Over the river and through the woods.

Nickerson was always cold in the winter and snow was always very deep.  I do not know when winter started exactly.  It was some time after school started and before Thanksgiving.  We lived in a house out at 709 Strong Street.  I would like to say it was a "clap board" house, but I am not sure that was accurate.  I think it was called a "clap board" because somebody took boards and "clapped" together and then hammered in a nail for good riddance.  5 rooms and not a bathroom in any of them.  The front room had a pot belly stove that we built wood fires in for warmth.  The kitchen had a giant wood cook stove.

The front of our house faced east toward town and the back faced west toward the cemetery.  The front of the house was the "front room" and Dad's bedroom was on the south with 2 beds.  One was for him and the other was for all of us kids except the 2 little ones and mother.  The next 2 rooms were the dining room and on the right was Mom's bedroom.  The dining room had a built in cupboard and yellow glass dishes were there.  We had a whole set.  They may have come from the oatmeal and corn meal we bought.  I wish I had a set of those dishes today.  I would sell them and retire on a tropical island some where. 

The kitchen ran the whole length of the house on the back.  Well, that is not quite true.  The back door of the kitchen led to a back porch.  One side of the porch was for stacking wood and on the other side was a door that lay at about a 30 degree angle and covered the steps down to the dreaded cellar.  I am sorry, there is no pretty way to put this, but that cellar was the scariest place in the whole world and we lived about a quarter of a mile from the cemetery.  Mother stored sweet potatoes, apples, white potatoes and canned fruits and vegetables down there.  There were spiders down in that hell hole bigger than I was and deadly as shit.  Black widows loved that place.  One of the first lessons I learned was how to take a stick and poke a spider web.  Usually it just broke loose and floated off, but if it were the web of the deadly black widow, it was shiny and crackled when you pulled.  When that happened we were to get the hell out of wherever we were at.  Being a good daughter, I did just that.  It was called a black widow because after breeding and to provide nourishment  for the babies, mother black widow killed and ate her husband. Praying Mantis's do the same thing.  I guess the kid's dad was lucky, huh?

The kitchen was one step down and could be accessed either through the dining room or mom's bedroom.  The floor was concrete, which was one step above a dirt floor.  The wood cook stove took up the whole corner.  Of course we had a wood box, and an ash bucket there by the stove.  Very little cooking took place through the week.  Mostly we ate cereal, raw potatoes, apples, sweet potatoes or a bread sandwich.  Sundays we cooked.  We had either fried chicken or roast beef.  Supper was stuff like scrapple if mother was lucky enough to score a hogshead.  Fried carp was regular fare and apples in about any method were an everyday occurrence.  I ate raw apples, fried apples, baked apple, boiled apples, sliced apples, dehydrated apples and rehydrated apples.  I made up my mind that when I grew up I would never eat another damn cooked apple and I have managed to keep that vow.  Marriage vows were easily broken, but the vow to never eat a cooked apple has been respected and never broken.  For the record, I do not eat Carp either, but that is just because I never ran across one since mother used to seine for them in Nickerson.

I started this to tell you about how hard the winters were back home.  Our walls had cracks where the boards came together and some times when the wind blew snow came in.  Not very often because mother did paper the walls, but sometimes the paper cracked.  I can remember once when we drove to Hutchinson to have Thanksgiving with my half brother, Earl and his wife and kids.  It took us most of the day to go and come back.  The roads were very snowy, but the cars back in those days were very heavy and pretty much mashed the snow.  If we slid off the road, sooner or later someone would come along and help us out of our dilemma.  We were in turn supposed to do the same for anyone we found in a predicament like that.  That was the good thing about the good old day.  We helped each other.  The "haves and the have nots" were not so far apart as they are today.

The thing about going to Earl's was that he had a house with a furnace.  It was an actual furnace and blew hot air through a grate in the floor.  We were amazed at how hot the grate was and Gertie showed us one of the boys leg where he had been burned by it before he learned.  He had a series of little squares on his leg and we "oohed and aahed" at how lucky he was to be alive.  We then ate whatever we ate and after a little small talk dad "allowed as how we ought to get on the road for the long drive back."  ( I made the drive in later years and it took about 20 minutes and that was driving slow and gawking at everything."  Of course that was not in the old Studebaker now was it?)

Thanksgiving had been great that year.  I do need to tell you that back in those days at the family dinners the order of plates being filled was different than it is today.  First the men filled their plates.  Then the older kids.  Then the mothers fixed plates for the young kids.  At that time it was time for the women to get their food.  When the meal was over, the women folk washed the dishes, dried them and put them away.  Floors were swept and the kitchen "redded up" for the next meal.

I wonder if the kids today know how Thanksgiving came to be a national holiday?  It is this time of year that I pause to think about how the people who were living here in America and surviving for so many years welcomed the newcomers and brought them food.  Guess they kind of thought these people needed help to survive.  I am betting that if they had known then what they know now, there sure as hell would not be any Thanksgiving dinner on the horizon.  But here we are in 2017 in the land of the free because of the brave with racial bias and hate swirling like snowflakes looking for something to be thankful for and coming way short of the goal.

Damn, I wish I could go back to that little shack on Strong Street and get my tongue stuck to the flagpole just one more time.

The straw that broke the camels back.

I am a patient person.  Really!  Through my life I have tolerated things that went against my grain for the sake of  "peace in the marriage," "peace in the church,"  "peace in the job place, "peace on earth," and the whole nine yards.  I am generally a peace loving person, but when I get a belly full, I am done.  I tolerated my first husbands drinking and general bad behavior for 10 years and then I was done.  Kit and caboodle was out of there.  I lasted 6 years at my first job until the boss got under my skin one too many times, and out the door I went.  It took me 2 years to leave the church I attended for 15 years before I started attending First Church.  I was seeing a guy for the last 5 years, but then I reached the point where, "Nope!  not this time.  I deserve better than this."  So here I set reflecting on just what I am going to get sick and tired of next.

Mother taught me well, the lessons of life.  She always told me that "some day you will have a belly full of that and it will all change."  "Oh, but momma, I love him so." And when I came dragging in with my kids in tow, asking for a place to stay, she simply said, "So what was the straw that broke the camel's back?"  Reflecting back on that particular time in my life, I do not remember.  Like she said, I just got my belly full.  One indignity at a time, one day at a time, one word at a time and it all adds up to a load that I could no longer carry.

Same with the church.  I loved that church.  That church helped me over rough spots when I was first aware of the AIDS epidemic.  That church was there when we adopted our grandson.  And that church saw me through losing my husband.  But then one straw at a time, they changed direction and made choices that I thought were unfair.  I tried to right them, but the camel could not carry me through.  And so I left.

The jobs were always easy to walk away from, because I figure if I am working 8-9 hours a day in an environment where I am happy and feel appreciated, I can tolerate the customers and the demands, but I can not survive in an atmosphere of discontent.  Not happening.

As for the last boyfriend, he was just that.  Not going to try that again.  I can not blame him.  The personality that I perceived was not the personality that was his true inner self.  There are traits I must have in friends and I do not know if he changed or his true self came out, but either way, history has stepped in and that is water under the bridge.  It takes a helluvaman to walk through life with me.  And as the saying goes, "Many are called, but few are chosen."  (That one may have came from the Bible and not from Mother.)

So, now let's get back to looking for that camel I was talking about.  Right now, I am taking a hiatus from life as I know it.  I have been Don Quixote for too many years.  I have tilted my blade at Homophobics, AIDS, DACA, Homelessness, Poverty, the environment, politics, animal welfare, domestic violence, adoption, Black lives matter, all lives matter, Indigenous people, NFL kneeling,
and God only knows what else.  I have retired from Hospice, Posada, Save the Whales and am now setting at home and looking at the mess I have made of my life.

I have a house full of junk because I have ran through the gambit of ceramics, sewing, quilting, knitting, weaving, gardening, and any other hobby you can conceive.  I have every item ever needed to do any hobby you think could have been invented.  I am old.  I want a house I can live in that does not have 4 levels and a yard I can look at and not have to mow for 2 hours once a week.  My dogs are old.  My geese are old.  Cat: not so much.

I can close my eyes and see that little mother of mine looking down with her fingers over her mouth and the twinkle in her bright little hazel eyes and asking me,  "So what did you think was going to happen when you started all this?  And just which straw broke this camel's back?"

Thanks, mom!

I was born a truck driver.

Woke up this morning thinking of the first time I was ever behind the wheel of a vehicle and flashed back to when I was 14 years old and had been farmed out to a family where the mom and dad both worked and lived on a working farm.  They had 2 sons.  One was named Billy and the other may or may not have been named Donnie.  Little bit fuzzy on how old they were even.  I do know I was picked up on Sunday night and returned home on Saturday morning.  It was kind of nice though because the house had running water and I had my own little bed in a tiny room right under the attic eave.  May have been small, but it was a lot more than I had at home.  It did not have a door.  It had one at one time, but for some reason it did not have one anymore, but I did not care.  I was safe.  Hotter than hell, but safe.

The mother sold Stanley products so she was gone most of the day.  The father worked at a farm equipment store in Hutch as a salesman so he was also gone.  My job was to tend the boys, and the chickens, and watch the old sow which was due to drop her piggies soon.  And as luck would have it she decided to do that one day just before the mom and dad came home.  She also began to eat them!  Remember that I was 14 and probably weighed in at 50 pounds soaking wet.  I stood no chance against a 300-400 pound sow in the throes of birth, but I tried.  I grabbed a couple of the babies and put them in a box.  She was very mad and I could not get to any more.  The boys were terrified when dad came home.  He immediately got his gun and dispensed the sow to the promised land and by then a friend was there and the boys and I were sent inside.  There were a few piggies saved and I have blocked the rest of what happened from my mind and that is how I survived a lot of my life.  Sometimes not remembering is a good thing.

But that has nothing to do with my first driving experience, does it?

The time came that a harvest was upon the land.  This family owned land here and there so there was a need to move from field to field which worked well most of the time since the hired hands were there to do it.  I stayed at home with the boys and it was not until harvest was over and all the equipment needed to be brought home that I was pressed into service.  Everything was moved except the last piece which was a big grain hauling truck.  Not an 18 wheeler, (Thank God!) but way bigger than a pickup.  The wife explained to me how simple this would be to drive.  Needless to say, this was a stick shift.  I knew what a stick shift was and I knew what a clutch was and I knew what a brake was.

"You just push the clutch in, start the truck, let the clutch out slowly and it is in low gear so you just give it a little gas and coast the mile to the farm."  OK.  That sounded simple enough and after a couple times of killing it and restarting it, I was off.  And then I remembered the bridge and the left hand turn I had to take.  I sweated blood until I was across the bridge and headed down the straightaway.  The fact that I had made it across the bridge AND negotiated the left hand turn exhilarated me!  I just had to putt on down the road to the driveway and turn right, go a few yards and stop.  I prayed I would not miss the driveway because there was no way in hell I would ever get it in reverse.  I envisioned having to drive around a section (what land in the country is divided into) to get another chance, so I was ready when the drive came up and I whipped around the corner, steered to the center of the yard and turned the key to the off position.  Then and only then, did I let myself breathe a sigh of relief and pride welled up in my throat.  I had done it!  I had driven that big truck across a bridge and around 2 corners!  I began to dream of the day I could drive and have my own car.  And here I am.

Not to be boasting, as pride goeth before a fall and a haughty spirit before destruction,  but, here I am 60+ years later and I have a perfectly clean driving record.  No dings in my car from me.  The ones that are there were there when I got the car.  No tickets for anything.  I do have a lead foot at times, but don't we all?  I was pulled over one night long ago in Fowler, but I think the cop was thinking to put the moves on me since I was a woman presumably alone at 1:00 in the morning.  Sadly for him when he walked up to the door Bret and Shelly awoke and wanted to know what was going on now?  Did I mention, God is my co-pilot?

I did not own a car or a drivers license until I was 24 years old.  When I married Duane he just assumed I could drive, so I did.  I was stopped one night in Liberal, Kansas with a broken tail light and the officer told me I needed a license or next time I would get a ticket for not having one.  Getting a license back then was easy.  All I had to do was present myself and a vehicle at the drivers license place and show them I could drive.  That and $5.00 was all it took.  Luckily the car I was driving at the time had brakes and such.  I was not always so lucky.  We usually bought a vehicle at the sale for less than $50.00 and drove it till it gave up the ghost and was abandoned in someones yard.  I recall one time I had the 4 youngest and was going to see mother and the tail lights went out.  I knew it was a fuse and I knew we did not keep such things around, but luckily I smoked and cigarettes were in packs with tin foil!  I carefully fold up a piece of that and voila!  The tail lights came on.

(I learned lots of little tricks that would do me no good whatsoever later in life.  The way to seal a leak in your gas tank is with a bar of soap!  When the car vapor locks, just wait till it cools off and you can get another 10 or 20 miles down the road.  If you lock the keys in the trunk it is easier to use a pick axe to make a hole over the latch then it is to remove the back seat and put it back in.  And for God's sake do not forget your birth control pills when you are going with your husband to visit your mother in law!)  And that is my Words of Wisdom for today!

This should bring back memories for someone.

I love old pictures and this one definitely qualifies as old.  This must have been taken in about 1942 or early 1943.

The boy on the left is Delbert Leroy Bartholomew, better known as "Jake".  He should be about 4 or 5 years old.  The girl on the right is Josephine Anne Walden Bartholomew.  And the sweet little toddler who is probably 2 years old give or take a few months, is none other than yours truly.  Isn't that cute how they have hold of me like they actually like me?  Either that or they were going to drag me off and torture me.  This picture was probably taken while we lived on the Ailmore place, wherever that was.  That would have been back when Mother went to "Club" whatever that was.  Seems as though back in those days when the women got together it was for "Club" and it entailed a lot of recipes, and helpful household hints to keep your man happy. 

And when women went to "Club" they always dressed in their finery.  See back in those days there was no wearing of the jeans, or slacks or anything except your house dress or your good dress or your church clothes.  Hats were common and women did not go to church without a hat.  They also wore gloves.  They attended the whole service with hat on head and gloved hands folded in their lap.  Men wore hats, but they were required to remove them when they entered.  It was a sign of respect.  Women showed respect by keeping them on and covering their hair which was their "crowning glory."  Do not ask me to explain the difference because I can not and I am just here to report what was what.

When Mother took us to club, we were expected to set quietly through the whole time.  No fidgeting and no wondering when we were going home and God help us if we had to pee.  Our bladders were empty when we left and full when we got home.  Club was held at a different ladies house every month.  One woman took notes so they could remember what they did last month.  I remember how excited mom was one time since a lady was going to come to our house and give all of us a haircut.  Well, let me tell you, that was my introduction to the "bowl haircut" which was exactly what the name implied.  She sorted through mother's bowl until she found just the right one.  It was then placed upside down over each head and the hair that stuck out under the bowl was cut off with her scissors which were in bad need of a sharpening.  That was a sad day and the next day we were ridiculed and laughed at during recess.  Mother never called upon her for assistance again and I for one was damn glad of it.

On the note of the scissors needing sharpened, you should know that back in those days the "sharpener man"  came around periodically to sharpen scissors, knives, axes and anything that needed a new edge.  That was what he did and he was very good at it.  And another regular visitor to the houses was the "tinker man".  Mother saved all her pans that had "sprung a leak" due to a tiny hole for the tinker man.  He had a wagon with a box on the back.  It was pulled by an old sad looking horse and I am not sure, but it seemed like the horse had an old straw hat on his head.  The sharpener man and the tinker man both had regular rounds, because they came about every 6 months and were always pretty close to the same time every 6 months.

The Watkins man and the Fuller Brush man also made regular visits to sell wares out the back of their wagons, and momma always had her list and her money in her hand.  Sometimes the dry goods man came and he had fabric and needles and stuff like that.  He was put out of business by  Mrs. Warrington, who opened the dry goods store up on main.  She also carried shoes and underwear and just about anything one could want.  I recall Mr. Warrington was very quiet and she conducted all the business, but I might be getting them mixed up with the people who had the dry goods store on Little House on the Prairie.  My mind tends to muddle a bit at my age.

Of course there were also men that made visits and set up on the corner in town and hawked their wares.  Usually these guys were selling some sort of miracle cure for one thing or another.  Those were known as "snake oil"  salesman.  One bottle of their product would cure almost any ailment you had and they guaranteed it.  Only problem was that as soon as they sold the last bottle, they were gone and would never be seen again.

You know, I can remember way back when I found a book I wanted to buy and I wrote a letter to the company explaining what I wanted and then printed my name and address and put the money in the envelope (As I recall it was 15 cents.)and mailed it off to the address in another state.  It took about 6 weeks, but finally here it came. I treasured that book, but more than that, I had faith in people I would never meet to send me what I wanted. Try that now!  They do not want money only a debit card or credit card.  I can order something today and have it tomorrow.  If I took a leaky pan to get it fixed and I found someone that I thought would do it, they would laugh me out of the place.  It is cheaper to buy new, then repair what we have.  I used to stop at the shoe shop on my way home to get my sole put back on or the tongue stitched back in my shoe.  Now I buy a new pair and the old ones are not even falling apart yet.

Well, I just wanted to prattle on a while tonight.  If my stories sometimes seem a bit discombobulated just take them with a grain of salt and remember that truth is sometimes stranger than fiction.

And with that I am off to dreamland.

I will not live in fear is complete bullshit!

I am scared.  I will be the first to admit it.  I do not want to get shot at Walmart, or in my church, or at the school, or any where else.  I see the marchers that say they will not live in fear, but think about that.  When something like Texas, Las Vegas, Sandy Hook, and etc. etc. etc. happens I am afraid.  My government is doing nothing to allay my fears.  The NRA has a death grip on our congress.  Feed them money.  Money talks.  I have always heard that you can send an honest person to Washington, but you can not get that honest person back!

When one of these incidents (for want of a better word) occurs they begin to dig into the shooters past and lo! and behold! there were mistakes made in letting that idiot buy 15 AK 47's and 40,000 rounds of ammunition not to mention the arsenal in his bedroom that makes the local police look under armed.  I have a 22 pistol.  I keep it in my underwear drawer.  Does that make me feel safe?  No.  It would have to be a damn patient killer to wait for me to dig it out and find the safety and the clip and everything I need to shoot an intruder.

A wise man once told me " You never know anyone, you only know of them."  When we have an "incident" like this last one, then we dig into their past.  We first try to tie him (and so far they are him) to ISIS.  Rarely have any real ties to ISIS, but might leave a note saying it so no one will think he as just a lunatic.  Until then we did not give a shit who he was or what he thought.  Ah, but hindsight is so much better than foresight, isn't it?  The why's and the where's are all behind us.  Nothing can bring those people back.  Nothing can change the past.  Now is not the time to talk about it our pain is too fresh.  We must honor the dead.  We must hold a vigil.  Is that really what we want?  Not me.

I want to march to Washington D.C. and grab the congress by the throat and demand that they do something.  They work for ME!  Not the IRA!  When their second amendment right (and if you actually read that, they are off base on that.) infringes on MY right to the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness there has got to be a change. 

Australia has it right.  Get rid of the guns.  That sure cuts the mass murder rates down.  The NRA nuts,  (and I use that word to describe those Second amendment idiots that are demanding they have their "protection") are controlling my world.  What in the hell is our police force for?  At the Walmart shooting so many citizens pulled out their guns and waved them around that the investigation was stalled because they had no idea which gun waver was the shooter.  Did not stop the shooting; just screwed up the scene.

I am smart enough to know that my one small voice will get jack shit.  I am not, however, going to jump up and say "I will not live in fear," because, Buddy I am.  I get in my car and leave the safety of my home and God only knows if I will make it back.   I hesitate before I walk into a place where I know there are a lot of people because who knows what nut is right outside the door, or what I will find inside.

The following is taken from a report on the Internet.  Just a short read FYI.

American civilians are buying as many AK47s from Russia's top armory as the Russian military and police. 

The surge in sales of Russian assault rifles and shotguns are fuelled by firearms enthusiasts who are paranoid about the weapons being banned in the United States. 

The semiautomatic weapons, fitted with high-capacity magazines, are manufactured at Izhevsk Machinebuilding Plant, Russia's primary small arms factory.

Read more: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2188727/Americans-buy-AK47s-Russian-military-assault-rifle-surges-popularity.html#ixzz4xqP0z0q2 
Follow us: @MailOnline on Twitter | DailyMail on Facebook

When I read that the American people buy more of these guns then the Russian military and police, I get really scared.  That is just the AK 47.  Not all the other guns, just one model.  If that doesn't alarm you, I do not know what will.  So you guys/gals hold tight to those guns.  Do not let them take your gun because you never know when you are going to need to save your ass.  Mine, not so much.

89 year old man gets his first erection in years!

Really!  Really?  I got this email today or yesterday and it absolutely amazed me.  My name is Lou therefore I must be a man.  And I must not be able to get it up.  Now this is not the first one of these ED letters I have gotten.  And quite frequently I am contacted by a sweet young thing who would love to share her "unique" pictures with me.  Hmmm.  What is the world coming to?

Many years back I signed up for one of those dating sights.  I would like to meet an older man for companionship, walks along the river, dining out, and maybe a movie.  I love county music and dancing would be a plus.  Must be a Christian.

That unleashed a torrent of men who wanted me to know that their "plumbing" still worked and that their stomach was flat.  We could meet for a drink at some hotel that had a bar.  The Library was out.
A walk was fine as long as it entailed walking to the car.  Country was alright as long as it included a dark road and no music. Dining out was fine, but home cooked was a lot better.  And church was definitely not on the table at all.

Maybe I am just too old and jaded for this life as it exists now.  I still want conversations.  I want walks.  I like people and I do not want to be looked up and down like a piece of prize meat at the butcher shop.  I want to know who you are, not what you are.  Are you honest and trustworthy or are you looking for a slam, bam, thank you mam?  Will you call me for no reason?  Will you surprise me with a doughnut and a cup of coffee?  A trip to Starbucks on a Tuesday afternoon and then check out the movies.  Will you unload my goose food and put it in the barrel?  And will you show up at church just because you want to see what it is like even though you are a Catholic?  That is what I am looking for.  Oh yeah. and if and when it snows I need the walk shoveled and a trail broken out to the goose pen.  But I gotta tell you, I am not holding out much hope for such a man to exist in this world I live in.  So I am not going to the dating sites, no, not me!

Living alone definitely has it's advantages.  Like right now, I am eating a breakfast burrito with green chile.  Breakfast for supper.  No salad for the digestive tract.  No iced tea.  No have to set at the table because that is the eating place.  No dessert because I want to eat up the rest of the Pina Colada ice cream I made a year ago.  I have moved by clocks back an hour and instead of going to bed at 9:30 I am going to bed at 8:30.  Which will be 9:30, or at least I think that is right.  Who knows.  I hate the damned time change almost as much as I hate cooked apples.

I wish I was a goose.  The geese go to bed at dark and get up at dawn.  They have no idea of what time it is.  All they have to worry about is eating their food before the other goose eats it up from them.  I have never been able to check the sleeping arrangement in the goose house so I am not sure who sleeps beside who.  Oh, and there is another joy for remaining alone... I can sleep on either side of the bed.  I always sleep on the side closest to the door, but I could sleep on the other side if I so choose.  Hell, I could even sleep with my head at the bottom of the bed, or I could sleep downstairs.  Or on the couch.  The possibilities are endless!

My house phone is not working and a quick check with repair service tells me it is not going to work for a couple days.  Damn!  I wonder if they will understand when I deduct 2 days off the bill.    Ok, I am having dessert.  It is Carmel popcorn.  The house is very quiet.  The cat has snuck onto my lap making typing rather awkward, but at least she is quiet.  See if I could find a man this good, I would be all over that, but it ain't happening so I think I will go to bed now.  So if my clock says 6:30 now, a few minutes ago it was 7:30 and my body is thinking it is 8:30 or maybe  9:30.  I know one thing and that is about the only thing a man could do for me at this point in my life is tell me what time it is and why in the hell do we have to change it every time I figure out what time it is!

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.

The Golden Years? My dying a**!

Let me see.  To bed at 9:00.  Awake at 2:00 AM to pee.  Back to bed to contemplate the fate of the world.  Doze off.  Up again at 4:00 to guess what? Back to bed to contemplate actually getting up and getting an early start on the day.  Oh, hell yes.  Like I am so busy I need to get up that early.  Sadly one of these mornings I will not even get up and who is going to know?  Oh, yeah, the dogs and that damn cat who have to eat several meals a day all home cooked and chuck full of fresh vegetables.  So at 5:00 I give it up as a lost cause and give the animals their treats.

Not that my animals are spoiled, but they need a treat for going to bed and a treat for getting up.  They also require treats throughout the day for simply going out to the bathroom, coming in after going out to the bathroom, for helping me let the geese either out or in, for staying home while I go to the store, or barking at the UPS man, or the trash man, or the airplane going over.  But this post is not about my spoiled rotten animals.  It is about my golden years and what a friggin' joke they are.

Gone are the days when I could actually cut my own toenails.  Gone are the days when my yard was always mowed and the roses were blooming and the weeds were under control.  Gone are the days when the car was clean and my floor was swept and the sink clear of dishes.  Gone are the days when I really gave a shit about anything.  My bones are stiff, my joints creek and I can not hear what you are mumbling about over there.

I have had some pretty sad days in my life, but the saddest one of all was about 2 weeks after my husband had passed and I was standing and looking at his picture on the wall and it dawned on me that I would never again be held by a man who loved me completely.  I would never be able to just turn off the stove and go out to eat because he just wanted to take me. 
No more fishing trips. 
No more running up to Cripple Creek.
No more peanut shells on the floor.
No more heated debates over politics.
No more watching me mow the grass.
No more walking up behind me and putting his arms around me and laying his head on my back.
No more anything.

I did start dating, but the first guy died.  The second one told me, "I always felt like I was standing in Kenny's shadow."  As it turned out, he probably was.  Mother always told me that divorces were easy, because there was usually hard feelings on both parts.  But when the partner dies, they take on sainthood.  You forget the little things that irritated you and the partner is remembered as perfect.
Mother was so wise. 

I miss sharing happy times.  I miss sharing sad times.  I miss sharing little victories I win.  I miss showing him what I did down in the sewing room and I miss cooking for him.  And I miss setting in the front yard with the animals and watching the world go by.  I miss him.

Well, I need to go down one level and pick up the mouse body.  Thanks, Icarus.  I really have nothing planned for today, but I know I have to get started on my day.  Put my memories away and mark another day off the calendar.

All I can say, is have a nice day and enjoy what you have while it is there to be enjoyed.  Matter while you can, because time is fleeting.  Time and tide wait for no man.

Writers block or at a loss for words or am I brain dead?

I love to write and usually I do a lot of it, but sometimes it is like everything above the neck is out to lunch.  I recall writing my first novel.  That was a piece of cake.  Then I started the sequel.  Then life happened and I wrote the one about Sherman and I that he had requested.  Then he died and I went back to the sequel, but 25 pages and 5 years later, it is still in the drawer.  Or some where.

I lay it my little bed on nights when I can almost get to sleep, but not quite accomplishing that feat, and come up with the most brilliant ideas in the whole world.  It is then that I fall asleep thinking that I will remember and find when I wake up the next morning that the brilliant thoughts have all flown.  I have thought about taking a notebook to bed and jotting down the ideas.  Right!  The next morning I look at the chicken scratches on my note pad and wonder what in the hell language I was writing.  If I can read the words the whole concept has changed and any thoughts that I jotted down are lost in the morning.

Maybe I am trying to hard!  That just dawned on me.  I made an omelet a little earlier.  First I chopped up asparagus in the skillet.  I cooked it a little bit and then put 2 scrambled eggs  on top to cook.  I sprinkled cheddar cheese on it when it was almost done.  Then I got out the sirachi  (however you spell that) and it went on top.  I should have stopped at the asparagus and eggs.  What I ended up with was the asparagus that I love tastes like...  well, not asparagus.  The cheese hangs in strings and really adds nothing to the taste except calories.  The Sirachi  has a taste that overpowers everything else.  And that is what my writing becomes.  It is not at all what I started out to write.

I started out to write about one thing and end up writing about something else altogether.  I call it rambling, but it is not that.  What it is seems to be is that I am just flaky and have no discipline at all.  Perhaps I would be better served if I picked a topic and stuck to it!  Along those lines ....well, shit!  I just lost that thread that I was going with.  Which reminds me, I need to get the patches sewn on that Letter Jacket or there will be no pay day for me this week.  And speaking of "week" I need to make an appointment with my dermatologist before my face falls off.  And speaking of face I need to pick up those little wet wipes to clean the baby's butt with since I used them all yesterday.

Now where was I?

If I had known then what I know now!

My Mother was wise.  Very wise.  She taught me that no good deed goes unpunished.  She also taught me that you can not judge a book by it's cover.  All this was woven in with the 10 Commandments that are written in stone and I am sad to say that over the course of my life I have probably broken every one of them, some of them repeatedly.  Well, maybe not the murder one, but the covet for sure and in my drunken stupors of bygone day I was never real sure whose bed I might wake up in.  Neon lights were my favorite.  My life is a billboard for what an education can do for you and honey, I graduated Magna Cum Lade from the school of hard knocks.

I was moving a cabinet a little while ago and that entailed cleaning out drawers.  I happened upon poems I had written years ago and I would like to share one with you.  For some reason the working title of this was "Abuse".  I am not sure just what kind of abuse, but here it is:

Mother, may I please go out and play 
In the forest by the house today?

May I take my dolly with the broken arm
Deep in the forest so dark and warm?

You see the sun is shining bright,
But in the forest there is little light.

I promise that I will take care
While in the dark cool forest there.

Dolly needs to rest and mend her arm
And the forest holds a magic charm.

I'll make a bed of pine boughs sweet
And lay dear dolly at my feet.

I'll lay her gently; Her eyes will close,
And she will be in sweet repose.

The forest nymphs will gather round
As dolly rests upon the ground.

Then you will see her arm will be
As perfect as it used to be.

Then daddy can if he but will
Take you to the forest still.

He'll lay you down 'neath sky and tree
Then bring you safely home to me.

For I can see you growing weak,
I can barely hear you speak.

So Mother dear I can but plead
Rest in the forest is what we need.

I often find stuff I wrote years ago and wonder why I turned out like I did.  I guess life got in the way.  Sam sent me a picture of myself when I was a Freshman in Nickerson High School and I wonder where that slip of a girl went and more importantly, when did she leave?  I flash back to days gone by and try to put my finger on the day I lost all that naiveté and became calloused.  Or was it a series of days...and nights.  I would like to blame it on someone, but who?  The first husband?  When I became a mother?  Second husband?  When did I learn to be a waitress?  A cook?  An accountant?  A widow?  When did I learn to sew?  Weave?  When did I turn into an activist and a compassionate woman?

I used to tell my mother that I wished I could do it all over again and this time I would get it right.  There would be one husband.  2 kids and a puppy.  We would live in a nice house and have money in the bank.  We would go to church every Sunday and donate to charities.  If only.  And Mother always told me "Hind sight is 20/20....looking back.

So here I set a withered up old woman trying to tell the new generation how to do it and they laugh at me.  Tape player?  What is that?  Manual transmission?  $100 bill?  Phone stuck to the wall?  That is a pisser.  It makes me sad that the old days are gone.  If I had it to do over again I would most definitely take pictures of the old wringer washer with the Kodak box camera my brother sent me from Germany.  I would have a pair of dad's overalls tucked away some where.  And I sure as hell would not have thrown my first diamond wedding rings in the river up by Concordia.

Live and Learn.

Look Paul! I must have stolen a horse!!

My friend, Paul from the other church, has been taking riding lessons for over a year and finally bought a horse.  It is a match made in heaven.  As for me, I have always been afraid of horses.  Have you seen their teeth?  Those things are huge and I do not want to make one of them mad and have it bite me.  I am doing  very well with the cat and 2 dogs that reside with me.  We get along pretty good as long as I keep the groceries coming and the bed warm and the water dish full of fresh H2O.  But something has happened to make me question whether I have perhaps been living alone to long.  I did harvest the grapes and make juice which I drank all of it, but it was not made into wine so it should not affect me at all.

These are my grapes.  I only have one vine left, but they are the dark blue Concord with seeds.  Baby eats them by the handful, bug, bird poop and all so I figured I better get them picked and processed if I wanted them.  Best juice ever and not a drop of sugar in the whole gallon of juice.  If I were a jelly eater, I would have made jelly, but I am not so I just drank it all except what I shared with Baby.

This is my Climbing Cecile Brunner which did not bloom this spring at all.  I was very disappointed, but on a day when I was sad I looked at the bottom of the bush and here was a pretty little rose just for me!

But, now this is what happened the other morning.  I got up and went outside to hop in the mobile and go some where.  I passed this on the way to the car and did a double take.  What!  That looks like horse dodo.  Upon closer inspection it turned out that it was indeed horse leavings on my front lawn.  I was pretty sure I did not have a horse when I went to bed and upon further investigation I could not find one of the big hairy things anywhere on my property.  Not any on the neighbor lady's premises either.  I am very happy that I lock the doors at night, because Lord only knows what might turn up in there if I am not careful.  I do recall in the early years of homesteading out here on the Mesa that I had planted Tulips across the front of the house and I came back from town to find a big cow munching on the.  That was sad to stand and look down in the ground and see spots of yellow, red, and orange which would have one day been tulips.

I also recall coming home one evening about dusk and seeing 3 baby skunks playing on the grass.  My Chile dog used to get sprayed by skunks on a regular basis.  The remedy for skunk spraying is a bath in tomato juice.  After going through 40 quarts of tomato juice one season, I finally talked to the dog groomer and she told me she used Massengill Douche Powder.  That was way better.  Course the druggist looked at me a little strangely when I told him I wanted a pound of the stuff!  I was a tad naïve in those days.

Snakes and foxes, coyotes and chicken hawks.  centipedes and mice.  Always something creepy, crawly, or slimy set to ruin my day.  But I love my little piece of earth out here and I love my little 2400 square foot house.  I guess if strange animals wander in and relieve themselves on my yard, I can live with that.  I am not real fond of cleaning the house or burning the weeds or any of the mundane chores that daily life requires of me, but it is what it is and if this is the worst thing fate can throw me, I can live with that!

Where have you gone, dear David?

David Stevens

7/19/1947 - 9/14/2017

Rest in peace, my little friend.

I do not remember when I met David.  Time means very little in my world and marking time is not something I do well.  I know I met him when I came to First Congregational  from Christ Congregational and I know it has been 10 years or so.  The important thing is that I met him and he made an impact on my life in a way few men have.  David was special.

David was special in more ways then one.  He was a big man, but I can not say how big as the wheel chair he was confined to did not allow one to measure.  I know his hands were big and he loved his cowboy hat.  I do not know how many years he was in the chair, I just know I never seen him without it.

He lived in a home with other people and he liked to help them.  I would like to say I met him when he came to our church, but I am not sure he wasn't there before me.  At our church we have a microphone which we use to let the congregants make announcements or report on someone in need of prayer.  David loved that mic!  Any Sunday he was in church he would pick up the microphone and tell us that his parents and everyone were in heaven, but he had a new family and that was the members of this church.  We were his family now.  He would tell of his former church where he used to be a greeter, but now he was a greeter in this church and that made him very happy.  He was an usher and while he could not manipulate the wheelchair on his own, he smiled as broad as any man and enjoyed being a greeter in his church!

And you know what?  That made me very happy.  David was a simple man, with simple needs and he always put others before himself and isn't that what it is all about anyway?  A lesser man would have been sad to be confined to a wheel chair and to be taken care of everyday.  A lesser man would have perhaps rebelled at his lot in life.  But not David!  David started counting the days until his next birthday on the day after his birthday.  He looked forward to that more than Christmas, I think.

I am sure that David is up there (wherever up there is ) telling God that he used to be a greeter at this church and that we are his family.  He is probably explaining to his mother and father that since they had gone, he had found a new family and they should not feel bad because he did that because he missed them so much.  And I bet that is one happy reunion around that dinner table, but David, if you are listening, know that while we miss you, and our church will always have an empty place on that back row, we are very happy that you are where you are and we want to thank you for taking care of us for the very short time we had you.

Rest in peace our little friend and know that you were loved and you are sorely missed, but we are happy you are free at last!

Ah, the age of innocence!

This is a picture I have that is very old and I have had for many years.  Since I have geese it seems apropos that I have it.  Along with that I have a family history that details how great grandma and  other relatives before that raised geese.  They also raised sorghum and made molasses.  This may actually be a picture of me.  Probably not, though.

Here is another one by a different artist.  This one is a print.  The title is To New Pastures.  Either picture by either artist is basically the same.  This was back when leggings and boots and tending the flock was what it was.  Geese are funny little things.  You herd them.  I walk behind mine and they go where I point.  A cow, or horse or even a dog is led or at least they follow.

.

What do you suppose this little girl is thinking about while tending the geese?  Video games were not even a concept back then.  Running water was probably not in her home.  She may or may not have attended school.  Not all girls did back in those days.  She probably was married by the time she was 13 or 14 and had her own family before she turned 20.  Things like that do not seems plausible today, but it was a different age then.

This is my grandson.  Herding the geese comes natural to him.  On days when he is coming, I do not let the geese out until he arrives.  I carry my camera so I can get a third picture for my wall.  I guess this is as close as I am going to get!

He prefers a sunflower to a stick when it comes to herding.

Well, actually he needs 2 sunflowers!

We are pretty sure he will be ambidextrous.  And after all that herding, he needs a nap!

How different his life already is from the little girl above!  He spends grandma time watching youtube and Wheels on the bus.  He arrives in a red car when mom and daddy bring him.  A "walk" consists of a stoller or buggy.  Whatever they are called.

It is hard to imagine, but the same blood runs in his veins that runs in mine.  Will his memories be the same as this little girl?  I don't know.  I am hoping that on some level we are the same.  I feel that I have a link with my kids, grand kids, great grandkids, but do they have the link with me?  As much as my kids try to be different from me, they stay the same.  They try to branch off and become their own person, but deep down, they crave home made noodles and a needle in their hand.  

I guess, what I am trying to say is, I think somewhere in the far recesses of my mind I have memories that belonged to my ancestors.  I would love to go under hypnosis and see if I am another Bridey Murphy.  Are there dreams that are actually memories?  

Or am I just nuts?

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 goes around, comes around! Or so I hear.

My fifth  husband did not last long, therefore he did not make much of an impression on my life.  I had just divorced number 3 and 4 (married him, divorced him, married him again and divorced him again so I have to count him as 2) and was really moving forward with my life.  I was working for the ex-husband  and going to business college at night and holding down a part time job to pay for that.  And just in case you wonder, I was on the Deans List and graduated head of my class.  This just proves you do not really need to sleep to function.

So any way, I was working night shift waiting tables in Bessemer ( area of town around the steel mill).  There I met HoratioHornblower.  I will call him HoratioHornblower because I want to protect his anonymity (that and the fact that it should have been  his name.)  He came in every night after work for coffee and since it was slow then we could visit.  He was very quiet and seemed to be settled in his life.  Well, you know that old saying, "Still waters run deep."  I was soon to find out just how deep that water was.

To make a long story short, I had a disagreement with the owner of the café and walked out.  There went that paycheck, along with my dreams of becoming a CPA.  But Horatio was right there.  Marriage, that was the answer.  He took me to Clarks Western Wear  and bought me a pair of white flare legged pants which were popular at that time, a blue and white checked western shirt, white boots and and a cute little white straw hat with a blue ribbon to match.  I was a cowboy now!  I had never had a man buy me clothes before so I really felt special.  Little did I realize that was the last thing he would buy me.

We got married in the park and went home to Scranton.  I soon found that he had several grown kids.  Never did figure out for sure how many, but there were lots.  And they all depended on Daddy for the little things in life that made their life complete, like money for movies, money for gas, money for new clothes and on and on.  After just a few weeks of wedded bliss it dawned on me that there was no money forthcoming from him for rent, groceries or anything else.  He used his money to "pay bills."  Ok.  So we filed income tax together and I had always claimed married 1 so I could get money back.   He had nothing held out for income tax since he claimed all the kids, 7 dogs and an ex wife. 
Then I set back to wait for that tax check to come.  And I waited, and waited and waited.

After about 7 weeks I decided to dust the dresser in the bedroom and when I took the scarf off I found a letter from the IRS informing Mr. and Mrs. Whothehellwasthatguy that the income tax totaling $3,000.25 was being applied to the back child support payments that were garnished by law.  WTF.  Needless to say when I confronted him with the letter he had no knowledge of any of this.  WTF!  Then he accused me of falsifying that letter.  WTF!!!!!.

Needless to say I was done with that marriage after only 4 months.  I did go on to get my degree with the help of my dear mother.  Sadly back in those days, waiting tables and cooking paid more then Accounting so it was all a waste of time.  If life could be lived in reverse we would all be better off, wouldn't we?

So why did I wake up with this on my mind this morning?  Who knows.  It could be that I have learned life lessons, but I am still not smart enough to apply them.  Yesterday the boy came and I had him get the ladder out of the garage and cut a limb off the Apricot tree.  See, I learned that if the tree limb rubs on the roof it damages the shingles and I have to pay to replace them.  Life lesson learned.  Sadly, when he went home to Florence he left the ladder leaning against the house.  After cussing and fuming, I got it down and drug it back to the garage.  I should have checked before he left.  Now sadly, this is a life lesson that I will never get through my pea brain.  Always check when someone does a good deed, that there is not a knife sticking out of my back.  Love you Bret.

On a bright note, Anthony called and told me he has my fruit juice.  He goes to Sam's and he knows I like that particular brand so he always buys me a big bottle.  I watch his mom while he goes to do errands.  Fair trade.  There are people who match me measure for measure and that is good.  Maybe I will start concentrating on those people.

My momma always had a saying, "You scratch my back and I will scratch yours."  I guess that pretty well covers the life lessons and I may actually start practicing that.  There is not much sense doing for someone who does not do for me.  In my charity work there are many people that are truly thankful for my little I do and that makes me feel good.  Guess that is why I do it.  But in my personal life, some people tend to take me for granted.  I just realized something!  It is all in the spelling of the word.

Do I want to be taken for granted or do I want to be taken for GRANITE! 

Have a good day and remember...What goes around, comes around.

It was a black and white world back there on Strong Street.

I see the news and it makes me sick.  We are consumed with fear and hatred of the "Radical Islamic Terrorist," the illegal immigrants, the gays, the blacks, and God only knows who else that we are killing  in the name of "peace and tranquility."  My dying ass!

We have elected a man to the white house who embodies all the hatred rolled into one ball and he does it in the name of "Keeping America Great."  I ask you just how great we are now?  And when I say "we elected,"  I mean just that.  Everyone that cast a "protest vote" or skipped voting because it "really doesn't count", or worse yet, the ones who actually marked a vote for a man who spews hate through every pore got us where we are right now!  Blame it on Russia if you so choose, but had we been United as we claim, they could not have gotten their foot in the door.

When Donald Trump was spewing his hate and "Lock her up!" rhetoric I, like most other Americans, just chalked that up to showmanship and politics as usual.  The majority of American's laughed at his antics knowing that no way would he be elected.  But the electoral college bit us in the fanny  And little did I realize the fact that this world is filled with frustration and hate that is mostly directed at our governement.  This and the fact that church attendance has fallen to a new low tells me we have a real problem  Back in Nickerson we hid our heads in the sand.

Oh, I knew that there was a "colored family" that lived outside of town some where, but we never saw them.  We also knew the Klu Klux Klan operated every where.  I never actually saw any cross burnings, but a small town is good for gossip.  I never really knew who was in the Klan and at one point I thought probably my dad was.  Seems he had a rather colorful past that was tied to the Chicago mafia, but like I said....

My mother was probably the hardest working, most honest, and kindest woman who ever graced this earth and she taught me well.

If someone is hungry, feed them.

I someone is thirsty, give them a drink.

If you find something valuable on the ground, it is still not yours.

A lie is a lie.

Some women are just born to be old maids.

Some men are just "momma's boys."

We are all the same color when the lights are out.

Most of her wisdom could be dispensed in a sentence of less than 10 words.  No sense spewing out a bunch of useless words that no one was gonna remember no how!  Gotta love my momma!

But back to my rant of today.  I live in the county where all the gardens are.  Beautiful Mesa!  In the summer the fields are alive with workers picking the crops.  On a 100 degree day I see them in thier long sleeved shirts and pants with hoods over thier heads.  They keep thier bodies covered to keep the hot sun off of thier skin.  I need shade and a breeze when I am outside.  Inside I need my central air. They move across fields in tandem and behind them the fields are empty and beside them the trucks are full of green peppers, buckets of tomatoes and bags of onions.  A sight to behold and the graneries are full.

Well, that is how it is supposed to work.  But this year is different.  I see Black SUV's driving the back roads.  I see no workers in the fields.  I see crops going to seed and not being harvested.  Way to go America!  This will teach Mexico that we mean business!  This will show them! This will teach them to take our jobs!

Sorry folks, not seeing it here.  I do not see any of the locals out there bent over picking me a carrot.  Not happening.  I do think a few of the locals may have went out to make some of that "easy money" but they aren't going back.  It is sad that the system that has worked for so many years for both farmers and workers is no longer happening. 

I hear the arguments that by taking down statues we are rewriting history.  I do not see it that way.  As far as I am concerned, the rebel flag waving off some rednecks truck is a flagrant reminder that we had to fight a war with our neighbors to free human beings from the yoke of slavery.  Ever study how this came about in the first place?  In nutshell, a bunch of rich men needed workers and needed them cheap, so they went to Africa to capture black people that were not doing anything anyway to come and live over here and work for room and board.  Far be it from their little pea brains to think perhaps that property they now owned had a mother, father, siblings, wife, husband, children or anything that mattered.  Not a pretty sight and I am pretty sure that they do not need to see a bunch of statues, flags or anything else to remind them.  Much like a statue of Hitler in the town square is not something any of us intelligent people need to remember the Holocaust.

Does anyone remember back when Vietnam was happening and we had all those refugees?  Different

nationality, same reception.  America has always been a melting pot, so to speak, but we tend to forget that our ancestors were the first to be integrated in this land!  The people that were here when we landed on Plymouth Rock are the only ones that really belong here.  Call them Native Americans, Indigenous people, Redskins, or Indians they are the real owners of this land.  Sadly they made one mistake.  They took pity on the pious immigrants who came here on the Mayflower to make a new life.  They fed them.  They helped them survive the elements of a brutal winter in a strange land.  Then they were killed by them.  Talk about biting the hand that feeds you!

America, the land of the free and the home of the brave.  Sometimes I am just not as proud of America as I should be, but then I remember!  I can only control the thoughts and actions of one person and that is me!  So I shall take my optimistic little self and keep waving my banner and hearing the chants that have been echoing down through the years. 

"Remember Stonewall!"  "Hell no! We won't go!"  "Black or White, all is right!"  And all the ones I have forgotten. 

GIVE PEACE A CHANCE

Catalpa Trees, Clothesline, and Muscovy Ducks

Now what do all three of these have in common?  Oh, I know!  There were all an integral part of life at 709 Strong Street.  They are also things we do not see much any more.  For instance, the clothesline.  Back in the day it was used at very least once a week.  The clothes were washed in a washing machine with an agitator.  Whites were first.  The hot soapy water was wrung out through a wringer and the clothes went into rinse water tub number 1.  The second rinse contained a drop or two of "bluing".  Now the bluing was a very important addition as it gave the whites a bare hint of blue which actually made them appear more white!  This was important in case anyone saw your clothes hanging on the line.  If the whites were not white you were going to be discussed around the supper table that night!

The wash water was always one degree below boiling when the wash was started.  After the whites came out, the light clothes were put in and that was followed by towels and such which was followed by darks.  The last load of clothes were dad's overalls.  If there was any water left at that point we could throw in blankets or rugs.

As each load came through and ended up in the basket, it was taken out to the clothesline and hung to dry.  There were more rules to the hanging of the clothes then even I can recall.  Underwear were to be hung by the waistband with the crotch facing any direction except the road as a pervert might see them and loose control!  If the said underwear had a hole, the item must be folded so the neighbors could not see it and know we were poor.  Shirts, blouses and overalls were hung by the bottom.  Dish towels were never hung by clothes.  Baby clothes were washed and hung very first as babies were delicate.

When the washing was all done, the drain hose was called into action and buckets of dirty water were then lugged to the back yard and dumped in an area that was designated as "the water dumping area."  This is when the Muscovy Ducks were in high heaven.  I do not know if you have ever seen a Muscovy Duck, but they are nasty.  They are usually white and black with a green sheen to the black.  The males are huge with a neck as big as my arm and the females are very small.  I seen them breeding one time which was enough for me.  That was nasty and I am not sure my perception of the Muscovy is not influenced by that experience.

Any way, they would get in the muddy water and root around with thier beaks, seeking God only knows what and that made them very dirty and seemed to make them very horny.  As I side note here, they are the only domesticated duck that (to my knowledge) can fly.  They also chatter to each other.  I hated wash day for that very reason.

Our kitchen had a "pitcher pump" and a sink for the washing of dishes and such.  The drain consisted of a pipe out the bottom that made a hard right angle and disappeared through the wall and drained into the back yard.  You guessed it!  Another hang out place for those damned Muscovy Ducks!

Ah, but my solice lay in the front yard.  In the front of the house by the road that ran by stood 2 tall Catalpa trees.  I have noticed in later years it is fashionable to top them short and they then have a ball on top.  Ours were "ala naturale".  They were both the same height and appeared to be twins, but they were vastly different.  The one on the left had lots and lots of little limbs and it was impossible to climb.

But the one on the right was my friend.  It had only smooth branches.  I would get a bucket and stand on it making it possible to reach the first branch.  I would grab it and hoist myself up, throw my right leg over the limb and survey my kingdom below.  From the bottom branch I would grab the next branch on the left side of the tree and work my way up the left side of the tree.  When I reached "my place" I would set on a branch (always the same branch) and be alone in my head.  At this point I was probably 25 - 30 feet off the ground.  I could see down Strong Street and up Strong Street and I could while away the hours dreaming of things and places I would someday see.  I lived a very happy life in my head.  Had I but known where my life would lead me I would have never come down from that tree.

Momma cleaned houses for the ladies in town and most of the time she walked to and from her jobs.  I always looked towards town and when I seen momma coming I would jump down and run to meet her. I do not know what we talked about or even if we did, but I loved my momma and for just a few minutes she was mine alone.  Of course when we reached the house I had to go get the little kids from Ory Ayers's house and momma was no longer mine alone, because those little brats were so needy!

I can close the door on that part of my life, but I can not make it stay shut.  I have heard it said that as we age we revert to our youth.  I do know people with Dementia and Alzheimer's lose short term memory first and I am thinking, maybe that is a good thing.  My childhood will always be my salvation.  It will always be the one place that I feel safe and when I die I hope I go back to Nickerson and Strong Street with my brother, sisters, and momma.

Yep.  That would be heaven!