UNCLE DURGAN'S GIRDLE (A Daddy Tale)

THEN:    


This is my favorite of the diverse stories my sisters and I have been able to get out of my father many wonderful times over the years. He tells what the Appalachian mountain people call "Jack Tales." The most famous of these you may have heard; it is called "Jack and the Beanstalk". He tells many other mountain tales, jokes, and true life stories (like the one below.) Pop is quite the storyteller and I wish you could hear him tell this story! But you will have to settle for my version of this family favorite. This one is called...



                                         Uncle Durgan's Girdle



   My father is the proud daddy of daughters. How blessed I am to be one of them! He is a much loved and respected preacher. He is wise, mild mannered, and probably the most humble individual you could ever hope to meet. But this was not always the case. In his younger days, my pop was a hellion. He was not a big fellow, but was prone to quoting, “Dynamite comes in small packages,” and he was overly fond of proving it. Dad had discovered that all you really needed to win most fights was a good dose of fury, and he excelled at losing his temper. Thus, he excelled at winning fights until he had made quite the name for himself. Few men bothered demanding respect from my father, fewer still received it, but Uncle Durgan did. Durgan Rowe was an old man when my daddy was still a young one, and Durgan has not walked this earth for many years. Yet, to this day, my daddy calls him “Uncle Durgan”, a title not due to any relation, but solely to the hard earned and well deserved respect that Pop gave to Durgan Rowe.
   
    Unlike my father, Durgan was a big man whose size alone seduced most men into treating him with the highest respect. Durgan was a straight talker and a hard hitter with a temper that seemed to have just stepped off the boat from Ireland. My firebrand father walked softly around only two people: my grandfather and Durgan Rowe.
   
    Uncle Durgan suffered from a malady that was rather common in those days. He had a painful rupture that plagued him. It was low on his left side. It pained him considerably, but it did seem to ease off when he held it firmly in place against his skin. The problem was, he couldn't go around holding his side all day long. One day Uncle Durgan asked my father what could be done to hold the rupture in and Pop suggested that a girdle might serve that purpose and save Uncle Durgan a lot of pain and trouble. Women used girdles to hold things in, didn't they? Well, what Durgan needed was something to hold something in. Yes, Uncle Durgan agreed that a girdle was exactly what he needed, but what size? Dad suggested a large or even an extra large, but Uncle Durgan wanted that rupture held in snugly, and so decided he would get a size medium ladies girdle and he and dad would see if that took care of the problem. Secretly, my pop found the entire girdle idea rather amusing; Dad has always had a healthy sense of humor. But he hid his amusement well; the one thing you never did was laugh at Durgan Rowe!
   
    After Uncle Durgan boldly bought that girdle from a rather surprised clerk in a ladies store, he and Daddy secreted themselves off in the basement of my grandparent's house to put the contraption to good use. Uncle Durgan stripped and began tugging the girdle on while my father stood by awkwardly, wondering how one helps a grown man put on a girdle, and wondering even more how one watches a grown man put on a girdle without laughing hysterically. Durgan struggled mightily with the girdle and Daddy struggled mightily with his inclination to laugh. Finally Dad joined in the task, holding his breath to keep from laughing, and after much effort, they managed to get the girdle up over Durgan's hips, though not quite to his waist, before the elderly man paused, panted, and looked at my dad.
   
    "Will-iam?" Uncle Durgan had an exaggerated drawl when he spoke and his head shook constantly. He was forever telling you, “no,” without really meaning to. By this point Durgan seemed more uncomfortable than the rupture had ever made him. Breathlessly he conceded, "It ain't a 'gonna work. Help me get this blamed thing off."
   
    And that is how my father once wound up yanking a girdle off an old man, or attempting to; the girdle would not cooperate. It would not budge going downward, and by this point Uncle Durgan would have none of it going upward! Daddy tried to slip a knife inside it and cut the seams, but Uncle Durgan's flesh hung over the side too far for the knife to gain safe access to the cloth. Then Uncle Durgan had the fine idea of lying on the old iron bed while Daddy tugged the offending article of clothing off; so this they tried. Durgan held to the bed rails and Dad yanked at the girdle. But yank after yank the garment did not move. The bed, however, did move. It slid and pivoted. It rocked and trembled. It squeaked and groaned in protest at such abuse. It made such a racket that my grandmother and my mother peeped down the stairs and called from the rooms above to find out what was causing all the noise.
   
    Those who know my dad wonder how he, with his wonderful sense of humor, managed to keep his composure as long as he did. And it will not surprise them at all to be told that realizing how all the squeeks and groans sounded to his wife and mother was my father's final undoing. He fell to the floor laughing madly, as though there were no tomorrow. Indeed, it was easy to believe that there would be no tomorrow for anyone with gall enough to outright laugh at Durgan Rowe!
   
    But that was the day my father learned that the respect he had for Uncle Durgan was returned. When Daddy finally stopped laughing and dared to glance at Uncle Durgan through tear filled eyes. The stern old man was simply glaring, and not too menacingly at that, in Dad's direction. His head was shaking, telling Dad, “no”.

"We-ell?" Durgan asked, "You done laughing now?"

Rather sheepishly Daddy said, "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Then help me on out of this thing!"

    Eventually they did manage to pull the girdle off. Uncle Durgan survived, the bed survived, and so did Dad. It turned out to be a great learning experience for everyone involved. My Daddy learned that Uncle Durgan had a real soft spot for him because he did not kill him, or even beat him, for laughing uncontrollably. My mother and my grandmother learned that sometimes you just do not want to know what two crazy men are up to in a basement. And Uncle Durgan? Well, I would say he learned two things, that some things are easier to get into than out of, and that he would never fit into a size medium ladies girdle!

TO BOLDLY GO... A LOOK AT DEATH AND DYING

Photo: "Noah in the Tunnel"
By Skitch

THEN (MOSTLY):

To Boldly Go... A Look at Death and Dying

        A few years ago I began to wonder not only when I would die (which I had thought about off and on since I was nine years old) but also how I would die. I'd prefer (like most people) to die at 101 "peacefully" in my sleep and to keep my right mind until that day. But I also looked at the possibility of things like a car wreck, cancer, murder, and I contemplated several freak accidents. There are numerous ways to go and... almost anything is possible.

        These days I have to add another consideration to the list and, with my health and history, it should carry a lot of weight: I could die from a face explosion. That's what my son Liam calls the massive (and I do mean massive) nosebleeds that I have had due to high blood pressure. The blood has been known to come out of my face with such strength that it also oozes out of my tear ducts. Yes, I'm serious, I bleed from my eyes. The first time this happened was the worst. Not only did I not know what was going on and assumed I was surely getting the answer to the aforementioned question, I was surely dying in a revolting and terrifying way, but the blood gushed from me so fast that it was not only going out my nose and eyes but it was coming out my mouth and (worst of all) going down my throat with so much gusto that I became very concerned that I was going to drown, awake, in my own blood. It was petrifying and disgusting. I really hope I die in my sleep at an old old age, perhaps more than ever now.

        Still, there are worse ways to go. At least if I go that way no one will feel at fault. I am in charge of what I eat, how much I move, and possibly even how much I worry. I've tried very hard to NOT worry and so far I suck at it. But I've not given up and I do think I'm getting better at fending off the angst.  So, if I go from a face explosion I'll have no one to blame but myself, and better yet, no one else can blame anyone but me. The fate worse than death might be dying and knowing that A.) Someone you loved didn't know just how very much you loved them or B.) Someone was going to feel responsible for your death. Hear yea! Hear yea! Please don't waste your time with guilt over my death unless you LITERALLY killed me. That guilt might be healthy if you shot me, stabbed me, choked me until I couldn't breathe, etc. Other than that type of obvious stuff, give it up. It's not your fault! I promise.

        I've had several NDEs, if you will, and the experiences have made me less afraid of death. That is Near Death Experiences, not After Death Experiences. I'm fascinated with the ADEs and I study them, but mine were NDEs. I will share them with you in the hope that they might make you less afraid of death too.

        When I was sixteen I stepped backward in a river and fell into a hole in the river bed. I could not swim. I fought, and struggled, and gasped, and panicked. I felt a rush of all the things I wanted to do, and see, and be. My dreams were washing over me away, just like the murky river water. I don't know how long I fought it, but soon an odd acceptance fell over me. I stopped fighting. For just a second I was filled with the most peaceful calm I had ever known. "This is it." I thought. But, during that second, someone or some thing pushed me back toward the shore. I didn't move, and yet - I moved. I was suddenly closer to the more shallow sand, and my boyfriend (who later became my husband and the father to my two phenomenal sons) managed to get my hand and pull me to him. I gagged, and coughed, and vomited as he pulled me up onto dry land. By this point his brother had slipped into the deep part of the river while trying to get me out, and I was thrown straight from a panic for myself into a panic for sweet, young JD. I didn't want him to die! To make matters worse, if he died I knew it would be my fault. But he was smarter than me; he was not panicking. He was sinking, pushing himself back up, taking a breath, and sinking again. I was amazed that he could do that. The water going into my nose had caused me to completely panic. No one in our group could swim. (I ask myself now: What in the world were we doing in a river!?) A man at a nearby camp heard the commotion, ran over, and dived into the river. He got my boyfriend's brother out and we all laughed, and cried, and hugged. My boyfriend's mother declared that all her kids (she included me in this concept) were going to learn how to swim before the summer was over! She wasn't going through this again! We did. It took a lot of finagling on her part to get my mother to agree to allow me to go swimming with them repeatedly that summer, but she did agree and my boyfriend, his brothers, and I learned to swim.

        The thing that stuck with me about that experience was that unbelievable peace that fell over me. I've never forgotten it. It has comforted me when I thought of people drowning, people dying. Maybe their panic too was short lived. Maybe they died in that blanket of peace.

        When I was a young mother I had an ectopic pregnancy. I'd reluctantly had my tubes tied because I did not want to have another child if I couldn't completely support the two I had. We'd had to file for food stamps and other assistance several times, and I didn't believe that people that can't care for their children without government assistance should keep having children if other options were available. So, I hated it and I cried a lot, but I had surgery to make it incredibly unlikely that I would ever get pregnant again. And then I got pregnant again. It was less than a year, I do believe, after my surgery. I had wanted another child so badly that I considered this the "miracle I'd been praying for". If I got pregnant after having surgery then surely it was meant to be, right?

        Wrong.

        I'd already been admitted to the hospital when they told me I was pregnant. Something was wrong. I was in a lot of pain, feeling progressively weaker, passing out, my stomach was swelling. They did an ultrasound the next day and told me my baby was in my fallopian tubes and I would have to have surgery to remove tubes - and the baby. I would not accept it. I spent the day calling hospitals, trying to find someone that could move the baby from my tubes to my womb. If they could start a baby in one woman and move it to another then they could move one from your tubes to your womb, right? That should be even easier! If they could start a baby in a tube and move it to a woman, surely they could save my child!

        I made call after call until the surgeon came to my room and told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was committing suicide. That I was abandoning the two babies I had at home. He also said, "This baby is gone. Probably dead already but destined to be dead one way or another. You want to go with this one or stay and take care of the two you have waiting at home?"

        I told him I wanted to stay and take care of the two I had at home, and they began a mad dash of prepping me for surgery. As they wheeled my bed down the hall, I began to tremble and then to shake. The doctor told me my blood loss was throwing me into shock. My young niece stopped the bed as it rolled by her. She wanted to give me a kiss. She leaned and stretched, but her plan was futile. She was about two feet from me, and I didn't have the strength to rise up even six inches to meet her. My trembling was getting worse and I was suddenly afraid. I spoke firmly to her, "Shana! Honey! Let them get me into surgery. Okay?" She gave up the kiss, and I watched as her crestfallen little face got further and further away.

        They pushed me into surgery while I thought, "What if that's the last thing you say to her?" I was awash with guilt. I felt sick to my stomach. I prayed, "God if you want me to go please let me make it out of surgery first... just long enough to tell Shana how very much I love her."

        The doctor stripped his shirt off and someone helped him into his scrubs. I remember thinking his chest was extremely hairy. I liked it. It seemed to say something to me about life. "Here, go be human. It's unpredictable. It's messy but beautiful. You will have skin and hair. You will have eyes to look at other people's skin and hair." I realized I was getting loopy, and I smiled. Then the feeling hit me again. Peace like a blanket. I thought, "If I die, I die. I'll be with my baby, and Shana will have to remember that I was not always such a jerk. She, and my boys, and all my family will remember how much I love them."

        I didn't die. When I woke up I felt something resting on my stomach and, in my drugged up post-surgery state, I thought it was my baby. I thought that somehow the baby had made it after all. I was still too loopy to realize that it couldn't have been newborn size already, couldn't have been born. I just felt such relief and love. I grabbed the bundle and pulled it up to my heart, only to discover that it was a pillow. My baby was dead. I remembered. I had agreed to kill it. Bitter tears fell out of my eyes, and I turned my face away. My mother had noticed that I was awake, and she came to my bed. She stroked my forehead. Mother knew. "Your baby is with my baby. Your baby is with your sister now. They'll take care of each other until you and I can get there and be with them."

        In the next few days, only my mother seemed to understand how I felt. Doctors, nurses, friends, family: they all talked about how lucky I was. I was glad to be alive to raise my boys, but I didn't feel lucky. They talked about the' procedure', about the 'surgery'. They told me I had done so much internal bleeding that when the surgeon cut me open blood had came out of me with so much force that it got all over the doctor and two surgical assistants. They talked about the units of blood they had to give me to keep me from dying. They asked me about walking, and eating, and bowl movements. I walked as soon as I could. I knew the routine, and I wanted to get home to my boys, my living children. The nurses bragged about my strength to my mother-in-law and she patted my shoulder and said, "This is one strong lady. I know. She's country-tough like her daddy." But only my mother and one female doctor that came to see me after several days in the hospital, even acknowledged that I'd lost a child.

        I named the baby Jamie. Because it will work for a boy or a girl. It was too early to tell the sex.
 
        I've never fully recovered from the loss and that was over twenty years ago. I don't think grief gets any lighter with time. I think we just get stronger and can carry it a little easier.

        I'll never forget the dream of having that child.

        I'll never forget the feeling of peace that fell over me right before the surgery.

        After my first face explosion, while lying on the hospital bed, I began to feel light headed, sleepy. I was sitting up in the hospital bed. I rested my head back against the pillow and listened to the people around me talking. For a few moments they made sense, but soon they started sounding a little like Charlie Brown's teacher. I could still understand them, but I wondered why they were talking funny. The blood pressure monitor took my b.p again and my step-daughter said, "Does that say-? That can't be right!" And she rushed from the room. The doctor came in and began to work with me frantically. He said, "Elevate her feet! Get those patches off of her!"

        I thought, "Why is he yelling? Why are people running? I'm just dying. Don't they know we all have to die." I was in that peaceful place again. I remember thinking, right as I slipped into it, "I lived to see my children grown. They don't need me so much now. And I lived to see my first grandchildren." But I still had a tickle of regret. I wanted to live.

        Again, I didn't die. (Surprise!) The doctors and nurses had given me too much medicine and my blood pressure had dropped down into the "almost dead" range. They elevated my feet, removed the blood pressure med patches, and I came back to the land of the living. I'm really glad I did too! My boys don't need me as much, that's true, but I still like to think I can contribute to their happiness. I like to think that I'm still vital and a (mostly) positive force in the universe.

        So, maybe it doesn't matter how or even when we die. Maybe Death is beguiling, a lover that will seduce us with calm and swath us in peace. When I was a child I hoped I'd never die. Honestly, I did. I still hope I die old and in my sleep. I hope I die peacefully, not wrapped in either panic or pain. I'm still not ready to go. I've always wanted to live to be an old person, and I'm not quite there yet. I hope to live to be so old that I fall into the human accessory department. You know what I mean, when people are still glad you're here, you're not yet a burden but you really don't have a lot to contribute anymore. That way my death will cause less mourning. My passing will seem less traumatic. Fewer people will feel cheated. But if I go before I become senile or unable to take myself to the bathroom I won't have been too much of a burden on my family. Isn't that ideal?

        Also, more selfishly, I've got this idea that it might be even easier to die if I do so many years from now. I have a theory: I think that the older you live and the more people you've seen make the transition, the more comfortable you'll be with your own fate. If anything makes the idea seem bearable (when I'm not drugged up on an NDE) it's that I'm following in some awesome footsteps. So, perhaps the more footsteps the more bearable the idea will be, even when I'm 100% lucid. That's what I'm hoping anyway, and I'd love to live long enough to test the theory out really really well.

        We don't KNOW what is on the other side of death, if anything. Many of us hope. Many of us believe. Some of us have told stories of tunnels, and light, and love. But we don't (as a people) know what's to come after death. Still, the more of our family and friends that go there, the less scary it becomes - whatever it is. Maybe there is a Heaven and God will take home the "good people" and some of us will fry in Hell. Maybe there is a God and He/She will love and accept us all. Maybe there is a void, a nothingness, an eternal sleep. Of all the possibilities, I fear that one most. I think I'd rather burn in Hell than cease to exist. I don't know... I don't know what's out there or where "there" is, but I'll tell you what I do know: I do know that Jamie went there. I know that my adopted uncle, Crit, is there. My dear friend since third grade, and her baby, and her daddy that were murdered in cold blood are all there. My cousin Teresa Kay, Uncle Les, and my Aunt Guinea are all there. As the list gets longer the idea gets less frightening. If it's good enough for them, whatever it is, then it's good enough for me. I'm proud to follow them, proud to be a part of the whole stinkin' human race. I think that, though flawed, we are inherently good. I believe that when I die I will "boldly go" where multitudes have gone before.


PS: Shana, if you read this I love you more than you know, more than the Harvest moon, and the sound of the sea, and the smell of books... and more, more, more...

I NEED MORE DIRT! (Gardening Journal)

Photo: Dad with the gladiolus or "Glad Dad," as I like to call it.

NOW:Date: April 03, 2013
Temp:So Warm it's More Like Summer Than Spring

I NEED MORE DIRT!

Today was gloriously warm and bright. I spent some time on the computer (which should be obvious) but I also spent much of the day outside working in my flower beds and readying my garden for planting.

I fenced my small vegetable garden off with something I hope will deter the ravenous ground hogs that ate everything in my garden last time except a couple handfulls of peppers, some ornamental corn, and four or five pumpkins. They would have eaten the pumpkins too except I harvested them small and early when I saw that the groundhogs had lowered their standards (now that they'd eaten everything else) and had eaten several of the pumpkins already. By that point I'd figured out who won the Groundhog vs. Skitch war of 2011. I cut my losses and carried my tiny pumpkins out of the garden. There was no Groundhog vs. Skitch war of 2012. I didn't put out a garden last year because I was training at a new job and I was very busy... Also, I was still pretty humiliated by the butt whooping the groundhogs had given me the year before. This year I will win more than a couple handful peppers, some ears of corn that I can't eat, and a few baby pumpkins. Get ready groundhogs! The battle of 2013 is on and I have opposable thumbs!

I stuck 50 gladiolus bulbs in the flower bed that goes along the length of my home. They will hopefully give me a long row of bright and beautiful "glads" this summer. Their full name is Latin for "little sword" and it suits them. They grow straight up and bloom in nearly every shade you can imagine, and they make great cut flowers for indoor bouquets. These were a bag of mixed colors. I like the surprise that comes with the mixed colors, but some of the bulbs were pink and some were yellow. An indication of the bloom to come? I tried to mix them up and not put two yellowish or pinkish ones side by side. I want them random. I couldn't plant them quite as deep as the  recommended 8 inches, but I may go back over them with some more potting soil. I found myself telling the spousal unit several times today, "I need more dirt!" He is unamused by my gardening antics. He barely smiles at the plastic bags taped around my knees and doesn't notice the dirt under my nails, or on my nose if it gets itchy. Though he does give the groundhogs a standing ovation now and then... Traitor. We shall see if my glads come up and what color they show. It's a delightful miracle, and I'm so glad that God let's the gardener help! 

Photo: Gardening hands and Glad Bulb
By Skitch

I hung my cloth trellis for my morning glories. Morning glories are my dad's favorite flowers. I can hardly wait for the deep blue faces and pristine white throats of the Heavenly Blue, for the dark purple and pink of Grandpa Ott's, for all the surprises that come with the mixed seed pack. This year I plan to put a couple of rambling roses somewhere on the place, but I haven't decided where yet. Roses are my mom's favorites, but unlike my parents who have been married over 60 years, roses and morning glories don't mix very well; they have to have separate homes.

I also attempted to plant some cattails. I'm not sure if the process will work or not, and calling it "planting" is a little generous. It was more like scattering and running. But I'm giving it a go and I hope they show up. I have an area at the end of my yard that is marshy. It's near a large drainpipe and lets off into what you could call a creek if it were about fifty times bigger than it is. It's more of a trickle, I guess, most of the time. The area is largely useless, unless you're a mosquito, and they love it. They make the yard almost unbearable July through September. I plan to get some sort of screened in something so that I can still sit outside now and then in the evenings. It occurred to me last summer, between swatting mosquitoes, that the marshy are might redeem itself some if it'd just sprout some cattails. I love them! So, last fall I found myself traversing some sucky (in more ways than one) mud after some very pretty cattails. I made my way to the plants, attempted to break a couple off, ended up pulling them up by the roots, and the plant, the roots, and a good portion of mud that was hanging off the bottom and coating my shoes went back to the car with me. By that point I was just grateful I'd made it out of there with my shoes still on. Mud shmud! I brought the cattails home and propped them up in one of my crepe myrtles and waited for the seeds to pop out. Today I took the seeds to they marshy area and spread them around. I discovered that planting cattails is a lot like I imagine wrangling fairies might be. The floaty little seeds come out and dance around your head and you're in some blissful fantasy for about two minutes. Then you realize that the determined little things aren't picky about where they root and they are attempting to grow in your eyeballs and nostrils! Can't you just imagine that wrangling fairies might seem like a fun idea for about two minutes? After I escaped with all my five senses intact (that sixth sense had let me down again) the experience reminded me of something my friend Mary had once said about her cat, Juno. Mary said, "You know how some cats like to climb your clothes?" I nodded, "Well, Juno is like that only she's not as picky. She doesn't need clothing; skin will do just fine." So, in a cattail world I guess nostrils will do just fine.
Photo: Cattails in the Myrtles
By Skitch

And I will close by pointing out that, Margaret Atwood, one of my favorite authors, once said,"In the spring, at the end of the day, you should smell like dirt."

Today I made her proud!