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.