The Spice of Life Part 8

The Reborn Pinto Ol’ Weird Harold Another Ding Housework Blues Frisbie Waldo Frisbie Meets Porcupine Change Marriage that Works Choosy

< Previous  > Next The Reborn Pinto When Jay and Debbie used the car for fishing at the lake, Peg forgot to tell them how much oil it would take. The Pinto’s motor soon was thrashed; we dragged it home to roost. An overhauling project should give the kids a boost. With Harry working out of town, I headed up the team, hauled home a rebuilt engine, deployed a lofty dream. All hands began removing the wires and bolts and screws with no notes how they might go back, the straw boss to confuse. When they had strewn parts here and there, my helpers disappeared and left an ignoramus alone, as I had feared. I got most of it together by hook and crook and guess but a different carburetor gave me fits, I must confess. Big-hearted Delbert Wilson, Mechanic Number One, rescued our little project and soon the job was done. § Ol’ Weird Harold 1978 When Jay and Debbie build a boat, you can’t be sure that it will float but you can bet your boots the same will wear a grand, auspicious name. A rail around the wooden deck would keep their fishing gear in check, while underneath, the pontoon/barrel would float the christened “Ol’ Weird Harold”. Ol’ Harold hauled it to the lake, but Uncle Soap refused to take this risky homemade off the bank; It wound up in our little tank. For years it floated there unused, by wind and weather sore abused. Though neighbors often thought him daft, Weird Harold cherished that ol’ craft. §   Another Ding “I’ve messed up big this time, I think,” he said with pain and fear, the first bad accident he’d had to contend with all this year. He used his finger as a probe, a hydraulic leak to spot, injecting oil into the skin like a hypodermic shot. Inside, the oil is toxic and kills tissue involved. How widespread was the damage?  The problem must be solved. The local GP sent him on to Amarillo’s best. A plastic surgeon made a graft and tried to save the rest. Through Christmas time and New Years the pain would not subside. A month of misery he spent as finger tissue died. Two joints were black and rotten, no hope to save them now. An amputation stopped the pain; who needs it, anyhow?! The right hand index finger is hard to do without but he’s thankful for the others; it could be worse, no doubt. The little dings he has survived just help him understand the greater blessings God outpours from lavish, loving hands. § Housework Blues I should be hoeing or mowing or sewing, or fixing the bathroom sink. The carpet needs cleaning, my hair-do needs preening, I hardly have time to think. Yet here I sit writing like daylight is endless.  Tomorrow, mañana, I’ll work, for this is my passion, not cleaning or fashion.  See the fastidious housewives smirk! Why waste precious time chasing dusty old cobwebs?  Who cares if your house is spot-free? Did your husband ask for it? Don’t your children abhor it?  Must you set an example for me? The homes I have visited, fancy or humble, the ones I’ve remembered ere long were often unsightly with things all a-tumble, but bursting with laughter and song. § Frisbie He was the ugliest dog that ever drew breath; that fact few would dispute, but Molly saw curs with different eyes, exclaiming, “Oh, isn’t he cute?” She named him Frisbie for a friend, but “Worthless” he was to me. He was up on my clothes or licking my face; no good qualities could I see. But then he started to find rattlesnakes, sixteen in just one year. When one of them bit him above the eye, we thought his demise was near. So don’t judge a book by its cover or dogs by their neurotic bent. You never know when some ugly old hound may just have been heaven sent. § Waldo Waldo was just a plain old tomcat til the snake bite that swelled up his head. He was wary of humans, couldn’t be caught; his eyes fierce and glassy, blood red. To spite that old snake, he with gusto survived and blossomed like Leo the lion. He still shunned his two-legged animal friends until it came near feeding time. A coyote outran him and chewed up his leg; he spent quite awhile at the vet. For antibiotics he stayed in the house and almost became a real pet. He hung on the screen door and said a few words of hello at dawn’s early light. Then old jealous Frisbie would drag him back down and sit on his head.  What a sight! He had to be fed inside the house to avoid that pesky old dog. He’d sneak to the bedroom and hide if he could, curl up there and sleep like a log. He limped on his bad leg, couldn’t run fast; coyotes likely got him again. I can see him somewhere in a heaven for cats eating chocolates with a satisfied grin. § Frisbie Meets Porcupine When Frisbie came to live with us he had been sore abused. His skin was dry and flaky, his feet were over-used. His ugliness was pitiful if your heart should give a hoot, yet Molly’s eyes saw differently, thought he was somehow cute. He proved his worth in finding snakes, was smarter than he looked, but when he met the porcupine I thought his goose was cooked. The quills were in his nose and cheeks and even in his tongue. He won’t let me get close, I thought; my heart with pity wrung. Then, armed with only pliers, I called him to my side and wonder of all wonders, he dutifully complied. He flinched a bit at every tug but offered not a yip, just lay so calm and passive as I pulled quills from his lip. The deed was done, he pranced around and thanked me with his tail. As long as poor old Frisbie lived, his love would never fail. § Change I thought it my duty to change him, to solve every problem and quirk, which, even with cooperation, could turn out to be taxing work! To study the lovely serenity prayer, consider each line in detail. Attempting to improve the other guy is bound, in the long run, to fail. Myself I can change with some effort, but he must take charge of his own. Accepting his faults is a challenge, and both of us surely have grown. This marriage thing now seems so easy, impossible tasks laid aside. I love him in spite of his failures, if he cares with mine to abide. § Marriage that Works I expected a husband to fault my poor cooking; he made helpful suggestions instead. Not a word did he speak of atrocious housekeeping, my sins just flew over his head. Against human nature, without any nagging, he started to pick up his clothes, and gave up his paycheck without ever blinking; no fussing about money woes. He always talks freely, expressing emotions, unlike macho males, I am told. He’s full of surprises, this sweet, handsome lover I promised to have and to hold. The assets he offers so humbly are many, his negative debits so few, I wouldn’t trade in my old partner in harness for a much improved model, brand new. This marriage arrangement is God’s great invention for all earth-bound humanity. If God’s golden rule is practiced within it, pure happiness waits, clear and free. § Choosy When I was young, I knew that I didn’t fit the mold. I was like my Ma before me, a square peg in a round hole. Feeling inferior was the result, never quite learning to cope. For the problem of attracting guys, there seemed to be no hope. It took me years to realize I was using stringent rules, not risking love of a shirker nor gladly suffering fools. Now I’m happy I stuck to my guns and waited for the best, who overlooks my failures, passing every conceivable test. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 9

Hapless Harry Ripples in a Pond Farming is Past Tense Expensive Education Highs and Lows Accident Prone The Ideal Vacation Fun Times at Lancer

< Previous  > Next Hapless Harry Pneumonia almost felled him when he was young and green, and lightening knocked him for a loop before he reached his teens. A run-in with a terracing machine should have done his body in, but it only left him crippled, wearing nothing but a grin. On two wheels oft he tempted fate, and fast cars upped the ante. A heat stroke almost laid him low, his survival luck uncanny. With trucks and huge equipment he was risking life and limb, but he survived it all because God knew I needed him. § Farming is Past Tense We hadn’t really planned to quit farming, just loosened the reins bit by bit by turning back rent land, long worn out, that would give patient old Job a fit. We could see how the times were a-changing as prices went down cheap as dirt. We figured we’d just sidle on out the door before losing our last working shirt. I hated to part with the tractor that served us so well through the years, and sometimes I miss the old challenge, but never enough to bring tears. It’s like a great load has been lifted from backs burdened down with the weight. We feel like we’re almost retired now, with 8-hour days our new fate. The farm has been turned into grass land, with a playhouse to visit for fun. The hard years are now all behind us; relaxing old age has begun. § Ripples in a Pond Quiet is he, and gentle, minding not his brother’s faults, but binding wounds with a kind word, making peace in heavy hearts. Quoting scripture is not his way, but living it day by day has led a host of loved ones to the Christ he serves. His example continues to expand as ripples in a pond. As a husband he has no equal, giving of his best in every realm. Courtesy and thoughtfulness are constant, making those around him feel loved and appreciated. Being well acquainted with fear, he is able to calm a distraught child, never too proud to admit his own frailties. The world has been enriched by his presence and when he is gone, none other can fill the void. § Expensive Education The Crews Ranch (called the Rocking Chair) had lots of land for rent and offered us a goodly plot; we thought it heaven sent. Those acres once produced enough for several families but now the only thing still left was wildlife, sand and trees. A nicer place to plant a crop you couldn’t hardly find, so desolate and peaceful and restful for the mind. But a rain and soaring temperatures baked the sand into a crust that sprouts could not break through at all, made the rotary hoe a must. That little plow, it bounced and poked and tried its level best, yet in that thickly hardened soil it could not pass the test. The next year started better, a healthy crop began, but then grasshoppers came to call and soon got out of hand. We sprayed and stomped and sprayed some more, depleting borrowed funds but thanks to good old EPA, we were firing empty guns. Grasshoppers, cows and coyotes ate up our garden plot so when time came to rent again, we firmly answered “Not!” We almost lost our holey shirts, quit barely just in time. That land, for farming cotton, ain’t worth a yankee dime. § Highs and Lows Between the age of cotton-sack and modern module builder came a cold and dirty job no one could love. Behind the tractor/stripper came a trailer down the row with cotton, dirt and trash blown from above. The wife rides in the trailer, a pitchfork in her hand; she throws and tromps the cotton as it heaps. The spout a deadly weapon, she must be on her toes for the enemy who wants to play for keeps. She watches for the wind and changes sides to miss the dust as the tractor driver stops to cross a ditch. With pitchfork in her hand she flies like Dumbo out the front just missing boll box, spout and trailer hitch. The job does have its high spots, not least of all the view; activity is seen for miles around. Red River’s narrow silver stream seems close enough to touch, a black-and-red coal train is Houston bound. West toward the setting sun a swarm of jet planes fill the air, their contrails wispy tails in Texas wind. They look like silver tadpoles in lemonade of pink with Amarillo soon their journey’s end. § Accident Prone “Looks pretty bad”, the neighbor says but I refuse to doubt  that Jay will be okay just as before. Another pickup accident, a re-run from the past,  some superficial scrapes and nothing more. When we arrive beyond the overpass he lies so still,  attendants tending to his wounded head. His daddy stoops to touch him but is gently pushed away. The thought runs through my mind he might be dead. The seven miles to town by ambulance are slow and wild;  our efforts to control him are in vain. It seems a sign of strength but I learn much later on  it possibly could mean a damaged brain. They give him shots to keep his brain from swelling even more,  his breathing stops but help is quick and sure. Doctor Mike explains the need for more intensive care  and we appreciate his motives pure. Then off to Amarillo where specialists await  to stabilize and monitor and mend. The ambulance attendants stay on til all is well  as though Jay is a special kind of friend. Unconscious he remains until the swelling goes away,  the sutures all removed before he wakes. His memory is damaged, emotions don’t exist;  my tensions grow with every move he makes. I see the ghost of Thomas, who never was the same;  brain damaged past the point of no return. Has life been spared to mock us now without a ray of hope?   What kind of patience will we have to learn? He plays games like a robot, his answers short and curt;  impassive features showing no response. Then Debbie makes him laugh one day, a million dollar sound,  and normalcy rebounds almost at once. Brain scars could bring on seizures; they never come to pass,  but scars upon his brow remind us still to be forever thankful for every healthy day,  the answered prayers that all our hopes fulfill. § The Ideal Vacation Imagine summer in a country place,  three helpers at your beck and call. No cooking, cleaning or grocery lists; the willing, eager servants do it all. I just drive a tractor up and down rows of cotton shining in the sun. Delicious meals prepared with love are waiting for me when the work is done. Jay, the youngest windshield farmer, supplies seeds and fuel and cheer. Vinita and Peggy share household chores,  do hoeing when the weeds appear. As our tractors meet, Harold motions toward two coyotes on a terrace near, watching noisy machines and an ugly dog without a trace of fear. Sandstorms and hail may take their toll, grasshoppers eat their fill. Some plants fall victim to my plow; the battle seems always uphill. At August’s end the crop survives, our summer’s work succeeds in spite of all. The kids tune up their horns for music camp; we pump up trailer tires for fall. § Fun Times at Lancer The Lancer folks built mobile homes, some of the very best, but they wouldn’t put me on the line, thought I couldn’t pass the test. There women just made draperies, stayed in their rightful place. They were not tough enough to “build” and could not keep apace. The watchman knew my history, as on the farm I toiled, and vouched that I would make a hand, though I was not hard-boiled. They took a chance and put me on, and were those guys surprised! A woman wasn’t dumb at all, as they had long surmised. I used a hammer like a pro, hung paneling and more, helped organize the carpenters, picked trash up off the floor, installed electric plug-ins and laid ceramic tile, a volunteer at many jobs, all done with art and style. I plumbed and trimmed and grouted and then cleaned up the mess. I once chewed out a foreman, unjustly, I confess. 'Twas better than an office job and kept me lithe and spry. Shame on those sorry critters who hung Lancer out to dry! Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 10

Those Were the Days Variety, The Spice of Life Snaky Cactus Another Snake Tail Precious Gifts Common Denominators Perfectionism A Man for All Seasons Doctoring From Cotton to Prairie Sandhill Cranes

< Previous  > Next Those Were the Days In the grocery store one day I saw a harried young mother with three little kids in tow and I said to myself, oh, brother! What a job she has on her hands keeping those kids in line, but in spite of their begging and pleading, she was managing just fine. Hold on, I says, just a minute, my memory is coming alive. No wonder folks would stare at me when I came to town with five! § Variety, The Spice of Life I didn’t want to graduate and leave my friends from school,       go out into the world and start anew, but life moves on past basketball to distant, brighter realms,       to open up for us a broader view. Against my better judgement but prodded on by Sis,       a college education must be sought. My attitude was doom and gloom, I hated every day;       the term of summer classes came to naught. My knight in shining armor came to carry me away,    fulfilling all my dreams and even more. Housewife and mother was my lot, my life’s ideal come true, although the wolf was often at the door. Not ever having held a job, I wondered at our fate if an accident should leave me widowed young. Could I support five children with my existing skills? The question tasted acrid on my tongue. The kids were all in school and big enough to help at home; the chores I meted out they took in stride. From cooking meals to sewing clothes, they ably did it all, which netted them no small amount of pride. My varied jobs included sewing at a factory, and writing for the paper was a joy. I helped build mobile homes awhile, a job I liked a lot, a chance my many talents to employ. Compactor operator in construction was the job that paid big bucks but didn’t last for long. Director for a senior center nearly drove me nuts though now and then I still sing them a song. But farming was my first love, the tractor was my toy until that industry had ceased to pay. And now behind a secretary’s desk I play a part to make the most of each and every day. § Snaky Cactus Sixteen rattlesnakes in one year makes one sit up and think. Be careful where you put your foot, watch out; don’t even blink. Go looking for a likely den; the cactus comes to mind. With rat holes down inside the roots, great meals a snake could find. Surrounding peach trees offer pits to feed the pesky rat. No end to all the problems this cactus patch begat. The rats are underneath the house and try to get inside. This gnawing situation we no longer can abide. We pull down all the fruit trees, the cactus has to go, and soon, for all our effort, results begin to show. No rats now crawl beneath the house, snakes numbers down to norm. No problem yet we couldn’t fix out here on this old farm. § Another Snake Tail “...Bit by a snake”, was all I heard as Mike ran for the door. I thought of Jay whose luck was such, we kept a running score. But Frisbie was the hapless one, bit just above the eye. With his snoopy, friendly, ugly nose, we didn’t wonder why. By now we had a shotgun, and I grabbed a box of shells. We headed for the canyon where the sneaky rattler dwells. They pointed down toward the spot, grown up knee-high in grass. I wouldn’t dare that wilderness for diamonds first class. Old Frisbie trotted unafraid to site of the attack. When the rattler started up a buzz, I called the brave dog back. I aimed the shotgun at the sound and pulled the trigger hard; that stopped the rattle instantly, but we were still on guard. One more shot for good measure and call the work well done. With such a trusty helper, this job is almost fun. I had some fatty chicken skin and Frisbie ate his fill; by morning, swelling in his face was very nearly nil. § Precious Gifts My love doesn’t thrill me with diamonds or rubies or brooches of pearl, no mansion with bevies of servants, no trips to the ends of the world. The gifts I receive beyond measure will last for a lifetime and more, a soft word of praise fitly spoken, great bear hugs and kisses galore. He never brings up indiscretions from those escapades in the past when I made a stupid decision that might leave some husbands aghast. His trust and respect freely given have honored me down through the years. He lends me a shoulder to cry on when a circumstance might call for tears. He gave me five kids in his likeness, five gems to encircle my crown, enriching my life with rare blessings, all number-one-winners, hands down. My love offers gifts of his presence that no pot of money could buy, accepting me just as God made me without ever wondering why. § Common Denominators We have so much in common, it’s hard to disagree. We almost read each other’s minds, old Harry Trent and me. We both like country music with Willie, George and Merle, instead of Frank Sinatra or some rock-screaming girl. The foods we like are basic: red beans and country ham, Grandaddy’s stew and cornbread, hot homemade bread and jam. We like to work together around the family farm at any job we tackle, like cleaning out the barn. To go to bed at night we choose a mattress firm and long that suits us both down to a T like a smooth John Denver song. And where a difference would be most likely one to vex, the most important test of all: each likes the opposite sex. § Perfectionism It’s hard as all get-out to please a perfectionistic man, although an absent-minded wife does the very best she can. You’d think he might just overlook a little bitty quirk, But, no, I must keep on my toes; nose-to-the-grindstone work. When I serve him a hamburger he insists on having meat, and heated instant coffee would seem like an easy feat. When I toast the bread until it’s black and scrape it til it’s brown the wrinkles on his brow are deep enough to mask a frown. No normal person would believe the misery I go through to keep a fellow happy; each day a challenge new. He says if putting up with him can wear my patience thin I should try living sixty years in perfectionistic skin. § A Man for All Seasons My friend helps me up when I stumble and offers encouragement wise. Although my shortcomings are many, there’s always love light in his eyes. My counselor questions my motives and knows how to give sound advice. Experience speaks and I listen; just to have him around is so nice. My romantic lover works magic to give life a sprinkling of spice. His efforts to please me are constant; no slick Romeo will suffice. My husband has given me freedom to reach the horizon and more. He shares in defeat and in vict’ry, whatever our life has in store. This guy is a man for all seasons; all hats that he wears fit him well. A poem can never do justice when trying his praises to tell. § Doctoring The doctoring business fascinates me and if ever I grow up, maybe I’ll be a surgeon who transplants a heart or an eye or gives reassurance to those who might die. I read every medical book that I can and of surgical shows I’m a great TV fan. So when Dr. Butler prepared one fine day to sew up Jay’s head, injured while hard at play, I watched like a student of medicine should, absorbing as much expertise as I could. The blood was no problem; I’d seen it before, but I thought I would faint and fall in the floor when he pulled that curved needle through, stretching the skin; my medical career quickly died there and then. It happened again as I stood helplessly when Rhonda miscarried, her heartbreak to see. I’ve never quite fainted, but came mighty near, so maybe I’ll stick with my typing career. § From Cotton to Prairie A century of cotton is wearing out the land as rains and sandstorms also take their toll. The topsoil needs to be rebuilt; the time is now at hand. To leave it much improved will be our goal. Varieties of grass are sown as spring gets underway; a perfect rainy season brings a crop, and now a rolling prairie grows where cotton once held sway, from the bottom lands up to the very top. It must have looked like this when grandparents settled here to plow up native sod and ply their hoes, but soon the powdered topsoil had taken to the air, the Dirty Thirties adding to their woes. So now the circle is complete as times have turned around. Is that a covered wagon on the rise? The waving grass makes home look somehow kin to hallowed ground, confirming this decision to be wise. § Sandhill Cranes These visitors are big and shy; their group comes twice a year. With antics very rarely seen, they’re always welcome here. The sandhill cranes stop on the way when flying south or north, a rest in their migration before they venture forth. They stay for days to eat and play, a hundred birds or more, with practice flights around and back; for us, delights galore. Their raucous cries are welcome, their dances quite intriguing. Our hearts are lighter when they come and sadder at their leaving.            Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 11

Seasons of Change Senior Citizens World Traveler Angels in Mid-West City Empty Nest Syndrome We’ve Moved! Highway Patrol Secretary Deputy County Clerk Rats! Looney Tunes Judge Dean Decker Bureaucratic Bungling

< Previous  > Next Seasons of Change Our spring was rich with blessings and fun, getting acquainted, life on the run, stretching the dollars, learning the ropes, starting a family on ignorance and hopes. We pray that we have given our best as summer’s young birds start leaving the nest. Care for our elders, life turns around, more varied blessings to be found. Autumn brings more winds of change, home and jobs to rearrange. Fewer decisions, more privacy, easing of tensions, calm and carefree. Autumn leaves are turning gold; the season of reaping, crops to be sold. Time for remembering summer and spring, giving God thanks for everything. Each season has offered its bountiful share of blessings and curses and crosses to bear. We trust the coming winter, too, will serve us well before it’s through. § Senior Citizens I gravitate toward older folks like a compass pointing north, have nursed them, entertained them and on their side held forth. So when I had a chance to serve the Senior Citizens Center directing their activities, I knew it was a winner. My music skills were useful, speed typing came in handy, and when we fed the Rotary Club they thought my pies were dandy. The office space was in the back, too crowded and so hot. I built a new one at the front, perked up the place a lot. The folks were good as gold to me and vied for my attention. Some were helpful as could be and some I wouldn’t mention. They acted oft like children, but these you couldn’t spank. At dominoes they played for blood and strove for higher rank. They hardly missed me when I quit, have grown and changed with time. I still go back and entertain with country song and rhyme. § World Traveler When Jay left for the Navy, with farming at an end, I packed my bags for travel with my husband and best friend. On the job in Amarillo, at a huge waste water plant a helper soon was needed and I seldom answer “can’t”. It was dirty, sometimes smelly work, just the type I love and, as ever on most any job, we fit like hand in glove. I knocked dirt off the “blue-tops”, the stakes to guide his art and watched with fascination as he gave it all his heart. Graduation to a tractor came in a month or so and when that job was finished we again were on the go. At Oklahoma City the big job spanned a year and I drove that heavy packer in weather bright or drear. No rows to straddle on this job, no plows to drag behind, just back and forth and back and forth; it took but half a mind. Sometimes in rainy weather I stayed at home and wrote or visited the nursing home, old folks on whom I dote. I found the Okies very nice, as friendly as could be, so Texas ain’t the only place where people can agree. § Angels in Mid-West City It must have been in ‘84 we worked in Mid-West City. Disaster almost struck one day but a loving God took pity. The scraper operator was loading on a hill and hauling dirt to westward, a few low spots to fill. The gas pipeline was not as deep as engineers supposed, just waiting for the scraper’s teeth to bite the earth below. It bit, and through the hole came fort a geyser spewing gas. A normal driver would have jumped and left that scraper FAST. Just one small spark could make a bomb, incinerate the lout before the rest of us knew what the fuss was all about. But Larry put it in reverse and backed out of the way. No doubt a guardian angel was on the job that day. § Empty Nest Syndrome I always craved a dozen kids, but drew the line at five, had no desire to rob a bank to keep them all alive. I figured taking care of them was mostly up to me, and seldom asked their dad for help, except his CHECK, you see. I did what most all mothers do: the wash, the food, the house, the lawn, hair-cuts and sewing clothes; make it easy on the spouse. He came home tired and dirty, sometimes at half-past ten. He often held two jobs at once, and seldom slept, back then. A mother’s life to me was just like water to a duck. In spite of some frustrations, I had the best of luck. How blest we were with healthy kids who seldom caused us grief; no teenage rebs or druggies, not one of them a thief. So when the covey left the nest, I scarce knew what to do. No hobby could fill up the days, with household chores so few. I took a job with hubby, a big machine to drive and found the work so EASY, much to my surprise. Compared to frantic days at home with five kids underfoot, this was a breeze, a snap, a walk; my old assumptions shook. The dirt and heat or winter’s cold could not compare to stress like making a tuxedo, but less fun, I confess. The syndrome of the empty nest caused little pain and woe. Life’s changes are a challenge as toward old age we go. §     We’ve Moved! 1988 You’ve heard the joke about the kid who came home one fine day to discover that his mom and dad had up and moved away. We suddenly took a notion to move ourselves to town, and tried to notify the kids, but at Joe’s they weren’t around. For us they planned a big surprise and came down Friday night to find a cold and empty house, no furniture in sight. They hunted up a phone booth and called at half past two. His voice was tinged with slight alarm, his first words, “Where ARE you?!”   §  Highway Patrol Secretary The ad said “Secretary, Texas Highway Patrol”. To find someone with common sense seemed to be their goal. I was the oldest applicant, experienced not at all, little knowledge of computers, my back against the wall. But the spelling test was easy, and typing is my thing. I hope this is the hardest part; my heart began to sing. “What was your latest job?” he asked; my heart, it felt a chill. Heavy equipment operator would hardly fit the bill. “What does your husband do?” asked Sarge, the sheriff at his side. “The best hand in the county”, said Claude, who seldom lied. The interview was friendly and covered bases well, but just what the outcome would be I couldn’t really tell. Sometimes the cute young lassies are less than what they seem. The sergeant took a chance that day and put me on the team. The folks I have to work with are the best that can be found. I’m confident that here I have the greatest job in town. § Deputy County Clerk 1995 Help! Help! I'm being held up here on high against my will, two floors below the jail house with boring time to kill. They don't want me to read the news or work the crossword puzzle. I eat my fill of doughnuts and bottled water guzzle. The mail arrives, a big event, perhaps some work to do: Three instruments I can record, a voter card or two. A nut in genealogy  wants records I can't find. I spend an hour in searching but really, I don't mind. We've fines for misdemeanors and probates to record. So many little jobs to learn, though none of them is hard. I've found some family history; the books are full of stuff. We should be really busy but still it's not enough. Re-type the index, wet the plants, throw catalogues away. Dust all the counters, empty drawers, and try to earn my pay. Write letters to the family, think up some words that rhyme. Amazing what you find to do when you're just killing time.   § Rats! When Zona tried to dye her hair it turned into disaster. To change the mousey grayish-green,  the solution flew right past her. No dye could cover up the mess, good intentions could not will it. Her son had just the answer: “Get a stick and kill it!” § Looney Tunes 1998 There’s a man with a strait jacket going up the courthouse steps. I guess I’ll go and tag along in case he needs some help. Up one more flight, he makes a right to the office of the clerk. He seems intent on business, will not his duty shirk. Oh, no, he’s after Zona!  She’s finally flipped her lid, is seeking votes for county clerk, a most unlikely bid. I knew the stress would do her in, there’s no more hope, I see. If the looney bin won’t take her, she’s really up a tree. § Judge Dean Decker The county judge says that his job has held a few surprises, but none he couldn't handle as each new case arises. The part he's learned to like the least is juvenile offenders whose parents want his wisdom to fix their rearing blunders. He says experience has taught, as time so surely passes, it's hard to breed a race horse from the seed of two jackasses § Bureaucratic Bungling The Childress County Courthouse is streaked with soot and grime. As mortal institutions do, it shows the marks of time. It needs a good sandblasting, as any fool can see, but bureaucrats must foil the plans of folks like you and me. We have to hire an architect, the regulations read, to view the situation and tell us what we need. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 12

Angels Among Us Middle Age? Harry’s Hands Sixty-Four and Gaining Neighborhood Squirrel Guitar Picker Night Noises The Pecan Tree Family Trees Don’t Fence Me In

< Previous  > Next Angels Among Us 1998 Have you ever spied an angel?  Can you see past his disguise? Don’t look for wings and halo, just the kindness in his eyes. Some cynics doubt and question if they really do exist, but when you reach rock bottom they’re right there in your midst. It may surprise you greatly in spite of what you’ve heard; the one I met at noon today looked just like Robert Byrd. He offered me a second chance, which I did not deserve, to be his secretary, the DPS to serve. § Middle Age? I like to say I’m middle aged but sixty ain’t so young. The fact still makes no never-mind; I’m on the highest rung. Old age has been so good to me, life’s cool and silky smooth, more zip than back at thirty, I’ve got it in the groove. Five kids are independent and doing very well. Our seven grandkids sure are grand; the stories I could tell! Don’t give me back my days of youth; one time around will do. The next stop now is heaven when this short life is through. § Harry’s Hands His hands, though scarred with toil and years, have oft been used for wiping tears. Their tender-hearted owner thus became endeared to all of us. The stub that was an index finger tempts a stranger’s eye to linger. Questions from a small grandson bring answers to how it was done. Through many years of constant use, hard work and hurry caused abuse. While doing all the things he loves, he still can’t think to wear his gloves. His hands show love in many ways, by soft caress or pats of praise. Those hands have seldom spanked a kid, no matter what they said or did, which helped their confidence to grow. It’s small surprise they love him so. § Sixty-Four and Gaining At twenty-one he was handsome and charmed the maiden fair. His fingers gave her goose bumps when he ran them through her hair. His frame was lean and lanky, his shoulders hard and wide. He made her glad to be a girl when she was by his side. For forty years he honed his art with tender, loving care. The last was better than the first, as hearts they learned to share. His hair is flecked with silver, a paunch is growing some but he now outshines the lover he was at twenty-one. § Neighborhood Squirrel Little brown squirrel with tail so fine skitters up the tree. Doesn’t he know those nuts are mine?  Why, he must think they’re free. All winter long he eats his fill and takes some home to keep. He seldom has spare time to kill; I’ve never seen him sleep. When summer’s heat becomes too thick, he sprawls out in the shade, his tummy on the cooling brick; looks like he’s got it made! § Guitar Picker A gifted guitar picker was handsome Harry Trent. He loved good country music, a sound that’s heaven sent. Age curled and stiffened up his hands; he couldn’t reach the chords, but changes forced upon us can bring unplanned rewards. He learned to play electric bass one finger at a time, and wasn’t even hampered much when his fingers numbered nine. His music soothes and eases stress, as with tapes he plays along, or adds a zesty country touch to the Oldest Ranger song. § Night Noises A noise outside our window awoke me in the night, an awful banging on the gate that we keep locked up tight, and then a scratching at the door, somebody wanting in. A drunk was mumbling cuss words so I woke Harry then. He got the gun and questioned the man’s identity. The name he gave I don’t recall; irate and soused was he. I dialed 911 for help, but before the cop arrived, the man had climbed the chain-link fence, into the shadows dived. When daylight came, it looked as though the man just made a mistake. He thought he was in the neighboring yard, had sat on the pickup tail gate, too drunk to know the difference between our door and his. Scared by the cops, we’ve seen him no more from that day until this. We put up a fence dividing the lots, screwed strong locks on the door, a little insurance to guard against intruders evermore. § The Pecan Tree When we bought the aging trailer, the “country look” location seemed just the place to fit our needs, a home for the duration. We hardly even noticed the tree with nuts attached just waiting to reward us with bounty yet unmatched. In the ten years we have owned the place, nine times we’ve reaped a crop and gathered many gallons, and shelled almost non-stop. Computing retail prices, the money we have saved may pay for this old trailer house and the street which now is paved. The bad news is: the pies they make are so hard to resist. I really shouldn’t eat a bite.  Oh well, if you insist! § Family Trees The Mother’s Day tree that Joe gave me  has finally fruited this year, producing three plums that promptly fell off, but the main crop was hope and good cheer. The mulberry tree of the neighbors sent seeds ‘cross the street on the wind. Theirs is fruitless but our tree has berries, as welcome here as an old friend. They bring memories of my childhood, of shelter-belts, thickets and fun. Rare trees were a West Texas blessing, protection from sandstorm and sun. With trees at the front of the trailer more beauty each year can be seen. They hide just a bit of the ugly, provide us a privacy screen. § Don’t Fence Me In We have a unique pasture fence around our quarter section with grader blades as corner posts for strength in each direction. While the farm was in the CRP, we formulated plans to lease the grass for grazing, preserving valued land. The fencing job was tedious, the work almost too much but the aging grader artist gave the task his special touch. Little Joe set out to paint the posts; we strung barbed wire between, but his job was soon upgraded when a greater need was seen. As we walked about a quarter mile to stretch and tie each strand he would ferry us back to the start, an enthusiastic hand. This chance to drive the pickup was a boon for youthful pride, good practice toward a license and lots of fun besides. Our will and strength were ebbing fast; Joe really saved the day. Our pride in him and that new fence is more than words can say. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 13

The Garden of Eden Young Luck Making Sparks Team Mates Playing Farmer Memories Under Glass A Stitch in Time Old Shoe Marriage Fretting the Future In My Declining Years

< Previous  > Next The Garden of Eden 1930s His favorite place to visit was Great Aunt Allie Mae’s, a lovely little valley where the lake is, nowadays. The renovated old caboose was cute as cute could be, a home for her and Donald and husband, Uncle Dee. A wilderness of flowers, the work of loving hands, showed reverence for nature that a child can understand. An orchard full of peaches was Dee’s main money crop, and he often shared the juicy fruit with kids he liked a lot. Breathtaking views to warm the heart, kin folks so very nice; this little place, to Harold, was just like paradise. § Young Luck A big machine for moving dirt was lots of fun to drive but he was prone to accidents, glad just to be alive. The boss had warned him often, don’t get off of the tractor with the power take-off running, a certain danger factor. Teenagers oft are careless, and he was in a hurry. A bullet-proof young attitude said there’s no need to worry. Before he knew it, he was caught, his pants hung in the belt. I’m dead and gone, goodbye old world, was how Weird Harold felt. When he came to, he heard a noise, a bumping, eerie sound and he knew it was his torn-off leg each time the belt went ‘round. But the boot had been pulled off his foot, his twisted knee was broke. Two pairs of pants and underwear had just gone up in smoke. A waistband and two pockets still hung around his waist and a bum knee for a lifetime was the payment for his haste. § Making Sparks Now how do you reckon two people so different can still have so much common stuff? With positive/negative traits to combine, it seems we always have enough. When one all alone sees no answer and two hands just number ten thumbs, two heads and two bodies both working together can solve any problem that comes. Depression resulting from stress in the one solves problems inborn in the other and no one can fathom the secrets we share, nobody, not even a brother. Like magnets we nestle together though years now have taken their toll. Bright sparks of romance emanate from the positive/negative poles § Team Mates Much like Red and that stubborn mule, who made a working team, we are a most unlikely pair, the Pessimist and me. Our strengths and weaknesses are fused, supporting one another, both plodding toward a common goal, our hopes and dreams to further. No wonder I was desperate to find the perfect mate, a necessary “better half” to share the twists of fate. With his insight and wisdom, mechanical know-how and loving kindness, I’m too spoiled to do without him now. § Playing Farmer The hardest part of quitting the active role of farming was parting with our friend, the big White tractor. It served us well through thick and thin, for richer or for poorer, when costly break-downs could have been a factor. A farmer can’t give up his old ways overnight, you know, needs something of the past to pacify him. A wife both wise and loving supports his little whims, would not stand in his way or dare defy him. He bought a little Farmall, now old and past its prime, to mow the yard and drag the gravel driveway, a toy that he could play with and show off to his grandkids, no farming, though, no gardening, no payday. They say the only difference, when push may come to shove, between the grown-up men and little boys is not so much their stature or amount of worldly wisdom, but mostly in the size of costly toys. § Memories Under Glass An ag pilot in his off-season, when spraying and income were slack, took aerial photos of farm homes to make into lovely wall plaques. Our shuttered white house in the center was flanked by wash on the clothesline, the tractors both standing at ready with a trailer for boll-pulling time. It was fall and the cotton was popping, brown curling leaves mixing with green, long elegant curved rows like art work completing the picturesque scene. Not much had evolved in this setting since the house-raising in ‘48, and we thought it might go on forever, would never become out-of-date. But time has its own way of changing; decisions turn things upside down. We sowed the whole farm in fine grasses, got rid of the house, moved to town. The picture now has deeper meaning, the place where our kids grew and thrived. So we made each a beautiful copy which Molly’s art work brought alive. In rich wooden frames softly matted, each hangs as a treasure so fine, a source of much reminiscing, as rich as the deepest gold mine. § A Stitch in Time Need stitches in a finger where you took a steak knife to it? Just hold the parts together and let Harry Krazy glue it! § Old Shoe Marriage Although our forty year romance still feels as good as new, it stays as warm and cozy as a well-worn leather shoe. It may have been re-soled and patched, it's broken strings replaced, but care has kept it supple through trials that we've faced. And though it may not look like much when viewed by younger eyes, this comfy old shoe marriage is far from its demise. § Fretting the Future Our smallest daughter, Peggy, says when we’re old and feeble, she plans on taking special care of us. At the rate that I was growing, one pound for each adult year, I could see how that might cause an awful fuss. By the time that I reach eighty, at the onset of Alzheimer’s, I would weigh about two hundred-twenty pounds. Imagine little Peggy lifting me into a wheelchair and you see just how impossible it sounds. The weight is slowly going down, but even if I’m skinny, my long and hefty bones will be a load. I might as well just wait and see, no use to fret and worry before I have to travel down that road. I hope my heart quits beating while I’m still strong and active, out mowing grass and having lots of fun. I’d like to die with dignity even if it be tomorrow; there’s more adventure when this life is done. § In My Declining Years If I’m ever widowed and often complain about my misery, don’t think you have to fix it, just commiserate with me. The main thing I need is compassion, a friendly ear to bend. Migration won’t cure what ails me, my lonely heart to mend. Just laugh at my ludicrous stories, ignoring my self-absorbed woes. Prod me onward and upward and outward to keep me on my toes. Remind me to think more of others, and start my life anew, read poetry at the nursing homes where blessings are so few. Sing songs that they all will remember, reviewing the “good old days”, quote “Bill Thay” and “Jist ‘Fore Christmas” and share with them words of praise. Say, “Use up those quilt scraps for orphans!  Make pies for your neighbors and friends”. For ‘tis upon a thankful heart that happiness depends. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part  14

Beyond All Expectation Bad News or Blessing? Another Ho-Hum Day Harry-Kari Appreciation A Special Guy Handyman The Quest Poetry to Stay Awake By You Feel OK?

< Previous  > Next Beyond All Expectation We learn first by example the way that life should be. Our parents are the guide-books that innocent young eyes see. I thought that love in marriage was simply toleration of all the human foibles which cause a mate vexation. Expecting very little, a young and crazy fool, I married wisdom’s love-child, a walking golden rule. Perhaps his stressful early life had taught him much compassion. Concern for others (namely me) caused quite a chain-reaction. His humble attitude and giving heart continue to amaze me, so idiosyncrasies he may have seldom ever faze. I learned what love is all about, what marriage can become, that sharing all your heart and soul can make two people one § Bad News or Blessing? Thank God for depression!  It changed many lives, though initially the pain was like twisting knives. The doc prescribed Limbitrol, sanity saving, a strong crutch for coping, a smooth highway paving. Then, talking non-stop, as we sometimes do, we discovered perhaps Harry needed some, too. It was manic/depression he lived with, no doubt, but no doctor ever had figured it out. This round-about way was the answer to prayer, had a sick alcoholic walking on air. And then came the cancer that threatened the worst, when the thought of thanksgiving didn’t come up at first. But subsequent surgery improved his health, added oodles of blessings to our store of wealth. “Be thankful in all things” is a hard job to do til hindsight has taught us our lesson anew. The wisdom of God is beyond understanding with only a small seed of our faith demanding. We’ll never be able to walk in His shoes and know how to change tragedy to good news. To thank him for cancer, depression and more makes this poet wonder what else is in store. § Another Ho-Hum Day 1997 A dump truck and electric wire  create a situation dire. Weird Harold can, without a doubt, lose many rounds, yet win the bout. While hauling brush and weeds and muck from a tinhorn in the aging truck, he raised the bed to dump his catch, but failed to notice that the latch refused to open up in time, allowing all that load of slime to shift its weight toward the back and raise the cab just like a jack. Oh, what a sight it must have been, and surely would have brought a grin, to see Weird Harold in the air, suspended high and dangling there. Without a parachute around, he bailed right out and hit the ground much like a sack of heavy bricks, his stiff old legs just brittle sticks. Pain in his heels was less intense than possible embarrassment when county boys from precinct three arrived just then, his plight to see. Although he’s talented and wise, you never know what new surprise awaits out there each dawning day to chase those boring blues away. § Harry-Kari He always has been rather accident prone and with Jay as a son, he’s hardly alone. Today’s easy job is to gravel a road, no trouble at all with dumping his load. But when he attempts to let the bed down, it seems to be stuck too high off the ground. Pulling forward in dumping, not quite by design, the bed has engaged a hot power line. There’s no backing up on the tall gravel pile and no help around for many a mile. To step to the ground would fry him at once, but this old dirt mover is no silly dunce. He jumps free and clear, makes his escape good, and saves me again from sad widowhood. § Appreciation Through the hard early years of our marriage he held down two jobs at a time. To farming he added truck driving, activity hardly sublime. On cottonseed hauls down to Houston where stress hitched a ride every trip, he swore every time he wouldn’t go back due to panic he couldn’t quite whip. I took him for granted, this hard-working guy who seldom complained of his lot. I took every paycheck and spent every cent; my management he questioned not. When the children were all grown and scattered, I hired on to help him years later. A good education I got as I watched his expertise with motor grader. He handled that blade like an artist, did the work of three average men. The long years of toil and devotion I learned to appreciate then. He would still rather work than sit idle but the hard jobs are all in the past. We’re coasting through old age together, contented right down to the last. § A Special Guy When coming home from work at noon, as I pass the corner house, I spy the county pickup that hauls my handsome spouse. It always is a nice surprise to have him home for lunch, a sight that still gives me a thrill, up-lifts my heart a bunch. He is the apple of my eye, my source of daily joy, my comforter, encourager, and more fun than a toy. I love to watch him use his hands or hear him singing bass, see the way he talks to grandkids, their worries to erase. His presence in my life has been a gift no gold could buy. God’s love unbounded sent me this very special guy. § Handyman Handy as the pockets on a shirt is that favorite fella of mine. Weird Harold tunes my mower, and keeps it running fine. Does plumbing, painting, wiring, and patching up the roof, invents and welds, repairs the van, and rarely makes a goof. When hail beat out the skylight, and rain was pouring in, he raised an old umbrella where the square of glass had been, and used a heavy cooking pot to weight the handle down, preventing gusty, howling wind from blowing it toward town. To strengthen cracking dentures, he used a small wire screen imbedded tight with Krazy Glue; he’s maybe cheap, but keen! He builds parts for his tractor, his neat red Farmall toy to play with like he used to when just a little boy. He uses engineering skills along with common sense to tackle even dreaded jobs like putting up a fence. Ol’ Harry finds an answer to any question raised but seems to be embarrassed with compliments and praise. § The Quest Some people look for the fountain of youth, or a mountain of gold, or the ultimate truth. Weird Harold, whose noggin must be full of rocks, is always in search of the perfect toolbox. Collections of jacks and pliers and wrenches fill drawers and shelves and grimy workbenches. From his dad and grandad and my daddy, too, he inherited some, and bought quite a few. The kids, on occasion, bring presents of tools: a cordless screwdriver, a measuring rule. His Shetland-size pickup, requiring less junk, is positive proof that his work needs have shrunk. No tractor lug wrenches with long cheater pipes, but a few of the everyday small crescent types. A snake-light replaces the one with a cord, just the minimum sizes that space will afford. The box we installed in the truck Saturday holds all the essentials, a handy display. All other collections are sorted by need in varied containers so not to exceed the strength of old muscles for specialty chores, some in millimeters, some like dinosaurs. I wonder, sometimes, what our children will do with all of this hardware when we are through. § Poetry to Stay Awake By It’s hard as all get-out composing poems while you drive, but staying wide-eyed helps the odds for keeping us alive. Make mental notes of scenery and towns along the way, like row on row of winter’s feed in big round bales of hay. This summer’s rain has been just right to grow the cotton tall for the promise of a better crop than last year’s, come this fall. A plot left fallow for a rest must yet produce a yield, and offers bright sunflowers to decorate the field. At Rotan on the edge of town, their artsy welcome sign is a windmill and a cactus patch, my favorite design. Mesquite here seems a breed apart, leaves dense enough for shade, hung now with clumps of mistletoe that looks like Christmas grade. Fat cows dot pastures near and far, delicious walking steak. The prickly-pear grows thick enough to make a good windbreak. The oil-boom town of Snyder is big and going strong. We soon pick up our passenger, no time to tarry long. When money was no object here, that span when oil was king, they even paved the county roads, made farmers’ hearts to sing. We turn back north at Roby where they won the lottery. It hasn’t seemed to change a thing, as far as I can see. We cross the huge Four Sixes Ranch, their roadside park so neat. They call this place Big Empty, the cowboy life a treat. We guzzle gas at Guthrie; the price would choke a horse, no living, breathing body to pump it in, of course. One leg of our long journey ends right back here at home. A short pit stop, then on we go, the cell phone set on “roam”. The road to Lawton passes by a boulder-strewn landscape. I’d love to own that piece of ground, a unique house to make. We reach our goal and back again to Altus, just the place to visit Long John for some fish to stuff a starving face. Twelve hours on the road today and home looks mighty fine. The way this creaky body feels, I may hit bed by nine. § You Feel OK? My man complains of feeling bad, a long, sad tale of woe. His head is stuffed, his chest is tight, he aches from head to toe. But I have done some good research and checked him carefully with tender, loving, wifely hands.  He feel just great to me! Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 15

Texas Brags West Texas Wind Independent? Seasons Dear Harry Luxuries Homecoming Plus-Minus The Perfect Job Fashion Freak Absent-Minded Genius

< Previous  > Next Texas Brags Though Texas is largest no longer, we still have the biggest and best. From the Panhandle down to the coastline, a resident truly is blest. Our men tower over the shorties; we’ve beautiful women galore. Our kids grow up smarter than Einstein, personalities all can adore. The state has exceptional Longhorns, and bluebonnets cover the ground but more than anything else, we have the biggest old blowhards around.           § West Texas Wind Panhandle winds are awesome, requiring nerves of steel. Their shrieks and moans can haunt you, prescribing how you feel. In Charleston, South Carolina no whispered breezes call. You sweat and swelter in the heat; no breath of air at all. And out in California the yellow smog is thick. A dose of good Panhandle wind would clean the air real quick. You can have the trees and seashore, polluted urban blight. Just give me Childress, Texas where bright stars shine at night. § Independent? I’ve always worked to make myself more indispensable: I make his shirts and cut his hair and keep the larder full. But now his independent streak has taken quite a toll. He’s even learning to replace the toilet paper roll! § Seasons We love the green of springtime like a newborn baby’s cry, and the colored leaves of autumn just before they die. Beginnings bring a sense of hope that makes our spirits soar, but age and wisdom add a zest with cute grandkids galore. Life can grow sweeter every day, from birthing to the last if we don’t keep on trying to hang onto the past. Just fill your heart with gratitude for blessings great and small as autumn’s leaves will turn to gold and bring delight to all. § Dear Harry In forty-plus years of marriage, an ideal husband you’ve been. I fell for your charm like a ton of bricks and I love you today more than then. You remind me so much of David (without the Bathsheba part!), So kind and so patient and humble, a man after God’s own heart. Your courage and strength still amaze me as you meet awesome struggles with grace. You may not have won any medals, but what an exciting race! § Luxuries Luxury is: Good health. An ideal job. Money in the bank to cover the bills. Luxury is: A house with just enough room, easy to heat and cool and clean. A worry-free car. Luxury is: A paid-for farm. A tractor with a cab. A tool for every job. Luxury is: A pair of long, long jeans. New sneakers with velcro tabs. A wash-n-wear hair-do. Luxury is: Cleans sheets on a queen size bed and someone special to share it with. § Homecoming It’s homecoming time at Flomot in nineteen-ninety six. I travel alone, sixty miles back in time as ancient memory clicks. I look for the best place to photograph the Sharp-Top and Flat-Top Peaks, and wouldn’t you know, it’s our own front yard where that bit of nostalgia speaks. The gym is bustling now with folks from home and far away, And an attitude of longing for the “Good Old Days” holds sway. Some haven’t changed for forty years, some I don’t recognize. I read two down-home poems and then to my surprise, my old friend, Ronald, crowns me queen, awards me a handsome plaque to keep for the duration, but the crown I must give back. Homecomings give the heart a boost, rejuvenate the soul. Not making that “memorial list” the next time is our goal. § Plus-Minus The kids are grown and gone these days, old folks are slowing down. At sixty-plus it’s kinda nice to live these days in town. No muddy roads to worry with, so handy to the store. Our days are carefree with no crops; now who could ask for more? The aches and pains are growing some; neuropathy, oh brother! Bursitis in one shoulder, pursitis in the other. Some days you wonder just how long your body will be useful, but you know old age is setting in when the doc says “Metamucil”. § The Perfect Job 1998 I have a lovely, simple job, no end-of-month reports, no bank deposits to keep straight, a paper maid, of sorts. The guys appreciate my work, no matter how I look. I type and file and copy, sometimes compile a book. The phone, it seldom rings for me, and customers are rare. Mistakes are not earth-shattering, no lawsuit worries there. Variety is interesting, computer programs fast. I’m thankful for this blessed chance to come back home at last. § Fashion Freak A vain attempt at camouflage controls my choice in clothes; concern for style or fashion is least of all my woes. I can’t out-dress my neighbor and don’t intend to try; just cover up the nakedness - spots, sags and rolls defy. My bunions beg for comfort, flat shoes with lots of space, no stylish heels or pointed toes, no grimace on my face. I have no youthful mad desire to dress up to a “T”. Give me blue jeans and sneakers and I will happy be. §  Absent-Minded Genius There was an old Grandma from Texas whose mem’ry did often perplex us. Birthdays she forgot important or not but we can’t allow it to vex us. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 16

Thanksgiving 1997 On the Road to Amarillo Merle’s Pearls Sure Signs of Age Offspring A Different Christmas Snowy Sunrise Thank You, Lord Living with Neurosis Dumb Dog? Pinching Pennies Where Grit Was Born

< Previous  > Next Thanksgiving 1997 For fourteen years we’ve tried to get the kids all home at once, and this Thanksgiving seemed the time to gather all our bunch. There would be twenty folks in all, too much for our abode so a motel and a meeting room would help to share the load. But Tammy couldn’t get a leave and soon Jay came up sick. We must adjust our schedule to Mother Nature’s trick. Yet everything went smoothly in spite of those we missed. No accidents out on the road; our plans seemed heaven kissed. We met our fine new son-in-law who fit in perfectly. When will the twenty all converge?  We’ll have to wait and see. § On the Road to Amarillo Abundant rains of early spring have turned our desert verdant green. New cotton sprouts peek from the earth to celebrate this rite of birth. Wildflowers splash their colors bright along the road, an awesome sight. Beargrass blooms on the right-of-way like a forest of white, a snow storm in May. Black cows and white, an Angus bull in a sea of green eat bellies full. A white-face mom licks her new-born in the cloudy haze of early morn. An ageless windmill and caboose are backdrops for a fine cayuse. Amid a stand of ancient elm stands a house forlorn as an old ghost town. To Amarillo in the spring, a trip can make the senses sing. § Merle’s Pearls Merle Haggard, the philosopher, song writer, former felon, comes up with wild ideas juicy as a watermelon. I have used his country wisdom to diagnose the ache in  Harry’s sacroiliac that feels like it will break. He’s been bending over backward for years, as I recall, attempting to keep peace with a wife who knows it all. § Sure Signs of Age While climbing up a flight of stairs I was passed like a pokey snail. Three steps at a time the young man took, paying no heed to the rail. I wonder when I quit doing that? said an old lady’s voice inside. Did we have a funeral service for the part of me that died? Fat flaps of skin hang from my arms, fat jowls frame my face. It was surely only yesterday I played basketball with grace! To think I’ll not shoot goals again or sit astride a horse is sad and most depressing and makes me eat, of course. Old age can be grim when you’re not pert and slim. § Offspring Some folks might think us guilty of overpopulation. Have our kids and their offspring helped undermine the nation? I hardly think that such is true; not one has been in jail nor lived a day on welfare nor caused a bank to fail. They’re all hard-working citizens and do their very best to help the less than fortunate, whatever the request. They honor God and country, take care of family, and because of their influence, a better world we see. They may not make the history books or garner earthly fame, but neighbors and co-workers won’t soon forget their names. § A Different Christmas We spent a quiet Christmas at home alone this year, no children for the usual supply of youthful cheer. With icy roads and illness to hamper travel plans, we had to find another way to busy idle hands. We kept each other company and passed the days just fine, glad not to have kids on the road this frosty Christmas time. § Snowy Sunrise Trees everywhere are wearing a cloak of lacy white like a February Christmas card, a vision of delight. A bashful sun peeks through the clouds and adds a hint of pink as an early morning greeting to make a person think. No artist with a canvas or a telescopic lens can capture nature’s freshness as each new day begins. The alarm that wakes you in the dark to disturb your dreamy bliss may be the best friend that you have; just think what you would miss! Begin to welcome every dawn, count blessings where you can. Thank God for peace and beauty, the bounty offered man. § Thank You, Lord It took awhile for us to learn that giving is great joy. Don’t stop at fifty-fifty: one hundred percent?  Oh, boy! Ah, but returns are huge and sweet, beyond the wildest dreams. Our bag of daily blessings is bursting at the seams. When late at night we lie at rest with limbs all intertwined and wonder that this ageless love improves each year like wine, we thank the Father up above for his great marriage plan, his awesome wisdom which declared one woman for one man. § Living with Neurosis Neurosis complicates a life and tests the mettle of a wife who understands it not a whit when her husband throws a fit. He waits for every pain and ache to prove he isn’t just a flake, plans soon to die from who knows what; a hidden cancer, like as not. Vague symptoms work within his head and grow into a monstrous dread that ties the tummy up in knots and pretty soon he has the trots. Appointment with the doc is made, his phobias to thus dissuade. He can relax a little while, perchance may break into a smile, plans when to take his daily hike and thanks the Lord for Doctor Mike. § Dumb Dog? On the farm we had a diesel tank and one for gasoline. The delivery man just left a bill, was seldom ever seen. But the new young guy who came that day knocked on the kitchen door, asked for a drink of water, which was never done before. When, warily, I let him in and fixed an icy glass, he seemed unduly nervous, like a low snake-in-the-grass. Eyes darting, as if scouting prey, “Is your husband here?” he said. As luck would have it, yes he was, siesta’d on the bed. About that time, Fritz showed his teeth  and growled deep and mean. The hair stood straight up on his neck, his instincts razor keen. He sensed that his strange, grungy punk had evil, dark intentions, but this small German mixed-breed dog had plans for intervention. When Dink and Pat had left him there to comfort Daddy’s grieving, we had no inkling of the precious treasure they were leaving. § Pinching Pennies We started out marriage not owning a thing but a second-hand Chevy and new wedding ring, knew nothing of budgets or savings or banks; my interest was only this guy: handsome, lank. Two nice wedding showers helped us start on our way in a furnished apartment, awaiting payday. He always had work that paid well enough but it sure had to stretch as we gathered up stuff. A house and/or furniture, clothing and food, plus delivery bills for our fast-growing brood, then tractors and tools, cotton trailers and strippers as I learned to recycle old buttons and zippers. Home haircuts and perms adorned seven heads; we had homemade curtains and even bedspreads. The donated sewing machine was a boon to upholster couches that wore out too soon. Hard work and wild imagination helped prevent too much frustration through the years of budge woes that really kept us on our toes. With saw and hammer, torch and welder, building, mending helter-skelter, making-do was mostly fun as marathons we’ve run and won. § Where Grit Was Born I’ve swept up my last of West Texas dirt, though saying goodbye to the home place hurt. New owners may wonder if they’ve gone insane when regular sandstorms follow spring rains. In spite of new windows and modern storm doors, dust seeped through the wall, piled up on the floors of the aging frame house where our children grew and soon left the farm, the dust to eschew. The hard, sweaty work with tractor and hoe gave them extra incentive in San Diego and other far places where all have succeeded at varied careers where they feel loved and needed. The dusty old farm was a wonderful place for raising tough kids in the wide, open space, but we both breathed a sigh when they chose other ways. Real experience is education that pays. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 17

Panic Time Living on the Edge The Ultimate Challenge Thank God for Kids To Find a Hero Perspective Deal Me Out A Change for the Better A Parent’s Pride October Saturday Brighten Your Corner Home

< Previous  > Next Panic Time Call 911!  We need some help, or someone here may die. Weird Harold’s case is desperate - he’s tired of choc’lit pie. The one requirement asked of me before we two were wed was that I learn to make him pie when our “I do”s were said. With his own mother’s recipe and tactful hints from him, the art of baking flaky crust was kinda “sink or swim”. “More shortening”, he oft advised, “No flour in the filling”, until we had perfected a treat no less than thrilling. But nothing ever stays the same; strong blow the winds of change. Age offers new adventure, our life to rearrange. Fruit cobbler is preferred these days, egg custard or a cake. Variety, the spice of life,  keeps old taste buds awake. The day that I call 911 in panic, you can bet, will be when he announces he’s tired of cigarettes! § Living on the Edge “Why can’t you just be sane like me, think positive, hang loose?” The way I “helped” my crazy mate was a form of spouse abuse. He patiently put up with me, not once to swear or yell as I analyzed his kinky mind where dark forebodings dwell. But it hasn’t all been fruitless; I’ve grown to understand that he’s a special odd-ball, this strange and gentle man. His slant on life seems rather skewed to a laid-back gal like me and I must remind myself each day that the side of things I see may not be obvious to him, (perhaps not even true!); If I take the time to listen, I may learn something new. We complement each other as the modern contact lens can make one eye far-sighted while one sees closer in. To live with mental illness doesn’t have to be a curse. At least it isn’t boring, which could be even worse! § The Ultimate Challenge I always loved a challenge, a test of my endurance, and marriage proved to be a risk without “no fault” insurance. We butted heads and often ran into a concrete wall but when the crisis ended, we always had a ball. Like rafting through the rapids, the ride has been exciting and on the long white-river course, a dare was most inviting. Now on a placid lake we float in dreamy moonlit bless. The challenge has diminished, soft as an angel’s kiss. § Thank God for Kids When arthritis pain got bad enough, I had to quit crocheting. Oh, Lord, how will I spend my time? this Grandma’s heart was praying. Our kids are always looking to help their Mom and Dad and soon had come up with a plan that really made me glad. “You need this old computer,” said Molly Ann and Tony “so we can all share e-mail to save on telephoning.” Hey, what a neat invention, a toy beyond compare. I check the mailbox every day and oft find something there. Joe helped me get a printer to make neat greeting cards and dress up very special poems to send my best regards. He gives me lots of needed help as well as good advice and scanned the pictures for my book.  Aren’t gifted children nice?! § To Find a Hero There is a time for courage, also a time for flight as fear and caution test the wind deciding which is right. No thinking-man is fearless; this fact some may deny. Another fact to notice: some folks will also lie! The brave will act in spite of fear, perform what must be done, meet challenges of each new day from dawn to setting sun. A flair for the dramatic or recklessness makes news but it takes a very special breed to wear a brave man’s shoes. To share one’s deep emotions takes courage rare and strong or simply standing up for truth, discerning right and wrong. We have no dearth of heroes; each day may spawn a few. I’ll share my bed with one tonight, and hope the same for you. § Perspective Our house is old and battered, can’t get insurance now but it shields us from the elements, and suits us, anyhow. When neighbor kids have ventured in, they ooh and aah and swoon. To them it is a mansion; they think we hang the moon. For beds with sheets and coverlets, soft rugs upon the floor they yearn as though a-hungered. How could we ask for more? So many people in this world have no bed for to sleep. A blanket or a woven mat is all they have to keep. We’re thankful for the blessings for which we’re not in hock. Our lowly, aging trailer is the best home on the block. § Deal Me Out The rain makes lively music on the carport’s old tin roof, adds freshness to the arid summer air. A drought that keeps on keepin’ on has worn our patience thin til local farmers want to pull their hair. A scant few drops of moisture raise hopes for more to come although it is too late for this year’s crop. We glory in the wetness that drips from thirsty leaves, not willing that this short downpour should stop. A farmer in this desert expects that now and then a year will come when nothing green will grow, but gambles like an addict at Vegas slot machines til IOUs are all he has to show. Sick cotton is plowed under in hopes of planting wheat if rain will come to soak the barren soil; another risk, another dream, a normal farmer’s lot, the constant flow of worry, faith and toil. § A Change for the Better The old homestead is ample proof that nothing stays the same, as cotton crops gave way to grass, now rife with varied game. A handsome bull’s small harem, producing calves each spring, replaced the host of roving kids on bikes and motored things. The canyon, once grown up in weeds, is clean except for junk. Cows even ate the sagebrush and trees; left just the trunk and a few leaves up beyond the reach of a hungry bovine mouth during last year’s long, hot summer, a dreadful, stressful drouth. But like a blessed miracle, the aging earthen tank, supplied once by the run-off from rare and skimpy rain, is spring-fed now and plentiful, a lovely placid pool, thirst-quenching for the cattle, and a wildlife refuge cool. No one can really own the land, just tend it for a spell. Through 30 years of husbandry we’ve tried to treat it well. §   A Parent’s Pride Our kids escaped the sweaty farm and didn’t suffer lasting harm from all the dusty miles they hoed, as self-sufficiency they showed. Joe is a whiz with a computer, in business a sharp straight shooter. At writing songs he has a knack and seldom ever blows his stack. A rocket engineer is Molly, always perky, always jolly. Adopting kids who need her love fits her agenda like a glove. Vinita is a CPA; exuding friendship is her way. She uses well her writing skills; her witty quips are sharp as quills. Housewife is Peggy’s main career, three boys to feed and clothe and cheer. But as she fights the budget wars, she does the warranties on cars. Jay’s Navy job is like a dream, Chief Petty Officer supreme. “Househusband” suits him to a T, loves those two boys, it’s plain to see. Tho through the years we’ve worried some, we’re proud of what they have become. With hard work they have reached their goals, responsible and caring souls. They’ve chosen well their life-long mates, now aiming for the pearly gates. § October Saturday The long summer’s drought tested patience and strength, so yesterday’s showers, though not much in length, offer hope for more rain and a balm for the soul. Today, consequently, I’ve been on a roll. A few jillion goatheads fell under my hoe; I pruned and I raked, feeling nary a woe. With a new set of clippers to shingle my hair, my neck feels so cool in the soft autumn air. From my patio seat all the world seems in tune on this perfectly awesome Saturday afternoon. § Home It’s a big cracker box with wheels and a hitch, the old trailer house we call home. Having sat in the same spot for so many years, it hasn’t had much chance to roam. There’s no way to disguise a trailer’s slim lines; it won’t ever look like a house. But it offers a comforting warm rosy glow to welcome a hard-working spouse. It is safety and love, a haven, a nest where cares of the world fade away, where two personalities, rare and unique, are one at the end of the day. It might be a cave or a dirt-floor tepee, no matter its locale or form, the only important requirement for home: shared love and respect keep it warm. § Brighten Your Corner A yard without grass was just going to pot as grassburs and goatheads took over the lot. No hoe ever touched it before we arrived; seed sowed by the mower continued to thrive. The outlook seemed hopeless but I dug right in to fill up the dumpsters, determined to win. Transplanted some grass we dug up at the farm and with water and sweat, it worked like a charm. A few of the old seeds still sprout now and then to start the weed cycle all over again but a lawn of bright green has transformed the whole place, improving the looks of our own private space. We added a concrete block floor in the shop, then a red patio, finding no place to stop. A dozen new lights, both inside and out, plus various plants are improvements, no doubt. Though winter brings rest from the yard-work syndrome, there’s never an end to the up-keep of home. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 18

Fencing Fun Reluctant Cowhand Proper Attire City Life Vehicular Abuse Chemical Peel A Trip for Two Making Memories Rhyming Fool Dreams Who, Me? Service with a Smile

< Previous  > Next Fencing Fun We’re happy to have the cows on our land, eating fire-hazard-dry grass but they ate up the caulking and part of the house, and converged on the pickup en-masse. We planned to encircle the house with a fence, including garage, yard and shop, the better for piddling as time may permit, and avoid fertilizer they drop. They relate any pickup to cottonseed cake, and gathered ‘round bawling for food. As we lined up the steel posts and rolled out the wire, they reinforced our fencing mood. While running the wire from the box through the wall, I caulked up the holes fairly well, a messy endeavor involving my gloves, not thinking how good they would smell. Well, here comes the bull, a friendly old guy, assertive and hungry to boot. He licked at my gloves like a dish of ice cream; for my comfort he cared not a hoot. With gloves in my pocket to try and prevent a situation dire, oh, boy, was I glad when we turned on the juice to keep them outside of the wire! § Reluctant Cowhand He has no desire to raise cattle; this week has reminded him why. The renter’s old cow was out running loose, and was bound to be thirsty and dry. But Raymond and Richard were both out of town, which left him alone for the chore of bringing the mama back home to her calf, and checking the fence line once more. What luck!  The cow waited so patiently there, right near the big pasture gate and headed straight down to the big earthen tank as tho she was running quite late. He mounted the shade on the tractor and headed around through the grass to find Castleberry’s south fence falling down; he’d known it was too old to last. With pliers and hammer and stout baling wire, he stretched and he tied and he bled; he’d climb up and down, rest awhile in the shade to keep the hot sun off his head. He seemed on the brink of another heat stroke, his troubles now coming in twos. A whole day of fencing was more than enough to cover his neighborly dues. § Proper Attire I’m no slave to fashion, quite the contrary, wearing old Christmas shirts into January. This white one was printed back in ‘95, still helping to keep elfin spirits alive. It only needs jeans and a red dickey collar, assuring my comfort if the boss doesn’t holler. I wonder if hose with some tall spikey heels and a smart dressy suit would sharpen my skills. When I straddle the storage file, heavy and dense, my britches and sneakers sure make plenty sense. If “clothes make the man”, I’m hopeless, I fear, but I’ll probably wear Christmas shirts through the year § City Life An old country gal, used to acres of ground, can feel claustrophobic boxed up here in town. The noises and smells of traffic all night are part of the curse we call urban blight. The nearness of neighbors can test jangled nerves, with blaring rap music no oldster deserves. We make big concessions for convenience and time, a quick trip to Wal-Mart to spend our last dime. We must have been guided to this old abode so near to the nursing home just down the road. A trip from the farm every time Mother calls would have Old Weird Harold a-climbing the walls. Our world, it is changing, and we cope each day, adapting, adjusting to life’s rocky way. § Vehicular Abuse You’d think a used-car dealer with his own mechanic shop would check out each vehicle, assure it’s shape tip-top. The Astro van’s odometer showed 15,000 miles, yet looked as though no service was rendered all the while: Air cleaner black, most liquids low, the motor oil dark gunk, just two quarts left instead of five; the whole deal really stunk. But the engine purrs as good as new, the van drives like a dream. It still has two years’ warranty, enough time, it would seem, to see how much, if any, damage has been done thus far by long neglect and gross abuse of this expensive car. § Chemical Peel You’ve never heard of Efudex?  What a blessing you have missed! It spots your face bright scarlet red where you have been sun-kissed. Spots burn and pull and turn to scabs, which makeup cannot hide. Folks wonder if you have been beat, but let the subject ride. The mirror will confirm the worst, you’re ugly now as sin, your face so sore from drying scabs, it even hurts to grin. One dose is not enough to last; each year you must repeat. The outcome may eventually look less like hammered meat. Embarrassment and misery won’t kill you, this I know, but ignoring cancer’s signals can be fatal, sure and slow. It ate through cousin Harley’s nose, wrought havoc in his head. Though a fake nose helped to fill the gap, sweet Harley soon was dead. § A Trip for Two 1999 A beautiful sunrise, cloud banked, many hued, speaks of supreme artistry, glory imbued. The dew-laden wheat fields, aglow in the haze, are dotted with cows who contentedly graze. Trees in the peach orchard are heavy with fruit and the roadside stand has watermelons to boot. My handsome companion, great husband and guide, through forty-four years now has stuck by my side, enduring the trip so I won’t be alone, stuck in a motel room when I was long gone. We’ve traveled this road many times through the years, elated with joy or drowning in fears. My friend/navigator makes driving a pleasure, two hours of blessings, a lifetime to treasure. § Making Memories The newly purchased Astro van tries hard to buck the wind uphill to Amarillo, a dinner to attend. Library folks are feting the area’s new authors, a chance to show our wares, and add some money to our coffers. My sister, Mary, is my guest and chauffeur for the ride down to the Civic Center where, standing just inside, is her old friend from college, the high point of the night, an omen for good things to come to start our date out right. Bob Izzard draws attention to the table that we share and next to him, an author from the DPS is there. His book about the Rangers is sure to be a hit. He likes my Oldest Ranger song, thinks it is apt and fit. Allowed two minutes for a speech, each author takes a bow. Mine lasts a short few seconds and I survive somehow. I learn a lot and have some fun, my scrapbook to enhance, all thanks to years of memories, a happy backward glance. § Rhyming Fool My thanks go to Ohio Lin, encourager and writer/friend, reminding me how blest I’ve been down through the years since “way back when”. From Spring Grove’s fragrant wooded glens to Flomot’s dusty cattle pens, experience has always been a teacher with a Cheshire grin. With help from all my loving kin, it seemed quite natural to win, as though a loss would be a sin, yet failure zapped me now and then. At dawn, a new day ushers in adventure waiting to begin. I’ve plenty energy to spend exploring just around the bend. Excitement I may apprehend while daily chores I must attend or e-mail notes and poems send with hopes my writing won’t offend. As words I thoughtfully expend, this rhyming foolishness must end! § Dreams My mind, like Edgar Allen Poe, comes up with crazy dreams, frustrating, sometimes scary, most often bad, it seems. The times I’ve dreamed of muffins that I have tried to cook (and never have succeeded!) would almost fill a book. I never can find clothes to wear or discipline the kids, can’t bounce or shoot a basketball; my game is on the skids. But just the other night I dreamed of making college plans in order to play basketball with these arthritic hands. The coaches aren’t allowed, you know, to discriminate these days. I’d surely get a chance to try, no matter what my age. I woke up feeling energized; my life ain’t over yet! An optimistic attitude beats worry, you can bet. § Who, Me? I came by it honest, my absence of mind; a worse case than Mama’s would be hard to find. She often would have us to help hunt her specs and a search through the house could produce nervous wrecks. We’d look in the dresser and under the bed, then find them perched safely on top of her head. One morning last winter, when ready for work, (too early to get my few brain cells to perk) I looked for my keys high and low, here and there, was just on the verge of pulling my hair, when I heard in the carport the van motor’s hum, already a-warming; boy, did I feel dumb! Mama’s problem I blamed on her age, naturally but since it has happened  already to me, I like to believe that it’s only a sign (as the old adage says) of a brilliant mind. § Service with a Smile Red Stegall mourns the recent loss across our changing nation of a real live human body at an old-time service station. But I am here to tell you that downtown Childress has a man who cleans your windshield and gladly pumps your gas. He runs in fifth gear all day long and wears a constant smile, seems proud to serve a customer, to go the extra mile. No credit card shoved in a slot can ever quite replace the Fillin’ Station’s own Wayne Finn with his happy smiling face. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part  19

New Job, New Problems A Tough Job Traveling Back in Time Going Home Job Hunting Saving the Playhouse The House That Weeps Pride and Joy Country Pleasures Lasting Value The Omega Challenge Coping with Change Cry Happy Tears

< Previous  > Next New Job, New Problems A lifetime working on the farm was dirty, tough and fun. The challenge fit me to a T as I toiled from sun to sun. Retirement from that first career left many strings untied. I felt as though a well-loved friend had just laid down and died. Behind a secretary’s desk where I wound up some years later, I thought they might soon find me out: a female impersonator. Though interesting and easy, it keeps me on my toes, but the hardest job of my work day is donning panty hose. § A Tough Job It’s hard like a marshmallow, this job of mine: type weekly reports, keep the troopers in line. Drop a stick in the gas tank, take bids now and then, do warrants on people who can’t seem to win. Read the bulletin board at the copy machine as though there is much information to glean. Be nice to the Ranger as retirement draws near and try to ignore everything that I hear. Make changes in plans for a building addition, sort out empty shells from used ammunition. Put together the books for investigations, compare notes with folks in communications. For the county attorney, take care of hot checks and sell many copies of local car wrecks. I love being busy; it helps me to thrive. With air, food and water, it keeps me alive. Now, work is activity you hafta do when something more fun would be pleasing to you. No, this isn’t work, it’s a hobby that pays and I hope to be here for the rest of my days. § Traveling Back in Time It’s one of those big cedar flies or something just about that size whose blood and guts obstruct my view, as into my windshield he flew. This insect form of brave he-man has not the guts to try again. My van climbs up a steep incline some miles beyond the county line and I think of Daddy’s tough schedule in a wagon pulled by pampered mules who crossed this creek without a bridge, their forward movement just a tidge before they had to stop and blow; their weekly trek was hard and slow. The town of Turkey sprouts a sign of a forward-looking civic mind: “Industrial Development” speaks well of positive intent. Downtown they’re sprucing up the Gem and hope that from their efforts stem a Branson form of tourist trade where fame and fortune will be made. Cooperation is the rule at the small and tidy Valley School; old football rivalries gave way to common sense, which now holds sway. Big pipes and sprayers water land that grows fine peanuts in the sand. The winding roads down which I roam southwest to Flomot take me home. § Going Home The best homecoming ever was 1999. Marie and Louis Purvis were looking mighty fine, had hardly changed in all these years, graced now with silver hair, and all the “kids” they taught were honored just to have them there. We each had books to sell, and I was not surprised to find that the interest of his students turned to his instead of mine. The class of ‘54 showed up, except for Jim and Lindall. It’s always sad to see the rate at which our numbers dwindle. The Charlie Starkey clan arrived in matching logo shirts, with Mama Bessie (94) healthy and alert. A little speech by Peg declared the worth of education we all received at Flomot, the best place in creation. I knew I couldn’t read the poem for Wilburn without tears, so Sister Mary did the honors, nervous but sincere. The barbeque at supper was finger-lickin’ good; I’d keep this special day alive forever if I could. § Job Hunting An active job like farming is just my cup of tea, build mobile homes, restore a house, it was all great fun to me. But I knew the days were numbered, hard work was taking its toll. To get an easier, lifelong job and stay off the welfare roll, I would need some computer knowledge to go on a resume; signed up for an easy college course, a new type of game to play. A greeter’s job at Wal-Mart was the offer that I got from the state employment office; I’d just as soon be shot! I needed a computer, an office in the back, away from pushy people, to keep my nerves intact. And that’s exactly what I found at the good old DPS, a better job than I deserve, I happily confess. § Saving the Playhouse Did you ever cut a house in two and live to tell about it? If you ever do, when you get through, you’ll want to sing and shout it. We sold our farmhouse to be moved, but kept one room for play, just sawed it off and built a wall, and hoped the floor would stay. All day, til after midnight, we sawed and nailed and blocked to keep the rats and rattlesnakes from being overstocked. We had it weathered in before the main house moved away and left the outer siding to do another day. We were so tired when all was done, plumb out of zeal and zest; before we tried to get in bed, we had to sit and rest. § The House That Weeps The yellow crime-scene tape that gently floated in the breeze for days and weeks has lately been removed, and scattered toys were gathered up, tall grass mowed neat and tidy as though the situation might improve. What kind of feelings drove that hopeless, helpless, sad young mother to put a lethal bullet in her head? Where are the kids whose toys sit idle; are they loved and cherished? Can they even understand their mom is dead? Forlorn, the empty house now serves as only a reminder for passers-by whose lives know little pain. We all should count our many blessings, taking naught for granted, and pray that her short life was not in vain. § Pride and Joy Our kids all have a special way of showing that they care; their individuality these days is something rare. No warping of their character attempting to conform or following the leaders to fit the social norm. They don’t wait for a pre-set day to manifest concern but love their parents all year long, important needs discern. No words are ever adequate for feelings deep within; to say how much we love them, there’s no place to begin. It often makes me wonder about those childless folks; how do they manage to endure when faced with nature’s jokes? Old age can be a nightmare, a struggle to survive, when you learn there’s something more to life than just to stay alive. As waning years add stress and strains, existence would be tougher without the kids to lean upon to serve as handy buffers. When age puts you on the skids, thank the Lord for caring kids! § Country Pleasures The last time all our kids were home was 1983, a cold and icy winter like we hardly ever see. When Rhonda volunteered to shop  for food, I wrote a check to gladly stay off  icy roads, perhaps avoid a wreck. She loaded up the pantry to last for quite a spell and for good measure got a sack of wild birdseed as well. The snow had blown in from the north, the south front porch was clear, so we sprinkled seed there every day for the birds, who showed no fear. Through the little windows in the door I watched the lovely quail, so thankful for this daily feast that showed up without fail. Though we’re happy living here in town, I miss the quail and deer, roadrunners, coyotes, mockingbirds, and the air so fresh and clear. But most of all I miss the sky,  the moon and stars at night that seem to be diminished by all these city lights. § Lasting Value The TV sets of old were wood, too nice to throw away, and this old pack-rat saved them all to use another day. With louvered doors and shorter legs, one was for storage space and later, with a drop-in sink, a bathroom shaving place. A tall and slender model with double doors in front became a small boy’s closet when Jay was just a runt. Too soon outgrown, it served awhile to hold my sewing gear, then, sawed in two for laundry shelves, it lasted many a year. A TV cabinet on wheels just took up space until my parents moved into the house, and this box fit the bill. Two sliding doors hid storage space for food necessities and a plywood top with extra length left room for Daddy’s knees. A frying pan and toaster, small fridge and coffee pot made a private breakfast possible, which they enjoyed a lot. A child of the depression recycles all the way. Don’t discard that old pile of junk; I may need it all some day! § The Omega Challenge As we approach senility like speeding bullet trains and wonder how much mileage is left in these old brains, we’re honing up our attitudes with patience, love and wit to scoff at life’s vicissitudes; no need to throw a fit. Alzheimer’s in both families, if passed down in the genes, could give us one more load to share, what true love really means. We may embarrass youngsters who oft believe they know how old folks are supposed to act, no fond affection show. Just laugh with us and grit your teeth, as tall tales we repeat and keep the walker handy when we can’t pick up our feet. We hope to be like Mama, content whate’er her lot, accept it as a challenge and give it our best shot. § Coping with Change My achey hands decided it isn’t worth the pain to pull weeds from the flower bed for small and fleeting gain. Since nature has reclaimed the space, I miss it not at all, just mow the sprouting cannas that hid the ugly wall. But pulling grass is easy compared to panty hose for causing these arthritic joints a rash of daily woes. Long skirts and knee-highs have replaced that old wardrobe of mine. Velcro for waist-band buttons now suit me mighty fine. Fat-handled forks and steak knives make eating downright fun, and handy kitchen gadgets send problems on the run. Old age is fascinating, though a challenge it may pose; adjusting to the changing times sure keeps me on my toes. A spirit of adventure, fascination with the mind makes me wonder at the future and the changes I may find. Though I wouldn’t choose senility, it holds no gloomy dread and I hope that when it happens, I can share what’s in my head, tell the future generations what it’s like and how to cope. Being useful til the very end would be my fondest hope. § Cry Happy Tears When welcome death has tiptoed in and claimed my earthly form, hug close your wealth of memories to keep you nice and warm. Give substance to the salty tears with humor seasoned well to liven up the funeral, a few good jokes to tell. Accentuate the tenor part, a jazz tempo begin with that good old-fashioned up-beat song-“When the Saints Go Marching In”. A bright balloon with happy face would add a little flair, let loose to join my parting soul way up high in the air. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 20

Mama Never Said   “I Love You” Survival Mama and Alzheimer’s A Carey Cardinals Fan Silly Sallie A Crutch Called Humor Resentment & Depression Daddy’s Tall Tales Daddy’s Pride Til Death Do Us Part Questions Without Answers Left-Handed Compliments

< Previous  > Next Parents Robert Houston Gunn Sallie Ann Matthews Gunn § Mama Never Said “I Love You” “I love you” wasn’t something Mama could say, but it was easy to feel in the way she brushed the hair of three lively girls and primped us up in Shirley Temple curls. Her love was in the taste of bread and beans and in the feel of freshly ironed jeans. It showed in the style of a homemade dress no less than in the feel of a tender caress. Mama’s smile said love through the years to lend me strength or ease pain and tears. She gave me more love than words can say, and I owe her a debt I can never repay. When disease had claimed her brilliant mind, when expressive words she could no longer find, her bright brown eyes, forever young, said “I love you” better than silver tongue. (Has been set to music by Joe Trent) § Survival He hated her dipping, she hated his wine, but mostly the old folks just got along fine. She asked him one day in a voice nice enough, “When will you ever quit drinking that stuff?” “When you quit your dippin’” he said with a smile. There’s no chance of that, he knew all the while. But then when her memory started to dim she forgot how to dip, and that worried him. He tried hard to help her put snuff in her lip but, snuff or no snuff, he’d still take a nip. As long as you’re able, you struggle and strive and do what you hafta just to survive. § Mama and Alzheimer’s Hardening of the arteries, old fashioned doctors said, but reading of Alzheimer’s, I knew that’s what she had. Her sentences grew garbled, she couldn’t speak her mind. As time wore on, no words for conversation could she find. Her memory loss was gradual and Daddy helped her cope. He didn’t understand it but never gave up hope. He tried to help her dip her snuff and spit it in a can. Persistence took its toll for he was not a patient man. Her sense of humor never waned; she always had a smile and made eyes at her son-in-law, a teaser all the while. Ability to feed herself or walk had ebbed away. Incontinence came as a guest but soon was here to stay. The bed and wheelchair now became the whole scope of her realm. The monumental challenge would our senses overwhelm. When she forgot to wake one day, my first response of grief was eased by knowing death for her came only as relief. If she could speak, I now suppose that in her final breath she would have said, “Don’t worry; some things are worse than death.” § A Carey Cardinals Fan When Mama first played basketball around nineteen-and-ten, they pitched the big sphere underhand; a lot has changed since then! She always loved to watch our games, no matter who we played. Whatever outcome, win or lose, she seldom was dismayed. With great anticipation she waited every fall to see the Carey Cardinals, the greatest team of all. Their red-and-black stood for pizzazz and brought a knowing smile. Those Harlem boys who trot the globe were no match for their style. Would you believe the son-in-law that Mama doted on was one of those old Carey boys?  I wouldn’t steer you wrong! And as her recent memory waned, she was a girl again who made eyes at that handsome guy, and not at all in vain. § Silly Sallie Alzheimer’s was a burden that Mama carried well, just one more challenge to be met, of victory to tell. She was the very picture of growing old with grace, each problem met with humor, a smile upon her face. Before forgetting how to talk, she was a girl again; her husband was a stranger, their relationship a strain. With privacy invaded by a grouchy, aged man, she persevered with patience, a daily gauntlet ran. Her sparkling eyes and winning smile showed much appreciation for simple helpful gestures in every situation. The nickname “Silly Sallie”  was apt and right as rain. Lopsided grins and goggle-eyes are memories that remain. Life handed her a lemon but she was not dismayed. She added lots of sugar and stirred up lemonade. § A Crutch Called Humor When Mama and Daddy grew old and infirm, they moved in our trailer to live out their term. We rigged up their house with a buzzer for help when Daddy might need me or just felt inept. He buzzed and I went, only steps from our door to find him quite puzzled, upset, plenty more. With a rare burst of temper, she ordered him out, and he quickly retreated to the front room to pout. “Who is that old man?” she asked angrily. “It’s Houston,” I said, and patted her knee. “That’s just what I thought”, she said as she sat, like an insecure youngster who brags, “I knew that!” In her fading mind, she was only a girl and this strange old man had invaded her world, was sharing her bed, giving orders that stunk, a roommate much like a malodorous skunk. Now what must I do? Try to keep them apart? A forced separation would break his old heart. But time seemed to be the best sort of friend and pretty soon had their strange case on the mend. I wonder how her damaged brain reconciled this living arrangement which seemed downright wild. She sat in the wheelchair and shared his TV as though she could understand like you and me. She seemed as contented as Elsie, the cow but welcomed my visits with smiles, anyhow. Her wonderful humor lived right to the last, continuing on like her long, happy past. She left us a legacy better than gold, fond memories lovingly, laughingly told. § Resentment & Depression I always resented Daddy, impossible to please. I could not earn a pat on the back if I begged him on my knees. “Just a little appreciation”, I told myself one day. “You did a good job; I’m so proud of you”, is all he would have to say. Then that little voice inside of me said, “Give the man his due! Did you show appreciation for what he did for you?” I thought about the sacrifice he made throughout the years to keep us clothed and fed and schooled, in spite of nagging fears. I tried to write a letter, so late, now, in the game, to praise the great job that he did, surprised at words that came. I wrote and cried and wrote some more, releasing years of pain, catharsis in the making, like the cleansing of spring rain. I never knew how Daddy felt about my little book but I was paid immensely for the trouble that I took. Depression that had dogged my mind so long began to lift. To learn appreciation was like a special gift. I could see that my resentment had colored my whole being, like scales of gloomy selfishness that kept my eyes from seeing. I hurt the ones I loved the most by my ingratitude and needed, more than anything, a whole new attitude. We all had suffered needlessly through years of pain and strife. Now thankfulness has given me a great new lease on life. §   Daddy’s Tall Tales It was hard for me to really believe the stories Daddy would tell about the bronc busting and hard-riding days, the tales he related so well. He remembered the names, personality traits, each bronc’s own pitching style. Could he maybe imagine his part in the past, this poor farmer who seldom smiled? But he was a hero to many, including old-timers I knew who spoke of his awesome bronc riding; horse-sense he exhibited, too. To preserve all his wonderful stories, I ordered a new tape machine but before it arrived, he suffered a stroke, and there were no stories to glean. He could speak, but all interest had vanished, his answers to questions were curt. Whole pages of history were gone, and losing those memories hurt. The loss has put spurs to my writing, preserving the hardships and fun so, into the future, new generations will remember that son-of-a-Gunn. § Daddy’s Pride I always was a tomboy and never knew just why; there wasn’t any limit to the things that I would try. To take a stab at every sport, my spirit was compelled, and I never was quite satisfied unless I had excelled. I tried to kiss my elbow to turn into a boy, and yet the girlish side of life could sometimes bring me joy. When I was grown, I realized the tomboy ways I had were just a life-long vain attempt to somehow please my dad. He had no way to tell me of his love and joy and pride, but I know now that his love was strong and constant deep inside. I guess a good impression I made in his last years, and the picture of him standing there can sometimes bring me tears. He stood behind a dead elm tree to hide, (I don’t know why.) and watched me plowing cotton ‘neath a cloudless summer sky. It didn’t fit his image of the way that things should be, but I felt that in his heart of hearts he was finally proud of me. § Til Death Do Us Part Dependent on a wheelchair, her better days were spent. Although she couldn’t voice her thoughts, she seemed to be content. His prayer was all too simple: to be there by her side as long as he was needed; til death they would abide. A stroke had tried to lay him low; he fought back tooth and nail to keep with God his bargain, determined not to fail. The wheelchair now was his support as down the hall they came. Their plight tugged at the heart strings: the helpless and the lame. Who knows what makes a hero when push may come to shove? The need to be needed is stronger than even the need to be loved. (Has been set to music by Joe Trent) § Questions Without Answers I dread to hear the walker come clanking down the hall; I know he’s here for something of which I’ve none at all, some way to fix the loneliness that haunts his heart and mind, but, trying all within me, no answer can I find. For half a century they lived together, man and wife, and now her death has left a void he can’t fill in this life. An empty shell he has become, with neither hope nor dreams. No rhyme or reason to his days; he’d welcome death, it seems. We shall not mourn his passing; a better life awaits. A second honeymoon may lie beyond the pearly gates. § Left-Handed Compliments Daddy lived for five long, painful years after Mama died. Existence was a daily chore with emptiness inside. In an Amarillo nursing home he spent his last two years, and attempts to lift his spirits could almost bring on tears. One day I sang and played for him as he sat ensconced in gloom, an audience of only one in the spacious dining room. A compliment, so rare for him, could not have made me prouder. “That ain’t too bad”, he grumbled, “Just sing a little louder”. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 21

Grandad Trent The Sting Ode To a Mother-in-Law Exa Mae Family Ties The Long Goodbye Is This Really Progress? A Mother’s Love Happy Birthday Mom Worries Are Forever Why Alzheimer’s? Grandad Walter Grandmothers Cock of the Walk Louie Aunt Allie Mae Sister-in-Love

< Previous  > Next Various In-Laws § Loren Carlos and Exa Mae Phillips Trent § Grandad Trent The kids adored their Grandad Trent; his attitude was heaven sent. He made them feel important, valued, true. His quiet ways could warm a heart, a sense of pride thus to impart, self-confidence to last a whole life through. A tractor was his special realm where troubles couldn’t overwhelm. To work the land was worship for his soul. Success was his by toil and sweat, no need to worry, fuss and fret, though the great depression took a heavy toll. As husband, father, neighbor, at fishing hole or labor, he gave the very best he had to give. Although his words were few, our admiration grew. His example always showed us how to live. § The Sting They were doing their weekly laundry; he was hanging it on the line when a mad wasp stung him on the ear and he didn’t feel so fine. He took an antihistamine and sat down for a spell, then started for the bedroom, where he passed out and fell. No way could we two lift him, two hundred pounds dead weight. His face was ashen, pasty, looked like he’d met his fate. We tried the phone to call for help, not sure he was alive, but when we looked around again he was starting to revive. The pills had finally gone to work to get the swelling down. We took him to the doctor, eight miles away in town, more medicine shot in his arm to clear his swimming head. If not for those life-saving pills he surely would be dead. § Ode To a Mother-in-Law In youth she bore a lovely son, more beautiful, more precious than pure gold. She gave him, of herself, the very best, and led him in God’s way, his life to mold. Through years of sacrifice and strife, with tears of pride and joy and pain, the utmost goal of her young life was helping this dear child become a man. Her goal of love was reached so soon, so soon; the gangly boy matured successfully. Then came the greatest sacrifice of all: She gave her handsome man-child up to me. § Exa Mae She taught by example how to be a good wife and lived her religion through a long, fruitful life. Her self-sacrificing ways taught me to give, and in pleasing others, I learned how to live. With talented fingers, her sewing an art, she helped keep the budget from coming apart. Her cooking was legend, her family well fed; her actions spoke louder than words that she said. She helped with the farming, milked many a cow, and still kept the house clean and neat, anyhow. Her outstanding children are stars in her crown, their escapades never the talk of the town. The lessons she taught grow more precious with age to enrich generations as life turns a page. § Family Ties She lived her life exclusively for Loren and the kids, absorbed herself wholeheartedly in everything they did. She hoped to keep her little brood intact forevermore, but one by one they flew the coop, just walked right out the door. Her husband’s wish was her command; she seldom made decisions, which worked well while he was alive, preventing harsh divisions. So when he died, she knew not how to take care of herself, expecting kids to fill the gap, put their lives on the shelf. But when her daughter took her in, she felt like an intruder although they did their very best extending welcome to her. Her narrow field of interest has been a ball and chain and friendship offered to her has sadly been in vain. A life needs many facets to make it grow and thrive, an interest in others, a goal toward which to strive. She seems somewhat contented now within the nursing home. Among her peers she can relax, has no desire to roam. § The Long Goodbye She was once described as looking like a dainty China doll, so fragile, delicate, feminine, and gentle overall. To her manic/depression was added Alzheimer’s strange disease, declining in a nursing home and often ill-at-ease. Besides the loss of privacy she valued very much, she longed yet for her husband and his gentle, loving touch. Her children try to fill the gap as best their strengths allow to quiet her anxiety with more love than know-how. One day she asked the nurses, “Just who is that big man who hugs me every time he leaves?”  Delusion hatched a plan. Somehow she still could manage to use her bedside phone and dial up our number to talk to Harold at home. Excitedly she asked him for personal advice: “A preacher wants to marry me; I think he’s very nice.” “Do as you please,” he told her.  “This, too, shall pass”, he thought. When I went down to see her, she was quite over-wrought, searching through her stacks of letters to find the preacher’s name or a number for to call him and play the mating game. Saturday we went together, still ignorant, naive of the busy working of her mind, a romance to conceive. I chatted with her roommate to allow them privacy, but his utter consternation was very plain to see. She only took a minute to drop the bomb: “Ann said it’s okay if we get married”, which exploded in his head. He fumbled for an answer...”I don’t think that will work”, an answer sure to break her heart, make him feel like a jerk. She couldn’t remember the nurse’s response that the big man was her son, nor did she recall the heartbreak for long; the race had only begun. I always went on Sunday for church in the dining room, but she was still excitedly waiting for the groom. “Ann is gone to arrange for the wedding,” announced the bride with joy. The gathering crowd in the dining room just added to the ploy. No argument changes delusions; Harold had to stay away til this one had abated, and hope for a better day. Her damaged mind cannot retain much of reality, but delusions never leave, it seems, so sad for her family. Yet some things still remain the same as they have always been; in spite of failing memory, she still has great taste in men! § Is This Really Progress? The century was in its teens when Exa Mae followed the plow. The barefoot lass was rather small, but did the job somehow. The horse-drawn implement had changed so little through the years, exhaustion and frustration quite often bringing tears. She turned the sod on either side to make a single row, requiring fortitude and grit; ‘twas tedious and slow. Imagine all the changes her aging eyes have seen in eighty-eight long fruitful years, the wisdom she has gleaned. From the horse-and-buggy era to the modern jumbo jet, computers, cell phones, satellites....It isn’t finished yet! Technology has come to stay; the future’s here and now but humans might be happier behind a walking plow. § A Mother’s Love Love is more than just a feeling that changes with your mood; it’s doing the right thing for others in spite of a bad attitude. Love is tending to “whooping cough” children with nosebleeds and puddles of puke, (when you’d rather be resting in dreamland) with never a gripe or rebuke. Love is making three yummy fresh pies every day, each meal a virtual feast; it’s standing on tired, aching feet ironing clothes with no hope of thanks in the least. Love is milking the cows both morning and night in Eskimo icicle weather; it’s hoeing in summer, boll-pulling in fall til hands feel like cracked old shoe leather. Love is raising the babes to responsible teens, then giving them up to another. There is no greater blessing than knowing the love of a self-sacrificing, sweet mother. § Happy Birthday Mom Hope you’re doing mighty fine on birthday number 89! A book about the Good Old Days is food for thought on which to graze from time to time when spirits wane and you need some help to ease the pain. Perhaps it brings back memories from youth when life was just a breeze, and kids hung on your apron strings and your spirit soared as if on wings. Time flies when you’re having fun and three kids keep you on the run, but now you’ve earned some rest and peace; may wondrous blessings never cease. § Worries Are Forever She walked the long, hot cotton rows, to chop offending weeds, and in the fall she plucked the bolls, both done at awesome speeds. She washed clothes on a rub board, ironed til her legs did ache, baked yummy pies in a coal oil stove, all for her family’s sake. Her hands could milk a stubborn cow or sew a fancy dress. Each hour of each and every day she sought hard-won success. Her daughter has an easy job compared to days of yore. She sits at a computer, just brainwork, nothing more. Housekeeping now is easy, and cooking is a breeze, but Mother thinks Ann’s life is hard when others she must please. Yes, Mom’s job is to worry, no matter what their age. She fumes and frets o’er trifles with every passing stage. § Why Alzheimer’s? She wakens each day in a different world, depending on dreams, I suppose, and why her poor memory never forgets the delusions, nobody knows. Her life is so scary and empty, she must rake up oodles of grit to face each new dawn as a challenge when she’d rather just give up and quit. We ask why this thing had to happen, disease worse than death as her lot, but life isn’t fair; we can’t pick and choose. It may strike us, too, like as not. God, grant us the grace to face trials with courage that makes us content, accepting whatever befalls us, that our hours will be wisely spent. § Grandad Walter (John Walter Phillips) Grandmother Phillips was the boss, or so it seemed to me. Grandad was meek and cute and sweet, obeyed her faithfully. Walter do this, Walter that, she ordered now and then. To hear their conversations, you must suppress a grin. Young Joe spent time at their house and dubbed him Grandad Walter. It seemed to tickle Grandad; his love would never falter. To sidle close to Grandad or push his garden plow gave Joe a boost he needed, puffed up his pride somehow. As Grandad Walter lay abed just days before he died, he gave the garden plow to Joe, and don’t you know we cried. The proud heirloom is precious and grows more so with age, as Joe has mellowed and become something of a sage. § Grandmothers I had no real grandparents to spoil me as a kid, and felt that I was missing out on things granddaughters did. Aunt Neva served as grandma to fill the empty spot, and when I married Harry, two MORE grandmas I got! The one that we called Grannie was toothless, short and fat. She doted on the grandkids, made quilts and mostly sat. She talked a mile a minute, spread gossip like a pro, and, with arthritis in her knees, had scarce get-up-and-go. Grandmother, on the other hand, was small and quick and terse. She disciplined with look and word, could quote you just the verse to put your lazy guilt in gear and leave you feeling worse. For a hundred-two long fruitful years her grit defied the hearse. § Cock of the Walk Grandmother Phillips made the rooster, cocky crocheted work of art, that her oldest grandson, Harold, coveted within his heart. “When you get through with that,” he said, “I’d like to have it, please”, petitioning with reverence, like praying on his knees. Down through the years he didn’t speak another single word about the possibility of owning that fine bird. But when Grandmother Phillips prepared herself to die, one hundred-two years had not dimmed her memory or her eye. “The rooster goes to Harold”, said she with loving care. It occupies a special spot, so sneaky thieves, BEWARE! § Louie Brothers and sisters and double cousins can all be very nice, but there’s no other like a double brother: brother-in-law, brother-in-Christ. § Aunt Allie Mae  A long life filled with trials has made her tough and strong. Her faith in God unshaken, she tries to do no wrong. Whenever her family needs her she holds them ‘neath her wing, and those who know and love her always her praises sing. Hard work and perseverance have always seen her through, and tending flowers in heaven will surely be her due. § Sister-in-Love Beverly Ann was the bonus that I got when I wed her brother, Harry, so cute and smart and talented, with a heavy load to carry. She married young and made it work, sometimes on shaky ground, raised kids who are outstanding, has the best grandkids around. Her dedication to her Mom is something to behold, a love that often breaks her heart, refined like purest gold. The little sister of my youth became a cherished friend, and this special close relationship will last until the end. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part  22

Joe Douglas Invincible Just Joe The One Man Closet Band Tragedy and Triumph Rhonda Rhonda’s Heirloom Love That Rhonda Near-Tragedy Joe Loren A Sonnet to Ranetta Molly Ann Molly Always Wins Social Climbing Our Animal Lover Tony How Many Birthdays, Molly? Vinita Lyn Independence Ed Athletic Nita Neo-Cinderella The Picky Princess Happy Birthday, Nita Merry Christmas, Rachel Peggy Jane What’s in a Name? Tom Sunday Burnt Roast Birthday Wishes for Peggy Jason Jake Joel Jay Loyd Hittin’ the Bottle Birthday Wordplay Motorcycle Madness Tammy Texas Drawl Bon Voyage, Tammy! Accepting Tammy’s Challenge Trevor Ryan Jay’s Guardian Angel

< Previous  > Next Our Kids Joe's Family Joe Douglas He got the name of Joey before he was conceived from a popular song his mother loved, but it wasn’t well received. His middle name of Douglas he borrowed from his dad, but most folks called him just plain Joe, which later made him glad. A friend warned me that babies were ugly, wrinkled and red. I’d never seen a newborn, believed every word she said. Doc laid him on my tummy as soon as he showed up, so smooth and pink and beautiful, cute as a speckled pup. We loved him more than life itself, yet ignorance won out. We knew but naught of self esteem, what discipline was about. We hurt his tender ego before we realized how little the importance of impressing others’ eyes. In spite of us he prospered with Grandad’s loving touch, and grew into a bright young man, respected very much by young and old alike who said they trusted him no end. His loving care for others made him a valued friend. His life no bed of roses, he turns it for the best, and trusts in God who helps him cope with each and every test. He always makes his parents proud to know he is their son, to know he’s done his very best as life’s tough race he’s run. § Invincible When Joe was five, his hero was Popeye the Sailor Man whose muscles came from spinach he popped out of a can. Joe wore a pair of overalls cut down from Grandad’s own, and in the bib he kept a can of spinach he got on loan. No job was too hard to handle, he could out-wile Wiley Coyote. Though pudgy and cute, he was tough as a boot; no load was too heavy to tote. The spinach he carried gave him nerves of steel, he sweated not a drop. He was Popeye and Superman rolled into one, without even popping the top. § Just Joe It started very early, Joe’s bent for helping others. Nobody would go wanting if he could have his druthers. When one boy had no lunch at school, out came his loving care with an extra sandwich every day, his bounty for to share. The band director summed him up as one who stood apart in words so kind and knowing, to warm a mother’s heart. “If I had a million dollars with delivery a must, I’d send it off by young Joe Trent who I know I can trust.” How oft his home is shared by those who need a helping hand and he’s like an older brother to the young sprouts in his band. At church he does a deacon’s job but shuns the lofty name, a happy, kooky servant who wins the loving game. § The One Man Closet Band A simple request I asked of Joe: just write me a pretty tune to “Mama Never Said ‘I Love You’”, and he had it finished soon. But it started an addiction that seems to have no end, like the ecstasy of finding an old-time long-lost friend. He writes the words and music with his old guitar in hand, arranges and records it; he’s a One Man Closet Band. Plays guitar good as Willie, (acoustic and electric) and Molly’s drums and Daddy’s bass, plus special keyboard magic. He wrote about his Grandads and the deadly church-bus wreck and memories of growing up as a Texas farm redneck. My favorite shows his character best, a cutesy, lilting song, “Don’t tell me I’m old, ‘cause I can still grow what’s left of my hair out long”. What joy we get from our aging son, rich blessings, yes, indeed! Just ask a simple favor and see where it will lead. § Bravo! Although our Joe doesn’t like to hoe a long hot dusty cotton row or see a Texas tornado or keep up with the status quo, he has gusto in stereo, writes rhymes that rival Edgar Poe to record in his closet studio and perform in solo or combo.  A biker’s cap makes a great halo, a bit of braggadocio just to let a fellow know that this old guy who moves so slow is tough as any marshmallow. He’s a big ball of simpatico in spite of age and lumbago and often much more woe than dough, but still his parents love to crow about our son magnifico, the feather in our sombrero who keeps our pride and hearts aglow. § Tragedy and Triumph “Is Joe a member of the Greenlawn church?” asked his sister on the phone. “There’s been a bus wreck in New Mexico on their way from camp to home”. They have always taken part in camps; Joe drives the bus a lot, so I figured they must be involved and hurting, like as not. They were leading in the caravan of three bus loads of kids when a fifth-wheel travel trailer broke loose, went on the skids. The trailer tongue slashed through the bus, the second one in line, from the driver’s seat right out the back, like jerking out its spine. Joe and Rhonda left their load of kids in the bus way up the hill, went back to view the carnage, any helpful spot to fill. The driver had been slightly hurt and thrown out of his seat, but scrambled back and hit the brake, a quick life-saving feat, just inches from a deep ravine where the bus would surely roll, many other injuries entail, but the trailer took its toll. Six lovely young girls died that day, some others badly hurt, but angels were there at the scene, Satan’s evil to avert. A lady with umbrellas appeared out of the heat, someone with bottled water, some the aching hearts to treat. One dedicated Christian prayed for Jesus’ helping hand as he touched the dead and hurting, asked for grace to understand. Joe held one lifeless body as her spirit soared away to the promised home up yonder, land of bright and endless day. The visions still invade their dreams, the endless flow of blood that ran out through the front door like a sickening red flood. Six funerals performed that week, all six they would attend, and grieve with each loved family, a grief that never ends. But many were the blessings, as God worked out his plan to teach and strengthen those who still hold tightly to his hand. § Rhonda Her lovely disposition just stole our hearts away, and glad we were to hear the news that she’d be here to stay. The family was now enriched with love and care she brought as though she filled an empty space, a welcome afterthought. Her heart was big as all outdoors, her list of friends grew long. Her talent was apparent in arts and crafts and song. She was a loving mother, a cook no one could beat. When standing up for family, this gal could take the heat. She overcomes adversity with guts and grit galore, and gives each job her special touch; now who could ask for more? We’re proud to be her family, to that we will attest. Of all the in-laws in the world, we think we have the best. § Rhonda’s Heirloom For our thirtieth anniversary, our thoughtful daughter-in-law gave us a quilt both pretty and unique, its thirty blocks made to depict each year it represents, some valleys of our lives and every peak. The births of babes, and parents’ deaths, the cat we loved the best, a business beginning and its end. The farm we bought with sweat and tears, old memories intact, the family’s traditions to defend. This work of art hangs on the wall, a slice of history, for future generations yet to come. But most of all, it tells the tale of love from heart to heart, the attitude that permeates a home. § Love That Rhonda When the Lord built our Rhonda, the mold blew apart, and as great as her hugs is her soft, caring heart. She gives of herself above and beyond to forge with her loved ones a strong, healthy bond. She gives tender care to the patients she tends with loving concern as for special friends. Her circle of warmth is shared by the poor, the needy of comfort, those troubled, unsure. The work place is brighter for her kindly smile. She willingly, often goes that extra mile. Her well-spring flows freely where others can draw, and we love her dearly, our daughter-in-law. § Near-Tragedy As Rhonda burst inside the door, a sad and forlorn sight, “I just ran over a baby!” she cried, her face wide-eyed with fright. While backing from the driveway at her Daddy’s house in town, she had no cause to be concerned, didn’t think to look around. When she felt the bump, the thought at first was Daddy’s little pup but it was a neighbor toddler, now trying to get up. No wounds were evident, she saw, no broken bones discerned. She ran to get the mother who seemed so unconcerned. “I’ll take her to the doctor, make sure there’s nothing wrong”, but the mother saw no reason for worry all along. Near-tragedy and panic is not the greatest way to get the heart a-pumping and start a brand new day. § Joe Loren We called him “Little Joe” to distinguish from his dad, the first of many grandsons that we, thus far, have had. He charmed his Grandma Sallie, a baby lover true, and every little move he made was special, being new. He plinked at the piano, a big old noisy toy, and called me “Grandma Pina”, that cute and feisty boy. He grew so fast, we scarce had time to spoil him properly before more grandkids came to bounce around on Grandma’s knee. The first is always special, regardless now of age. Each year of life in family history adds another page. We’ll always love that sheepish grin which lights a handsome face. He’s outgrown “Little Joe” so soon, now growing old with grace. § A Sonnet to Ranetta We’ve got just one granddaughter, that Old Weird Harold and me, but one is just the right amount when bright and cute as she. Her personality could charm old Ebeneezer Scrooge. She shows concern for others with a heart that’s soft and huge. She carries out ‘most any plan she sets her mind to do with loads of inborn talent that always sees her through. I know she’ll be a big success, but then, I’m prejudiced, I guess. § Molly and Tony Smith § Molly Ann Fresh from the egg, her attention turned first off to her big brother. New babies soon arrived and she became a little mother. Protective now of any life, adopting pets unnumbered, the place was often overrun, her heart with care encumbered. Her zest for life was manifest in the variety of her friends, resembling some of her scroungy pets, a collection of odds and ends. She was everybody’s counselor, at once both kind and wise. The needy and the helpless saw her through troubled eyes. She lavishes her mother’s love on those who need it most, and spends her time and money on an ever-growing host. § Molly Always Wins When Molly took up drums in band, I wondered at her choice, but as on most occasions, I didn’t have a voice. She practiced like a house afire and strove for first chair status. The noise stayed in the trailer house, not aimed directly at us. She soon complained of headaches, from work and stress, I thought. I took her for a check-up like a caring mother ought. Explaining to the doc, I said, “She’s a perfectionist.” Her fast retort corrected me: “I’m a perCUSSIONist!” § Social Climbing Our kids grew up with home-made clothes, hair cuts and chocolate pie, took much pride in a weed-free crop when hoes they had to ply. They helped me overhaul a car, knew how to milk a cow and made outstanding students; (Well, so-so, anyhow!) Each one enjoyed a challenge, a gauntlet oft to run, but on the social ladder, rung-climbing was no fun. When Molly was in college, during a shopping session, her friend was scanning labels to make a good impression. So crazy Molly says, “I only wear the Gail Trent label,” and the girl hunts that exclusive brand as fast as she is able. § Our Animal Lover When Molly was in college, a music major cool, this stray cat she adopted,  as was her life-long rule. He had big, penetrating eyes and ears like Mr. Spock. His name: Johann Sebastian Meow, ‘cuz only doggies Bach. § Tony A head full of knowledge is just a small sample of what sets our Tony apart. His sweet, caring nature and gentleman’s ways are signs of a huge, loving heart. Along with a great personality, his talent pool surely is brimming. But the greatest gift he may possess is his excellent taste in women. § How Many Birthdays, Molly? 5-3-02 May showers had come the day you arrived and the ducks and the fishes barely survived. Our farm road was just a great big loblolly, but we followed the terrace and got home, by golly! Life has never been dull since you hit the ground, and we’ve all been elated to have you around. The pets you’ve adopted, and kids of all kinds and parents you spoil may wear on your mind, but without your bossing, how would we cope? This birthday should be really special, we hope. § Vinita, Ed and Rachel Sinclair § Vinita Lyn I should have been upset at waking two hours apart through the night, but who could resist that sweet bundle with doddling head?  What a sight! After eating she lay on my tummy and turned on the charm with those eyes, so lovely and blue, so expressive.  They promised to be oh, so wise. She grew to be quiet and loving, never demanding her due, which sometimes made it too easy to overlook her ‘mongst a big crew. Her good looks went often unspoken; the main beauty came from within. Her first thought was always of others, her purpose to be a good friend. Of talent and brains she has plenty and puts them to good use, it’s true. Of friends she has oodles and gobs and kaboodles, detractors and enemies few. She’s caused enough pride for her parents to burst right apart at the seams. Though we say so too seldom, she gives us much pleasure, and has long earned our highest esteem. § Independence Though Nita’s disposition is gentle, mild and meek, she has been known at times to show an independent streak. With natural ability and height in basketball, she could have been a big star, which mattered  not at all. Her graceful talent on the court, like moving poetry, was something marvelous to view, especially for me. The coach had plans to make her great; she had her own agenda. His attitude, the game at large, seemed somehow to offend her. In volleyball she played with zest, the team her main concern. No player shone above the rest, each taking equal turns. Her independence, more than once, has led to much success, which proves that prideful mothers don’t always know what’s best. § Ed Ed is the fourth of our in-laws whose last name starts with S, a good luck omen, maybe, and I’m lucky, I confess. We haven’t been around him much, but sure liked what we saw. He seemed to fit in perfectly with the other sons-in-law. He needn’t be a tough athlete or even sing on key. If he suits discerning Nita, he’s good enough for me! § Athletic Nita I made Nita nervous and messed up her game  when volleyball was her main passion so I didn’t attend through her high school career, just made clothes to keep her in fashion. But later she helped form a volleyball league and we went to watch and to cheer. She teamed up with Debbie, (female Mutt and Jeff), to build an athletic career. Now softball was added for more summer fun as they sold sporting goods on the side until she decided to go off to school, taking Debbie along for the ride. They got educated and went separate ways, athletics gave way to sore knees. But those happy years added zest to our life, a source of some good memories. § Neo-Cinderella Our “ugly old maid daughter”, Vinita Lyn by name, had tried careers down though the years without a claim to fame. Experience had taught her much before she set the goal of becoming an accountant, calling for much self-control. Besides her college courses and a job for small reward, she kept house for Moll and Tony to earn her room and board plus tutoring from Tony, a coach beyond compare, to graduate third from the top, a good job to ensnare. Recruited by the DOD, she soon was Denver bound, employed by the air force to keep their budget sound. ‘Twas there she met this fella, Virginia born and bred, so smart and tall and handsome, a lucky guy named Ed. Their looks and brains and great physiques and personalities combined to create Rachel Grace with potentialities. From a cotton patch in Texas to school in Albuquerq to Colorado and Kaintuck doing CPA type work, Vinita now has found the place on the outskirts of D.C. where a neo-Cinderella’s dreams become reality. With Rachel as her full-time job, she’s feeling mighty fine; her greatest wish was granted as the age of thirty-nine. § The Picky Princess Once upon a time into the Texas house of Trent, a blue-eyed, blonde-haired angel, Vinita Lyn was sent. She was beautiful and oh, so sweet, a thrill to have around, a charmer like her Daddy with her feet square on the ground. She was good to help her frazzled mom with jobs around the house, even volunteered to empty the trap that caught a mouse. She milked the cow and mowed the lawn and hoed weeds from the crop and cooked her Daddy’s favorite foods; her talents never stop! In school she charmed the teachers, made friends and played the sax, was a natural at basketball, but quit.  Those are the facts. Her heart turned more toward volleyball and Debbie, her best friend. They moved to Albuquerque, but this was not the end! Vinita graduated third highest in her class and went away to Denver, this brave and classy lass. Then came along a handsome prince who stole her heart away. Their love produced sweet Rachel, who loves to laugh and play. This story has no ending, as you can plainly see, for Rachel’s tale has just begun, another princess-to-be! (Adapted from a book for Rachel) § Happy Birthday, Nita 2-7-02 Enjoy this day for all it’s worth, the anniversary of your birth. Make yourself some snow ice cream, nap awhile, perhaps to dream of living in a warmer clime where blizzards are a major crime. Where cost of living is so low and days are longer, don’t you know? Where Grandma plays the piano, sings loud and hustles kinda slow. Where Grandpa is the sweetest guy, although he isn’t very spry. Hug Rachel for us, count your blessings, put aside all thoughts distressing. Spoil yourself when’ere you may and have a big old perfect day. § Merry Christmas, Rachel There was Snoopy on the shelf,  shouting, Rachel, Rachel, Rachel, in a voice that only grandmas understand. He said he loved the company  of special princesses, so, of course, I had to take him by the hand and bring him home and wrap him up  and send him on his way to meet the sweetest princess in the land. § Peggy and Tom Stewart Family § Peggy Jane She started life out with a bottle, at times propped in bed to save time, through moving three times that first season, a new business now on the line. She outlasted that corporation and stubbornly stuck to her guns, making sure that we noticed her antics, assuring us oodles of fun. She took lots of razzing for being the shortest; adopted, they said. Accepted the guilt much too easy when she knocked brother Jay off the bed. Though inheriting her dad’s disposition that caused her at times so much pain, she had much compassion for others and giving to them was her gain. The clinical manic/depressive shows just how God’s wisdom untold can take a bad situation and make it as good as pure gold. § What’s in a Name? Our daughter, Peggy, got her name from Peg, my sister/hero, which seldom caused a problem, confusion almost zero. Then Peg adopted Peggy Lynn, now THREE nuts in the mix. What else do you suppose we need to put us in a fix? Our Peggy’s wed and changed her name to Peggy Stewart now, the same as her new mom-in-law; confusion reigns, and how! Two in-laws’ last names start with S, three first names start with T, six monikers begin with J; can you still follow me? What’s in a name?  Not much, I guess, when all is said and done, just useful for your own ID but they can be such fun! § Tom Tom was just a scrawny little kid when first he came around. He braved the miles of gravel road so very far from town to see the fair young Peggy, the apple of his eye, and charmed with stand-up comedy her parents; my, oh, my! Down through the years he grew to be responsible and wise, a caring, giving husband with good, strong family ties. He gives his kids a sense of worth they need for self-esteem, the backbone of the family, a happy, healthy team. His smarts have landed him a job to challenge his potential and offer him stability in areas financial. We’ve always loved his crazy ways, respect him more with age, and know the best is yet to come as the future turns a page. § Sunday Burnt Roast Back in those long child-rearing days, rush-hours ruled my life. Sometimes exhaustion was so thick you could cut it with a knife. To stay awake through an hour at church was a never-ending chore, and cooking Sunday dinner while sleepy was a bore. One morn I made out rolls to rise with the thought of saving time. The cooker held potatoes, onion and a roast so prime. When I got home, all I had to do was turn the oven on, cook the bread and set the table and soon the feast was gone. A family tradition was born in such a way that Sunday is synonymous with burnt roast to this day. When Tom was cruising o’er the seas, the U.S.N. his host, his comment on their food was thus: “I’d kill for your burnt roast!” § Birthday Wishes for Peggy 2-8-02 Though you’re busy as a bee, drowning in a paper sea, come up for a breath of air on this special day so fair. Celebrate with all your friends lest this world should reach its end long before you have some fun; put your worries on the run. Thinking of you on this morn all these years since you were born, all the joy you’ve brought our way, we wish for you a great birthday. § Jason Who’s that good-looking brown-eyed boy with pleasant smiling face? He oozes curiosity, intelligent his gaze. Why, that’s young Jason Stewart, the bestest kid around. No nicer, smarter, cuter, kinder person can be found. He does his level best to please, looks out for brother Jake and thinks the world of Joel; no friend would he forsake. Grandma and Grandpa think he’s grand and know he’ll grow to be a fine and handsome man someday for all the world to see. §  Jake The wheels are always turning in young Jake Stewart's head. He'll find a way to climb a cliff when all is done and said. He may invent a flutaphone or some such useful thing, stalk colorful grasshoppers, show you how to sing. He seldom takes time out to eat, sleeps only when he must. Instead of keeping up with him, you'll have to eat his dust. Just sit and watch him operate and wonder at his grit. The world may end tomorrow, but Jake will never quit. § Joel He may be last in the family line, like an old train’s cute caboose, but he’s right up front in aptitude and not a bit obtuse. A winning personality just adds to blonde good looks, and he has the kind of inner smarts a guy can’t get from books. He proved that goodly accidents can happen now and then. For the Stewarts and the Trents as well, what a blessing he has been! § Jay, Tammy, Trevor and Ryan Trent § Jay Loyd Before he was born, I always felt that something was amiss. He filled up the void and eased my mind; from there on in ‘twas bliss. We were poor as Job’s turkey, couldn’t pay the delivery bill, but with five healthy kids we felt mighty rich, and soon were over the hill. Jay was active and feisty just like his dad, never a moment was dull. He wore out a tractor, a bike and a mom; each hour of the day was full. Barely escaping the fangs of snakes, he was sometimes scraped and bruised, and oft required band-aids and stitches galore, his skinny body abused. He never seemed to realize the effect that he had on girls; was bashful and shy when he could have had ‘most anything in curls. His choice of friends was excellent, a much-loved guy was he. Great joy he brought to everyone, especially his dad and me. But who would have thought that scatterbrained boy would soon grow up to be a man settled down into a dad whom all will surely agree is so patient and loving with his beautiful kids, responsible through and through, making old hearts so proud of their handsome son, replenishing love anew. § Hittin’ the Bottle When Jay and Jeff stayed up at night to watch the late TV, no telling what kind of surprise next day awaited me. This time a half-full bottle of what I thought was Coke was sitting with the cap unscrewed. (This tale, now, it’s no joke!) I put it back inside the fridge to keep it fresh and cold, then Jay came in to take a swig and now the tale was told. He spewed and coughed and sputtered and fairly threw a fit. Inside the jug instead of Coke was his tobacco spit. § Birthday Wordplay Hey, Jay, whattaya say? Turning 36 today! One more step to old and grey; hope you stay out of sickbay. I would bring you a bouquet or a beautiful nosegay, but you seem to overstay cruises on the blue seaway. Just accept our big HOORAY in this weird communique that there soon will be horseplay in the ship’s companionway. Expectant kids will holler, “Yea!” All your efforts to repay. § Motorcycle Madness Jay’s training days in Tennessee kinda kept him barracks bound, so he took his motorcycle for a way to get around. He tried to sell it when he left, but had to ride it home, and when the trip was finished, he had no desire to roam. The ride was fraught with misery and soon the brakes went out. If he had to stop too suddenly, there would be a wreck, no doubt. He tried to stand and rest his tush, with very small relief, and a female cop who clocked his speed just added to his grief. He had no key; the house was locked, one window wasn’t barred. To climb into the kitchen at the sink was rather hard. He fell back out the window and started into town, slid on gravel at the mailbox and the biker hit the ground. The old romance was over; he wasn’t going far. As soon as it was possible he traded for a car. § Tammy When Jay professed his love, we knew she had a special way, and soon it was apparent his love she would repay. Her Yankee accent has a charm endearing as her smile, and for her down-home cooking I’d gladly walk a mile. For mothering she can’t be beat, endowed with patient care. She turns out lovely children, so smart and sweet and fair. We’d like to know her better if time and space permit, and somehow show from deep within love that will never quit. § Texas Drawl I’m still appalled to hear my voice played second-hand on tape. Do I really sound so country? Could that twang just be a fake? I called to talk to Jay one day just after he was wed. I had never talked to Tammy, not a word was ever said. The brave new bride picked up the phone; did I expect another? I simply questioned, “Tammy?” She said, “Jay, it’s your mother.” § Bon Voyage, Tammy! When Tammy chose her present ship for staying near the dock, it wasn’t long before the crew was in for quite a shock. They sailed in March to far Japan to spend a lonely year, with only one short visit with kids and husband dear. How can they help a family to last and grow and thrive by e-mail, cards and phone calls?  Can such a bond survive? We pray that perseverance will strengthen ties that bind, improve youthful perspective, produce a common mind. Then years from now it may be called a blessing in disguise, the forging of a stronger home, a precious golden prize. § Accepting Tammy’s Challenge On the good ship Rappahannock, where Tammy is at sea, they have a secret code to fool landlubbers such as me. She threw the gauntlet at my feet, is messing with my mind, so I must solve the riddle and pay her back in kind. Onboard their sailing vessel they take pills called MILDET, the Navy’s formula for Tums when Tammy’s food they’ve et. The alien they’ve civilized, as foreign as the stars, (who loves New England chowder) is fondly called CIVMARS. As you can see, these secret codes don’t throw old Grandma Gail. The Bard of Caprock Country is never known to fail. § Trevor A special kid like Trevor changed a man into a dad, and those early months of surgery just strengthened bonds they had. That cute, sly smile and impish eyes would charm a grinch’s heart. To outwit his fast-working brain you couldn’t even start. A ball of energy and fun, he’s Mama’s little mess. Whatever course he takes in life, he’ll be a great success. § Ryan You might describe him as “all boy”, the younger of a pair. Don’t call him “little brother”; he has brawn and to spare. He’ll someday be a good athlete if I don’t miss my guess, but he’s not too tough to appreciate a parent’s sweet caress. Intelligence shows in his eyes with warmth and love and pride. Just watch out, world, make plenty room for Ryan’s husky stride! § Jay’s Guardian Angel He must be bent and battle-scarred, oft over-worked with stress, the angel sent to guard our Jay who caused him much distress. But what an awesome job he did to keep that boy alive! In spite of snakes and pickup trucks, his skinny body thrived. How would this hyperactive youth become a patient dad without the help of angels at the accidents he had? The many stitches in his skin are more than ample proof that he was never quite alone when he climbed up on the roof or rode his bike into the road without thought of a car or wound up in emergency looking like he’d been at war. If I get past the pearly gates, I’d like to hug the neck of that special guardian angel who must look like a wreck. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book

The Spice of Life Part 23

County Boys Corporal James Gilmore Wayland Raye Nell Friend Ben Dedication Debbie Handling Aright the Word of God Raymond & Sylvia Sergeant Robert Byrd Sonnet for Bill Tina’s Magic Shop Love Ya, Mildred! Yo, Cuz! Peg Turns Sixty-Seven Sister Mary Dr. Mike and Sue Hi, Guys! Happy Birthday, Floye Goldie Cravens Quiet Heroes Family Treasure Bobby Holtzclaw Happy Birthday, Aunt Allie Mae Alice Hill John Denver The Oldest Texas Ranger in the World Dean Decker, County Judge Supreme  Bill and Leta Paul Sports Hero Gracie Bubba Forgotten Heroes God's Hands True Grit Everybody’s Friend Nina Cheek Homer and Zilla Coats Ol’ Weird Harold at 63 Country Living

< Previous  > Next Special People § County Boys There’s Raymond, Dan and Harold whose precinct is the best. They’re not the average county boys, as many will attest. Their gravel and caliche and cast-off blacktop mix have kept them mighty busy, their many roads to fix. Old Dan can pinch the pennies or find a bargain truck. And what a guy to work for!  Some hands have all the luck. With Raymond’s many talents there’s no problem he can’t solve. Just sit and watch him operate as he makes the world revolve. And Harold has experience with every type of dirt. He’s up and at ‘em for each job, always on the alert. These stoogies three make quite a team; I shout their praises loud. They give their best each day they work and do the county proud. §    Corporal James Gilmore Whatever James has tried to do, he met with much success. He climbed the ladder rung by rung while with the DPS. And now he’s gone to greater things, this old East Texas charmer. A life-time dream has now come true; he’s a full-fledged red-neck farmer. § Wayland He flies through the air with the greatest of ease but he has no need of a flying trapeze. He pilots a spray plane, bad insects to kill and probably will til he’s over the hill. He lives like he flies, by the seat of his britches, and with uncanny wit, he keeps us in stitches. A more unique person would be hard to find; it may be a blessing he’s one of a kind. § Raye Nell We were four years old when first we met, friend Nellie Ray and I. Folks snubbed their noses at us; we didn't know just why. Born on the same October day, in nineteen-thirty-six, we were happy-go-lucky buddies, and often in a fix. Her mother died in childbirth, left six kids and a mate. They were a sad and lonely group, left to a dismal fate. Some neighbors sought adoption of both the younger girls, and Nellie Ray was ushered into a better world. Raye Nell became her given name, a new lifestyle began. We still remained the best of friends as we searched for the perfect man. Her dimpled smile and winsome ways attracted boys galore, and I was blessed with the overflow; now who could ask for more? We swore we'd always keep in touch, but circumstances change. We both have gone our separate ways, lives have been rearranged. I'd love to hear her bubbly laugh and see that dimpled grin, re-living all those special times of good old days back when. § Friend Ben We had a lot in common, ol’ Bennie Brown and me. With music talents many, he helped me play on key. He was lots of fun on double dates with my steady guy, his brother. Carl and I had vowed eternal love, not dating any other. But when Carl came down with the mumps and couldn’t leave his bed, here comes his loving brother to take me out instead. “Carl told me to take care of you”, swallowed I hook, line and sinker, and spent a lovely evening with this sneaky, lying stinker. Then I suppose he bragged a bit; Carl was slightly on rampage the next time he came calling, understandably enraged. It may have been a blessing, as I saw another side of his normal easy-going style that now was hard to hide. Though we had seemed a perfect match, I now could feel a chill as the romance that was “meant to be” slid suddenly downhill. Ol’ crazy Bennie married Myra Nan, my long-time friend, and will hold a special place in my heart until the end. § Dedication Dedicated volunteers are Lois and Martha Lou, the Carey Cemetery their passion. They tramped those alleys step by step ere hiking was the fashion. A map and record book they kept, marked the site for each new grave, organized an Association, the history of loved ones to save. We cannot hope to fill their shoes but onward we will go to keep their work in motion and try to let them know how much we all appreciate their work and loving care. The pride they’ve shown throughout the years is something all can share. § Debbie Some kids may bring home a puppy that mamas can’t seem to resist, but the cute little stray that Nita dragged in became the top dog on our list. She had only two little short legs, which hampered her not in the least, and entertained family members, as our love and devotion increased. She could lead Old Weird Harold around by the nose, her brains and vitality awesome. She helped Jay bounce back from his head injury; we owe her thanks and then some. Old Debbie was our favorite pet. Her memory is with us yet. § Handling Aright the Word of God As the product of a “mixed marriage” I grew up slightly confused. With all the fussing and fighting, some might say I was abused. Between a rock and a hard place, a Baptist and church of Christ, emotional pain was a constant, like my head was in a vise. The arguments I was subjected to could make me feel pretty dumb, and often left me curled up in a corner sucking my thumb. The Bible was used as a weapon but I never heard it explained til I met a new preacher named Raymond West whose teaching was not in vain. To “rightly divide” the word of God was why he lived and breathed, explaining the gospel formula til folks like me believed. A lifelong trek had led me to the object of my search When God sent Raymond and Sylvia to the little Carey church. § Raymond & Sylvia Not often does a couple impress me with their love, but yours seems sweetly molded by hands from up above. How God can make two people one amazes me each day, yet folks like you are living proof it pays to live his way. More precious is the marriage that weathers many a gale, and strong it grows, as others round about us fail. Though final parting will be hard when a spouse’s end is met you won’t have that awesome burden of living with regret. No thinking, “Ah, I should have...”, no sad, “Why didn’t we?” The poet said it for us all, “The best is yet to be.” § Sergeant Robert Byrd Our favorite Byrd has flown the coop, gone on to better things. It’s only fitting that he try to exercise his wings. Outstanding as a sergeant, a Christian and a friend, he is the kind of steady guy on whom we can depend. We’ll miss him, but there is a plus, when all is said and done; if callers ask for Robert, we don’t have to say, “Which one?” § Sonnet for Bill He loved to preach the Gospel to sinners far and near, but a stroke brought an untimely end to a promising career. Although he’s down, don’t count him out; he still shows signs of life. With a strong will, he’s determined to overcome the strife. His first commitment is to God and the church he loves so much. The members here are richly blessed by his loving, gentle touch. His knowledge of the Word is great; he teaches it with zest. To impart wisdom is his goal, offering his very best. We look forward to his lesson at each and every session. § Tina’s Magic Shop Don’t let those old blahs get you down and mess your face up with a frown. Just sit down in this swivel chair and let sweet Tina fix your hair. Your mood will turn at once to cheer ‘cause there’s no room for gloom in here. A new hair-do is just the thing to put your spirit on the wing. Her artsy-craftsy decorations speak of praise for God’s creations. Good conversation all the while will light your face up with a smile.   Don’t be rude!  Get in the mood! § Love Ya, Mildred! If you need Childress data, just ask Mildred Steed. She can fix you right up with whatever you need. She’s been here forever or longer, perhaps, but seldom encounters a memory lapse. Years have not diminished her beauty and charm, a sharp sense of humor, personality warm. She can tell you a story with laughter and grace of being slapped with a chamois smack dab in the face. Though her feet, like her body, so daintily grew, son Pat, wise and gifted, cannot fill her shoes § Yo, Cuz! More like a brother than a cousin, Wayland cracks jokes by the dozen, makes friends like old, bad fruit draws flies, aches and pains and death defies. With his grit and wily grin, fools the doctors now and then. Impossible to classify, who could help but love this guy? § Peg Turns Sixty-Seven 1-31-02 The end of January is time for killing hogs or watching snowfall dance and swirl, or maybe sawing logs. It’s also a reminder that Peg is growing old, another year’s improvements, like wine, or so I’m told. With knowledge, yes, and wisdom to offset aches and pains, and a silver crown upon her head that’s stuffed so full of brains, she keeps on keepin’ on and on to help the old and young. Her wit is sharp as ever,  and sometimes, so’s her tongue. We send our birthday greetings with wishes for the best, that happy years are still ahead, and someday, peaceful rest. § Sister Mary 70 years young Mary, Mary, quite contrary, really gave us fits. She insisted that we learn to read, say “gets” instead of “gits”. She tried to teach  us neatness, kept house as best she could, but we lacked enthusiasm, which she hardly understood. From the age of six, she had a plan to someday be a teacher and practiced on us younger kids like a fire-and-brimstone preacher. She mothered us and pampered us while doing tomboy stuff, whatever game Walt said to play that made us strong and tough. At school she was the favorite of teachers every year, so smart, cute and obedient, a little blonde-haired dear. As valedictorian of her class - not once, but twice - I swear, she earned a college scholarship, this brown-eyed maiden fair. Sixteen years old, now off she went. West Texas State, look out! This country gal will show you what life is all about. As a teacher and a mother, her goal was realized. At both careers she has excelled just as she fantasized. Admired, loved and respected by family and friends, no telling what else might await before her story ends. § Dr. Mike and Sue When Mike and Sue Henderson moved home to Childress, the city was blessed beyond measure. With generous hearts spreading peace and good will, they are a natural treasure. Four wonderful sons they give to the world, take other kids under their wings, and minister to the needy and old, their love a virtual spring. By word and deed they teach the news that God is on our side, that all good things will come to those who would in him abide. § Hi, Guys! I have a captive audience, a bunch of guys like Paul who dream of precious freedom beyond the prison wall. They’re paying with their daily lives for varied sorts of crime, and cut off from a normal life, they while away their time. Perhaps a lesson has been learned, improving future chances of better jobs and stable homes and possible romances. To take responsibility for changing habits old, and exploring hidden talents will take commitment bold. Meanwhile, I ply them with my rhymes of foolishness and mirth and share nostalgic tidbits, whatever they are worth. § Happy Birthday, Floye Don’t you still enjoy the presence of that little girl within who was once a gladsome milk-maid tugging calves around the pen? Talking late in bed at night, catching up on summer’s news, hoeing weeds out of the peanuts, getting hot sand in your shoes. Time for school, hooray September! Boys to tutor, boys to flirt. Basketball and exercises, making all your muscles hurt. How exciting was October, two birthdays and halloween! Carnivals and spooky houses; who will be the king and queen? Good old days are ne’er forgotten, fondest memories of yore. May this birthday add some new ones to remember evermore!! § Goldie Cravens The senior citizens van was used to haul old folks to town, which is how I first met Goldie in her house all tumbledown. Her dyed-red pixie haircut tried in vain to hide her age; her bird legs looked as though she’d just escaped a gilded cage. I helped her tend to business and learned to dearly love her, this tiny wisp of impishness who oft caused quite a stir. She had raised and spoiled a grandson who was what we call lame-brained, shirked all responsibility, kept her bank account near drained. She knew him well enough to hide her little bit of cash and he evidently knocked her down while looking for her stash. She lay unconscious, helpless, already frail and sick, so she had no recollection of the rape with her broomstick. Though death was long in coming, a loving sister’s care helped Goldie finally to end this terrible nightmare. § Quiet Heroes It takes a special person to be a nurse’s aide in a home for ailing seniors, overworked and underpaid. They seem to love the old folks, give lots of TLC for such small appreciation, more than just an employee. The physical, emotional and mental strain and stress weed out all except the strongest, which excludes me, I confess. Thank God for the precious remnant with their attitude so sweet who give later years some meaning, keeping every day upbeat. § Family Treasure I’ve lately discovered a family gem that’s been around awhile. I heard my Mama speak of it when I was just a child, but I didn’t realize its worth until my eyes had seen this rare and lovely specimen when the Kidwell clan convened. This jewel is a Ruby who warbles like a bird, melodious her golden voice, like I have never heard. Though Mama was a cousin, they were more than just blood kin, so full of zest and humor, you’d think the two were twins. She entertains the “old folks” at the nursing home for free, as she sings and plays piano by ear at the age of ninety-three. § Bobby Holtzclaw   The greatest asset Bobby had was an up-beat attitude. His cheery smile and winsome ways helped anybody’s mood. His wacky sense of humor thought up some crazy jokes to pull on unsuspecting and serious-minded folks. His heart as big as all outdoors made friends of every kind. A person who has changed more lives would sure be hard to find. He gave his best at all he did, believed that life was prime. Success was earned by toil and sweat just one day at a time. § Happy Birthday, Aunt Allie Mae Hope you’re feeling well today, keeping illnesses at bay with your old persona gay chasing all those blues away. Friends may bring a bright bouquet, aromatic small nosegay or a gift to help repay all the kindness you display. Blue skies hold no clouds of gray while the grandkids laugh and play as if on a holiday, all your worries to allay. Ninety-seven is okay, but we hope you’ll longer stay, maybe visit us someday in our mountain hideaway. § Alice Hill She was just a silly little girl when Charley won her heart and through many years of marriage their love held that young spark. The early start gave plenty time to mother quite a brood which only adds to later joys of well-earned solitude. Hard work has been no stranger, heartaches still take their toll but always putting others first has been her life-long goal. § John Denver The world has lost a jewel, the wordsmith of our time. John Denver voiced our feelings in rhythm, tune and rhyme. His voice was pure as melted snow in the mountains that he loved; his lovely music lifts our hearts where eagles soar above. Our tears are for the joy we’ll miss without him here below. We shall be poorer for his loss, but what a way to go! § The Oldest Texas Ranger in the World There's Leo Hickman, turning grey, with only one good eye, a member of the most elite beneath the Lone Star sky. At sixty-five, the oldest Texas Ranger in the land, but the pearly handle of his Colt still feels a steady hand. One riot, one Ranger is the norm, I've been told. He won't sell allegiance for silver or gold. Corruption of lawmen Leo can't abide. If ever in trouble, I want him on my side. He needs no scraggly week-old beard to mark a macho style. Brain power rather than pure brawn is better by a mile. He bucked the system when the question of his age was hurled and now he is the oldest Texas Ranger in the world. Soon now, he’s hanging up his spurs near birthday seventy-three, the last one of this special breed with Texas pedigree. Integrity and common sense have ruled his long career, and he’ll always be a legend, a Texas pioneer. (Has been set to music by CGGT) § Dean Decker, County Judge Supreme He’s the bestest judge we ever had, with down-home charm and wit. His common sense is handy for decisions that will fit. A life both hard and varied has furnished lots of tales as this Mel Tillis farmer boy his audience regales. His leadership in government has stood the acid test; with the wisdom of his counsel the county has been blest. After years of dedication, from the courthouse he departs. He left his mark in history and a smile within our hearts. §  Bill and Leta When Leta decorates a house, you know it has pizzazz, with Bill to do the carpentry; what gifted hands he has! When Tom and Peg got married in their enchanted abode, like Cinderella’s future was the dream that it bestowed. They took an ugly nursing home and spruced it up with charm to serve those long retirement years, so comfy, neat and warm. I worked for Bill and Leta at the Home Place for awhile, just taking care of old folks whose reward was oft a smile. Then when they bought a big old house for warm redecoration I helped him hang the sheet-rock and paint with inspiration. A lasting friendship blossomed and grew at quite a pace. I sang alto in his quartet next to his lovely bass. Though miles may separate us, the bonds that tie are strong. Someday we’ll sing together a new and glorious song. § Paul They’ve locked him up in prison but still his soul is free, bought by the savior, Jesus, who died for you and me. He freed us from the bonds of sin, took guilt and fear away, so even Paul can feel his love, though bars hold him today. The hope he has in Jesus’ blood transcends the prison wall. He stumbles some along the way, but Christ’s love breaks his fall. No need for straining through the gloom, the road ahead to see. With Jesus in the driver’s seat, the best is yet to be. § Sports Hero Doyle Calvert stood above the rest in every sport in school. In football, baseball, basketball, he really played it cool. In track he won blue ribbons at everything he tried. His limbs were muscled up and strong, records broke on every side. When he later started farming, he was envied by his peers. His rows were straight and perfect; success he’s had for years. In every new endeavor, accomplished as he planned, the most amazing part is this: He only has one hand. §  Gracie As Mama took a nature walk one lovely autumn day, she heard a woman singing somewhere across the way. Investigating further, she found to her surprise one Gracie Cloyd, a happy soul, an angel in disguise. With IQ less than normal and body lacking some, she welcomed unexpected guests whenever they might come. On later visits Dink and I would often tag along, and learned to love her girlish ways that seemed to know no wrong. Sometimes we don’t appreciate our joy as it arrives. Our world grew even brighter when Gracie blessed our lives. § Bubba When Bubba came into our lives, he was a lot of fun, still slightly nuts and childish and cocky as a gun. He dated Peggy for awhile, ‘cause she was cute and young. He made a few mistakes but mostly knew to hold his tongue. At Junior-Senior banquet time Peg didn’t qualify. He didn’t want to go alone, let good times pass him by, so he asked big sis, Vinita, a safe bet, he supposed, an underestimation, as supposition goes. The green-eyed monster, jealousy, still rears its ugly head in the very best of families, occasions parents dread. Although the whole experience left Bubba’s poor head spinning, he had one top-notch attribute: outstanding taste in women! § Forgotten Heroes Some went to hell and back for us, some never could return; brave soldiers fought to keep us free, hard lessons there to learn. Hospital wards become their homes, or cold and lonely streets. Some of them have been spit upon and scorned by those they meet. Are we so used to freedom that its price has been forgot? Our lack of thanks and pride may let our nation go to pot. A patriotic sense must be instilled within our youth, a discipline that honors right, loves justice, tells the truth. If heroes are forgotten along with moral rules, the USA will soon become a nation full of fools. § God's Hands (for Dr. Virgil Pate) God truly works in mysterious ways his wonders to perform, using doctors and nurses as his hands, with miracles almost the norm. We send our thanks to you and Him for new-found health today, heart-felt appreciation no human words can say. Who would believe a life more blest since the dreaded words "BIG C"? Each day is better than the last since I'm pain and cancer free. Your direct and caring attitude is just the perfect touch. To you and Bruce and all the rest - Thank you very much! § True Grit The world has made a goddess of England’s Princess Di and built a shrine to Elvis, his life to glorify. What good have these two ever done to help their fellow man? Look pretty in a picture for their “public image” plan. If I should want a hero, I don’t have far to look; The Gorleys with their giving hearts are first rate in my book. To take such needy children requires John Wayne-size grit, a strength beyond frail bodies, a love that just won’t quit. Don’t bore me with the stories of dead celebrities. Hard work and untold sacrifice beat selfish vanities. § Everybody’s Friend From the older folks all over town to the youngest near and far, Ted Mink takes care of all of us, no matter who we are. His winning smile and attitude can brighten up your day, and we appreciate him more than words can say. To all the kids in children’s homes he gives a special measure of time and energy and love that each young heart can treasure. How better could we use our means to cultivate a soul than raising kids in Christian homes where sainthood is their goal? Give Ted your grocery money and he will spend it well so that the words Christ lived and taught in young hearts richly dwell. § Nina Cheek One of my favorite people at the Senior Citizens Center was happy, loving Nina, in every way a winner. Her bubbling personality uplifted everyone, and helping old & sickly folks was her idea of fun. She wanted nothing more from life than working every day to make her patients comfy, finding friends along the way. Her spirit will remain with us to light the road ahead and make our journey pleasant as we follow where she led. Homer and Zilla Coats Homer Coats grew up at Kirkland, a hard-working farmer’s son and when offered a job by Roy Furr, a new career was begun. Mr. Furr had opened a grocery store and needed a helping hand, an educational experience for an enterprising young man. Furr’s grocery grew into a chain, cafeterias, lots of loot, and Coats established his very own store with his home-grown beef to boot.  Homer was a sweet, soft-spoken man with an “opposite” for a wife. Success in business paid off well; they enjoyed a comfy life. Investing profits in more land, not asking Zil’s approval, was a risky venture he later rued, when he suffered a reproval. She turned her body sideways in the bed the two had shared and kicked him out onto the floor; a danger signal flared. Zilla was a scrappy lady, even in her final years. Diabetes and Alzheimers that would leave some folks in tears just added to her in-born spunk as she gave caretakers fits. She would have me play piano tunes, hymns and old-time country hits,   sit awhile and beam and reminisce during “San Antonio Rose”, then rummage through her daughter’s room, hunting secrets in her clothes. They made the best of every day as their bodies fell apart. They’re gone but not forgotten, living still inside my heart. § Ol’ Weird Harold at 63 From the top of his head right down to his toes, a medical history tells of his woes. The manic/depression passed down through his genes has caused him great misery like worsening dreams. One cataract down, now one more to go, and his noise-deafened ears with tinitus do blow. His taste-buds are useless, his nose doesn’t smell; expensive patched dentures don’t work very well. Plugged sinuses vex him as allergies come. A fungus holds sway starting there on his tongue. Arthritis of hands cripple fingers like claws, and one missing digit gives some people pause. Esophagus spasms sometimes cause alarm; a hiatal hernia can bring him harm. His finicky stomach can’t handle red beans, but plenty of excess hangs over his jeans. He got rid of that pesky old prostate gland when unfriendly cells somehow got out of hand. Removal of lymph nodes made feet and legs swell; an Achilles tight tendon shoots pain through his heel. His battered right knee gives him nerve-racking pain, and a toenail grows inward just now and again. Although in a race he’s unlikely to win, he’s in pretty good shape for the shape that he’s in. § Country Living The Quail Lodge Bed and Breakfast is a pretty snazzy place where old and new somehow combine to set a slower pace. Its tasteful decoration is a homespun type of art along with a country welcome that comes right from the heart. The view from the veranda can take your breath away. You may only come to visit but you’ll surely want to stay. Home | Contact Us | Buy a Book