HOME SWEET HOME: THE WHITE HOUSE

Grandpa and Skitch
Photo By Uncle Cless or Uncle Tressell

THEN:

  Many of our family stories begin with, "At the White House," or "At the Green House," but they have absolutely nothing to do with Washington DC or a warm place to grow plants. We named where we lived and often it was just christened by the color of the home. Here are some of my many memories of one of these magical places...

  We lived at The White House when I was two and three. I remember my third birthday party was held outside on the lawn and my cousin Ramona was there. She grew up to be a very good friend, but at that time she was an infant on a blanket and not much fun at all. I told my first lie that day. I dropped my ice cream cone when I was behind the well and told my daddy that I needed another. He asked, "Did you eat that one already?" I'd been renamed "The Spiller" by my mother and was loath to be in trouble for another mess, so I just nodded yes. Daddy gave me an ice cream, but I'm betting that he found the other one on the ground behind the well. 

  I remember my first pets. We had Flame a small red horse that would spend the rest of my childhood with me and be more like family than any other pet we would ever have. I had a blind "pony" dad called him, but Dad actually avoided buying ponies. He said they were ill nurtured, and would buy for me, instead, a mixture of horse and pony. I don't remember the blind pony's name, but I do remember that daddy lied to me too while we lived there. He told me that my blind pony ran away from home with a herd of wild horses when, in actuality, my pony fell over a cliff and died.  I also had a puppy named Snow White that did not live to adulthood. We had a smallish dog named Loverboy who killed all daddy's little "diddies" (baby chickens) one spring. We came home and the chicks he had left by the fire to stay warm were now little yellow balls of deadness that littered the living room and were stuffed into the couch cushions like morbid prizes waiting to be discovered. I cried over the dead diddies. I was very angry at Loverboy that day, but perhaps not as angry as dad. And then there was Snoopy I, II, and  III. Dad says he replaced Snoopy at least twice. When the dog died, Pop would go back to the man he got Snoopy from in the first place and get me another Snoopy, a brother or sister to the original Snoopy. Daddy couldn't stand to see any of us cry. He found it much more acceptable to just go find another dog, cat or chicken and tell us it was the same one. The first Snoopy was deliberately ran over by my sisters' bus driver. Looks came home furious and crying. I'm surprised my dad didn't go find the man and whoop him.  At least once Snoopy was a Snoopina because I remember wondering why his stomach looked different and where did that pink thing go to anyway?

It was at The White House that I learned to ride a tricycle like a wild woman, faster and faster, around the pot bellied heat stove, across the porch, through the house. My cousin Becky, Ramona's older sister, was one year older than me, and Becky had a tricycle too, but she wasn't used to hers yet. I remember feeling happy when the adults noticed that I rode my tricycle much faster than Becky rode hers. I didn't know the phrases "Speed Demon" or "Dare Devil" yet, but I certainly was both.

     While we lived there, Lila taught me to pray, that other people could not see me if I could not see them, and how to eat an icicle that she broke off the roof in the dear of winter. She, Sandi, and my cousins taught me to sing about a crazy man from China and how to talk in Pig Latin. Sandi taught me to sing "On Top of Spaghetti". (Instead of "On Top of Old Smokey" and it would be years before I realized that was a corruption of another song.) Sandi would cuddle me on her lap while we watched Star Trek, or snuggle me up under a blanket and rock me in the rocking chair on the porch while a thunder storm raged all around us. Once it rained in the front of the house and not at the back. I ran back and forth, from one door to the other, amazed at this miracle.

     The house had a small door, up higher than my head that eludes my memory even now. I remember it as a place that dropped off into darkness, like a boxed up hole to hell, but my parents don't seem to know what I'm talking about when I bring it up. Perhaps it came from a dream I had while living there. 

     I remember being sick and listening to the soundtrack from "Mary Poppins" and eating chicken noodle soup. I would not have the opportunity to watch the movie until I was a teenager, but I loved the music. I was not in the best of health, overall, and woke up several times a year with one or both of my eyes "matted together". I would cry and someone, usually my mother, would rush and get a warm washrag for me to hold to my eye until I could open it. I remember it as a horrible way to start your day.

     This is where we lived when I took my bath, most of the time, in the kitchen sink. And a few times my mother washed my hair by hanging me out of her lap and over a wash pan. I would sit facing her on her lap and she would lean me back over her legs and wash my hair. I thought that was great fun!

     I got a toy piano from Santa, and even heard bells ringing as he "flew away", but I didn't really believe in him. I liked the story though, and so I played along with it. Stories had quickly become my great loves. My father used to tell me stories most nights and my favorite was "The Mule That Ran Away From Home" (More commonly know as "The Brementown Musicians".) I always asked my father if the mule, dog, cat, and rooster (each in their own turn) remembered to pack their toothbrush when they ran away. They always did, even though Dad reminded me that the rooster didn't even have teeth. This was an interactive story, for the "bushes" the thieves ran off to was my hair, the "roof" the rooster crowed from was my chin, and the fireplace where the cat lay was my ticklish little neck. 

     It was here that cousin Joonie pretended to throw me out the back door and frightened me. When my cousin did not hand me over at first command, my father, whom I now know is not a big man, took my arm to steady me and drew his first back at Joonie. Pop said, "Give me my baby!" 

     The cousin said, "I'm not really going to throw her!" 

     "I know you aren't. You're going to give her to me. Now!" 

     The cousin had been drinking and didn't realize or care that he was terrifying me. Pop cared. Pop got me out of his arms pronto and I clung to my safe daddy with determined little arms.

     I lived at The White House when my favorite doll came into my life. One of Aunt Nancy's daughters gave me "Cuddly" and she became my near constant companion and the only doll I carried with any regularity. My second favorite was Drowsy. When I heard my parents talking about going on vacation, I gathered up Cuddly, some cream and sugar for my "coffee" and got in the car. I was ready to go. 

     I also took Aunt Nancy's purse to her because I'd seen pill bottles in it. How often I'd heard my mother talk about keeping things out of my reach because I might "take them". Her words had me convinced that some horrible compulsion sometimes came over children when they saw pill bottles and they opened them up and gobbled the medicines down like candy. I handed Auntie's purse to her and said, "You better put your pills up, Aunt Nancy, or I just might take them." She laughed, pulled me into her arms, and ruffled my blond curls. 

Lila met her future husband while we lived at The White house. Johnny was six years older, 20 to Lila's 14. He brought me a big blue ball and my mother a set of dishes on one of his first visits to see Lila. She would marry him less than a year later, at the grown up age of 15, and give him a child by the time she was seventeen, though he had told her he was unable to have children. Her leaving would cut my heart into. She, more than anyone, was my teacher, my companion, my joy and for the rest of my life, I would miss her near constant presence that I had become so happy with.

     The only grandparent I would ever know lived with us for a while there, and I do remember I loved him. I also remember that he hated loud children, and noise, and movement, and I had ever to pretend I was an adult in his presence. Since I would never be that kind of adult, this should have been no small feat, but I liked quiet more than most children and actually did a pretty good job with the task. As a "big girl", I was allowed to carry his supper plate to him now and then; he always ate from the same plate, a green one with a scene on it. Even then my mother called it an old plate but mostly it was referred to as "Papaw's plate." I ate from it for years after he died. As a teen, I would feel the loss of grandparents, especially a grandmother as I never had one of those even for a few short years and I felt so alone in the world. Still, I have determined that I will BE the sort of grandmother I always wished to have. I will be the ear to listen, the shoulder to cry on, the whispered, and kindly, and good advice. I will be unconditional love, a fellow believer of magic, a night light in their minds eye. I will be gingerbread cookies, gingham aprons, songs, stories, and kisses and hugs. I will be all these things for my grandchildren, and much more. I will be the grandmother that listens to modern music, dances, and paints her toenails. I will be the grandmother that doesn't scold over "bad words" but simply cautions that some people are quite funny about those words. I will be Acceptance, and a reminder that you can be an old soul and keep a childlike spirit. All this and more, will I be, if the Lord blesses me to do so, for my grandchildren, for as many years as I possibly can! And one day, I may get to tell them about my grandfather, and The White House I lived in, and my grandfather's special plate. 

Grandpa's Plate

AND THEN I KNEW... MY EARLIEST MEMORIES

Photo: Daddy and Possumfrog (Skitch) 

THEN:


 
        I can often remember things from forty-five years ago better than I can things that happened yesterday. My long term memory is impressive in a good way and my short term is sort of on the other end of that spectrum. I'd forget my head, as my mother has told me many times, if it wasn't attached to my neck.
        Most of my memories are tied to certain homes, but the earliest were sludgy, like I didn't know where I lived. Later, I asked questions and found out where we were living when "this" or "that" happened, but at the time I was a bit of a gypsy in my own little head, barely knowing that I "lived" anywhere, for everywhere was the same big world and hadn't I always been here?
        One of my favorite writers, Kevin Leman says your first memories shape you. I have absolutely no reason to doubt that and a few reasons to believe that it is spot on. Here are my earliest memories with a little fill in information from my family:

THE HOUSE IN OHIO

        We lived in Ohio when I turned a year old. My mother and my aunt tell me they potty trained me at 13 months. Between the two ladies they'd shared nine other babies and my Aunt Nancy was through with diapers! She told my mother I was smart and would potty train easily and early. Auntie made me about a dozen pair of frilly "big girl" panties, put them on me, and asked me to keep them clean. The ladies say I had only an accident or two after that day. I don't remember wearing a diaper. I do remember sitting on the stoop of our home with my daddy, wearing big girl panties and a pair of overalls that I really liked. We were both holding an ice cream cone and trying to keep up with the drips before they hit our fingers. Daddy paused in his ice cream eating long enough to say, "Possumfrog. You see that bush over yonder?" He pointed to a shrub near the edge of the yard, and I nodded. "I'm thinking about digging it up and moving it over here to the side of the stoop." He motioned to one side of the steps were were sitting on. "Then move that one over there to the other side." He pointed at another shrub and then the other side of the steps. "What do you think? You think that would look good?"
        I stopped battling the drippy ice cream long enough to look at each of those bushes and actively imagine them on each side of the doorway. It looked good! I smiled and nodded at my daddy. "You think it'd look good?" He pressed.
        "Yep. It'd look real good!"

        And then I knew... My opinion matters.



RAMEY FLATS     

    My pop had moved into an area called Ramey Flats or "The Flats" as locals called it, when he was three or four years old. He's told me the story of riding along on the top of the furniture his parents were bringing with them from Kentucky and his first look at that lonesome river that became a sister to us all, The Pound River. When I was somewhere between one and two years old, we lived at my dad's old home place for a time. I remember taking a walk with my father. Taking several baby steps for each one his longer legs took, and yet being determined to keep up. We walked up the hill near the house and turned and looked down from the vantage we now had. I marvled at how much smaller everything became when you walked away from it. Dad looked down and me and then pointed at the acorns on the ground all around us. "Do you know what this is?" He squatted and picked one up, held it close to my face, and allowed me to take it from his fingers. I shook my head. I did not know. "That's a fairy cup." He said, and picked up another. He tipped it to his mouth like having a drop of tea. "Last night the fairies had a big party here. When the sun came up they tossed down their cups and went home to bed, but we know they were here because their cups are lying all over the place. Look at what a party they had!" He motioned to all the scattered acorns and smiled at me when I pretended to drink from the acorn shell. He turned to go and I followed.

        And then I knew... Magic is all around us.


THE RESTAURANT HOUSE

        I remember living in a house that had a room full of benches with tall backs and tables between them. Later, my family told me that memory was of a restaurant that we rented as a home. We lived in the rooms in back and used the restaurant area as a living room. I remember having a crib bed when we lived there. It had a painting of a lamb on the headboard. The lamb had two ribbons around it's neck. They were blowing in the wind, one pink and one blue. I remember playing with a pink toy phone in the floor of that odd living room. I kept getting up and approaching the others, trying to get the "adults" (even my sisters who were probably 14 and 12 seemed like adults to me) to talk to me on my level, to explain this strange toy to me. I liked the sounds it made and the way it looked and felt, but what was the purpose of this object? What did it represent? When I tried to ask the adults would simply tell me it was a "phone" or a "telephone". They might say hello into the handle part, and then they would slip back into words, phrases, ideas that they shot at each other quickly, like bullets from a gun, words that I could not yet follow. I wondered what the toy phone was and why the adults kept telling me to talk into it. I'd never seen a real phone, but I liked the funny ringing sound it made when I did what they called "dial it", and I liked the sound of the adults talking, even though I had no idea what they were saying. The sound enveloped me like a warm blanket and left me feeling comfortable and safe.

        And then I knew... We are all in this together, even if we don't always understand each other.



THE RESTAURANT HOUSE AGAIN
        
        In this same house my mother's favorite uncle lived with us for a while. Great Uncle Luther was old and frail, and I was told to be "good" around him. He lounged in a yard chair most of the day, the kind made out of flat straps of something that was not quite cloth and not quite plastic. One day I was hanging around his chair, looking at him, wondering things I could not even express yet. Wondering why he looked so different from the other adults. Who put those lines in his face? Why was his hair so thin and white? Why must I be extra "good" just because of him? Uncle Luther asked to see my doll, and I trustingly handed her over. Sometimes adults would pretend to rock or feed her and that was fun for me. It was like very short sessions with a playmate, and I greatly enjoyed their sinking to my level. But Uncle Luther did not play with me. He promptly pulled on my dollies arm and legs until, to my great horror, he had them all removed from her body. I was distressed but he kept hushing me, and wasn't I supposed to be "good"? He put her back together, but he put the legs where the arms were supposed to be and the arms where the legs were supposed to be. Then he handed the doll to me. I did not want that mixed up dolly! I wanted my dolly with arms at the top and legs at the bottom, just like every person and every other dolly I had seen. I tried to pull the limbs off and fix her myself but I was not strong enough. I pouted and whined. I tried to convince him to put her back the way she was before, but he only laughed delightedly. On the verge of true, wet tears, I took my mixed up dolly through the house and found my mother. She was talking to others, but I pressed the dolly hard against her legs and whined.
        She turned to me and laughed, "What happened to your dolly?"
         "Uncle Luther!" I drug the name out like a curse.
        Mother laughed again, but she started fixing the doll. While she fixed it she scolded him, "That mean old Uncle Luther shouldn't mess up your dolly, should he?" I shook my head. "You won't give it back to him, now will you?" She said before handing it back to me, and I shook my head again. She handed me the doll and I smiled, happy to have her back to normal.
   
    And then I knew... Sometimes it doesn't pay to be good!



WHERE WERE WE?

        I have one other memory that was formed before I had a good idea of where I was in the world. I lean toward believing this one happened in Ohio, because I seemed to be in the same place in my head and my understanding of the world seems about the same as it was then, but I am not certain where we were.
        I had two uncles that were in my life with regularity and I loved both dearly. Uncle Leslie was my dad's younger brother, the "baby" of their original family, and Uncle Jr. was my mother's older and only brother. She had another brother, Ray, but he died before I was born and her baby brother, David, was stillborn. Crit Miller, who came to live with us when I was five, would become some sweet mixture of an Uncle/Brother, but this was in the days when Crit lived with my grandfather and cared for him in his old age. Those three were the only uncles I had that were in my life enough for me to get to know them.
        Uncle Leslie was not only my dad's brother but he was, near as I can tell, his best lifelong friend. And Uncle's wife, my Aunt Nancy was my mother's first cousin and dearest, life long friend. So, their family and mine often lived near each other or even in the same house. Auntie and Uncle were second parents and firm fixtures in my life and heart.
        Uncle Leslie took lessons to learn to fly a plane and, once he got his license, he talked my father into going up in the small vehicle. Mother was invited but said she'd keep both her feet on the ground, thank you very much! Uncle entreated them to allow me to go (my sisters, Sandi and Lila, must have been at school) and he met with some resistance but he and Daddy talked my mother into allowing me the ride. I am so glad they did!
        I remember that I could not even grasp the concept of being up in the air really high like a bird. I wondered what that would be like but my normally active imagination fell flat and failed me. Would it be like looking down a hill? I did not have to wonder long however, for it was not very many minutes after I was granted permission to go that I found myself perched on my pop's lap and looking out the window at my waving, fearful mother.
        Then the magic happened. Momma got smaller and smaller until she looked like a doll, and until I could not even see her anymore because the plane was going not only up but away. I felt infinitely safe in my daddy's arms, but I wished Mother had gone with us. I looked with wonder at the world below us and saw that it was now much like a giant quilt of brown and green patchwork. Tiny toyish cows stuck their noses to the quilt and tiny toyish cars moved along the black and brown roads that separated the patchwork pieces. How much I could see! And yet, I could not see my mother, or the detail of the grass. I had gained the big picture but lost the small one. People, I considered, must be like ants and God must look down on us and wonder at our silliness as I wondered at the odd antics of ants. Did God, step over us with care, trying to not end our small existence and to allow it to run it's course with nature? That is what Lila had taught me to do with the ants, to step over them and allow them to live out their lives. Who taught God to step over the puny little humans? Did God have a big sister? And if so, why wasn't she the God? How could we be so important and so small at the same time? Perhaps the ants lives seemed very important to them as well and that was why Lila had taught me to step over them.
        How different everything looked from up here! How small and unimportant and yet even more beautiful than normal, more beautiful than I knew how to express! Though my dad and uncle would shout short statements at each other now and then, I deemed it was too loud in this little airplane to ask questions or discuss the beauty of the ride. I sat in silence and awe.
   
    And then I knew... We are important and insignificant at the same time, and the world is full of splendor and questions!

 

MY IDEAL LIFE

    NOW:

Photo: "Dreamingdon"
By Skitch

     The ideal life would require a lot more than money. It would take peace, love, and happiness. None of which can be bought with money, but they can be sought a lot better that way. When you talk to people about having the financial means to pursue their ideal life they tell you rather vaguely, "I would buy a mansion," "I would spoil my kids/family/friends with gifts," "I would travel," "I would buy everything I've ever wanted." I've wondered recently why those comments are so broad. I first thought, but quickly discarded the idea, that they didn't want to bore me with the details. I've discovered, at this getting-ripe age, that my superpower is the ability to inspire the truth in others. Sometimes I hear secrets, sometimes drama and scandals, sometimes bragging, sometimes slow and languid details they don't often share with anyone else. But whatever it is, things they don't usually talk about just seem to slip right out of their lips if they spend time with me. Often, it's just a tiny slice of time. Many a stranger or person I've just met has looked at me in puzzlement and said, "I don't know why I just told you all that." For the longest time, I didn't know either. I still don't know the details of it. Is there a look in my eye that shouts, "Give me your secrets, and I will take them to my grave."? I don't know. But I've come to like it a lot. I smile now and tell them about my superpower. No one has argued with me yet.

     So, why don't they give me the details of their dreams? After much deliberation, I've begun to wonder if they even know the details of their dreams. Are they afraid to focus on them? Are they afraid of being let down, of wanting things even more than they already want them?

     I am not afraid. I practice living fearlessly and facing fears. So, I will look at the specifics of my "If money were no object" dream.

          I would buy homes for my children, my parents, my sisters, my best friend, and her children, my nieces and nephews, and a couple three cousins. Hopefully in the same town that I would be living in, but ultimately wherever they chose. I would buy them each a good dependable car they could be happy with.

     For myself, there is a house in a neighboring town made with brick that was probably forged in the 1860s. It is two houses down from a library. It has nooks, and crannies, and curb appeal, and a widow's walk. Thick trees stand sentinel and wear ivy like regal cloaks. The house has stories to tell, and with all my heart and mind I want to hear them. If someone were to say to me, "I'm going to buy you a house, any house you want, but you can't sell it; you must live in it until you die and then pass it down to your children," I would, without hesitation, choose that house. (If, however, they said they would buy me any house I wanted I'd pick the most expensive one I could find and then turn around and sell it, buy the old brick monstrosity with the ivy. Then I would eat, and travel, and live on the rest of the money.) I've decided that, as far as houses go, that old brick wearing ivy is my soul mate. If money were no object, I would live in that home. I would furnish it from the local antique and furniture stores, I'd make one room a conservatory and grow some awesome vegetables year round. I'd put an herb garden and a cottage flower garden out back. I'd touch every brick and crawl all over the roof. I'd eat breakfast on the covered balcony and throw the best Halloween parties ever known to man. 

     I'd get a good bike and put a basket on it, and hit the farmer's market wide open every time I could. I would not be using the bike for lack of a vehicle, but because I love to bike. As far as vehicles go, I'd find and purchase an old teal colored truck, for hauling and banging around in, probably something from the 50s or 60s. I'd get a classic orange VW Beetle, because Beetles have long been my favorite cars, and I've never had an orange one. (Surprisingly, the color orange is growing on me as I go.) I'd buy a purple Jeep Grand Cherokee 4 x 4, much newer, for when I wanted to travel in comfort, or with several people, or needed a 4 wheel drive. And I'd get a blue Camero... just because. 

     Somewhere outside of town, I'd own a piece of land that had a vegetable garden and a fire tower. The fire tower would be my own little get away, so that I had somewhere to go when I wasn't quite fit for company, or my latest writing wasn't crawling out my head fast enough, or the sounds of the world were overwhelming me. It'd have to have an elevator of some sort, even a one person one would work fine. I'm growing acutely aware that I may not always have the ability to climb up and down stairs at all, let alone a blue zillion of them, but while I could, I would climb up them. Down is already torture on the knees, but I actually like climbing up stairs most of the time. My fire tower would have electricity, running water, and screened windows that would open to let the wind in to visit. I'd be able to pour a cup of tea and ask the wind to tell me where it's been and what it's seen. I would record that on paper for my great-great grandchildren, so they would know what the wind told me before they were even born.

     I'd buy a beach house and spend oddles of hours listening to the waves break, looking for the treasure of unique sea shells, and drinking coffee while I watched the gulls. I'd share it with the rest of the family, and even rent or buy another one if that one started being a bit too full a bit too often. Finally, I would have free access to my sister the sea.

     Then we would travel. I would take my oldest son to Japan. He loves the culture and the art that stems from that small country. I'd take my second son to Hawaii or the Maldive Islands because he has always talked of an exotic tropical vacation. I'd ask each of my step-kids to pick a trip and they could go with or without me, as they liked. I'd make sure (even if it was a second trip) that my husband's eldest had the opportunity to go to India, his second eldest Paris, the third Australia. The fourth in line should get an expensive train/cruise to Alaska. His baby girl should see the castles in England, Wales, Ireland. And my step-son and his bride should take an anniversary get away to Spain and Italy. I want to see all these places and many more. I'd drag my husband all over the globe and spend two weeks in Savanna Georgia, just the two of us. I feel a deep calling to boat down the Amazon river, to watch the sun set in Africa, to go see my friends in Turkey. I'd take my parents to the beach again, to that sweet family beach house. My oldest sister and I would go on a tour of the state parks. My next oldest and her husband, I'd take on a bunch of river tours, down the Mississippi. I'd try to talk my parents, my sisters, whomever to go see the Holy Lands with me. I'd take my best friend to San Francisco, Maine, to visit her family in diverse places, and anywhere else her heart desired. I'd finally see Massachusetts, Montana, and Mexico. The family and I would travel and travel, and travel. 

     There would be charity work and charity dollars given out. If money were no object, I would have the time to do for the elderly that seem to stand constantly at the door of my heart. We have two senior ladies that live all alone just down the road from us now. I'd love to have the time and energy to simply visit them more often. I'd love to volunteer at the local retirement community again, and for Head Start and The Special Olympics again. Those and other worthy causes would get some of my time and money. 

     I'd support several friends in their creative endeavors. I know quite a few people that could use a good agent, some get-started cash, a good co-signer, etc. I'd like to help them make their creative dreams come true.

     Then I'd write. I'd have the time, the energy, the ability to travel and do research. I'd devote the rest of my life to my community, my family, and my creative projects. I'd write novels and children's books. I'd make films and take painting classes. I'd learn to play drums, to speak Spanish and sign language. I'd learn more about astronomy and self defense. I'd find time for Yoga and horseback riding. I'd do gravestone rubbings. I'd live life to the fullest...

     That's the specifics of my Ideal Life... What would YOUR ideal life be like?

A MAN-OF-DAUGHTERS

Photo: Daddy with his 3 daughters:
Sandi, Lila, and Skitch

THEN:

Written in 2000, not long after marrying my second husband, but still wonderfully true today.


     There is a wonderful tenderness to a man-of-daughters. I first found this out as a child living in a home that had borne four daughters and no sons. My father, who had always been a rough and tumble man, soon succumbed to our gentle sensibilities and treated even the tomboys among us like upstanding Victorian princesses. He had long adored his mother, and he cherished our mother deeply. Seemingly with ease, he transferred that love and respect to his own girls. With infinite patience, he sat while we braided the longest strands of his hair and pinned bobby pins and bows in the rest. To his great credit, he held his face immobile while tasting many a pretend and real culinary attempt. Then, with a noble smile, he would proclaim it, "Delicious"! We knew! We knew that every attempt we made was different and that not all of them could reasonably be palatable (especially those daisy eggs we popped into his mouth) let alone delicious. We also knew that, in his eyes, we did no wrong, and that was what mattered, what we carried with us all our days.

     Over the years, as we softened him, something unexpected happened, and he softened us as well. We came to enjoy being treated like ladies and we expected like treatment from every male around us. This led to more than a few disappointments that, in the long run, will not be ours. By his standards we measured our male friends, teachers, suitors. Poor men -- so few of them ever touched the bottom of the level we had placed our daddy on. Somehow two of our staunch tomboys imagined themselves stronger than they were, more influential than they could ever be. They married men off the graph, expecting them to soften as dear daddy had, but some men don't soften. As one of the tomboys, I found that out first hand. I married a boy from a house-of-sons. He was a gruff nurtured boy, with no sisters to set before him a standard of how women should be treated, and he held little softness in his heart for his own mother. How was I to know that this would render him incapable of the tenderness to which I had become accustomed? Many hardships later, after problems with substance abuse and violence, I stopped looking for it within him. It simply was not and would not be there. 

     My man from a house-of-sons had given me sons, and I struggled daily to provide for them a well rounded upbringing. With my tomboyish nature I was able to be a decent semi-dad. I taught them to throw a baseball and climb a tree. I was also a nester by nature, and as such was teaching them to cook and do laundry. I wasn't doing a bad job, overall, but something was missing. For, when I asked them to lift the toilet seat they lifted instead, an eyebrow and thought their mother suddenly nit-picky among her kind. And if I, out of respect for other females that would soon be entering their lives, cautioned them about words like "snot" and "fart" they considered the possibility that I was daft indeed! Didn't I say these words myself? Didn't I laugh at their fart jokes? It seemed to me that a tomboyish mother-of-sons was destined to raise men-of-sons with little or no regard for feminine sensibilities, for they only resented the difference between how I allowed them to treat me and how I hoped they would treat the more tender of my kind. I did not want to pretend to be someone I was not, but I was beginning to consider it because, ironically, I was fathering my children pretty well, but feeling like I was falling short as their mother.

     It was at that wonderful and opportune time that I met my own man-of-daughters. He had five of them! And one little son of his own. He had a mother he adored and a sister he cherished. With sensibilities not seen by me in too long, this man gathered us all into his strong but gentle arms: five girls, three boys, and me. My sons now raised both eyebrows in enlightenment when he instructed them on the necessity of lifting (and then even lowering!) the toilet seat. They nodded understandingly when he explained the obligation of watching one's language in front of females. It suddenly made sense to them now that not all girls were as staunch as "Momma" for they had five sisters in varying degrees of "princess" and their step-dad expected the females in our world to be treated with great respect. As the girls grew dearer to my sons, so did their regard for the opposite sex. They seemed to treat unknown girls in a manner similar to how they wanted the tenderest of their sisters to be treated. Suddenly, females in general were held in higher esteem and my new husband had mothered my sons for me. 

     There are exceptions to nearly every rule, of course: But my advice to womankind is this: marry a man that cherishes good relationships with the females in his life. As he treats his mother, his sisters, his daughters, so shall he treat you. Be aware, of the respect -- or lack of it, in your friends and suitors. And for men it rings as true: If she adores her daddy, her brothers, her sons, she will be more likely to adore you. That makes for a smoother relationship and a pleasure indeed. For I cannot express how delightful it is to watch the circle go fully around, as I sit observing little girls "fixing" their daddy's hair and popping over-cooked bacon into his mouth.

Photo: Daddy with 3 daughters:
Sandi, Lila, and Baby Skitch

AMANDA

Photo: Amanda, before she learned how to smile

THEN (mostly):

Though there were five years between Bo and Shana, Amanda was born only 17 months after Shana. She was to be Lila's youngest child, her baby, and the last girl that would be born into our family since that day over 30 years ago. If Bo hadn't had to good sense to adopt his step-daughter, Kimmy (Princess, to me) and share her with us we would have nothing but boys for the last 30 years! As it is, Kimmy is an adult, so all the youngsters in the family are male. I would later have two sons, Tanya would have two sons, Bo would have three sons (and our Princess) Shana would have a son and a step-son, and Amanda would have two sons and a step-son. In our family we throw out that "step" word most of the time. Son/step-son... either way it's a son so why waist any extra breath or complicate things? Also, Lila would raise three foster sons, so we had plenty of boyness to make up for all the earlier girlness, and my dad and Bo looked around one day and realized they were no longer outnumbered. Amanda was soon nicknamed Nana, to match Shana's nickname of Nona, and that was what both of them were called for many years of their lives. "Here come Nona and Nana!" To me they were Baby and Hope.

Amanda was thrust into the chaos caused by Shana's weak lungs. She barely had a moment in the spotlight before Shana was on death's door again, unintentionally sucking all the energy from the family. Still, a newborn as beautiful as Amanda demanded contemplation. Like her sister before her, she was gorgeous. They are a study in lovely opposites. Shana was fair and bubbly. Amanda was dark and quiet. As she grew she gained an exotic quality that caused people to do a double take. She was not smile city, like Shana, but when she smiled it would melt a frozen heart. Mostly she looked at you with deep chocolate eyes, quietly, making you wonder what she was thinking about. In those eyes you could see an awareness, a curiosity, a bank of secrets you could not get to. I knew immediately that Amanda was an old soul.

Hope spent much of her babyhood with an intense, somehow amusing, scowl on her face. It wasn't that she was being hateful, though she was certainly capable of that. It just seemed to be the way her face naturally arranged itself. Even when she was truly in a bad mood, if you let her be, you were safe enough. One of our favorite cousins, Teresa Kay, brought Hope a Care Bear shirt. It had a cloth flap that you could flip from "Today I feel Cheerful" (with an image of Cheer Bear) to "Today I feel Grumpy" (with an image of Grumpy Bear.) I confess that one of my favorite things to do was to switch my nieces shirt to "Grumpy". To me, it suited the scowl on her face, but it always made her, well, Grumpier. So, It became a game for me, trying to distract her enough to switch the shirt to Grumpy without her noticing. Sometimes she busted me and yelled, "Hey! Stop that!" Sometimes I was quick enough and sly enough to get by with it, briefly. She would eventually notice, and there was always heck to pay! She knew exactly who had done that to her shirt and she came after me quarreling as hard as she could and shaking her finger at me. I would pretend innocence, but I don't think I ever fooled her. It was wonderful though when she began to smile more. I remember the absolute joy I felt at getting a photo of a genuine smile on that lovely little face. Eureka! We loved her deeply and dearly, cheerful or not.

When she got a little older, Hope took a look around her and picked up the worries of the world. She didn't express one second of jealousy over Shana's unfortunate limelight, but instead, out of a great love for her sister, her mother, her family, Hope switched places with Shana. Hope became the big-little sister. She showed deep concern for Shana and would fetch cold cloths for her fevered head, bring her glasses of water or juice. It wasn't long before the vibrant little sister had outgrown the less healthy big sister and they looked their switched roles. Some people refused to believe that Shana was older than Amanda.

First thing in the morning, she would come into the living room, wearing her nightgown and a scowl. Often I was already attempting to get the knots out of Shana's hair, but Hope's would have to wait until she was more awake and less grumpy. I told Shana many mornings that she must have made the hair fairy angry because she woke up with the messiest hair on the planet. I would smile at Hope and wish her a good morning. In a very froggy little voice she would drag out, "Gooood moornin'." That froggy voice was one of my very favorite sounds.

When she was about three, I was staying at Lila's and was snuggled in bed with the two little girls, trying to get them to go to sleep. Hope begged for one story too many. I was practically nodding off myself, so I suggested, "Why don't you tell me a story?" I was sneakily thinking I could go to sleep while she was talking and then she'd go to sleep as well, but her cute little girl voice whispered, "A man came home... to see his wife and children...but there was bloooood all over the floor... and there was blooood all over the walls..." We got up and had chicken noodle soup and ice cream and watched some t.v.

She was about 12 when I made the mistake of telling her she had been "Amanda Hope-For-No-More". I thought it was funny because she was the baby of the family and my sister did get a sterilization procedure not long after Hope was born. But I think I seriously hurt her feelings at the time, and I wanted to be able to suck those words right back into my lungs. 

She is different these days; almost all smiles but less healthy. It's as though all the illnesses that skipped her as a child have come calling on the adult she now is. She gets really sick, really quickly. It's frightening. She's been rushed to the ER. She's battled sepsis and many strep infections. These days it's sometimes Shana's turn to be concerned.

Today Amanda Hope is a lovely wife and mother. She has a husband and three boys. She's still ultra responsible. She's a hands on mom and keeps her kids as straight as arrows. She loves deeply and laughs freely. I haven't heard her froggy early morning voice in too many years... Maybe I should call her some morning at about 6am, just to hear that croaky "Gooood moornin'." That lovely sound would still be a joy to my heart, because in reality she is my "Amanda HOPE-For-Many-More".

Photo: Amanda, after she learned how to smile
Photo By Skitch 

SHANA

Photo: Shana and Skitch

THEN (mostly):

Three months after I hit the ripe old age of 13, Lila gave birth to Shana. I'd recently read several historical romance novels by the genre-pioneering author Kathleen E. Woodiwiss. My favorite was a spicy novel called "Shanna". I loved the name so much that, when Lila told me she was pregnant, I thought, "I wish she would name her Shanna." I was on a roll with predicting the sexes of babies. I'd only missed once in all my long 13 years, and I was certain Lila was carrying another daughter. I told her as much, but I did not suggest the name because I was equally certain she would never take the advice of a child on naming a child. When she called a few weeks later and told me, "If this baby is a girl, I think I'll name her Shana," it seemed like a miracle. I decided that I had wished that beautiful name on my niece so hard that it somehow pushed into Lila's mind. I've taken secondary credit for it ever since.

Shana was a gorgeous baby, and unlike Tanya and Bo, she didn't intimidate me. I was older, more practiced, and much better at appreciating babies this go 'round. I strove to be her second momma. Shana was bubbly, full of life and joy, and I loved her so dearly that I soon called her nothing but "Baby."

Soon the family discovered that Shana had asthma. She suffered one hard bout after another with bronchitis or pneumonia. Many nights, Lila stayed with us in order to have help with all three kids. Li and I would stretch out on either side of Shana and think about sleeping. Through the night, Shana's chest would heave so violently that it often seemed to be a separate entity from the rest of her. It was as though her muscles were forcing her to take just one more breath. I often found myself breathing in the same unnatural rhythm, praying between each convulsion of Shana's muscles, praying for the next pull of air. In the dim light, my eyes would meet my sister's and our souls would speak the fears that our mouths could not utter...

"What if she stops?"

"Could life ever go on?"

When she was healthy, life was golden. Shana lit up the darkest room with her smile, her bubbly way, and later, her constant mispronunciations. She had this delightful habit of accidentally using words we were not supposed to use. They always sounded so out of place falling from her cherubim lips. She pronounced "Roscoe" (a favorite uncle) as "Asshole" and would yell that name at anyone that reminded her of Roscoe, which unfortunately was any medium aged man with brown hair and a beard. I can remember running down the street with Lila, cupping our hands over Shana's mouth while she twisted her head and screamed her uncle's name at some confused guy that certainly was not her uncle, and probably didn't deserve verbal abuse from an 18 month old. My dad got a kick out of telling Shana to say, "I'm a smart feller." Inevitably she told him, "I'm a fart smeller." Nothing could have been less funny to my mom, or funnier to my dad. He'd laugh until his eyes disappeared in folds of wrinkles.

Shana was a brilliant baby (and is a brilliant lady. She made the Dean's List repeatedly in college) but those days foreshadowed a lifetime of twisted words. She never quite got the hang of a brilliant vocabulary. For example "specific" often still comes out "pacific". As a child, she told her mother they tried to make her eat "fruit fox tails!" at school. (Investigation discovered it was actually fruit cocktail.) And, unlike her very deliberate brother, Shana has always been good at "accidental funny." As a babe, she leaned in her mother's arms, out over a casket, and said, "Shhh. Papaw's sleeping...Boo!" She then laughed delightedly and added, "I scared Papaw to death!" She turned heads with her beauty, with her joy, with her malapropisms, and with her "accidental funny." She turned heads!

Shana's first sentence to me came from a song. I was singing along with the radio. "Don't you want me, baby? Don't you want me, ooh?" And Shana, who was "Baby", sang back, "Don't you want me, Dee Dee?"

Shana is now an adult and a very devoted mother. I've lost count of how many times she's made it through pneumonia. Thankfully, she is like my mother in that she's much tougher than she knows. Her greatest battle came when she had her son. High blood pressure, early inducement, an emergency c-section, a spotty epidural, she fought them all... And won. May God keep her winning, for I still feel the same way I did when she was tiny. "What if she stops?" I don't know what I'd do without her bubbly smile, without her created words, without her accidental funny, without her gigantic heart loving me every day. She loves fiercely and forever. Without her "could life ever go on?" I pray God that Lila and I never find out!

Photo: "Baby"

BEBO

Photo: Baby Johnny, Tanya, and Skitch

Then (mostly):

        
When I was nine years old, The Lord, Life, and Lila Ann gave me a nephew, Johnny. I was growing up in a family of mostly females and a boy was something to celebrate! Not because boys were better than girls, no not at all, but because boys, for us, were scarce. My dad, for many years, was the only guy in our world. The poor fellow weathered mood swings, swam through lace and ribbons, and let us "fix his hair." When Johnny arrived he became the only boy our family had been graced with since my father was born and the only boy it would have until I gave birth to my first son, over a decade later. Mother had four daughters. Lila would have three daughters and one son. Johnny and Dad were long outnumbered!

Because he shared a name with his father we called him "Little Johnny" or "Little John" when he was a kid. He now largely goes by "Bebo" or "Bo." Johnny" is still his dad's name, to most of us. Back in the day, Little Johnny was a smiley kid that loved to be silly. He was awesome at Donald Duck impersonations and Scooby Doo recaps. He was the number one fan of The Dukes of Hazzard, which is probably how he wound up with the nickname "Bo". For many years, my mother despaired that she'd never figure out what his face looked like because he was so often tail-up, rolling around in the floor, tumbling, twisting. Looking back, there is little doubt that he had some hyperactivity going on inside that bony little frame. Despite his antics and over-the-top entertainment choices, that kid harbored a subtle sense of humor. Like a good bottle of wine he was bold and dry, even way back then. When he was about four years old, he picked up a gray kitten and carried it through the house singing, "I'm gonna wash that gray right out of your hair." My sister had to stop him from shampooing the cat. A four year old singing a Clariol Loving Care commercial to a gray kitten is funny enough, but I've always felt that he got it. That he knew just why it was funny, that the cat was supposed to be gray, that four year old kids aren't supposed to dwell on gray hair, that cat's hate a bath. Like my dad, Bo has the best sense of humor, and it has only improved with age.

He spent his days surrounded by women, but, Bo held a quite sort of masculinity that could never be denied. He played with dolls and picked out things from the Avon book just like we did, but he had a penchant for mud that none of us shared, and he liked to take things apart, to play with cars and trucks, and to stare at pretty girls. Yep, he was definitely different. He once fell asleep at my house only to wake up with make up on and his nails painted. I was a bit of a prankster. (And I'd hidden the nail polish remover.) But luckily for him (and for me) my nephew was never one of those uptight men that was afraid of sandals or the color pink. In the tradition of his grandfather, Little John knew he was every inch a guy even when he was covered in foundation and blush. I've always loved that about him and I'm grateful my sons have displayed the same confidence. Still, it was pretty awesome watching him growl around the house looking for the missing nail polish remover. 

As a teen he became Bebo (a nickname bestowed upon him by his new step-father.) Bebo was the workingest son-of-a-gun you'd ever met. I've long felt he inherited that from my daddy too. That nephew of mine always had an odd job going and a dollar in his pocket. He found his way around a car engine before he was old enough to drive. I remember him working on a Blazer for me when he was 15. I depended on him even then for those crazy mechanical things that have never made any sense to me. He poked, and prodded, and crawled around under that thing and soon had it working. And this after several grown men had given up on it!

Bo understands family, he understands family with a capital F. There was a time in my life when I felt that mine had turned away from me, that I'd been disowned. Bo visited me when everyone else seemed to be looking the other way. He came to the museum where I worked and talked to me. I remember three consecutive statements best: "It's all going to be okay. You already knew our family was crazy. And why in hell did that chick at the ticket booth sell me this guidebook that doesn't guide me anywhere?" And that's my Bo. He's supportive, pragmatic, and as funny as a bad case of hiccups in math class!

These days, Bo is working hard at two jobs to support those he adores, his lovely wife and four gorgeous kids. But he still finds time to make me laugh at family gatherings, to share a story now and then, or to stick his head under the hood of my car when it's misbehaving. All that doll playing paid off and he's one of the finest fathers I've ever seen. He loves his daughter and three sons like there is no tomorrow. He loves them and his wife with words, with time, with money, and with all his heart and everything he is. And they (and I) return that love.
Thank God for my Be-be Bo-be!

Photo: "Little Johnny"