Hard Times

Prince Charming had rescued us and Happily-Ever-After was in its last trimester in our new home in the suburbs of Lawrence when Mother announced she was with child.  She liked to say, "I have a little Indian in me," and everyone would laugh.  But the laughter ended the day my new dad was laid off from his job at a local factory.

After we moved on up to the north side, Mother was happy again.  Judy, who had blossomed into a beautiful woman, had met her future husband (in church, of course) and I, at fourteen, had accumulated enough friends at school and from our neighborhood that boredom and monotony were no longer the bane of me.

The new head of our household grew up in the backwoods of West Virginia and was familiar with the hardships of making due with what little his family had. If they were going to eat it, they would have to catch it or grow it.  Their house was a small shack that was little more than shelter from the outside.  It was unbearably cold in the winter and stifling hot in the summer, but he and his family did what they had to do to survive, and that is exactly what he would do now--now that he was committed to a mortgage for a new home for his wife and her children.  There would be hard times, but his family would survive. He would find a way.

*  *  *

It was a beautiful, white two-story farmhouse that sat beside a stately barn on a hundred acres that at one time was bordered by farmland. With the city moving north at a fast pace, it was now surrounded by motels, restaurants, strip malls, and gas stations.  The man who owned it was a gentleman farmer, who wore a suit everyday and owned several companies, in addition to the farm.  He was a wealthy, prominent businessman in the community and was known to be a no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners, tough negotiator.

My new dad was a quiet, shy man.  The little nuances in conversation that can promote your cause or derail it were unknown to him.  His words were simple and direct.  His intentions were sincere and honest.  And on the day that he stood on the front porch of the beautiful white house and nervously rang the doorbell, he knew the odds were against him.  When the man in the suit opened the front door to his beautiful estate and saw an unsmiling, dark-skinned stranger standing before him, he was not impressed, at first.

We survived.  My dad shoveled manure, baled hay, painted fences, repaired tractors, and so much more, until the day the factory called him back to work, but something very special and unlikely happened during that time on the farm.  The quiet, shy factory worker became close friends with the take-no-prisoners businessman, and that friendship remained strong until the last day in the life of our Prince Charming.

The Groundhog Ate Poison and Died

As far as I could tell, we would be living on Rawles Avenue, and Hazel would be my substitute father and strict boss-of-me forever.  Then one day Prince Charming rescued me and carried me off into the sunset to a place called "Thank God That's Over."

At age twelve, every day of my life was a rerun of the one that preceded it, or so it seemed.  There were no after-school activities or sports or social events or weekend plans or vacations or fun.  On rare occasions, if Mother and Hazel did plan something other than "nothing," and those plans were leaked to me in advance, life in the tiny white house on Rawles became unbearable for the big people.  Spare the rod, spoil the child was more than a proverb to Hazel; it was an entitlement that came with being the head of the household, but how do you justify spanking a child who is talking incessantly, running in circles, and bouncing off the walls because she is overcome with giddy anticipation?

"Is it today?  Are we going today? Tell me again.  We're going where?  We're doing what?  Will it be fun?  Is it far away?  Who all is going? Are we going today? Who's gonna be there?  Is it today?"

For seven years after Hazel met Mother in church and rescued her and her two daughters from Mother's fear of homelessness, it was Groundhog Day every day.

*Note:  The only exception to the above was when there was not a

 religious revival going on somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of Indianapolis.

Then one Sunday morning in 1958, the groundhog ate poison and died.  It occurred so fast that no one had time to mourn seven years of yesterdays--except for Hazel, that is.  Prince Charming came to church, met and fell in love with a pretty maiden in need of rescue, my mother, and everything changed.  We were married and carried off into the sunset to a place called, "Thank God That's Over." Goodbye Rawles Avenue.  Goodbye boss-of-me. We had a new house in the suburbs now and another head of the household.  A new life where every day would not be like the day that preceded it.

What?  You don't say?  The big hog's not dead after all? It was just the stomach flu?  Really?

*Note:  The only exception to the above was when there was not a

 religious revival going on somewhere within a fifty-mile radius of Lawrence. 

"Here Hoggy, Hoggy, Hoggy.  Want a cookie?  It's reeeeaaalll good.  No, really it is."

Do You Know Who I Am?

It was unfortunate.  And we were having such a good time, too.  Yes, we were drinking, but everyone drinks. When the party was over, we left. Everyone leaves when the party is over, don't they? So what's the big deal?  Since we drove to the party, it only made sense that we would drive away from it as well.  Everything I'm saying right now makes perfect sense to me, even though I clearly have had one drink too many, and there is a possibility that I may say something that could embarrass me later, but right now I'm an American citizen standing on American dirt--I have that right, ya know--and I'm thinking logically.  I can talk without slurring my words and walk without staggering.  What?  You want me to shut up and stop interfering with your cop job?  Are you a rent-a-cop, or something?  You don't look like a real cop with that big beer belly and those flat feet.  I've played a real cop in a movie once, and I can tell you're not a real cop.  Possibly you saw that movie.  Do I look familiar? No?  How about now? Recognize me now? Really?  Don't you go to the movies? What? You want me to shut up and get back in the car so you can arrest my husband for driving drunk?  I don't think so, mister rent-a-cop or whoever you are.  Hey! What are those? Handcuffs?

Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Stop that right now!  I'm not kidding, Mister!  You're gonna be sorry.

DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?

Later that same morning...

Mugshot 4/19/13

I'm sorry.  No, really I am.

We Regret the Error

In the April 15, 2013, issue of People magazine, this correction was on page 6:

"...we implied that Kim Kardashian was wearing Alaia

  leggings.  She wore Lululemon.  We regret the error."

Are you thinking what I'm thinking?  There are things that are important in this world and then there's the insignificant, trivial stuff that some people (not you People magazine.  I'm referring to people in general) focus on, like economic recovery, suits with no scruples, global warming, extreme weather, poverty, super bugs, terrorism, unsettled middle east, crazy little man in Korea, and people (not you People magazine) who want to kill us. All of us.

I know what you're thinking.  Me too.  Thank you, thank you, thank you Kim for having your people call People's people to let them know they got it wrong. All wrong!  You could have blown me over with a Category 7 hurricane.  I was absolutely shocked when I discovered the truth about her leggings. Truth is, from the picture I saw...

I thought she was wearing no leggings at all.   

Thank you Kim Kardashian for correcting a very egregious error.

*  *  *

Correction:  In my blog dated today, I posted a picture of someone I thought was Kim Kardashian wearing no leggings.  It was, in fact, my hairdresser Kim Sniffledip.  I regret this error.

Through the Ages

If we live long enough, it's going to happen to all of us.  Aging, that is. Nothing puts that dreaded thought (or obsession) into perspective better than visual illustrations that show a woman's body as it goes through the aging process.

Note:  This illustration has not been updated

since Dwight Eisenhower was President of U.S.

Yesterday I was the image on the left.  Today, well, let's just say I'm in my mid-sixties.  Actually, that's a lie.  I'm closer to seventy than I wish to admit, and I'm not one bit happy about that.

I've done a little research on the subject of getting old--not that I needed to Google it, since I'm living it. But I thought you might want to know that there is good news for those of us who want to stay thirty-five forever.  But before I tell you what that is, let's review, shall we.

The Thirties

Great hair.

Soft supple skin.

Good muscle tone.

Firm breasts.

Can read close up.

Good feet.

Happy.

The Forties

A little salt sprinkled in the hair.

Is that cottage cheese I see?

Time to join the gym, honey.

They're still sorta firm.

Need glasses to read.

Nose is getting larger (all the

better to hold the glasses).

Bigger feet.  Is that a bunion?

Why aren't you smiling?

The Fifties

Ummmm.  Where to begin?

What's with the short hair and curls? 

I see you still haven't joined the gym.

Oh dear. Not firm, not firm at all.

You seem to have lost your knees.

Still wearing glasses (when you 

remember where you put them).

Is that a chicken waddle?

That's definitely a bunion.
Toenail fungus, too.

Nose still growing.

Arthritis acting up?
Flabby arms.

Is that a frown?

The Sixties

See The Fifties above, add 

a few more insults and you

have The Sixties

A tiny bit deluded.
Thinks she's thirty-five again.
Shhhhhh...don't tell her.
She's happy.

I do not look like this.

I have more hair.

GOODS NEW FOR THOSE WHO WANT TO STAY THIRTY-FIVE FOREVER!

Drum roll please...

The New Sixties

Shhhh....don't tell her.  She's happy.

We Are Under Attack

I recently read a fascinating book called Empire of the Summer Moon, written by S.C. Gwynne.  It's several stories in one book about the American West in the nineteenth century.  The book begins with a pretty nine-year-old girl,  Cynthia Ann Parker, being kidnapped by Comanche Indians from her family's home in Texas.  She disappears deep inside a mystery that would take decades to solve.  Was she brutally raped and beaten like her cousin, Rachel, who was kidnapped with her?  Had she been killed?  Was she sold into slavery?  Or did she embrace the Indians who had killed and scalped her father, grandfather, and left her grandmother beaten, raped, and close to death after their killing rampage through the Parker family compound on the spring morning of May 19, 1836?

While reading this book and for some time after, I struggled (I'm still struggling) with what appears to me to be a human condition, an innate human behavior that has been present from the beginning of man.  Throughout history, we hear over and over and over again stories of humans hurting humans.  I don't understand this.  As long as I live I will never understand why a human being would want to harm another human being.  Can they not imagine what that pain and suffering would feel like if it were them or their loved ones who had been hurt?  Are they not capable of empathy? The Comanches took pleasure in taking Rachel's newborn baby boy away from her, and while she watched, they held his feet and slammed his head against a tree.  But, before we think it was just the Indians who were savages, the American soldiers rode through villages with revenge on their minds and killed every living thing: men, women, children, old people, and dogs.  So, who were the savages?

We are under attack.  It's not Mother Nature with her extreme weather we should fear (although she isn't happy with us...for good reason), or Asteroids from outer space with annihilation on their minds, or Super Bugs from Chinese birds determined to make us sick and then die, or Big Foot hiding behind a tree waiting for us to walk by so he can jump out and go, "BOO!"

The enemy is within.  It is ourselves we need to fear.  I don't understand.  I never will.  I cry for Boston.  I cry for you.  I cry for me.  I cry for the children who will inherit this human condition and for the innocents who will suffer because of it.

Sick'n Tired

"I am very, very, very upset right now!" the man said.  He was standing in our living room on Cowee Mountain and using our house phone to spew his anger at the person on the other end of the line.  Tom and I rent our home on occasion to people who want to vacation in the mountains, and our new tenants hadn't been in town five minutes before they had become victims.  His wife was standing next to him, goading him on.  They were furious. They had been misled, he said.  They had been taken advantage of, and he was "sick'n tired" of people who took advantage of others.  He talked about a time in 1976 when he witnessed a man pocket $20 of his hard-earned money.  He brought up other incidents dating back decades when people just like the person he was talking to on the phone had ripped him off.

I was speechless as I listened to this man vent.  When he threatened to call the sheriff, the tension increased tenfold.  Yes, they had reasons to be upset, but was it necessary to call in the big guns?  When he realized the person he was talking to would not be able to right the wrong, he became even more verbally abusive.

"You people," he yelled, "sit back and wait for your prey to cross your devious path, and when you have them right where you want them, you spring your trap."  Goodness gracious, great balls of fire! The person on the other end of the line must be the scum of the earth.

If you've read any of my previous posts, you know that I am a believer in respect.  Respect seems to have lost its "cool" these days, especially in Hollywood, the place where many of our youth and their parents, aunts, uncles, and next door neighbors look for moral guidance and behavior mentoring.  Reality television has shown us that it's okay to cross the line of civility for whatever reason.  For Hollywood, bizarre behavior increases ratings which equals more money.  For others, it's behavior that feels good in the moment.

You say you ordered your steak medium well, but it came to your table still mooing?  Scream at the waitress.  It's okay!  No, really it is.  What?  The person sitting behind you in church every Sunday sings off key?  Turn around next Sunday and say, "Your singing sounds like two !@#$%! rabid cats in heat!"  Just say it.  It's okay.  The next time you're at a restaurant and the people who came in after you are served first, get up, walk over to the their table, say a few curse words and then knock their food on the floor.  Just do it.  When you perceive that you've been wronged, it's acceptable to say and do whatever you want in order to feel better. And if that venting can be directed toward someone who can't see you, all the better.  Take, for example, the angry man in our living room on Cowee Mountain yelling into our phone at the scum bag who wronged him:  me.

That's right. I was the devious scum bag who sat back and waited for Sick'n Tired and his wife to cross my path so I could spring the trap and do what?  I was confused.  So why am I going to jail?

"Your website clearly states that smoking in your house is permitted!" The wife yelled past her husband and into the phone. "And yet I see a 'Thank you for not smoking sign' on the door.  That's deceptive advertising.  We want our money back right now!"

I was in Indianapolis when I saw that our house phone in Franklin, North Carolina, was calling me on my cell.  How nice, I thought.  Our tenants were calling to say they had arrived safely.  But this was not one of those calls.  After discovering their dilemma (they didn't want to smoke outside for several days),  I felt terrible and apologized for the mistake on our website, but I was four hundred miles away, and Tom was fishing, so "right now" was not an option.  After Sick'n Tired had emptied all of his ammunition into me and had stopped to reload, I broke through my fear of confronting and said, "Why are you so mean? Why are you treating me with disrespect?" 

In an instant, he went from furious, mean and threatening to calm, nice and chatty.  My question was the perfect antidote to the poison that was pulsating through his body.  He was past it and wanted to be friends.  I was still shaking and wanted to hang up.  So I did.