Heartbeat of the House

When I was a very little girl, my daddy brought home a clock for my mama. It was a chiming mantel clock, about a foot and a half tall, with wide carved "wings" around the clock face, and a gilded pendulum swinging back and forth behind a little glass door that had curlycue designs in gold leaf.
In a house with four children, there are few quiet moments, but occasionally in a lull in the chaos the tick-tock-tick of the clock could be heard. The chime sounded once one the half-hour, and chimed the time on the hour. It was so much a part of our home that we rarely noticed it except when it ran down. It had to be wound every eight days. Daddy wound the clock on Sunday nights, setting the hands carefully, and dusting the heavily carved case. No one else ever touched the clock.
The chimes sounded day and night, and during the night, if I woke up, the clock told me if it was middle of the night, or nearly time to get up. If for some reason it wound down and stopped, I had trouble getting back to sleep.

When I married and left home, my darlin husband bought a chiming clock for our house. It wasn't an antique, but it did have a swinging pendulum, and it chimed on the hour and half hour, and its tick-tock-tick measured our nights and days, keeping me company when I was up late rocking a sick baby, and tracking the minutes when one of our teenagers was late coming home.

When our house burned, the clock was one of the things we lost. We replaced it with a pendulum clock that hangs on the wall. Since we currently live in our RV, the clock is in storage. I miss the ticking and the chiming.

When our little cabin is finished, when we are retired and living there, one of the first things I plan to do is hang the clock, and set our home's heart ticking again.

Are You Smarter than a Four Year Old?

Jeana recently posted about a conversation with her eldest child, which left her feeling somewhat at a loss. It reminded me of a similar conversation some years ago--same child, talking to my husband (Pepaw)
There had been a severe wind storm just a few days before, and my husband, trying to find conversational ground with his four-year-old grandchild, asked:
What did you think about that big wind storm the other night? Were you scared?

K: Actually, Pepaw, it was a vortex. A vortex in the air. Like when you let the water out of the bathtub.

Baffled at this point, Pepaw encouraged her to continue.

K: When you let the water out of the bath tub, it swirls around as it goes down the drain. If you are here, it goes clock wise. If you are in Australia, it goes counter clockwise. The storm last night was like that, only in the air, not in water.

My husband then noticed a large poster on the wall, with an illustration of an ant. He pointed it out, and asked her if she knew why the ant had such a big tummy.

K: Actually, Pepaw, that is the ant's thorax.
She proceeded to give him a brief dissertation on the other parts of the ant, its habits, what it eats.


I don't remember how Pepaw disengaged himself from the conversation, but I do remember his aside to me:
If she is this smart now, we won't even be able to talk to her by the time she is twelve.

After reading Jeana's post, I think I agree with him. Why would either of us think ourselves capable of explaining anything to her?

Tending to My Knitting

I taught myself to knit from a book many years ago, while expecting my first child. Somehow, it seemed like a good idea--quiet, relaxing, productive. I made two afghans during those nine months, and decided that crochet is more my cup of tea. I gave up knitting until just recently, when I decided to relearn it.
I taught myself to crochet from a book. I taught myself to embroider from a book. I learned to bake bread from a book. These and many other home making skills were once handed down generation to generation, the elder teaching the younger, but as we have become more and more industrialized, and fewer and fewer mothers stay home with their young children, the experience of learning from observation has become less the rule and more the exception.

Where did I get the idea that these skills were important? I remember quite vividly reading Louisa May Alcott's Eight Cousins, in which a guardian uncle who has inherited a half-grown girl child, expounds on the simple skills, crafts, and arts that are dying out, no longer valued by society. Remember, Alcott was writing some 150 years ago, and things haven't gotten better in this area since then.

Somehow I was inspired to learn these "homely" tasks. I wanted to be a good wife and mother in the traditional mold. I was blessed to be able to stay at home with my children until the youngest, Jeana, started school. During those years, we always had some kind of project going, whether it was sewing, cutting and pasting, cooking, embroidery, making curtains, whatever skill I was struggling to acquire at the time.
How much easier, if I had been living close enough to my mother or grandmother to ask questions. They did me the great favor of handing on to me many projects begun by my great-grandmother, unfinished after her death, and I used them as guidelines and inspirations, but how I yearned for a model, a mentor, to guide me.

It has been so long ago that when I had my first child, breast feeding not only was not "in style", but was actively discouraged by many doctors, on the grounds that so few women were successful.
Why were they unsuccessful? After all, women had been breastfeeding for thousands of years, and most had been successful, so why were women in 1971 so lacking? It finally dawned on me. We had no models. Not a single person I knew was choosing to breast feed. I had only seen women breastfeeding in books on natural childbirth. I struggled mightily, encouraged only by my husband. How I would have valued a teacher to guide me.

All this rambling is to say....in the past few years I have realized my dream of passing my "homely" skills on to another generation; I have the opportunity to be for my grandchildren a model and a teacher. Some of them are taking to it quickly and easily. Some are struggling. And some are just more interested in other skills, such as soccer. And that's okay too.

When Katushka calls or e-mails with a question about her knitting or crocheting...when daughterJeana mentions in her blog ( Diversifying Your Stockpile) that she is crocheting and that I taught her how...I once more have that sense of connecting across the years, across the generations, with all those women who came before, who made quilts to warm their families and stretch their budget, who knitted warm socks for their husbands who were going off to war, who baked bread and made their meals "from scratch" every day (must have been a mighty big sack of scratch, to feed all those young'uns).

And that connection feels good.

Dog Lovers?

I ask you: which do you think is more loveable, a fluffy, affectionate couch-potato Pomeranian like Frankie, or a bug-eyed, hyperactive Boston terrier named Oreo? The question arises because Jeana is answering questions from her readers, and stated that she is selective about the dogs she loves; she loves her own Golden retriever, Emma, and has a soft spot for dachshunds (we had one when she was growing up), and even loves her brother's Boston terrier. I have read the post three times, and still find no mention of my Frankie, who is hands down the most lovable, adorable dog on earth.
Now I am asking you, my readers, to vote.
All three of you.
And you know who you are.

How Long Has It Been Since You Cleaned That Hat?

Papaw, my father-in-law, wears a silver gray Stetson. He has been wearing it for several years, indoors and out, dress-up or casual, going out to dinner or working on his car. I told my husband that the hat needed cleaning. His first suggestion was to just buy a new hat.
A Stetson is not a casual purchase; it's an investment.
And Papaw likes his hat. He doesn't really want a new one.
So I suggested that we get the hat cleaned.
Wick said if I could find a place to get it cleaned, he would take it.
So I called Cavender's and asked, "Do you clean hats?"
The guy who answered said, "We sure as h#!! do, darlin'!"
I said well great, how long would it take?
He said, "We can do it in five minutes!"
I said now before you make any promises, you need to know that my father-in-law has been wearing this hat for several years, and it is pretty dirty.
He said, " If ol' Joe can't clean that hat in five minutes, I'll kick his @$$!"
I said okay, we'll bring it right over.

Now Papaw is quite attached to his hat. And he also has a little trouble hearing. So when I told him we were taking his hat to be cleaned, I'm not sure he understood. Or maybe we did it so fast he didn't have time to object. Wick and his brother took off with the hat, and my sister-in-law went to take a shower and do her hair before we went out to eat, leaving me to entertain Papaw.

We talked about his new place (assisted living), the cute nurse who bring him a banana and a glass of milk before he goes to bed at night, the one who helps him shower, and other assorted topics. Suddenly he put his hand on his head, and said, "Where's my hat?"

I reminded him that the guys had taken it to be cleaned. He said oh yeah, I forgot.

When the guys got back, they didn't have the hat. I asked where it was, and Wick said, "Joe said that's more than a five-minute job."
I said, so is Joe going to get his @$$ kicked?
Papaw said, "Who's gettin' his @$$ kicked? I want to see that!"
Then he said, "Where's my hat?"

We went out to eat while the hat was being cleaned.

I was not surprised that it was more than a five-minute job, since Papaw had frequently handled this pale gray Stetson when his hands were greasy up to the elbows from working on his car.

Several times during dinner he asked where his hat was, and each time when we reminded him it was being cleaned, he asked, "Well how long is it going to take?"

I didn't know, but I was pretty sure it was going to be more than five minutes.

When we got ready to leave the restaurant, he started looking for his hat again. The guys took us back to the house and went to get the hat.

When they brought it back, Wick said, "Joe says he didn't quite get it clean, but if we'll bring it back more often, he thinks he can get it cleaner."

Papaw examined every inch of his Stetson when Wick handed it to him, and then said, "Well I'll be d@**, I didn't know it was that dirty! It looks brand new, don't it?"

It might not look brand new, but it certainly looks better than it did before.

However, I still wish I could have seen Joe's face when he decided that hat was not a five-minute job.

Back by Popular Demand

In response to overwhelming demand (at least three people have e-mailed me!) I am back. Now and then my blogging mind seems to go blank, and I just can't think of anything to write about. I still don't have anything important to say, but then again, a great many of my posts have been about not much of anything, so this one won't be that unusual.
School has been in session for 11 weeks, so second report cards will be due next week. We started school with a new administrative staff, and there has been an adjustment period--every principal has his own system, and it takes a while to learn all the different expectations. The students are responding well to the new discipline program, which makes my life a lot easier. And our new principal is trying to improve morale by recognizing the efforts made by our teachers and staff to improve student learning.
Our low carb efforts have been rewarded by stabilized blood sugar levels, and both of us have lost a few pounds, so that's all good.
Thanksgiving is coming soon, so I've been thinking about all our blessings, and all that we have to be thankful for. I'm planning a Thanksgiving post next week. Won't you join me and post about the blessings in your life?

Catching My Breath

Since we returned from our cruise, I have had a bout with low blood sugar, a summer cold, a sinus infection, bronchitis, laringitis, and incipient pneumonia.
Praise God that we live in the age of antibiotics; otherwise, as my darling husband pointed out, I would be dead by now.
For some reason, no matter what kind of illness I start out with, it eventually goes to my lungs, resulting in acute bronchitis, or pneumonia, or both.
Just lucky, I guess.
Fortunately, my doctor takes any respiratory problem I have quite seriously, and gets aggressive with antibiotics, cough meds, pain killers, and so forth and so on. He know that for me, waiting to see what develops is just not an option.
In addition to coughing incessantly until I feel as if I have broken a rib or two, blowing my nose until it's so raw the skin starts peeling off, and wheezing so loudly I can be heard in the next room, my brain turns to mush. All I want to do is sleep.
Thinking is out of the question.
I'm so glad I had my response t o Jeana's question about blogging comments drafted ahead of time.
It only took me about 45 minutes to figure out how to post it, working, as I was, through a codeine fog.
Fortunately, it's summertime, and I don't really have to make good sense until August 2oth, when I have to go back to work.

Bloggy Commenting

Jeana posted an open invitation to talk about commenting on blogs, and I couldn't resist putting in my two cents.

I feel certain that my post will not be exactly what she had in mind, since I am thinking in terms of literary theory, interpreting literature and literary criticism. Some might argue that blog posts are not literature, but I feel that in our age of electronic communication, internet blogs qualify as a form of literature; in fact, blogging seems to be overtaking traditional publishing in both volume and content.

For many years, the interpretation of literature was based on the idea of figuring out what the author, the writer, meant. This process involved close reading of the text, exploration of the multiple meanings of the words used, and then extended to examination of the author's life to put the piece of writing in context.

However, as literary theory evolved during the twentieth century, the deconstructionist view began to take over. According to the deconstructionist view, the author is not necessarily the only or even the best source for discovering the true meaning of the text. The reader brings his/her own life experiences to the interpretation of the writer's work, and the reader's interpretation is considered as valid as the author's interpretation.

For most published authors, writing was a sort of one-sided conversation. The writer "speaks" through his written works, and retains possession of the original work, as well as the authority to reinterpret his/her meaning in response to literary critics. The "conversation" might take place over a long period of months or years, as each writer contributed to the exchange.

Now, with the advent of blogging, the author can receive almost immediate feedback, finding out how others interpret his/her work while the ideas are still fresh in the author's mind.

If you are a regular reader of blogs and their comments, you already know that people can take totally opposing views on what the blogger "really" meant. The blogger may or may not try to interpret the original intent of the post, may respond to the comments, close the comments, or delete comments that seem inappropriate. Those who comment can create their own posts, linking back to the original source, thus keeping the conversational connections intact. Others may then comment, or post in response, and so the conversation continues until everyone is satisfied--or exhausted.

I enjoy the comments almost as much, if not more than, the original posts. The exchange of ideas is so fresh, so immediate, and so often takes the readers in unexpected directions, possibly unimagined by the original poster.

The down side of comments is that some people feel entitled to browbeat the blogger into changing his or her position, by arguing the issue, or by personal attacks.

As my grandmother used to say, if you can't say anything nice, maybe you shouldn't say anything at all.

I don't mean that it is wrong or rude to disagree; I'm just saying, let's try to express ourselves civilly and kindly.

We are all entitled to our own opinions, but if we can't have civil discourse, ...
well, if we can't be civil, I'll close my comments ;)

Jeana's take on bloggy responses focuses on the issue of manners. I chose to focus on the conversational aspects of blogs and responses. What's your take? Be sure to link your response through Jeana's Mr. Linky.

WFMW--e-mailing grandkids

Like many grandparents, we don't get to see or spend as much time with our grandchildren as we would like. We work. They are busy. And too young as yet to really participate in a lengthy telephone conversation.
After just a few sentences, they are off to other activities.
So we e-mail. Each child has his or her own e-mail address. I write an open-ended question (one which requires more than a yes/no answer).
Sometimes that day, or the next day, or a week later, I receive a response. Sometimes they ask me a question. Or I come up with another question based on their answers.
Sometimes I write a short paragraph, to which they respond with questions or comments.
I enjoy hearing from them, and letting them know that they are on my mind and in my prayers.
They like knowing that an adult is willing to take the time to keep the "conversation" going.
It only takes a little time, and doesn't put them on the spot to reply immediately, as a telephone call or visit does.
Like most kids, they love to use the computer, and love getting e-mail.
And it keeps us involved in each other's lives.
And that works for me.

Running Aground on the Carb Reef

On Monday I posted about our cruise vacation, and all the wonderful, marvelous, delicious food served on the ship.
We had decided before the trip to throw caution to the winds, and eat like there was no tomorrow. When tomorrow got here, we started paying the price for that orgy of carbohydrates.

Ohh how we payed.

Blood sugar dropped.
Heads hurt.
Bones ached.
Energy was nearly zero.
We felt just awful.

We started Monday morning just fine, with all those carbs still floating around in our blood stream. We reviewed our dietary plan for the week, made a shopping list, and went to the grocery store. Unfortunately, I drank two cups of coffee, but didn't eat any breakfast.
Our shopping trip included a stop at Home Depot, so it was past noon when we got to Wal-mart.
By 1:30, it had been more than 15 hours since I had eaten.
As I pushed the shopping cart along one of the outside aisles, I noticed that everything was looking sort of blurry.
Then I started to feel dizzy.
I was sure I was goingto pass out.
How embarrassing would that be, to fall to the floor in the middle of the Wal-mart?
Luckily, there was a little bench nearby, so I sat down, put my head between my knees as best I could, considering the load of carbs I was still carrying in my bloated tummy, and wiped the clammy sweat from my face.
Yuck.
Was I ever paying a price for all that yummy, luscious food.
Somehow, it seemed so unfair.
I mean, 5 had already decided to reform.
I was busy buying all kinds of low carb, healthy foods, getting back on plan, and yet I was having to suffer withdrawals for the carb revels on the ship.
Isn't my repentance enough?
Why do I have to suffer like this, just when I am back on the right track?
Fortunately, just as I was about to drown in a pool of self-pity and sweat, dear husband came to the rescue.
He knew that my blood sugar had bottomed out.
He also knew that sugar would temporarily stave off the symptoms, but in a few minutes I would be crashing again.
So he did what any low carb savvy husband would do:
He popped the top on a can of Vienna sausages.
Stabbing one with his pocket knife, he offered it to me.
Now at that moment, I truly thought that if I ate anything, either I would not be able to swallow it, or it would come right back up again.
But I felt so lousy I was desperate.
So I opened my mouth.
I chewed.
I swallowed.
I began to feel as if I might not actually fall off the bench onto the floor.
And when I got home, as soon as I put away the groceries and ate more protein, I got busy posting recipes on my low carb recipe blog.
I'm still not feeling good enough to make anything very elaborate, but at least I am thinking about it.

Cruising Along

Wick & I just returned from a 7 day cruise with Royal Caribbean's Rhapsody of the Seas. We have sailed on this ship four times. She is not the largest cruise ship, but has the most repeat cruisers of any of Royal Caribbean's ships, due to the wonderful service and friendly staff.

Sadly, this will be our last cruise on the Rhapsody. She is being sent to Australia for several months, then will be reconditioned, and sent to Asia.

One of the things we like about the Rhapsody is the size. With about 2500 passengers, it is possible to get acquainted with other passengers, and to feel a part of the shipboard community.
On this cruise, we traveled with a family group, 15 other cruisers related to us by birth or marriage. We enjoyed their company, and shared many meals, on board activities, and excursions.

If you have never taken a cruise, be prepared for a whole new world of experience. For us, it is a week of feeling like royalty. Someone else cooks, serves and cleans up after 5 course gourmet meals, including lobster, escargot, prime rib, shrimp, and the most luscious desserts I have ever dreamed of. Someone else makes up the bed, cleans the shower, puts out clean towels, and picks up the wet washcloth I dropped in the shower. Someone else plans the daily activities, serves an endless stream of drinks with chunks of fruit and little umbrellas, and washes up the glasses afterward.

The biggest decision on a day at sea is which of a half dozen appetizers to order, or whether to read in a deck chair on the promenade deck, or in the solarium.

It's a week of luxury, of being pampered and cosseted, of being made to feel that life is truly just a bowl of cherries---piled high with whipped cream.

Try it. I think you'll like it.

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Lids

Meredith's post about lids reminded me of the loss of lids for my favorite Corning ware casserole dishes, which I received as a wedding gift.
The dishes themselves were that very sturdy, nearly indestructible stuff that goes from freezer to oven to microwave to dishwasher with nary a problem. The lids, however...
The lids were just glass.
They chipped easily.
They broke almost as easily.
So by the time I had been married about 20 years or so, I still had the dishes, but only one lid.
One Sunday afternoon, my dear daughter-in-law and I went shopping at a nearby outlet mall, where there was a Corning outlet. We were accompanied by two year old Pie.
Pie was very patient with us as we shopped store after store.
When we got to the Corning outlet, I looked at replacement lids, but couldn't decide on which sizes I needed. So we decided to go home and look at the dishes, just to be sure.
When we got back to my house and unbuckled Pie from her car seat, she ran ahead of us into the house, jabbering incomprehensibly.
I followed her, curious to see what she was up to.
She went directly into the kitchen, opened the lower cabinet door where I kept the Corning dishes, and yanked the stack that needed lids right out of the cabinet.
Onto the floor.
Onto the ceramic tile floor.
Shattering all but one of the dishes.
Despite their apparent sturdiness, they could not survive a two year old, or a tile floor.
I guess I didn't need those lids after all.

Monday went to the dogs

Yesterday, instead of cooking supper, I was lazy, and picked up a box of fried chicken at Brookshire's, as well as a pound of fried chicken livers, one of my husband's favorites. I sliced up a cantaloupe and some tomatoes fresh from our neighbor's garden, and baked some potatoes.
A pretty decent dinner, I thought.
Apparently, son's Boston terrier thought so too.
We currently have our own Pom, Frankie, as well as Gracie the pug and Oreo the Boston terrier (son's dogs) in residence. Frankie, being particular about what he will eat, rarely begs for table food. Gracie, being somewhat on the plump side, has never offered to climb up on the supper table. It had never occurred to me that Oreo, in addition to being a persistent beggar, would actually assault anything left on the table and swallow it whole.
At least until last night.
I got sidetracked before I finished putting everything away after supper. The bowl of chicken livers, a couple of chicken wings, and half a stick of butter in its dish were still on the table.
I went outside, leaving the dogs inside.
Now I don't know for sure that Oreo was the one responsible.
Nor do I know for sure that she actually devoured all that food.
But when I came back in, the butter dish was on the floor.
Empty.
The bowl of chicken livers was empty.
The fried chicken wings were gone.
I'm talking gone.
As in not even crumbs left behind.
Frankie had his head between his paws. Never looked up.
Gracie looked at me with her melting brown eyes, as if pleading innocent.
Oreo was laying on the couch, and when I tried to scoot her over so I could sit down, she groaned.
None of them confessed, but I have a sneaking suspicion that they shared the bounty of our leftovers that I had planned to have for lunch today.
And judging from what came out during her late night walk, a great deal more than dry dog food went into Oreo at some point.
Not that I am accusing her.
I'm just saying.

Rainbows

For those of you who may not have noticed, it's been raining in Texas.
A lot of rain.
So much rain that a lot of people have lost their homes, and a few have lost their lives.
Here at our place, it has rained almost every day this summer.
Last summer, we had a drought, which lasted almost 15 months. Our lake was so low that we couldn't get our boat out of the boat house for several months. We could walk across our cove to the neighbors' on dry land.
But then it started raining.
And it rained.
And rained.
And rained.
I love rainy days. But after a while, I begin to yearn for a few sunny days.
Yesterday and today were bright and sunny, with a mild breeze, and moderate temperatures. We really enjoyed the beautiful blue Texas sky, and sat outside for a long time yesterday, just enjoying being able to sit outside.
Then it rained.
Again.
For about an hour.
Which is to be expected, lately.
But we were also trying to smoke a brisket, in preparation for the family visit we are expecting during this week of the 4th of July.
So as soon as the rain slacked off, husband went out to stir the fire and add some wood to keep the brisket cooking.
Then my cell phone rang, and it was him, telling me to come out and look at the rainbow.
Wow.
Oh my goodness.
The most vivid rainbow I have ever seen. The colors were not washed out and filmy, like watercolors, but very bright and glowing.
Then I noticed a second rainbow arching above the first.
Two rainbows at once, arching over our lake.
For the first time in my life, I could actually see the end of the rainbow, where it touched the water. It really looked as if we could have taken the boat out and sailed right into the end of that glorious prismatic rainbow.
All this rain over the past days and weeks has us joking about needing to build an ark, or wondering if we will meet Noah, and thinking about the forty days and forty nights of rain, when all living things on earth were drowned, except for those inside the ark.
After the clouds and rain ended, God made a covenant with the earth:

12 God said, "This is the sign of the covenant which I am making between Me and you and every living creature that is with you, for all successive generations;
13 I set My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a sign of a covenant between Me and the earth.
14 "It shall come about, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow will be seen in the cloud,
15 and I will remember My covenant, which is between Me and you and every living creature of all flesh; and never again shall the water become a flood to destroy all flesh.
16 "When the bow is in the cloud, then I will look upon it, to remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth."
Genesis 9: 12-16

An everlasting covenant.
A promise for all generations of human kind.
And there was the sign of that covenant, arching over my head.
I looked along the shore line, and saw our neighbors out on their docks, looking at the rainbow as well.
I guess this is the treasure we found, at the end of the rainbow--not a pot of gold, but a community, a way of life, a place to live.
Highlighted by God's bow in the clouds.

Family Heirlooms

A few weeks ago a cousin was moving from one apartment to another, and found the pitcher and serving bowl pictured here among his stored belongings. He e-mailed me to tell me he was bringing them to me.
The serving bowl belonged to my daddy's mother. She passed away when my daddy was still a kid, so I never knew her. I have seen only one picture of her. My daddy said she was a tiny woman, with rich auburn hair. One of his most vivid memories was of her brushing her hair at night, as she prepared for bed, hair so long that she could have sat on it.
My aunt Ruth has told me that Grandma Lee was a sweet and gentle woman, who sang as she worked in her home, who gave birth to twelve children, and who worked hard to take care of her family.
Aunt Ruth also gave me Grandma Lee's cornbread dressing recipe, which I make for my children and grandchildren during the holidays.
I like to imagine her making that dressing, and serving it in that bowl.
The pitcher, on the left, was my husband's great-grandmother's. It is a lemonade pitcher. A hundred years ago, she may have served lemonade in it on a hot summer day.
These are the only tangible bits we have left of these two women's lives--two women without whom neither my husband nor I would exist.
What else do we have of them? Memories. Family stories. A heritage of faith in God and love of family, a tradition of building and maintaining family ties.
Without these bits of china, we would still have those memories and family traditions. The pieces themselves have little, if any, intrinsic value, but when our little cabin is finished, they will have a place of honor, to remind us ever day of those who lived before us.

Growing up Reading

Melodee got me to thinking about books I read as a child.
My daddy didn't get to finish school, but he strongly believed in reading as the key to self-education. My mama took us to the library weekly, even though it was across town, and not very convenient. My incentive to learn to write my name was to get my own library card.
However, the librarian had some kind of silly rule about kids only being allowed to check out books from the kids' section, and only five at a time.
And I could read a bushel basket of books every week. In fact, we took a bushel basket with us every week, to carry the books we checked out. Mama said I could check out however many books I wanted, but I had to read everything I checked out, and everything had to go back the next week.
So I read.
Obsessively.
I read everything.
Cereal boxes.
Billboards.
Newspapers.
Magazines.
Old textbooks that had belonged to my mama's older brothers when they were in elementary school.
And my ambition was to read every book in the library.
I have no idea where I got such an idea, but at least I was systematic about it.
I started in the children's section, with the A's, as in Alcott, Louisa May.
I read Little Women, Little Men, Jo's Boys.
I read An Old Fashioned Girl, Eight Cousins, Rose in Bloom.
Under the Lilacs.
Jack and Jill.
I had no idea when I began that Miss Alcott had written so many books. I would check out two, and then the next week, some that had not been on the shelf before would appear, and I would check those out. I enjoyed Little Women and Little Men, Eight Cousins, and Rose in Bloom. The rest I just read obsessively, wanting to move on to the next author.

When I finally got to the L's I discovered Andre Lang's fairy tale books:
The Green Book of Fairy Tales.
The Crimson Book of Fairy Tales.
The Blue Book of Fairy Tales.
and so forth.

In the W's I discovered Leonora Mattingly Webber's Beany Malone series, fourteen in number, if I remember correctly. I loved series books, when I found an author I liked. Of course, if it was an author I didn't like, slogging through the whole set was just drudgery, but you know, I had set out to read every book in the library, and for the love of books, I just gritted my teeth and kept reading, even if I didn't like it.

So every week my mama took us to the library, and we checked out a bushel basket of books. I read all my books by about Tuesday, and then read everything everyone else had checked out too.
When school started, and we were issued our textbooks for the year, I went home and read them. All of them. Cover to cover. Even the credits pages.
If my grandmother left a Grace Livingston Hill Christian romance laying around, I read it.
When I went to Aunt Ruth's, I read the novels she ordered from her book club.
I found another set of novels in mama's closet, and read The Turquoise by Anya Seton, Petticoat Surgeon - by Bertha Van Hoosen, The Light Heart by Elswyth Thane, Love Is Eternal by Irving Stone, and Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. I don't claim I understood them all, but I read them, and enjoyed them, and wanted more.
At Aunt Holmsie's house I discovered the Oz books, which enthralled me. I was so excited about them that I actually went out of order in my read-everything-in-the library crusade, and skipped from Alcott to Baum. Of course, I then had to go back and read all the volumes in between, but oh it was worth it, to spend a few weeks with Dorothy, the Tin Man, the Cowardly Lion, and the Scarecrow. And Ozma, Princess of Oz--oh, my word!
I read insatiably, voraciously. I needed to read like I needed to breathe.

I'm sure there were weeks when mama had other things she would rather do. Dragging her own four kids, plus whoever else in the neighborhood wanted to go along, couldn't have been fun sometimes. But she kept taking us, and letting us read anything we wanted to read.

Daddy questioned us about what we read, and taught me the difference between fiction and nonfiction when I was reading Smoky The Cow Horse by Will James.


Did I read some inappropriate books? Probably. Did I understand everything I read? No. Did I read some trash? Again, probably. Did it hurt me? I don't think so. Books let my imagination soar, taught me about the importance of choosing the right word in the right place, and became the basis for interminable conversations at the dinner table.

What do you read?
And why?

What a Riot!

Back in the olden days, when our kids were little, we camped at Lake Texoma frequently. Our favorite area was Burns Run. Nowadays, that area is for day use only, and strictly monitored. Back then, it was pretty much a free-for-all, no specific camp spots marked out, just set up camp wherever.
One Easter weekend, along with about 15 other families of our relatives and friends, we set up camp in a big circle, so that we had a common area for cooking, visiting, and playing games. All around us were other family groups, and, as the weekend went on, large numbers of college age kids, many of whom were engaging in somewhat (ahem) questionable behavior.
By Sunday afternoon, every possible spot was occupied, and the area between our camp site and the water was a solid mass of scantily clad young adults, drinking, shouting, and generally disrupting the quiet of our trip.
Not that we were exactly silent.
We had a bunch of little kids, mostly cousins who were as close as siblings, running around with water guns shooting at each other and everyone else.
A bunch of women, mostly mamas and grandmas, chattering, laughing, and yelling at the kids with the water guns.
A gang of guys, brothers, cousins, friends, talking in their deep voices, playing horseshoes, and generally filling in any quiet moments with their laughter.
Suddenly in the middle of the horseshoe game, a guy with no shirt, long tangled hair, and a handcuff dangling from his wrist, burst into the middle of the horseshoe pitch, begging for someone to hide him.
As he ran through our campsite, we saw uniformed men pursuing him, headed for our campsite.
Suddenly our guys were yelling at us to pack up, throw everything into any available pickup, because we were going home now.
I started throwing our stuff into the pickup, but at the same time, questioning Wick as to what was going on.
He pointed down the slope toward the water, and said, "Those kids are trying to turn over a patrol car, because the officers were trying to arrest that guy that just ran through here with handcuffs on him."
I had hold of Jeana, and handed her to her nanaw as I jumped up onto the bumper of the truck to look for Scott.
I called out, "Has anyone seen Scott and Clint (his cousin)?"
No one knew where they were, except to say "They were right here just a minute ago."
Swiftly my eyes scanned our campsite, but I couldn't see either of the boys.
Suddenly Wick gestured down the slope, as he yelled the boys' names.
I turned, and caught sight of a white-blond shock of hair bobbing around in the middle of the developing riot.
Wick raced down the hill to grab the boys, tucking one under each arm, and hauling them back up the hill.
By this time, we were all packed, and forming up a caravan to leave the camp area.
Unfortunately we were not the only ones trying to escape trouble. We found ourselves in the middle of a huge traffic jam on a narrow winding road out of the park area.
We spent more than an hour idling our engines, walking back and forth from one vehicle to another, trying to gather more information, and wondering why it was taking so long to get out of the area.
Finally, we found out.
The highway patrol had barricaded the road, and set up a check point. They were searching each car and truck, looking for the young man with the handcuffs.
It was like a train wreck--nobody wanted to be there, nobody really wanted to be involved, and yet there we were, captive observers. As we crept slowly toward the check point, suddenly there was a disturbance. People yelling. Running.
And highway patrolmen with handguns and shotguns drawn.
Not exactly the ending we had hoped for our pleasant family camp out.
But material for a family story we have laughed about for over thirty years, the time we went camping, and it was a real riot.

Gone With the Wind

As I said in my last post, during the early years of our marriage, when we camped, we slept in a tent.
Which was an improvement over sleeping on the ground.
Or on a concrete picnic table.
or on a wobbly Army surplus cot, which I had to share with my baby sister or brother.
Wick and I both grew up richer in family and love than money, and for entertainment, our families camped out. We continued to camp out, because we enjoyed being with our families, and wanted our kids to grow up with similar memories to ours.
As if we didn't get enough of tent camping at Toledo Bend, we continued to tent camp.
Admittedly, we would have preferred a nicer accomodation, but hey, the tent was available.
And free, since we were borrowing it from his parents, who had moved up to a small camp trailer, with one real bed, and one that folded up against the ceiling when not in use.
We lived within fifteen minutes of Lake Texoma, which at the time allowed free camping.
And on our budget, free was good.
So as I was saying, we went camping with our kids and parents and siblings and their kids and whoever else wanted to go. It often rained, but since we all had some form of shelter, we didn't let that stop us.
One evening as we were settling in for the night, my brother-in-law mentioned that it looked like it might rain. We glanced up, noticed the rising wind, and the streaks of lightning in the distance, and agreed.
Wick compensated for the threat of rain by tying the tent down more securely. Since the tent pegs had a tendency to come unstaked when it rained, he tied a couple of the tent lines to the bumper of our baby blue Volkswagen.
We settled the kids for the night, sat around our campfire and talked and sang until we were falling asleep, and then joined the kids in the tent.
About two hours later, we were awakened from a sound sleep by the rising wind, hard rain, and lightning striking much too close for comfort.
I reached out to grab Wick's hand in the inky darkness, and asked him if everything was okay. His voice, calm and low enough not to rouse the sleeping babies, reassured me that everything was fine.
I let my head fall back onto the pillow, listening to the gale winds flapping the tent vigorously. Suddenly, chaos.
The tent essentially turned wrong side out, turing our cots over, and scattering our possesions to the elements. Wick grabbed me just as Scott grabbed my leg, crying that the rain was getting his face wet. I shouted, "Where is Jeana?"
Over the roaring winds and rain, I heard her little voice crying for her daddy.
I could hear her.
But I couldn't find her.
My heart jumped up in my throat, choking off my breathing, as I started pawing through the stuff that our tent had vomited out, searching for my baby girl.
Wick too was searching, digging, throwing things right and left.
Finally, we found her, on the ground, under one of the cots, with another cot crossways on top of the first cot.
We hugged both of them close and started laughing, standing out in the pouring rain and howling wind.
Then Wick bundled us into the VW with whatever blankets he salvaged from the disaster, adn we slept the rest of the night in the car.
Next morning, we discovered that we were not the only ones who had slept in their cars, and that at least one family had utterly abandoned us and gone to find a dry motel room.
The tent was still tied to the bumper of the Volkswagen, rather the worse for wear and tear.
By the next camping season, Wick had managed to come up with a cute little cover for the bed of his pickup, so that we were no longer tent camping, but camper camping.
It's an ill wind that blows no good.

Our First Family Vacation

Katherine at Raising Five
reminded me of our first family vacation. When we married, Wick was working construction. For those of you who have never had the pleasure of working for a construction company, I offer the following information:
1. Yes, the pay per hour sounds great.
2. Except that you have no benefits.
3. No insurance.
4. No sick leave.
5. And no paid vacation.
6. And when the job ends, you are out of work.

So, all the time you are working, you bring home a nice check, but you had better be filling your pantry and freezer, and saving up for the intervals between one job ending and the next beginning.
We had two babies in less than 3 years, and moved about 13 times. When I was pregnant with #2 (daughter Jeana), we finally settled down in a small Texas town, and Wick went to work at a foundry. Now if there is anything worse than working construction in the summer in Texas, where outdoor temperatures may reach 110 in the shade, it is working in a foundry. Imagine handling molten aluminum at a temperature of 2,000 degrees. In Texas. In the summertime. Sometimes for 10-12 hours a day.
And if there is anything Wick hates, it is being hot.
But he is and always has been committed to providing for his family, so he did what he felt he had to do.
After a year, he got a week's paid vacation. We were so excited! A week off, and he still got paid! Some of his buddies at work were planning a fishing trip, and invited him. He said only if the babies and I could go too. They agreed to provide all the food, if I did the cooking.
So off we went, with our babies and our German Shepherd Wolf packed up in our station wagon, with a tent and ice chests and suitcases and playpens and cots and fishing poles and bait boxes and cups and plates and pots and pans, and about a cajillion diapers. Have I mentioned we had two babies?
When we got to the lake, on the border between Texas and Louisiana, the guys said they had reserved a camping spot right on the water, with lots of shade, and close to the restrooms and office. It looked lovely when we arrived, in the middle of the night, to set up our tents and get the babies ready for bed. In the rain.
The next morning, I discovered that there was not a level spot as big as a card table in the whole place. The card table, which was my outdoor kitchen, had to be propped against a tree to keep it from falling over. When I started frying bacon and sausage, there was about two inches of grease on one side of the skillet, and none on the other side, because the Coleman camp stove was so unlevel.
I have to give the guys credit: we ate great. They brought all kinds of good stuff, like steaks and pork chops, stuff that we usually couldn't afford. I actually enjoyed cooking for them. They were very grateful and complimentary, no matter what I concocted, and helped with the cleanup after each meal, hauling water to wash dishes, heating water on the Coleman stove, and washing up.
Fortunately for me, the office/store/restroom area provided a clean place to bathe the babies, a small stock of canned goods and milk if we ran low on something, and wonder of wonders, a paperback library. Every morning the babies and I went to the showers to get cleaned up, rinsed out clothes, and picked out something for mama to read during afternoon nap times.
They guys fished. Every day. All the time.
The only problem was that they didn't catch anything.
But they had a great time fishing.
Oh. I forgot to mention that it rained.
Every day.
Every blooming day.
Now this may not have occurred to you, and it had not occurred to me, that when you are staying in a tent, on a slope, and it rains every day, the tent starts to fill up with mud. The mud flows downhill, into the tent, across the tent floor, and accumulates against the downhill wall. Six to eight inches deep. Inside the tent.
And although you can wash clothes in the nice clean shower house, and hang them inside the tent, they don't get dry.
They never dry.
They start to mildew.
And so did the babies and I.
Heat rash.
Diaper rash.
Mosquito bits.
So.
Here we are, on our first paid vacation in three years.
With two babies.
And a German Shepherd, with a tail as thick as a cable, and paws the size of saucers, and ticks as big as grapes from all the bushes he has been running through, and probably carrying about 5 pounds of mud at all times, because honestly, how do you keep a German Shepherd clean, when it rains EVERY DAY?
I thought I was bearing up well, until the last day before we were planning to leave. That day it rained all day long. No letup. I spent the whole day in the tent, with its muddy floor, and the muddy dog, and the babies who had by this time a major case of diaper rash because, have I mentioned, IT RAINED THE WHOLE WEEK?
So when the guys came in for lunch, I took Wick aside, and as nicely as possible explained to him that I had had all of the fishing camp fun I could stand for this year, and we were down to our last set of clean dry clothes, and if something didn't happen soon I was going out of my ever loving mind, and he, in the goodness of his heart, told the guys he was not going fishing with them that night, because his wife was going crazy.
He helped me bathe the babies and we all put on our last set of clean dry clothes, and he took us to town for dinner.
I don't remember where we ate, or what we ate. What I do remember is that he gave up his last fishing opportunity to take me somewhere clean, cool, and dry, and entertained me for two hours with stories of the size of the mosquitoes, the thickness of the mud, the lost lures, the hung-up hooks, and the big fish that got away.
When we got back, the guys were waiting to show us the fish they caught.
The only fish that were caught the whole trip.
And my darling missed out, because he took us to town for supper.
I felt just awful.
And so very thankful that I had married such a man.
He never complained, just laughed at the irony of it all.
And two days later went back to work in the foundry.
Love is patient and kind, and does not seek its own satisfaction. I'm sure he would much rather have been fishing with his buddies that last night. I' m also certain that going back to work in that foundry was not his first choice of how to spend his time, but he did it anyway.

4Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. 5It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. 6Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. 7It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres. 8Love never fails.
I Corinthians 13:4-8

When we married, along with the usual vows for better or worse, in sickness and in health, the minister read these verses. I had no idea at the time how well these verses described the man I was marrying.

Even on vacation.