Scary Times

It was a frightening time for a child. My small safe space had been turned upside down by World War II. Within a few years of that came the Texas City explosion and the tornado which destroyed Woodward, Oklahoma not far from us.

All the adults in my tiny sphere said it spelled the end of the world. My grandmother was certain of it. She wouldn't say it just to scare me. Hadn't she always been my comfort, my joy?

After all, she never made me eat blackeyed peas or boiled chicken and when I wrote on her new wallpaper, she protected me from my mother. We played house and she let me call her "Lady." Would she predict doom if it wasn't imminent?

And my aunts? They understood a child's need for fun and laughter. Always loving, they kept a stash of treats for me or bought me a gift just when I needed it the most. Would they frighten me with all this talk of "the end" if it wasn't an absolute?

Why didn't I confide in my mother? I suspect it was because mothers never lie and I was scared she'd tell me the end was, indeed, near.

My grandmother and aunts talked of the sermons about resurrection at their church. They spoke eagerly of anticipating the Second-Coming. My first thought? "Good gosh, why? I haven't even gotten to wear lipstick or high heels, yet." Those were the things I eagerly anticipated.

They weren't being thoughtless in voicing their conjectures in my presence. As adults our priorities change. They had experienced all I could only envision. Secure in their beliefs, they looked forward to eternity.

I know they never would have discussed the end of the world in front of me if they had known how terrified I was. So terrified I lay awake at night frozen with fright at the thought my world might end. No, they wouldn't have subjected me to that if they'd known. They loved me too much.

Lookin' back, I remember all the times I subjected my children to the evening news. David Brinkley and Chet Huntley gave us explicit details of all the horrific natural disasters and the events of the Vietnam War. Were my children frightened? I hope not, but how thoughtless of me. If they were scared, and had asked, I'd have lied and said everything was wonderful.

Basketball

It was such a small school, the freshmen had to be included to even make a basketball team. The senior girls chose to climb a set of ladder-type steps to the loft to change out of their uniforms after practice. They felt uncomfortable, they claimed, taking off their clothes in front of the freshmen.

Yeah, right! Like we couldn't smell the cigarette smoke or see it boiling out of the small square opening into which they'd just disappeared.

We didn't care though. Every day, four of us climbed up there during our "freshman" lunch period and smoked all the snipes we could find.

Occasionally, we'd hear them cussing a blue streak about a really long butt they'd left behind and now couldn't locate. We'd nearly burst trying to keep from laughing, especially because we didn't want the sophomores and juniors to guess our secret and tattle.

We washed our hands with soap, rinsed our mouths, and blew in each others faces. Nope, couldn't smell a thing. On our way from there to Home Ec one day, a guy in our class stopped to talk. Surrounded by our group, he suddenly asked if we'd been smoking.

Of course we all denied it, but when he persisted we wondered how he'd guessed. That's when we learned one smoker can't smell it on another.

That didn't stop us though. We were having too much fun outfoxing the older girls.

What did bring an end to our escapades was when the most skittish of our group got hold of a loaded cigarette. She was boldly puffing away when the tip blew off. The look on her face was priceless and we nearly fell out of the loft laughing.

I'm sure one of the older girls had bummed one too many from a senior guy and he'd played a trick on her by sticking a "load" in it.

That was the end of our adventures in smoking.

Lookin' back, I've often wondered how long the guy waited before asking what happened with the trick he'd played. If he only knew.

He never wore out his welcome with me.

I still remember the happiness of opening the door and seeing him standing on the porch. Some times he had a suitcase, but most often his possessions were in a paper bag.

He always dropped in. Not nearly as often as I would have liked, but more frequently than my mother wanted. Her hesitancy was because he and his bad habits and dirty laundry stayed for weeks.

A friend of my father's, Fred had very few ties and almost no family. Except us. He loved me with the kind of devotion that never sees faults. And I loved him without reservation, as only a child can love someone who dotes on them.

My first memories of him are from when I was not yet four. He was married then and his cantankerous wife, Imola, came to help my mother with my new baby brother. She most definitely didn't dote on me, thought I was spoiled and told me so. They lived with his parents and I couldn't understand why he seemed to love her. She was never, never in a good mood. They all moved away after a couple of years and when he returned to visit, he was always alone. Drifting.

In those days, before television, he and my father would sit around at night telling hunting stories. Usually how one had gotten away from them that day. All the while, he held me on his lap and included me in his world, if only with a hug or an occasional word.

When we were moving from the farm into the newly remodeled house in town, he sat on a stool in the back of our pickup and played "The Waltz You Saved For Me," on the piano. It was my mother's favorite song. No need to let a good piano and extra playing time go to waste, he said. I suspect it was to soften up my mother in hopes she'd let him stay longer.

Once in a great while, he'd call and tell us to listen to the Grand Ol' Opry because he'd been invited to sit in with some band and they'd promised to introduce him to the audience. Never happened, but I was sure it would next time. Not only could he make a piano talk, he could play the strings off a guitar.

Lookin' back, I didn't care how much trouble he was, but then I didn't have to wash his clothes and clean up after him. I was always glad when he came and cried when he left. He never wore out his welcome with me.

Saturday Night Fun

Going to town on Saturday night during the summer was the highlight of our week. Something to be anticipated from the time we arrived back at the farm until it was time to leave for the next trip. Some times we went across the river to Burkburnett and some times we went to Grandfield.

We always left home about mid-afternoon, so we could sell the excess cream from our milk cows, then we shopped for groceries and had a fountain drink at the drugstore.

After that we went to the picture show. If we were lucky, there was an installment in the serial and a double-feature. The smell of rich, buttered popcorn was so tempting. Some times we had money to buy a sack, some times not. After the movie was over, we sat in the car on Main Street and watched to see who else had come to town and, when people we knew strolled by, they would stop to visit.

If I had money, my mom would let me go to the five-and-dime store. There, I'd spend what seemed like forever pouring over every item before I made the decision to part with my meager funds. I loved the way the store carried the scent of oiled wooden floors and, always, there was the aroma of candy corn.

When it was time for the grocery store to close, we went back and collected our bags. We'd left them just inside the building because it was cooler than the car. I wonder what we possibly could have bought that would have spoiled? Not milk or meat, we grew those. Perhaps, though, it had to do with status. I recall a touch of pride in the voices of my parents as they stood among other customers and pointed out several sacks of food. Was it my imagination or was a family's success indicated by how well they ate?

Usually, around the first of August, we'd go to the dry goods store and buy material so my mother could sew school clothes. Occasionally, we'd make a special trip to Wichita Falls and go to Levine's or Penney's to buy fabric, but often we bought it in Grandfield. Picking out a pair of shoes for the winter was so special that it was saved for a night all its own.

I always knew summer was at an end and fall was near the night my dad bought his winter dress jacket, a leather blazer. To this day, when I smell the scent of leather, I remember his quiet pride as he tried them on. Perhaps that, too, was a status thing. He didn't buy them during lean years on the farm.

Lookin' back, I remember how long it was from one Saturday night to the next. Summer days were filled with chores and seemed to pass with agonizing slowness. Our trip to town was a pleasure worth anticipating.

Friends And The Best of What Was.

Just after lunch every day, she pumped past my house on her new bicycle. She was on her way to play with our friend. Not me, though, I was stuck in the house.

My old bike lay on its side in the yard, looking as forlorn as I felt.

That summer, I was sure there was no fairness in life. At 9, and a year older than my childhood friend, I had to take a nap each afternoon while she was free to go play. Envy is a childish emotion, but I was, after all, a child.

It was the year of the polio epidemic, or the one I remember, anyway. My father, being a great believer in resting during the heat of the day, had ordered the naps as a precaution against polio. His theory? It can't hurt.

He put the pallet by the front door to catch the breeze and I was sure she knew I could see her pass by. Otherwise, why didn't she go around the block the other way?

We all know that unfairness doesn't begin or end at nine. For one thing, I had to take naps again the next summer. My father had a long memory.

During those years we were bosom buddies one minute, mortal enemies the next. In a small town, as in all neighborhoods, that can happen as seldom as several times a day, if your lucky and if your parents stay out of it. Most of the time, we were and ours did.

Later on, when we began driving, her parents had a newer car than mine did and more money for gas and new clothes. You know, all the essentials of a teenager's life. She didn't gloat and, by then, I'd outgrown the envy. And, no longer, were we mortal enemies, even for a moment.

Funny about life and fairness, it evens out if you look at the overall picture. We've both had our joys and sorrows. Though we've each moved several times over the years, to big cities for our livelihoods, and to small towns...perhaps drawn by the best of what was.

Lookin' back I can say, I never had polio and she's made one of the finest women I've every known. When I sent her this column, she had her husband make a frame for it and a picture she had of the two of us on our bikes that first year we had them. It's hanging here in my office and I treasure it along with the memories it brings forth.

No Rest From The Searching

I was looking through the filing cabinet where I kept the receipts for clothing and gifts. All the ones from the past two Christmases were there, in a special folder. In the kitchen drawer, there was a stash of grocery coupons, dating back 10 years. Hey, it was a deep drawer. I confess to a compulsion to save receipts and pieces of paper of all kinds. Not just save them, but know where they are should I need them. My search came because I needed to exchange a pair of pants. Guess what? I couldn't find it. Not right away at least. I decided I needed to reduce what I kept and change where I kept the stuff in the drawer.

That was seven or eight years ago. The drawer has dish towels in it now. The important receipts are in those folders in the filing cabinet. I've quit keeping grocery receipts. I tell you, I feel like I deserve a slot on the Today Show to discuss my success.

My dreams are fraught with futile searches for lost receipts and lists, misplaced paperwork, my wallet--especially my wallet--and such. The other night, I dreamed that I was scheduled to sing on Broadway and couldn't find the paper on which I'd written the words of the song. I asked if I could sing "Memory" from the play "Cats." That one I seemed to know by heart. I belted out the first few words and the notes rang loud and true. But, no, they wanted me to do the scheduled song. It seems, "Memory" didn't fit in this play. So I searched. Don't believe that bit about how dreams only last a few seconds. I know I searched all night for that paper.

I must tell you that, outside this dream, I can't carry the tune to "Happy Birthday." My husband insists it wasn't a dream, rather a nightmare--at least for all the people who had plunked down good money to see the Broadway play.

Why do I do this? I don't have a clue, unless it's because my mother didn't save very much and, what she did save, she couldn't find. When my father died, they'd been married 40 years and all their important papers fit in a shoe box. The Erma Bombeck columns I've kept wouldn't fit in a bushel basket. That may be stretching it a bit but, I haven't looked in my Bombeck Save Box in a while so I can't say for sure.

As a kid, I recall feeling anxious when my dad asked to see last year's income tax filing. I knew my mother was going to scurry around looking and, chances were, she'd thrown it away. And if she hadn't, then she'd put it in a new "better" place, so she could find it easier next time. Of course, "next time" had come along and it was the same old story.

Me? I know right where to lay my hands on those old Christmas gift receipts. My system is better than when I was looking for the one for those pants. Doesn't keep me from dreaming about losing them, though.

Lookin' back, I wonder if anyone ever told my mother about the old adage, "a place for everything and everything in its place?" As for me, if I start making alphabetical lists of where my "save stuff" is filed--and, yes, I've thought about it--I might need to start heeding another old saying, which is, "lighten up."

Send Off

During the beginning of Desert Storm, my television was dark and silent. The same was true when the U.S. went into Afghanistan and Iraq. I tried to watch, but I couldn't. There were, and still are, so many scenes of families being parted and the memories those scenes bring back are too painful to bear.

At the beginning of World War II, my father was in his mid-30s and married with two children, but it was his occupation that kept him from being drafted. He was a farmer.

His brother, Bryan, wasn't as lucky. He got his notice just after high school graduation. My dad fretted, his concern a sorrowful thing to see. They weren't just close as brothers often are, despite the age difference, they doted on one another.

I remember when my uncle came home on leave after boot camp. He had orders to Germany. There were family get-togethers with big meals, lots of visiting, and laughter. All of it made me nervous, but it was the latter that held the most ominous clue. For a family that was quick to embrace fun and gaiety, this laughter was short, loud, and forced.

It was a warm fall day when my uncle dressed in his uniform and packed his bags. We were all standing outside at my grandparents' farm, waiting to give him a sendoff, and he went from one to the other of us saying goodbye.

When he reached my father, the last in line, they lurched toward one another and hugged. I was about six and, to this day, the horrible sound of their sobbing still echoes through my memory and brings tears to my eyes.

My uncle came home, safe and sound. He too became a farmer. He and his wife eventually had three children, and my parents added another one for a total of three.

And the two brothers continued to be exceptionally close.

Lookin' back, I should have known they wouldn't be content to be separated for long. My uncle died when he was fifty-one. My dad followed four weeks later.

The Stroll

LOOKIN' BACK

I've been for a stroll. It's a lot more strenuous than I remember. I find myself just a little out of breath. Of course, sneakers and a carpeted hallway aren't as conducive to strollin' as white leather loafers and the hardwood floor at the community building were.

I bought a Fats Domino's Greatest Hits cassette a few years back and every time I play it I wallow in nostalgia. When Fats breaks into "I Wanna Walk You Home," I can't help myself. Next thing I know I'm strollin' down the hall. Hey, it's like sipping through a straw, you never forget the technique.

For those of you who don't remember, The Stroll was a popular dance in the 1950s. Ah, those were the times. The times of the poodle skirt and the poodle hairdo, pedal pushers, Jamaica shorts, and crinoline petticoats.

I have the volume on the cassette player--yes I have one--turned up to full blast. Maybe my mother was right all those years ago and loud music ruined my hearing. Or, perhaps, I'm just addicted to hearing rock and roll at maximum decibels. Anyway, I'm jammin' out.

When my son called and I told him what I was doing, he wanted to know what I was jammin' to. He laughed when I told him it was a Fats Domino cassette. First he laughed because it was a cassette and not a CD, then he laughed and said he thought maybe I'd broken down and bought "Rock That Body" by The Black Eyed Peas. Not likely, I informed him, listening to those guys will make your hearing go bad. I'd say I've never heard of them, but I have. However, I have to question how good can their songs be if they can't come up with a better name than a vegetable? I risked having him laugh at me again when I asked if I could "stroll" to their music. I think he's still laughing.

Whoops, excuse me, there's "Walkin' to New Orleans" and I'm feeling an urge to take another stroll.

Lookin' back is so easy when you set the mood and Fats Domino does it for me like no one else. I'm trying to imagine a teenager of today--when they get to be my age--reflecting on the music of The Black Eyed Peas band, then trying to convince their children it was "cool" at one time. And wait until that teenager of tomorrow asks, "What's a CD?"

They were Sister, Little Sister....

They were Sister, Little Sister, Boy, and Prissy and their mother let them run wild, to my father's disgust. But playmates were scarce on the farm and they lived close by, in the house reserved for our hired hand.

On this day, I ran as fast as I could, but Sister was bigger than me and Little Sister recognized the danger before I did and got a head start. So, I trailed those two as we circled our house, screaming in terror.

Boy was chasing us with a very large butcher knife. Thank goodness Prissy was at home with their mother. She was just a toddler. He'd have gotten her for sure.

Every time we reached the door to our screened porch, the one in the lead would peal off and gain sanctuary. There wasn't time for all of us to crowd through, Boy was gaining on us. He'd said he was going to scalp us and we didn't take it as an idle threat.

My mother heard the ruckus and came to investigate. Was I ever grateful, I hadn't made the porch yet. When she took the knife away from him, he threw a tantrum. Mercy, the words that kid knew. He might have been only three or four, but he had the vocabulary of a drunken sailor.

When my mom took Boy home to his mother, the only concern she expressed was for her favorite knife.

I was about 5 years old and spent a lot of time trying to understand about them. Sister and Little Sister had light brown hair and freckles. Next came Boy, who was an Indian and cute as he could be, then came Prissy with tight blonde curls.

Momma told me, when I asked why they didn't look alike, that Boy was from another marriage. That explanation didn't help a lot, because I didn't know what "another marriage" meant. I never questioned the lack of originality in their names, because names were way down on the list of what was odd about that family. To me, anyway.

As was often the case with hired hands and their families, they moved on in a few weeks. Long before I'd figured them out.

Lookin' back, I often wonder if anyone rescued Boy before he used that knife and think, perhaps, it was already too late the day he chased us around that old farm house.

Runaway

When he came seeking help, he captured our attention with his blunt refusal to give us his name or any other data. He captured our hearts with his spirit.

Some times he came to us for help on a regular basis, which we encouraged, but most often it was a hit-and-miss situation. He never had money and all of us, including him, pretended payment wasn't necessary.

He said he had a place to stay and family to help. If so, it didn't extend to the zipping of pants and tying of shoes. Probably, he didn't have relatives, but he didn't need them. He collected caring, sheltering friends like a magnet.

We didn't press him for too much information for fear that he might not come back. The first fact he gave us was his name. The next time, he told us he was a runaway. And then a few weeks later, he quite proudly gave us the telephone number of the home from which he had run.

His room hadn't been a comfort, for all its niceness, he told us. It had been a holding place; it held him from freedom. He'd watched from the window until he had been sure of the schedule and saved his money until he'd been "near about" sure he had enough.

Then, and only then, he packed his suitcase and walked to the corner. Within minutes, a Greyhound Bus appeared. How he got from there to us, we never knew. Whether it took more than one bus ticket we didn't ask and, at the moment, he wasn't divulging any additional details.

When I called the home where he'd lived, the man in charge said, "He's a charmer." Then added, "I'm glad he's safe." They knew he hadn't wandered off because his suitcase and clothes were missing.

Our Emergency Room staff continued to treat him for his diabetes and, each time, they called me to come from the Business Office to approve his free care. After a while, he gave us his social security number and then we knew, for sure, who he was and where to find him. And where to bill for his care in the future.

Lookin' back, I wish he'd been more inclined to talk. I wanted so much to know what strengths I'd need to run away from a nursing home at the age of 82.

My Best Friend

Always, she was my best friend. Some times the only one.

She was older than me, nearly twenty years, but she's the one who shared and kept my secrets. She listened to me talk about my fears and never belittled them. She let me whine about the class bully, the teacher who just didn't like me, and she celebrated my successes with me.

Best of all, she understood how teenage disappointments could truly be heartbreaking.

In turn, she shared vivid accounts of her life. Such as the poverty she had experienced during the 1920s and the Great Depression. She was the second oldest of nine children and told me she felt like a hired hand as she milked cows on the family dairy farm before and after school while only about eight years old.

She talked about how unappreciated she'd felt caught between an older brother who was the favorite and a younger sister who was a hair-pulling hellion. Her comfort came from mothering several younger siblings. She told funny stories about the "little ones" and their adventures.

I moved away. She didn't, but our friendship endured. She had as many pictures of my children as I do. I'm godmother to her youngest daughter and her son is one of my best friends.

Our relationship endured difficulties. At the time of my dad's death, she was newly widowed and needed my attention most when I was in the depths of grief myself. During the worst period in our lives and friendship, we couldn't comfort each other. But we continued to love and respect one another.

Along with her son and daughter, I helped plan a surprise party for her seventy-fifth birthday. We were excited and the event took place in our hometown in Oklahoma. A crowd of about fifty people gathered to honor her. Two of her remaining three siblings were there, along with her children and most of her grandchildren. Two of her sisters-in-law came, along with their children. They came from as far south as Houston and as far north as Oklahoma City.

Seems they all loved her as much as I did. The year was 1993 and she lived another nine years. At 84, I let her go, not because I was ready, but because she had given up the fight.

Perhaps you've guessed this great lady was my mother and her children are my brother and sister.

Lookin' back, I've said it before, but it bears repeating, "I love you, Mother. As I told you every time we talked, you were the best Mother and Memie anyone could have. Thank you for that."

It was the most fun I ever had. I promise.

We were in my grandfather's 1936 Ford car slowly bumping across the pasture when Peggy, my cousin who was 13, said she wanted to learn to drive.

I was only seven, but old enough to begin having misgivings right off when Bryan, our uncle, quickly agreed to teach her. For a 19-year-old, I thought he could be an old fuddy-duddy at times, however, I also knew he could be a daredevil.

The car was 9 years old and looked 30. It had hauled hay bales, hogs, and baby calves and been used to push-start everything from tractors to stubborn bulls. Wrecking it wasn't a worry. Evidently, neither was concern for life and limb.

From the back, standing on the hump in the floorboard, it looked to be a wild ride, so I grabbed hold of the front seat and hung on.

Once situated behind the steering wheel, the first thing she did was kill the engine. The first thing I did was get the giggles.

"Give it more gas," my uncle yelled over the roar of the motor. But she popped the clutch, killing it again. That move threw me down onto the back seat, from which I arose laughing and hoping she'd do it at least once more. She did.

"Let the clutch out slower," he shouted. That was easy, but she forgot to give it more gas. We bucked across that field as if we were bronc riders, me laughing harder with every bounce.

Here's where my misgivings proved insightful. When she got it started again, he stuck his foot on top of hers and on the gas pedal. Straight ahead we went like a shot.

She was screaming and begging him to take his foot away and I was giggling so hard I could hardly stand on my perch. Even Bryan was laughing.

The lesson the next day was the best of all, if only for the anticipation.

Lookin' back, I think my memories of that summer are so vivid because of the shared joy of those wild rides. And, too, it was the last summer the three of us got to spend that much time together.