HOME SWEET HOME: THE TRAILER

Photo: Skitch in the dirt yard at The Trailer
Playing with the bullet necklace

THEN:


When I was five we moved to "The Trailer" and resided there until I was eight. One of the first trips over to our new home, I ran inside excitedly because I'd heard Mom and Dad say that Lila was going to be there. She had just married Johnny and moved out of our Green House, only gone from me a few days and I missed her to my bones. I searched The Trailer frantically and found both her and Johnny in the small room that would soon be my bedroom. I ran out in embarrassment and told my parents, "Lili and Johnny are in bed!" When no one raised an eyebrow at that I added, "Together!" That got a reaction but not the one I expected. They roared with laughter. I didn't understand that Johnny and Lila were allowed to sleep in the same bed now that they were married. They had honeymooned in our brand new modern trailer with running water and new furniture, but as we moved in they were moving out. They moved into a small, rustic cabin in the woods to set up housekeeping as husband and wife. I missed her more than even a bookish wordsmith can properly express. Suddenly, there was a whole in my heart. My life was never as magical when she was not around.

The Trailer had an indoor bathroom but the plumbing hadn't been hooked up quite to par. Either the septic tank had been built much smaller than regulation or Dad was piping the sewage into the creek out back. I suspect the tank problem, because I was never told to avoid playing in the creek or told to stay upstream of a certain point, and Dad would have warned me about it if the septic was letting out into the brook, which in those days and in our mountains was not an unheard of practice at all. Dad told us to try to make all number two visits to the outhouse he and Crit had built outside. Discussion with mother followed and it was generally agreed upon that special exceptions would be made for sickness and for me if it were in the nighttime or if I was in a hurry. Being the baby of the family meant I was afforded many passes the others were not, including the "I gotta poop NOW!" pass. 

Probably the coolest thing about the new digs was a boy named Randall that lived next door. He was two years younger than me. He had blond hair and blue eyes. Many people said he looked like my brother. I didn't care that he was blond and cute; I liked that he wanted to play the same rowdy games I did, like Cowboys and Indians. The only playmate I'd had very often up to that point was my cousin Becky who was opposed to playing pretty much anything except "house" and "baby dolls". I liked that Ran allowed me to make most of the decisions in our play. (It had proven impossible to bully Becky into playing the games I was interested in. That kid had a one track mind! babies. Babies. BABIES!! ) I also liked the fact that Ran had a toy barn. I had lots of plastic animals and they were my favorite toys. Usually I pulled out my mother's sewing machine drawers and carefully emptied them of the spools of thread and packages of needles. I then turned the drawers on their side and pretended they were barns for the farm animals, houses for the cats and dogs, and trains to move the circus and zoo animals to and from new and exciting towns. But when I was allowed to go play with Ran, I would drop all my animals in a bag and cross the tobacco field to play with them in and around Ran's big, red, plastic barn. Mom's sewing machine got a rest. I had the animals; he had the barn. It was a match made in Heaven!

Photo: Skitch, 
playing with the sewing machine drawers and plastic animals.

My cousin Ramona, who was Becky's sister, was two year younger than me but became a favorite playmate during The Trailer years. Unlike her sister, she was not opposed to playing a good rowdy game now and then and she and I started what would become a very special life-long friendship. I still spent a lot of time over at Randall's house, since Ramona didn't visit very often. When he and I weren't playing with his barn we were digging in his coal pile, riding his mother's Volkswagen Beetle up and down their gravel drive way like a carnival ride, or playing in the creek that ran along behind both our houses. The bottom in certain spots was covered in flat rock and a slick green algae grew over it. We would scrub it off with our feet while making our way to the other side of the creek. That way we not only made it across the creek without busting our butts, but we created a slip-free path to come back on. One day I followed him into his father's garage, and was amazed to find photos of women with no shirts on hanging out in plain sight. I was even more amazed by the fact that his mother would sunbath topless and Ran didn't think it was the least bit odd. He was a boy! She was a girl! Didn't they know they were supposed to wear clothing around each other?! I'd rarely seen a ladies "boobies" and was only vaguely aware that I would have my own someday. Still, I tried not to stare. Some sixth sense told me that was impolite. Randall once found a photo of a naked woman sitting on a naked man's lap and showed it to me. We hid in the tress and bushes around the creek, took off all our clothes, and tried it for ourselves. It didn't seem very fascinating to either of us and we wondered at the ridiculousness of "grown ups". He and I played "doctor" a few times and watched each other pee, but it was all very innocent and did not hold our attention nearly as long as riding my big wheel or picking the Tiger Lilies around the creek to surprise our mothers. Once, he and I found a mining cart buried in the coal pile by his house and it brought all the adults over with great interest. "Why did the previous owners of the house bury a mining car in the coal pile, anyway?" The adults all asked each other this or similar questions, scratched and shook their heads, but no one had an answer. 

Photo: Cowgirl Skitch 
(Dig them wild pink and yellow pants!)

The only spanking I ever got from my mother happened when Ran and I decided to play in the creek even though we'd been told not to. I'd been sick recently and it was getting late in the warm season. Mornings and evenings were cool but mid-day was still miserably hot. My sickness had been allergies, according to the doctor, and even I knew staying out of the creek would not help you avoid allergies. Mother told me to stay out of the water, but Randall and I were so uncomfortably hot and we were sure it wouldn't hurt us to wade the creek, just a little. I held up my skirt that had belonged to my mother's mother, a gift I treasured, and he and I stepped right out into the creek. At one point, I clumsily dropped the skirt and, after a slight panic, decided it would have time to dry before I went inside, surely? Right? Mother would never know I'd been in the creek. We went back to having fun, but then Crit saw us and shook his finger at me, "I'm telling on you, little girl!" And he marched off to do just that. Ran and I hid in the trees above the creek, but when my mother came out yelling lividly at the top of her lungs I caved and he, who always followed my lead, came out with me. Mother stripped grandmother's skirt off me and wore me out with a switch until blood ran down both my legs. My first, my only, my crazy beating! When she let go I ran for The Trailer thinking Mom had gone nuts and Daddy would save me. When I made it to him I was unpleasantly surprised. Dad had recently had a motorcycle accident with his friend Billy and the back half of one heel had nearly been sliced off. He was on crutches, and he took one of those crutches and attempted to "guide" me into the corner for additional punishment. What with my frantic movements, this amounted to basically cracking me in the head with the crutch and left me cowering in the corner, assuming that both of my parents had gone stark raving mad. Many, many years later, my mother admitted to being stressed out about other situations in her life that day, and she apologized for whipping me at all, let alone so hard. I was in my forties by then. I accepted the apology and told her that I love her more than life. And I do! 

When it was too rainy or too cold for Ran and me to play together, I spent a lot of time listening to records. Hits from the 50s, Donna Fargo, Dolly Parton, Roger Miller, Ray Stevens, and Lynn Anderson were a few of the records my mother owned that I pulled out and listened to, probably more often than she did. I would listen to them and sing and dance along. Sometimes I played alone with my farm animals and the sewing machine drawers, or with paper dolls, or Barbies, which seemed more interesting to me than most baby dolls. After all, how much trouble can a baby doll get into anyway? They get hungry, they mess their pants, they scream bloody murder, someone fixes it. The end! But a grown woman with a car, and a boyfriend, and a closet full of shoes? Now that's trouble! And Saturday mornings you would find me hovering over a big bowl of Cocoa Pebbles enthralled by Scooby Doo, Bugs Bunny, or the Pink Panther. 

One of the life changing events that happened at The Trailer was the birth of my future best friend/near daughter/almost sister/one of the major loves of my life, Tanya. I was seven when she was born and under the crazy assumption that if she'd only shown up a boy then I could be an uncle. I was very disappointed to be given the title of "aunt" but when they placed that bundle in my arms, when I held the soft warm squiggle that was her, all was forgiven. She was breathtakingly beautiful! And so much more fun than any of mine or Becky's dolls, even my favorties Cuddly and Drowsy, even my Barbies! She had dark hair and vivid blue eyes that jumped right out of her wrinkled little face and into my heart. She would make contented noises that had all the good in the world wrapped up inside them, and when she cried I wanted action! Do something! Fix everything! This baby should not be sad! I didn't know how to help her but I did know how to demand that someone figure it out and figure it out now! 

The other life changing event was school - first grade. I had been warned repeatedly that I HAD to go. Mother told me, "If I had my way you'd never leave me, but if I don't send you to school "they" will come and take you away from me, and put you in a home with another family and they will send you to school anyway, so you just have to go." Despite the trepidation you can imagine that attitude evoked, first grade was a blast! When I started school I was six but looked four. I could not, despite my tom-boyishness and my time on horseback, open the heavy front doors to the school. My oldest sister Sandi, was a senior in high school and she was on the bus when I got off of it each morning. She had to ride on to the high school, and she worried that I'd be stuck outside some cold morning, completely unable to enter the school. So, she would enlist some kindly maternal 7th grade girl to go with me off the bus and make sure I got inside the schoolhouse. Other than that, the only hiccup I had was on my first day when I went to the bathroom and came out to find the classroom empty. Mother had given me dire warnings about how easily one can "miss the bus" and how important it was that I "catch the bus", two phrases I had never heard before. For all I knew, I would have to stay entirely alone in the empty schoolhouse overnight if I missed my bus. I panicked and grabbed my treasured book bag and stuffed my papers inside. I ran outside expecting to see the bus pulling away, but all I found was the teacher and the children enjoying recess. The teacher and the aide chuckled at me and I tried to not be annoyed. I found it frustrating though, that people would refrain from telling you things and then they would laugh at you when you guessed wrongly about what was going on! I found that all pretty unfair, but I just focused on the relief that I had not missed my bus, on the words the teacher gave me promising she would make sure I caught it at the end of each day, on the sunshine in her hair, on the laughter of the children all around us. Soon I was playing and laughing too and all was well. In first grade, we were not required to nap, and I had a teacher that I soon discovered was very sweet, despite laughing at me. She only "spanked" me once and that was on the last day of school and was just a ruler smacking my leather-tough hands (no oil glands or sweat glands in my hands had created some rough and tough surfaces.) The only thing that hurt that day was the fact that she intended to hurt me. My little feelings were hurt, my tiny heart was broken, but first grade was over and I was on to summer vacation before second grade. (When I would find out what true heartbreak was! My second grade teacher hated me, but that's a story of it's own.) In first grade, I had loved the smell of our little room. Markers, crayons, paint, glue, and paper all swirled together and created a scent you only find in classrooms. I loved the fun of coloring, the joy of learning, the bright colors on the abacuses. I learned numbers other than 1-10, and the letters that weren't in my name! I learned to READ! What a miracle! What a joy! Suddenly, Frog and Toad, and Harold with the Purple Crayon, and Curious George, and Madeline, and Amelia Bedila, and Billy and Blaze were my new best friends! Suddenly, I realized that a thousand exciting worlds had opened up just for me! I decided the only thing greater than reading would be if I had been the magician that put those words in the book in the first place! That became my secret desire. I told no one. Several months before I'd said I wanted to grow up to be a jockey and I was laughed at. My mother adding that I was not only likely to be too fat, but that I was a girl on top of that, and girls were not allowed to be race horse jockeys. I didn't want anyone laughing at my dream of writing (or as I thought of it then "book making") or telling me why it could not be, so I kept that one all to myself. It became my sweet, secret craving.

  I continued riding horses, jockey dreams or no. Ran loved them too, and he and I spent many a happy hour on horseback. My family still had our red horse Flame, and Gideon, and Goliath. One of Daddy's mares (Polly, I think?) had a colt that he named Penny. Penny thought that she was a dog. At least, that's what I surmised when she took to greeting Pop by jumping up on him until he caught her two front hooves to keep her from injuring him. Usually, he then held her two front hooves in one hand and petted her head with the other. I came home from school one day to learn that I'd missed a visit from some of my Pike County cousins, mother's sisters and some of her nieces had visited. I was disappointed to have missed them, but when Daddy said the cousins had decided they wanted to ride Gideon and Goliath that angered me. I wanted to of approve anyone that rode my horses! And even after they were approved, I didn't like anyone riding them unless I was around to make sure my dear horse friends were not mistreated. I didn't realize this school business was going to leave my horses unprotected! Maybe mother was right and it was a horrible idea after all! Dad said I didn't need to worry about Gideon and Goliath. He wouldn't let anyone hurt them, but besides that, they could take care of themselves very well anyway. "As a matter of fact," Dad said, "Goliath decided he didn't want them to ride him at all. He refused to move an inch when they clicked and kicked him with their heels. He shook one of them off his back and he sat down and let the other slide right off." This story amused me greatly after Pop convinced me that they hadn't kicked Goliath or Gideon very hard when urging them to move. Daddy said Gideon let them ride but he went too fast for them and scared them, and my cousins didn't duck at the clothes line, like Ran and I always did. Those cousins were swiped off Gideon's back and landed in the yard flat of their rumps. Daddy said they hadn't grown up around horses like I had, the "poor little city slickers." The cousins were unhurt, but they never seemed interested in riding my crazy horses again after that day.

Photo: Pop with Penny the dog-horse

Other than the horses, I had two black cats that Lila named Midnight and Tar Baby, I had two hounds I named Rock and Buck (because when I tried to ride them like horses, Rock sat there like a stone and would not move, and Buck sat down and caused me to slide off.) I had another dog name Wooley, and several other cats, including a gray one that got set on fire by the pilot light in the gas stove and went out the door in a stream of smoke and wails once someone figured out where all that meowing was coming from and opened the door under the oven. 

Daddy, was horribly ill and had been all of my life. He had an ulcer right over the pyloric sphincter at the exit of the stomach. This caused him huge pain (though he rarely spoke of it you could see it in the grimace of his face) and made him vomit as many times a day as he ate, which was sometimes zero times and sometimes as much as three. He tried to keep the food down as long as possible, knowing he needed to get all the nutritional value from it that he could (as you can imagine he was painfully thin) but sooner or later he was so sick it had to come back up. All my growing up years, until he had surgery to fix this when I was twelve, Dad had a spot on our farm that he would go to to empty his stomach. The rest of us avoided that spot as much as possible. When he wasn't too sick, he busied himself with work in the tobacco fields, the family garden, and with a saw mill, trying to make just a little extra money for the household, or to provide some vegetables for the table. As always I was his near constant companion when I was not at school, and after stepping on several nails, I finally learned to put my feet right where his feet had just been, when following him through any area that had boards or planks lying around. One time a nail came through the top of my foot and another time I was wearing Dad's big work boots and the nail successfully stopped me in my tracks. I couldn't lift my foot back up; I was literally nailed to the board below me. I had to call for Pop and backtracked to me, picked me up off the board, and carried back home to Mother who washed the wound and dressed it. The pain was a deep ache that did not go away for two or three days, but I was nearly as worried about Daddy's boots as I was the pain to follow. I had just rendered them longer water proof and they were expensive boots. I stepped on approximately six nails while living at The Trailer and one nail in the place we moved to next. But that last time I was running, and not following Daddy, and I didn't even see the board, let alone the nail. 

I caught chicken pox when I was in the first grade, but the doctor we went to at the time told mother it was simply impetigo. Turns out I likely had both, because I was in a pretty sorry shape and several years later (at the ripe old age of 14) I had shingles, which they say you cannot get unless you've already had chicken pox. The pox left me with a few small scars and one rather obvious one on the left side of my nose, very near my eye. I missed a lot of school and they sent the guidance counselor, Mr. Neal, out to ask after me. When he stopped talking with my mother and inquired of me how I was, I told him they'd given me pills I could barely swallow but he'd probably do just fine with them because he had a big mouth. 

     Another day (I believe in second or third grade) I was walking down a super crowded hallway in school during the Halloween season. The popular girls were selling popcorn balls, and candy apples, and brownies in an attempt to make enough money to be crowned Halloween Queen. In those days you bought the Halloween crown! I was squished up against Mr. Neal in the crowd and somehow, we managed to get his pants zipper caught in my hair. It took him and the school nurse a good fifteen minutes to get me loose. I hadn't been embarrassed by the crack about his big mouth, but I was red with mortification and wanted to fall through the floor by the time they got my hair unhooked from Mr. Neal's groin!

All in all, my time at The Trailer was a magical and wondrous time, a time filled with pain and pleasure, a time sprinkled with lessons, and love, and laughter, and life. 

SAID THE LEAF IN EARLY AUTUMN (poem)

Photo: "Frosty Leaf"By Skitch

Said the Leaf in Early Autumn

When my lush, green life is a thing of the past

And I slip from my precarious perch-- at last!

I'll go to.

I'll go fro.

I'll go up.

I'll go down.

When the wind passes by, I will dance on the ground.

My flight will be joyful, for all to see,

Like the lift of a butterfly

Or the swoop of a bee.

I will herald the winter

And scenes frosty-blue.

I will show you the colour,

Of an autumn that's true.

I will dance as no other has danced in the wind.

And my passion and colour to the fall I will lend.

And then...

When my short but superior frolic is done,

I will lie in the oft times hot autumn sun,

And think for months on my moments of fun.

Then under a blanket of icy white,

I will sleep as it were just the passing of night.

And in the springtime a bird will included me, I pray,

In a home for his nestlings made of leaves and soft clay.

But if not I will change,

And become one with the Earth.

Now would that not be a most glorious rebirth?!

MASTER PLAN (poem)

Photo: "God's Favorite Colors"
By Skitch

Master Plan

Like the moon

Behind the clouds

And the wind

Through the trees

You are part of

Something larger

Than this Earth

And all it's seas

In the silence

In the chaos

In the peace

Inside the storm

You can hear

The clearest whisper

"Yes, my child;

You're safe from harm."

Like the soft hand

Of your mother

Like your father's

Watchful eye

You can feel

Sweet forever

On the wings

Of a sigh

Like the sparrow

Like the lily

Like the lion

And the lamb

You are part of

The Master

And The Master's

Living plan

HOME SWEET HOME: THE GREEN HOUSE

Photo: Skitch on Israel
Taken By Daddy

THEN:    

     We lived in The Green house when I was four and five. Just as The White House wasn't in D.C. The Green House wasn't a conservatory full of growing plants. It was an odd little house, painted green, with rooms that didn't connect quite the way you would expect. You had to go outside and walk across the porch to get to the door to my sisters' bedroom; even at four I knew that was unusual.

     We must not have lived there very long because, although I was older, I have more memories from The White House.  

     I do remember that I started kindergarten while living there. I went three days and became a kindergarten drop out. The first day, I had a blast! I met a boy that I thought was really handsome and funny. His name was Robert, and I developed a fascination with him. Many years later, he would marry my niece Tanya, but at that time she wasn't even born yet. On the second day, the teacher slapped me on the leg. I had never been forced to take a nap in my life, and in this place, with all these kids, the last thing I wanted to do was sleep! I kept getting up to ask her if the nap could be over now and without saying she would spank me, she spanked me. I would have been on better behavior if I'd known that a spanking was even possible, but to me it came out of nowhere! I had never had a spanking that I could remember. Though I now know that Pop had actually spanked me when I was less than a year old. Mom says he panicked when I held my breath. He ran from one end of the house to another with me, begging me to breathe and shaking me. He truly thought he might have killed me. She says the moment the words, "Breathe baby and I swear I'll never spank you again!" came out of his mouth I took a deep breath and began to cry. Dad was rough on me one more time in my childhood, but he kept that word. He never spanked me. The day the teacher did, I came home so upset and told my parents that I never wanted to go to school again. 

     Pop said, "When we fall off the horse, Possumfrog, what do we do?" 

     I said, in a wee, reluctant voice, "We get right back on."

     He nodded, "But I tell you what - You go tomorrow, you get right back on that horse and give it one more try, and if you still want to quit after that then you can quit, but just until next year. Next year rolls around, and you have to go to first grade - like it or not. Understand?" I said I did, and I went one more day, just because Daddy said to, and then I became a kindergarten drop out. I didn't trust the teacher. I was just waiting for her to do some other unexpected and horrible thing!

     We had loads of good horses while we lived at The Green House. Flame, of course, was practically a member of the family. We had brought her with us from The White House and fine old red dame would spend my entire childhood with me and still be living at my parents home when I came back with children of my own. Gideon and Goliath, I believe, were bought while we lived at The Green House. At least, I remember looking out the window at them while Lila told me the names she had chosen for them, and I believe she would have named them right away. Still, I've often used their names when telling or writing the "Switching Plow Horses" story, which happened at The White House. Mostly that is because I can't remember the names of the plow horses Dad was using that day, and partly that's because (for a while) I actually thought it was those two horses. So, I fell into the habit and stuck with them. I'm certain they would not mind. I had a small horse named Israel that was my very own and I rode him most of all at that house. Gideon and Goliath were mine and Lila's horses, but I no longer remember which was mine and which was hers. They were like an old married couple that start to combine in your head after a bit. Gideon was taller and thinner. He had a bad eye and Goliath, the stouter and friendlier of the two, would tug on the ropes and reins if Gideon was near an embankment or a hill. He knew Gideon could not judge well on that side and Goliath would warn him with stern yanks on the harness when they were plowing together. If my blind pony had only had a friend like Goliath that pony would not have fallen over a hill and broke his neck and my dad would have never made up the lie about it "running away with the wild horses."

     While at The Green House I had some trouble with blood. I had nosebleed after nosebleed until my parents became concerned that I would literally bleed to death. I woke up with my pillow bloody. I had them when I sneezed, when I coughed, when I got bumped a little in the face. And I didn't have "normal" nosebleeds. I would have real gushers that went on and on. I can remember standing in the front seat of the car with mom while Daddy and some other men shot a bullet into a tree trunk, chopped down the tree, and removed the flattened bullet. Dad then took it home, poked a hole in it, added a string and tied it around my neck. I had my first necklace, a folklore-blood-stopping- bullet-necklace. I wish I still had it, and I must admit that I didn't have another nose bleed in all the years that it hung from my neck. 

     The other incident with blood was more deliberate, and much more mysterious. I'm not sure why I felt so much tension and fear as a child, but I know I did. I don't remember anyone ever being mean to me over my helplessness, but I remember being petrified by it. I was so relieved when I could finally reach the sink (by standing on a chair) and get my own drink of water. I remember wanting to never be a bother to mother or dad. And I remember cutting my fingers open and watching the blood ooze out and then slide down my fingers and pool in the palm of my hand. I would steal my father's razor blades, hide under mom's sewing machine or the kitchen buffet, and slice all ten of my fingers until they were bleeding. I don't remember ever being caught at this, but I do remember a strange and deep satisfaction at seeing the blood. I didn't understand it then or now, but it made some wrong thing right in my world. 

     At The Green House two of my favorite things to do were exercises with Mommy and television with Daddy. Every morning Mother and I would stretch, and do leg lifts, and sit ups, etc. I was fascinated by how beautiful she was, how smooth her skin was. In the evenings, Dad and I would watch something good on T.V. Our main go to programing was Tarzan and Daniel Boone. Those were our favorites and we rarely missed them. But some evenings we "made do" with Green Acres, Gun Smoke, Hercules, Sindbad the Sailor, or Petticoat Junction. During the day, I often watched one or two of the kids learning shows by myself. I loved Captain Kangaroo, Mr. Rogers, Electric Company, and Sesame Street. One day, on Romper Room Miss Ann said "I see Dee Dee," while looking through her magic mirror. I ran through the house and excitedly told Mom and Dad! She had looked right into our home and seen me! I was sure of it!

     My sisters continued to be strong forces in my life, especially Lila. Sandi was distracted with high school and upward bound, rightfully so, but Lila remained my firm caretaker. She continued to date the man she would marry and have children with, but much of her time was still devoted to me. She told me stories and read poems to me. She wrote poems for me. She drew dozens of pictures of Snoopy, simply because I was fascinated with how well she could draw. She cooked half done fried potatoes for me in the evenings if I was hungry, and she taught me to put cucumbers on my face to fight off the acne I would not have for years. She and her friend Cathy brought me handfulls of the funny oval burrs that stuck to their clothing when they went walking through the woods and, in honor of our visitor, I named the burrs "Cathies" and wore them on my shirt like jeweled broaches. I would later teach all Lila's children to wear these silly ornaments and to call them "Cathies". Lila found a small ashtray that looked like a fish. I was fascinated with the colors on it, especially a very pretty shade of green, already it was my favorite color. She said I could have it and I thought it was a great and grand treasure. I carried it around for ages like a toy.

    In a small room or walk in closet we found a huge collection of Reader's Digests. I became fascinated with the artwork on the back page and I would drag out book after book and stare at the art. Eventually asking someone to read to me. Lila and Sandi were best at this and would read practically anything to me. They seemed to know that what I could understand was icing and what I gleaned from their calm and beautiful voices was the cake itself, the best cake ever! My days at The Green House never left my mind's eye and neither did the special people I shared that home with.

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?