Stressed Out - Continued

Stressed Out – Continued

Since I’m trying to explain to you

how stressed out I am, I think it is

 only appropriate that posting the

story was an awful experience.  It

certainly intensified my stress level. 

So the story ended in the middle of a

sentence at the beginning of the last

paragraph.  Now I’ve tried

everything:  to delete it, to add to it,

to start all over again, and by

pushing all the buttons I could find

AND nothing worked.  I hate it when

I can’t post it my way.

That’s not all the problem.  To begin

with the print was so small that it

could not be read.  So I tried to

make the print bigger.  Well it got

bigger but it was written all over

each other – unreadable.  I tried all

the above choices again and nothing

worked!!  I ended up going line by

line forwarded each line and

sometimes had to backspace to even

things up.  Now I ask you – is that

reasonable?

So after two or three hours I decided

that was it, it would just have to stay

the way it was.  In the middle of the

night I had another bright idea.  I got

up and used the delete just above the

name and it went away.  I went back

to bed happy.  Imagine my surprise

when I received a notice that a

comment had been made regarding

the story that I thought I had

deleted.  Okay I’ll live with it but

that is when I discovered that there

was no last paragraph.

This is really ridiculous and I’m

done, done!!  But then I had another

bright idea.  Why don’t I write a

continuation of the story and that

way I can get the last paragraph in.  I

can’t stand for a machine to defeat

me.  So I’ll try to post this shortly

and let’s hope it’s the last you’ll

hear about this “stressed out”

business.  But I’m not making any

promises.

The last paragraph to the previous

story is:

The topic of conversation for the rest

of our dinner was embarrassing

moments.  The stories were original,

funny and obviously were not “made

up”.   Once again the obvious is

illustrated:  Stories are our Lives. 

For all this carrying on, you’d think

I’d written a masterpiece instead of

just a piece of my mind. 

Stressed Out

S t r e s s e d   O u t

I knew I was stressed because for

 the last six weeks I have had

company or have been on

vacation.  Now I love company

 and the vacation but I need

"time out" every so often.  I need

to sit and stare at the wall.  So

after six weeks I was just plain

“peopled out.”  In case there

was any doubt, I just proved it! 

Thursday had been a busy day. 

After many errands, phone calls

and other catching up after being

away and then occupied by

entertaining company, I had a

 dentist appointment. This

appointment took 2 hours - with

mouth open and Dr. pushing,

pulling, twisting and drilling. It

was not fun.  I got home about

 3PM and then had to leave again

 at 6PM to travel about 1 hour

north to see my son and family. 

It was an important trip because

the granddaughters are leaving

for college and this would be my

last time to see them for awhile.

  I’m trying to be efficient so I

carefully choose what I have

to take in the house.  I’m getting

out of the car – hands full of

mail, drinking glasses, camera,

and assorted other stuff (didn’t

want to make two trips), I step out

 of the car onto the drive and my

pants fall down – yes, fall all the

way down.  Now, I live out in

the country so I wasn’t worried

about the neighbors seeing such a

 sight but one can’t walk with

pants around your ankles.  My

 hands  and arms are full – I

really don’t want to put it all

down and start over so I start

wiggling, twisting and turning

trying to pull up my pants.  I get

some done on one side, lean

against the car to hold it up and

try to figure out a way to get the

other side up without dropping

the first side or my arm load of

stuff.  I finally got them mostly up

and I shuffled up the drive and

into the house. 

You’d think that would give me

the message that I need to be

extra careful with whatever I’m

doing.  But just to prove that

I’m a slow learner I had another

 embarrassing event today,

Friday. 

I was going out to

 dinner with a couple of friends

and then we were going to a

reading a friend was doing later

that evening.  We had a delicious

 meal and as usual I left part of

the meal on the front of my

blouse.   My granddaughter loves

to point out the fact that there is

always evidence of what I had for

dinner on my blouse.

I excused myself from the table to

go to the bathroom to try to clean

myself up.  Before I left, I flagged

down the waitress to get extra

napkins and I had to have a sense

of humor regarding the joking

remarks made by my friends.  

  Once in the bathroom, I wet the

napkin, pulled of my blouse and

begin to work on the spots.  As

I’m doing this, I do a double

take.  How is it that I have food

on the back of my blouse. What? 

What?  I turn it around and

realize that I had been wearing the

blouse backwards!!  I changed it

and thought isn’t that nice, the

front is very clean. 

Upon returning to my table I was

greeted with how nice I looked

and something was different –

what was it?  I couldn’t hold it in

– I told them and we all laughed

and laughed.  One friend

commented that she had thought

the neckline was not very

becoming (the way it first was)

but that now it was very pretty.

The topic for the rest of dinner

Vera's Way

My niece Vera is smart, talented, beautiful and a go-getter.  Now with all those things going for her, it’s no wonder her life is full and interesting.  But the latest story she told me in a catch-up phone call leaves me shaking my head.

She has college degrees galore all specializing in subjects way above my head – Mechanical Engineering, Industrial Engineering, and a PhD in Information Science.  Her passion for the last 10 years has been energy, sustainable energy.  She teaches an on-line class on this subject at Penn State and is involved with a local hands-on group that installs solar panels.  Somewhere along the line, she wrote a book: Pennsylvania Homeowner’s Guide to Solar Electricity.  It’s carried by Amazon.

The procedure works like this: Amazon gets an order and forwards it to her. Vera then packs and mails the order from her home.  Last week she got an order for one book, and she packaged and addressed it.  That afternoon she went to a meeting in a small town not far from where she lives.  After the meeting, she wanted to stop by the local post office and mail the package, but didn’t know where the Post Office was. So she asked a fellow meeting attendee.  He was equally at a loss.  At this point Vera looked closer and realized she was just two miles away from the address on the package. 

Now what do you think she decides to do? 

Yes, she decides to just deliver it.

Shortly thereafter, she knocks on a door and a man answers. She gives him the package and tells him who she is.  Well, he almost faints.  He ordered a book and here it is being delivered by the author herself.  He introduces himself, a college professor. He’s delighted to have the book and the personal delivery. He invites Vera in for pictures and asks her to autograph the book. Then he serves her tea. 

I can imagine the story he tells his class when he introduces the book.

Vera leaves and drives home smiling all the way. 

But this is just one of Vera’s experiences.  She has lived life on her own terms beginning in her teenage years.  Her decisions have often made her life difficult and caused worry and concern for her family.  But as life continued to weave its way through the years – Vera’s way began to take shape.  She has carved out a unique place for herself in the family and in society.  Today she is the wife of Marty and manager of their big beautiful home.  Marty had polio when he was three-years old and has special needs.  Vera is able to take care of those needs with love and patience and with the ability to make it all look easy.  Of course it helps that Marty is always upbeat.  Teaching an on-line class gives her the freedom to work from home – in her PJ’s if she wishes.  She has three siblings who all have children.  She is the person her siblings call when they have a special need – maybe just a kind listening ear. She is that special aunt, the one able to give her love and attention to each child, making sure each one knows that she/he is a very special person. She has gained wisdom and experience that make her a valuable ally for her mother in helping keep all the family on an even keel.  Marty brought with him three children who are now grown.  There are six grandchildren.  Vera makes each person in the family feel that he/she is the most loved person in the world.  

Her position in life was not handed to her on a silver platter.  No, she earned it through hard work and experience. 

And now she has the pleasure of saying, “I think I’ll just deliver this book myself,” and finds herself enjoying every minute of the experience.

The Zipper

On a cold day in November ’06, I was going to meet an old boyfriend.   I hadn’t seen him in at least 20 years.  He was in a nearby town on business and I was driving about an hour south to meet him.  Now, I was excited and anxious.  Twenty years – I’m older, fatter – not the cute young thing that he knew many years ago.  Neither is he going to be the handsome young man that I knew many years ago.  Over the years we’ve kept in touch - talked and seen each other once in a while.  But this time it was 20 or more years since we’d seen each other.

As I’m nearing the meeting place I begin checking myself,    Is my hair ok, do I have on lipstick, is my collar straight and then I check the zipper on my pants.  It is down a little bit so I pull it up and -----what??  It can’t be??  I try again – it’s broken – off the track.  Oh, what shall I do!!   I don’t have time to go home – I’ll stop by a bathroom, take off my pants and see if I can fix them. I’ve had luck fixing broken zippers before.  I finally find a bathroom – a dirty grimy one at a mechanics place. It’s filthy – water or something wet all over the floor with oil in some of it.  I don’t think the sink & toilet have been cleaned since they were installed, years ago.  Paper is decorating this room in all areas.  I start to take off my pants - try not to get them wet or greasy from all the stuff on the floor.   I stand on one foot, try to balance, try to hold up my pants with one hand and get them off the other leg without getting them in the floor mess.  What an ordeal!  I push and pull and try to realign the zipper with no success.  I carefully put my pants back on and I return to the car holding up my pants, almost in tears.  I didn’t even take the time to button the top button.  How can this happen?  Oh, it’s awful!!  Then I remember that there is a Wall-Mart not far down the road. Surely I can find a pair of pants that’ll work there.   But if I go, I’ll be late so I call my friend – no answer, leave a message just saying I’ll be late, sorry, don’t worry, nothing is wrong.  (Ha!)  I’ll explain later. 

I get to Wall Mart. Hurry in – right past the greeter at the door and look for the women’s department.  I finally find it. It’s a mile on the other side of the store!

I begin looking for my size.  I look here – there, everywhere.  Not the right size anywhere. As far as color, I would have worn anything - pinks, plaids, purples, whatever!  OK, I stopped and gave myself a lecture - calm down, look carefully, there has to be something here.  So I begin to look all over again and again and again.   These are too little in the waist – I’m not a skinny little thing.  These are too long – my legs are comparatively short.  So if they fit in the waist, they don’t fit in the legs.  I mean I’d have to roll them up to my knees.  If they fit in the legs – well, you try to imagine stuffing yourself into something toooooo small.  No.  No.  Nothing.  I stop and think – what else can I do??  What else can I do??  Nothing – Nothing. This is it.

So, I decide to pull my sweater down and it almost hides the problem and nobody would notice unless they were really looking.  Off I went.  I met my friend and we immediately began talking just like it was yesterday that we had last seen each other.  We were both the same – a little older and fatter, that’s all.  I had brought a picnic basket filled with goodies – wine, glasses, crackers and cheese and photos of us and other friends in the old days.  I completely forgot about my problem, the zipper, until I had to go to the bathroom.  Then I explained why I was late.  He laughed and laughed and we both made several suggestive remarks.  “I wanted to be ready for action when I got here, I said.”  He said that if he’d known that we’d have had immediate action.”  He added, “Times have changed, you didn’t used to be so open about your intentions.”  I went to the bathroom, came back and we went on with our conversation.  Shortly afterward, we left to go to a nice restaurant for dinner.  Neither one of us said anything more or thought about the zipper. 

I look back on that time and think - what a great time and a great friend.  Neither of us were embarrassed or upset enough for “the zipper” to spoil our evening.  BUT, we’ve known each other since I was 16 and he was 18.  We were both active in 4-H work.  We worked in our county, region and state on activities and projects.  We met at some of the state meetings.  Since that time, many years ago, our relationship has taken many turns.  Throughout all the years we have kept sporadically in touch.  Enough so that our bond from all those years ago has been kept alive and is still enjoyed even as we reach our seventies. 

It is a special treat that at this age, I can talk with someone who knew me growing up, my home, parents and siblings, many mutual friends and college times.  One of the blessings of growing old is having lots of memories and someone to share them with. 

When time came for me to return home, I was invited to stay the night.  His reasoning being – “Well you’re half undressed already. We might as well make it worthwhile.”  Always was a romantic fella!!

While this was an interesting proposition, I decided I had enough memories of times past to keep me company.  So with a quick peck on the cheek and a bear hug we said good night and I was off to my home with more memories and thoughts of what might have been. 

The Last Time

Somehow I always think I should remember the last time a loving kiss was shared with my ex-husband and other last times with him and others.  But I really don’t and wonder why?  But there is one last time that I remember with clarity.

Mama was in her late 80’s and in poor health.  Severe arthritis was the main problem with many other problems involved.  She was sitting in her beloved kitchen in a rocking chair.  The kitchen of the farm house was always the heart of the house and Mama ruled the kitchen and dearly loved it.  So even now, she used her walker to get to the kitchen, sit in her favorite rocker and give Francis,     (her helper and companion) directions about what to cook and how to cook.  Of course Francis could cook on her own but Mama was sure it would not be just right unless she did it the way Mama thought it ought to be done.

I was there visiting during the summer time.  It was time for dinner to be prepared and Francis was busy doing something else.  Mama said “let me cook one more time”.  It was salmon croquettes.  Mama took charge and I was her helper.  We made them and then Mama hobbled over to the stove.  During her prime Mama was about 5’10’’ and stood well above the stove as she cooked.  This day, the croquettes were put in the oil and began to spatter – we turned it down.  Mama’s face was just a few inches above the pan.  She had shrunk over the years and was bent because of the arthritis.  She had on her apron and determinately stood there and watched and turned them until they were done.

Then she turned away from the stove, looked at me and said, “Well that’s the last time, I’ll ever cook” and she hobbled back to her rocker.  It was closure for her, she needed to see & know that she really could not cook anymore.  No doubt was left in her mind and she acknowledged the reality of her life. 

Giving Thanks

I’ve become aware that as I have been going through life, I’ve been receiving gifts from other people.  Oh, I don’t mean material gifts – I mean gifts of people themselves.  Often they were not even aware that they had given me a gift, one that would make a huge difference in my life.  I think it’s time I told them “Thank You”. 

When I was going through my divorce, I needed someone to talk to.  Someone that would not agree with me, no matter what, someone that would not patronize me, someone that would not always berate the other party, and above all someone who would listen and let me talk until I was hoarse.  I was indeed fortunate; my friend Ann was that person.  During that painful time of divorce, we bonded and became sisters.  I don’t know how I would have done it if she hadn’t been there.  Thank you, Ann.

When I was growing up, I never felt or was given any idea that I was or could be creative.  I always envied others who had that ability.  My friend Dorothy is an artist - painting, drawing, and sculpturing with clay.  I loved pottery and always oohed and ahhed over it. Dorothy convinced me that I could make something out of clay.  We started a studio and for many years, every Saturday morning I went to the studio and we worked on our projects.  I created many beautiful things, I think.  And her belief in my ability to make something gave me tremendous faith in myself and I’ve grown creatively since then.  Thank you, Dorothy.

My first child was a little girl who was born with a congenital heart defect.  She died when she was 9 months old.  My world collapsed.  I was in a deep depression.  At the time we were living in Texas and my then husband was going to school there working on his Doctorate.  Mary Jo died Jan. 27^th and a new semester was starting a couple weeks later.  Eddie pushed and encouraged me to enroll and continue working on my college degree.  I did and I’m sure it saved me from sinking into the depths.  I’m sure he did not realize what a big gift he gave me and I haven’t told him til this story.  Thank you, Eddie.

I’m the oldest child in my family and I always felt that I helped take care of everybody else and myself.  I didn’t remember anybody taking up for me or defending me.  When I moved back home in 1979, I was single and had been for many years.  I was about 45 years old.  A boyfriend came to visit me at my home on the farm.  My parents were scandalized - what would everybody say!  There were many discussions – with and without me present. One night my brother came to see me at my house there on the farm.  He said Daddy had been talking to him regarding how awful it was – what Mary was doing.  Smith told him that he was sure that I was not going to do anything that would cause a scandal and that it was ok.  Things calmed down after that.  I was amazed – he had gone out on a limb for me.  Thank you, Smith. 

In 1998, I spent much time in SC because my mother was often in the hospital and/or the nursing home.  I stayed with my sister who has a Cape Cod home – two bedrooms upstairs and a bath.  I came home one night tired, out of sorts and upset with something that had gone on during the day regarding Mama’s care.  Barbara, my sister’s 14 year old daughter had the other bedroom upstairs and often stopped by my room to visit when she came in.  This night I was moaning and groaning about my complaints.  Barbara listened quietly for awhile, then got up, put her hands on her hips and said “Aunt Mary, Get over it!” and then she flounced out of the room as only a teenager can.  Wow!  I thought about her comment and realized that my verbal carrying on was just adding fire to the situation.  I needed to come to terms with the problem – work it out and get on with life.  Thank you, Barbara. 

This past February 13^th, my dog Blitz died.  My friend Lyn realized how devasted I was – Blitz was family.  The next day she invited me and our friend Nancy to go riding about the countryside to take pictures.  What a calming relaxing thing to do – being with friends, out in nature, and doing something we all loved. What a memorial to Blitz.  Thank you, Lyn. 

I’m sure there are other thank yous that I should give but these are the one I think of now.  Each of them was huge in my life and enriched it.  I’m reminded that we should always remember that our behavior and words affect other people – let’s hope for the best. 

(This story was written some years ago and as I reread it, I think of others that I would like to add.

But, I think they will be in a new story.  This story was for that point in time.)

Weeds

One summer day I was in South Carolina visiting my childhood home and was walking along a dirt road on the farm when I noticed a beautiful sight.  It was a weed - taller than the others and the light was hitting it just right.  Ohhh, I sighed as I grabbed my camera and took several shots.  I chose the one I liked best, enlarged and framed it.  I named it Roadside Beauty.  And that got me to thinking.  That weed was as pretty as any flower I ever saw.  But that weed gets no credit for its beauty.  A beautiful flower is ooohed and aaaahed over. 

Ah yes - The flower that was blooming so beautifully was carefully planted in just the right soil, carefully watered and fertilized. It was planted in just the right spot to get enough sun &/or shade.  The weed just grew - with no attention, no special care - it made do with where it landed.  It grew into a Roadside Beauty.  Now that Beauty is not the Beauty of a cultivated pampered flower.  No, it's a special unique beauty. 

People look at a weed and say things like:  pull it up, get rid of it, kill it, spray it with some poison, we don't want it to spoil our beautiful planned garden.  There is no place for weeds there.  So a weed is unwanted, different, and not pretty (by the usual norms).  The weed is rejected, an outsider, and an outcast and unappreciated.  It is left on its own, it is not supported or taken care of in any way.

But does that defeat the weed - oh no.  She is a survivor!!  She says, " I will take care of myself, I will survive, I will make do and in fact I will manage under the harshest conditions.  I am independent and unique!

You know, I think I am a weed.  And, after thinking about it, I don't think that upsets me.  In fact, I like it.    

The weed reminds me of our society.  We treat the minorities and the poor much like we treat weeds.  It seems to me that they have to work twice as hard as anybody else to get whatever they might want or need.  We don't make it easy for them.  We don't support or pamper them.  We reject them, make them outsiders and outcasts.  We don't take the time to look carefully and see the different kind of beauty in each one.  Nooo, we're looking for what everybody calls beauty.

What if we took the time and interest to see the special unique beauty in each one, - then we'd all be flowers.  We'd be loved and appreciated for who we are, what we are and our differences would make us even more interesting and attractive.  We'd be like the flower garden that my Aunt Lois always had.  She planted a little bit of anything and everything.  So in her garden the flowers were different, some tall, some short, some colorful, some not, different sizes, shapes, colors.  Each flower was unique, special in its own right. 

So, I like being a weed - on my own, making my life, fighting my own battles, and surviving.  I like being independent, different and I like my own special kind of beauty.  Certainly it is not easy being a weed. It does force you to find the core of yourself and use strengths and talents that you never knew you had.  A weed is different.  Different is not a synonym for bad.

MBS: 8/18/09

Ageing Gracefully

        Ageing Gracefully

Can it be done, I wonder.  With my ageing, I find that being graceful about it, is one of the most difficult things.  First comes my acknowledging some loss – breathing is difficult, walking is difficult, and on and on etc. ,  then accepting the loss myself and then comes acknowledging it to others and asking others to help me or make allowances for me  I hate asking for help to do simple things like  take something to the office which is only a short distance away.  It makes me feel inadequate, dumb, stupid.  And that makes it hard for me to ask nicely &/or say thank you nicely. 

But I know that if I do take it to the office, it will take me ten minutes to get over it – sit down to relieve my back and hips, breathe in gulps to get enough air - and then I’ll be fine again.  So I try to remember to ask nicely.

I think my mother aged gracefully, at least most of the time.  I do remember a time or two when she laid a guilt trip on me.  Something like, “oh go on to the lake with the others, I’ll just stay here by myself while you all have fun.”  But by and large, she asked politely and thanked graciously. And all with a smile on her face.. 

I remember once back in the early eighties when my Aunt Lois and her friend Rubye came for a visit.  It was in the fall and one beautiful day we went riding to enjoy the countryside.  We came to a big field that was planted with pumpkins at one end and corn further down.  We stopped by the side of the road to admire the beauty of it.  Aunt Lois said, “I feel like I could just get out of the car and run across that field.”  I thought to myself why is she saying that, she knows she can’t and hasn’t been able to in a long time.  Aunt Lois was in her seventies.  I am now in my seventies and now I understand Aunt Lois.  I know I can’t run across that field but I feel like I can.  I think the young person that I was is still the person that is inside me.  But the body is a stranger to me.  It no longer functions as it always did.  Perhaps that’s one reason I’m having difficulty – I was used to being able to physically do whatever whenever I wanted.  That’s not so any more and I’m having to deal with it.  That’s what I think aging is - having losses and  accepting them gracefully.     

You know what it is, it’s CHANGE!  Yes, it’s reared its ugly head again.  It always gave me fits.  Just as soon as I think I’ve got everything under control and a pattern worked out, something happens and I have to change!  Change my way of thinking, change my way of being, look at a new point of view, and/or review other possibilities.  So I go kicking and screaming and fighting – I don’t want to change!  But I have to, I do, and I’m glad – But it wasn’t or isn’t easy.  I do believe that every change brings more wisdom and a greater understanding of self and others, so I’m always glad when it’s done.  I just don’t want to do it again.  AND here it is, I have to do it again. 

So, I’ll keep practicing (there’s no way to wiggle out of it) and maybe even feel better in this role of being the old lady, letting others help and gracefully enjoying it all. 

MBS

Surprise Letter

My sister, brother and I went to a three room country school.  There were outhouses for bathrooms; no lunch system, you brought your own from home; the heating system was wood stoves in each room and the students and teachers kept the fire going.  We all thought Flat Rock School was the very best in the world. The building is now gone but the spirit of the past students is very much alive.  As we’ve aged, there’s been talk of trying to get us together for a reunion.  Perhaps we’re a step closer because of the surprise letter.

Sister Jean got a surprise letter from Ray.  He was in her class at Flat Rock.  He is now somewhere around 70years old.  Over the years, Jean and Ray have not been in touch or kept up with each other.  They have gone about their separate lives.  Their only common ground is our brother Smith.  Smith still lives in the same community and has an auto shop there.  Ray still lives in the same community and takes his car to Smith for tune ups and whatever it might need.  He must have gotten Jean’s address from Smith.

In the letter Ray confesses to stealing a dime from Jean when they were in the fourth grade.  This has bothered him ever since.  He is so sorry and ashamed of his behavior. He knew better and has felt guilty ever since. His parents raised him better that that and he asks her forgiveness.  I interrupt Jean telling me this story to ask if he sent the dime back?  Jean said, “No,  he sent a $100”.  Well, Jean’s first thought was, it’s found money.  What luxury shall I buy or do and she began planning.  Then she realized – this was special money, it couldn’t just be frittered away.  Something special, something with meaning would have to be done with this money.

Jean taught school in Greenville County during her career as a teacher.  She taught the disadvantaged, juvenile delinquents, homeless, children who were deprived in most every way.  She was devoted to this work.  When she retired, several friends started a scholarship fund in her name at one of the group homes where she taught. When she thought of that, she immediately knew what she would do with the money. 

 One afternoon a few weeks later she went to that group home which was for high school girls and held a house meeting.  There she explained about her school as a child, she talked about Ray and who he was.  Then she told about the letter. She said that “stealing that 10 cents” became a great burden, one that he had carried around since 4^th grade – about 60 years.  Then she pointed out that now he was trying to make amends and he had sent $100. Jean told them that she first thought about spending the money on a day at the spa, or all the ice cream she could eat for a year, or the most expensive meal at a fancy restaurant. Then she told the girls that while that would be great fun, none of those would leave her satisfied. None of those would   leave her with the feeling of money well spent.

“So, then I thought of you,” she said with a big smile and smiles from all were returned. “I give you this $100 to buy new books for yourselves – ones you can pick out, ones that you like, ones that you can keep and read and read.”  The girls  smiled and cheered as they envisioned new books for themselves.  Children who had been so deprived were getting a gift that had been in the making for 60 something years.

Jean left feeling very satisfied. She went home and began to write  Ray a thank you note and tell him how the money was used.  First of all she said she forgave him if that was necessary but she felt awkward doing so since she had no memory of the incident.  Either she never knew of the missing dime or the memory of it had faded over the years.  The letter was ended by Jean suggesting that she, Ray and Smith plan a reunion of the Flat Rock Folks for next year.

Last I heard, Ray was gathering names and contacts, Smith had donated the use of our home place for the reunion and Jean was filling in wherever needed. Seems there will be a Flat Rock Reunion next year - another dividend that came from one person trying to clear his conscience.  That Surprise Letter had far reaching and unexpected consequences. 

I'm Mad At Daddy

While I was visiting relatives this past summer, I spent some time with my 3 year old great nephew.  He was having a hard time adjusting to the fact that his Mom and Dad were getting a divorce.  He was acting out by hitting and biting.  I wrote this poem trying to express his point of view. 

I'm Mad at Daddy!

I'm mad at Daddy!

Mommie says that's ok to be mad

BUT

I can't bite her or anybody else

Mommie says I can hit and hit a pillow.

I'm sad that Daddy is gone.

Mommie says that's ok to be sad

And I can talk to her or Grandma or a teacher

BUT

I can't bite anybody - ever.

I feel angry at Daddy. 

I want to see him. And he's not here.

Mommie says that's ok to feel angry

BUT

I can't bite or hit anybody - ever.

Mommie says that I can run like the deer,

Swim like the otter and jump like a kangaroo,

Listen to music and dance.

That'll make me feel better.

BUT

 I can't bite her or anybody.

So I'll try to be a big boy and remember.

BUT it's so hard.

Summer Adventure

I remember warning my granddaughters about the dangers of the Internet.  It can be quite dangerous.  You don't really know who you are interacting with.  It's not a good thing to do.  It's not safe.

Well, I guess I think I am old enough to take chances and break those rules.  This summer I met an internet friend.  "What?  You would do such a thing?   you might ask." In my case, it makes sense.  But can't you just hear every teenager saying the exact same thing. 

I started blogging about 6 months ago. These blogs are mostly memoir type stories/essays and the other people involved also write stories/essays and we all make comments.  So after 6 months we, the group who write blogs, know each other fairly well.  My new friend made a comment about our common ancestors who were named McGee.  No, we're not kin (as far as we know).  There are McGees all over the place.  But it piqued our interest in each other.  We have some things in common: we are both elementary school teachers and we both have southern roots. But we certainly have our differences - she has her PhD, I  don't.  I am retired and have been for 19 years and I jumped into retirement with relish - there were so many new things I wanted to do but she is having trouble getting ready for the big leap. She is a very good writer and I am a storyteller who is just a beginner in the writing business.

As the time for my trip home approached I suggested that we meet somewhere for coffee.  After more discussion it seemed the easiest and best place to meet was home, the farm. Marcia Mayo lives in Atlanta, Georgia and my childhood home and where my brother and family still live is about 125 miles east in South Carolina.

Marcia drove over and arrived about 10 AM.  We spent the morning touring the house. I enjoyed telling the history of my 100 year old home and all the heirlooms. It seemed as if the house came alive as I told the history to an interested audience.  This family home has been in our family since my grandfather built it.  There have been four generations that have called it home and another generation is already waiting in the wings.  We are blessed to have such continuity and history.

 I had received a video of a storytelling performance that I did before I left NY and I shared that with her.  Storytelling was something Marcia had only scattered knowledge of and I loved talking about one of my favorite passions.  Luckily, my brother came in and said he was ready to take us on a tour of the farm, otherwise, I'd still be there talking about storytelling. 

My brother Smith took us for a tour of the farm.  Marcia and I rode on the tailgate of the pickup truck.  We held on for dear life as we bounced over the rough roads and pastures.  We thought we were kids again.  Smith loved showing off the farm, stopping to show off his cow herd resting in the pines, stopping to tell us a bit of history of the pasture we were in and of course stopping to show off the creek where we three kids played growing up.  Marcia was impressed that he had the time and patience to do this.  She didn't realize that it's a tradition started by Daddy some years ago.  The temperature was about 100 degrees and humidity about 80 percent.  Otherwise it was a lovely day.  We visited the other important spots like the Big Gully, the Fig Tree, Laura Francis' home place and Scuppernong Vines.  All of these have been highlighted in some of my stories.

After that time outside, we were ready to go inside and have lunch. We went to Starr, my home town about three miles down the road.  Starr is a wide spot in the road that's all BUT we do have a restaurant.  About 10 years ago a lady remodeled a vacant house - made it home beautiful and opened for business and it's still going.  It's called the Grey House and is known far and wide.

Marcia and I had a great lunch - long and leisurely.  We discussed and shared our work and the possibilities for new work. Ideas flowed like a river, the idea &/or comment of one led to an idea by the other.  Back and forth the excited conversation went.  She'd like to do something in the writing field after her retirement.  I'm working on several memoir books and hope to have them ready this fall. We encouraged and urged each other on in our projects. 

There we also giggled over the fact that we were doing the same thing that we had warned our children and grandchildren about.

We fondly said good-by realizing that we had the good fortune to have each acquired a new friend.

For Marcia's reaction and thoughts about the day read her essay Friends Today.

It's in her blog site:  http://wellagedwithsomemarbling.blogspot.com/

Doctor Visit

As I sit here in this chair in this cubicle in this antiseptic sterile environment waiting for the Dr. to appear, my mind starts to wander.

When I was a child and even through my teen age years, I remember going to see the doctor and it was a pleasant experience.  You entered a friendly warm reception area where you were personally greeted and told that you would be next or Dr. was very busy today or it would be just a short wait.

The experience today is very different. I waited in a blah reception room until the assistant called my name.  Then she led me down a maze of corridors and cubicles, most with closed doors.  Then I was shown my cubicle and left to wait for the coming of the Dr.

 Left alone to my own devices, I begin reminiscing and constructing stories. 

My earliest memory of a doctor is our family Doctor, Dr. Olga.  She was a short stocky woman who took care of all the family and our ills.  Her office was a room in her home and her secretary/assistant was her sister.  Once when I was 10 years old (approximately) I fell and badly cut my upper lip. Mama and I rushed to see Dr. Olga.  She put me on a table in her office, stopped the bleeding and carefully examined the wound.  She announced that it needed a couple of stitches. I vaguely remember Mama and Dr. Olga discussing if she should do it or should they take me to the hospital.  After all it was my face and would affect the rest of my life.  Dr. Olga felt confident she could do it, Mama had confidence in her and I certainly did.  Dr. Olga carefully explained to me that she was going to use a needle and thread (she showed it to me), and go in and out of my lip like the stitches my Mama made in cloth when she was sewing.  Then she gave me the choice of having pain medicine or not.  She didn't push for one way or the other. I felt strong and brave in those days and said to just do it.  She did. I did not feel undue pain although I did hold tight to my mother's hand. I think her careful explaination - not sugar coating it, helped me to understand it and deal with it.  It has healed and nobody ever notices it.  Psssss - I've just told you a big secret. 

Dr. Olga also made house calls.  It was not unusual for her to stop by our house to see one or several of us.  I can see her now - confidently walking toward the house with her black satchel while her sister waited in the car.

Dr. Haddock had an office in town and Mama and I always enjoyed going to see him.  We would sit in his office, talk about whatever the health issue was and also visit.  How was the family - his and ours, the garden, and/or the vacation.  His daughter was in my high school class and his family went to our church.  This is back in the days when the town was fairly small and everybody knew most everybody. 

My mind takes a different turn. I wonder if anybody has ever been left here in a cubicle overnight or even left for a few hours, forgotten.  It seems like it would be an easy thing to happen.  When I sit here for awhile I read, think, and then just begin to zone out - maybe even nap.  So I might let the time go by too.  I think that has the makings of a good story.

Today I wait for the doctor to come in, attend to my health issue and leave and then I'm left to try to remember how in the world I got where I am and to look for exit signs so I can find my way out of this maze. 

As I continue to wait, I realize that I really miss those old days when I personally knew my doctor. I liked it better when I went in and sat in the Dr.'s office and we talked about my health issues and life.  Now I go in a maze, sit in a cubicle and am examined by Dr. Robot and then excused.  It makes me feel like a "thing" instead of a human being. 

You Have Some Nerve

You Have Some Nerve!

Cousin Connie and I had arranged a meeting at her new house to discuss our work in genealogy.  Connie and Roger bought this big beautiful house a year ago and have spent the past year making it even more beautiful.  I had never visited them at this home.  This afternoon Connie had invited her sisters Jane and Charlene and I had invited my sister Jean.  We weren't sure exactly who would show up.

I arrived carrying a bouquet of flowers.  Connie opened the door with arms open wide for a hug.  Saw the flowers and said "For me?  How thoughtful."  I said "No, they are for Jane.  I wasn't able to get to the hospital so I thought I'd just bring them today. " Ohhh" said Connie in disappointment. I should have brought her flowers but just did not think of it.  She began to show me around the gorgeous rooms and after a little bit I interrupted to say that I had potato salad in the car, I really need to get it and put it in the refrigerator.  "Great," said Connie "That'll be a good addition to lunch".  "Ohhhh" I said.  "It's for the Reunion tomorrow.  I had to pick it up because everybody else was busy.  I couldn't pick it up later because the place would be closed.  I didn't think you'd mind if I put it your refrigerator for a few hours. " "Of course not,"  Connie said is a curt manner.

We put the potato salad in the refrigerator and stepped back into the kitchen. Connie backed up and said as a pronouncement, " You have some nerve, Mary.  You show up at my house for the first time with flowers and food.  Then you have the nerve to tell me it's for other people."  I apologized and apologized and felt like an idiot.  We laughed and hugged - no harm done.

Connie is a good hearted soul so there was no real problem.  But this is one of those stories that I will never live down.  I heard about it again this year. I entered her home for the family reunion and she greeted me with "Got any flowers or food - for somebody else?" 

Just Call Me Margaret

JUST CALL ME MARGARET

The rules are that anybody older than you should be called Mrs. So and So or Mr. So and So.  With family permission, a close family friend could be called Aunt So and So or Uncle So and So.  Cousins were called Cuden So and So.  You see that the matter of address for anybody was carefully spelled out.  Oh, there was an exception in my life - those special friends that allowed me, a kid, to call them by their first names - Francis and Barney.  Otherwise the rules held.

When I was 31 years of age, I had finally finished college and gotten a job

teaching 1st grade. The first day of school began with just the teachers there

so they could prepare for the students the next day.  I was excited and more

than a little anxious about gettting my room ready and being prepared for a  

roomful of 6 year olds.  Across the hall from me was Miss Margaret Spingler.  She was a second grade teacher and had been at this school many years. She was just a few years away from retirement. 

During the course of the day I went across the hall to ask a question and

began with, "Miss Spingler".  She interrupted and said, "Just call me

Margaret". I stuttered and stammered and said "oh no, I couldn't do that". 

And Miss Spingler said in her most no-nonsense teacher voice that that was her name and that's what she should be called.  Well, I said, "Yes" and after a few false tries it was Margaret.

Margaret is a spinster lady and at that time she hurried home each day after

school to care for her 92 year old mother who lived with her.  Having Margaret across the hall certainly proved fortuitous for me.  She proved to be a guide, and role model for me.  Margaret retired but continued to stay in touch with all her school friends. 

Margaret's heritage is Irish and she wished all to know it and enjoy it with her.  Each St. Patrick's Day she had an Open House and everybody was invited  - school colleagues; family; church friends and other friends collected over the years.  Our friend Pam and I would go over

the day before and help make everything green - hang green curtains, add food coloring to the punch, make green sandwiches, get out all the Irish

Memorabilia from the attic, and make sure the way was cleared for everybody and food that would come the next day. 

I was still teaching first grade and I told my class about the St. Patrick's

Day party I had attended.  I stressed that everything that we ate was green. 

Then we began to put on our coats and get ready for dismissal.  Joey quietly

came up to me, tugged on my sweater and said "Mrs. Summerlin, when you went to the bathroom was it green?".  Luckily for me the dismissal bell rang.

As time went by, the Open House was just too big an undertaking.  But Margaret could not let March 17th pass by without her doing something to acknowledge it.  So every St. Pat's Day I get an Irish verse or prayer in the mail and it is addressed to Mary O'Summerlin from Margaret O'Spingler. And I feel touched by a bit of the Irish and I cherish it dearly.

This chain of events has made Margaret a part of my life and  it will

always be so since she taught me a skill I still enjoy.  I think , at least 10

years ago, Margaret taught Pam and me how to crochet afghans.  Neither Pam or myself had any knowledge of how to crochet.  With infinite patience Margaret taught us the pattern she had used for many years.  Pam and I went home sure we knew what we were doing.  Soon we would have a big mistake, call Margaret, go over and she would undo the mess and get us started again. 

Since that time I have made 25 afghans.  I always have one in progress by my easy chair and anytime I sit down I work for awhile.  I tell people that for a year the afghan is my therapy and then it is a present for a loved one.  You can't beat that arrangement.

Thank you, Margaret my friend and I can't think of ever calling you anything else.

I Used To...........

This past summer 25 family members gathered at a beautiful lake in SC.  My sister Jean and her partner Bill own a home there and invited all of her 4 grown children and their spouses/partners and children. My son and his wife, Jeff & Kippy came with their two college age girls.  We were there for a vacation and reunion and had a glorious time catching up with the lives of each other.  I would have the added delight of spending quality time with my granddaughters.

 Of this group my sister, Jean, Bill and I are the senior citizens.  This feels so strange.  Time gets all mixed up - I'm supposed to be one of the kids running around and playing.  Instead I'm sitting and watching the kids.  I'm comparing what I used to do physically and what I can now do physically.  As I watch the kids run and play, I think, I used to do that.  Besides it being a shock to me that I can't do what I used to do easily, quickly and with no thought, I begin to wonder if the kids  will remember me when I could quickly and easily move about.  That brought about a feeling of sadness.  In thinking of my mother, I remember her older years more vividly than her younger years.  What a shame.  It's not fair.  It seems to me you should be remembered when you were at your peak of physical fitness. 

I wonder when it is that we cross the line from middle aged - can do most things still, to old age - can't do a lot of things and what you can do is slow and careful.  I think it usually happens gradually so that you don't know exactly when it happened.   I remember almost exactly.  It was November of ‘07.  A series of health problems began and old age also set in.  It almost seemed that the day before I was young and the next day I was old. 

My granddaughters can't imagine their Nana riding a horse, chasing down calves in the wide open pasture, playing tennis with a passion, working, going, doing full steam from sunup til sundown, doing the handyman work of taking care of a house, playing volleyball with their father, riding a motorcycle, moving and lifting heavy things or carrying up arm  loads of wood for the wood burning stove many times a day - up thirteen stairs.

Now they know Nana who needs help bringing things from the car, carrying heavy bags of dog and cat food, going down to the mailbox to get the mail and bringing things up and down stairs.  I'm so sorry - but I guess it's the circle of life and they are now learning from me what growing old is like.  I must remember to be a good role model and not grumble and complain about my stage of life.

When I was younger I remember being puzzled by older folks who were always saying "I used to run across that field or I used to clean the house in half a day.  I thought, don't they know that they can't  do that anymore?  Now I understand.  I never get used to the idea that I can't do it anymore.  Getting old keeps bringing new understandings.

At the lake Erica and I were paddling around in the water having a good talk and  then Meghan comes riding in on the jet ski.  We go over and they ask if I'd like to go for a ride.  Of course, I would but getting up on the jet ski from the water is an impossible task for me now.  So I declined and watched as Meghan quickly slid off the machine and Erica quickly climbed aboard.   Oh I wish they could remember when Nana could do that just as quickly and easily as they did. 

Erica

This was written a few years ago but I think it still applies.  Erica is now a junior in college. 

I was there when my granddaughter Erica was born.  I announced “Look out World – Here she comes!”  This infant became a beautiful, lively, curious, loving, intelligent child.  What a great joy it has been watching her grow and being a part of her world. 

When Erica was 4 years old, she went on a vacation with me.  We joined a friend of mine, Mildred and her daughter Devon who was 8 years old.  Mildred had rented a cabin on the shores of Lake Champlain.

Devon loved horses.  The white dancing stallions had a home base about 10 miles from where we were and every week they gave a performance.  We all planned to go.  I especially understood Devon’s love of horses – I had gone through the same stage, loving horses, reading all about them, etc.  – even so far as to having a horse.  We arrived on a Monday and Erica became sick Tuesday – flu like symptoms – she just wanted to lay there.  She had a fever too.  It became obvious that Erica could not go to the show on Wednesday afternoon.  Sadly we all decided that we would have to cancel our plans.  I felt especially bad for Devon.  So then we began to try to come up with alternate solutions.  One of us would have to stay with Erica.  One of us could go with Devon.  Erica knew Mildred but not that well. I really didn’t want to insist that she stay with Mildred even though that seemed to be the best idea.  Mildred had seen the horse show other years and did not have a special interest in it.  I had not seen it and really would enjoy it.  During our discussion – Erica sidled up to me and said “Nana, I’ll stay with Mildred and you can go with Devon”.  After I ascertained that it was really ok with Erica, I went with Devon and we had a great time. 

I was so impressed with Erica’s compassion, her understanding that it was really important to Devon; impressed with her courageous for staying with a little known friend in a strange place – just because she trusted all of us; impressed that she could think of others – as sick as she was.  I remember thinking – What a remarkable child.  I’m so blessed that she is my granddaughter!!

As the years have gone by, I have been continually impressed with this remarkable child.  Now, she is 14 years old and on the verge of becoming an adult (much too fast for my taste).    Last night – a cold night in February, her father (my son) and I took her to go ice skating at a pond in her town.  A group from high school would be there.  She was very excited – she was meeting a boy there. They have been talking, flirting for the last month or so – maybe they’ll be boyfriend, girlfriend.  There is much excitement in the air.  It is 7PM – dark, very cold – there are lights around the pond – Erica gets out of the car and walks toward the pond self-confidently - all I see is her back as she nears the pond and a boy pulls away from the rest of the group and comes to meet her.

Look out world – Here she comes!!  I uttered those words the day she was born and I feel them again as I watch her enter the treacherous waters of the high school world. 

Meghan Again

Meghan walked into my computer room, put her hands on her hips, looked around and said? "Nana, do you have to live like this?"   "Like what", I asked.  "Well it's a mess, stuff is everywhere" she said.  "So," I answered.  "Well, you know that I think so much like you, that it means one day I'll live like this!"  And we both hugged and laughed!!

Meghan is now 17 years old, a High School Senior and has her driver's license.  She has come to spend the week end with me. When she and her older sister entered their teens, I stopped buying presents for them - it just didn't make sense.  Our tastes were not the same.  So, I started a new ritual.  For their birthday, they would come alone or with a girlfriend to visit me and for a shopping trip. I would take them out to dinner and set an amount I would spend and they shopped.  They and I loved it.  We had some quality time together and they got what they wanted for their birthday.  The problem was finding a date to do it that suited both of us.  Meghan's birthday was this past November and here it was March and we were just now shopping. 

Over the years there have been instances and coincidences that made our ideas mesh.  We've delighted in that and teased about it.  Meghan has fine thin hair that you can't do anything with - just like Nana's.  A few months ago she was talking about a school project and I suggested that she use one of the songs that we used at Camp Midas years ago.  She laughed and said - "That's what I'm using."  Her Basketball number was the same as mine which I didn't remember until I found an old picture of me.  So over the years, we've decided there's more than the usual connection.  But I didn't get it when she first walked in and started commenting about my office. 

Any time spent with Meghan is interesting, challenging and spirited.  She feels comfortable asking questions (whether she's supposed to or not),  comfortable expressing her opinion whether it's proper or not, comfortable telling others what's wrong with their thinking and she's sure everybody wants to know what she's thinking or feeling - well they're going to hear anyway!! Those traits are a blessing and a curse.  They do insure that Meghan will have an exciting life.

As I have aged, doing everyday chores have become more difficult.  Meghan helps when she is here.  I marvel at how good natured and cooperative she is.  I don't get "awww, do I have to" or "in a minute" or "do you really want to do that"? She doesn't drag around either - she just does it and says, "what's next Nan"? 

I love the way this granddaughter of mine has grown up. Most of the time her teen age obstinacy is left behind and she is a charming and insightful companion.  Her life is going to be a challenge. The outspokenness and throwing herself completely into a project will often give her grief but will also often give her great joy.  Living her life will be her adventure and watching her life unfold will be my adventure. 

MBS - completed 10/09

Musings

Musings

Recently my computers crashed!!  Yes, you know what that's like.  I have two, a desktop and a laptop.  Last year the desktop which is 5 or 6 years old began to give signs that it was in trouble.  About that time I had decided that I needed a laptop to take with me on trips - you know, I'm so important!!  No it's for the convenience and besides I love all kinds of things that help organize - computers, briefcases, carryalls, notebooks, and many more.   I could spend all day in Staples, Office Depot and any other similar store.  I can't do that with a department store.  I think it's the teacher in me.  Anyway, my handy dandy computer whiz (Brian) came over and worked his magic and said to use the lap top mostly but that the desktop was ok for now.  So this past year, I've only really used the laptop, the desktop -maybe 5 or 6 times.

One Monday night they both quit.  The laptop said "I'm too full, I can't move anymore".  The desktop said "I'm too old, I don't want to move anymore".  Neither would do anything!!!!.  I was filled with panic, disbelief & horror.  I use my computer in my work.  I had thousands of pictures in it.  I had my stories for storytelling, my writings for stories and teaching, my teaching plans, other essential stuff.  Years of hard work!!  Of course, I knew to back everything up, I read it, I heard it, good friends told me but - I just half backed up.  Just some stuff was backed up and some of that was old.

I went to the store, bought a computer and made arrangements for it to be installed and information from the old computer to be transferred to the new computer.  I didn't tell them about my computer difficulties at home.  A member of the Geek Squad came, looked at my difficult computer situation - pushed a few buttons, groaned, hummed, ohhh, & ahhed and lo and behold in a few minutes there was all my stuff.  So it is all transferred.

But the reason I'm telling you this is not to make a point about computers - I'm sure you understood the problems and feelings about the whole episode.  The point I want to make is - this time when the computers crashed I was not nearly as upset as when it happened a few years ago. Then I just had a flat out panic attack.  But this time there was a calmness with my upset.  It was well, lets wait and see what the real problem is before I get too upset.  I find it interesting to note that the same person, the same problem - years apart really bring about different reactions.  A different point of view - based on being older, having more experience and who knows what other factors.    

It made me think of years ago when I was about 40 years old.  I had a mammogram and then a few days later they called.  It seemed that there was something on the x-ray that needed more investigation.  So, would I come in for an ultra sound?  I was an absolute nervous wreck.  It must be cancer, what if it is, this is terrible, what am I going to do.  The time I had to wait before the ultra sound appointment and then the wait for results was excruciation. I truly didn't think I could survive if it was cancer.  The results of the tests were that it was benign and nothing to worry about.  What a relief!!

About 10 years later, same scenario, only this time when I got the call to come in for an ultra sound, I didn't panic.  It was well we'll see what it is and then deal with whatever we have to.  What a difference in my reaction.  Here again - same person, same problem but different reactions.  I think it points out that I was in a different place in my life experience each time therefore my reaction was different.  Interesting.

Now - last summer I went to visit friends in California.  We went to Yosemite National Park.  It was awesome.  I was swept away by its beauty.  While there I took loads of pictures.  I couldn't imagine why I had never been there or even had it on my list of things to do.  I came home telling everybody about my fantastic experience and urged them to go see this fantastic place.  To my knowledge - I had never been there before. 

Now I'm in the process of cleaning out closets, drawers, boxes, photographs, and I came upon a package of photographs from a member of our extended California family. Louise had sent the pictures some time ago and I had packed them away.  My Mother and Father and I went to California in 1972.  I opened the packet and began enjoying that time long ago. 

 It was fun seeing everybody as they used to look, me included and then the surprise of my life!!  There were pictures of sights in Yosemite and pictures of me and my parents in some of them.  What!!  You mean, I had been there and completely forgotten!  It seems impossible to me but that must be what happened.  Now I wonder why?  Did I not see the beauty? Was I too worried about other life events?  Was I worried about taking care of my parents?  I have no idea.  All I know is that I thought last year was the first time I had ever seen Yosemite. Certainly it left no impression on me the first time.  It makes me have more compassion for my son, his wife and grandkids who don't always see what I see or appreciate happenings that I do.

 I do know that one of the pleasures of growing old is appreciating beauty!  More than any other time in my life, I see beauty, stop and look, carefully observe and say "Oh my".  I don't only mean the big and popular beauties but also a leaf, bug, tree and the list goes on forever.  It all comes down to a Point of View!

MBS 7/12/07

Flat Tire Syndrome

Tonight I was driving home from my oldest granddaughter's graduation party.  It was 9 or 10 o'clock - dark, and very quiet.  I was traveling alone and on back roads. All of a sudden it seemed that the tires were riding rough and maybe the car was leaning to the right a little.  Fear gripped my heart as I thought flat-tire!  "Where can I pull over, is the shoulder level? Do I have a spare and a jack?  Do I still know how to change a tire?  Who can I call? And on and on I went with scary thoughts."  But at the same time I was telling myself that it certainly wasn't a flat tire - it was just a rough road, that's all.  So I kept driving and proved to myself that it was just a rough road.  There have been times when I've pulled over, stopped and gotten out of the car to check - no flat tire in at least the last 30 years.  But this flat time syndrome started with real events.

About 45 years ago, my then husband, me and our 3 year old son bought an old schoolhouse in Upstate New York.  We were living on Long Island at the time and every time we could get a few days off in a row, we would come to our new home - an abandoned schoolhouse with 4 walls, a roof, boarded up windows and doors, inside filled with years of accumulation of dirt and trash, broken glass and a big pile of trash in the yard. 

One of the first things we did was to try to burn that big pile of trash in the yard.  We started the fire and it was going pretty good.  Then we noticed sparks flying around.  Oh - maybe we shouldn't have started this fire maybe it's a little too windy.  Oh look - the sparks are landing on the roof (it was a wooden roof).  And then we noticed that the roof was beginning to smoke.  Oh my, oh my, crisis, crisis, what to do as we panicked and ran around in circles for a minute.  We had no phone but did manage to flag down a car and ask them to call the Fire Department.  In the meantime we got a big rickety ladder and propped it up against the roof and started a bucket brigade.  The water came from a hand pump in the yard.  At first it was just us two but then neighbors came and helped, cars stopped and people got out to help then the fire department got there and the fire was really going now.  There was a creek nearby and the firemen used their hose to use water from there.  It was a strange way to introduce yourself to the community.  We had people, buckets, water, sweat and tears, strangers and friends all mixing and mingling in one afternoon. When it was out - we had a big hole in our roof but had saved our home (such as it was).  Now we had to get a big tarp and secure it to cover up the hole so that if it rained, it wouldn't get inside. We tried to make it animal proof also.

So now we have a home with no windows, no doors, no heat, no running water, no electricity and a big hole in the roof!!  Of course we had no money so we were working on our new home as we had time and money - and they were hard to get at the same time.  We would come to the schoolhouse and camp out and work on it.  We had army cots, a camper's gas stove, and an ice chest.  One of our first civilized accommodations was to put up an outhouse.  So now we had all the necessities!  We moved in, in the spring of the year - giving us til winter to get some kind of heating system in.  The how-to books and the help and advice of old-timers got us through and by winter we had a heating system. That Christmas I got one of the very best presents ever - a flushing john!! Wow!!  No more trips to the outhouse in rain, snow, whatever and no more sitting with a three year old waiting for him to get his business done.  We were really living it up. 

Now you get the picture of what our life was like.  Eddie was a jazz musician and many of his jobs were in New York City.  I was working as a Special Reservation Agent for Trans World Airlines in New York City. So we always needed a car and since money was an issue, we bought $25 cars.  May be not exactly $25 but cheap, cheap.  It just had to run and we used it until we ran it in the ground.

One day one of us had to go somewhere after it had been raining and to complicate matters, it was the spring thaw season.  The car was parked on a sloping muddy hill that was our driveway.  We decided the best way to tackle this problem was for me to drive and try to keep the car on the driveway and not let it slide over the hill and onto the road below. This was easier said than done.  So here I am driving, trying to back down this sloping muddy hill and Eddie was on the other side pushing with all his strength to keep the car on the driveway and not let it slide over the hill.  Some strong emotions erupted - who was or was not doing his/her job.  I must also add that some strong language ensued.  Miraculously the car finally went down the drive not over the hill.  But that scene is forever etched in my mind.

The cars were pretty good with one exception.  It seems like we always were getting a flat tire.  I was quite accomplished at changing tires. I remember my sister visiting one time and of course we got a flat tire. I pulled off to the side of the road and began changing the tire.  She was aghast.  She shook her head saying "well, we all have our ways of saving money".  I thought that was so strange - I wasn't saving money - I didn't have any to spend.  Eddie changed tires, neighbors changed tires and strangers also changed tires.  So those years of flat tires and all the trials and tribulations that went with it, left me with the flat tire syndrome.

I haven't had a flat tire in at least 30 years but if the car tilts a little or the tire makes a noise - fear clutches my heart and I start the litany of "what shall I do".

I wonder about today's kids - what kind of syndrome will they have?  Not flat tires, I don't think. That just doesn't happen much anymore. 

 I'm sure something will take its place - probably technology stuff.  It's such a jump from flat tires to technical stuff - in such a short time. 

Gonna Make A Million

Smith, my brother, works in his garage across the road from our childhood home - the big white house on the hill.  His family works there with him.  He's using the mechanical skills Oscar taught him.  Oscar and his family were Black Share Croppers on our farm.  When Smith was a little boy he would spend all his time at the barn with Daddy and the hired hands as they prepared the farm machinery for work each day.  And each day would bring a crisis with some machinery - something would break or wear out.  The wizard at our farm was Oscar - he had no proper schooling but he could take apart and fix most anything.  Oscar's wife Lugene had come to the farm with her Mama and Step Daddy after WW1 when our Mama was a little girl.  Time went by, Oscar and Lugene met and soon were married.  They moved away once to the Schrimps (another local farmer) for 1 or 2 years, then came back and never left our farm again.  They lived in a share cropper's house not far from us. 

They had four kids:  Reuben (named after my grandpa), Will, James and Junior.  We grew up with them - they were our friends.  Junior was my age and I remember catching bumble bees and chasing him - he was scared of bees.  Smith was always there with Daddy and Oscar, watching and learning as they once more worked miracles and made old machinery work again.  One day, those skills would be the ones he'd use to make a living for himself and his family.  Those skills would be what would make it possible for him to stay on the farm and keep it running - sometimes with nothing but a prayer.  You see, the farm is his soul - he doesn't know where the physical farm stops and he starts or where the physical part of him stops and the farm starts - they are one.  I remember thinking Mama felt that way too. 

 I'm sure Daddy, who died some years ago, has a smile on his face as he listens to Smith plan to "make a million".  Daddy was always gonna make a million.  That's not a term he used, it's my term for the syndrome I see as I look back on our lives.  He was just trying to be in the right place at the right time and catch a windfall.  As a farmer, you had to be thinking and planning all the time.  Times were hard.  There was no way to control the weather!  So, there had to always be another plan.  Daddy paid attention to the newspapers, farm magazines and TV so that he would know what the up and coming projects were.  Some of the ideas and projects that I remember are:  pimento peppers, sweet potatoes, grapes, chickens and finally a cow herd.  The chickens sent me to college.  He never gave up.  As it turned out, Daddy made a good living for us - but never made a million.

A few summers ago, I went home and met Smith at the barn.  He was so excited - his eyes were dancing, he was shifting from one foot to the other "Mary", he said, "I've got an idea - Listen!  The new and coming thing is ostriches - did you hear me, ostriches!  I think I'm going to get some."  "Why," I asked him, "why do you want ostriches?  Just to look pretty - just to be different - why?"

"No", he said, "no. I'm going into the business and make money - big money, I hope.  It's the coming thing, it's going to replace beef - it's better for you than most meats.  Anyway I think I am.  We're going to an Ostrich Farm tomorrow, do you want to go?"

Of course I said yes.  I never turn down a chance to do something different and to learn something.  Besides, I know where this urge comes from - this urge to make a million.  Daddy's blood runs in my veins too.  If anybody is gonna make a million, I want to too. 

So, the next day we went, Smith, his wife Pat, his in-laws Hazel and Dub and me.  We went to two farms that day and learned much.  According to them, they were making big money.  But raising ostriches was a touchy job.  They were very fragile as little ones - easily caught viruses, had accidents - like slipping between the wires or the big ones trampling the little ones.  Remember they have long skinny necks and legs.  If you could get them past three months you were usually out of the woods.  At each farm we had to put on booties before we went in the pens so that we wouldn't track in germs of some kind. 

Smith went home making plans and spent the next months making pens and shelters and finally he got the ostriches.  He got two pair.  They were beautiful.  I fell in love with ostriches in Kenya, Africa when I went there on a Photographic Safari.  There I saw them in the wild and saw them doing their courting dance.  It was so beautiful.  Smith says, "Mary, invest some of that money from the land you just sold."  And I really thought about it.  The lure of a million is tantalizing.  But finally reason entered my head, and I decided to watch from afar.

Smith was successful raising ostriches from eggs.  He read and talked to people who knew what they were doing.  He bought an incubator, made a house for it and a place to keep the eggs.  He enjoyed taking care of the grown ostriches but they were never pets.  They would peck very hard if you put hand in the pen.  You would never go in the pen without something to shield you from a pecking kicking attack.  But he and family learned how to work around their peculiarities.  And wouldn't you know it - just as Smith was entering the market, it began to head down, down and down.  So, after all that work, investment of time, energy and hope, there would be no windfall.  I think this project took about five or six years and then he sold them.  He learned a lot and enjoyed the project but in the end, he had to pick himself up, dust himself off and begin again. 

Now, he's got another idea.  I was home last summer and he was full of excitement.  He just bought some land and is going to develop it and "make a million".  There's that shine in his eyes and hope in his voice.  I assured him be will -it's gotta happen someday.

Daddy's philosophy was, keep working like crazy but keep thinking, planning and hoping!  So here comes Smith with those traits and I'm sure the next generations are watching and learning.  Optimism is one of our family traits.  Everything will work out - you just have to find a way.  Daddy proved that, Smith is proving that and I'm sure our next generations will prove that too. 

Smith's new project, the land deal, is that the one??  Time will tell.  Meanwhile there's hope and excitement in the air. 

Sleep Over

I'm single and have been so for a long long time.  If fact for so long that it always takes me aback if someone asks me if I am married. 

"I want to tell you what happened last week.  I slept with a male - for the first time in many a year."

" What," you ask.  "Yes," I reply, "a male.  He was a handsome fellow." 

"Well who was he?"  "Oh, a friend that stopped over for a visit."

"And just like that you sleep with him?"  "It seemed the right thing to do."

"You're some piece of work," you say under your breath. "A friend stops over for a visit and you decide to sleep with him!! "

"Well, he sorta decided it.  When bedtime came he just hopped in my bed like I had invited him to."

"I hadn't but he was so nice and had such beautiful brown eyes, I couldn't say no."  So I said "please move over and I'll climb in."  Not very romantic I know.  He answered my request for him to move over with a happy  "Woof! Woof!"

We happily slept the night away .

Miracle Afternoon

 (This is a repeat.  I accidentaly deleted the story when trying to insert the photo. Sorry but this is the only way I could get it back.)             

The summer began like any other summer.  I left my home in NY to go to my childhood home in SC.  I would be there about a month.  The changes there since the days of my youth have been gradual but nonetheless are huge.  My mother is 86 years old, arthritic, uses a walker and finds getting around very painful. Her world has shrunk to her bedroom, bathroom, trips to the kitchen, and a porch. The porch is essential.  There you can breathe fresh air - inside it is air conditioned. This house, this land is as important to her as her heartbeat. My brother, Smith and his family now also live in the big white farm house. 

 When I go home, I become involved in the life of the farm and the lives of my family.  Smith owns a garage across the main road. One hot summer morning, before he left to go to work, he asked us to watch a cow that going to have her first calf sometime soon.  He was worried that she might have problems giving birth.  The cow was in the pasture by the barn.  The day proceeded as usual - Pat was working in the yard, the kids were scattered about with work and activities and I was visiting with Mama.  Every hour or so, somebody would go to the pasture to check on the cow.  In mid-afternoon, Pat realized that labor was beginning.  Word was sent to all. Smith asked us to get the cow to the corral at the barn so we could help with the birth if necessary.  Smith and a neighbor, Billy joined us at the barn.

 Now I don't know about you but in my family sex was learned by osmosis - I had no trouble believing in the Virgin birth.  So - my first shock - here in broad daylight in the barnyard around a cow about to give birth was: Smith, my brother; Pat, his wife; daughter Laine, 20years old; son Tripp, 17years old; daughter Jaime 13 years old; a neighbor, Billy and me.  Such a mixed group - ages and sexes and relationships, oh my!  oh my!

 Well, the cow did need our help.  It was Smith and Billy who worked hardest. I won't go into graphic detail about the birth.  But after much effort on the part of all, the calf was born - dead.  Oh, our hearts sank   - we were all so invested - after so much work - oh, how could it be.

 Then  Billy remembered something he'd heard.  He knew Smith had a 2 months old calf whose mother had died a few weeks ago.  The poor calf was trying to survive. He tried to nurse the mama cows, sometimes he'd get a few sucks before the cow smelled him and ran him off.  You see, they only let their calf suck.  The calf was too young to live off just grass.  Smith was worried that the calf wasn't going to make it. 

 Billy said that we should not let the cow see her calf dead. We backed the truck over it so that the calf was under the truck. We made sure the mother's head was turned away and she was taken to the other side of the corral.  Billy said that if we hurry and catch the calf without a mother, and bring him back, then we would get the smell of the dead calf on him and maybe the mama would accept him.  So the men got into another truck and went over in the pasture to catch the calf. I assure you, catching a two month old calf is not an easy job. After awhile they came back hot and sweaty, with torn pants, skint elbows and the calf.  We moved the truck - making sure mama cow was not there.  Then Smith and Billy held the calf they had just caught up by his feet and rubbed him over the dead calf to get his smell and then they let him go.

 We all retreated to the fence, held our breath and waited.  After awhile the calf wandered over - remember he was used to being rejected by all the cows in

the herd. So he took his time. The cow looked at him...the calf rubbed against the cow... she smelled him... she licked him ...she licked him again and again!  Fantastic!  She thought he was hers.  She accepted him.  He began nudging looking for the udder and then began nursing. 

 We all stood still and looked in awe.  In a few hours, we had been a part of birth, death and rebirth. One calf had died, one calf had found a mother and mother had a calf. Truly an afternoon of miracles!!

 During the rest of the summer, anytime we couldn't find anybody - we'd check the barn.  And sure enough, there they would be, standing by the fence, quietly staring at the cow and calf - thinking.

"I Love You"

"I Love You"

 One of my dreams came true when I was in the 8^th grade.  I won a horse!!  I was a 4-H member in my community and participated in all the projects.  That year one of the local farmers who raised Tennessee Walking Horses announced that he was giving a 6 month old colt to the "Most Outstanding 4-H Club member in the county that year.  Well, I loved horses, read all the novels in the library, studied books, and listened to grown-ups whenever they talked about horses.  So I got to work - very very hard - I don't remember all the things I did but I WON!

 I named him Prince.  He was beautiful.  I spent time with him every day.  I brushed him, talked to him, told him all my secrets. We even played hide-and-seek.  I would run hide behind one of the big old oak trees in the pasture and he would come running to me - then I'd run to another and he's follow.  I gathered information about when and how to ride.  Nobody else in my family knew anything about horses or cared.  It was my project alone.  I ordered a saddle from a mail order catalogue - surplus supplies.  I began breaking him in.  Every morning before school, I'd go to the barn to let him out of his stall and make sure he had water. Sometimes I had to break ice on the top of the water.  He was my best friend.  I loved that I could go to the barn and he'd be lying down and wouldn't jump up. He'd let me come in, sit down and lay his head in my lap.  Now that was trust - I knew it and felt it.  I entered Prince in a couple of horse shows and even won a trophy in one.  Prince had 4 white stocking feet.  To get ready for the show, he had to be beautiful - washed, brushed, mane plated, and white stockings shinning.  Mama told me to put some bluing in the water because it would make them be even whiter.  So I did.  I guess I didn't listen carefully - I put too much bluing in the water and his stockings came out blue!!  I can't tell the number of washes it took to get that out.  Well it got so that I could ride him pretty good.  There were dirt roads around where I lived and that's where we rode.  Of course, every time we came to a fork in the road - there was usually a battle to see if we went where I wanted to go or he wanted to go.  We were working on that. 

 One day I was out riding down the dirt road in front of our house.  I had been down the road about a quarter of a mile, turned around and was on the way back home when I heard a car coming toward us.  It was an old rattle trap of a car - making all kinds of noise as it came down the road.  It scared Prince and he jumped the ditch beside the road sideways and into the field as the car passed us on that narrow road.  The unexpected jump over the ditch and back again into the road caused the saddle to slip sideways. I guess I hadn't tightened it enough.  So there I was hanging on for dear life as Prince galloped toward the barn.  I was terrified that I would fall and get my foot hung in the stirrup so I pushed off, trying not land under his trampling hooves.  I mostly succeeded, he only stepped on the calf of my left leg, squashing the muscle and missing the bone.  What luck! It was a dirt and rocky road so I was skinned and bruised but not seriously hurt.  Prince was fine and was galloping to the barn.  I hobbled home and arrived looking a terrible bloody mess. My parents were terrified! What had happened to me? I briefly told them.  Mama put me to bed and began cleaning me up and taking care of my hurts. 

 Daddy was feeling impotent - his loved daughter had been hurt and it was that awful horse that did it.  He left the room to go to the barn. He took a whip and began whipping Prince. 

 After Mama had cleaned me up some, I realized that Daddy was not there in the room and asked where he was.  Mama said that he went to the barn.  I froze - I knew something awful was happening. I insisted on getting up. I hobbled to the barn as fast as I could and got there just as Daddy had started whipping Prince.  I grabbed his arm and pleaded with him to stop - stop!! I told him it was not Prince's fault and besides he didn't know why Daddy was hitting him - to stop.  He wasn't helping anything.  Daddy said he was just mad and hurt that Prince had hurt me.

 I realized even at that time that the whipping was Daddy's way of saying "I love you, Mary". He had a hard time with words of emotion.  But I was also angry - very angry. I was hurt and had had to get up out of bed to keep my horse from being hurt.  Daddy had hurt me as much as Prince had.  And Daddy thought he was showing how much he loved me.

 Sometimes, it's so hard to understand - "I Love You."

Recipe From Rusty

Rusty is a medium size dog that I got from the SPCA.  He has a foxy face and a tail that curls up over his back.  He is now approximately 10 years old and has proved to be a perfect dog except for one thing.  He does not like men. Women, children  and other dogs are all fine.  Men have to earn his friendship.  Upon first seeing, smelling or hearing a man his hair stands up, he assumes the aggressive stance and mean barking starts.  His message is clear - You are not welcome.  You better not  come in.    But with effort and persistence on the man's part, Rusty will become his friend. 

 The UPS guy and Rusty hate each other.  Before Rusty, the UPS guy would bring my packages up the steps to leave on my porch and often we would exchange pleasantries.  Now, as soon as the truck stops, Rusty starts his ferocious act.  The UPS guy glares at Rusty and shows by behavior and attitude that he is afraid and does not like Rusty.  He walks as close to the porch as he dares and then tosses the package at the downstairs entrance.  By the time I get to the door the UPS guy is getting into the truck.  We never exchange pleasantries anymore.

 On the other hand, when Rusty hears the mailman's truck coming - still many houses away, his ears perk up, tail wags and he paces the porch anxiously awaiting the mailman's arrival. When the mailman needs to bring a package to the house, he gets out of the truck and begins the walk up the hill.  He is walking in a jaunty manner, perhaps even whistling as he brings the package to the house.  Rusty is eagerly waiting.  The Mailman comes up the steps, throws a doggie biscuit to Rusty and gives the mail to me.  We exchange a few pleasantries and he gives Rusty a few pats and he calmly walks back to his truck and goes on his way.

Our attitude and behavior influences the attitude and behavior of others.

MBS 5/19/10

Animal Kingdom

When Blitz, my beautiful and wonderful German Shepherd died 2/13/04, the animal kingdom around my house went out of kilter.  That includes me too.

Blitz came into my life like a storm.  He was big, beautiful, curious, intelligent, full of energy and immediately decided that my house and the inhabitants around it were his kingdom.  It took some, no, a lot of work for all of us to find our place but we did and it was a “peaceable kingdom”.  It was so for 2 ½ years. 

And when he was 4 1/2 years old, Blitz died……

The next day there were 8 squirrels on my back deck raiding the bird feeders.  Blitz knew it was his job to keep the squirrels at bay and he did his job with a passion.  Occasionally a squirrel might sneak by and grab a bit of food but it was risky business for the squirrel.  Now, obviously they planned to take over.

BUT, the next day – I was working at my computer when I heard an awful racket.  I turned my head to look out the sliding glass door and just got a glimpse of a hawk swooping down and grabbing a squirrel that was sitting on the picnic table happily eating a sunflower seed.  I’ve never seen anything happen so fast.  The hawk was on the gutter of my house (that was the noise I heard) patiently waiting until just the right moment and then it was all over for the squirrel. 

So the squirrels can’t get too careless.  That was the first and last time I’ve seen the hawk and no I don’t know what kind it was.  I just saw a blur.

Emma, one of my cats caught two birds the second day Blitz was gone.  She couldn’t do that before because Blitz would never let her sit still and be unnoticed.  So now the birds have to watch out for the cats.  I have to rethink the placing of the bird feeders – make it hard for the cats to use them as bait. 

And, Blitz never let any neighbor cat come anywhere close to our yard without a big fuss.  The cat always left – the barking was just too much.  Now, Midas, my big orange tabby has taken up his old job – the one he held before Blitz came – that of being “attack cat”.  Anytime a neighbor cat comes around Midas immediately chases him away.  If he’s inside he meows very loud and waits at the door for me to let him out.  He’s out like a shot – all poofed up, tail up high, and racing toward the intruder who sees him coming and usually leaves immediately. 

The dogs next door come to the fence and bark and bark – as if to say, "where are you Blitz, come talk to us, we miss you, where are you Blitz?"

The next door neighbor called to say “be careful, the coyote has killed 7 of our ducks in the last 10 days”.  That never happened when Blitz was here.  The coyote knew that this was Blitz’ territory. 

Gage, a cute little Fox Terrier that lives about 5 houses down the road came to see Blitz about a week after he died.  They were friends.  Every time Gage got out he came to see Blitz.  Blitz barked furiously and acted mean and Gage just came on in, he could squeeze through the fence.  He looked at Blitz in that arrogant stance of little dogs and said something like “don’t you even think about touching me” and Blitz said "ok" and he didn’t.  Every time Gage was gone, his owner came up here, and usually found Gage.   That morning, Gage searched the yard for Blitz, then came up on the deck, stood in front of me and asked “where’s Blitz, he’s always here, where is he”.  He stayed with me for awhile and I tried to explain.  Then Gage left to go home and he hasn’t been back since.   

Two weeks after Blitz was gone, I looked out and there in my side yard was a deer.  Before Blitz there was a deer herd that traveled my property regularly.  For the past 2 ½ years – there had been no deer or deer ticks.  Now there is one deer – soon there will be more.  And once again I’ll have to be more careful about deer ticks. 

The wild turkeys are making their way back too.  There is a flock of them that use the trees in my side yard as their roosting place.  Blitz made them nervous and at first they stayed away, then they seemed to have figured out that he could only go so far (the fence you know) so they came some.  Now I can lean over the deck railing and throw out cracked corn and they come running to eat.  Winters are harsh here in NY.

And now as I contemplate all these changes, just because one loved animal has gone, I am overwhelmed - the sadness, the loss, the out of balance, the out of kilter.  Our world as we knew it is gone.  There is a big hole there. 

The bird feeders are empty and I’m too empty myself to fill them - maybe tomorrow.

A Curiosity

Isn’t it a curiosity that I am I and you are you?

As I sit here tonight at a Folk Music Concert at Fiddler’s in Hyde Park listening to the incredible Sally Rogers, I wonder.  Sitting on my right is my friend Lyn a well known and loved folk singer who joins in the singing anytime Sally Rogers invites participation. And on my left is my friend Eileen who loves music and performs often and she also joins in singing along.  I’m hearing incredible music from all sides. There is not a better seat in the house.

Isn’t it strange since I’m not a musician at all.

I’ve always been involved with musical people.  In High School my best friend was Debbie.  She had a most beautiful singing voice and sang in all the special events in our medium sized town. She was our singing sensation.  I always marveled at Debbie’s talent  and was jealous of her.  There was no doubt what she was going to do in life.  It would be something with music.  What would I do in life?   I didn’t know except there were about a hundred things that really interested me but not one that demanded I do it.

I married a jazz musician. He was not someone who did music on the side. It was his life and his life’s work.  I had never seen or felt anybody with such a passion for an activity.  He really had no concept how utterly ignorant I was about music. Early in our relationship, we were riding in the car listening to a jazz band on the radio.  He casually asked me who was playing.  What a strange question??  I thought, “a bunch of people”.  No, he meant who was playing trumpet.  “Was he crazy! People could tell who was playing just by listening.”  I was dumbfounded.  He told me it was Miles Davis, a famous and talented jazz musician and that one day I would be able to tell when he was playing.  Ha! That shows how little he understood my music disability. It was inconceivable to me that you could tell who was playing an instrument.  Didn’t they all sound alike?  I did get so that I could tell (most of the time) which instrument was playing and I thought that was wonderful. 

The musical gene was passed on down to our son.  He hears the sounds of each instrument and has perfect pitch.  He learned to play the saxophone and drums in elementary school and even formed his own band.  The competition with his father and his father’s critical comments proved too much and he dropped being an active part of the music world.  Since that time he became a listener who has a keen appreciation for music.   Our granddaughters both sang in the school choirs, played in the bands, acted and sang in the high school plays, and have taken dance lessons and performed since 4 or 5 years old.  They are now in college and are part of the Dance Company at their respective schools. Any time they perform, I ask them if they told the teacher or director that they got their talent from Nana.  Of course that always brings BIG DENIALS and comments like, “Nana, you know better”. I’m the odd ball out but over the years. I have learned to enjoy and appreciate music.

But I do seem to have an attraction for the musical type person.

In my family, playing the piano was considered a social grace that any young lady should know.  It was the proper thing to do, so my sister and I were given piano lessons when we were in elementary school. That lasted about two years.  We went to lessons once a week and were supposed to practice an hour a day.  Well, that hardly ever happened for me. I was much too busy riding my bicycle, climbing trees, playing with my dog and horse and running anywhere.  One day my father was supposed to take my sister and me to our piano lesson and he happened to ask how much we had practiced since the last lesson.  Since we confessed that we had not touched the piano, Daddy said that it was time to end the lessons.  It was, he did and I never missed them.  I really had no talent or interest in that direction.

Evidently my singing voice also leaves something to be desired.  Until I was in the fifth grade I thought I sang just like everybody else.  But my teacher Mrs. Martin taught me differently.  I went to a three room school in the country and Mrs. Martin was the principal and taught fifth, sixth and seventh grades. These grades were planning a Christmas program.  We were all on stage singing and Mrs Martin said, “Something doesn’t sound quite right, it’s coming from this side.  Mary Elizabeth would you come sit down and the rest of you – let’s try it again.” They sang and then she said, “Ahh, that’s much better.”  That’s all I remember about the program. 

Many years later, my then husband and I used to travel with a band all over the United States doing one nighters.  We would play at a hotel and then travel about 500 miles to play at a different hotel the next night. Sometimes that traveling was hard.  We traveled in our car and Eddie developed a system for staying awake when he was tired.  He’d ask me to sing for him.  My singing was so bad that there was no way he could go to sleep listening to me.  By this time he did have some comprehension of my music disability and had informed me that I was tone deaf.  But see, it did serve a purpose.

In high school, I decided I wanted to be the life of the party at summer camp and I decided the way to do it was to play the ukulele.  I bought a cheap one and then had to tune it.  I couldn’t – I could not hear the different tones.  So I called my friend Debbie, I stood on tiptoe to talk into the phone that was hung on the wall in the back of the hall.  I plucked one string and she would say higher or lower and we kept doing that til it was tuned.  Obviously this was too cumbersome to continually do and besides I couldn’t tell when it was out of tune and I needed to call Debbie.  That was the end of my only real try in the music world. 

Isn’t it a curiosity that I am I and you are you?

Aren’t we collectively and individually a curiosity?

The Dentist

 Do you ever wonder about a dentist's life?  Well I do.  As I sit here in the chair, my mouth is full of the dentist's hands, drill, mirror and who knows what else.  He is talking - telling me something about a friend of his.  Obviously I can not respond except to grunt or shake my head.  That doesn't seem to affect him.  He goes right on with his work and his story.

My mind begins to wonder - since I can't do anything else.  The dentist spends his days with his hands in the mouths of other people.  He needs to talk, so he does and it seems to satisfy him even if it is a one sided conversation.  I wonder if he has any idea of the frustration I feel at not being able to respond.  My dentist and I are old friends.  We've had this relationship for at least 40 years.  So perhaps he feels more comfortable telling me the stories of family and friends.  Usually the conversation is general but sometimes it causes me great concern.  He might make a political comment, or a comment on current events and I might disagree or agree but can I say anything, oh no. I become a silent partner to his comments.  That really annoys me because by the time he's finished working on my teeth, I've forgotten what really annoyed me.  Recently I was there for an appointment and after a short while he sat back to wait a few minutes.  Ah ha, I though,t now I can tell him what's on my mind.  I gurgled - "Can I talk now?" " No," he said.  "The work I just did needs to dry and if you talk it'll get wet and we'll have to start all over again.  But thank you for asking."  Ugh, it had seemed like such a good opportunity. 

I wonder if he ever considers how his comments to his assistant might affect his patient.  I'm sitting there and he groans &/or says "look".   I think, oh my gosh, it's awful, it's going to have to be pulled, I'm going to have to wear false teeth.    It's going to cost a fortune.  I'll die of the pain.  It'll take forever.  And he goes right on with his work not knowing he just nearly gave me a heart attack.

Then sometimes, he says ah ha - and I think, good news.  It's not so bad.  Good , I'll be out of here sooner than I thought.  I can enjoy my dinner out with friends tonight, maybe even order a steak. Somehow it never quite works out that good.

I'm really getting to know dentists.  I discovered this month that I have much work that needs to be done in my mouth.  I feel like I'm keeping steady company with dentists - not just one but several.  I'm having fillings done, root canal, crowns made and old ones re-cemented, some oral surgery in which some teeth will be pulled, more surgery that requires the gum to be cut and some cut away, and I'm sure other stuff.  I told the dentist to remember that I'm not planning on entering any beauty contest and that I'm not twenty years old.  I ask him to please remember that when he is deciding what needs to be done.  He said he would but I think he's more interested in making sure my teeth look like what he thinks they should look like.  You know perfection.

I went to see the root canal dentist.  I was very fearful but actually the work was not painful.  The real problem was that I needed to go to the bathroom room and there's just no way to stop a dentist.  I'm sitting there turning green and thinking he'll surely be finished in a minute.  If I stop him, he has to take all this stuff out of my mouth, and move his equipment - then put it all back in.  Surely I can wait a few minutes more.  He finally finished, took the stuff out of my mouth, took the bib off and I said, "I'm dying to go to the bathroom and I left in a hurry.  Seems he did too, I didn't see him again.  But, the secretary was waiting with the bill just to make sure that I didn't keep on hurrying right out the door. It seems they insist on being paid then and there!  That's one way to make sure you get paid but not necessarily a good way to win friends. 

I'm reminded what my dentist said some years ago.  Remember, I told you we're friends.  He saw me coming in and said, "well, here comes my annunity".  He's right, I'm sure I've put several of his kids through school. 

Let's take this one sided conversation a step further.  When he goes home at night and talks to his wife &/or kids, they answer back.  That must be quite a shock.  They are not silent partners. They have ideas and are individuals and do not agree with everything he says.  In his office, he's the King.  It's not like that with family and friends.

After a day at work, he must have to go through a period of decompression to be able to deal with the real world again. 

New England Spring

Grrrr - I know better!  Why did I move the flowers outside the last week of April? 

Yes, I know it was 80 degrees for about a week and I was sure it would not get down to freezing again until next fall. 

But I've lived here in the northeast long enough to know better.  If you move plants from inside to outside before May 15^th - you're taking a big chance. 

All winter long, I've babied the plants. I've moved the plants from place to place trying to find a place that would be best for them for the winter.  Some liked their spot, others endured and some just died.  Some were straining to get enough light, leaning up against the window, the flowers in the backside of the pot died off. It was dry in the house and sometimes (hang my head) I let them get too dry.  Inside living was not fun - it was just enduring til time to get moved outside again.  I talked to them.  I told them to just hold on, soon they would be able to go outside and enjoy fresh air, sunshine and rain. Then they could be happy again.  

I threw caution to the wind and moved everything outside during that hot spell.  I repotted some, trimmed some, took cuttings and started new pots, and shared plants &/or cuttings with friends.  I had declared it spring.  The plants were adjusting nicely and I had watered everything thoroughly to welcome them to their new living space.

After they had been outside a few days, the squirrels returned.  Those cute, darling wonderful squirrels now were monsters in my eyes. They said to themselves - "ahhhh, here is soft dirt, I bet I buried a nut here last fall." They dig and the plant I just planted lands of the floor.  Often they decide to nibble the plant too.  So I spend time every morning fixing "squirrel damage".  About a week after I lugged everything out, I listened to the weather forecast and was shocked to find out that we were under a frost advisory. 

I couldn't believe it - surely the weatherman was exaggeration.  It really isn't going to frost here.  Then I laughed at myself as I saw frost carefully going around my house.  Well one can always fantasize can't one?  I listened again at 6PM and was convinced frost was a real problem.  Bringing them all in and then taking them all out again in a week or so just seemed like toooooo much.

What shall I do?  Do I really have to bring all of them in?  There are at least 25 pots.   I decided to bring inside a few - some of the most fragile /tender.  Then I'd move some up close to the house under the eaves.  The others, I'd gamble with.  This has been going on for the last 4 days and all have survived although they look a little shabby and some have had leaves nibbled off and some new little plants or cuttings have been uprooted by the darling squirrels (sarcasm).

The weather forecast is saying that the worst is over and that by the weekend it will begin to feel like spring again.  And once again, I'll take all the plants out and find their best spot, hope for spring weather to stay and continue my war with the squirrels at least until all the plants get a head start. 

I resolve that next year I will not move the inside flowers outside before May 15^th no matter what!!

Eddie

 Eddie and I were married for 13 years and then spent 4 years separating.  Those years were - no, we’ve had it, this is it, it’s done for good!!  Or  - We’ve learned our lessons from now on we’ll work harder,  etc, etc.etc.  The marriage was a tumultuous one.  There were extraordinary highs, extraordinary lows and very little in between.  My method of dealing is to forget the bad as much as possible and remember the treasured moments.  This is a story about a treasured moment.

During the time we were separating, on and off, we decided to go on a summer vacation together as a family.  We were both teachers and our son Jeff was 12 years old and also in school, so we all had the summer off.   This was 1972.  We bought an old school bus and remodeled it into a camper.  We left in two rows that were right behind the driver and on the other side we took out some seats and made a table and turned two of the seats around to face  the table.  Down from the table was our kitchen area.  We had a sink.  We’d get big bottles of water for washing dishes and after the dishes were washed, you let the water drain into a bucket under the sink and then threw it away.  We also carried water for drinking purposes.  We had some collected old pots & pans, dish ware and glasses, and we used paper plates & cups if possible. There was a shelf for some canned goods and staples.  Across from the kitchen was the bedroom.  There was a loft bed (big enough for two) and beneath it were two big steamer trunks.  They were our closets.  The kitchen and bedroom ended about the same place and all the rest of the seats were taken out.  Room was made for our three motorcycles.  They could go up a ramp at the back and then be locked down inside.  There was a loft bed over the motorcycles and that was Jeff’s bed.  So we had all the necessities and were snug as a bug in a rug.  We had the outside painted gray and an artist friend painted clouds on it and we christened it “The Silver Cloud”.  I made red striped curtains for the windows and we were done and ready to take off for an adventure. 

We decided to visit Mexico.  We would avoid the big towns and all the tourist places.  Our object was to see the real Mexico, the real people and places.  We had many adventures - some wonderful and some scary.  But this is not a travelogue.  It’s about one treasured memory.

We had been traveling in Mexico for several weeks having a wonderful time.  There were only some minor mechanical difficulties and we were very pleased with ourselves and the decision to buy the bus and make it into a camper.  Then, one beautiful day our bus developed motor trouble, clutch trouble or something like that.  Anyway, we had to stop by the side of the road.  The Silver Cloud would go no further.  So, Eddie got out his motorcycle and took off to find the nearest town and mechanics.  He found a village about 10 miles away.  In the yard of one of the houses four men worked on a car that was hung from a tree limb with a chain.  Oh yes, they were mechanics and they were sure they could fix any problem the bus might have.  Eddie came back feeling confident that yes they would come and fix the bus “in  manana”.  We became very familiar with that phrase.  They came late afternoon and three of them crawled under the bus and after some examining and consulting and excited conversation in Spanish - which none of us understood but it sounded ominous, they decided that they could fix it.  But they would have to drop the engine and it would take days because they had other jobs to do and because an engine part was going to have to be ordered.    Dropping the engine -that was a scary thought to Eddie because he was wondering if they really did know what they were doing.  I didn’t even know enough to worry.  So the next day they came and began unloosing nuts, bolts and screws and whatever.  They did not put down a drop cloth or anything like that to make sure that no screws were lost.  Eddie was really panicked now.  But the guys kept working a few hours each day and always said it would be ready “manana”.  The work  was speeded up to some degree since Eddie took the information for the engine part they needed and went to the next big town and had it back  that same day.  That was much sooner than if it had been ordered – otherwise we might still be there, heaven forbid. 

We were parked off the road, green grass all around, a creek running nearby and a picnic table was there.  Best of all was the big shade tree.  We had our own private camp ground. 

One evening after the mechanics had left for the day, we saw a Sheppard coming down the mountain with a herd of goats.  He had a long staff and was dressed in typical everyday clothes – a poncho of many colors, a bag hanging from his shoulder to carry his lunch, white pants and a grizzled beard.  I don’t know why BUT he inspired Eddie.  Eddie is a professional jazz musician, saxophone is his instrument.  Eddie got in the bus, got out his saxophone and began playing for the Sheppard and his goats. There we are out in the middle of Mexico, no one around except us and the Sheppard and his goats.  Eddie, who has made records, played for movies and TV and with many well known groups is all alone in the middle of nowhere playing his heart out to goats and a Sheppard on the side of a mountain .After Eddie started and played for a little bit the shepherd looked at us and doffed his hat and kept on herding his goats.  Eddie played 10 – 15 minutes until the shepherd and his goats had descended  down from the mountain and made a turn out of sight.  Then Eddied ended his concert and put up his saxophone .  We finished making a camper’s supper from whatever we could find in our pantry.  We sat at the picnic table by the stream and finished our day. 

Sure enough, one manana  the bus was fixed and we were off to the next adventure..We traveled all the way to Guatemala.. 

Years have passed and Eddie has died but one of my treasured memories of our life together was that time he “played the Sheppard and the goats down from the mountain” out in the middle of nowhere in Mexico.

Mother's Day 2009

Being a mother is exquisite.  - sometimes exquisitely awful and sometimes exquisitely wonderful.  This Mother's Day was exquisitely wonderful.  First, we, all the family communicated with out getting the message garbled, ½ heard, or just misunderstood.  We decided to celebrate Mother's Day on Saturday after the real Mother's Day.   The plan was made.  My son, Jeff is our Chef and he said he would plan and bring the "makings" for cooking a super meal.  Erica and Meghan would be coming.  Wow - two college aged kids spending the whole day with us old folks.  Now that's a miracle and a pleasure. 

So plans were in place.  Jeff called just before the real Mother's Day to remind me that we were going to celebrate later.  His reasoning was that he didn't want me to be getting upset because nothing would be happening - like a card, a present, phone call on real Mother's Day.

Saturday night before the real Mother's Day I was working at my computer and had an accident.  Sunday, the real Mother's Day, I wrote a letter to my California friends, Sue & Bill telling them about the accident and the aftereffects.   I'll share it with you. 

Sue & Bill -

I've come by for a cup of tea.  Remember you invited me in the beautiful Mother's Day card you sent.  And I have a story for you - one like the dog ate my homework.  I was going to answer your last two e-mails last night BUT as I turned around in my office chair, which of course had something hanging on the back of it, I knocked over my half full glass of diet Pepsi.  Yes, I know it should not have been there - but, I've been using the computer for 15 to 20 years and this is the first time, the first time this has happened.  So, please cut me some slack. 

I quickly mopped up the mess, said a quick prayer that I had gotten to it soon enough and that an angel was sitting on my shoulder and that everything would be fine.  Well, you know that is a fairy tale.

I started using the computer and everything seemed fine.  Then I noticed that the i was not working.  Oh well, if everything else is working, surely I can get along without the i.  I would just leave a space where the i was supposed to be.  I tried to do a few things.  I never realized the important role i plays in writing anything.  I found that if I couldn't use i, I really couldn't do anything.  Imagine the power - one letter immobilizes all the rest.

 I realized that I would buy myself a Mother's Day present.  I would have to get a new keyboard.  Now this day was already a present.  It was really Mother's Day by the calendar but we are planning to celebrate next Saturday when both girls are home from college.  So I had today all to myself, by myself - no meetings, no obligations, no distractions.  I didn't go out for anything.  Oh no, that's not true - I went to buy my present.  I expected it to be about $100 dollars and was pleasantly surprised to get one for about $50, wireless and a wireless mouse too.  The nice young man assured me that installing it was a breeze. "Yes, he said, "someone like me could do it."  Why do I keep falling for that line?  I bought it, took some pictures on the way home.  I always have my camera with me & can never pass up a photo opportunity.  At home, I unloaded my treasure - the wireless keyboard and mouse.

I really had to try to install it because  I couldn't use my computer otherwise.  So I said to myself, ok now calm down, take a deep breath, read the directions, slowly and carefully.  Don't panic.  You can do this if you just follow step by step.  I read the directions several times, checked to make sure I had all the parts and the necessary batteries.  I hate directions.  They are always so complicated and convoluted.  It's obvious they are trying to write them for the dumbest of us but somehow they fail or I'm dumber than the dumbest.

I began to push and pull my computer around - oh that is scary.  What if I can't get any of it back together?  After a brief exploration with my fingers because I couldn't get the tower turned around so I could see, Lo and behold, wonders never cease - I found the place where it is supposed to plug in.  But since I can't see it, I'm trying to do it by feel.  That's rather tricky since I don't know what I'm doing even if I can see.  Of course, I tried to take a short cut and not clear the desk of the other stuff .  Every time I move something falls or pulls something else out of something.  Finally I get the plug in. Oh my, oh my.  Now the next job is to get the previous keyboard and mouse unplugged and untangled.  Not an easy job.  But finally it was done.  I read the directions several more times trying to make sure I had done all the things I was supposed to.  It looked like I was ready to go.  I turned on the machine and it began roaring (quietly) to life.  What - What - I had done it.  And it works.  I'm using it now and you notice the i is in all the right places.

 I feel that I've earned my Mechanics Degree!!

 Sorry Sue & Bill, sometimes I do get wound up.  Now, I'll go rest and then answer those two e-mails that are still waiting.  But you know I'm thinking about it.

Love, Mary

The following Saturday Jeff and family, including the dog, Mack, arrived.  They came to see me, Rusty & Meggie (my dogs and Mack's friends), Diva, Benz and Emma (my cats and NOT Mack's friends).  It was a beautiful day, Jeff grilled our meal and we enjoyed it on the deck.  What a pleasure to have all of us at one table.

After dishes were washed and put up, I got out a suitcase of genealogy papers, records and correspondence that goes back to the 1700's.  I have tried in years past to interest my family in the history of "us".  Everybody was too busy being in the "now"  to care or be able to sit still and pay attention  to "old history".  I am so lucky, they've grown and matured and I persisted.  We had a wonderful afternoon making discoveries of people and times we knew and of people and times that were really history.

Today was an exquisite Mother's Day!

 MBS 5/10/09 & 5/21/09

Miss Lilla

 One of my first memories is walking barefoot down the dirt, sandy, rocky road with my friend Miss Lilla.  With my five year old curiosity and energy, I was kicking stones, stopping to exam them, selecting some and filling up the pockets of my little dress.  Miss Lilla was tall and slender and lived about a quarter mile down the road from us.  Miss Lilla would say "Mary Elizabeth you can't pick up all those rocks.”  Often Miss Lilla would walk up to our house to visit Mama.  She walked because she didn't know how to drive.  She would visit awhile and then Mama would let me go home with her for a few hours.  Later my Mama would come pick me up.  About half way to Miss Lilla’s, you would begin to smell the sweetest smell.  In her yard was the biggest Gardenia bush/tree.  It was gorgeous. I always got one flower.  And Miss Lilla would warn me not to touch it because it was easy to bruise and then would turn brown.  As you might guess, Gardenias are my very favorite flowers and that smell takes me right back to Miss Lilla's! 

While I was at Miss Lilla's, I would run around in the yard and then out in the field to examine weeds, flowers, bugs, lizards, acorns, sticks, rocks, and whatever else I could discover.  Oh, my there was so much to do.  Miss Lilla would call and I would help draw water from the well on the back porch - take it into the kitchen and divide it up into washing bowl, rinsing bowl and drinking water, and fill a bowl for Rex, their Irish Setter who was in a pen in the back yard.  Oh was he beautiful!  And there would be a snack of Oreo Cookies on a platter on the dining room table. You can be sure I found many reasons to go through the dining room & always picked up a cookie as I did. 

The years went by and Miss Lilla had more than her share of sorrow.  Mr. Olin, her husband, died at an early age, in his forties.  I heard whispers about drinking - too much.  Then her daughter, an only child, shot and killed herself when she was in her 20's.  So Miss Lilla lived alone in a big rambling white house out in the country. And she didn't drive or have a telephone.  But Miss Lilla was a problem solver - she figured out ways to cope.   

When I was in the third grade, I wanted to go to 4-H Camp - far away from home for a week.  My parents said, “No, you are too young.”  So, I went to see Miss Lilla. She came up to my house and told my mother, “I'll go with Mary Elizabeth.”   Miss Lilla and I went to camp for the next 3 or 4 years.  Miss Lilla thought she was doing her job by just being there.  That suited me fine - didn't cramp my style too much.  She roomed in the dorm on one of the bunk beds - surrounded by a bunch of 4-H kids.  She had counselors and 4-H leaders for adult conversation.  She loved it!

As the years went by I became more involved with my activities.  Miss Lilla was even more on her own.  BUT, she kept devising ways of coping - which only now can I begin to appreciate.

Every week day Cook's Bus would go up the road by our houses on the way to town.  Cook’s Bus was an old school bus that was now used for public transportation.  If you wanted to ride it - you waited by the side of the road around the time when it was supposed to come.  It came by Miss Lilla's about 9AM and left town about 4PM to go back down the road.  So two or three times a week Miss Lilla got dressed up. Choosing her clothe4s was a deliberate act - she took pains to make sure everything matched. When she was satisfied that she “looked nice”,  she walked down her long dirt drive   and stood by the side of the road and waited for the bus.  The bus took her to the edge of town, Miss Lilla walked to the Square -you know, where the Court House is in the middle of town and all the stores are around it.  She went to Gallant Belks, a department store  where everybody in our town went to do their shopping.  There was an enclosed porch that had benches in it.  Miss Lilla choose one, sat in the corner and made sure it was near the door so she could see everybody that went in and out.  She visited all day.  If she found somebody not in a big hurry, she would ask them to sit down and tell her what they had been doing.  If she was lucky, she would find somebody to have dinner (12 noon) with and they would go to Woolworth's.  Miss Lilla had the money she would spend that day wrapped up in a lace handkerchief.  Around 3 or 3:30PM, Miss Lilla would retrace her steps.  She would walk to the edge of town and get on Cook's Bus and wait until everybody was on it.  Sometimes, I would be running in from basketball practice and just in time to catch the bus home. I'd sit with Miss Lilla and she would tell me who all she had seen that day and how they were doing.  She always wanted to know how I was doing.  She always wanted only the best for me!  The bus would leave about 4PM and travel the 6 miles to my house and I would get off.  The next stop would be Miss Lilla's.  And then she would walk the long drive to her house.  BUT SHE HAD HAD A BUSY INTERESTING DAY!

Usually when Mama was going somewhere - to take us kids to the Dr., to take tomatoes to a neighbor, to see how a sick friend was, to go shopping, whatever - she would stop by Miss Lilla's and ask if she would like to go.  Miss Lilla always said, "I reckon so."  She reached behind her and picked up her pocketbook and coat (if needed) from the chair by the door.  She closed the door behind her and came to the car. Whichever kid was in the front seat moved to the back seat so Miss Lilla could sit in the front with Mama.  Mama would say, "I'm not sure when we'll be back."  Miss Lilla would say, "I don't think it makes any difference, I'll just go wherever you go."  And off we would go. 

Other neighbors  also picked up Miss Lilla when they were running errands.  She was always ready to go.  Her pocketbook and coat on the chair waiting. 

One day, Miss Lilla walked up to our house, she must have been in her seventies. She told Mama about her mantle piece clock and said that she wanted to give to Mama.  It was to be Mama’s, and then it was to be Mary Elizabeth's.  That beautiful carved mantle piece clock now sits on my mantle piece.  Its tick-tock reminds me that life goes on - as Miss Lilla did!

I never saw Miss Lilla, cry, complain, be upset, or talk about "poor me".  She figured out ways to cope with life using what resources she had at hand.  Miss Lilla managed and with a smile on her face. Miss Lilla taught me, by example, to be a problem solver - there's always a way to manage - you just have to figure it out.  What a woman!

The Squirrel's Nest

Pet in the kitchen 

Sam on the porch railing                               

In the summer of 2002, I went to the family reunion in Saluda, SC.  There were 50-75 kinfolks there.  It's amazing to me that now, me and my first cousins are the "old folks" and there are many children running around that I don't know.  After a wonderful potluck dinner (12 Noon), we sat around sharing memories.  Cousin JF was there and he said, "I remember when my family and I went to see Aunt Vera and Uncle Luke.  We said hello to everybody but Mary Elizabeth's - we couldn't find her.  She was just a slip of a girl then, not big like she is now.  (Nobody else would dare to say such a thing - but he's family - he gets away with it. )  "Finally," he said, "I looked up in the trees and there she was, watching all of us look for her."

When I was a kid I loved to climb trees! I thought that was the greatest. I had favorites in our yard and special limbs that I liked to sit on. From my special perch I would survey the kingdom "my home, yard, pasture and farm". When people would come visit, they couldn't find me until finally I would say, "Yoo Hoo, Here I am."  Then we would laugh and I would come down and the visit would begin.   Therefore, I acquired the nickname, Squirrel. I taught my sister and brother how to climb trees. They would go first and I would come behind them - they would step on my arms, push up and then I would go up , then they would step on my arms and push up and then I would go up. If they felt scared, they stood on my arms. We did that over and over until they could climb - but they never enjoyed it like I did. It was just my thing.

So from very early in my life I developed an affinity for squirrels. I think they are the cutest things. They are so curious, interested in everything, alert, and persistent. These are attributes I appreciate in anybody.  You can almost see their brain working as they gaze at the birdfeeder and think about how to get to it.  Usually they work it out.   

Now I'm all grown up, in my senior years and am surrounded by squirrels. They seem to know that their job is to entertain me. I live in a wooden house on a hill in the woods. The woods are filled with squirrels. I look at them running from tree to tree using the outstretched limbs. Oh, how I envy them. I say the limbs are their highways. I sit on my porch and watch.  This doesn't mean that I always think that they are just wonderful!  Oh, no!  They drive me crazy, stealing from the bird feeders, digging up my potted plants and even getting into the eaves of my home.  I always put out a tray of seeds for them and the ground feeder birds, hoping they'll understand - that that's where they're supposed to eat.  Often I go running out of the house yelling like a banshee and waving my arms to scare the squirrels from my bird feeders.  It works, for a little while.  The neighbors, my dog and cats have gotten used to this strange wild woman that emerges ever so often. 

A few years ago, a squirrel adopted me.  Yes, that's it.  For some reason he wasn't as scared as most and with patience and food, we became friends.  I would hold out a peanut and he would come along the deck rail and take it. After some weeks of doing this, I'd hold out a handful of sunflower seeds and he's come slowly and carefully and nibble out of my hand.  Oh, I had not planned to feed him out of my hand - I was worried that he could bite - but he was so cute and trusting and I became trusting too.  He never bit me.  I called him Pet.  My granddaughters, ages 7 and 8 at the time, were duly impressed and also tried to feed him but they were not calm, patient or trusting enough and just before he would decide to nibble, they'd scream and run away and so would he.

Now at this time I had 4 cats.  In the spring and summer I would often leave the sliding glass door open and Pet started to come inside - I suspect the bag of roasted peanuts was the bait.  At first, I was afraid that he would get scared and create all kinds of havoc but he never did.  When he got scared or bored, he would just leave by the door.  I began to put a tray down on the living room floor filled with sunflower seeds.  Pet would come in and begin to eat.  If one of the cats felt frisky, he would chase Pet around the chair a few times and then quit and Pet would go back to eating.  Nobody was upset.  Amazing!!

In the spring of '98, I went home to SC for a few weeks.  When I came back, Pet came up on the deck and ate from my hand, but he was hurt.  That was the last time I ever saw him.  Oh, I did enjoy my time with him - about a year!!

Before Pet, there was Sam, the white squirrel.  I had never seen a white squirrel before but on the farm we had a white mule and his name was Sam.  My brother always called any white animal Sam.  I decided it was a good idea.  Sam was beautiful.  I could never decide if he was an albino or a real white squirrel.  The granddaughters loved to look for him and he'd stand out except in the winter snow.  He was around for about 2 years before he disappeared. 

The squirrels continue to entertain me and drive me crazy.  I'm not sure whether they frustrate me more or entertain me more.  I just know that I'd be lost without them - they're an intricate part of my environment.  So I named my home "The Squirrel's Nest".  It seems so appropriate. 

JF's remarks reminded me of my childhood, trees and squirrels and family connections.  Then I recognized the circle of my life.  I started out with trees, squirrels and family.  Now, as a senior I see that those things are still an important part of my life. And I thank JF for reminding me of that circle. 

This story is to honor him and all of our family connections.

Written by:  Mary Bouknight Summerlin 7/08