The Igloo Cooler Galvanized

You see rust.  I see memories...and a bug.  Back to the memory.  Dad worked road construction when I came along although he wore many hats in his life time.  We traveled with the job.  

Sometimes we were able to visit Dad where he was working.   When he saw us he would stop the bulldozer and climb down to greet us with much enthusiasm, to share his day and the wonders he had seen.  On his bulldozer he always kept his galvanized Igloo cooler.  

The cooler was a big thing in my small eyes.  I don't know if it was a three or five gallon.  I know when Dad took off the lid and held it under the small spigot to catch a fresh cold drink it was the sweetest water I had ever tasted in my short life time.

Mom and Dad were big on all of us acquiring an education in daily life as well as in schools. Being the youngest of three girls I learned when my older sisters did.  When I heard galvanized I did not connect it to his cooler but rather to the definition of the action...to be galvanized.  I think that cooler encouraged that in me too.  

 Guess we had two big coolers.  Me and Dad.

Funny the things we remember.  

Thanks, Mom and Dad for encouraging us to learn and to always be curious. 

Warm Watermelon

Was reading a great post at Wishes, Dreams & Other Things.  Ida mentioned how she didn't like watermelon.  I thought I was alone!  Glad to know a fellow watermelon disliker.

Mom said it was her fault I didn't like watermelon.  She told me how she was craving watermelon when she was pregnant with me.  It was late October in 1954 and Dad drove all over trying to find a watermelon in St Louis, Missouri.  Finally he found one, much to Mom's delight.  She cut it open immediately and began to eat.  Something was wrong with it and she became very ill.  Her conclusion was I didn't like watermelon because of that...an old wive's tale.

I never developed a love for this fruit/vegetable.  I kept trying.  I did love the watermelon seed spitting contests we had.

We grew our own watermelons.  Some, for what ever reason, might begin to end rot in the field.  As children part of our job was to find these melons and pick them for the pig and chickens to eat. Waste not, want not.  We discovered that the heart, which was still good, is mighty tasty on a warm summer day.  I remember busting a watermelon open in the field (a forbidden thing to happen with a good melon) and digging in with bare hands to reach the seedless portion.  The memory of sweet watermelon juice running down my arms as we ate with no manners sitting in the dirt still makes me smile.  This was the only time I enjoyed watermelon.  That and when we sold them because we were allowed to keep part of that money.

Thanks, Ida, for bringing that memory to the surface.

The Keeper of Mamma's Flowers

I had the nicest compliment the other day from my nephew, Toni.  He said, The farm is beginning to look like Grandma and Grandpa are here.

As it must happen to all of us, our parents die.  That was a hard thing for me to accept because although I was getting older in my mind and heart Mom and Dad would always be what they had always been, loving, supportive, helpful and well, just there.  It didn't happen that way.

My sisters and I rallied and supported them, not financially but emotionally and lovingly.  As their needs increased we helped with everything from personal bookkeeping to personal care.  We as a family traveled through a heart condition, a stroke and Alzheimer's.   Both my parents would vocalize their sadness that they needed help and they shouldn't be such a burden.   I simply answered,  You cared for me for eighteen years this is nothing.  Oh, but it was.

I know many of you have lost loved ones and cried because you could not do more to ease the way.  I guess it's under the title of Shit Happens or Simply Life.  You do what you can.

My parents are gone.

We live where they began.  Honoring the land, honoring their wishes.  Never was much of a gardener, not my passion.  I was always a more hands on animal person but I've changed as we all did.  We do what's needed to return the farm to Mom and Dad's time.

My sisters and I are here with family and we are the elder ones.  Through tornadoes, ice storms, personal illnesses and family emergencies we still are here.

I look around  and agree with Toni, even though there are tons of things left to be repaired, upgraded, cultivated, it's beginning to look like Mom and Dad are still here.

There is a peace here that I find no other place.  We try to follow in our parents' foot steps but find it difficult for us.

I feel the joy they felt and see the treasure they saw in this beautiful valley. I know they are watching over us and proud of what we've accomplished by doing it their way.

I smile.  I know Mamma is pleased that I am still tending her flowers.

Tonight I Mourned

I have been unable to do that fully for years.

Mother died in '99 and her burial arrangements were for Dad.  What he wanted, what he needed to feel like he had given her the best.  Dad was in mid Alzheimer's and some days he would forget Mom had died. Then he would remember and oh, how he would grieve all over again as if it had recently happened. We were relieved when he forgot Mom and he settled into a time of service to his country, before Mom and before us.

Mom knew he had Alzheimer's but would not tell because you don't "air your dirty laundry".  You take care of your own.  Before she passed she asked me to "take care of every thing" but mostly she meant Dad. That was all she would say giving us no hint of how different Dad was.

And so we did.  My two sisters and I gave Dad the best care we could give.  Keeping him in his and Mom's home until we couldn't.

When Dad died we knew what he wanted and that was the service we gave.  His friend read Dad's favorite Psalm, the Twenty-Third. His neighbors, mother and daughter, sang his favorite song, Amazing Grace. I gave the Eulogy at a graveside service written by his oldest grandson, Toni, and me. Dad would have liked it.  He was buried with military honors with a twenty-one gun salute.  The flag was presented to my oldest sister.  She turned and presented it to his oldest grandson.  It was as it should be.

I watched a show with a Marine Honors Burial.  When they removed the flag from the casket I broke. I bawled like I lost them tonight.  My heart had broken open and the tears flowed like a river in full flood. I could not stop.  I was alone.  Even if I wasn't I don't think I could put into words why I broke down during a television show.  It was time.

Mother did not know the gargantuan task I laid on myself with her simple words "Take care of  every thing".  Those few words left me no time nor room to mourn because I had to DO what was asked.  I judged myself harshly.  I would look around and say aloud, "Mom and Dad would not like this".  I was appalled that I could not perform to what I perceived as Mom and Dad's expectations.

I was measuring my accomplishments with a stick so big no one could have met my high standards.  I realized tonight Mom and Dad would not have wanted me to judge myself so harshly.  They wanted us to love the land and treat it kindly and in doing that to follow our dream, not theirs.

When my eyes were dry, I wrote and released myself from the super standards I had given.  I love this land.  We all do...and that was what Mom and Dad wanted.

Mom died in '99 and Dad joined her in '06.  I have finally mourned.  I think they would be proud of what we've done with their dream.

Memories...

In the thinning mode,

trying to clean and sort,

making life easier.

I've discovered things I had forgotten

and memories I will never forget.

A picture of me, Mom and Granny Pruett

and my first New Testament.

I noticed in this picture,

 we all have a spot of purple.

The love of purple

must run in my veins.

Granny Pruett, Mom's Mom, was a midwife.  We found her midwife's license in The Box I showed in an earlier post. 

There was also a letter from what is now the state health department.  At that time it was against the law for fathers' names to be on the birth certificate if you were not married. 

Granny, who took it upon herself to add the father's name when completing a birth certificate, was being reprimanded by the aforementioned department. Although they were confident that she was in a position to know the father of each child born in the community, she must cease and desist supplying those names or they would recall her license.

God, I loved that women!  Way to go, Granny!

My Mother's Lesson

Mom was quite a unique lady.  Talented but tested, she tried to remain our rock.

One of my favorite tales of Mom's less than subtle lessons to the family was how she dealt once and for all with Dad's impatience.

Mom was old school and cared for the family with no complaints, well, rarely any complaints.  When a trip was planned Mom's self appointed job was to ready the family.  Dad was always dressed and ready first since Mom laid out his clothes.  Mom then proceeded to dress three daughters and saved her preparation for last.

On this occasion, Dad was impatient to get on our way, he was ready, the children were dressed, what was the holdup??  That is when he decided to make the mother bear of mistakes by honking the truck horn.

Mother, having reached her wits end, promptly placed her hat on her head and grabbed her purse and joined the family in the truck, buck naked! 
Needless to say, Dad was shocked speechless.  We children were too young to notice anything out of the ordinary.

Mother quietly explained that preparing four people for departure left her little spare time to prepare herself.  If Dad was ready to go, then she was ready to go.

Dad NEVER honked the horn again.

Paranormal or Just Weird?

Mother had a gift.  It was not something she was thrilled to own.  Mom had a way of seeing...seeing the future, foreseeing an event.  She had no name for it, used it when it helped, ignored it for entertainment.  Most people did not know she had it.  Mom claimed it must have come from her Cherokee side. 

I had hoped I inherited something from her other than her allergies.  I surely did not get her beautiful black hair and dark eyes.  I have the cheekbones.  I have the ability to tan.  I thought that was it, oh, and I have her little toes.  Things have happened through the years that make me rethink this.

I visited Savannah, Georgia, which is and shall remain one of my favorite places.  We visited many places but today is about Fort Pulaski.

Rich with history, this fort was our last stop of the day.  We toured the fort, the moats, the captain's quarters, the top of the fort, and the barrack's.  I was in a wonderful mood, with a good friend and having the time of my life. 

Upon entering the barracks, which had served as a prison (did not know this until later), I became filled with despair, starving, scared, cold, wishing I had never come, wanted to go home, any bad feeling you can have hit me like a sledge hammer. I walked slow and touched the walls and the feelings intensified.  What is this?  What is wrong with me? 

I left the area to go top side of the fort wall.  The feelings left!  Went back through again to be sure and these strange emotions hit again.  I said nothing.  On our way out, we could leave by a circular stairwell.  Belinda started down the stairs, I put one foot in and was so overwhelmed that I had to sit. I said I cannot go this way, meet you in the yard.

Later, when reading a book of Savannah history, I discovered these two places had also affected the author the same way. I was not giving any credit to the paranormal, just to my tiredness and desire to go home.  I thought, wow, this was me!  The stairwell had been the place of a suicide and the barracks had been full of Civil War prisoners.

I did not think of this much, just in passing, like the way you would be in awe of a beautiful sunset.

I thought of it again in Fort Smith when I visited Hell On The Border, the infamous jail.  I sat quietly testing my feelings, strange, I know.  I listened to the reenactment over the speakers and felt nothing.  I touched the floor, again, nothing. I walked around laying my hands on beams and walls and still nothing.  The last wall I touched was sensational.  Feelings of despair and deadly anger washed over me.  What is this?  So I touched everything again and the final wall produced the same results.

I toured the whole ground, felt nothing but was emmersed in the history of the place.  The commissary was next.  I walked in and stood where I imagined the people would stand to receive their supplies.  Emotions hit me again, but this time, they were good, hopeful, happy emotions.

I walked and enjoyed the whole park at Fort Smith.  I talked to the park ranger.  I said the jail does not have the original floor.  He asked how do you know?  I said simply, I felt it.  I said only one wall is original and he said which one, I told him and he said I can't believe you know that, nothing is posted.  The floors had to be replaced with the sidewalk stone from the city and the walls were rebuilt to look old during the renovation, only one wall was from the original jail.  He asks if I had been to the commissary and I said yes, it is all original and he confirmed, that was the only building completely original.

I visited the Brothel in Fort Smith too.  No emotional hits, except when I descended the staircase.  I felt very beautiful as if all eyes were on me and very happy.  When talking to the ladies there, I learned the staircase was from the original brothel.

Paranormal?  Sensitive?  Nutcase?  You decide.

I may have something to thank Mama for besides my Cherokee cheekbones.

Going Back

Looking back, I can see I have always had sun grins.  Funny how you notice things like that.  The first picture is my first dog, Helen and Mom.  The top picture is me.  The third is me and some one I don't remember.

Helen was given to me by Helen, therefore, her name.  Mom said we got into trouble one day for pulling all the tissues out of the box.  I was putting them back in and Helen was helping too.  She would carry one over and stuff it in the box opening with her nose.  I wonder if Mom used those tissues after that?

I was in trouble again, who me, I never did anything wrong to get into trouble!  I think it was playing in the clay with my good clothes on, Mom was coming after me with a switch.  Helen stood between me and Mom and growled!  Mom was so shocked that I missed that whipping.

Helen lived to about sixteen.  She was worn out.  Sometimes, Helen would cry when she moved.  I was home alone, when she started crying again.  It was awful. 

I called the neighbor and asked will you shoot my dog?  Terry came and he was shocked when I handed him a gun.  He said I thought you wanted me to give it a shot.  No, I said, Helen is suffering and I can't stand it any more.  Can you put her down? 

I had already dug a grave in the barn lot and found something to wrap her in.  I told Terry I had taken her out there and said my goodbyes.  If you can wrap her and just throw enough dirt over her so I can't see, I can finish.

Of course, the tears are rolling.  I cover my head with a pillow and never heard the shot.  Terry came back, handed me the gun and said it's over, Gail.  She went easy.  I hugged him with tears flooding and went to the barn lot and cried on Helen's grave until Mom and Dad came home.

I told them. I know they were proud, although they never said a word. Dad's hand on my shoulder and Mom's sad eyes said it all.  Helen was not suffering any more.  It was the hardest thing I have ever done,  making that decision.

NOTE:  I know this may sound harsh to some but the times were different.  You only used a vet if it was an animal that made you money, like a work horse or a cow.  Dogs were special but they only got rabies shots.  If your dog died, you got another one and life went on.  After all, it was just a dog.

Not As Innocent As They Look

Sweet bovine face, right!

  They are not as sweet as they look.

For years we did not have a milk cow because we were on the road, working construction with Dad.  Mom and Dad had them in earlier years but by the time I came along, things had changed a little.

Our first milk cow, that I can remember, was Patsy.  She was a sweety pie.  We bought her from a blind lady, Annie Battles, that had trained her from a baby.  All you had to do was hold out her halter and Patsy would put her head in it and could be led anywhere. Patsy was a mix of milking breeds with a little Angus thrown in and was a lovely chocolate color.

Number one rule, that I chose to ignore, was don't ride the cattle.  If the milk cow is upset, she doesn't give as much milk.  If a steer is ridden, he loses weight.

Patsy was my confidence builder.  I would bring her from pasture each morning and night to milk.  She gave lots of milk and supplied all our family with sweet milk, butter and buttermilk with curd for the chickens and pig.  Patsy even produced enough that we had a truck pick up a can of milk every other day.  That girl was a milker!

Where we fed her was just below the opening in the loft.  There was a ladder up to the loft, you climbed up, busted a square bale and dropped some down for her.  Come back down and continue with the chore of milking.  I never became the expert at milking that Mom and Dad were.  They had milked many cows in their life time.  This was my first and became my last.

I soon lost my job as milking since I could not coax the volume of milk that Mom and Dad could.  I was demoted to the cow herder and feeder. 

I discovered, as any child does if left at something long enough, how to make life more fun.  There was a big beam close to the ladder that you could swing down on and reach the ground quicker.  I also discovered that if I would swing harder, I could straddle the cow.  Patsy did not mind, but there were complaints that some days her milk production varied oddly.  I never told and neither did Patsy, but I did stop riding her.

Not long after that, Patsy had a calf, and I, for the life of me, cannot remember his name. Not important, the important thing is to remember the rules...Don't ride the cattle.

He was cut very young and was a yard dog headed for the freezer.  We were very good friends.  He was confined to a lot with grass and feed.  As I mentioned, yard dog!  You could scratch him all over, pet him, do just about anything and he was good with that.

I had been to rodeos and always admired the bull riders. I am probably seven years old during this time.  I have and have always had an active mind.  You may have already guessed...I am gonna ride!  Forget that rule, no one will ever know, hop on and ride!  He's gentle, he's loving, I have ridden his mama, why not him?

I would like to point out a cow has nothing to hold onto.  Those bull riders had rigging, something I had not thought about...hey, I am only seven, can't think of everything.

I straddled that boy and settled my seat and I swear that is the last thing I remember until I was looking up from the ground with this big steer standing over me as if to say, you crossed the line, ole girl.  He nuzzled me.  Thank goodness, he did not stomp me, how would I ever explain that?

No confessions from me but I suspect Dad was watching because later at supper, he asked, "You do know that you can't ride the steer, don't you?"

I Don't Know Why...

this subject came into my head.  A strange one, to say the least.  Maybe it's a sign and I shall talk as if I were a professional but this is taken purely from personal experience.

No longer are we allowed to "punish" the children, every child knows the rules of child welfare and some use it to their advantage.

I was not raised in that time.  When I was a child, there were three things that could happen.  You could get a spanking, a talkin' to, or whuppin'.  Some people may call this a whipping but believe me, it was a whuppin'.

A spanking is the use of hands to leave red finger prints upon the bare legs.  Stings a little but not really the worst that could be had.  This was for minor infractions, such as not asking to be excused from the dinner table, not listening in the store, or forgetting your manners.

A talkin' to was very scary.  There were two kinds of them.  One was a serious talk about how your misbehavior could cause the world to come to an end as you know it.  The second was a much stronger, louder one that left you shaking and crying and wondering if a whuppin' was coming next.

I can think of a few things I did to get a whuppin' but the worst whuppins in our house were brought about by dishonesty.  I was told there was nothing worse than a liar.  Sometimes there is a reason to steal, but NEVER is there a reason the lie.

The instrument for a whuppin' can be anything handy.  A belt, an extension cord, a brush, a keen switch, a wooden spoon, a shoe...ah, the list goes on.  The worse instrument for this was "pick your own".  I have had many trips to the garden to pick out a switch.  This is very difficult and makes you think hard. Crying all the time, trying to find something that would not hurt. I have tried the tiny switches or limbs from the peach tree...they can make you bleed if used properly and they make you dance.  I have retrieved sticks thinking they would not sting as much as a switch but I only did that once. If the stick broke, you had to choose another one.  You did not bleed but you had bruises.

Funny that I do not remember the reasons but I do remember the whuppins. 

One time Mom was looking for me.  I was sitting on the front porch in tears, wondering what I had done now.  Beverly was playing the  piano and knew I was in for a whuppin'.  My legs were shaking, tears were rolling and I waited in dread for Mom to discover me on the porch. Beverly pretended to faint and fell  off the piano bench.  It distracted Mom long enough to forget about me so I didn't get one that time.

Mom always kept a round extension cord by the china cabinet, handy for use.  It was black and at least six feet long, the heavy duty kind.  You considered yourself lucky if she grabbed the plugs because the middle wasn't too bad but the plugs really hurt when that end was used.

I guess I have said all that to say this.  It did not hurt me, it made me think, it molded me into a responsible adult.  It made me know there were consequences to my actions.  It made me excel at every thing I have tried to do, because I felt Mom was there ready to give me a whuppin' if the result did not please her.

It also made me not spank my children, it has made me spoil my grandchildren, it has made me unsatisfied with any end product no matter how good it is and has made me feel that I am never quite good enough.

It has made me strong, flexible, creative, and it has given me a never give up attitude.  Thanks, Mom, for the mixed blessing.

Secrets

Some babies did not make it, I discovered 48 years after my birth.

My parents married at the end of the second War To End All Wars. My father was there from the beginning to end and was hungry for family life. My mother was in love with the uniform.

At eighteen, Mom was dreaming of a family. At twenty-eight, Dad was eager to comply.

The family came...three girls in eight years. I always wondered about our age difference but never asked.

We are grown now. Mom is gone and we have since lost Dad to Alzheimer's.

Alzheimer's is not pretty but it has a way of breaking secret oaths.

There were others. My sisters and I had siblings that we knew nothing about.

As Dad cried reliving the past, my sisters and I understood. We named the grief we had glimpsed in our parents' eyes.

Our siblings, bundled in hand made quilts, were each laid quietly to rest where we never plowed. They were never named and never mentioned.

It was the way of the times.

Today I bring flowers and say "Hello, I am your little sister."