Friday, September 30, 2005

Disappointment

Defined: sadness or displeasure felt when one's hopes are not fulfilled; a person or thing that causes such a feeling.

This post is for me. I'm whining.

There is a person who holds not an insignificant role in my life.

While he has many favorable attributes and can be both gentle and kind, his is typically the path of least resistance.

I have often thought and even spoken outloud that when the going gets tough, I am left to stand and face all manner of adversity and demon alone.

For better or worse, I am an undying optimist and I never truly believe things are or will be as dire as they are or could possibly be.

This week I was faced with a task which required both immediate action and a great deal of moxie.

This week I really did not know if I had it in me to complete the task.

This week I was scared and faced something I should not have had to confront alone.

This week someone let me down.

Again.

And, so breaks another piece of this old heart of mine.

Hard to Believe

What's that old saying?

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Well, 365 days ago my life underwent something of a change.

A year ago today I began my adventure in the world of web logging, up close and personal.

Between here and that other place, this post is number 745.

According to the site meter over there, there have been just over 75,500 hits in that year.

UNBELIEVABLE.

While my personal life is the same chaotic rollercoaster it has been for longer than I care to really contemplate, I have definitely changed.

I am not the same person I was when this journey began.

I have met so many good people I am pleased to call friend.

Through death or other circumstances I have said goodbye to some, but welcomed others into my life and my heart.

I am much richer for all these experiences.

I know not what tomorrow will bring, but I look forward to meeting the challenge with each of you.

Thursday, September 29, 2005

Language

I come from a line of language butchers.

Because my mother is half-Chinese and half-Vietnamese, English is not her first language. Despite becoming a naturalized citizen in 1965, she still speaks English with a heavy accent and all manner of mental gymnastics is required to decipher her exact meanings; however, there are the rare occasions when she manages to convey the appropriate message in rather blunt fashion.

When I first began bringing the boyfriend home to meet the parents, my mother was delighted with him because he enjoyed food, more particularly her cooking. Unfortunately, my mother has never been very good with names and has always managed to substitute the names of her children for those of the various pets lurking about the house and land.

Well, apparently boyfriend was not immune from this practice. During a meal one evening, as soon as she noted his plate was less than half full, she jumped up to offer him yet another helping. She looked at him and instead of saying his name, she asked: "Crap, want more?"

Scrap or Scrapper was the name of one of the dogs. The letter "s" at the beginning of a word was yet something else she could not accurately pronounce.

On another occasion, I was in a bit of a grumpy mood which is often the case when my blood sugar drops (that's my story and I'm sticking to it!). My mother pulled the boyfriend to one side and whispered rather loudly in his ear: "When she is in a bad mood, just slip her a little Twinkie."

Shocked, he looked at her incredulously and asked: "What did you say?"

Nonchalantly, she walked over to the pantry, opened it up, grabbed a box of Twinkies, and deposited it in front of him before asserting: "Give her one of these. It will make her feel better."

He very obviously thought she was referring to something else.

Not long ago, the Baptist preacher's wife and daughter were at my parents' home having coffee with my mother. I just happened to be there that afternoon and was working on some kind of paper work and I did not really engage in conversation with them.

The bits and pieces I was able to hear of their chatter revealed the daughter had just broken off her engagement with a young man in the community. My mother was very surprised to hear the news and asked by way of confirmation: "What, no ding-a-ling?"

Shock rippled through both the preacher's wife and daughter. No one knew quite what to say.

It took even me a moment before I was able to translate what she meant to say:

"What, no wedding bells?"

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Driving Miss Saigon

There is an old stereotype which depicts Asians as poor drivers.

As far as my mother is concerned, that stereotype is spot on.

She was a latecomer to the ranks of road warrior and was in her mid-to-late thirties when she first obtained her license. She has never really enjoyed the whole of the driving experience and much prefers for others to drive. She claims she does not see well, despite frequent eye examinations and corrective lenses.

I say "claims" because she is ever-vigilant and very quick to alert me to any and all manner of potential hazard on the road. She is altruistic in her sharing of information because she squeals and jumps to let me know of not only things which might possibly threaten the vehicle in which we ride, but those of every other human on the road.

My mother lends new meaning to the phrase: "She is a trip."

This morning she had an appointment with my doctor. I was concerned about dehydration, heat exhaustion, and possible stroke. She was slurring a bit when I picked her up night before last. With rest, food, and plenty of fluids, it improved yesterday, however; not knowing how long she will be with us I not only wanted her checked out, but wanted her to establish a relationship with a physician in the area, just in case.

In addition to her longstanding osteoarthritis, bilateral carpal tunnel, tendonitis, and low back pain, she is suffering the ill effects of heat exhaustion and dehydration. She is very weak and weighs less than 100 pounds. She stands five feet, one inch tall. Bless her. She is completely exhausted.

Doc gave her a couple of scripts and she wanted to fill them at Wal-Mart (which occupies at least three rings of Hell) so when she returns home, it will be easier to transfer the prescriptions. I wanted to drop her off at home, then fill the prescriptions myself. She was having none of that. She insisted jokingly that with her recent weight loss, it would be easier for me to carry her around. Great.

Instead of going straight to Wal-Mart from Doc's, I decided to take her and Wee One to lunch to give her a chance to rest before we faced the masses. I was also hoping after she sat down for a few minutes she would realize how tired she was and want to go home.

No such luck.

No matter how tired she was, she still insisted she wanted to go and said she would use one of those convenience scooters at Wally World to shop. I relented.

Fortunately, she was a bit restored after the meal and I was able to use the shopping excursion over her head to "encourage" her to eat and drink more.

Because she was the one who suggested the scooter, I assumed my mother knew how to operate the damn thing. Further, I thought they were pretty much idiot proof.

Good grief!

With my child positioned between her and the steering wheel, she backed into a row of shopping carts, then put it in forward and tried to mow down some poor soul with a walker.

Damn good thing they are equipped with a regulator and do not exceed more 1.5 mph or she really would have been hell on wheels.

After fifteen minutes of watching her attempts to drive and shop my nerves could take it no longer. I told her I would be at the other end of the store and when she was finished with her shopping, prescription filling, and whatever, call me on the mobile phone and I would collect her at the front door.

Laughter is a great healer and a few minutes later she was obviously feeling much better because I saw her with Wee One standing between her legs laughing and flying up and down the aisles on that thing.

I can see it now, she's going to have Santa bring her one (my mother, not Wee One) for Christmas. It will be painted red with flames running down the sides. Yikes!

True to form, when they had exhausted all potential targets or running people down in the aisles lost it appeal, she called and I met her with my shopping cart of purchases and we headed to the parking lot.

It was 103 degrees outside. As we neared my car, mom took the keys from me and said she would start the car and get the air conditioner going. Fine.

Apparently, my engine is much quieter than hers. I heard her then strip my damn starter. Twice.

Sigh.

I am glad she is beginning to feel better. Doc said it would take a couple of weeks before her strength will begin to return.

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

Mom and I are home.

Susan's mom decided to wait it out for a few more days. She emphatically stated she was not ready to leave yet. Poor Susan. She's been worried sick; however, sometimes we just can't make these parents do what we think they need to do.

The word disaster is so inadequate to describe what so many are experiencing first hand.

When my brain is functioning better, perhaps, I will attempt to describe some of the things I saw.

So many thanks are in order. I felt each of your thoughts and well wishes and when I was scared, I knew you guys were pulling for us.

I simply cannot put in words how very much I appreciate each of you.

Thank you.

Monday, September 26, 2005

Update

Posted by Sadie

Hello everyone! I just wanted to pass on the word that our fearless heroine has set off on her foreshadowed journey. Keep her in your thoughts, please, and I will keep you appraised of any news that I receive.

UPDATE: 8:45 PM - Learned that she made it to her mother's home just fine, and most likely has enough gasoline to make it to a filling station. Yay!

Another UPDATE: 11:10 PM - Approaching a filling station, close enough to home, so that she will make it home on that tank. Her family expects here home around 4AM or so.

FINAL update...sometime early/late...she is safe and sound. (Methinks that I'm sounding like an auctioneer?)

Sunday, September 25, 2005

Gearing Up

While both are moms are safe and sound, Susan and I have confirmed with the local electric company they will be out of power for two to three weeks.

Cameron and Lake Charles have been laid to waste.

I'm told by people there that DeRidder looks like a war zone.

My mom is freaking out a bit. While she has weathered many storms, none have come this close or caused this much damage. Then, there's that thing about being alone without my father (he died in December) standing over her to tell her what to do.

Susan's sister also lives in DeRidder and her house took a tree through the roof. Her mom took a tree to a shed.

Susan and I have been networking trying to figure out the next step. We need to get both of our moms out of the area until the power comes back on. There's still major power outages and gas shortages from Houston to Lafayette with roads also being closed through Houston, Beaumont, and Lake Charles.

If Susan's uncle from Tyler, a police officer, is not able to get enough gas to them in the next day or so, I will put together a truck with enough extra gas cans to take to the back roads to head that way. Both my mom's vehicles have gas we can syphon once I get there.

If anyone is between Houston and Lake Charles, please speak up and let me know what the gas situation is where you are.

Many thanks.

P.S. I'm also checking into getting a flight out of Alexandria to San Antonio for her.

Saturday, September 24, 2005

A Rough Night

My mother just called.

THANK GOD!

However, Susan cannot reach her mother.

According to mom, it was rough. There were high winds and lots of downed trees. She stayed with the next door neighbors and one of the huge oak trees between their houses came down. It missed both homes.

The next, next door neighbor suffered significant roof damage, part of it was torn off in the wind.

She said there are trees down everywhere, no electricity, no water, but they are safe.

Now, they have to wait for the back end of the storm to pass. The eye is passing just to the east of where she is.

Susan is here with us and we are trying to get through to her mom.

Susan and I appreciate each and every one of your kind and supportive thoughts and prayers.

God bless.

UPDATE: Saturday, 9:00 a.m. Susan's Mom has called! She is okay. There is much damage where she is, too. The phone lines are such they can call out, but we can't call in. That's okay, as long as we know they are safe.

Friday, September 23, 2005

Too Close to Home

Calcasieu and Cameron Parishes are under mandatory evacuation orders.

Beauregard Parish is where I spent the majority of my childhood. It is just north of Calcasieu Parish and borders Texas on the west.

Lake Charles is in Calcasieu Parish and a mere 50 miles from my mother and best friend Susan's mother who live in DeRidder, Beauregard Parish, Louisiana. Both Susan and I lost our fathers last fall and winter. Our mothers are recent widows.

According to the hometown rag, DeRidder is preparing to accept evacuees from Calcasieu and Cameron.

The Lake Charles American Press, has set up an emergency news blog on blogspot.

(Susan, the reporters are physically in DeRidder and Folk Polk, go over there, it's the most up-to-date on present conditions I have found. Phone lines have been in and out since Katrina.)

I'm hoping our mothers are out of harm's way if DeRidder is taking evacuees.

Say a prayer, my friends, I'm worried sick.

UPDATE: Beauregard is going to be hit hard!

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

HOLY CRAP!


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While not in the land fall cross-hairs, it would appear if Rita hits between Galveston and Port Lavaca and continues a north-northwest line San Antonio (where I work) and New Braunfels (where I live) are in for quite a ride.

If the projections are correct, we look to receive in excess of 73 mph sustained winds.

Folks, that does not include wind gusts or spin-off tornadoes.

This Louisiana girl knows what THAT means.

My house has gables with extended front and back porches. All those gables and covered areas give the wind something to pickup and rip roofs off.

There are windows across the front and completely across the back of the house with transoms and a huge half moon window in the arch of the cathedral ceiling in the living room.

Fortunately, even if we get a great deal of rainfall, we are high on a hill and in the past eight years we have lived through 500 and 100 year floods with no water anywhere near the house; however, the low lying areas surrounding us were all flooded which had the effect of landlocking us in the subdivision.

Dear friend, damn smart woman, and hurricane pro Boudicca has been a Godsend.

When I finally looked at the projection early this afternoon I thought I might be over-reacting because everyone at the office was rather nonchalant about the hurricane. The over-riding concern was the influx of more evacuees.

A few emails and phone calls with Bou convinced me there is cause for serious concern. With her advice and level-headedness, I have done everything I can possibly do to prepare for the health, safety, and well-being of my family and house guests.

I've been to the bank, Wal-Mart, the grocery store, and the gas station.

One of my neighbors and good friends has a generator and suggested we pool resources.

You bet!

I'll be at the office tomorrow.

Friday I shall be home.

Nothing to do but sit, wait, and watch.

I hope each of you and those you love are safe and sound.

UPDATE: Thursday 9:47 a.m. CST The projection for Rita is now right square through Galveston and Galveston Bay with a line to Houston, instead of west to Port Lavaca.

That's good news for me because it puts us out of the major winds; however, my mother in Louisiana lives just above Lake Charles. There will be lots of wind, tornadoes, and rain. I've asked her to stay with friends.

The mother-in-law's house has Galveston Bay as her picturesque back yard. The house is a mansion built in 1908 with gorgeous foot wide plank floors, high ceilings, and hand tooled woodwork. It's also filled with antiques. I'm not wishing ill, but seriously doubt it will still be standing come Saturday.

Further, I would not be surprised to see both my sister's house and the father-in-law's house to be flooded. Both have seen water at least once from tropical storms.

Evacuee Central

House of Alex is ready and open for business.

Dear Anne and her sons (aged seven and twenty-one months) have been between my house and my mother-in-law's house since her Ocean Springs home was washed away along the Mississippi coast when Katrina hit. Her husband is an ER doctor and has remained in Ocean Springs.

The mother-in-law and her husband live in a huge mansion on Galveston Bay between Houston and Galveston.

My sister and her family of three also live between Galveston and Houston.

They are all en route, west bound on I-10.

They are now all evacuees.

According to my calculations, House of Alex will be temporary home to twelve humans, five dogs, an inside cat, and an outside cat.

I have a father-in-law and his wife who live in Houston. I just got off the phone with step-mother-in-law and let them know that, if need be, we will certainly make room for them and her elderly mother.

My mother-in-law and my father-in-law have been divorced for about twenty-five years. THAT would certainly make things interesting.

Unless Rita takes a serious turn to the north and hits Lake Charles, Louisiana, my mother is safe where she is.

The husband has advised he still plans to leave on Friday for yet another hunting trip.

Note to husband: Feel free to go; however, if you abandon me under these circumstances, don't bother to return.

In addition to this being close-out time/fiscal year-end, the number one thing on my list of things to do today is stop by and buy-out the grocery store on my way home.

I guess we'll see just how damned organized I really am.

Stay safe, everyone, stay safe.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

Mercy

Trespassers will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.
~Sisters of Mercy

Drama Queen in the making

Wee child lamented having to go to day school this morning.

When I asked her why, she explained there was "just so much to do" and it was hard for her "to just keep going all day long."

I did not quite understand what the problem was because I have a copy of her daily schedule and know quite well there are an adequate number of snack breaks, quiet/book/story time, and nap time throughout the day. I could not imagine the teachers were pushing these four-year-olds that hard.

I asked her to specifically tell me what the problem was.

"Mommy, YOU don't understand. EVERYONE wants to play with me. It's VERY tiring."

Oh, Lord.

I cannot relate to this one. I was the child who kept to herself until I got out of college.

I am simply ill-equipped to deal with this kind of drama.

Next thing I know she'll want to be a freakin' cheerleader.

Then, I'll have to slit my wrists.

Monday, September 19, 2005

More than meets the eye

There is no doubt I enjoy the written word.

I love to write, as well as read; however, I have a number of other interests I endeavor to pursue with the same zeal and passion that I have embraced blogging.

My mother first introduced me to needle and thread when I was probably six or seven. Back then she made beautiful embroidery with silk thread on fine silk garments. Her work was exquisite, but extremely expensive for a family of four with a stay-at-home mother.

Cross-stitch was just beginning to be popular and she was eager to learn something new. I showed both immediate interest and aptitude and a life long love affair was born.

From cross-stitch I taught myself to needlepoint which led to an interest and appreciation for books on needlepoint, particularly Berlin work.

Over the years, I have amassed quite a collection of needlepoint books, including a few rare ones of real value. My favorite modern book is Berlin Work by Raffaella Serena.

For me, stitching gives me a much needed opportunity to rest my mind, as well as my body. Unless I am in front of a computer, I rarely sit down. When I do sit, I am not one to do so quietly or passively. I do not watch movies or television, even LSU football without something in my hands. Thus, stitching is one of the few ways I work to maintain what little is left of my sanity.

The following is a piece of needlepoint I designed and worked myself on canvas with wool:


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Lately, I have been a bit more into cross-stitch than needlepoint, probably because of the heat and working with wool in the summer, even with air conditioning, is not the most comfortable for me.

Here is the piece I started several weeks ago and just finished the other day. It is a design by Mirabilia's Nora Corbett. The expression and coloring of the cherubic imp reminds me quite a bit of my own Wee One. Once matted and properly framed, this piece will grace her room. It is worked on 32-count linen with cotton floss, specialty threads, and glass beads.


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This last picture is of a design which hangs above my bed. She's called Sleeping Beauty and is another Mirabilia design. This one is also worked on 32-count linen with floss, speciality threads, and thousands of glass beads.

For a bit of perspective, the design area is 15 x 16 1/4 inches. If the entire area were covered, that would mean a combination of 62,400 stitches and little glass beads. Just guessing, I would say the design covers at least two-thirds of the design area.

These are truly a labor of love. For those fortunate enough to receive one of these gifts from me, rest assured, you are truly special to me.


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So right

Wee child was in the car with me this morning.

She often likes to read the numbers on the clock from the back-seat. While she can identify the numbers one through fifteen or sixteen, she does not have a grasp on twenties, thirties, etc.

Wee One: "Mommy, the numbers read eight-free-free."

Me: "Now it looks like eight-three-four."

Wee One: "Man, why do they have to change every minute?"

Exactly!

Nuts enough to invest?

Shoe may well have something cogent to say on this matter:

Psychopaths could be best financial traders?

(No offense intended, girlfriend)

High Strung

For the past several months I have had some ongoing health issues. Of late, I have required frequent doctor appointments.

For a number of reasons, including a natural aversion to waiting rooms and, otherwise, being forced to cool my heels unnecessarily, I opt for the first appointment of the day. Thus, I have standing 8:00 a.m. appointments every couple of weeks or so.

[On an aside, I was one of those people in college who also volunteered for 7:30 a.m. classes (even Western Civ) just to get them over with to have my afternoons free for me.]

This morning the Wee Child announced she would like to accompany me.

Because she will not turn five until December or begin Kindergarten until next year, I know the days where she can run around on errands and hang out with me at home on a weekday are numbered.

My baby is growing up and while I cannot stop time, I do try to take advantage of those moments she actually wants to spend with me.

Despite the best laid plans, Murphy conspired against me this morning in the form of a train. The 7:30 iron horse did not arrive until 7:40 which waylayed my arrival at the doctor's office to 8:03.

I hate being late.

I mean, I really hate being late.

Fortunately, doc was behind me and also had to wait on the train.

At 8:10 kind nurse took my blood pressure and it was 20 systolic and 10 diastolic points higher than the last time. When doc came in he looked at that and mumbled something about needing to keep an eye on it.

I explained I was agitated about being late and told him it would be fine.

He smiled and let it go, but asked me if I were eating well, etc.

Before I could respond, the wee child piped up and stated: "Mommy and me (sic) had cake for breakfast, just this morning."

That statement found good old doc looking at me with raised eyebrows.

Rather than make the argument formulating in my head: We were running late and some food, even cake, is better than no food, I merely said: "You want to give me grief about that, then check my blood pressure again?"

He laughed, shook his head, then said: "No, we'll see what happens next time."

So, I'm a little high strung.

What can I say?

Saturday, September 17, 2005

That Girl

I know her well, as perhaps, do most of you.

She is the woman who frequents your dreams, the wife who shares your bed, the mother of your children's classmates, the next-door neighbor or merely the woman from whom you buy your groceries.

She is more than one, but does not encompass all.

To some; however, she is everything.

To the untrained eye she is happy and gay and fills the hearts of those who surround her with warmth and tenderness, ever seeking to please the needs of those who tell her they love her.

As a mother, she is nurturing and kind, even a bit overprotective of her progeny, as well as everyone else's.

As a wife, she is dutiful and affectionate, if not occasionally withdrawn and quiet.

In odd moments of reflection or distraction her thoughts wander to that other place, the place where her heart lingers and wonders what if.

In those instances of unvarnished repose the many masks she wears and the robes of convention are shed and a glimpse into the woman she actually is is revealed, if only for that brief snatch of time.

To the man who owns her heart, he may choose to reach out to her and draw her near or he may only decide to watch from the distance, if he cares to watch at all.

For her, the price for each moment spent in that repose is another splinter cast from her heart and despite the outward smiles, she is just one step closer to her abyss.

Not all is as it appears.

OT

One week from today and that's it. The fiscal year will come to an end and the relentless push for more and more will be done, at least for a couple of months.

The dead period around here is from October to the first of the year. It is a shame really. If we all weren't so spent during that three month period we would not start the new fiscal year already behind the eight ball after the initial quarter. It seems we are always playing catch up after that point. This year will be no different.

Ever-increasing "production" goals, fewer people to carry the load, and even fewer competent individuals all around does not make for a cohesive and positive work-force morale.

As with everyone else, I am not getting any younger. I have maxed out the career ladder, short of entering management, something I have absolutely no desire to do.

While I am paid well for my efforts and have a great deal of flexibility to my schedule, the work is brain-numbingly boring and it has become ever increasingly more difficult to focus on the tasks at hand, as well as find the motivation to complete those tasks.

Do I stay and coast for the next thirty years or do I go and find something else to do while I'm still "young" enough at thirty-eight to be viable in another career?

What to do? What to do?

It's not like the rest of my life is static either.

I do believe life altering decisions were much easier when I was younger and not completely aware of all my responsibilities.

Back to the salt mines...

Friday, September 16, 2005

Rolling

I have been remiss.

There are so many wonderful bloggers out there, many of whom I have actually met, and all of whom I have the pleasure and privilege of calling friend.

For recent weeks I have been in a self-imposed kind of isolation and exile and a few of you have been so gracious and kind to visit with me to keep my spirits up. To each of you, I am grateful.

September 30th will mark the one year anniversary of my life as a blogger, albeit, I started at that other place.

So, up goes the blogroll for two reasons: 1) my friends deserve to be acknowledged and 2) it makes surfing a helluva lot easier for me.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Experimentation

Now here's a thought.

Just a thought, though.

Linen after Labor Day

While not a clothes horse, I am a natural girl in the textile sense. I prefer linen, silk, cotton, and wool. Egyptian cotton is required for my sheets and one of the greatest luxuries I can imagine is having fresh sheets on my bed daily. I do not do blends well, unless, of course, it is along the lines of silk and angora. Polyester, not even in death.

I like things not only to fit, but to feel good next to my skin. It is one of the few sensual pleasures in which I truly indulge with regularity. When purchasing clothes, I make few additions, but what I do buy must pass the criteria of quality (last more than one season), fit (at least the size I am at the moment or hope to become in the very near future), feel (already covered), and look (do I resemble a walrus in this?).

It is not necessary for me to represent the latest trend or fashion design from Paris, Milan, or anywhere else. That's not my bag, so to speak.

Thus, I tend to wear what I like and feel comfortable in rather than what nameless and faceless others dictate as hard and fast fashion rules. My style has only one mistress and Comfort is her name.

Now, I do acknowledge, at least in the peripheral sense, the fashionistas got together at some point and deemed certain things were verboten after certain times of the year. As we should all well know by now, light colors are for spring and summer and darker, more subdued colors are for fall and winter. Likewise, linen is typically a summer fabric and frowned upon when worn after Labor Day, along with those damned white shoes. (Who the hell over the age of five wears white shoes, anyway?)

Well, it is still damn hot where I am and linen is one of my favorite fabrics for living with heat and humidity. Besides, I wear linen whenever I damn well please.

Apparently, the Fashion Gods frowned upon me today and I must bear their wrath.

A colleague invited me to lunch. We dined at a very nice Asian restaurant. This colleague preferred one of the windowed booths to any number of tables scattered throughout the dining establishment. All was well until I leaned forward to scoot down the booth because the front of linen blouse caught the corner of the table and released three of the four buttons holding the front of my top together.

Only twisted fate would dictate the last button remaining would be the bottom one and not the top.

All I can say is I am damned grateful I likewise invest and indulge in attractive undergarments. As my colleague will attest, there was very little left to the imagination.

My ensemble now sports a lovely piece of silver-grey duct tape (courtesy of the toolbox in my colleague's truck) down the front of my linen blouse.

I feel so special.

Not.

Wednesday, September 14, 2005

Cheeky Bastards

These carrion-eating creatures perform a much needed service in my neck of the woods, but they are surely an unsightly and foul smelling bane of my existence.

They roost on the golf course, as well as the roof of my house and nearby powerlines ever casting cold and beady eyes at my children and pets. They are protected in these parts and staring too hard their way may well elicit a fine.

They are arrogant, aggressive, and vile.

As I drove home yesterday I noted a half-dozen or so dining on road-kill coon in the middle of my lane. When the car in front of me altered his course to avoid them, all but two of the brazen bastards flew or hopped away. When I drove by, the same two refused to move.

This morning there was no sign of the raccoon; however, there were two distinct black feathered heaps surrounded by pools of grease in the middle of the road.

I wonder, are buzzards cannibals?

Lubbing the tub


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The New Scene

Around 10:00 p.m. the other night Sweet One informed me we were completely out of kitty litter only after she had dumped the old litter out of the box.

Kudos to her for seeing to her chores, but I was a bit miffed she had not thought to check whether we had enough litter to refill once she dumped, the old litter that is.

Doubting whether Voodoo could go for a while without going, a trip to the Super Wal-Mart in our sleepy little town was in immediate order.

First off, I'm a Target girl. I like Target because it's clean and orderly and not swamped with all manner of humanity. I'm not a big shopper, but when I shop I do like to do so without playing bumper carts with the masses, including underage drivers. I also like to shop quietly so I have some chance of recalling exactly what I need from that rapidly diminishing mental inventory of mine.

As much as I like Target, it is only open twelve hours a day from eight in the morning to eight in the evening. Further, some things just require a trip to the Super Wally World; however, when I generally shop at The Wal-Mart, it is before seven in the morning because I simply do not like crowds. I like to do my thing, get in, get out and go about my way.

The company I keep at those times are other bleary-eyed mothers who have been up for hours waiting for their respective day care centers or schools to open so they can pawn their children off on others for a while and spend a little quality time with a kidless cart and no one pulling at them screaming: "Mommy! Mommy! Moooommmmy!" THIS I understand.

At that hour conversation and eye contact with others similarly situated are avoided, even if we recognize the next-door neighbor. No one speaks to one another. It is, dare I say it, an unspoken rule. Chats are left for shopping excursions performed at other times of the day. Early mornings are sacred.

Back to the other night, there were others in the house and I could safely abandon my sleepy charges and made a dash to Super Wal-Mart for kitty litter and a few other things. Much like the early morning shopping excursions, there were few people milling about; however, it was oddly different. The tone of the store, while brightly lit, was more subdued.

I did not notice it immediately, but instead of the early morning women walking zombie-like up and down the aisles, there were men everywhere. Furthermore, each one appeared to be in dire need of some form of assistance.

The initial stop was to obtain kitty litter. As I hefted not one, but two containers of litter into my cart this okay looking late forty-ish, early fifty-ish man approached and held the cart still as I loaded it. While I would have much preferred for him to load it for me, I guess he thought he was being helpful. I gave him a half-smile with a quick "Thanks" and started to push the cart around him. Before I could escape, he put a hand on my cart, smiled back, and asked: "So, do you have a cat?"

My mother would be appalled, but there are times when I find it very difficult to be nice to people. This was one of those times. Tired and irritated at having to be at Wal-Mart late at night and having to respond to asinine questions, I said: "No, I have two pot-bellied pigs that have learned to use cat litter. I love my pigs, they sleep with me every night."

Stunned for a reply, I was sure, he released my cart and off I went.

During my search for Barbie bubble bath, a particularly unattractive (appearing and smelling) man probably in his early to mid-fifties stepped up to me.

Second Guy: "Excuse me, miss, can you tell me where to find the soap?"

My mind screamed: "If anybody needs it, buddy..." but my voice said: "Ummmm, it appears to be right behind you."

Second Guy: "Oh, thanks. So, are you from around here?"

Me: "Actually no, I'm passing through on my way to Hell. Enjoy your evening."

A few minutes later I ran through the cards because I remembered a birthday coming up when I was greeted by this Anglo gentleman who looked well over sixty and graced me with a gap-toothed grin: "Hi, can you help me, please? I'd like to find a gift for my mother."

Me: "Perdoneme, por favor. No hablo ingles."

I would like to think they were asking me all these questions because I appear to be and comport myself as someone in the know; however, I suspect it had more to do with being one of the only women in the store. Period.

As I was checking out, I spoke to the very friendly female clerk and asked her about all the men lurking the store. She said: "Oh, honey, this is a week night, you should see them on Friday and Saturday nights. It's not safe around here, let me tell ya."

So, there it is, ladies. THE place to be to pick up guys (or be picked up) is your friendly neighborhood Wal-Mart after 10:00 p.m. Unfortunately, there did not appear to be any within ten years (older or younger) of my age group.

And, NO, I am not that desperate, thank you.

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

A new life, please

Check in, check out.

Would that it could be so easy.

I’m done with this life, can I have another, please?

However, I'm not ready to chuck the whole thing, merely bits and pieces. There's much I would like to keep.

If only, if only things actually worked that way.
Yesterday is just a memory
Tomorrow's never what it's suppose to be
And I need you, yeah.
~Bob Dylan

Sounds Good to Me

Wee One awoke this morning and ambled over first thing.

Me: "Good Morning Sunshine! What would you like for breakfast?"

Wee One: "Bacon."

Now that would be MY child.

Monday, September 12, 2005

Full House

There is something oddly satisfying in having a house full of people, particularly when the majority of those present are little people between the ages of seven months and twelve. My dear Anne and her two young sons Ro and Q, aged twenty-one months and seven months, are in our midst.

Sweet One and Wee One have been wonderful little babysitters and playmates to our small guests. The mothering instinct is great in both of them. I am so delighted to see they are both willing to think beyond themselves and seek to offer comfort and affection to other children, particularly young ones.

I have always hoped to be blessed with another baby, perhaps, a little boy.

Sweet One was seven when we learned Wee One was on the way. I worried and fretted whether we could be so fortunate to have more than one perfect and healthy baby, as well as whether I had enough love in my heart for more than one child. At the time, I could not imagine loving another living being as much as I did my Sweet One.

While healthy children are one of the greatest blessings, I realize now how silly I was to have worried at all about not having enough love in me for a second child.

I have also often wondered whether it is possible to love the child of another the same or as much as we love those of our very own. I do not doubt any longer that it is entirely possible.

Feeding the babies, changing them, bathing them, and just holding them, my heart has swelled with love for them, their innocence, their chubby little hands and feet, and their beautiful smiles. However long they stay, when they leave, they will certainly take a piece of me and my heart with them.

Oh, how I would love to have another little one in my house to stay.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Vocabulary

Sweet child to wee child: "Go away. Didn't I already smite you last week?"

Wee child: "No. Mommy is the only one who can smite."

Can you feel the love?

Saturday, September 10, 2005

Maybe I need a new image...

Good Grief!

What is it about me that screams: "FOOD"?!

After a hard day's work, I walk into my house and am greeted by the four-year-old: "Hi, Momma. Can I have a brownie?"

Meanwhile, the twelve-year-old inquires: "Hi, Mom. What's for dinner?"

When I arrive at the office in the morning, one of my colleagues greets me: "Good Morning. What did you fix for dinner last night?"

Before I can get to my office another co-worker asks: "Pete's birthday is next week. What kind of cake are you baking?"

The cell phone rings: "Hey girl, I'm cooking for new boyfriend on Saturday night, I need a menu."

Geez.

I guess that's enough for now. I'm hungry...

Body Surfing

There's waxing and there's waxing.

Years ago someone imparted one of Heloise's Helpful Hints to me on keeping a bath and shower virtually scrub-free. I was told to use car wax on tubs and showers and it works like a dream; however, every year or so, a new application is required.

The other day I broke out a little sweat and elbow grease and gooped up, then hand buffed my beloved clawfoot tub; however, for my own continued health, safety, and well-being, I omitted applying the wax to the bottom of the tub. There are some things that even I do not need to be told.

For those who are familar with me and my alter ego, I do not bathe alone.

There is usually at least one set of other eyes any time I am in or near the bathroom.

Last night I drew a particularly hot and full bubble bath. I thought I was finally without company because faithful cat was nowhere to be seen.

On those very rare occasions I actually make it into a bath without him, he runs from wherever he is through the house, leaping over furniture to get to me.

He particularly loves the bubbles.

This was one of those occasions.

It was only after I was partially submerged in the exquisite warmth and aroma of the tub did I hear Voodoo tearing through the bedroom making a beeline for me. His momentum was so great he burst through the partially closed door and with a single bound leapt onto the side of the bathtub.

Usually, he is adept at maintaining both hold and balance while perched there; however, I had just finished waxing the tub.

In one motion he jumped onto the edge of the tub and immediately slid right into the bath with me.

That was one cat who did not land on his feet; however, in a flash, his sopping wet body hurled itself up and out of the tub and in a whirl of bubbles Voodoo was gone.

I wonder if I will actually be bathing alone tonight.

A Glimmer of Sanity Returns

The other day, I posted about losing my mind.

Today, I am most pleased to report that I have found the wayward photos and the cordless phone is no longer absent.

More importantly, there appears to be very valid reasons why I could not recall where they were placed.

As to the pictures, I went through a cleaning spree a while ago and made three piles of the paper on the counter: things to be tossed, those pictures, and things belonging to others. I instructed the sweet child to "take care of" one of those piles (things belonging to others, primarily her), took care of the trash myself and intended to return for the pictures. Responsible child she is, Sweet One took care of the pictures and the pile of things belonging to others. In looking for something else, I found where she had placed them. Oh, happy day!

With respect to the cordless phone, I had a few minutes yesterday before I had to leave for a doctor's appointment. A few days ago the wee child had spilled or splattered milk on the black leather seats of my car. Just inside the garage door stands a book shelf with containers of automobile maintence crap, including Armor All wipes and leather cleaner wipes.

Never one to allow grass grow between my toes, I availed myself of those few spare minutes to grab a leather cleaning wipe to dispatch the dried milk. While standing before the shelves I happened to look up and at eye-level was the missing phone.

There's no doubt in my mind what happened: Sweet One was on the phone while walking her dog and finished her conversation before the dog was finished with his business. Heaven forbid the twelve-year-old hang on to the phone when she was not actually using it. That would certainly be expecting too much.

The overwhelming relief that I had not completely lost my mind overrode any and all irritation at the child. That and she was still at school when I found it and I had plenty of time to get over it before she returned home.

Now, all that remains is the great panty hunt (that doesn't quite sound right, does it?).

Friday, September 09, 2005

Any Ideas?

Name the movie.

You know what's wrong with you, Miss whoever-you-are?

You're chicken. You've got no guts. You're afraid to stick out your chin and say, 'Okay. Life's a fact. People do fall in love. People do belong to each other.' Because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness.

You call yourself a free spirit, a wild thing, and you're terrified somebody's gonna stick you in a cage. Well, Baby, you're already in that cage -- you built it yourself. And it's not bounded on the west by Tulip, Texas or on the east by Somaliland.

It's wherever you go.

Because no matter where you run, you just end up running into yourself.

Thursday, September 08, 2005

Mind over matters...

There was a time when I was actually the mistress of my domain and could rely on my mental acuity alone to maintain a running inventory of foodstuffs, cleaning supplies, and essential bits of clothing, not only for myself, but for each member of the household.

Times have certainly changed and I am unsure whether it is a function of advanced age (thirty-eight is old) or the continuing pressures of life's demands, but my brain has begun to short-circuit and the once clear and sharp mental pictures of where things were are hazy at best and increasingly blank.

Case in point: a month ago I took some great shots of the girls that I wanted to share with family and friends. I uploaded the images to Snapfish to order multiple prints of each shot. From the time I ordered the prints until they arrived in the mail, the four year old had pictures taken at day school. Instead of immediately mailing the pictures out when they arrived, I secured one set for me in the photo album and decided to hang onto the rest until the "school" pictures came in, a "kill two birds" kind of thing.

Well, the school pictures have arrived (and, yes, they are delightful!), but I will be damned if I cannot find what the hell I did with all those prints that I ordered. If there were not a set of them in the photo album, I would swear I did not order them to begin with.

Seriously, this kind of thing drives me completely insane. I have zero tolerance for it and it puts me in an absolute twist.

Add to the mix, one of the two new cordless phones I just bought is absent from its cradle. Apparently, it has been absent for a while because the battery in it has died and we are unable to activate the "homing" alarm which is "supposed" to alert us to its whereabouts. I have no clue where the damn thing is.

Last night, the wee child prepared for her bath by selecting the appropriate sleepwear for the night.

This is a big deal to her. There are nightgowns, pajamas, and short sets to choose from and it makes her happy to be able to ruminate and reflect on just the right ensemble each evening. I like to think on occasion I actually choose my battles and this is not one where there will be any winners, so I learned long ago to let her have her way and not to rush her.

In any event, she picked out a pajama set then announced she had no clean panties to wear.

Not possible.

Simply not possible.

When I buy panties, I buy freakin' panties and before school started, I bought panties for both girls, copious panties for both girls.

In addition, my washing machine seldom has a day of rest. There was no way that child had no clean underwear.

So, I sounded the alarm and had both girls join me in the search for a four-year-old's panties.

Total number recovered from a house-wide search, including the hamper and the ones on her little body: three.

Less than a month ago I bought no less than a dozen new pairs, not to mention the ones she already owned prior to the shopping excursion.

The wee child and twelve-year-old both remember her picking out which panty packages she wanted: Sponge Bob (don't ask), Princess Barbie, Strawberry Shortcake, and Hello Kitty. I remember buying the damn things. What I do not specifically recall is opening the packages and washing them, but something tells me I've seen Sponge Bob in the wash on more than one occasion in recent weeks.

Could it be someone is nicking my wee child's knickers??

Or have I just completely lost my mind?

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

Dreams

I know not whether the stress of life has gotten to me more so lately than it has in the past, but my dreams have become quite disturbing. Of late, they are dark, almost menacing, and leave me with a sense of doom and foreboding.

Last week they were filled with images of the devastation from the hurricane, including the torment and suffering of those left behind. Listening, watching, and reading what so many are having to endure renders my miseries almost insignificant in comparison.

Last night was one of fractured sleep for me as bleak visions continued to crowd my head with an intoxicating intensity that had me questioning my sanity.

Sometime around 2:00 a.m. I finally got up for a glass of water and purposefully checked on the girls to exorcise these demons and remind myself of my reality.

The house was quiet and dimly lit by the moonlight and glow of a few stars shining through the multitude of windows throughout. There was no need for proper lights.

The wee child was sprawled across her bed with a wayward foot sticking out from beneath her covers and an angelic smile spread across her sleeping face. The sweet child was tightly cocooned in her bed beneath an always moving ceiling fan. Her dog rested at the foot of her bed.

My only conscious companion as I wandered through the resting house was my faithful Voodoo, the cat. To herd me and bend me to his will he usually runs ahead to lead the way and when I stray from the obligatory path, he dashes behind to swat at my heels to right my course. Should I stop for more than a moment, he rubs against my feet and calls for me to pick him up.

There is great comfort in the warmth and affection of another living, breathing creature.

After I returned to bed, I closed my eyes and willed myself to focus on a small bright spot on the not too distant horizon. In October, best friend Susan and I will travel to Tuscany. As I drifted back to sleep, I thought of the adventures in store for us.

When I next awoke my heart was lighter and I briefly replayed a very pleasant fiction which had graced my unconscious.

Susan and I were in Florence doing all the things tourists do. We visited museums, enjoyed gelatos, and took countless photographs of the people, buildings, and countryside. We had somewhere we needed to be and somehow time had escaped us. Frantic to attend our appointment we knew we could not rely on public transportation to get to where we needed to be.

As Susan searched for a taxi, I approached a couple of Italian men on motorcycles. In my very best broken Spanish, I asked them to take my friend and me where we needed to go. I offered to pay them, but one of the gentlemen tried to explain to me in Italian he would not take payment, but would ferry us for what I thought he said was a kiss.

Taken aback, I explained to Susan what the gentlemen required. She was insistent that we take the deal and assured me it was only a kiss, but not to give it to him until he were at our destination.

As each of us mounted a motorcycle and hung on for dear life, I began to replay the discussion in my head from English to Spanish and Italian to Spanish to English and had the certain feeling my ability to translate and communicate had failed me; however, moments later we arrived at our destination safe and sound.

Standing again of firm ground the gentleman began to approach me. Susan squeezed my arm and whispered in my ear it would be fine, just give the man a kiss and all would be well.

I turned to her and tried to explain that I was not certain it was a kiss from me the man really wanted. Before I could explain further, he scooped my friend into his arms and planted a big one on her shocked lips.

Releasing her, he smiled at us both, and departed.

***

I think I need to work on my Spanish, as well as my Italian quite a bit more.

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Young Men

Born in 1931 my father graduated from high school at sixteen. He was accepted to Port Arthur Men's College which has since been renamed Lamar State College in Port Arthur, Texas.

From an early age, he developed an interest in radios and electricity. At Lamar he took classes while also teaching electronics and working for a local television station.

I believe around that time he married his high school sweetheart and she became wife number one. Miss Betty was a beautiful woman in her youth. She is the mother of both of my half-siblings. I know her well and she has aged gracefully. She still remains a beautiful woman.

However, their marriage was troubled and after a few short years, they divorced and he enlisted in the Army and began the first of many years overseas.

Despite being an enlisted man, my father applied to and was accepted into OCS - Officer Candidate School. As a young Lieutenant, he was stationed in Germany at one time. On one cold winter's day he was tasked with greeting a new group of recruits at the train station and furthering the brief indoctrination they had already received at basic training.

As my father told the story, it was incumbent upon him to instill the fear, not only of God, but of the Army in these young men as soon as they arrived. He knew they would be tired from their trip, anxious about being in a foreign land, and homesick for the life they once knew. He also knew they would find no mollycoddling at the base and it was best for them to learn to stifle those emotions to be the best soldiers they could be.

Once the train of recruits arrived, they were lined up at attention along the depot platform and my father greeted them with the harsh reality of their present situation. It was freezing cold, it was only going to get colder, and all activities were carried on irrespective of the cold. Each man better damn well get used to it.

In short, my father was asserting his authority over this group of men. As he explained to me, first impressions were absolutely the most important.

So, the reading of the riot act continued with my father pacing back and forth in front of these men. When he was finished the rant, he asked the obligatory: "Do you understand?" and waited for the resounding: "Sir, yes, Sir!"

And, he got it.

However, at the first moment of silence thereafter, one of the recruits broke ranks, ran up to my father, and hugged him tightly as he asked: "Junior, is that you?"

My grandfather was a Senior and my father was named for my grandfather. Thus, my father was a Junior and family members called him that, rather than his first name.

Private Bailey was a distant and much younger cousin. Basic training had been the first time he had been outside of the State of Louisiana. My father was the first person he recognized from home since joining the Army.

In ten seconds Private Bailey managed to completely undermine my father's authority and rendered his hellfire speech impotent.

My father only spent four years in the service. He was recruited by other federal agencies for his technical expertise and ease with languages. In all, he probably spent twenty-seven years in foreign lands before returning to Louisiana to live out the remainder of his days.

Mr. Bailey and his wife were frequent visitors to my parents' home for much of my life. When my father's health began to decline, Mr. Bailey was there to help my mother take him to doctor's appointments and support her with things that needed to be done.

He was there the day before my father died, as well as the day he actually died. Since then, Mr. Bailey has continued to go by and check on my mother and bring her cane syrup from his farm and fresh vegetables from his garden.

At my father's funeral, I asked Mr. Bailey about that story. In addition to confirming the events as they took place, he told me he was never so happy to see a person in his entire life as he was to see my father at that train station in Germany. He said as soon as he saw my father, he knew everything was going to be all right. He was right.

Monday, September 05, 2005

Escape Mode

or something very nearly like it.

Older daughter and I spent four and one-half hours yesterday afternoon watching the last ten Noir anime episodes.

If that did not already constitute about three months of television for me, when best friend Susan arrived yesterday evening, we broke the seals on The Lord of the Rings Triology.

I admit, I'm way late to that particular party. I remember reading Tolkien in high school and marveled at his seemingly endless descriptive sentences. I also recall an older Tolkien enthusiast explaining to me back then these books were written when reading was a major form of entertainment and not an idle endeavor.

Several times I have tried to encourage my sweet daughter to read these books. An avid and voracious reader, she has devoured the Harry Potter series, The Chronicles of Narnia (which is coming to theaters this fall!!), Heinlein's Door into Summer, and Paolini's Eragon/Inheritence set; however, she has steadfastly refused to even give Tolkien a chance, at least in written form.

Last night we watched the first two movies straight through. That was about six hours of movies, after more than four hours of Noir.

In the early hours of morning I lobbied to finish the last one, but both dear friend Susan and older daughter crapped out on me.

At the moment, I have two four year olds running amuck in my house as the wee child has a play date. On an aside, I just heard my baby tell her little friend: "If you help me keep my room clean, you can come back."

Susan and older daughter are hitting balls at the tennis court.

After lunch, the final part of the trilogy awaits us.

Maybe, just maybe, I'll return to reality tomorrow.

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Anime

A couple of years ago we came upon the world of Japanese anime with Miyazaki's Spirited Away. The artwork is amazing in this film and the storyline of the spiritworld has captivated my children, their little friends, and me.

This led to the further discoveries of Nausicaa and Kiki's Delivery Service.

About four months ago Anime on Demand, a service provided by our local cable company, began weekly episodes of a series titled Noir.


Noir Posted by Picasa

This one is really not for small children because the story line involves a young woman and a young girl who are professional assasins who team up to "travel around the world, being hired to kill and hoping to find the answers they seek." Additional story information is here.

The older daughter and I are hooked on this series. It's the first thing in years that I have looked forward to watching with any regularity.

Last night the girls and I went to dinner and a movie (Valiant), then hit our local video store. Older daughter found the DVDs for all 26 episodes of this series. Fortunately, the ones available began with number 16 and this week's episode was number 15.

The rest of this holiday weekend will be spent enjoying Noir.

Have a great holiday weekend everyone!

Saturday, September 03, 2005

What do you believe?

Do you believe when all is said and done in this life, there is nothing after?

Do you believe in God? or do you think the concept of faith is a construct of the inner mind of man that has perpetuated over time to explain what we as idealists see: a world as it should be?

Further, have we created these concepts of morality, justice/injustice, and right/wrong as a means to regulate and govern not only ourselves, but our fellow man?

Sleep

One of those things that I always viewed as overrated was sleep.

While I usually find it difficult to quiet my mind enough to let go of my consciousness and drift away, once asleep, I tend to remain asleep.

On rare occasions stress has invaded my slumber with dreams of law school finals (years after graduation) or dreams of brief deadlines or court appearances that were non-existent in the light of day.

This week the images of the storm and the aftermath of suffering and death have consumed most of my hours, both day and night.

The panoply of loss and destruction has been so completely overwhelming.

I have no idea what so many, many people are actually having to endure.

My thoughts and prayers are with them as they live this nightmare of Katrina.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

Legacies

My father was born in rural Louisiana on August 1, 1931. He was the first of four children to be born to his young parents. His father was a carpenter and his mother was a housewife.

His early life was shaped by the lean times of the depression. While not prosperous by any means with store bought goods few and far between, his family never starved because they had a willingness to work and a few acres of land which included a pond, a couple of cows, and a handful of chickens.

My grandfather was a hard man and his marriage to my grandmother was not a happy one. I do not claim to know the particulars of their circumstances, but have heard from multiple sources over the years my grandmother was a faithless wife and on more than one occasion was dragged back from one dalliance or another and beaten back into submission.

Not by way of any excuse for his behavior, but different people have revealed my grandfather dearly loved my grandmother and his actions were the result of jealousy. I have heard the stories of him as a younger man falling in love with her the instant he first saw her and making great effort, before and after they married, to seek her favor and garner her approval and being met with nothing but scorn and ridicule from her.

My grandmother has only been gone for a little over a year. She was a hard worker and always very active; however, hers was not a gentle heart. Never a kind word from her did I ever hear spoken of anyone.

My father told me once when he was a boy he was commissioned to sort a pile of nails in my grandfather's workshop. Paw Paw had a sawmill with something of a lumber yard. Daddy was probably seven or eight at the time and was sorting the nails while sitting on a floor and reading a book. Paw Paw was furious when he saw what Daddy was doing and promptly nailed his book to the floor.

Another time Daddy thought he had broken his leg. For whatever reason, Paw Paw did not think the injury was serious and told Daddy to get up and go on to school. My grandmother quietly intervened and told Daddy to get up and make his way to a ditch along the road and hide there when it came time to leave for school. Only after my grandfather went to work, my grandmother collected Daddy and took him to town to see a doctor. That doctor set his broken leg, applied wooden splints, and loaned him a pair of crutches.

I only knew my grandfather as a small child after he had suffered more than one stroke. I remember him as a giant of a man, but a very quiet giant. He wore denim overalls and tended to his garden and his cows. I do not recall a smile ever gracing his face, but he was gentle with me and without words I found comfort in his presence. I sat on his lap often and watched him braid the twine from hay bales and roll them into balls for later use. In the afternoon, he sat on the back porch in a rocking chair and whittled until it was time to feed the cows.

Milking time was in the morning. If I was up and around before breakfast, he would nod his head slightly and I would follow him to the barn. He had a galvanized bucket for the milk and a small, three-pronged stool on which he sat. He always put the milk bucket down first before kicking the stool over to where he wanted it. Often, he picked me up to sit on the cow before he settled down to milk her. If I was not perched on the cow but crouched next to him watching his hands, he would squirt me with a brief stream of milk.

When Christmas or birthdays rolled around, he would motion for me or my sister to come to him. As we stood before him, he would reach into the pocket in the bib of his overalls and pull out a small dark brown leather coin purse. From this he would extract a quarter. Very deliberately he would take my hand and open it palm up and gently place that quarter. Then he would curl my fingers around the coin, nod, and pat me on the head before sending me on my way. For years my father had an old cigar box next to his recliner. In it was that coin purse.

In his day, my grandfather was a well-respected man. He was elected to the police jury and served with pride.

Back in my early childhood, my mother had not yet learned how to drive and it was Paw Paw who took us to Piggly Wiggly to shop for groceries and Ben Franklin's for other goods. He would even take my mother to the beauty shop once a week to have her hair done.

At each store, he would sit outside on a bench with newspaper folded in hand. I do not believe I ever saw him read a paper. He really did not have the time because everyone who walked by stopped to shake his hand and exchange a few words.

I have no memory of the sound of his voice.

I believe I loved my grandfather.

As an orphan, my mother loved my grandfather and doted on him. He was very patient with her. A recent immigrant from Vietnam, she hardly spoke any English at all.

Because we lived next door, they spent hours together every day milking cows, collecting eggs and vegetables, and doing all the things that needed to be done.

My older sister was in school during the day and I spent my time traipsing behind both my mother and my grandfather.

On a hot late spring afternoon when I was five years old, I saw my mother running from the barn screaming for my grandmother and help. My father had been out of town and was expected to return that day from a trip to Washington, D.C.

As I think back things moved at a snail's pace, almost frame by frame.

My grandfather had been tilling the ground adjacent to the barn when he collapsed. My mother was with him when he went down. As his eyes were closed, she could not get him back up or awaken him. She panicked and began running for help from the house.

My grandmother came to the back door just as my father drove up in his car.

I remember standing in the middle of the yard as my father got out of the car with a suit jacket in one hand and my mother pulling on the other. He had on dark slacks, a white shirt, and a thin black tie. It was 1973.

He listened intently to my mother's hysterics and when she finally made herself clear he was instantly in motion.

He ran to where my grandfather had fallen and immediately began CPR. I heard my grandmother yelling into a phone to the operator she knew by name to send help.

My mother crumpled to the ground in a heap of body convulsing sobs.

My next memory was standing barefoot in the dirt of what was to be the watermelon garden that year watching my father alternately pumping my grandfather's chest and trying to breathe for him.

A few feet from where they were was the tiller, still running, but on its side. Its wheeled prongs turned in vain.

I do not know how long I stood there and watched my father desperately trying to save my grandfather, but by the time an ambulance arrived my father was soaked in sweat and covered by muddy dirt. With my father still working on him, the medic checked for the vital signs of life.

There were none.

Gently at first, then more forcefully, both medics pulled at my father's arms to cease his relentless efforts. "He's gone," they told him. Then one of them stepped over to the tiller, shut it off, and righted it.

After giving my father a moment or two, they lifted my grandfather onto a gurney, strapped him in, and then began negotiating the dirt and uneven ground to the ambulance.

As they rolled him passed me, my father finally stood and woodenly followed.

Before lifting him into the back of the ambulance, a sheet was produced to cover him.

My grandmother never stepped out of the house.

The day of the funeral, it was my mother who was inconsolable. My grandmother had nothing nice to say about anyone, least of all my grandfather. My father simply had nothing to say.

From the cemetery, my grandmother took to her bed for a few days. When the visitors finally stopped calling and bringing food, she abandoned her bed and went about daily life; however, she never missed an opportunity to bad mouth my grandfather.

A couple of weeks passed and my grandmother finally decided it was time to take a trip into town. On her way, she heard a loud POP, lost all power in her vehicle, and began to smell something burning.

After she was collected from the side of the road and her car towed to a mechanic's shop, my grandmother told my father again and again what happened. Evidently, it had scared her.

Before it was towed away, I heard the mechanic tell my father it was probably a short-circuit in the electrical system; however, I specifically recall my father told my grandmother the car had been struck by lightening. He elaborated by adding: "It was Daddy telling you to be nice."

I never heard her speak ill of my grandfather after that.
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