A New Chapter in My Life

Yesterday I started a new chapter in my life.  I became great grandmother to a 7lb 4oz  baby girl, Emalyn Claire.  I haven't seen her yet, only a picture right after her birth.  Of course she's beautiful!  I'm Mama Charlotte to the grand kids, so now I suppose this makes me Great Mama Charlotte. ;) 

For Mama ~ April 12, 1914 ~ June 20, 1987

This must be the first hour of  your life; you are so happy.

You wait and watch for the movement, then cry out in pain and laugh

through tears as my pure soft fingers wrap around yours.

You pull me close and whisper, "Thank you, God."

You hold my hand and we take those first few steps across the floor.

You laugh with me and put new ribbons in my glossy brown hair.

We quarrel and you say, "Can't you ever remember to keep your feet off the chair?"

Now it is noon, and I am so happy and your life seems complete.

I have grown up; I have him and I have my own little ones.

We talk and visit and watch them grow,

and most of all, I need you as a friend.

But a dark cloud overshadows you and you are alone; your heart seems to break

because there can't be another love for you.

I still come and your days are better.

I curl your silver hair, but I quarrel at you now and say,

"Don't you remember telling me that twice before!"

Now I must take you in the car because you do not trust your eyes.

I grasp your hand as we cross the street for you totter and do not hear well.

You rest and I hold your worn, thin hand.  You try to grasp it tighter

but your strength won't come.

I wait and watch for the movement.  Then with tears of sorrow I pull you close and whisper,

"Thank you, God."

I am so sad.

For now it is midnight.

I love you, Mama,

Charlotte

I'll admit...

I like Spam!  I know not everyone likes it; in fact I've read that some think it's nasty.  The ingredients say it's made from pork, with ham and chicken.  My biggest concern is the amount of sodium it contains.  But give me a day of working past lunch time, with nothing cooked, and a Spam sandwich hits the spot, of course with a serving of cold pork and beans.  Yuck! you say?

I guess my taste for these two things goes all the way back to when our family worked in the peach orchards and packing shed.  We had no electricity, therefore no refrigeration to keep anything cold.  Mama would get up very early, milk the cow, cook breakfast and then hurry to fix something for our lunch to take with us.  Sometimes she fried potatoes which were cold by noon, but they were so good; I still like cold fried potatoes.  The Spam and pork and beans were something that could be packed and opened at mealtime.  Back in those days, Spam didn't come in an aluminum can with a pop off lid, but rather a tin can that was opened with a little key which was attached to the bottom of the can.  There was a small tab on the upper side of the can and the key was used to wind around the can so the lid could be removed.  My cousin and I had quite a collection of those keys to play with.  If work in the packing shed ran into the night, my cousin and I were sent down the hill to the little country store to buy some bologna or some such sandwich meat.

I've thought a lot about the kinds of meat we had to eat back then.  There was always ham, sausage, bacon and tenderloin to eat in the winter, but by spring what was left was beginning to taste rancid.  Mama canned some of the fresh meat using her pressure cooker, so that must have been what carried us over until we could have chicken.  She always put eggs under setting hens, but it took several weeks before any of the chickens were large enough to eat.  Now we grow chickens in seven weeks that can weigh over seven pounds, but they have feed before them all the time; hillside chicks were only fed once a day and then had to scratch for whatever they could find. The pulley bone was always my favorite piece and I can remember how small it was. 

We never had beef, with the exception of an occasional hamburger in town.  Now and then we might have fish caught from the creek, but were always warned of the danger of getting bones in our throats.  If there was a special get-together of Mama's folks, she would buy a can of mackerel (fish) and make fried patties from it.

But you know, I don't ever remember going hungry.

Think about it,

Charlotte  

Preparing for Winter -- 2

There was frost the next morning and the acrid smell of frozen grass filled the air. Smoke from the stovepipe curled only a little before being carried away to the holler by the strong north wind. By mid-morning the sun began warming things and Mama said, "Let's stomp peas today, Charlotte!" She took her feed sack full of dry peas out into the yard. Charlotte jumped onto the burlap bag. "This is one thing you can jump on to your heart's content," said Mama. "Pretend you're jumping on the bed!" She jumped and jumped. Mama turned the sack and they both stomped, and the dry pods broke into pieces, releasing the peas. Charlotte giggled and fell off. Mama set the sack upright and untied the end.
She picked up the sack and held the opened end high above her empty dishpan. The dry peas fell into the pan and the wind blew the broken pieces of hulls away. Then she poured the peas from the dishpan into an empty bucket. Zing! Zing, zing! The peas sounded like hailstones on a tin roof as they hit the metal bucket. She poured them back and forth, and each time bits of hulls and trash blew out until the peas were clean.

Now Mama took the clean peas to the kitchen. She filled a jar with some of them and added a few moth balls. "These peas are to plant next year," she said, "and the mothballs will keep weevils out of them." She poured boiling water over the rest of the peas and let them sit for a few minutes. "I scalded these peas to kill any weevils that might be in them now; they're the ones I'll cook this winter. The seed peas can't be scalded because the hot water would kill the little plant that is waiting inside the pea," explained Mama. She spread the scalded peas out on a clean cloth and let them dry in the sun and wind for a few days before storing them away for winter meals.

Charlotte

If you're fairly new to my blog you might enjoy reading more about our farm life in the 1940s.  The stories are under the label, Family.  If there are two parts to a story, the first part will be preceded by the second; keep this in mind to keep from knowing the end of the story first :)

Preparing for Winter (A repost)

The fall weather was dry. Dust rose behind cars and hung in the stillness. In the evenings it settled in the valleys and looked like fog. The leaves were changing colors, but they had a burnt-like crispness to them; their edges curled. The flowering weeds wilted in the warmth of the afternoon sun, and grass seeds were maturing quickly. At night the temperatures dropped, so Daddy put up the wood heater.

"There'll be a killing frost soon," he said, so Mama set about to gather in what was left in the garden: a few peas, turnip greens, and green tomatoes.

Honk! Honk! Honk! The sounds came from overhead. "Look, Mama! A black flying line!" said Charlotte and Mama explained to her, "Those are geese, flying south. They know cold air is coming. They're going where the weather is warmer."

Charlotte shaded her eyes from the sun and watched the geese flying in a v-shape; now and then a few birds strayed from the others and flew alone, but they always returned. By noon the sun had warmed the air enough that Charlotte wondered if they might turn back.....

(To be continued tomorrow.
I know some of you have read this before, but bear with me...)

 

The Lowly Bitterweed

 

If you are a city gal, you probably won't be interested in this:

I grew up with bitterweeds.  They were around our barn and even in the yard.  Maybe you aren't familiar with this plant, so I'll give a brief description of it.  The bitterweed is a low growing plant, 6-20 inches tall, with bright yellow flowers and a very strong oder.  They are aggressive in their growth in overgrazed pastures, along roadsides, and waste areas.  Where tame grasses grow thicker the weed is usually not a problem.

The bitter weed contains a toxic substance to livestock, especially horses and mules.  Most animals won't eat it because of the foul, bitter taste.  Allowing animals to graze bitterweed, even in small quantities, can cause a cow's milk to taste bitter.  And maybe that was my first encounter with the lowly bitterweed.  Whenever the hot sun dried up the grass, the weed thrived, and Mama's milk cow ate it, making our milk and butter taste bad.

As two little children playing in the barn, my cousin and I found a perfect use for those yellow blooms.  With the sand he brought to me, I made mud cakes and pies in little tin pans, and decorated them with the flowers.  But that wasn't the only use we found for the weed.

During the day, Mama's hens roamed the yard where we played and it was nothing uncommon for us to step barefooted in a hen's droppings and have the wet stuff ooze between our toes.  There was no hose with a nozzle, in those days, connected to an outside faucet for us to wash them, so we found a bitterweed, put the stem between our toes, and pulled up our foot, letting the green foliage swipe off the mess.  It might have taken more than one swipe, but hey, it worked!

I never see a bitterweed without remembering those days, and if this makes me a redneck hillbilly, then I wear the color and the name with pride.

Charlotte

Failed Experiment

I don't know when I first learned that glass could be melted; perhaps there were pictures in a science pamphlet Wanda had brought home from school.  I was amazed, and wondered if I could melt glass.

I had a little piece of broken glass, and while Mama was busy, I took the box of matches from the kitchen and ran down to the hen house.  If I worked on the east side of the hen house, she couldn't see me.   After the glass was placed on a rock, I carefully took out a match, struck it; the flame went out, as it did several more times.  Finally the weak flame inched its way up the match stick and I held it under the corner of the glass; nothing happened.  As the heat from the flame came closer to my fingers I had to blow it out and start over.  Two, three, four, five matches -- still not a sign that the glass even thought about melting!  My experiment had failed!

So I gathered up the box of matches and went back to the house.  Now to go up the steps, carefully open the screen door, step inside, and -- I tripped a little bit, dropping the matches which scattered on the floor.

Mama came quickly and of course wanted to know why I had the matches and then told me what a dangerous thing I had just done.  "You could have set the hen house on fire!"  Punishment?  I'm sure there must have been!  My guardian angel was getting to know me, and oh how many more times would she have to save me from my experiments in life?

Charlotte

Sisters ~~ Different Lives

Last week my sister had her 78th birthday; I don't think she minds me telling her age;  she's still in good health and sound of mind.  For some reason I began thinking of the different paths our lives have taken.

We were both born in the same room, in the little gray house on the rocky hillside farm; as Daddy used to say, "Wanda was born on one side and Charlotte on the other side of that room."  She was almost 6 1/2 years older, much more outgoing and made friends easily.  The word Daddy used to describe me was "timid", but I always had a smile.  As we grew up I know I pestered her too much, especially when she began dating a Marine and received letters from him; letters I wanted so much to read.

She met her cousin's brother-in-law and married him the summer after she graduated from high school .  He had just come out of  service and in about a year they moved to Michigan where he worked in the Buick plant.  As the years passed, they had four children; one sweet little girl died at age five.  She worked in various plants and at Wal Mart because now her husband had become a Baptist preacher.

I met my husband at college; he was a farm boy and that appealed to me.  We married and  moved away from our community; he taught school and worked first on a master's degree and later on his doctorate.  I went to college one more semester then dropped out to become a mother of three girls, and a full-time housewife.  We bought a small place and began our farm; he taught during the week and farmed on the weekends. 

So now she was a preacher's wife and I was the wife of a college professor/farmer.   She attended church functions, I worked cattle and chickens. 

She and her husband recently moved into a retirement center.  He is disabled and the upkeep of  the house and yard was too much for her.  This made me stop and think: could I live there and be happy?  Right now the answer is "no".  Even if the meals are prepared,  the rooms cleaned, and no grocery shopping, I believe I would feel imprisoned, isolated more or less, no place to go where there were no people. 

 

Here we are, ten years ago, sisters with different lives.  Yes, I'm the one with the white hair! 

 

Charlotte

Observations of the Mouse in the Drawer

He came to live in the old house out of necessity on a cold, wet night. It was empty except for a few dusty canning jars and old clothes. He made it his home for the winter, and being a field mouse, he planned to move on when spring came.

Then the little old lady moved in. She came with boxes, dishes, some furniture,and things that indicated she was going to make the house her home too. He resented her presence and tried to make her as miserable as possible by chewing on papers and leaving droppings on the kitchen cabinets. The ill will she felt for him was obvious too whenever she chased him with the broom. She even began leaving rat poison out in places where he was sure to poke around.

His attitude toward her began to change somewhat as time passed, and he found that the balls of thread and the books and papers she had brought with her to the house made excellent bedding materials. Sometimes he peered around the doorway and watched as she flicked a tiny steel hook back and forth and something lacy and soft was made from the threads. He watched as she went to the front door and looked out across the road to the house that had been her home for so many years before. She told the story aloud to herself: she had cared for both her mother and her father there in the big house. Then she would sigh and say, "It's what Papa wanted." She went back to her chair and picked up the hook and thread again; she let it drop onto her lap and hid her face in her hands and sobbed. Her shoulders shook for only a while. She wiped her eyes and picked up the work.

The mouse soon learned that she was a very caring person. If people needed help, she did what she could for them. When company came to her door, they seldom left without something, either a piece of her handiwork or a bottle of sweet smelling perfume. Her nieces and nephews became her children.

As the years passed, the woman stopped chasing the mouse with the broom. He even teased her by running across her bed in broad daylight. She merely scolded him and told him not to do that when she had company. He watched her as she aged and knew her mind did not react as quickly as before. But then, neither did his. She had started to work with larger thread now; her eyesight was failing. It was soft, fuzzy yarn and she made stack upon stack of crocheted squares. She put them together into lovely, warm afghans and laid them, one upon the other, on the back of her couch. She seemed to glow whenever she showed them to her guests, and with much love, she gave an afghan to some very fortunate person.

When she reached the age of eighty years, the woman stopped driving and put away the keys to her car. Now she became dependent on someone else to take her to church or to town. Her world grew smaller. Each day she picked up the yarn it looked more blurred than it had the time before. The mouse noticed that she didn't open the chest drawers as often. She only stuffed things in now and then and never took anything out. He snipped bits and pieces of the soft yarn and carried them to cushion his bed. He was aging too. It was becoming more difficult for him to find food because she cooked very little. She crocheted one last square, and rather than compromise the quality of her work for quantity, she put away the steel hook. Using the excuse of being lazy, she covered up the fact that she could no longer see well enough to catch the yarn in a loop. It seemed that a part of her pride went then too.

Life around her became somewhat unreal as she reached the age of 92. It was evident to family members that she didn't always know them. Her condition worsened and she had to be cared for like a little child. And then one night the long journey of life was over for the woman.

As some members of her family sorted through a lifetime of memories, there in a drawer, on a soft mat of shredded paper and yarn, lay a mouse. His journey had ended too.

In loving memory of Great-aunt Inez

Charlotte

The Surprise

I want to tell you who know me personally, this is not a new story for you; just bear with me. And for others who read it, please think how different things are now. Also, it is has been posted before, so there are some older comments at the end.

On the morning of April 5, 1941, Daddy took Wanda to spend the day and night with her Aunt Marie. Of course she was thrilled because there were two cousins to play with, and being the only child, she didn't have anyone to play with, except on Sunday mornings after Sunday school. Daddy seemed in a hurry and fussed at her for slowing him down. After visiting with Aunt Marie only a few minutes, he left to go back home.

Daddy, Mama, and Wanda

Early the next morning he came for Wanda and as they walked on the dusty road toward home, they met Mr. and Mrs. Allen. "How are Easter and the baby?" asked Mrs. Allen. Daddy told her they were doing well and that the doctor had guessed the baby weighed close to nine pounds. Wanda thought that was awfully small for a baby calf! As they came closer to home, she ran ahead of Daddy, clutching some wilting wild flowers in her hand, and when she got to the door, Grandma was there. She told Wanda to be quiet because Mama was asleep. Now that was unusual; Mama didn't sleep in the daytime. She must be sick. So Wanda tiptoed up to the side of the bed and Mama opened her eyes. She told Wanda to get up on the bed with her. "I have something to show you," she said and then Wanda saw a baby, cradled in Mama's arm. Wanda pulled back in surprise! No one had told her about a baby coming! Why did they need a baby?

Mama told her to get a box from behind the settee; it was full of little baby clothes and sweet smelling powder. Wanda looked through the clothes and Mama asked her if she would like to hold the baby. Grandma put the baby in Wanda's arms; she could smell the powder and felt the softness of the baby's skin against her cheek. "Her name is Charlotte," said Mama, and Wanda said the name over a few times. Maybe having a baby sister wouldn't be so bad.

And so, that's how my life began, 71 years ago.

Charlotte

Wanda, Charlotte (me), and Mama

Daddy, Mama, Wanda, and Charlotte, our family. No more children were born

Rainy Day Memory

We've had a rainy, dark day, with lightning and thunder this morning. And as the rain falls and the flashes and rumbles echo across the sky, I can see a little girl, maybe four years old, sitting cross-legged on the floor of a small room, playing with paper dolls. Her sister, Wanda, had already left for school, walking up the hill in the rain to catch the school bus. She had cut out the paper dolls from the catalog and made a car for them from the Super Suds box Mama had given her. Now, the little girl played in the dim room; no need to light the kerosene lamp. It gave very little light even at night, so the room was illuminated somewhat by the two small windows this morning. Today she pretended the dolls were taking a long trip in the bad weather. She pushed their car around and around the braided rug, which resembled a roadway. She wasn't afraid of the thunder; after all, Mama was in the next room and she made everything feel safe.

This is a memory which comes with almost every rainy, dreary day, taking me back to that little, gray house we called home.

Christmas Past -- Christmas Morning

Charlotte awoke when she heard Daddy building the fire in the heater. She shook Wanda and crawled out of the warm bed into the cold air of the north room. She saw the new doll sticking out of her stocking before she got to the door.

"Oh, how pretty she is! Look Wanda, isn't she pretty?"

The doll didn't have glass eyes and shiny hair, and it didn't drink a bottle or wet its pants. It was just an ordinary doll with a pressed sawdust head and a stuffed cloth body. But it was new and clean and needed a little girl to love it. She hugged the doll close and took her stocking to the warmth of the heater to see what else was inside. There were some new barrettes for her hair, and rolled up inside was a book of the beautiful paper dolls. In the very bottom were dresses for her new doll.

Later in the morning Charlotte said to Mama, "I love my new doll! She's just right!"

"Someday, Santa will bring you a doll with glossy hair. I just know he will," said Mama.

There may not be time for me to post anything else until after Christmas, so I want to wish all who read my feeble attempts at writing, a VERY MERRY CHRISTMAS with your families; may you be blessed with good health and happiness.

Blessings in Christ,

Charlotte

Do Opposites Attract?

We're all familiar with the statement that opposites attract; but do they really? I guess when you look at these pictures you can see that yes, sometimes they do, for this smiling little girl and this serious little boy have been attracted to one another for a long time now. Today is their fifty-first wedding anniversary. In case you haven't already guessed, this is Mama Charlotte and Popa; I still smile and he's still serious.

Blessings

Thanksgivings Past

As Thanksgiving approaches, I always remember the way my family spent the day. I don't remember eating turkey, probably until I was in junior high school, and that would have been at school. And I don't remember ever having beef of any kind except an occasional hamburger at town, until Mama took a job in town in the early 50s, but we did have pork. The day of butchering was usually on Thanksgiving. This is a story of the day the hog was butchered; if you're squeamish, don't read.

...As Thanksgiving Day approached, Wanda was glad to have a few days off from school. One night at supper she said, "We had turkey and dressing for dinner today. Boy it was good!"

"What's a turkey taste like?" asked Charlotte. "A turkey tastes sorta like a big 'ol baked hen. You probably wouldn't eat it though; you won't eat anything," said Wanda. Charlotte was tired of the plain meals they had to have now. All the fryers had been used; there had been very little fresh meat to eat with the vegetables since then. Now and then Daddy brought home a squirrel for Mama to fry, but there wasn't much of it and sometimes it was tough to chew. "If the weather stays this cold, we'll kill hogs on Thanksgiving Day," said Daddy.

On Thanksgiving morning everything was white with frost, the skies were clear, so Daddy got ready to butcher the hog. He built a fire under the big iron wash pots and the water in them soon began to boil. Uncle Dewey came to help kill the hog and hang it; they filled buckets with the boiling water and poured it over the hog, then took their sharp butcher knives and scrapped the hair off the hog, and dressed the meat into various cuts: shoulders, bacon slabs, tenderloin, backbone, and hams.

Mama and Aunt Leola rubbed the hams, one shoulder, and the bacon slabs with a mixture of salt and sugar. It would preserve the meat and help keep flies off if the weather turned warmer. Daddy took the pieces to the smokehouse and hung them from the rafters with strings of wire. The next day Mama would put the meat from the other shoulder through the meat grinder, add salt, pepper, and sage and shape it into sausage patties. Then she would fry them and can them in her pressure cooker. Now there would be meat to last until spring. The little scraps of fat would be cooked until they were crisp and the liquid (lard) was poured off to be used in cooking.

Charlotte felt content tonight; the lamp flickered and cast familiar shadows on the walls. She and Wanda brought their flannel gowns to the heater to warm them, then dashed into the cold north room and snuggled down into the feather bed. Mama pulled the blanket and quilts up over them, kissed them both and said, "Sweet dreams, girls."

Have a wonderful Thanksgiving Day! Charlotte

As a child, I was very finicky about what I ate and I remain the type who eats to live rather than living to eat. The meat from the backbone, boiled, was always my favorite; better than any turkey!

The Hunt

It was beginning to seem more like winter every day. The white oak had lost most of its leaves and on some mornings the chickens' watering pans were covered with a thin layer of ice. Old Pudge, the hunting dog, lay curled up in a ball next to the back door, out of the wind. The air had the smell of wood smoke coming from the pot-bellied heating stove.

Daddy started hunting at night now. He took down the carbide lamp, cleaned it, and filled it halfway with small gray carbide pellets. When he added water, the pellets sizzled inside the lamp, forming a gas that ignited when he put a match to it. He clipped the lamp to his cap and it gave enough light for him to see how to get through the woods.

Pudge wagged his tail and barked, excited to be going on a chase. He was a fine dog; Daddy had been offered $100 for him, but good coon dogs were hard to find. A good dog meant there would be more hides to sell; 35 cents for opossum hides, and skunk hides brought $1.00 each. Raccoons were the animals Daddy liked best to hunt because their hides brought $2.00 to $3.00 each.

Uncle Dewey came after dark with his hounds and the two men left, the dogs straining at their leashes, eager to be freed. At the foot of Turkey Mountain, Pudge picked up a coon's trail. He let out a shrill bark and Daddy turned him loose. The men walked carefully through the thick undergrowth of briers and vines. They heard the dogs in the distance. Daddy recognized Pudge's bark; he was treed!

When Daddy and Uncle Dewey reached the dogs, they were barking with every breath, at the base of a big sweet gum tree, and clawing, trying to get to the animal overhead. Daddy aimed the light from the carbide lamp up into the branches of the tree; the animal turned one eye to the light. "It's a coon alright! A coon will always turn one eye to the light! Get him Pudge!"

He raised the gun to his shoulder, took aim, and fired. The coon ran to the other side of the tree and jumped. He ran; the dogs gave chase again, hot on his trail! The coon took refuge under a rock ledge along the creek. "I believe we've lost this one; we might as well head on back home."

The next morning, Daddy skinned the two opossums he had killed the night before. He stretched the hides over boards and hung them on the wall of the smokehouse to dry. Two hides meant only seventy-five cents, but the excitement of the hunt had been worth much more.

Daddy and the hunting dogs

Thank you for the comments you have made about my stories. Some have suggested that I put them in a book. Well, actually, they are from a book I wrote for my grandchildren, titled, "In the Shade of the White Oak". I wanted the kids to know what life was like for us in the 40s and early 50s, the first ten years of my life. Right now they aren't too interested in the stories; older people, who remember these things, have seemed to enjoy it though. Other parts from the book may be found under the label "family". Charlotte

What I Learned From Watching

Have you ever hit your thumb with a hammer, or stubbed your toe, and a few choice words slip unbridled from your tongue, in front of a child? Then, unexpectedly, the child uses those same words while playing. My mother-in-law used to say, "Little pitchers have big ears." It's so easy for us to pass on things to little ones because they are watching us and learning from us.

Daddy smoked most of the first ten years of my life, and although I didn't grow up to be a smoker, I probably could have, for I like the smell of tobacco. I don't ever remember Daddy smoking bought cigarettes; most men we knew "rolled" their own. And that is what I learned from watching; I think today, if I had the materials for a cigarette, I could roll one.

Men wore bib overalls, Big Smith being the favorite brand, and inside the bib pockets they carried either a little cloth sack of tobacco or a tin of tobacco, matches, and a packet of thin, tissue papers.

To roll the cigarette, he would take out one tissue and cradle it between his left thumb and the next two fingers. If the tobacco was in a little cloth bag, he would take it from the bib, catch a corner of the top of the bag in his teeth, open the bag and carefully pour out the right amount of tobacco into the tissue, catch the drawstring of the bag with his teeth, pull it shut, then put the bag back into the pocket. Then he carefully rolled the tissue around the tobacco, licked the tissue to seal it, put the cigarette into his mouth, and lit it with a match. (Of course, filling the tissue from a tin would have been much easier.) Now if he happened to be with a friend who had no tobacco, but wanted to smoke, the friend might say, "Can I bum a cigarette?"

Daddy has told us several times how he stopped smoking: "I had the flu; one morning I rolled my cigarette and sat down by the heater. When I put the cigarette in my mouth, it didn't taste good, so I threw it in the heater, and never smoked again!"

Hopefully we can be good examples to those little ones who learn from us.

Smiles, Charlotte

The New Coat

Oh it's so cool this morning! A cold front went through last night, dropping four tenths of an inch of rain over us; we seem to be in a weather sandwich where not much meat was put inside, meaning the heaviest rain always borders us on the north and south and we get the sprinkling in between. But -- we'll take every drop that falls and be thankful for it.

The cooler air makes us need our jackets whenever we go out to do the chores and it also brings to my memory the new coat Mama made for me when I was six years old. It went something like this:

If you have read my posts for a while, you are familiar with our Aunt Rhody, and how she gave us many of the things we had as payment for work Daddy did for her. Now and then she would send a bag of dresses she no longer wanted and Mama would use them to make things for herself or us girls. One such bag contained a coat, and although it would have fit Mama, she knew I needed a coat so she decided to cut it up and make one for me. I'm not sure of its color, but that doesn't matter; what was important to the coat was the black fur collar.

Since the coat was wool, it couldn't be washed, so Mama carefully ripped out the seams and pressed the pieces flat. The backside of the fabric was clean and bright so she used it for the front sides when she cut out the parts for the coat. Each day, after school, the coat was a little closer to being finished and the winds were also a little colder; I needed the coat.

Finally, Mama had the new blue coat all sewed together; she held it up for me to see. It was pretty, except--there around the neck was that black fur collar! Well, I just wouldn't wear it! Why had Mama put that ugly thing on my new coat! And I told Mama I wouldn't wear it; she said, "That makes the coat pretty and it will be so warm up against your face and neck!" Wanda took advantage of the situation and suggested maybe the fur came from a skunk and then I threw the coat across the bed and onto the floor.

The next morning I needed more than just a sweater so Mama made me put on the coat before leaving to catch the bus. As soon as I got out the door I pulled it off and left it lying on the front porch. Mama had been watching from the window; I struggled as she put the coat back on me and jerked it off, dropping it on the ground. Patiently Mama picked up the coat again and put it on me. All the way to the bus stop we battered back and forth with the coat, and when Mama picked up a little switch, I kept the coat on; once inside the bus, I held my book satchel tightly against my chest, hoping it would hide the black fur, and when my chin touched it, I was sure I could smell skunk.

At school, I hurried to the cloak room and hung the coat up before anyone had a chance to see it, but at recess the teacher made me put it on, and so I was forced to wear it and now everyone could see the ugly black fur. My best friend liked the coat and when I told her I didn't like it, she asked if she could wear it. Then other girls wanted to touch the fur and wondered from what kind of animal it came; maybe a bear or a black panther, or a rabbit? I was surprised and slowly touched the fur; it was soft and warm and Mama had brushed it until it shined.

Mama was surprised to see me wearing the coat that afternoon; she didn't ask any questions or mention the trouble we had that morning. "Mama, the girls at school thought my coat was so pretty and they all wished their coats had fur collars too," I said, "and it sure is warm around my neck! I like the coat now!"

Stay warm, Charlotte

Climbing the Hill

Do you see the hill in the center of the picture? It is on the east side of our community and is called Tator Hill by people who have lived here all their lives. It can be a spectacular sight whenever the sun is in a position to rise directly over the top.

A few years ago Popa took our older grandson to climb Tator Hill. I packed a sandwich for them and off they went for a climb that must have been like climbing Mt. Everest for the boy. They chose the side that was less steep, but they still had to sit and rest now and then. I asked Popa what it was like on the very top; he told me there were some rocks but also some flat places.

Memories were made that day, climbing the hill.

Charlotte

To Clarify Some Things

(This picture is not recent, but rather in the spring a couple of years ago)

I'm feeling a little like the first-grader, Charlotte; I need to clarify some things. In the post, Cherry Candy, the parts about the candy, money, and lie were all true; however, to be honest, I don't remember what Mama's reaction to it was. But I do feel she was understanding, for Mama was a very patient person and tried to be conflict-free. She was the only person I remember ever spanking me, and believe you me, I needed it; just ask Wanda. I was a timid child (Daddy told me a few years ago I was born timid) and all Daddy had to do was look at me sternly and I backed away like a frightened mouse. So, I'll feel better now, hoping you understand about writing; some things have to be embellished somewhat, without meaning for them to be a lie.

Now, on a more positive note, I wanted to direct you to http://www.wandastricklinrobertson.blogspot.com/ for her post for today; some very important things to think about here. Although I'm not obese, the prayer, asking God to melt pounds off a body, reminded me of myself. On days when Popa is not here to eat lunch with me, I scour the refrigerator for whatever I can find to keep from cooking for one. Then, after thanking God for my food and asking that it give me strength to do my work, etc., I chow down on whatever I've found, along with chips and Coca Cola, finished off with miniature Hersheys or ice cream. Where's my willpower??

Smiles, Charlotte

Cherry Candy

This story is one of the saddest things I remember from my childhood and it's still difficult for me to think about. I don't remember ever going hungry, or being without clothing, and we had shelter from the elements; however, Daddy, somehow, had made us believe we had no money to spend on frivolous things. Keep this in mind as you read ...

Each Monday morning Mama tied 75 cents in the corner of a handkerchief for me to pay for my lunches. Today she had put in 80 cents because she didn't have the correct change, and Miss Ruth had given a nickel back to me and I tied it in the handkerchief. During the noon recess the sixth grade class sold candy; I never asked for money to buy candy, but on this day I remembered the nickel when it came time for my class to buy candy. Mama hadn't told me not to spend it; surely it would be all right if I bought some candy, so this time I went with the other children to buy something.

There were many kinds of candy and I wanted something that would last a long time, so I finally chose a roll of Lifesavers. I untied the handkerchief, took out the nickel, and paid for the candy, then went back to the classroom and unrolled the end of the wrapper. I took out the first of the drops and put it into my mouth. Oh, the wonderful, cherry-flavored goodness of that candy! I closed my eyes and let the sweetness float on my tongue as the candy dissolved.

But before I could finish eating the Lifesaver, I began to think about the money. Mama hadn't told me I could spend it; maybe I had stolen the money from Mama! I had to get the money back somehow!

Quickly I swallowed what was left of the Lifesaver, carefully folded the end of the wrapper over the remaining candy and took it to Miss Ruth. I told her I had forgotten that I couldn't spend the nickel; could I give the candy back and get the money for it? I fumbled with the roll of candy and didn't look up at the teacher. She took the candy and asked if I opened it. I told her "No" but she could tell that the candy had been opened and that some of it was missing. "I can't return your money; go back to you seat and if you ever do something like this again, I will have to paddle you," she had said. And, she kept the candy.

What had been so wonderful and pleasing only a few minutes before was now sickening. I wished I could wash the taste of that terrible Lifesaver out of my mouth! When I got on the bus I was afraid Wanda would see my tongue, for I was sure it was still red and my breath must smell like cherries. I kept my face turned toward the window and wondered how I would explain to Mama about the money.

I knew it would be best to just tell Mama, so I began. "This morning you put too much money..I bought candy..I ate a piece of it..told Miss Ruth I didn't open it..and I started crying. Mama put her arms around me and said, "I'm sorry you told a lie; we've pinched pennies for so long that you thought you had done something wrong by spending the nickel. But don't ever lie; no amount of money is worth telling a lie."

(Sorry this was so long...To this day I find it very hard to spend money on myself)

Smiles, Charlotte