can you remember
that time we danced through the night?
no? neither do I.
wear a reminder
on your left hand ring finger
of all we’ve been through.
i cannot recall
the last time you held me close
perhaps i am old.
Tag: memory
Time Does Not Care
The Kiss by David Walker
I’ll pose to you two
Questions posed to me
Does love remember?
Does time have meaning?
If he said today I’ll love you forever
Would that mean anything?
Would he remember after
We tangled over jealousy
And hurt feelings?
Would love conquer all?
Would the time we spent
Loving mean anything or
Would it be wasted?
I don’t think I could bear that,
That what we’ve had
Becomes meaningless.
Better not to have loved
At all
In spite of what the
Poets say.
Do You Remember?
What is your very earliest memory?
Mine is an image of my mother carrying me early in the morning to my babysitter’s house. I wasn’t very old, perhaps not yet two, so I have a feeling that my memory is a conglomeration of many mornings of being carried; the repetition, as well as the feelings of warmth and love, firmly embedding the experience in my mind.
Studly’s earliest memory is of his mother trying to help him get over a case of the croup with a concoction of honey and whisky. He doesn’t recall how old he was, but he’s certain he wasn’t school age yet. I wonder, was it his mother’s love or the whisky that made the experience memorable? At any rate, he hasn’t had croup in years.
It isn’t surprising that for each of us our mothers play such an important role in our earliest memories. I would imagine that is most often the case, with memories of fathers coming in a close second. I could do some research, but who has the time for that? Unless, YOU could help me! Yes, YOU!
What is your earliest memory? (Notice how I made my first sentence work as my last sentence, as well?)
Will she remember this epic Christmas of 2014?
Peace, People!
“Kathy and the Cats” or The Power of Praise
I remember when I first wanted to be a writer. I was a second grader in Mrs. Gregory’s class at R.C. Andrews Elementary in Floydada, Texas. The class was assigned the task of writing a story based on a series of pictures. Those pictures remain imprinted on my mind:
Frame 1: a little blonde girl stands on her porch looking at a kitten
Frame 2: the little girl gives the kitten a bowl of milk
Frame 3: more kittens come to the porch
Frame 4: the little girl gets more milk
Frame 5: more kittens are on the porch
Frame 6: the girl’s hands are in the air and she looks distressed
Mom saved the story and every so often I find it tucked away in the pages of an old scrapbook. I must have just become familiar with the idea of using a period because they are everywhere, especially where they don’t belong. After a brief battle with autocorrect I’ve successfully copied the story below. Note the spelling of “hungry” and the use of the word “fixing.” For your reading pleasure:
“Kathy and the Cats”
One day when Kathy was going for a walk. to look for her lost kitten Frisky. She had just walked out the door when she spotted her kitten. Then she said I bet Frisky is hungery. So she brought him out some milk to drink. She was just fixing to go in when. She heard something. When she turned around she saw more kittens. So she got more milk. And fed them. Then more and more kittens came. Then finally she threw up her arms and said I have more kittens than milk.
Mrs. Gregory, who really did not like me very much, had written “S+ Very-very good” in red ink across the bottom of my paper. Mom said, “You did such a good job! Maybe you will be the writer in our family.”
Now, for all I know, Mrs. Gregory might have written the same praise on every student’s paper, but at that moment I decided I was going to be a writer. I just had no idea what that meant. And, I had no idea how to find an audience once I was out in the world. Thanks to the advent of web logs (a.k.a. blogs) we can all have an audience.
So, I credit Mom and Mrs. Gregory for putting this writing idea in my head. And I thank you for being my audience.
Peace, People!
What’s a Gingy?
When our son was born, my mom decided that she wanted to be called Grandmother. Not Granny or Grandma, Nana or Mimi. Grandmother. Well, that was all well and good, but our son had other ideas. Jason didn’t talk early. We began to wonder if he’d ever talk at all, but by three he had a decent vocabulary. Try as he might, though, he could not say Grandmother or Grandaddy. What emerged was something that sounded a lot like Gingy, so my parents, for better or worse, became Gingymama and Gingydaddy. And, since he was the first of the grandchildren, it stuck.
Daddy’s 81st birthday would have been yesterday, and since yesterday’s post was on the sappy side I thought I’d have my children and nieces and nephews post their memories of their Gingydaddy.
Jason texted, “Him rescuing me from the side of a mountain…teaching me to pee without unbuttoning my pants aka the utility of the zipper…first set of golf clubs…how to flirt…taught me how to use a knife to slice an apple….”
Ignoring the pee remark, I asked him what Gingy had told him about flirting
“I just learned by example….”
Sounds like some valuable lessons Gingy was passing along. He was a hopeless flirt.
Ashley texted, “Genius,” was his email password, but he could never remember how to spell it! He had to cut Christopher’s seatbelt off when the Gingys took us three oldest grand kids to California. He called one of his nurses Donut Girl. He never fully stopped at a stoplight; he always inched forward until the light turned green. How he always had to show us off when we’d go visit him at whatever grocery store he worked at. Oh, and the seatbelt! He would never buckle the damn belt, just held it right above the clicker while he drove to fool the cops. He never met a stranger.”
My niece Claire, said, “Sitting in lawn chairs in the garage with the door open just talking about life and laughing about him getting numbers from the ladies from the piggly wiggly!”
Nephew Christopher added, “Easy! Eating Oreos with iced milk.” I think he made sure all the grand kids experienced the joy of Oreos in milk.
Hanna added this to the group text, “Fishing in the little pond in red river, nm 😊”
Their memories are all so different because Gingydaddy was easygoing. He was able to live in the moment and find ways to connect with each of his grandchildren.
Gingydaddy loved taking the kids on vacation. I think the saddest thing for him about his COPD was that he could no longer make those big memory-making trips. Daddy told me once that if he’d known he was going to live into his 70’s he’d have taken a lot better care of himself. Damned cigarettes. Damned habit.
Peace and Good Memories, People!
Not Just Any Man
He was my daddy, and I was his little girl. Not biologically, but in every way that mattered. I don’t remember when he came into my life, I just know that he was always there when it mattered. According to my mother, I had Daddy wrapped around my little finger from the moment we met. Again, I don’t remember that. I just remember enjoying every moment I spent with him.
One of my earliest memories is of a time that Daddy and I drove together to a football game in Amarillo. From the age of four, I was Daddy’s football watching buddy. He taught me about first downs and illegal blocks, quarterback sneaks and Hail Mary passes. Living in small town Texas we were avid fans of the the local high school team, the Floydada Whirlwinds. We seldom, if ever, missed a game. Usually, we attended as a family, but on this occasion Mom stayed home in protest, saying it was too cold.
I vividly remember the drive to the game. I was standing in the seat next to Daddy (we used the old “parental arm” method of child safety restraint back then). Snow was falling in huge flakes, covering the road and making it hard for us to see. To keep me occupied, Daddy taught me to watch the odometer so I could count off the miles to Amarillo. Pretty soon, I could pinpoint a mile with my eyes closed. It seemed like a really long distance! According to family legend when we got to the game everyone was amazed that he’d brought me with him, driving into one of the worst storms in memory. My Nanny and Grandaddy were there and I snuggled into the warmth of my family to watch the Whirlwinds win. I don’t remember the cold, just the love.
Daddy managed the Piggly Wiggly grocery store in Floydada for many years. As soon as I was old enough I’d walk to the store–we only lived a couple of blocks away–to see Daddy and spend my allowance money. I got the hefty sum of $1 a week, coincidentally one could buy a 45 rpm record at Piggly Wiggly for 99 cents at the time, so I had quite the collection. No matter what he was doing, Daddy would stop and give me a hug and a kiss. If he wasn’t terribly busy he’d ask me to tag along. I got to go behind the swinging doors to smell the fresh produce as it came in. I got to watch the butchers cut meat with the huge slicer. I got to be part of his world.
That world continued to turn. Daddy had his own store for awhile, but when that didn’t pan out we moved to Dumas. The Piggly Wiggly chain closed its stores in Texas and Mom and Dad moved to Canyon and then several years later, to Abilene. My brothers and I had all grown up, moved away, and started our own families. Life was as it should be.
Then we lost Mom to cancer. After Mom passed away Daddy’s life changed dramatically. He was still working, so he could take some memorable trips. He took one to California to spend time with his sisters. He traveled to our home in Kansas and to the homes of my brothers. He’d take off and head to the casinos on occasion.
Daddy and I went to Ruidoso, New Mexico, one weekend for the most fun I’ve ever had losing money. I’d driven from Kansas to see him, and I hadn’t been at his tiny apartment for longer than 15 minutes before he said, “Sis, you want to go to the casino?” So off we went. Daddy hit a hot streak at the blackjack table while I lost at slots. Every now and then I’d wander by his table and he’d hand me a stack of chips that I’d pocket. He decided I was the best gambling partner he’d ever had since he actually took home some money. He took me to the horse races and told me I bet just like my mom, code for, “you aren’t very good at this,” but again he won some money and said I could gamble with him any time. That was high praise, indeed.
Then the grocery store Daddy had been working for closed with no advance notice. Studly invited him to move in with us. Our kids were grown by then and we’d been transferred to Florida. We had plenty of room and sunshine year round. Yet he declined. He didn’t want to be in the way. Finally Studly insisted. Daddy was sick and really needed to be closer to family. So, we had Daddy with us.
Those were great years. Daddy and I got to know each other as adults. He told me stories about his Navy days that left me speechless. Stories I cannot repeat here. Great Stories. He and Studly played golf as long as Daddy was able, and even after his COPD no longer allowed him to play he’d hang out in the garage and create the perfect bag of clubs for a particular course.
Studly earned a nice promotion that prompted Daddy to call him The Director, from that point on, and was transferred to Illinois, so while Studly worked, Daddy and I explored our new state. I started doing some substitute teaching and Daddy hung out around the house. He had his daily routines and a nice little pickup truck, but he spent a lot of time sitting on our front porch and interacting with our neighbors. No matter where he went, he made friends. And we got to talk. We still enjoyed our football games and he’d still make an occasional run to the casino in Peoria, but his lung disease was getting the best of him.
His last days were spent in the hospital. We had made arrangements for hospice care, and on the day before we were to take him home, he perked up dramatically. He and my brother Kelly and I had the best day. We talked and made plans. We reminisced and laughed. When Kelly stepped out of the room to take a call, Daddy said to me, “Sis, in case I forget to tell you, I really had a great time with you and your brother today.”
That night he had a stroke and he passed away the next evening. Today would have been his birthday. My Daddy, my love. I miss him every day.
Peace and Love, People.
Dancing With My Grandaddy
There are people in our lives who we realize early on are so central to our well-being that if we should lose them we would struggle to go on. My Grandaddy was one of those people. He was a tall, straight-talking Texan. Square of jaw and handsome in the John Wayne mold, he was the first man I ever loved.
When I was very young, my mother and biological father divorced and she and I lived with her parents, my Grandaddy and Nanny, for a time. I know this was a very difficult living arrangement for Mom, but for me, it was heaven. As the only grandchild I was spoiled rotten by three adults. Yes, pure, unadulterated heaven.
I remember tagging along with Grandaddy to early morning coffee. We’d sit with the local farmers, ranchers, and assorted businessmen who gathered daily at Leonard’s Cafe to solve the problems of the county. Standing up in the booth beside Grandaddy, I thought I was a grown up. He’d ask my opinion and listen with respect. After coffee we would go to the Fina station he owned, where I manned the counter and tried to stay out of the way. I’d go with him to the bank and he’d let me make the deposit. I really thought I worked for him.
Grandaddy smelled like Cigars and Old Spice. He smelled like home and safety and love. There was no place on earth like his lap.
Eventually my mom remarried giving me my Daddy, the second man I ever loved, but that’s a tale for another day. My brothers came along, my mom’s siblings had children, and soon I was no longer the only grandchild. But here’s the best part. Grandaddy’s lap could magically accommodate as many grandchildren as were present. And he managed to make each of us feel special.
I asked my brothers and my cousins to volunteer their favorite memories of Grandaddy:
“I remember when he had a comb-over and got caught in a gust of wind. I thought that was the funniest thing. He and Nanny, along with the chamber of commerce came to Houston, Jack brought them all to Gilleys. We had so much fun. That’s when I discovered how hip they really were. We went to lake Sommerville, his car broke down and Bubba fixed it. From then on he thought Bubba hung the moon. I think about him all the time and wish he was here to see all our grand babies. What a legacy he started!”. –Crystal.
The smell of his tobacco, his wisdom, his wit, sitting in his lap when i was little, the way he only had to look at me with those Jarrett eyes and I knew i better think twice before i did what I was thinking..lol, so much more….but most of all.. when he and nanny came to houston with uncle jack, Richard, mom, and a few more, we were somewhere that had a dance floor, and Granddaddy and I danced (waltzed) to “Waltz across Texas with you”, something I will never forget! He was a great man and I miss him and Nanny both everyday of my life. –Trena
When he and Kelly and I went to Ruidoso and stayed in the trailer and I fell in the creek and was afraid my “dollars” wouldn’t be any good anymore!! And as Trena said his smell!!!! I miss that most I think???Brent
He let me “drive” his gas truck. By drive, I mean he let me sit in his lap and hold the steering wheel while he drove but I sure thought I was driving! –Kelly
I never did get to dance with my Grandaddy. I wish I had, but for some reason, the opportunity never arose. We thought we had forever with him, but then he was diagnosed with a malignant melanoma. He fought for eight long painful years, but the cancer stole his spirit long before it took his life. In those last years he was just a shadow of the strong, larger than life man who’d held each of us on his lap.
The Grandaddy of my youth still visits my dreams now and then. In them he is robust and handsome, and he smells like cigars and Old Spice. When he asks me to dance, I always say yes.
Peace, People.
Twirling Queen
I was born with the natural grace of a three-legged bull moose and the athletic prowess of a potholder, sad truths I learned at the tender age of six when my parents enrolled me in a baton twirling class.
Back in the day, baton twirling was a big deal, at least in Floydada, Texas. One of my earliest role models was Suzanne, the head twirler in the Floydada Whirlwind marching band. She looked like a blonde goddess in her short spangled green and white outfit, and my Uncle Jack was married to her older sister which almost made us relatives.
Each and every Friday night during football season mini-me waited expectantly for the twirlers to make their halftime appearance. I copied Suzanne’s every move with my imaginary baton. Twist, spin, toss, twirl, march, mega toss, catch. I was breathtaking.
So captivated with the art of twirling was I that I convinced my parents that twirling was the most important thing in my life. When the high school twirlers started a workshop for potential twirlers I was the first in line. Fortunately, the initial investment was minimal. Batons were cheap and as I recall lessons were fifteen dollars.
I remember vividly my first class. Suzanne and the other high school twirlers lined all of the participants up on the out of bounds lines in the gym. Even at six I was among the tallest, so I was placed at the very end of the line.
First, they showed us how to stand at attention with our batons. And then we got to march around the perimeter of the gym, heads held high, knees snapping up and down, left, right, left, at 90 degree angles. I couldn’t quite get the hang of marching. This was all much easier with my imaginary baton.
Then we stopped and learned the figure eight move. I twisted my wrist and magically the baton moved as I willed it. Faster, faster, I twirled. I was a regular twirling dervish. Next we tried to march and twirl the figure eight. I could do one, but not the other, at least not simultaneously. Twirl or march, twirl or march, which was it to be? Still at the end of the line I would stand stock still and twirl, then quickly march to catch up, stop and twirl again.
Apparently, this was not the desired outcome. After the lesson I saw Suzanne approach my dad. They looked at me, and Suzanne laughed and shook her head. On the ride home Daddy said Suzanne thought I should try learning another skill. I’d suspected as much, but it still crushed my little six year old heart.
I never looked at the twirlers in quite the same way after that; although, over the years I continued practicing the one skill I learned. I can still twirl the figure eight like nobody’s business. Just don’t expect me to march while I’m doing it.
Peace, People!
Cleaning Stalls and Taking Names
Summertime for the pre-teen set has always been a balance between excitement and boredom, and growing up in a small town often dips the scale towards the boredom end. I grew up in Floydada, Texas, a farming community, population 4,000, circa 1970, a very small town, indeed.
My brothers and I were “town kids” and spent summer days traipsing across Floydada in search of some activity to ease the boredom. At least once a week we walked to the county courthouse where the library was located. Before heading downtown, we would scrounge through the sofa cushions and dresser drawers in search of loose change so we could purchase “baby” soft drinks at Arwine’s Drugstore in downtown Floydada. The baby size cost a nickel and was always a welcome thirst quencher after our trek across town.
Not all of my summer was spent in the company of my siblings, though. Often I had the opportunity to hang around with LA (not her real name!) who I envied desperately due to her status as an only child. LA and I spent hours fantasizing about The Cowsills family singing group and how she was going to marry Barry and I was going to marry John and we would live next door to one another in Santa Monica, California. Happily ever after had our names all over it.
But, even our fantasies grew tiresome on occasion, so as we rode our bikes around Floydada we decided to do something to better our community. We had nothing specific in mind, but we continued to chat about the possibilities when we weren’t mentally picking out the swimsuits we’d be wearing when first meeting The Cowsills.
The idea for our service project came when we stopped at one of the gas stations on the main drag to use their restroom. Now, this was before the time of the convenience store, and the ladies’ room was outside, accessible only by key. The condition of the restroom was deplorable. The sink was a mess, paper towels were strewn about the floor, and the toilet–ugh!
Truly I cannot remember whether LA or I came up with the idea, but soon, we were cleaning that bathroom. We decided that folks passing through Floydada needed to see its good side, and that included nice bathrooms. So, for several weeks LA and I pedaled from service station to service station tidying up the bathrooms. Scandalously, we even ventured into the men’s rooms where we glimpsed our first urinals. Heavens! We were now mature women of the world.
Eventually summer ended as did our community service project. When we told our friends what we’d been up to they seemed more horrified than impressed. But there was something satisfying about doing a job no one else wanted, or even noticed. To heck with germs and dirt and potential disease! We were rebels without a clue, cleaning stalls and taking names.
Peace, People!
Praying for Eyebrowz 