Mary makes banana pudding.

Most of us “women” have been newlyweds.  I would also hazzard to guess that most of us have made faux pas when learning how to cook.  Well, this is a story of newly wedded Mary, my mom, and a cooking incident.

Mary married my dad, Red, when she was 19 years old.  He was 29 and a man of the world.  Literally, he has served abroad in World War II.  His station of operation was mostly Australia.  So, he was older and much wiser than his new bride Mary, who had not even been out of the state at this point in her life.

My mother’s mother, Carrie, was a really good cook.  My dad loved to eat her cooking.  He was hoping that Mary would turn out to be like her.  Mary, was not allowed to cook while in her mother’s home.  Carrie did all the cooking.  So, it was no surprise when Mary could not even handle boiling water very well.  Although, as time and seasons went along, she learned how to cook.  (I think she does a very good job.  None of us went lacking or werw malnourished in any way.)

My dad’s mom did teach my mom how to cook though.  So, most of the food was and still is just plain old good country cooking.  Mom reas some recipes in her life too and did great by them.  But, most of what she taught us was “throw it in the pot” kind of stuff.  I learned a new way of measuring when I got measuring spoons and cups one year.  Up until then, you just either put it in to taste, put “this much” in, or measured in the palm of your hand or by how high something came in the pot.  I know I am getting off track, but I have a trick taught to me that if you are willing you can try.  No matter how much rice you want to cook, put it in the pot.  Then add water.  The way you add water is not two to one or one to one.  Simply put your indes finger down on top of the rice, like you are pointing at the botom of the pot.  Add water until it comes up to the first digit crease from your fingertip.  Salt the rice and let it cook.  Turns out right every time.

Anyway.  Mary wanted to make a banana pudding for my dad since she knew it was his favorite dessert.  Whe got the vanilla wafers, she got the bananas, and she got the ingredients to make the custard.  She separated the eggs, yolk from whites.  She cooked the custard on the stove.  She assembled the banana pudding, wafers, bananas and custard.  She beat the egg whites and made merainge.  She put it in the over and toasted the merainge.  It was beautiful.

Then, to her horror, she realized she had forgotten to add the vanilla flavoring in the custard.  To newly married Mary, this was horrible.  Why she could not possibly serve banana pudding that had no vanilla flavoring!  What ever could she do?

She hid that banana pudding.  She did not throw it out.  But, she hid it from my father.  And, not to be wasteful, she at the whole thing herself.  She got rid of the evidence. 

After making quite a few more puddings, she realized that the missing flavoring would not have been noticed.  But, at the time, you could not convince her of that.  No Siree!

Mary takes aim.

When my parents were first married, my dad decided that he needed to teach my mom how to shoot a gun.  There was always, from my earliest memories, a 4-10 shotgun behind one of the doors to the house.  The gun was used for scaring varmits, human or otherwise.  It was also used to get Buster to quit barking if he treed something in the middle of the night.

Anyway, Daddy decided that his lovely wife should definitely learn how shoot the shot gun and the rifle.    Shot gun was easy, it usually had bird shot in it that would scatte.  If the gun was aimed in the direction of what ever you were wanting to shoot at, and shot, some of the shot was bond to hit the target. The rifle was different.  Since there is a single bullet, the hitting of a target requires that you really aim with more accuracy.

Dad decided to line up some cans on the fence and have mom shoot at them.  He showed her how to operate the gun.  He showed her how to sight.  Then, he stood back and watched her shoot.  Mom picked up the gun, stood with feet apart, aimed and shot.  Low and behold, a can fell off the fence!  She actually hit one.  Mom actually hit several more cans.  Dad was impressed.

Not too long after that, dad decided to take my squirrel hunting.   They went out in the woods with the dogs.  The dogs treed a squirrel.  Dad handed mom the gun, pointed up in the tree at the squirrel.  Mom picked up the fun, stood feet apart, aimed up in to the tree and shot.  Zowee! A squirrel fell out of the tree.

What Dad did not know and what mom did not tell him through all of this is that she was just pointing the gun.  She had no idea how she hit anything.  The cans?  Well, she was aiming at one can and was hitting another.  She really never saw the squirrel at all.  It was just shear luck.  Dad thought he had married Annie Oakley.

Mary kills a snake

I am telling this one on my mom, Mary.  She would probably not like the fact that she has appeared in the blog.  But, while I was walking with a friend this morning, we got to telling stories that would make up a book.  She was sharing escapades that had happened to her and her loved ones.  I was sharing stories too.  She told a story about a woman beating a cat with a broom trying to get it let go of a bird.  That brought to mind the following story.

Living in the country, we had our share of snakes.  All types of snakes would come up in the yard.  We would see them crawling across the road.  We would see them swimming in ditches.  As in a lot of places, the code of the country is to kill any snake you can.  So, we saw our share of snakes being shot, being chopped with hoes and shovels and being beaten to death.

We had a 1963 Rambler station wagon that was a straight drive.  It was some color of green.  Well, one day, when we came home from town, mom saw a snake, a rattler, crawling across the road.  She decided that she was going to cause the sudden death of the critter.  In those days, the easy way to kill a snake was to back up, speed up, and slam on brakes to skid over the snake.  My mom tried that a couple of times only to her dismay to learn that she had only made the snake mad not dead.

The last time she tried, she pinned the snake under the left front tire of the car.  The snakes head was just sticking out from under the tire.  The rest of it’s body was under the car.  Mom decided to get out and find a stick to beat the snake to death.  Before she did so, she told me and my little sister not to get out of the car under any circumstances.  Mind you, I don’t think she told us what to do if she were to be injured in any way.  Just “stay in the car”.

So, mom got out the car, found a stout stick and commenced to beat the snake.  Each blow she gave the snake, she would “holler”.  I never knew why she did that until I got older.  She was trying to get her courage up to “do the deed”.  I have caught myself doing the same thing.  I wonder if it is like when you try to break a cinder block or boards when you take Karate.  Yelling seems to focus your strength on what you are doing.

Any way, she beat and beat and beat.  Finally, she decided the snake was sufficiently dead.  Actually, the head was as “flat as a fritter”.  So, it could not ever bite another thing.  Bout the time she stopped whacking the snake, and was standing their admiring her handy work, the tail of the snake came out from under the car and brushed against her leg.

Now picture two little bloned haired blue eyed children staring out the car window watching their mom beat a snaked to death.  Imagine what they felt everytime she yelled when she hit the snake.  Our eyes were as big as moon pies.  We were truly fearful that she would end up being bitten by the snake.  When that tail came out and hit mom on the leg, she let out one more rebel yell and fell to the ground in a swoon.  She thought she had surely be bitten.

I don’t remember, but I think both my sister and I started to wailing and gnashing our teeth.  Now are moma is laying dead beside the car.  What ever are we gonna do?  I think that our cries brought mom around.  She hopped up and assured us that she was okay though shaken.  She got in the car and drove us home. 

Is She White?

This story was another of my favorites.  My grandparents sometimes changed the name of the child that asked the question.  I was told one time that is was my mom.  So, I will tell it as if she is the one who asked the question.

All of my aunts and uncles were born at home.  In my mom’s family there were seven children.  When time came for the birth of a child, my grandfather would load the kid in the wagon and take them to a neigbor’s house.  Then he would go and get the midwife.

My uncles, thinking that this was a fine thing to do, used to tease my mother about the new baby.  Like most boys they kept making up stories about how the baby would come home and what it would look like.  They told my mother that day, while they were waiting for the birth, that the midwife was going to bring the baby with her when she came.

The midwife for the community was a wisened old black lady.  She would put a knife under the mattress to help “cut the pain”.  She was good at what she did and was asked for when a baby was coming. 

Well, that day, my uncles told my mother that since the midwife was bringing the baby, the baby would be black.  So, when my grandfather came to get them to take them home, my mother was really excited.  She was not sure what she was going to find when she got home.  My grandfather told them they had a new little sister.

My mother could barely contain herself.  When the wagon pulled up in front of the house, she jumped out and went running inside.  Running down the hallway, into the room, she was yelling, “Is she white?”

Mamie and Myrick Stay Up All Night

Last entry was about Carrie and Dempsey getting married.  I don’t have a similar marriage story about my other set of grandparents but I do have a story about them before they were married.

My grandmother came to Georgetown County to teach school.  She taught in a one-room school house for a number of years.  While she was “single” she lived with the local minister and his wife.  That local minister just happened to be my great grandfather Stradford.  After all, if she was living with the minister and his wife she could hardly be up to any hanky panky.

Well, my grandfather was recently widowed.  (That’s a story unto itself because he was married to my Great Aunt, my mother’s mother’s sister, or my grandmother’s sister on my mother’s side.  So in some weird way, by marriage, I am related to myself doubly.)  Any way, my grandfather, Myrick, was living at home with his parents also.  He was the youngest in the family and stayed at home to help with the farming, etc…

One night, someone came to my Great Grandfathers house with news that someone in the community had died.  Stradford got up and got his wife, Lenora, up and the dressed and went to the home of the deceased to comfort those there.  This left my grandfather and grandmother, who were not engaged or married at the time, alone in the house by themselves.

The only thing to do was to get up and get dressed so there could be no whispers of impropriety.  So, Mamie and Myrick both got up and got dressed and sat up the rest of the night in the parlor.  This was the proper thing to do.  And, no one could by chance come by and find them alone in the house in their night clothes.

I have this picture in my head of them sitting there in the parlor.  Mamie in her school marm outfit all corsetted up and sitting ramrod straight.  Myrick in his shirt and overalls with his hair all combed back and rakish looking.  Both of them trying their best not to nod off. 

I imagine if I was Mamie or in her situation today, I would simply force a chair under the door and climb back in my nice warm bed and sleep the night away.  Let the people think what they may.  But, I can definitely understand why she did what she did.  Turns out that my grandfather was some what of a “rounder”.  And if there was a whiff of impropriety, Mamie could have certainly found herself fired without the ability to secure another position.

Carrie and Dempsey get married.

Here is another Pop story.  It was one of my favorites when I was a kid.  Pop’s given name was Dempsey. My grandmother’s name was Elizabeth Caroline but everyone called her Carrie.  This is the story of how they came to be “hitched”.

Seems that Pop was a popular bachelor at the time and had been seen sporting a lot of different ladies around.  Of course sporting around was taking them to church on Sunday, going to the church socials with them and maybe some times taking a ride in to town in the horse and buggy.  Of course, except for the ride in to town, which was in a buggy or a wagon pulled by a slow footed mule or old horse, the activities were supervised.  And, the ride in to town was out in the open so everyone could see you coming and going.

Well, it seems that Pop needed to go to town to have a tooth pulled at the Dentist.  He asked my grandmother to ride in to town with him.  That gave him company on the trip.  It also gave my grandmother a chance to visit relatives that she did not see often because the lived in town.

I also think that this scheme may had been planned by them in advance, with them “searching for a time to carry it out.  You see, my grandmother was the oldest girl in a family of 11 children.  So my great-grandmother counted on her to help with the others.  So a day off to go to town did not arrive often as there were chores to do and children to help care for.

Well, Dempsey showed up and sported Carrie to town.  He was riding in a buggy.  On the way to town, he seemed to be kind of nervous and kept dropping his glove.  He would stop the buggy, go around behind it to pick up his glove and take a drink of “courage” from the bottle he had hidden behind the seat.  (I am quite sure Carrie had to know what was going on….She probably wished she had a shot or two of that “courage” herself!)

Any way, by the time they got to town, Dempsey was probably not feeling any pain and was ready for the Dentist.  (Turns out, he really did have a tooth pulled.)  I am not sure if they went to the pastor in town and got married before or after the Dentist visit.  But, they did go by the Parsonage and say their wedding vows.  And Carrie did spend time with her relatives in town.  So, they essentially did not lie to anyone.  They only told part of the truth.  And, they both lied about their ages on their marrige license, claiming to be a year younger than they actually were.  (I am sure Pop probably did it by accident and my grandmother did not was to be the same age as he was so she shaved a year off her age too.)

It got to getting kind of late so Dempsey and Carrie, now man and wife, got in the buggy and headed for home.  When they got to Carrie’s house, they went in and told her parents they were married.  My great-grandmother went to “hooping and hollering” up a storm.  She was really upset that she was losing her helper at home because now, Carrie would have a home of her own.

When Carrie and Dempsey got to his house, Pop announced to his mother that he had gotten married.  My great-grandmother him which one of his girlfriends, Carrie or Ruby?  So that was the beginning of Carrie and Dempsey.

Pop

I have written some stories about Mama, my grandmother on my father’s side of the family.  We lived with her after my grandfather died.  That is how I had the opportunity to grow up on a farm.  And, now I know that I would not have traded growing up on a farm to growing up a princess in a castle with all the riches in the world.

Now, it’s time to write a little about Pop.  Pop was my mom’s dad.  Everyone else, until I came along called him Grandpop.  Being much younger, I could not get my “mouth around” all of that, so I shortened it to Pop and it stuck.

I am told that when I was very small, I was afraid of Pop.  Why?  I am not really sure.  He was kind of tall and kind of big.  And, he could have a loud voice.  And he did not have a tooth in his head.  I also never knew him when his hair was not white.  Anyway, I got over being afraid but I always had a healthy respect for his regardless.  What he said went….period.  All foolishness stopped when he said so.

Some of my fondest memories of Pop are those from Saturday afternoons.  He would work out in the yard all day long.  On Saturday afternoon, after he came in for his afternoon tea break.  (Pop always had a cup of hot tea and a slice of white bread every afternoon except Sunday.   Probably a “kickback” to the Scotch/Irish heritage and afternoon tea.)

Well on Saturday, after the tea, he would go out on the back porch and shave.  After he shaved, he would come in to the house and ask my grandmother where his kiss was.  My grandmother would demure and say, “not till you powder your face”.  He would go back to the sink and put some talcum powder on his face.  The Pop would come back in, go over to my grandmother and she would kiss him on the cheek.  But, that happened only after the above ritual.

We all thought Pop was like Dr. Doolittle too.  He would tell us what the chickens in the chicken yard were saying to one another.  He would also translate what the birds were saying as they sang in the trees.   His explanations ran from “What’s that you say Alice, there are some really tasty worms over there where you are scratching?’  to “It’s Spring and I can make the best nest!”  We used to love to get him to translate chicken or bird talk for us kids to understand.

Pop could tell time without a watch.  He could tell you when it was going to rain.  He liked to sing “You get a line and I’ll get a pole” and “Froggy went an Courtin” and “Little Brown Jug” to amuse us.  He would also tell us stories about how people were created.  He would make up rhymes. 

Pop drove an old Chevy truck with a wooden bed.  I don’t know the year model but it was old.  It had an automatic choke and you had to do all of these special things with the starter, the gas pedal and the choke to get the truck started.  I would liken it to flipping all the switches to start an airplane.  We just didn’t check the wing flaps!

Pop was always a gentleman farmer.  He used to go to Georgetown with his vegetables during growing season and pedal up and down the street.  He also sold eggs. 

Pop loved those candies called Circus Peanuts.  They are not anything like a real peanut.  They were kind of pinkish in color and were molded in the shape of a peanut.  My grandmother liked candied orange slices.  Whe went to town to pedal, you could pretty much count on him bring some candy home with him for his “sweetie”.

 

Dads

First off, I want you to know this is not a “poor pitiful me” story.  It is a statement of my observations and how I feel about them.

Yesterday was Father’s Day.  It was also our day to greet at church.  My husband and I have the pleasure of once a month standing at the doors of the sanctuary and greeting those of our community who come to church.  I have to say that I did get a little whistful watching all of the “little girls” coming in the church holding hands with or in the arms of their father.  Even in families with grown children, the girls seemed to gravitate towards their dads.  I wished each and every one of them a happy day and welcomed them to our church. Lakeforest.

All of us have a biological father that contributed the other half or our DNA to make us who we are.  Some of us had men that lived in the homes that were our “fathers” even if all they did to our upbringing was to contribute the DNA.  And, still others of us had daddies. 

I never got the chance to know my father well.  I was a little older than three when he died one night of a massive heart attack.  His passing left my mother with four young children to feed, clothe and look after with the chores of both parents on her shoulders.

My two older brothers knew Daddy better than I did.  I am sure they have plenty of memories of him.  I have a few myself.  I remember sitting on his lap and him poking me in the belly calling me pot belly.  (You know that shape all toddlers have.)  I remember riding on his shoulders.  I remember taking naps with him.  I actually thought that he would not sleep unless I laid down with him.   I remember one spanking he gave me for climbing the chest of drawers in search of gum.  (Probably why I don’t really like gum to this day.)  I also remember the night he died.  And, I vaguely remember them bringing him home in the casket.  I kept trying to wake him up.

I like to think the way that my two brothers love their own children somehow reflects how our father felt about us.  Both of my brothers love their children dearly.  They love children period!  Their own, however, take a very special place in their hearts.  I have seen both brother beam brightly at the accomplishments of their children.  I have seen them comfort and hold them when they were frightened or hurt.  I have seen them read stories with the children pressed snuggly to their sides.  All of this had to be learned from someone and I would like to think that their actions were garnered from how our father treated us.

I have a brother who turned out to be a Thoracic Surgeon.  I told him recently that I felt he became that type of surgeon so he could help prevent other little boys and girls from growing up without a father like we did.  My sister-in-law made a comment about that back to me.  She said that I might have him “pegged”.

Regardless.  my message here is just one thing.  If you have a Daddy, a real Daddy, I am not talking about someone who gave you life.  Daddies come in all shapes and sizes.  Some are biologically related to you and some are not.  Then appreciate them very much.  Honor them and let them know just how much you love them.

I can’t wait till I get to heaven and really, really get to know my very own Daddy.

Did You Ever?

The above is a question that can be answered simply with “DUH!”.  But, I neeed to vent and this is a perfect place to do it.  So, did you ever have one of “those” days?  No one ever has to define that “those” means.  And, I can pretty much say that even though all of our “those” might have some similarity, they are also very unique to the person to which “one of those days” has happened.

Generally, we can all agree that a “those” day is one in which nothing goes exactly as planned.  Or whether everything goes completely the opposite of what we would have liked.  Or things were beyond our immediate control and we just had to “ride it out”. 

I have had one of “those” days today.  It is just barely afternoon here and I am already frustrated by the chain of events that have already occured today.  I will not sit here and complain about every little thing that has happened so far today.  No one really wants to read about all of the misfortunes that have befallen me today.  Suffice to say that a great deal of the issues arose from driving somewhere this morning.  It was really a day when you wanted to have a sign to hand out to others that said “that’s right, I am stupid”.  (The Blue Collar Comedy Tour has a show with Bill Ingvall where he says “here’s your sign”.  If you havn’t seen it, you should.)

I will say I think that for me, ”those” days are little messages from God.  He is either trying to get me to pay attention to something He is trying to tell me or He is saying in an obvious way that I should just slow down and take the “bumps” in the road in stride.  It helps me to remember that others out there are also “Children of God”.  And, of course the sense of humor I was blessed with helps in so many way.  Later, I usually can laugh at all of the things that happen on one of “those” days.

Washers

Yesterday, I did something I had never done before.  I flooded my laundry room.  It was a mess!

I had decided to do some rather late Spring Cleaning.  So, I mopped the kitchen and the bathroom floors.  I also cleaned the wood floor in the den and the bedroom.

I decided to wash the bath mats.  Well, that was the beginning of the problem.  I put the three mats in the front loading washer.  I put in the detergent and went about my business. 

A little later, I went in to the laundry room to check on something and found the start/pause light on the display pannel blinking.  I pressed the button and the washer started up again.  I did not think anything much about it.  I thought maybe the machine had gotten out of kilter and had stopped itself.

Some time later, I went back in and found the light blinking again.  I did not even take a momen to think, I opened the door on the machine.  It was full of water!  Splash!  It all came out all over the floor.  The dog thought that it was wonderful!  He was right in the middle of it all aquiver.  I am trying to stem the flow, he is in front of the washer wondering why he did not know that it did such wonderous things as produce water that could stream out all over the floor.

When I got the mop out, he started chasing the mop back and forth trying to help me.  Or rather he was trying to stop the mop from cleaning up the water.  Why would I want to do that?  He was just beginning to have fun.  I am slipping and sliding.  He is slipping and sliding.  He is having fun.  I, on the other hand,  am not.  I first had to corral the dog.  He was not happy about that.  Although he wanted to stay and help, he went out to his pen. 

I finally got everything cleaed up.  Turns out one of the mats had disintegrated in the washing machine clogging everything up. There was little pieces of rubber backing everywhere.