Ten Years

It was on June 2, 2001, that I told my mom good-bye for the last time. She was surrounded by her family as the angels came to take her home. My heart still aches as I remember it. I think about her every day.

 

Sometimes when I look at my hands, I think of hers. She had strong hands and they were always moving. I’ve watched her hands while she peeled potatoes, stitched a quilt, set tobacco, squeezed out cat-head biscuits, planted a garden, or played “Rooster, Pullet, Hen” with an unsuspecting child. If you’re not familiar with that little game, it went like this: She would touch a youngster’s forehead and say, “This is the rooster.” Then she’d touch his nose and say, “This is the pullet.” She would touch his chin and say, “This is the hen.” She’d touch his nose once more and ask, “What’d I say that was?” When he answered “Pullet” . . . she would.

 

She could tie the prettiest hand of tobacco. She tied backwards, but the hands were neat and tight. After Daddy packed them on the basket, it was almost a work of art. Daddy told me that he never once asked Mom to go help him on the farm. She would ask him every night about his plans for the next day. She would be up the following morning and ready to go by the time he got out of bed. She loved to work, whether it was in the field or in the kitchen.

 

Mom was the best cook I’ve ever known. It was old fashioned country cooking, much of which came from the garden, either fresh or canned. New potatoes, fried corn, green beans, peas, sliced tomatoes – I can taste them now. Sometimes she didn’t even have to go to the garden, for example when she cooked dandelion greens or fried poke stalk. She would bake a pan of cornbread every evening. When there was work to be done on the farm, she made a big breakfast, including biscuits and gravy, so they would get a substantial start to the day. I can’t imagine cooking breakfast, packing lunch (which was called “dinner”), working all day in the field, cooking supper in the evening, washing dishes, then doing the household chores – and never once complaining about it.

 

I don’t know how many quilts Mom made. It seemed every winter she would piece a new top. She and other ladies in the neighborhood would set up a quilting frame in an empty room or even a vacant house. They would then meet to put the quilt together. I was amazed at the way Mom’s hand rocked back and forth as she made the quilting stitches. The stitches were so tiny, they looked as though they had been done on a machine.

 

Mom loved to sleep so she could dream. That was the only time she could see. If all the things above weren’t amazing enough, she did them even though she was legally blind. During the last several years of her life, she could only distinguish light from dark. As she held my newborn daughter on her lap twenty years ago, she said, “I can see the light shining in your eyes.”

 

Mom started losing her eyesight just a few years after I was born. It never stopped her – it just made life more challenging for her. If she wanted to see your facial features, she would “look” at you with her hands. If you were a man with a beard, you could expect to have it pulled as she felt of your face. When the electricity goes off and I’m groping around in the dark trying to find a flashlight, I think about how her every waking moment was like that. I don’t think I could ever be as brave as she was.

 

I admire my mom for her perseverance, her strength, her love of hard work, and her love of family. I miss her so much and I still love her with all my heart.

Classic Commercials

The “See the USA” commercial on Glee reminded me of other classic television commercials that I miss. Once I got started making this list, it was hard to stop! How many of these products can you guess from the slogan? It helps to be older’n dirt, like I am.

1. See the USA in a __________.
2. It’s the real thing.
3. Double your pleasure, double your fun.
4. __________ tastes good like a cigarette should. (Yes, they once advertised cigarettes on tv!)
5. The music goes “Zoom zoom”; the drummer goes “Boom boom”; and everybody shouts “Hooray for __________.”
6. Oh, __________ I’m glad they put real borax in you.
7. Hold the pickles, hold the lettuce, special orders don’t upset us, all we ask is that you let us serve it your way.
8. Does she or doesn’t she? Only her hairdresser knows for sure.
9. The quality goes in before the name goes on.
10. It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature!
11. No one can eat just one.
12. Ancient Chinese secret, huh?
13. Is it live or is it __________.
14. __________ has a better idea.
15. Taste that beats the others cold, __________ pours it on.
16. Stronger than dirt.
17. __________ is your kind of place.
18. Come to where the flavor is.
19. I’d like to buy the world a __________.
20. Fill it to the rim with __________.
21. You’ve come a long way, baby.
22. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz; oh, what a relief it is.
23. From one beer lover to another.
24. __________ melt in your mouth, not in your hands.
25. Strong enough for a man, but made for a woman.
26. When you’re number two, you try harder.
27. Reach out and touch someone.
28. Look, Ma, no cavities!
29. Put a tiger in your tank.
30. Good to the last drop.
31. Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don’t.
32. When you’re out of __________, you’re out of beer.
33. __________, __________ tastes great. Wish we had some, can’t wait.
34. Wouldn’t you really rather have a __________?
35. In the valley of the jolly, “Ho! Ho! Ho!”
36. Aren’t you glad you use __________? Don’t you wish everybody did?
37. You can trust your car to the man who wears the star.
38. Get a little closer, don’t be shy.
39. Bring out the __________ and bring out the best.
40. You’ll love those tiny little tea leaves in __________ tea.
41. Nothing says loving like something from the oven.
42. My wife, I think I’ll keep her.
43. Everybody doesn’t like something but nobody doesn’t like __________.
44. Fly the friendly skies of __________.
45. The dogs kids love to bite.
46. You’re not fully clean unless you’re _____-fully clean.
47. Us __________ smokers would rather fight than switch.
48. You get a quick tan, a double tan, when you use __________.
49. Please don’t squeeze the __________.
50. So complete, all you add is love.
51. No more ring around the collar.
52. If it says __________, __________, __________ on the label you will like it, like it, like it on your table, table, table.
53. Tastes so good, makes you feel like a king.
54. Sorry, Charlie, __________ doesn’t want tuna with good taste. __________ wants tuna that tastes good!
55. There’s always room for __________.
56. Nothing beats a great pair of __________.
57. Take __________ tonight and sleep. Safe and restful, sleep, sleep, sleep.
58. All of my men wear __________ or they wear nothing at all.
59. Raise your hand if you’re __________.
60. Be careful how you use it.

Here is a bonus for the locals:
Stop, shop, and save at the sign of the shears and the name __________.

Grandma's Bed

It's old. It's too small for today's mattress sizes. The finish is scratched and worn. It belonged to my grandmother. I wouldn't part with it for anything. I was three years old when she passed away. Grandma always wore a headscarf, she dipped snuff, and she was living in the house with us. I once thought my head was stuck between the rails of our stairs. I cried and screamed until Grandma told me to straighten my head and pull it back out.

 

Grandma enjoyed playing with me and my kittens. I would bring a kitten to her and she would swaddle it in one of her scarves. One day, she was sitting in her rocking chair, trying so hard to wrap my kitten but her hands just weren't able to get the scarf folded correctly. I looked up at her face and she was staring straight ahead. A little bit of ambeer was trickling from the corner of her mouth. Even though I was only three, I knew something was terribly wrong. I ran and got my dad. Grandma had suffered a stroke. She passed away in the hospital sometime later.

 

My cousin once told me that when she gets really lonesome for her mother, she takes her mom's sweater from the closet and puts it on. It still has the faint aroma of her mother's favorite perfume. This gives her the feeling of being wrapped in her mother's loving arms. When I get sad, I lie on this bed, close my eyes, and let the memory of my grandmother's love console me.

Since When

When was the last time you heard someone say . . .

Regular or high-test?

You go turn the antenna and I’ll holler when the picture is good.

I can’t do laundry today – it’s supposed to rain.

How many are on your party line?

Bring in a bucket of coal.

It’s a brand new 45 and it skips.

How long is your gum wrapper chain?

Don’t forget your earmuffs.

We’re almost out of lard.

Bank the fire before you go to bed.

I Vaguely Remember

This is the type of winter we had when I was growing up: snow after snow after snow. Oh, how I enjoyed making a snowman, eating snow cream, and taking turns riding Randy’s and Larry’s sled. I have fond memories of my childhood but I don’t have many of them and the ones I have aren’t detailed. I blame that on Butch Harless.

I was in the second grade at Flatwoods School. Flatwoods was actually two schools in separate buildings. The older building was the elementary school (grades 1 – 7) and the newer building was the high school (grades 8 – 12). There was no kindergarten back in the olden days and I had only heard of “junior high” in books. The driveway for buses and cars made a loop between the two buildings. I once got hit by a car as I was coming back from buying ice cream in the high school building at recess. That doesn’t have anything to do with my poor memory – just my poor judgment.

 

Elementary and high school shared the same principal, Mr. Samuel Chester “S.C.” Hobbs, and his office was in the high school building. There were different rules for the elementary students than for the high school kids. For example, the boys in high school were allowed to carry pocket knives and they could smoke at the gate out back. This helps explain my confusion when the song “Smokin’ in the Boys Room” became popular. “Everybody knows that smokin’ ain’t allowed in school” so why didn’t they just go to the gate?

 

Butch Harless and his buddy, Mack, had failed a few grades. They had been “held back,” as it is called nowadays. They were the only students I knew who drove to school . . . in the seventh grade. Mack was taller than the teachers so they had long since stopped trying to discipline him. Paddling was out of the question for either of them. When they got in trouble for smoking at the gate with the high school boys or for playing mumbly peg, they were sent to the principal’s office. It was common for one or both of them to be expelled for three days.

 

It’s not surprising then that the rule against running in the halls was largely ignored by Butch and Mack. During recess on that fateful day, I had gone to Mrs. Bertha Taylor’s room. The bell rang and I headed out the door to get back to my own room. Just as I stepped into the hallway, Butch came running in from the outside where the usual gang had been playing ball. He knocked me down and the back of my head hit the tile-covered concrete floor.

 

Have you ever seen or heard something that reminded you of a dream you had the night before but you can only remember bits and pieces of the dream? That’s the way it is with my memory of this event. My BFF, Lucy, walked me to our classroom as the tears streamed down my face. (Of course, we weren’t called BFFs back then but we had made a pinky promise to be friends for life.) I started going blind so someone got my cousin, Bunny, since I have no brothers or sisters, to come help me. While I was sitting in the classroom, the other kids were testing me with “How many fingers am I holding up?” or “What kind of book is this?” to find out if I really couldn’t see them.

 

Someone called my aunt Emma and told her what had happened. We didn’t have a phone at our house so I assume either Emma or J.C. went down to tell Mom and Dad. Meanwhile, I got sick at my stomach so Bunny had to lead me to the girls’ restroom. I didn’t make it in time. I wonder how many sick school kids our janitor, Mr. J.B. Horton, had to clean up after. I still recall the smell of that red compound he would push up and down the halls with his dust broom.

 

When Mom and Dad got to the school, they took me to the hospital at Pennington Gap. My sight slowly began to return. They did a skull X-ray at the hospital but, back then, the results weren’t instant like they are now. Since I seemed to be doing better, they sent me home. Three days later, we got the report that there was a hairline fracture in my skull. There you have it – dain bramage.

 

The story you have just read is true. Some of the names were changed to protect the innocent. More accurately, they were changed to protect ME in case “Butch” or “Mack” ever gets wind of this.

A Walk Down Memory Lane

Daddy moved back home a few weeks ago after staying with us for 20 months. He had been trying to get me to agree to let him stay by himself for several weeks. With much trepidation, I finally gave in.

We got about 2" of snow on Christmas Day. The roads were in pretty good shape so I headed down to Daddy's to take his gifts and his medication refills to him. Daddy lives on a dirt road and as soon as you turn off the paved road, you go down a steep hill. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to get back up the hill in my car so I parked it at the "head of the lane" and walked the last 1/2 mile to his house.

Of course, I had my camera in hand. Like I had told Keith, if I have a wreck, I'm gonna get some good pictures of it. I snapped photos as I walked along -- weeds in the snow, the old barn, the gate, turkey tracks -- and thought about all the times I walked or rode my bike down that road in my childhood. As I neared Daddy's house, the fog began to lift from Wallen's Ridge. After I took some shots of it and turned to continue down the road, I remembered there was once a path worn through the yard where we would take a shortcut when walking from the barn. Even though it was covered with snow, I could still find the path.

As I walked through the yard, I could almost see my Papaw sitting on the porch in a straight-back chair, wearing overalls, and chewing King B Twist tobacco. I could imagine my Grandma inside the house in her rocking chair with a kitten on her lap. Mom would be cooking a big dinner like she used to do, waiting for me to arrive so she could hug me and give me a loud kiss on my cheek. She would make me warm my hands and feet at the Warm Morning stove that once stood in the living room.

I walked slowly because I knew none of them were there. Daddy was the only one waiting for me inside the house. Oh, how lonely he must be with no one to keep him company except for memories.

The Miracle Cake

I haven’t made an Orange Slice Candy cake since before my mother-in-law passed away. We made one together many years ago and I just hadn’t felt like trying it again. I decided Amanda and I would make one this year. I found a recipe in a church cookbook that belonged to Mrs. Nichols. I assumed it was the same recipe we had used. I read through it several times and realized the instructions were somewhat lacking. It included the ingredients and the order to add them, but that was about all. I told Amanda it would be a miracle if we could figure out how to make it, but we’d give it a try anyway.

We got out mixing bowls, mixer, measuring cups and spoons, flour, sugar, eggs, butter, candy, nuts, coconut, and dates. We lined up everything on the countertop and got to work. We creamed and combined until we got to the part where we were supposed to add the baking soda to the buttermilk. I can “make” buttermilk by adding vinegar to regular milk, but . . . baking soda? I only use baking soda to deodorize the fridge. Who uses plain flour anymore? I keep some on hand for pie crusts but I use self-rising for everything else. I contemplated opening the ceramic penguin and removing a teaspoon of baking soda that had been absorbing refrigerator odors for the past month but decided the onion and garlic aroma might overpower the orange candy. I talked Keith into going to the store. While he was gone, I made another batch of fudge.

When he returned, Amanda and I got back to work on the cake batter. It was when I was ready to add the buttermilk mixture alternately with the flour mixture to the creamed mixture that I realized I had the latter two in the wrong bowls. I dug out another bowl and made the swap. Finally the batter was complete. Now all I had to do was add the candy, nuts, and fruit. After I got about half of it incorporated into the batter, I realized I was running out of room. It would be a miracle if the mixing bowl would hold everything.

After carefully stirring the last of the coconut into the batter, I was ready to place it into the Bundt pan. I could barely lift the bowl! I hefted the bowl underneath my arm and held it like a bagpipe. I told Amanda to turn the cake pan as I raked out the dense mixture. I said it would be a miracle if it ever got done all the way through. The instructions said to bake for 35-40 minutes.

An hour and a half later, a skewer inserted in the center came out clean. I took the cake from the oven and set it on a rack to cool. I later made the orange sauce, poked holes in the cake crust, and poured the sauce over the top. Some of it puddled in the center next to the tube. I doubted that it would ever soak into the cake. I set it in the refrigerator to “rest” overnight as instructed. It would be a miracle if this thing ever came out of the pan.

The next morning, I removed the pan from the refrigerator and, oddly enough, all the sauce had been absorbed into the cake. I ran a knife along the outer and inner edges of the cake then turned it upside down onto the plate. Nothing happened. I turned it back upright again and repeated with the knife, this time gently lifting up until I could see the cake begin to move. I inverted it onto the plate once more and this time I felt the pan lighten as the cake was loosed from its Bundt prison. How much of it had stuck? I was almost afraid to lift the pan to see. Success! I was amazed that very few crumbs had stuck to the pan. I covered the cake plate and headed off to work. It would be a miracle if the cake were edible.

I arrived home after work and couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. I lifted the cover, cut a piece of cake, and noticed how moist the orange sauce had made it. I took a bite and, to my surprise, it was not only edible – it was delicious. Miracles do happen!