Past Post-election scars

A long ago memory woke me a 4:15 a.m.

Me and My Big Sister

Deanna and me when we were little girls.

When I was a not such a little girl, one of my dearest friends ran for student council president. She was already destined to be the valedictorian, but I didn’t know that.  She was just my friend, Judy.  I hung out with Patti and Sandy and Judy, when I wasn’t practicing double-jumps or pom-pom routines with my sister-cheerleaders or trying to find quiet places to be with my boyfriend.  My real friends were “eggheads.”  Like me.

Judy was the obvious choice for President.  She already served as the Junior class representative.  She was dedicated, she was smart.  Judy was a Girl Scout, a drum majorette, a Daughter of the Revolution, and volunteered at the Red Cross.

Craig ran against Judy.  Craig was a nice enough fellow.  I had nothing against him, in fact I liked Craig.  He was cute. I might have even had a teensy crush on him.  Craig was not involved in any extra-curricular activities, he wasn’t on the student council, he was an average student.  He wasn’t one of the popular kids and he wasn’t one of the hoods either. Craig was the underdog in the election. Continue reading

The Naked Truth, From My Perpective

Sometimes memories are clear as a bell, sometimes cloudy.  Most the time memories are different depending on who’s they are.  One such memory as vivid as if it happened yesterday for me and two of my brothers.  Oh how different our memories are:  the facts are the same, but the emotion is completely different.  This is a summer story.  Still, it’s on my mind because both Loren and Frank shared their version with me this past year.

I told you before about our camping trips.  All eleven of us slept and changed in one big army tent with wooden poles and canvas army cots.  Man-o-man, those cots Continue reading

Fighting the Weasel Monster

I posted this back in 2010.  Yesterday, a small cat crossed in front of the car.  She had short little legs that made her almost slink.  If it weren’t for the slight calico markings on her dark coat, I might have thought she was a weasel.  Mom and  the weasel popped into my head and I started to laugh.  

When I was a little girl, I lived in a big house full of mysteries.  The windows had shutters operated by ropes inside the house, except paint made the ropes stick and there was one window which had shutters that never opened.  I could only see the shuttered window from the outside, so sometimes on rainy days, I searched the inside, looking for the secret window.  The basement floor was dirt, and sometimes animals like moles would make their way into the house.  Once a skunk got in there and got scared, and woke us all up in the middle of the night to a dreadful smell.   There always seemed to be places to explore and mysteries to contemplate in that house.

The bottom corner of each bedroom door had a half-circle of wood missing. Maybe  a hungry wood-eating monster took a bite out of each door.  Mom said squirrels lived in the house before we moved there because  the house was empty for a while.   I tried hard to imagine that house empty, no one there at all, and it seemed impossible, my house was a house that needed noise.   Continue reading

Rushing to save a minute

Dan McCaleb, a local writer for the Northwest Herald, wrote an editorial that threw me right back to when I was a little girl.  It seems Dan gets frustrated with people who drive at a relaxed pace, well-below the speed limit, along some of the winding roads in the our rural county.  If only he had my dad when he was a little boy.

Getting to church on time was quite the challenge, when I was a little girl.

For some reason, keeping track of the little kids’ shoes was next to impossible.  I looked in the toy box, cuz kids throw all sorts of non-toys in there, just to get the room cleaned up.  I found some tooth fairy money in there after Bonita waited a blue-moon and the tooth already got taken away by the fairy.  I figured it was a rotten tooth, until I found the money in the toy box.  I supposed the fairy had to high-tail it out of there before we saw her. Once Johnnie’s shoe got stuck on the underneath side of the stool he used to get close enough to the toilet and pee standing up like a big boy.  I thought we’d never find that shoe.

Anyways,  searching for shoes or hats and running out the door to get to church was the way we got there most Sundays.  We had a tin barrel of Sunday hats on account of six girls in the family.  But you had to remember Continue reading

Towing the Party Line of Yesterday

As soon as I turned 16, Mom said it was time for me to get a summer job.  She drove me around to restaurants near and far until I had my very first job.  The first job, I told you about already.  That was at M-76 Drive-In .

When I got a little older, Dad took me over to Bell Telephone, so I could take a test and maybe get a job as an operator. He introduced me to a bunch of people, like I was the best thing he ever made. Back when I was a little girl, and even since I’ve been grown up, operators were super-duper important.  Operators could save a person’s life.

Way back to the beginning of my memory and until I was somewhere around six, we had a crank phone and a party line. I could get my friend Betty with two longs and a short.  The operator was one ring.  It could be short or long. The operator got the call out to where it needed to go.  The operator could even find somebody’s dad if she needed to.

Later, when we got a phone with a dial, we used the operator if we needed to call long-distance or if we needed help, like an ambulance or a fire truck.  We never needed that kind of help, just the long distance kind.

We had a party-line back then.  Everybody did.  Maybe rich people could have a private-line.  I never knew anyone that rich.  A party-line wasn’t about having a party, it was about sharing.  Five or six families used the same line.  Everybody had a different ring, and you only picked up the phone and answered if you heard your ring.  You could pick up the phone and listen-in on neighbors, but that was rude and impolite and not nice, and nosey on top of that.  If I picked up the phone to call a friend and somebody else was talking, I had to hang up right away and not remember or tell who was on the line, let alone what they said.

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Monopolizing a party-line was rude, too.  You only said what you needed to say and got off, cuz maybe somebody else needed the phone.  If I heard a click while I was talking to Betty or Daylene, or Diann, or Connie, we said goodbye right away.  Dianne and Betty were on my party-line, but Daylene and Connie lived in town, so they had  different party-lines. A click meant somebody needed the line.  It was bad manners to keep on talking if somebody needed the line.  There could be an emergency, or something really important someone needed to know.

Dad sold extensions for Ma Bell.  Back then, people didn’t really own phones, they rented them.  It cost extra for extensions and even more if the family wanted something other than black or if they wanted a Princess phone, which was sleek and slim and came in lots of colors.  Dad talked people into new phones when he went to houses to fix  the phone or line.  Once he even sold a phone for a woman’s bedroom. That woman answered the door in a red nightie, and Dad was super-nervous and sweating about putting a Princess phone in her bedroom. That is, until he saw a “giant of a man, naked and smiling” in her bed.  I never knew whether that made Dad feel less nervous or more, but it sure made Mom laugh her guts out when he told that story.

1959_bremen2c_indiana2c_telephone_subscription_ratesWe still had a party line when I had my first high school boyfriend, Wayne.  I wasn’t allowed to call Wayne, because for one thing, girls weren’t supposed to call boys.  Besides, he was long-distance.  Long-distance cost extra money, and we had none of that.  Wayne called me, and we talked and talked and  talked.  Sometimes we ran out of things to say and just listened to each other breathe.  We only had one phone, so I stretched the cord up behind the stairway door, so I could get some privacy. Even in our house, people were supposed to be polite and never listen-in to phone conversations.

Of course, sometimes sisters can be mean. Deanna showed me how to lift the receiver really slow, putting my finger under to clicker, and letting it up so slow, nobody could hear the click. She covered the talking end of the receiver, so her breath wouldn’t give her away.  She could listen-in to anyone’s conversation that way Even mine.

If I heard the click, meaning someone wanted to use the phone, Wayne and I kept hanging out on the phone.  Once Diann’s mom, Mrs. C said, “Get off the phone,” in a super-aggravated voice.  I hung up without even saying goodbye. Good-golly, love can make a person do some really rude and impolite things, and can even drive a somebody else to be that way.  I felt my heart beat in my ears after Mrs. C got so bent out of shape.

I knew right away that I failed the operator test.  The whole thing required copying numbers from one page to the next.  I never did get the hang of remembering phone numbers.  I kept turning the page, writing, turning the page back, erasing, turning it back again.  Dad never told me the results.  I bet he was super-disappointed and maybe mystified, cuz I was a math whiz, so why in the devil couldn’t I remember phone numbers?

Dad got over his disappointment and I soon regained his pride.  I went on to other jobs, many requiring me to remember numbers.  I came up with tricks to help me remember and to catch my mistakes when I made them. I still have a difficult time remembering phone numbers, but I no longer need to.  Thanks to “favorites” and speed-dial, and a built-in phone directory, the only number I need to remember is my own.

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This is how bloggers communicate when they meet in person!

There’s no such thing party-lines, long-distance or phone etiquette anymore. People talk to anyone, anywhere.  And sometimes they don’t even talk. They message, and text, and Snap-Chat, and FaceBook.  Sometimes I find myself recalling “conversations” where no one utter a word.

Do you remember party-lines and phone etiquette?  Do you long for the good old days, or are you content with more efficient ways of communicating?  Or is it really more efficient?

 

Dinner Time and Holy Thursday

When I was a little girl, supper time was an important time of the day.  I was on my own for breakfast, and lunch was flexible, but at supper time, everyone came together.  No one could start eating until hands were washed, everyone was at the table and the prayer was said.

The Last Supper

Mom said no books, no games, no homework, no newspapers, no elbows on the table during supper.  No radio, no TV, that was in the fronch room anyway, but still it had to be turned off, and no singing at the table during supper. We had a lot of “no’s,” but that left lots of room for talking, asking questions, and laughing.

No matter what was for supper, if I was the table-setter, I put down a plate with a fork on the left, knife on the right, and a teaspoon right next to the knife, plastic glass above the knife, glass- glass for Dad, he didn’t like the feel of plastic.  Of course, the baby only got a bowl and a spoon on the tray of the hi-chair pulled up, to the corner right there between Mom and Dad, no one would give a baby a knife and fork. Sometimes when Dad had to work overtime, his chair was empty.  I always sat a place for him anyway, just in case he got home, so it was a tinsy bit like he was there, even if he wasn’t.

At our house, Mom sat at the head of the table in the rolling chair, so she could get up fast to get stuff.  The table-setter sat in a rolling chair, too, ‘cuz the table-setter was the “hopper,” hopping up and down to fetch things.

Dad liked a whole bunch of special stuff that I thought was disgusting:  blue cheese, sardines, and that white stuff in the middle of the meat bone.  Whenever Dad had his special food, Bonita and Deanna and Vickie begged to have some.  I was pretty sure they liked it just ‘cuz he did, and I had a mind of my own, something that got pointed out to me at least once a day; sometimes it seemed like a good thing, “Way to go.  I always knew you had a mind of your own;” and sometimes it was a bad thing, “Why can’t you just do what you’re told, instead of always having a mind of your own.”

Once I told Dad that blue cheese smelled like his feet.  That made him hopping mad.  Dad hardly ever got mad at us kids, but when he did, it was usually at me.  He kinda liked me having a mind of my own, but not so much me saying all my thoughts out loud.  I figured out later, with the help of Mom, that I hurt Dad’s feelings by saying his feet smelled like blue cheese.  Dads sometimes got mad when their feelings got hurt, instead of just saying like moms do, “Hey, that was mean, now say you’re sorry,” then after that, everything gets back on track.   I always hated being off track with people, especially Dad.

That’s probably how Jesus and all the Apostles felt at the last supper:  all off track.  Here they were having a nice Passover supper, ‘cuz of no Easter yet.  First everybody started fighting about who would sit next to Jesus, just like Deanna and Bonita and Vickie fought over getting some of that white stuff from the meat bone.  Then Jesus announces that one of his best friends was gonna turn against him, and all the apostles  started saying “not me, not me,” and looking around, trying to figure out who had the guilty look on his face.

Judas was a bad guy for turning Jesus over, but I felt sorry for him anyways.  I got to thinking maybe he just had a mind of his own, and thought he was doing a good thing, ‘cuz afterward he felt so sorry he hung himself.  Sometimes my ideas turned out all wrong, like when I took a bite out of the rubber spatula just to see how it tasted, and then it seemed like nobody wanted to listen to the reasons why I did it.  I was just in trouble.

Maybe Judas should have talked thing over with Jesus’s mom before he got the whole ball rolling.  Mary was probably good at figuring things out, on account of most moms are.  Or maybe he should have just spoke right up, instead of sneaking around and making all those plans by himself.  Then somebody would for sure have said, “Wait just a minute now, that’s not nice,” and everything could get back on track.

With all my ability to reason with a grown up mind, this story continues to puzzle me.  Why must the story of our salvation be such a sad and confusing story of  mistrust, betrayal and brutal suffering?   Once long after I was no longer a little girl, a nun asked this provocative question:  Could Jesus’ death have the power to redeem, if he had not been executed and instead, died of old age?  I asked G-Money that question and after pondering it a bit, he said, “Well, maybe it’s good we only sinned as much as we did, because sometimes living a long time and dying of old age means enduring boat loads of suffering.”

I asked Mom that question and she said, “For the love of Mike, sometimes I just can’t believe the things you think about.”  Right after ‘thinking for myself’, ‘thinking too much’ is the next most often compliment-complaint I hear.

Vickie: The Littlest of the Big Kids

When I was a little girl, I had a little sister named Vickie. Vickie was the first baby I remember Mom bringing home, mainly because I was always trying so hard to get a peek at her.  Vickie was the littlest of the Big Kids.  The Big Kids had the most responsibility when we were growing up.

I had to stand on my tippiest-tip-toes to barely see Vickie wrapped up tight in her pink striped receiving blanket in that eyelet covered bassinet. Once, or maybe more times, I tipped the whole kit-n-kaboodle over on top of me and spilled Vickie right out into my lap.  There we were, under the bassinet, little rays of sun coming through the basket weaves, like a cozy hide-away smelling like Ivory Snow and baby oil.  I felt like I just swallowed one of those sunbeams, until Mom sucked in her breath really hard, as if she was getting ready to blow up a balloon , as big as the giant one that I saw outside the Dodge car-store.  I knew that sound meant trouble.  After that, Mom gave me a little stool to stand on, then I could see Vickie with no trouble at all.

img037Vickie had blond hair and blue eyes and a beauty mark on her cheek; not the cheek on her face either, the other one that only people who are really close to her ever get to see.  I helped Mom change Vickie’s diapers, so I saw Vickie’s beauty mark lots of times.  Having a beauty mark means the angels marked you special ’cause you’re so beautiful.  Mom had a beauty mark too, on her big toe; she told me once that she almost got missed, but an angel grabbed her by the big toe, just as she was diving down from heaven.  I don’t have any beauty marks.

Mom read us a book one time about a little angel that couldn’t get her star shined up good enough and kept getting in trouble with the head honcho angel, probably Michael, but the book didn’t point any fingers, you’re not supposed to tattle.  The littlest angel always tried really hard to keep up with the bigger angels; she just kept rubbing and rubbing her star, never quite satisfied.  For some reason, Vickie always made me think of that angel; probably ’cause her white hair floated around her head like a halo and her eyes were so true-blue, she must have gotten them in heaven, and her lips were like a little rosebud; or maybe because she tried hard to keep up with the other Big Kids.

Dad drilled  holes in two boards, and threaded big thick hemp rope through the holes;  he tossed the rope over a giant limb of a boxelder tree growing right outside the house, and voíla,  we had two swings.  Sometimes Deanna, me and Bonita pumped way up high and jumped out to see who could jump the  farthest.  We did this so much, the grass just got tired of trying to grow around there; not even weeds would give it a try, and we had weeds everywhere.  If it rained, a big puddle of rain-water sat there right under the swings, then we had to run and jump to get on the swings and not get our shoes wet.  One day Tom and Cathy, from next door, and Doug and Nancy, from across the road, were over and we had a big swing jumping contest.  Two at a time jumped and then we marked a line in the dirt, so the next jumpers could see how far they had to go to be the winner.   All us kids got really excited and we lost track of where Vickie was; she was too little to jump, she couldn’t even get up in the swing by herself, that’s how little she was.  I guess she wanted to be a Big Kids ’cause the next thing I knew BAM! one of the swings hit her right in the mouth.  That swing almost knocked one of her dog-teeth right out of her head.  The tooth just stayed that way, all loose and dangly, reminding me that I let her get hurt,  until she got to second grade and it was supposed to come out.  Then the tooth fairy left her a whole dollar bill, and a note thanking Vickie for taking such good care of that tooth for such a long time.

We had a cousin, Janet, who was the same age as Vickie;  Janet was Uncle Gerald’s and Aunt Millie’s little girl.  Janet had the same angel-blond hair and angel-blue eyes as Vickie’s, and the two of them sucked the same finger of their hand when they got tired.  Sometimes I asked Vickie if I could have some of her finger juice; she just shook her head “no” and laughed; that was a pretty funny joke we had.  One Sunday, Vickie got right in Uncle Gerald’s car when it was time to go home.  Uncle Gerald turned around in the driver’s seat to count his kids; he saw Vickie there and thought she was Janet.  I guess he was a bad counter, ’cause he had one extra little girl.  When he got all the way to his house, and Aunt Millie sat the supper-table, they realized they had an extra kid.  Uncle Gerald just laughed because he thought Dad was playing a joke on him; those brothers were always playing jokes on each other.  In the meantime, everybody else searched frantic-like for Vickie.  Whenever something was lost and Mom wanted it found, I dropped everything and started looking, ’cause Mom got super-grouchy when she was looking for stuff and nobody helped.  We even had a special prayer to St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things: “Tony Tony, look around, something’s lost and must be found.”  That day  St. Anthony must have dropped everything, because everyone was praying, even the non-catholics.  I bet a whole lot of  prayers were left unanswered,  on account of all the ones going up about Vickie; and the entire time she was at Uncle Gerald’s having a bowl of ice cream.

Vickie was the last of the Big Kids:  Sometimes I was trying my darndest to be like Deanna, who just wanted to be left alone, Vickie was trying to be like Bonita, who was trying to be Dad’s best boy.  Maybe we were always in some version of that swing contest, we just kept swinging and jumping and trying hard to make our mark, and once in a while something got knocked loose.  I guess we all got lost now and then, sometimes we didn’t even realize it.  The  most important thing is that someone is always there to dust us off when we got knocked in the teeth and someone is there to celebrate when we find our way again.

Happy Birthday, Vickie

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