I walked into the room and a little voice said, “Hi, Maga.” She got up from the chair, turned and looked at me. Immediately I noticed a red place on her cheek. “What happened? Did you fall?” She said, “Yes. Mama said you had something here for my face.”
When I questioned her about her little accident, her voice got quieter. She wrung her hands together and was quite distracted with the tv and the others in the room looking her way. Every square inch of her wiggled every which direction just like a can of worms as she tried to tell her story. I took her hand and we walked into another room. As I sat down to be on her level, I pulled her close and finally got the story of her misadventure.
She was trying to jump on a little chair that sits by the piano (which she knows not to do). When she fell, she bumped the arm of the chair with her face and then hit the piano bench just barely missing her eye. I think there will be a bruise left behind to go with the swelling and the squinty eye.
When she finished her story, I hugged her tight and said, “What did your mom say I had for your eye?” She couldn’t remember what her mom said, so I said, “Go ask her.” The little girl ran off and was soon back. “Well, what was it?” “Mama said you would have some sympathy for my eye.”
Well, her mom was right. I had no trouble giving her some sympathy for her eye even before I knew I had such a magic potion. A dose of sympathy sure goes a long way!
After another big hug and a mug of hot chocolate with two big marshmallows, she was off again.
My little granddaughter is full of life. She has her own back yard adventures. Not long ago, she learned to ride a bike, and she has mastered it. There are stickers all over the bike and clips of some sort on the wheels. The basket on the front of the Pepto Bismol pink bike holds treasures. Along with dolls and other trinkets, she has a new addition – a Motown magic karaoke microphone. If you see a flash of pink wearing boots, and hear the classic Motown tunes in the wind, it might just be my two-wheeling, hair-bobbing, Motown singing granddaughter. I imagine to this little girl (as well as her grandmother), she sounds like the real thing.
If dancers or gymnasts are performing on TV, it’s not long before a little girl is twirling and sliding across the floor, doing cartwheels, or attempting flips in front of us as she imagines herself gracefully performing on the grandest stage of the world. I feel a twinge inside of me wanting to join in her dance with no cares or inhibitions.
Just the other day I watched in awe as skaters at the Skating National Championships glided gracefully over the ice. They twirled and did flips, loops, and other jumps as they were judged on their skills and artistic interpretations. As I watched the skaters, I almost imagined myself moving effortlessly across the ice, every motion fluid and elegant. Little girls are not the only ones with dreams.
As I watch my granddaughter I wonder, does she see herself as the most graceful dancer, a mirror image of what she has seen performed? Does she hear herself as the best singer as she belts out the sounds of Diana Ross, The Temptations or Smokey Robinson? Does she feel the cool air from the surface of the ice rink as she glides on her skates like Michelle Kwan? Maybe so, and I hope she never stops dreaming.
Have you ever watched a child try to walk in the footprints of their father or mother? I was one of those kids.
Whenever I went hiking or backpacking with my dad, I usually followed right behind him trying to place my foot exactly where he stepped. When climbing rocky mountain trails, he seemed to sense which stones would give the steadiest foothold. He even blazed trails through mountain streams, knowing which places in the streams to avoid. Following in his footsteps, I knew we were headed in the right direction and on the best path. Only later did I realize some of his many paths were actually longer and not necessarily the intended trail, but the rewards were well worth it. There were a few questionable moments as to his decisions, though they always brought valuable lessons.
When my first four siblings lived in the heart of the mountains, they relied on the footsteps of my father, too. Many a snowy day, which were more days than less, he was the first one out the door to cut a path to the outhouse, barn, or the folks’ home beyond. After the trail was forged, then the kids emerged bundled up, so they walked like Frankenstein. With gloves, hats, and boots secured tightly, they walked in the footsteps prepared just for them. Wherever the boot prints were embedded in the snow, the kids followed, knowing their father was just ahead and would come to their rescue if they needed him. Of course, they attempted their own trails as well.
In my memory, I cannot recount all the times I walked behind my dad. The time came when I walked beside him, and then the time came when I could walk in front of him, sure of the path. If I came to a fork in the trail and questioned myself, all I had to do was pause until I could ask him. And then the time came when he relied solely on my footsteps. The roles reversed.
That’s the way life is. We are followers. Then we are leaders. Then we are followers once again. One of the most profound lessons of this principle is found in nature. I’m sure you have seen a noisy flock of geese overhead. When I hear honking geese, immediately I look up in the sky searching for the geese. One goose leads while others follow in V formation. When the goose in front tires, another comes along side and takes the lead, the “leader” falling back into formation.
Though we have followed the footprints laid before us, there comes a time when we take the lead for a season before passing it on to someone else. Even then, we find ourselves as leader occasionally, even if it’s just in the small things like a kind word of encouragement, a nugget of wisdom, or a truth from the archives of family history.
Cut a trail, take your turn to lead, be willing to fall back so others learn the way, and continue to do your part to make the journey a success.
I have seen worn out blankets, teddy bears without eyes, bald headed dolls, limbless stuffed animals, and other items that are loved beyond belief. Those treasures held by others are of little significance to anyone else. In fact, if I feel sick or tossed by waves of nostalgia or sentimentality, I still cover up with my quilt made by my grandmother and my old, patched teddy bear with a floppy neck made by my mother. Somehow, those riches bring me comfort.
It was common to find miniature pillowcases or tricot scraps laying around our house. All the kids in the extended family received the coveted pillowcases made by their grandmother. For my kids, it was more than a cover for a miniature pillow, it was a security blanket. The cases were rarely on a pillow at all. Rather, they were usually crumpled up in a little fist and dragged through the house or across the dirt in the yard.
One day, there was an emergency – not the kind when you call 9-1-1. It was more serious than that. All the pillowcases and remnants of tricot were dirty. I washed them and hung them on the line to dry. My little boy was a bit agitated and almost in a state of withdrawals. I tried to divert his attention by sending him outside to play. Every few minutes I peeked out the window to check on him. When he disappeared from view, I went out and looked for him. At the side of the house, there under the clothesline, was a little boy. His hand was lifted up holding on to a corner of a long narrow strip of unsewn tricot, thumb in mouth. He gripped the wadded up cloth tightly as if holding on for dear life. Had I not known better, I would have thought I stepped into a Charlie Brown comic strip with Linus clinging to his security blanket.
It wasn’t just my son who was attached to his tattered worn pillowcases. My daughter suffered from the same addiction, and yes, it also served as a pacifier. One day the kids and I went shopping with a friend and her little boy. I pushed the stroller with an irritable little girl in it as we went from store to store. Her whine turned into a cry. There was one way to put a stop to that.
I unsnapped the diaper bag and reached in to get her pillowcase. Uh-oh! It wasn’t there. That was trouble! A crying child can disturb the whole community with their wailing. I happened to be wearing a skirt that day, so I stepped behind a rack of clothing, jerked off my half-slip, and handed it to the crying toddler. Immediately her little hand clutched a corner of the case, and in a matter of seconds, she was content and sucking her thumb. We averted disaster that day!
The grown-ups of the family were about as testy as the kids about a missing pillowcase, full size, of course. Some of my siblings, myself included, still use those wondrous, cool, soft pillowcases made from tricot. Recently while rummaging through some of my mother’s fabric scraps, I found some of the coveted fabric, several pieces bigger than scraps. Those remnants were divided amongst us in hopes of having pillowcases for many years to come.
Now I wouldn’t say I might get a bit testy, but I will say, “Don’t touch my pillowcase!”
“Thumbs Up” usually means everything is A-OK. But if a thumb gets smashed with a hammer or gets stabbed by a splinter, a “thumbs up” quickly brings a mom on the run to kiss the booboo or extract the annoyingly small sliver, especially if the thumb is accompanied by a tear-streaked face.
On one occasion, two little “thumbs up” carried a more serious meaning. Such was the day two little boys had an unexpected adventure.
The evening was pleasant as we sat and chatted after a meal with friends. Two little boys had gone off on their own to play as they usually did. Without warning, the night was split open with the shrill cries – no, wails – of two little boys in unison. We all jumped up at the same time and ran toward the screams. Something was terribly wrong! As we turned the corner, we saw half of the problem. One boy stood outside our car with his thumb slammed in the car door.
We still heard slightly muted howls from the other little fella, but where was he? Someone opened the car door, and there on the inside of the car was the rest of the equation – a sobbing tear-stained boy. As the door opened, he slowly pulled his hand back, thumb lifted high while the little guy on the outside lifted his offensive thumb. Like a mirror image, both boys had somehow managed to slam their respective digits in the car door. The sniffling boys held up their throbbing red thumbs, rosy cheeks smeared with drying salty tear drops.
The comedy of the unbelievable predicament was overshadowed until we knew the result of the small appendages. Once we realized the boys would live – and would keep their thumbs – we laughed and laughed. I don’t think anyone could have recreated the incident even they tried.
So, if you see someone lift up their thumb, especially if tears are involved, it may not necessarily mean “Thumbs Up!”
The two little boys loved to play with one another. They were best of friends. One adventure after another gave our families great entertainment, and sometimes we got a bit more than what we hoped for. There never was a dull moment with those two kids.
We often went to our friends’ home for the boys to play while we visited and ate. It was a common occurrence for the boys to pee off the porch, in the yard, in the bushes, or on a tree trunk. On one particular day after we returned home, I commented that my little guy had not used the bathroom for some time. When I questioned him, he informed me that he had done his business outside in our friends’ yard. Normally that was no issue, but that certain day it was of great significance.
You see, just a few days before, we had another incident at our house – for whatever reason, somebody swallowed a penny. When the penny failed to emerge from the bowels of the little guy, I decided a trip to the doctor was necessary. An x-ray determined that the penny had indeed been swallowed and slowly made its way through the digestive tract. The doctor gave instructions to check his poop to make sure the penny was released from its gastric prison. Ugh! That was a nasty job! I figured the best way to fulfill my task was to pull out the potty chair for him to use. That way I wouldn’t have to fish in the toilet first. With surgical gloves on hand to aid in the inspection, I squished and squeezed every turd that plopped in the pot.
I guess you can see the dilemma I was in. So, my kid “used the bathroom” in our friends’ yard. Armed with my trusty gloves, we all piled in the car and made the trip back to their house to scavenge for a little boy’s scat, meadow muffins, dung, excrement, feces. Nothing. No scat. Come to find out, he had only peed.
A few days later, I did pull a black penny from a pile of refuse. I soaked it in Clorox, scrubbed it with a toothbrush (not the little boy’s), and taped it in the baby book.
When his grandfather heard the story he said, “One time I swallowed a dime. But I got it back. I’d rather have two plates of bread and gravy.”
Well, after searching through excrement for over a week, I can honestly say, “I’d rather have two plates of bread and gravy,” too.
Looking back through the years, I see many times I failed as a parent. The thought sends a twinge of guilt running through my mind. Would I do things different? Maybe, but at the time the decision was made, I must have thought it was right. Once in a while it paid off.
One day when my son was a little tyke, he was upset because of something I made him do or something I told him not to do. He announced he was going to run away from home. What is a mom to do? I will admit that my heart ached a bit, but I didn’t fuss at him or send him to his room to think about it. Instead, I decided to call his bluff. Then I thought, “what if it doesn’t work?” I took the chance.
It was in the middle of the afternoon, not the best time to run away. I told him to go get a button up shirt and a stick and I would help him pack for his journey. He complied. As I suggested items he would need, I proceeded to fix a peanut butter sandwich for his supper on the road. We packed a change of underwear, socks, a toy, and other necessities in his shirt and buttoned it up. As I tied the shirt tails to the long sleeves, and tied it to the stick, I asked him where he would sleep for the night and if he thought he would be warm enough. Then I asked what he would have for breakfast.
It was about time to start preparations for the evening meal. I told him what we were going to eat for supper and suggested he might want to wait until after supper to “run away.” He thought that was a good idea, too. It wasn’t long before he started playing with some of his toys. When it got dark, he climbed into his pajamas and slid into his bed. Soon he was sound asleep. I unpacked his shirt and put the items away.
That was that! As far as I can remember, he never said anything else about running away.
A few fall leaves barely clung to the tree as they danced in the cool morning breeze. Wispy clouds passed overhead in the deep blue sky. It promised to be a great day for a ride through the countryside. You never know what you might find along back roads that wind through changing landscapes and abut on cultures unique to the area.
As I gazed through the truck window, I was not disappointed. Straight roads that led through flat land bordered with open fields quickly transformed to narrow curvy roads twisting in, out, around, up, and down the hollows and plateaus of Middle Tennessee. Rolling hills were dotted with cattle, horses, sheep and goats. Old barns, log and wooden homes devoured by time, weather, honeysuckle, trees and kudzu crumbled to the ground. Small creeks, some no more than a trickle, curled along the base of the hills and cut their way through the valley. Wide rivers looked like broad avenues leading to who knows where.
History abounds in this part of the country and comes to life as it tells its own story. Like looking through the windows of a time machine moving back in time, there are glimpses into the lives of those who lived and wandered through these hills. Even now, forgotten memories linger in the shadows of hidden hollows and peek through broken windows and cracks in the chinking of weathering log walls.
Wind whispers from the valleys and rims of the hills of an age when Native Americans were guardians of the land. If you listen closely, you might hear moans from an era of revolution and groans of civil unrest of a broken nation rise from the blood soaked ground. You might catch the passing sound of footsteps of marching soldiers or the lingering echo of rumbling cannons resonating from hill to hill. As morning fog lifts from the recesses of the slopes, one might imagine a glimpse of shadowy figures of Native Americans driven from the place of their birth, bowing under their heavy burdens as they follow a trail of agonizing tears to a land not their own. Wave upon wave of pioneers follow the westward paths through the mountains and valleys to a land of opportunity as her doors open. As some leave, others come amid bittersweet pains to bring rebirth to expanding communities and cities. Charming old Southern towns are preserved as a lifeline to the past. Even now, those seeking refuge from crowded cities are drawn to rural areas throughout the nation.
These ridges, dales, and plains hold treasures just waiting to be discovered. Some of those priceless gems are old general stores that offer a Moon Pie and RC Cola, antique shops, city cafes, and quaint charming Southern towns decorated for Christmas. Some nuggets of gold are found in the work of artisans and crafters of the foothills who display their talents. Here, Native American history comes alive through archaeological parks, sacred sites, and museums that give a glimpse into their lives, their respect for the land, their worship, and their survival. Civil War history preserved in National military parks and monuments is available for visitors to learn more of our past. No matter where our ancestors fit, it is, nonetheless, part of our story. Though we cannot change history, it remains as a sobering reality and reminder of the path mankind has traveled.
The promise of a great day was fulfilled – and to think that we saw and experienced all of this on a simple country drive.
“Fellow citizens, we cannot escape history.” – Abraham Lincoln
West Fork Stones River
Crocheted Cover
Bell Buckle
Dog Trot cabin at Historic Sam Davis House
Old Stone Fort State Archaeological Park Foothills Crafts Wartrace & Bell Buckle Stones River National Battlefield
A predicted hot summer loomed in front of me. I was too busy with outside activities and adventures to be bothered with having to mess with my hair. To help with my dilemma, my sister who was visiting said, “I’ll cut your hair.” I was a bit skeptical. If you knew my sister, you might have been a bit suspicious as well. Regardless of my doubt, I agreed. After all, I figured, “it will grow back.”
I straddled the chair facing the back, towel wrapped around my shoulders, and the salon session began. My sister started cutting. Snip! Snip! It sounded like she was taking off more than I had. Then she stopped, stood back, cocked her head from side to side and giggled a giggle that had an evil ring to it. When I asked what that was all about, she said, “Oh, I just need to even it up on this side.” After she “evened it up,” she stood back again, and a grotesque giggle gurgled up from her toes. She said, “I need to even it up on the other side now.”
Well, I guess you might have figured out that by the time she was done, I didn’t have to worry with my hair. There was no hair left to worry about! When the shock wore off and my sister’s laughter subsided, all I could say was, “Well, it will grow back.”
That was the best low maintenance hair cut I have ever had. I could jump in the shower and wash my face and hair with the same swipe of a washcloth. And you know what? It did grow back – eventually.
The house was full of chatter and laughter. Guests tried foods they had never had before. Someone blessed our meal and before everyone had a chance to load their plates, my husband made an announcement concerning the smaller wildlife on the menu (squirrel, rabbit, goose and duck), “I cleaned them good, but there might still be some shot. So be careful.” I’m pretty sure someone found at least one piece of shot. If it’s swallowed, you can be sure, “This too shall pass.” Just don’t break a tooth!
All was well. The evening was a success.
A few days later, we received a call from one of the guests. The guest’s daughter who also attended the supper had a scan scheduled the day after our party for a medical issue. After her scan was complete, the doctor returned to her room to talk to her about the results. He looked a bit puzzled and concerned and said, “It looks like you have been shot.” She had a good laugh and told the doctor about the wildlife party. She had swallowed some of the shot she had been warned about. And true to the saying, it did indeed pass.
