Ten dollars and 200 miles.

 I do not know about you, but I have 20/20 hindsight looking back and right before the crack of dawn is when I can see all my choices clearly!  Today is no different.  I woke up about 4:30 remembering my last day as a married woman in Garden City, Kansas.  The events leading up to that choice are irrelevant, only know that I had reached the end of my endurance and whatever lay ahead had to be better than the current situation.  Had I remained in the situation I would no doubt have ended my life that day.

With $10 in my pocket and a full gas tank in the 1967 Chevy I waited for my husband to leave for work, or wherever he went most days.  With him safely out of the house, I loaded what I could for clothes in the trunk on top of the spare tire.  That was days when there were no seat belt laws, so 4 kids were stuffed in wherever they could sit, stand or lay and away we went.  I would like to say it was an easy trip, but only 20 miles later I had a flat tire and no jack.  Luckily a boy scout troop happened by and the leader had a jack.  I left the flat laying beside the road and trusted God and the universe to help me reach my destination.  And he did.

I can only imagine the sight when mother opened the door and found me and the kids there and finding out we were there to stay.  She quickly called in a few favors and a babysitter was lined up for the next day.  Since I knew nothing about making a living, I started at the Blue Grill as a dish washer.  There I met a man who was wiser in the ways of the world and making a living then I was.  His advice was to bluff my way into a job as a waitress.  Lie on my resume: they would not check.  And he was right. 

 Mother waited tables at the Red Rooster and soon I had a job waiting tables at the Red Rooster.  There I met Gibby, who told me the cook was the highest paid employee in a restaurant.  So I applied for a cooking job at the Red Carpet.  I kept the dishwashing job and the waitress job and worked as night cook at the Red Carpet. Frank and I remained friends of sorts until he went to work at the radio station.  Gibby and I were like brother and sister until the day he died in California. 

Finding babysitters was sometimes a challenge and more than once I was ready to throw my hands in the air and give up, but give up to what?  Or who?  The kids dad was quick to point out that he would not pay child support.  His reasoning was that he did not want a divorce and that I had the kids and he had nothing so I should just figure it out.  After time I would take the kids to him for a few weeks and then go get them.  I saved babysitting money that way.  It worked out and over the years we could actually be in the same room with out screaming at each other.

To make a long story short, time marches on.  Today my first husband and the father of my children settled down and we shared custody.  I moved to Colorado and he lived in Western Kansas on 20 acres.  The kids stayed with him to attend school in a small town.  Between us we got the kids all raised and out into the world before he passed to whatever reward he had earned.  

I am a stronger person then I was 50 years ago.  Three of the kids still live in Kansas, one in Texas and one here in Pueblo.  My last husband and I adopted one of the grandkids.  I was married to him for 20 years, and he has now been deceased for 20 years. Apparently my mind is still pretty well intact.  Dates are a little fuzzy, but mother always had a way to explain that.  She said, "As life goes by you get more memories in your head.  As you get more memories they are harder to find in your brain.  They are there, it just takes time to get to them through all the other memories."

So there you have it for this morning.  If you get confused reading this, think about how I feel!  Some where I have it all written down and documented, but I do not know where that is.  So just know, I am here now.  Then I was there.  And never the twain shall meet!

Thanks, mom!

A mothers worst nightmare.

Raising 5 kids on my own was not an easy undertaking and came with a lot of lessons learned the hard way.  When I was very young Aunt Helen came to Nickerson and brought us kids all something.  This was her way of showing us she cared.  This one particular year, she paid my dues to the Brownies and bought me a Brownie dress and cap.  I was so proud, until I went to the first meeting and found a bunch of snobbish girls who did not care that I had the dress and cap, I was still from the wrong side of the tracks.  (This is a misnomer that I shall address at a future date.)



The girls were rude.  They were girls I went to school with and they were rude in school, so I do not know what I expected to change.  I never went back.  The dress, cap and pin were disposed of some where.  Mother did get the dues in cash.



Fast forward to many years later when I found myself newly divorced with 5 kids and several full and part time jobs.  Debbie was the oldest and must have been in the second grade or so when I enrolled her in the Brownies.  At the time I was just starting as Dinner Cook at the Red Carpet Restaurant  under the tutelage of  Bob Bailey.  My ex-sister in law, Rosie Seeger was my babysitter and it was summer.  Rosie lived in the south end and the restaurant was in the north end two miles away.



The Brownies first outing was a picnic on the Arkansas River in the southern part of Hutchinson.  A get acquainted sort of thing.  The leaders assured me that they would drop Debbie off at Rosies after the picnic, so off I went to work.  At 2:00 o’clock the phone rang and Rosie said Debbie had not been dropped off as promised.  I called the leader.  She informed me that she thought I must have picked Debbie up as she was not seen after they came up from the river.  My heart dropped!  Then I became angry.



“You said you would drop her off at the sitter.!”

“Yes, but I thought you must have picked her up!”



Words were exchanged as to her mental state and the police were called.  Bob covered for me and I raced to Rosies.  As luck would have it, the policeman in charge of the investigation was Ronnie Moore, who had been a classmate of mine in school.  He assured me that everything would be done to find Debbie and I should just set tight and he would keep me up to date on what was going on.



This was back in the day when the telephone was hooked to the wall and if you were expecting a call you needed to be near the phone.  I waited at Rosies because it was closer to the place where she was last seen and the other kids were there.   I had plenty of time to envision Debbie falling in the river, or some man grabbing her, or being hit by a car.  Since I did not know where she was I sure did not know where she wasn’t!  I could envision all sorts of things and none of them were good.  Do you realize how slowly time passes when you are waiting with a life in the balance?  All I knew was  that Debbie was missing.



Ronnie was my rock through that ordeal and I do not think I ever properly thanked him, nor did I ever see him again. 



It was about 3:30 when the phone rang and Bob explained to me that Debbie had just walked into the back of the restaurant looking for me.  She had walked all the way from the Arkansas River through the south end of Hutch to 13^th and Main which was probably 2 miles to find her mother!  I guess it was a good thing that I had taken them to the restaurant several times when I went to make bread on Sundays.  Otherwise she would not have known where the restaurant was.  She had walked past Rosies street, past  fifth street where we lived and found the place where mommy should be.  It seems her experience with the Brownie division of the Girl Scouts was about as warm and fuzzy as my experience all those years ago.



There is one thing I have learned from motherhood over the years and that is this:  Being a parent is one of the hardest jobs I will ever have.  There is no rule book.  Hind sight is better than foresight.  And no two kids are alike.  The psychology that works for one is wasted on another.  I earned every gray hair in my head at the hands of my children.  And lastly, while it does not pay very good wages every little success; every little “I love you mom” and the card on Mother’s Day; all are priceless. 


It is what it is.

Now they call it harassment. I thought it was a way of life.

I had a long talk with my son today.  Not the young one, the older one who will no doubt put me  in Shady Pines someday.  The subject of the "Me To" movement came up and I was explaining to him that when I was newly divorced and in the work force needing to make a living it was what it was.  Back then women were supposed to stay home and if a divorce was your lot you should quickly find another husband.  When I mentioned that I was paid less then the men in the work place for the same exact work or sometimes more work because the men had families to support, he could not believe it.

When I left my husband, I immediately went to work because I needed a place to live and food for the table.  I applied for welfare, but was turned down because I worked.  I could not get a medical card because I worked.  There were no programs to help me because I was eligible for child support.  Of course there was no child support forthcoming, but since I was eligible I was out of luck.  No stipend for child care either because I had a husband who did not pay child support.  I am happy to say that has changed.  Well, not for me, because my kids are all grown and gone, but for other women.

Back in the early 1970's I went to work at the Holidome which was owned by Holiday Inn.  Fancy place with an indoor pool and poolside rooms.  Top notch back in the day.  There were 2 cooks.  I do not remember the other cooks name, but it seems like it was George.  Our duties were the same.  We cooked orders for the clientele.  George had a helper so mostly he just smoked (and you could have a cigarette dangling out of your mouth and a spatula in your other hand and that was alright back then) and told his helper what to do.  Imagine my surprise when I learned that they were both paid more per hour than I was.  I say surprised, but not really.  Back then it was expected.  Men were superior to women and they had families to support.  I had 5 kids at home, but that was irrelevant.  What really frosted my cookie was when I found out that the boy who made salads earned more than I did.  He was hired after me and called in sick at least once a week.  That meant I had my work and his work to do for $2.00 an hour less than he made.

I talked to many people about starting some sort of union so pay was more equitable and sick days could actually be earned, but all that ever got me was laughed at.  It was a lot easier to get a  husband then to get a day or 2 paid vacation.  When I first started the restaurant jobs we got free meals, but then the owners decided we were eating them out of house and home so we could buy our meals at a reduced rate, but if we sat down to eat them we had to clock out.  Having a pizza delivered was out of the question as was bringing a sack lunch.  We either paid or starved until we got home where food was free.  Although free in not to say it was free.  Just cheaper then eating at work.

I bartended a while and was also a waitress in a bar.  Now if you think my ass was not grabbed on a regular basis you are nuttier than bat shit!  It went with the territory.  If a woman worked in a bar it was because she wanted a husband or a sugar daddy or at the very least a one night stand.  Being friendly brought tips and I needed tips, but not that badly.  A drunk in a bar is not what I wanted out of life.  When the bell tolled midnight I just wanted to jump in my car and race home to my bed...alone.  I did not last very long in the bar setting.

The point I am trying to make here is that sexual harassment has been around as long as I can remember.  The "glass ceiling"  has always existed and it was not until I left the work place that there were improvements made.  I am happy for the women who have made strides, but let me clue you and them in on something, it is still alive and well in suburbia.  After my husband passed I was left to handle all the household repairs and maintenance.  First order of business was to have the septic tank pumped.  Being new to this I got out my yellow pages and called the first one listed.  And here he came.

Short, greasy and with a definite attitude.  He jerked the lid off and informed me that it was dirty and nasty.  (Concrete lid covered with dirt on top of a riser where there were spider webs.)  Where was my husband and why was he not there?  Let's see, after he died he quit caring about the septic tank!  The $100 fee I was quoted immediately jumped to $150.  He informed me that it needed pumped every 6 months.  I paid him and never called them again.  I have a nice guy now who comes every 2 or 3 years.  Just one of the ways he discriminated.

Want my car worked on?  I get several estimates and if they ask about my husband, I don't call back.  There are shops out there who will discount because I am a widow.  And they repair what I want repaired and don't pad the bill.

It is no fun being a widow in this world of men, but more women are making it better for me.  I appreciate that.  But do not kid yourself into believing that we are on equal footing with the male population because they want us to be.  It is dog eat dog world out there and you can bet your sweet ass on one thing and that is I am no longer going to cow tow to the mean spirited little men I deal with on a regular basis.  If I pay they are going to treat me fair.

Life goes on.

My dad loved his horses; us kids, not so much.

As far back as I can remember my dad had horses.  He used them for farming.  They were what pulled the plow, and the harrow , as well as the hay rack and the buckboard.  Hank Windiate had one old horse and he used it to pull the wagon he used as his means of transportation.  Every morning Hank would harness that poor old bag of bones and hook it to the wagon.  I know there is a name for that kind of wagon, but I forget what it was.  Hank was paralyzed on one side of his body, but he could still drag himself up over the wheel and onto the spring board seat and off to town he went.  I think all the old farts went up and set on a bench that was right outside the jail and watched the world go by.

Now the jail in itself was another story.  It was very small.  No!  Smaller than that.  It was probably about 10' x 10'.  I heard that it could hold 4 prisoners, but I found that hard to believe.  Maybe they slept standing up.  I asked Dad once if there had ever been a prisoner in their and of course he gave me some bullshit story about a bank robber or some such nonsense.  I know I never seen any sign of a prisoner.  I did hear all the old men arguing one day because some one had spit on the street and that was just so disrespectful and that man should be put in the jail.  The sheriff would take care of it when he came back.  No one was real sure where the sheriff had gone.  They were not even sure who the sheriff was, but they were all pretty sure he would come back and lock that man up, whoever he was.

But this is not about the sheriff now, is it?  No.  It is about my Dad's horses.  When we were still on the Stroh place he had bought us kids a Shetland Pony.  I am pretty sure he was drunk when he did that and I am pretty sure Mother pointed out to him that he was not very smart if he thought for one minute that he could go into town and do "whatever" and then come dragging a pony home and she would overlook his indiscretion.  I had to take her side in that one, especially after we got a good look at our new pony.  It was little, not like the big horses that we wanted to ride in the parade.  He was also furry.  He was kind of cute looking out the back door at him clear across the yard standing there all alone.  Looks are certainly deceiving!

My brother, being the oldest and bravest decided he would ride Star first.  He got the saddle and walked toward the horse.  Holy Mary, Mother of God!  I swear that horse had fire coming out his eyes and nose both.  Jake hesitated and Star began to emit sounds that only the Devil in Hell below could identify.  He began to rear up and kick backwards, and forwards and I swear that beast had 8 legs.  At that point Jake dropped the saddle and lunged on his back to ride him bareback.  With his hands wound in his mane he looked towards Heaven and smiled a very wide smile which was immediately followed by Star reversing directions twice causing Jake to do a half backward, followed by a full forward and then a side dismount.  Star turned to face us as if to ask who was next.  There were no takers.  About the only action Star got after that was for us to lead him around the yard and we could pet him, but make no mistake, he was not going to be ridden by any man, woman or child.

Little note here on the side.  My brother had a scar on his right cheek.  He had Star to thank for that. Well actually he had himself to thank for that.  Jake and some of his little friends were playing in the yard and they bet each other that they could sneak up on Star and "goose him".  Jake went first.  He also went last because at the same time Jake reached his rear end, Star kicked backwards at the unseen intruder and Jake went clear across the fence and was immediately rushed to the hospital in Hutchinson to get his face put back on.  After that he gave Star a wide berth.

When dad bought horses they were always a "matched pair."  A matched pair was some sort of big deal to the men who had a matched pair.  The last matched pair my dad ever owned was bought about the time we left the Stroh place.  In my 7 year old mind I seem to recall that this was a pair of "Strawberry Roans."  Not sure how to spell that, but I can still see them in my mind.  They were strawberry which meant that were sort of red.  Mostly off white with a kind of pink sheen and roan because of the spots.  Their tails were blondish red and dad spent many hours braiding the tails and putting a ribbon in the braids.

(Did I ever mention that my dad was in World War 1 and served in the Cavalry and his job was to take care of the horses.  He had a hole in one of his arms where he had been bitten by a horse.  I never attempted that horse riding business because I did not want no damned horse trying to eat me.)

I used to think my dad was mean, but time has softened my memories of him and I now see him as a sad little soul.  He was 30 years older then my mom and so I think kids were just something that had happened to him, because he certainly did not have paternal feelings towards any of us, although in later years he did dote on my sister Mary.  And when I had my first baby, Debbie he actually touched her and held her.  She is the only one I have a picture of with him.

Looking back I think he brushed his horses on a daily basis and braided their tails as an act of love. He was always tender with them, but if they did not obey when he "hee'd or haw'd" he was not above picking up a single tree, or whip or what ever was handy and beating them into submission.  Lord the things we did back then would get a man hung now days. I think maybe in my little mind I was afraid he would do the same to me.  He was always just a silent man around the house and we walked lightly.

When Star was gone, the Strawberry Roans were gone and Danny was gone there was no reason to stay in Nickerson.  Mother had gone to Salt City Business College and learned to be a bookkeeper/secretary.  She then found a job in Hutchinson and we moved there.  Dad used to drive to Nickerson every day to hang out at the pool hall there and play dominoes with his friends.  I guess he worked there.  I guess he never really left Nickerson either.

  I guess Hutchinson was too much of a change for me because I skipped school most of the time and finally dropped out completely.  I got a job washing dishes at Skaets Steak Shop.  Then I met and married my first husband.  Mom went to work there as did my sister Donna.  When I left my husband I returned to work at Skaets as a waitress until I opened my own restaurant.  Dorothy worked there.   And now my sister owns it.  A long time ago.

Lot of water under the bridge, so to speak.

4:30 AM!!! Oh, Come on God! Give me a break!

I always wake up around 3:00 AM and reflect on life for just a few minutes before I doze off until the real wake up time.  I have heard this means I will either die young or live forever.  I am not real sure but I think the dying young is already an option that is off the table.  So this morning I opened the peepers to reflect and decided to just get up and get it started.

I do believe that life is best lived in reverse because at 4:30 AM I can see very clearly what I should have done as opposed to what I actually did.  It must have been about 1973 or in that general area somewhere, when I was working at the Red Carpet Resturant in Hutchinson.  I worked nights when I started there, but eventually moved into the morning cook/baker/fry cook position.  At this particular time I was just dating husband 3/4.  Now that boy was a drinker.  (Of course they all were so that point is moot.)

I think perhaps the "drink until you fall down and pass out gene" runs in my family.  Not that it makes anything I did right, but you need to know that my learning curve spikes in a lot of places and is non existent in the other places and the spike and the curve is not always in the upward direction.  To make this story readable, I need to tell you that the night before, he and I had decided to "go dancing".  This entailed some drinking.  The laws then were that you could take your own bottle to the "dance place" so we did that.  Course we ordered chasers.  I had opted to only drink wine that night.  Wise choice?  You decide.

I started out with something called Annie Green Springs or some such innocent sounding concoction.  It was really good as I recall, but of course that bottle went dry and since I was still thirsty someone went next door on a liquor run.  I was very clear that I wanted the same brand and all so I would not lose my rhythm.  Sadly, they did not have that brand, so I receive a giant bottle of something called Rascal Berry.  It sure sounded innocent enough.  I should have known that was not going to be good.  By this time it was after midnight and I had to be at work at 5:00 AM.  At 2:00 AM or so, I decided I had the flu.  I needed my bed.  Or at least comfortable sprinting distance to the commode.  It could not have been the wine.  Wine only has a 10-12% alcohol content.  

When sweet thing dropped me off at home so I could drive myself to work, I was still wretching.  I do not know  just how romantic that evening had turned out.  As for my life the next few days, it was a blur.  My mother waited tables and thought I should go home since I had the "flu" and Francis was quick to tell her that it was self induced.  No sympathy what so ever.   The boss just glared at me, but offered me no time off to recuperate.  I was top notch at my job and even in the throes of death, I was the best he had.

The next few days passed in a sort of blur. 

Day #1  I did not hear from sweet thing and I prayed for death. 
Day #2  I emptied my system of every thing I had ever eaten in life.
Day #3 was no better.
Day #4 was the turning point.  I could keep an ice chip down.  That was the best ice chip I ever tasted.   Praise God! 
Day #5 was  mostly just shaking and sipping some sort of buttermilk concoction that I was craving at the moment.  Some where in there I must have had a day off, because a full week passed with me courting the angels of death, before I began to pull out of the downward spiral.

Now you should know that back when I was dating husband #1, my brother, Jake and I decided to have a little drink to celebrate.  What we were celebrating I will never know, but I do know that he went to the liquor store and bought a 5th of some sort of "rot gut" whiskey.  We hoped there was enough to make us happy.  Since all we had to chase it with was red Koolaid, we used that.

That little celebration was the first time I had the "dry heaves."  Ever have those?  I do want you to know, that from that day to this, I can not drink red Koolaid.  The sight of anything red in a glass turns my stomach.  When I say "turns my stomach,"  I mean since me into culture shock and there is going to be some upchucking going on with my digestive track.  Never tried that again.  I suspect it may have been more the liquor than the Koolaid, but I can never be sure. 

I guess what I am trying to point out here is that liquor is evil.  It makes me sick.  I must be allergic to it.  I realize that I am just not a good drinker.  Nor am I a happy drunk.  Any time a guy thought he would ply me with liquor and get lucky, he was sadly mistaken. 

Alcohol and me are just not ever going to get along in this world.  I may have actually been Carrie Nation in another life.  I wonder what her background was?  Now you know some of mine.  When I make my off handed remarks, they are coming from life experiences.  Several times I have been told that I should write my life story, but no one would believe it.  So I am just going to be content to tell you that

"My life would be best lived in reverse with the brakes on ."

What is normal?

Recently I have had the occasion to wonder, what is normal?  What is not?  To me, 5'1" and 160 pounds is normal.  Not so to my 100 pound step daughter.  Getting up at 4:30 is normal and perfectly acceptable to me.  Not to my 23 year old grand daughter.  Spending 7-8 hours a day on my computer is "normal" to me, but I have friends and family members who are challenged to turn their computer on, if they even have one.  I talk to one daughter several times a week on the phone, another weekly, one monthly and one I have not spoken to in years.  Which of those scenarios is "normal?"
When I was raising my babies it was "normal" for me to work 2 and three jobs just to make ends meet.  Yet I know families where no one works.  To them it is "normal"  for some one else to "take care" of them.  I do not consume alcohol, but I know people who drink as a matter of course.  I don't buy or drink soda pop, but I know people who  drink it on a regular basis.
What I am trying to get to here, is what is normal?  Could it be that there is indeed, no "normal?"  When we were growing up back in Nickerson, it was much like being raised by the wind.  Mom worked cleaning houses.  Dad did not work.  Mom came home and cooked our supper, we ate and then mom ironed a basket of clothes for one of the ladies in town.  We went to bed.  We got up and did it all over again.  My Dad sometimes had a "hot toddy" for his "cold".  Sometimes he let us have a teaspoonful.  Usually not.  The woman at the end of the block kept an eye on the little kids for 50¢ a week.  (She liked to ride stick horses and the little kids would run behind her.)
We were very poor, but so was everyone else.  Poor was the "norm."  We moved to Hutch and fit right in with that society.  Mom was a secretary by that time.  She would later go on to waitress work which paid better then office work back then.   By that time us kids were all beginning to leave home.  Mary got married at 15, I got married, Dorothy got married, Donna drifted off to school, and Jake was Jake, and Josephine was divorced and remarried with her kids grown and gone.
I immediately had a nest full of kids and began travelling the state with my tree trimmer husband.  I remember back when I was raising kids, Ward and June Cleaver were raising kids at the same time as I was, but talk about a world of difference!   A two parent home!  Ward went to work and guided the children in the right direction.  He did not appear to drink or carouse.  That was the "normal" for June but  my "normal" was far different. 
And so it is now today.  I look back down the road of my past and I see a skinny little girl with bare feet picking her way down a road of shattered dreams, lost opportunities, broken hearts, dragging 5 little kids behind her to reach the ever elusive rainbow at the end.  I now stand at the precipice to what, I know not, and I ask myself, "Did I do it right?  Did I do the best I could?"  The answer is "no".  But I do know this, I did the best I could knowing what I knew then with the tools that were at my disposal. 
I got all my kids into the world of adulthood.  They are all functioning members of society.  True, they are no doubt scarred by their childhood, but aren't we all?  They all have a different perception of "mother, hearth and home," but don't we all?  If I could walk the road again and know what I know now, they would all have gone to college.  We would be a close knit family and we would vacation together and talk on the phone every day and be so happy.  But until some one figures out a way to live our lives in reverse, they will just have to live with an imperfect mother, but one that loved them all nonetheless.
So, I just got off the phone with the oldest daughter who reassures me that there is no such thing as normal and as for her childhood, when someone says,  "How are you ?"  she replies, "Mentally unstable, but I am very friendly."
So there it is in a nut shell!