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.

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.









 

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.

Desmodium

Beggar's Lice

Desmodium/Beggar's Lice

I've been researching a little this morning. After reading my grandaughter’s latest blog entry on The Right Side of 30, "We're All Tourist Here, Aren't We?", I wanted to find something that I could use to relate to her most recent tale. I think I found it in Desmodium, better known as beggar's lice. That's something I'm familiar with because its quite plentiful in our area. One trip through my flowerbeds or backyard is a good indication of this. The little seedpod can attach itself to any fabric and hold on like a drowning man to a toothpick. There's no weight involved and unless there's a cluster it can go unnoticed by the average individual. It just sits there reveling in its sojourn into the travels of its host. Now the name "beggar's lice" leaves something to be desired but, if you call it by its botanical name of "Desmodium", it doesn't sound so bad after all. In fact, when I first saw that name, I immediately thought of Desdemona of Shakespeare's Othello which gives it a wee touch of class. Now that I've given my explanation I'll go on with my entry into today's thoughts for my journal.

How I would love to be a small seedpod of Desmodium sitting on Lauren's shoulder in her travels. She visits places and sees things I know I will never see. Then I think of how fortunate I am to have a granddaughter who can paint pictures with words and make them so realistic that in my mind's eye I am there with her.

Hello Young Mothers Whereever You Are.....

If you are a young mother RUN, don’t walk, to the nearest Walmart or any other store where you can buy a loose leaf notebook, diary, journal or whatever you want to call it and begin today to write in it every day for the rest of your life. Now that may seem like a formidable task or a waste of time to you right now but believe me, in years to come you will want to hug my neck for encouraging you to do so. Entries can be made in less than fifteen minutes or you can write as long as the urge remains. Your day-to-day experiences that may seem humdrum to you now will take on added significance in your senior years. You will read the comments you made and they will bring tears to your eyes or fill your heart with laughter as they bring back the precious memories of those times. Think of the things that you see your young child do as he or she is learning the lessons of life. Their first smile, sickness, laughter or cry is something that you should never forget. First steps, words or hugs - who doesn’t remember those little arms grabbing you around the neck or the leg. You are their world at the time. Enjoy it but also put it on paper for safekeeping. If you have a computer, and in this day and age who doesn’t, you are ahead of the game already. Take time away from FaceBook and email to write about your family. Photographs are wonderful but they can’t tell you what your child said at the time or what they did one moment after the camera clicks. It’s up to you. And don’t forget to include your spouse. There are so many moments that you share that should be written in stone. Remember the way he looked at you when you presented him with your first child or told him that you bent the fender of the new car he was so proud of. It doesn’t matter, its all life and should be remembered. Time passes so fast while we are trying to keep up with all the day to day living and pretty soon it has slipped away. Children have graduated, married and gone on to live lives of their own and that’s how it should be. We have nurtured, protected, advised, nagged and tried to prepare them for life. Now it is out of our hands but what parent doesn’t sit and wonder if they did all they should have, could have or would have if they had thought of it at the time. Life gives you one chance and you have to try to get it right the first time around. Few of us have no regrets. I know I have plenty and when they arise I sit back and try to remember the things that my husband and I did right. We all make mistakes but we all try not to repeat them. “I’m sorry” erases so many of those mistakes and “I love you” takes care of many more. 

Think back to when you were a child of two or three. What do you remember of those formative years? Do you wonder what kind of child you were? Who do you go to for that information? That’s right, your Mother. Be prepared like a good little Scout. In the far distant future when your child approaches you about the subject, grab your trusty notebook which should still be right at your fingertips where you are making daily entries about your grandchildren, and say, “I thought you would never ask!”

Little Bird Killers!!

I love biscuits. Unfortunately I have never mastered the art of cooking them. My daughter Cathy has and cooks little biscuits that really do melt in your mouth. They’re about the size of a silver dollar and stand approximately one to one-and-one-half inches high. They’re always delicately browned on the top and light as a feather. I know that’s a much used phrase but if the shoe fits I don’t care. I saw a recipe once named “Angel Biscuits” and thought, “that must be the one she uses”. I could visualize little angels sitting there on top of her sugar canister waiting for the pan to come out of the oven, breaking them in half, and plopping them in their tiny little mouths. Mine are quite different. They have a top and a bottom but no innards. Willis, my husband, once referred to them lovingly as “Bird Killers.” He had a point there. He loved birds and had bird feeders placed around our yard to feed them in the winter so they wouldn’t starve. When he crumbled my left over biscuits and spread them around the feeder the birds avoided them like the plague.

When I asked Cathy if she used the Angel Biscuit recipe she said, “No, Mother, you use yeast when you make Angel Biscuits. I’ll send you a copy of my recipe”. She did and I decided to try it the very next day. When I took them from the oven I thought maybe she might have given me the wrong recipe. I should have known better. I called and asked which brand of flour, milk, and shortening she used. There are only three ingredients. Surely I could master that. I dumped my bag of Red Band and bought White Lily Self Rising flour.  Since I always use Crisco I was safe there, and she said the brand of buttermilk didn’t matter so I stuck with Morning Fresh, my favorite. I was ready now. It must have been the flour that I used previously that caused the failure.

The following day I tried again. I mixed, rolled, cut, and put them in the oven to bake. I was proud of the way they looked. Pretty little suckers that I was sure would be a winner. While in the oven, there was a metamorphic transformation into something I readily recognized. Bird Killers!

Over the years I’ve grown accustomed to my biscuits but still strive to improve their quality. I like to think that I'm a reasonably intelligent person who can follow directions to the letter. I still follow Cathy’s recipe, still use the same brands and measure as carefully as one can. Once in a while the results are pretty good, not great mind you, but pretty good. We can at least eat them. They work well for Bread Pudding, Toppings for Chicken Pot Pie, or Plain Old Cheese Biscuits or Toast that I reheat in our little Black & Decker toaster oven. The birds still won’t eat them, but we do.

 

This Old House and Me

Even as a very young girl old houses fascinated me.  During the thirties there were many different styles in our area but two stories held a special attraction for me. They indicated stairways and visions of sliding down banisters at breakneck speed that seemed like a lot of fun to me. When we visited in old homes I itched to climb the stairs to see what was lurking above. Most children do but for me it was almost an addiction. I didn't think of ghosts, but once in a while it crossed my mind that there might be a crazy old relative hidden away in the attic.

Stairs were off limits in most homes. I could sit on the bottom steps and dream but had strict orders not to venture up the stairs and definitely not to plunder. Many scenarios filled my head while waiting on my perch reading or coloring in a book while waiting for the adults to finish their visit. When it was time to go there were a million questions I wanted to ask.  Mama patiently answered some of them but warned me not to make up tales. It was hard not to. The radio programs we listened to at night lingered in my mind long after they were turned off. Some nights while lying in bed thoughts of chains rattling or moans of some unfortunate soul filled my head. More than once I slept under the covers hoping they couldn't see me.

One of Mama's friends lived on the older side of town. Their house was on the corner of the block and had a long porch across the front. In the summer I would sit there and look at my book or whatever else we brought to keep me occupied. The house down the street at the other end of the block was my favorite. There were porches upstairs and downstairs at the front and side of the house. We never visited there but it didn't keep me from thinking about it. One day while the grownups were sitting on the porch I wandered along the sidewalk looking for someone to talk to. After reaching the end of the street I turned and slowly began my journey back. There was a lady sitting in the porch swing at the old house and she smiled and waved at me. That was all the encouragement I needed to stop and talk with her. She was saved by the sound of Mama calling my name.  It was time to go. When I turned to wave goodbye the lady was gone.

Gone With the Wind made its debut in 1939. I was ten years old and a little young to appreciate the movie but it didn't matter. It didn't play in our hometown for a while anyway.  I knew just how Bonnie Blue must have felt when she fell off her horse. My second passion was horses and it made me sad that Clark Gable wanted to kill that little pony. We didn't have horses then but there were plenty of them in the movies. My cousins and I always spent Saturday afternoons at the theater watching the same movie play over and over until it was almost dark. That was Mama's opportunity to have a little peace and quiet at home.  The following week my friends and I took turns playing Roy Rogers, Gene Autry and Hopalong Cassidy. Broomsticks and mops got a good workout and lead flew right and left. It was hard to believe that we could dodge all those bullets but I don't ever remember anyone falling down dead. Apparently we were all endowed with an invisible cloak of steel.

We went through the skating and bicycle years as most young people do. We didn't have a skating rink back then, or now for that matter. Friends would gather and skate on the sidewalks or on the main highway leading into town. There was a slight slope in the road down to the Mill past the superintendent’s house. It added speed to our descent and drove motorists crazy when they saw four or five of us coming toward them, holding hands, in pop the whip fashion.

Springs, the owner of the mill, provided homes for the employees on both sides of the mill. Most were average sized homes but the ones that faced the highway were those provided for supervisors. The size of the house related to the importance of the job and the superintendent occupied the most elaborate one of all. It was a beautiful old white two-story sitting on a large corner lot that ranked high in my memory bank of wishes.

In our late teens the town began to change and so did we.  We went to the theater regularly but our taste in movies was quite different. We were growing up. Instead of Gene Autry and other horse opera stars we watched Gene Kelley, Tom Drake, Robert Mitchum, and everyone's favorite, John Wayne. It didn't matter if he was fighting Indians or Japanese. He was our hero and always managed to have a handsome young man in his movies to take under his wing and protect.

During the war years we faced another challenge. Young men were being drafted or were enlisting. We faced shortages of supplies we had always taken for granted. Most families only owned one car. You couldn't do much riding with gas rationing in effect anyway. We walked. Summer or winter, it didn't really matter. It was fun. There were five of us who were really close friends and those years were some of the happiest of my life. We usually gathered at my home in the afternoons or on weekends. We sat around the house playing records in the living room or discussing boyfriends, clothes, movies, or anything else we could think of. We sat on the porch watching and waiting for our boyfriends to stop by. They always knew where to find us.  When we were tired of sitting we walked again. We had a special route we followed. It was always through the residential areas of Matson Street past the beautiful old homes lining both sides of the road. We crossed over to the other side of town and into the area of older homes there. I always made sure that we went by the old house on Church Street. The years were taking their toll but it was still my favorite. It triggered old memories of my childhood and the lady on the porch.

The years have flown by since those days. Now I am married and have children of my own. We still live in my hometown. The thought of leaving is completely alien to me. My family, friends, and all the things I hold dear are in this town. The ties are as strong as chains but to me they are like satin ribbons tied into a bow.

One day we heard the old house was for sale.  The owners had retired and were moving away. We were thrilled and called immediately to ask if we could see it. As soon as we walked through the doorway it felt like home. The stairs in the hallway, fireplaces in every room and old pine floors that had aged beautifully captured our hearts and our imagination. My husband loved to restore anything old whether it was furniture, floors, or whatever else caught his eye.  He would have enough work to last him a lifetime.

We bought the house and have worked on it ever since. It has been a labor of love for both of us. We were asked once if we thought it might be haunted. We said we didn't know. Once in a while we have heard the stairs creaking when the two of us are here alone. There have been other unexplained noises that my husband describes as the house "settling". It probably is.  As for me, I like to think it’s the past inhabitants returning to make sure we are taking proper care of it.

A friend stopped by one day and brought a photograph of a young lady. She found it while looking through her mother's trunk and thought we might like to have it. She said it was the daughter of the man who had built our house and she had lived here until her death.

“She looks awfully familiar,” I said. “She must be the lady I saw sitting on the porch a long time ago.”

“Oh, it couldn’t have been her,” she said.  “This lady died in 1933.”

  I was born in 1929 and would have been four years old at the time of her death.  The lady I saw was not old but young and beautiful. Just like the picture.

Maybe it was her, maybe not. You decide. I already have.


Thank you for stopping by. Drop in again soon.
It's always nice hearing from old friends and
making new ones.

The Kudzu Vine

What’s in a name?

A lot if you were a Hatfield or McCoy between the years of 1880 to 1891 but I digress. I do that a lot.

After working on Ancestry for a month or so and on Family Tree Maker, their recommended genealogy program, I have decided that it was just like I always thought. We're kin to everybody. If I pull up a name before long there's a connection to either the Adams, Ogburns, Gardners, Faulkenberrys, etc. It made me think.

Now they want everyone who joins Ancestry to select a name for their family tree. You can imagine the names they have since the program covers millions of people. It’s like choosing a user name online. You get so many "already in use" that sometimes it’s hard to decide on just one. The best one I've seen so far was "Broken Branches."

Well now I think I have come up with a good one. Since everyone else has a tree I thought I might just name ours "The Kudzu Vine" because we more closely resemble it than a tree. I know there are millions of leaves on the trees, especially the firs and pines, but just think about the kudzu vine. It reaches everywhere and always where you really don't want it to go. It has a mind of its own. Now that's my kind of tree. It's almost impossible to get rid of so it's definitely resilient and I like to think we are too. It doesn't sound as dignified or "up town" as tree but when you think of the qualities of both it does make you wonder which you would rather relate to.

The tree has its roots that expand beneath it, its branches that reach out to the sky, and its leaves that signify the individual. It stands there proud and tall for all the world to see. But the kudzu vine crawls along the ground, climbs anything it can find above it, and sinks its roots anywhere it can find a spot. You can't stomp it to death, cutting it seems to work like the mythological creature that grew two new heads each time one was cut off, and it doesn't appear to be bothered by any of the elements. It just goes on forever and ever. Now I do know that you can rein it in with a goat or two but we don't have enough goats to go around to control it.

On the negative side kudzu does lay waste to the land it covers and I don't ever remember seeing a flower growing on it to beautify the vine itself. Then there's the fact that everyone, except the goats, seem to hate it. I suppose that's why the family tree always takes on the look of the old regal oak and it is pretty. I suppose I should add that the Bible refers to "the Tree of Life" and you can't get a better recommendation than that. All the branches that are reaching out into the area above are there to shade and provide shelter for anything beneath them. The roots are there to nurture and sustain the tree like our ancestors before us who blazed a trail for us to follow and try to guide us along our way. I heard once that the roots extend the length of the branches above to give the tree balance. I believe it was my husband who told me that but I'm not sure. The shedding leaves signify the passing of one life but are constantly replenished signifying a new life making its way into the world. The acorns fall to the ground to grow into a new tree or they are carried to other areas by the wind or animals feeding upon its fruit.

The more I think about it I believe I would rather be associated with the old oak tree instead of the kudzu after all. I suppose I'm just old fashioned. When I look at the old oaks surrounding our home I not only see them in all their glory but also the toll that time has taken upon them. They have fought a good fight but they, like the rest of us, must yield to time. Sat right here and talked myself out of the name for our family tree. Now I'll have to think up another one. Right now it's "The Adams Family." Not very original is it?