We never stop wanting our mothers. That is probably our first and last longing. When I cared for patients in times of pain and need, they often called out for their mother’s comfort. We want out mothers when we are giving birth, traumatized by pain or events, and at the moment of death. Many times I have held the hand of elderly patients whose mothers had to have been long dead and had the patient call me “Mother.” I never corrected them. Who am I to say it wasn’t their mother they saw as they moved on.
Pass the Chicken Please or Fowl Friends
We went places and saw people that most people would never encounter. Daddy had heard of somebody who lived back in the woods about four miles off Tobacco Road who had something he might be interested in buying. He had to check it out, driving forever down muddy roads that looked like they might disappear into nothing. Finally we got back to Mr. Tucker’s shack. Mr. Tucker was wearing overalls and nothing else. While Daddy and Mr. Tucker disappeared into the tangle of weeds and mess of old cars, car tires, trash, old washing machines and other refuse behind their house, Mother and the kids sat in the car. It was hot. Daddy was gone. It got hotter. Daddy was still gone. We opened the car doors, hoping to catch a breeze. It got hotter and hotter. The baby was squalling. Mrs. Tucker…
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I think we all have “family talk” that outsiders don’t get.
A much-used phrase in our family is, “I don’t like what I wanted.”
It was first uttered by my little niece, Chelsea. She had a quarter and spent the morning begging her mother to walk her to a nearby store to put the quarter in a vending machine for a prize. As soon as her afternoon nap was over, off they walked for her prize. Upon popping her quarter in, a capsule with a lizard dropped in her hand. She hated it and smashed it to the ground.
“Chelsea, you’ve been wanting a prize all morning. Why did you throw it down?”
”I don’t like what I wanted!”
That line comes in so handy. You can use it referring to a car, a man, a job, or the new shoes that cramp your toes. We use it…
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Mama Milk My Goat
Whenever anyone in my family was feeling sorry for herself and expressing it to a point where it was noticeable, another member of the family could be counted upon to use the family saying for such occasions, “Well, Mama milk my goat,” we would say, and if the person’s nose wasn’t too far out of joint, they might snap out of it. Or, alternatively, stalk away to seclusion where they could fully feel the full extent of their misery without anyone trying to dissuade them from it. Why did we say this? Because my mother had told us all that it was what my grandmother, her mother-in-law, used to say.
My grandmother, a master at martyrdom, used to say it with a small uptake of breath, in a trembling voice. I can remember hearing her do so, although it may be that sort of childhood memory…
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The Most Dependable Fight of the Year
Daddy took his hunting very seriously. This was a man’s sport, an entitlement. Real men hunted and fished. A man’s outdoor gear was a reflection of his manhood. Daddy would have sooner worn lace panties than not follow the unwritten rules. His hunting gear was a necessity, not an extravagance like a dependable car, bills paid on time, and clothes for the family. Daddy always had money held out of his paycheck weekly for the Christmas Club, but Mother never could remember that deer season came around the same time as the Christmas Club checks were issued. By early December, both had long unwritten lists in their heads. A day or so before the check was to be issued, Daddy would be in an unaccustomed jovial mood, sitting at the table with one of his buddies drinking coffee, and casually mention his plan…
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I have been delving into the archives with the saucier side of snowmen and women…..and our resident foodie Carol Taylor Food Column found a wonderful one and shared last week on Facebook.
Christmas at the races.
Riding the favourite at Cheltenham, a jockey was well ahead of the field. Suddenly he was hit on the head by a turkey and a string of sausages. He managed to keep control of his mount and pulled back into the lead, only to be struck by a box of Christmas Crackers and a dozen mince pies as he went over the last fence.
With great skill he managed to steer the horse to the front of the field once more when, on the run in, he was struck on the head by a bottle of sherry and a Christmas pudding. Thus distracted he succeeded in coming in only second.
He immediately went to…
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This week has certainly flown by with a few Mary Poppins moments with umbrellas in the rain and high winds. Just as well I have not got rid of that excess stone I was planning on misplacing before Christmas!
Do not take this as a free pass to do what you like eating wise over the festive season (well okay then . eat what you like)..but I am re-releasing my first book Size Matters in 2019 updated and revised to reflect new research and also my experience in the last 20 years as a nutritional therapist – I am going to do this via the blog by editing and updating each chapter on the blog in the first three months of the year. If you are thinking about getting fitter and eating healthier then you might like to take it one step at a time.
The first part of the…
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Flease Don’t Come Home for Christmas, Willie Tharpe
Daddy wasn’t just a magnet for strange characters. He beat the bushes to flush them out. If that hadn’t worked, I believe he’d have up tacked up posters. Mother had no way of anticipating who he might drag in for supper, overnight, or until further notice. I never did understand why she didn’t murder Daddy. He must have slept sometime! Willie Tharpe was a holdover from Daddy’s childhood.
Daddy came in late from work one evening a few days before Christmas about eight-thirty, after one of his rambles, as he so often did. Though he worked shift work, Mother could never anticipate his arrival. As the “Man of the House” his time was his own. Making the living was his only responsibility. It was up to Mother to handle the rest. That evening, Willie Tharpe creaked up behind him in an ancient…
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