Stories in Hand

Hallelujah for Blog 'Therapy'

2009-11-20T12:02:00.000-08:00

Note: What I have been writing may not exactly be what is in line for the assignments of Jessica's class. But, they are necessary writings, for me. I doubt I could do any assignments or use the plan to document the holidays, if I didn't. I "work through" much of my 'stuff' when I journal. I always have. Before I got a PC I hand wrote a journal. I have boxes of full journals! I have really wanted to be able to 'work through' my issues with Christmas. I have literally suffered every year over it. This class coming when it did gives me rise to explore my feelings at a great time - right before those dreaded holidays. I have set them aside for a long time because I have been afraid of the emotions. With the class, there are so many kind people who help me, whether they know it, or not. I feel that I could go to the boards with most anything if need be. So, with that, this post has been a real turn for me. "Blog Therapy"! LOL All is good. I'm going in the right direction. Thank you, everyone! I want to thank those of you who have responded with kind words.

(There is a Christmas song video at the bottom of this post if you would like to listen to it now)

I'm thinking this year just might be different. You know how music can make so many things 'alright'? Well, quite by accident, I came across a Christmas song that is making a difference in how I see the holiday season. I found it on someone's blog; it was on their music player.

It wasn't like it put me 'in the spirit' of the holidays. Rather, it was a different type of feeling. The song is "Christmas Vacation" from the movie, "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation". In the song, vacation from school, the best snowman on the block, the coolest lights and all the other delights, are the things that are cool. "Fa-la-la and Ho-ho-ho!"

All my adult life, I have been trying to capture the spirit of the holidays. The home decorating, the goodies, the dinner, gifts, everything one sees in a Norman Rockwell painting. I wanted the beauty and the warmth, like all the pretty greeting cards. I wanted to play Christmas music and put everyone in the spirit. Eggnog and home-baked cookies in front of the fireplace, to me, is traditional, and that is what I wanted - tradition. Or, was it?

Let's face it, I'm about as traditional as an Intel processor. Oh, sure, there are some traditions that I carry from my childhood, mostly with the food and the treats. But, I don't have a ballroom-sized living room to hold a 12 foot tree. A three foot tree is overwhelming, mainly because we have a fireplace and it is a small room. Bad combination, those conifers and fire! Another thing, if people came caroling, I would probably call the cops. I would not trust them, not where I live, in this day and age. And, alas, because my house is so well-lived-in, I don't have decorations on every table top. I did, at one time, but, most of them have been broken.

Just like the character in the movie, I was always trying my darnedest to pull off the best, old-fashioned holiday ever. One year, I carefully hand colored some Victorian Christmas cards, using only the colors available in that period. Only one person, out of 20, I believe, commented on theirs, and that was only after my husband mentioned to her that I had colored it by hand.

Then, I remember another time when, for some darn reason, I just couldn't get my pie crust dough right. It was humid, I guess, and it just wouldn't roll out right. I just couldn't use 'store-bought'! That was, well, almost sacrilegious! But, that is what I had to do, that year. You know what? It wasn't that big a deal. Who, in my family, is going to eat a piece of my pie and say, "Oh, my! You made your own crusts!" LOL Not going to happen!

What we did do during the holidays was hang out together. The children got their vacation and we spent time with each other and friends. We visited with some friends we may not have seen in a while. For some reason, friends fall by the way side until the holidays. Why is that? So, Christmas, or not, and with the children home all day, the whole family and friends thing required 'goodies'. Even if it was Rice Crispy Treats, there had to be a treat, or two.

Click on image for recipe

We have a few favorites, but, mostly, it was, who was I trying to impress, baking 5 different types of cookies, plus, layered fudge and divinity, which I always mess up? Better Homes & Gardens magazine's photographers were not standing at the door waiting to snap photos of my gorgeous creations. Far from it! LOL The offerings may not have looked like the picture in the recipe book, but, who cared. They were so yummy they didn't last long, anyway.

One year, I decided to cheat on a pan of chocolate chip cookies. I didn't have the chips on hand, but, a bag of Hershey's kisses, instead. I planned to use the Tollhouse 'summer' recipe. That's where, rather than making individual cookies, you spread all the batter out on a baking sheet and bake it as bars. Spread into the baking pan and bake at 375 for 20-25 minutes. It does fit on just one sheet, by the way. One pan, done! This cuts down on the amount of cooking time, thus, the oven isn't heating the house during the summer. With the larger kisses, I wasn't sure how this was going to turn out. After spreading the chipless batter in the sheet pan, I set the kisses on top of the batter in rows as they would be cut after baking. When I went to take them out of the oven, the kisses were gone! They had sunk down below the batter during the baking process. What looked like a 'blonde' brownie, was a bar that, when you bit into it, you got a bite of the chocolatey goodness of the kiss. They were a hit! My family named them, "Hidden Kisses". Ta-da! A tradition? What?

In spite of all the years of effort, as it turned out, difficult back problems, the children growing up and going out on their own, and changes in my financial situation, cutting back was a necessity. I can't stand that long to do all the baking and cooking. I've had to find 'financial' shortcuts or dismiss whatever it is I am planning. The divinity is a thing of the past, thank goodness! It just never turned out right.

The children weren't little anymore. They didn't require the mystery and magic that we so tediously defended when they were little. With all of us no longer waking up in the same house together on Christmas morning, we began having "brunch", late morning, on Christmas day. Everyone wakes up and does their thing, having coffee, perhaps. Then, everyone comes over, including the grandparents when they were still with us, as well as any friend who may be alone, that day. Each of us brings something for the brunch. We give the presents out and share gifts with all. Then, everyone visits, plays with the little ones and their new presents and pigs out on sausages, ham, bacon, fruit, eggs, grits, fresh-made donuts, bagels, lox, coffee, of course, and fresh orange juice. By doing this, too, it leaves the remainder of the day open for those who have to split their day between visiting with others, like inlaws. Usually, by evening, it is a wonderful time for us to get back together and have a slice of pie. Dinner has been hours ago and everyone is winding down. We reflect on our day and it is good. It just seems to cap off the day nicely. More 'traditions'?

As they've grown older, the children have begun taking on some of the baking, cooking and decorating, even. So, as their childhood 'needs' from the holidays began to wane, their ability to join in on all the preparations and planning grew. One daughter has been seeing to the Christmas tree each year. It's what she likes. She also puts up exterior lights every year. Another daughter loves to bake. She is a great cook. She began taking on some of the goody baking. My physical dis-ability wasn't going to keep this family from eating goodies. Little by little, the children were stepping in to the roles of, yet, more, uh, alright, traditions.

Our Christmases aren't Norman Rockwell or greeting card perfect. For that fact, they're aren't very spiritual, either. We used to try to go to midnight mass on Christmas eve. All that happened was that we were so tired, by that time, we were just dragging ourselves through the motions. But, part of what made one child tired was her time volunteering in the local soup kitchen to make sure that someone, who was less fortunate, had a decent, warm meal, made with care and love. My son would be tired from spending time with his friends, often lending a hand to someone in need. He is a mechanic and someone is always needing his services during the holidays, particularly. The other child was tired out from playing Santa, wrapping presents and decorating for her children, as well as for my house. Both houses have to look magickal, you know.

I'm finally starting to see all this, now. I see that we do have our traditions. They're just not 'traditional' traditions. There may not be mistletoe hanging over my doorway, but, you can bet there are hugs and kisses and love to go around. So the tree is tiny and sparse, my grandchildren's eyes still light up when they see it. So, the rolls at dinner were not what I wanted from the store, they were good enough. We aren't the traditional family of lore, much less advertising. Norman didn't know any of us. Our late morning gift-sharing may not work best for the little ones. Their 'Santa' gift opening is done at home before they come to gramma's for brunch. But, they are still so excited and happy while opening all the presents from the family. We all love watching them. This is where we parents and grandparents get our joy, in watching our offspring enjoy the holidays.

All the years I have spent chasing a fantasy. I thought I wanted a real, old-fashioned, traditional Christmas, like in the Norman Rockwell's painting. Here it is:

That isn't my family around the table in the painting. We live in a different time. We're more a contemporary family, going with new ideas. We're a fun-loving group of folks who love to joke around. We have a l-o-o-o-n-g list of family 'inside jokes', which can be summoned up in a mere word, eliciting a round of giggles and chuckles. I feel we're pretty laid back as a family. We don't do much 'formality", yet, we can when need be. The song that inspired me to write is kind of a kooky song. It's from a National Lampoon movie, for crying out loud! LOL It's fun and lively, rather than carol-ish or juvenile.

Our 'traditions' change. There are a few that stay with us. Otherwise, as we grow and people change, times change, and even tastes change, it seems we have adjusted or altered one thing for another. My son married a wonderful girl with four children this year. So, this will be the first Christmas that we will celebrate with my "new grandchildren". Some things are bound to change. I look forward to it! I can't believe I am writing this, but, I look forward to the holidays this year.

If anyone is interested...

Oh, Boy! Here We Go!

2009-11-16T10:35:00.000-08:00

Jessica is at it again! LOL I speak of Jessica Sprague, first lady of creating one's life stories. Jessica is a sunny, friendly sort, who offers online courses to boost one's skills at documenting the stories and images of our lives and those of our loved ones. Earlier this year she offered a free course to give folks a taste of her art and her courses. That course, "Stories in Hand", was an intense look inside ourselves to bring forth the 'stories' that have made us who we are today. She offered formats for documenting and designs to aid in presenting the stories, along with photos, if so desired.

Well, now she has offered a course called, "Holidays in Hand". I gotta tell ya. The first course proved to be quite an emotional journey. I really struggled with the telling of some of my stories. Either, there were unsolved issues coming forth, or I was just aflood with emotion. I'd say a little of both. However, it did me good to bring up the memories and re-evaluate them. Finding that I can remember, cry, whatever, but, then, I can return to the 'here and now' and not be lost in my memories, has kept me going. I used to be terrified of my memories. After the course earlier this year, this of the past. But, now, we tackle the 'holidays'.

The holidays are real bad for me. My birthday is two days before Christmas. I have such sad thoughts of birthdays spent in hotel rooms on the road to visit relatives for Christmas. The year I got the 'like-real' kitchen set. It was, "Look at the great little kitchen set Santa got you! Okay, now, go get in the car. You can play with it when we get back from holiday." Then, there were the kids at school who got to celebrate their birthdays during the school year. When little, their moms would come to the school and bring cupcakes and punch. All the other kids would honor you for the half hour, at least. Not when your birthday is during Christmas break!

Those aren't the only reasons. When I married and had a family of my own, it always seemed to be such a hardship at holiday time. There was never enough money. The things I wanted to get the kids, things the other kids were asking for, were so expensive. We often settled for knock-offs that never worked right. Many years, I stood in lines at charities, waiting to receive a bag of groceries or a box of generic toys to give the kids for Christmas. Divorce brought it's own set of difficulties, until the year, out of spite, the kids' daddy made them sit on a sofa over at his girlfriend's parent's house, watching the others opening presents, just to keep them from being with me. They never went to him again at Christmas, but, that was mainly because he split the state. He remained a 'dead-beat dad', owing his children over $100,000.00 in arrearages, until the day he died, which was at an age younger than mine. Nothing, though, was as bad as the Christmas morning the children had to put me in the hospital. In my dire state of depression and anguish, I had over-medicated myself on some meds that were not good to do that with. I spent that day and the entire week up to New Year's Eve in a mental hospital in another town, nearby. Seemed the local unit was full.

Bitter about the holidays? Who? Me? Jessica, my god, girl! You're gonna kill me! LOL Truth be told, I believe this is just what I need to be doing. I need to face this 'phobia' for the holiday season. I have already begun going into depression mode.

So, with that, here, as to Jessica's Assignments, is # 1:

Values and Goals:

My personal values are family, home, togetherness, friendship, charity, and peace. Though we are each others' sounding boards and we often share bad times, I want everyone to be close and to get along. The outside world is such a chaotic place. Home should be a place where you know what to expect and to be with those people who accept you as you are. It should feel safe and there should be togetherness. The grandchildren should not think it odd that Uncle Nick and Aunt Danielle stopped over. I like it that it is the 'norm'. We are a very close-knit family. It's really just us, the children, their significant others and/or children and me. I have brothers and sisters as well as there being contact between my children and their daddy's siblings. We have friends who come year after year. But, overall, it is mainly just us when it comes to the holidays.

Since the children are grown, now, it is becoming more frequent that one of them states the plans or makes a suggestion. The rest of us usually go along, often adding our own suggestions. With the responsibility of the holidays being shared by others besides myself, perhaps, it won't be as hard, this year. I'm willing to sit down with the family and express my concerns. Inviting any or all of them to take over certain aspects will be a welcome relief. I have to make my needs known, though. They are used to me trying to call the shots, so, I need to tell them I need their help.

A big part of my hesitation at this time of year is in not knowing how much, or how little, I should, or can, do. I don't know what I can do, but, I want it to be nice. Then, I get caught up in that and throw up my hands. I had to cut back on my expectations at Christmas time a long time ago. Last year, short of having everyone over on Christmas morning, we did nothing else. I have to find a happy medium. I have to. When I find a place where I am comfortable with the amount of doings and the expense, then, maybe, the holidays won't be so bad for me.

I'm hopeful! I signed up for this course with a little hesitation. I know it won't be an easy route. Nothing worth learning is easy. But, I believe with all my heart that, finding an even keel for me in this part of my life, will only make things better. The family should benefit, as well.

Sunday Morning Going Down

2009-11-15T11:53:00.000-08:00

Sunday mornings have always felt so 'down home' for me. There is something about pajamas on the warm, sunny floor, funny papers spread out and the smell of bacon frying that screams "HOME", eh?

Growing up, my father slept late, his only late sleep all week. He had a small business and kept long hours. Momma would fix a big breakfast. During the week, we had cereal or a pastry, a 'cold' breakfast, of sorts. The big breakfast was always a treat. Pancakes were really special. Otherwise, it was eggs and grits and, either bacon or sausage.

When I went out and had a family of my own, Sundays remained the lazy, 'care for your soul' day. Taking it easy, or, doing yard work, we were all together. Our day always ended with a feast, usually of chicken, beans and rice, greens, corn bread, etc, all prepared, with pride, by my husband. That man sure could cook!

On special occasions, when the whole family was together, we would have brunch. Christmas and Thanksgiving were good days for this. We all got together in the late morning, visited and pigged out. Then, as family duties called, the afternoons were free to make one's own plans, dinner at the other in-laws or a trip out of town, perhaps. We just had so many people with so many different plans, I took advantage of the morning hours to share our family time.

Our favorite breakfast fare was the main feature, other than gifts shared, if it was a holiday. Everyone loves cocktail smokies and pastries, so, these were basics. A few of these years, we were able to find our local Krispy Kreme donut shop open and had a box of warm, glazed yummy. There would be a large pan of scrambled eggs, bacon, cheese grits, and, of course, coffee and orange juice. Eventually, bagels and lox made an appearance as one of my dad's favorites. And, so, that was the usual fare. It worked for our family very well.

Things are not quite the same, anymore. All the children are grown and have their own families. Mom and dad are no longer with us. I stepped into my role as 'family matriarch', if you will, rather reluctantly. But, we needed to carry on and I felt it was up to me. We manage pretty well. The children are more involved in the plans, so, that helps me. Sunday mornings are sure quiet sometimes, though.

This morning, this was on my mind as I thought about what each of the children were doing. My son and his family are probably lazing around, watching television, deciding if they should go wet a line or not. My oldest daughter is probably at work. She's a paramedic and is very active in all kinds of things. Her hubby is probably sleeping. He's a sheriff's deputy and works graveyard shift. My youngest daughter and her two children spent the night over at a friend's house. The Gators played last evening and they partied for the game. She stays put when she does this. So, it was too quiet around here. I decided to make myself a big breakfast to liven things up a bit.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am not lonely. For one with all grown children, my family is always around. My youngest, with the two children, lives here. My son, his wife and any of their children are over here, at least, twice a week, if not more. So, I am never lonely! Far from it. I am blessed! LOL

This morning, though, after running fever for a few days with this awful flu, I was hungry. I stuck a potato in the microwave oven for a minute or so. This only starts the cooking process. (Don't overcook. Leftover baked potatoes are good used for this.) Then, without burning my fingers, I cut it up into small bite-sized pieces, aka, home fries, hash browns, "insert regional name". I course-cut chopped an entire small onion. Then, I put potatoes and onions into melted margarine in a small skillet. Some lemon-pepper seasoning and sea salt and let it simmer/fry at a medium-low heat for about 20 minutes, turning them often, and, wallah! LOL Home fries, a couple of pieces of smoked sausage, with maple syrup for dipping, and a fried egg and I was in pure bliss.

So, now I sit, all sated and sassy. I'm debating as to whether to take a nap or work on some design, since it is so quiet in the house. By my own actions, I revisited some memorable feelings, this morning. It was a nice visit. My memories, like most folks, are cherished, good or bad. They are what define us as individuals. They build our character. I often find I dwell too much in the past. I regret things and rehash how something may or may not have gone differently. Same old script. But, taking a trip to my past, today, in a sort of short visit there, and coming back to the present, gives me hope that there will always be brighter days. I cherish those Sunday mornings. I have fond memories.

Now, about that nap...

The Crone

2009-11-11T09:25:00.000-08:00

It nearly escaped me, recently, that the 7th of this month, November, was the anniversary of my mother's passing. I think it is 13 years. It isn't that I don't care, I just don't like to think of her death. I keep her 'alive' in my heart, so, as far as I'm concerned, she's right here. What nearly escaped me was the significance to something I just went through. I should explain.

My spiritual journey has led me down a path wherein I learn something new all the time. It's exciting! My interests in mother nature, the realm where goddesses and angels and other spiritual entities, exist if you so wish, have me following the "Wheel of the Year" calender, which celebrates different times of the year by the agrarian cycle. Winter, starts with Samhain, celebrating the preparation for settling down for the winter, with hopes for an early and prosperous spring. It is celebrated much like Thanksgiving.

Another spiritual event, if you want to call it that, is the celebration of the "crone". In a woman's life cycle, she passes through three different phases, if you will. She is the maiden from birth until mensus. Her childbearing years, she is the mother. After menus ceases, the crone comes in. In olden cultures, the older women were venerated for their wisdom and experience. The title was never meant to be derogatory. It was, rather, a title of distinction.

I gave this considerable thought since, in my own situation, I am re-evaluating my role, once again. That is a never-ending thing, it seems. LOL I fought it tooth and nail, but, I am just going to have to accept my role as the hands-on granny. I raised my family! I didn't want to have to do it again. But, my daughter needs help, right now. She is stressed out something awful! So, here I am, they live with me, now. The children are trying to adapt to it all, but, it's hard for them, too. All of the sudden, Granny is 'in the house'. LOL Sometimes, they try to play on that, and other times, it backfires all to hell on them.

Anyway, in this line of thinking, it occurred to me that, if I had given my daughter better tools, she would not be having some of the issues. Okay, I'm not beating myself up. It's just that, well, why does it take until you're old before you realise what you should have done when you were young?!

So, figuring out that I need to be a role model for the young ones, guiding them in the right direction, gave me strength. It was as though my being 'needed', so to speak, enabled me to feel better about my, er, 'retirement'. I'll get a chance to do the things I want to do, when I want to do them, at a later date. For now, I'm still needed. I'm a little dense, ya'll.

On that note, I read somewhere about a 'croning'. It is a ceremony in which a woman is honored and greeted into her new role. Here's an excerpt from Crystalinks.com, which does a better job than I at explaining it.

The triple moon is a Goddess symbol that represents the Maiden, Mother, and Crone as the waxing, full, and waning moon. It is also associated with feminine energy, mystery and psychic abilities. You often see this symbol on crowns or other head-pieces, particularly worn by High Priestesses.

The Maiden represents enchantment, inception, expansion, the female principle, the promise of new beginnings, youth, excitement, and a carefree erotic aura. The Maiden in Greek Mythology is Persephone - purity - and a representation of new beginnings. Other maiden goddesses include: Brigid, Nimue, among others.

The Mother represents ripeness, fertility, fulfillment, stability, and power. The Mother Goddess in Greek mythology is Demeter, representing wellspring of life, giving and compassionate. Other mother goddesses include: Aa, Ambika, Ceres, Astarte, Lakshmi.

The Crone represents wisdom, repose, and compassion. The Crone in Greek mythology is Hecate - wise, knowing, a culmination of a lifetime of experience. Crone goddesses include: Hel, Maman Brigitte, Oya, Sedna, Skuld, and others. ~ Crystalinks.com

From there, I found another site written by a lady who is keeping a journal, sort of, on aging for women in this country in this time. She writes quite a bit about croning ceremonies. The website is Blessed Day and the lady is Judy Singleton. Appearantly, with Baby Boomers coming into their 'senior years', women have been celebrating their age with similar rituals. One, Judi wrote about, was a ceremony performed at the beach for a woman by her friends. She was honored with flowers and candles were lit. They dined and drank wine, then, there were some words said and gifts were given. I thought it sounded cool. Only, I chose to do mine alone. It doesn't matter. What matters is that you are comfortable in your own skin.

It was coming upon Samhain, which is the same time as Halloween, just the day after. The connection between the two is that during Samhain, which is the 'new year' in this calender, the veil between the etherial realm and earth is supposedly at it's thinnest. At this time, spirits of the deceased could cross over for a visit, but, so could demonic entities. The people would disguise themselves against the evil ones in hopes of being left be. That is where the 'costume' ritual comes from in our Halloween.

Sice the full moon was the day after Samhain, I chose that day,or evening. The crone is represnted by the waning moon, so, I waited until after the full moon to do my ceremony. The following is an excerpt from a letter to some close friends and supporters of mine:

I wrote some poetry that took the place of chants or 'majick words'. It wasn't anything fancy, just personal. Heh-heh. I lit candles and set them around on my back deck. I burned some sage, too, but, it was almost lost outdoors. I meditated a bit, had a glass of wine, a smoke, and then, my poetry. I used a strand of "love beads"(Yes, I still have them) to symbolically be re-born through. In some of the rituals I read about when preparing to do this, the crone would crawl under and through the other's legs. In this way, there would be the inference of being born, coming out the other side.

The part that I really focused on was finding complete satisfaction in who I am. I'm older, not decrepit. I know enough to mind myself. Yet, I still do wonder about many things. I feel peace within. I no longer feel the need to prove to others what I am capable of doing. That is how my back came to be so messed up. I know what I can do, what I am capable of doing, and that is all that need know.

I miss my mother and thought about her during the preparing for and the ritual. I cried. A lot. I felt like she was there beside me. The day that my mother and I made peace with each other, was the most profound incident to happen my entire life. We 'met' for the first time, that day, not as mother and daughter, but, woman to woman. It was quite revealing. We shared a lot of the same heartbreaks and woes. We also give our all on our children, trying to do our very best for them. In spite of all that, she lived with guilt that she had let us down, somehow. How I can relate!

That day, I 'allowed' my mother to be a woman, a girl, whose dreams were different from her reality. Taking a cue from our mutual forgiving, this ritual was my time to forgive myself. I can forgive mom and mom forgave me, I should be able to forgive myself without too much problem. LOL I have done some things I am not proud of, but, I can go on living. I've always tried to give my all to someone who needs me. I believe in the Threefold Rule. I just need to learn who is actually needy.

It is the crone's role to keep the past alive and prepare us all for the future. I can do that. With a song in my heart, even! LOL I made up my mind, several years ago, to maintain a positive attitude. My goodness how this pays off! I'm finally focusing on me and it is wonderful!

It really was a symbolic, yet, meaningful experience. I didn't even make the connection to the anniversary of mom's passing until after the ceremony. I know why, though. I can't accept her as 'gone' while celebrating her impact on my life. I have to take them one at a time.

So, Mom, if your following this blog, in between your Barbara Cartland romance novels, here's one for you. I really do appreciate your role, now! I love you, Momma!

Don't Let the Black Stuff In!

2009-05-22T00:49:00.000-07:00

We used to have a cat, a big, black, brute of a cat, we called "Black". Black's key function in his life was to go out of his way to show you how much he could care less. If you looked up 'give a damn' in the dictionary, it would NOT be his photo shown! LOL He thought he was better than every other living thing, only, he went the extra mile to shove it in your face. I have not had such an apathetic cat before, nor since. As he thought his "stuff" was "all that", I often referred to him as "Black Stuff".

While we were Black's 'people', we moved away to a town nearby. He adapted just fine. Shoot! He had an entirely new neighborhood to 'convince'. He was in his element. Regardless, I worried about him getting lost. I would let him out for short periods of time, then, go in search of him if he didn't show up. He usually came when I called.

One weekend, in particular, my husband's mom and sister drove over for a visit. With my SIL's three children, my BIL's two and my own three, running in and out, I was concerned for the cat. As my SIL was walking back from the kitchen, past the front door, I asked her if she would mind opening the door to see "if Black Stuff comes in." It didn't occur to me how that sounded. Her eyes got as big as saucers, as she backed away from the door. "No!" was all she said.

I've often wondered what in the hell she thought I was asking her to do. One day, if I think of it, I'll ask her.

Love ya, Barbara!

The House on High Street

2009-03-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

I had to laugh after reading June's most recent post on her blog, Cen's Loft. She regales the reader with the tales of her dog and cat, the former, of which, chases the latter at every given opportunity. This reminded me of the craziness that has taken place through the years at my own home. With three children, numerous pets, including snakes, plus assorted friends and visitors, in a house the size of the one I live in, is nothing short of insanity. Here, then, is just a brief glimpse in to the daily life, as it were, around this mad house.

The Eighties bring back images of stone-washed jeans, big hair and arena rock, to me. These years also found my three children reaching the throes of puberty, listening to Wham, Michael Jackson, Madonna and Dire Staights, on the radio. Myself, I was in the throes of thirty-something. I was still young enough to have a good old time, but, old enough to do so with some measure of caution - occasionally.

The house that I raised my family in is the same house I reside in now. The house, itself, was, at one time, officer's quarters at nearby Camp Blanding. It was moved here some years back. It consisted of two rooms - a living and a bed room. There had been a second, small bedroom added on to the back, along with a small bath and kitchen alcove. These were added after the house was brought here. That is pretty much how we found it. Then, with a husband in the trades, we added on and spruced up, until we had a small, but, comfy, three bedroom, two bathroom home. Further renovations by the city, offered to folks who are disabled, has brought my house up to a pretty decent state. Obviously, it hasn't always been so.

At some point, during the late eighties, we added on what would become the master bedroom, bath and laundry room. Before this, however, the house was only two bedrooms. The three children shared a room. It was certainly crowded. But, we were a close family and it just seemed cozy. In the children's room was a bunk bed, with a trundle bed that pulled out from under the bottom bunk. It accommodated the three children just fine. Occasionally, my son, whose bunk was on the top, fell on his way up or down, resulting in some choice words. Other than that, this arrangement worked for the longest time.

As a stay at home mom, I was around during each day with my family. This enabled me to become involved with their schools and extra-curricular activities. Because we lived so close to both the elementary and the middle schools, many of the children's peers came around frequently. I actually didn't mind, since, I used to work. Most of the children who came around here had parents who worked and they went home to an empty house. I was more than happy to allow them to visit until their folks were due to be home.

Around this time, my son had befriended the proprieters of a local snake shop - Hoggtowne Herpetological Society. (Hoggtowne is an old name of part of the city in which I reside) The guys allowed my son, and others, to come there and work for them after school. My son and several of his friends were constantly at the shop. They cleaned cages and fed the many specimens. He didn't work for money, however. He worked in trade for snakes, tanks/cages for them, and all the necessary items one needs to raise, or keep, a snake at home. All during the children's teen years, there was quite an assortment of snakes, lizards, dragons, spiders, geccos, a scorpion and other assorted creepy crawling critters in our home. We even had a hedgehog.

I must add in here, somewhere, that, at any given time, while my family was coming up, we had a dog. Most of that time we also had a cat, or two, or many. Some cats had several litters. For that matter, so did one of our dogs, Ginger, a cocker spaniel, we had for fourteen years. During that time Ginger had several litters of adorable pooches. We were able to find homes for (most of) them. But, add kittens and puppies to the mix and it is all bets off.

It goes, then, without saying that we had quite the menagerie. Between myself, my three children, numerous other people's children, a collection of reptiles, several-to-many domestic pets, and all in a two bedroom house, it could really be a zoo. I remember one weekend, in particular, when I had friends of mine stay here, too, with their five children. We had been partying and it was just a better idea for us all to stay put at one place. I think my house 'came of age' that night. LOL We had three kids in a Papasan chair.

I've always felt that this house was a house that love built. Everything that has been done to the house to make it comfortable for the family and myself, has truly been a labor of love. With the exception of some renovation work done by the city, all of the work done on this house was done by us. We dug the footers for the addition. We nailed shingles on the roof. I remember following my husband with a paintbrush, as he nailed up siding on a little remodel we did one weekend - without a work permit. Come Monday morning, one could not tell any work had been done at all. A few months later, a representative from the tax appraiser's came around with a map, showing a plan of my house, where it still showed it was el-shaped. My husband and I had 'squared-off' the indented corner by enlarging the children's room. I feigned surprise at the 'change' in the house. We got permits for everything else.

During the years my family was still at home, there were quite a few friends of theirs who, for one reason or another, had cause to need a place to stay. My doors were always open to a child. There were two who stayed here for a considerable time. As these kids were residing with me when they obtained their driver's permits, they used my address. I went in to update my auto insurance one year. The clerk asked me how many people residing at my house were licensed drivers. By this time, it was just me and one daughter. I told her this. She looked at me, turned her monitor around for me to see and pointed out 8 people who were registered drivers, all listing my address as their residence.

Whatever inconvenience, however many times we felt crowded, whoever was living here, the house where I live has been a good home for us throughout the years. It's just an old 'cracker' house - clapboard, high roof (to trap heat) and built up on pilings for circulation. The plaster on some of the walls is uneven and ugly, but, is in fair repair and painted. The floor rises and dips in some places due to uneven settling. Yet, there is nary a crack. The attic is filled to the brim with old junk. The house is old and sits up off the ground about a foot. But, the fireplace we put in cuts down on the draft from the wind blowing under the frame of the house. We've pulled mattresses in front of that fireplace to keep warm on really cold nights. From the hand-drawn lines on the door jamb, indicating each child's heighth, and age at the time, to the graffiti, still noticable though covered up with paint, on the kid's bedroom wall, this is home.

Friendship Blog Award

2009-03-11T13:05:00.000-07:00

June at Cen's Loft, sent me an award! That is so sweet! The thing is, June is a natural when it comes to telling a story. She keeps her readers, of which she has many, entertained daily with anecdotes from her life - home, family and pets.

Thank you, June! I shall give consideration to those blogs you listed and find 8 that I would like to share.

"These blogs are exceedingly charming. These kind bloggers aim to find and be friends. They are not interested in self-aggrandizement. Our hope is that when the ribbons of these prizes are cut, even more friendships are propagated. Please give more attention to these writers. Deliver this award to eight bloggers who must choose eight more and include this cleverly-written text into the body of their award."

Daily Treats

2009-02-03T06:11:00.000-08:00

My mother never drove. She was one of those 'southern ladies', who went through life with her husband taking care of everything. She didn't even know how to balance a checkbook. But, she always made sure she had what she needed for us and to run a home.

Every evening, when he got home from work and had dinner, my father would drive my mother up to the little market up the street. We would all load up in our old Packard and drive to Ward's market, a family-run produce and meat market, derived from a road-side stand. They had sawdust floors. It was a fun place to go as the Wards were really nice people. (They are still in business - bigger and better)

My mother's father had been a green grocer, owning markets, himself. Because of this, and because refrigeration had come into it's own in her lifetime, mom only bought what she could use for the next day or two. Mom would purchase whatever she needed, milk, bread, a cut of meat for the next day's meal. Then, in a ritual which spanned my entire childhood, she would get us all a treat. My brother liked ice cream sandwiches and I like fudge cycles. Mom always bought a book or magazine, as well as, a soft drink and candy bar, or whatever. Dad rarely got anything, but, loved ice cream if we had it.

As small children, we rode along on these nightly jaunts to the store. As we got older, either my brother, or myself, would stay home, too busy playing to leave. However, the treats still came. We expected it.

Every night, without fail, this little ritual played out, varying only slightly through the years. Occasionally, our collie dog, Lady Bug, got her treat, too. She was keen on ice cream sandwiches, herself. Treats in hand, Mom would retire to her room to read. My brother and I, parked in front of the television, watching whatever dad was watching, sat and enjoyed every lick of our daily reward. After we had finished, there wasn't much left to our evenings except bedtime.

There are so many things that I remember from my childhood. I can recall certain toys, games or dolls. I can remember some of the children in the neighborhood and the woods where we played. I remember my bedroom and our huge side porch where we played. But, to this day, when I see ice cream sandwiches or fudge cycles, I am reminded of my brother and I, sitting in the car outside Ward's market, waiting for mom and dad to return with out stash of goodies. Or, the group of us, sitting in our favorite spots, quietly devouring out frozen confections, to the sounds of Ed Sullivan on the television.

Rosie, I Salute You!

2008-11-28T21:30:00.000-08:00

This story presented it's "spark" to me today by means of an e-mail. The latest Sampler from Dover Publications hit my in-box. Dover is a publications website which also deals in books, many of the educational nature, which are ideal clip-art sources. I've seen quite a few credits to Dover on scrapbook websites. Their images, particularly thier "vintage" offerings, are not only realistic, but, they are the best of their genre that there is offered on the net. Having explained all of this, leading in to this story, is relevant, because of one of the featured "samples" in today's Sampler.

Rosey the Riveter
Pro World War II Propaganda Poster

I have this on a "Smithsonian" magazine cover, framed on my bedroom wall. This image, this iconic woman, has considerable significance to me. For one thing, it's meaning carried over to my growing up years, when "women's" rights and issues were right in the thick of all the other unrest and the demonstrations of the '60's. At a time when I was coming of age, it affected me strongly and helped form me in to the adult I am today.

But, other than providing inspiration, there is another connection that I have with Rosie.

My mother did work in the shipyard in Jacksonville, Florida, during WWII. She didn't do riveting, rather, she made the holes for the rivets. My mother is the second from right.

This might explain why I have always been such an advocate of women's equality when it comes, not just to rights, but, to the entire attitude towards women. We didn't need a world war to prove that women can hold their own.

Here's to you, Momma! And, to all the other "pioneers", I salute you!

Peanut Butter Does Not Make Good Paste

2008-11-25T21:06:00.000-08:00

Growing up with a brother who is 2 years older than I am, for a while, we shared a room. Around fourth grade I moved in to a room of my own. Before that, though, my brother and I shared a room with two twin beds. We got along pretty well for siblings. We were never very affectionate, as affection was not often exhibited in our family. We had our ways of showing what we meant to each other. By way of compliments, encouragement and, well, friendship, my brother let me know he loved me often, as I did him. I have always looked up to my brother.

That is not to say we never had sibling quarrels and petty arguments. I remember sitting in the back seat of the family car outside the grocery store one time. Our dad was sitting in the front as we were waiting for mom to do a little shopping. Bored, as two young kids would be to have to sit still for over five minutes, we began picking at each other. One thing led to another and, though I am not real sure if either of us really did hit the other, one of us cried out to dad that the other "hit me".

Dad, the doler of discipline in the family, without skipping a beat, ordered us to take turns hitting each other until our mom came back to the car. When dad said jump, you didn't ask how high - you did it. So, my brother and I sat there, trading 'slaps' until our mom returned. You would have thought we had just been told the Easter Bunny wasn't real, or something. Obviously, we didn't like having to hit each other. I mean, that is one of those things you just do. It isn't the same when you are told you have to do it and be hit back in the process.

By the second round of hitting, we were both bawling our eyes out. I can only imagine what my mom thought when she came walking up to the car to see dad just sitting there and my brother and I slapping each other silly in the back seat, yowling our disapproval. Dad gave us the word and we were allowed to stop.

Needless to say, we didn't tell on each other any more. Not unless it was really bad or we just wanted to be a brat to the other, which wasn't very often. I do remember that, right after that back seat incident, my brother and I made a pact that we would try to handle things between us rather than have dad do that to us again. We were comrades after that. The two of us would stick together and be just fine.

One evening, after we were tucked in to bed, my brother told me he had made something for me. Wanting to see it then and there, he had to sneak to avoid detection from mom and dad. He rustled through some papers on the table by his bed and produced a picture he had colored, a card, if you will. It was a heart with his name and my name, showing me that he loved me and that we were a team.

It was so special to me. I quietly expressed my glee and, caught up in the moment, my brother asked if I wanted him to hang it up so I could see it all the time. I agreed, joyfully. In the absence of a roll of tape or a tack, my brother braved a clandestine trip to the kitchen and returned with a jar of peanut butter. I just remember not knowing what he was up to until I saw that he was spreading a heaping amount of the butter on to the back of the picture he made me. After all, it was sticky, much like paste. With that done, he decided on a spot right over the head of my bed and stuck it to the wall. That picture, crayon on notebook paper, stuck up with peanut butter, was a trillion, gazillion times better than any old Mona Lisa. That was an original, made just for me, by the best friend and comrade a girl could have ever asked for - my brother. I laid there that night, staring up at that masterpiece, happy as I could be, as I slipped off to sleep.

The next day, when our mom saw the picture on the wall and the peanut butter sticking it to the wall, she nearly had a cow. Peanut butter is oily. Oil seeps in to plaster. When she removed the picture and we all saw the huge oil stain left on the wall, my masterpiece was no more. Both of us had to get soapy water and scrub as best we could 'before our father got home'. Of course, it didn't all come out and dad saw it and we got in to some trouble. Oddly, though, when we told our parents about the picture and they took a look at it, all oily and yucky, now, they were obviously touched by the intent.

Dad had our bedroom painted shortly thereafter.

2008-11-18T10:25:00.000-08:00

This is the first story that jumped out at me:

Poor Pitiful Pearl
By: Su

I was about 8 when my oldest brother, Donald, and his wife, gave me a little doll for my birthday. Her name was Poor Pitiful Pearl. Pearl was a ragamuffin. She had patches on her little jumper dress and stick-straight hair. A generous sprinkling of freckles danced across her nose and cheeks. Her nose was a little button which was small, but, bulbous-shaped. Looking at the times, now, Pearl was everything that the women of the times did not want to be. Women, then, were all about curling their hair, covering freckles and definitely,dressing well. Poor Pitiful Pearl.

When I opened the present that Donald gave me, I had pulled out Pearl and was kind of taken back. She was not like the other dolls - pretty and cute. She was homely looking. I remember the adults laughing about how pathetic-looking Pearl was. That was the first time in my life that I felt strong compassion for something, even if it was a doll. Dolls are important to little girls. They give us a constant friend in our ever-changing, life-evolving existence. When my brother and his wife, Barbara, started laughing at Pearl, I almost cried. I felt so sorry for the little waif.

My love for Pearl was my first experience in loving and caring for a "child" or another person outside of my family. I would dress Pearl in my other doll's clothes and brush her straggling hair. She never left my side, unless it was to go to school. My expensive doll, Maribelle, sat on the shelf while I toted Pearl with me everywhere I went. She was a good friend, as well as, my charge.

Maribelle still lives on a shelf in my room. Her hair is still neatly combed and tied back. Her clothes, though a bit spotted with age, still adorn her smooth surface. Pearl didn't fare so well. Pearl was a doll you played with, not one to set on a shelf. We played hard, too. One day, my other brother, Howard, was digging a hole to bury a time capsule, of sorts. It was actually a shoe box with some plastic figures from Fort Apache, a couple of trading cards and a few other miscellaneous objects.

Howard convinced me, that day, that Pearl would be forever enshrined in that place if we buried her with the time capsule. He pointed out that, no matter what may happen, I could always come back there and Pearl would be there. So, I buried Pearl. I don't know if Pearl is still buried there, or not. We moved from that house and the years have brought so much change. There is not any way for me to go find out. It would not sit well for the current resident, my digging up their yard for a doll. So, in a way, Pearl is still there, to me. I had her for a little while, and had fun. Then, I placed her in the hole where time stood still. She's there waiting for me. She'll be there when I go back.

"Stories in Hand"

2008-11-18T10:18:00.000-08:00

This blog site is dedicated to this course from Jessica Sprague, "Stories in Hand". Here is where I post the stories that I come up with.