Feeling Lonely

Just before dark, I finally got around to fixin' beans. 

Daughter was at work, and, because it was such a small mess, I didn't ask Husband to help. 

Alone on the back porch, stringin' and snappin', I felt kinda lonely.

Lonely isn't something I feel much. Raised for almost eleven years as an only child, I learned to be alone, keeping myself entertained. (Which is one reason, I suspect, I am a writer.)

But somehow my mind went back to one summer afternoon, when I lived away in the big city, that I reluctantly and temporarily called home. My granny answered the phone, sounding a little irritated as well as a little out of breath.

"What ya'll doin'?" I asked her, after the usual, "Hey, it's me."

"We's out on the porch a'fixin' beans. You shore do need to be here."

I felt a pang of homesick stab me in the heart so sharp I didn't think I could breathe.

I wasn't made to work much as a child, but when it came to beans, we all worked. Everybody sat on the front porch, aproned lap full of beans ready to be fixed. On one side was a large pan for throwing the strung and broke beans into; on the other side was a waste basket of some sort to dump your strings and bug bit pieces in when your  lap got full. 

I usually had a grandmother, Mother, if she wasn't at work, and a granddaddy there. Most times my aunt and Yankee Cousin were there, too. I also  helped out on the other side, grandmother, granddaddy, Mother and myself.

Since talk was cheap, there was plenty of it to go around. Me and Yankee cousin didn't say much because if we were quiet, we could get quite the education from hearing all the adults chatter.

But last night, I was alone - missing them all. Grandparents have gone on, as has the aunt. Mother was at her own house, oblivious I even had a mess of beans.

And Yankee Cousin - well, I kept expectin' her to walk through the door and get busy helpin'.

But she never did.

Cats and Men

Daughter has dated several fellas, many of them in the category of "I don't like cats; I'm a dog man."

One of these, with whom Daughter broke up, but I didn't, tells me he is now thinking of getting a cat. We talk frequently. Now that he is living alone, for the first time in his life, not to mention far, far away, and working long hours, he needs a pet. He figures his present lifestyle wouldn't be fair to a dog.

Now that he has been introduced to Maine Coon cats, he is no longer opposed to kitties. However; he says that the only kind of cat he'll have is a Maine Coon.

Present boyfriend (or, as Husband calls him, "Mere Acquaintance") doesn't like cats either.

But you should see him do facey rubs with Eli, our Maine Coon and pet him as long as Eli will allow. He (Boyfriend, not Eli) lights up when he sees the cat, and you can he tell feels like it's a real honor that Eli will allow him to interact. After all, it's only been a year since Boyfriend has been coming around. 

I guess Eli felt sorta sorry for the guy.

I understand how this happens. Eli is big, muscular, powerful and, well, dog-like. He rules the roost, and he rules the dog.

He is, in a word, manly.

So if your guy isn't a "cat" person, and you want a cat, introduce him to a Maine Coon. Odds are, unless he's phobic (which will only make him worse), allergic, or a great actor, Eli will win him over and you can have a cat and your man, too.

I'll be glad to introduce Eli to your he-man anytime.

For a small fee, of course.

Learning to Drive

For some reason, my daddy was in no  hurry for me to learn to drive. The main reason, I think, was because he didn't want to teach me. 

Mother certainly could not, because after driving into a house at age sixteen she gave up the sport. (driving, not slamming into houses, though, come to think of it, I guess she gave that up, too)

But I was whining so badly, that Daddy decided Boyfriend could take me out in our station wagon and teach me.

Looking back, and having had a sixteen year old daughter myself, I ask a reasonable question: Was the man insane?

Anyway, this car was the one my daddy used to  haul riders back and forth to Lockheed every day. In fact it was the only vehicle we had.

Now you're asking if my daddy was nuts.

Boyfriend and I go out on a fairly unused road, with a good straight of way, and he tells me all the important stuff. "This is the steering wheel. This is the brake, this is the gas, etc."

He told me to start off slowly, gently pressing the accelerator until we got up to a good speed of forty or so.

I cranked the car, put it in drive and started off. He fussed on me about where my hands were on the wheel, then became quiet.

You know this is going to end badly, don't you?

Suddenly the car, without my prompting it in any way, started going faster and faster. Boyfriend was yelling at me to slow down, was I crazy like my daddy, etc. 

I explained to him calmly that my foot was no longer on the gas and when I pumped the brake it went to the floor without doing a blame thing. 

By now were up to about sixty-five on a small country road; remember I'd never driven before.

Boyfriend reached over and he jerked the gear shift into neutral.

If we had been a cartoon, the body of the car would have left the frame and them settled back down. The car shuddered so badly I thought the motor would fall out, or something worse; if there was worse.

Remember, this was before the time of cell phones. Boyfriend drove back to my house with no brakes. We crept, and if he had to stop, he used the emergency brake.

I figured my life was pretty much over. I contemplated not going home, instead checking to see if there was an orphanage that would let me live there.

Daddy was right where we left him, his nose stuck in a book.

I don't remember who said what; how the whole episode was explained.

Daddy didn't say much, just called the tow truck. On Monday morning the garage told him that the gas hung up on the brake lines, disabling them both. He was told to thank God that it had happened where it did, for if it had happened in Marietta during rush hour, somebody might have died.

So my life was spared.

Surprisingly, this didn't turn me off to driving, and I went on to get my license.

After all, I didn't drive into a house, or anything silly like that.

Ain't God Funny?

For those of you who know me, you will find this following "short story" (and I do mean short) pretty dumb founding.

I wrote this when I was sixteen or so, and back then my short stories were around a page or two. I was learning the craft, I guess.

It's not the length or the astounding talent (ha) that will get you...it's the content.

Read and be amazed. I know I was. I really was:

They looked at the small baby cradled in her arms.

When he frowned, you could see the dimples that both his young mother and father had.

His eyes were brown, like his father’s, his hair blond, like his mother’s.

A few freckles dotted his nose. Neither of the parents had freckles, but the father’s kid brother had them – millions of them.

His nose was shaped exactly like his father’s, but his face was beautifully oval and smooth, like his mother’s.

It seemed as if each of the parent’s best qualities had been put together and molded into this child.

He was beautiful.

The young parents looked at each other and smiled.

No one would ever know he had been adopted.

See what I mean?

Why Am I In The Dark?

For the past two days, every time I start to blog, the electricity goes off. 

Is this a sign? Is someone trying to tell me something? Does someone not like me from  you-know-where?

I don't mean from the Great Beyond, I mean from the electric company.

I don't recall complaining about my bill. Or giving a raspberry to the president of AEMC (he knows who he is). 

And right now? It's getting very dark again. I  hear thunder rumbling in the distance.

That's  my cue. Better run.

We May Have Lost the Internet, But We Never Lost Faith

Do you know what it's like to be without the Internet for almost a WHOLE week??

Of course you do, if you are over three years old, you big dummy.

We didn't have Internet AT ALL!

So, what's the big deal about not having it for a week?

Well, every time I wanted to look up something, I couldn't. And I don't have a bookcase full of encyclopedias anymore.

Life on facebook went on without me. (sob).

I had 188 e-mails! Most of them junk.

I didn't blog for seven days, unless you count the one Daughter did explaining my plight.

I got more done in the mornings, which is when I usually spend an hour or so on facebook and e-mail.

But, and here's a confession for you, I really didn't miss it nearly as much as I thought I would. I missed being able to have a handy know-it-all at my fingertips, and blogging, mostly.

Facebook was easy to catch up on, I just looked at a few people's pages and figured I was good to go.

I hope some of ya'll missed my blogs.

I've been thinking of several things to blog about....and I'm sure they'll show up in the near future.

Am I Old, or What?

I have often felt incompetent in some area - usually because I was incompetent.

I have very good intentions of getting this blog site to a place where anyone who wants to purchase a book of mine can click on a link and have the book coming their way.

I am also working on making one of my novels, "Signs from God" an e-book.

And, Daughter has promised to record me, myself, reading a little bit from each book, so you will know what the book is about, and whether it would interest you to purchase it.

This is hard.

Because I don't have a clue as to what I am doing.

I stare a lot.

I need help.

A damsel in distress, if you will.

If I had big blue eyes, I'd flutter them at some helpless geek and see if I could get assistance post haste.

My eyes are green and squinty, so that's out.

Anyway, I'm old.

Are there any old geeks?

Anywho, even when I get something done, I'm not sure it's done correctly, so I fret over that.

Maybe by the time I'm too old to write, I'll have this thing where I want it.

I resent it, sorta, because it is cutting into my writing time, which is where I am competent, at least enough to satisfy myself.

I need help, people.

As if you didn't know that already.

What the H.E. Double Toothpicks is Wrong with Everyone?

I am angry.

Not one, but two friends reported being ignored, humiliated and treated shamefully in public yesterday.

They may think these are strong words, but in my anger, they are fitting.

BB (Best Bud) broke her leg, if you recall. She had to take papers to the courthouse. On crutches, she hobbled across the street, with wallet, keys and papers in hand. No one helped her do anything. She had a hard time reaching the basket you put your stuff in to go through the machine that made sure she wasn't going to blow up the place. Bending awkwardly made her drop her stuff. Two fat cops sat there and watched her struggle to pick it up. The "lady" behind her, just sighed heavily, impatient for BB to hurry up and get out of her way.

No one helped her.

Going back across the street, after carefully making sure nothing was coming, a truck roared out of no where and sat there, gunning his engine till she got out of his way.

Another friend, whose knee is injured is on a cane, reported the same thing when she was out in public and her hip came out of joint as she was trying to hoist herself from a chair. She was in excruciating pain, and people just kept on passing her by, ignoring her. 

 Finally, one of our illegal aliens saw her and came to her rescue.

Welcome to America.

Detour!

Every time I start to the studio to work on the novel I'm writing, or to check mail, or to play scrabble , or to blog, I get detoured by the garden.

We have consumed four tomatoes already, and there are at least four more ready by tomorrow. I picked a small bowl full of green beans this morning. Squash is still blooming. Onions need pulling.

Now, obviously, we don't have a big garden. Just a few raised beds.
But it's so much like receiving a gift every time I walk by, it makes me get all excited. 

Not to mention hungry.

So, while writing, and e-mail, and playing scrabble, and blogging are fun, it's not as much fun as playing in the dirt, and coming out with food.

It's just like magic.

The Blind Leading the Blind OR The Blonde Leading the Blonde. Take your pick.

I admit I am used to folks helping me. I am generally in some degree of pain, and my movement is limited, sometimes more so than others.

My good friends know this, and usually ask questions when I am with them, "Are you okay to sit here? Do we need to stand up and walk? Can I get you anything?"

I appreciate it. Makes me feel loved and understood.

But yesterday, I went to Best Buddy's house (here after mentioned as B.B.) She of the broken leg. She of the very long legs.

Not a good combo, no matter which way you look at it.

For once, I got to pet her a little. Toted her stuff. Set her shoes out of the way, locked the door, stuff like that.

Made me feel good, and I hope it helped her.

To be honest, I'd rather be on that end of the stick, but I hardly ever am. For me (and for B.B., too) it is far easier to serve than to be served.

We don't like being helpless, or hurt.

But sometimes, you know, that's just the way it is.

Here We Go Again

I hate to bring up this subject again.

But I been thinkin' on it for days, so I might as well get to it.

When  my cousins from Texas, Indiana, Ohio and in-laws from Alabama visited, guess what we reminisced about the most?

That's correct: food.

Mama Harper's biscuits. Daddy John's gravy. Daddy John's fried chicken. Cold watermelon pulled out of the creek. Iced tea with beads of sweat runnin' off the outside of the glass because it was so dadblame hot from cookin' biscuits, gravy and fried chicken.

Walkin' to Edna's Cafe' for an ice cream cone and it meltin' down your arm till your pit smelled like strawberries and you couldn't raise your arm, cause it was stuck together.

Blackberry cobbler. Banana puddin'. Warm pound cake. Homemade ice cream. Apple jelly. Cornbread (we argued over who made it at our grandparent's  house. Some said Mama Harper, some said Daddy John.)  Fresh beans, maters, taters, cucumbers, squash, corn, onions, and peppers straight out of the garden just a few feet away. We never trusted Daddy John about eatin' peppers. He would sit there with sweat beaded up on his lip, pouring down his face and swear the peppers weren't hot, urging you to try one.

I trusted that man with my life, but never would I have taken a pepper from his hand to my lips again. (Once was quite enough.)

We talked about other things, a little. But it seems so much of our memories are tied to that kitchen table - that one and others that our families ate and talked from.

My in-laws even got in on it, when I revealed to my cousins that Maw Maw (Husband's mother) made biscuits that tasted just like Mama Harper's. There was a reverent silence, as those around me contemplated such. 

They even stopped chewing for a minute.

Of course we ate big while folks were here. In the house and out. 

We visited graveyards and old home places, tryin' to walk off some of the cornbread.

But nothin' conjured up our love for the past like the food we shared with those who loved us as children.

I guess nothin' ever will.

Daddy!

We ate out after church yesterday, at one of the Japanese places that have the hibachi choice.

Shortly after we were seated, a young family was placed next to us. Their baby boy (I later learned he was eleven months old). was seated between them, and they entertained him with bites of cucumber, and something they  had with him. As long as he was chewing something, he was pretty content. He smiled sweetly at Daughter and me, but mostly was occupied with his mama.

But when the chef rolled in, that baby sat straight up. He placed his little hands on the table, his eyes got wide, and he stared straight at the cook.

His daddy said, "He loves this, we've done it before."

That child never took his eyes off the cook. When he juggled his knife and spatula, when he made a smiley face on the grill, when he lit the fire and singed our eyebrows. Not once.

But when the fire was lit, the child reached with his hand and held his daddy's shirt sleeve. His daddy put his arm around the baby's shoulders and said, "Here I am, Buddy."

That's all the boy needed to keep his fascination going. As long as daddy was close by, he knew he was safe, and could enjoy the show.

I've seen that so many times: When a child wants comforting, feeding, cuddling, washing, whatever; he goes to mama. But when he wants protection of any kind, daddy is the only one that will do. When my nephew was about seven, he was spending the night at our house. As it grew dark and he realized Husband wasn't going to be there, he became fearful and opined we should  not stay there without "DAHVID" due to werewolves.

I saw it in my own child. I bet you've seen it in yours, if your child has a daddy.

It saddens me that more and more children are being raised without a daddy. Maybe he's deceased, maybe he ran away, maybe he's kept away for punishments sake, maybe mama didn't want a daddy and used a sperm donor or a friend. Maybe the kid has two mamas. Whatever. 

All I  know is; it breaks my heart.

Out of Staters Once Again

So, today I had brunch with cousins I had not seen in many years. They live in Ohio. 

There's a pattern here. Texas, Indiana, Alabama and now Ohio. 

Pretty impressive, especially since I ain't living on the beach or something.

These are my second cousins and their brood. I had not seen one since 1987, when my grandmother (her great-grandmother) died. None of us could determine the last time we'd seen her brother.

So, Brother Of Many Surgeries, Other Brother, Daughter and myself gathered with the eight of them this morning and spent a few hours laughing and getting tearful down memory lane.

But why now? Why this year? It seems interesting to me that suddenly I am seeing folks for the first time in over twenty years from all over the United States.

That's a stretch, I guess, but it feels that way. I am bedazzled and befuddled.

And wished I was a dozen pounds lighter, if I take a minute to be vain.

I'm not sure any of us have seen each other clearly, anyway. 

We are looking through glasses colored with childhood memories.

Think It'll Rain?

You may have a slight problem understanding me; in fact I may sound like I'm under water.

And I'm on top of a mountain!

Geez, how much rain can fall in just a few minutes? I am impressed, Mother Nature. Really, I am.

It was raining so hard we couldn't hear each other talk in the upstairs bathroom because of the skylight being bombarded.

It was so dark this afternoon, we needed a flashlight to walk the dog. (Okay, not really, but nearly, dadgum it.)

Our dog is even lethargic; we hope she isn't sick. We think it's just the gloomy weather.

My back has developed it's on war zone, and some kind of full fledged battle is taking place. I think the only wounded is me, myself.

Seriously, I think I am beginning to mildew around the top of my socks.

A few minutes ago, there was a blinding light. I realized it was the sun. It went away quickly, so I don't think my vision was impaired.

I'm not complaining though.

Nope, not me.