Some times my mind takes a turn.

 I remember when Duane and I lived in Glasco, Kansas.  At the time we only had Debbie and we lived in a large farm house on the outskirts of town.  At the time he was stealing walnut trees on the Solomon River just west of town.  Since he had a wench truck and chain saws it was a rather easy job.  Drop the tree, remove the limbs, wench the trunk and drag it home.  The buyer would come by the house and load it on his trailer.  Then he would hand Duane cold hard cash so it was pretty good money. 

It was winter at the time and the business of trimming trees was pretty slow, so it was pretty much catch as catch can as far as paying rent and buying groceries went.  He had wine fermenting in the root cellar and plenty of tobacco for “roll your own cigarettes.”  We did have a black and white television so we were not without entertainment.  Jeopardy was the game show of the day.  It was not hosted by Alex Trebec and I think the money amounts ranged from $10-50, but it was entertainment nonetheless.

Most of the entertainment consisted of trying to find something edible to eat.  Duane shot a lot of Doves that year.  Course it takes a lot of Doves to make a meal.  Fishing was also good on the Solomon river.  In central Kansas we caught a lot of catfish and Bass, but the Soloman had scary fish.  Pete pulled out a fish that looked like a snake which scared him and he beat it to death with a piece of wood.  We found out later it was a Gar.  Pete also killed a rattlesnake on the back porch late one night.  That scared hell out of me since I had just returned from getting the diapers out of the car.

There was a feed store in town and for 25 cents I could buy an old hen.  I had not cleaned a chicken in my life but I had seen my mother do it so I knew what had to happen.  First I had to put a big bucket of water on to heat.  Duane returned home it the old hen.  Her legs were tied together and I instructed him to chop of her head, which he did.  I dunked her in the scalding water just like I had seen momma and grandma do.  To my amazement the feathers pulled off very easily and very soon there were none left.  I lit a paper like I had seen them do and singed off the hairs that remained.  Then it was time to clean out the inside.

I was not very happy to slice through her abdomen and then reach inside and pull out all her innards, but I did it.  When she was as clean as she needed to be, I put her on to boil and then turned her to simmer.  My 25 cent chicken turned out to be a very good meal.  We bought a package of noodles in town for 15 cents  and ate for 2 days on that one chicken.  Course the coon dogs got the scraps and the bones.  Now the coon dogs and that business was a whole nother story. 

Duane and his brothers would go coon hunting with a man who lived a few miles away.  I never went, but he was quick to tell me how the dogs chased the coon, treed the coon and then ripped it apart when it fell to the ground and they killed it.  Now when he brought home a coon for me to clean and cook, it was a whole new ball game.  No way was I touching that to clean it, or cook it and I sure as hell was not going to eat it.  I would rather eat the barn cat and that was not happening either!

I do not know how long we lived in that farmhouse in Glasco, and I do not know where we went when we left there.  Surely some where better.  Funny how somethings just come into our minds.  Glasco was that way.  I know Duane made wine there.  I know Maudie put gas in the diesel truck.  I know that is where I enrolled in a writing class and Duane bought me my first typewriter.  I know I was pregnant with Patty when we left Glasco.  I know there was a championship boxing match that lasted only a few seconds.  I think it was Cassius Clay and somebody. Or maybe Sonny Liston, or lord only knows.

Sometimes when my memory fails me, it is a good thing.

I used to have a family.

I came across this picture the other day.   I am the first one  on the back row.  I used to be young, believe it or not.  Mother is in the middle of the back row.  I probably miss her more then you can even imagine.   The last one on the back row, is my older sister, Josephine.  

The lady in white on the front row, is sister Mary Shea.  Donna Bartholomew is in the center  and hiding behind her elbow is the youngest sister, Dorothy Anderson.  It is sad to say, but there are only 2 of us left.  Donna and myself.  We were ranging in age of oldest to youngest, Josephine, Me, Donna. Mary and Dorothy was the baby.  

How I managed to survive while my younger sisters did not, will never cease to amaze me.  Growing up, I smoked like a train and drank like a fish.  I went through husband like they were disposable items and for the most part they were not necessary to my survival.  I had 5 kids with the first husband so he stands out in my history as one of the few I could actually tolerate for more than a few months.

Josephine had married very young.  Now when I say very young, we are talking 13 or 14 years old.  She married a man twice her age and if that had happened in this day and age, that man would be in prison for a little thing called statutory rape, but back then, the sooner you married the girls off, the less mouths you had to feed.  Not excusing it, by any means, but at the time the legal age for a girl to marry was 16, with most states being younger than that.   I think Mississippi stayed at 13 and was the last to be raised to 16 and then 18.   So Josephine was not really a participating member of the family dynamic that I grew up in at the time.  She was however, an active member, just lived somewhere else.

Dad died in February of 1965 and Jake died in October.  Many years passed and then Mother was the next to go, followed by Josephine and then Mary and Dorothy.  So all that is left is one sister and maybe some cousins.  No Aunts or Uncles and I guess there are nieces and nephews, but I never see them.

I have been asked a few times why I do not move back home.  Back home?  I have been in Pueblo, Colorado for over half of my life, so I pretty well call this home.  But in all fairness, this world is not my home, I am only passing through.  There are songs written that say that.  My family consists of people I meet on the streets and in back alleys that are seeking something that I can give them.  Usually it is just a kind word, but sometimes it is my coat.  My church is my solace and my refuge, but if I did not have it I would still be here.  The homeless and the down trodden are my family now. When I lay down at night I hear a lonesome train whistle from the railroad that runs through Nickerson, Kansas.  I hear the cougar scream from the river.  I see my brothers eyes and I feel my mothers breathe.

It is only in the far recesses of my mind's eye that I will ever be home.

Scared shitless in the mortuary.

I used to babysit for a couple who ran the mortuary in Nickerson, Kansas.  Their name was Lamb, as I recall and they had 4 or 5 little stair step children that all had names that started with the same letter.  I could be wrong on that, but I do not think so.  At the time of my babysitting career they lived on the upper floor of the mortuary.  On my very first night of babysitting, Mrs. Lamb gave me a tour of the apartment.  This included the room where the caskets were stored.  The caskets were, of course, empty.  She did share with me that the one casket downstairs was not empty, but not to worry because the man who actually owned the place was receiving visitors while they were gone.  There would be no need for me to go downstairs.  Thank you, Jesus!  I was most happy to learn that.  Being of a tender age of probably 13 or 14, I was not experienced in dealing with dead bodies and in all fairness, I was not real excited to enter that phase of my life.  Plenty of time for that in the future.

So I tucked the babies into bed, read them a bedtime story and went into the living room.  I did up a few dishes in the sink and then decided to turn on the television.  I hoped I could actually watch something, sine television was fairly new back then and we did not actually own one at home.  There was a small thunderstorm passing overhead, but the television sprang to life in spite of the interference.  The announcers voice was very serious.  "We interrupt the regular programming to bring you this special bulletin!  The earth is being invaded by another planet!  This is happening as we speak.  I can see the forces running through the streets.  We are under siege!  Do not leave your homes!"

I snapped the television off and went into panic mode!  What the hell!  I was in charge of these kids and their safety and the damned aliens were at the door.  I was not ready for this!  I was not even old enough to know what a damned alien was!  At that moment the phone rang and I picked up the receiver to hear the man downstairs also pick up the receiver and say to his wife.  "No, the electric is still on here, but I will come right home.  See you in a few."  He broke the connection and my mind began to fill in the blanks.  He was leaving and I was going to be alone with a dead body, 4 kids, and aliens running wild out side in the rain.  Great!  And almost on cue, the lights flickered and the world went dark.  My mind could not grasp whether the storm made the lights go out or if the Martians had flipped a big switch some where.

I could not call my mother, because the phone was now dead.  The kids were asleep and there was a body down stairs just waiting to come up the stairs and do God only knew what with me.  On some level, I understood that dead bodies did not move nor do things, but on another level, this one was capable of damn near anything!  I did resist the urge to wake the little Lamb kids up so I would not be alone.  I think fear held me completely immobile.  I did learn to pray that night.  I learned how to fall on my knees and dedicate my life, should I survive the night, to the most holy God.  I think I may have even recited the rosary, what ever that was.  There was not even a Catholic Church in Nickerson, but I was a Catholic that night.  Well, maybe not the whole night but for the 17 minutes the electricity was off, I was totally in God's hands and I was very pliable putty, I kid you not!

With the flickering of the lights when the electric was restored, I was once more the capable babysetter.  The kids had not even changed postitions.  I heard the door open and heard the man return downstairs.  Very soon Mr. and Mrs. Lamb returned.  They had been at a friends house and watched the program that I had watched.  They were amused and thought it so clever to present it as a real life event.  I secretly wondered about their sanity.  But Mr. Lamb took me home and paid me my fee, so life was good.

That little episode occurred probably 63 or 64 years ago, but it is as clear in my mind as the night it happened.  Soon after, the Lambs moved out of the mortuary and opened their own funeral home.  I do not remember if they got another babysitter or if she just stayed home with the kids.  A lot of my memories are not real accurate and some are non existent, but life went on back there on Strong Street in spite of it all.  It was many years later that Kenneth and I were in a campground some where in the mountains, and I saw a camper with a Kansas flag.  On a whim, I knocked on the door and to my utter amazement, Joanne Lamb opened the door and she remembered this little Bartholomew girl.  She and Jack were retired, of course and she filled me in on all the kids.  Of course, it all went in one ear and out the other, but it was a beautiful hour or so that took me back in time.

It is little things like remembering that keeps us all young and vital.  How sad when we have no memories.

One more year is nearing a close.

Another year is about to go in the history book that is my life.  Kind of sad.  Gives new meaning to that saying I have always had, "When you are over the hill you pick up speed."  I used to make a list of all I wanted to accomplish during the coming year, but I have now decided to settle for making a list of all the things I did not get done.

#1. I fully intended to have the world's largest rummage sale and empty my house of all the hobbies I have accumulated over the years.  I did get a lot of the stuff moved out to the garage, but that just makes it mouse food.

#2.  I intended to take down the bore infested Apricot tree behind the house and prune the Choke Cherry bush so I could walk through the yard.  I also intended to remove all the Elm trees that are embedded in the fence line.  None of these thing happened.

#3.  I wanted to list the house this fall and be moved into a little place in town by the first of the year.  It is now the first of the year and here I set.

#4.  When I saw none of the above was happening, I settled for making candles for the homeless, which is also not happening.  I did make a quilt, but that is about all I got done.  And I did pile a bunch of stuff in the dining room to move out to the pile of crap in the garage to put on top of the other pile of crap.

Maybe I need a trainer.  You know someone with a whip to come in and crack it over my head and see how high I can jump.  Sadly, even that would not move me.  I do occasionally think that the perfect solution is to just set here and do nothing.  Some day, with a little luck, I will quietly pass away in my sleep and surely someone will think to check on me and there I will be.  It is at that point that all this crap will become someone else's problem.  So I have words of advice for whoever gets stuck with that job.

Put a big sign on the front door, "Worlds biggest junk sale.  Make an offer."  What ever they offer, accept it.  Throw all the money in a box and divide it up with each other.  What doesn't sell, send to the dump.  I do have a will.  That is one thing I did do.

So, now I am starting another day of futile attempts at getting something done.  Wish me luck.

Time flies when your heart is breaking.

I do not know when I met John Tenorio.  I woke up this morning trying to figure it out.  It was after he left Albertson's,  I think and about the time he was coming out of a long term relationship.  He was in need of a non judgmental friend and Lord only knows just how non judgmental I am!  At the time I was doing the second Tuesday of the month luncheons and John had 2 good legs.  I was dating a little (6'2") biker fellow who owned a home just a couple blocks from the place we held our luncheons.  That worked well.  I could feed the clients and then take him leftovers.  Men that tall need lots of food.

To say that John and I were instant friends would be very misleading.  I had been doing this for years and all at once I had this snot nosed kid telling me what he wanted for lunch.  Since I had to lug everything into the building and up the elevator and down the hall, I thought he was just pretty demanding.  I explained to him that I was old and that crap got heavy, so he better just get his fanny there early enough to help with the carrying.  He agreed.  And he actually helped.

John was a born leader and I was a born doer.  World AIDS day is December 1 and by the time John showed up the AIDS Quilt was conceived and becoming part of the service.  Sometimes we were at  PCC,  the University, or the Arts Center.  He found sponsors and pulled Pueblo Community Health Center into the mix.  He found sponsors to furnish refreshments.  My job was taking care of the quilt and I was good with that.  He finally met with the powers that be at Rawlings Library  and found a permanent home for our December 1 service and the quilt now hangs on the 4th floor for part of November and most of December.

Days flow into years and years fade away.  John and I had our share of disagreements and life went on at my house.  My friend passed away  on July 13, 2012 and I started volunteering at Hospice.  It was in that time period that John got a sore on his foot that would not heal.  He went into Parkview Hospital and after a few weeks it became apparent that he would lose his leg.  Now what do you say to someone who is in that position?  I had no words, but thankfully John did.

" It is no big deal.  They cut it off right here and then build me another one that snaps right on, good as new."

Somehow I could not picture this, but John said it and that is how it went.  Off with the old leg and on with the new.  Little rehab and next thing I knew I was sewing a sock for an artifical leg.  One sock.  Stretchy with skulls or something.  John never missed a beat.  He never used crutches, because they slowed him down.  He became an activist for everything he believed in from Native Americans,  HIV/AIDS, Health care for all, Food Labeling, Black Hills Energy, Migrant Workers and Lord only knows what else.

We talked every day.  His kids got older and graduated and began their lives.   John became a grandfather and was so proud of his little family.  He talked to brother Len in New Zealand every day.  Every day.  Sometimes he and I would be on the phone and he would say, "Oh, there is Len!" and we immediately broke our connection.  They talked for hours!

I became known as John's other mother.  I was good with that.  My kids were good with that.  I knew John was tired a lot.  I knew he was due for a kidney transplant on December 17.  He just didn't tell me or anyone else how bad it was.  I am sure he knew he was rolling loaded dice, he just did not want to worry us.

And so this morning, I look back down the road I walked with John Tenorio and see all the signs that were there.  He was my friend.  He was my confidante.  He could have been my son and he was on some level.  I miss him.  I miss him every day.  I am going to spend today letting go as I turn this page of my life and close the chapter on John.

I know some of you will read this and want to reach out and comfort me.  I would ask that you not do that at this time.  Today is my day of letting go and it is just between John and I.  Thank you.

Happy Thanksgiving or the pilgrims progress.

Thanksgiving is once more upon us.  Time to bake the old turkey and laden the table with food.  Time to be grateful for all the bounty we possess.  Thank God for our big warm house and the car in the drive and the money in the bank.  Yep.  Got lots to be thankful for as we count all these blessings.  Well, unless of course you are an Indian!

Oh, wait, I can not call them that anymore.  They are now known as Indigenous People.  Indigenous is defined in Webster's dictionary as "originating in and characteristic of a particular  region or country."  It is interesting to note that the next entry is indigent, which is defined as "lacking the necessities of life because of poverty."  See how that works out?

Back in the day when I went to school in Nickerson, Kansas, we were taught about Thanksgiving.  The first Thanksgiving was in 1621.  Seems the land was at that time populated by Indians.  They roamed free.  They rode horses and hunted the buffalo.  They made all their own tomahawks, lances, saddles, blankets, moccasins, cooking utensils, clothes, and on and on.  Everything they needed and used was made from the land.  The Pilgrims wanted to celebrate their first harvest in this new land and for some reason beyond the grasp of my small mind, the Indians wanted to help.  I think they felt sorry for this "ragtag" lot who were struggling for survival and brought food to them.  Lordy, it went down hill from there.

I do not remember dates and times, but it was not too long before they began to expand westward and the Indian lands were no longer Indian lands.  Treaties were made and treaties were broken.  White people killed Indians and Indians killed white people.  A railroad was pushed across the plains and buffaloes were in the way so they were slaughtered taking away the mainstay of food, shelter, and tools.  Indians were pushed to reservations, and then moved.  Study your history.  If you can look at it objectively, you may note that we came here and virtually shoved the Indians into corners.  I wonder if I went today to Jamestown or the Dakotas and set a table out with all the amenities of Thanksgiving, if any of the Indigenous  would come.  As a member of the white race, with German, Irish, French, and English blood running through my veins, I rather doubt it.

I do know one thing and that is even today we are still screwing the Indigenous people.  We want a pipeline across their sacred tribal lands and our leaders ram it through.  The deer and the antelope are gone.  The buffalo are cornered.  No doubt there is a Walmart in the heart of the reservation.  I remember 55 years ago when I worked as a barmaid, it was illegal to sell beer to the Indians that worked on the railroad.  They might go crazy and scalp us!

I have granddaughters who have Southern Ute blood in their veins.  They sometimes go to the reservation and take part in the heritage celebrations of the Southern Ute.  They are beautiful examples of humanity.  I would love to go with them some day, but I may be too old to make it over that pass again.  Who knows.

So when you carve your turkey and thicken your gravy, before you cut your pumpkin pie, pause for just one moment and think about how you got into your big house on the hill and thank your God, that the first Thanksgiving was not the last.  Go outside at night and try to imagine, as you look up at the star filled sky, what our world would have been like had the first natives of this land not taken pity on a bunch of pathetic, starving pilgrims  on the banks of the new world.

Then tuck your babies in their beds and go put your good dishes back in the cupboard and lay down on your featherbed, secure in your white heritage.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Liz's Cafe in Bessemer is where I met Delores.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Liz's Cafe in Bessemer is where I met Delores.: My God!  I do not remember how many years ago it was that I worked there!  I was divorcing husband #3, working days for husband #3, and goi...

Liz's Cafe in Bessemer is where I met Delores.

My God!  I do not remember how many years ago it was that I worked there!  I was divorcing husband #3, working days for husband #3, and going to school nights at National College and working on a degree in Accounting.  OK.  It must have been about 1981 or 1982 that I graduated, so it must have been about 1980.  I could not make ends meet on an office managers salary, and I was attending school from 6 PM-9PM,  so that left little time for a part time job.  Liz's was a booming little cafe in Bessemer on the corner of Evans and something.   I think Dorothy and Frank were managing it at that time.  They needed a waitress from 12 midnight to 5:00 AM.  That worked perfectly for me.

The kids were asleep when I left and asleep when I came home.  I slept when I stopped and existed for the weekends when I could sleep until noon.  A schedule like that is not for everyone and I could not have continued indefinitely,  but it worked for a while.  Back to Delores.

Delores was an illegal immigrant who washed dishes in the kitchen.  She did not speak a word of English and did not come out of the kitchen for fear of being seen.  There was also another lady there in the kitchen and her name was Mary.  Mary was born here, so she was legal.  Delores, Mary and I became good friends at work.  When I wanted to converse with Delores the 3 of us would set down and Mary would be in the middle.  I would speak in English, Mary would interpret to Delores language and then interpret the answer back into English for me.  Mary was good!  Sometimes she would screw up and then we all three would laugh like a bunch of loons.  Now here is the moral of this story:

I never knew where Delores lived.  I never met her family.  She only existed in that corner booth for a few moments early in the morning.  She lived in the shadows and when the sun came up she was gone.  I often wonder about her and I can see her in my mind.  She will be forever young.  What I do not understand and never will, is why it has to be that way.  I do not know where she came from and I do not know where she went.  For some reason, I think she returned to Mexico.  I can still see her in my mind.  Delores lived in fear that she would be "caught and deported."  Why she was not here legally, I never knew.  That was a long time ago.

The point I am making is this;  She worked hard.  She spent her money in our country to exist and sent money home to her mother in Mexico.  Is that bad?  She had come here for some reason and her life touched mine, but it did not end there.  That was almost 40 years ago and I am still involved in the shadowy world of illegal immigrants, or maybe they are not illegal.  I think they are here legally, but afraid none the less.  I make regular trips east of town to visit my little friends that live out there.  I do not ask for citizenship papers.  I don't care.  They are my friends.  They live in the shadows and work in secret. 

Now we have kids locked up and parents looking for them.  And we have a caravan headed for our borders containing lord only knows how many men, women and children fleeing from drug cartels that are sacking their homes and killing the residents, raping the women, beating innocent children to death and more atrocities.  They are seeking asylum in our country.  And how do we respond?  They will be met at the border by OUR National Guard and turned back.  These guardsmen are under orders to shoot them if they try to enter.  WTF?

I am sorry, is this MY America?  My Grandfather came to this country 120 years ago when he was 9 years old.  I am a third generation immigrant.  When my grandfather came here he was just one of the huge family of Johann Haas.  Germans.  They came with Bibles in their hands and a fire in their bellies.  They walked the hall at Ellis Island.  They could have been from Mexico, just as easy.  I am proud of my ancestry and had they crossed the Rio Grande in the middle of the night, I would still be proud of them.  This is America for crying out loud!

I pray that when I stand before the throne of Christ and he judges me that he will not hold the behavior of my government against me.  I am not sure what I should be doing.  I can not change the course this country is taking with walls and tent cities for helpless children who have been separated from their parents.  I can not stop my government from trading bullets for rocks, but I can make my voice heard.  At least I think I can make my voice heard.  How long will it be that even my voice will be silenced?  How long will it be before we will be watching the parade and putting our right hand in the air and saying "Heil!"

Our country is divided on everything and the elite are lining up and Armageddon is on the horizon. The rich get richer and the poor get poorer.  Our government is made up of a bunch of selfish aristocrats who will draw a paycheck for the rest of their lives.  Until we can get our government under control, we are doomed.  It gives credence to the adage, "You can send an honest politician to Washington, but you can not get him/her back." 

  I am sorry that so many do not grasp the reality of what is happening. 
 

Finally I am in touch with real time!

Set all my clocks back one hour last night before I went to bed and I woke up at a decent hour and felt like I was back in the real world.   It is 6:00 AM and I have been up over an hour and now the sun is coming up.  When I go to pick up baby at 7:00 AM the sun will be fully up and the geese will be out looking for whatever it is geese look for all day.  Why can't we just leave the damn clock alone?

An old Indian Chief said it best when he said, "A white man is the only one who thinks he can cut a foot off the bottom of the blanket and sew it on the top of the blanket and thinks he has a longer blanket. "  Hit the old nail on the head there.

We still have the same amount of daylight hours as we did yesterday, the only difference is the daylight starts a little earlier which means kids go to school when the sun is up and get home as it is going down.  To me it means I can let the geese out before I pick up baby and start my day and that eliminates having to make a trip back out here to let the geese out before I start my town stuff.  I can just stay in town and  "gitter done!"  It also means I can close them up while the news is on and I don't have to miss crucial questions on Jeopardy!

So, now life is good here on the farm and shall stay that way until the powers that be deem it necessary for me to go back to the other time which I do not know which time is the time it should really be the real time.  Is this daylight savings time, or was the one we just ended the daylight savings time.  The government should understand that all of us are getting older and while change is inevitable, some things should be left alone.  My little mind is having enough trouble understanding what day it is anyway, without having to remember that while Arizona does not observe daylight savings time, I do not know what time I am on.  Is my time and Arizona time the same now or were we on the same time yesterday?  It is a very good thing that I do not have to conduct a lot of business with anyone in Arizona.  I do have friends there and I could ask them what time it is.  Maybe I will go do that now!  Then  I am off to pick up baby on this Sunday morning, which I do not usually do, but there you go.  No problem for someone who does not even know what day it is anyway!

So, Merry Thanksgiving to you, or Happy Birthday, whatever day it is and whatever time it is in your world! 

And she never left his side.

This morning at 7:00 AM I was setting in a parking lot at 4th and Abriendo waiting for my son to arrive with my grandson.  53 years ago at the same exact time I was setting in a motel room with my husband, waiting to go to McPherson Hospital, in McPherson, Kansas to see my brother, Jake.  Jake had been in an accident the day before and mom had called to tell us to come.  We left the kids with Duane's sister.  Debbie was 3 years old, Patty was barely  2, Dona was 1 year old the day before, and Sam was 26 days old.  His sister was a brave woman.

We had arrived in McPherson late the night before and gone to the hospital.  My brother was propped against pillows and covered with a sheet across his body.  He did not even look hurt.  He did, however, continually kick his right leg and emit a moan.  Mother said that the doctor told her he was trying to stomp on the brake.  The last thing he would have seen was the side of a loaded gravel truck as Johnny ran the stop sign.  Johnny was down the hall in the same condition as Jake.  There was no hope for either one of them.  There was too much damage; too many broken bones to set, and to many internal injuries to even assess them all.  At the moment Johnny's last name eludes me, but it will come as all the memories of that time visit me from time to time.

This was my brother who had set with me beside a car battery and a radio listening to the Grand Ole' Opry from Nashville, Tennessee.  This was my brother who had written all the letters from Aschaffenburg, Germany when I was 15 years old.  This was my brother who dared to tell my husband, "You hadn't ought to hit her like that."  Of course that just got him some of the same.  This was my brother who had a new baby 6 months old and had been attending church.  This was Uncle Jake to my kids.  This was a broken human being that did not even know I was there.  And my mother set beside him holding his hand.

She talked of emptying the other bedroom at the house and setting it up as a room for Jake, just in case he lived and could come home.  She knew how severe the brain damage was and that he would be a vegetable and would need constant care.  She would quit working and stay home and take care of him.  For the first time in my life, I saw a mother's love in action.  A mother who would give up everything for her child.  My father had died only 8 months earlier.  His passing had made no impact on me, but seeing my brother so small and helpless was about to be my undoing.  So we stayed a little longer and then mother sent us back to Hutchinson to rent a motel room.  We would be back in the morning and she could call if anything changed.

We rented a little rat hole room and called and gave her the number.  In only 4 short hours the phone rang with the news.  "Jake is gone.  I will see you at the house."  I can not go into what went on in that motel room when I hung up the phone.  There are some memories that are so terrible they can not be erased and some hurts so deep that they will never heal.  I will just say that Duane was very upset and took the loss of my brother very personally.

So for 53 years I relive the Halloween of my brothers death.  My husband and I were married on October 30, 196?,  Dona was born October 30, 1964.

Guess what I am trying to say, is today is a bad day in my year.  Probably going to survive once more, but just be patient with me today.  Halloween pretty much sucks for me, but it passes.  Every year it passes.

So, life is mostly good.

Now I realize my mistake!

Fifty years later, I see my mistake!  Well, it is way to late in the game to correct it, but I can look back on it and laugh.  Trust me, there are not a lot of mistakes that are not funny, but this one is.

Let me set the scene.  I had divorced my first husband and my 5 kids and I were living in the 5th street house.  I was working at the Red Carpet Restaurant.  I was dating a long legged guitar picker who was in a band that played around the county.  He was not the brightest bulb in the box, but he was a warm body and while he still lived with his mother and father,  he was a step up from nobody.

Christmas came and of course gifts were exchanged.   He arrived with his arms full from himself, his mom and his sister.  By the time the unwrapping was over, all the tags were lost.  I do not remember what all was in the pile, but I did know the tags were lost.  So here I set with 3 pairs of sturdy cotton underwear, a pair of electric scissors, and a new Bible and a study guide and tags that said, mom, sister and boyfriend..

 No clues.  All three gifts could be referred to as they.  The scissors were pink, the underwear were white, and the Bible and Study guide were black.    I was sure his sister had given me the Bible.  Which left him giving me cotton underwear which made sense because I needed new underwear and had remarked that I would buy some just as soon as I got my Christmas bonus.  He did not remember who sent what, so when I called his mom to thank her for the gift I was vague.

"Oh, thank you so much.  How did you know exactly what I needed?"
"Well, I thought they would come in handy.  I hope they are the right color.  They had several choices."
"Of course!  That is always a safe choice."
"They looked pretty durable so I got those."

For some reason, by the time the conversation reached this point, I decided she had given me the electric scissors.  I would go with that.
 

Then she said, "Well, I hope you make good use of them."
"Yes, I think I will use them tonight!"
"Good idea!"

Looking back, I could have said, "Listen, your dipwad son lost the tags and I have no idea what you gave me, but I am sure it is nice whatever it is, because I know you bought all three and just put their names on the tags."  But I didn't say that, did I?  Hell, no.

I was always a little sad, that she never became my mother-in-law, because I think I could have grown to like her.  But it was not to be.  It was a few weeks later I saw his sister and she asked how the scissors cut.  Aha!  She sent me the scissors.  That meant his mom gave me the Bible.  Since I could not keep my finger off that phone I called her to tell her how much I was enjoying her gift and how confident I was since I was using them every day.  She seemed a little strange after that conversation for some reason.  I thought she would be pleased that I was studying the Bible.

And then I decided to actually wear a pair of my new underwear.  When I opened the box and took out the top pair a gift tag fell out.  It said simply "Delores"  (or what ever her name was).  And then I remembered our conversations.  They took on a whole new meaning.

Our friendship seemed a little strange after that.  Not long after that the guitar picker wandered off in search of some big boobed woman with no kids and who liked to set it the bar and listen to him twang away on his guitar.  I moved on, but that Christmas has always lived in the back of my mind.  It is nothing I talk about but it still pops up in memory every now and then.  I am sure his mom is no longer alive so I can write about it now.  He may still be around, but who knows?  The whole thing is just one of those things that transpired and then was gone.  It was important at the time, and in hindsight was really nothing at all.

Just goes to show you that sometimes what really wasn't stays in memory and becomes just that, a memory.

Happy Birthday Delbert Leroy Bartholomew!

DELBERT LEROY BARTHOLOMEW

10/5/1937-10/31/1965

Some where I have a picture of my brother Jake in his Khaki pants and shirt.  Lord only knows where that is in this computer.  So this one will have to do.  In this picture, I am the only one left.  I worshipped my big brother; my big sister, not so much.  Jake was my hero.  I would like to say he was a lot of things, but he wasn't.  

This picture was taken before he sneaked up and goosed the horse which kicked him in the face leaving him with a scar he carried to his grave at the age of 29.  He ran away to the Army as soon as he could forge a birth certificate that would get him in with mothers signature.  He went to Aschaffenburg (sp) Germany where he and one of his friends managed to wreck a motorcycle and get sent home without a dishonorable discharge.  I was 15 when he came home. He fell in love and may or may not have married the girl, but they did have a son.  I fell in love and began my family and we sort of drifted apart.  Then he fell in love and may or may not have married that girl, but he did sire another son.  

To make a long story short, Jake was in a wreck on October 29, 1965.  He died on Halloween.  Dona Marie was one year old and Sam was 3 weeks.  Somewhere out there in this big world my brother left 2 sons the youngest being 9 months old when Jake died.  I have often thought of trying to find them, but I am sure they have lives that would just  be better left as they are.

So, if I seem a little flaky in October, just bear with me.  It will all sort itself out someday.

Never let your right hand know what your left hand is doing.

Words from my mother.  And taken as a sentence sound kind of cryptic, but explained by my mother, they made perfect sense.  Most of us are giving people and will share what we have with those who have less, or those who are in need.  At least I like to think that is the case.

Most of you also know that I would give you the shirt right off my back if I thought you needed it and I like to think you would return the favor and I am sure you would!  So what is this all about anyway?  What does it have to do with not letting one hand know what the other hand is doing?  I will tell you.  It has come to my attention that some people are watching their hands a little to closely and maybe not letting go of what they give to another.  I do not want to become one of those people.  As an example, if I meet a man on the street and he is cold, I will give him my coat.  At that point I will walk away.  I could hide around the corner to see if he maybe sells it and then goes and buys a beer, but I would never do that.  I have given it to him and it is his to do with as he sees fit.  Ideally, he will use it to keep warm which was my original intent.

Maybe he has a friend who needs the coat more than he does.  Maybe he will wad it up and set on it so he does not get in the mud.  Who knows the fate of the coat at this point.  What I am trying to say is that as Christians we are often moved to do things and give things.  When this happens, we must let them go, and walk away.  I recently learned of an instance where someone had given something and it was sold.  The giver was hurt that this had happened.  Oft times when gifts are given to charities they are then sold and the cash used for other things, like gas bills, groceries, or medicine.  Maybe school supplies for migrant children.  Maybe that shawl you knitted and gave to the nursing home and pictured a little old lady keeping warm on a cold night ended up in a silent auction.  Or maybe the director took it across town to someone who was freezing because the heat was turned off in their apartment.  Or maybe someone who did not need it at all, sold it and did go buy beer with it! 

I guess what I am trying to say is this:  If you give it away, then give it away.  Let it go.  We have to do our part in trying to make the world a better place, but we can not do it all.  If you give something to someone, it is not yours to control.  Let it go.  And if you think that person abused your gift, then next time give to someone  that you think will do better with your offerings.  You could go to the person who offended you and talk to them.  "I gave you such and such and I think it went to some place I did not intend it to go."  Let them tell you what happened, but you should know that discussing it with anyone who will listen is only casting doubt on yourself.  And that is where the not letting one hand know what the other is doing comes into play. 

Take your gift.  Lay it on the alter, or place it in someone else's hand and walk away.  It is not yours anymore.  Your heart is not burdened with worldly goods.  Forget about it and move on to the next person who is in need and you will be wiser for it.

Just some thoughts this morning.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Grocery shopping has sure changed from 1950's.

Lou Mercer Words of Wisdom: Grocery shopping has sure changed from 1950's.: Back when I was 12 years old Flemings grocery store  and Berridge IGA (?) had contests.  IGA was for a trip to St. Louis and when you bough...

Grocery shopping has sure changed from 1950's.

Back when I was 12 years old Flemings grocery store  and Berridge IGA (?) had contests.  IGA was for a trip to St. Louis and when you bought something you had so many points to vote for the contestant of your choice.  That contest was won by Irene Reinke.  As a general rule, we did not shop at IGA because that was the store the "rich people" shopped at, so mother did not vote for Irene.

Flemings had a contest where you turned in labels from cans of a certain brand of food.  I stood outside the store and pushed for people to buy that brand, then save the label and I would go by their house and pick the labels up and put them in my stash.  Now, the city dump was different than dumps are today!  The powers that be would designate a place as the city dump and if you wanted to dispose of something you took it there and threw it on the pile.  People also went there to paw through the "stuff" and pick out good stuff.  My idea of good stuff was labels from cans, which I tore off and took home to my stash.  My stash grew bigger every day as I waited for the closing day when I would turn them in to be counted.

Now there were 2 prizes in my contest.  One was an English Racing bike which was for a boy which meant it had the bar across the frame.  Girls were open in that area.  The other was a radio.  I had my eye on that bike and nothing was going to deter me.  When the day arrived I took my labels in to be counted and I had almost 3 times as many labels as the boy who came in second place.  In all fairness, he was livid.  He had been beat by a girl and now that girl walked away pushing a boys bicycle while he stood there with a stupid radio.  Yes, I pushed that bike all the way home.  My sisters were so envious.  I pushed it around the block.  I pushed it into town and pushed it home.  I never had ridden a bike before and when I tried to stand with my feet on either side of the bike, it was not happening.  That damn bar was higher than my crotch.  But at no time did I think about trading it for the radio.  I just let that boy eat his heart out as I pushed it past his house.

And then the tires went flat because there are a lot of goat heads on Strong Street.  Mother could see no reason to have the tires fixed because it was apparent by this time that I would never ride that bike.  No one ever rode it until I gave it to a boy named Johnny Isabel who lived in Hutch and I do not remember how I knew him or why, but I  made a deal to sell it for $5.00 which he never paid me, but there you go!

Back to the grocery store, we always shopped at Flemings.  They had a locker plant inside the store where one could rent a small freezer to store extra food that was not canned or dried.  Things, like meat.  Not that we ever had meat, but if we did we could have rented a small cubicle, which we never did because meat was a rarity at our house.  Well, Jake would get a rabbit now and then, but not worth renting freezer space for the short period of time it took to go from dressed meat to the table to digested and forgotten.

There was a barrel for dried beans, onions, potatoes and such item.  You put what you wanted in a brown paper sack and took it up and had it weighed.  We were always careful with the brown paper bags because they were reused over and over.  Milk bottles were refilled.  Pop bottles were returned for a deposit that had been paid when the pop was purchased.  Lots of times we walked the ditch along the highway to find bottles that were discarded by people who were too lazy to return them to the store.  Seems like the deposit was only one or 2 cents, but it was free money and we could buy candy at Engle's store.  The display case there was filled with boxes with tops removed.  We pointed to which ones we wanted and the items were placed in a small brown paper bags.  A nickel was usually over half a bag.  As kids we never worried about "spoiling our appetite"  because evening meals were few and far behind at our house.

Don't get me wrong, poverty sucks.  No food sucks.  Wearing "hand me downs" sucked.  Walking every where was a pain. Easter was the only time we could ever hope to have anything extra and that was Easter Eggs.  We had chickens that were laying hens so eggs were fairly easy to come by.  Sadly eggs were either sold or cooked into something that could be shared among the 8 of us, but at Easter we got a whole egg and sometimes, if times were good, a chocolate something that resembled a rabbit.  I will go on record as saying my mother tried harder than anyone else in the world.  She went to clean houses every day and never asked for anything in return, except that us kids were fed.  She paid the lady up the street 50 cents a week to babysit the little kids.  Dad hung out at the pool hall, but as long as he was there playing dominoes, he was not home screaming at us to shut up.  No television back then, so creeks and haylofts and the cemetery  were our playgrounds.

Damn, I miss that life. .When I can not sleep at night, I run up and down Strong Street.  I spy on Hank Windiate(sp) and Jake Smith.  I listen to Rudolph Reinke singing in German as he did his chores.  I see the chickens scratching in the dirt for some hidden scrap.  I watch Joe Hedrick roping calves over on the corner.  But mostly I just watch for my momma to come home.  I have quit waiting for her and now anticipate the trip I can make to see her again.  I want to see her hazel eyes and hold her thin, long fingers.  But mostly I just want to see her smile when she comes to meet me.  And yes, momma, I am bringing the tomato soup made the way you like it with home canned tomatoes and milk.

This post should be titled "Inside the mind of a madwoman."  I woke up this morning thinking about today being Jiriaya's first day in daycare/preschool.  Then my mind moved to a grandson who is estranged from his kids and they are being raised by my daughter, his mother and how sad that was.  And then I flashed back to my teens when my brother and I got drunk on rot gut whiskey and red Kool-Aid and how I can not drink red Kool-Aid to this day.  Then I flashed to the next time I got drunk on wine.  I was divorced and living in Hutchinson, Kansas and working at the Red Carpet Restaurant as a cook.  That hangover lasted 5 days.  Now, the point of this post is for those of you who think I do not drink and that butter would not melt in my mouth.  You are wrong.  What I want you to take away from this is several things.

Liquor by itself is not bad.  Liquor in small does is probably alright, but liquor in some peoples hands is like a stick of dynamite in a gunpowder warehouse.  It is not good.  Both of these hangovers are burned into the deep recesses of my mind.  Let's face it, when you can remember a hangover that happened 40 or 50 years ago like it was yesterday, that is a hangover from hell!

I have been married several times, as most of you know.  And the majority of those men were alcoholics.  (Mother always said that the difference between a drunk and an alcoholic was that the alcoholic had to go to those damn meetings.  So with that definition in mind I must rephrase that to read that most of those men were drunks.)  Henry was not, he was just a jerk.  Kenny was not and we were together 20 years when he passed.  He must have made an impression because I have only dated one man since than and that relationship was strictly platonic until he passed.  He did kiss me a couple times, but I am not sure why. Then I hung out with a younger man who took me hiking and things like that, but that one petered out without even a handshake.   And I am not sure where I am going with this, but bear with me.

Oh, I know.  I have now been wide awake for one hour and 49 minutes, drank half a pot of coffee, gone from preschool to hangovers to death and am now thinking about the 2 half sheet cakes that are down in the freezer waiting for me to finish frosting them, but I had a thought when I got up of something I wanted to impart to you, so let me think what it could be.

Oh, this is to my daughter who is raising 3 grandkids and to the father who is letting her.  And to anyone else out there who thinks walking away from responsibility is a good thing.  Thinking drugs are the answer.  Thinking other peoples feelings do not matter.  There are several things I have learned in life and one of them is that God will never give you more than you can carry.

So when I walked away from a 10 year marriage with my kids in the back seat of a 1959 Chevy and all my belongings in the trunk, I was scared to death.  I knew my mother would not let me live with her very long so the first item on the agenda was to get a job.  Easier said then done, but I walked into Skaets Steak Shop where I had washed dishes before I married and told them I was an experienced waitress.  If you lie with a straight face and do not waver, people tend to believe you.  And thus began my career in the restaurant business.  I held my little family together that way.  And now years later I see history repeating itself.  You all know that my youngest son is an adopted grandson.

My hat is off to my daughter who is now the security of 3 kids that belong to her son.  For whatever reason, sometimes people take a wrong turn and sex and drugs seem to be more important then the kids at your knee.  Selfish wants replace love and family.  Temporary feel good moments replace the fulfillment of the children we sired.  And someone has to step in and pick up the pieces.  My daughter and her husband are doing that.  Not because they want to, but because they do not want to see her grandkids separated and placed in foster homes.  I did one kid, but she is doing 3.  So that makes her 3 times the woman I am.  Daddy pops in long enough to make noises that sound like he might actually step up to the plate, but then he doesn't.  The kids do not understand that.  But my daughter does and so does her husband.  So they are the security  for the kids and some day it will all work out.  In a perfect world the Daddy would get a job and set up a home for the kids.  And maybe the mother would do that.  Right now it looks like that is not happening.

So while I may know how things should work, they don't and there is nothing going to change anyone's mind so I guess I will just call it a day and go tend to my own knitting, as mother used to say.  It will all come out in the wash, or not.