Familiar comfort
dark, soft, worn around the edges,
warm, morning memories
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Change
This morning I am reminded that any club that has to vote to let me in I will continue to avoid. I hate that kind of thing for some reason. Clicks should belong to my fingers tapping on the keys, woodpeckers on poles, maybe even a bit of percussion, but should not be for human socializing. People tend to change in big groups, and as long as the finger isn't pointed at them they don't mind pointing at you. The thought has crossed my mind that this could be a past life memory or maybe stamped in my DNA from ancestors who were persecuted from using their intelligence to stand up to the masses.
I was a Bluebird once for three days before I quit to ride my horse, Taffy Dawn, alone. I didn't hate the people there, or gluing popsicle sticks together into squares and rectangles. I just loved my horse more and she was waiting, and I was impatient, and the day had begun. Maybe I just knew I would never have enough of those days. . . .
I do love people, but for some reason large groups of anything I like better from a stage with a 10' elevation. Especially, if they are looking at me. It's even better if the lights are so bright I can't see them and I can shake, spin, sing, and laugh madly while I lift myself, (and anyone willing to travel), out of the fog.
Still, even at this age, I find myself terrified in large groups as I ready my weapon of choice. Machine gun laughter, quick, resonant, and piercing enough to be heard across a football field. Amazed and embarassed that I can still scare all but the very hardy with but one quick burst I use it to fend off those who would get too close without invitation, or a brave heart. ~;)
Some things change very little.
I was a Bluebird once for three days before I quit to ride my horse, Taffy Dawn, alone. I didn't hate the people there, or gluing popsicle sticks together into squares and rectangles. I just loved my horse more and she was waiting, and I was impatient, and the day had begun. Maybe I just knew I would never have enough of those days. . . .
I do love people, but for some reason large groups of anything I like better from a stage with a 10' elevation. Especially, if they are looking at me. It's even better if the lights are so bright I can't see them and I can shake, spin, sing, and laugh madly while I lift myself, (and anyone willing to travel), out of the fog.
Still, even at this age, I find myself terrified in large groups as I ready my weapon of choice. Machine gun laughter, quick, resonant, and piercing enough to be heard across a football field. Amazed and embarassed that I can still scare all but the very hardy with but one quick burst I use it to fend off those who would get too close without invitation, or a brave heart. ~;)
Some things change very little.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Plain Crash
Cecil liked to wear stilleto heels, and skirts that flowed.
She kept her greying hair that pert shade of port,
her nails exactly 1/2" long, squared at the tips,
curved slightly downward like her mouth.
She'd take advantage of her stilleto heels
and push her grocery cart with long strides
and perfectly manicured nails past the fruits and vegetables,
past the dairy case, past the grains and dry goods,
to finally take her stand firmly between the diet coke
and the front of her cart and proceed to load it
heaven bound. . .her only offering.
Loaded, eyes glazed, saliva flaking
at the corners of her down turned mouth.
Her four inch heels would carry her
step after step through puddles of rain forest leftovers,
like a float plane landing one pontoon at a time.
on schedule she'd drift toward the checkout docking
long enough to purchase one last carton of cigarettes
She always said she planned to quit before it killed her, but
"You get such nice things with the mileage."
Fire trucks struggled to contain the flame
that was Cecelia, couch and carton,
temporarily appearing to be the hottest spot in the universe.
As the first long cough of winter
rattled upward through the smoke,
dry leaves raced through the gutter adding percussion
to the hometown blues on NPR.
Prelude for the unheard funeral dirge
that followed the smoldered carnage south.
She kept her greying hair that pert shade of port,
her nails exactly 1/2" long, squared at the tips,
curved slightly downward like her mouth.
She'd take advantage of her stilleto heels
and push her grocery cart with long strides
and perfectly manicured nails past the fruits and vegetables,
past the dairy case, past the grains and dry goods,
to finally take her stand firmly between the diet coke
and the front of her cart and proceed to load it
heaven bound. . .her only offering.
Loaded, eyes glazed, saliva flaking
at the corners of her down turned mouth.
Her four inch heels would carry her
step after step through puddles of rain forest leftovers,
like a float plane landing one pontoon at a time.
on schedule she'd drift toward the checkout docking
long enough to purchase one last carton of cigarettes
She always said she planned to quit before it killed her, but
"You get such nice things with the mileage."
Fire trucks struggled to contain the flame
that was Cecelia, couch and carton,
temporarily appearing to be the hottest spot in the universe.
As the first long cough of winter
rattled upward through the smoke,
dry leaves raced through the gutter adding percussion
to the hometown blues on NPR.
Prelude for the unheard funeral dirge
that followed the smoldered carnage south.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
No Retreat
The things we're not suppose to discuss: politics, religion, and our personal lives. Just in case we reveal too much, and someone finds out that we don't think exactly the way they do, or even worse that we actually think. Everyone pretends to appreciate the eccentric opinion, the quirky purple hats, the off beat song or movie, but we really just want to enjoy the things that our peers have already deemed worthy. We roll in self congratulation on what we consider original as it's embraced by the masses, and suffer the recriminations of our associates by not freely wrapping ourselves around the ever popular opinion.
I've never worried much about the popular opinion, or current happening trend. I spend too much time alone to dwell on anyone's negative thoughts but my own, and I try to avoid those. Maybe the voices in my head are enough company? The legions drifting through over the years have helped me draft a plan for world domination. After all, I've raised three fine sons to be well adjusted slackers why not help the rest of the world?
My first objective would be to ensure that everyone would be sterilized at birth. I hate hearing children called "accidents". Science is such that we now have a choice to control our population, and the damage we do to unwanted children. There should never be an unwanted birth, or an unloved child. It is our moral duty to protect the children, allow them health, education, and unconditional love, and it takes more than two people to do it right.
Everything should be legal and taxed. You can't control anyone but yourself, so we should quit trying and quit allowing excuses for people's chosen behavior. At some point people will quit passing the buck and choose life. I personally think people choose alcohol, drugs, vandalism, and possibly violence because they're bored. Children should be taught accountability and responsibility. Make their first school field trip to the 'new world order's adult entertainment center.' Where the children could watch junkies through a one way glass as they indulge in their need, dispensed by a pro in a safe environment. When they have reached capacity, turn their heads and retch, the children would see their bald heads, bad teeth, and nasty stomach acids and the whole thought of being a junkie like "Jimi, Janis, Billie, or John"* will be less romantic. (*Hendrix, Joplin, Holiday, and Coltrane).
I don't believe in prison; violent criminals should be blinded and encouraged to live on the same amount of disability as any other disabled American. My husband insists my hatred for what I consider to be an obsolete waste of tax money was developed because I grew up near Washington State Penitentiary, angry that the prisoners had color television ten years before we had it at the farm. The truth is blind people rarely commit violent crime. No armed robberies, no DUI's, they don't participate in drive by shootings, or blame their sexual deviation on the look of a prepubescent child. I don't want to cut off anyone's body parts, or put offenders in a prison where they can watch television, learn the law, tie up the courts, or have conjugal visits with women they didn't know prior to incarceration. If I had a dog that continued to bite people I would put it to sleep not put it in an air conditioned cage and serve it three meals a day. Everything is done by choice, and the innocent should not have to suffer repeatedly by people who choose to live outside the limits of civilization.
The borders should be open so that the people who are willing to pick fruit, do your laundry, or get an education can easily come, do those jobs, return to their friends and families and enjoy the fruit of their labor. Hopefully, this will prevent contrived marriages, dangerous illegal container shipments of people, and the separation of families, and enable small farmers, cafe owners, to get the help they need, and people of all walks of life to interact on a positive level without fear.
Teachers should be required to go to comedy school, so that they can at least pretend to maintain a sense of humor. High school graduates should receive an "all american road trip" via Amtrack. As they travel around they can help Habitat for Humanity to create live able space for those in need, and meet their neighbors. This will enable them to see the countryside, learn skills they will need to maintain their own homes, and get to know people on a personal level. When they graduate from college they should receive the same opportunity to help the world. Hopefully this would teach people that there are lot's of wonderful places in the world and that people are basically the same everywhere.
Opinions, the internet, health, (including vision and dental), and education should be free for all who wish to participate. It can only make us stronger as a country and people.
I've never worried much about the popular opinion, or current happening trend. I spend too much time alone to dwell on anyone's negative thoughts but my own, and I try to avoid those. Maybe the voices in my head are enough company? The legions drifting through over the years have helped me draft a plan for world domination. After all, I've raised three fine sons to be well adjusted slackers why not help the rest of the world?
My first objective would be to ensure that everyone would be sterilized at birth. I hate hearing children called "accidents". Science is such that we now have a choice to control our population, and the damage we do to unwanted children. There should never be an unwanted birth, or an unloved child. It is our moral duty to protect the children, allow them health, education, and unconditional love, and it takes more than two people to do it right.
Everything should be legal and taxed. You can't control anyone but yourself, so we should quit trying and quit allowing excuses for people's chosen behavior. At some point people will quit passing the buck and choose life. I personally think people choose alcohol, drugs, vandalism, and possibly violence because they're bored. Children should be taught accountability and responsibility. Make their first school field trip to the 'new world order's adult entertainment center.' Where the children could watch junkies through a one way glass as they indulge in their need, dispensed by a pro in a safe environment. When they have reached capacity, turn their heads and retch, the children would see their bald heads, bad teeth, and nasty stomach acids and the whole thought of being a junkie like "Jimi, Janis, Billie, or John"* will be less romantic. (*Hendrix, Joplin, Holiday, and Coltrane).
I don't believe in prison; violent criminals should be blinded and encouraged to live on the same amount of disability as any other disabled American. My husband insists my hatred for what I consider to be an obsolete waste of tax money was developed because I grew up near Washington State Penitentiary, angry that the prisoners had color television ten years before we had it at the farm. The truth is blind people rarely commit violent crime. No armed robberies, no DUI's, they don't participate in drive by shootings, or blame their sexual deviation on the look of a prepubescent child. I don't want to cut off anyone's body parts, or put offenders in a prison where they can watch television, learn the law, tie up the courts, or have conjugal visits with women they didn't know prior to incarceration. If I had a dog that continued to bite people I would put it to sleep not put it in an air conditioned cage and serve it three meals a day. Everything is done by choice, and the innocent should not have to suffer repeatedly by people who choose to live outside the limits of civilization.
The borders should be open so that the people who are willing to pick fruit, do your laundry, or get an education can easily come, do those jobs, return to their friends and families and enjoy the fruit of their labor. Hopefully, this will prevent contrived marriages, dangerous illegal container shipments of people, and the separation of families, and enable small farmers, cafe owners, to get the help they need, and people of all walks of life to interact on a positive level without fear.
Teachers should be required to go to comedy school, so that they can at least pretend to maintain a sense of humor. High school graduates should receive an "all american road trip" via Amtrack. As they travel around they can help Habitat for Humanity to create live able space for those in need, and meet their neighbors. This will enable them to see the countryside, learn skills they will need to maintain their own homes, and get to know people on a personal level. When they graduate from college they should receive the same opportunity to help the world. Hopefully this would teach people that there are lot's of wonderful places in the world and that people are basically the same everywhere.
Opinions, the internet, health, (including vision and dental), and education should be free for all who wish to participate. It can only make us stronger as a country and people.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Pop
My father died of cancer when I was 2 1/2, my brother was 3 months old, mom, 24. It was a surprise, no notice, and over within 2 weeks. You move on. Sometimes, with the help of well meaning people, who think they know what's best for you, but have no time or patience of their own. That is how my poor Uncle Aubry became my mentor and my Pop in the fall of 1961.
The girls, Mom and her sister Vonalee, thought that I needed a father figure that fall. I had been devastated at leaving my asphalt jungle with the monkey bars that I hung from for hours while I watched and waited. I hated the heat, the dust and the fact their was no asphalt anywhere. I stood at the end of our sidewalk looking out at the dust, tears leaving tracks on my dirty face wailing, "No, not here," for hours.
It was decided that Aunt Vona's husband, Aubry, should watch me. After all Mom and Aunt Vona were both watching 2 & 3 year olds, and Pop's time had been freed to "just the farming" because school had started and the rest of the "cousins" were all old enough to attend. According to Aunt Vona there was no reason Pop couldn't step up to the plate and entertain me.
He started by leading me down the hill towards the barn with the cautionary advice, "It'd be best if you step where I step Missy." Missy, because he hated the name my mother had given me declaring that it was pretentious, and much too long for such a little girl. So it was that I became his "Missy" and he became my "Pop" as I trailed him down the hill, over the 4" X 6" plank that spanned the irrigation ditch, and across the cow pie covered field.
Having much shorter legs it wasn't long before I had stepped ankle deep in a fresh pile of steaming cow dung. "Oh no, nasty Poppa," I cried as the cow poop slid over my shoe soaking my pretty white anklets. Pop picked me up and dug my shoe out of the quick sand like muck, rinsing it in the ditch. and laughing as he answered, "Hush now Missy, that's not nasty that's manure. That's money you smell." I knew money was a good thing because my mother was constantly lamenting her lack of it, and, as my tears dried, I took into account this new bit of information.
I followed Pop step for step occasionally running into a bit more "money", and it was without a worry in my mind that I proudly entered Aunt Vona's pristine kitchen for lunch. Mouth salivating, ready for the huge bowl of steaming country gravy and fresh biscuits already on the table, I looked up to see her eyes turning into the back of her head like a horse tied to a fence during a lightning storm as she hissed, "Get those nasty shoes out of my clean kitchen Elisia!"
Startled I replied, "That's not nasty; that's manure. That's money," confident in my innocence. Her wild eyes turned focusing on my now emerging Pop as she tried to catch her breath, "Aubry did you teach that little girl such a word?" as she grabbed the broom and chased him out the door, and Pop ran laughing down the hill exclaiming, "What'd you want me to tell her it was, Honey?'
The next day dawned the same with the ladies declaring that they had their hands full, and he would just have to keep an eye on me again. Poor Pop, like he didn't have enough to do milking 200 head twice a day of prime cattle. Jersey, Guernsey, and Holstein mixed together to create the finest milk Mayflower could buy, the richest ice cream Aunt Vona could make and the best butter Grandma could churn.
Pop, was of Dutch descent. stoic most of the time, hard working, but with a clear direction of where the butt end of his jokes were intended to land. That day when we were alone he leaned in and lowered his voice, "Missy, next time some one asks your name I want you to say 'Poontang, ask me again and I'll tell you the same'." I listened intently and caught the fun of the quirky rhyme as we echoed back and forth across the barn like a cheer at a football game,
"Hey, what's your name"
"Poontang ask me again and I'll tell you the same!"
Eagerly I ran to the kitchen door pulling off my shoes as I pulled open the door. Greeted the smell of a farmer's lunch as I cried, "Aunt Vona, Aunt Vona, ask me my name."
"Good Lord Honey, I know you're name."
"But you have to ask me Aunt Vona! You have to ask me my name!"
"Ok. What's your name?" she asked.
"Poontang! Ask me again I'll tell you the same!" I proudly yelled back, big grin on my face, I watched her eyes turn in her head, as she reached for the broom all the while chasing Pop's laugh out the door, and down the hill.
The girls, Mom and her sister Vonalee, thought that I needed a father figure that fall. I had been devastated at leaving my asphalt jungle with the monkey bars that I hung from for hours while I watched and waited. I hated the heat, the dust and the fact their was no asphalt anywhere. I stood at the end of our sidewalk looking out at the dust, tears leaving tracks on my dirty face wailing, "No, not here," for hours.
It was decided that Aunt Vona's husband, Aubry, should watch me. After all Mom and Aunt Vona were both watching 2 & 3 year olds, and Pop's time had been freed to "just the farming" because school had started and the rest of the "cousins" were all old enough to attend. According to Aunt Vona there was no reason Pop couldn't step up to the plate and entertain me.
He started by leading me down the hill towards the barn with the cautionary advice, "It'd be best if you step where I step Missy." Missy, because he hated the name my mother had given me declaring that it was pretentious, and much too long for such a little girl. So it was that I became his "Missy" and he became my "Pop" as I trailed him down the hill, over the 4" X 6" plank that spanned the irrigation ditch, and across the cow pie covered field.
Having much shorter legs it wasn't long before I had stepped ankle deep in a fresh pile of steaming cow dung. "Oh no, nasty Poppa," I cried as the cow poop slid over my shoe soaking my pretty white anklets. Pop picked me up and dug my shoe out of the quick sand like muck, rinsing it in the ditch. and laughing as he answered, "Hush now Missy, that's not nasty that's manure. That's money you smell." I knew money was a good thing because my mother was constantly lamenting her lack of it, and, as my tears dried, I took into account this new bit of information.
I followed Pop step for step occasionally running into a bit more "money", and it was without a worry in my mind that I proudly entered Aunt Vona's pristine kitchen for lunch. Mouth salivating, ready for the huge bowl of steaming country gravy and fresh biscuits already on the table, I looked up to see her eyes turning into the back of her head like a horse tied to a fence during a lightning storm as she hissed, "Get those nasty shoes out of my clean kitchen Elisia!"
Startled I replied, "That's not nasty; that's manure. That's money," confident in my innocence. Her wild eyes turned focusing on my now emerging Pop as she tried to catch her breath, "Aubry did you teach that little girl such a word?" as she grabbed the broom and chased him out the door, and Pop ran laughing down the hill exclaiming, "What'd you want me to tell her it was, Honey?'
The next day dawned the same with the ladies declaring that they had their hands full, and he would just have to keep an eye on me again. Poor Pop, like he didn't have enough to do milking 200 head twice a day of prime cattle. Jersey, Guernsey, and Holstein mixed together to create the finest milk Mayflower could buy, the richest ice cream Aunt Vona could make and the best butter Grandma could churn.
Pop, was of Dutch descent. stoic most of the time, hard working, but with a clear direction of where the butt end of his jokes were intended to land. That day when we were alone he leaned in and lowered his voice, "Missy, next time some one asks your name I want you to say 'Poontang, ask me again and I'll tell you the same'." I listened intently and caught the fun of the quirky rhyme as we echoed back and forth across the barn like a cheer at a football game,
"Hey, what's your name"
"Poontang ask me again and I'll tell you the same!"
Eagerly I ran to the kitchen door pulling off my shoes as I pulled open the door. Greeted the smell of a farmer's lunch as I cried, "Aunt Vona, Aunt Vona, ask me my name."
"Good Lord Honey, I know you're name."
"But you have to ask me Aunt Vona! You have to ask me my name!"
"Ok. What's your name?" she asked.
"Poontang! Ask me again I'll tell you the same!" I proudly yelled back, big grin on my face, I watched her eyes turn in her head, as she reached for the broom all the while chasing Pop's laugh out the door, and down the hill.
Friday, February 5, 2010
Perspective
I was raised by fundamentalists. Sunday, go to meeting, types who tried their best to instill upon us Christian values as they knew them:
Be kind to strangers
Don't lie
Don't steal
Don't take God's name in vain
Respect your elders
Protect your children
Don't Judge unless you want to be Judged
They tried not to be judgmental, but there would be the occasional head shake, or quiet tsk, when certain community names were mentioned, or services offered. They took the King James translation of the Bible literally for the most part, but sometimes there would be a back spin put on a traditional tale. Occasionally, there would even be the hushed confession that maybe the Bible wasn't completely right, for instance Adam and Eve were not kicked out for eating fruit from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. They were kicked out because God could no longer trust them not to eat from the Tree of Life
One quiet Sunday my very devout Aunt Vona said, "Honey, I know you have questions. I just want you to know that the Bible was written by men, and men don't always get everything quite right." This was startling to hear coming from the Auntie who would chastise us for every, "Gol Darn!" that we uttered because she, ". . .knew what we were really thinking".
Suspicious that I might be setting myself up I asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well, you know that part where it says that Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden because they ate from the forbidden fruit?"
"Yes"
"Well, most people think it was an apple. I know that it was NOT an apple!"
"How do you know that Auntie?"
"Well, an apple is one of the most perfect foods. You can live a long time just eating apples. God doesn't make mistakes. He always intended for us to eat apples."
"What do YOU think it was?"
A very strong confident look came over her face as she boldly pronounced, "Why, I think it was a peach!"
When i started working on our family tree she was thrilled. When I told her we were cousins to Jesus she was estatic. I was a bit nervous to tell her that one legend had an ancestor marrying the Devil's daughter. Curious as to what her reaction would be I could contain my news no longer and called and told her the tale. That after marrying the devil's own daughter, Messalina, the children from this line were prone to tantrums and willful behavior. i did not expect her to take the news well , but I was shocked when she suddenly screamed, "Hallelujah! I thought when those boys were growing up it was something I did wrong. Now I know it was just bad blood!" Life is always about the perspective.
Be kind to strangers
Don't lie
Don't steal
Don't take God's name in vain
Respect your elders
Protect your children
Don't Judge unless you want to be Judged
They tried not to be judgmental, but there would be the occasional head shake, or quiet tsk, when certain community names were mentioned, or services offered. They took the King James translation of the Bible literally for the most part, but sometimes there would be a back spin put on a traditional tale. Occasionally, there would even be the hushed confession that maybe the Bible wasn't completely right, for instance Adam and Eve were not kicked out for eating fruit from the forbidden Tree of Knowledge. They were kicked out because God could no longer trust them not to eat from the Tree of Life
One quiet Sunday my very devout Aunt Vona said, "Honey, I know you have questions. I just want you to know that the Bible was written by men, and men don't always get everything quite right." This was startling to hear coming from the Auntie who would chastise us for every, "Gol Darn!" that we uttered because she, ". . .knew what we were really thinking".
Suspicious that I might be setting myself up I asked, "What do you mean?"
"Well, you know that part where it says that Adam and Eve were kicked out of the Garden of Eden because they ate from the forbidden fruit?"
"Yes"
"Well, most people think it was an apple. I know that it was NOT an apple!"
"How do you know that Auntie?"
"Well, an apple is one of the most perfect foods. You can live a long time just eating apples. God doesn't make mistakes. He always intended for us to eat apples."
"What do YOU think it was?"
A very strong confident look came over her face as she boldly pronounced, "Why, I think it was a peach!"
When i started working on our family tree she was thrilled. When I told her we were cousins to Jesus she was estatic. I was a bit nervous to tell her that one legend had an ancestor marrying the Devil's daughter. Curious as to what her reaction would be I could contain my news no longer and called and told her the tale. That after marrying the devil's own daughter, Messalina, the children from this line were prone to tantrums and willful behavior. i did not expect her to take the news well , but I was shocked when she suddenly screamed, "Hallelujah! I thought when those boys were growing up it was something I did wrong. Now I know it was just bad blood!" Life is always about the perspective.
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Warts, Words, and Wards
My grandmother had a lot of power. Stoic, observant, selective about offering her opinions, she once said that she had aquired a tumor under her tongue from trying to swallow it. Still when she did speak you listened. You didn't have to be encouraged to listen. The quiet power of her voice resonated off something inside us that made it impossible not to believe everything she said without question.
Around puberty I found myself afflicted with seed warts under my nails, across my palms, on my finger tops. I tried everything to remove them. Doctors burned them off, Compound W was applied by the gallon, but in spite of being cut, burned and covered in any number of toxic substances in a vain attempt to remove this bane of my adolescent existence. After several months in complete despair of ever having soft, feminine wart free hands that were capable of gently holding someone else's hand at the skating rink, I was in a state of complete pubescent agony. Grandma quietly spoke up, "Honey, if you want to get rid of those things take this piece of black cotton thread and tie a knot in it for every wart. Bury it, forget it, don't tell a soul, and when the string rots all those nasty things will be gone."
I looked at her a bit disbelieving, careful not to voice my doubt, such disbelief would not do in front of Saint Sadie. I took the length of string, out the back door, carefully counting the warts on my hands as I went, wrapping knots, and thinking of the perfect place to bury my agony. I can't remember spending another day thinking about my warts.
I'm not sure how long it took for them to disappear, or why they never came back. I just know that it worked for me and my brother, and that even though I still do not have the perfect feminine extremity's, (in fact my sons refer to them as Mom's mitts), they have been since the day of Grandma's advice, blemish free.
Around puberty I found myself afflicted with seed warts under my nails, across my palms, on my finger tops. I tried everything to remove them. Doctors burned them off, Compound W was applied by the gallon, but in spite of being cut, burned and covered in any number of toxic substances in a vain attempt to remove this bane of my adolescent existence. After several months in complete despair of ever having soft, feminine wart free hands that were capable of gently holding someone else's hand at the skating rink, I was in a state of complete pubescent agony. Grandma quietly spoke up, "Honey, if you want to get rid of those things take this piece of black cotton thread and tie a knot in it for every wart. Bury it, forget it, don't tell a soul, and when the string rots all those nasty things will be gone."
I looked at her a bit disbelieving, careful not to voice my doubt, such disbelief would not do in front of Saint Sadie. I took the length of string, out the back door, carefully counting the warts on my hands as I went, wrapping knots, and thinking of the perfect place to bury my agony. I can't remember spending another day thinking about my warts.
I'm not sure how long it took for them to disappear, or why they never came back. I just know that it worked for me and my brother, and that even though I still do not have the perfect feminine extremity's, (in fact my sons refer to them as Mom's mitts), they have been since the day of Grandma's advice, blemish free.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Sadie's Girl
I will, and always have been, Sadie's girl, of course if she heard me call her Sadie she would have pulled out the fly swatter, chased me through the screen out into the yard all the while entreating me with, "Good Lord Honey, when will you learn?"
The only one who ever got away with calling her Sadie was her youngest brother, George Raymond Hendricks, our dear "Uncle Ray". He would arrive every year with a box of Hershey bars from his roadside cafe in Black Hawk, Colorado, (where, according to the family history, he was Mayor for at least one term), proudly called "Ray & Anne's". One of the finer establishments in the quaint mountain village aspiring to be a city amid the boulders. They proudly displayed Anne's art and velvety rug hangings in rich colors of peacock, elk, and the various ages of Jesus. Each year they would arrive with a different rug, as appeasement, for the Hershey bars, (and moonshine), they were about to dispense, (and to make room for more of Anne's art on the walls of their establishment).
Hidden, somewhere in the bottom of my gregarious Uncle's luggage, wrapped in white t shirts that he would wear under his freshly pressed, long sleeved, light cotton, shirts, was a glass mason jar filled to the rim with liquid as clear as the finest spring water with a bite that burned like liquid lightening as soon as it passed your lips until it reached the bottom of your soles, and if you were still breathing at that point he'd smile and ask, "Need another?"Everyone knew that Grandma didn't approve, and so Uncle Ray would make a production of passing out his special treats of chocolate for the children and something stronger for the men in front of her because, "you should never do anything you're not proud of kids. . ." Until there would be about a cup left in the bottom of the jar. This he would carefully reseal and hand to Grandma who would roll her eyes and say, "I have what you left me last year." He'd laugh, a deep chuckle that rumbled the house, like thunder accompaning his white lightening and reply, "Sadie, you never know, you might need it, for "medicinal" uses," he'd smile and exclaim, "or I might!" Triumphantly adding to last year's jar.
She never indulged as far as I knew. There was a rumor that one of the twins had spiked the punch at a wedding without telling her choosing to see how she'd act when helped, but she never smelled of anything but vanilla to me. However, whenever it was mentioned, she'd get a sour look, and sigh and she refused to go anywhere with them for any extended periods of time again.
During one family conversation that was meant to encourage my piano practice she told me how she had played piano for the silent movies to support herself and Uncle Ray piped in, "and for the Speak Easy Sadie! Don't forget that!" Grandma rolled her eyes and replied, "Well Ray, that may be true but you know I was a good Baptist and I didn't drink or dance."
"But I know you watched Sadie, I know you watched."
"No law against watching Ray", and they both laughed.
I do remember one time when my brother had the measles accompanied by a high fever that wouldn't "break". After many grueling hours Grandma's solution was, "Give him a shot of whiskey, Liz." Which my mother promptly did, but it wasn't whiskey, it was Missouri moonshine, from Uncle Ray's mason jar in the back of the cupboard. The only liqour in the house. Hidden every year like clockwork just like Uncle Ray's arrival to hunt elk and mule tale deer in the Blue Mountains for a couple of weeks, or month with his nephews and great nephews. Most of this venison he'd leave in our freezer because, "Oh you know it will just spoil before I get it home." Sometimes we'd get lucky and he'd stay until Thanksgiving, teasing my mother, and grandmother, indulging me, and giving my brother a taste of what it would have been like if our father had lived, until my brother idolized him so much he later changed his own name to Ray.
I asked Grandma once why she didn't like being called Sadie, (not that I, or anyone in the neighborhood, ever called her anything but Grandma), and she said, "Sadie's a young girl's name." "You let Uncle Ray call you Sadie."
She rolled her eyes like always when Uncle Ray's name came up and sighed, "Like anything can stop Ray." Still I knew he was her favorite, and she was his. We'd spend all year marking the days off the calendar until their next visit like other families counted the days till Christmas or birthdays.
A blood clot finally stopped Uncle Ray on one of those fine November mornings that accompanied his visits. The doctor said it probably came loose as he raised his leg to kick my mom's bottom, because he always thought she needed it lifted. He made it back to "his" rocker the male version of Grandma's, laid his head on his shoulder, and mid sentence passed from our lives, forever taking "Sadie", and the last of Grandma's youth, with him.
The only one who ever got away with calling her Sadie was her youngest brother, George Raymond Hendricks, our dear "Uncle Ray". He would arrive every year with a box of Hershey bars from his roadside cafe in Black Hawk, Colorado, (where, according to the family history, he was Mayor for at least one term), proudly called "Ray & Anne's". One of the finer establishments in the quaint mountain village aspiring to be a city amid the boulders. They proudly displayed Anne's art and velvety rug hangings in rich colors of peacock, elk, and the various ages of Jesus. Each year they would arrive with a different rug, as appeasement, for the Hershey bars, (and moonshine), they were about to dispense, (and to make room for more of Anne's art on the walls of their establishment).
Hidden, somewhere in the bottom of my gregarious Uncle's luggage, wrapped in white t shirts that he would wear under his freshly pressed, long sleeved, light cotton, shirts, was a glass mason jar filled to the rim with liquid as clear as the finest spring water with a bite that burned like liquid lightening as soon as it passed your lips until it reached the bottom of your soles, and if you were still breathing at that point he'd smile and ask, "Need another?"Everyone knew that Grandma didn't approve, and so Uncle Ray would make a production of passing out his special treats of chocolate for the children and something stronger for the men in front of her because, "you should never do anything you're not proud of kids. . ." Until there would be about a cup left in the bottom of the jar. This he would carefully reseal and hand to Grandma who would roll her eyes and say, "I have what you left me last year." He'd laugh, a deep chuckle that rumbled the house, like thunder accompaning his white lightening and reply, "Sadie, you never know, you might need it, for "medicinal" uses," he'd smile and exclaim, "or I might!" Triumphantly adding to last year's jar.
She never indulged as far as I knew. There was a rumor that one of the twins had spiked the punch at a wedding without telling her choosing to see how she'd act when helped, but she never smelled of anything but vanilla to me. However, whenever it was mentioned, she'd get a sour look, and sigh and she refused to go anywhere with them for any extended periods of time again.
During one family conversation that was meant to encourage my piano practice she told me how she had played piano for the silent movies to support herself and Uncle Ray piped in, "and for the Speak Easy Sadie! Don't forget that!" Grandma rolled her eyes and replied, "Well Ray, that may be true but you know I was a good Baptist and I didn't drink or dance."
"But I know you watched Sadie, I know you watched."
"No law against watching Ray", and they both laughed.
I do remember one time when my brother had the measles accompanied by a high fever that wouldn't "break". After many grueling hours Grandma's solution was, "Give him a shot of whiskey, Liz." Which my mother promptly did, but it wasn't whiskey, it was Missouri moonshine, from Uncle Ray's mason jar in the back of the cupboard. The only liqour in the house. Hidden every year like clockwork just like Uncle Ray's arrival to hunt elk and mule tale deer in the Blue Mountains for a couple of weeks, or month with his nephews and great nephews. Most of this venison he'd leave in our freezer because, "Oh you know it will just spoil before I get it home." Sometimes we'd get lucky and he'd stay until Thanksgiving, teasing my mother, and grandmother, indulging me, and giving my brother a taste of what it would have been like if our father had lived, until my brother idolized him so much he later changed his own name to Ray.
I asked Grandma once why she didn't like being called Sadie, (not that I, or anyone in the neighborhood, ever called her anything but Grandma), and she said, "Sadie's a young girl's name." "You let Uncle Ray call you Sadie."
She rolled her eyes like always when Uncle Ray's name came up and sighed, "Like anything can stop Ray." Still I knew he was her favorite, and she was his. We'd spend all year marking the days off the calendar until their next visit like other families counted the days till Christmas or birthdays.
A blood clot finally stopped Uncle Ray on one of those fine November mornings that accompanied his visits. The doctor said it probably came loose as he raised his leg to kick my mom's bottom, because he always thought she needed it lifted. He made it back to "his" rocker the male version of Grandma's, laid his head on his shoulder, and mid sentence passed from our lives, forever taking "Sadie", and the last of Grandma's youth, with him.
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