reblog

Well, That’s Maybe Not Good

I am encouraged by this post. Please register and vote.

Cordelia's Mom, Still

It’s shocking, I know.

In all of my 68 years on this earth, I have never registered to vote.

Why not, you ask?

Because there has never been a candidate I cared enough about to vote for nor a candidate I hated enough to vote against.  Besides, it has always seemed that no  matter who was in office, my financial situation never changed.  Ah, the joy of being part of the forgotten Middle Class here in America.

So, what’s different now, you ask?

Now, there is a politician who makes me so fearful for the future that I plan to vote against him, no matter who else  might be running.  At this point, I would vote for Alfred E. Neuman if he decided to run again.  In the upcoming Presidential election, old Alfred might have a good chance of beating the incumbent.  Heck, I think even I would…

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Smorgasbord Blog Magazine – Christmas Guest Post – Kathleen’s Cuthand Christmas (from Kathleen’s memoirs of the depression) by Linda Swain Bethea

Thanks for this, Sally.

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine

As a special treat, Linda Bethea is sharing another wonderfully entertaining story from her archives, and today we experience a Christmas from the depression that was still filled with homemade gifts, love, laughter and some retribution for past misdemeanours.

Kathleen’s Cuthand Christmas (from Kathleen’s memoirs of the depression) by Linda Bethea

We don’t have the money.” I’d heard that so many times I knew not to ask for candy, bright rubber balls, or coloring books at Miss Lonie’s store. If Daddy had a few cents to spare, he’d fill three small brown paper bags with candy for us…..peppermint sticks, gumballs, bubble gum, lollipops. Kits and BB Bats were five for a penny. A few cents would buy a pretty good belly ache if I’d done like John and gobbled it right up. As soon as John finished his, he’d be eyeing my candy. Demanding at first, then wheedling, he’d eventually…

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Mother?

Nutsrok

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.

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Mama Milk My Goat

lifelessons - a blog by Judy Dykstra-Brown

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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