Here are some of my little essays that I have shared with friends. Some have been published in my local newspapers.
==========================
I AM THE RESULT OF A POSSUM HUNT GONE REAL BAD
My father, John Kelly Ross (1921 - 1986), was always called Kelly by the family. His father Horace Ross farmed with mules and made moonshine in Carroll County, TN.
One night a fourteen-year-old Kelly went possum hunting. This was the time of the Great Depression and his family was happy to eat what ever the dogs found. Kelly carried an ax to cut down any animals the dogs might “tree” that night.
Following the dogs, my father jumped over a gully and landed on the ax. Kelly cut his left knee. It did not seem serious. And during the Depression people did not visit doctors for minor matters. But his knee became badly infected. My father spent six months in bed and almost died. A simple antibiotic would have taken care of the problem today.
Because of massive scar tissue his left knee was locked in place and could not bend. His leg also stopped growing. It was finally three inches shorter than his good leg. Dad always wore a built up heel about three inches thick on his left shoe.
As a child I would ask Dad about his leg. Kelly's answer was often different. Somehow bears, Indians, and Japanese soldiers had become part of the story.
Dad was sent to take a draft physical during WW II. To his surprise he passed every examination by the doctors. Only at the end was Kelly was asked about past diseases, injuries, etc. Dad pointed to his left leg. The doctors had not noticed it before!
Kelly always called himself a “cripple.” Terms like disabled meant nothing to him. And dirt farming was very difficult for a boy with a bad leg. So my father became the first Ross in known history to attend high school. Kelly not only graduated, he was the valedictorian.
Because of his bad leg the state of Tennessee helped Kelly get a job in town -- as a movie theater projectionist. Hog heaven for a poor farm boy who rarely had the money to see a movie!
Dad loved his job. Within a year Kelly was made manager of the theater. Soon afterwards he was sent by the company from town to town in Tennessee and Kentucky to get newly built or recently bought & renovated old theaters up and running and to train all the new employees.
One day Kelly was transferred to a small theater in Hickman, Fulton County, KY. Suddenly he noticed a pretty “brown eyed blonde” named Martha “Bark” Edwards. She was working at the theater as a cashier. A few years later there were serious consequences to this fateful meeting. Me.
Thus I am the result of a possum hunt gone real bad!
==============================
==========================
I AM THE RESULT OF A POSSUM HUNT GONE REAL BAD
My father, John Kelly Ross (1921 - 1986), was always called Kelly by the family. His father Horace Ross farmed with mules and made moonshine in Carroll County, TN.
One night a fourteen-year-old Kelly went possum hunting. This was the time of the Great Depression and his family was happy to eat what ever the dogs found. Kelly carried an ax to cut down any animals the dogs might “tree” that night.
Following the dogs, my father jumped over a gully and landed on the ax. Kelly cut his left knee. It did not seem serious. And during the Depression people did not visit doctors for minor matters. But his knee became badly infected. My father spent six months in bed and almost died. A simple antibiotic would have taken care of the problem today.
Because of massive scar tissue his left knee was locked in place and could not bend. His leg also stopped growing. It was finally three inches shorter than his good leg. Dad always wore a built up heel about three inches thick on his left shoe.
As a child I would ask Dad about his leg. Kelly's answer was often different. Somehow bears, Indians, and Japanese soldiers had become part of the story.
Dad was sent to take a draft physical during WW II. To his surprise he passed every examination by the doctors. Only at the end was Kelly was asked about past diseases, injuries, etc. Dad pointed to his left leg. The doctors had not noticed it before!
Kelly always called himself a “cripple.” Terms like disabled meant nothing to him. And dirt farming was very difficult for a boy with a bad leg. So my father became the first Ross in known history to attend high school. Kelly not only graduated, he was the valedictorian.
Because of his bad leg the state of Tennessee helped Kelly get a job in town -- as a movie theater projectionist. Hog heaven for a poor farm boy who rarely had the money to see a movie!
Dad loved his job. Within a year Kelly was made manager of the theater. Soon afterwards he was sent by the company from town to town in Tennessee and Kentucky to get newly built or recently bought & renovated old theaters up and running and to train all the new employees.
One day Kelly was transferred to a small theater in Hickman, Fulton County, KY. Suddenly he noticed a pretty “brown eyed blonde” named Martha “Bark” Edwards. She was working at the theater as a cashier. A few years later there were serious consequences to this fateful meeting. Me.
Thus I am the result of a possum hunt gone real bad!
==============================
PLAYING WITH DOLLS
Only girls play with dolls, right? Well, yes. But nowadays so do boys.
Oh, we are very careful to call them action figures of course. Got to preserve their macho image naturally.
But even before there were action figures I can truthfully say that all the boys in my family played with dolls.
Including Dad.
My father Kelly was 14 years old in 1935. He lived on a dirt farm in Tennessee during the Great Depression. While hunting possums one night my father accidentally cut his left knee with an ax. The resulting massive infection nearly killed him.
Dad spent six months in bed. What to do? This was before TV and they were too poor to have a radio. The few books available were soon read.
So my grandmother gave her 14 year old son a small doll to play with.
This little girl doll was 2 ¾ inches long and cast in one piece except for the two arms held in place with a wire. The arms could swing back & forth.
From the style of the hair I suspect the little doll might have been manufacture in the 1920s. Perhaps even earlier.
Dad told me this little girl doll was his only toy. In his imagination she became a cowboy, an Indian, a mountain man, a Civil War soldier, etc.
My father’s doll. The first action figure!
After they had married Dad gave the doll to Mom and told her the story behind it. She cherished that little doll for the rest of her life and proudly displayed it in our living room. I still have it.
The family tradition continued.
When I was little in the early 1950s Mom made shirts and pants for two six inch long baby dolls for me to play with.
To my mind these were not baby dolls. Oh, no! Those were for silly girls. These were cowboys and Indians. Yet again action figures before action figures were invented.
The shirts and pants of my two dolls were black. Very similar to black pajamas I must admit. Yes, apparently the two dolls my mother gave me were really Viet Cong.
My younger brother grew up happily playing with his early 1960s G. I. Joe dolls. The original macho action figures, right? I still have them.
I don’t have my two Viet Cong dolls any more though.
I am not sure but I think my little brother’s G. I. Joes may have had something to do with their mysterious disappearance.
===============================
SON OF A WOULD BE MOUNTAIN MAN
My father loved Mountain Man stories and read every fiction or non fiction book he could find on the subject.
About 1980 Dad painted the garage. And added on the back wall, which faced the high school, an Indian with tepee. And painted on the south side three buffalo. Plus he put on the front door an eagle & tree.
Over the years I had given him prints of pen & ink sketches of Mountain Men or of Indians hunting buffalo, mountain man books, etc.
One year though I went all out.
Dad’s gift that year appeared to be just a small white envelope. When he opened it there was a note inside which told him to look under the seat cushion of his living room chair. Dad found under the cushion another note that told him to look in the back of the closet under the stairs.
When Dad looked in the closet he found a shinny, brass mounted, half stocked, 50 caliber, muzzle loading Mountain Man rifle, a powder horn, and a leather fringed pouch with shoulder strap. Inside the pouch was a box of 50 caliber lead balls, a can of black powder, & a box of percussion caps.
Dad was stunned. This gift came as a total surprise to him.
Delighted, Dad immediately loaded the rifle, went into his back yard, and shot through the “heart” the largest of the buffalo painted on his garage. Dad excitedly said he had always wanted to shoot one.
Alas, in his enthusiasm Dad forgot that our car was still in the garage …..
Good thing he missed it!
============================
Only girls play with dolls, right? Well, yes. But nowadays so do boys.
Oh, we are very careful to call them action figures of course. Got to preserve their macho image naturally.
But even before there were action figures I can truthfully say that all the boys in my family played with dolls.
Including Dad.
My father Kelly was 14 years old in 1935. He lived on a dirt farm in Tennessee during the Great Depression. While hunting possums one night my father accidentally cut his left knee with an ax. The resulting massive infection nearly killed him.
Dad spent six months in bed. What to do? This was before TV and they were too poor to have a radio. The few books available were soon read.
So my grandmother gave her 14 year old son a small doll to play with.
This little girl doll was 2 ¾ inches long and cast in one piece except for the two arms held in place with a wire. The arms could swing back & forth.
From the style of the hair I suspect the little doll might have been manufacture in the 1920s. Perhaps even earlier.
Dad told me this little girl doll was his only toy. In his imagination she became a cowboy, an Indian, a mountain man, a Civil War soldier, etc.
My father’s doll. The first action figure!
After they had married Dad gave the doll to Mom and told her the story behind it. She cherished that little doll for the rest of her life and proudly displayed it in our living room. I still have it.
The family tradition continued.
When I was little in the early 1950s Mom made shirts and pants for two six inch long baby dolls for me to play with.
To my mind these were not baby dolls. Oh, no! Those were for silly girls. These were cowboys and Indians. Yet again action figures before action figures were invented.
The shirts and pants of my two dolls were black. Very similar to black pajamas I must admit. Yes, apparently the two dolls my mother gave me were really Viet Cong.
My younger brother grew up happily playing with his early 1960s G. I. Joe dolls. The original macho action figures, right? I still have them.
I don’t have my two Viet Cong dolls any more though.
I am not sure but I think my little brother’s G. I. Joes may have had something to do with their mysterious disappearance.
===============================
SON OF A WOULD BE MOUNTAIN MANMy father loved Mountain Man stories and read every fiction or non fiction book he could find on the subject.
About 1980 Dad painted the garage. And added on the back wall, which faced the high school, an Indian with tepee. And painted on the south side three buffalo. Plus he put on the front door an eagle & tree.
Over the years I had given him prints of pen & ink sketches of Mountain Men or of Indians hunting buffalo, mountain man books, etc.
One year though I went all out.
Dad’s gift that year appeared to be just a small white envelope. When he opened it there was a note inside which told him to look under the seat cushion of his living room chair. Dad found under the cushion another note that told him to look in the back of the closet under the stairs.
When Dad looked in the closet he found a shinny, brass mounted, half stocked, 50 caliber, muzzle loading Mountain Man rifle, a powder horn, and a leather fringed pouch with shoulder strap. Inside the pouch was a box of 50 caliber lead balls, a can of black powder, & a box of percussion caps.
Dad was stunned. This gift came as a total surprise to him.
Delighted, Dad immediately loaded the rifle, went into his back yard, and shot through the “heart” the largest of the buffalo painted on his garage. Dad excitedly said he had always wanted to shoot one.
Alas, in his enthusiasm Dad forgot that our car was still in the garage …..
Good thing he missed it!
============================
I BOUGHT SOME BANANAS LAST WEEK
So what you ask? Everybody buys bananas. No big deal.
My paternal grandmother Vern loved bananas. She lived on a dirt farm in Carroll County, TN.
Every two weeks for more than 20 years my father Kelly would make the two hour drive there to visit his parents and take them grocery shopping.
Dad would buy his mother bananas every time. She would never buy them for herself. My grandmother considered bananas an unnecessary luxury which “cost too much” to that survivor of the Great Depression.
Over a period of years my grandmother began to suffer from Alzheimer’s disease. First Vern would get a little confused as to what the day of the week it was. Or which of her three sons had visited her the week before.
Then she could no longer recognize her daughters-in-law.
My grandmother then began sneaking out of her house to “go home” and my frantic grandfather would find her wandering down a nearby highway.
We eventually had no choice but to place her in a nursing home.
Dad still faithfully traveled to Carroll County every two weeks to visit his mother in the nursing home. And to bring her bananas.
There came a time when my grandmother could not even recognize her husband or children.
Finally Vern ceased to speak or to react to anything said to her. My father still continued his visits every two weeks.
Finally Vern ceased to speak or to react to anything said to her. My father still continued his visits every two weeks.
My grandmother would still automatically eat when food was placed in her mouth. So Dad would bring her two bananas each visit. And feed them bit by bit to his mother.
Vern’s mental fog seemed to lessen a little with that familiar taste.
And a faint expression of pleasure would come to her pale empty face.
Silent tears would flow so gently down my father’s face as he fed her.
This was the only way Dad had left to tell his mother he loved her.
I bought some bananas last week.
==========================
==========================
SALT PORK
My parents loved the traditional southern style county cooking of their childhoods in Tennessee and Kentucky. The most notable part of this tradition consisted of putting a 1/4 pound slab of salt pork in a pot with whatever vegetable was being prepared.
Then it was necessary to slowly boiled the vegetable for three or four hours. One has to be sure the vegetable is good and dead and no threat to anybody. Raw vegetables were considered unhealthy and possibly even immoral.
Some of my parents favorite dishes were buttered corn bread and: green beans cooked with salt pork, soup beans cooked with salt pork, cabbage cooked with salt pork, turnips cooked with salt pork, turnip greens cooked with salt pork, mustard greens cooked with salt pork, and/or sweet potatoes (just baked and buttered, thank goodness, without any salt pork).
I must also mention poke salad (a weed found in the fields) cooked with salt pork. By the way, the poke salad was often mixed with turnip or other garden greens to cut down on the slimy taste!
Sausage, bacon, eggs, and buttered biscuits were part of every breakfast. All meat (chicken, beef, or pork) was battered and fried. And I must add my father’s beloved fried mountain oysters.
Please don't ask me what mountain oysters were. Let's just say they are the difference between a bull and an ox and the reason why so many little boy pigs sang soprano in the church choir.
==========================
NICKNAMES
My Obion County, TN, born maternal grandparents loved to give odd nicknames to their children. My maternal grandfather IRA G. EDWARDS (1890-1984) married in 1910 a Eula May Bell (1893- 1982). Their children and grandchildren always called them PAPA and MAMA. Their children were nicknamed BUBBA (Buford), SIS (Louise), OTT (Ottis), TANK (Frances), BARK (Martha, my mother), and WOOD (Catherine).
At first this somewhat literal minded family named themselves PAPA, MAMA, BUBBA (Southern for brother), and SIS. When the third child was born they soon realize the confusion possible with a second SIS. After she grew too big to be called BABY anymore, they gave her a shortened version of her real name, Ottis (OTT).
This must have been later considered too easy. Heaven alone knows where the last three nicknames came from. I can only shudder at the thought of a desperate but unimaginative family naming children after the septic tank (TANK) and woodpile (WOOD and BARK) in their back yard.
Well, I was just kidding about that last part. WOOD was really named after the newspaper cartoon character Woody Woodpecker. Alas, no one now remembers how TANK and BARK got their nicknames.
SIS also had a second nickname. She was called TEAR BABY by her younger sisters. Why? SIS used to say to them, “Come here, baby.” Her little sisters heard this as TEAR BABY.
It will come as no surprise to you that the first grandchild of PAPA and MAMA (BUBBA's daughter June) was nicknamed “JIT” BUG, i.e.. JUNE BUG.
My mother Martha was first known as “COTTON TOP” to the family. She had white blond hair as a small child. In high school she was known as the “brown eyed blond.” Most of her and her sister’s children were born blond only to have their hair later darkened at about age six or seven.
I myself started out as a blond; slowly became brown haired, and then my hair turned black – before falling out. At family reunions you see plenty of bald heads. I call it the Edwards family curse!
==========================
My parents loved the traditional southern style county cooking of their childhoods in Tennessee and Kentucky. The most notable part of this tradition consisted of putting a 1/4 pound slab of salt pork in a pot with whatever vegetable was being prepared.
Then it was necessary to slowly boiled the vegetable for three or four hours. One has to be sure the vegetable is good and dead and no threat to anybody. Raw vegetables were considered unhealthy and possibly even immoral.
Some of my parents favorite dishes were buttered corn bread and: green beans cooked with salt pork, soup beans cooked with salt pork, cabbage cooked with salt pork, turnips cooked with salt pork, turnip greens cooked with salt pork, mustard greens cooked with salt pork, and/or sweet potatoes (just baked and buttered, thank goodness, without any salt pork).
I must also mention poke salad (a weed found in the fields) cooked with salt pork. By the way, the poke salad was often mixed with turnip or other garden greens to cut down on the slimy taste!
Sausage, bacon, eggs, and buttered biscuits were part of every breakfast. All meat (chicken, beef, or pork) was battered and fried. And I must add my father’s beloved fried mountain oysters.
Please don't ask me what mountain oysters were. Let's just say they are the difference between a bull and an ox and the reason why so many little boy pigs sang soprano in the church choir.
==========================
NICKNAMES
My Obion County, TN, born maternal grandparents loved to give odd nicknames to their children. My maternal grandfather IRA G. EDWARDS (1890-1984) married in 1910 a Eula May Bell (1893- 1982). Their children and grandchildren always called them PAPA and MAMA. Their children were nicknamed BUBBA (Buford), SIS (Louise), OTT (Ottis), TANK (Frances), BARK (Martha, my mother), and WOOD (Catherine).
At first this somewhat literal minded family named themselves PAPA, MAMA, BUBBA (Southern for brother), and SIS. When the third child was born they soon realize the confusion possible with a second SIS. After she grew too big to be called BABY anymore, they gave her a shortened version of her real name, Ottis (OTT).
This must have been later considered too easy. Heaven alone knows where the last three nicknames came from. I can only shudder at the thought of a desperate but unimaginative family naming children after the septic tank (TANK) and woodpile (WOOD and BARK) in their back yard.
Well, I was just kidding about that last part. WOOD was really named after the newspaper cartoon character Woody Woodpecker. Alas, no one now remembers how TANK and BARK got their nicknames.
SIS also had a second nickname. She was called TEAR BABY by her younger sisters. Why? SIS used to say to them, “Come here, baby.” Her little sisters heard this as TEAR BABY.
It will come as no surprise to you that the first grandchild of PAPA and MAMA (BUBBA's daughter June) was nicknamed “JIT” BUG, i.e.. JUNE BUG.
My mother Martha was first known as “COTTON TOP” to the family. She had white blond hair as a small child. In high school she was known as the “brown eyed blond.” Most of her and her sister’s children were born blond only to have their hair later darkened at about age six or seven.
I myself started out as a blond; slowly became brown haired, and then my hair turned black – before falling out. At family reunions you see plenty of bald heads. I call it the Edwards family curse!
==========================
THE NAUGHTY GIRLS SING A HYMN
As preteen girls in the early 1930s my mother and her sisters attended a Baptist church in Hickman, Ky.
These little gals thought it the height of wicked, giggly, naughtiness to substitute their own words while singing hymns during church services. This practice also had the delightful bonus of infuriating their Sunday School teacher.
The adult church members would sing the first stanza of the beautiful classic “The Old Rugged Cross” hymn: “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, / The emblem of suffering and shame; / And I love that old cross where the dearest and best / For a world of lost sinners was slain.”
Safely in the back rows of the church, the angelic appearing little girls would instead sing: “On a hill far away stood an old Chevrolet, / And its tires were as flat as a board; / And I love that Chevrolet as dearest and best, / But someday I’ll trade it for a Ford.”
==========================
SANTA SECRET
My mother Martha “Bark” and her sister Frances “Tank” were five and eight years old in 1927. And both very badly wanted “sleeping baby dolls” for Christmas that year. Yet the two little girls had recently become somewhat skeptical about the real existence of Santa Claus.
Determined to check out this disturbing possibility, they waited until their parents were outside the house. The two girls sneaked upstairs to their parents' bedroom and began to search. In a trunk they found two brand new “sleeping baby dolls.”
Thrilled, the little girls picked the dolls up and began to play with them. Sure enough, the dolls' eyes would close or open when laid down or lifted up.
Oh, oh! These dolls also cried out when hugged. What if their parents heard? Did naughty little girls who did not believe in Santa Claus any more still get Christmas presents? What to do?
With great reluctance Martha and Tank put the wonderful new dolls back into the trunk and carefully cleaned up all evidence of their visit.
That Christmas, sure enough, the two little Edwards girls did get their “sleeping baby dolls” from Santa Claus.
And for several more years both girls firmly continued to claim that they still believed in Santa. The girls never did tell their parents about their “preview” of the dolls that year.
Those were Martha and Tank's last dolls. Mom kept her doll with her for the rest of her life.
==========================
HOLIDAY TABLES
Does anyone else remember the old custom of three “Tables” at Thanksgiving and Christmas family dinners?
From the 1940s to the 1970s the children and grandchildren of my maternal grandparents Ira & Eula Edwards of Brownville (just out side of Hickman, Ky) would get together for holiday dinners. With the kids there were twenty to forty of us present some years.
But my grandparents had only one kitchen table. So we had our dinner by “Tables” back then.
The “First Table” consisted of all the adult men. They sat down and ate a full meal, including the dessert, and left the kitchen.
Then the “Second Table” started and all the children ate. The adult women would serve the meals and wash dishes while the first two “Tables” ate.
Finally at the “Third Table” the adult women sat down and ate themselves.
Unfair you say? Old fashioned and sexist? Well, maybe.
The ladies did not miss out on much though. It became something of a game. The women would hide some of the “goodies” like fried chicken breasts or favorite desserts for the “Second Table” and “Third Table” meals.
Before sitting down to the “First Table” my father Kelly eventually learned to look through the kitchen cabinets and bedroom dresser drawers to find his favorite foods!
But who insisted on the three “Tables” system? My grandmother. Eula ruled the kitchen in her house. In the early years she chose the menu for these holiday meals, cooked most of the food herself, and supervised the sitting at the table.
It was only with difficulty that in later years were we able to persuade her to join the “First Table” with the adult men.
It just did not seem “proper” to her.
==========================
A HIGHCHAIR, A TRUCK, A TRACTOR, AND A MYSTERY
These are among my earliest memories:
I was in a high chair. Mom would hand me a toy and I would toss it to the floor. She would patiently pick it up and hand it back to me. I was so happy with this game. Why bother with a dog? I could teach Mom to play fetch instead!
Another time I was carefully holding on to the back screen door to keep from falling down. Garbage men in the alley behind our house were noisily emptying metal trash cans into the back of their truck. The clanging of the cans and the roaring of the truck’s engine fascinated me.
A later memory has me playing with my iron red painted International Harvester Tractor. It came with a separate little man to sit in the tractor seat. I was so proud of that tractor because I had been told my uncle fixed the big ones. But I was also frustrated because that little man kept falling out of the tractor’s seat.
Another very early memory has Mom telling me something that surprised and puzzled me. From then on whenever she was dressing I was to turn my back and play with my toys.
Why I wondered? What was it that I was not suppose to see? I sneaked a peak or two afterwards but I never did figure out the answer to that mystery.
What are your earliest memories?
==========================
As preteen girls in the early 1930s my mother and her sisters attended a Baptist church in Hickman, Ky.
These little gals thought it the height of wicked, giggly, naughtiness to substitute their own words while singing hymns during church services. This practice also had the delightful bonus of infuriating their Sunday School teacher.
The adult church members would sing the first stanza of the beautiful classic “The Old Rugged Cross” hymn: “On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross, / The emblem of suffering and shame; / And I love that old cross where the dearest and best / For a world of lost sinners was slain.”
Safely in the back rows of the church, the angelic appearing little girls would instead sing: “On a hill far away stood an old Chevrolet, / And its tires were as flat as a board; / And I love that Chevrolet as dearest and best, / But someday I’ll trade it for a Ford.”
==========================
SANTA SECRET
My mother Martha “Bark” and her sister Frances “Tank” were five and eight years old in 1927. And both very badly wanted “sleeping baby dolls” for Christmas that year. Yet the two little girls had recently become somewhat skeptical about the real existence of Santa Claus.
Determined to check out this disturbing possibility, they waited until their parents were outside the house. The two girls sneaked upstairs to their parents' bedroom and began to search. In a trunk they found two brand new “sleeping baby dolls.”
Thrilled, the little girls picked the dolls up and began to play with them. Sure enough, the dolls' eyes would close or open when laid down or lifted up.
Oh, oh! These dolls also cried out when hugged. What if their parents heard? Did naughty little girls who did not believe in Santa Claus any more still get Christmas presents? What to do?
With great reluctance Martha and Tank put the wonderful new dolls back into the trunk and carefully cleaned up all evidence of their visit.
That Christmas, sure enough, the two little Edwards girls did get their “sleeping baby dolls” from Santa Claus.
And for several more years both girls firmly continued to claim that they still believed in Santa. The girls never did tell their parents about their “preview” of the dolls that year.
Those were Martha and Tank's last dolls. Mom kept her doll with her for the rest of her life.
==========================
HOLIDAY TABLES
Does anyone else remember the old custom of three “Tables” at Thanksgiving and Christmas family dinners?
From the 1940s to the 1970s the children and grandchildren of my maternal grandparents Ira & Eula Edwards of Brownville (just out side of Hickman, Ky) would get together for holiday dinners. With the kids there were twenty to forty of us present some years.
But my grandparents had only one kitchen table. So we had our dinner by “Tables” back then.
The “First Table” consisted of all the adult men. They sat down and ate a full meal, including the dessert, and left the kitchen.
Then the “Second Table” started and all the children ate. The adult women would serve the meals and wash dishes while the first two “Tables” ate.
Finally at the “Third Table” the adult women sat down and ate themselves.
Unfair you say? Old fashioned and sexist? Well, maybe.
The ladies did not miss out on much though. It became something of a game. The women would hide some of the “goodies” like fried chicken breasts or favorite desserts for the “Second Table” and “Third Table” meals.
Before sitting down to the “First Table” my father Kelly eventually learned to look through the kitchen cabinets and bedroom dresser drawers to find his favorite foods!
But who insisted on the three “Tables” system? My grandmother. Eula ruled the kitchen in her house. In the early years she chose the menu for these holiday meals, cooked most of the food herself, and supervised the sitting at the table.
It was only with difficulty that in later years were we able to persuade her to join the “First Table” with the adult men.
It just did not seem “proper” to her.
==========================
A HIGHCHAIR, A TRUCK, A TRACTOR, AND A MYSTERY
These are among my earliest memories:
I was in a high chair. Mom would hand me a toy and I would toss it to the floor. She would patiently pick it up and hand it back to me. I was so happy with this game. Why bother with a dog? I could teach Mom to play fetch instead!
Another time I was carefully holding on to the back screen door to keep from falling down. Garbage men in the alley behind our house were noisily emptying metal trash cans into the back of their truck. The clanging of the cans and the roaring of the truck’s engine fascinated me.
A later memory has me playing with my iron red painted International Harvester Tractor. It came with a separate little man to sit in the tractor seat. I was so proud of that tractor because I had been told my uncle fixed the big ones. But I was also frustrated because that little man kept falling out of the tractor’s seat.
Another very early memory has Mom telling me something that surprised and puzzled me. From then on whenever she was dressing I was to turn my back and play with my toys.
Why I wondered? What was it that I was not suppose to see? I sneaked a peak or two afterwards but I never did figure out the answer to that mystery.
What are your earliest memories?
==========================
MY BABY BLANKET
I am sure you have seen toddlers with some favorite stuffed toy or doll that they carry everywhere. And which they absolutely had to have with them when they go to bed.
I do not really remember it, I was just too young, but my mother told me often about my favorite baby blanket, my blanky-blanky as I eventually came to call it.
I had slept under that baby blanket from the time I was brought home from the hospital. As I grew into a toddler I carried it everywhere and simply refused to go to sleep without it. The poor thing quickly wore out. After a while it was reduced to just a few square inches of threadbare cloth.
When I was little I would often wake up in the middle of the night and crawl into bed beside my mother. Carrying my blanky-blanky with me of course. And there I would sleep the deep, tranquil, utterly contented sleep of a small child curled up next to his mother.
My paternal grandmother thought this baby blanket business was the silliest thing in the world. And that my mother was shamelessly spoiling me by letting me keep it.
Once during an overnight visit at her house my grandmother suddenly grabbed my blanky-blanky and threw it into the wood stove!
My stunned mother screamed, ran to the stove, and raked out my burning baby blanket. Furious, Mom immediately took me back home. It took Mom several weeks to forgive her mother-in-law for this.
Well, that fire did not help my baby blanket at all. After trimming & washing it was reduced to a ragged, scorched, holed, narrow strip of satiny, pale, grayish cloth a few inches long. Which I continued to sleep with by wrapping it around my thumb. Of course as soon as I got a little older I lost all interest in that silly thing.
But my mother never forgot about my baby blanket. She would laughingly repeat these old stories at any excuse. For Mom, as all mothers do, loved nothing better than embarrassing her grown children with stories of their childish habits & toilet training mishaps.
Last year my mother passed away very suddenly. As I was looking through Mom’s wallet for her insurance cards I found a number of family photos. And tucked in between two of them was a ragged, scorched, holed, narrow strip of satiny, pale, grayish cloth a few inches long.
Mom had carried my blanky-blanky with her for more than fifty years. I buried her with those family photos. And that little bit of cloth.
Someday I will again lie down beside her. And sleep a sleep even more profound than that deep, tranquil, utterly contented sleep of a small child curled up next to his mother.
And who knows? Maybe Mom will give me back that little piece of cloth she has so faithfully kept safe for me.
==========================
CHRISTMAS DECEPTION
I have a c. 1951 photograph of a handsome, innocent, little boy sitting on his brand new Christmas tricycle with his toy tractor and truck on either side of him.
Oh, if only you could see this photo, surely you would say, “What a charming photo. And such a sweet looking child!” I must confess, despite my innate modesty, that I -- yes, I -- was that adorable kid.
Yet, would you believe, this is the sole remaining evidence of dastardly Christmas deceptions? That, alas, this innocence toddler (did I mention I was also cute?) would be the victim of a cruel hoax by his sneaky parents?
And that this trickery would continue for years to come? Oh, the shame!
How joyful I was to receive my first Christmas tricycle when I was a tender two years of age. I loved it! I traveled thousands of miles in my back yard. Mountains, rivers, sand storms - nothing stopped me.
And then the autumn came. Mom said it was now too cold to ride outside. So my beloved tricycle was put away.
And then came Christmas. And what was under the tree for this trusting child, now three years old? A brand new tricycle. Not only was it a different color from my old one, it had neat slip-on plastic handles and a bell. Oh, the joy! Oh, how happy I was! With the coming of warm weather my determined exploration of the “deepest, darkest” depths of my backyard was eagerly resumed.
Eventually, of course, the winter came. And my wonderful, new, tricycle was put away.
Christmas again. I was now four years old. And under my tree? Yet another brand new tricycle. In yet a third color. With fancier plastic slip-on handles and a larger bell. Let the celebration begin! More miles needed to be traveled!
Until the weather turned cold. And my brand new tricycle was put away .... Well, I think you begin to see a pattern here.
Yet another Christmas came. Yes, and this will be no surprise to you, this now five year old had under the tree his fourth “brand new” tricycle. In yet another color. With all kinds of added on goodies.
Would you believe that I never caught on that my father would just repaint my old tricycle every winter? And then add new accessories?
Most incredible of all, it never occurred to me to ask, “Hey, whatever happened to my old tricycles?” I was a teenager before I thought of this.
The writing of this sad tale brings me to wonder if any other Christmas deceptions might have been practiced on me.
Did your parents also claim that there was this guy named Santa Claus?
==========================
OF CORNBREAD AND BUTTER
In the early 1950s, when I was about four years old, we lived in south Texas. Mom was originally from Hickman, KY, and we would travel north each summer to visit our relatives.
On one such vacation Mom had to take her own mother to a doctor's appointment. Mom left me with her oldest sister, nicknamed Sis by the family, and my uncle Cecil. They had a small country store. This was the first time anyone had ever babysat me.
Lunchtime was coming around and my aunt asked me what I wanted to eat. “Sis,” I said, “I want cornbread and butter.” And I politely but firmly insisted on that. I turned down offers of various kinds of sandwiches. I even refused candy or cupcakes from the store. No way, I wanted cornbread and butter. Nothing else!
So my poor, kindhearted, aunt made from scratch a pone of cornbread. Sis cut me out a large piece, buttered it, put it on a plate, and served it to me at the kitchen table.
I looked at the plate in disgust and said, “Aw, Sis, that's NOT cornbread and butter!” No matter how much my aunt gently tried to persuade me, I still refused to eat it. We were both almost in tears from frustration.
Determined to show Sis what to do, I got up from the table, went to the kitchen island, and grabbed a loaf of bread. I then managed, barely, to open the refrigerator door and took out a jar of mayonnaise.
"Sis," I said indignantly, “this here is cornbread and butter!”
==========================
YUMMY FOR THE TUMMY
I am sure you have noticed that children often have rather odd tastes in food. One of my cousins had a little girl who insisted on eating macaroni and cheese at every meal. That was all she ever wanted.
You will not be surprised to learn I had a few food quirks myself when I was a growing up in the 1950s.
One of my favorite meals was a cold glass of milk with a mustard & mayonnaise sandwich. No cheese, no meat, just mustard and mayonnaise mixed together between two slices of white bread. Try it. You may be surprised by how good this combination tastes.
At the movie theater my favorite snack combination was a Snickers bar and popcorn. I had a special way of preparing my treat though.
First I unwrapped the Snickers bar, crushed it between my palms, and formed it into a ball. Then I stuck popcorn all around the outside of my candy ball. Finally I smeared the chocolate now covering my palms all over that outside layer of popcorn. Now folks, that was feasting!
I must admit the two above delicacies still tempt me. But I don’t think I would ever wish to try again my third example.
I loved to cook my hamburger just a little, leaving it barely gray on the outside, and still very red on the inside. Then I placed the warm hamburger patty between two slices of white bread with plenty of mayonnaise.
I would happily devour it without minding in the least all the blood dripping from the bottom of the sandwich!
Did you have any unusual favorite childhood foods?
==========================
==========================
YUMMY FOR THE TUMMY
I am sure you have noticed that children often have rather odd tastes in food. One of my cousins had a little girl who insisted on eating macaroni and cheese at every meal. That was all she ever wanted.
You will not be surprised to learn I had a few food quirks myself when I was a growing up in the 1950s.
One of my favorite meals was a cold glass of milk with a mustard & mayonnaise sandwich. No cheese, no meat, just mustard and mayonnaise mixed together between two slices of white bread. Try it. You may be surprised by how good this combination tastes.
At the movie theater my favorite snack combination was a Snickers bar and popcorn. I had a special way of preparing my treat though.
First I unwrapped the Snickers bar, crushed it between my palms, and formed it into a ball. Then I stuck popcorn all around the outside of my candy ball. Finally I smeared the chocolate now covering my palms all over that outside layer of popcorn. Now folks, that was feasting!
I must admit the two above delicacies still tempt me. But I don’t think I would ever wish to try again my third example.
I loved to cook my hamburger just a little, leaving it barely gray on the outside, and still very red on the inside. Then I placed the warm hamburger patty between two slices of white bread with plenty of mayonnaise.
I would happily devour it without minding in the least all the blood dripping from the bottom of the sandwich!
Did you have any unusual favorite childhood foods?
==========================
OF GRAVEL AND SUNBEAMS
Have you ever held to your nose a handful of crushed amber colored gravel that had been baking all day under a hot summer sun? It has a flinty, chalky, dusty scent.
That scent brings to mind my childhood visits to my Carroll County, TN, farmer grandparents.
They lived far out in the country and had gravel roads.
I loved to hunt for fossil seashells & seaweed in the gravel road in front of their house. I still have a shoe box full that I found all those years ago.
In the 1950s my family would drive day & night the 1000 miles from south Texas to Tennessee without stopping. Why waste money on motels?
Mom and Dad would take turns driving and I would sleep in the back seat.
My favorite place to ride was on the flat shelf between the back seat and the rear window. I could see both the countryside we passed through and watch the sky.
Plus this had the delightful bonus that when Dad or Mom hit the brakes too hard I would go flying off the shelf and land in the floorboards. Wow, what fun! That was better than any carnival ride.
At night when traveling outside of the towns & cities the stars would be winking diamonds and the moon would play hide & seek with the clouds.
One afternoon as I lay on that rear window shelf I saw storm clouds gathering around the sun. A dozen or so broad sunbeams pierced the clouds all the way to the ground. The sight was stunningly beautiful. And worrisome.
I loved to hunt for fossil seashells & seaweed in the gravel road in front of their house. I still have a shoe box full that I found all those years ago.
In the 1950s my family would drive day & night the 1000 miles from south Texas to Tennessee without stopping. Why waste money on motels?
Mom and Dad would take turns driving and I would sleep in the back seat.
My favorite place to ride was on the flat shelf between the back seat and the rear window. I could see both the countryside we passed through and watch the sky.
Plus this had the delightful bonus that when Dad or Mom hit the brakes too hard I would go flying off the shelf and land in the floorboards. Wow, what fun! That was better than any carnival ride.
At night when traveling outside of the towns & cities the stars would be winking diamonds and the moon would play hide & seek with the clouds.
One afternoon as I lay on that rear window shelf I saw storm clouds gathering around the sun. A dozen or so broad sunbeams pierced the clouds all the way to the ground. The sight was stunningly beautiful. And worrisome.
The scene was strikingly similar to a framed print on the wall of my farm grandmother’s living room. The print showed the Second Coming with Jesus and His Angels walking down broad sunbeams in a clouded sky.
Oh, oh. The world was ending RIGHT NOW and I had been a naughty boy that day.
I screamed.
Dad, startled, immediately hit the brakes and off the shelf I went flying!
==========================
Oh, oh. The world was ending RIGHT NOW and I had been a naughty boy that day.
I screamed.
Dad, startled, immediately hit the brakes and off the shelf I went flying!
==========================
KISS AND MAKE IT WELL
Like all little children if I injured myself in some minor way I would toddle over in tears to Mom to show her where it hurt. She would solemnly examine that little scratch or faint red mark on my skin and say, “Let me kiss it and make it well.”
Mom’s treatment always worked. My tears dried up and the pain faded away. For I was really seeking her reassurance and attention, to shelter in her love. Her kiss was healing my mind & soul, not my body.
Of course as I got older I became embarrassed if Mom kissed me in front of others. “Aw, Mom, that’s kid stuff.” I would protest after I started kindergarten and would try to squirm away when she kissed me goodbye each morning.
The mere passage of years did not deter Mom. As long as my brother and I slept under her roof she insisted we both kiss her goodnight.
The last time she kissed me goodnight was only an hour or so before her stroke.
The last time I kissed her goodnight was just before they closed the lid on her coffin.
“Sleep, Mom,” I whispered, “until that morning when we shall all awaken. And then you will kiss me and make it well.”
==========================
SQUIRREL ON A LOG
In the early 1960s I was a member of Clinton’s Troop 35 of the Boy Scouts. Tony Harpole was our Scoutmaster, Jerrald Chandler our assistant Scoutmaster, Jan Harpole our chief scout (I have forgotten his real title), and David Sensing my patrol leader. We would meet in the basement of the Methodist Church or at the National Guard armory where the Mission House is today.
We were not very good at being Scouts but we had fun!
In order to pass the requirements to become a First Class Scout I had to pass a swimming test. I could not swim. At all. I could float. Mostly head down with my feet in the air. What to do?
My fearless Scout Patrol leader David decided to take me to the swimming pool here in Clinton and teach me to swim. Well, well. I kinda managed to float on my back and paddle a minute or so before slipping under the waves.
Mostly I just grabbed on to David. Several times I nearly drowned the two of us. David decided that was good enough and passed me!
David was also the guy who showed me by example how to put out a camp site cook fire when you don't have water or a shovel to cover it with dirt. It was simple & basic & really a boy thing. Just use a liquid natural by product of the human digestive system. I don't think it would be a practical method for Girl Scouts .....
I also remember parading down town in Paducah with several hundred Boy & Girl Scouts from the Purchase area. It was because of the Four Rivers Council Scout-O-Rama that year. Naturally we were the only Boy Scout troop in the parade to forget to bring from home our US & Scout flags.
The Scout-O-Rama that year was held in a huge tobacco barn in Paducah. About sixty Boy & Girl Scout troops had booths with exhibits or programs. I think Cub Scouts & Brownies had booths also.
There would be judges going around to rate the booths for decorations, themes, etc. Some troops did science experiments, some illustrated woodcraft skills, and so forth. Scout-O-Rama Booth Prize ribbons in blue, red, yellow, etc. would be awarded.
Our Troop 35 was going to have a science exhibit illustrating soil erosion from running water. A bunch of dirt was placed on an inclined table. Grass or gravel covered some of it. The rest was left bare. Water sprayed from a water hose was “rained” over the table for several hours to show the different effects of ground cover, or lack of it, on erosion, etc.
Well, it was a disaster. We sort of forgot that the water had to go somewhere after “eroding” the ground. The whole thing dissolved & collapsed a day before the Scout-O-Rama. Just one big mud pie.
We arrived in Paducah with no booth display, no booth decorations or signs, no troop flags, no nothing! Except for a stuffed squirrel sitting on a small log.
Why the stuffed squirrel? Why not? It was handy to be grabbed at the last minute.
After the parade we went to the tobacco barn Scout-O-Rama. What to do about the booth? Simple. The stuffed squirrel was set on a bare table inside the bare booth. A folding chair completed the “display” in all its glory.
One Scout was “volunteered” to spend the next three hours sitting on a chair in the bare booth explaining to puzzled passersby that, yes, this was a stuffed squirrel, and yes, this was the whole exhibit, and yes, it was dumb.
The judges just could not believe their eyes. We got the lowest possible grade on the booth, of course. I forget the color of the ribbon. It might have been Fuchsia Pink.
Where were the rest of the Troop 35 Scouts while this one Scout was stuck in the booth? While they were enjoying visiting the other booths, playing the games available at some of them, feasting at the concession stands, and flirting with the Girl Scouts?
Who was the poor slob stuck in that empty booth with that darn stuffed squirrel on a log for three hours? Can you guess? Can you?
Yep, you guessed it!
==========================
I SAW AN UFO!
I am profoundly skeptical that UFOs really have anything to do with extraterrestrial beings. Until direct and undeniable proof is available to the contrary, I must believe that the UFO business (and for some it is a money making business) has more to do with human psychology than people from outer space.
Despite the above, I too have seen a UFO. It was in 1967 during my freshman year at the University of Kentucky. One cool Fall night not long after sunset I was walking across an empty baseball field on campus when I saw some lights on the horizon. They were about five or six white points of light that twinkled and whirled around each other.
As I stood and stared opened mouthed at them, I realized they were flying directly toward the campus. I could see more and more franticly whirling lights the closer they came. Now I could see one or two red ones also.
As they passed directly over my head the lights spelled out EAT AT PASQUALES PIZZA.
I now could see that a small airplane had an electric sign on the bottom of its wings. This sign spelled out messages that would “crawl” across the bottom of the wings one word at a time in white lights. I had first seen the sign edge on. The moving message made the lights seem to whirl around each other.
If the plane had been moving away from me, I could have written a book and been rich and famous by now.
Darn.
==========================
ALL IS BRIGHT
Sometimes beauty comes unexpectedly.
I lived in the University of Kentucky Kirwan Tower dorm for three years. When Finals Week came I often studied during the small hours of the night in the empty 23rd floor lounge of the tower.
Taking a break about 3 AM one December night I wandered over to a window that faced the UK campus.
I found to my surprise that a very thick opaque fog had covered all of Lexington.
And to my amazement this fog ended exactly at the bottom of that window.
Above the gleaming pearlescent white fog was a full moon shinning amid a million brilliant stars in a cloudless sky. Only the nearby Blanding Tower dorm could be seen rising above the fog.
The transition from fog to clear air was as sharp as a knife. I felt I could just step out that window and walk on a snow covered field 220 feet above the ground below.
For the first time I could remember there was not the slightest sound to be heard coming from the city.
And these words drifted through my mind, “Silent night, Holy night / All is calm, All is bright.”
Merry Christmas to you and all your loved ones. And may your coming New Year be happy, safe, and prosperous.
==========================
OF RUBBISH, INSECT REPRODUCTIVE BEHAVIORS, URUSHIOL OIL, & FALLING IN LOVE
In 1968 working maintenance at Columbus Belmont Ky State Park meant we boys picked up the garbage first thing each morning. We hitched a two wheel cart to an old Ford tractor and made the rounds of the camp & picnic grounds.
We were as usual wearing our gray cotton park uniforms and caps. They were not very stylish uniforms though. This was only to be expected. After all these were Eddyville State Prison uniforms with a “Kentucky Parks” patch added to them! Tourists often thought we were prison work gangs.
One boy drove the tractor and two rode in the cart. We two riders would jump out, empty a trash can into the cart (a messy job since we did not use plastic trash bags to line the cans), put the trash can back on the ground, then climb into the cart to ride to the next one.
I would guess we would empty thirty or forty full garbage cans on a morning after a big weekend. Each time the cart filled up we took it to a bulldozed spot in the woods near the park museum, soak the dumped garbage in diesel oil, and burn it.
After marinating in humid heat from Friday morning to Monday morning the discarded weekend food remains were rather fragrant & teaming with happy little fly babies. We didn't really mind all that much. We were teenage boys after all.
I remember one Monday especially. The mosquitoes were a plague that year. A few days before I had been stung by a wasp on the back of one hand. And I had discovered that summer I was allergic to the urushiol oil in a certain very common plant in the park.
There I was riding in that two wheeled cart on a hot & humid morning, dressed in my sweat soaked prison uniform, standing ankle deep in maggot infested stinking garbage, covered in mosquito bites & poison ivy rash, and forced to work mostly one handed because my wasp stung swollen hand hurt so much.
That was the morning I first realized that I loved my job at the park. And that I was truly captivated by its beauty & history.
So I swore to myself then I would someday learn everything I could about the history of Columbus & the park.
Yes, it’s true what they say. Love is blind!
==========================
OF SNAKES AND SCOUTS
In the past I have been unjustly accused of having a Girl Scout Phobia when I plaintively voice my consternation to being exposed to those walking, talking, bio-hazards.
Three times in last two years I have given tours at the museum to either a Girl Scout Troop, an individual Girl Scout, or a toddler gal who was dressed as the mascot of a Girl Scout Troop.
And what happened each and every time? I caught various and sundry afflictions from those germ laden critters!
Last Wednesday a man craftily brought his cute little girl (dressed in civilian clothing yet in the ominous color combination of white & green) to tour the museum.
Only after I finished the tour did the little gal with a wicked gleam in her eyes pull out an order form and threatened dire consequences if I did not buy Girl Scout cookies!
Nervously I pledged my (scared) (scarred) sacred honor to purchase one box of Girl Scout Thin Mints cookies hoping thus to avert the onset of the Bio-Hazard Curse of the Girl Scouts.
Alas, as I sit wretchedly here in front of this computer my sinuses are clogged, my post nasal drip is dripping, and I am periodically suffering from semi-autonomous, convulsive expulsions of air from the lungs (sneezing).
Yes! That little cute G. S. monster has given me a cold!!!!
Thus to the folk poem warning of the dangers of the deadly coral snake and which distinguishes them from the harmless Kingsnakes:
"Red and yellow, kill a fellow; red and black, venom lack"
Must be added:
“If green & white you see; immediately flee!”
==========================
CONFUSION CONFESSION
Over the years I have found that I have had, well, what might be described as “gender identity” issues. Oh, no, not what you might think at first!
I am most certainly a XY chromosome male critter. And I definitely like the ladies. (Alas, the question of vice versa from the gals is another matter.)
Or does the “vice versa” phrase in the last sentence really mean that in order for a male to hope for some “vice” with a female the poor guy needs to recite to her some poetic “versa” first?
In that case I am in a heap of trouble because the only poem
I ever wrote was an ode to a Civil War cannon.
The problem is not with me knowing who I am. It is rather that to my intense annoyance a lot of people do get confused about my gender. They think I am a woman.
Now honestly, ladies. Have you ever looked at me and thought to yourself, “Ah, here before me is a fellow XX chromosome bearer. Albeit sadly in need of a massive emergency makeover intervention.”
No? Of course not! (My less than abundant supply of hair atop my chrome dome, a persistent 5 o’clock shadow, & my absolutely minimal use of makeup do act as useful visual clues.)
My problem comes from strangers who speak to me on the telephone.
Literally dozens of times both male & female computer repair techs, receptionists, office workers, cable TV employees, insurance agents, and telemarketers from a dozen different first, second, & third world countries have invariably called me either “Ma’am” or “Madame” after first hearing my voice on the phone. (Yes, this is a world wide phenomena that crosses all political, societal, religious, cultural, class, & economic boundaries.)
I even get asked “Are you the lady of the house?” or “May we speak to your husband?” from time to time.
What is there about the sound of my voice over the telephone that so misleads people? I’ll never know because of course I can’t hear myself as others do.
Ok, I agree that this is not an earth shattering problem to have. After all, it’s better that they be the ones confused. And not me!
==========================
CRICKETS
Remember the The Last Emperor movie? That was the story of Pu Yi, the last emperor of Imperial China, who ended his life as a humble gardener under the Communists. As a child his favorite pet had been a cricket. Many cultures in Asia highly prize pet crickets for what they regard as the beauty of their “song”.
Many rural Americans remember the chirping of crickets on warm summer nights with nostalgic fondness. A beloved Walt Disney character of my childhood was Jiminy Cricket from the cartoon classic Pinocchio.
I remember fishing trips as a little kid when my father used crickets for bait. Of course I would not touch those yucky bugs. So I insisted my father bait my hook. And that he also unhook the fish I caught. Live fish were yucky too.
Yes, many people love crickets for various and sundry reasons.
How do I feel about crickets nowadays?
I despise, detest, abhor, and loathe those damnable bugs. To put it in proper theological terms I urgently wish them all to be condemned to the infernal regions for all eternity. And to take their television sets with them.
Have you ever had the madding experience of trying to sleep only to be driven to distraction by a chirping cricket in your bedroom? It takes a lot of time to track them down and then “terminate with extreme prejudice” as the CIA used to say.
My trials and tribulations began about ten years ago. One night I was suddenly awaken by the roar of a whole flock of chirping crickets. Flyswatter in hand I immediately began an intensive but unsuccessful Search & Destroy Mission. I finally grabbed bug spray and soaked every dark corner, nook, and cranny in my bedroom.
Useless. Absolutely useless. The crickets were as loud as ever. And by now I was choking on the clouds of bug spray.
Then I suddenly realize something. The crickets stayed with me wherever I went in my house.
It was all in my head, folks. Literally.
And that, boys and girls, was how I discovered I had tinnitus.
What is tinnitus? For little understood reasons some unfortunate folks hear things that are not there. Some of us hear a constant buzzing, clicking, hissing, roaring, beeping, humming, whistling or chirping sound in our ears. Some hear combinations of these.
I hear those wretched crickets chirping 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Sometimes they are louder, sometimes quieter. And some of them are watching very loud TV programs featuring championship cricket chirping contests.
Do you remember those old fashion black & white TVs that made high pitched whining noises when turned off? Amid the chirping chorus all too often comes that “drilling a hole in your head” noise of crickets repeatedly turning their TVs off and on.
Would you like to sign my Put Imaginary Crickets On The Federal Should Be Endangered Species List petition? Maybe if enough of us tinnitus suffers and their sympathizers sign it we can finally get some help from the government!
==========================
DR. DOUGH-NEAL & THE BLABBERMOUTH KID
Did I ever tell you I knew my little brother was coming before my Mom did?
I was about five years old and we were living in Texas. Next door lived Mom's elderly doctor and close friend, Dr. O'Neil. I called him Dr. Dough-Neal.
I was crazy about him and would often visited his home. Mom always said he was very fond of me and had sort of "adopted" me as a surrogate grandfather. (Well, why not? Was/am I not just plain adorable?)
Apparently Dr. Dough-Neal had given Mom a pregnancy test a few days before. While I was visiting him Dr. Dough-Neal told me I would have a brand new shinny brother or sister in a few months.
Excited and delighted I immediately ran back home and told Mom.
That was how Mom heard about her test results!
==========================
SANTA SURPRISE
In 1959 my family moved from south Texas to western Kentucky. We lived for a while with my mother's parents, “Papa” and “Mama” Edwards.
My little brother Steve was about five years old that year and he had a problem. His new playmates had told him that they were not sure if Santa Claus really existed. And anyway, would Santa know where Steve lived now?
Mom tried to reassure Steve, without actually saying so directly, that Santa was very real. Certainly, she told him, Santa knew where we lived now. But Steve still had his doubts.
Shortly before Christmas we went to Hickman, Ky, to see the Christmas parade. My mother Martha had been born and raised there. At the end of the parade was a fire truck with Santa Claus riding on top. Santa was greeting the crowd and throwing out candy.
Steve began franticly waving to Santa. Santa looked up and called out, “Hello, Martha! Hello, Steve! Still going to have Christmas at Papa Edward's house this year?”
At this Steve's eyes began to bigger & bigger until they nearly swallowed his face. His faith fully confirmed, all doubts now gone, Steve had a wonderful Christmas that year.
Mom always swore that she had not set this up. And she claimed she had no idea who had been playing Santa Clause in the parade. That was her story and she stuck to it!
=========================
Sometimes beauty comes unexpectedly.
I lived in the University of Kentucky Kirwan Tower dorm for three years. When Finals Week came I often studied during the small hours of the night in the empty 23rd floor lounge of the tower.
Taking a break about 3 AM one December night I wandered over to a window that faced the UK campus.
I found to my surprise that a very thick opaque fog had covered all of Lexington.
And to my amazement this fog ended exactly at the bottom of that window.
Above the gleaming pearlescent white fog was a full moon shinning amid a million brilliant stars in a cloudless sky. Only the nearby Blanding Tower dorm could be seen rising above the fog.
The transition from fog to clear air was as sharp as a knife. I felt I could just step out that window and walk on a snow covered field 220 feet above the ground below.
For the first time I could remember there was not the slightest sound to be heard coming from the city.
And these words drifted through my mind, “Silent night, Holy night / All is calm, All is bright.”
Merry Christmas to you and all your loved ones. And may your coming New Year be happy, safe, and prosperous.
==========================
OF RUBBISH, INSECT REPRODUCTIVE BEHAVIORS, URUSHIOL OIL, & FALLING IN LOVE
In 1968 working maintenance at Columbus Belmont Ky State Park meant we boys picked up the garbage first thing each morning. We hitched a two wheel cart to an old Ford tractor and made the rounds of the camp & picnic grounds.
We were as usual wearing our gray cotton park uniforms and caps. They were not very stylish uniforms though. This was only to be expected. After all these were Eddyville State Prison uniforms with a “Kentucky Parks” patch added to them! Tourists often thought we were prison work gangs.
One boy drove the tractor and two rode in the cart. We two riders would jump out, empty a trash can into the cart (a messy job since we did not use plastic trash bags to line the cans), put the trash can back on the ground, then climb into the cart to ride to the next one.
I would guess we would empty thirty or forty full garbage cans on a morning after a big weekend. Each time the cart filled up we took it to a bulldozed spot in the woods near the park museum, soak the dumped garbage in diesel oil, and burn it.
After marinating in humid heat from Friday morning to Monday morning the discarded weekend food remains were rather fragrant & teaming with happy little fly babies. We didn't really mind all that much. We were teenage boys after all.
I remember one Monday especially. The mosquitoes were a plague that year. A few days before I had been stung by a wasp on the back of one hand. And I had discovered that summer I was allergic to the urushiol oil in a certain very common plant in the park.
There I was riding in that two wheeled cart on a hot & humid morning, dressed in my sweat soaked prison uniform, standing ankle deep in maggot infested stinking garbage, covered in mosquito bites & poison ivy rash, and forced to work mostly one handed because my wasp stung swollen hand hurt so much.
That was the morning I first realized that I loved my job at the park. And that I was truly captivated by its beauty & history.
So I swore to myself then I would someday learn everything I could about the history of Columbus & the park.
Yes, it’s true what they say. Love is blind!
==========================
OF SNAKES AND SCOUTS
In the past I have been unjustly accused of having a Girl Scout Phobia when I plaintively voice my consternation to being exposed to those walking, talking, bio-hazards.
Three times in last two years I have given tours at the museum to either a Girl Scout Troop, an individual Girl Scout, or a toddler gal who was dressed as the mascot of a Girl Scout Troop.
And what happened each and every time? I caught various and sundry afflictions from those germ laden critters!
Last Wednesday a man craftily brought his cute little girl (dressed in civilian clothing yet in the ominous color combination of white & green) to tour the museum.
Only after I finished the tour did the little gal with a wicked gleam in her eyes pull out an order form and threatened dire consequences if I did not buy Girl Scout cookies!
Nervously I pledged my (scared) (scarred) sacred honor to purchase one box of Girl Scout Thin Mints cookies hoping thus to avert the onset of the Bio-Hazard Curse of the Girl Scouts.
Alas, as I sit wretchedly here in front of this computer my sinuses are clogged, my post nasal drip is dripping, and I am periodically suffering from semi-autonomous, convulsive expulsions of air from the lungs (sneezing).
Yes! That little cute G. S. monster has given me a cold!!!!
Thus to the folk poem warning of the dangers of the deadly coral snake and which distinguishes them from the harmless Kingsnakes:
"Red and yellow, kill a fellow; red and black, venom lack"
Must be added:
“If green & white you see; immediately flee!”
==========================
CONFUSION CONFESSION
Over the years I have found that I have had, well, what might be described as “gender identity” issues. Oh, no, not what you might think at first!
I am most certainly a XY chromosome male critter. And I definitely like the ladies. (Alas, the question of vice versa from the gals is another matter.)
Or does the “vice versa” phrase in the last sentence really mean that in order for a male to hope for some “vice” with a female the poor guy needs to recite to her some poetic “versa” first?
In that case I am in a heap of trouble because the only poem
I ever wrote was an ode to a Civil War cannon.
The problem is not with me knowing who I am. It is rather that to my intense annoyance a lot of people do get confused about my gender. They think I am a woman.
Now honestly, ladies. Have you ever looked at me and thought to yourself, “Ah, here before me is a fellow XX chromosome bearer. Albeit sadly in need of a massive emergency makeover intervention.”
No? Of course not! (My less than abundant supply of hair atop my chrome dome, a persistent 5 o’clock shadow, & my absolutely minimal use of makeup do act as useful visual clues.)
My problem comes from strangers who speak to me on the telephone.
Literally dozens of times both male & female computer repair techs, receptionists, office workers, cable TV employees, insurance agents, and telemarketers from a dozen different first, second, & third world countries have invariably called me either “Ma’am” or “Madame” after first hearing my voice on the phone. (Yes, this is a world wide phenomena that crosses all political, societal, religious, cultural, class, & economic boundaries.)
I even get asked “Are you the lady of the house?” or “May we speak to your husband?” from time to time.
What is there about the sound of my voice over the telephone that so misleads people? I’ll never know because of course I can’t hear myself as others do.
Ok, I agree that this is not an earth shattering problem to have. After all, it’s better that they be the ones confused. And not me!
==========================
CRICKETS
Remember the The Last Emperor movie? That was the story of Pu Yi, the last emperor of Imperial China, who ended his life as a humble gardener under the Communists. As a child his favorite pet had been a cricket. Many cultures in Asia highly prize pet crickets for what they regard as the beauty of their “song”.
Many rural Americans remember the chirping of crickets on warm summer nights with nostalgic fondness. A beloved Walt Disney character of my childhood was Jiminy Cricket from the cartoon classic Pinocchio.
I remember fishing trips as a little kid when my father used crickets for bait. Of course I would not touch those yucky bugs. So I insisted my father bait my hook. And that he also unhook the fish I caught. Live fish were yucky too.
Yes, many people love crickets for various and sundry reasons.
How do I feel about crickets nowadays?
I despise, detest, abhor, and loathe those damnable bugs. To put it in proper theological terms I urgently wish them all to be condemned to the infernal regions for all eternity. And to take their television sets with them.
Have you ever had the madding experience of trying to sleep only to be driven to distraction by a chirping cricket in your bedroom? It takes a lot of time to track them down and then “terminate with extreme prejudice” as the CIA used to say.
My trials and tribulations began about ten years ago. One night I was suddenly awaken by the roar of a whole flock of chirping crickets. Flyswatter in hand I immediately began an intensive but unsuccessful Search & Destroy Mission. I finally grabbed bug spray and soaked every dark corner, nook, and cranny in my bedroom.
Useless. Absolutely useless. The crickets were as loud as ever. And by now I was choking on the clouds of bug spray.
Then I suddenly realize something. The crickets stayed with me wherever I went in my house.
It was all in my head, folks. Literally.
And that, boys and girls, was how I discovered I had tinnitus.
What is tinnitus? For little understood reasons some unfortunate folks hear things that are not there. Some of us hear a constant buzzing, clicking, hissing, roaring, beeping, humming, whistling or chirping sound in our ears. Some hear combinations of these.
I hear those wretched crickets chirping 24 hours a day, seven days a week. Sometimes they are louder, sometimes quieter. And some of them are watching very loud TV programs featuring championship cricket chirping contests.
Do you remember those old fashion black & white TVs that made high pitched whining noises when turned off? Amid the chirping chorus all too often comes that “drilling a hole in your head” noise of crickets repeatedly turning their TVs off and on.
Would you like to sign my Put Imaginary Crickets On The Federal Should Be Endangered Species List petition? Maybe if enough of us tinnitus suffers and their sympathizers sign it we can finally get some help from the government!
==========================
DR. DOUGH-NEAL & THE BLABBERMOUTH KID
Did I ever tell you I knew my little brother was coming before my Mom did?
I was about five years old and we were living in Texas. Next door lived Mom's elderly doctor and close friend, Dr. O'Neil. I called him Dr. Dough-Neal.
I was crazy about him and would often visited his home. Mom always said he was very fond of me and had sort of "adopted" me as a surrogate grandfather. (Well, why not? Was/am I not just plain adorable?)
Apparently Dr. Dough-Neal had given Mom a pregnancy test a few days before. While I was visiting him Dr. Dough-Neal told me I would have a brand new shinny brother or sister in a few months.
Excited and delighted I immediately ran back home and told Mom.
That was how Mom heard about her test results!
==========================
SANTA SURPRISE
In 1959 my family moved from south Texas to western Kentucky. We lived for a while with my mother's parents, “Papa” and “Mama” Edwards.
My little brother Steve was about five years old that year and he had a problem. His new playmates had told him that they were not sure if Santa Claus really existed. And anyway, would Santa know where Steve lived now?
Mom tried to reassure Steve, without actually saying so directly, that Santa was very real. Certainly, she told him, Santa knew where we lived now. But Steve still had his doubts.
Shortly before Christmas we went to Hickman, Ky, to see the Christmas parade. My mother Martha had been born and raised there. At the end of the parade was a fire truck with Santa Claus riding on top. Santa was greeting the crowd and throwing out candy.
Steve began franticly waving to Santa. Santa looked up and called out, “Hello, Martha! Hello, Steve! Still going to have Christmas at Papa Edward's house this year?”
At this Steve's eyes began to bigger & bigger until they nearly swallowed his face. His faith fully confirmed, all doubts now gone, Steve had a wonderful Christmas that year.
Mom always swore that she had not set this up. And she claimed she had no idea who had been playing Santa Clause in the parade. That was her story and she stuck to it!
=========================
A
SIMPLE CASE OF SELF DEFENSE
Do you remember the candy apples they used to sell at carnivals & fairs? I am not speaking of those soft coated caramel apples but real candy apples covered in shiny red, brittle, solid sugar coatings. Hog heaven for a kid back then.
My little brother Steve, six years younger, and I went to a carnival in the early 1960s. We each bought two red candy apples – one to eat then & one to take home for later.
They were a delicious combination of crunchy sugar coating and tart apple. That night we put our two remaining candy apples into our refrigerator to keep the red coating nice and hard.
The next day my little brother went to the refrigerator to eat his red candy apple. It was gone. So was mine. My disappointed brother asked me, in what I must describe as a rather unjustly suspicious manner, “What happened to my candy apple!”
Well, as I explained to him, it was like this. Last night, after my brother was asleep, I was innocently walking across the kitchen to get a drink of water at the sink when, suddenly, and with a loud bang, the refrigerator door was violently thrust open. From the inside!
Instantly two vicious red candy apples leaped out of the refrigerator and attacked me. It was terrible. We fought together tooth and nail.
And it just so happened that tooth won ......
Would you believe, sad to say, that my little brother still had some doubts about my simple and truthful account of a desperate act of self defense?
==========================
WALKING THE DOG
When I was growing up in the late 1950s/early 1960s we had a dachshund named Maxie. Like all his breed Maxie had, of course, a long, lean, short legged, “hot dog” body. One day my little brother Steve ask Mom if he could “walk the dog” on the sidewalk in front of our house. Mom agreed.
A little while later Mom looked out the window to check on Steve. She noticed that Steve was on the sidewalk and struggling to peddle his tricycle up the slope of the hill in front of our house. Maxie’s leash was tied to the back of the tricycle. Oddly, Maxie was for some reason very determinedly dragging his feet and seemed quite reluctant to “walk” up that slope. A moment later, Mom discovered why.
As Steve reached the top of the hill, he turned his tricycle around, and gleefully peddled downhill as fast as he could. Poor Maxie’s feet were just blurs as he franticly tried to keep up with that tricycle!
==========================
COUNT YOUR EGGS
Like most little children in the 1950s I loved Easter. Why not? Every year the Easter Bunny would give me a colorful Easter basket covered with ribbons & lined with shiny plastic grass.
Oh, how I was fascinated by that plastic grass. Sometimes it was red, purple, yellow, blue, or other colors. Even the green plastic grass had a luster never seen in my back yard.
Better yet, that Easter basket would be filled with delicious candy eggs, bunnies, & chicks. And Easter even had a great game: the exciting hunt for Easter eggs. Sheer heaven for a little guy. Easter was almost as much fun as Halloween.
When I was a toddler Mom & Dad would boil eggs, color them, and then hide the eggs all around the living room. On Easter morning I would be first be given my Easter basket and then told to go hunting for the eggs also left for me by the Easter Bunny.
That was lots of fun for a little kid. Especially since some candy eggs were also hidden with the real eggs. Because, when you get down to it, a real Easter egg was just a rather boring boiled egg in colorful disguise.
But my parents learned, the hard way, a good lesson after my first Easter egg hunt. When hiding Easter eggs, especially real boiled eggs, first count them.
Several weeks after Easter had passed our noses revealed the locations of several I had missed that morning!
==========================
A PLAGUE OF, AND ON, MICROWAVE OVENS
Microwave ovens are odd critters. They come in very handy for boiling a cup of water or reheating leftover food. Yet I found out to my surprise that used ones are almost impossible to sell or even give away.
Once when the museum had its Memorial Day Weekend Stuff Sales I had two donated working microwave ovens in excellent condition. I spent two days trying to sell them. No buyers at $10 each. No buyers and $5 each.
Finally only by reducing the price to $2, and promising the pick of the litter of any children I might have in the future, I managed to sell one microwave oven. I was reduced to begging people to take the second one for free before I got rid of it.
When my brother Steve moved back home from Murray he brought back with him a nice small microwave oven. We already had one though.
Mom loves her microwave oven. It is over 20 years old, about three feet square, weighs about 100 pounds, and has been repaired twice in the past. The only thing Mom does with it is boil one cup of coffee water in the morning and gently heat up one piece of baloney for breakfast.
I have tried over the years to get Mom to switch to a smaller & more convenient microwave oven. I even tried to get her to use Steve's smaller and very good working microwave oven. No way. Mom insists that only that huge monster can properly heat up a cup of water.
So I have been stuck with Steve's old microwave oven for at least ten years. Works perfectly. But it is psychologically too small for Mom.
I have been telling family members that I want to get rid of a lot of the stuff in this house. We have tons of things we don't need or want.
Two weeks ago my cousin told me her son was setting up house and the kids needed everything in household goods. I was delighted and loaded her car down with a portable TV, dishes, cookware, pots, pans, knives, spoons, forks, storage containers, etc.
She happened to mention that her son was also looking for microwave oven. Ah, ha! No lion on the plains of Africa ever pounced quicker on a prey than I leaped at this golden opportunity. I insisted she take Steve's old microwave oven. She was delighted. But not as delighted as I was. (Whee!)
Would you like to finish the rest of this story? I am sure you can see it coming a mile away.
Yes. This morning Mom's huge microwave monster gave up the ghost. It is a “late” microwave. It is pushing up daisies. It has gone to that great microwave store in the sky. Beyond repair.
I am convinced that it maliciously waited until the other microwave oven was gone before deliberately committing appliance hara-kiri. I always thought that microwave oven had a crafty look about it .....
Well, I will be going to Wal Mart soon. Got to buy the biggest microwave oven that I can find for Mom.
==========================
OF BLACK BERRY JAM & LASERS
My uncle Bill & aunt Wood took me to Paris, TN, on November 1st [2005] for my second laser eye surgery. My doctor did laser surgery in my right eye two weeks before that and was to do my left eye on this visit. The laser is suppose to “spot weld” bleeding blood vessels in my eyes. Diabetes, of course.
Anyway, the doctor was quite please with the results of my first operation and proceeded to “zap” my left eye. Aside from a distressing tendency of the doctor to grumble to himself that his laser was “messing up” again, it went well. All in all, a good doctor visit.
Naturally I could not pass up the opportunity to do some shopping. I had a long list of items to pick up at Wal-Mart in Fulton. On my first visit to the new Fulton store an employee forgot to deactivate the anti shoplifting magnetic strip on a $100 box of blood sugar testing strips. Which, of course, set off the anti shoplifting alarm at the door. I call this my “strip search” adventure. Ever since then I get a little nervous in that store!
Anyway, my aunt Wood takes me to Wal-Mart in Fulton after my doctor visit. I was not in real good shape to go shopping, but I had lots of over the counter medicines, ointments, etc. to get for Mom. And a list of Wal-Mart brand food items that Mom likes.
For example, Mom will only eat Wal-Mart brand clover honey. In a certain jug. And it must have a blue label. Well, you get the idea.
My 80 year old aunt Wood, sweetly anxious to be of help, offered to go shopping with me. For I had a patch on my just operated on left eye and was completely blind on that side.
And my heavily dilated and thus dazzled right eye forced me to wear the very dark wraparound sunglasses given my mother after her cataract operation. So I could not use my reading glasses. As a result I could not read the labels on the Wal-Mart goodies.
No problem. My aunt Wood offered to read the labels for me. Unfortunately I could not read my shopping list and my aunt had trouble reading my handwriting. In her eagerness to help me Wood thus proceeded to describe everything she saw as we walked down the aisles.
It went like this: unsteady because I was worn out from the long trip & off balance because of being totally blind on my left side, I would stagger down the aisle pushing a shopping cart. Aside from occasionally running over a toddler or two this part of my adventure was not too bad.
As we went along I would say, “Wood, I need blackberry jam next.” My aunt would reply, “On this aisle are potato chips, corn chips, flour, corn meal, grits, green beans, pinto beans, navy beans, lima beans …..”
And Wood would helpfully aid me by holding up an example of each item as she called them out. Alas, she was showing them to me on my blind left side, of course.
I would reply, “No, no, please just show me where the jams and jellies are. I want a jar of blackberry jam.”
Wood would answer my despairing plea with, “Here are dill pickles, kosher pickles, hamburger sliced pickles, gherkins, sweet pickle hot dog relish …. “
In despair I would finally compromise, “Ok, Wood, don't worry about the blackberry jam. Just give me a jar of the hot dog relish. It may be green but it is sweet and can be spread on hot buttered toast anyway!”
Well, that little comedy routine was repeated for each and every food and over the counter medicine item on my long, long list.
Do you think my Mom will notice that I substituted garlic paste for her Aspercreme ointment?
==========================
WATCH OUT FOR THE PTA!
Are you annoyed at times by the PTA? No, not the Parent Teacher Association. I refer to that dreaded Post Traumatic Academia affliction.
Do you (like me) still occasionally dream that you are back in high school or college just sitting down for an important test when you realize that:
(1) You had forgotten to study for this particular test?
(2) Or you had somehow neglected to attend any of the classes on this subject after the first class?
(3) Or you have suddenly realized that certain critical items of your clothing are missing?
(4) Or any combination of the above?
I am forming a support group for sufferers from PTA to be called the Concerned Association of Student Helpers. Please make out your generous donation checks to CASH and mail them to me, John K. Ross, Jr., CASH Treasurer
==========================
TEXAS & THE VOICE OF DOOM
It is somewhat disconcerting when one suddenly starts hearing amid a cacophony of unearthly shrieks a deep masculine voice prophesying doom.
Beep! Buzz! Whee! Beep! Whee! Warning! Evacuate the house! Beep! Buzz! Whee! Beep! Buzz! Smoke detected in the basement! Whee! Beep! Buzz! Beep! Whee! and similar wailing noises came from a half dozen different locations in my house.
It gradually began to dawn on me that there may just be a wee bit of a problem developing here, a situation not exactly to my liking.
The ultimate source of this discord was Texas.
Where Dad got a job in the 1940s, I was born, and there was taught how to cook chili.
Oh, I suppose I must accept a small part of the blame. A miniscule amount perhaps.
True, I did forget to turn down the heat on the covered pot of chili I was bringing to a boil before letting it simmer for a few hours.
And, admittedly, I then did leave the kitchen to work on my computer for a couple of hours until so rudely interrupted by all that clamor.
That silly talking smoke detector got it wrong anyway. The fire was not in the basement. It was on top of my stove.
I have to admit the smoke was rather thick. As soon as I opened the door to the kitchen every other smoke detector in my two story house was set off.
Have you ever seen a big pot of chili reduced to a 1/8 inch thick layer of charcoal?
It was kinda interesting to see, really.
Ruined my best chili making pot though. Nothing else was damaged although my house still reeks of smoke.
I am planning to make some more chili this weekend to feast upon during our predicted (prophesied?) snow storm.
Wish me luck!
==========================
SIMPLE CASE OF SELF DEFENSE
Do you remember the candy apples they used to sell at carnivals & fairs? I am not speaking of those soft coated caramel apples but real candy apples covered in shiny red, brittle, solid sugar coatings. Hog heaven for a kid back then.
My little brother Steve, six years younger, and I went to a carnival in the early 1960s. We each bought two red candy apples – one to eat then & one to take home for later.
They were a delicious combination of crunchy sugar coating and tart apple. That night we put our two remaining candy apples into our refrigerator to keep the red coating nice and hard.
The next day my little brother went to the refrigerator to eat his red candy apple. It was gone. So was mine. My disappointed brother asked me, in what I must describe as a rather unjustly suspicious manner, “What happened to my candy apple!”
Well, as I explained to him, it was like this. Last night, after my brother was asleep, I was innocently walking across the kitchen to get a drink of water at the sink when, suddenly, and with a loud bang, the refrigerator door was violently thrust open. From the inside!
Instantly two vicious red candy apples leaped out of the refrigerator and attacked me. It was terrible. We fought together tooth and nail.
And it just so happened that tooth won ......
Would you believe, sad to say, that my little brother still had some doubts about my simple and truthful account of a desperate act of self defense?
==========================
WALKING THE DOG
When I was growing up in the late 1950s/early 1960s we had a dachshund named Maxie. Like all his breed Maxie had, of course, a long, lean, short legged, “hot dog” body. One day my little brother Steve ask Mom if he could “walk the dog” on the sidewalk in front of our house. Mom agreed.
A little while later Mom looked out the window to check on Steve. She noticed that Steve was on the sidewalk and struggling to peddle his tricycle up the slope of the hill in front of our house. Maxie’s leash was tied to the back of the tricycle. Oddly, Maxie was for some reason very determinedly dragging his feet and seemed quite reluctant to “walk” up that slope. A moment later, Mom discovered why.
As Steve reached the top of the hill, he turned his tricycle around, and gleefully peddled downhill as fast as he could. Poor Maxie’s feet were just blurs as he franticly tried to keep up with that tricycle!
==========================
COUNT YOUR EGGS
Like most little children in the 1950s I loved Easter. Why not? Every year the Easter Bunny would give me a colorful Easter basket covered with ribbons & lined with shiny plastic grass.
Oh, how I was fascinated by that plastic grass. Sometimes it was red, purple, yellow, blue, or other colors. Even the green plastic grass had a luster never seen in my back yard.
Better yet, that Easter basket would be filled with delicious candy eggs, bunnies, & chicks. And Easter even had a great game: the exciting hunt for Easter eggs. Sheer heaven for a little guy. Easter was almost as much fun as Halloween.
When I was a toddler Mom & Dad would boil eggs, color them, and then hide the eggs all around the living room. On Easter morning I would be first be given my Easter basket and then told to go hunting for the eggs also left for me by the Easter Bunny.
That was lots of fun for a little kid. Especially since some candy eggs were also hidden with the real eggs. Because, when you get down to it, a real Easter egg was just a rather boring boiled egg in colorful disguise.
But my parents learned, the hard way, a good lesson after my first Easter egg hunt. When hiding Easter eggs, especially real boiled eggs, first count them.
Several weeks after Easter had passed our noses revealed the locations of several I had missed that morning!
==========================
A PLAGUE OF, AND ON, MICROWAVE OVENS
Microwave ovens are odd critters. They come in very handy for boiling a cup of water or reheating leftover food. Yet I found out to my surprise that used ones are almost impossible to sell or even give away.
Once when the museum had its Memorial Day Weekend Stuff Sales I had two donated working microwave ovens in excellent condition. I spent two days trying to sell them. No buyers at $10 each. No buyers and $5 each.
Finally only by reducing the price to $2, and promising the pick of the litter of any children I might have in the future, I managed to sell one microwave oven. I was reduced to begging people to take the second one for free before I got rid of it.
When my brother Steve moved back home from Murray he brought back with him a nice small microwave oven. We already had one though.
Mom loves her microwave oven. It is over 20 years old, about three feet square, weighs about 100 pounds, and has been repaired twice in the past. The only thing Mom does with it is boil one cup of coffee water in the morning and gently heat up one piece of baloney for breakfast.
I have tried over the years to get Mom to switch to a smaller & more convenient microwave oven. I even tried to get her to use Steve's smaller and very good working microwave oven. No way. Mom insists that only that huge monster can properly heat up a cup of water.
So I have been stuck with Steve's old microwave oven for at least ten years. Works perfectly. But it is psychologically too small for Mom.
I have been telling family members that I want to get rid of a lot of the stuff in this house. We have tons of things we don't need or want.
Two weeks ago my cousin told me her son was setting up house and the kids needed everything in household goods. I was delighted and loaded her car down with a portable TV, dishes, cookware, pots, pans, knives, spoons, forks, storage containers, etc.
She happened to mention that her son was also looking for microwave oven. Ah, ha! No lion on the plains of Africa ever pounced quicker on a prey than I leaped at this golden opportunity. I insisted she take Steve's old microwave oven. She was delighted. But not as delighted as I was. (Whee!)
Would you like to finish the rest of this story? I am sure you can see it coming a mile away.
Yes. This morning Mom's huge microwave monster gave up the ghost. It is a “late” microwave. It is pushing up daisies. It has gone to that great microwave store in the sky. Beyond repair.
I am convinced that it maliciously waited until the other microwave oven was gone before deliberately committing appliance hara-kiri. I always thought that microwave oven had a crafty look about it .....
Well, I will be going to Wal Mart soon. Got to buy the biggest microwave oven that I can find for Mom.
==========================
OF BLACK BERRY JAM & LASERS
My uncle Bill & aunt Wood took me to Paris, TN, on November 1st [2005] for my second laser eye surgery. My doctor did laser surgery in my right eye two weeks before that and was to do my left eye on this visit. The laser is suppose to “spot weld” bleeding blood vessels in my eyes. Diabetes, of course.
Anyway, the doctor was quite please with the results of my first operation and proceeded to “zap” my left eye. Aside from a distressing tendency of the doctor to grumble to himself that his laser was “messing up” again, it went well. All in all, a good doctor visit.
Naturally I could not pass up the opportunity to do some shopping. I had a long list of items to pick up at Wal-Mart in Fulton. On my first visit to the new Fulton store an employee forgot to deactivate the anti shoplifting magnetic strip on a $100 box of blood sugar testing strips. Which, of course, set off the anti shoplifting alarm at the door. I call this my “strip search” adventure. Ever since then I get a little nervous in that store!
Anyway, my aunt Wood takes me to Wal-Mart in Fulton after my doctor visit. I was not in real good shape to go shopping, but I had lots of over the counter medicines, ointments, etc. to get for Mom. And a list of Wal-Mart brand food items that Mom likes.
For example, Mom will only eat Wal-Mart brand clover honey. In a certain jug. And it must have a blue label. Well, you get the idea.
My 80 year old aunt Wood, sweetly anxious to be of help, offered to go shopping with me. For I had a patch on my just operated on left eye and was completely blind on that side.
And my heavily dilated and thus dazzled right eye forced me to wear the very dark wraparound sunglasses given my mother after her cataract operation. So I could not use my reading glasses. As a result I could not read the labels on the Wal-Mart goodies.
No problem. My aunt Wood offered to read the labels for me. Unfortunately I could not read my shopping list and my aunt had trouble reading my handwriting. In her eagerness to help me Wood thus proceeded to describe everything she saw as we walked down the aisles.
It went like this: unsteady because I was worn out from the long trip & off balance because of being totally blind on my left side, I would stagger down the aisle pushing a shopping cart. Aside from occasionally running over a toddler or two this part of my adventure was not too bad.
As we went along I would say, “Wood, I need blackberry jam next.” My aunt would reply, “On this aisle are potato chips, corn chips, flour, corn meal, grits, green beans, pinto beans, navy beans, lima beans …..”
And Wood would helpfully aid me by holding up an example of each item as she called them out. Alas, she was showing them to me on my blind left side, of course.
I would reply, “No, no, please just show me where the jams and jellies are. I want a jar of blackberry jam.”
Wood would answer my despairing plea with, “Here are dill pickles, kosher pickles, hamburger sliced pickles, gherkins, sweet pickle hot dog relish …. “
In despair I would finally compromise, “Ok, Wood, don't worry about the blackberry jam. Just give me a jar of the hot dog relish. It may be green but it is sweet and can be spread on hot buttered toast anyway!”
Well, that little comedy routine was repeated for each and every food and over the counter medicine item on my long, long list.
Do you think my Mom will notice that I substituted garlic paste for her Aspercreme ointment?
==========================
WATCH OUT FOR THE PTA!
Are you annoyed at times by the PTA? No, not the Parent Teacher Association. I refer to that dreaded Post Traumatic Academia affliction.
Do you (like me) still occasionally dream that you are back in high school or college just sitting down for an important test when you realize that:
(1) You had forgotten to study for this particular test?
(2) Or you had somehow neglected to attend any of the classes on this subject after the first class?
(3) Or you have suddenly realized that certain critical items of your clothing are missing?
(4) Or any combination of the above?
I am forming a support group for sufferers from PTA to be called the Concerned Association of Student Helpers. Please make out your generous donation checks to CASH and mail them to me, John K. Ross, Jr., CASH Treasurer
==========================
TEXAS & THE VOICE OF DOOM
It is somewhat disconcerting when one suddenly starts hearing amid a cacophony of unearthly shrieks a deep masculine voice prophesying doom.
Beep! Buzz! Whee! Beep! Whee! Warning! Evacuate the house! Beep! Buzz! Whee! Beep! Buzz! Smoke detected in the basement! Whee! Beep! Buzz! Beep! Whee! and similar wailing noises came from a half dozen different locations in my house.
It gradually began to dawn on me that there may just be a wee bit of a problem developing here, a situation not exactly to my liking.
The ultimate source of this discord was Texas.
Where Dad got a job in the 1940s, I was born, and there was taught how to cook chili.
Oh, I suppose I must accept a small part of the blame. A miniscule amount perhaps.
True, I did forget to turn down the heat on the covered pot of chili I was bringing to a boil before letting it simmer for a few hours.
And, admittedly, I then did leave the kitchen to work on my computer for a couple of hours until so rudely interrupted by all that clamor.
That silly talking smoke detector got it wrong anyway. The fire was not in the basement. It was on top of my stove.
I have to admit the smoke was rather thick. As soon as I opened the door to the kitchen every other smoke detector in my two story house was set off.
Have you ever seen a big pot of chili reduced to a 1/8 inch thick layer of charcoal?
It was kinda interesting to see, really.
Ruined my best chili making pot though. Nothing else was damaged although my house still reeks of smoke.
I am planning to make some more chili this weekend to feast upon during our predicted (prophesied?) snow storm.
Wish me luck!
==========================
OF WIND AND RICE KRISPIES
[September 14, 2008, Hurricane Ike hits western Kentucky]
Sunday morning just after the electric power went off in Clinton I could hear the wind building up. So I got a chair and sat on the front porch to watch the storm. Very, very little rain came. Maybe a tenth of an inch. What little rain was there was flying horizontally and heading north.
But the wind! It was from the south at 25 to 35 mph but gusts hit 60 mph. And the wind storm must have lasted over an hour. I could hear the cracking of breaking branches every minute or two. A series of cracks coming rapidly one after another was the signal that yet another tree was going down. Remember as a kid putting a bowl of Rice Krispies next to your ear after pouring the milk in? Snap, crackle, pop!
I saw the big twin trunk tree of my next door neighbor split in half and fall down on the power lines in front of my house. The two utility poles bent inwards but the lines held the tree several feet off the ground. One and a half lanes of Hwy 51 were blocked by the branches. I was very glad the power was off!
After a few hours the work crews lifted the tree off of the undamaged power lines and thoughtfully bulldozed it over onto my sidewalk. Guess what? I get to have it cut up and removed.
I also watched a pine tree beside my drive way just gradually begin to lean north until it was halfway over. It stayed that way for a few minutes. Then the pine tree just seemed to mutter to itself, “Ah, the heck with it.” and it slowly and gently eased itself over to rest on the slope of the bank. By this time I felt much the same way as that poor pine tree.
The top couple of feet of my brick chimney were also blown down. Plus dozens of tree limbs. I had no electric power for 33 hours and lost everything in my fridge & freezer.
My half rotted down garage with the huge hole in the roof came through the windstorm untouched. I regard it as just more proof that the Good Lord has a sense of humor.
That Sunday night without electricity the houses and the tangled tree limbs in front of my home were coal black silhouettes against the light from a pearlescent full moon in a soft gray hazy sky without stars.
A beautiful and peaceful end for a turbulent day.
==========================
[September 14, 2008, Hurricane Ike hits western Kentucky]
Sunday morning just after the electric power went off in Clinton I could hear the wind building up. So I got a chair and sat on the front porch to watch the storm. Very, very little rain came. Maybe a tenth of an inch. What little rain was there was flying horizontally and heading north.
But the wind! It was from the south at 25 to 35 mph but gusts hit 60 mph. And the wind storm must have lasted over an hour. I could hear the cracking of breaking branches every minute or two. A series of cracks coming rapidly one after another was the signal that yet another tree was going down. Remember as a kid putting a bowl of Rice Krispies next to your ear after pouring the milk in? Snap, crackle, pop!
I saw the big twin trunk tree of my next door neighbor split in half and fall down on the power lines in front of my house. The two utility poles bent inwards but the lines held the tree several feet off the ground. One and a half lanes of Hwy 51 were blocked by the branches. I was very glad the power was off!
After a few hours the work crews lifted the tree off of the undamaged power lines and thoughtfully bulldozed it over onto my sidewalk. Guess what? I get to have it cut up and removed.
I also watched a pine tree beside my drive way just gradually begin to lean north until it was halfway over. It stayed that way for a few minutes. Then the pine tree just seemed to mutter to itself, “Ah, the heck with it.” and it slowly and gently eased itself over to rest on the slope of the bank. By this time I felt much the same way as that poor pine tree.
The top couple of feet of my brick chimney were also blown down. Plus dozens of tree limbs. I had no electric power for 33 hours and lost everything in my fridge & freezer.
My half rotted down garage with the huge hole in the roof came through the windstorm untouched. I regard it as just more proof that the Good Lord has a sense of humor.
That Sunday night without electricity the houses and the tangled tree limbs in front of my home were coal black silhouettes against the light from a pearlescent full moon in a soft gray hazy sky without stars.
A beautiful and peaceful end for a turbulent day.
==========================
OF CRYSTAL AND FLASHLIGHTS.
What experiences we have had here in Hickman County since the Great Ice Storm of February ‘09 battered us!
For hours the night air was filled with the crackling of thousands of falling ice covered tree limbs interspersed with the sudden, piercing, snap of a shattered tree trunk or power pole. The tinkling sound of broken glass was everywhere as they fell.
Afterwards I saw some unbroken trees so heavily glazed with clear ice they gracefully curved over to touch the earth forming glittering crystal arcs in the dawn’s light.
This ice, so pure, so beautiful, and so destructive had left our entire county literally powerless with over 1000 power poles down. In my case I did not have electricity at my home for 20 days. Without electricity many of us were reduced to a 19th century life of wood fires, kerosene lamps, and candles.
And modern flashlights. And here, my friends, is where my new flashlight comes into this little story.
As the days passed without electric power I needed both fresh batteries and an extra small flashlight. That should have been a simple problem to solve, right?
Well, our local stores were soon stripped of such essential supplies.
But a friend offered to go to Fulton, KY, to buy me a small flashlight. I foolishly agreed, forgetting his most unfortunate sense of humor.
Which flashlight did my possibly soon to be former friend bring me back? Which flashlight did he swear was the only one in Fulton left for sale at any price? Which flashlight did he so gleefully hand me?
That flashlight was small enough to keep in my jacket pocket. (Good.)
That flashlight used AA batteries of which I had a generous supply. (Excellent.)
That flashlight was made for a child. (I began to have misgivings at this point.)
That flashlight was pink & red & white and decorated with stars. (Oh, oh.)
That flashlight had a character from a classic cartoon movie on it. (Oh, no!)
That flashlight was a little girl’s SLEEPING BEAUTY Disney movie model!
That is not the end of the story of that flashlight.
Each morning at 6 a.m.(!) my friend and I went to Nicky's BBQ for breakfast. I told the story of the flashlight to the guys there and they found it most amusing. The next day I decided to take the flashlight and show it to them in all its glory.
One of the men had with him that morning his four year old great granddaughter. Cutest little thing you ever saw. So after the guys looked over the flashlight I gave it to the gal. She was delighted, gave me a nice little hug, and played with it constantly.
The next morning her great grandfather told me although they had electric power at her home she insisted on "reading" her book using the flashlight when she went to bed that night.
No ice storm adventures that include making a little child happy can be all bad, can they?
==========================
SOMETIMES THERE IS GRACE
Alzheimer's disease is a terrible thing. Several of my close relatives have been victims of this slow forgetting of self. My mother also worked at a nursing home for many years. So my family is quite familiar with this tragic illness.
Yet for some people with Alzheimer's disease there is a brief period of grace before the final fadeout.
The Elderly Lady was a resident in a nursing home where my mother worked. Her story is about grace. And about good intentions gone awry.
My mother described the Elderly Lady as always being very happy. In her confused mind the woman was once again a young mother. She would cuddle a doll, sing to it, and rock it to sleep. This doll was a real infant to her. Her baby.
One day my mother saw a granddaughter of the Elderly Lady come visit. The granddaughter had her newborn infant with her. The granddaughter took the doll from the woman and gave her the real baby.
Oh, how happy the Elderly Lady was! She held the baby. She rocked the baby. She sang to it.
But eventually the granddaughter had to leave. So with kisses, farewells, and promises to visit again soon, the granddaughter took back the baby and returned the doll to the arms of the Elderly Lady.
A little while later my mother was passing by the room of the Elderly Lady and heard bitter weeping. Mom went in to ask the woman what was wrong.
The Elderly Lady held out her doll and said, “My baby is not moving anymore!” And she went on in tears, “My baby is cold. My baby is dead.”
Mom tried to comfort the broken hearted woman. Mom took the doll, hugged it, kissed it, and told the Elderly Lady that her baby was fine. And then she gave the doll back.
A few minutes later Mom again checked on the Elderly Lady. Once again the woman was happily cuddling and hugging and singing to her doll. For it had all faded away.
Gone forever was the memory the woman's joy in holding her granddaughter's baby. But also forgotten was her grief for her doll's “death.”
Once again the Elderly Lady was a young mother.
Once again she was holding her new infant.
Once again she lived in an endless moment of joy.
For some, for a lucky few, there may be a period of grace before the end.
==========================
MY VIRGINIA
First, you must realize that Virginia really was a “Jewell,” a gem, a beautiful soul with a heart overflowing with love and compassion for others.
A West Virginia born girl who came to love the history & people of her adopted home of Hickman County.
A very modest and unassuming woman who never wanted credit for her many services to her community.
A loving friend to many.
Devoted to her family.
A jewel is cut & shaped to reveal its inner beauty. Small flat cuts, called facets, reflect & refract light in many different directions to charm the eye.
Virginia’s many interests & activities were the “facets” of her personality, aspects of her kind and generous nature.
Virginia was involved in so many ways with our community through her church, her music, her many clubs, the historical society, and our county museum.
I can only speak here about my personal Virginia, just about a few of the many “facets” of our jewel: the woman I worked with for so many years, the local historian, my dear friend.
Virginia preserved so much of our county’s history in her newspaper articles and her two books. And without her we simply would not have the Hickman County Museum. Virginia donated two houses and the land they stand on to become the museum. She gave us many family relics for our collection.
And most importantly Virginia gave of herself, of her time. Every Wednesday since the museum opened Virginia gave tours to visitors. She also worked on special events, fund raisers, and displays for the museum.
Virginia and I often spoke about our local history to visiting groups at Columbus Belmont Ky State Park. We worked together on the recent renovation of the Park museum. And so much more.
As I write this I can’t help expecting any moment to feel a very familiar little tug on my shirt sleeve. This would always happen at the museum just before I would be interviewed by a newspaper or TV reporter.
I would turn around and there would be Virginia, whispering, “Now John, you don’t have to tell them all that about me.” And then Virginia would quietly slip to the back of the crowd hoping to avoid being interviewed or photographed.
I prefer now to think of Virginia as being somewhere behind me, out of my sight, quietly waiting for the crowd to go away, so we could be alone together.
I shall wait for that tug at my sleeve, that gentle voice.
Someday, someday, I shall feel it again.
And I will turn around.
And there she will be.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
What experiences we have had here in Hickman County since the Great Ice Storm of February ‘09 battered us!
For hours the night air was filled with the crackling of thousands of falling ice covered tree limbs interspersed with the sudden, piercing, snap of a shattered tree trunk or power pole. The tinkling sound of broken glass was everywhere as they fell.
Afterwards I saw some unbroken trees so heavily glazed with clear ice they gracefully curved over to touch the earth forming glittering crystal arcs in the dawn’s light.
This ice, so pure, so beautiful, and so destructive had left our entire county literally powerless with over 1000 power poles down. In my case I did not have electricity at my home for 20 days. Without electricity many of us were reduced to a 19th century life of wood fires, kerosene lamps, and candles.
And modern flashlights. And here, my friends, is where my new flashlight comes into this little story.
As the days passed without electric power I needed both fresh batteries and an extra small flashlight. That should have been a simple problem to solve, right?
Well, our local stores were soon stripped of such essential supplies.
But a friend offered to go to Fulton, KY, to buy me a small flashlight. I foolishly agreed, forgetting his most unfortunate sense of humor.
Which flashlight did my possibly soon to be former friend bring me back? Which flashlight did he swear was the only one in Fulton left for sale at any price? Which flashlight did he so gleefully hand me?
That flashlight was small enough to keep in my jacket pocket. (Good.)
That flashlight used AA batteries of which I had a generous supply. (Excellent.)
That flashlight was made for a child. (I began to have misgivings at this point.)
That flashlight was pink & red & white and decorated with stars. (Oh, oh.)
That flashlight had a character from a classic cartoon movie on it. (Oh, no!)
That flashlight was a little girl’s SLEEPING BEAUTY Disney movie model!
That is not the end of the story of that flashlight.
Each morning at 6 a.m.(!) my friend and I went to Nicky's BBQ for breakfast. I told the story of the flashlight to the guys there and they found it most amusing. The next day I decided to take the flashlight and show it to them in all its glory.
One of the men had with him that morning his four year old great granddaughter. Cutest little thing you ever saw. So after the guys looked over the flashlight I gave it to the gal. She was delighted, gave me a nice little hug, and played with it constantly.
The next morning her great grandfather told me although they had electric power at her home she insisted on "reading" her book using the flashlight when she went to bed that night.
No ice storm adventures that include making a little child happy can be all bad, can they?
==========================
SOMETIMES THERE IS GRACE
Alzheimer's disease is a terrible thing. Several of my close relatives have been victims of this slow forgetting of self. My mother also worked at a nursing home for many years. So my family is quite familiar with this tragic illness.
Yet for some people with Alzheimer's disease there is a brief period of grace before the final fadeout.
The Elderly Lady was a resident in a nursing home where my mother worked. Her story is about grace. And about good intentions gone awry.
My mother described the Elderly Lady as always being very happy. In her confused mind the woman was once again a young mother. She would cuddle a doll, sing to it, and rock it to sleep. This doll was a real infant to her. Her baby.
One day my mother saw a granddaughter of the Elderly Lady come visit. The granddaughter had her newborn infant with her. The granddaughter took the doll from the woman and gave her the real baby.
Oh, how happy the Elderly Lady was! She held the baby. She rocked the baby. She sang to it.
But eventually the granddaughter had to leave. So with kisses, farewells, and promises to visit again soon, the granddaughter took back the baby and returned the doll to the arms of the Elderly Lady.
A little while later my mother was passing by the room of the Elderly Lady and heard bitter weeping. Mom went in to ask the woman what was wrong.
The Elderly Lady held out her doll and said, “My baby is not moving anymore!” And she went on in tears, “My baby is cold. My baby is dead.”
Mom tried to comfort the broken hearted woman. Mom took the doll, hugged it, kissed it, and told the Elderly Lady that her baby was fine. And then she gave the doll back.
A few minutes later Mom again checked on the Elderly Lady. Once again the woman was happily cuddling and hugging and singing to her doll. For it had all faded away.
Gone forever was the memory the woman's joy in holding her granddaughter's baby. But also forgotten was her grief for her doll's “death.”
Once again the Elderly Lady was a young mother.
Once again she was holding her new infant.
Once again she lived in an endless moment of joy.
For some, for a lucky few, there may be a period of grace before the end.
==========================
MY VIRGINIA
First, you must realize that Virginia really was a “Jewell,” a gem, a beautiful soul with a heart overflowing with love and compassion for others.
A West Virginia born girl who came to love the history & people of her adopted home of Hickman County.
A very modest and unassuming woman who never wanted credit for her many services to her community.
A loving friend to many.
Devoted to her family.
A jewel is cut & shaped to reveal its inner beauty. Small flat cuts, called facets, reflect & refract light in many different directions to charm the eye.
Virginia’s many interests & activities were the “facets” of her personality, aspects of her kind and generous nature.
Virginia was involved in so many ways with our community through her church, her music, her many clubs, the historical society, and our county museum.
I can only speak here about my personal Virginia, just about a few of the many “facets” of our jewel: the woman I worked with for so many years, the local historian, my dear friend.
Virginia preserved so much of our county’s history in her newspaper articles and her two books. And without her we simply would not have the Hickman County Museum. Virginia donated two houses and the land they stand on to become the museum. She gave us many family relics for our collection.
And most importantly Virginia gave of herself, of her time. Every Wednesday since the museum opened Virginia gave tours to visitors. She also worked on special events, fund raisers, and displays for the museum.
Virginia and I often spoke about our local history to visiting groups at Columbus Belmont Ky State Park. We worked together on the recent renovation of the Park museum. And so much more.
As I write this I can’t help expecting any moment to feel a very familiar little tug on my shirt sleeve. This would always happen at the museum just before I would be interviewed by a newspaper or TV reporter.
I would turn around and there would be Virginia, whispering, “Now John, you don’t have to tell them all that about me.” And then Virginia would quietly slip to the back of the crowd hoping to avoid being interviewed or photographed.
I prefer now to think of Virginia as being somewhere behind me, out of my sight, quietly waiting for the crowd to go away, so we could be alone together.
I shall wait for that tug at my sleeve, that gentle voice.
Someday, someday, I shall feel it again.
And I will turn around.
And there she will be.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++
