perform? It isn’t like they can “Sit Up“, or “Play Dead”.
And then, there was the other class of preteen girl, the ones who wanted breasts desperately but whom God hadn’t seen fit to bless with them. These girls were very imaginative in their methods of achieving their goal, that of appearing to have been turned into a women so as to not be left behind by all their overachieving classmates in the hierarchy of Boob-dom. These girls, in their quest for maturity and ergo, popularity with the males of the species, employed inventive methods of reaching the desired goal. Something as simple as a box of tissues, filched from home, could be and were inserted into a once empty bra, in a clandestine way, of course, giving the appearance of being all grown up. One of the dire consequences of tissue, I was told, was that not only did they rustle when you moved, they also, once mashed flat by something pushing against your chest, refused to plump back into their previous curvaceous form. One of the benefits of the tissue-filled bra had to be that if anyone found out that your budding figure came from a cardboard box rather than nature, you always had something to blow your nose on when you burst into tears of humiliation. Also used were gym socks, clean it has to be hoped, being likewise used as filler. These were difficult to use, being hard to the touch when rolled tightly and shoved into an empty bra and giving a lumpy appearance to the outside of your clothes. Both of these methods left a lot to be desired, I would think, the necessity of having to purchase and wear a bra that you had nothing to put into and then hiding it from your Mother would be enough to daunt even the most stout hearted. Added to that, once you had on the aforementioned bra, where did you conceal yourself to perform the necessary stuffing? It HAD to be finished before you got to school, so ……….on the School Bus? The Girl’s bathroom, after a mad dash into the school from the bus with your books glued to your chest in hopes no one would notice you were less amply endowed than the previous day? To say nothing of the hassle to maintain the overstuffed-bra look once you had completed the goal. This ritual would have to be carried out every day, which meant going through the same trials over and over, for under no circumstances could a girl, once publicly very Boob-a-lis-tic-ly gifted in public, go back to being flat as a tire that had been punctured by a sharp nail.
I have thought maybe there was a “Boob Gene”, an inherited cellular thing that caused generation after generation of massive Boobs to sprout in families, but apparently that isn’t the case. My Mother was “NORMAL” in the bustline, as were her Mother and her sisters. But for some ungodly reason, I and my four sisters were overly blessed by the Tittie Fairy, that fictional nymph of some otherworldly beginnings who flitters around with one broken wing, a bent halo and a crooked wand, bestowing burgeoning mammary glands to innocent female children in the dead of night while they dream of ways to get even with mean little boys. The little witch apparently imbibes heavily, for on occasion she stays too long on her visit (likely passed out from drink! ) and some unsuspecting little girl awakes the next morning with these horrible, embarrassing growths protruding from her once level chest. That is likely what occurred at my house, an explanation that while Mom was average, the 5 sisters of my family went from being the Boob-less wonders to Boob-a-licious in a short fashion. Personally, I remember having……..errrrr….. breasts far before any of my classmates. This not only brought unwanted attention from the males in my class, but also the unwarranted accusations of my females classmates of my own practice of Bra-Tampering in any form. Young ladies, regardless of what one might think, are spiteful and hateful to their peers when they have something they yearn for so anxiously and do not have.
High school brings changes in a girl’s life, for the boys who once wanted to harass and belittle the girls become creatures of Testosterone……..when the manly urge make them take notice of a girls figure and stand at attention, so to speak. Of course, Vicki, being the oldest, kind of blazed a trail for me and my younger sisters. I remember the exact summer when her boobs first got notice. While walking down the gravel road we lived on to a neighbor girl’s house, two of the “older” boys, teenagers who rode the same school bus as us, whistled and called out “Woo-Hoo! Teenie Boppers!”. They also mentioned how Sis had grown up over the summer. I was embarrassed for her, I must say. Bad enough that your very own body was betraying you in this hideous way, but for a guy to actually notice and comment! And it only got worse. Beings as I was only a couple of years younger than Sis, we took to rambling together. Although I couldn’t date, I could and did go on her dates…………as a would-be chaperone…….to parties and movies and such. The problem was, although I was interested in boys, they talked to my breasts instead of me! And being barely 5 feet tall, they had the opportunity to sneak a peek from their loftier height anytime they got close. From the age of 15 or so, both Vicki and I were more than amply endowed. It was a chore to buy bras much less find clothing that fit. And buying a bikini was next to impossible, for it the bra fit, the bottom fell off. If the bottom fit, it was a struggle to cram all the boob into the tiny cup, always leaving excess boob hanging from the sides or the bottom. Disgusting and not at all allowable by a Father who was sure that all the male animals in the world were just waiting to pounce on us the minute we walked into the world and removed our shirts!
With age comes wisdom, and alas, in my case, boobs. As the years have went by, I have learned many things in life are unfair. The disadvantages of being large chested far outweigh the advantages. Running of any sort became virtually impossible, for not only was it painful it was logistically difficult to see past the boobs flying up in your face with every step. Bras to fit me and most of my sisters generally have to be ordered, as stores have so little call for them they don’t stock them. And a discount store carry them ? No Way! The cost alone is anywhere from $25 to $40. Finding a button-up shirt is a aggravation, for if it fits across the shoulders, it will surely gap open across the chest, straining butt holes to the limits. Add the chronic back and shoulder pain and the deep grooves that wide bra straps, burdened with the task of supporting the weight of two large cantaloupes all day, cuts into both your shoulders. Mammograms, which as many know, Vicki discussed recently, are unbearable. While I understand the need to perform the x-rays, I would swear to you that the sex of the inventor had to have been male. No way would a woman force herself and millions of other women to undergo so painful an ordeal. That being said, if the man who invented the machine that tortures women daily worldwide would step forward, I, personally, would like to initiate him into the realm of Womanhood by placing his…….testicular organs into the slabs of glass and squashing the Bejesus out of them while he cringed and tried to pull away, about to scream in pain! I guarantee if men had to suffer that, there would soon be a new, less painful means of testing for Breast Cancer.
As I have gotten older, my breasts, while never perky due to the mass and weight encased inside, have no doubt sagged. Not far, mind you, for it is impossible to sag when a solid mass of tissue stands between them and my belly. Imagine folding over a full sack of dog food…..it won’t go flat as long as it is still full. And being short, I find that they are in very close proximity to my belly regardless. Makes a comfortable resting place at times. The main thing I have noticed as I have aged is sleeping on my back is more difficult. What once lay perfectly on my chest during sleep now has a tendency to fall over into my armpits, making lowering my arms difficult. It would, if I cared, be terribly humiliating for a woman who knows she is on the downward side of forty. Thank God I don’t care! Although going braless has never appealed to me for many reason, now days I look forward to the time when my house clears of teenagers and I can release the gruesome devise of torture I am forced to wear to protect the innocent daily. Although going braless did pay off for Sis once……..she entered a wet t -shirt contest and won a huge trophy. I can remember her bringing it into the parent’s house and them her trying to explain to Dad how she won it without causing a major explosion.
Far be it from me to whine and complain, but when I see these ladies who go to any expense and unnecessary pain in the pursuit of possessing deeper cleavage, it pisses me off! Here I am, overly Boob-u-lated and miserable, desiring nothing more than to wake in the morning to find a miracle, that my huge and monstrous breasts have shrank to a more normal and manageable size, that there are actually women who WANT them!
Monday, February 07, 2005
Thanks
I want to make the effort to thank all of you for your support and kind words of encouragement. I should be used to this by now after dealing with it for a very constant ten years. For some reason, it isn’t like a disease where you can take a pill and find a quick fix. God know I wish it were! Until this recent downward spiral, though, I managed to have more up days than down. And yes, I do know there are many more medications on the market and available. I have such a history of allergic reactions to various drugs, it makes me hesitant to venture into the world of the unknown. Vicki (Sis) has always been a brave soul, leading the pack into danger with no thought to consequences. I, on the other hand, was and am a cautious individual, thinking of the penalty before the action is even completed. I am too housebound, that much I know. And it isn’t fear that makes me stay home, it is apathy. I simply have no desire to step-foot out into the world. There are few places I want to go, even fewer people I care to visit or talk to. I have hardly one friend and, sad to say, my two teenage children and their friends are about the only human contact I have. How did I get this way?? I used to be vivacious and outgoing, with a bubbly sense of the hilarious that turned the world on it’s ear. Somehow, in thirty years of a problematic marriage and raising four children, I have lost myself. I don’t know how to “find” me again, but I am willing to make the effort. More than willing, eager! I have managed to do better the past two days and you can all pat me on the back. I ventured to the new Wal-Mart last night with my daughter and without a specific purchase I simply “HAD” to make. It was refreshingly enjoyable for me and even my very own idea. She was remarkably well behaved ( and she is 18, not a baby, although she has been know to act the part) and we even got along very well. Of Course, it could be that I was spending my carefully hoarded money on make-up for her, but that isn’t the point. I did it, I enjoyed it, and I plan to do it again. And if you really knew me you would know that I hate to shop! Tonight, I cleaned my fish tank, which doesn’t sound too bad. But this is a 59 gallon tank and the 4 fish in it are Paku, a cousin of the Piranha. These fish weigh at least five pounds each and are as wide as a dinner plate. Cleaning their tank is a major undertaking and even though the water they were in was the dark green color of a murky, dank cesspool, I had neglected to clean it for months on end (I am not even sure I have cleaned it since Mom died last June, now I think back). With the help of our least sister, Lana, we accomplished it in a little under two hours. I woke up a full two hours earlier than my norm and even sat up all day; not once have I laid on the couch. That in it’s self is a major accomplishment for me. I am trying to overcome this. And somehow I will. Maybe not tomorrow or even the next day. But at some point, life has to have meaning again. If not, there isn’t a lot of point, is there?
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
Donna's Life
This story won’t be the hilarious, tongue-in-cheek parody of country life and the antics of five fun-filled little girls, the sort I have poured into a typewriter and posted with the thought of sharing with the world our wonderful childhood. Instead, it is why I have apparently ceased to function and live a normal life, much less compose anything of a humorous nature in the past days and months.
There is a Demon in my life, looming large and always lurking around every corner with the intent to shatter my everyday world, spreading it’s gloom and doom to me and all who surround me. This monster is Depression. It drains the life out of me, taking away physical as well and mental strength. It saps the emotions from the soul of anyone who has it and effects those whose lives are connected. Nothing matters to me. I try to work up a bit of enthusiasm for ANYTHING and it is impossible. I can’t focus on an occupation for any amount of time. My mind wanders when I try to play a game or read a book. Concentrating long enough to watch a television program is useless. I get so tired sitting on the couch, I have to lie down and rest. I stay up all night because, even with a sleeping aid, I rarely sleep. Even when I do, I wake up exhausted and unable to function. I can barely make myself move, much less lead the active life I have always enjoyed. Most days, I don’t even want to try. The least thing makes me cry.
Suffering from Depression is bad enough, but even worse is no one understands how I feel. I can’t describe it to them, they just don’t get it. I have been told to “Snap out of it!’, or to “Get over it!” more times than I can count. Doesn’t anyone realize that no one would purposely choose to live this way? It is a living Hell, with no end; a succession of days when death looks like a release from the anguish of dealing with this everyday of the rest of my life. There is no cure and treatments have their own drawbacks. I have been on treatment for over 8 years, the pills no longer help that much. The Doctor suggested doubling them, I can’t do that. The medicines used to treat it, over a period of time, kills whatever emotions I have that still work. I feel dead inside, my life is hopelessly spiraling downward and I don’t have a clue how to stop it. I am afraid, the future looks very bleak for me, and I don’t know where to find the strength to get up everyday. I am tired, so deathly tired that doing anything is a chore. Simply putting on my clothes is a major undertaking. I struggle everyday to just make it till bedtime, and God willing, to find the energy to rise once again in the morning.
I haven’t given up, not by a long shot. This ole gal won’t go down easy. I have fought every day for the past eight years and will continue to until my last breath. I will be back, ya’ll, that I promise. I have licked this before and will again. But today, please, for me, just ask God to send some strength to me, cause I truly need it.
There is a Demon in my life, looming large and always lurking around every corner with the intent to shatter my everyday world, spreading it’s gloom and doom to me and all who surround me. This monster is Depression. It drains the life out of me, taking away physical as well and mental strength. It saps the emotions from the soul of anyone who has it and effects those whose lives are connected. Nothing matters to me. I try to work up a bit of enthusiasm for ANYTHING and it is impossible. I can’t focus on an occupation for any amount of time. My mind wanders when I try to play a game or read a book. Concentrating long enough to watch a television program is useless. I get so tired sitting on the couch, I have to lie down and rest. I stay up all night because, even with a sleeping aid, I rarely sleep. Even when I do, I wake up exhausted and unable to function. I can barely make myself move, much less lead the active life I have always enjoyed. Most days, I don’t even want to try. The least thing makes me cry.
Suffering from Depression is bad enough, but even worse is no one understands how I feel. I can’t describe it to them, they just don’t get it. I have been told to “Snap out of it!’, or to “Get over it!” more times than I can count. Doesn’t anyone realize that no one would purposely choose to live this way? It is a living Hell, with no end; a succession of days when death looks like a release from the anguish of dealing with this everyday of the rest of my life. There is no cure and treatments have their own drawbacks. I have been on treatment for over 8 years, the pills no longer help that much. The Doctor suggested doubling them, I can’t do that. The medicines used to treat it, over a period of time, kills whatever emotions I have that still work. I feel dead inside, my life is hopelessly spiraling downward and I don’t have a clue how to stop it. I am afraid, the future looks very bleak for me, and I don’t know where to find the strength to get up everyday. I am tired, so deathly tired that doing anything is a chore. Simply putting on my clothes is a major undertaking. I struggle everyday to just make it till bedtime, and God willing, to find the energy to rise once again in the morning.
I haven’t given up, not by a long shot. This ole gal won’t go down easy. I have fought every day for the past eight years and will continue to until my last breath. I will be back, ya’ll, that I promise. I have licked this before and will again. But today, please, for me, just ask God to send some strength to me, cause I truly need it.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Mama Will Never Know
Some of life’s most important lessons come from curious circumstances it seems. We grow up expecting our parents to lead us along the way, holding our hands and doling out the typical warnings and adages as we venture throughout the perils of childhood. Those we seem to acknowledge and accept as the gospel truth until we reach an age where we can formulate our own opinions and make the correct choices when differentiating right from wrong. But, once in a long while, a situation comes along that nothing in a child’s experience will cover, no words of parental wisdom or cautionary advice ever voiced could have forewarned of the consequences about to occur to a poor unsuspecting child.
Living as a child in a rural area had many negative aspects in a lot of ways, the distance to town being one of several. ( Another was telephone party lines - but that’s a different tale altogether).Even if families could have afforded a second vehicle, many women of an older generation just never learned how to drive. This being so, during the daylight hours while most husbands worked a public job, these women were tied to home, with no way to go shopping or anything else. In order to survive this obstacle, neighbor women borrowed from another neighbor women, everything from flour and sugar to help get dinner on the table to different types of non-prescription medicines that were needed by their families. My family was no different. My Mom and the old lady across and down the road a bit often utilized borrowing as a way to make it through the day. A fact that I lived to regret…
I was about ten, and the eldest sister at home, Vicki being off some where on an overnight with a cousin (not real sure where…but we only got to stay with relatives in those days). The older lady down the road had sent her tiny grandson with a note bearing a request for my Mama to allow her to borrow………..something. Sure enough, my Mama had the required article - medicine (I know this because she went to the closet in the kitchen and dug behind the curtain where she kept ALL the stuff we weren’t supposed to mess with or even know about!) My downfall began when Mama came to the conclusion that the little boy wasn’t competent or trustworthy enough to deliver the goods to his Grandmother. Unfortunately, being the oldest daughter at home, I was recruited to venture down the dusty gravel road, dragging my next younger sister behind me. I should have just stayed at home.
As I think back, being the lofty age of ten seemed to have given a gal thoughts of her own superiority over those of a lesser age. A feeling of grandeur if you will. As the two ‘youngsters’ sped along several feet in front of me, I recall ambling along at a sedate pace, my bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust with every step, and the sun beaming it’s golden rays on my bare arms and legs. Soon they were several yards in front of me, nearly to the driveway of the other house, but still in view. And, I must admit it here, my curiosity was aroused by the tiny blue and white box clutched tightly in my sweaty palm. What could so small a box contain that was so important that a little boy couldn’t possibly make it just a short walk down the road with it intact? I had to know, so I peeled open that pretty little box and there inside was something wrapped in tin foil. I peeped back over my shoulder to see if Mama was watching - no - I was safe, the barn blocked the view of our house. If I couldn’t see her, she certainly couldn’t see me. The kids had ventured into the driveway of the neighbor’s place, and again, I was blocked from sight, this time by tall weeds growing along the narrow ditch at the edge of the road. Now, I could open that shiny tin foil package and discover what was such a deep, dark secret. Much to my surprise - IT WAS CHOCOLATE!! My Mama was hoarding chocolate!
My Mama was a true southern lady, fairness was her motto - she preached it at us all our lives. How dare she hide this beautiful chocolate from her five darling daughters? As I began to examine my booty, I realized the squares were teeny tiny and a few were missing. There were only four of the blocks of candy left. Someone had been into this luscious dark chocolate candy. And we didn’t get any! I gave Mama the benefit of the doubt when I saw how few remained of this treasure, only four, and with five starving children--- well --- my first thought was that she was being fair-minded when she decided that none of us getting a treat was better than one being left out of the goodies. But wait, that meant that at some point, her or Daddy has snuck a bite when we weren’t looking! That was even worse. How unfair life seems when you are a child….
A golden opportunity was presenting itself to me - a chocoholic from birth - this was most definitely NOT the best time to taunt a candy deprived little girl! We got weekly installments of sweets from the country store a few miles away most every weekend, but Mama was pretty strict about rationing it out to us. So here I was, chocolate malnourished---and with that sweet looking candy sitting right smack in the middle of my perspiring little hand. Only four small squares, not a lot, but in my adolescent mind I reasoned that the borrower didn’t know how much the lender was
sending….so if I ate one or two…who would be the wiser? There would surely be less in the box when it was returned that what there was when mama sent it. Logical…right?
I stopped walking and stood dead still in the middle of that narrow country road, out of sight of both my destination and home. Should I? Who would know? Would I be sent straight to Hell for just one teeny taste of chocolate? I couldn’t resist the temptation of that little box. I had to have a bite! I just had to! I carefully pulled out the flap stuck into the end of the box, being very careful not to make any tears on the edges. As I eased the small foil wrapped package from the box, I was hopeful that no one could tell that it had been tampered with. Peeling the tin foil gently away from the treat, I delicately broke off a small section to taste. Realizing how truly tiny the piece of candy was, I decided that two was more generous, after all it was late afternoon and I was hungry. It also evened the remaining sections out. I popped that wonderful smelling candy into my mouth, expecting the sweet gooey rush of chocolate heaven to flood onto my tongue and fill my mouth with a fantastic sensation. What was this? It was bitter! No heady rush of sensual pleasure! No taste buds tingling with the burst of sugar straight into my system! I had been conned! What kind of chocolate looked like a child’s version of heaven and tasted like dirt?
I was trapped with that nasty fake chocolate melting into a viscous ball of foul tasting gunk inside my mouth. And I couldn’t spit it out! If my little sister saw on the ground on the it on the way home, she would surely tell Mama and I would be busted. I had to make myself swallow it, no matter what! Finally I forced it down my throat, gagging and nearly heaving with every swallow. My teeth felt like they were coated with mud and the top of my tongue was so gritty and disgusting I could hardly bear it. I had to have water and soon! So I did what any red-blooded American kid would do - I meticulously re-wrapped the tin foil around the remaining blocks of chocolate and painstakingly replaced it inside the tiny blue and white box and closed the flap. Then I slapped on my “WHO ME?” innocent face and hurried on my way.
As I got to the neighbor’s driveway, my throat was so dry I could hardly croak. Added to that, the neighbor lady met me on the porch waiting for the ‘medicine’ and talking a mile a minute. I was going to choke to death any second now! Being raised to be polite to my elders was a curse that day--near impossible to carry on a conversation interspersed with “Yes, Ma‘am” and “No Ma‘am” while trying to keep your lips closed (chocolate has a way of clinging to the teeth and I wanted no evidence available to use against me). Finally I asked for a drink of water, anxious to be on my way home. I was saved….. A full glass of frigidly cold, clear and sparkling well water, straight from the dipper resting in the metal bucket in the cool kitchen of her home! Hurrying my sister to the door, we set out for home and safety. I was in the clear for sure. Mama would never know of my misdeed and all was good in my little world.
By the time we walked into the yard at home, Daddy was due in from work. Mama was setting supper on the dining room table as we went into the house and we and the others washed our hands and prepared to eat. As Mama ladled food onto our plates and poured our glass of milk, I sat in my allotted chair and readied myself for a feast. UMMMM! Homemade stew and cornbread, my favorite meal. As I sat there waiting for my bowl to cool, I felt a rumble deep in my belly, an ominous sign to be sure. The steam from the food and the aroma that only seconds before were so appetizing were beginning to make my forehead break out into a sweat and I began to get a salty taste deep in my throat. I was going to be sick!
I dashed from the table out the back door and bolted for the outhouse just seconds short of disgracing myself. As I rounded the corner of the shed at a run I began to pray to every God I had ever heard mention of and a few more besides. I had to make it! Finally I flung open the heavy outhouse door all the while trying to wrench my shorts down below my hips. Can you imagine running with your legs crossed at the thigh, your butt cheeks clenched so tight that your is face screwed into a grotesque grimace of severe pain and all the while trying to prevent the noxious bile that is crawling up the inside of your throat from leaping out of your mouth like a river spewing from a busted dam.I was about to die and I knew it…
Redemption came as my fanny hit the toilet seat, and not a second too soon either, for as soon as I got seated, foul smelling liquid became to erupt in torrents from my backside. The stagnant afternoon air inside that small outhouse was already rancid with the stench of…..the numerous daily deposits made by my family. All I seemed to be doing was stirring that smell to even nastier realms! I sat there for what seemed like hours, disgusted tears pouring down my hot, flushed cheeks and other less mentionable body fluids shooting from a lower portion of my anatomy. When the rumbling finally slowed to a muted growl in my belly, I cleaned myself up, got dressed and wiped my nose. Mama would surely know what I had done. Time to face the music….
Returning to the house and the others still sitting at the supper table was probably the hardest thing I had ever done. Usually my sister Vicki was my culprit in crime and shared half the blame for our frequent scrapes with the wild side of life, but this time, I was on my own. I told Mama I was sick and wasn’t hungry. I was sent to bed with a cool fan blowing on me and a damp cool rag on my forehead. If doing without a meal that I couldn’t have eaten anyway was all the punishment I was going to receive I counted myself a very lucky little girl. I was so sick all night that I had to resort to many more mad sprints to the outhouse. I think I paid heavily for my sins in a lot of ways, even though Mama never discovered what I had done.
I did learn several valuable lessons from this escapade, though. They have stayed with me all my life. Not everything that looks like candy is necessarily candy. Another is that if your parent thinks you are at an age to be responsible and discriminating - then be that! The last one I know as a definite fact, and should be stressed to the fullest - NEVER! I repeat NEVER eat a candy called Ex-Lax!
Living as a child in a rural area had many negative aspects in a lot of ways, the distance to town being one of several. ( Another was telephone party lines - but that’s a different tale altogether).Even if families could have afforded a second vehicle, many women of an older generation just never learned how to drive. This being so, during the daylight hours while most husbands worked a public job, these women were tied to home, with no way to go shopping or anything else. In order to survive this obstacle, neighbor women borrowed from another neighbor women, everything from flour and sugar to help get dinner on the table to different types of non-prescription medicines that were needed by their families. My family was no different. My Mom and the old lady across and down the road a bit often utilized borrowing as a way to make it through the day. A fact that I lived to regret…
I was about ten, and the eldest sister at home, Vicki being off some where on an overnight with a cousin (not real sure where…but we only got to stay with relatives in those days). The older lady down the road had sent her tiny grandson with a note bearing a request for my Mama to allow her to borrow………..something. Sure enough, my Mama had the required article - medicine (I know this because she went to the closet in the kitchen and dug behind the curtain where she kept ALL the stuff we weren’t supposed to mess with or even know about!) My downfall began when Mama came to the conclusion that the little boy wasn’t competent or trustworthy enough to deliver the goods to his Grandmother. Unfortunately, being the oldest daughter at home, I was recruited to venture down the dusty gravel road, dragging my next younger sister behind me. I should have just stayed at home.
As I think back, being the lofty age of ten seemed to have given a gal thoughts of her own superiority over those of a lesser age. A feeling of grandeur if you will. As the two ‘youngsters’ sped along several feet in front of me, I recall ambling along at a sedate pace, my bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust with every step, and the sun beaming it’s golden rays on my bare arms and legs. Soon they were several yards in front of me, nearly to the driveway of the other house, but still in view. And, I must admit it here, my curiosity was aroused by the tiny blue and white box clutched tightly in my sweaty palm. What could so small a box contain that was so important that a little boy couldn’t possibly make it just a short walk down the road with it intact? I had to know, so I peeled open that pretty little box and there inside was something wrapped in tin foil. I peeped back over my shoulder to see if Mama was watching - no - I was safe, the barn blocked the view of our house. If I couldn’t see her, she certainly couldn’t see me. The kids had ventured into the driveway of the neighbor’s place, and again, I was blocked from sight, this time by tall weeds growing along the narrow ditch at the edge of the road. Now, I could open that shiny tin foil package and discover what was such a deep, dark secret. Much to my surprise - IT WAS CHOCOLATE!! My Mama was hoarding chocolate!
My Mama was a true southern lady, fairness was her motto - she preached it at us all our lives. How dare she hide this beautiful chocolate from her five darling daughters? As I began to examine my booty, I realized the squares were teeny tiny and a few were missing. There were only four of the blocks of candy left. Someone had been into this luscious dark chocolate candy. And we didn’t get any! I gave Mama the benefit of the doubt when I saw how few remained of this treasure, only four, and with five starving children--- well --- my first thought was that she was being fair-minded when she decided that none of us getting a treat was better than one being left out of the goodies. But wait, that meant that at some point, her or Daddy has snuck a bite when we weren’t looking! That was even worse. How unfair life seems when you are a child….
A golden opportunity was presenting itself to me - a chocoholic from birth - this was most definitely NOT the best time to taunt a candy deprived little girl! We got weekly installments of sweets from the country store a few miles away most every weekend, but Mama was pretty strict about rationing it out to us. So here I was, chocolate malnourished---and with that sweet looking candy sitting right smack in the middle of my perspiring little hand. Only four small squares, not a lot, but in my adolescent mind I reasoned that the borrower didn’t know how much the lender was
sending….so if I ate one or two…who would be the wiser? There would surely be less in the box when it was returned that what there was when mama sent it. Logical…right?
I stopped walking and stood dead still in the middle of that narrow country road, out of sight of both my destination and home. Should I? Who would know? Would I be sent straight to Hell for just one teeny taste of chocolate? I couldn’t resist the temptation of that little box. I had to have a bite! I just had to! I carefully pulled out the flap stuck into the end of the box, being very careful not to make any tears on the edges. As I eased the small foil wrapped package from the box, I was hopeful that no one could tell that it had been tampered with. Peeling the tin foil gently away from the treat, I delicately broke off a small section to taste. Realizing how truly tiny the piece of candy was, I decided that two was more generous, after all it was late afternoon and I was hungry. It also evened the remaining sections out. I popped that wonderful smelling candy into my mouth, expecting the sweet gooey rush of chocolate heaven to flood onto my tongue and fill my mouth with a fantastic sensation. What was this? It was bitter! No heady rush of sensual pleasure! No taste buds tingling with the burst of sugar straight into my system! I had been conned! What kind of chocolate looked like a child’s version of heaven and tasted like dirt?
I was trapped with that nasty fake chocolate melting into a viscous ball of foul tasting gunk inside my mouth. And I couldn’t spit it out! If my little sister saw on the ground on the it on the way home, she would surely tell Mama and I would be busted. I had to make myself swallow it, no matter what! Finally I forced it down my throat, gagging and nearly heaving with every swallow. My teeth felt like they were coated with mud and the top of my tongue was so gritty and disgusting I could hardly bear it. I had to have water and soon! So I did what any red-blooded American kid would do - I meticulously re-wrapped the tin foil around the remaining blocks of chocolate and painstakingly replaced it inside the tiny blue and white box and closed the flap. Then I slapped on my “WHO ME?” innocent face and hurried on my way.
As I got to the neighbor’s driveway, my throat was so dry I could hardly croak. Added to that, the neighbor lady met me on the porch waiting for the ‘medicine’ and talking a mile a minute. I was going to choke to death any second now! Being raised to be polite to my elders was a curse that day--near impossible to carry on a conversation interspersed with “Yes, Ma‘am” and “No Ma‘am” while trying to keep your lips closed (chocolate has a way of clinging to the teeth and I wanted no evidence available to use against me). Finally I asked for a drink of water, anxious to be on my way home. I was saved….. A full glass of frigidly cold, clear and sparkling well water, straight from the dipper resting in the metal bucket in the cool kitchen of her home! Hurrying my sister to the door, we set out for home and safety. I was in the clear for sure. Mama would never know of my misdeed and all was good in my little world.
By the time we walked into the yard at home, Daddy was due in from work. Mama was setting supper on the dining room table as we went into the house and we and the others washed our hands and prepared to eat. As Mama ladled food onto our plates and poured our glass of milk, I sat in my allotted chair and readied myself for a feast. UMMMM! Homemade stew and cornbread, my favorite meal. As I sat there waiting for my bowl to cool, I felt a rumble deep in my belly, an ominous sign to be sure. The steam from the food and the aroma that only seconds before were so appetizing were beginning to make my forehead break out into a sweat and I began to get a salty taste deep in my throat. I was going to be sick!
I dashed from the table out the back door and bolted for the outhouse just seconds short of disgracing myself. As I rounded the corner of the shed at a run I began to pray to every God I had ever heard mention of and a few more besides. I had to make it! Finally I flung open the heavy outhouse door all the while trying to wrench my shorts down below my hips. Can you imagine running with your legs crossed at the thigh, your butt cheeks clenched so tight that your is face screwed into a grotesque grimace of severe pain and all the while trying to prevent the noxious bile that is crawling up the inside of your throat from leaping out of your mouth like a river spewing from a busted dam.I was about to die and I knew it…
Redemption came as my fanny hit the toilet seat, and not a second too soon either, for as soon as I got seated, foul smelling liquid became to erupt in torrents from my backside. The stagnant afternoon air inside that small outhouse was already rancid with the stench of…..the numerous daily deposits made by my family. All I seemed to be doing was stirring that smell to even nastier realms! I sat there for what seemed like hours, disgusted tears pouring down my hot, flushed cheeks and other less mentionable body fluids shooting from a lower portion of my anatomy. When the rumbling finally slowed to a muted growl in my belly, I cleaned myself up, got dressed and wiped my nose. Mama would surely know what I had done. Time to face the music….
Returning to the house and the others still sitting at the supper table was probably the hardest thing I had ever done. Usually my sister Vicki was my culprit in crime and shared half the blame for our frequent scrapes with the wild side of life, but this time, I was on my own. I told Mama I was sick and wasn’t hungry. I was sent to bed with a cool fan blowing on me and a damp cool rag on my forehead. If doing without a meal that I couldn’t have eaten anyway was all the punishment I was going to receive I counted myself a very lucky little girl. I was so sick all night that I had to resort to many more mad sprints to the outhouse. I think I paid heavily for my sins in a lot of ways, even though Mama never discovered what I had done.
I did learn several valuable lessons from this escapade, though. They have stayed with me all my life. Not everything that looks like candy is necessarily candy. Another is that if your parent thinks you are at an age to be responsible and discriminating - then be that! The last one I know as a definite fact, and should be stressed to the fullest - NEVER! I repeat NEVER eat a candy called Ex-Lax!
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Redneck Rodeo - Alabama Style
Life in the country during the summer season had it's drawbacks growing up as we did in rural Alabama, always hot and humid and usually dry when the heat of the warmest months of the year drove us out of doors in search of whatever stray breeze might choose to float across our sweaty skin. With no air conditioning and only a large electric fan and propped-open windows to cool the house, we tended to escape late every afternoon to the shaded yard behind our home. While we were usually engaged in our own homemade version of fun and entertainment, at least half of our time and energy was spent trying to avoid conflict with out parents views of what was appropriate behavior for their five hellion daughters. Daddy was, as usual upon returning home from a long day at work, messing around with some of the various farm animals we kept in the pasture. Mama was in the kitchen, as she was every day, whipping up a delicious dinner and preparing to call us all to the table to eat. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a typical late summer afternoon, with dusk painting an early twilight sunset in muted pastel shades over the western sky and my family enjoying the last of the daylight that God had blessed us with that day.
Our backyard adjoined the barn lot and pasture, with access to either gained through either a walk-in wooden entry or a large wire spanned metal gate
which allowed a vehicle to be driven inside the fence. That day, Daddy and two of the neighborhood's mostly-grown boys were attempting to ride a Pinto (black and white spotted) Shetland Pony named Comanche, much to the pony's alarm and aggravation. This pony was wildly unpredictable and skittish to the touch, he also seemed to have come to the decision that he didn't want to be a beast of burden that hot afternoon. Take one bad-tempered and undomesticated pony and two determined nearly adult males and mix them - and without fail uproarious hilarity is bound to ensue. Unfortunately that isn't all that occurred during the battle between two semi-mature-men and one single minded, obstinate beast.
These two neighbors were men nearly grown, in their late teens, all arms and legs and nearly six feet of pure testosterone and sheer brass and bravado.
They were country boys, swaggering and arrogant, their Southern accent, clean cut good looks and skin-tight Wranglers lead numerous little cowgirl groupies to cast adoring and languishing looks in their direction. And their cowboy hats and boots didn't hurt their image any either. Fortunately for us, we were too young to be intrigued by their manly charms, else we'd have toted a butt whipping from Daddy! Wyman and Clyde were good ole boys, always on the lookout for a challenge and both possessed nerves of steel. Neither would ever allow the word "Failure" to enter their vocabulary. They thought they were real 'Cowboys' and set out to improve their rodeo expertise by making use of a cantankerous and willful old Billy Goat as a practice dummy, hopefully to enhance their masculine techniques. They would hop on the back of that old goat and take evil pleasure in his never-ending effort to dislodge them. Poor old Billy also got used for roping practice, which was unfair since he was pinned up in a small lot with no chance at freedom. Looking back, it is a wonder that goat didn't die from embarrassment. So cocky were these guys, they believed that the animal hadn't been born that could outfox or get the upper hand with either of them. Unfortunately they hadn't met Comanche. That little pony took both for a ride that neither will ever forget. And in the process, gave us girls and Daddy, innocent spectators that we were, their version of an accidental bona fide redneck rodeo.
When a horse, or pony as it was in this case, doesn't want to be ridden, they have obvious ways of letting the prospective rider know. And Comanche was no different in that, he let his disinterest be known up front, for all the good it did him. Catching him was difficult at best, and that day was no different. After much chasing and swearing (the guys, not the horse), he was finally cornered long enough to get a bridle on him. A saddle was too much to expect, getting the animal to hold still long enough to accomplish a flying leap up on his back a near impossibility, bareback was the only way to go. These boys were determined in their decision to ride him, and he was equally as unwavering that they wouldn't. It soon became a battle of wills, man against pony, a case of the winner being the one who was more tenacious and was belligerent enough to hold out the longest. But poor old Comanche
hadn't taken into account the extremely long and accommodating legs of thesetwo cowboys. And their determination to be atop that horse's back and in full command of both horse and the situation before the fall of darkness.
Being raised around all manner of animals, we knew that when one was kicking up a ruckus for whatever reason that our best option was to clear out of it's vicinity. And this was one time Daddy didn't have to tell us twice to back up from the fence and to keep quiet. While one Cowboy held the bridle tightly, the other jumped on, tightened his knees close to the horse's sides and nodded his head to let go.
Comanche was furious at the unwanted rider upon his back. He took off flying across the pasture, kicking his back heels high in the air while trying to unseat the cowboy from astride his back. He ran all over the lot, mane and tail blowing in the breeze created by his actions. And the cowboy, holding on for dear life and attempting to wrap that fat little belly with his long legs, while searching for purchase with his boots in Comanche's coarse hair. As the horse ran in a complete circle of the large lot, those same long and skinny legs that helped the boys stay on would pop loose and flop up and down with the motion of the horses galloping stride. One elbow were stuck out at their side, locked into a bent position to try to maintain their balance atop that uncontrollably unnerved horse. The other was up in the air like a bull rider waiting for the eight second bell. It looked like an octopus was on that horse's back and he was doing everything in his power to dump it onto the ground!What began as a simple session of teaching an old horse new tricks soon became a comedy of errors and an accident looking for a place to happen. And happen it did.
Before long, the horse was tiring and had slowed to a walk. They rode him to where Daddy was waiting with a lead rope, full of laughter at their antics,making wise-crack remarks at their expense. As they pulled Comanche to a stop in front of the wide gate Daddy snapped a long lead rein to his bridle so that they could have keep a bit of control and still have some distance between them and the angry animal. Unfortunately, as my Daddy was standing there amused, right beside him Comanche decided to bolt, back feet furiously flying outwards and yanking with all his might on the rein for freedom. When Daddy stepped back to get out of the range of those flying hoofs, he stepped into the discarded rear tractor tire that had been placed there as a hay ring (when hay is fed to animals from bales, it needs to be contained inside a boundary of some type, otherwise they will strew the hay and walk it into the ground and wasting a goodly portion of it). When Daddy stepped back, his leg went into a large jagged hole in the sidewall, wrenching and breaking
the bones in the bottom of his shin above his ankle. The once comical rodeo was over and pandemonium had set in.
The backward momentum of Daddy's steps carried him all the way to the ground. He fell with a twisting, spiraling action, almost in slow motion, a resounding crack ringing in the air. It was the loudest pop any of us had ever heard, Mama even heard it in the house and thought one of us girls had broken the big stick we had been warned about earlier for waving around and frightening the already nervous pony. When Daddy fell, the rein was dropped and the pony, at last free to escape the clutches of the humans who seemed determined to subjugate him, was released. The last we saw of him was his a blur of black and white, his coarse tail and mane waving like a flag after him as he took off at a fast run for the rear pastures, the leading rein dragging across the stubbly grass behind him. There Daddy lay, a tangle of legs and arms upon the grass, blood soaking through his pants at the juncture of the tire and his shin. His foot was still in the hole in the side of the tire and the usually straight line of his leg was bent at a grotesque angle, in a direction no human bone should ever be forced to maneuver. He looked up at them and quietly told Wyman and Clyde "My leg is broke". And those two dauntless bastions of manly fortitude began to panic, frantic to help and ignorant as to what to do next. How to release his busted leg from the hole it was trapped in without causing more pain or damage? Daddy calmly told them to grab him under his arms and stand him upright. And he told us girls to go to the house and get Mama. As they brought Daddy to his feet, his already pale face drained totally of color and beads of perspiration broke out across his forehead. He looked like he was going to pass out any second as he told them to maneuver his ankle out of the hole while holding him erect. When his foot was free, they placed it on the ground in line with his other foot. But one foot looked like it was heading south and the other north! His foot was facing the wrong direction! They set him down on the side of the tire, where he sat while Mama hurried to get the truck. While they waited, Daddy lifted his pants leg to see what damage had been done, and there is was.....bone, stark, colorless bone, jagged and pointed, sticking through a horrific puncture torn into what once was normal leg. The white of the bone looked demon-like, monstrous and
grizzly against the deep red blood which oozed from the hole forced into the skin and muscle, soaking into his pants leg and sock and running down his leg. Once the truck was brought as near as possible, they lifted Daddy to his feet and began to help him across the yard to the open truck door. As they held him up, he hopped one footed and the foot began to spin like a gruesome top, limp as a noodle and forced into movement with the motion of his actions.It was probably one of the most dreadful but totally enthralling things I have ever seen in my life! One of those things that is so shockingly appalling you can't bear to watch so you cover your eyes with your hands, but so repulsively fascinating that you keep peeking through your fingers for just one more look....
When they got him to town, the small rural hospital that served our area boasted no Doctor qualified to treat that serious an injury. (One of the major drawbacks to living in rural America, then and now.) He needed an Orthopedic Surgeon and having none on the staff, they called one to come to town to set Daddy's leg. The Doctor flew his small personal plane to the hospital, arriving in the early hours of the morning. Awaking from the anesthesia following a long surgery, the Doctor informed Daddy that he had put his leg back together with five stainless steel bolts and nuts, all purchased from the local hardware store in town. They then constructed a
heavy white cast from his groin area down the entire length of his leg and out to his toes, leaving an opening over the place where the skin was torn by bone to place a drain tube. Complications set in and overnight Daddy developed an infection and began to suffer the effects of a body temperature of 107 degrees. Not being able to bring the fever to a normal level with medication, they had to resort to placing him on a bed of ice and rubbing him down with alcohol. In that moment,
Daddy's beard and sideburns turned from red to gray due to the severity of the high temperature. I can't remember how many days he was in the hospital, but I do remember when Mama brought him home, their bed was placed in the living room so that he could watch the only television in the house. He would wear that cast for at least a year, and until it began to heal, he wouldn't even be allowed crutches to get around with. Thus began the vigil to keep Daddy entertained, for both Mama and us girls.
Being confined to bed was hard for a man who was normally on his feet and going every sunlit hour of the day. And boredom seems to lead to a shortness of temper in grown men for some reason. And our Daddy was no different than most it seemed. One of the few amusements we had access to was the television. And television in those times had only four channels, Alabama Public Broadcasting Channel offering about all that was available during the day for any entertainment value above soap operas and game shows. As a choice, PBS wasn't Daddy's first, but with little else to be had, that is what he watched as he lay there with his leg propped on pillows in the front room. As it continues to offer today, PBS had several 'How-To" programs during Daddy's recovery process. One such program was "How To Macramé". Daddy was intrigued by this demonstration of knot tying skill and he sent us to the barn for pieces of twine that had been torn from the bales and tossed to the side as it was fed to the various animals who resided on our little farm. Joined together with small knots, these lengths of twine became the material which he then tied with Macramé knots. He fashioned many flower pot hangers and bottle hangers, one such hanger was used to hold a gallon vinegar jug filled with Pepper Sauce and gave to my Grandmother Waters, his Mother. It was so colorful with the multi-shaded hues of red and green peppers that Grandmommy hung it on her kitchen wall and refused to use the sauce because it was too pretty. That hanger and jug hung there until she died in 1987. I am not really sure what became of it after that, but I assume it was thrown away. I wish I had thought about asking for it so that I would have it for the memories.
Daddy also tried his hand at drawing a pattern and sewing to combat his boredom. He sat in a straight chair pulled up to Mama's sewing machine, his good leg underneath the cabinet, with that awkward cast stuck out at a strange angle, his heel propped on a pillow on the floor to the side of machine. The main thing I remember him constructing with that machine was my baby sister, Lana, a pair of brown pants. They were probably a foot and a half across, seamed straight up the sides and the straddle was cut and stitched into a deep V shape. No elastic at the waist, no fastener of any sort. No way they would fit her, she was about as scrawny as they come in those days. But it was the thought that counted even then. Now I wonder what Mama ever did with those funny looking britches?
That Christmas, Daddy sat in the floor of the living room and helped wrap presents, an activity he always had left to Mama before. We actually got to see more of Daddy during his convalescence, not because he didn't want to spend time with us prior to his accident, the simple fact was with five growing children, he worked ever hour of every day simply to provide for us. Mama would load us all into the car, Daddy with his busted leg cushioned on the floorboard, and ride the back roads sightseeing just to give him a change of scenery. He also spent several hours each week sitting on a stool down at the neighborhood garage gossiping with the old men who spent time there. Anything to get him out of the house and back to having some semblance of a normal social life. One of his friends even came and picked him to take him coon hunting, where Daddy would sit in the truck and listen to the dogs
howl as they treed an old raccoon. He always did love that
sound.
Once the incision had healed, the Doctor cut off the full cast and replaced it with a short walking cast. This enabled him to move around a bit more, and with the added benefit of wearing a pair of pants with the denim leg split only to the knee and not to the crotch. Unfortunately as the weather grew warmer, so did the cast. It itched horribly and smelled so bad Mama took to sprinkling Baby Power down into it as far as she could reach. Daddy, not being the patient sort, demanded a wire clothing hanger which he then fashioned into a scratcher by unwinding the coiled part and straightening it completely. When he began to itch and tingle under the cast, he resorted to running the end down into the cast, thereby providing himself a bit of relief. Ultimately, though, that wasn’t a very smart idea, as the
scratching led to the compacting of the cotton underneath the plaster which resulted in the cording of his leg. When his toes turned purple because of the lack of blood flow, we knew he had gone too far. And another trip to the Doctor was eminent.
As he began to get up and about more with the aid of wooden crutches, thing
got a bit more normal around our house. He began going to work, still hopping along with the aid of his sticks and doing more around the farm. He also took that wild pony to the sale barn and sold him. When the icy blast of winter hit hard, Daddy and Vicki went to the creek to ensure that the frigid water hadn't frozen into a solid sheet of ice because cattle won't lick solid ice and will therefore dehydrate in the coldest winter months. Daddy made it to the creek, but then his crutch hit a patch or ice, Daddy tumbled into the creek, cast and all. Vicki had to help him up
as best she could and get him back to the truck and home before he froze to death. At least his crash busted up the ice that had formed across the top of the water and the cattle could drink. Another adventure into the pasture with Daddy ambling along on crutches complete with him scaling a 30 or 40 foot bluff, handhold to handhold on the far side of the water. I can still remember the sound of his cast banging off the rugged rock face as he migrated slowly across the rock. The ledges in the rock were covered with icy mush, and Daddy, being the type of man he was, was climbing to mend a fence to make sure the neighbor's cows didn't come for an unappreciated and inopportune visit.
It was a year before Daddy walked with just a cane, still with cast intact. And another few months until the cast was finally removed for good. I guess you could say that all the effects of the accident were bad, all things considered, at least for Daddy. He sports five stainless steel bolts and nuts that set the metal detector off every visit to the local Courthouse. Imagine trying to explain that to the Security Guards watching over the {?}He went from being served supper in the dining room, the main meal of our day, to lazing in an easy chair in front of the television. (The only meal after that he ate in the kitchen was breakfast.) Daddy had remote control long before it was ever invented. His consisted of hollering from his seat in front of the television to whichever child was closest to the end of the table for a change of channel or volume during meal times. He also gained
six personal maidens to wait on him hand and foot. A nice accomplishment for those lucky enough to achieve it. My Daddy is almost 76 years of age now and even thought all of us are gone from home with the exception of the youngest, he is still waited on hand and foot. It is his due, he expects it, and will likely always receive it. I guess we girls are carrying on for Mama, who, as long as she was able did her level best to make his feel like a Prince. When she left us this past June, we, as her daughters, took up the vigil of supplying Daddy's every wish, not because it is our job, but because she wanted it that way.
Our backyard adjoined the barn lot and pasture, with access to either gained through either a walk-in wooden entry or a large wire spanned metal gate
which allowed a vehicle to be driven inside the fence. That day, Daddy and two of the neighborhood's mostly-grown boys were attempting to ride a Pinto (black and white spotted) Shetland Pony named Comanche, much to the pony's alarm and aggravation. This pony was wildly unpredictable and skittish to the touch, he also seemed to have come to the decision that he didn't want to be a beast of burden that hot afternoon. Take one bad-tempered and undomesticated pony and two determined nearly adult males and mix them - and without fail uproarious hilarity is bound to ensue. Unfortunately that isn't all that occurred during the battle between two semi-mature-men and one single minded, obstinate beast.
These two neighbors were men nearly grown, in their late teens, all arms and legs and nearly six feet of pure testosterone and sheer brass and bravado.
They were country boys, swaggering and arrogant, their Southern accent, clean cut good looks and skin-tight Wranglers lead numerous little cowgirl groupies to cast adoring and languishing looks in their direction. And their cowboy hats and boots didn't hurt their image any either. Fortunately for us, we were too young to be intrigued by their manly charms, else we'd have toted a butt whipping from Daddy! Wyman and Clyde were good ole boys, always on the lookout for a challenge and both possessed nerves of steel. Neither would ever allow the word "Failure" to enter their vocabulary. They thought they were real 'Cowboys' and set out to improve their rodeo expertise by making use of a cantankerous and willful old Billy Goat as a practice dummy, hopefully to enhance their masculine techniques. They would hop on the back of that old goat and take evil pleasure in his never-ending effort to dislodge them. Poor old Billy also got used for roping practice, which was unfair since he was pinned up in a small lot with no chance at freedom. Looking back, it is a wonder that goat didn't die from embarrassment. So cocky were these guys, they believed that the animal hadn't been born that could outfox or get the upper hand with either of them. Unfortunately they hadn't met Comanche. That little pony took both for a ride that neither will ever forget. And in the process, gave us girls and Daddy, innocent spectators that we were, their version of an accidental bona fide redneck rodeo.
When a horse, or pony as it was in this case, doesn't want to be ridden, they have obvious ways of letting the prospective rider know. And Comanche was no different in that, he let his disinterest be known up front, for all the good it did him. Catching him was difficult at best, and that day was no different. After much chasing and swearing (the guys, not the horse), he was finally cornered long enough to get a bridle on him. A saddle was too much to expect, getting the animal to hold still long enough to accomplish a flying leap up on his back a near impossibility, bareback was the only way to go. These boys were determined in their decision to ride him, and he was equally as unwavering that they wouldn't. It soon became a battle of wills, man against pony, a case of the winner being the one who was more tenacious and was belligerent enough to hold out the longest. But poor old Comanche
hadn't taken into account the extremely long and accommodating legs of thesetwo cowboys. And their determination to be atop that horse's back and in full command of both horse and the situation before the fall of darkness.
Being raised around all manner of animals, we knew that when one was kicking up a ruckus for whatever reason that our best option was to clear out of it's vicinity. And this was one time Daddy didn't have to tell us twice to back up from the fence and to keep quiet. While one Cowboy held the bridle tightly, the other jumped on, tightened his knees close to the horse's sides and nodded his head to let go.
Comanche was furious at the unwanted rider upon his back. He took off flying across the pasture, kicking his back heels high in the air while trying to unseat the cowboy from astride his back. He ran all over the lot, mane and tail blowing in the breeze created by his actions. And the cowboy, holding on for dear life and attempting to wrap that fat little belly with his long legs, while searching for purchase with his boots in Comanche's coarse hair. As the horse ran in a complete circle of the large lot, those same long and skinny legs that helped the boys stay on would pop loose and flop up and down with the motion of the horses galloping stride. One elbow were stuck out at their side, locked into a bent position to try to maintain their balance atop that uncontrollably unnerved horse. The other was up in the air like a bull rider waiting for the eight second bell. It looked like an octopus was on that horse's back and he was doing everything in his power to dump it onto the ground!What began as a simple session of teaching an old horse new tricks soon became a comedy of errors and an accident looking for a place to happen. And happen it did.
Before long, the horse was tiring and had slowed to a walk. They rode him to where Daddy was waiting with a lead rope, full of laughter at their antics,making wise-crack remarks at their expense. As they pulled Comanche to a stop in front of the wide gate Daddy snapped a long lead rein to his bridle so that they could have keep a bit of control and still have some distance between them and the angry animal. Unfortunately, as my Daddy was standing there amused, right beside him Comanche decided to bolt, back feet furiously flying outwards and yanking with all his might on the rein for freedom. When Daddy stepped back to get out of the range of those flying hoofs, he stepped into the discarded rear tractor tire that had been placed there as a hay ring (when hay is fed to animals from bales, it needs to be contained inside a boundary of some type, otherwise they will strew the hay and walk it into the ground and wasting a goodly portion of it). When Daddy stepped back, his leg went into a large jagged hole in the sidewall, wrenching and breaking
the bones in the bottom of his shin above his ankle. The once comical rodeo was over and pandemonium had set in.
The backward momentum of Daddy's steps carried him all the way to the ground. He fell with a twisting, spiraling action, almost in slow motion, a resounding crack ringing in the air. It was the loudest pop any of us had ever heard, Mama even heard it in the house and thought one of us girls had broken the big stick we had been warned about earlier for waving around and frightening the already nervous pony. When Daddy fell, the rein was dropped and the pony, at last free to escape the clutches of the humans who seemed determined to subjugate him, was released. The last we saw of him was his a blur of black and white, his coarse tail and mane waving like a flag after him as he took off at a fast run for the rear pastures, the leading rein dragging across the stubbly grass behind him. There Daddy lay, a tangle of legs and arms upon the grass, blood soaking through his pants at the juncture of the tire and his shin. His foot was still in the hole in the side of the tire and the usually straight line of his leg was bent at a grotesque angle, in a direction no human bone should ever be forced to maneuver. He looked up at them and quietly told Wyman and Clyde "My leg is broke". And those two dauntless bastions of manly fortitude began to panic, frantic to help and ignorant as to what to do next. How to release his busted leg from the hole it was trapped in without causing more pain or damage? Daddy calmly told them to grab him under his arms and stand him upright. And he told us girls to go to the house and get Mama. As they brought Daddy to his feet, his already pale face drained totally of color and beads of perspiration broke out across his forehead. He looked like he was going to pass out any second as he told them to maneuver his ankle out of the hole while holding him erect. When his foot was free, they placed it on the ground in line with his other foot. But one foot looked like it was heading south and the other north! His foot was facing the wrong direction! They set him down on the side of the tire, where he sat while Mama hurried to get the truck. While they waited, Daddy lifted his pants leg to see what damage had been done, and there is was.....bone, stark, colorless bone, jagged and pointed, sticking through a horrific puncture torn into what once was normal leg. The white of the bone looked demon-like, monstrous and
grizzly against the deep red blood which oozed from the hole forced into the skin and muscle, soaking into his pants leg and sock and running down his leg. Once the truck was brought as near as possible, they lifted Daddy to his feet and began to help him across the yard to the open truck door. As they held him up, he hopped one footed and the foot began to spin like a gruesome top, limp as a noodle and forced into movement with the motion of his actions.It was probably one of the most dreadful but totally enthralling things I have ever seen in my life! One of those things that is so shockingly appalling you can't bear to watch so you cover your eyes with your hands, but so repulsively fascinating that you keep peeking through your fingers for just one more look....
When they got him to town, the small rural hospital that served our area boasted no Doctor qualified to treat that serious an injury. (One of the major drawbacks to living in rural America, then and now.) He needed an Orthopedic Surgeon and having none on the staff, they called one to come to town to set Daddy's leg. The Doctor flew his small personal plane to the hospital, arriving in the early hours of the morning. Awaking from the anesthesia following a long surgery, the Doctor informed Daddy that he had put his leg back together with five stainless steel bolts and nuts, all purchased from the local hardware store in town. They then constructed a
heavy white cast from his groin area down the entire length of his leg and out to his toes, leaving an opening over the place where the skin was torn by bone to place a drain tube. Complications set in and overnight Daddy developed an infection and began to suffer the effects of a body temperature of 107 degrees. Not being able to bring the fever to a normal level with medication, they had to resort to placing him on a bed of ice and rubbing him down with alcohol. In that moment,
Daddy's beard and sideburns turned from red to gray due to the severity of the high temperature. I can't remember how many days he was in the hospital, but I do remember when Mama brought him home, their bed was placed in the living room so that he could watch the only television in the house. He would wear that cast for at least a year, and until it began to heal, he wouldn't even be allowed crutches to get around with. Thus began the vigil to keep Daddy entertained, for both Mama and us girls.
Being confined to bed was hard for a man who was normally on his feet and going every sunlit hour of the day. And boredom seems to lead to a shortness of temper in grown men for some reason. And our Daddy was no different than most it seemed. One of the few amusements we had access to was the television. And television in those times had only four channels, Alabama Public Broadcasting Channel offering about all that was available during the day for any entertainment value above soap operas and game shows. As a choice, PBS wasn't Daddy's first, but with little else to be had, that is what he watched as he lay there with his leg propped on pillows in the front room. As it continues to offer today, PBS had several 'How-To" programs during Daddy's recovery process. One such program was "How To Macramé". Daddy was intrigued by this demonstration of knot tying skill and he sent us to the barn for pieces of twine that had been torn from the bales and tossed to the side as it was fed to the various animals who resided on our little farm. Joined together with small knots, these lengths of twine became the material which he then tied with Macramé knots. He fashioned many flower pot hangers and bottle hangers, one such hanger was used to hold a gallon vinegar jug filled with Pepper Sauce and gave to my Grandmother Waters, his Mother. It was so colorful with the multi-shaded hues of red and green peppers that Grandmommy hung it on her kitchen wall and refused to use the sauce because it was too pretty. That hanger and jug hung there until she died in 1987. I am not really sure what became of it after that, but I assume it was thrown away. I wish I had thought about asking for it so that I would have it for the memories.
Daddy also tried his hand at drawing a pattern and sewing to combat his boredom. He sat in a straight chair pulled up to Mama's sewing machine, his good leg underneath the cabinet, with that awkward cast stuck out at a strange angle, his heel propped on a pillow on the floor to the side of machine. The main thing I remember him constructing with that machine was my baby sister, Lana, a pair of brown pants. They were probably a foot and a half across, seamed straight up the sides and the straddle was cut and stitched into a deep V shape. No elastic at the waist, no fastener of any sort. No way they would fit her, she was about as scrawny as they come in those days. But it was the thought that counted even then. Now I wonder what Mama ever did with those funny looking britches?
That Christmas, Daddy sat in the floor of the living room and helped wrap presents, an activity he always had left to Mama before. We actually got to see more of Daddy during his convalescence, not because he didn't want to spend time with us prior to his accident, the simple fact was with five growing children, he worked ever hour of every day simply to provide for us. Mama would load us all into the car, Daddy with his busted leg cushioned on the floorboard, and ride the back roads sightseeing just to give him a change of scenery. He also spent several hours each week sitting on a stool down at the neighborhood garage gossiping with the old men who spent time there. Anything to get him out of the house and back to having some semblance of a normal social life. One of his friends even came and picked him to take him coon hunting, where Daddy would sit in the truck and listen to the dogs
howl as they treed an old raccoon. He always did love that
sound.
Once the incision had healed, the Doctor cut off the full cast and replaced it with a short walking cast. This enabled him to move around a bit more, and with the added benefit of wearing a pair of pants with the denim leg split only to the knee and not to the crotch. Unfortunately as the weather grew warmer, so did the cast. It itched horribly and smelled so bad Mama took to sprinkling Baby Power down into it as far as she could reach. Daddy, not being the patient sort, demanded a wire clothing hanger which he then fashioned into a scratcher by unwinding the coiled part and straightening it completely. When he began to itch and tingle under the cast, he resorted to running the end down into the cast, thereby providing himself a bit of relief. Ultimately, though, that wasn’t a very smart idea, as the
scratching led to the compacting of the cotton underneath the plaster which resulted in the cording of his leg. When his toes turned purple because of the lack of blood flow, we knew he had gone too far. And another trip to the Doctor was eminent.
As he began to get up and about more with the aid of wooden crutches, thing
got a bit more normal around our house. He began going to work, still hopping along with the aid of his sticks and doing more around the farm. He also took that wild pony to the sale barn and sold him. When the icy blast of winter hit hard, Daddy and Vicki went to the creek to ensure that the frigid water hadn't frozen into a solid sheet of ice because cattle won't lick solid ice and will therefore dehydrate in the coldest winter months. Daddy made it to the creek, but then his crutch hit a patch or ice, Daddy tumbled into the creek, cast and all. Vicki had to help him up
as best she could and get him back to the truck and home before he froze to death. At least his crash busted up the ice that had formed across the top of the water and the cattle could drink. Another adventure into the pasture with Daddy ambling along on crutches complete with him scaling a 30 or 40 foot bluff, handhold to handhold on the far side of the water. I can still remember the sound of his cast banging off the rugged rock face as he migrated slowly across the rock. The ledges in the rock were covered with icy mush, and Daddy, being the type of man he was, was climbing to mend a fence to make sure the neighbor's cows didn't come for an unappreciated and inopportune visit.
It was a year before Daddy walked with just a cane, still with cast intact. And another few months until the cast was finally removed for good. I guess you could say that all the effects of the accident were bad, all things considered, at least for Daddy. He sports five stainless steel bolts and nuts that set the metal detector off every visit to the local Courthouse. Imagine trying to explain that to the Security Guards watching over the {?}He went from being served supper in the dining room, the main meal of our day, to lazing in an easy chair in front of the television. (The only meal after that he ate in the kitchen was breakfast.) Daddy had remote control long before it was ever invented. His consisted of hollering from his seat in front of the television to whichever child was closest to the end of the table for a change of channel or volume during meal times. He also gained
six personal maidens to wait on him hand and foot. A nice accomplishment for those lucky enough to achieve it. My Daddy is almost 76 years of age now and even thought all of us are gone from home with the exception of the youngest, he is still waited on hand and foot. It is his due, he expects it, and will likely always receive it. I guess we girls are carrying on for Mama, who, as long as she was able did her level best to make his feel like a Prince. When she left us this past June, we, as her daughters, took up the vigil of supplying Daddy's every wish, not because it is our job, but because she wanted it that way.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Blog is so Messed Up!
Forgive me, but my blog is so messed up. I had lost all my posts for some reason.I have spent a week trying to mend the flaws and finally last night changed the template. It DID finally get back up. Once again I am in gear and hopefully will get caught up on my posts.
Thursday, August 26, 2004
Not Gone - Just Busy
I am not gone folks. Temporarily diverted in the quest to find my long lost cousins. We are getting close and hope to soon accomplish the goal. Be back soon.
Donna
Donna
Friday, August 13, 2004
Scared Spitless - Calling All Ghosts
Ghosts and spooks have haunted the imagination of children since the beginning of time, I guess. And we were no different because along about the time adolescence set in, we decided to try our hands at dabbling into the supernatural. Having been gifted with the blessing of an avid curiosity, along with a Mother who encouraged us to investigate that which we didn’t understand, we embarked onto a voyage of discovery into the unknown. And who better to appease our fascination than the neighborhood ghost, Annie Dee Wilkerson Moody Dearman, a lady who died in unexplained circumstances just steps down the road from where we lived. And so it began…
Annie Dee Wilkerson was born January 28, 1928. In 1945, she married a Mr. Moody, a relative or a relative (etc.). They parented two children. Family history says she divorced him after he returned from the war. She married a Virgil Dearman and again, gave birth to two children. For some never disclosed reason, at midnight on October 4, 1967, she was standing in her front yard when some “ambushed” her, shooting her five times. She managed to crawl to the front porch steps before she died. No one was ever indicted or ever even charged with her murder. Her husband, Mr. Dearman, had a nervous breakdown shortly after her death, and claimed that she kept appearing to him after her death. He died shortly after her death. Rumor still runs rampant when her name is mentioned as to her character - Annie Dee was a lady who liked and craved men. And had few scruples about satisfying that craving.
She is said to haunt the place where she died, a small house less than several hundred feet from where we live. Local legend in the small rural community where we live states that on any given rainy day, her blood stains can still be seen on the front doorstep, even though the original step has been replaced numerous times. Blood stains are reported to leech up through paint, no matter how many coats are used. I have seen “SOMETHING” on that step myself, whether from an overactive imagination or something actually being there I can’t decide. Who had assassinated this woman in cold blood in her own front yard? We were determined to discover her murderer and the reasoning behind it. Being inquisitive in nature, a group of us decided to try to have a séance to call her back into our midst, never knowing what we were getting in to. Or the chaos it would cause.
A séance requires two things - a medium, or intermediary, and a group of people with a open mind willing to accept that there might actually be spirits of the deceased living among us with the ability and the will to communicate with us. The only other necessary items are total darkness, a candle or other form of light source and an overactive imagination. Our version of a séance were drawn from late night television viewing, such oldies as Saturday Night Shock Theatre, Alfred Hitchcock Presents and Dark Shadows. Fingers joined, each person thumb to thumb, with pinkie finger touching the same finger of the next person around the candle, the medium simply “goes into a trance”, closing their eyes and meditating and chanting, hopefully opening communication with the spirit of the deceased. If the chain of hands is broken, the link to the spirit world is severed. They supposedly reply by either using the medium’s voice, noises, movement of something in the room or some other strange way. We were ready to begin, but I don’t think we were prepared for what actually happened.
Being kids, we had the imagination in plenty and were willing to take the chance that we could contact the other side. We felt very brave and daring, having no fear as we delved into the great unknown. It was decided that the séance would be held in our neighbor, Karren’s, bedroom. She was the medium, the one chosen to make contact with those who had already passed from this earth. Her room had no windows, and with both the doors shut tight not a sliver of light could enter her room, leaving it a black pit, the perfect ambience for a séance. It was also a plus that her Mom worked during the day, hence no parental interruptions or censure. Our party of courageous souls included myself, my sister Vicki, Karren, of course, and two boys who lived next door, brothers, Rickey Gene and Kenny. These boys, although they were scared spitless, big macho males and real he-men that they were, were not going back down in front of three lowly girls. And, let’s be honest here, us girls had a way of challenging them that left them no room for retreat. They at ‘least’ had to be as brave as we were or they would never hear the end of it!
We were set - we could handle any ghost that deigned to present itself to us. Let the nether world do it’s worst! Gathering in the bedroom, we fell to our knees around a small table placed in the open space of the floor. The candle was lit and the overhead light was shut off. Ebony darkness surrounded us, the candlelight from the taper sending wavering tapestries of movement to dance along the murky, shadowed walls. A picture of Annie Dee, the lady of our quest, was placed near the candle, an encouragement to entice her to leave her place in the from beyond the veil of darkness and give us a sign of her unearthly presence. There we were, kneeling in the small cramped room, elbow to elbow, pinkies and thumbs touching, eyes closed…… breathlessly waiting….
The air in the room was still, almost stagnant, the silence complete and nearly stifling, as we waited apprehensive and anxious. It began, a low chant, a droning hum, slowly rising in volume, sounding eerily like the calls of a wild animal in it’s death throes. Mumbled words, spoken in a monotone, at first garbled beyond recognition, slowly became a chant….” We are here to reach the Realm of the Spirit World“…..“Are there any spirits willing to connect with us?”………. “If you hear us, please give us a sign that you are there”. Our eyes opened and there was Karren, seemingly deep into a trance, appearing under a spell from some unknown source. We watched apprehensively for what was going to transpire next. As we sat there uneasy and vigilant in the gloomy room, the light from the shifting rise and fall of the candle flame caused specter-like forms to drift over the ceiling, grotesque shadowy ghoul-like forms hovering above our heads. The air was expectant, the possibilities in our minds endless with the mayhem that could be caused from the opening of opening Pandora’s Box.
The temperature in the room, although it was summer, seemed to have dropped several degrees. A breeze, which had no source (remember the room was closed off - no windows - doors closed tight) was floating lazily across the room, raising chill bumps on bare arms and legs. Sweat, clammy and cool, most likely brought on by fear, dripped from our brows and into our eyes. Electricity from some mysterious source made the hair on our arms and back of our necks stand on end. The flame of the candle dipped, sputtering and popping loudly, nearly extinguishing itself and thereby leaving the room in total darkness. A glow began to radiate from the picture of Annie Dee, eerily lighting up the face of the slain woman, giving her the appearance of a fiery wraith about to escape the confines of the picture frame. Was she seeking her murderer, possibly seeking revenge for the person responsible? Would she wreak her vengeance on us? Then all Hell broke loose…
Suddenly, there was a scream, a feral screech, high pitched and earsplitting in the small, closed room. Pandemonium erupted and in the melee, the candle was knocked from it’s base and the two boys, those bastions of manly courageousness, rushed to the bedroom door. In their haste to exit the room, fear and cowardice lending their puny arms strength, the door was ripped from it’s frame left to dangle drunkenly from the remaining hinge. The candle, knocked from it’s base, was left to flounder on the bedroom floor, igniting the covers on the bed. Candle wax spattered the floor, leaving a sticky gooey mess. The glass covering the picture was shattered, although whether from being knocked over in the fracas or from her ghost making an appearance was never known. The two boys, terrified, ran up the hall and out the front door, never stopping their wild dash until they reached the safety of their own home across the highway. Us girls were right behind them, until, smelling smoke, returned to the scene of the crime to extinguish the flames searing the bedspread. All that was left for us to do was to try to hide the evidence of our latest fall from grace from Karren’s Mom. There was a flurry of activity as we flipped the bedspread several directions, hoping to conceal the burnt spot. Melted wax, once a candle, and now a hard solid substance on the carpet, was scraped and scrubbed in the effort to remove every trace. Open windows and doors allowed the smell of smoke and singed material to escape. Glass from the broken glass covering the picture was discarded. We might just survive this escapade if we were lucky.
Annie Dee’s murder was never solved, although people from our community have their suspicions as to her assailant to this day. She was buried in a grave in the small town near us, alone, with neither husband placed beside her. Which in itself, seems a punishment to a lady who enjoyed the company of a number of men, to be left lying alone in a cold, dark tomb. Although we had numerous other séances, all with the intent purpose of solving a murder mystery, no new evidence ever came to light. But, in every ceremony we held, some very strange happenings occurred - everything from a towel being set on fire to uncanny noises and smells permeating the air. To this day, I would speculate that Annie Dee is still there, living beyond the veil of darkness, waiting for her death to be avenged.
Annie Dee Wilkerson was born January 28, 1928. In 1945, she married a Mr. Moody, a relative or a relative (etc.). They parented two children. Family history says she divorced him after he returned from the war. She married a Virgil Dearman and again, gave birth to two children. For some never disclosed reason, at midnight on October 4, 1967, she was standing in her front yard when some “ambushed” her, shooting her five times. She managed to crawl to the front porch steps before she died. No one was ever indicted or ever even charged with her murder. Her husband, Mr. Dearman, had a nervous breakdown shortly after her death, and claimed that she kept appearing to him after her death. He died shortly after her death. Rumor still runs rampant when her name is mentioned as to her character - Annie Dee was a lady who liked and craved men. And had few scruples about satisfying that craving.
She is said to haunt the place where she died, a small house less than several hundred feet from where we live. Local legend in the small rural community where we live states that on any given rainy day, her blood stains can still be seen on the front doorstep, even though the original step has been replaced numerous times. Blood stains are reported to leech up through paint, no matter how many coats are used. I have seen “SOMETHING” on that step myself, whether from an overactive imagination or something actually being there I can’t decide. Who had assassinated this woman in cold blood in her own front yard? We were determined to discover her murderer and the reasoning behind it. Being inquisitive in nature, a group of us decided to try to have a séance to call her back into our midst, never knowing what we were getting in to. Or the chaos it would cause.
A séance requires two things - a medium, or intermediary, and a group of people with a open mind willing to accept that there might actually be spirits of the deceased living among us with the ability and the will to communicate with us. The only other necessary items are total darkness, a candle or other form of light source and an overactive imagination. Our version of a séance were drawn from late night television viewing, such oldies as Saturday Night Shock Theatre, Alfred Hitchcock Presents and Dark Shadows. Fingers joined, each person thumb to thumb, with pinkie finger touching the same finger of the next person around the candle, the medium simply “goes into a trance”, closing their eyes and meditating and chanting, hopefully opening communication with the spirit of the deceased. If the chain of hands is broken, the link to the spirit world is severed. They supposedly reply by either using the medium’s voice, noises, movement of something in the room or some other strange way. We were ready to begin, but I don’t think we were prepared for what actually happened.
Being kids, we had the imagination in plenty and were willing to take the chance that we could contact the other side. We felt very brave and daring, having no fear as we delved into the great unknown. It was decided that the séance would be held in our neighbor, Karren’s, bedroom. She was the medium, the one chosen to make contact with those who had already passed from this earth. Her room had no windows, and with both the doors shut tight not a sliver of light could enter her room, leaving it a black pit, the perfect ambience for a séance. It was also a plus that her Mom worked during the day, hence no parental interruptions or censure. Our party of courageous souls included myself, my sister Vicki, Karren, of course, and two boys who lived next door, brothers, Rickey Gene and Kenny. These boys, although they were scared spitless, big macho males and real he-men that they were, were not going back down in front of three lowly girls. And, let’s be honest here, us girls had a way of challenging them that left them no room for retreat. They at ‘least’ had to be as brave as we were or they would never hear the end of it!
We were set - we could handle any ghost that deigned to present itself to us. Let the nether world do it’s worst! Gathering in the bedroom, we fell to our knees around a small table placed in the open space of the floor. The candle was lit and the overhead light was shut off. Ebony darkness surrounded us, the candlelight from the taper sending wavering tapestries of movement to dance along the murky, shadowed walls. A picture of Annie Dee, the lady of our quest, was placed near the candle, an encouragement to entice her to leave her place in the from beyond the veil of darkness and give us a sign of her unearthly presence. There we were, kneeling in the small cramped room, elbow to elbow, pinkies and thumbs touching, eyes closed…… breathlessly waiting….
The air in the room was still, almost stagnant, the silence complete and nearly stifling, as we waited apprehensive and anxious. It began, a low chant, a droning hum, slowly rising in volume, sounding eerily like the calls of a wild animal in it’s death throes. Mumbled words, spoken in a monotone, at first garbled beyond recognition, slowly became a chant….” We are here to reach the Realm of the Spirit World“…..“Are there any spirits willing to connect with us?”………. “If you hear us, please give us a sign that you are there”. Our eyes opened and there was Karren, seemingly deep into a trance, appearing under a spell from some unknown source. We watched apprehensively for what was going to transpire next. As we sat there uneasy and vigilant in the gloomy room, the light from the shifting rise and fall of the candle flame caused specter-like forms to drift over the ceiling, grotesque shadowy ghoul-like forms hovering above our heads. The air was expectant, the possibilities in our minds endless with the mayhem that could be caused from the opening of opening Pandora’s Box.
The temperature in the room, although it was summer, seemed to have dropped several degrees. A breeze, which had no source (remember the room was closed off - no windows - doors closed tight) was floating lazily across the room, raising chill bumps on bare arms and legs. Sweat, clammy and cool, most likely brought on by fear, dripped from our brows and into our eyes. Electricity from some mysterious source made the hair on our arms and back of our necks stand on end. The flame of the candle dipped, sputtering and popping loudly, nearly extinguishing itself and thereby leaving the room in total darkness. A glow began to radiate from the picture of Annie Dee, eerily lighting up the face of the slain woman, giving her the appearance of a fiery wraith about to escape the confines of the picture frame. Was she seeking her murderer, possibly seeking revenge for the person responsible? Would she wreak her vengeance on us? Then all Hell broke loose…
Suddenly, there was a scream, a feral screech, high pitched and earsplitting in the small, closed room. Pandemonium erupted and in the melee, the candle was knocked from it’s base and the two boys, those bastions of manly courageousness, rushed to the bedroom door. In their haste to exit the room, fear and cowardice lending their puny arms strength, the door was ripped from it’s frame left to dangle drunkenly from the remaining hinge. The candle, knocked from it’s base, was left to flounder on the bedroom floor, igniting the covers on the bed. Candle wax spattered the floor, leaving a sticky gooey mess. The glass covering the picture was shattered, although whether from being knocked over in the fracas or from her ghost making an appearance was never known. The two boys, terrified, ran up the hall and out the front door, never stopping their wild dash until they reached the safety of their own home across the highway. Us girls were right behind them, until, smelling smoke, returned to the scene of the crime to extinguish the flames searing the bedspread. All that was left for us to do was to try to hide the evidence of our latest fall from grace from Karren’s Mom. There was a flurry of activity as we flipped the bedspread several directions, hoping to conceal the burnt spot. Melted wax, once a candle, and now a hard solid substance on the carpet, was scraped and scrubbed in the effort to remove every trace. Open windows and doors allowed the smell of smoke and singed material to escape. Glass from the broken glass covering the picture was discarded. We might just survive this escapade if we were lucky.
Annie Dee’s murder was never solved, although people from our community have their suspicions as to her assailant to this day. She was buried in a grave in the small town near us, alone, with neither husband placed beside her. Which in itself, seems a punishment to a lady who enjoyed the company of a number of men, to be left lying alone in a cold, dark tomb. Although we had numerous other séances, all with the intent purpose of solving a murder mystery, no new evidence ever came to light. But, in every ceremony we held, some very strange happenings occurred - everything from a towel being set on fire to uncanny noises and smells permeating the air. To this day, I would speculate that Annie Dee is still there, living beyond the veil of darkness, waiting for her death to be avenged.
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