Home for the Holidays

Our family gathered for the Memorial Day Holiday at my brother Bill’s home. He bought the family farm after my dad’s death. Naturally, the house has gone through lots of changes. We had no air conditioning, so we relied on open windows and the attic fan for cooling. The breeze it created helped some on blazing summer afternoons, but we could always cool off by lying on the cool tile floors. In fact, you’d wake up chilled After napping on the floor, even on a hot day. It was a pure pleasure to lie in bed covered only with a sheet and feel the draft sail over. Quite often, it would get so cool the fan had to be turned off before morning.

Our home place was known as “The Old Coker” place for the man who’d homesteaded it after the Civil War. It was originally one-hundred-sixty acres, a quarter section. At one point, the owner mortgaged forty acres to by a dynamo to furnish power to the house, and lost it to the bank when he couldn’t repay the loan. My brother was recently able to buy back that forty acres, so many years after it was at last intact. The house was built in the shade of three majestic oak trees. One of the heirs told Daddy he’d helped his father plant four oak saplings with he was just a little kid. The next year he was playing with a sling blade and carelessly chopped one of them down. He said his daddy wore him out. They never did get around to planting another. The three remaining oaks were past their prime when we moved there. Over the next few years, all three had to come down bit by bit. After my brother got the place, a tornado snapped off the last one, dumping it on the house. Fortunately, no one was hurt, and the house was restored.

A locust thicket had to be cleared where the house now stands before building. Those locust thorns could be an inch and a half long and easily pierced shoe leather. Worst of all, they could rotate and two thorns could go through a shoe, one through the side and another through the bottom, pinning the shoe on. There was no question of hauling a kid to the doctor every time a foot was impaled foot on a thorn. There as always one of us hobbling around with a foot wrapped in a rag waiting for a thorn to fester up and work its way out. Mother would have us soak our thorny foot in warm salty water several times a day to help the thorn work its way out. Sometimes, budget permitting, she’d wrap a piece of salt over the puncture wound. After about a week of misery and soaking, the thorn would come skeeting out with a rush of pus. What a relief…until the next time.

God help the careless kid who let Uncle Edward find out about a thorn. He was famous for going after them with a pocket-knife. He did do the courtesy of wiping his knife point in alcohol, then pouring the wound full of alcohol post-surgically. One year when the fair to town, Bill was determined to go, so he forced into on a shoe and close moved on the bus with the rest of the kids headed for the fair. He stomped around on that sore foot all day. When he got home and peeled the tight shoe off, the thorn had had enough pressure to come shooting out. When Bill saw it sticking out of the hole, he thought he was about to step on another thorn.

Free range was still legal in Bossier Parish in the nineteen sixties. That means live-stock was free to roam at will. Homeowners had to fence cows out of their yards. Drivers were at fault should they hit a cow meditating in the middle of a dark road at midnight. There were surprisingly few accidents. You DON’T want to hit a cow, horse, pig, mule, or goat. Farmers branded or marked their stock to identify them and tried to keep up with where they were grazing. It was common to hear two old geezers exchanging information about where they’d see so where they were grazingand so’s cows today. More than the ne was shot contesting ownership.

The point of that explanation was to lead into this burning story. Daddy didn’t get a yard fence built for a few months after we moved in. Late one evening, a group of cows gathered in the shade under the huge oaks and weren’t bothered at all by the house that had mushroomed since their last visit. We chased them off, but they ambled back after we’d we turned on the attic fan, turned out the lights and gone to bed. Not long afterward, gnats starting biting. It was horrible. The bites burned like fire. It turns out, the fan was sucking in gnats off the cows lounging the cool just outside our windows. The fan went off. Daddy set the dogs on the cows, and fired off a few shotgun blasts. The cows ambled off, taking their gnats with them. Mother sprayed the house with bug spray, and eventually we scratched ourselves off to sleep. Daddy got the fence up as soon as possible, but in the meantime, he trained the dogs to chase the cows off.


This barn stands behind the house now. The barn was the heart of the place when I was a kid. We were free to play in the barn in all weather, as long as we didn’t tear up the hay. We were never stuck in the house. Even in a cold, driving rain, we’d put on our coats and raincoats and head to the barn, where we stayed till Mother called us in. The dogs slept in the barn. We’d see them headed that way as soon as it was dark. Should a car pull up, they’d come barrelling out of the barn to check the visitor out.


Daddy had a nice stock pond built behind the barn. We were free to swim and fish in the pond at the end of our days of farm work. We’d never heard of contracting disease from pond water, so we never did. On occasion, a snake could be seen skimming across the water, but it didn’t worry us. They seemed to worry more about us than we did them. No one was ever bitten. Since my brother got the place, he’s built and stocked a second pond, which he generously allows the family to fish. You see my sister, Marilyn, here with a six and half pound has she snagged today.


It is nice to spend a day at home again. I am glad the farm stayed in the family. Thanks for a great day, Bill. Your daddy would be proud.


The best compliment I’ve ever been given.

This is great.


For most of my life, the most important compliments I could have received would have been based on how I looked.

If someone complimented me on my looks then I would think hoorah, all the effort I put in is actually paying off. Then I realized that as long as I am happy with how I look, it really doesn’t matter what other people think of me. So, while it is always nice to be complimented on my looks our an outfit choice, these compliments no longer have such a great impact on my life.

The other day in work, a colleague, who I don’t see everyday but who I do see at least a couple of times a week, gave me the best compliment I have ever received. To be honest, I never thought that such simple words could have such a huge impact on me. My colleague came…

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Getting By is Good

imageLearning to do more with less was the best thing that ever happened to me. Growing up on a farm, the second of five children, I learned responsibility, despite my best efforts not to. We were all needed, just to get by. With stock to feed, hay to make, gardens to care for, there weren’t too many idle moments. That was before helping Mother in the house, sharing responsibility for the younger children, gardening, canning and freezing produce, and church and school. School was always welcome. I dreaded seeing the long, hot summer after I got old enough to really help out.

There was never enough money to go around. We sewed for ourselves and younger sisters, from the cache of fabric Grandma sent over the years. It didn’t matter if we liked it or not. We took out turns at the best, making do with the rest, using patterns several times, or cutting copies from other people’s patterns. Mother never threw out a button or zipper, taking old ones out of worn out clothes. No need to purchase needlessly. This was common at the time, saving a good deal of money. Most outfits turned out well-enough, but I do remember a bright-pink newsprint dress when I drew the short straw. Another time I lost out and got fabric with four inch tall lollipops. Neither was my favorite, but I wore them. Phyllis got stuck with a brown print with stage-coaches. Surely those pieces must have been marked down when Grandma grabbed that fabric. A few times Grandma tormented us by sending horrible, out-of-style dresses from Goodwill, but that’s a whole different story. Sometimes they could be remodeled, altered, and updated, sometimes not. I became expert with alterations and remodeling, something they didn’t even teach in home-economics.

Bud and I got married when we had a year of college left. Between us, we made thirteen-hundred dollars that year. I had a loan for my college. He didn’t. We both worked student jobs.

Lots of days, we fished in the afternoons. If we caught fish, we cooked them up for supper. No luck, we had grits and biscuits and gravy or beans and rice. Plain beans and rice, not beans, rice, sausage, and cornbread with a side of slaw.

More often than not, we caught our supper. We made just enough money to pay our rent, seventy-five dollars, and utilities less than fifteen dollars a month, since we only used gas for cooking and heating on the coldest nights of winter. We had no television, air-conditioning, or telephone. Whatever money we had left after paying rent and utilities went for groceries, way less than twenty-five dollars a month. In the unlikely event we had a dollar or two left, we might by some gasoline. It was understood, if our parents wanted us to come visit, they’d have to buy us a little gas to get back home. Two or three dollars would do it. I think they were glad to pay up, just to get us on the road. We’d get home for major holidays.

I never felt poor. I didn’t worry about what would happen if we had a problem, just understood we’d do something. I learned then, that if you had enough to eat, clean water, something to wear, safety and shelter, that’s a blessing. The world is full of people no less deserving than I who struggle for that. If worst came to worst, one of us could get a job long enough for the other to graduate. It was a wonderful time. We’ve never been more carefree or had more fun. It’s good we didn’t have a dog, though. We’d probably have had to eat him!

Have a Boy or Know One?


Midvale 2A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 2000 sq. ft. house 4 inches deep.


If you spray hair spray on dust bunnies and run over them with roller blades, they can ignite.


A 3-year old Boy’s voice is louder than 200 adults in a crowded restaurant.


If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a 42 pound Boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is strong enough, however, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 20 x 20 ft. room.


You should not throw baseballs up when the ceiling fan is on. When using a ceiling fan as a bat, you have to throw the ball up a few times before you get a hit. A ceiling fan can hit a baseball a long way.


The glass in windows (even double-paned) doesn’t stop a baseball hit by a ceiling fan.


When you hear the toilet flush and the words “uh oh”, it’s already too late.


Brake fluid mixed with Clorox makes smoke, and lots of it.


A six-year old Boy can start a fire with a flint rock even though a 36-year old man says they can only do it in the movies.


Certain Lego’s will pass through the digestive tract of a 4-year old Boy.


Play dough and microwave should not be used in the same sentence.


Playdoh makes very convincing fake poop when stuffed in the back of a small boy’s underwear.


Super glue is forever.


No matter how much Jell-O you put in a swimming pool you still can’t walk on water.


Pool filters do not like Jell-O.

A large container of baby powder can change a house forever when small boys jump on it repeatedly to see it poof out.


Garbage bags do not make good parachutes.


Marbles in gas tanks make lots of noise when driving.


You probably DO NOT want to know what that odor is.


Always look in the oven before you turn it on; plastic toys do not like ovens.


The fire department in Austin, TX has a 5-minute response time.


The spin cycle on the washing machine does not make earthworms dizzy.


It will, however, make cats dizzy.


Cats throw up twice their body weight when dizzy.


80% of Men who read this will try mixing the Clorox and brake fluid.

Younger siblings happily eat goat poop pellets if older brothers call it M & Ms.



Those who pass this on to almost all of their friends, with or without boys do it because:

  1. For those with no children – this is totally hysterical!
  2. For those who already have children past this age, this is easy to believe.
  3. For those who have children this age, this is real life.
  4. For those who have children nearing this age, this is warning is too little, too late.
  5. For those who have not yet had children, your child will never, ever do these things’
  6. For grandparents of the children of boys, this is the payoff, as long as it doesn’t happen at your house.



Vacation Men/Women

Bud went camping and trout fishing with a buddy for a few days.  We shared the drama of list-making, packing, and lengthy instructions on all that needed attention while he was gone.  In the spirit of a true imbecile, I prepared enough easy food for an army, all homemade of course.  I never purchase quick foods.  He left with an ice-chest stuffed with boiled eggs, sausage biscuitDavis Creek campingts, chicken salad, and pimento cheese spread, all the high-cholesterol joy a couple of guys could wish for.  The guys left in high spirits.

While he was gone, I gardened, worked in the yard, wrote, went out to lunch a couple of times, and crocheted.  I didn’t cook.  I didn’t clean, till today.  I didn’t shop for groceries.  I wonder who had the best vacation?

You Poor Baby Part 2

vintage baby

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

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

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

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

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

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