And once more it is the changing of the seasons.

It is amazing that no matter what we do as mortal men/women, it pales in comparison to what Mother Nature guided by the hand of God can do!  The sun comes up every morning and goes down every night.  It's path across the sky is always the same.  We look at the same horizon that was placed there lo those many years ago.  The sun I will see in a few minutes is the same one that my mother watched on the plains of Kansas and is the same one her mother and grandmother watched  across the ocean in a land I will never see.

Always in the back of my mind, when I think of my ancestors, I picture Ellis Island.  I will never see the Statue of Liberty, but it is as clear in my mind as the keys on this keyboard that I write on today.  I see the Haas family clearing land along the river to build a home to raise children.  The natural progression of live never ceases to amaze me.  Nature never ceases to amaze me!  

When I was a child, I thought as a child and when I became older, I put away my childish ways, or did I?  Life was so simple when all I had to do was play in the dirt and eat wormy Mulberry's from the tree North of the house.  Sunday's always found us in Plevna, Kansas at Grandma Haas and Great Grandma Hatfield for Sunday dinner.  We always gathered at the round oak table and there was always room for all of us and we all had a chair.  Grandma Hatfield always cooked the chicken and there was always enough.  It always amazed me how that worked out!  There were never leftovers and no one left hungry.  There was always pie for dessert and the pies were always cut into exactly enough pieces.!  

Grandma Haas was crippled by a stroke and she walked with the help of a walker.  Great Grandma Hatfield took care of her, but still kept her active.  They both wore aprons.  Always.  Get up, get dressed, put on your apron.  I have an apron that I usually wear when I am baking, but other than that, just clothes.  Great Grandma would get a pan of potatoes and a paring knife and hand them to grandma.  It took grandma a while to get the potatoes peeled, but it was her job.  

The parrot, "Polly" would set on its perch and sing "After the ball is over, after the dancers are gone....".  Great grandma would step around the corner and feed Polly a piece of apple, or celery or something.  And the Grandma Hatfield would tell how Polly had come from Brazil and was brought here by an ancient relative who "sailed the seas".  Polly had been featured in the Kansas City Star many years before.  When Grandma Haas passed and Great Grandma Hatfiield moved to Coldwater, Kansas, Polly and her perch went with her.  When we learned of Polly dying, we were all devastated.  An era was over.

Great Grandma Hatfield lived to be 104 years old.  I never seen her again.  When she passed she was returned to Abbyville, Kansas to rest in the family plot there.  I want to return some day and see her grave.  When I have served my time here on earth, I will be interred in Pueblo, Colorado.  Just seems like the place to be.

I love to go "back home".  I love to visit the graves of my forbearers.  It gives me a sense of peace to look back on the road I have traveled. My heart swells with a sense of pride that the ancestors that came before me  forged a living from unyielding earth to make a place that this skinny little, knob kneed creature that lived to become "Lou Mercer" could grow and thrive.

Momma taught me to never forget where I came from and always be proud of my ancestry.  

And I am!

60 years ago on the front page of the Hutchinson News Hearld

 Not sure it was 60 years, but there are 2 incidents that are clear in my mind.  One entailed a rape and murder of a 17 year old girl.  It happened on the Arkansas River just off  highway 96.  There were 2 boys involved.  There was no question as to whether they were guilty or not, just what the punishment should be.  You see, they were young and their life was just beginning. 

They were the victims here also.  The girl had gotten in the car with them willingly.  They were drinking and she knew that.  She should have known better.  They had sex with her and then she said she was going to "tell on them".  They were both slated to go off to college in a few weeks and one or both had scholarships which meant they were respectable and the girl should have known better than to get in a car with two young men who had obviously been drinking!  What did she think would happen?  She must accept her share of the responsibility here!  These were boys from very respected families and she was from the "other side of the tracks."

So they used her and then "somehow" she died and they panicked.  They tossed her body on the ground under some trees and threw some dirt and leaves over her.  They went home and went to bed.  When the cold hard light of day dawned on the deed and the boys were confronted, they immediately blamed it on the girl.  I do not recall exactly what kind of punishment was meted out, but it just reinforced my belief that "money talks and bullshit walks."  And it was a further lesson about remaining chaste and not getting in a car with boys.

There was also about that time a teenager whose last name was Steele.  He  lived in the South end of Hutchinson.  Now you need to know that at that time North and South were divided by Sherman Street.  South of Sherman were letter streets and North were number streets.  The further south you went the lower the value of the homes.  The further north of Sherman, the higher the value of the property.  

Now the teenager in this story lived on Bigger which was past F Street, which was "ghetto".  It seems his stepfather was a heavy drinker and his mother was blind.  As I recall his stepfather was beating his mother again and this time he grabbed the shotgun and shot him.  Of course he was immediately arrested and since they had no money he was left in jail to await trial.  

The newspaper ran a story about both of these "incidents".  The first favored the boys since the girl was not there to defend herself and she may or may not have been drinking, but the boys agreed it was her fault.  As I recall they were given very light sentences so they could go on to become fine upstanding citizens.

I recall the one about the Steel boy showed him in his jail cell awaiting trial.  He did not have money for bail, so he would remain there until his trial.  Although this was his first offence and was protecting his mother he could not get out on personal recognizance.  He was after all, a juvenile and his step father was just beating his wife.  As an adult male that was his right.  

Maybe some one back in Kansas remembers these two stories and can refresh my memory since that was years ago and back then I did not worry about anything someone else did.  I am a different person now and injustice is not in my vocabulary and it does not matter how much money you do or do not have: right is right and wrong is wrong.  I have spent my life fighting for the underdog and making sure our rights are equal and not influenced by money or skin color or your sex or sexual orientation.  I have a big umbrella and I can fit a lot of people under it.

We have come a long way, but I still seem little "Jim Crow" acts that almost make it under the radar.  I now see women punishing men for things they did.  I do favor a statute of limitations  for things that happened 50 years ago.  I worked side by side with men who received twice and three times as much in hourly wage as I did.  After all, I was a woman; a lesser being.  But you know what?

I am who I am today because of who I was back then.  And I pretty much like the person I am today!

Peace!

 

 

My new bedroom.

I recently had a major renovation in Sam/Bret/'s old room.  It entailed  a bathroom "remodel".  It was a majorchange and I want to tell you that the man in charge of said remodel is nothing short of a genius.  He knew more about what I wanted in a bathroom than I did.  Suffice it to say, I am now in the process of moving my bedroom down stairs so I can be closer to "my bathroom."  I do realize that as the homeowner, every room is "mine", but this room is special.   

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When I paint a room, it changes the color, but when a room is redesigned by someone else and reflects my wants and needs so in tune to my desires so perfectly, it is damn scary.  This man  even knew what colors were in my head.  Few men even know I have a head much less one with a brain rattling around up there,

but Mitch is one in a million.

So, now I have a house full of kids for my "Happy Birthday Weekend" and I am down here in what will soon be "my room".  Right now I have a twin bed in here, but that shall  change,   Kay has an old  (I mean antique old, not old "old"} which she is giving me and as soon as I get this room carpeted and buy a mattress and hang a curtain on the window, it will be my sanctuary.

As I bring this to a close know that I am setting on a paint can with my laptop on my knees and this is not my best work, but it is what it is.

I am on the up side of the sod and that is good!!!

A time for new beginnings?

 A Happy Birthday to me!!  These keep right on coming and the only way to stop them is to die, apparently.  Since I am showing no signs of that, I will just open my cards, answer my phone and say thank you.  I realize birthday is a good time to look back down the cluttered road of my life and remember birthdays before.  Now here is the really sad part, I don't remember them.  There is only one birthday that I can actually focus in on and remember it clearly.  That was my seventh.  

First I want to tell you that over the years I have had husbands, kids, friends, acquaintances, teachers, co- workers, lovers, family and my birthday has never been forgotten.  And every card, letter, phone call or personal visit has meant a lot to me.  I have been covered in flowers delivered by FTD and the aroma still fills my senses.  I love flowers!  I hate it when they have stayed past their prime and I have to throw them out and put the vase some where.  All of these touched me deeply, but the one 73 years ago will travel with me to the streets of gold!

Mother cleaned houses as a side job and one of her clients was a lady named Paralee who was also a cousin to mom.  Paralee was also the neice of Aunt Helen and Uncle Skinny Lang.  Not real sure how all the blood lines worked in here, but I do know that side of the family had money.  That and the fact that Paralee and her husband worked and only had one kid.  On this particular birthday, Paralee wanted to see that I had a birthday party.

I am not sure how many kids from school showed up, but I do know somebody gave me a gift of a cookie cutter.  It was red plastic and the design was Cinderella.  I was ecstatic!  It immediately became my favorite possession.  Now you need to understand that growing up in Nickerson without benefit of running water in a house heated with a wood stove was not exactly the lap of luxury.  Gifts were few and far between and the cookie cutter joined the Chiquita Banana cloth doll that mom had gotten with coupons saved and then stitched  the pieces together by the light of a coal oil lantern.  I slept with the cookie cutter and the cloth doll.  I dreamed of the day when I could make cookies and cut them with my own cookie cutter.  

The dream of the cookies I would make was much like building castles in the air.  Sugar was rationed.  Since the cow had died, butter was non existent.  Store bought "butter" was a one pound block of white grease with an orange pellet that you poked a hole in and then worked it into the white grease so it looked like butter.  World War II left an indelible mark on most of us kids back then.  Our sole source of information was what we picked up listening to the adults.  I know I was too young to understand, but I can remember the jubilation when the war was over and our troops came home.  

Some how all the horror of Auschwitz and the pictures of the emaciated bodies of the Jews still lives in the recesses of my mind.  The stories that came out of that period must never be forgotten.  We must never again turn a blind eye on man inhumanity to man.   

And once more, my mind has turned a corner.  How did I go from a happy 7 year old at her first birthday to Auschwitz?  Could it be that perhaps this is where my passion for lifting the downtrodden  comes from?  I can clearly remember things that I should not remember.  I can hear Roosevelt announcing on the radio "The war is over."  I do not think it was actually him since the war officially ended after his death, but memory is a funny thing.

Momma always said that our mind will remember what our mind wants to remember and momma was right.  I want to remember a red Cinderella cookie cutter and a birthday party that may or may not have actually happened.  So, on my happy birthday to me day, that is what I will remember.  And I will see friends that love and care for me.  By the very act of clinging to life for 80 years, I have earned my stripes!

So Happy Birthday to me!  And rest assured, I am not done yet!  I may be the matriarch, but I am still 7 years old in my mind; an innocent little girl aching to grab the world by it's horns and make it her oyster!

Peace and love!

A Louisiana sweet roll

 I rarely think about husband #3 who also has the honor of being the only one to be #4 and the only one I had to divorce twice.  He is also the one who moved me to Colorado where I would thrive for the next 47 years and he is the one on my mind this morning.  Oh, not because of an undying love but because I woke up thinking about an old orange cabover that Kenny owned and taught me to drive.  We owned several of the big rigs when we were trucking early on in our marriage.  It only made sense that I should have some sort of an idea of what driving one entailed, so up in the cab I crawled with Kenny in the passenger seat.  

Now, I chose the cabover because I wanted to be able to see the road and the ditches and all that stuff.  A conventional has a big long hood and I am only a little over 5 feet tall so seeing the road was a challenge.  If you have never driven a stick shift, you will be lost in a truck that has 13 forward gears.  My Honda has 5 forward gears and I get along very well, but it is only about a foot off the ground and if I stretch my arms I can reach clear across it.  But I digress.

Charlie was an operator by trade.  Now an "operator" in this context is someone who operates heavy equipment like front end loaders, backhoes and stuff like that.  The big yellow ones you see on construction sights.  At the time of our marriage I owned a small cafe.  To get back on track, shortly after we married he took a job with Krause Plow and Implement as a truck driver.  His first assignment was to deliver a load some where in Louisiana.  Krause let the drivers take their wives if they wanted to, so off we went.  My first adventure!

The trip to Louisiana was only 300+ miles "as the crow flies", so we arrived at our destination late at night.  He found a place to park the tractor/trailer with "facilities" nearby and we crawled into the sleeper.  I was tired and slept like a log.  When I awoke the next morning I was alone.  Very soon I heard a rapping on the door.  Charlie had returned with a bag in his hand.  Inside  was coffee and a roll.  He was very excited about the roll!

"It is a sweet roll!  They are authentic Louisiana sweet rolls!  Here eat one!"  I took what looked like a biscuit that someone had forgotten to add the baking powder ingredient.  It tasted the same.

"This is not a sweet roll.  This is not sweet at all."  His eyes lit up.  

"I know!  Here!  You have to put honey on it!  That is what makes it sweet!"

And that was the highlight of the trip.  We did have that memory and every time I made biscuits after that, we had to have honey.  That made them sweet rolls.

Since coming to Colorado life has changed.  I am now widowed from husband # 6, but when I see a biscuit, I still think of old Charlie and how excited he was to introduce me to authentic southern cuisine in the form of a "sweet roll" that was really nothing more than a dry biscuit, but then isn't that what makes life interesting?

Momma always said, "If life hands you a lemon, make Lemonade.  Charlie taught me if life hands me a biscuit, make a sweet roll!

Our journey here on this planet is up hill and down hill, but when it is all said and done, it is the good times that we remember and it is our journey that shaped us into who we are.  And when the trumpet sounds I plan on having my little jar of honey just in case someone brings biscuits!

Peace!

Would you like something to drink?

 Sure.  An innocent question I ask or am asked quite frequently.  It is a social thing and accepted as harmless fodder in our day to day interactions with people.  Sure.  My drink of choice is water with ice.  An occasional soft drink on a hot day or a  big glass full of ice with tea goes good.  It has not always been that way.  Sadly I am one of those people for whom "a drink" means stay the hell away from anything that contains alcohol.  One drink is too many and a thousand not enough.

I learned very early on that if there was booze at the party it was not going to end well!  The boys in the crowd quickly learned that the best they would get out of me full of liquor was barfed on.  Dancing went out the window.  I became belligerent.  My first date with my first husband was spent with him holding my head while I wretched out the door of the car.  This was followed by me passing out and brother Jake taking me home, putting me fully clothed in the bathtub and throwing a blanket over me.  

I hated hangovers more than fried apples, which I loathe with every fiber of my being.  Every time I picked up a beer or mixed drink I told myself, "This time it will be different.  This time I will just have this one.  One.  Well, maybe one more."  And down the rabbit hole I went.  "90 miles an hour down a dead end street," so to speak.

I managed to function in my job because I limited my drinking to my days off from work.  I drank at home after the kids were safely in bed.  Since I was a single working mother with no child support I could not afford my habit.  Had anyone suggested AA I would have been offended.  Life has a funny way of putting us where we need to be at the time we need to be there and I am a prime example of that.

  My third husband brought me to Colorado and after about a year we divorced.  At that time I learned my first husband's brother was living in Pueblo with his wife.  Delvin and Nedra and I got together.  They were big on "AA" which is the acronym for Alcoholics Anonymous.  They attended meetings probably every day of the week and would swing by and share the "Big Book" lessons with me.  I explained to them that I was not an alcoholic because I did not drink.  He explained to me that being dry did not mean I was not an alcoholic.  I was one drink away.  And you know what?  He was right.

I would love to have a big red tomato beer.  Or a Pina Colada.  Or a Rum and coke. Or a fifth of rot gut whiskey and chase it with red Kool-Aid, but that is not going to happen.  I know myself enough to know that one drink is too many and a thousand are not enough.  I have overcome the nicotine addiction and put the cork in the bottle, so it is all down hill from here.  I just gotta' keep breathing, putting one foot in front of the other and some day the trumpet will sound and I will be out of here.  Keep my hand on the rudder and my eye on the prize.

Maintain.

Into each life a little rain must fall.

I remember back when I was a kid that life was so simple.  One of the highlights in my memory is crouching in the dirt and watching through the chicken fence as an old brown hen laid an egg.  I recall her looking at me a time or two and wondering if she was ever going to get done.  I do not recall it being any kind of "bonding moment" with the chicken, but in that few moments we were alone in the universe.  After she laid her egg and left the nest, I picked it up and took it into the house to momma.  While she was pleased that I brought her the egg she was upset that I had bothered the chicken it her egg laying business.

So, now to the crux of the matter.  Looking back I can see the folly of my experience.  First, laying face down in the dirt I was subject to all kinds of bugs and spiders.  Not to mention the fact that snakes also slither around chicken houses looking for prey.  And had the chicken not been engrossed in the act of laying an egg, she could have pecked my eye out!

Living on the farm was a constant learning experience.  The chicken experience was mild compared to the life and death struggle that went on constantly.  I recall the "dead animal wagon" coming to pick up our old Shetland Pony, Star.  Dad had gotten Star back when we lived on the Stroh place.  As I recall that was one of Dad's biggest follies.  He had gone into Hutch to join some of his old cronies for "a drink" and returned many days later with Star in a horse trailer.  That was the meanest damned horse that ever crossed the pike!  As Dad was unloading him he was kicking at the sides of the trailer and when he was finally on the ground, he made it clear that no one was going to set on his back! Or pet him! Or brush him! Or do anything but feed him and stay the hell out of his space!

We moved to the Strong Street house about the time I started second grade and Star died about a year later.  I recall the "dead animal wagon" coming to the house and the man taking a wench line out of the back of the wagon and into the barn.  Mother made us go into the house at that time and let us out as the truck left the yard with a horse leg sticking straight up in the air.  The demise of Star was complete.  He would be made into dog food.  I learned that from my school chums.  "Yes!  Dog food.  And his hooves will be made into glue."  Now how in the hell 7 year old kids knew that was beyond me, but it sounded true enough to me that I spent several nights crying myself to sleep, mourning a horse that was meaner than hell and no one could get near. 

There was a big Mulberry tree in the back yard there and under it I started a cemetery.  Donna squeezed a baby rabbit to death and  I buried it under the tree and put a stick to mark the place.  Dead birds were eulogized as well baby chickens that did not survive.  A mouse made it in also. And then I lost interest.  

Jake went off to the Army and I entered high school.  The days of sand and shovels were behind me.  Time to grow up and plan my future.  I would be a missionary.  I read about Africa and how the natives needed saved and brought into the grace of God.  Reverend Barnett gave me books to read.  I  learned that a lot of them were cannibals!  That kind of scared me, but at 15 years of age the world was my oyster!

And then I went to live with Grandma Haas, who was crippled by a stroke, and Great Grandma Hatfield, who was caring for her.  And the rest is history.