My Granddad really enjoyed eating, especially breakfast. He knew how to make the most of a meal. He didn’t scarf it down but took his time and savored every bite. A mug of coffee or hot tea or hot chocolate was his dunking tank. He managed to find something in every meal to dunk in his drink and when he was done, he’d drink or spoon out the dregs. It didn’t matter what was served to him. At the end of the meal, he always said, “that was the best meal I ever had.” And he meant it.
It was fun to sit at the table with him. He always had a story to tell, often one I had heard umpteen times before, but it was always fresh and new. In his later years the same tale was sometimes told with a different cast of characters or locations and I believed it every time just as if was the first time I heard it.
One day as we sat at the table after lunch, he cut an orange in half. He took one of the halves and started eating it, then he squeezed it to slurp out the juice. He turned it wrong-side-out and ate the remainder of the orange. When he was all done, he didn’t say a word. He was too busy working his tongue to get every last bit of pulp from between his teeth. It wasn’t working too well. What he did next shocked me. There are not many things that turn my stomach, but when he popped out his chompers and started sucking the pulp out of his false teeth, I almost lost my lunch.
The stop sign extended from the side of the bus, lights flashing. As the bus slowed to a stop, Mr. Brown grabbed the handle and popped the door open. A girl got on the bus. I don’t remember her name and wonder if I ever even knew it. The house where she lived was little more than a shack. There were other kids in her family that rode the bus, too. No one wanted to sit too close to them. The smell was terrible! She smelled like dirt, body odor, urine and kerosene. I paid no attention to the others, just the girl. Her hair was matted and looked like it had never been brushed or even washed. Dirt was visible on her skin and on the ragged unmatched too big hand-me-down clothes she wore. If she scratched her face, a trail was left in place of the dirt. I imagine a tear left a trail as well. Her shoes were too big for her feet and she usually didn’t wear socks. Many days the bus stopped in front of the house and waited, but she never got on.
She wasn’t in any of my classes. If she would have been, I know she wouldn’t have been in the Bluebirds reading group. I don’t remember even seeing her in the schoolhouse, just on the bus. Kids in the classroom were divided into groups. Each row or group indicated a degree of intelligence. Often the dirty impoverished kids were all clumped together in the same group.
I wondered about her family. Did she have parents in the home, or did she live with someone else? Did she have any friends? I don’t remember ever hearing her talk. If anyone would have listened, what would her heart have revealed? Would she have said she wanted a friend, or to belong to a group, or to play with someone on the playground? Was she made fun of all of her school days? Did she even finish school?
Even though I never had any contact with her or said anything ugly to her, I often think that she needed a friend. What if I had dared to speak to her, to offer a smile or give her my coveted maple stick from my lunch bag? Who would have been changed the most – her or me?
You know, we pass nameless faces almost every day. As we look across the sea of faces, we don’t see the hurt they may carry. Maybe they lost someone dear to them. Maybe they don’t know where they will get their next meal. Maybe they have no home or family. Maybe they suffer some kind of abuse. Maybe they are alone with no friends. Maybe they are neglected or abandoned. Maybe they have had no one to teach them how to care for themselves. Maybe they wear a smile and walk with confidence. Maybe they reach out to help someone who trips and falls. Maybe we should remember that in the sea of faces, others see each of us as a nameless face, too.
I saw some sponge curlers in the store – blue, green, yellow and pink. Ahhh, I just imagined my littlest granddaughter would like to have her big sister curl her hair. When I handed her the bag of curlers, she knew exactly what they were and what to do with them. She was excited to have her sister curl her hair and more excited when her hair bounced with curls. Cute as a bug, she was!
Mama behind cake
Mama’s wanna-be-curls on left
That triggered the memory of when I first started helping my Mother with her hair. At first it was just putting gook on her wanna-be-curls. Later, I also rolled the hair on the back of her head because it was hard for her to reach.
My mother’s hair was limp, lifeless, and “straight as a poker.” She was jealous of anyone whose hair was wavy or curly. She told me more than once that she wished her hair had body and could hold a curl like my hair. If she curled her hair on regular rollers, it would be flat again in no time at all. It wouldn’t hold a curl at all. She remedied that with a Toni perm.
She opened the pink box, laid out the permanent rods, pack of end papers and the two bottles of solution. I remember her first calling me to help when I was just five years old. I don’t know why she chose the youngest of her kids to help, especially a five-year-old. Maybe it was when the other kids were in school, but it seems she got me to help her even when the older girls were around.
She got her Rat Tail comb, parted her hair into sections, each twisted and secured with bobby pins. Each section was parted one little piece at a time, combed carefully, the ends wrapped in little papers (that looked like my Granddad’s cigarette rolling papers) and rolled onto the curling rods. That’s when I was called to duty. Mama sat in a chair, wrapped a towel around her shoulders and waited for me squeeze the solution onto the hair rolled on the rods. My favorite part was snipping off the tip of the nozzle of the thin plastic Permanent Wave Solution bottle. I turned the bottle upside down and squeezed out some of the liquid, letting the tip of the bottle scrape along the top of each curler. I repeated the process until all the solution was used. The last few curls got an extra squirt. What an awful smell! It was almost as bad as the nose-hair-burning odor of sulfur. Just thinking about it opens my sinuses.
After waiting about five minutes, she rinsed her hair and patted it with a towel. The towel rested on her shoulders again while I administered the second solution, the neutralizer. After another five minutes, she rinsed her hair again. Then the curlers came out. Rods were cast to one side to be rinsed and sorted, the wet papers to the other. All evidence was destroyed except for the awful smell of permanent solution that lingered in the house all day.
From the crest of the hill, it looked as if the giant checkerboard stretched for miles. Squares of various shades of green, brown, and gold alternated across the gently rolling hills and valleys. It was an endless sea of color with nothing to obstruct the view. A constant breeze led in the dance twirling and dipping the grain. Green and amber waves of grain rolled sequentially with a random ripple here and there as another gust of wind cut in to join the waltz.
The colors faded into monotonous tones of golden brown. In the distance a giant grasshopper appeared. Soon it was joined by others sporadically scattered across barren land sparsely clothed in dry grass polka dotted with prairie dog holes. Some of the grasshoppers stood motionless while the heads of others rose and fell. It looked as if they would take flight at any moment.
To a little girl experiencing this scene for the first time, it was like peering through the back window into a prehistoric world when giant insects and dinosaurs ruled. In fact, not far from the giant grasshoppers was a lone dinosaur running alongside the road.
There was treasure hidden beneath the uncultivated dry, hard ground. The giant metal grasshoppers knew – Black Gold – oil, that is.
There was nothing like all of us kids climbing in the car for our adventure to the Northwest. The energy was high and we were all excited. The road trip began. Every time we stopped for gas, we all piled out of the car to stretch our legs and take a potty break. Before all eight of us had our turn, somebody was sure to be dancing outside the door hollering, “Hurry up!”
Remember going in the old bathrooms behind the gas stations, the ones with the rolling cloth towel dispenser?
The toilets were bad enough. I would line the seat with toilet paper. I don’t know if it helped, but it sure made me feel better. The rolling towels were another story. Even as a kid I cringed. On occasion, the towel looked clean and was nice and straight. Other times it was evident that the same towel went round and round as it recycled itself, often twisted to one side and definitely soiled. Talk about germs! The towel might have been dry, but it sure wasn’t clean.
Maybe all the other dirt we played in, the shared drinks, the snotty noses wiped on sleeves, coughing wide open, and putting our fingers in our mouths counteracted the germs on the dirty towels.
My Guest Author today is my sister who is just two years older than me. She shares her memories and some of mine. You might recognize her from the blog “Cross Country” and might learn more about her as our journey continues in other stories.
A dollar is a dollar is a dollar – you might say.
I beg to differ.
Some people start a new business and tape or frame the first dollar they earn on the wall for all to see. I’ve had several businesses but I always had to spend my first dollar! They never got put up on a wall!
But the first dollar I remember having was a gift from my Montana grandmother. Gommie, who was separated from us because of Daddy’s long move to Georgia to get his education and then to serve in the ministry, would give the grandkids a special gift when we visited. She would give us a silver dollar.
I had in my collection 2 or 3 which I saved in an old tin and nested in an old Bull Durham tobacco bag I had saved from my Grandfather (Daddy Bee). We used to hate his old tobacco smoking habit, but we loved his Prince Albert cans and Bull Durham bags. When I was six we moved and my mom, who had been keeping my treasures in her underwear drawer, apparently forgot about the silver dollars. They got moved but they didn’t get returned to me! This was totally unlike my mom who seemed to remember EVERYTHING! When I asked for them she didn’t remember having them. I was crushed. At the time, it wasn’t the value of the dollar that crushed me. Or even the value of the silver. It was the value of the memory that was attached. My Montana Gommie had given ME those dollars and I was far, far way from her! Those dollars were a connection to her!!
Living in Georgia just down the road from us was my other set of grandparents. Grandma and Daddy Bee. It was such a delight to have them close by. Grandma B was a good cook. I could eat a whole pumpkin pie at one sitting! (She never let me). She would freeze peaches sprinkled with sugar. Sometimes she’d get them out of the freezer and we’d get to eat them. There’s really nothing as good as a real Georgia peach with a few ice crystals and sugar on them! But her cooking is a story for another time.
Daddy B had a barn we loved to play in. He would carry his calves to the barn and weigh them to check on their growth. When we can weigh 100 pounds, he told us, he would give us a dollar!
I asked what would happen if I lost some weight and then made it to 100 pounds again. Daddy Bee laughed and said it was a one time deal! So I didn’t bother passing up Grand B’s cooking.
I spent that dollar but I never forgot it. It was a symbol of growing up, attaining maturity. Looking big in my granddaddy’s eyes.
Wow. Now that’s worth working towards! We would get on the old barn scales and get weighed. Seventy-five pounds. Eighty pounds. Ninety-five pounds. I was wondering if Grandma B would let me eat a whole pie and help me get to my goal! Finally I got to 100 pounds and I got my dollar. That was a happy day. A milestone.
When sister Sheri was going through Daddy’s and Mama’s things, she found the old tin and the old Bull Durham bag. I have two silver dollars again that I keep separate from some of the ones I have purchased over the years. Why are they separate? I don’t have Gommie here on the planet anymore. But I still have a connection called memories, love, and a dollar.
I crawled under the quilt that was stretched tight across the frame. Chair legs scraped across the floor as ladies scooted up close to the edges of the quilt. From my view, I saw the quilt backing and I saw lots of legs – quilting frame legs, chair legs, and legs of lots of ladies. It didn’t take long to discover why this event was called a Quilting Bee. The ladies sounded like a hive of bees as they buzzed about people in the community and their families.
Looking up at the underside of the quilt, I saw needles from all directions poking through the sandwich of layers. The threaded needles left trails of stitches. I imagined roads running across the countryside intersecting one another until they all met at the same destination.
The ladies in the Ola community gathered from time to time at the church annex to quilt. They all worked together to complete the quilt, talk with one another, and of course, to eat. These ladies shared their food, fellowship, talents, and their spirit of community.
Though I only went on one or two occasions with my grandmother, it is something I have remembered and pondered through the years. From the bottom of the quilt, it looked quite different from the top. The bottom was plain fabric. The top created designs and often had lots of bright colors mixed in with faded patches of discarded clothing, flour sacks or feed sacks. It wasn’t until every stitch was in place that the finished work was held up for all to see. Then it all made sense. The top of the quilt was a beautiful work of art but the underside, with every indentation of the stitches, created its own beauty by revealing the detail of the quilted design.
I’ve come to learn that our lives are like quilts and God is the Master Designer of this masterpiece. There is more to us that what is seen on the outside. People come along in our lives and help us add a few stitches. Sometimes those stitches have to be ripped and done again. Some stitches are a little crooked, some longer than others. All of those pieces, new and worn, add character to our lives just as every stitch. God has a plan for each circumstance in our lives. It isn’t until God is finished with us that we see the completed work. But we have to remember to turn the quilt over. The visible part may be colorful and pretty, but the back side, or the inside, truly reveals all the work and character that has gone into God’s masterpiece.
My mother could walk into a fabric store and gather material for her quilts. She looked at the various colors, textures and designs and somehow pictured the finished quilt in her mind. She had a gift for seeing how colors worked together. My mother was also a perfectionist, making sure each seam was flawless and pressed flat. When she was done, it was a work of art!
I do not have the perfection that my mother had in designing patterns, colors and having every minute detail in order. A good friend of mine says those flaws “add character” and make each quilt unique.
So, don’t be discouraged if you have a few dropped stitches in your life or if every “seam” and corner don’t match up perfectly. Those flaws add character and make you into a unique masterpiece created by the Master Designer.
Daddy and I stopped to have lunch while on one of our adventures. We chatted as we sat and shared a relaxing lunch. As usual, he told stories. That particular day, he talked about his mother and commented that I reminded him of her. I guess that’s why he sometimes said, “Yes, Mama,” when I gave him instructions. In fact, his last Mother’s Day with me, he gave me a Mother’s Day card and thanked me for being his “mama.”
As we visited, he paused and said thoughtfully, “You know, we are both orphans. Neither of us has our Mama anymore.” I had not thought of it that way before but it was true.
Even though many years had passed since our moms had gone, a wave of loneliness washed over us and took our breath away for a moment. There is a void that cannot be filled by anything or anyone else. It’s as if there is an empty chair at the table. I don’t imagine there will ever be a time when I don’t have the fleeting thought, “I’ll go ask Mama.” Now there are days when the thought comes or a question is posed and I say to myself, “I have to remember to go tell Daddy,” or “I’ll go ask Daddy. He’ll know the answer.”
There is no certain age of orphans. They may be small children or even grown adults who find themselves without parents. We may find ourselves wishing for one more chance to talk with them over a cup of hot tea. We may like to take one more hike into the mountains. If we had the opportunity would we listen to their stories more intently, hanging on every word? Would we let them know we appreciated the sacrifices they made for us? Would we give another hug? We cannot bring back time, but we can make the most of the time we have.
Hug an orphan! They might just be missing someone today.
I stood on my tiptoes and tried to peek into my Great Grandmother’s casket, but I was too short to see inside. I tugged on Daddy’s suit jacket and told him I wanted to see her. Mama was nearby and gave Daddy a look that said, “Don’t do it. She’ll be warped for life.” He picked me up. I looked inside and that satisfied me.
my Great Grandmother with her brothers
Though I don’t remember a lot about Great Grandma, I do have faint glimpses that float across my mind on occasion. She was oldest person I knew at my young age. She was born in 1874. At the age of fifteen, along with her mother, grandmother and brothers, she took part in the Oklahoma Land Rush of 1889. At that time her mother claimed to be widowed but in actuality her husband had deserted the family – twice. My Great Grandmother’s grandmother was a Civil War widow who had a “visit” from her husband at the moment he was killed in the Battle of Vicksburg in 1863. I have no trouble envisioning these two “widowed” women along with their children as they raced their loaded wagons into the Great Plains when the shot signaled the start of the rush.
my Great Grandmother’s grandmother
my Great Grandmother’s mother
The stories of my ancestors have not all been lost to younger generations. I have been fortunate to be in a family of storytellers. They must have understood the importance of passing on their priceless family heritage and spiritual heritage. As a child and an adult, I have never tired of stories of my ancestors. In fact, those stories serve as fuel to keep my love of family history burning.
Since I knew my great grandmother, touching her life is like reaching back to 1874. That is 146 years to date. In my lifetime, I have touched six living generations in my direct line thus far. I’m amazed when I look back at the people who have shaped my life. I can follow the footsteps of those who went before me; footsteps that led me to where I am today; footsteps that have influenced physical and spiritual attributes; DNA fingerprints that determine looks and various characteristics. I leave footprints of my own as my children and grandchildren follow behind looking into the next generation.
I stand in the present with arms outstretched and span the years. To one side, I reach into the past. I can reach back even further through documents and stories that have passed on from one generation to the next. To the other side, I reach into the future. I can reach even further into the future by assuring that family stories and the history of my ancestors are archived for those who follow our footsteps.
Grandfather
Mother
If only one person in my direct line wasn’t in place, I wouldn’t be here. What if my grandfather had not lied about his age and gone to war leaving behind several of his family members who died in the flu epidemic back home? What if my parents had not moved south when they did? What if? If any of various factors happened along the way, I wouldn’t be telling my story.
Don’t let your family story and spiritual heritage be lost. Tell your story. Pass the torch. Span the years.
The metal monster on my grandmother’s back porch moaned and groaned as it agitated and spit soapy water from its gaping mouth. Its twisted tongue sloshed back and forth squeaking with every turn, splattering soapy saliva down the sides of the machine and onto the floor. Swish, swish, spit, sputter, squeak. An attached appendage was ready to grab anything that got in its way and run it through the wringers – literally.
this old wringer washer has seen better days
wash tub
It was wash day! That was an all-day event. The old wringer washer was ready for the day’s job. A wash tub full of fresh rinse water was bumped up next to the washer. Baskets of laundry were appropriately separated – whites, darks and linens. Washing powder was fed into the round belly of the beast already partially filled with water. Once it started twisting it didn’t take long for it to be a tub of bubbles. A load of laundry was added and soon the water was dingy looking.
The hungry rollers started turning, looking for something to devour. They grabbed a garment, squeezed it, and wrung out the soapy water. It didn’t take long to become experienced at flipping the sides of a shirt over the buttons as it went through the rollers. It didn’t take long to remember to zip pants before sending it through the machine either. When the clothing came out the other side of the wringers, it dropped in the washtub of clean water. The clean clothes were sloshed around by hand in the rinse water and soon the clothing was sent through the wringers again, flattened and dropped into a clothes basket.
With a basket of clean laundry and a bag of clothes pins, it was time to head to the drier. Yep – the clothesline. Some days, the clothes hung on the line blowing in the breeze. On hot humid days, the clothes hung lifeless. On cold wintery icy days, clothes hung frozen, as stiff as Frankenstein’s legs.
hot humid wash day in the South
wash tub of dirty water – don’t throw the kid out with the wash water
(If you have trouble getting your whites whiter, just hang them on the clothesline on one of those icy days! Such a day acts as a natural bleach. The best night’s sleep comes on a breezy wash day. Have you ever slept on freshly air-dried sheets?)
cold wash day in the mountains
warm breezy wash day on the prairie
Warning: DO NOT try to wash your arm! One day my sister tried out the wringer washer. She reached up to the rollers and the monster grabbed her arm and sucked it between the rollers. Her skin on that arm still sags a bit even today.
