Ghosties and Ghoulies

I mentioned in my last post that Uncle Henry was always good for a ghost story.  He had tons of them.  And, he would tell them in a way that made them sound new and exciting each time.  I would sit and listen to them for hours on end. 

He also would tell stories about the creepy house they lived in.  The upstairs was some place that we kids were never alowed to explore.  Therefore, they were always a source of our speculation.  Uncle Henry would tell about hearing ghostly footsteps upstairs only to go up there and find no livings soul.  He also said that you could hear moans and groans that gradually grew in volume until they were surely disturbing the rest of the community.  He also told of hearing loud “thumps” banging all around the outside of the house that would require going outside to “see” what was going on.

But, Uncle Henry was not the only one that had experience with ghosts.  My mother’s mother has a few of her own.  Mama Carrie would tell two stories quite often.  And, she truly believed them.  Hers were not the stories told to amuse the little ones.  You could actually hear the “fear” in her voice when she told them.

One involved my great grandmother, my grandfather’s mother.  She lived with my grandparents in her old age.  Seems that great grandma had asked when she died that all the love letters and poems that great graddad had written to her during their lives be burried with her.  When the day came, those letters and poems were not burried with great grandma. 

Well, after the internment, strange things started happening around the house.  My great granmothers picture would “walk” itself off the mantle piece and fall to the floor.  If laid flat, it would rattle and usually would push itself off of whatever surface it was on.  So, my grandmother burned not only the picture but all of the letters and the poems.  After that, no more problems.  Great grandma was appeased.

The other story my grandmother would tell involved my great grandfather.  My great grandfather, my grandfather’s father, served in the Civil War (or the war of Southern Oppression).  In that war, he lost a leg from being shot.  After that, great grandpa had a peg leg.  (My uncle Paul has one of those legs…UGH!)

There was a storm coming up and my grandfather was not at home.  My grandmother was frightened and kept praying.  All of a sudden, she heard this strange noise out on the front porch.  It sounded like, thump/tap, thump/tap (on foot step and one peg leg step).  She looked out the window and saw the image of my great granddad walking back and forth in front of the door as if patrolling the area.  She was no longer frightened.  He, great granddad stayed there until the storm passed.

Of course growing up in the lowcountry, we had lots of ghosties and ghoulies around.  We were never in need of a good story what with the Gray Man and others.  And, I am sure that all areas have ghost stories.  But, I doubt that most people know them.  They did not take the opportunity to get their elders involved with passing down the lore.  I am glad that I did.

Oh one more.  There was also the story of the little girl who would just appear out of the woods holding her head in her hand.  This particular ghost would appear to wagon load of families when they were headed to or from church services that were held at night for revivals.  She would scare the mules pulling the wagons.  Either the mules would stop dead in their tracks and snort and paw the ground, nothing being able to coax them forward.  Or, they would lay back their ears and bolt.  Either way, everyone in the wagon would see the poor and frightening ghost of the child.  I don’t know who she was or what happened to her that caused her horrible accident. 

I can tell you that when I would hear these stories, I was anxious for two reasons.  1) I too wanted to see one of these fabled ghosts.  2) I too was afraid that I would.

Uncle Henry

When I was a kid, I used to love to get my Uncle Henry to tell ghost stories.  Uncle Henry was my mom’s uncle.  He was my mother’s mother’s brother.  That actually made him my great uncle.  By the time I knew him, he was retired.  He was married to Aunt Marie.  They lived in a house that had been in the family for a number of years.  In fact, my great grandmother had lived there with them until she died.

All the Smiths were short and somewhat stout.  Uncle Henry was no exception.  He had spent his working life working for the paper mill (as most everyone in the community did if they had a job outside of the home).  Aunt Marie, it was rumored, was a madam at one time.  She also was rumored to have “worked her way up” to that position.  They had a dog named Blackie.

When Uncle Henry was working, as the beginning of his career, he would have to walk out to the Nine Mile Curve to catch the bus to go to work.  He worked shift work.  So, sometimes his was to the Nine Mile Curve was during the day, other times at night.

Growing up in the Lowcountry, we had always heard of Hags, Haints, Ghosts and such.  Uncle Henry was good at telling the stories and I enjoyed listening.  Of course it did not hurt if Uncle Henry had had a taste of the “hair of the dog” if you know what I mean.

The walk from Uncle Henry’s house to the Nine Mile Curve was about five miles or so.  His favorite story to tell us was the one about the church.  He said that one night, when he got off the bus and walked home, he could hear music and singing as he was walking along.  He said that when he got close to the church, he could see the kerosine lanterns were on and that the musice and singing was come from the church.  He said that the closer he got to the church, the dimmer the lights got and the music and singing died down.  When he crested the hill where the church was, the lights went out and the music and singing stoped.  All he could hear were the crickets. 

Uncle Henry said that as soon as he started down the hill towards home, the lights came back up in the church and the music and singing started again.  He said that when that happened, he ran the rest of the way home.  Of course, he heard someone or something running after him.

I never got tired of hearing him tell his stories.  He used to tell stories about the church a lot.  He told us that when he was a child, that when they used to pump water from the well to drink, stuff would come up from the grave yard.  Uncle Henry said that things would leech into the water system from the graves.  He said they used to find little tips of finger bone and even jewelery.

My mom must have believed Uncle Henry’s stories about the well.  She would never let us drink the water at church.  Of course us kids were always running the water to see if we would find a treasure!  Never once did we!

Of course, Uncle Henry was not the only one in the family who could tell a good ghost story.  My grandmother, his sister, could tell some good ones too.

Waymarks

In church today, paster Mike talked about waymarks.  All month long, we have been talking about the ancient/moden church.  I probably won’t state this as eloquently as Mike does. but what this means is blending the ancient with the modern in worship.  Our verse for the basis of this idea was in Jerimiah and it ended with setting up waymarks so others can find their way if they come after you.  This allows those who follow you to not lose their way on their pilgramages.

During this sermon series, Mike talked about learing how to pray…how there should be prayers that are your own, but also, one should use the Lord’s prayer and pray it often.  He also talked about using icons to remind you of prayer.  You don’t pray to the icon, the icon reminds you why you pray and to whom you should pray.  In other words, you pray “through” the icon.

Today, the sermon was on waymarks.  You take pilgramages to religious sites to.  There are waymarks along the way to help you get there.  He mentioned an island off the coast of Ireland.  In order to get there, you wait until low tide and walk across the sand to the island.  Well, he mentioned many people had lost their lives thinking they could make it without waiting for low tide to make it over.  So, in order to keep people from drowning, poles were embeded in the ocean floor in order to keep you on the path.  You get the idea.

Mike asked two questions:  1)  Who before you set waymarks for you to help you grow in your workship of God?  2) What waymarks have you set for those that come after you?

I have to say that the answer to the first question is my Grandmother.  She was a wonderful Christian woman.  Thanks to her I learned so many things.  She not only said things that caused us to think but she also did things to show us the way.  She loved us kids with all her heart and tried to make sure that we got the “education” we needed at home to make us all good, upstanding citizens in the world.  Her waymarks came from her family upbringing and she passed them down to us. 

The second question gave me cause to pause.  I try to pass on the waymarks to the younger generation.   I know I am not the best role model but I hope that the waymarks come shining through.

 

The night the lights went out in Iron Station

Yesterday, I sent my husband, Mr. Greenhouse, and my step son to Atlanta to attend the graduation of our nephew.  I did not go because I had an important appointment that I could not reschedule.

I have to admit, although I would miss them, I was happy to have an evening to myself.  I had plans to have an early dinner and then settle in to watch what I “really” wanted to watch on the TV.  In our house, who ever has the remote rules…. And, that person is usually my husband.  I swear, I think he hides them so I can’t find them.  Or if I find one, it’s the one that does not work.

Mr. Greenhouse likes to watch news and sports.  Sports I can enjoy but news 24/7 gets on my nerves.  I get tired of hearing the same headlines again and again.  Most of the time, there is no extra information.  The news is just in a loop.  Once is enough for me.  Oh, he also likes to watch thing like the “Biggest Catch” and shows that show how to prove/disprove urban myths.

I like Home and Garden, A&E, History, and the local channels.  I have to admit I like the CSI shows and can ususally find one every night of the week to watch.  I also enjoy Antiques Roadshow.  (Mr. Greenhouse will tolerate that one.)  So, our tastes in TV watching do not match.

As I said above, I was looking forward to a night of TV.  Not that he means to really hurt my feelings, but Mr. Greenhouse always has a comment about what I watch.  So, I was really going to enjoy the TV without comments from the peanut gallery.  (I am sure all of us can relate to that.)

Well, I went to my appointment.  I came home and spoke with my mom via phone.  I played with the dog and did some yardwork.  I also took time to sit on the porch and watch the world go from day into evening.  It is really wonderful to see the sky change and hear the crickets and frogs begin their evening songs. 

Truly, God is wonderful to provide such a spectacle to be seen and heard.  I love to hear the sounds of the night.  The later it gets, the more different the sounds can be heard.  Daytime birds settle down for the night.  You can hear the foxes calling to eachother.  Then the owls sound in the dead of night.  If I happen to wake up in the night for water or a bathroom visit, I love to lay there and listen for the owls.  Most of the time, I am rewarded with a hoot or two. 

Last night, was not to be as I had planned though.  About 7:30 PM, the lights went out in Iron Station.  My neighbor called to ask if my lights were out too.  In the country, you want to make sure it is not your house only that is without lights.  You do not call and ask if the electricity is off, you call and ask if someone has lights. 

We chatted for a bit about things since we had not seen each other in a few days.  Then she rang off and I settled in to my front row seat for the evening show.  She called back a few minutes later stating that a neighbor had called saying that electric company promised to have the lights back on by 9:30 PM.  That led us to believe that the lights were out so they could make repairs.

I decided to move my seat from in front of a blank TV screen to outside.  I sat with a drink on my front porch.  I shared my space with the two cats.  We watched day become night.  We also heard the symphony start for the night.  (the last songs of the daytime and the beginning of the night songs)

To make a long story short.  The lights did not come on at 9:30 or at 10:00.  So, I threw in the towel and went to bed.  They came on some time during the night.  Thankfully, I had decided to turn off the TV so that it would not wake/scare me in the middle of the night.

I lay in bed before I fell asleep.  I thanked the Lord for another day.  I asked Him to bless my friends and family.  And, I listened to the night.  The sky was clear so I got some moonshine from the not so quite full moon.  It was wonderful.  I was lulled to sleep by God’s symphony.  I think I probably enjoyed this scenario better than what I had originally planned.

Take time to listen to God’s miracles.

I got a new tooth!

Anyone who really knows me knows I hate to go to the Dentist.  Well, this past year has been a year where the Dentist and the Oral Surgeon and I became good friends. 

When I was a kid, we went to Dr. Tiller.  Dr. Tiller was our family dentist.  My father and my mother were two of his first patients when Dr. Tiller came to town.  I suppose that might have happened because he was a cousin to our family doctor, Dr. Tiller. 

Dr. Tiller looked like Mr. Clean.  The only thing was he did not have the earring in his ear.  (If you don’t know who/what Mr. Clean is, simply Google to get a picture of him.)  Dr. Tiller was a huge bald man who yelled at you if you did not “take care of your teeth”.  He would climb right up in the chair with you and get down to the business of cleaning, filling or pulling.  I would liken him to the barber/dentist in old west stories.  He was big and scary to all of us kids.  But, Dr. Tiller did have a treasure chest you could retrieve a prize from if you were good.

My last visit to Dr. Tiller was for him to extract my wisdom teeth.  And, that was a very harrowing experience.  Again, it was before they sent you to an oral surgeon.  The good dentist simply numbed you up and cut away.  You were wide awake and hearing everything going on.  I cried through the whole experience.  He took two teeth out at a time.  So, after the first round, I knew and dreaded that I was going to have to go back again.  My face was bruised for days.  I had the dry heaves.  And, I had to practice opening my mouth so he could take out the stitches.  Not a pleasant experience all the way around.

I always went to the dentist every six months regardless.  I knew that even though I hated the experience, I also needed my teeth to be able to chew things like steak and vegetables.  I did not want to end up like my grandfather who had not a tooth in his head the whole time I knew him.

The big thing about going to the dentis was that no matter how much novacaine the dentist gave me, I never stayed numb for very long.  I always ended up getting the maximum amount of dosage and still feeling the pain.  I could not get across to the dentist that I still hurt.  In his opinion, I should have been numb enough for him to pull every tooth in my head without my feeling a thing.  No one actually doubted me when I said that I hurt, they just did not understand why.

It was not until last year that we figured out what was going on.  I have a huge response to the “flight or fight” response that our bodies have as a way to protect us.  I get such an adrenaline rush that it washes the novacaine out of my system faster than it does in other people.  What this essentially means is that I get numb faster and it goes away quicker.  So, instead of the standard 20 minutes or so that it takes someone to get totally numb after a shot, I get numb in about 10 minutes.  So, the dentist needs to start work on me sooner than on other patients.  I still end up getting more shots than “normal” but less than I had to at one time.  This has made the visits less stressful for both me and the dentist.

Well, last August, I was sitting on my porch eating shelled nuts when I heard and felt this “plink”.  One of my upper molars had split in half.  I immediately called the dentist office and let them know I needed to come in because my tooth had split.  They worked me in and off I went.

When I got there, they put me in the chair and looked at the tooth.  Sure enough, it had split down the middle.  There was no way to save it.  So, I had a choice.  I did have to have the broken tooth pulled and that would require the oral surgeon.  But, I also needed to decide whether I wanted to further “damage” my mouth by putting in a bridge or if I wanted an implant.  Well, I chose implant.

The dentist arranged for the oral surgeon to see me right away.  When I got there, they numbed me up and pulled the tooth.  Not a good experience but not as bad as it could have been.  The oral surgeon was very nice.  His staff was very nice.  But, I was very upset on having to have a tooth pulled.  I remembered the experience from the wisdom teeth.  I have to say this experience was not like the previous one that I mentioned.  They gave me the “good stuff” and even though I was awake for the proceedings, I only felt pressure and not pain.  And….the stitches would come out by themselves.

I got the lecture about the implant.  This is not inexpensive and it is not a quick process.  First, the tooth is pulled.  Then you have to wait several months for the bone/wound to heal.  After that, you go in for a screw to be implanted into your jaw bone.  I had the choice of being awake or asleep for the process.  I chose to go to La La Land.

On the proposed day, the oral surgeon stated that if they needed to, they would use cow bone to “build up” the implant site.  This is because cow bone matches well with human jaw bone.  I asked the oral surgeon if I would “moo” afterwards if they needed to use the cow bone.  He gave me a confused look.  I also asked him if he knew of anyone who had an urge to “eat grass or graze” after the grafting of the cow bone. He again gave me a confused look.  Finally, the dental assistant caught on and stated that the donor would not be a cow that I knew.  We all had a good laugh.

The screw was put into my jaw in November.  We had to wait another eight months before the post could be put on the screw.  They implant a screw in to the jaw.  The bone heals around the screw much like around the roots of a tooth.  During this time, there is a “cover” placed over the screw hole.  When the time comes for the tooth to be installed, the orald surgeon takes the cover off of the screw and attaches a post for the fake tooth. 

After the post was installed, I went back to the dentist and they made impressions for the fake tooth.  While waiting for the tooth to be made, there was a temporary cover put on the post.  Yesterday, I went and got my tooth.  And, now, I have a full set of teeth again!

I kept asking for a purple tooth.  Neither the dentist nor the oral surgeon would agree to get me a purple tooth.  Aparently, tooth vendors do not make purple teeth.  They do not make teeth of any color other than the “regular” colors that one might see in a tooth. 

I can’t help but think there might be a market in making teeth in other colors.  Especially if it is a tooth that no one but you will see.  After all, they make crowns and veneers for teet that are “bling bling”.  Why not teeth of different colors?  I thought about getting a “play dough dentist office kit” and making my own purple tooth.  But, when I mentioned that to the dentist, he said that he would not be able to put that in my mouth. 

Maybe some entrepeneur out that might be able to take the idea and come up with a marketing idea that would take off.  You could get to pick the color you wanted your tooth to be.  Maybe you have to sign a release that says that you won’t complain later… I think it would be a good idea. 

I also forgot to mention that during all of the above, I also lost a crown.  So, I had to go through that process too.  I will be happy not to sit in a dentist chair for another six months!

Ranger…Thief of Hearts and so much more

Those of you who have read any of my entries know I have this “thing” about animals.  It started when I was still in diapers and continues still today.

When I was small, there was Buster, a bulldog.  He was my very best friend in the whole wild and wide world.  Every where I went around the house and yard, old Buster went too.  He was my guardian angel.  Buster had three other kids that he loved too.  But, I suspect he considered me his bestest buddy too.  We shared a lot of memories.  I was even told by my older brothers that Buster had found me and brought me home.  Of course they said that he had taken the time to maul me a little on the way home.  I chose to disreguard that remark. 

I guess the next pet that tugged at my heartstrings was Abbie.  Yes, I had other pets between Buster and Abbie.  But, Buster and Abbie were with me when I was alone and left to my own devices.  One when I was young and my brothers were in school and my littles sister was just a baby.  The other when I moved away, far, far, away, from home to begin a life of true independence.

Anyway, Abbie was a cat.  She was found in a co-worker’s garage and needed a home.  Knowing my love for animals, my co-worker asked in I would like to adopt Abbie.  I said yes and a romance of 13 years ensued.  Abbie was my confident.  She heard my cries when I no human to hear them.  She snuggled up with me to sleep each and every night (until I got married and Mr. Greenhouse moved in).

Abbie was a calico.  She had eyes that were yellow and looked like they had been lined with eye liner.  She would hold conversations with me.  She told me about all the things she saw sitting in the windows or our house.  She loved me with a passion and disliked anyone who came between us.  And, she had this thing about my niece.  I could mention my niece’s name and the cat would growl.  She was not trained by me to do that. 

After 13 years, Abbie had to go and live with someone else because Mr. Greenhouse had allergies.  I loved both of them.  I agonized over having to let Abbie go.  We had tried to live with the cat and Mr. Greenhouse seemed to be getting worse even though he was taking allergy shots.  So, Abbie went to live with someone else.  I cried and cried when she went away.  The saving grace was that the people she went to live with grew to love her as much as I did.

Now, we have Agnes and Harry and Ranger.  Agnes and Harry are farm cats.  They do their jobs and live outside.  My husband has limited contact with them (except for the fiasco of trying to corral Harry to go to the vet).  They sit in the window and converse with us about the things they have seen and eaten during the day.  We talk about birds and mice.  Then they beg for, as Mr. Greenhouse calls it, “good stuff”.  He always gives them a treat.

Then, there is Ranger.  He is a Catahoula Bulldog.  He came to live with us in November when he was 8 weeks old and weighed about 8lbs.  Now he is 8 months old and weighs more than 60 lbs.  I call Ranger many names.  Everyone I love gets lots of names.  Ranger is often called stinky dog, Ranger Butt, cow head (his face looks kinda like a bleached cow head to me) and just about anything that comes to mind when I am addressing him.  He knows the sound of my voice so, he wags his tail in acceptance of whatever name I decide to give him at the time.  And, he also knows his given name which is used when he has been a not so good boy.

Ranger got to live in the house for several months when he came here.  He was so tiny and it was cold outside.  For the first few weeks, he slept in our clothes basked in our walkin closet.  Every night when we got ready for bed, he would walk into the closet and hop in the baske.  I think it made him feel safe because it smelled like us.  He stole my heart when I would watch him sleep in that basket.  It was really funny to watch him try to fold himself into the basket after he got some size on him.  He now sleeps outside in his own dog house.  But, he has things that smell like us in there to comfort him.

I guess I should tell you that Ranger loves me more than just about anything on this earth.  He follows me around and sleeps at my feet.  He also climbs all 60+ pounds of himself in my lap and kisses me square on the face.  (All God’s children and animals want love and acceptance.)  Ranger stands about 26 inches tall and is all muscle.

Ranger has also become a master at getting our attention.  Depending on how devious he wants to be, he will steal my underwear out of the laundry (yes, only mine), or he will take someone’s shoe, or he will steal paper, or just about anything he can get his mouth on.   The game begins when he shows you what he has stolen and you are suppose to take it from him.  (My grandmother had Smokey.  I have Ranger.)

Ranger will walk out into the room, make some type of noise to get your attention, and show you his current prize.  Then, you are to chase him around and around until either one of you gives up.  (Usually the humans have to double team him to win.)  He makes noise while he is doing this to taunt you on.  And, he is a master as staying just out of your reach.  You understand that the object really isn’t to destroy what he has taken, the object is to get your attention.

Ranger’s other way of getting attention from me has to do with pinching.  He will get under the table while I am writing and pinch my arms.  I have bruises up and down my arms to show for it.  We are working on this behavior.  He is getting better.  Now, a lot of the time, he will come up, put his nose under my elbow and flip my hand away from the keyboard.  When I look at him, he wags his tail and heads for the door.  He loves it when we go for walks.

Harry and Agnes make themselves scarce when Ranger is out and about.  They are not afraid of him although he does like to chase them.  They would prefer not to hear his yipping and yapping.  Besides he scares off the prey of the day.

Being A Southern Country Girl

Everyone has special memories about their childhood.  Most of us, if we have listened, have heard stories about our ancestors and our roots.  And, aafter having talked with people from all over the United States, I am convinced (and biased) that Southerners, true Southerners, are better at the “passing on of family lore” than others.

Now, I will say that I probably have not tested the above theroy as thoroughly as I should before making the statement.  It could be that I feel the way I do because my family has been here for a long, long time.  Members of my clan came over some time after Columbus discovered these here lands but before the Revolutionary War.  Although I cannot give you specific names to all my ancestors, I know that we fought with the Swamp Fox against those darned old Red Coats. 

I love the stories I heard at my grandparents feet about Aunt So and So and Uncle This.  (Names are not used to protect the innocent, namely me!).  I cannot tell you how many stories started with “My Momma told me that…. or My Daddy always said….or I was talking to ….”  I know that I learned a lot of things just lazing the Sunday afternoons away listening to the adults talking abut their memories and stories. 

I know you don’t have to be Southern to hear family stories.  I just think Southerners tell them better.  There is something about the smell of the Magnolias or the Gardenias and the chirping of the crickets and frogs that adds to the tales that are told.  Or maybe it is the rumble of thunder that promises a thunder storm in the Spring and Summer that adds to the ambience.  Or maybe it’s the accent.  That soft drawl.  Words like honey chile, girl and baby do not sound demeaning when you are called them by a Southern Grandma or Grandpa.

There are also the superstitions that I grew up hearing.  They seem to be imbeded in the Southern life.  Again I am sure that other families have superstitions too….but I am not talking about wearing the same pair of socks to every baseball game to keep from losing a game.  I am talking about superstitions passed down from parent to child since the beginning.

Here are some samples….I welcome others from you all out there.

1.  If you dream about someone who has died, it will rain.  (This one works…Don’t ask me how.  But everytime I dream about my Grandma, it rains within a day.)

2.  If you have bad dreams…the Hag is riding you….

3.  Blue is painted around windows and doors to keep the Hag out of the house.

4.  Pour salt in front of your doors to keep the Hag out.  They cannot cross a salt line because it will burn them because in order to come into your house, they have to get out of their skin.

5.  If you drop a dish cloth, company will come.

6.  If the youngest person sitting at the table sneezes, you will hear of a death.

7.  If you dream about fish, someone you know is pregnant.

8.  If you dream about snakes, you have enemies. 

9.  If you hear a screech owl at night, tie a knot in your sheet and it will stop screeching.

 

Greenhouse Man Plants The Garden

As I mentioned in my first entry, my husband, Greenhouse Man, has been heading towards planting a garden.  First, the Fed Ex and UPS trucks showed up at our house 4 times on one day.  Each time, my husband excitedly helped the drivers unload the various boxes and tubes that they delivered.  Then he set up an elaborate “lab” in our storage building in order to germinate the seeds that were delivered.  There was a heating pad, a water source, two sun lamps and a box fan that were all “McGivered” into use along with the little germination cups and some potting soil.  To my amazement, some seeds actually did germinate and little leaves poked out of the ground.  Some seeds, however, have yet to germinate, or at least, we are not seeing the results yet.  And, of course, Agnes and Harry the cats have decided that the germination table is the best place in the world to nap.  Besides warm soil, there are sun lamps and a constant breeze.

As I mentioned before, I grew up on a farm.  My grandmother planted a garden every year.  We went to the local Feed and See and picked out seeds.  She plowed the ground with a simple push plow and planted the seeds.  Except for the time that Smokey dug up all the potato eyes, I don’t think we ever had a problem with growing anything.

So, I was quite amused to find out that I, a farm girl from generations of farmers, in my husband’s opinion, knew nothing about planting a garden.  I was told that you have to do it Mr. Greenhouse’s way or you were wrong.

Oh, my suggestion for how to solve the irrigation issue was discounted too.  We already have enough water hoses to reach the allotted planting place.  And, we also have several of those tall watter sprinklers that would have been able to water the garden.  But, Mr. Greenhouse had different ideas.

While I was out of town on a Women’s retreat, Mr. Greenhouse went down to the local Big Box store and bought enough PVC pipe for run from a water faucet at the house all the way to the garden.  Then he also strung pipe down each of the rows in order to get water to the rows.  (The funny thing about this is that when we were coming home from the retreat, I made a joke with the other members in our van about what I would probably come home to since my husband had mentioned “irrigation”.   We were driving past one of those huge irrigation/sprinkler type things that the use in fields when I mentioned this fear.)

Anyway, then Mr. Greenhouse decided that he needed to test the PH balance in the soil.  So, after much discussion, he went and got two truck loads of peat moss to add to the soil to change the PH.  I forgot to mention that all of this happened after he had tilled the soil and we had raked the rows to pull out all of the roots and big rocks. 

The appointed day came and the planting began.  First, came the corn and the beans which Mr. Greenhouse planted directly in the soil rather than germinating them in the lab.  He had this tube thing that he used to inject the seeds in to the soil.  This is the latest in “garden utinsiles” and everyone should have one of these handy, dandy tools in their garden shed.

When I was a kid, my grandmother would plow the garden.  Then, she would take a hoe and make a furrow.  In the furrow. she would lay the seeds equi-distance apart.  After the seeds were placed in the ground, she would come back and cover them up with the hoe.  Voila….seeds planted!  How could I know that this was not the “accepted” was the plant?  Imagine my shame when I learned this tidbit of information.

Ranger wanted to help but was relegated to the dog pen because he kept running away with the seeds.  I would guess that the cats have made their deposits in the nice, soft soil too.  I declined to help because I did not want an argument to ensue about the placement of seeds.

Now, the seeds are planted and we have little flags at the end of each row to identify what we are to see when the leaves peep through the soil.  We still have the issue of my husband asking, how do you tell a plant from a weed.  I guess we have to cross that bridge when we come to it.

 

Childhood

We all reminence about our childhoods.  Some say they were happy.  Some say they were sad.  Some know that all childhoods have both happy and sad times.  Mine was no different.

We went to live on the farm with my grandmother after my grandfather died in a car accident.  Actually, my momma was pregnant with me when she and my father and my two older bothers packed up and moved.  My father felt that it was his duty to be with his momma.  My dad was an only child. 

The house was there and it was rent free.  It had been build by my great granparents.  It had three bedrooms, a parlor, a living room a kitchen and a dining room.  There was a huge front porch that had rocking chairs and hall trees.  It also had a back porch where on most warm days we sat around on the steps.

The house wasn’t really much.  It had electricity.  But, there was no indoor plumbing.  There was a well outside the back door that provided water for washing, drinking, and taking baths.  My great grandparents could never agree on where to put the bathroom.  The house was actually built before indoor plumbing and electricity.  So, when that luxury came along, there was an argument on where to put the indoor features.  No agreement could be met, so the indoor plumbing (tub, toilet, etc…) never go upgraded to the house.

After my father moved us all back out there, he started planning to tear down the original farm house and build a new brick house with all the bells and whistles in its place.  So, there really was not reason to go to the expense of adding a bathroom to a house that would eventually be torn down. Until the new house was built (which we still call the “new house” even though it is 45 or so years old) we made do with what was there.

The house was made of weathered wood.  It had a tin room and windows that rattled when the wind blew.  The floors were cold in the winter as was the whole house.  We had fireplaces and plenty of quilts and body heat to keep us warm in the winter.  (We all slept with someone…my brothers slept together, my parents, and then I got to sleep with my Mama)

We weren’t allowed to use the outhouse because of the spiders and snakes.  We had a “chamber pot” that the children used.  My brothers used to just use the outside period unless it was too cold.  Then they would resort to using the chamber pot.

Baths were taken in the kitchen in a wash tub.  Water was warmed on the stove and put in the tub.  Then the dirty children were deposited one by one and came out squeaky clean for one more day.

We had dogs and cats and chickens and cows and pigs and mules.  We got to run around like Indians.  The yard did not have a blade of grass.  It had flower beds.  And, it had white sand that was swept.  Any grass growing was promptly uprooted.  (Today, we still have flowers that my great grandmother planted that come up each year.)

We could play in the barn.  We could climb in to the loft.  We could play in the pasture.  We could run and scream and hoop and holler and build things out of twigs and sticks.  Or imaginations were our limits.

We had a grapevine that was over 100 years old.  People would show up each late summer/early fall to pick grapes.  My grandmother would make the pickes promise not to make wine with the grapes.  But, I am sure some wine was made with the scopernogs (I am not sure of the spelling).  I never liked the grapes because I did not like to “feel” of the pulp in my mouth.  These were the kind of grapes that had a skin that most would not eat.  You squeezed the grape pulp in to your mouth.

The times were not idealic though.  The grown people had a lot to worry about.  And, we children would get whiffs of that worry sometimes.  There was always a fear that the crops would not be good.  Or we could not make enough to peddle in town (selling the goods from the farm).  Or if a cow or hog got sick what did you do?  Then my grandfather was killed.  And, three short years later, my father died.  That left my mom and grandmother to raise four rowdy children.

We enjoyed family.  We enjoyed very good food.  There was always enough on the table to feed us.  The best memories I have are of some of those family meals.  Just writing about them, makes my mouth water.  The smell of apple cobbler, pumpkin pie, homemade soup, hop-in-john, bacon, etc… 

And with my grandmother there….we always had arms to hold us and love to warm us.  She taught us how to climb trees, ride bikes, pick grapes….and mostly how to care for others less fortunate. (although some times you would have to look hard to find some who were monetarily poorer than we were).

Frozen Clothes, Eternal Flames and Pumpkin Pie

Well, I have given you a physical description of my grandmother.  I have also given you a little glimpse into her personality.  I have not nor will I ever be able to describe fully her love for us kids and her willingness to do anything she could for us.  That “anything” was not indulgent.  It was the “anything” that includes letting you know how loved you were, discipline when needed, encouragement to be what and who you dreamed of being (within reason that is) and so many other magical things that there is not enough time or space to list them.  Needless to say you knew you were loved and encouraged and very often surprised by this tiny little woman who really did look a lot like Granny Clampett.

We called the grandmother we lived with Mama.  The “a” having the sound like the “a” in bath.  I have to tell you while I am writing this, my own dog in leaning up against me waiting for me to give him some attention.  I was gone for 4 days on a women’s retreat in Myrtle Beach.  Ranger is glad that I am home and he really wants his moma to stop working on the computer and do something with him.  So, I will after I get this story down.

I had made a metion about frozen clothes in an earlier writing.  Well, we very much lived in a world totally different from the one I live in today.  Mama would hang the clothes on the line to dry.  After they were dry, she would bring them in to the house and “wet” them again.  Why?  To iron the clothes that were wrinkled.  She called this process “spinkling”.  A lot of you “older” people will remember “sprinkling” clothes.  It may have been called another name in your house but you are familiar with the process.  The wrinkled clothes were sprinkle to make them damp.  They were either immediately ironed to press out the wrinkles or they were rolled into a ball and awaited ironing at a later time. 

During the warm weather “sprinkling” also would cause the damp clothes to “sour” if they were not ironed soon after being dampened.  Or if not that, they would dry up in a ball that made them look even worse than just having come in off the line.  Anyway, Mama’s way of solving this issue was to put a dishpan of these sprinkled balled up clothes in the refrigerator for later ironing in the evening or when the rain brought her in from outside.  (As an aside, what you found in the refrigerator at our house varied.  But, needless to say, it was not always just food!….  I feel another story coming on!)

Some time, if the refrigerator was full, the dishpan of balled up clothes would make it’s way to the freezer.  She would simply pull the clothes out and let them thaw a little before ironing.  That is, if she happened to remember that she had sprinkled clothes and that they were in the freezer and that we needed clothes to go to school the next day.  Are you beginning to get the idea?

Imagine waking up, getting ready for school by washing your face, putting on you slip and your other underthings, and looking for a clean dress to wear only to discover that it was among the frozen peas and corn in the freezer!  Then imagine running around frantically trying to decide what else to where when all your other clean clothes were in the same predicament.  That is not a very fun place to be for an adult or a child of seven or so.

Eternal flames?  Well, Mama had a habit of catching pots and pans on fire on the stove.  She would put “grease” in the pan and turn it on to get ready to fry something.  Then, she would begin working on some other aspect of dinner and forget the pan.  The pan would burst into flames.  Mama would then yell “FIRE” and all of us kids would run to our assigned places to “free” the way for her to run through the house with her flaming pot/pan to be deposited among the others in the back yard. 

This process happened so often that we always had not only some assortment of pots or pans in the yard but also Crisco cans and various other things.  There always seemed to be a fire burning in the vicinity of the back door. 

I was impressed by the eternal flame that burned on John F. Kennedy’s grave.  So, I made a comment once that we must be related to the Kennedys because we too always had an eternal flame burning in our back yard.  Of course, the first time I said it, I was seven.  Now at 50 something, I still feel  that connection!

My farovite…pumkin pie.  You may ask yourself what that has to do with the other two topics of this writing.  Well, Mama was always home.  She kept the home fires burning (no pun intended) while my mother went out into the world of work.  She was responsible for feeding the hungry clan and she did it like any other chore assigned to her.  The food always was filling.  It was never fancy.  It was mostly fried although we would also have vegetable soup or stews sometimes.  There was enough that you did not go away hungry.

Some of my most favorite memories are those that involve the aroma of pumpkin pie.  On cold rainy days, there was nothing more wonderful that to get off the bus and head up the driveway, towards the house, and catch a whiff of the heavenly pumpkin pies that were baking in the oven.  More than anything else, that meant there was someone at “home” waiting with good warm food to fill your body and love to fill your soul.