The gift of forgetfulness.

 Of all the gifts the Lord has given me, I think that not remembering some things is the best gift of all!  I woke up this morning remembering the Stroh place in Nickerson.  The incident was mostly clear in my mind.  I recall a big yellow cat.  I do not recall his name, but he was the resident mouser.  Some times I think I  petted him.  I can recall him rubbing on my legs.  I started school when I was five, and it was summer so I had to be about 4 years old.

This particular day, we were setting on the back step.  It was hot.  Nickerson in summer was always hot.  The big yellow cat came walking across the back yard and into the yard.  In his mouth he carried a newly hatched baby chicken.  He dropped this at my mothers feet.  Now if you know about cats, this was an honor.  This meant that the cat realized mother could not hunt and he brought her the baby chick to feed her.  He loved her.

But mother did not appreciate the gesture at all!  Looking back, I can understand what was going through her mind.  She loved that old cat; we all did.  But this small chicken would have grown into a hen or rooster and made more chickens.  If it was a rooster, it would have ended up as Sunday dinner.  If it was a hen it would have laid eggs which were a staple in every day life either as a source of income or the binder in pancakes or baked goods.  Then it would have ended up as a big pot of chicken and noodles.  Either way, the big yellow tom cat had thwarted Mother's plan.

I recall the sadness in her eyes as she turned to my brother Jake.  My four year old mind does not recall the exact words, but the words do not matter.  He was told to take the Tomcat into the forest out back and "get rid of it."  My beloved cat was no longer a pet.  He was now an "it".  Jake would have been 8 since he and I were born 4 years and 4 days apart.  He went into the house and returned with his single shot rifle.  He always carried a big pocket knife because boys always carried a pocket knife so they could whittle.  Jake could whittle a whistle that was the best whistle in the world.  Boys don't do that anymore.

He picked up the big Tomcat and walked slowly from the back yard, across the barn yard, past the  chicken house and disappeared into the woods out back.  I waited for the shot.  I never heard it.  Mother and baby Donna went inside.  I waited.  A four year old girl has no concept of time.  There is nothing to measure it against until you learn how to count time on the clock on the wall.  I do know mother went inside and I waited for what seemed an eternity.  I finally seen Jake emerge from behind the chicken house.  He was alone.  I could tell by his eyes that he had been crying. 

We never spoke about the incident.  In my mind he turned the big yellow tomcat loose and he found a new home.  Four year old minds can do that.  Minds can forget bad things that happen to us.  I guess it is God's way of letting us survive in a world that is not always pretty.  We do not always remember the things that hurt us and scar our very souls, but that is good.  It lets the big yellow tomcats of our life run free in the forests of life.

And it lets us sleep at night. 

The heart of the home is this table right here!

As a young girl back in Nickerson, I recall doing my homework at the dining room table with a coal oil lamp to light my books.  Now you should know that the "dining room table" was the only table that we had and the room we had it in was between the kitchen and the "front room."  The front room was the first room in the house.  Next was the dining room and then the kitchen/wash room/library/what ever else we needed it to be.  On Saturday nights that is where we all took turns taking a bath in a tin tub.  

There were 2 other rooms in the house and they were both bedrooms.  Now back then bedrooms were exactly that!  Mother had the smallest room which held one bed and she slept there with the 2 youngest girls.  The front bedroom had 2 beds, one of which was my fathers.  The rest of us girls slept in the other bed.  Jake was relegated to the floor.  But this is not about where we slept, this is about the dining room table.

We had electricity, but we rarely ever used it, because we were afraid we would wear it out.  The table was a round oak table much like the one I have in my dining room today.  I am sure the chairs were wooden because we could not afford one of those fancy chrome sets that everyone coveted.  There was a green wooden table in the kitchen, but that was for holding pots and pans and such. 

We ate at the dining room table.  We did our homework at the dining room table.  If someone dropped by they were seated at the dining room table.  Usually we sipped on a glass of water from the well.  The icebox was in the dining room by the door to mother's bedroom.  Once a week the iceman came.  We had a sign that was in our front window.  It was similar to the one in the lower right corner.  The iceman would pick up the size block we wanted with his ice tongs and carry it inside and place it in the icebox.  The money was always left on top of the icebox.  A new block of ice was always a treat because it was so clear and square.  We used to follow the ice wagon on hot days as cool our feet in the water that came off his melting load.  I digress!

  

I tend to get off subject.  The point is that the dining room table was the heart of the home and life has not changed that much.  Kenny and I had not been married very long when we decided we needed a new table.  We went down on Union and found an antique round oak table that suited us perfectly.  Since he was working in Denver we went to the oak furniture store and purchased 6 straight backed chairs and we were in business.

Shortly after that, my mother came for her first visit.  She lived in Hutchinson, Kansas and as I recall she rode the train to LaJunta where I picked her up and brought her home.  She was very happy to see the round oak table and the 6 oak chairs.  She set down and started to reminisce.

"This is the heart of the home.  It is here that everyone gets together to eat and it is where all important decisions are made.  It is here that the family comes together.  It is here that company visits.  This table is where happiness and sadness are always discussed."  And she was right.

When someone comes to my house, even today, we set at the table.  The couch and recliners are only used to watch television.  The heart of the home I grew up in was always the table and it still is today.  Whether it is dinner for 20 people or a cup of tea with a friend, it all happens at the table.  I have a breakfast bar with stools that are never used.  I have an office, but I pay my bills and do my correspondence at the table.  Mail is put on the table.  It is the center of my existence.

My mother has been gone many, many years, but the table will always be where I see her most.  She used to set at that table and work her crossword puzzles.  I can not work a crossword any where but there.  I miss my mother every day of my life.  It never gets better.  Someone asked me once, "How long do you mourn when someone dies?'

My answer to that is "forever."  How could you ever forget the woman who gave you life?  Things come and go, but mothers and dining room tables are forever.  I have pictures of my mother and Kenneth's mother beside my front door.  They are the last thing I see when I leave and the first thing I see when I close the door when I return.

I realize that someday, I will no longer be here.  No doubt there will be an auction and the dining room table will go to a new home, but that is alright, because I will be at the big table across the great divide with my Mother and all my grandma's and there will be a giant table that has room for all of us.

Kinda looking forward to that!

Do people die in the doctors waiting room?

Good morning!  As usual I woke up with something on my mind that I am most happy to share with you.  Today it was time ill spent in a specialists office waiting room.  This was probably 4 years ago since I was referred there by my friend John, who has now been deceased almost 2 years.  I had an incident about 5 years ago where I actually went to my primary care doctor because I thought I had a needle in my foot.  He of course scoffed at me,  but since I was insistent, he sent me for an xray.  When he came back clear he dismissed it as my active imagination.  In hindsight, I should have been more insistent, but I wasn't.  Maybe it was my imagination.

So, after due time and the pain was still in my foot, I learned to ignore it.  Then one morning I noticed that my second toe was a tiny bit shorter then my big toe.  I thought that was weird, but therein again was my active imagination.  It kept getting shorter and I could no longer ignore the "needle in my foot pain" so I called my primary and told him I needed a referral to a foot doctor.  Since John had an amputation I asked for a referral to his doctor that he thought highly of as a very qualified doctor.  So, I called that office.  Sadly, his doctor was not taking new patients, but his colleague was.  The appointment was made.

The office was downtown and the day arrived.  Being the anal retentive person I am, I arrived early. With the paperwork done,  I set back to wait.  After about 45 minutes I was called and sent back to x-ray.  That took probably 3 minutes.  Back in the waiting room I looked for a magazine I had not already seen.  I looked at the walls.  Time finally passed and I was called back into the office of Doctor "I-walk-on-water."  He handed me a pair of arch supports and told me I had a "morton's neuroma."  When I asked him why he did not even look at the x-ray, he told me he did not need to because it was classic and the x-ray, which he would look at later, would confirm his diagnosis. He added that the arch supports would take care of the problem.  They cost $90 which my insurance, of course , did not pay.  He also gave me a prescription for some sort of pill that would clear "it" up.  And we made an appointment for 30 days.  Three hours and I finally had an answer and saw my car waiting for me.  Good car.

I came straight home and googled Morton's Neuroma.  "First manifests as a feeling of a needle in the foot between the 3rd and 4th toe."  Bingo!  Treatment called for was the prescription for the pill I now had in my possession.  So, I started my regimen of pill taking and waited for my next appointment.

If I thought the first appointment was slow, I was in for a real treat on the next one.  I arrived early, as usual, paid my $50 co-pay and set back to wait.  This time I was ready and had brought my crocheting and a book I was reading.  Should have brought a pillow!  After one hour I approached the desk.  The waiting room had completely emptied and a whole new bunch of people filled the space.  I was told that doctor would see me very soon.  The waiting room emptied again.  By this time I was beginning to feel like an unwanted step child at a family reunion.  I approached the desk a second time.  The third time the waiting room emptied and refilled, I lost my patience.  I demanded my $50 co-pay back and left.  So much for referrals from friends.

The next time I have a health problem, which is rarely if ever, I will first google it to find the treatment.  Then I will self medicate with herbs from the friendly Natural Health Foods or Amazon and keep my money at home.

So, here I set with 2 feet that have the second toe shorter.  I have learned a lot about this condition the last few years and I have this advice for anyone who is unlucky enough to think they have stepped on a needle.  Google it.  Tell your doctor what it is.  Get a cortizone shot in the bottom of your foot before it is too late. 

I expect that some day I will either have to have something done about it or die of old age.  I am betting on the latter!

Stupid or eternally optimistic?

My mother always told me that one sign of stupidity was doing the same thing over and over in the same way and expecting a different result.  I would like to go on record as saying she may have been right about that.  Now I do not like the word "stupidity", but I do not know a better word for that action.  Oh, I know!  I can call it "eternally optimistic!"  That sounds a whole lot better, now doesn't it?

My neighbors goats are eternally optimistic.  They are the ones  that will not stay home and like to come graze on my bushes.  Every morning they are in my yard, usually in the car port.  I hit the panic button on the car and all four of them go into a dead panic trying to run over each other getting away from the car.  They then stand in the drive way looking dumbfounded and wondering where that sound came from .  Seeing nothing, they then wander into another neighbors yard to graze on her grass.

Soon the eternally optimistic neighbors (now awakened by my car alarm blasting) wander out to herd the goats back into the pen.  They actually have 3 different pens, none of which will hold an animal prisoner.  And yet each time they close the gate, they think the goats are secured.  I have actually watched them stand in the middle of the pen and look around.  Were I so inclined I could go over and show them the gaping holes they walk through, but I am not.  It is easier for me to honk the horn, knowing that the goats will never figure it out.

I suppose that in my journey from puberty to old age I have done a few stupid things, but rest assured there was only one real stupid thing that I did over and over in the same way expecting different results.  That was my habit of marrying men who were addicted to alcohol and expecting them to work and take care of me.  It was not until I met Kenny that I realized I really had something to offer a man besides my paycheck.  And we lived happily ever after.

Now I realize I probably could go buy a roll of fencing, take it over next door and show them how to build a fence, but I am not going to do that.  If I still had the nice lawn I had years ago and the beautiful rose bushes I took such good care of, it might be different, but I don't.  So I will set here and hit the panic button and watch the eternally optimistic goats wonder what is going on and the eternally optimistic neighbors herd them back into the semblance of a pen.

Life sucks.

2014-07-28

If you are watching this on your cell phone, you need to click on the date that appears.  The picture does not always work like you think.


I did not realize that I made this video 6 years ago.  This is the stations of the cross in San Luis.  The dog in the picture joined me at the bottom of the walk and stayed with me all the way up and all the way down.  Two years ago I met my son in Taos, New Mexico.  When I came back, I drove the back way and came out in San Luis.  I stopped on the edge of town to take a picture of the chapel up on the hill.  When I stepped out of the car, I was greeted by a big dog which stood by me while I took pictures.  I can not help but wonder if the dog was the embodiment of some one I had known before.

Maybe when my friend, Irene comes this year, her and I can go visit this.  Her mom lived in this area and I think the one shot I have of the field down the side is where Annie grew up.  Small world, huh?

Willie, Woolsworth, and the Blue Waltz Perfume.

Probably, the second "real love" of my life after Corky, the dancing fool, was a guy named Willie.  Back in those days, newspapers required a "typesetter" and that was what Willie did.  It did not require much expertise, but I was just as proud of him as if I had good sense.  Work was a necessary evil back in those days.  No work, no pay, no money for beer and beer was very important back then.

Willie was not a handsome man.  He was not tall.  He was not overly bright, but he loved me, so I of course loved him.  He was a short, stocky little bundle of muscles who was feared by all.  His reddish hair gave him a temper, or so they said.  Seems he liked to fight and when someone likes to do something they are usually very good at it.  It was rumored that he might be a little off in the head, but who cared?  Not me, that was for sure. 

Willie and I never had an actual physical relationship, but I loved him anyway.  In Hutchinson, back in the day, it was expected that anyone with a car would be dragging Main on Friday and Saturday night.  That was what you did.  You started on Sherman and Main and drove North to 30th, circled back to Sherman.  Bumper to bumper.  If you were cool, you parked and laid on the hood of your vehicle and watched.  Not sure being cool had as much to do with it as just not having anything else to do.

Willie did not have a car, but his friend Jimmie did.  Jimmie also had a wife waiting at home and a couple kids, but that was cool.  Jimmie was a family man and would have to leave us early.  We then walked home.  Since I lived on West A  Jimmie would drop us there, and Willie would then walk to his house which was on the East end of Sherman.

Back in the day we had 2 stores called "five and dimes."  They were precursors to Family Dollar, Dollar General and stores like that.  Variety stores and you could find about anything you needed within their walls.  The first was Kresses and the other was Woolsworth.  I had asked Willie once what his favorite perfume was and he told me it was "Blue Waltz".  The only place it was sold was at Kress, so the first spare nickle I had, I set off to purchase the elixir that would make Willie mine.

Blue Waltz Perfume came in a little heart shaped bottle that was about an inch and a half tall and a  little over an inch wide. The bottle was clear, but the perfume, as I recall was a very light tan.  It had a fragrance like none other.  It was actually a very light, cloying smell, for want of a better word.   I do not know what that word means, but it sure fit that perfume!  I dabbed it behind my ears, in my hair, and any place else my finger happened to find. 

Now it is only fair to tell you at this point that I do not remember what ever happened between Willie and I all those years ago, but suffice it to say, it could not have been anything too important or I would have remembered.  What I do recall is the Blue Waltz Perfume and I can close my eyes and see that little bottle.  I am sure I bought it for a nickle and only used it when I was seeing Willie and that is all I remember.  It was not long after that I met Duane, and Willie was history.  The Blue Waltz Perfume was not nearly as popular with Duane as it was with Willie so it set on the shelf forgotten. 

I do think about that tiny little bottle from time to time and wonder what ever became of Willie.  I am sure he sobered up and married someone, and maybe had a couple kids.  They would have been cute little burgers with his red hair and blue eyes.  But maybe not.  I had kids of my own and never once thought about naming one of them Willie. 

It is kind of funny how life works.  Willie and the Blue Waltz perfume were a small part of my circle of life, but here I am sixty some years later and the clearest memory of that part of my life is not Willie, or the dragging Main, or anything else.  The undying love was out the window and the vision I see when I close my eyes is that of a tiny glass bottle with the words "Blue Waltz Perfume"  in tiny letters across the front of the bottle.

Funny how that works.

Ala man left and a dotsey doe!

What ever goes on in my head at night when I am sound asleep is more than I can guess but I would sure love to figure it out.  Today I woke up thinking about a box of cards up on the shelf in the closet that Kenny received when we had his retirement party.  That coupled with this song click here.  He was a trucker and while he was not over the road, he was out of town a lot.  I have chased him all over Colorado, New Mexico and Utah since I went to visit him where he was hauling for one company or another.  We bought a park model trailer which was his home away from home.  With that he had his home away from home.  He cooked for himself and kept his little trailer very neat and clean and even made his bed!  Sure saw a lot of country and I met  a lot of very nice people.  But I digress.

When Kenny and I started dating back in 1982 we were both fresh out of failed marriages.  We had known each other while married to previous mates, to we were not strangers.  Most of our time was spent commiserating about how we had both been wronged.  Now, that common bond will only keep people together for so long.

I love to dance and back home dancing in bars was common practice and the next dance was just one beer away and a new dance partner always ready.  Not so in Colorado.  Kenny did not dance and had not one bone in his body that knew what music was, but he decided we should take square dance lessons at the City Park.  Seems his friends, Johnny and Betty were square dancers.  You know I am game for damn near anything, so off we went.  Once a week without fail.  I even bought a black and white checkered square dancing dress.  Lots of crinoline under skirts held it out.  This was fun!  Granted it was not the same as the western swing, rock and roll, and waltzing that I was used to, but it would suffice.

Learning to square dance had been fun, but when the lessons ended, so did our dancing.  I tried to work with Kenny at home and teach him to dance, but the man had not one ounce of rhythm any where in his body, so that was given up as a lost cause.  Now anyone can tell you, in order for a relationship to thrive the participants in said relationship need to have some sort of common bond.

His kids were grown and gone.  I had 2 left at home.  My kids did not need a step father since they had their own father.  Since we were both a little leery of the wedding ring scenario, we decided that we would just "shack up" and see how it went.  We decided that if we could survive together for one year that we would cross the "wedded bliss" bridge at that point.  So he found and bought this house out here on the Mesa, and Kenny Mercer and Lou Seeger set up house keeping.

I had spent my whole life fishing as had Kenny, but with one difference.  He liked to fish out of a boat.  I was terrified of water and neither one of us could swim  (still can't).  I had always fished from the bank of the river.  A real fisherman will know the difference styles of fishing are as different as night and day.  His tackle box was full of lures and stuff like that: mine was worms and bobbers.  Getting that man to set on a creek bank and wait for his line to dance was just not happening, so I made the sacrifice and crawled in his little 15 foot aluminum boat and we cast out into the Clear Creek Reservoir over by some place near Alamosa.

One year later we were still together.  We had started a new business called Ken Mercer Trucking and were doing well.  The drive line needed repaired on December 23, 1983, but the shop was closed.  It was 15 degrees below zero and his words to me were, "Let's just get this shittin mess over with."  We drove to Canon City, got a license and were untied in Holy Matrimony on the 5th floor of an assisted living facility by a retired minister and witnessed by his bed ridden wife and a stranger in the hall.

And we lived happily ever after until his death in 2003.