Category: Memoir

Anticipation

Christmas Eve.

Forget all that science-y stuff about the shorter days of winter. My brothers and I knew that the day preceding Christmas was, without question, the longest day of the year.

We’d rise early and immediately begin imploring our parents to allow us to open one gift. Just one.
They never relented.

“After dark,” they’d say. “The Christmas tree lights are prettier after dark.” Or, “You know we never unwrap until after your Dad gets home.”

Daddy managed the Piggly Wiggly in our town and on Christmas Eve he often kept the store open just a bit later as folks would rush in for last minute purchases. To us it felt like hours. We didn’t care if Mrs. Jones needed one more can of Cream of Mushroom soup, or if Mr. Smith had forgotten to purchase batteries for the toy fire truck his kids would find under the tree, but Daddy did.

My brothers and I would do our best to stay busy, but every ten minutes or so we’d have to check in with the tree. Look over the presents Mom had carefully wrapped, speculating about their contents. Wondering if it was dark enough yet. At noon. With Daddy still at work.

And even when it was dark enough, and our dad was safely home, we were forced to do inconsequential stuff, like hugging relatives and eating dinner, before we could open our gifts. It was inhumane.

Finally, though, some grown up would decide the time had come. We children would sit, almost patiently, around the tree as gifts were handed out in dramatic fashion by the person who had been voted “Most Likely to Have Been a Snail in a Former Life.” And once they’d all been distributed, we’d be given a signal and heaven help anyone who tried to slow us down.

I don’t remember much about specific gifts. There were always pajamas. New clothes for school. A game or a toy to tide us over until Santa made his delivery early on Christmas morning. Books and records.

But I remember the anticipation. The scent of our favorite foods emanating from the kitchen. The way my grandparents hugged us like they hadn’t just seen us the day before and the day before that. The way Mom’s eyes lit up when Daddy came through the door. My own excitement reflected in my little brothers’ eyes.

And right now, I wish it could happen again. Exactly as it was back then.

May your Christmas be merry and bright, and filled with love.

Kindergarten Connection

I was fortunate to have attended kindergarten in the days before it was made mandatory. I’m sure Mrs. Parks, the owner and sole teacher of the school followed a curriculum, but I don’t remember it being a rigorous course of instruction.

My fellow classmates and I played and sang and created small works of art, while learning about the letters of the alphabet and how to count. A few children in the class learned to read that year. I wasn’t one of those children, but I used to tell people that I was. Nothing was forced as kindergarten learning seems to be nowadays.

At the end of that precious year Mrs. Parks directed us in a play to mark our graduation. One of my Floydada friends posted the picture of our class on Facebook this weekend. Weren’t we adorable?

That’s me on the back row. I’m the tall brown haired girl in the pink dress next to the headdress wearing brave and behind the tiny little doll in yellow.

I can still name all but two of my former classmates from the picture. Floydada is a small Texas town and I went to school with most of those pictured until my family moved to Dumas the summer before my senior year of high school. That was a tough move. I thought my world had ended, when it really was just beginning.

There’s really no message in this post, but our youngest granddaughter started kindergarten this year at a small school in Illinois, and I hope her memories of her year will someday be as sweet to her as mine are to me.

This is Harper on Ag day, which she preferred calling “Egg Day.” She’s a great deal sassier than I ever was. Heaven help us all.

Peace, people.

I Failed Cheerleading

In Texas every little girl dreams of being a cheerleader, queen of the school, envy of all. Even I aspired to that loftiest of positions and at the end of sixth grade I signed up to compete in the junior high tryouts. 

Now, picture me at age twelve. At 5’6″, I was easily the tallest girl in my class, and at 90 pounds, one of the skinniest. I was all elbows and knees, and not very attractive, and that’s putting it mildly. 

Perhaps if I’d had even a modicum of grace, my geekiness might’ve been endearing, but I walked like a long-legged baby bird. In fact, one of my nicknames back then was Ostrich. Nevertheless I had the gumption to place my name in the cheerleading competition, along with most of the other girls in my sixth grade class.

For several weeks my friends and I met after school every day to work on learning the cheers and the movements that went with them. The reigning junior high cheerleaders provided coaching and inspiration, and for one very brief and shining moment I thought that maybe, just maybe I had a shot at earning a spot on the squad.

Then on the eve of competition I overheard our sixth grade teachers bemoaning our chances. “They’re just all so uncoordinated,” laughed one. 

“Well, crap,” I remember thinking. I didn’t tell any of my friends what I’d heard, and I still practiced my moves, but with little hope. 

Tryouts were a big deal. It wasn’t a popularity contest back then, and as I recall, cheerleaders from Wayland Baptist College in Plainview, Texas, came to judge our competition. This was the big time! 

Our teachers reminded us to smile as we went before the team of judges. I’m pretty sure my smile looked as if rigor mortis had set in. I was petrified. In my mind I can picture my awkward skinny ass trying to execute a perfect cheer followed by the mandatory celebratory jump, and I know I most likely looked like a baby stork trying to leave the nest for the first time and failing miserably. 

When the results were read, only one girl from my elementary school made the team, and we all half heartedly celebrated her rise to stardom. I never tried out again, and I don’t regret that decision. Now, if I had to do it all over again, I’d go for it. And my sassy ass might not get picked, but they’d never forget me either. Oh, to be young again for one brief and shining moment!

Rah, rah, and peace, people.

Oldie #7: Twirling Queen

Some folks were made to twirl a baton. I was not one of those people; although, I can still do the figure eight with style and grace. Or at least with style. Okay. No style either.

http://wp.me/p4O8fw-44

Oldie #4: Cleaning Bathrooms and Taking Names

Home of the baby-sized Coca Cola.

Oddly enough, my stint as an unpaid and unacknowledged bathroom custodian is one of my fondest memories of childhood. Fun Fact: John Cowsill, who was the object of my pre-teen desires, is still going strong as one of the drummers for The Beach Boys. 

Hope you enjoy this old tale from the early days of Praying for Eyebrowz.

https://nananoyz5forme.com/2014/08/05/cleaning-bathrooms-and-taking-names/

Funny How This Works

A blogging friend shared this post today:

Nachos..

Posted on March 29, 2016 by A Not So Jaded Life

I called for a nacho night, awesome right? Except I ate almost all the cheese before it went on the corn chips… Why do I do these unforgivable things. 

I can certainly identify with her dilemma. Nachos sans cheese are just chips. I imagine that  when the ingredients met up in her stomach they probably recognized their respective soul mates and did a happy dance.

  
But her tale reminded me of one from my very early childhood. I commented:

When I was very little my mom made up a mixture of peanut butter and Karo syrup to put on toast. But while she was toasting the bread I devoured the mixture. She got so tickled because I thought the peanut butter and syrup was my breakfast. I remember that vividly and I was only three or four at the time. Your post brought that back to me. Thanks!

I can still picture the confusion on Mother’s face when she brought the toast to the table and found that the peanut butter and syrup bowl was empty–probably licked clean. It was my first taste of that lovely concoction and it was bowl licking good.

Then she began to laugh. And it was a wonderful laugh. We mixed up more of the good stuff and enjoyed it on our toast. And then I watched Captain Kangaroo.

This is why we share our lives through our blogs. The exciting and mundane, the shocking and the bland can provide meaningful connections. You never know when your post is going to trigger a lost memory.

Heres a link to my friend’s site. Check her out!

https://anotsojadedlife.wordpress.com/author/anotsojadedlife/

Peace, people.

 

Peanut butter and Karo Syrup: Food of the gods.
 

Angels 

Studly Doright and I married on July 30, 1976. We were young, in love, and profoundly broke. I hadn’t really noticed just how broke we were until our first Christmas rolled around.

We managed to buy a sad little tree, but we had no ornaments. I know now there existed women who could whip up some crafty ornaments using a mixture of baking soda, grape jelly, and crushed leaves, but I was not one of those women. And this was way before Pinterest. 

My mother came to the rescue. She bought me two kits of do-it-yourself felt ornaments. At first I was overwhelmed. I couldn’t, and still can’t, sew, but I began working on the ornaments a little bit every evening, hanging them on the tree as I finished. 

 
In the beginning there were twelve ornaments, but after 16 moves in 39 years of marriage a couple have gone missing. One wreath shaped ornament was last seen being tossed around by our Siamese cat, aptly named Holly. Said wreath had a decidedly bedraggled air before it disappeared for good around 1996. The other missing ornament just went A.W.O.L. one year, perhaps fearing it would meet a death similar to that of the mangled wreath.

My favorite of the lot are the scarecrow and the angel.

  
Poor scarecrow is holding on, but just barely. He is missing an eye and his hat has undergone drastic alterations, but he continues to smile. I feel like scarecrow is my spirit animal. 

  
The angel has fared better than the rest of the crew. All but one of her sequins remain intact. She’s still praying for peace, and she means it. 

After my mom passed away I began collecting angels. Some are intricately carved, others beautifully crafted. A few were quite expensive. But this little felt angel, given to me that first Christmas of my marriage by my mother and sewn imperfectly by me, is the one I cherish most.

Peace, people.

Remember When

  

remember when youth
defined our relationships?
who kissed whom, when, why?

remember when life
seemed suspended in bubbles
of the possible?

remember when love
was everywhere, yet nowhere
for all, even you?

remember when fate
was always to be tempted?
damn consequences!

remember sweetest
softly tangled memories,
joy amid regrets.

remember classmates
underneath crinkles remain
life’s anchors, steadfast.

Remembering September 11

This is a reblog of my post from last year. I tried to rework it a bit, but I still get too emotional. 
 

I don’t often take this blog to serious places, but it is difficult to ignore September 11 as anything other than a serious date. 

On 9/11/01, I was at a conference in Tyson’s Corner, Virginia, just outside of Washington, D.C. The day was beautiful. Bright blue skies beckoned outside of our conference room, and a group of us planned to head into D.C. that afternoon. It was my first trip to the area, and I couldn’t wait to take in all of the sights in our nation’s Capitol.

Our group was engaged in a lively discussion, but then, in the middle of the conference session, cell phones began buzzing. We laughed at first. It seemed amusing that we’d all get calls at the same time. Then one of the presenters stepped out to take her call. When she returned to the room her face was devoid of color, and she said we were adjourning to the lobby of the hotel.

There, we gathered around a television and watched footage of a plane crashing into one of the World Trade Center buildings. A coworker began sobbing. Her parents had a business next to the building and she excused herself to try to call them. We stayed focused on the screen and watched in disbelief as yet another plane crashed into the side of the second building. 

The dawning comprehension that this was not an accident registered immediately. Some cried. Some cursed. Some prayed.
My room was on the first floor, just around the corner from the lobby. I felt the urgent need to be alone, so I went to my room and got down on my knees. I prayed for the families of all those on board the planes. I prayed for those inside the buildings. Then I prayed fervently for those who had perpetrated this unimaginable act to be forgiven.

When I emerged from my room I began hearing all sorts of stories: the Pentagon had been hit, the White House was under attack, another plane had crashed in Pennsylvania. I wasn’t sure what was real and what was rumor. 

I tried to call my Studly Doright who was en route to Houston that day. When I finally got through he was frantic. He knew how close my hotel was to the Pentagon–15 minutes by Metro.
He’d had an intense day. Studly and eight of his coworkers were traveling in a white rental van from Kansas to Houston. They’d planned on playing a few rounds of golf on their trip. When they received a call from their company’s vice president to find a spot to convene a conference call, they found a bank in a small Texas town. The bank had locked its doors and required Studly and his coworkers to present picture i.d.s before admitting them to the building.

Their Houston meeting was cancelled, so they turned the van around and headed to their respective homes.

I’d never wanted to be home as much as I did that day, but all flights were cancelled. Colleagues began trying to rent cars, but those were hard to come by. One of my closest friends urged me to stay put. The hotel said we could stay at no expense until we could arrange for travel and our company promised to take care of us until we could find a way home. So for three days we stayed in the hotel, checking flights and watching the news. On Friday morning we headed to Dulles, hoping that our flights would be cleared.

I’d never seen lines that long at an airport–around the terminal and out the door. People were beginning to feel a sense of desperation. First we were told our flight to Dallas was cancelled. I was ready to give up and head back to Tyson’s Corner, but again my friend urged me to stay put. 

That advice paid off when a gentleman came through our line to gather those of us ticketed for the Dallas flight. We boarded the plane and then sat on the tarmac for two hours. No one spoke. The silence was more unnerving than anything I’d experienced in the previous three days. 

Finally, we were cleared for takeoff–the first plane to depart Dulles after 9/11.
When we landed safely at DFW a palpable feeling of relief surged through the cabin. One of the flight attendants broke into tears. I cried with her. I had to catch another flight to Amarillo, TX. 

The flight attendants gave us instructions on fighting off attackers. Use anything you have they told us. Purses, pillows, wallets. The whole experience was surreal.
When I made it to Amarillo and to my car I sat and cried in the parking lot for a long time. I still had a four hour drive in front of me, and I remember very little of it. When I pulled into my driveway in Dodge City, Kansas, Studly came out to hold me.

Peace, Please People!

Busybody

I’m a natural busybody. My tendency to chat up complete strangers drives Studly Doright crazy. He’s something of a misanthrope and I’m whatever the opposite of a misanthrope is. A posithrope?

When I’m on a solo journey as I have been  these past couple of days I indulge my urge to make polite conversation with fellow diners and shoppers. 

This morning I had breakfast at a Panera Bread adjacent to my hotel in Paducah, Kentucky. The place was hopping, but I couldn’t help but notice an older gentleman at the counter with his perhaps 9-year-old grandson. 

The man was obviously a regular there–everyone knew him by name–and he was proudly introducing the little boy who was visiting from Ohio.

The two of them ordered ahead of me and took a seat at a large table, joining three other men. Once I had my wonderful cinnamon crunch bagel and creme cheese (oh my heavens!) I found a seat near this group. 

Surreptitiously I listened in on the good natured ribbing, noticing that the grownups included the little boy, especially giving him a hard time about his Cincinnati Reds. As I ate and pretended to read a newspaper I realized the men were part of a regular men’s coffee group, casually solving the world’s problems from a their corner at Panera Bread. 

I remembered my own days of sitting with my Grandaddy and his coffee group at various cafes in Floydada and Lockney, Texas. Sweet nostalgia overtook me, so of course I had to say something.

As I left I stopped by the table surrounded by these older men and told the grandfather how having coffee with my own granddaddy during my childhood had made an impact on me. “Those were the best days of my life,” I said. 

He smiled and patted me on the hand. I had to leave before I started to cry. 

Peace, people.