Tag: memories

Things I Love: My Hometown

Floydada, Texas. Legend has it that Floyd married Ada and that coupling produced the name of a small Texas town. Located roughly 55 miles northeast of Lubbock, Floydada, the county seat of Floyd County, is primarily a farming community, known for its crops of cotton and “punkins.”

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My parents and both sets of my grandparents are buried in Floyd County, so part of my heart will always reside on the dusty plains of the Texas panhandle. Compared to Tallahassee, Floydada is plain, a scruffy sparrow next to a pink-hued flamingo, but my hometown has its own charms, like the Palace Theatre (below) where I enjoyed my first real kiss, and discarded my two imaginary friends–not in that order.

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And Arwine Drug, where my brothers and I stopped for sodas after hiking to the library housed inside of the county courthouse.

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Floydada also claims country singer/songwriter Don Williams as a native son.

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Floydada, Texas, nurtured me. Toughened me. Made me an independent soul. No, it’s not the prettiest place on earth, but it’s my hometown, and I love it.

Peace, Y’all!

Tarzan and the TV Evangelist

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Around the time I was four my family lived in Lubbock, Texas, in a two-bedroom rental house with wood floors. I remember the floors clearly because I spent a lot of time planted on my butt in front of the television set on Sunday mornings watching a) Tarzan, b) televangelists, or c) both of the above.

To say my choices in TV viewing were limited is an understatement. We only had access to three stations at the time and two of the three featured oily preachers eager to snatch pennies from a gullible preschooler’s piggy bank. I remember begging my mom to allow me to send all of my money to these showmen who seemingly worked miracles of Biblical proportions, and who would gladly work more if they just had more funding. My mom was nobody’s fool, though, and she gave me a lesson in ‘con men for Christ,’ one I’ve never forgotten: the slicker the hair, the sicker the con.

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The other available station ran a Tarzan movie every Sunday morning. I loved Tarzan, Cheetah, and Jane (in that order). I could emulate the ape man’s famous yell even better than Carol Burnett in her prime. For much of my childhood my pretend play revolved around living in a treehouse high up within the canopy of the African jungle with a chimpanzee while avoiding evil hunters and rallying the wildlife to save the day, always just in the nick of time. Like Tarzan I could communicate with elephants and lions and wrestle crocodiles and snakes. I was pretty amazing for a four year old.

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While Mom and Dad had the opportunity to sleep in on Sunday I rabidly flipped between Oral Roberts and Tarzan, alternately observing faked miracles and faked animal footage. Thank goodness I never got Tarzan and Oral Roberts mixed up! Of course Mom probably would have let me send money to Tarzan, and Reverend Roberts might have been quite compelling in a loincloth.

Peace, People!

Anniversary

Mom and Dad married on this date,
I’m not sure of the year.
1958 or 59? Maybe ’60?
I wasn’t very old when Daddy said he did
and my mom said she would
and the three of us became a family,
A trio bonded
By vows and a ring.

Happily ever after was in their hearts,
and they did their best to make it so.
I remember fights and make ups.
Tears and kisses.
Two people
who weren’t sure they were
worthy of being loved,
trying desperately to love.

My brothers connected us
Gave Daddy his boys
And me, my co-conspirators
My victims, too.
Sometimes
Jealously overshadowed love
But love won out
Over and over again.

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Daddy and Christmas Trees

In my childhood, picking out a Christmas tree was a family affair, but everyone knew that the ultimate decision was made by Dad. He had this great ability to find the perfect tree every year. And decorating it was his thing.

We could help as long as we followed two basic rules:
1. Evenly space out the ornaments,
2. Make sure the various colors of ornaments were distributed appropriately (i.e. No two reds too close together)

Mom never approved of the way Dad tossed the icicles onto the tree, so he’d wait until she went into the kitchen and with a mischievous grin he’d fling a handful here, another there until it was to his liking. We never had an ugly tree. And, if the eggnog was flowing, the tree became a true work of art.

Perhaps this is why I pretty much spoiled the joy of tree decorating for my own family. So intent was I on trying to make the tree perfect, like Daddy did, that nothing short of perfection pleased me. All moms have regrets, this is one of my biggest: that my children never wanted to help decorate the tree because I had an unattainable image etched in my mind.

My apologies kids. Maybe this year we can have our laid back tree.

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You’d never know it by looking at him, but the man was a tree decorating genius. I miss him so much.

Love, Mom, and the Cabbage Patch Kid

Today is my mom’s birthday. How old would she have been? Well, let’s see, she turned four years old on the day that the Japanese launched a devastating attack on Pearl Harbor launching our country into World War 2. That year was 1941, so Mom was born in 1937. She’d have been 77 today. Sadly, Mom passed away in her mid-50’s, a victim of cancer.

I miss her every single day. I’ll never forget when it hit me that Mom was gone. Many days after her funeral, Studly, the kids, and I were back in Kansas, and one of my students said something funny to me in class. When I got home that afternoon I picked up the phone to call Mom. I even started dialing her number before I realized that I’d never be able to do that again. That’s when I cried until I thought my head would implode.

Now Mom and I were often at odds. As much as we look alike we had very different approaches to life. Mom was a perfectionist, and she never quite understood my haphazard ways. She had the subtlety of a sledge hammer, so even when she thought she was correcting me in gentle ways her message came through like a bullhorn in a closet. But, and every mother and daughter will understand this: Mom was my best friend.

My fondest memories of my mother:

Anytime I was sick my Mom was the very best nurse–she should have been one, but circumstances prevented that from happening. Instead, she worked for doctors for most of her life. There was nothing quite as comforting as having Mom lovingly placing cool cloths on my forehead when I had a fever or cradling me when I had a bad cold. Honestly, sometimes I played sick just to get the attention.

One Christmas, I think I was 7, my California cousins came for a visit. My cousin Gail was a year older, and we were great friends. On Christmas Eve we were excitedly discussing our presents while snuggled into the twin beds in my room. I said I couldn’t wait to see what Santa would bring. Gail told me, in no uncertain terms that there was no Santa, and that parents who told their kids there was a Santa were liars.

My sobs brought Mom in from the living room where the grownups were enjoying an adult beverage or two. I told her what Gail had said, and Mom told me the truth–that parents did provide the gifts from Santa, but that Santa, would always be in our hearts as long as people did good things for one another. I could live with that, and I still believe it was the best Santa explanation ever given.

One of the very best times I had with Mom was the December we camped out all night at a local retailer in order to secure a Cabbage Patch doll for my daughter. I’d gotten a tip from a co-worker that a store in Amarillo was getting in a shipment of 100 of those much coveted dolls. Casually I mentioned to Mom that I was thinking about getting up extra early to try and get a doll. She immediately went into action and said she’d go with me. She packed a bag like we were going into battle: Thermos full of coffee? Check! Two warm blankets? Check! Cushioned seats? Check! Reading material? Check! Extra heavy gloves? Check! Snacks? Check!

We arrived at the store at midnight thinking that we’d be able to sit in the car for a couple of hours, but there were already 20 or so people in line. As we watched, a few more joined the queue, so we quickly grabbed our supplies and staked out our spot. I can’t remember everything we discussed that night, but we talked non-stop. I’m pretty sure most of the world’s problems were solved. Thanks to my mom, we never got cold or hungry, and we each ended up with a doll–one for my Ashley and one for a friend’s daughter.

I’d love to have that impromptu camp out one more time. I’d make sure Mom knew just how much she meant to me, and how much I loved her.

Peace, People. Please let your family members know how much they mean to you. Right now.

Below: Mom and Dad circa 1957.
My daughter Ashley, Cricket the doll, closed-eyes me, and Mom.

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Mom with her family, from left, her brother Jackie, my Grandaddy Carl, Mom, and my Nanny Grace holding my Aunt Nedra.

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Forever My Baby Girl

Long ago, in a hospital far, far away…

A beautiful baby girl was born. Tiny, with a full head of dark hair, our Ashley completed our family. We knew she’d be our last kiddo–and perhaps we spoiled her a little. Ok, a lot. But she was easy to spoil.

At her four week checkup our general practitioner noticed our baby had an irregular heartbeat, a slight murmur, he said, and sent us to a pediatric heart specialist in Amarillo. By the time we were able to see Dr. Jones, Ashley was almost six weeks old. He diagnosed her as being in the early stages of heart failure and immediately sent us to the hospital.

What followed was a controlled panic fueled by guilt. Our baby seemed quite healthy to us. How was it we hadn’t noticed the slight blue cast to her lips when she cried? Well, she really didn’t cry much, only when she was hungry, needed a diaper changed, or was being bathed. She was so easy to comfort.

On December 8, 1980, I sat in a hospital room at St. Anthony’s hospital in Amarillo, Texas. As I nursed my baby girl, television programming was interrupted to inform us that John Lennon had been murdered outside his apartment building in New York. Dr. Jones walked in the room at that moment to find me crying, and he sat with me as we watched the shocking news.

Dr. Jones finally told me he’d made arrangements for Ashley to be transferred to a hospital in Houston where she’d most likely be undergoing surgery to repair a ventricular septal defect. So, just before Christmas, Studly, my mom, our son Jason, Ashley, and I flew to Houston.

A great deal of testing and waiting, waiting and testing ensued. Our poor baby was poked and prodded and hooked to tiny electrodes. She remained happy throughout. In fact, the only thing she protested was bath time, and she hated that with a passion. At midnight before her scheduled surgery I was instructed that she could have nothing to eat. Did I mention earlier that I was a nursing mother?

The two of us managed to cope through the night with the use of a pacifier and lots of snuggling, but by 10 a.m. I’m not sure which of us was more miserable. My baby was hungry and crying. My breasts were swollen like two overripe cantaloupes. Studly kept pestering the nurses about our situation. Then Mom went in search of someone who could help.

At noon I hefted a swollen melon under each arm and marched to the nurses’ desk. I told the nurse on duty that our little one had been scheduled for surgery, but that no one had come and that little Ashley was really hungry. Her suggestion–perhaps she could suck on a lollipop. I lost it. In my imagination I took one breast and squirted milk right in her eye. In reality I blubbered something about boobs and infants and being scared and why wouldn’t someone do something.

The nurse apologized and went immediately to find an answer. Within a few minutes we had a doctor at our door. The delay had resulted from a split decision. Some of the surgical staff wanted to operate. Others wanted to try medication to regulate Ashley’s heartbeat to see if the defect would close on its on and reevaluate in six months. At that point, I didn’t care, I just wanted to feed my baby.

In the end, there was no surgery. The doctors put Ashley on a form of digoxin and she thrived. Every year we went for heart check ups, all of which were great, and eventually there was no trace of a defect. Hooray for split decisions!

Our Ashley is 34 years old today. She is bright, beautiful, sassy, stubborn, and the mother of three of my beautiful grandbabies. Sometimes when I look at her I still picture her tiny face just as it looked so many years ago, watching me as I held her close. She’s grown up, but she’s still my little baby girl. Love you, Ashley.

Peace, Baby Girl.

P.S. Ashley your gift is going to be late.

Wagons Ho

Many years ago my little family embarked on what seemed like a journey of epic proportions. Native Texans, who’d never even had a proper interstate vacation, we found ourselves in the midst of a major move to North Dakota.

Studly had gotten the first of several important promotions in his career. To move up with his company we literally had to move “up.” It was a big deal for us, and an opportunity to make our lives better, so in spite of the heartache of leaving our families back in Texas we embraced this move to the unknown.

That’s not to say that there weren’t tears. Our eight year-old daughter cried for at least the first two hours of the 13 hour drive. I cried almost that long. We waited for Christmas break to make our move so the kids could start a new semester in Linton, North Dakota. The gray December skies outside our car matched our moods.

Studly who had been living in North Dakota for the better part of two months, had flown home to Amarillo to drive with us to our new home. Our belongings were following in a moving truck. There were four humans–Studly, our son J, daughter A, and me in our small car, along with one medium sized hyperactive dog and a doped up cat. Surprisingly we traveled well as a group, stopping only for meals and potty breaks, and we made good time.

Somewhere in the sand hills of Nebraska we decided to look for a place to stay for the night. We were north of North Platte and south of Ogallala on highway 87 when I spotted a sign advertising a motel eight miles off the main highway. Studly pointed the car west and soon we were pulling into the parking lot of an old fashioned motor court, the Shady Lady Motel, with a sign in the front window that read, “Where Strangers Become Friends.”

The name of the motel and the sign should have been enough to make us think twice about staying the night, but we were exhausted so Studly went ahead and rented a room. We stayed exactly three minutes. Nothing about the room made us want to stay–not the cobwebs in the corners or the mouse droppings on the floor or the weird toilet/shower combination situated next to the ancient television set. I insisted that Studly march right back into the office and check us out. For once he listened to me and we got back on the road.

Less than 30 miles from the Shady Lady we came upon the Thunderbird motel at a major crossroads. To the west lay Ogallala, Nebraska, and to the north lay Pierre, South Dakota. The Thunderbird was a clean, inexpensive, welcoming oasis on our journey. The pets were more than happy to get out of the car and soon snuggled together in one of the rooms–a phenomenon that would never occur again, but the cat was still stoned on tranquilizers, and the dog was just goofy.

After a good night’s rest we headed toward Pierre. At this point, Studly began lecturing us on the dangers of living in North Dakota. His two month long experience in the great white north had apparently qualified him as an expert on extreme winter living. He warned the kids about attempting to walk home from school. He lectured me about driving on icy roads. He lectured the pets about taking too long to do their business. By the time we hit the South Dakota line the kids and I were scared to death of frostbite, hypothermia, and snowmobiles, not necessarily in that order.

Studly stopped at an army/navy surplus store in Pierre (rhymes with “beer”) so we could purchase winter hats, gloves, and coats. Newly armed, we felt confident that we could survive even the worst winter in North Dakota.
Of course, that winter turned out to be one of the mildest on record for North Dakota, but it was great for helping us acclimate.

The months right after our move were picture perfect. Studly had found us a beautiful home to rent on the banks of Beaver Creek (crick to the native North Dakotans). Our children became very close friends out of necessity. I wasn’t working or going to school, so for once I got to be the mom who had chocolate chip cookies baked just in time for the school bus to deliver the kids home every afternoon. Yes, we missed the folks back in Texas, but it finally felt like we were living our own lives, like we’d cut the apron strings and ventured out into the wonderful, wide world. Those were very good days. Cold, but good.

Peace, People!

Hall-iday Inn

My junior year in high school my dad decided to take a job in Dumas, Texas, with Piggly Wiggly. He’d worked for the chain in Floydada, Texas, and then tried his hand at store ownership there. His partner in that endeavor lacked a couple of necessary attributes, money and business acumen, and soon that business failed. So when Daddy was asked to take over the store in Dumas, it was a blessing. For everyone but me.

I’d gone to school in Floydada since kindergarten. All of my friends were there. My future was all mapped out. I was a junior, for Pete’s sake. What kind of parents make their child move their junior year in high school? Well, apparently parents who need to make a living.

They let me finish out the school year in Floydada. I lived with my mother’s parents for three of the longest months of my life, and then moved to Dumas in late May of 1974 to rejoin my family. I moped a lot. There I was in a strange town during the summer of what should have been the best time of my life. Truthfully it ended up being a pretty great summer, but I certainly didn’t want anyone to know that. “Work the guilt,” was my unconscious motto.

My dad had the brilliant idea that we should embark on family camping adventures that summer, so he bought this ginormous green and white striped tent at a garage sale. It was hideous, but he got this crazy notion that we should dub it the Hall-iday Inn. Our last name was Hall. Pretty clever, eh?

Soon we were immersed in a frenzy of camping. Many weekends we’d head to Lake Fryer near Perryton where we’d swim, pretend to fish, and be jolly. We even took the tent to Tres Ritos in New Mexico where Mom stepped on a rusty coat hanger and had to have a tetanus shot.

One fateful weekend we arrived at our campsite near Lake Fryer after dark and had to set up the tent by flashlight. I called dibs on the top bunk of the double decker cot and after we all made trips to the communal outhouse we retired for the evening. Sometime in the wee hours a fearsome storm blew in. A boom of thunder woke me. Bursts of lightning flashed outside the Hall-iday Inn. Then a gust of wind forced it’s way beneath our tent and blew us over and over and over. I screamed like Shelley Winters in the “Poseidon Adventure.” Mom told me to shut up.

Once the tent stopped rolling we took stock of our physical well being. Mom and Dad were fine. My younger brothers were accounted for, and I was ok, but embarrassed by my histrionics of the previous few minutes as we went tumbling toward the lake. We couldn’t find the zippered entrance to the tent, but Dad had his pocket knife. My brothers begged him tearfully not to cut the tent, but that seemed to be our only recourse to escaping from that collapsed canvas of doom.

Fortunately we had friends camping nearby who came to our rescue and took us in for the night. As I recall that ended our camping obsession, and we went back to being a normal family. I never could have admitted to my dad how much I enjoyed those camping trips. Those really were the last times that the five of us vacationed as a family. Those were the days before I met Studly, before any of us thought too much about the changes that were upon us. I hope I told Daddy “thank you” at some point for bringing us together in that tent in the summer of 1974.

Peace, People.

Inferior Homes and Gardens

Some women are HOMEMAKERS. These women can put together an impromptu dinner party for thirty while simultaneously stitching Halloween costumes for their grandchildren without breaking a sweat. Their homes are immaculate and their decor like something out of a magazine. I have friends who fit this description, but I am not one of these women.

I’m the dreaded anti-homemaker whose arrival was prophesied in the book of Martha Stewart, Chapter IX, verses 3-7, “And lo, there will be among them women who can neither cook nor sew. Women who will weep and rend their garments when the microwave fritzeth. And these women shall feel no shame. Yea, ‘tho they walk through the halls of Betty Crocker and Southern Living, they shall gather no knowledge of domesticity. Woe unto the partner who finds himself yoked unto her, for his days shall be filled with ramen noodles and take out.”

My mom tried to teach me the domestic arts. She really did, but I had no interest. Even baking a cake from a box puzzled me. Every single step had it’s own special rules: “It’s this way, not that way. Drain this, not that. Flip it like this, no, no, not like that. Here. I’ll do it.” Her need for me to be perfect in the kitchen was superseded only by my total lack of interest.

Our home economics teacher, Mrs. Craig, did her best to mold me into a practitioner of the domestic arts, as well, but her efforts were for naught. I did learn multiple ways to freeze cantaloupe in her class, though. To this day I hate cantaloupe.

Mrs. Craig also taught a sewing unit that culminated in a runway type style show. We were to find a dress pattern we liked, buy the material, and make a finished outfit that we would then model for our final grade. My pattern was for a jumper and blouse. I selected a light weight blue denim material for the jumper and red and white checked gingham for the blouse.

I worked on my outfit every day in class, but as the date of the style show grew near I was still woefully behind schedule for completing the project. With many painfully patient late night hours of assistance from Mom, I had a presentable, ok, darned cute outfit for the style show. I’d venture to say it was one of the best final projects that semester, and I received an A for my efforts. Of course, Mom threatened to disown me if I ever signed up for a home ec. class again. She needn’t have worried. Happiness was home ec in the rear view mirror.

Mom has been gone for many years now. She pretty much gave up on me ever becoming a competent homemaker, but I’d want her to know that I’ve become an okay cook and a decent housekeeper in middle age. She’d be astonished and proud.

Peace, People!