Coal Heater

When it is this cold I always think of how cold I always was when I was little. I have beat the story of the coal oil heater in the house on Morley to pieces. That heater was like a monster to me. I ran from the thing in the snow bearfooted to call the fire department on it. It caught Daddy's sock on fire before it caught the house on fire. Makes me wonder if drinking and fire really does go together. You know there is a song, that has a line did I dance on the bar or start any fires. Our great men started lots of fires. Well, maybe they didn't start them all, but we did have fires. The heater on Morley was oil burning or that is what my small mind thought. I was bright enough to know it had to be lighted somehow, and Daddy had to do it. Seems that drunk men want to do things that should have been done before they got drunk. Sober they just do nothing, then give 'em a bottle and they see something that needs to be done. That was how he burnt his sock, foot and part of the house on Morley. The fire department came, because I ran across the yard to our Kentucky neighbors house; barefooted in the snow. I ran into their house screaming that the heater was going to blow up. Berta and Dewy Napier were their names. They were alot like my grandmother that visited sometimes to scrub the floors. She came from Alabama to clean. Well she came mainly to see how bad things were getting. They finally got really bad.

The heater/sock thing was close to the final notice that the morgage was not being paid. The man that came in the long overcoat was from the bank. The house payment was eighty dollars, alot of money in 1968 and Daddy not working anymore. In his mind I guess he figured there was not a need to clean the white foam that the firemen sprayed all over the kitchen and livingroom, since the fat man in the coat was going to put everything out on the snow covered yard. Mama was always the blame for the foam staying till we were kicked out of the house on Morley. She was to blame for not finding out what happened to all the stuff that was put out of the house. Mr. Grass took it to his garage, but he died before Mama checked on her stuff. His stuff was possibly taken by kin or sold. There wasn't a way for them to know that the stuff in the old shed belonged to us if anyone really cared anyway.

***************There are a couple of heaters, well more than a couple, I remember as a kid. Worry is something I can never remember not doing. Heaters were always a worry to me, more than a worry, I was scared what the combination of fire and who was building the fire was going to cause. After the coal oil heater we had in the house on Morley was the coal burning heater in the old house. The old house being the one before the new house that was built after the old house burnt down. In the old house was a cast iron black one that sat out from the wall and had a pipe to the chimney made of rocks. This heater was also a monster to me. A monster made mad by the men that feed it too much coal. When this happened the top of it would turn red like a stove eye. I would go outside stand as far away from the house as I could to get away from the possibility of fire.

 One very tragic one that my Uncle Bill, his wife and son all died in. My daddy would not let us lock the doors while we were sleeping, because it was told that Uncle Bill actually did not die from smoke or fire. He bleed to death due to cuts he recieved breaking the window to escape the fire. There will be more to tell ya'll about the fires in my childhood, I am sure.

I Wonder

http://shoalandaspeaks.blogspot.com/2011/01/shoals-prosecution-they-can-preach-it.html
I usually don't mention the affairs of today's news, but the story above made me wonder.
 It makes me wonder if I slip up and don't make it to Heaven. Now I think I am good to go, but maybe I have to tell some lies or steal some food. It is very possible that I could loose it and cuss someone out really bad; using the worst of words. I sometimes tend to be a bit jealous of what others have. Basically I am not perfect; not really bad, but a little rough around the edges sometimes. Not holier than thou, that's what I am; Run of the meal average try to good, but sometimes it is hard. The bad things I have done or may do before I die are nothing compared to the Shaun Shapley's of the world. If I mess up am I going to be in the same place as the likes of him. What I really want is there to be a special hell for evil men such as him.
Should this crime be forgiven? I know a have sinned, but gee whiz, my mind can't grasp this kind of cruelness. Everyday plain forgiveness is great, and greater than I can phathom, is a possibility that God could forgive such terrible sins.
Forgiveness is something that comes easy for me. Forgetting is harder. I remembered the quote, it is easier to forgive than forget. In searching for the quote I thought went, "it is easier to forgive than forget, I thought went, I discovered many others, but could not find it one quoted in those exact words. I can forgive and still love that person. Not being able to forget makes me cry when I think of being hurt by others. I will never ever mention it again to them. I let it go for their sake. I keep it in my heart to still creep up on me when I least expect the pain to come back.


*I can forgive, but I cannot forget, is only another way of saying, I will not forgive. Forgiveness ought to be like a cancelled note - torn in two, and burned up, so that it never can be shown against one. ~Henry Ward Beecher So if I still let it hurt me I really have not foregiven anyone

*Forgiveness is the fragrance the violet sheds on the heel that has crushed it. ~Mark Twain Yes, that's what makes me feel better I have given to another person. It at the time makes me feel better to tell them, "its alright."
*Once a woman has forgiven her man; she must not reheat his sins for breakfast. ~Marlene Dietrich I never bring the wrong the person did me back up again. No matter how bad I want to.
*It’s easier to ask forgiveness than it is to get permission. ~Grace Hopper Done that! Said that!
*The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. ~Mahatma Gandhi Yeah, I am the bigger person. Oh, that's my ego, wanting me to be bigger/better than them. It is a payback, maybe.

*To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you. ~Lewis B. Smedes I am the one that feels the sadness and madness emotions by not forgetting it-----Get over it. Let it go there is the solution.*Forgiveness is a funny thing. It warms the heart and cools the sting. ~William Arthur Ward Feeling

The Holiday Season (Part One)

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Daddy was hunched over in the chair under the telephone. He was wearing his normal khaki work pants. Well not actually khaki colored, but that material. They were usually navy. He looked far from powerful sitting with his head down on his chest. He had more power over his wife and two children than he would agree. He was the Foreman in a steel mill until the whiskey got the best of him. I looked at him as a five year old child thinking that something was not normal with the man I love as my daddy. The power he had was to keep us from having dry bedding or heat in the house. A real fool could tell that it was too, cold in Wayne Michigan to not have heat. In November we really needed heat. He may have not could feel how cold it was in the little house on Morley. He must have sobered up when he finally decided that he must try to light the coal oil heater that was at the back of the house; just off the kitchen.
Daddy picked up the bottle of cheap wine, there was only a few drops left. The realization that there was only a few drops gave him energy to have the energy to maybe try to light the heater. How long would he have to spend on the project of warming the house for my brother and I. Mama always had on her fur coat. The coat that she had bought while working at the Yankee version of K-mart. I hear the song "Copacabana' and that reminds me of my mama only she did not were flowers in her hair; she wore a fur of days gone by.
I was wearing a heavy coat, but my brother was in a diaper. This day the house was so cold that mama sat in the chair in her fur with me in front of her; Kenny on the other side of the chair in the floor. His nose was always running. The reason being he had on only a diaper up north in November in a house with no heat. The sight of his runny nose finally grabbed my five year old minds attention. It really annoyed me all of the sudden. I screamed, crying at Mama telling her I was going to find a bunch of clothes to put on him. This must have hit a nerve in her. She picked up the nearest object and slung it at me hitting my skinny ankle bone. The pain was great making me cry and scream more. Daddy had left a rock that he sharpened his pocket knife on the table beside her chair. This was the object that she hit me in the ankle with. I had the bruise on my ankle, but she did finally get out of her coffee drinking/smoking chair and put my baby brother some clothes on. The pain was bad, but maybe not bad enough to continue the crying that I did that day. It has always been whenever I start I just can't stop balling. My words in the tears were, nobody loves me or cares for me. This was the same thing I did the day Mama had her concussion in the garden heat. I knew she was terribly sick that day. Her eyes were rolled back in her head and she was slobbery. To me it was like she was foaming at the mouth, but that is exaggerating the truth a bit. She did fall on the carport and hit her head on the brick wall. The expert called that day was Uncle Keith. He had had so many detox fits that to Grandmother he probably knew what to do. They carried her to the bedroom at the beginning of the hall and placed her on the bed, wiped her face over and over with a rag. This did not seem to bring her around at all. Cars were something that around our place were not all that reliable. Grandmother called my great-uncle Luke to come and carry her to the hospital. He was the one armed uncle that always tried to scare the Jesus out of me. I was not allowed to visit Mama at the hospital because she was put in the 400 ward of ECM hospital. This I figured out by listening to the adults was where they put the crazy people. I do not know all that happened to her there, but she did come home with stitches in her leg. Again I gathered my information from the adults by listening to their conversations, that she had tried to get out of the bed; falling off and cutting her leg on the metal railing of the hospital bed. This story to me has always took the twist that she was trying to run away. The time she was gone and I could not see what was going on is a bad memory for me. I know in my mind it was worse that it really was. The adults at home were all to making it seem that Jean was way out there and not as normal as the rest of them. I take that as part of the reason that considering myself normal is hard for me. I have long awaited the day that I go totally insane myself. I was told on a regular basis that if I did not get a hold of myself I was going to be just like Jean. Jean was Mama.
Imagine moving into a women's house that took over everything that you are supposed to be as a mother. My brother and I went along with Grandmother. We showed Grandmother that she was the one that had rescued us from the poverty we left in Michigan. Mama did before we came here take over while Daddy was living on the streets of Detroit. She got a job, and saved the money for the bus tickets here. That was something that I never heard one of them give Mama credit for. (to be continued)

The Back Storm Door

Gunsmoke: Season Four

Ok, we did not have guns at Grandmother's house. Hunting was something that really was not done by the men there. As the grandson's reached their teen years getting a gun for Christmas was not out of the question. The gun that shot out the back storm door was either a Christmas gift of my cousins or was purchased at one of the times Uncle Keith was working and saving money. Probably the later, because he is the one that shot the gun.
Uncle Keith had great problem with us living in the house with Grandmother. His main personality was selfishness and jeolousy. He really did not appear to like anyone of us. He always wanted to fight with someone. My daddy was his favorite target to pick a fight with. He may have chose Daddy because he was really not into confrontation. Well he did not confront anyone he knew was going to rare back up on him. Uncle Keith would have times take the stand that he was sick and tired of Daddy using their mother as a meal ticket and a place for his wife and kids to live. This day he was really fed up with it. He was probably jeolous too. He and his wife and boys lived in his sister's farmhouse, so what was the difference, anyway. He had not purchased or rented his own home either. His sister's husband gave more to her brother's than anyone would to the two drunk-most-of-the-time-men.
Uncle Keith was none the better than Daddy except he did not live with his mother. He never thought about it that way. It was all about how Joe Abe took from Grandmother. Uncle Keith had been sober his usual couple of months, AA and all, but like each time he feel off the wagon once again. This day he rode the wagon to woop Daddy's ass. He came in the front door looking for a fight. The livingroom of the three bedroom little brick house was very small. There was the couch that Daddy laid on for weeks. Two end tables under the front window. On one end was the wood heater and on the other end was a chair, radio and round table. The round table top was not connected to the legs. It had a table cloth hiding the real appearance of the table. All of the pieces of furniture that were in the living room that day were flipped and knocked around during the fight. This fight was so much more than just a fist fight, the two middle aged men were rolling around like cowboys in a saloon. The fight had gotten so intense that my grandmother had rushed us to the barn to get away from it. This was not typical. We usually just went out in the yard. As we all stood in the shead that was built on the side of the barn I realized when I heard the gunshot that maybe Grandmother knew that Uncle Keith had the gun in his car. There we stood, my little brother, Mama and Grandmother in the cold addition to the barn. The shot had came out the backdoor of the kitchen. I could see that the door was open when the shot was fired. It still was hard not to think the worst. My first thought was Oh, my God, Uncle Keith has shot Daddy. I ran as fast as I could from the barn to the house. Screaming just those words. When I got to the back of the house Daddy was sitting at the kitchen table grinning and Uncle Keith was holding the door open for Daddy to shoot the gun threw. The both of them had quit fighting and were just messing around shooting the gun. They are playing around and we are hiding from them. This is something I am sure they both thought would be funny, scare two kids, Grandmother and Mama to death.

The Tree in the Corner

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It was always tradition that the Christmas Tree be put up the day after Thanksgiving. It was a cedar tree that was cut from a nearby pasture. I got into this seach so much that for months after Christmas I spoted every cedar tree that I passed riding in the car or walking down all the country roads. It always seemed the best thing to do would be cut down a great big cedar and chop the top out of it. That was not possible for me and my little brother to do with the tools we had. The tree was cut with a dull axe that we just went to the car shead and found. Grand mother always told us over and over not to get a very big one. I was always ill about that, why could it not sit on that table in the living room. It would be much better to have a big one on the floor. We always listened to her, because we knew it had to go where she wanted it, besides how could we move the sofa that Daddy slept on. This sofa was covered with gold plasic that was redone by the man in Elgin that covered furniture. She was very proud that that sofa had held up so well. The springs in it even gave way on the end that Daddy laid his head on. Daddy being the handy man he could be had put a piece of sheet metal on that end to hold it up. The tree was to sit in the corner left of that sofa, not in the window where I thought it should be. We had the big candle light shaped bulbs in all the great colors. The decorations were what had been given to us and what we made. We saved wrapping paper from year to year. It was a given that you be careful unwrapping not to rip it; we all new it was to be saved. Really it was not bad to re-use it over and over. Our presents always looked pretty to me. Santa did not wrap the gifts they were placed all around the tree for us to get up and see Christmas morning. Grandma and Grandpa sent us a package from Michigan every year. Those were the best. My favorite ever from them was a Jane West Doll. She was just a little bigger than a Barbie Doll and had clothes that could not be removed in western style. There was skirts and boots that would fit over the built in clothes. She was hard plastic all over, even her hair, but she was the greatest entertainment. Grandmother really did try to get as close to the list we made as she could. I asked for a football jersey one year and Santa brought a navy sweatshirt with the number 10 ironed on the back. To be a grandmother she could make me happy on a limited amount of cash. Blow Dryer was another big gift that I asked for all year from Santa. I had been at my friends house and she told me when I used her's that my hair looked good and that's what I needed. This was summer and I knew that if anyone could afford a hot comb, it would be Santa. The tree would have one under it I was sure. I was even more sure when I found it hid under some clothes in my grandmother's bedroom. My cousins had told me the terrible truth about Santa, but I would not accept it, until I found the hairdryer.
I have always made the best of each situation. It can be done. There is always the sky. It does not matter what is going on around you the sky is there for a great escape. From the sky there is the sun to give us warm days, adding wind to a warm sunny day just adds extra surprise. Even the rainy, stormy days escaping to notice the feel of the air can take away much pain. When I realized that my heart was so broken that I could not find happiness from the air around me is when I knew it was within me to discover the easy way back. Simple and free are the best gifts God gave us. Then there is snow, beautiful white snow. The air feels a certain way on a cold and snowy day. I have always been someone that could find something to make me feel better in the worst of times. Being a child may have made it easier to find a happy place.

I have mentioned walking home from school for lunch before. This is something I did even when the snow was up to my knees. Kindergarten is somewhat of a blur to me, but there are parts that I remember vividly. The teacher was old; she played an old organ to us sometimes. She reminded me of Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies. While we were up north I attended the school closest to Morley Street; where we lived before the fat banker came. The school name was Pageant. It had to be really close for me to walk to school at five years old. I had white boots with fake fur around the top. The boots I remember well because they were a treasure in a box given to us by some charity organization. Just like the ice skates the boots were one of my favorite memories of digging in those boxes that appeared at our house.

The boxes appearing made up for the fact that Santa did not come one year that I remember. The next door neighbor informed that Santa had brought her toys on Christmas Eve that year. I was so smart that at five she was wrong and I was right. Santa must have come on Christmas Night; I wasn’t sure, I must have forgotten was what I convinced myself into believing. Christmas Night I was sure that was when I would get my toys. On Christmas Night he didn’t bring anything, I was sure it was my fault. It was true if you are bad Santa will not come.

It was still freezing cold the day the box came with a pair of ice-skates in it. I grabbed ice-skates from the box like they had been placed under a Christmas tree by Santa. I had never had ice-skates. Making sure they fit was not important to me or Mama. That may have been why they wobbled so on my feet. Could have been why I hit the ground so fast. I had never skated and I was too young to realize that falling was something that would happen when I chose a frozen mud puddle just outside the house to skate for the first time. Somehow I made it down the steps onto the puddle without falling.

Once on the frozen mud puddle my feet went every which way. I hit on my knees and elbows skinning myself on every spot that the hard frozen puddle touched me. I still remember how bad that hurt. I was freezing cold, because getting a coat was not an issue as I had a new pair of ice-skates. The cold the sting of the cuts and the pain of the lick I took was awful. Getting back into the house was even worse. The trip down the stairs was a much happier trip. Climbing the three or four steps was much harder without the thrill of getting to skate. Then the pain added to the realization that skating on a mud puddle was not such a great idea after all.

Thanksgiving



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 My grandmother always dreaded the holidays.
She said that so many bad things had happened in our family during the holidays. I wonder if it is just our family or does it really seem that tragedy strikes many during the holiday's. It could be that we pay more attention, because someone's happy time of year has been interupted. My grandaddy died on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving. This made our family attend his funeral on Thanksgiving Day. He was placed in the livingroom of our new brick house that was built that year. It was built that year, because on Thankgiving the previous year the house had caught on fire. It had caught fire while my grandmother was in the hospital. Four years before this fire, there had been the fire that killed my Uncle Bill, his wife and his twelve year old son, Wade. With all of these bad things happening at Thanksgiving it is easy to see why grandmother always said Thanksgiving was a bad time for our family. It really did not end with their generation. The holiday time seems to still be when we loose members of the family. Last year just after Christmas Keith's son was killed in an car accident. In 1993 Aunt Faye's son in law was killed just before Halloween. This being the year I accept as the end of life as I knew it because, my husband was driving the car. This is when I decided that ok, I can't have a nervous breakdown today, I have too much to worry about fixing. I have to go to work, I'll breakdown on a day that I have more time. "Make a riffle," is what my grandmother called having to fix things that were going wrong.
Garnering Wisdom is not just getting wisdom from the wise, it is remembering the messed up and not doing the things they did.
I thank all the people that I have garnered such wisdom from. Thanksgiving is a time to be thankful and I am going to continue to be thankful. Thankful that God has helped me make it another day. This is my prayer each night, not just Thanksgiving; "Thank you God for helping me make it through this day."

You Gotta Love Frank

 


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  Mildred, the church gossip, and self-appointed monitor of the church's morals, kept sticking her nose into other people's business. Several members did not approve of her extracurricular activities, but feared her enough to maintain their silence.
She made a mistake, however, when she accused Frank, a new member, of being an alcoholic after she saw his old pickup parked in front of the town's only bar one after noon..
She emphatically told Frank (and several others) that every one seeing it there WOULD KNOW WHAT HE WAS DOING !
Frank, a man of few words, stared at her for a moment and just turned and walked away. He didn't explain, defend, or deny. He said nothing.
Later that evening, Frank quietly parked his pickup in front of Mildred's house ... Walked home .. . .and left it there all night.
(You gotta love Frank!)

The Fifty-Dollar Car

You are just like your mother/father. It is said over and over to each and everyone of us. Great if you have or had wonderful parents. Inside every home are things that are hidden from the outside world. Uglyness is something that is not notice until you become close to a family. I find it heartbreaking to know that some families hate each other, really. The nice things they do for each other are only to make a show. With all the vices my family had; they did not hate each other. They loved themselves, whiskey and stuff more.
There is a never ending family cycle even inherted by my generation. The one's of us that now have adult children are acting like the disfunctional ones of the past. A car, different car; the son of a son let the family tradition carry on just recently. The 1960's story has always mad me sick that there were such selfish people in the world, much less in my family. Abe my grandfather; I have mentioned before there is a special Hell for this man. His son came to him telling of a car in Whitehead that he wanted to buy. The owner was asking $50 for the car. Uncle Bill had to save the money for the car. His wonderful father took $50 to the owner, almost immediatly, bought the car for the $50. Abe took the car home showed his son he bought the car. Uncle Bill, his own son really wanted this car. He got the car finally, after his own father made him pay $75 for the car. Imagine making a $25 profit off of you own son on purpose. Next generation, dad comes home; son has his car; he has painted; fixed up good to drive and is made give dear old dad the car.

Them Folks Up North



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 It is a long way from Detroit to North Alabama. We left the north with no thoughts of ever returning. I have, but my little brother never has. After we got here there really were no emotional reasons why we did not visit our grandparents, honestly. It would be dramatic to say we would have to stay is why we didn't go back. Really I think we just didn't, because of the trouble. Buy bus tickets and such. My little brother as an adult had his reasons. His reasoning for never going back stems from the worship of the dear southern people that rescued us from being hungry, wet and cold. That was forty years ago. He never has talked about the north much. The mentioning he did was that he had no need for none of our relatives that lived in Michigan. He wants to give the impression that he does not remember much about living there. This is possible.

I must have the best long term memory of just about anyone. He may vaguely have some memories that are not pleasant ones. He may not remember the wet and cold as well as I, because he was not much out of diapers when we got on that Greyhound bus, to Pulaski Tennessee... The bus was taking us to Tennessee not Alabama. At seven years old I did not sit down the whole seven hundred and something miles. How could I sit down? These brilliant parents of mine were taking me to the wrong place.
He did have a discussion with Uncle Buddy. He was married to Mama’s sister. Uncle Buddy said that if Daddy would have manned up Mama would have a home when Daddy died. All this was going on because, Grandmother sent Mama to Michigan when Daddy died, on the Greyhound Bus. When a not so tacky amount of time had passed the northern kinfolk would put her on the bus back to Pulaski Tennessee. I learned after standing for seven hundred miles was the right bus stop, after all. It was ok to leave going up north. It was also the right place to get off the bus for Alabama.
I returned when my grandpa died. I did this mainly to travel with Mama to her father’s funeral. Her mother had died the same day my twins were born. An option that was not a given at all for me. Mama did ride the bus to attend her mother’s funeral. She would not stay with her sister and nephew for a visit. She was too anxious to get back to Alabama to see me and her new grandchildren. The impression that the rest of the world had of my mother was different for the one I had. To the southern family she obtained by marrying my father she was far from normal. To me she was anything that I could get her to do for me. The excuse I stole from my little brother; was that she had never done what she should as a mother for me; This was to rationalize that it was ok to make her do the things I did not want to do. To the southern kin Mama may have not been all there; to me she was my mother.

Haunts

Some of the adults were often telling ghost stories to the children. It was menacing at times for them to repeat the same stories all the time. Uncle Luke was the worst one, to tell of ghosts lived just down the road. He picked areas that he knew we would have to at one time have to travel. As I slowed down to go around the curve for the rest of my life I will sense that there is a ghost riding in the back seat of my car. In Uncle Luke’s stories, the ghost that rode with you to the curve was Hank Brown. He was buried in the Sledge Cemetery; the cemetery was abandoned by caretakers. The ground that the cemetery was on was on the hillside and could not be seen from the road. It was just past the creek before the Old Phillips home place. The Phillips house was already falling down in the early seventies. Uncle Luke had one arm that was missing. He loved to scare little kids with the nub that been left when he was working in his grandfather’s saw mill. He had lost the arm as a teenager. It was told that they took his arm with him to Doctor Bayle’s office in Anderson. The arm could not be saved, so it was buried in the back yard.

His nub did not really scare me as bad as he wished that it did. The moment he came into our house he started picking on the kids. He nudged my little brother and I as soon as he came in the door. If my cousins were there, which was most of the time, he would punch all four of us as he came into the kitchen. My grandmother always fussed at him because I was afraid of my own shadow anyway. She did not realize that the stubby arm did not scare me as bad as the ghost stories he told. It always got her gourd because it was so hard to get me to go outside in the dark to do anything. I would freak if I had to take the dish water out. The dishwater only took a minute to dump. It only took a second for me to dump. I ran with the dish pan just far enough that she would not fuss that it was too close to the house. Going to get clothes that had been drying on the barbed wire fence would terrify me. I could always feel as though something was following me. I got chills that ran all the way down my back as well as all through me when I was out in the dark around the barn lot grabbing clothes.
Uncle Luke usually did not eat with us as many of the visitors did. He ate with us more after his wife died. He was married to Aunt Mae; this was my granddaddy’s oldest sister. She was the sister I remember dying first. There had been another to die, Myrtle; she died before we came from up-north. Uncle Luke was known for his tall tales and being full of crap. He was much younger than Aunt Mae. I think this made him have an air of great self worth. His hair was always burred off close, and his head was shaped like a jug. Thus, he was called Jug-Head by many of the elder men in the community; His looks and air made the stories he told of ghosts even more believable to me. He traveled around the area at all hours of the night, so this made me know for sure that he telling about real ghosts that followed the living as they passed the stretch of road between our home and the dump.
The ghost that I imagined the most vividly was the one that rose in front of the doctor and my great-granddaddy. The two men were headed to Lexington to deliver one of the Robertson children. This was Grand dad’s daughter and the doctor’s sister in law. The trip was made in a horse and flat bedded wagon. It was close to midnight as they made the Ford Bridge that was just before the cemetery. The horses were already starting to fidget as the two men in the wagon started across the creek. Each of the horses almost stopped at the far side of the bridge. Grand Dad was cussing for them to get on; Doctor Bayle’s had the whip beating them to make them go the five miles to Lexington. He was slashing the whip and Grand Dad was yelling his devilish vocabulary that only he could spit out. Both men were unaware of what the horses were sensing up ahead. The creek bottom was to the left for a short piece and begins the hill that Sledge Cemetery sat upon. The path to the cemetery is more than just a path, somewhat of a road that wheels of wagons had made. This is where both of the men realized that the horses were spooked by what was raising in the road in front of them. Grand Dad and the doctor both had pistols strapped to their sides. Grand Dad was as usual a bit tight so reaching for the gun was what he thought of first. He fired the gun until all the bullets were gone. Doctor Bayle’s gun was still at his hip until Grand Dad grabs it and uses it also. Doc was only thinking go! Go! Go! He beat those horses as hard as he could. All during this time the white figure in the road was moving right in front of them as though it was floating backwards. The noise was as the men told it as the wind was their names to them. Doc Bayles said he was so afraid he never even thought of the gun that he carried on his hip. The flight of the monster would end at the curve just past the Andrew Phillips house. The two men rounded the curve whipping the wagon behind the house. Looking back down the road there was nothing there. It was the calm of night as if nothing had ever been there. Where the name Hank Brown come from neither men could ever say; it was just like both men new that Hank was who was chasing them even though he had been resting on the front corner of Slegde Graveyard for nine years. He had drowned when the creek sweep him and his horse to the Beaver Dam. The Beaver Dam is the next bridge along second creek.

Make Me An Instrument of Your Peace

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love,

Where there is injury, pardon

Where there is doubt, faith,

Where there is despair, hope,

Where there is darkness, light,

Where there is sadness, joy.

O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much

seek to be consoled as to console,

not so much to be understood as to understand,

not so much to be loved, as to love;

for it is in giving that we receive,

it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,

                               it is in dying that we awake to eternal life.-                                                                                                                           -- St. Francis of Assisi

The Seat Under the Telephone

The wine Daddy started to drink, that was so cheap, was drank while he sat in that same spot. I say he sat, he basically slumped in a chair. The chair was a chrome legged kitchen chair, with yellow and green plastic cushions. The table was to his right. This is where he sat unshaven, wearing a white undershirt and his socks. I remember his socks the most, because he caught them on fire trying to light that monster of a heater we had. He caught the sock on fire and I was to doctor the foot for what seemed like forever.
The ordeal of getting to a place that we could borrow cream to put on it was yet another worry that my five year old mind was plaqued with. Worry is something I never have not known. Just like the being cold and wet thing. I still feel the cold and wet of the nights and days of my first seven years of life. Just like I still see my daddy's socks, because he had caught them on fire. The telephone, the heater, and the socks.
The telephone did not ring often. The times that I remember Daddy on the phone were the times terrible news was on the other end. The terrible news about the fire in Alabama was for sure the worst phone memory. Daddy was drunk, but still he was heartbroken. The one brother that had made him proud was gone. His wife and son were still alive, but in grave condition. The next times that the phone rang it was the news of their deaths. Then were the calls from Grandmother making it possible for Daddy to come to Alabama for the funerals. Daddy had no money and Grandmother had to over the phone arrange for him to get money and get there. All this in the seat under the telephone.

Forgiveness

The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. ~Mahatma Gandhi

The family members that did well take great pride in the family name. Often when we talk say that it is the blood; that makes them so strong and prosperous. Our family gene pool held many things that can make you excel in many ways. There was ego, passion, pride, good looks and the desire to have money. These things can be used for the betterment or the down fall of any person. What outsiders saw many times was the obvious. Sometime it was a drunken fit for the whole Corum Hollow to hear. Sometime it was a car ran in the ditch. Then there were a couple of fires. On a better note there was a good cotton crop, the church services we attended, how nice we looked in clothes that were handmade, and the help lent out to the struggling farmers surrounding our home.

Once more the perfect crime can be comitted if you don't tell a soul. The men in our family did not often hide the fact that they drank. It was just not widely known what they did at home as they drank. The community I am sure spoke more bad of them than good. It was a time when drinking was even done in the work place. There were many a deal made over a glass of whiskey. The deals my daddy and them made were made sipping from a bottle of moonshine. Moonshine of the late 1960's was nasty at times. It was made many times in old car radiators. The Jackson's that made some of what Daddy and them drank were so dirty from collecting scrap metal that the black never washed off of them. That is if they even ever tried to wash it off. There was a bottle that Daddy showed me one day that instead of being a clear liquid, as wildcat was supposed to be, was grey. In the bottle there was a slime floating around. Daddy told me he never thought he would, but this was one bottle of whiskey that he was going to pour out. This made me for sure that he wasn't drinking for the taste to begin with. He was drinking for the effect that it had on him. The Jackson's wildcat whiskey would have been drank by my daddy if they had not left the slimey stuff floating around in it. There was always a thing that if you drank beer, the drinking was not a problem. I remember when we were still in Michigan that Daddy only drank beer at first. Then it was whiskey. Jim Beam most if the time. Then it was wine. He became a wino. Wino because it was very cheap, especially the sugary wines, just a dollar or so a bottle.

One of my daddy's things to say was if you asked him as question, he would ask if you were writting a book? My answer finally became, yes. His response to this was well, leave that page out. He probably never read the first book. He had all of a ninth grade education. The whole family seemed to have went to the nineth grade. Sixteen must have been the age quitting was accepted. My grandmother did not go that far, but she had a GED. She had even tried to go on and become a school teacher. I am sure she would have been the best teacher ever. I know this from all she taught me. She wasn't Garner, but sure did adapt well to the Garner way of life. The one person she admired most was her mother-in-law. She was a Barnett before marrying Mayorn Garner. Then again the hard working good women were not Garner's after all; they just became what the not so hardworking Garner men expected to become. Keeping on keeping on was normal. Men died, we had funerals and then it was the day after when we all went back to working on the job that had to be done. My grandmother got up the morning after we buried someone and told us, "get up kids we've got to go on."
It can honestly be said that there were never, and will never be men that defined drunk in a manner of these men. There was always an occasion for them to drink. Funerals were no exception.
The statement I have heard and repeated many times; the perfect crime can be committed if you do not tell a soul. Affairs can be gotten away with only if neither involved tell no one. All that went on in my home was one of those situations. As long as the outside world did not know of the meaness there, it was ok. The men were expected to have affairs. That is basically impossible for women, they have to tell at least one friend that they want to impress. Most of the time again back to my experience with people everyone has a disloyal bone in their body and will tell someone else. I do have secrets of my dear friends that I would never tell anyone. I would not tell mainly for fear of hurting someone I loved. I would also not tell fearing they would turn on me one day.
I did when my grandmother was older try to tell her. I wanted to hurt her. She had made this big deal out of six dollars in change. I had gone to the grocery store for her and did not give her change back. I got back to my house and my brother called. Grandmother had called him to tell him I had kept her money. I still want to cry when I think of him scolding me for taking her money. He was always a big defender of hers. She had petted him from the very beginning. She had a thing that men were to be waited on. His love for her still is deep, so deep that he never did see her faults. The grandchildren that have not given in to drug dependency or alcoholism still sing the praises of all she did for us. She made us what we are today. Whatever part of her that is in our genes can be that we watched the good; I am probably the only one with her blood that acknowledges she was not perfect. I am ashamed that when she was old I wanted to hurt her. A regret that bothers me often. She did do more for me than any of the others.
Her will to survive was enough to justify many of her beliefs. "You do what you got to do." was something she said often. It also a phrase that I have used many times. I have totally figured out what being abused makes you become. You become a person that no matter what you accomplish, happiness is something that is very hard for you to feel. I am blessed with a perfect job, wonderful children, many friends, and a realationship that works well. With all that is good in my life, there is still that nagging in my soul; A sadness that no matter how hard I try creeps up way too often. The stories I tell of the people that molded me are not all to blame, because I hand picked the one's that gave me the best advice.

Boxes

I have always made the best of each situation. It can be done. There is always the sky. It does not matter what is going on around you the sky is there for a great escape. From the sky there is the sun to give us warm days, adding wind to a warm sunny day just adds extra surprise. Even the rainy, stormy days escaping to notice the feel of the air can take away much pain. When I realized that my heart was so broken that I could not find happiness from the air around me is when I knew it was within me to discover the easy way back. Simple and free are the best gifts God gave us. Then there is snow, beautiful white snow. The air feels a certain way on a cold and snowy day. I have always been someone that could find something to make me feel better in the worst of times. Being a child may have made it easier to find a happy place.
I have mentioned walking home from school for lunch before. This is something I did even when the snow was up to my knees. Kindergarten is somewhat of a blur to me, but there are parts that I remember vividly. The teacher was old; she played an old organ to us sometimes. She reminded me of Granny of the Beverly Hillbillies. While we were up north I attended the school closest to Morley Street; where we lived before the fat banker came. The school name was Pageant. It had to be really close for me to walk to school at five years old. I had white boots with fake fur around the top. The boots I remember well because they were a treasure in a box given to us by some charity organization. Just like the ice skates the boots were one of my favorite memories of digging in those boxes that appeared at our house.
The boxes appearing made up for the fact that Santa did not come one year that I remember. The next door neighbor informed that Santa had brought her toys on Christmas Eve that year. I was so smart that at five she was wrong and I was right. Santa must have come on Christmas Night; I wasn’t sure, I must have forgotten was what I convinced myself into believing. Christmas Night I was sure that was when I would get my toys. On Christmas Night he didn’t bring anything, I was sure it was my fault. It was true if you are bad Santa will not come.
It was still freezing cold the day the box came with a pair of ice-skates in it. I grabbed ice-skates from the box like they had been placed under a Christmas tree by Santa. I had never had ice-skates. Making sure they fit was not important to me or Mama. That may have been why they wobbled so on my feet. Could have been why I hit the ground so fast. I had never skated and I was too young to realize that falling was something that would happen when I chose a frozen mud puddle just outside the house to skate for the first time. Somehow I made it down the steps onto the puddle without falling.

Once on the frozen mud puddle my feet went every which way. I hit on my knees and elbows skinning myself on every spot that the hard frozen puddle touched me. I still remember how bad that hurt. I was freezing cold, because getting a coat was not an issue as I had a new pair of ice-skates. The cold the sting of the cuts and the pain of the lick I took was awful. Getting back into the house was even worse. The trip down the stairs was a much happier trip. Climbing the three or four steps was much harder without the thrill of getting to skate. Then the pain added to the realization that skating on a mud puddle was not such a great idea after all.

Reason's Still

Of all the people I have known well there is not a single person that I can honestly say has not done something immoral at one time or another. Looking back the people I loved the most; I knew the most about. Be it just saying something mean to or about someone; there really is not a perfect person. Lets not talk about perfect then. How about just a good person. To me a good person, really deep in side has that heart that at the time you need them the most will give back to you. It may not be things; It may not be money. Being kind to you when you need it is probably the best thing anyone could give you. Give yourself to someone you have abused or mistreated and forgiveness may come your way.

Mama never changed the sheets on the bed when I wet it. That is why if I think of Detroit or hear it I think of being cold. I moved from one spot to another each night trying to find the dryest spot. It was still cold from the spot that got me wet to begin with. I should have just crawled in the floor. I don't think there was water in the floor of the bedroom. There was always water in the bathroom floor. I say this remembering at this moment the worst of times. There was a time in that house on Morley, before Daddy lost his job that everything was better.  Again was she lazy? Really what is so bad about being lazy? Not being lazy I think comes with living. When I was young I had the energy it took to get out of doing things. As we live and learn it is easier to just do something than to try to work your way out of it.
Many years later Mama did anything I asked her to do and I asked her to do alot. She was here because she had no place else to go. She gave back to me and I wonder if the reason she did everything I asked her was to make up for some of that stuff she didn't do.

Reason's?

People in general are lazy. There were many people that found work in the Detroit area in the 1960's. Daddy was one of them. He really did mean to have a better life. Meaning well and doing well seems is harder than it seemed. The boys that visited did not find jobs and stay. They were the boys that in later years would work for us pulling the big weeds out of cotton that was too mature to plow. On hot summer days instead of a water break, it was a wildcat whiskey break. My cousins and I thought one day it would be funny to put the whiskey in Mamas water glass and trick her into drinking it. Come to find out nobody, but us thought it was a bit funny. My grandmother thought it was mean. The hired help it belong to thought it was wasting his wildcat and Mama spit it everywhere. Even Daddy was mad and it took alot for him to even take time to notice what we were doing.
There was still something these boys that was not all that great. Everyone has a side that is a tad evil. It is what you do with the good in you that overcomes the bad seeds. I recall a mean grin that my daddy, his brother, their daddy had. When you are around anyone often enough you really see more than the real world knows. Taking things out on family seems to be more normal than not. Talking mean to the one's you love the most. I have heard this all my life, and still wonder, why?

There’s one sad truth in life I’ve found while journeying east and west-the only folks we really wound are those we love the best. We flatter those we scarcely know; we please the fleeting guest, and deal full to many a thoughtless blow to those who love us best.’~~~Wheeler Wilcox

Could this be be how abuse happens? Lazy comes to mind because, these people that hurt the one's they love the most won't make the effort to leave the house and be mean to someone else. Men that choose their daughters and grandchildren to molest are too lazy to get, maybe their wife or a slutty neighbor. No, the neighbor is out of the question because, they could say no and she would tell then everyone would really know that they grinned that mean grin and meant it. The people around us were really convienced that the perfect crime could be committed if you did not tell anyone and made sure the person you did it to didn't tell.

1960 Something

People in general are moody. Everyone has good days and bad days. The days for Mama were not all that great I am sure. Just being around someone drinking is enough to make a good natured person have a few fits. Women tend to have them. When Aunt Faye ran her new Continential Lincoln into Uncle Andy's car it was just a funny story that was told over the years. Mama was marked crazy from the beginning. Crazy for stress that would bring the most sane person to a breaking point.

I listened to her when the men that drank with Daddy were getting on her nerves. This made me want to do something to help her. I even chased one bum out of one of Daddy's abandoned cars in the yard. This guy slept there often. Daddy I am sure had given him permission. Mama could not stand the thoughts of him letting just anyone stay with us. It was bad enough that every stray from Alabama bringing the whiskey and keeping Daddy from going to work everyday. The times he spent drinking did gradually cause him to loose his very good job.

Loosing it is something that she was bound to do and do often. It did eventually come to a complete breakdown. The doctors at ECM's 400 ward seemed to think she needed mental health treatment. The day she went she had been whipped with a garden hose. It was in the hottest part of the summer. She had been picked on all morning by Daddy, Grandmother and Uncle Keith, because she was not picking up enough of the potatoes that had been dug that morning.

The Sixites With Visitors

The day that she was supposed to have neglected me; letting me play in the dirt, while she sat under the tree drinking beer was a story told over and over. Why this was such a retold story makes me wonder if anyone is really all good. My aunt that took care of me on that visit in my eyes was a wonderful lady. It didn’t take much to win the love of a toddler. It never has ceased to amaze me how people as a rule see the bad in most everyone; before they find the good. Mama was surrounded by a bunch always looking for something wrong with what she did or said. She was more than likely someone to be envious of.
 Kick Ass CD
She was very pretty when I was a child. She was always a little too nice to men. We went to the doctor way more than necessary, because he was good looking. She took us regularly until there was no money to pay the doctor with. The southern boys that came to visit were not worth the effort for her. She really hated seeing them coming. Their visits consisted of drinking and bringing any women they could find to bring to our house. She did join in the festivities at times. She could play the piano by hear or she thought she could. I remember her banging, but really don’t remember if it was really bad; I am almost sure it wasn’t really good.
Mama wanted to make friends with the bar girls, so she joined in. It was usually late or early morning before the gang arrived at our house on Morley. The White boys were regular tourists to Michigan. Their good looks made it easy for them to pick-up girls from the bars on Ford Road. In they would come; it was hard for me not to notice if they put their hands up the young women’s blouses. This memory is one that stuck in my nosey little brain.

I have no reason to ever care a hill of beans about these guys. I seen them as bad, because Mama usually got upset with Daddy when they came and after they left. It has really not taken a whole lot for me to love, forgive and find the good in most people. I could also see the bad, but it would not take much for me to forget that; the art of forgiving will get you a very long way.  The trick I also learned at an early age. This was to tune out anything or anyone that I really did not what to hear. This has made me a poor listener today.

I had to have been like a sponge, soaking up all the grown-up business that I could. Always knowing how bad adults could be was probably why I have worried all my life. The good I gathered from them was because I found it in them myself.  I forgave and tried to forget as much as possible. Blocking bad experiences from my mind is something I wasn’t lucky enough to do.

(Note to Self) Giving, I should always remember is not just money or things.

Beautiful story...

RED MARBLES...
I was at the corner grocery store buying some early potatoes. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature, ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and new potatoes.Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the conversation
between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and the ragged boy next to me..'Hello Barry, how are you today?'
'H'lo , Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin' them peas. They sure look good.''They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?'Fine Gittin' stronger alla' time.''Good Anything I can help you with?''No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.''Would you like to take some home?' asked Mr. Miller.'No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with.'
'Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?''All I got's my prize marble here.''Is that right? Let me see it' said Miller..'Here 'tis.. She's a dandy.''I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue and
I sort of go for red. Do you have a red one like this at home?' the store owner asked.'Not zackley but almost..''Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you and next trip this way let me look at that red marble'.. Mr. Miller told the boy.'Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.'Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over to help me. With a smile she said, 'There are two other boys like him in our community, all three are in very poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples, tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't like red after all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when they come on their next trip to the store.'I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado , but I never forgot the story of this man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho community and while I was there learned that Mr.. Miller had died..They were having his visitation that evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased and to offer whatever words of comfort we could.Ahead of us in line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts...all very professional looking. They approached Mrs. Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's casket. Each of the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly with her, and moved on to the casket.Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one; each young man stopped briefly and placed his own warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I was and reminded her of the story from those many years ago and what she had told me about her husband's bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me to the casket..'Those three young men who just left were the boys I told you about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim 'traded' them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about color or size......they came to pay their debt.''We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world,' she confided, 'but right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho.'With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were three exquisitely shined red marbles.

The Moral: We will not be remembered by our words, but by our kind
deeds. Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath....

Today I wish you a day of ordinary miracles ~

• A fresh pot of coffee you didn't make yourself...
• An unexpected phone call from an old friend...
• Green stoplights on your way to work..
• .The fastest line at the grocery store..
• .A good sing-along song on the radio...

Still the Sixties

"You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the best thing in the world for you."~~Walt Disney
She always called the false tooth a plug tooth. When she was old and lost some of her teeth naturally that tooth still hung in there. The man that had knocked out the tooth was from

Czechoslovakia. This means he was almost a Pollock according to her. Pollock’s were supposed to be dumb, but she described him as having a bad temper. Drinking made him even meaner. His name was Joe, same as her next husband. This was a fact that she mentioned many times in her life experiences. She was beautiful and dressed better than any of her friends or family.
She had gotten a job at Kreskies (Yankee for K-Mart). She lived with her parents in Wayne and used her salary to buy things for herself. Her dad loved her so he wanted her to have everything she wanted. Part of her being marked crazy by my dad’s family may have been; she was spoiled by her father. He had a nurturing character. He did the same thing to his wife. He made life as simple for my Grandma as he could. She was weak and nervous, also. With Grandpa Carte’s understanding she did not suffer the harassment Mama would in the following years.
She was not perfect; no one is. She lived in a far from perfect environment. Going with the flow was not really an option for her. She had the kindness within her that she didn’t show often. There were too many around her forcing her to take up for herself. She could not win. The visitors from Alabama were drinking. They used Joe’s Apartment as a place to vacation. Keith and his wife came on a regular basis. Uncle Keith would tell Grandmother that he was looking for work in the north. All he did was stay with his brother and rally all night, most of the time.
I was just barely walking on one visit. Mama must have just rolled with the punches of each visitor. She drank as many younger women did in the early sixties. Aunt Nell was fresh from leaving a child for a new man. She lived with guilt of leaving the child, along with uncertainty of how this post-affair marriage would work out. She had a small baby boy to take care of in a city she knew nothing about. In the mist of drunks she took the responsibility of taking care of me and her little boy. Mama sat back and let her, because she would. She sat underneath the tree hiding from Aunt Nell and her attitude. The attitude was that of a great mother. She was trying to prove she was good. Mama just was not willing to prove anything. She just hid under that tree letting someone else do it. Drinking let her escape from what she should be doing.

Wayne 1960's

  "If it falls your lot to be a street sweeper, sweep streets like Michelangelo painted pictures, like Shakespeare wrote poetry, like Beethoven composed music..." - Martin Luther King Jr.

****

The job that Joe landed was the beginning of a life that his family was quick to share with everyone. He was close to thirty and had lost a great deal of his productive years spent mending the arm he broke in a car accident. The scar and pain would always be a reminder. The job at the steel mill meant more money than he had ever been used to.

He had now a purpose to carry on. He was still the southerner in a big city. He would always have the desire to find out what the city had to offer. With his good looks finding beautiful women was not a problem. He quickly became popular among the women that he came in contact with. He would have many opportunities to have what most men wanted. Humble and kind as he was it was easy for him to be fooled and taken advantage of by women looking for the securities that they all wanted.

Beautiful, fun and worldly divorced women were what he found the most exciting. She was the daughter of a Ford Motor employee. Her father had moved the family her from Nallen, West Virginia. This was one of many things he had in common with his newly found hook-up. She had been introduced to him by mutual friends and quickly found that the attraction was something both of them longed for. She had been married to a foreigner that beat her regularly. He came from a culture that accepted the power of man over women. It was his temper along with his upbringing that made her the target of his punches. Her front tooth was false as a result of his temper.