Thursday, August 29, 2013

Shooting Up the Closet







Everyone I’ve ever known will admit to once doing something really foolish in his or her lifetime. Far be it from me to be the exception. I’ll even admit that I’ve done far more over the years than I care to remember. One of the worst was shooting up the closet.

I wasn’t trying to be Annie Oakley or Calamity Jane. It was an accident that began in the most innocent way possible. Isn’t that what always happens? It is for me. I can’t remember a time that I thought, “Now this is the perfect time to do something really stupid.” Who would admit it if they had?  Not me.

My husband and I loved to restore old furniture. It’s been a hobby of ours since we were first married. Our marriage began on a shoestring. Like most young couples starting out in the late forties, we learned to economize. Our combined income totaled less than fifty dollars a week take home pay and from that we had to pay taxes, rent, insurance, groceries, utilities and entertainment. We even managed to buy a brand new stove and refrigerator. They were paid for on the installment plan but we didn’t care. We were proud to have them.

One of our first purchases in the furniture line was a small maple drop leaf table with four matching chairs. Someone traded it in at the store where Willis worked and, even though it was used furniture, it was in excellent condition. We bought all five pieces for five dollars. If you think about it that figures one dollar per piece. Don’t scoff. Remember what I said about our take home pay. We weren’t the only ones living on a low income. In our area, this was a living wage.

Willis brought the dining set home in the store’s delivery van one afternoon while making a delivery to another customer in the area. At the time we lived in an upstairs apartment of a private home in his hometown. It consisted of a bedroom, kitchen, bathroom and large hallway. Our bedroom furniture was a wedding gift from his parents, we used our landlady’s wicker couch and chairs for the hall sitting room and now we could boast of having kitchen furniture and a place to eat. That was a plus. It beat the heck out of trying to balance a tray on your knee while wrestling with the meal of the day.

The preamble above was to acquaint you with the fact that we began to collect old furniture. I’ve always had a love of antiques but they were too far beyond our means to think of buying them. We knew if we were to ever have any someone near and dear to us would have to die. I don’t mean to  sound heartless or conniving. It’s the truth.

Over the years we did acquire some very old pieces but not from the sources above. We attended estate sales, searched through antique shops and used furniture stores and were fortunate enough from time to time to find a “keeper.” We learned to restore these items and, after several years, became much better at it. That brings me to my present tale.

When restoring furniture there are many things to consider. You need an enclosure to work in. We didn’t have that so we depended on working with the weather in mind. It had to be cool enough for the solution we used to remove the old finish from the wood. We had to be sure it would be fair weather to allow us to leave the piece outside until all the fumes had dissipated. The cleaning solution we used was highly combustible. A well-ventilated work area was required. We were extremely careful to heed all the warnings and worked within guidelines that were considered safe.

It was a cool summer day, just the kind of weather we needed to accomplish a project that had been delayed repeatedly. Years before we found an old Queen Anne style bed made of walnut, in very good condition, and one that I especially liked. Each year we planned to restore it; each year we failed to do so. Some other item would take precedent and the bed would be set-aside for a later date. This year I was determined. It had been over ten years since we bought that bed and I was still waiting.

It was Saturday morning and we were up early to begin work. Tools and supplies were on hand, gathered the day before to save time. We were well underway on our project before noon. Willis was working with the solution, applying each coat and patiently removing the sludge that loosened after each application. We could see the beauty of the wood as he carefully removed each layer. Knowing how anxious I was to complete the task, he worked steadily throughout the day stopping only for a quick sandwich at lunchtime. He was back at work in less than an hour. When the last coat of remover had been applied, he cleaned the entire bed with paint thinner to wash away any stubborn spots that might remain. Pleased with the results, he called me over to inspect the bed. It was beautiful. He gathered the waste bucket and rags to take  to the dump. While he was gone I put away the tools, cleaned up the other debris and waited for him to return.

My daughter and her family stopped by to check our progress. Some other family members dropped by and we were all waiting outside when Willis returned. It was almost dusk dark. Willis had not used the gloves we normally used when cleaning furniture and some of the residue from the sludge had dried on his hands. He used a little of the solution to clean his hands and then rinsed them with paint thinner. After making sure everything was covered and safe for the night he told me he was going inside to wash up. He headed for the door at the back of the house with our little granddaughter following close behind.

Willis was on the top step at the back door when he reached for the screen door handle. He missed it completely and was thrown off balance and fell backwards down the steps. My granddaughter, who was standing at the bottom of the steps, saw him fall and began screaming at the top of her lungs. The rest of us were at the side of the house and thought something terrible had happened to her and we ran in the side door to find out what was wrong. When we got to the back door she was standing over Willis who was lying on a concrete pad at the base of the steps. He was out cold. We didn’t know what had happened then but we couldn’t awaken him. We called an ambulance and carried him to the hospital.

By the time we reached the hospital Willis was wide-awake and wondering what had happened. He was more concerned about his clothing than his condition at the time.

We told the doctor in ER what had happened. He said fumes from the cleaning solution might have affected him. There was a possibility that he might have had a blackout and the fall knocked him out. He recommended that Willis remain overnight to be sure nothing else was wrong.

I returned home from the hospital with my daughter. When we arrived she suggested that I spend the night with her but I left my home phone number at the hospital in the event they had to call me. I assured her I would be fine and told her to go home and rest. That’s what I planned to do.

After she left I took a hot shower and dressed for bed. I turned on TV to watch until I felt sleepy. It had been a long day and I needed to unwind before going to bed. I made the mistake of watching a murder mystery involving burglary of a home while the lady of the house was there alone. Normally I don’t worry about break-ins but when you are keyed up it doesn’t take much to get the imagination going. I remembered my son, who no longer lived at home, had left a gun he used for target practice with us. Willis put it in the closet in our bedroom to keep it out of small hands. The gun was never loaded but he wanted to be sure it was out of reach of children.

I had to stand in a chair to reach the top shelf where the gun was stored. I took it down and put it on one of the shoe shelves at the foot of the closet. It took a while to find the bullets. He had them stored in the top drawer of a highboy. I turned on the closet light and sat yoga style on the floor to load the gun. Willis taught me to use a gun when we were first married and I was fairly knowledgeable about them. At least that’s what I thought. Little did I know that each gun has its own loading procedure. I pulled back the hammer and put a bullet in the chamber. When I tried to lower it again it wouldn’t close. We had practiced with a Smith and Wesson which has a release button that allows you to move the hammer back and forth. I searched everywhere on the gun but couldn't find a release. I tried to remove the bullet but it was firmly in place. I pushed and turned it around a few times thinking that it might not be far enough into the chamber. No matter how I tried I couldn't lower the hammer. There was no instruction sheet available. It was too late to call anyone to ask what to do and embarrassing to find myself in such a predicament.

I sat there considering my options. There was no way I was going to leave that gun cocked with a bullet in the chamber. The only way I knew to remedy the situation was to pull the trigger and I did. Now let me tell you right now that was a bad choice. The noise in that closet couldn’t have been much worse if a cannon had gone off. It deafened me for almost fifteen minutes and left me sitting there in a state of shock not knowing what was hit but knowing I hit something. Glass was all over the floor and some on me. I looked up at the light and it was still intact so it couldn’t be that. There's no window in a closet so that was ruled out. After making sure I was not bleeding or missing a limb, I got up on trembling legs and backed out of the closet. I went to the bedside table and placed the gun  on top of a book left there to read if sleep continued to elude me. I went to the closet and gathered the bullets scattered all over the floor.  After putting them back into their box I searched for a bullet hole.  It's hard to believe but it’s the honest truth. There was no hole in any wall, the floor or any other place in that closet. 

Suddenly I remembered that on the backside of that closet wall was our living room. I practically flew out of the bedroom to the living room to see what damage might have been done there. Not a sign of damage anywhere. When I returned to the closet I did find a wooden tea tray that was stored on one of the lower shelves. It had previously had a glass cover over the bottom surface. At least that solved the mystery of the shower of glass.

I finally gave up, checked the outside doors again to make sure they were locked and went to bed. If any burglar was unfortunate enough to break into our home that night he was assuming a risk far beyond any that he might imagine. There’s one tired, angry little bullet somewhere, still circling, that has yet to reach its destination in some time warp. Who knows when it may re-enter ours and find a target.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

In a Race Against Time - You Lose..



A daughter may outgrow your lap,
 but she will never outgrow your heart.

Today is my daughter’s 63rd birthday. I can't believe it's true. This is the little girl that I held in my arms when she was just a tiny baby. I know every mother feels her child is one of a kind and they are but with your first-born they seem perfect. Cathy was a beautiful baby with just a wisp of hair on top of her head but the sides and back had soft little curls that curled even more with a little help. Her eyes were so blue that its hard to think of anything to compare them with. Even though most people said that babies couldn’t see too much in the beginning I was convinced that she was taking in every detail and understood them all. Maybe not, I didn’t dwell on it, I just enjoyed it. 

We are given many pleasures in life but the most precious to me is the time that we have with our children. They grow up so fast. One day we are holding them in our arms and suddenly we are watching them walk away for their first day at school. They look back with a puzzled look on their face and you feel that you are deserting them. I realize they have to go out and meet the world alone but I was not ready. We only have a few years to try to teach them the challenges of that world. Did we say enough? Did we say too much? You stand there with a smile frozen on your face praying she will not see your doubt which could make her doubtful too. You stay rooted to the spot until she’s out of sight so she will see you there if she turns back one more time. She doesn’t. Like the good little girl you want her to be, she has transferred some of the faith she has in you to the teacher who now holds her hand. That’s how it should be. How to let go is one of the hardest lessons a young mother must learn. You realize that now you must think of her and what’s best for her. The time has come, the time of breaking away, and it doesn’t get any easier as the years go by. We adapt. We know this is preparing us for the role we will play in her life.
 
When you get home the hours pass so slowly. You check the clock to see if it has stopped.  You wonder if she is happy. Does she like the other children in her class? Are they good to her? Does she feel that you have abandoned her? Did you tell her it would be fun? Will she remember that it’s just for a little while and soon she will be back in your arms again feeling safe and loved. Is she missing you at all? That's one of the hardest to accept. You wait for the time to arrive to pick her up again. It’s almost here. You leave early enough to get there before she gets out of class. You sit in the car as long as you can and then go stand in front of the school so that she will be sure to see you as soon as she comes out the door. You see other mothers waiting with their eyes glued on those same doors.
 
The doors finally open and children erupt from the building. You see her coming toward you now. Her face lights up when she sees you and you resist the urge to run to her. She has survived the first day of school with flying colors but your flags are flying at half-mast. On that day so very long ago we both learned one of the first steps of growing up.









 

Tuesday, August 13, 2013

The Arbor





Years ago while browsing through an old Southern Living magazine I saw an arbor covered with Confederate Jasmine with pink roses intertwined. It was beautiful. When I showed it to Willis he agreed. The rose was described as an old type bush that was immune to a lot of the diseases that plague the newer strands today. Willis decided to build a similar arbor for the area around our back entry. He drew the plans and after several weekends it was ready to be painted. The next thing was to plant the jasmine and rose bush. Finding the jasmine was no problem and he soon had it planted and thriving on either side of the arbor. The rose bush was another matter. I couldn't find the magazine again to check on the type of rose featured so we decided to forego it.

The jasmine covered the arbor completely in a year or so and had to be trimmed quite often. The tiny blossoms have wonderful fragrances that fill the area with their sweet aroma each time they bloom. Willis kept the vine under control until his health no longer permitted him to do the work he loved.

Our daughter Cathy and her husband Doug took over the project for Willis. Doug built the banisters and he and Cathy soon had them painted and ready for use. The banisters were a tremendous help to Willis when he used the back steps on his many trips to the doctor.

Shortly afterwards Doug laid a brick pad at the foot of the steps. It made such a difference in the appearance of the entryway. Willis had planted the pink spirea shrubs several years before and, when they were watered, the area in front of the steps became slippery. The pad remedied that problem immediately.

Willis was always in his element when he was working with flowers or vegetables. He had a green thumb. I didn't. My job was that of "gofer." I sat and watched as he mixed the soil and planted the different flowers explaining the process as he went along. I suppose he had hopes of me learning the art of gardening. Sadly, I didn't but fortunately Cathy did. She has her father's love of flowers and patience in planting them. Mama once told me, "Willis will never die as long as Cathy lives." It's true. She is as much like him as a daughter could be and now I can see so many of Willis' traits in Lauren, our granddaughter.

I did contribute to the watering after the planting but Willis kept an eye on me even then. I have a heavy hand and tend to over water. Houseplants faced the kiss of death when I was left in charge. A friend of ours once jokingly said that she would find me a Cast Iron Plant because you couldn't kill them. I proved her wrong. I killed more plants than you can imagine. I finally decided to spare the poor things a lingering death and turned them over to Willis. In a short time they would be standing tall and straight, green and proud or blooming their little heads off. I have to admit that it did annoy the hound out of me at times.


Willis loved to "ride around" on weekends and we did that often. I never knew where we were going but we would invariably end up on unpaved roads somewhere in the rural area around Kershaw. There aren't a lot of dirt roads left in our area but if there was one in a fifty-mile radius he would find it. As we were cruising along on one outing he stopped suddenly, turned around, drove back down the road and stopped.

"Look at that old screen door," he said, pointing toward an old house sitting back off the road and surrounded by oak trees.

I hadn't even noticed the house. I looked at the door and it was pretty but I wondered what he had in mind. When we got home he grabbed a tablet and began sketching. The door we saw was a single one but he drew double doors. He wanted to use them at the back entry. He had a friend in Camden who could build anything you wanted if you gave him a sketch. It wasn't long before Willis had his doors. Next he was sanding, painting and adding the screens. It took a few weekends but he worked with them the way he always did with any project he undertook. He soon had them hanging and was so proud of the way they looked. So much so he decided to get a single one made for our side door.

There are so many memories linked to the photographs shown above and they all come rushing back when I look at them now. It reminds me of a quote that I use on this blog.

"A house is made of walls and beams,
  a home is built with love and dreams."
   
The author of this quote is unknown but, whoever he or she was, knew what made a happy home.