Visiting Memory Lane

Yesterday  one of my life-long friends and I visited someone we've been meaning to visit for over a year. As I told him in May, we better hurry, nobody's getting any  younger.

So off we went. She lives on the farm that belonged to her first husband's family. 

They married when she was twenty-one. She had a son when she was twenty-two. Her still-new husband was killed in France during World War II, which made her a widow at age twenty-three.

That baby is seventy-four years old today, widowed himself and caring for two adult disabled sons.

The reason we were visiting was, as we reminisced some months ago, we reckoned that she and one other were the only two teachers still living who taught us in grade school.

She concurred that she believed that to be so.

She is ninety-six and sharp as any tack. She not only remembers all her students, but their siblings, their mamas and daddies and grandparents, too.

She is a gold  mind of information.

She's read two of my books, she said. I waited a moment, but she said nothing else. "Um, what did you think?" I asked timidly.

She gave me that stern look I remember so well from forty-one years ago and replied, "I give you an A-."

I said, "Whew!"

And she burst into laughter. Later she said I had a gift with words.

She told her life story ( so far ): After she was widowed at age twenty-three, she did remarry. He was older than she, and had also been married. He had a son and a step-daughter. After  his second wife died, the step-daughter went to her mother's family, but she was desperately unhappy, because he was the only father she'd ever remembered and needed him still.

So, they kept her and raised her, too. 

Score so far is one son, one-step son and one might-as-well-be-daughter.

They had a good life for many years. Farmed. She taught school. Life was pretty good. They had two daughters and three sons.

We're up to eight kids now, if you are counting.

When their youngest was six years old and another son two weeks from graduating high school, this second husband died. He'd been bed fast for a year, and the youngest still only remembers him vaguely. And those memories are of his daddy in the bed, sick.

Two of her sons  have passed away. One  had a tractor accident shortly after he graduated high school. Another son taught for one
year before getting sick suddenly.

He died before the next school year started. Leukemia. She said back then they'd just started with using chemotherapy and it hastened his death instead of helping.

I remember both those young men well.

She told us one story about pigs that kept us riveted, and I ain't kidding.

This woman is one tough cookie. 

She broke her hip two years ago, so she uses one of those walkers on wheels that has a seat. She said when she fell, she realized what pain was. Thought childbirth was, but said it didn't compare to this. The doctor told her she was a high risk patient because of her age and she might not wake up from surgery. She did, though. She's lived to tell the tale.

She quit driving at age ninety-two because of neuropathy in her feet. She was afraid she'd hit the wrong pedal.

She sits on her enclosed porch a lot. There are humming bird feeders, bird feeders, flowers. Entertainment of the best kind. She reads, but not as much as she used to, for she goes to sleep too easily reading and that aggravates her.

We took her out to dinner (not lunch!). She ate well. Talked to people who stopped by the table. We talked a lot about classmates and she had a story to tell about many of them.

I was worn out by the time I got home. I bet my friend was too, as he had to drive back to Atlanta.

I wonder if our teacher was tired, too.

Strange and Unusual Things

I'm about to tell you a tale that you can believe or disbelieve. It doesn't matter, because it's the truth.

Not that I can explain it. 

I was shopping at the drug store many years ago, back when I was a  young adult (and yes, I had to dodge big old tyrannosaurus feet on my way there).

I remember it clearly: I was standing at the checkout line and they had this box full of cloisonne' pill boxes. They were very pretty, and pretty cheap, so I picked one up and purchased it.

I've had it in my purse ever since.

Except when I lose it.

Now, I've misplaced it a few times - leaving it at Mother's, asking Daughter to put it in her cavernous suitcase she calls a purse, things like that. 

But I've really truly lost it twice.

Once was a few years back. It was summertime and we had eaten out. I remember having on short sleeves and no pockets except a rather shallow one in my slacks. It was gone when I got home. We searched the car and the trail from the car to the house. We looked everywhere, including all purses, even though I knew I didn't even have a purse with me inside the restaurant. I called the restaurant. They searched, said it hadn't been turned in.

That fall, when it was a cool morning, I reached for a sweater that had been hanging in the chifferobe since spring. I felt something in the pocket, and you know what it was.

The question is: How the heck did it get there? I  had a really weird feeling when I held it in my hand. I can't explain it, other than I felt like it had come back to me.

Now, I know this sounds...unchristian? Superstitious? Bizarre? All the above?

There's more.

Sunday we ate out. I had my little pill box, took my meds and laid it with my phone on the table. When I got in the car, I vaguely remember putting my phone in the side pocket of my purse. 

The next time we were going out to eat, I couldn't find the pill box, and tried desperately to remember if I'd put it with the phone in my purse. I dumped my purse, Daughter dumped her purse, we once again scoured the car, I went through the clothes I had on. Called the restaurant, they looked in two places, no dice.

David found a little container he said I could use instead.

This went on for 2 weeks. 

If you've read previous blogs, you know our two tomcats have been feuding. They feuded under my bed, and I felt like it was now disorganized and full of cat fur, so I asked Daughter to move the bed and  help me clean under it.

In the precise middle of the floor underneath the bed, between boxes was my little pillbox. Not dusty or covered in cat hair like everything else under there. All shiny and waiting.

The hair on the back of my neck stood up. 

You tell me.

'Cause I just don't know.

Hello Again, Hello

So much has happened since I last blogged. I bet I've thought of 20 things to blog about, but of course, I was too busy to write any of it down  - and now, being of an old age - I can't remember a dang one of them.

Well.

Yankee Cousin has gone back home. We had a great time and I wish she could have stayed longer.

Maybe next year she can stay a whole two weeks.

I've taken Mother to many doc appointments, with more to come next week. I just hope we don't get lost again. That's a killer, and the story of my life.

YC helped me get the downstairs porch all purdy, which I've pined over for two years. Now it looks all nice. Thanks, YC!

Along with YC, she brought her brother and husband. I hadn't seen that cousin in 30 years. That's too long for family to stay apart. He says he's coming back next year. I hope he does.

Day Lilies are blooming, the garden is doing great. Rain is good for everything outside, but I feel sorta moldy.

I spoke at a place called Cameron Hall the other day. That was fun, and I sold a couple of books. Next week I'm speaking at the Senior Center for story telling time. Can't wait!

I guess that's all for now.

I hope to get back to my regularly scheduled blogging. If I could just stay home for a day...

I might just do it.

The Most Important is the Ending in Anything You Tell

Well let's see, what to say first?

The cats are pretty much back to normal. After a bath for Frost and then lots of catnip poured on and around him and Eli, so they smelled not only good but the same, Eli is back to his same old alfa-I'll-push-you-around-once-in-a-while-just-to-remind-you-I'm-boss self. Frost, however; is still recovering, a little PTSD if you please.

I ordered some really terrific looking shoes that wrap around the top of your foot for perfect comfort with good tread,  hoping, as usual, to be able to find a shoe that doesn't hurt me too badly.

After waiting 3 weeks, they came today. In XL. I mean, seriously. I've been kidded my whole adult life at what little feet I have. Don't they know nuthin'?

So I've e-mailed them to complain.

The Northern Invasion (the good one) begins tomorrow. Since Yankee Cousin is bringing (her) Husband and (her) Brother, they wanted to rent a cabin. Yankee Cousin told them specifically she wanted to rent a cabin close to my house. They said okay! Told her that's what they'd done. She asked for specific directions, but they couldn't give those to her until a week before arrival date. (why, I don't know, do you?) When they gave them, she's NOT even close to my house. She asked them to swap. And guess what they said? They couldn't change accommodations so close to arrival date. Do you see anything wrong with this? So I  e-mailed them a very nice threatening-to-do-a-review-request, asking them to change her cabin. We'll see.

But the most important subject of this blog is you. I really did the previous blog about not winning at the Georgia Author of the Year Awards to make you laugh.

But instead I got a wonderful outpouring of love from so many of you that assured me I was really the best.

Sniff.

You said you were proud of me.

Well, I'm proud of ya'll, too.

I'm a winner, for sure.

See this big L on my forehead?

Georgia  Author of the Year Awards Ceremony:

Well, it was quite a night.

Lots of people, mostly all dressed up and all.

"Buffet". (Where was the rest of it, we wondered?)

It was nice to see my name up in the big lights:

And I met a lot of nice writer's who were polite and asked about my work, as I did them. One woman asked to review my book and put it up on her blog. Of course I said yes and thank you.

And then they announced first runners up and the winners.

Me when they announced:

Nuff said.

Day Two

Sooo....

To follow up from yesterday:

After talking to the vet, we agreed to have Frost bathed, hoping whatever smell is so dang offensive to Eli would be washed away.

Now that sounds like a good idea. But you try putting Frost in a carrier. The idiots that try to catch greased pigs at the county fair have it easier - at least they aren't threatened with bites.

Daughter put on oven mitts after we finally cornered Frost in the kitchen. He was NOT happy.

The vet thought it also might be a good idea to sedate Eli, (just a little) so that perhaps when Frost came home, smelling all great like the vet office, Eli would be so chill they could kiss and make up.

Eli is now on Prozac.

Laugh if you want. But you try shoving a pill down a 21 pound cat's throat.

Uh-huh.

Not quite as funny as you thought.

Okay, okay, it's funny. And fun. In fact, next time we need to do something like this I'll call you and you can come right over and join in the hilarity.

When Frost got home, he flew under the bed, not giving Eli a chance to attack. Eli doesn't seem inclined to do anything other than look at Frost curiously as if wondering what the heck his problem is. 

More will be revealed. Let's hope it's all good.

We got a new tire for the wheel barrow.

No worker has showed up yet to do the promised yard work.

Mimi is walking fine now.

Daughter went to the library and they are still there.

Maybe they just forgot to pay their phone bill.

Please say a little prayer that the boys will be all happy by tomorrow and there will be no more cat fights at our house.

Or I may  have to take one of Eli's Prozacs.