Sunday Favorites #77... The Home Place

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

My repost for this week is entitled "The Home Place" and was first posted in June of 2007. The only photo that was taken by me is the first one. The others are all borrowed from the web and were picked because of their similarities to my memories.

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My Grandmother spent her entire life in the house where she was born. Her children say she was born, married and died in the same room. This was the same room where my mother and her siblings were born, and in which one sister and a brother died. That ramshackle, tin-roofed house never saw a coat of paint, sat on a patch of bare red clay that was regularly swept clean instead of mowed. The house was surrounded by cotton fields, fruit orchards and sharecropper’s shanty’s; one of which was my home during part of my young life.

My earliest memories are about that farm and now I often think about the way it shaped the lives and character of the people who lived there for more than a century. It continues to reverberate in my life to this very day. The last time I visited the house that is always referred to in our family as "the home place", the front porch was propped on concrete blocks, daylight could be seen through the floorboards and wind rustled curtains. Laundry was done in a wringer washer on the back porch while cats napped under the steps. Aunt Florence, dressed in a flour sack dress and bib apron, was still placing pans full of large fluffy biscuits in the oven each morning by dawn; and a good day would end with the family gathered on the porch with the scratchy sounds of the "Opery" playing on an old Zenith radio in the background. If we were lucky, on a clear Saturday night, we could pick up the sounds of a baseball game as far away as St. Louis, we children waited to turn the crank on the ice cream churn, tossed cigarette butts occasionally sent blazing red streaks flying through the air and the women swapped the latest recipe or gossip from town.

The home place has long been torn down and the old farm subdivided, but the legacy of the place continues to live in the lives of those who once called it home. My mother left her family and moved to Missouri with her husband and four small children more than fifty years ago. For decades I have gone with her back to the southland to visit her family. Last week my dear husband traveled with my eighty-two year old mother and me to the wedding of a first cousin and met all my Alabama kinfolk. The poor man had no inkling of what was in store for him.

Traveling through places with names like Waverly Hall, China Grove, Camp Gray Loop and Pine Level; to meet people known by names like Uncle Brother, Aunt Sister, Aunt Tump, Uncle Dink, Eddy Barr, and Sally Jill would be a lot for anyone. But, hearing stories about how marriage made one cousin’s wife his own step sister or the feud that has lasted for sixty years with no end in sight; I thought would do him in for sure.

However, my Frank is a real trooper and he faired better on this trip than I did. Truth be told, I found the trip somewhat disheartening. So many of the familiar things I associate with the South, and always gave me a warm feeling while connecting the area and the people with my mother’s upbringing and my inborn sense of family, seem to be disappearing at an alarming rate.

Gone are visits with very prim and genteel southern ladies. Great Aunts in ruffled collars with linen hankies tucked up their sleeve and smelling of Jasmine who served fig jam made from the trees growing in their yards, at tables set with translucent porcelain cups and silver tea pots. This was the first trip where shop keepers and service personnel all seemed to have lost their distinctly southern way of speaking; due in part I suspect, to television’s influence diluting regional speech patterns. Once small and charming towns are losing their historic charisma as they quadruple in size and city limit signs move miles in all directions. Fields that once held endless rows of white cotton or expanses of peanut plants are now filling up with fast food franchises and tanning salons. Stately old homes are losing their charming colors, character and beauty behind layers of vinyl siding. Verandas and lovely wraparound porches are falling into disuse as that wonderfully southern habit of lazy evenings visiting over icy tumblers of sweet tea is replaced by the harried schedules of modern households. But, the most disheartening part of this trip was the realization that the southern half of my family is slowly slipping away from not only the northern branch but from each other.

As often happens in families, once the parents are gone the children tend to lose frequent contact with each other. It is also regrettable that so many extended families are separated by the death of the senior siblings. Divorce is separating parents from adult children that have taken the other parent’s side in the divorce or refuse to accept a new spouse. Unfortunately, I see these things happening in my family and feel sad that I can do very little to change any of it.

And finally, I fear that due to my advancing age, financial or health concerns, future visits to my southern roots and family may be curtailed, causing a loss of my sense of self and family unity. I fear that before long, the memories of a young girl playing with her brothers under a cottonwood tree while their mother becomes a decreasing figure working her way to the far end of a cotton field; cousins huddled whispering secrets in the shade of a pecan grove or counting the many doors in a large stately house before stepping through the parlor window onto the veranda for sugar cookies and lemonade with Miz Thersey will be all that is left of the south of my youth.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

Sunday Favorites #76 --Me plus Ten

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

My repost for this week was originally posted for the meme Theme Thursday on April 2, 2009 when the theme was the number "Ten." I titled it "Me Plus Ten."

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Welcome to Theme Thursday. This weeks theme was a tuffy for me. The number 10. I searched everywhere for something memorable that could be called a ten, with no luck. Then last night the answer just fell into my lap.

I want to remind everyone that I am the oldest of thirteen children. I grew up in a rural area and making ends meet was always a struggle for my folks. As a result, they didn't take many photos. Each of us have few if any and the ones we do have mostly came to us from friends and relatives. So whenever a new photo surfaces it is a big deal and gets copied to share with everyone.

I recently acquired some old slides from an elderly Aunt and the Old Salt has been scanning them into the computer for me. In the most recent batch I found the perfect TEN. These slides are very old and in poor condition so I tried to save as many as possible by using photoshop to lighten and repair best as I could. This photo is still very dark and has some strong shadows but it shows me with the first ten of my siblings. Of course I am the oldest one in the photo holding the two youngest. This must have been taken in the summer of 1963. I would have been seventeen and my newest baby brother is almost one.

Growing up I went through many phases. I had one totally embarrassing phase where every time I was out somewhere with the youngest kids, someone would mistake them for mine. At seventeen, did I really look old enough to have six kids? Once, at the grocery store, I had the task of babysitting the little ones while my mother shopped. I lined them all up on the brick ledge in front of the store with some candy. Folks entering the store would stop and say how cute they all were, or just shake their heads in amazement. I lost count of how many asked me if they were all mine, so finally I reached my saturation point. The next lady who asked that question was told “yes they are all mine and I have six more at home'. I though she was going to swallow her teeth in shock.

The above story is taken from a post in my archives called "Oldest of Thirteen" that talks about what it was like being the eldest in a large family. Given the many changes over the last fifty years in people's attitudes about children, parenting and large families; plus all the recent news about the Octomom, my story may not be seen with the same humor it had back in 1963 in an area where less than six children was considered unusual. The original post and a photo of all of us as adults can be found at this link.

To see more of the number "ten" post or to join the fun visit Theme Thursday
http://themethursday.com

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

sunday Favorites #75 --The Forty Acre Club

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this week is entitled "The Forty Acre Club" and was originally posted on July 27, 2007.


It was sometime in 1955 when my parents scraped together the down payment on a cute little white bungalow. It stood in a row of identical clones, on a quiet block, in the St. Louis suburban town of Berkeley; built to house returning WW-II veterans and their families during the post war boom. It did not matter that Garfield Ave. was located on the industrial side of town, or that this adorable little house was the fifth house from the end on a street that ran parallel to the railroad tracks. It also did not matter that by the time my parents took procession and settled their meager belongings into their dream house, they had already outgrown the small, four room house with the recent birth of their sixth child.

What mattered was that this house was their first real home. What mattered was that, unlike many of the places they had lived, it had indoor plumbing, the roof did not leak, there was no broken down stoop or exposed wiring, and it was only a short walking distance to both their church and my father’s work. But, what mattered the very most was that it belonged to them. They were no longer living at the mercy of family or renting someone else’s substandard nightmare.

As happened with every house my parents lived in, that little house on Garfield Ave. soon became the hub of the whole neighborhood. Our yard was where all the kids came to play and our kitchen table was often the setting for Saturday night pinochle games or Sunday dinners. That table also saw many long hours where men swapped war stories and fish tales over endless pots of coffee, or where the women commiserated over each other's problems and shared tales of childbirth or the antics of their children while sipping tea.

That little house was the first on the block to have a fenced yard, swing set, playground slide, broken window and a garage that never housed a car. It seldom had a empty clothesline and was the last house on the block to receive both a telephone and a television set. Rarely did a week go by that a ball, kite or some other toy had to be retrieved from the roof or the table could not be properly set for dinner without a search of the sand pile and mud holes in the yard for a missing table spoon.

It was not long after we moved in that Jim and Elsie Placker moved into the house next door but one, or to put that into American English two doors down. Elsie was the most remarkable person I had ever met and the only one besides my Mother’s southern kinfolk who spoke with an accent. Elsie referred to her yard as the garden, her car had a boot and a bonnet, and she liked to drink hot ale straight from the bottle and always called the bathroom a "loo". Elsie was soon known around the neighborhood as “that English War Bride” with those huge Airedales, because she seldom went out without her two large dogs in tow.

Elsie and my mother quickly became lifelong friends and Elsie was not only a fixture, but a substitute Mother in our home. She would walk into our house without knocking at all times of the day or night and start barking orders at us kids as if she owned us and there was “Hell” to pay for anyone that did not jump up and obey. Elsie never visited without bringing her stainless coffee percolator with her. She said that the standard cup of American coffee was just wimpy dishwater and the junk my mother brewed was nothing more than colored water. Needless to say, the coffee Elsie brewed looked and smelled like crude oil and a spoon would stand up straight as if inserted into chocolate pudding.

I remember one night when all of us kids were sitting on the living room floor, in our pajamas, watching a TV program about thirty minutes before bedtime when in walked Elsie with her coffee pot, she stood in the middle of the room and calmly and firmly stated “bed, I said bed” as she began to scan the gathered faces. Before she could get to the third person the room was empty. Yep, there was nothing like Elsie to empty a room.

My Mother had always been good at inventing creative ways of keeping her growing brood busy during school breaks and what she did not think of, Elsie did. One spring she and my mother began to go on late night scavenger hunts the night before trash collection day and would drag home a odd collection of all sorts of castoffs. After several weeks we awoke one day to find Elsie hard at work in our driveway with a blowtorch and a assortment of pipes and several relics that once passed for bicycles. By midmorning my mother was also hard at work on the project and within several days we came home from school to find several brightly painted and completely functional bikes, one of which was to become the talk of the neighborhood. This bike was so tall that a stepstool was required for even an adult to mount it and if you happen to loose your balance and fall over you were destined to push it until the proper height object came along to give you a way to climb back aboard. That entire summer was spent at the park at the end of the street trying to learn to ride the giant bicycle. The park had a concrete stepping stone retaining wall that gave us our boost up and we could ride in circles around the baseball fields. That bike became the challenge of every adult and child in the neighborhood before summer’s end, and my tiny four foot eleven inch mother loved to show off by riding it around the block with one of the kids sitting on the cross bar.

Jim and Elsie were avid campers and in good weather would pack up their gear and head out every Friday evening and not be seen again until late on Sunday. All their vacations were also spend camping. Being the oldest child, I was the lucky one chosen to take care of their two monster Airedales. I was presented with my own house key and had to go over twice a day to feed, water and let the dogs out into the yard to run. The truth is that I found Elsie’s house to be foul smelling, and creepy and those dogs were huge and had the manners of spoiled children. I don’t know which I hated most, having to go into the house or spending time with the animals I began to call Brutus and Titian. Actually, they scared the tar out of me more than once and I was always so happy to see the Placker’s car turn into the drive.

Over time I not only began to like and respect Elsie for all she did to help my Mother over the years, especially during one long and confining illness, but I began to get a odd feeling that all was not what it appeared to be where Jim and Elsie were concerned. When I was in the sixth grade my sixth sibling was born so my parents decided it was time to move to larger quarters. Over the years my Mother kept in touch with Elsie and Jim and they would occasionally come for a visit. Once, after a visit, when I was in my teens I asked my Mother just how much she actually new about the personal relationship of her friends and if she felt that there was something odd about them. Instead of an answer Mom just told me to go and tidy up the kitchen.

Fast forward to the year 2000 when my husband and I moved to a small town and I started working nights at the local Wal-mart. One night in the break room, during my dinner break, several associates began to tease another associate. They told him that he belonged in a placed called the “Forty Acre Club.”

Later I asked a co-worker to explain the joke connected with the teasing and was told that the “Forty Acre Club” was a Nudist Colony located in a neighboring town. With my interest aroused I came home and did a web search and came up with not only the clubs webpage but half a dozen newspaper articles written about the club over the last half century. I was not only startled to find my parent's good friends were among the founders of the Club but a photograph of a Seventy something Elsie doing a full Monty was included in the website's advertising. That is when I realized where all those weekend camping trips during my youth were taking place and why the dogs were left at home.

Several years later I learned Elsie had passed away and I never had the nerve to mention to my Mother what I had learned. So Mom, if you happen to hear about this, I’m sorry but I just did not have the heart to tell you what I had learned, but I suspect that you have known for a very long time.

Sunday Favorites #74 --The Way you Wear your Hat

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this Sunday was one of the first post I did when I started this blog. It was originally posted on 10-05-2005. At that time I did not have a digital camera and used stock photos. So I have taken the liberty of changing the photos to some that I have since taken of some of the special guys in my life who have great hat sense.

"The Way You Wear Your Hat"

I sat transfixed one night back in the early fifties while Frank Sinatra crooned "The Way You Wear Your Hat" on his weekly TV show. What a song. What a man. But oh, what a hat. I think that is when my love affair with a man in a hat began. Who, could top "old Blue Eyes" in his classic Fedora.

Yes, I love a man in a hat. A honest to goodness real hat. A homberg or fedora, but, I hate baseball caps. I honestly can't express how much I dislike, hate and despise what the baseball cap has done to both mens fashion sense and their rules of etiquette.

Hats are surprisingly complicated things. Sure they keep their wearer's warm in the winter and cool in the summer, and sometimes function strictly as fashion accessories, but they have an amazing history and they also come with etiquette so complex that people have to consult guides just to wear them. What I have learned is too voluminous to list here so I will follow Joe Friday's ( great hat wearer) advice and give "just the facts, Madam."

For most of the 20th Century men were not considered dressed without a hat. Furthermore, not just any hat would do, but rather the proper hat for both the times and the season was required. Then in the early 1960s, the tipping point occurred, when John Kennedy took off his hat at his presidential inauguration. Growing rebellion against authority and conformity and those hoping for a new day and order found an icon in the hatless American president. In very short order, hats were not cool. Many hat maker consider President JFK (hatless Jack) to have single-handedly been the cause of the decline in proper head wear fashions for men in the US.

I can't picture Laurel and Hardy, Charlie Chaplin, Humphrey Bogart, James Cagney, Frank Sinatra, Clark Kent and FDR without a hat. What happened to the Bowler (known also as a derby), Top Hat, Panama, Homburg or Boater (Bing Crosby's favorite)? The Fedora (trilby in Europe), become the hallmark of movie tough guys, Chicago gangsters, private eyes, newspaper reporters--in fact by the 1930s, virtually every man who put on a suit of clothes topped off with a fedora. If your grandfather came from either Europe or North America, chances are he wore a fedora.

The baseball cap in an American icon. It is in fact the only hat style that is an American creation. Its popularity in the United States received a big boost in the era of Babe Ruth. This simple and functional style was a perfect fit for a country that glorified democracy, anti-elitism, and the like. Baseball, the national pastime and a passion for more than a few, but only in baseball could you wear an exact replica of the hat worn by your heroes on the field. From there it was a short step for truckers, farmers, and laborers to incorporate the ball cap as de rigueur in their daily attire. In the late 1980s and early 1990s, the baseball cap became a hot fashion item, propelled in large part when it became associated with hip hop music artists. Like Coca-Cola and McDonalds, the baseball cap became a symbol of America. Those who feared American hegemony wouldn't get near one, but those who wanted to identify with American popular culture, began their wardrobe with a ball cap on his or her head and sneakers on their feet.

Though associated with the American West, the cowboy hat, arguably, is not an American creation. I see lots of sailor, and other military style hats everyday where I live, but, I would like to see guys trading in their baseball caps for a Panama, Fedora, Bowler, Top Hat, Homburg, Trilby, Walker or Derby. I would even settle for the Beret, Porkpie, Boater, Beefeater, Beanie, Gaucho, Glengarry, Aussie Adventurer, Sombrero, Rough Rider, Safari, or Stetson. If you must wear a cap then how about the Greek fisherman's, Newsboy's, Ivy, Golf, Watch, Legion, Bellhop, or Coonskin. I would even like to see an occasional Pit Helmet, Coolie, Matador, Tricorne, Fez, or Stovepipe. Heck, just a plain old Bucket all covered in fishing lures beats a baseball cap.

It could be made of straw, felt, wool or cotton just as long as each guy is being original and not a follower of the masses. There was a time when almost everyone knew the rules, but since hats fell out of fashion entire generations have come of age with little understanding of proper topper protocol. More casual rules are followed today, sometimes appalling us older people who remember traditional customs. Men aren't expected anymore to tip their hats in passing to women, but they are expected to remove them during the National Anthem. And proper hat etiquette still requires a man to remove his hat when in church, a restaurant, a theater or a concert. Just this morning in my favorite breakfast eatery I counted 14 men (2/3 of the total) who did not remove their baseball caps while eating. I truely believe the advent of the baseball cap was the death knell for galentry and manners by men.

Call me old fashioned but I think it was kind of gallent when a man removed a hat to show courtesy to a woman. I also think it was a way of flirting. I think if men realized how handsome they looked when they wear a hat, they'd make a comeback. So Snap the brim and let your girlfriend know "Here's looking at you kid."

Now if you are not burned out on the subject of hats you can visit a follow up post I did about hats, which includes dozens of photos of people I have captured wearing a hat by clicking here.

Sunday Favorites #73 --The Green Eyed Monster

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this Sunday was originally posted on a blog that I have since closed. The original posting was made in September of 2008 and was titled "The Green Eyed Monster"

There is an old saying “if Mama ain’t happy ain’t nobody happy.” Well, in our house, when I was a child, that saying went “if Mom can’t make it happen then no one can.” My mother had the ability to move heaven and earth when it came to getting the things she wanted for her family. Keeping all of us in a Catholic School was probably at the top of Mom’s requirements for her children. If you have read previous post then you know that she found some very creative ways to assure the old coffee can hidden in the kitchen contained enough money to cover the tuition each semester.

During my childhood, parochial school classrooms were still ruled by nun’s. Real nuns. I mean those pious creatures dressed from head to toe in black, with scrubbed faces poking through circles of starched white linen. Austere, gender neutral women, with long veils and flowing skirts, silently gliding down corridors, in chunky high-heeled orthopedic shoes. They wore heavy crosses around their necks and giant rosary beads hanging from their waists with the crucifix marching at the hem of their skirts.

But most importantly, that saintly packaging hid a formidable and stern character that could swat knuckles with rulers or match professional pitchers with the accuracy of tossed erasers magically retrieved from hidden pockets. Like all teachers, the nuns had different methods of teaching but fear and guilt were two that were universal. The Nuns of my generation could outdo even the best Jewish mother at instilling lifelong guilt while making every subject and situation a fearful lesson on the damnation of our souls.

High on the list of things that led us to the weekly confessional were the repeatedon Seven Deadly Sins: Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy and Pride. Sure, I have had my small encounters with most of the mighty seven but the one cardinal sin I have struggled with the most is envy. I once read that Envy is the desire for others’ traits, status, abilities, or situation and we do it because we think other people are so much luckier, smarter, more attractive, or better than we are. Envy is often linked symbolically to a dog or the color green, thus the terms “Green eyed monster” or “Green with envy”. According to those wonderful nuns that taught in my elementary school, the punishment for dying with the sin of Envy on our soul was not only being banished to Hell but having to spending eternity in a tub of freezing water as well.

Now, I certainly know the difference between envy and jealousy and do not get me wrong, I never wanted to trade places with anyone I envied. I am happy for all their accomplishments; but, I am sometimes envious that my life lacked the adventures or financial perks I saw others enjoying during my relatively long life.

Just yesterday I found myself being envious of the opportunities my dear husband had to travel the globe visiting so many interesting places while serving our country in the US Navy. When I mentioned this to him he admitted that he was just as envious that I had spent my life in one place with a large and loving family.

Oh well, I will save you the details of the discourse that followed but, I guess it is back to the confessional for me.

sunday Favorites #47 --The Ruby Ring

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

The Ruby Ring was originally posted as my first entry for the meme Ruby Tuesday in February, 2009. I have deleted the original meme header but you will find a link to the Ruby Tuesday meme at the end of the story. It is a great meme devoted to the color red and I suggest your visit those with red post or perhaps post your own red story or photos. Now on to my story.

The Ruby Ring

On my sixteenth birthday my godmother (also my Aunt) sent me a note stating that she had a special gift for me but I would have to wait awhile to receive it. She explained that I would have to stop biting my fingernails before she would give it to me.

Naturally, I assumed it was going to be a ring (my first ever) so I worked hard at sitting on my hands each time the urge to chew a nail happened. By spring I had short but well manicured nails and proudly wrote to my Aunt announcing my success.

Unfortunately, it was almost the next year before my Aunt was able to come for a visit and I was presented with the most beautiful birthstone ring I had ever seen. It was a gold ring with four rubies. I was so proud of the ring I wore it constantly, only taking it off to do the dishes.

That summer my godmother's daughter(my cousin), who was my age came for an extended visit and during her stay told me why I had to wait so long to receive my present. She said my aunt was a housekeeper for a gentleman who owned a pawn shop and she purchased the ring in his shop on layaway. She was a widow raising four children on a meager salary and there were many weeks when she could only spare one dollar for the payment on her gift to me. It took her almost two years to pay off the ring. She invented the nail biting ruse hoping it would give her enough time to complete the purchase. It failed so she resorted to making excuses to postpone her visit.

I had been wearing my beautiful ring for about a year when I started dating a guy named Buddy. By Christmas the relationship was getting rocky so I was surprised when he invited me to have dinner at his house and meet his parents. After dinner I volunteered to wash the dishes for Buddy's mother. I put my ring on the window ledge above the sink. By the time I finished washing the dishes (all by myself) I realized it was getting late and I had promised to be home early. In the rush to get home on time, I forgot to get my ring from the window ledge. When I realized I had forgotten my ring I called Buddy and asked him to bring it to me the next day. Buddy said the ring was not on the window ledge. The ring had disappeared even though Buddy and his parents were the only ones living there and it had only been a short while since I had left. We argued over what could have happen to it and Buddy promised to ask his parents about it and search the entire house for it.

I'm sure by now you have figured out that the ring never turned up and Buddy and I broke up a few days later. I was so distressed over the loss of my ring that I never had the courage to tell my Aunt about losing it.

Almost two years later I was working part time in a local cafe. One night, two women came in and took a seat in the corner. I went to wait on them and as I handed the menu to the younger lady I noticed my ring on her finger. I told her she was wearing my ring and asked where she got it. She said it was a Christmas gift from her fiance. I quickly told her that I could not only name her fiance but, could tell her which Christmas she received the ring, and preceded to do just that.

The lady turned nine shades of red and the other woman who happened to be her mother said "Well, I declare". Lucky for me, Buddy's fiance was a lot more honest than he deserved. She took my ring from her finger and gave it back to me. I am sure she would consider the ring a fair trade for discovering Buddy's true character before she married him. That was forty-two years ago and I have never taken it off my finger since unless I was placing it in my jewelry box.

To join the Ruby Tuesday fun visit http://workofthepoet.blogspot.com/

sunday Favorites #46 --The party Line

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this week comes from the same abandoned blog as my post from last week. It was originally posted on August 28, 2008 and is another memory from my childhood.

The Party Line

While flipping through a Time Magazine today I came across a story about the last of the old time telephone switchboards that was being converted into direct dial. Here is a excerpt from the article.

“The telephone company has been accused of being the stereotype of impersonal corporate power. But for the 1,800 folks of Avalon on Santa Catalina Island, 25 miles off the coast of Los Angeles, Pacific Telephone had always been downright neighborly. Almost everybody recognizes by voice the 19 operators who handle Avalon’s manual switchboard, which is the last one in the Bell system. Not for long. Because of increasing hordes of summer tourists and hard-to-replace parts, Santa Catalina will join the computer age this week when its switchboard is replaced by a direct-dial system.Many of the locals are upset by the prospect. A human voice at the end of the line instead of an electronic buzz has heightened Avalon’s sense of community. A direct-dial system means no more neighborly gossip and no more baby announcements over the phone. People used to ask questions like “Where can I reach Lucy’s sister?” or “How long do you broil a steak?” Now they will have to go elsewhere for the answers.”

Boy does that bring back some memories.

Before my sixth birthday, my parents decided to leave the small farm in Alabama where we were living, and return to the St. Louis area where my father was raised. I would be starting school that fall and my parents wanted their children to have a parochial school education that was not possible in a small southern town.

They settled on a small suburban town near my grandparents and after several years in a rental, they managed to buy a brand new tract house located in the low income area on the back edge of town near an industrial park. My folks moved their 5 kids into that 4 room house with one bath and attached garage. It was a cute white house with green shutters. It was the third house from the railroad tracks on Garfield Street and already outgrown before we moved in.

When I was about 8 the first phone wires were being run into our part of town. It was all anyone had to talk about for weeks. The first two questions in every conversation were “Have you ordered your phone yet? And, “When do ya think they will be installing the phones?”

I came home from school one day to find all the neighbor ladies congratulating my Mother on our new phone. I was surprised that we got a phone. Many of our neighbors didn’t, and we seemed less able than most. But, there it sat; a brand new shiny black rotary dial telephone sitting on a small table at the end of the hallway outside my parent’s bedroom door. I even remember the number. Jackson 5-6632. We shared the line with three other families and our signal was two long and two short rings. Every time the phone rang we all ran to the table, and counted the rings only to walk away disappointed when the call was not for us. It also seemed that every time we lifted the receiver we heard voices on the other end and had to wait for what seemed ages for our turn.

I will never forget several incidents that occurred during those first few months of having our own telephone. One involved our next door neighbor and my mother getting into a heated discussion over whose party-line was monopolized most. Mom and Mrs. Placker had to finally agree to disagree on that subject.

Then one night little Bobby from across the road came running over to ask my mother to call the doctor. His Daddy had suddenly taken bad sick. The line was busy and my mother asked politely if they would give up the line for an emergency. They refused. So my mother being a genteel southern lady repeated her request twice more over the next ten minutes. My mom may have been a southern lady but hot tempered Irish blood flowed in her veins. The Irish side of mom finally won out and she ran down the block, walked into Mrs. Hank’s kitchen, snatched the phone from her hand and disconnected the call.

Regrettably, the doctor had just gone out and it was hours before he could be reached to call on Mr. Jamison. My Daddy carried him to the hospital in our car but by then Mr. Jamison’s appendix had ruptured . He died a week later. I don’t recall anyone ever having a problem with Mrs. Hanks giving up the line after that. The poor woman was just never the same.

Sunday Favorites #45 -- the I Meme

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this week was originally posted on a blog that I have since retired. The post appeared in October 2008.

The I Meme:

October 13, 2008

For all of you non bloggers, reading this blog only because you are connected to me in some way, let me explain what a meme is. In science, a Meme (pronounced to rhyme with “theme”) is a self-propagating unit of thought that is spread from one host to another. Richard Dawkins invented the term as a kind of idea-gene. Like genes, as Memes spread they mutate or die. Only the fittest Memes survive.

For bloggers, Memes have become synonymous with internet quizzes, surveys, and novelties people link to and pass around on their blogs, forums and via email. Things like the “which superhero are you most like” test.

I found this meme on another blog and decided I wanted to answer the questions and post them here. But, being my usual non-conformist self I have added a few questions and omitted those I did not want to answer. I am not going to tag anyone but feel free to use the meme.

The I Meme:

I am: often invisible to those around me.
I live: in a small rural town that is rapidly becoming a big city.
I laugh: until I pee my pants or stop breathing.
I think: I would have been happier as a member of my mother’s generation.
I know: I am one of the luckiest people on the planet.
I want: my life to be validated by something that will be remembered long after I am gone.
I have: more than I need and all that I could possibly hope for.
I wish: I could relive the last day in my first husband’s life.
I hate: people who think they know it all and pretend to be better than they actually are .
I hide: all of my written journals.
I pray: every day for health and happiness for those I love.
I burn: candles whenever I am home alone.
I rode: a ferry around Staten Island.
I sometimes: like to eat peanut butter from the jar.
I hurt: most when those I love are hurting.
I save: old greeting cards, useless CD’s, pens & pencils and dozens of other items.
I miss: my job but am thankful I do not have to go there ever again.
I fear: for the quality of the world that we will leave our grandchildren.
I applaud: all those who have the ability to put others first.
I wait: for the day when I can afford to travel the world, but, I know it will never come.
I need: to work harder at improving my spelling.
I made: my first plane trip at age 60.
I don’t: watch television news programs.
I take: life one day at a time.
I believe: in Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and in all things magical.
I drive: my husband nuts with the amount of time I spend on the PC.
I forgive: my father for naming me Rita, but I still wish he had named me Betty.
I hope: I live long enough to see world peace.
I feel: each of us needs to take a greater part in helping to shape the lives of young people.
I hear: everything around me but I actually take in very little of what I hear.
I smell: roses and immediately get transported back to the capital building rose garden in Montgomery, Alabama.
I crave: donuts and chocolate.
I search: every store for all the bargains.
I wonder: when I will get my fifteen minutes of fame.
I regret: that I have let some very important people in my life slip away without telling them how I felt.
I love: to spend days seeking adventures with my dear husband.
I ache: all over due to my fibromyalgia.
I am not: the person most people perceive me to be.
I imagine: the world would be a better place if we could all agree to disagree and respect that decision.
I believe: the world is teetering on the edge of no return.
I dance: only in my dreams.
I sing: only for infants.
I cry: at the drop of a feather.
I don’t always: do my dishes as soon as the meal is over.
I fight: tooth and nail for those I care about.
I write: because it keeps me sane.
I win: anytime I can avoid raising my voice in anger.
I lose: every time I let my temper get out of control.
I am never: going to cook fried chicken again.
I never: go swimming in the river.
I need: to learn to be more like my mother.
I cherish: Aunt Ceal’s ruby ring.
I expect: too much of myself.
I had: the security code for a bank vault.
I always: try to do the moral or Christian thing regardless of other’s opinions.
I confuse: my nephews Adam and Nathan.
I listen: to children at play.
I can: usually be found: sitting at my computer
I am scared: that I will have no one to care for me in my old age
I need: serenity and harmony in my life before all other things
I am happy: when my hubby smiles at me.

Sunday Favorites #41 --- Myrtle Marie

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this week was originally posted in June 14, 2007

Myrtle Marie

While cleaning out some old word files today I came across this one that I had written several years ago about my Mother-in-law. I use to be very active on a website that had some lively message boards and one night the ladies were really ragging on their mother-in-laws. So I posted this notice about mine to prove that good ones do exist, and I had one of the best.

Mom this one is for you.


=================================


My Mother-in-law was one of a kind. I have never known another woman like her. From the first day I met her until the day she died I never once heard her raise her voice, ask anyone for help or make a move without getting her husband’s permission first.

I once heard her referred to as a throwback to the last century. What people never understood was that due to the time and place where she was born she really was a 19th century woman. Her name was Myrtle Marie and she was born in 1910, the youngest of six children of a 60 year old father and the only child of his third wife, a 43 yr old former spinster. She married at 18 and had six children spaced over 20 years. Five of her six children born at home with the help of a midwife. She never held a job, drove a car, wrote a check or saw a dentist. She received her first pair of slacks when she was in her seventies. She never traveled more than 100 miles from the place she was born and what little schooling she got happened mostly around the kitchen table. She was 4 1/2 feet tall, wider then her height, had a lazy left eye, a very pronounced limp from a childhood accident and epilepsy since the great fever outbreak of 1915.

She would box the ears of her grown sons as if they were still children. No one dared swear or show disrespect within her hearing. Her feelings were hurt if you did not ask her first to baby-sit, and she always sent you home with at least two containers of leftovers from Sunday dinner. She waited on all the men of her household as if they were royalty, never set two plates on the dinner table with the same food and kept her household money tied in the toe of an old sock hidden in a Karo can in the back of the cupboard.

She was a wonderful and caring person who showed me nothing but love, respect and kindness. From the minute she realized her son was in love she adopted me as her daughter and I could do no wrong as long as her son was happy. She made sure I learned to cook all his favorite meals, passed down all the frugal household tips she learned during the great depression and tirelessly tried to teach me to crochet.

My mother-in-law was someone I admired, respected and loved. I do not recall ever having a cross word with her and she never once tried to interfere in anything that happened in my married life unless we brought it, uninvited, into her home.

By the time her husband died from a stroke she was advancing into the black void of Alzheimer’s. The progression of her illness caused a reversal in her personality and she was starting to get sharp tongued and testy when suddenly she was gone.

It was certainly a strange situation for her three daughter-in-laws when they went into her home to dispose of the material accumulation of sixty years spent in the same small five room bungalow where nothing was ever discarded and many nice things were stored as a hedge against the worst tomorrow that never came.

Mom only had two Sunday dresses and three for everyday. The daily dresses were threadbare and patched but we found her closet held at least 10 that were waiting to be moved into the rotation as her Sunday best moved into the daily lineup. In going through her things we soon learned that each pocket would be a mini filing cabinet or savings account, holding papers and small collections of coins or a few folded dollar bills. In each drawer we would find some small container filled with coins or a pencil size roll of bills tightly tied with twine. Apparently the fear of being without, learned from the great depression, had never been put to rest.

In the end, this lady who had always managed to make do with nothing was laid to rest in the family cemetery beside her husband on a shady hilltop in the middle of a pasture overlooking the farms and valleys that were her playground as a child.

Rest in peace, Mom, I will always love you.


Footnote: In the years since my mother-in-law's burial three of her sons (my husband among them) have been laid to rest beside her on that shady hilltop. I have remarried and sadly will never get to know the Old Salt's mother except through the family stories and the legacy of stained glass windows she left in churches and public buildings across this country.

Recently, the Old Salt expressed a desire to also be buried in that small family cemetery on that shady hilltop. We have since purchased our final resting place just a dozen spots over from the woman who gave me so much.

Sunday Favorites #40 --- If you Forget

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost for this week was originally posted in September 23, 2005.

If You Forget

The subject of the worst gift you ever received from a husband or boyfriend came up today on a message board I frequent and I was reminded of this story and decided to share it here.

My sister and I share the same birthday, July 7th. My first husband and I were married on Aug 5th. My first birthday after the wedding was my 21st. Naturally, I expected either a house party or a bar hopping party (like all my friends had) to celebrate the big 21. Despite large notes on all the calendars and discussions about sending my sister a birthday gift, my birthday came and went without a word from my husband. My best girlfriend kept calling every half hour to see what he gave me and at 10pm when the answer was still "not a word" she came and took me out for the prerequisite first drink. I was too hurt to say anything at the time, so I just sulked for a week, and even that seemed to go by unnoticed.

The next month our first anniversary came and went the same way. Not a word. No card, gift or anything. So I was fuming. I called my Aunt for advice and she said that you have to "never allow a precedence to get started because then you have no grounds on which to object. If you allow something to be repeated without taking issue then you have no grounds on which to complain about being unhappy the next time it is repeated". She said to nip it in the bud and let him know what was expected.

When I discussed it with my sister-in-law. I learned that Christmas was the only day celebrated in their parent's house and therefore birthdays, anniversaries and other holidays were just not considered important to my husband and he had no way of knowing or understanding that I grew up in a family where everything was celebrated to the hilt.

I had always wanted matching wedding bands and he had given me a very gaudy set of wedding rings I hated. So I went to the jewelers and ordered a ring to match his and that night I set him down and gave him the bill and explained that the ring was going to be my combined birthday/ anniversary gift and that I expected him to remember both dates in the future and I would settle for a romantic card, but, if he forgot then I was going to buy the most expensive thing I could find and send him the bill.

The next year my birthday was again ignored so I went out an bought a sofa and sent dear hubby the bill. A month later our anniversary was also ignored so I purchased matching chairs and end tables for the living room and sent him the bill. When he hit the roof I quietly stated "If you remember these dates it will only cost you a twenty-five cent card (price in 1968). If you forget them then it is going to cost you the most expensive thing I can find to buy.


Well it took him 5 years, and many expensive items we could not afford, to realize I was dead serious. When I awoke on the morning of my birthday the sixth year there was a card hanging from the ceiling by a string only inches from my face. For the next 32 years, until the day he died, I never received a birthday or anniversary gift but there was always a mushy, romantic, and often ridiculously expensive card within arms reach when I awoke. Once when I was pregnant and had to sleep on my back I found the card actually standing on my stomach when I woke up.

He defiantly took me at my word.

Sunday Favorites #39 --- Turning out Grandpas pockets

Sunday Favorites is a meme hosted by Chari at Happy to Design. Chari asks us to drag one of our older posts out of mothballs and repost it. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme by visiting Happy to Design. Heck, you might find some great stuff and be inspired to join the fun and repost some of your favorites that have been long forgotten.

My repost today was originally posted in September of 2005.

Turning out Grandpa's Pockets

I was a little girl I always loved visiting my Grandfather because he would let me turn his pockets inside out. Grandpa always wore bib-overalls with more pockets than a small child could count and he carried the most amazing things. Each time was a new adventure. This post would be far too long if I tried to list all the unusual things that turned up in Grandpa’s pockets or the stories he had to tell about them. But,I could always count on finding some of the same items every time I turned out grandpa’s pockets. There were plenty of lemon drops and pennies for him to share, a toy cricket (a tin bug that made a cricket sound when you pushed on the snapper in the back), a kazoo, a buckeye nut, a well-worn 1878 Morgan liberty head silver dollar (year he was born), a rosary (tied up in the toe of a old sock) that had been his Mother’s and was broken and missing 2 beads but he would sit in the barn everyday at noon and pray those beads, a big flat washer tied to a long piece of string, a fish hook stuck in a cork, a small medal tin of stick matches, a flat wood pencil and a folding ruler.

I started to write this story about my Grandfather and his pockets as a children's book for my grandson and it got me thinking about the men in my life and all the stuff they carried in their pockets. My husband and father have passed on now but I still remember the contents of their pockets.

My father never wore bibs and there was no way he would have let me turn his pockets inside out, but growing up, I learned that he had special items that went on the night stand each night and back into his pockets each morning. Dad carried a buckeye nut, a buck pocket knife, a 1922 half dollar, a small flat stone he picked up in the Philippines during WW2, a St. Christopher medal, and a small square nail.

Over the years I discovered that my husband’s pockets were also never without a few prized items. He always carried a small pocketknife, a buckeye nut, a set of handcuff keys, a painted rock (daughters first craft project) a Zippo lighter (my first gift) and a 1899 Liberty head half dollar (his Dad’s).

These memories prompted my curiosity on the subject so for the last few weeks I have been making a nuisance and possibly a fool of myself by asking all the guys I know and the ones I meet if they would empty their pockets for me.

I have discovered is that today's men seem to be more streamlined in what they carry to avoid the nerdy stigma of pocket bulges. Based on the responses received I have to assume that sentimental items like pet rocks, lucky coins, and buckeye nuts have all become passe or at least found new homes to make room for modern electronics. Lots of cell phones, memory sticks and palm pilots these days. The high school boys are carrying MP3 players and tiny remote controlled cars. The pockets I viewed also contained much less change than I would have expected. And, it seems today's men have fewer keys on their personal key-rings and wallets that are much slimmer as well.

I have been surprised by the number of religious items I encountered. Many medals or small crosses, among the younger guys and more rosaries among the old men. I was surprised at how many men no longer carry a handkerchief. Also surprised, by the number of pill boxes men are carrying these days. Not a good sign, but it could mean that men are getting more proactive about their health than in years past. I have not found as many cigarettes and lighters as I expected which is a good thing.

But, over all if men's pockets reflect the times, then I think it speaks badly for the state of the world. I find it sad that it is no longer safe for old men to carry lemon drops and pennies to share with children, and so many men seem less willing to show feelings, or expressions of family, by carrying sentimental tokens of love.

So what about you guys out there in blogland, what are you carrying in your pockets these days?

Footnotes: This was one of the first posts I did when I started blogging and including photos never occurred to me. So, I did a web search and was amazed at how many blog post I found on this subject with photos included. Some were guys recording the contents of their pockets, some were taken at airport security stations and some were by wives showing what came out of their husbands and children's pockets on laundry day.

The "Old Salt" has come into my life since this article was first posted. So I feel that I should also mention that his pockets carry the least amount of stuff of any man I know. It must be a hold over from all those years of living in a uniform, but he never has more than a mini flashlight and a small buck knife in addition to his wallet and keys.

Sunday Favorites #38 Digging around in the past

Sunday Favorites is a meme that allows us to drag one of our old posts out of mothballs and into the light of a new day. After all, only so many posts can be on the first page and once they move down the stack they are seldom ever looked at again.

You can check out this Sunday meme at Happy to Design hosted by Chari. Heck, you might find some great stuff to read.

If you have ever moved and had no need to unpack some of the boxes or dug out all the Christmas decorations only to pack most of them away again unused, you will relate to this post which was originally posted on December 18, 2007. Things did not end quite the way this story would lead you to believe so I will give you the update at the end, after you have read the original post.

Disposing of Christmas's Past

I’m sure that every person who celebrates Christmas with a gift exchange has at least once been the recipient of some white elephant. If you are like me you probably have a long list of things that came from a friend or relative who would feel hurt if they knew you had passed it on or disposed of their wonderful gift.

I will admit confessing to more than one unfortunate accident or lost item as a way of explaining why I was not using Aunt Sadie’s hula dancing hippo figurine or that purple enameled seagull brooch swallowing a large blue tuna from my best friend. But, that is not what this missive is all about.

My husband and I recently purchased our first house together and I have been unpacking items that have been in storage for many years. My dear Frank has been overwhelmed by the sheer number and variety of items I have accumulated. I have tried, without much success, to shrink the amount of plunder I have collected during the past forty years. It seems that many of the items I must make a decision about are past Christmas gifts and that brings me to the topic of this post.

Over the last couple of days I have been unpacking lots of large plastic totes filled with the decorations of decades of Christmas past. Every item has a story and most important, memories. Among boxes of childish school and scouting craft gifts are ornaments of walnut shells covered in more glue than glitter, with bits of yarn tied into uneven bows. There are Candy Canes made of rainbow hued beads strung on pipe cleaners. The creator of these jewels is now 37 yrs. old and collecting her own set of offspring treasures. When is it okay to let these gems go missing?

There is the moth eaten fur stole my Father acquired second or third hand and gave to me for Christmas 1963. He was so proud of that gift he requested I wear it to Midnight Mass every Christmas until the animal rights folks started screaming some fifteen years later. My Dad has been gone for years but I just can’t find it in my heart to get rid of that ratty old fur. Another clear tote contains what appears to be a mass of red tulle. It is in fact a very red Christmas tree made of nylon netting and covered in gold balls with a dove as the topper. The netting is limp and torn, the ornaments tarnished and the dove has gone from white to a battleship gray. It has been taken apart many times and washed, starched and shined but has finally reached the point where no amount of work will save it. Yet I can’t seem to toss it out. That poor pathetic looking tree was lovingly made for me by two seventeen year old friends who were high school sweethearts (now married 35 years) and was given to me to decorate my bedside table during an extended stay in the hospital one long ago December. That tree was displayed in a place of honor for many years as a memorial to my first born son who was born and died during that Christmas season of 1967.

If you dig deep enough into my moving boxes, you will find a small bottle of Lancer’s Rosé sitting in its own hand crocheted patchwork Christmas stocking; a handmade silky blue prom dress, the wedding gown I wore at my wedding in August of 1966, and even several boxes of personal items that belonged to my long deceased first husband. All of these items are well past their prime, have no current use or monetary value and certainly lost their luster decades ago; yet I continue to tote them around and devote valuable storage space to them.

I have a new husband, a new house and a very happy and exciting new life yet I find I am having a hard time parting with all the baggage (literally) that accumulated from my old life. Regardless, it is time to shed all those extra pounds of worthless plunder so I am boxing it up but I will find someone else to decide how to dispose of it all.

For all of you who gifted me with this mountain of boxes; please know that your items were appreciated, loved and had a good life, but now it is time for them to go the way of all good things. Your love and support will remain in my heart always and never be forgotten. But, it does feel good to lose a hundred and fifty pounds overnight.

________________________________

Well, I never did turn all those boxes over to someone else to dispose of. They remained stacked in the corner of our basement until we started packing last November to move again. I ended up unpacking everything and placing all those items along with many more in the garage sale we had the weekend after Thanksgiving. The sale was a big success but we ended up having way too much stuff left over. It has all been repacked and re-stacked in the corner of the basement. The house is up for sale but with the current economy and the holidays, we have not had a single looker. If the house has not sold by spring then I will haul the boxes outside and have another garage sale. If it does sell then I will be forced to deal with all that stuff when it happens.

The good thing is that now I am more resolved to downsize the amount of plunder I move into our new place. I shed my tears over many of these sentimental items several times now so carting the boxes off unpacked to a charity at some point will no longer be the emotional burden it was two years ago or even two months ago. I was forced to dig into the past and make peace with the tangible part of my memories. Now I will allow those memories to fade or not as time and fate allows.