Here is another "true" story

 My mother had lots of phobias and her biggest one was fear of bridges.  As a young girl I thought all mothers cowered in the floorboards while fathers drove over bridges.  This problem never bothered me, but the year I was twelve this particular problem enabled  me to help my mother find a perfect solution.

     "Why don’t you go with me to see your Aunt Rade?" mother asked.

     "Sure, can I wear my blue suede shoes?" I begged.

     "I don’t see why not," Mother sighed.  "Just keep out of that awful Oklahoma red dirt, I would hate to see you ruin your new shoes."

     Our neighbor drove our car up to Hugo where we dropped her off to visit her folks.  She is to drive us back to East Texas Sunday evening.  This way Mother avoids driving over that long narrow, Red River bridge.

     Mother drove away from Hugo right smack into the bowels of South Oklahoma.  All the roads were dirt and wide enough for only one car.

     I couldn’t wait to get to Aunt Rade’s and show off my blue suede shoes to all my cousins.  I knew thay were all envious of me, me being a Texas city girl and all.

     After rounding a sharp curve, Mother put on the brakes and came to an abrupt stop.  

     "Oh no," she gasped, "now what will we do?"

     Before us was one of the worst bridges I had ever seen.  It was nothing but two boards, no bigger than our tires, stretched across a big ditch. Mother got out and we both walked over to the "ditch".  She looked down it’s bright red, dirt banks and shuddered.

     "I can’t do it," she moaned.

     She slowly turned around and walked, with her head bowed, almost on her chest.  Then she stopped, straightened up, looked me right in the eye.

     "Have you ever wanted to drive a car?"  Mother asked, putting her hands on her hips.

     I thought about it and decided it couldn’t be too hard to drive and I sure wasn’t afraid of some little old bridge.  Mother turned the car around and drove about two miles back down the road.  She stopped, turned the car back around, and had me get in the driver’s seat.  She scrunched down beside me and shifted through the gears while I pushed in on the clutch.  We stopped and started four or five times, or at least until the car quit bucking during gear shifts.

     With the radio blaring out rock and roll, I crept along about five miles an hours (in second gear), and thought this was a cinch.  This couldn’t be better, me listening to the radio, wearing my blue suede shoes and having my elbow resting on the open widow, just the way my dad drives.  Suddenly, we rounded the curve and there was that "old Oklahoma bad-boy bridge" looming down the road and that’s when my mother hit the floorboards.  I looked at her, looked at the bridge, looked at the steering wheel, looked at the speedometer and thought I was going to die.

     "How do you stop this thing?" I screamed.

     "Put your foot on the brake," screeched Mother.

     I rammed my right foot on the clutch thinking it was the brake and all the car did was buck and sway, buck and sway.  Not thinking clearly, I opened the door and stuck my left foot out to get the bucking bronco stopped so we wouldn’t hit the bridge, or worse, miss the bridge.  My foot hit the dirt and off flew my blue suede shoe.  "No! No!" I hollered at the top of my lungs.  All at once the door swung open with me attached.  I put my arms through the opened window and held on for dear life losing my other blue suede shoe.

     In the meantime my mother, never having to get up from the floorboards, grabbed the steering wheel with her left hand giving it a jerk to the right.  Using her right hand to apply the brakes, we miraculously glided to a top.  When we got out of the car we discovered the tires were kissing the bridge boards, perfectly.

     We searched for my beloved blue suede shoes but the woods were impervious to us and we had to forge ahead and get to Aunt Rades’ house.  Once again, Mother put me back in the driver seat.  I steered while she literally pushed us across the bridge.  She could walk over a bridge, she just can’t ride or drive over a bridge.  Lucky us.

     I hated not being able to show off my blue suede shoes like I wanted.  My cousins didn’t think anything about me being barefoot, but I was crushed to lose my shoes.

     After our retrun home, Mother took me out in the country and slowly taught me to drive our old ’49 Hudson.  From then on going to see her relatives in South Oklahoma was a treat for her and for me because I could do all the driving on those bright red dirt roads.

     As strange as it might seem, my mother altered my life that day because I later became the only fifteen-year-old that could drive a stick shift in my high school, and I was a "girl". If it had not been for Mother’s phobia I would not have been the Queen of Drivers Ed. and every kid needs to be good at something.

 Here is another "true" story

     The year was 1948; the place was Fairhope, Alabama.  My father had just been transferred to Fairhope, from Hawkins, Texas.  We had only been living in Alabama a couple of months when the giant reared it’s ugly head.

     "Momma, why don’t you fix grits like Johnny’s momma?" asked my brother.

     "I’ve never eaten a grit much less cooked one in my life," replied my mother, "but I’ll see what I can come up with."

     In 1948 some staples like rice, oatmeal, cream of wheat and grits were sold without directions.  So grits came in a grits box and that’s all I can say on the subject.

     The day after my mother bought the box of grits I came downstairs very early so I could watch her cook the grits.  "Are you sure you know how to cook these things?" my father asked my mother, as he walked out the door to go to work.

     "I suppose it’s like cooking rice, nothing to it!" stated my mother.

     She put some water in a pot to boil and added some grits.  Whoa, way too thick, she added more water.  Way too thin, she added more grits.  She then grabbed her big soup pot and poured in the blob of grits, and the stuff kept on growing.  She brought out her canner pot and used that.  Soon the grits out grew the canner pot, so mother whipped out the turkey roaster.  Some situation, too thin, add grits, Too thick, add water.  She frantically looked around the kitchen and came up with a #2 enamel washtub.  Thankfully, by this time she had run out of grits, but the grits kept growing.

     She stood back from the growing mess, flung her potholders in the sink, threw up her hands and shouted, "It’s alive, It’s alive!"  She then turned around and ran outside and left me alone with the giant.  It must have been alive because it made noises like "plup, plup, plup."

     After a few minutes mother returned, picked up the potholders and grabbed the #2 enamel washtub by the handles and out the backdoor she went, with me right behind her.

     In the middle of the backyard I saw she had dug a deep hole and this was where she tossed the #2 enamal washtub, grits and potholders.  She shoveled all the dirt back into the hole and then patted the mound with the back of the shovel.  We both stood there real quiet hoping we wouldn’t hear those "plup, plup, plups".

     My mother and I made a pact that morning.  I would always get Kool-Aid with my lunch if I wouldn’t tell my dad about mother killing the giant and burying it in the back yard.  I learned a valuable lesson that day.  I learned rice and grits aren’t anything alike.

Tuesday was Ironing Day

     Monday you washed all day, Tuesday you ironed all day.  This went on all my mother’s life, and for a brief time, mine.

     When I married back in the very early 1960’s the above routine was followed.  I had two babies very early, time and opportunity to follow the "Wash and Iron" routine didn’t work out.

     Looking back on those early days it seemed I had time to sprinkle but never any time to iron.  By the time I would get around to ironing I would find a pillow case full of mildewed clothes.  I began putting the full pillow cases in the frig.  Right between the gallon jug of iced tea and the Jello.  This helped, but after a week or two the clothes would dry out.

     One very hectic Tuesday, I had two, long sleeved, white shirts and a pair of pants that were well sprinkled, ready to iron.  I had to put everything away as it was time to start dinner and the kids were driving me crazy.  I had an inspiration hit me like a ton of bricks.  "Why not put these three little pieces in the freezer, and get them back out when things settle down," I said to myself.

     Our frig was an old model and the freezer compartment was the size of a carton of cigarettes.  I took out the two ice trays and a pound of hamburger meat and jammed the ironing in the middle of a huge mass of freezer ice.

     As you know, time can get away, especially when things are out of sight.  Later on in the month my mother-in-law came to visit and as she opened the freezer compartment to get herself some ice, out rolled one of the pant legs, all wrinkled and distored.  She screamed, I screamed, the kids screamed.  I reached in and grabbed the ironing which had frozen onto the freezer ice causing the ironing to become one with the freezer compartment.  I jerked, which caused one of the wadded up shirts, about the size and weight of a hardball, to fly out and hit my mother-in-law in the face.  She collapsed against my new chrome/naugahyde kitchenette set and broke off one of the legs.  She then staggered back and fell over our cocker Spaniel, Ralph.  Ralph, screeching like a banshee, collided with my ironing board.  This knocked over the ironing board causing my new Sunbeam Deluxe Steam iron to hit point first in my new green and orange flowered linoleum embedding itself about two inches deep.

     In the middle of this chaos a magazine subscription salesman was ringing the front door bell, and a Kirby vacuum cleaner salesman was knocking at the back door.  That’s when I gathered my kids in my arms, sat down on my ruined linoleum and swore I would never iron again as long as I lived.

     So when "Drip Dry" made it’s appearance I was thrilled.  When "Double Knit" made it’s appearance I was ecstatic.  That’s when I threw my ruined Sunbeam Deluxe Steam iron and bent ironing board in the trash and I became a "Double Knit" gal.

     It’s only been a couple of years since I threw away my last double knit, long pointed collar, blouse.  That’s when I discovered the world had returned to that dreaded "cotton".

     If you see a fluffy little old lady with wrinkled clothes, walking down the street, be sure and give me a wave.  I need all the support I can get. 

      Please, please bring back "Double Knit".  I know the stuff was hot, but we all looked neatly ironed and incredibly stylish.

This is another submission to my Creative Writing class.  Some of my story is true, but there is a thing known as "poetic license".  In other words I’ve told a couple of big whoppers and a few little fibs.

THE RECEIPT 

     While going through my aunt’s genealogy papers about my great-grandfather, a small slip of yellowed paper fell to the floor. The paper was stained and very brittle. The edges slightly charred and the writing was with pen and ink. The elegance of the handwriting was stunning and it looked to be quite old. The ink was still legible and the heading read “The Receipt”. Looking over the paper my husband and I determined that the receipt was a recipe and the recipe was for hard cider.

Here is the recipe: 3 galons cider

                     15 tcups sugar

                    Melt in walnut size

                     Yeast

                     Pore in 5 big jugs

                     Tie dride lam gut

                      to jug holes.

                      Cure 7 days

                      Keep eye on bigness of gut

                      Keep under bed.

      My husband, Charlie, and I were intrigued. We talked about “The Receipt” for days.

     “What do you remember about your great-grandfather?” asked Charlie.

     “When my great-grandfather, Isaac and his sons made the “Run” into Oklahoma Territory for free land, it was a family story that his wagon was filled with hard cider, but it’s hard to believe that a staunch Methodist would be so brash. So the story about the wagon full of booze was always discounted,” I explained.

     “You know, we might be able to get our own batch of hard cider going,” Charlie boasted.

     “I don’t know about the instructions,” I replied, “and we might not be able to get some of the ingredients and gear, but I guess it’s worth a try.”

     Charlie reached over and picked up the receipt and said, “let’s give it a go, it ought to be fun."

     We found three old coke syrup jugs we could use. We figured that one teacup of sugar would be about ¾ of a cup. The walnut size yeast must be the measurement for a hunk of yeast, we guessed that three packages of dry yeast would just about do it. We had plenty of apple juice. The only thing left was the dried lamb gut.

     “Well,” said Charlie. “when I was a boy I overheard an old guy talking about a lambskin sheath. Maybe something like that could be used.”

     “What’s a lambskin sheath,” I queried.

     “Oh, it’s an old type of prophylactic.” quipped Charlie.

     Overcoming my shock, I gasped, “Do you mean a condom?”

     “I suppose so, but I think balloons would work just as well,” snickered Charlie.

     I rooted round in the junk drawer and came up with a package of three huge Halloween balloons.

     “I wish these weren’t orange with jack-o-lantern faces,” moaned Charlie.

     “Yeah, but these are on hand and who wants to go to Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon?” I countered

     Sunday morning we put our efforts into making “The Receipt”. We prepared and filled our jugs, slipped the balloons on the spouts, and put them in the utility room and shut the door.

     “Just think in seven days we’ll have hard cider and I can hardly wait,” I said, wiping my hands.

     On day one we peeked in and found things going as planned. The balloons were a little puffy, but we figured this was normal, since we weren’t using dried lamb gut. The second day was pretty much like the first, except the balloons were a little more full.

     “It’s a good thing we have the big balloons because we’re going to need the extra expansion,” Charlie stated.

     On day three I opened the door and found the balloons much larger and the smell of the fermenting apple juice a little unpleasant.

     “Oh well,” I thought to myself. “This is only a trial run just to see if we can do it. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

     On day four I heard Charlie scream from the utility room. When I got there I almost fainted. The balloons were fully inflated and the jack-o-lantern faces were stretched into grotesque sneers. We shut the door.

     “What in the hell are we going to do?” I asked wringing my hands.

     “Aw, let’s keep going, the balloons aren’t that full,” Charlie said, scratching his head.

     Day five, we skipped entirely. Why get ourselves in an uproar over a few ugly  balloons? The only problem was the odor. A guy can use just so much yucky air spray.

     Day six found us easing open the utility room door, but something had it blocked. I reached my hand in and turned on the light, but everything was bright orange. I couldn’t see what was blocking the door. The odor was gagging us and the desire to hurl was overpowering. I started heaving; I saw Charlie going through the knife drawer while I was on my way through the kitchen to the bathroom.

     A few minutes later, while wiping my face with a wash cloth, I said to Charlie, “What did you do?”

     “Nothing yet. I couldn’t get the knife in far enough to pop the balloons. We’ll try later on as soon as my stomach settles down and, if we can get in, I’ll get my shotgun. If I can get the barrel in far enough, maybe a little birdshot will do the trick!”

     I didn’t have to worry about the birdshot ruining my utility room, because within a few minutes we heard three loud explosions all coming from the utility room. The balloons exploded forcing the utility room ceiling into the attic.

     Days later and things are finally back to normal around the house. We studied our rendition of the ingredients for “The Receipt” and figured we probably used too much sugar and too much yeast for the size of our balloons. In addition, the utility room was too warm and that speeded up the fermentation. When I put “The Receipt” back in Isaac’s papers it dawned on me what happened the day Isaac made the “Run” into Oklahoma.

     Everyone in my family have always griped about the land Isaac ended up with. Now I know his wagon must have exploded right there on top of 640 of the driest acres in all of Oklahoma and he couldn’t go any further. That would explain the charred edges on “The Receipt”.

     Another "true" story I wrote for my writing class.

MY SHAMEFUL SECRET

     "Oh Lord, give me strength and dignity," I prayed over and over for five solid hours.  There I was on a dude ranch a few miles out of Fort Davis, Texas, on top of a Horse.

     "Why me?" I prayed.  "I’ve been relatively good, I haven’t done anything too bad, at least not that I know of."

     This all started with a desire to meet our friends and see the beautiful Texas State Park, Big Bend.  We spent a few days touring the park and had a wonderful time.  Then we traveled to Fort Davis and the dude ranch.  Time was spent at the McDonald Observatory and our trip was soon coming to a close.

     On our last day nothing would do but for us to go horseback riding at the famous dude ranch.  I was against this activity because I had never ridden a horse before.  How was I going to admit this awful truth in front of all my Texas friends?  Yet I knew in my heart that I couldn’t ride, but my pride was at stake.  Even my husband, born and raised in Mississippi could ride a horse, and there I was a native Texan with a shameful secret.

     I knew I was in trouble when dawn came to the dude ranch and I don’t do dawn.  Not at home, not at play.  The brightest orb rose up out of the East, (I think that’s where it rose), blinding me to the wranglers wrangling around the corrals.  First thing we had to do was eat breakfast.  The chuck wagon was parked over by the last corral, right next to the freshly made steaming pile of manure, from mucked out stalls.  There stood Cookie stirring something in a Dutch oven.  A few minues later Cookie served up his world famous Huevos Rancheros with his boot kicking Poncho Villa chipotle hot sauce.

     After breakfast everyone picked out a horse for the five hour trip up the mountainous trail which could be seen off in the distance.  I held back a little too long as the only horse left was a tall swaybacked nag that had seen better days. She was so tall I couldn’t get up on the saddle even if I knew how.  The wranglers took pity on me and did their best to put their full-paying, overweight guest up on her horse, even though the nag wasn’t having it.

     While one wrangler grabbed my left foot and heaved up, the other wrangler on my right side took my right foot and handed it off to the wrangler hanging off the corral.  Then the wrangler on my right pushed up on my rear-end setting me close to the saddle.  There I was suspended from three wranglers when the horse moved up about a foot.  Well, this would have to do, so the wranglers lowered me down and all three pushed me forward dragging the seat of my jeans up behind my body, twisting both pant legs in the process.  The stirrups were too long for my feet, but I didn’t want to say anything for fear of having to dismount and start all over again.  There I was sitting catawampus in the saddle, trying my best to look like I had done this all my life.  I couldn’t sit up straight if I wanted to.  My jeans wouldn’t let me.  I couldn’t raise up on the saddle to get my jeans straightened either because my feet couldn’t reach the stirrups to lift me up.  Let’s not forget that I’m fluffy so lifting with my arms was out of the question. Off we headed up the trail with my face not five inches from the saddle horn and my legs were sticking straight back behind the saddle.  Oh yes, the waist band of my jeans was just below the nape of my neck.

     Since I couldn’t steer the horse I was put in the beginner bunch.  My buddy was a precocious five year-old going by the name of Montana.  She stated she had ridden horses all her life and to stick close to her so she can help me out.

     "She’s nothing but a spoiled stinker and show off," I shouted to my husband and anyone else within hearing.

     I managed to get back over to the advanced group.  At least they gave me some pity, unlike one 5 year-old I could name.

     About two hours into the trip from hell, Poncho Villa’s hot sauce caught up with me and caused me to have gut-wrenching spasms.  It never fails.  Not only did I not want to dismount, but there wasn’t one bush on the whole trail to hide behind.  By the time our five hour trip was over I was splayed out on the saddle moaning and groaning about the ten greatest horrors in my life and this ranked number one.

     When we returned to the corral, I managed to slither off the tail end of the nag.  The nag was so grateful to get back home she didn’t give me a well deserved kick, and I was so grateful to get back on solid ground that I didn’t mind my fact in a horse’s patootie.

     Later that day a couple of people complained about their saddle sore rears, but I think I was the only rider complaining about a saddle sore chest. 

This is another creative writing class assignment. 

The Widow Lindskold

     Sometimes greatness comes in small packages. Even one that is barely 5 feet tall, can stand mountains among men. The kind of greatness I am writing about is as simple as a human touching another human.

     The first time I saw the Widow Lindskold she sailed a tray full of food right across the dining room.

     “There, take that, you dirty rats,” she hollered

     Hordes of nurses aides and orderlies came bursting in the dining room. All stopped to watch what the Widow Lindskold would do next. A parting of bodies at the door made way, for the ever large, Ms. Valquist, Head Nurse of Wing Three.

     The Widow Lindskold lifted her eyes as Nurse Valquist was putting her hands on her hips and the showdown began. You could have cut the tension with a knife, the air reeked of an unspoken contention between these two adversaries. They circled each other like sparring partners in a boxing ring. One was 89 years old and stood barely five feet tall, and the other was a Titan of a woman in both height and girth. Both knew they had met their match and a draw was conceded and everyone returned to their duties.

     This scene was my first day as a volunteer at the Greenbank Nursing Home. I was to read to the patients, help write letters to families and be an all-around friend to the ladies on Wing Three. I was a young wife and mother who wanted to be of service to my community and felt this was a good way to be of value.

     After witnessing the theatrics of the Widow Lindskold I wanted to get to know her better. Later that afternoon I found her in the solarium and sat down beside her.

     “Not so close,” scolded the Widow Lindskold, “let a guy breath, why don’t cha."

     “I’m sorry,” I timidly mumbled , moving over.

     “Speak up, I’m deaf and you’re a mealy mouth”, she yelled.

      “Would you like me to read to you or I could help you write a letter to your family?" I stammered.

     “Well, for gosh sakes,” she gasped. “I can read and write, at least I could before I came to this joint.”

     “Oh my gosh, I didn’t mean to imply that you couldn’t do either one,” I stuttered.

     “I like good books, pick up a copy of that new book “Atlas Shrugged” and I’ll help you read it to me,” she called over her shoulder as she sauntered back to her room for her nap.

     I couldn’t figure out what she meant by helping me read to her, I thought it would be the other way around, but my job was to please the guests on Wing Three. The library in town had a copy and I drug this big hardback book to the nursing home on my next visit.

     The Widow Lindskold called “Atlas Shrugged” a magnum opus which I incorrectly translated the meaning to be a damn big book. I started reading to her three days a week, but soon, she was reading to me. At almost every page she would put the book down and patiently explain what the author was trying to convey. Such things as a collectivist society, American social classes, the philosophy of objectivism and altruism. The book was way over my head, but I had a genius for a teacher. It took us three months to wade through “Atlas Shrugged” and I think she must have skipped over several chapters out of consideration for her pupil’s weak mind.

     With her help, I became a student of reading. After “Atlas Shrugged” she gave me a list of books to get at the library. Homer’s “Iliad“, Shakespeare’s “The Tempest”, Rachel Carson’s “Silent Spring”, among many. It was like I had been walking in the desert and finally found an oasis. I couldn’t read the books fast enough to slacken my thirst.

     After about a year I noticed I was losing my friend, teacher and guru. She was slipping away from me and I couldn’t make her stay. She had her own path to follow. Back in the 1960’s no one ever heard of Alzheimer’s. Everyone felt that growing old made some people a little off balance. Her deterioration was slow and heart wrenching to watch. She finally entered a world that I couldn’t understand and she became totally unreachable. How could someone with such a wonderful mind fall victim to a hell on earth?

     The Widow Lindskold was a remarkable woman. I think about her almost every day. She was well educated, inherently kind and reveled in acting like a pit bull at a dog show. She had confided to me the three things that would bring joy to everyone’s life and I know for a fact that she would consider it a privilege that you are now going to know…

     #l. When you get to be 80 years old you have earned the right to be cantankerous.

     #2. Never pass up an opportunity to fill an empty mind.

     #3 For God’s sake take care of your teeth. God gives you two good sets, the rest are plastic.

I’m not too sure what a Journal should contain but I am a member of the Food and Drink Group, so I thought I would submit this "true" story.  I belong to a Creative Writing class and this was one of my submissions.  We had to write a short story using only dialogue.

                                     To Yield Or Not to Yield

     "How long have you been home," Jody asked her friend over the phone.

     "I just walked in the door and am I ever tired and hungry," lamented Christine.

     "School seemed longer today," stated Jody.  "It must be the time change.  It takes me two or three weeks to get caught up on my sleep."

     "You’re right about the time change," agreed Christine.  "I’ve been looking through the cupboards and can’t find anything to eat that’s easy to fix."

     "It’s the same over here, Mom never buys snacks, she thinks that since I’m thirteen I ought to be able to cook something in the oven or microwave, but what?" remarked Jody.

     "I think I’ll make myself a fried egg sandwich," said Christine.

     "Yeah, that sounds good, let me look in the frig and see if we have any eggs.  Oops, no such luck, no eggs," moaned Jody.

     "Do you have any bread?" asked Christine

     "Let me look in the bread box, Oh yuck, nothing but brown bread and I hate brown bread," complained Jody.

     "Make cinnamon toast out of it, you won’t be able to tell the difference," joked Christine.

     "Yeah, I could make some cinnamon toast," agreed Jody.  "But I would love to have some grits to go with the toast."

     "Your mom probably has a box of grits up in the cupboard," Christine fired back.

     "Let me check uphere on this top shelf.  Yeah, there’s a box and I can barely reach it, ahhhhhhh I got it!" exclaimed Jody.

     "I’ve never cooked grits," stated Christine.

     "I watch Mom make grits every Sunday, so I probably won’t have any trouble," added Jody.  "Let’s see, here are the directions on the back.  Water- one cup, grits- 1/4 cup, salt- 1/4 teaspoon, yield- 1 cup."

      "How long does it take to cook the grits?" asked Christine.

      "It say six minutes. The only thing I can’t find is the yield," uttered Jody.

      "Yield?" quizzed Christine.  "Is that something you need?"

      "Yeah, it says so right here on the back of the grits box," reminded Jody.

      "Well, what’s yield?" inquired Christine.

      "I don’t know, but it says right here that I need a cup of it," bellowed Jody.

      "Check up in  the spices, maybe that’s where your mother keeps the yield," directed Christine.

      "Let me take a look," answered Jody.  "Naw, not in there."

      "Did you check the frig?" queried Christine.

      "Let me give it a quick look," said Jody.  "Naw, I don’t see anything that looks like yield."

      "Well, why don’t you go ahead and make the grits and if they taste bad without the yield go ahead and throw the mess out." advised Christine.

      "Yeah, that’s what I’ll do.  I’ll call you back and let you know how the grits tasted," pronounced Jody.

      Later that evening, Jody called Christine.

     "Christine, you won’t believe me but the grits were the best I’ve ever tasted," bragged Jody.  "Even without the yield."