The road we all have to walk.

There is nothing to make one face their mortality like the death of a relative or close friend.  And when that person is younger, that really sends a wake up call.  I have lived all my life with the knowledge that there are 2 things that are inevitable; death and taxes.  Of one thing I am sure is that this statement is correct.  Everything that happens in life comes with choices, but not these to things, especially the latter.  Taxes are dodged by a lot of the upper echelon, but that old death card is here to stay.

I came into this world a naked little baby with nothing to call mine.  Lo, these many years later I set here in a 2400 square foot house with a garage out back of the same size.  Every inch of this acre is festooned with sheds, fences, bushes, trees and other "stuff" that I have accumulated.  The house is a storage area for things I have accumulated over the years.  Some of it is good stuff, some collectible, but the most of it is just things I can not bring myself to throw away.  I am going to have a giant rummage sale some day.  Sure I am!  When hell freezes over!

So this morning, when I woke up and looked around, I came to a realization of how this is actually going to play out in real time.  Right now I am healthy so I am allowed to live here in my squalor and think I am really important.  So that is what I do, but rest assured the day will come when I will either trip and fall down the stairs or up the stairs and hurt myself.  I have already fallen up the stairs a time or two, so my fate is sealed.  When I hurt myself, as is inevitable, my kids will come and declare that I am no longer capable of living on my own and whisk me off to one of their houses to "take care of me."

All my treasures will be rummage sale items.  What does not sell will be donated to some charity.  The house will be sold and the proceeds put in an account some where to be used to "take care of me."  One of them will put the car up on blocks and stored until I am "able to drive again" which we all know is not going to happen.  I have committed the unforgivable sin; I have gotten old.  There is no coming back from that disease.

There are actually times when I think about selling the house and moving into a condo in town, but even that is a stop gap.  Human beings are frail by their very nature.  I shudder to think how many animals I have taken to the vet and dispensed to the Rainbow Bridge.  Wouldn't it be nice if that could happen with us humans?  Wouldn't it be nice if I could be here puttering today and then just gone tomorrow?  Not going to happen.  Their are laws against that sort of thing.

So, today is another day to get through on my journey from the cradle to the grave.  Who knows, it may actually be a good one!  In the meantime, let's just listen to this little song I found over there on youtube!  I'll never get out of this world alive!

And the music goes on.

I remember the place I was standing when I learned that Hank Williams had died in the back seat of his car on the way to appear in a show, probably at the Grand Ole Opry.  A block over from our house on Strong Street was the highway.  There was one block of sidewalk that ran past the Fein house and on the corner there were steps that led from the highway up to the sidewalk.  There were hand rails on both sides and that was one of my places to "skin the cat" if you know what that is.  I was there and my brother came to tell me that Hank Williams had died.  I think I was about 14 years old.  He and I had listened to the Grand Ole Opry forever on his car radio that was hooked up to a battery.  Hank left his wife Audrey and a son, Hank Williams, Jr.

I do not remember the year, but it seems like it must have been 1955.  I could Google it, but the date is not important.  What was and still is important are the many Saturday nights that Jake and I set in the moonlight with him fiddling with the knob on the radio and the thrill when the announcer (forgot his name) came on and announced the show, "And now from Nashville, Tennessee its The Grand Ole Opry!"  And the people at the Grand Ole Opry began to clap and cheer and it was just like we were there!  I knew someday when I grew up that I would go to Nashville and I would set in the front row and I would hear Hank Williams sing and I would love him my whole life!

Sadly, I never made it to Nashville, but I did love Hank Williams my whole life.  Even when I grew into my rock and roll stage and fell in love with Elvis Presley, I never forgot Hank Williams. I remember my first record player.  It only played 78 rpm's and it was scratchy.  That did not matter.  I could close my eyes and go back to when he was alive.  I only had one or two records then, but now I have every song he ever made.  One of them has his wife singing with him.  She is a caterwauler, if you know what that is.  But I listen to her and sing along, because she was his wife.

I remember how I waited for his son to grow up and take his place.  I also remember when Hank Williams, Jr. started singing.  What a let down that was.  Hank Williams was a skinny little drifter with a big hat and a guitar and here was this little pudgy kid who could not hold a candle to his father.  He tried, but it just did not happen and then he went rogue and sang and beat on his guitar like the rock and roll stars of that era.  I never made that leap.

I remembered my Hank Williams and to this day, I am his most devoted fan.  I listen to classic country.  The old song, by the old artists and nothing else.  I do have one Alan Jackson but it is hymns.  Garth Brooks grates on my soul and his music is akin to fingernails on a chalk board.  Apparently, though, it is just me, because they have enjoyed a lot of success.

I do not live my life around Hank, though. I have some Loretta Lynn and Conway Twitty.  Charlie Pride is the only concert I ever attended.  I just hauled all my good 33 1/3 records to my daughter in Longton, along with my turntable.  I wanted them to go somewhere that they would be played and enjoyed.  

A lot of time has passed since my brother and I listened to the Grand Ole Opry, but I still hear it in my head.  If I lose all my senses at some point in time, I expect fully to still hear the staticky music in my head from Nashville, Tennessee and I am pretty sure when I take my last breathe that I will be met on the other side by Hank Williams, Patsy Cline a whole slew of others and maybe they will let me walk across the floor of the Ryman Auditorium.  Maybe they will even let me grab the microphone and wail out my version of "Your Cheatin' Heart."

It is a dream worth holding on to!

Happy Birthday to me!

Well, I survived another year.  But is that good or bad?  Yesterday marked 74 years that I have been riding this big blue ball around.  I know I have good company in the form or Stephen Smalley, my cousin and my friend Mary Lou Abernathy, who I never see, and countless others that slip my mind.  All the kids checked in along with a mailbox full of cards from the dentist, insurance company, and the hearing aid place who recognizes every important moment of my life and assures me they are there to help me hear all the best wishes anytime I am ready to fork over the $4,000!  Ah, life!
I do like to look back at how far I have come from that little shack on the outskirts of Nickerson, Kansas.  That is where a mother and father made a home for 6 little Bartholomew kids.  Now there are 3 of us left.

Here I am on probably the last day that I was purely innocent.  The last day that I was completely helpless and I wonder where that blanket went!  I bet one of the younger kids got it as a handmedown, because back in those days, everything was handed down to the next kid.  Now do you realize that I got the handmedowns from my brother!

Doesn't look like he is wearing dresses, does it?  As a young girl I remember worshipping him my whole life.  We listened to the Grand Ole' Opry from Nashville, Tennesee on a car radio hooked up to a battery out on the porch on Saturday nights.  He is the one who taught me how to bait a hook and catch a fish.  He taught me how to choose the hardest clod of dirt in a plowed field and how to aim so I could hit someone in our clod fights.  He built me stilts which I fell off of and damn near broke my neck!  He dreamed of leaving Nickerson and coming back rich.  When he was 16 years old he forged his birth certificate and joined the Army.  Of course, he got caught and sent back home.

His name was Delbert Leroy Bartholomew, but in the 7th grade he became known as Shakey Jake.  That was later shortened to Jake because he did not shake.  He wore overalls and was befriended by a man in town named Roy Hasten.  Roy was an older man who had no kids and loved to fish.  I can remember him bringing Jake home and they always had catfish laid out in the back.  Some of them were really big, or at least big to my little memory.  When I hear the song "Bimbo" by Hank Williams, I think of Jake.

There is not enough paper in this world to hold all my memories of Jake.  I told you how he got that scar.  He did go away to the Army and he came home from Germany.  He married and had a son, divorced and had another son.  His second son and mine are almost the same age.  My father died in February of 1965 and Jake was killed that October.  My son was 1 month old.

10/5/37-10/31/1965

This was Mother.  I wonder if she remembered that dog?  Seems when we were growing up there was always an old cat hanging around outside, but never a dog.  Not sure I ever wanted one, but I am sure we never had one.  Dad did not like dogs.  I was always afraid of them.  There were always stories of "dogs running in packs on the outskirts of town, so be sure and keep the kids inside."  Never saw them, but like the Gypsy's (who I also never seen), we knew they were there and had to be ever vigilant.   Oh, yeah, and the cougars!  We could hear them scream down on the river and trust me, that scared the living shit right out of us.  Sure made me appreciate a home with doors.  Not that we ever locked them.  Doors had to remain unlocked in case a hobo or some homeless person needed to get in to get a drink of water or a bite to eat.  Times have sure changed.

So now I am rambling again!  I had one birthday party when I was growing up.  It was for my 8th or 9th birthday.  Mother was cleaning houses for my cousin Paralee Morris who was a teacher and was married to a teacher, so they were rich.  Paralee was the daughter of Frank and Helen Wocknitz.  Frank was the one who made Tony's Bologna and took the recipe to his grave.  She let mother make me a little party at her house and gave me a red Cinderella cookie cutter.  Birthday parties are just not a biggie with me.

(You must understand that all this stuff that I remember from 65 years ago may or may not be accurate and may change every time I remember it as well as every time you read it.  So it is best if you just read what I write and enjoy it and not try to make any sense whatsoever out of my poor befuddled mind!)

Enough about the birthday!  Fall is in the air this morning and I want to check the garden.  For some reason I would sure like to have a cigarette this morning, but I am always grateful when I realize that I gave those up.  That was a good change.  And change is what life is all about, isn't it?