Me and my Grandma Angel Laura

Today, I began to write about my memories of my grandmother. I first recall her living with my Aunt Opha, her daughter, in Hosmer, Indiana at the old farm where my grandmother brought her children up. Henry, her husband, my grandfather, died while they were raising their children and my grandmother couldn't keep the house because she couldn't pay the taxes on the farm. My uncle Ishmael bought it for the price of the taxes (hearsay) and she lived with them for a time. My grandfather worked in the local coal mines and farmed. I've heard that hard work killed him. He had a stroke and died 3 years later. The kids and grandma took care of the farm along with my grandfather's dad who moved in to take the burden off them by caring for the farm. Eventually I guess my great grandfather died as well. I'm learning I don't know as much as I wish I did. I hope Donnie Barrett, Uncle Ishmael, dad and some of the other cousins can fill in some of the gaps as this is a story I will add to from time to time as I learn more. I'm telling it from the viewpoint of a small child who got bits and pieces of the story by memory and word of mouth.

I remember it seemed to me that every weekend my mom would load up the Model A Ford with a few of our clothes when dad came home from work on Friday night and we'd head to "the farm". Our car had a rumble seat (look it up all you young folks) and I would crawl into the rumble seat (a 4 year old in a rumble seat, imagine). I was a disciplined child who knew not to stand up in the seat, throw things on the highway (nothing like the highways of modern times). I enjoyed the wind in my face and the anticipation of getting to the family farm. I colored in my coloring books, slept, or played with my doll on the way.

Grandma and Aunt Opha made wonderful country meals. They didn't buy the food, they grew it. They had their own chickens and when you wanted chicken you caught it, wrung it's neck (poor chicken) and plucked feathers. Lots of preparation went into making a good meal. Every Sunday, fried chicken was served with gravy, mashed potatoes, other fresh vegetables, salad, and homemade biscuits. Country folks never had dinner without dessert. We had apple or cherry pie or a delicious homemade chocolate or coconut cake. The food was appealing even to a small child. Whe else would I remember the meals?

We all sat around a pot bellied stove in the dining area in rocking chairs in the late evening and I would doze off against my mom's chest while she rocked and talked. The talk would become a pleasing hum that eventually disappeared because I would fall asleep. The next morning I woke in my cousin Dickie's bed. He would sleep elsewhere when we spent the weekend. I really don't know where everyone slept as I can't remember how many rooms the house had. I remember mainly the wonderful dining area where we all met, and the bird dogs tied outside. They were beautiful dogs. I remember the tomato garden in the spring, where we pulled the tomatoes from the vine salting the rich, red, ripe fruit and eating them straight off the vine. The produce cellar had the smell of hickory nuts; vegetables and apples. This was one of my hiding places when the cousins from up the road (Aunt Lena and Uncle Jessie's kids) came. Sometimes my aunt Dot and Uncle Harold came with their 5 children. Dickie, Aunt Opha and Uncle Ish's son, was always a little older and more sophisticated than us. He didn't play hide and seek; catch the fireflies, or jump the rope. He was a bird hunter, thus the bird dogs. He and uncle Ishmael loved to trapse off to the woods and hunt doves in the fall.

Grandma Laura moved into our house when I was about 5 or 6 years old and kept me while mom and dad worked. She was my constant companion. She kept our house clean; our meals cooked and a small child entertained. She taught me out of the Bible; she told me personal stories about her salvation and how you could accept Christ into your heart anywhere. It didn't have to be at a church. She said she accepted Christ into her life in a cornfield. She did not say the age she was when this happened or what the circumstance was. I guess God just spoke to her heart and she knew.

My grandmother made us popcorn cooked in a pan and Kool Aid every night. We played dominoes most nights but also Old Maid. My little friend Patty Powers came over most every day to play. Sometimes we played ball outside or rode our bikes to the local grocery store and bought penny candy: licorice ropes; wax coke bottles with liquid inside; Double Bubble gum - - whatever 5 cents would buy which, back in the late 40's was a stuffed sack of candy! One of our favorite toys was the old fashioned clothes pins! We played store and the clothes pins took on a new life becoming hot dogs, bottles of cocoa cola, dolls and then there was drop the pegs (clothes pins) in a bottle and whoever got the most in the bottle won the game. Life was a big playhouse for us and anything in the house became something else for us. The word "bored" was not part of our vocabulary. Even when the freshly washed sheets were hung outside to dry, they became our stage or hiding place. We would pop out from the back of the sheet and dance or sing. I still remember the smell of those wonderful sheets, and sometimes wish I had a clotheline to hang my sheets on just so I can experience that particular smell once again.

My grandmother slept with me every night. At night when she took her hair down from the bun she wore all day. I combed it for hours. She combed mine. She had only 10% hearing and would remove her hearing aide that had a little clip that fit behind her ear and a cord to the battery. Whenever she wanted to get things done she turned her hearing aid off. Grandma was my back scratcher at night. This was our nightly ritual. She scratched my back until I fell asleep.

Grandma Laura was the face I saw all day and the last one I saw at night. I felt safe, and was safe, in her keep. When she went to live with my Aunt Dot, I cried and cried. I wanted my companion back with me, but no matter how I begged or how much I cried, grandma left our home, she had to. I was getting a new baby sister and my Aunt Dot's husband, Harold, had just passed away leaving my aunt with 5 children to raise without a daddy. Grandma went to live with her and coordinate their resources and efforts to raise my cousins who no longer had their daddy. About 3 years later, my grandma angel died from ovarian cancer. She was only 62 years old. I have outlived her by 3 years now. I can never accomplish what she did in her short life. When remembering Laura, I remember the stories told about her hard journey in this life, how she helped others to live theirs, including mine. I wish I could bring her back and make life easier for her, but I know God has seen her struggles and her positive attitude towards life. He is making her life easy and she is enjoying it. I will always miss her and now, whenever I think of her, my heart swells with tremendous love and respect for her and a smile crosses my face remembering Laura.

Micah the Tigger

And as they walked Piglet said nothing, because he couldn’t think of anything, and Pooh said nothing, because he was thinking of a poem. And when he thought of it he began:
What shall we do about poor little Tigger?
If he never eats nothing he’ll never get bigger.
He doesn’t like honey and haycorns and thistles
Because of the taste and because of the bristles.
And all the good things an animal likes
Have the wrong sort of swallow or too many spikes.
“He’s quite big enough anyhow,” said Piglet.
"He isn't really very big."
"Well, he seems so"
Pooh was thoughtful when he heard this, and then he murmured to himself:
But whatever his weight in pounds, shillings, and ounces,
He always seems bigger because of his bounces.
“And that’s the whole poem,” he said. “Do you like it, Piglet?”
All except for the shillings,” said Piglet. “I don’t think they ought to be there.”
“They wanted to come in after the pounds,” explained Pooh, “so I let them. Its the best way to write poetry, letting things come.”

The dreaded plastic bag!

I was sitting at Café Brazil in McKinney a couple of weeks ago with my daughter and sister waiting for our food. While there I noticed a plastic bag tossing and turning in the wind. It flew like a helium balloon up in the air and floated delicately over the parked cars. I watched it the entire time we were there - - very entertaining that a bag could dip and weave and never leave the area. It reminded me of the many plastic bags I see on the highway. Where do they come from?

Do auto/truck/van dealers and service garages release so many bags a month for their own evil purposes? I read if a plastic bag hits just right under your vehicle and gets sucked up in your engine it will cost you major for repairs. I dodge and slow down for the bag hoping the wind will blow it away from my van. Where do those dreaded plastic bags come from; and why can’t they be melted down as liquid and put in concrete mixtures to keep the concrete from breaking and melting away during bad weather? Plastic never breaks down! Not in a billion years does it break down. We could have roads which last forever! Next time you shop ask your clerk if you can have paper bags instead of plastic. We are thinking green. If the clerk looks at you as though you are nuts, then take the plastic bag they offer (a clerk can’t do much on their own) and go home and shoot an email to the corporate office. Remind them the U.S.A. is a green nation and we need to put our paper bags where our mouth is!

Start looking and counting how many times you see a plastic bag scooting across the highway or blowing in the wind. You’ll be surprised as I was.

http://www.citizensagainstlitter.org/