Shoe Fly

Carrie, our neighbor boys’ mother was older in age when she had them. They were the youngest in the family and the oldest was just into his teenage years when I would go next door to play. When one or the other would  do something wrong, she would have a difficult time punishing them. She couldn’t chase after them. (Her husband was even older and wasn’t able to discipline them either.)

It wasn’t long until the brothers figured out they could outrun and out maneuver their mom and stay away from her until she forgot about whatever sin had been committed. They found places hide. Sometimes it was in the unused chicken coop, the garage, or in the woods. They would stay out of sight for hours.

Then they would slip back into the house unnoticed to be sure the wrong they had done was truly forgotten and they were no longer on their mother’s mind. They would stay out of reach and slowly relax until they had blended back seamlessly and inconspicuously into the household routine.

After awhile, their mom Carrie put two and two together and it added up to two boys.

She figured out a counterattack. Her legs were bowed and arthritic. She could walk, but never run. She could only were hard soled flat, slip on shoes and that is what became the object for her retaliation.

No kid wants to come and be punished when a parent calls them to come, knowing he is about to be punished. Most are reluctant, but these boys would run away. When they heard Carrie’s certain tone of voice, they knew. Dodging past their mom’s reach, they would shoot by her and escape out the door.

What Carrie lacked in speed, she began to make up in agility and accuracy.  Shuffling as quickly as she could, she went out onto the porch, pulling off her shoes and she walked after the fleeing kid. Pulling back her arm, she would take aim, and throw with extreme accuracy. The shoe would tumble end over end until like a guided missile; it would hit its intended target. Even when the fleeing “sinner” would dodge, she managed somehow to hit the intended target.

The spot she always chose was the middle of the upper back, between the shoulder blades, or the back of the head of the escaping person. The boy was doomed as soon as the launched shoe left her fingers.

Until the boys grew older and heavier, the shoe would upend the boy and take him to the ground. It seemed no matter how large of a head start they had or the distance they had run, her aim was steady, straight and true.

The boys were then commanded to bring her shoe back and they listened. She always had the other shoe in hand and neither one wanted the other shoe to drop.

Dale Tells Lies

Dale, one of my uncles, had cultivated his crop of profanity until he could not spout a complete sentence before a curse word would sprout out somewhere. He also loved telling tall tales and outright lies. The bigger the lie and the more cuss words he would use, the better he thought that the story was.

He used to tell the story f a fruitful day of finding and picking morel mushrooms. He had filled a large basket and was carrying it back to the car. The basket was hanging on his arm, but the closer to the car, the lighter his basket felt. He turned to see a deer following him and eating those morels out of his basket. (Please excuse me for deleting the expletives to shorten the stories.)

Another story he would tell was about his dogs. The C.I.A. was interested in them because he had taught them to read. The C.I.A. wanted them to be spies, to send them behind enemy lines and gather information. Who would suspect a dog? They lost interest when he told them he hadn’t worked out the problem of the dogs telling him what they had read.

Deer were involved in another tale he would share with us. He was in the woods and heard this loud crashing and thrashing. He hid behind a tree to see what was making so much noise. The noise kept coming closer until he saw two does using their heads and necks to push aside the heavy underbrush. Behind them walked a huge buck with a tremendous set of antlers on his head. They were going before him so his rack would not get hung up in the bushes.

One story that he told was true. I saw it with my own eyes. He was a great fisherman. He caught what he caught game warden or no. The way he got his fish home was in his old Willys truck. The passenger door couldn’t be opened from the outside and the bottom of the door had rusted completely out. When he had caught his limit, he would take them back to the truck and pop off the handle that would the window up and down. (The window didn’t wind down anymore.) He would slip the catch of fish inside of the door and go back to fishing. When he was tired of fishing he went home.

At home he would open the door from the inside of his truck and the fish would fall out onto the ground. He would gather them, cut them and get them ready to fry. My mom took a picture of his one night’s catch. It covered the top of drop leafed, enamel topped kitchen table with both sides up. Only about an eight by ten inch corner was covered with fish, lying side to side and head to tail.

Dale had built a bench and when he saw someone, he would ask them if they could figure what kind of wood it was made of. Everyone would guess wrongly and he would chuckle, but not tell them what it was. I made my guess, and I was wrong. I didn’t ask what it was kind of wood it was. It must have upset him because he blurted out, “It’s made of sycamore wood.” We talked some more and I left.

As I was leaving, my cousin came. We stood outside and talked a bit. I said to him, “I know Dale. He’s going to ask you about that stool. Make a few wild guesses, then say, ‘sycamore.’”

I met my cousin a few days later and he told me what had happened. Dale asked him about the bench, my cousin guessed, “Red oak?”

Dale shook his head. I said, “Butternut?” and Dale said, “No.”

I picked up the bench rubbed it, smelled it and then tasted it. I pretended to think for a few seconds and said, “It’s sycamore.”

Dale’s face fell and he looked disappointed that someone had guessed his secret.

 Mother’s Day Chores

Just a few thoughts on a mother's normal day when I was growing up. It is a compilation of things she would do. Besides these things, she worked as an accountant, book keeper, tax  preparer, and when we were older, a teller at a local bank. I miss you Mom.

I followed Mom around today, watching her, while I’m at play.

She made the beds, picked up clothes, many tasks, hand never slows.

Breakfast’s made and dishes washed, coupons clipped to cut food cost.

Cleaning kids and wiping drool, dressing kids, rushed out to school.

Off to market, purse in hand, buying food for meals she’s planned.

Home again. Groceries stored. Clothes washed from dirty hoard.

Washed clothes hung on outside line. I am glad that she is mine.

Lunch is served and dishes cleaned. Plants watered to keep them green.

Ironing fills her afternoon. Snacks made, kids will be home soon.

Table readied. Homework's done. Kids run off for times of fun.

Veggies chopped, so much to do; starting supper’s pot of stew.

Diapers changed needing washed clean, tossed in the washing machine.

Biscuits made in the oven I fell and got some lovin’.

Dad comes home and gets a kiss, house ordered nothing amiss.

Supper’s over, dishes done, telling tales and stories spun.

Clothing folded, put away. More to do ere end of day.

Light fades and darkness falls, Feeding time when baby squalls.

Bath time, Putting kids to bed. Prayers heard with kiss on head.

I knew Mom had more to do; old chores and some that are new.

It was late. I used the john and I saw Mom working on.

All that work and here’s some pay, With love, Happy Mother’s Day.

Grandma’s Portrait

One of my favorite stories about my Mom’s Mom was about the time a travelling photographer took her picture. She was a young farmer’s wife and every penny had to count. My grandfather worked hard for the money and my grandma stretched it to meet their needs. He ran the farm by day and worked the coal mines at night to keep clothes on the kids and food on the table. Grandma made money by selling butter and eggs.

The photographer persuaded my grandmother to change into a nice outfit, saying, “I will take your picture and be back around in several weeks. If you like it, you can purchase it, but if you don’t like it for any reason, you don’t have to buy it.

Grandma came back downstairs wearing a white blouse and a velvet jacket. The throat of the blouse was secured with a gold and pearl pin. The photographer set up his camera and snapped the photograph. He said “Thank you. I will be back to show you the finished product.” The film needed to be processed and developed back at the company’s lab. Grandma forgot all about it, secure in the knowledge she could refuse to buy it and not have to spend any of their hard earned money for something as frivolous as a photograph.

Several weeks after, the young photographer was back. He showed my grandmother her picture in a wooden oval frame. She saw a beautiful young woman looking back at her. The black and white photograph had been hand touched. She looked splendid with the pearl pin prominent at her throat. The back ground had been colored to a dark sepia color. Making her raven black hair curled on her head more distinct. The artist had added blush to her cheeks and rose to her lips. The irises of her eyes had been tinted a pale blue. The picture was impressive, but money was always tight on a farm when you had a lot of children.

“No thank you. “my grandmother replied when the young man quoted the price.

The photographer never batted an eye. He took back the photo and frame. As he was wrapping it up to put it away, he said, “The photographs that I don’t sell to the customer, we offer to saloons. They buy these pictures of lovely young women and hang them on the wall behind the bar for their customers to look at.

What he was saying was completely absurd. The photos that hung there were more risqué, more titillating, more vampy showing more flesh, But to a naïve farm girl she was afraid of what he was saying. She didn’t want some drunks leering at her picture. She felt as though she would be violated.

“Wait a minute. How much did you say it cost?”

The photographer repeated the price.

Grandma thought for a few seconds then said, “Wait a minute.”

She went to get the price from her egg money to pay the man. The photographer knew that these farmer’s wives were frugal and he had developed a sales pitch that most often worked and that is why I have her photograph hanging on my entryway wall.

My grandmother was a remarkable and creative woman. She only completed fourth grade, but her wisdom and creative genius superseded the learning she would have gotten in school. Raising eight children from what they grew in their garden and farm was a monumental task. I hope to share some of her beauty in other articles that I write.

The Christmas Cactus

My grandmother’s house was always filled with plants. In the vestibule hallway, at the front entrance were two snake plants, their sharp, green spears guarding the glass panels at each side of the door. Their variegated and yellow edged leaves twisted as they rose up from their soil filled ceramic planters.

In the formal sitting room, where kids weren’t allowed, were two huge Asparagus fern plants. They grew in pots that filled a cream colored wood and wicker “fern stand”. The leaves of the ferns’ leaves were fine and wispy hairs that cascaded over the sides of the stand in pale green clouds.

The window sills in the kitchen, the bathroom, and a built-in porch sported Geraniums of all colors, but were predominantly red. They were planted in shiny silver aluminum foil covered tin cans to survive the harsh winter. Some were being started from cuttings and others much, much older. She would grow them all winter until she could replant them in her dark green, wooden porch planter boxes in the spring. I can remember sitting on the toilet, reaching up, and touching their dark, dull green leaves. The heady and spicy aromatic oils would cling to my fingers for hours.

But the plant that impressed me the most was the gigantic Christmas cactus that dominated the hallway at the top of the stairs. It was old. My grandmother had probably started it when she was young and had just moved into the house. It had been replanted into larger and larger pots until it now filled the stainless steel chamber of a milk and cream separator. This pot was nearly fifteen inches deep and about twenty-eight inches across at its widest part. It was huge and Grandma kept it in the center of a dark oak library table that was in the style of Mission Oak furniture. The desk’s lines were straight, plain, and smooth. The top surface of it was covered by an inlaid piece of black leather.

As large as the separator top was, the Christmas cactus was so much larger. It rose nearly twelve inches above the top of its creamery planter. The thick, ropey branches draped over the sides until the tips of the longest rested on the table top. The flat oval green leaves looked like a waterfall pouring over the smooth silver sides. When it bloomed, the pink and white multilayered blossoms looked like tiny, frilly petticoats. They were so numerous; they often concealed most of the flat green leaves. Because it was cool and dark at the top of the stairs, the blossoms seemed to last for months.

I am trying to share the thoughts of my past as a child and the things that I can recall before they are gone forever. Not that they are so much better than another person's memories, but they are a part of my family's history. My dad has trouble sharing his memories now and I don't want that to happen to me.

 

When I was a young kid at my grandmother’s house, it was hard to find a quiet place to hide or take a nap, especially on the holidays. My grandma had eight kids and thirty-two grandchildren. Even though it was a large farmhouse with that many people confined inside, it felt crowded. Felt crowded nothing, it was crowded. When everyone gathered, there was little room to move. A kid was fortunate to find a place to sit, let alone a spot to lay down for a nap. A kid was lucky to sit in an unoccupied corner with a plate of food on his lap.

My grandmother had a formal sitting room and there was a “no kids” rule in that room. It was off limits to adults as well if they had food or drink. It was the one place I found to hide and it was in that room. If I watched carefully, I could slip inside undetected, quickly crawl, and curl up behind her dark blue, plush, overstuffed couch. It was just inside the door and it was easier to access than any other spot. The back of the couch leaned back a bit toward the wall and made a perfect cave. It was a dark and quiet spot where a tired kid could take a nap.

There was one another place that needs mentioned, but it was outside of the house. I found it by accident one day when we were playing hide’n seek. It was on her porch.

On my grandmother’s front porch she had two Adirondack chairs and an Adirondack settee all painted a dark forest green. They sat there the whole years round.

Her porch had a block parapet that ran the whole way around it, except for the entrance for the house. On top of the wall, she had wooden flower boxes painted the same color as the chairs. Late into the Fall, she would cover her flowers at night when the temperature dropped to protect them from the killing frost. During the winter, she would roll them up and store them on the settee. In the summer, she would spread the rugs on the concrete floor. (It was better for her arthritis.)

That settee made the best place to curl up for a nap. Wrapped in those rugs, I was snug and warm. Even though the night air was cold, I loved it. The only thing that felt chilled was the tip f my nose

There were five trees in front of her house, three tall pine trees and two hemlocks that were every bit as tall. I would lay there wrapped in those old rugs and listen as the night winds played in the tree tops. They would sing and sigh softly. It was a natural lullaby. They seemed to draw me off and have me wander in dream land. I cannot think of a time or a place when I felt more safe, more warm, and more secure than when I was rolled up in those old rugs. Many times when I just hear wind in the pines, cedars, or hemlocks, I am transported back to that time in my youth.

The Aluminum Siding Salesman

My mom and dad’s house is situated on the heavily traveled route 381/ 711. This story occurred at a time when salesmen travelled from house to house hawking their wares. This could mean anything from vacuum cleaners to encyclopedias to Bibles.

Mom answered the door to the knock. The salesman greeted her saying, “Ma’am, I think your house needs aluminum siding.” At that time our house was clad in brown Ensel brick. It was a thick tarpaper coated in grit and designed to look like brick. Although it wasn’t the most appealing to look at, it sealed the cracks of the house and kept the cold air outside.

The salesman hit all of the angles of his product; its beauty, its durability, its strength, and it would never need painted. He waved his arms saying, “Your house would look so much more beautiful encased in white siding.” (White was the only color it came in at that time.) He finished by saying, “Yes, your house really needs aluminum siding.”

Mom hesitated for a second. She was getting tired of the many sales people who stopped and said, “ If you really think that my house needs it, go ahead.”

The salesman’s face cracked a huge smile and whipped out a measuring tape, a pad, and a pen. He walked all the way around the house measuring and taking notes. He listed all of the dimensions. When he had all of his measurements, he followed Mom into the house and sat on the couch. He pulled a sheaf of paper from his briefcase and spread them on the coffee table. After transferring the measurements to those papers, he began to tally and total everything. He wrote those figures onto a printed sheet.

When he got to the bottom of the sheet, he sat back and said, “The total cost for the siding and installation will be…”

Before he could finish, my mom interrupted, “Wait, you said my house needed siding  and I sid, ‘If you think it needs it, go ahead’. I never said I was going to pay for it.”

The salesman couldn’t have looked more surprised if my mom had hit him in the face with a baseball bat. He managed to sputter, “What?”

My mom repeated. “I didn’t say I would pay for it.”

He snatched up his papers and pen, tossing them into the briefcase and slamming it shut. He snatched it up and headed for the door. He practically ran to his car. Yanking the door open, and disappeared inside and slammed the door. It echoed off the front of our house.

Starting the car, he spun the wheels as he backed out of our drive. He had to make an emergency stop and pull back into the drive. He had almost backed out in front of an eighteen wheeler tractor and trailer. The air horn blared at the salesman as the semi rolled past our drive.