Things I Miss, Part Two (which has nothing to do with the pity party I had yesterday)

I miss the Dewey Decimal System.

Really.

I remember learning how to operate it, and how proud I was that I knew what was going on in my library, if I had only been allowed to go in and, like, check out a book.

Unfortunately, the librarian thought all people under the age of fifty were nasty, loud, snot nosed varmints that had no business near books.

I also miss the little cards up front where you signed your  name and they stamped the due date, so you could tell at a glance how much longer you had to keep the book in your possession. (I know, this makes the former statement a lie, as I obviously used the library, but this is art, okay?)

I really hate the slick tiny piece of paper you get  now, that comes out of their computer that they stick in your book. Every time you open the book, the paper flutters to the floor and you spend five minutes trying to find it because you have no idea what just fluttered to the floor. And I am personally afraid to remove it from the book because I know that little piece of paper will vanish like money in my pocket, and I'll have no idea when the book is due.

I also miss wall phones. They never got misplaced. You always knew right where they were, those dependable souls of yore. (I'd miss them more if I didn't still have one in my kitchen.)

I miss going to town where everybody knows my  name.

I miss the small stores, where somebody's mama or granddaddy owned it, and the wood floors smelled like dusting compound.

Speaking of, I miss that smell in the schools, along with the wood lockers that had nothing but a coat hook  and a shelf. Why in the world would you lock up your coat and books?

Well, someone did steal my purse in second grade. There was something far more valuable in it than mere lunch money, too. I had pulled a tooth and the teacher helped me carefully wrap it up and put it in my purse so the tooth fairy could visit that night.

My purse was found in the trash can out in front of the school. All my stuff was in there except my tooth.

I hope the thief developed gum disease.

Now, where was I?

I miss my house being the only one on the road, and it a tiny  little one lane dirt road, at that.

I miss Daughter being a little girl.

I miss Nephew being a little boy.

I miss me being young and unwrinkled.

I miss riding a bike.

I miss my grandparents something awful, even to this day.

I miss having time to be with friends while the band played on.

I miss my daddy.

I miss wringer washing machines. (Rolls on floor laughing)

I miss my old insurance company and benefits from last year.

I miss check ups at the dentist costing $3.00  THIS IS NOT A TYPO.

Sometimes, I even miss my job. (but never the bureaucracy)

And I really, really miss the good ways our country used to be.

I'm afraid that, like all the above, will never be again.

Here Comes Peter Cottontail.....

As a child, I received many live gifts for Easter.

No matter how much my mother pleaded, pouted, demanded, etc., her father got me live animals.

Always there were the colored chicks. Cute!

When I was three, my mother relates she was in the kitchen and I got "too quiet". All mothers know exactly what this means.

She found me sitting on the couch with a baby chick in my fist, it's head to the side, neck broken. She said that before she thought, she cried out: "Oh, you killed it!"

I looked up tearfully and said, "I was just loving on it."

Anyway, the chicks that survived turned into bad-ugly adolescents whose feathers gradually turned white with color just on the tips, like an old lady who needs to go to the hair dresser, posthaste.

At that point they would mysteriously disappear.

Then there was the year that with along with the chicks I got a baby duck. My mother named it "Waddles". Apparently I was too little to do the name thing yet. But I do remember the duck. And it grew quickly from a fuzzy yellow ball into a giant white quacking/squirting poop machine.

At that point, he mysteriously disappeared.

I fondly remember the year that, along with all the colored chicks, I got a baby rabbit. My mother named it "Troubles". (Can you see it coming?)

Wasn't long before this "I chew everything in my path to smithereens" became a bigger "I chew everything in my path to smithereens."

At this point -  you guessed it - he mysteriously disappeared.

Good thing I didn't get our cat, Blackie, for Easter. He wouldn't have stuck around for long!

I asked my mother, years later, where did all those animals go? After she blew off steam about my granddaddy not listening to her and giving me living things every year, she said they went to my great-uncle Sam's farm.

Sounds reasonable.

To give my mother credit, she has never given any of her grandchildren live animals, for any reason.

But she has spoiled them and done what she pleased about how to treat them, give gifts to them, and what to let them get away with. As in just about everything.

It's sort of a grandparent clause that says you don't have to be a responsible adult anymore.

It's got me to thinking.

Someday, I hope I'll be a grandparent (but not too soon!). Because I am already plotting on how to be an irresponsible, smug, behind-the-parent's-back kind of person.

I can't wait!

Happy Easter!

Sprang Brangs Flares, Don't It?

One of my grandmothers was a real flower nut. She planted all sorts of blooming things, my favorite being the Hyacinth. Man, those flowers smell good! Husband has planted a few for me, to bring their fragrance into my kitchen. Pink ones smell the best.

Every year, my grandfather would put us all in the car, and we'd take a trip to a mountain where he knew he could easily access rich, black dirt. He'd pop open the truck, get out his shovel and feed sacks, and fill them up. Meanwhile, my grandmother would set out the picnic lunch she'd packed for us, and we'd have a feast before we set off for home.

They dug in the dirt a lot. My grandfather had a big garden behind the house in town. When they sold the grocery store and moved to the country, he had a huge garden.

I guess it was in their blood to grow their own food.

I wish I'd paid more attention.

Husband's parents were the same way, and he paid about as much attention as I did.

However; we attempted our first garden last year, and all in all, it was a success. We are eager to do this again.

Well, I'm eager to watch him do it again.

Back to flowers: My other grandmother liked to have a garden, too. She'd rather be in the yard and garden than the house any day.

Much of my book, "Out on a Limb of the Family Tree" comes from true stories. One of which is about my grandmother. As I said, she'd rather be working outdoors. And when my grandfather told her father he wanted to marry her, he said, "Well, she ain't much fer house keepin'. But she's the best little hoer in Gilmer County."

When Husband and I first built our house and started planting stuff in the yard, we knew that yeller bell is really Forsythia. Hydrangies are hydrangeas. And so on.

But we looked two seasons for Cannies until we stumbled across them at a hardware store. They are really Cannas. But with our deeply rooted Appalachian language, who knew?

And to make things really clear, it is not pee-AH-neez it is pee-ON-es.

Please, people. Get it right!