During our travels R expressed the idea of having a mannequin couple sitting in our home, dressed, and appearing to read or watch television to give the impression we were at home when we would be in Maine or Michigan or north Mississippi. I thought his idea "crazy". However, when we visited a New Orleans eatery on Magazine Street, what should we see but a mannequin couple sitting in a show window eating! So there are many crazy ideas floating around concerning mannequins!
A recent example was printed in Sunday, August 19th issue of our local Clarion-Ledger. In the Family section is a story of a family who bought a mannequin. As the woman related, "Four years ago Larry wanted to know what I wanted for my birthday. I told him I wanted a mannequin for the dining room window." Sure enough, they found one on eBay. She stands in her latest fashions gleaned from second hand shops, and on holidays she is dressed appropriately. She has her own closet and a changing wardrobe of hair colors. She's been dressed as a pilgrim, a Saints cheerleader and has celebrated the key holidays in costume. What fun they must have!
Would R have dressed his couple more than once? I doubt it. But we have often found a use for a male mannequin: to sit in the back seat with a hat on to accompany daughter J on her trip west, to go with my sister and me to distant states, or just to be a "pal" to me when I'm driving around town. I can envision myself discussing ideas for essays, talking over problems, mulling suggestions for dinner (when I used to cook), or just "being there." And like a pet, there'd be no back talk. No back-seat driver. Ahh . . .
Since we didn't have a mannequin for J when she headed for Utah over 10 years ago, crossing the expanse of New Mexico, Dad did decide that she take a sweet potato, the kind that sort of looks like a gun, and put it in a holster. When she got out of the car for meals, she'd remove the potato to give the impression of anyone checking through the car's window, that she was totin'. Worked like a charm. She also put a hat above the back seat to make drivers behind her "think" she had a guy sleeping in the seat.
There's no way anyone can use sweet potatoes to mimic a couple playing Scrabble in the living room. I'd advise anyone needing "life" to appear in the home, buy a mannequin, dress it in comfortable clothes with a drink nearby and go!
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
Meeting Mr. Smith Part 2
He and I meet the following Saturday. The crowd has thinned
a bit; perhaps due to waning days of summer. Mr. Charles Smith is his cheery
self, waving to me across the long
expanse of the building. I hesitate to stop and buy a dozen eggs beforehand. I
know our business is more important. Today I’ll see the drafts of Mr.
Smith’s book he’s aptly named Gems of Love.
We greet each other with a hug this time. We are already
friends. First I inquire if he has any new paintings on display and he points
to a group to the left of him. Sure enough, examples totally different from the
figures and objects I’d seen the week before. This group gives examples not
unlike those of Jackson Pollock. The kind everyone thinks s/he can accomplish
by throwing paint from a brush and watching it land somewhere on the canvas. A
mishmash of colors. Yes, I definitely can identify with the blues and greens I
see. Surprisingly, Mr. S shows me the difference between these and the ones a short distance from where we stand. Double paintings. Turn either side and voila! another painting. The one
I select as my favorite shows beautiful blues and greens; the other side reds.
Again these were in his self-crafted frames.
Sitting down again, he tells me about the latest having
been shown at an exhibit a month before at the Architecture School located on
Capitol Street in Jackson. He pushes a brochure into my hands. He then begins
to explain about other public displays he’s had.
Finally, he settles down to show me his drafts. He pulls out
one from a boxy bag sitting beside his chair. He opens a well-worn manila envelope
and pulls a thick sheaf of papers. Good, not too much to edit. As I look over
the pages, well typed and paginated, another envelope is handed over. And
another. And another, until I’m managing six envelopes in my lap. As I open
each one I realize two hold examples of poetry written as greeting cards, all
folded in shapes he desires. The outside of each has some colorful drawing. I
call them greeting cards, and surely the greetings are different, rather passionate,
as though one person expresses his fondness for another, a deep longing for the
other. I’m struck by the thoughts, so
intimate and meaningful.
I’m overwhelmed at what I’ve been given. “Mr. Smith, I can’t
tell you when I can finish these. There is so much here.” I begin to feel I’ll
let him down with my braggadocious air of the week before. “You know I’ll be
teaching a class once a week for the fall . . .” The feeling of failure begins
to overwhelm me.
“I know that. Take it all. I trust you. When you can, look
at it and tell me what I need to do.”
With a smile, a load of manila envelopes clutched to my
chest, I leave hoping against hope that I can accomplish what I said I would
and make Mr. Charles Smith happy.
Sunday, August 12, 2012
Meeting Mr. Smith Part 1
He sits leisurely at one end of the building, his art work on tall stands surrounding him like a cloak. No one is taking more than a first glance at his work. I walk over, ever the one to dispense encouragement to those who display their crafts. Fishing for a compliment on his splotches of oils, I manage to say something like “What interesting work you have; I must admit I’m not in the market to buy, but I’m happy to see you surrounded by beautiful scenes.” I manage oftentimes to blubber words to cover my intention to look but not buy. I stroll from one piece to the other, thinking how much this man needs art guidance. My second thought crowds out the first: art lessons may ruin his creativity.
His expense
is in tubes of oil paints, as the thickness on the “canvas” is heavy. He uses
bare plywood cut in shapes. Still I recognize this man is using what he can
find to convey his sincere artistic self into these wild, colorful shapes. I
turn to him, standing now in front of his folding chair, grinning widely. He’s
tall, almost six feet on a thin frame clothed in a white shirt, a contrast to his dark skin. I introduce myself and he tells
me his name. One I’ll never forget: Charles E. Smith. I once knew another
Charles Smith, a journalism teacher in one of the schools where I had taught. Of
all the vendors in the Farmers’ Market downtown, this gentleman has no
competitors.
Mr. Smith tells me about his art shows and how he’s
sold “many, many paintings.” I once heard that an artist should never
indicate anything but optimism about the number of paintings or craft works
that he’s “sold.” I take him at his word. I glance again at the figures on the
boards. Perhaps because I 'm not an art critic; I can't tell if these depictions
from his mind were one day going to be owners’ prized possessions. Art is in the
eyes of the beholder.
This smiling man is quite willing to reveal himself, as we Southerners often do. I listen. “I’m 71 years old, and I expect to live a long time. For years I’ve had these ideas inside me needin' to get out.” He mentions having been ill some years ago and writing down his thoughts had been therapeutic, so “I kept on, writing a book, each chapter originally as nine separate little books based on the happiness I found,” and explaining his beliefs.
I nod and say, “I share writing with you. I
write short pieces about what I observe around me,” feeling less creative in the presence of this enthusiasm.
He then explains about his book. “It’s not complete, ‘cause I need someone to edit what I have.”
“Mr. Smith,
you have a better chance of getting your work published than I. There are many minority writers on the book market You may have something to offer the public.” He nods.
An idea strikes and I add, “I’ve done some editing in
the past of a few manuscripts. Let me take a look at yours.” I run through a
litany of what I’ll be looking for in his work: vivid words, sentence clarity,
punctuation, and deletion of unneeded wording. He smiles and agrees, bends down to
a bag next to his chair and pulls out a business card. “Here’s my card. Next
week I’ll bring my work to you.” I look down at the card and read
The
Birth Place of Living – Ideas
Mr.
Charles E. Smith
Artist,
Poet, Writer, Publisher
His outlook on life is on this card. I feel a
kinship with Mr. Smith and say aloud, “Mr. Smith, I’m so glad to have met you,
and I hope I can help you. I feel . . .” and he finishes my sentence, “the good
Lord led us to each other.”
Thursday, August 02, 2012
My Taste Change in Food
The other day in exercise class the new instructor asked around what favorite food each participant liked. Those aren't questions I care to answer. Why? Because my answer doesn't sound like that of a normal person. You see, down here in Mississippi hog jowl cooked in fresh summer veggies, cornbread, slice tomatoes, topped with some slice of fresh ham makes an ideal meal for some; others prefer steak and French Fries. If you are different you may be looked upon as strange.
When my turn came I took a deep breath and let it out: "I don't like to eat anymore.Nor do I like to cook." I didn't have to look around at the dozen pairs of eyes boring holes in my head. I went on to say food no longer held an appeal for me. I then explained my food source was usually a Smoothie. A fruit one or a combination of fruit and vegetables.
And, of course, I had to explain. How can I go without food? It's not the normal amount that others eat. I eat throughout the day tasting small snacks: peanut butter and banana; cheese and crackers; halves of pimento cheese sandwiches; small cans of tuna fish and soup; sushi are a few samples. Not chips, candy and pre-made peanut butter crackers. I still enjoy sweets, but I eat them rarely.
I attribute my lack of appetite to desiring to eat less bread and sweets, cutting down on salt, sodas, and those items on the food chain we all insist have to be a part of our daily diet. This change in my eating is supposed to help me live a long time. The point was to lose some weight--although no one has ever accused me of being overweight. But my dress size history zoomed from a Size 6 to a 12. Ok, so that occurred over the span of 50 years.
Then the case of the lazy cook came into view. I've always been an open-a-package-or-can-and-heat person, never learning the basics.How can a person cook if there's no desire? My husband somehow exempts me from my behavior--after all, he's saving a bit of money.He enjoys eating out --he eats and I watch, sipping ice water until he is satiated. Works fine for us and a half dozen neighbors who feel the same about cooking.
I'm waiting for an application to a contest to arrive in my mailbox urging me to write an essay on why I deserve a For-Life Prize of Healthy Snacks delivered to my door by a local restaurant of my choice. If you know of one, clue me in.
When my turn came I took a deep breath and let it out: "I don't like to eat anymore.Nor do I like to cook." I didn't have to look around at the dozen pairs of eyes boring holes in my head. I went on to say food no longer held an appeal for me. I then explained my food source was usually a Smoothie. A fruit one or a combination of fruit and vegetables.
And, of course, I had to explain. How can I go without food? It's not the normal amount that others eat. I eat throughout the day tasting small snacks: peanut butter and banana; cheese and crackers; halves of pimento cheese sandwiches; small cans of tuna fish and soup; sushi are a few samples. Not chips, candy and pre-made peanut butter crackers. I still enjoy sweets, but I eat them rarely.
I attribute my lack of appetite to desiring to eat less bread and sweets, cutting down on salt, sodas, and those items on the food chain we all insist have to be a part of our daily diet. This change in my eating is supposed to help me live a long time. The point was to lose some weight--although no one has ever accused me of being overweight. But my dress size history zoomed from a Size 6 to a 12. Ok, so that occurred over the span of 50 years.
Then the case of the lazy cook came into view. I've always been an open-a-package-or-can-and-heat person, never learning the basics.How can a person cook if there's no desire? My husband somehow exempts me from my behavior--after all, he's saving a bit of money.He enjoys eating out --he eats and I watch, sipping ice water until he is satiated. Works fine for us and a half dozen neighbors who feel the same about cooking.
I'm waiting for an application to a contest to arrive in my mailbox urging me to write an essay on why I deserve a For-Life Prize of Healthy Snacks delivered to my door by a local restaurant of my choice. If you know of one, clue me in.
Aging and Meds
Of all the pills I swallow each morning, I feel no better, stronger, braver, or more energetic. If I sleep 10 hours at night, I wake up, do a bit of housework and return to bed for a nap, be it 11 a.m. or 2 p.m. Those darn pills don't seem to be helping. Dr. Weill, whom I enjoy reading online, tells you need this for that and I add this but that seems to elude my face, my neck, my back or whatever.
I've given up sodas because a nurse said it weakens the bones; I've given up steak because chicken and fish are better; I've given up milk because its full of lactose; I've given up just about everything that "they" say is not good for you. I'm starving on crackers and almond milk, the chocolate kind.
Now, I'm seeing teeny lines dot my face. I'd hoped to have none for a few more years. So far I've not seen any wrinkles on the neck, but the arms - - my gosh, the arms look like corrugated cardboard! It's not fair for us to grow older and lose the few good parts of our body we've had so long. A doc told me this is the result of losing hormones. I would have honored and adored hormones in my lifetime if someone had told me they'd disappear, that I'd see and feel the results. If I only knew then, what I know now - - what a change in my lifestyle there would have been.
A number of years ago a program interviewed a man whose pills numbered over 100, the bottles line up on several shelves built for their display. He vowed these were all he needed to live a long, healthy life. I never remembered his name; don't know if he's still shakin' a leg.
Take good care of yourself. Don't get into the habit of taking OTC supplements and swallowing Rx meds any more than you have to.
I've given up sodas because a nurse said it weakens the bones; I've given up steak because chicken and fish are better; I've given up milk because its full of lactose; I've given up just about everything that "they" say is not good for you. I'm starving on crackers and almond milk, the chocolate kind.
Now, I'm seeing teeny lines dot my face. I'd hoped to have none for a few more years. So far I've not seen any wrinkles on the neck, but the arms - - my gosh, the arms look like corrugated cardboard! It's not fair for us to grow older and lose the few good parts of our body we've had so long. A doc told me this is the result of losing hormones. I would have honored and adored hormones in my lifetime if someone had told me they'd disappear, that I'd see and feel the results. If I only knew then, what I know now - - what a change in my lifestyle there would have been.
A number of years ago a program interviewed a man whose pills numbered over 100, the bottles line up on several shelves built for their display. He vowed these were all he needed to live a long, healthy life. I never remembered his name; don't know if he's still shakin' a leg.
Take good care of yourself. Don't get into the habit of taking OTC supplements and swallowing Rx meds any more than you have to.
Sunday, June 10, 2012
Movie Mania
I've spent a lot of time watching movies on Netflix. My favorites center around the British Isles and other European countries. I've been introduced to landscapes, customs, and characters so unlike those in our own movies. Perhaps the "characters" are more so, imperfect in appearance, but perfectly fitting to their role.
Many of you relished every episode of "Downtown Abbey" as the actors followed a script somewhat like the real English customs but a bit different. There are other movies that may not be as thrilling to watch, but just as easy to entertain as DA
Right now I'm watching Foyle's War, which covers the early years of WWII. Despite the created script, the story does hint at some of the problems the English faced when the war was raging around them, one neighbor after the other falling to the Nazis. One segment revealed the selfless acts of small boats who crossed the Channel to rescue the wounded soldiers, bringing home 15 to 20 at a time. There's always something about history revealed in each segment.
I've seen many investigators like Vera, DSI, of the series by the same name, whose cranky attitude disgruntles her office workers, much like some of our own bosses, but. despite her lack of personal skills, she solves crimes.Another female appears in The Commander and in Inspector Lynle, a handsome man who appears in many of the British series is this time solving crimes.
Again during WWII are good dramas Land Girls and Wish Me Luck. The former a story of British women who help their country by working on farms for a period of time and the latter about other British women who serve as spies in France. All played well by the actors. Again, you get a glimpse of landscape and hints of history of that time.
I've been on a WWII kick for months as you read this. I was 10 years old in 1942 and experienced the caution the U.S. took during that time. I like to be reminded of the efforts our citizens made to cooperate with the government during that war and how proud we were to help in our rationing, purchasing of war bonds, giving up precious foods so our boys could eat good meals. So many memories we citizens of that period still remember. Perhaps that is the real draw of these period movies the British continue to make.
The price I pay for watching these movies that are clean-cut and devoid of profanity is so little that I dislike going to the local movie theatre and paying a month's rent to Netflix for one movie that is recent. Perhaps that's the age in me, to enjoy a good story that doesn't embarrass me with scenes I'd prefer not seeing. I'm not being paid to tell you about these movies, I'm saying they are worth the $8 per month I willingly give for a good story.
Many of you relished every episode of "Downtown Abbey" as the actors followed a script somewhat like the real English customs but a bit different. There are other movies that may not be as thrilling to watch, but just as easy to entertain as DA
I've seen many investigators like Vera, DSI, of the series by the same name, whose cranky attitude disgruntles her office workers, much like some of our own bosses, but. despite her lack of personal skills, she solves crimes.Another female appears in The Commander and in Inspector Lynle, a handsome man who appears in many of the British series is this time solving crimes.
Again during WWII are good dramas Land Girls and Wish Me Luck. The former a story of British women who help their country by working on farms for a period of time and the latter about other British women who serve as spies in France. All played well by the actors. Again, you get a glimpse of landscape and hints of history of that time.
I've been on a WWII kick for months as you read this. I was 10 years old in 1942 and experienced the caution the U.S. took during that time. I like to be reminded of the efforts our citizens made to cooperate with the government during that war and how proud we were to help in our rationing, purchasing of war bonds, giving up precious foods so our boys could eat good meals. So many memories we citizens of that period still remember. Perhaps that is the real draw of these period movies the British continue to make.
The price I pay for watching these movies that are clean-cut and devoid of profanity is so little that I dislike going to the local movie theatre and paying a month's rent to Netflix for one movie that is recent. Perhaps that's the age in me, to enjoy a good story that doesn't embarrass me with scenes I'd prefer not seeing. I'm not being paid to tell you about these movies, I'm saying they are worth the $8 per month I willingly give for a good story.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Another Water Kettle
The above one had a whistle. No matter, it didn't work for me. I think the whistle burned at 90 degrees, for by the time I followed the odor trail I saw why. By then the kettle was sitting emanating 400 degrees, at least. Where was I? Trying to churn out an essay on the computer for a contest on Southern Sin . I was so caught up in my thinking that only when I began to breathe that stinking odor did I look around, take deep breaths around the printer and the computer, expecting one of them to blow up. Not until all was shut down did the odor continue. Now the house is drenched. The outside air is quiet from all the rain that has poured for two days so nothing will absorb or take away this foul smell. I can't hide the fact that another kettle is gone.
My weakness around the stove is turning a knob to HIGH, then walking off. Oh, I've burned foodstuffs that I was "warming".My explanation always to my husband is "My mind is so busy that I forgot". I zonk out when I'm writing, and leaving the stove unattended sounds like dementia. But I'm not suffering from old age, yet. I am not mindful of my responsibilities as a cook because I AM NOT A COOK. I'm NOT A WARMER, either. Maybe I should give up on water kettles and use the boiler. They are cheaper to replace.
Is my Southern Sin the failure to be honed as a cook?
Sunday, April 22, 2012
Writing the Lyric Essay
I found it time to enroll in a writing class at the local college. I've dabbled in fiction, trying to describe, plot, structure paragraphs, detail characters, all those points known authors push at writing conferences. However, I actually like to write about the history as it progressed from my 1930's birthday to the present. Little points, like the clothes I wore, music I enjoyed, fun I had in high school (there wasn't much but movies and listening to radios, in the home or with friends). All those memories will appear ancient to my grandson when he is a teen. For this reason I'm taking a non-fiction class to better spiff up my writing.
I've rarely explored the different kinds of non-fiction beyond the memoir, but Monday night I'm delving into my first attempt at writing a lyric essay. It's sort of poetic, much imagery (which is difficult for me), and seemingly disjointed paragraphs with the same theme.
As much as I dislike seeing snakes, I wrote my first lyric essay on that subject. I have a number of snake "snapshots", little bits of remembrances that I want to put into words. For example"
I've rarely explored the different kinds of non-fiction beyond the memoir, but Monday night I'm delving into my first attempt at writing a lyric essay. It's sort of poetic, much imagery (which is difficult for me), and seemingly disjointed paragraphs with the same theme.
As much as I dislike seeing snakes, I wrote my first lyric essay on that subject. I have a number of snake "snapshots", little bits of remembrances that I want to put into words. For example"
Mother once
told me at age eight her older brothers had thrown a snake at her feet after
they killed the creature. That, despite it being dead, coiled around her
ankles. From then on she never wanted to see a photograph or drawing of snakes.
Later with a family, she depended on us to hide the reptiles with a sheet of
paper the photos.
My sister and I spent most of our teen life at home perusing magazines and newspapers to find snakes and either cover them up or write on the cover: "Skip Page 12". No explanation was needed. Mother either didn't read that periodical or she skipped page 12. We thought it funny (ha ha funny) for Mother to have such a phobia, despite her telling us the above story. Perhaps we thought by making light of the subject Mother would understand she'd never if rarely ever see another snake. She worked in the city and Dad worked the yard on weekends. Unless one hooked itself to the underside of the family car or slithered inside the house unannounced, Mother had nothing to worry about.
She didn't mind my purchasing a pair of snakeskin shoes with my first salary. The pair didn't remind her of snakes. It was the reptiles in sight that scared her. A trip to the zoo didn't include a pass by the reptile exhibit. Somehow I caught that phobia and had difficult looking at a snake in my maturing life.
When our local newspaper printed the photos of the most common poisonous snakes in our state, I made myself look at them. We have a wooded area behind our house and I've always been leery of traipsing into the brush, or getting close to the edge of the yard. I need to know what to expect.
I want to remember the herpetologist's advice upon seeing a poisonous snake: "Ignore the snake, walk slowly back from it." I imagine I'll stand in place with my eyes closed trying to remember what he said.
Wednesday, April 04, 2012
Memories
I boast daily that I wish to live until I'm 140 years. Those within hearing distance smile, cluck their tongues, or peer sideways as though someone else may be listening. My reasoning is to accomplish all the ideas I have to rushing through my mind. I worked without enjoying life for 30 years. Now with retirement long past, I work to enjoy my life. One of those ideas I work on is recording my memories on paper.
Being a kid who was born in the early 1930s and learned about the world around me in the 1940s, and got educated and dated boys in the 1950s, I have many experiences about my family and those who came before me, the summers I spent in the rural areas of Mississippi, and the funny happenings within my own family.
Now with grandson Henry in the picture, the urge to write almost overcomes my waking moments. What will he have to remember "Veve" with but reams of paper snapped up in a series of notebooks that reveal all these wonderful years of my life?
Time. It seems to stand still when the day begins, then leaks slowly out of my life and darkness arrives too quickly. I hold that brief snapshot that jumped into the mind's eye until the next morning. When I drive any distance, memories flood the car's interior and I'm living in the past for an instant while trying to keep my distance from the car that stops suddenly in front of me.
When the above photo was snapped in the back yard of an early home, I had no idea at age seven what I'd be thinking or doing fifty years later. Fortunately, I'm active, exercise, and have fun with friends. Why not want to live 140 years?
Being a kid who was born in the early 1930s and learned about the world around me in the 1940s, and got educated and dated boys in the 1950s, I have many experiences about my family and those who came before me, the summers I spent in the rural areas of Mississippi, and the funny happenings within my own family.
Now with grandson Henry in the picture, the urge to write almost overcomes my waking moments. What will he have to remember "Veve" with but reams of paper snapped up in a series of notebooks that reveal all these wonderful years of my life?
Time. It seems to stand still when the day begins, then leaks slowly out of my life and darkness arrives too quickly. I hold that brief snapshot that jumped into the mind's eye until the next morning. When I drive any distance, memories flood the car's interior and I'm living in the past for an instant while trying to keep my distance from the car that stops suddenly in front of me.
Friday, March 23, 2012
Check This Link
I'm not one to brag, except on certain occasions. Our family is quite proud that one son's creativity (Scott Newkirk) is now published in a book called Handmade Houses: A Century of Earth Friendly Home Design. The link below is the article that ran in the Wall Street Journal, March 17 issue concerning the book. Son's property, now sold, is the featured hand made house. Hats off to Scott and to his loyal builder, Craig Petracek of NY, whose creative juices aligned with Scott's and flowed throughout the process.
The book is filled with gorgeous homes both architect-insprired and owner-creator inspired. A good read for tempting one to build with recycled materials.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052702304692804577281560861340968.html?mod=WSJ_LifeStyle_Lifestyle_5
The book is filled with gorgeous homes both architect-insprired and owner-creator inspired. A good read for tempting one to build with recycled materials.
http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052702304692804577281560861340968.html?mod=WSJ_LifeStyle_Lifestyle_5
Spring
A quick trip to Bath, Maine, a few weeks ago reminded me how dry the air was (my hair would not behave!) and how cold it was. I thought I prepared for the change in weather. Back home in Mississippi I was already into lighter clothing. My body shook from the quick change an airplane ride can affect you. I could only remember the prettiest site in our yard before I left:
The Mississippi landscape was just stretching from its short winter nap and the natives were treated to an array of blooms from daffodils, crocus, Bradford pear trees, and the Japanese magnolias. When I returned to the familiar scene the trees had bloomed into that lime green that denotes new growth, the limbs of the greybeard trees were prancing in the breeze and the azaleas were at their height of blossoming. What a lovely sight.
We arrived in a thunderstorm. The next morning the heavy remains of pelting rain lay on the trees, soaked into the soil, giving off a glow that is incomparable. That scene reminded my daughter J how much she missed this time of year. Maine's springs and summers are ever so short. Everyone sees in his own surroundings the reminders of the wonders of nature and how appreciative animals and humans are that spring has arrived.
The Mississippi landscape was just stretching from its short winter nap and the natives were treated to an array of blooms from daffodils, crocus, Bradford pear trees, and the Japanese magnolias. When I returned to the familiar scene the trees had bloomed into that lime green that denotes new growth, the limbs of the greybeard trees were prancing in the breeze and the azaleas were at their height of blossoming. What a lovely sight.
We arrived in a thunderstorm. The next morning the heavy remains of pelting rain lay on the trees, soaked into the soil, giving off a glow that is incomparable. That scene reminded my daughter J how much she missed this time of year. Maine's springs and summers are ever so short. Everyone sees in his own surroundings the reminders of the wonders of nature and how appreciative animals and humans are that spring has arrived.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Those Crazy Techs
How often have you had to call a tech to help you with your computer, your phone, or some other electronic device? You remember how frustrating it was attempting to (1 )understand his English or (2) making him understand your problem. Needless to say, you spend numerous hours with him/her getting nowhere with your broken device. Recall the commercial about a person calling for help and getting someone in Siberia? Sometimes it seems we've called the wrong number. The foreign voice answering to Sally, Frank, or Betty doesn't fool us for a moment. I'd rather they use their regular names, even if unpronounceable.
I heard the funniest the other day during exercise class. Yes, we sometimes chat, as the class is composed of older ladies doing what seems to appear "easy" exercises. The true story goes like this:
The exerciser remarked that her husband while working in the yard accidentally cut in two the cable to their television. She immediately called the cable company's tech:
"Hello, this is Buddy, how can I help you?"
"Uh, Buddy, my husband cut the cable and our TV won't work."
"Oh, I see, just a moment, please." A second or two passes and he returns to the phone.
"Let me review your problem; you have no TV working?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Let me walk you through the process of restoring your TV."
"But, uh, Buddy, the cable is cut, I don't think . . ."
"Yes, I understand, but I will walk you through the process."
"Buddy, listen. The. Cable. Is. Cut. Someone needs to repair the cable."
I understand, but if you will just let me walk you through the process . . ."
There seems to be no way we can avoid talking to techs who don't understand our problems. Yes, I admit some are successful in helping you. My biggest obstacle is my southern accent. One tech hung up on me because I couldn't understand his speech nor he mine. I can't speak into the phone giving any information like telephone number, address, or similar facts, since the automated system will constantly say, "I don't understand the answer." Even speaking slowly seems to muddle the airwaves.
Automation, foreign speakers, directions written in English by non-English speakers are just a few difficulties we face in our daily lives since American companies hired overseas personnel. Do you wonder the laughs and the stories those techs in Pakistan, the Phillippines, India, and other countries tell to their friends about their encounters with Americans?
I heard the funniest the other day during exercise class. Yes, we sometimes chat, as the class is composed of older ladies doing what seems to appear "easy" exercises. The true story goes like this:
The exerciser remarked that her husband while working in the yard accidentally cut in two the cable to their television. She immediately called the cable company's tech:
"Hello, this is Buddy, how can I help you?"
"Uh, Buddy, my husband cut the cable and our TV won't work."
"Oh, I see, just a moment, please." A second or two passes and he returns to the phone.
"Let me review your problem; you have no TV working?"
"Yes, that's correct."
"Let me walk you through the process of restoring your TV."
"But, uh, Buddy, the cable is cut, I don't think . . ."
"Yes, I understand, but I will walk you through the process."
"Buddy, listen. The. Cable. Is. Cut. Someone needs to repair the cable."
I understand, but if you will just let me walk you through the process . . ."
There seems to be no way we can avoid talking to techs who don't understand our problems. Yes, I admit some are successful in helping you. My biggest obstacle is my southern accent. One tech hung up on me because I couldn't understand his speech nor he mine. I can't speak into the phone giving any information like telephone number, address, or similar facts, since the automated system will constantly say, "I don't understand the answer." Even speaking slowly seems to muddle the airwaves.
Automation, foreign speakers, directions written in English by non-English speakers are just a few difficulties we face in our daily lives since American companies hired overseas personnel. Do you wonder the laughs and the stories those techs in Pakistan, the Phillippines, India, and other countries tell to their friends about their encounters with Americans?
Thursday, January 05, 2012
Reminiscing about Drama
I was caught
in a crowd of automobiles yesterday entering Madison, but the slow-down allowed
me to pause in front of the old elementary school building. It now houses the
arts center. I paused a moment to read the lighted sign in the front yard announcing
a drama group’s audition for the play “Ramona”. That prompted me to recollect
my own entrance into dramatics.
During a
session in North Carolina at two-month summer camp dramatics was offered as a
fun course. At age 14 I decided my timid
ways needed to be injected with some energy that would bring me out of my
shell. I auditioned for several summer plays. I loved it and showed a flair for
improvising. I recall only one play in which I played the lead: “The Ghost in
the Green Gown.”
If you
remember the plays in your high school, those silly ones that required the
entire senior class on stage at one time or another, “Ghost” was just as silly,
but required only 6 participants. I was the ghost with more lines to speak than
anyone. During that play when the other players forgot their lines, I incorporated
the missing lines in my speech to cover their forgetfulness.
Armed with
summer success, I began participating in high school and junior college. By
then we dropped the name dramatics to
drama. I continued participating in senior
college. When I became a teacher I took on the responsibility of being drama
sponsor in small schools.
When I
married we joined the local Little Theatre (now called New Stage) and helped
backstage with what I had learned in college – makeup. I had become pretty adept
in the basics of stage makeup. But the
love of the stage beckoned me. I auditioned for “The Man Who Came to Dinner”
and got a good spot as the maid. I worked
one summer under a visiting director and learned more than I ever expected. By
then I had a heavy load teaching and unable to audition for any more plays.
With new family responsibilities drama dropped low on my priority list. I’m
still haunted by the fact that I no longer have the stamina to learn lines,
practice nightly long hours, and deliver them satisfactorily.
However, news of auditions for plays, like the one on the signboard I saw yesterday, tugs at my heart. It gives me a chance to reminisce of fun times being someone else.
However, news of auditions for plays, like the one on the signboard I saw yesterday, tugs at my heart. It gives me a chance to reminisce of fun times being someone else.
Monday, December 26, 2011
Appreciation at Christmas
Christmas Day this year had a special meaning. Our grandson
at age 15 months brought the wonderment of a child in the same way that Baby Jesus
awed the shepherds and the Wise Men. Our lives alone were becoming meaningless
until Henry came along. You who are grandparents already know and understand
the meaning of a new generation with your own grandchildren.
This year watching our child imbued with enthusiasm in the simple joy of smiling when he recognizes his family, or when he runs to one to be picked up and loved a quick minute, trying out his new shoes, learning new movements with a play slide, or holding up a new book to be read for a minute—all these actions of discovery is what every grandparent should experience. We thank our son and his family for making our Christmas one of those we remember fifty years ago when he was the same age.
This year watching our child imbued with enthusiasm in the simple joy of smiling when he recognizes his family, or when he runs to one to be picked up and loved a quick minute, trying out his new shoes, learning new movements with a play slide, or holding up a new book to be read for a minute—all these actions of discovery is what every grandparent should experience. We thank our son and his family for making our Christmas one of those we remember fifty years ago when he was the same age.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
I Remember the Earthquake
Reuters has reported that Mexico has been hit by another earthquake, measuring 6.7 felt in the capital city of Mexico, D. F. and emanating from the Acapulco area. There several people were killed, but none in the capital.
The report stated that none have been reported since 1985. Then thousands were killed and parts of D. F. were damaged.
That same year of 1985 I was in the capital with two other adult women and 35 high school students of Spanish. Before we left for the educational trip, rumbles had been detected in the very area we'd be visiting, and I reviewed safety measures in case I needed them. Our second night at the Isabel Hotel near Chapultepec Park where we were staying we all went to bed before midnight (except most kids, of course). About 2 a.m. I began feeling an undulation in bed and hearing the tinkle of glass breaking in the bathroom. I had gone to bed with my clothes on that night in fear of a big rumble. Immediately I arose and went down the hall knocking on doors of the students and helping hurry down the narrow stairs those who were up and ready.
We all gathered in the main lobby, occupying all seats and many on the floor, waiting for the aftershocks. One couple came hurrying down rather late and to our surprise were wrapped in bedsheets. We knew they'd been rumbling long before the actual rumble set in. Remarkedly, the hotel was spared of any serious damage. A plate glass window broke, and nothing more. By the time we returned to our rooms the clock read 4 a.m. By then I recognized we had only half of the student group with us. When we got up the next morning we teachers met the students and discovered those who were staying up all night in each other's rooms stayed right there. It was difficult to judge whether they chose the right decision. I envisioned the upstairs crumbling onto the lobby. But it didn't. I discovered I never became afraid; there were the students' welfare to think of.
The following day we roamed around town, tripping over concrete sidewalks that had broken and protruded upwards, as well as buildings that had moved forward towards the street some few feet. Workers who had managed to return that day were standing near the windows of those misshapen buildings, unaware that their weight could easily weaken further the old buildings.
Fortunately we were not headed further south to Cuernavaca and Acapulco, but remained in the capital for the remainder of five days. We were fortunate that when we were ready to return on the plane, air traffic and motor traffic had been reduced. We returned home but not before everyone in the Jackson, MS area had read the local papers. Twice as many relatives and friends greeted us upon arrival home. It was good to be home.
The report stated that none have been reported since 1985. Then thousands were killed and parts of D. F. were damaged.
That same year of 1985 I was in the capital with two other adult women and 35 high school students of Spanish. Before we left for the educational trip, rumbles had been detected in the very area we'd be visiting, and I reviewed safety measures in case I needed them. Our second night at the Isabel Hotel near Chapultepec Park where we were staying we all went to bed before midnight (except most kids, of course). About 2 a.m. I began feeling an undulation in bed and hearing the tinkle of glass breaking in the bathroom. I had gone to bed with my clothes on that night in fear of a big rumble. Immediately I arose and went down the hall knocking on doors of the students and helping hurry down the narrow stairs those who were up and ready.
We all gathered in the main lobby, occupying all seats and many on the floor, waiting for the aftershocks. One couple came hurrying down rather late and to our surprise were wrapped in bedsheets. We knew they'd been rumbling long before the actual rumble set in. Remarkedly, the hotel was spared of any serious damage. A plate glass window broke, and nothing more. By the time we returned to our rooms the clock read 4 a.m. By then I recognized we had only half of the student group with us. When we got up the next morning we teachers met the students and discovered those who were staying up all night in each other's rooms stayed right there. It was difficult to judge whether they chose the right decision. I envisioned the upstairs crumbling onto the lobby. But it didn't. I discovered I never became afraid; there were the students' welfare to think of.
The following day we roamed around town, tripping over concrete sidewalks that had broken and protruded upwards, as well as buildings that had moved forward towards the street some few feet. Workers who had managed to return that day were standing near the windows of those misshapen buildings, unaware that their weight could easily weaken further the old buildings.
Fortunately we were not headed further south to Cuernavaca and Acapulco, but remained in the capital for the remainder of five days. We were fortunate that when we were ready to return on the plane, air traffic and motor traffic had been reduced. We returned home but not before everyone in the Jackson, MS area had read the local papers. Twice as many relatives and friends greeted us upon arrival home. It was good to be home.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Youngsters Driving
Yikes! two kids driving cars and their parents put in jail. Down here in the South kids big enough to reach the pedals while sitting on a stack of magazines to gaze between the steering wheel have been driving for eons. My cousin from South Mississippi was driving by age nine and doing it quite well. Of course, these country kids didn't drive tractors or trailer-trucks, but their dads' 150's and 250's with aplomb. Who to disagree? They could maneuver through those dirt and gravel roads like race car drivers. Getting their licenses came about age 15 for sons of farmers; age 18 for the rest of us.
City folks like me used public transportation. The only drawback was dating with no car. Again girls met guys in town at the local movie, each riding separate buses to the locale. After a soda or malt near the movie theater, it was time to separate and go each's way on the bus. I recall in the eleventh grade how my boyfriend and I had to double date with an older guy and his date because he was 18 and eligible for a license. Many of you remember no kid owned a car in high school.
Seems the parents of the kids who drove to the gas station and to school could have used a bit of sense, found some back roads on a weekend and let the little guys drive to their hearts' content. Apparently that wouldn't have satisfied these kids--there'd be no one to see them behind the wheel.
The photo above is not what you think. Our daughter at age eight did not drive our VW. She felt like she was when she posed inside. A closer look and you'll see it was ready for the junk pile. Her dad had been hit by a van on his way to work. (He's still living) The front end and the windshield were goodby joe. This is the only photo we have of our dear ole' VW.
Later when she and the boys needed lessons, we went to a large parking lot where they drove circles until dizzy. Our biggest problem was learning to change tires. One son read the directions, one got the tools out of the car, daughter cheered while I tried to loosen lugs. Ah those days are forgotten whenever they jump into the driver's seat.
City folks like me used public transportation. The only drawback was dating with no car. Again girls met guys in town at the local movie, each riding separate buses to the locale. After a soda or malt near the movie theater, it was time to separate and go each's way on the bus. I recall in the eleventh grade how my boyfriend and I had to double date with an older guy and his date because he was 18 and eligible for a license. Many of you remember no kid owned a car in high school.
Seems the parents of the kids who drove to the gas station and to school could have used a bit of sense, found some back roads on a weekend and let the little guys drive to their hearts' content. Apparently that wouldn't have satisfied these kids--there'd be no one to see them behind the wheel.
The photo above is not what you think. Our daughter at age eight did not drive our VW. She felt like she was when she posed inside. A closer look and you'll see it was ready for the junk pile. Her dad had been hit by a van on his way to work. (He's still living) The front end and the windshield were goodby joe. This is the only photo we have of our dear ole' VW.
Later when she and the boys needed lessons, we went to a large parking lot where they drove circles until dizzy. Our biggest problem was learning to change tires. One son read the directions, one got the tools out of the car, daughter cheered while I tried to loosen lugs. Ah those days are forgotten whenever they jump into the driver's seat.
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Aging
I sat in the surgical lab waiting to give a blood sample. When the nurse handed me a vial upon which she affixed a label, she said, "Can you read that?" I thought she meant was it legible, and I answered,after reading the vital info, "Well, I sure can, but I wish you'd leave the age out. I feel 50 but the truth lies on that label." She began to quote a verse from Psalms (only in the South does this happen) about taking what you have and doing something with it. I told her my goal was to reach 140. She laughed, then said "That's possible. My grandmother died when she was 105, my father when he was 95, you just might get close." She rambled on. "I don't understand why retired people just sit around moaning they have nothing to do. They even die early out of boredom." I assured her I didn't let boredom enter my door.
The idea of dying creeps into my life occasionally, just a flit of a reminder of the number of folks who pass away in the seventies of their lives. I don't feel nor think I look "old". Anyway, I've reminded my God that He can't take me until I've cleaned up the house and given away all the accumulation that crowds my space.
Last year I embarked on the journey to contact all those friends I made from elementary to high school to thank them for being in my life. Unfortunately, so many had passed away or moved away and out of the phone books. I did find two teens of that time who shared the love of Civil Air Patrol. an Air Force auxiliary for teens. We spent two weeks at an encampment learning the fundamentals of army life. We girls wanted to be a part of the armed forces, but in our time that was not the pick of young women. We were born too early. Fortunately, the young woman in Ohio and I are still emailing. They young man I found in South Carolina, a happy changed person from the one I once knew. He reminded me of my mother's generosity in helping him once with lunch money while he was attending college. I had been corresponding with him during our college days. That phone call and subsequent emails brightened my time spent in locating them.
Next, I found in a high school scrapbook the newspaper article of an outstanding high school basketball player. I knew him to have joined the Navy and left Mississippi, only to return later in life. His picture was snapped at a community center for seniors. I called a number I hoped was his and found him at home. He was delighted to know I had the article highlighting his basketball days. Dropping that into the mail was the third move.
The last person I found lived on the Gulf Coast. I had a snapshot of him standing in front of a ten on maneuvers while in the Army. I mentioned in the phone call who I was (I remembered him quite clearly, but he wasn't sure of me) and said I had the snapshot. He was delighted, as several hurricanes had wiped out all his precious mementos. Sending that to him completed my fourth contact.
In each case I remembered something nice about the person and thanked them for coming into my life. Of course, I knew that many of them are still wondering who that woman was who called, but within myself I had started the ball rolling. Sadly, I've not found enough people to whom to show appreciation. I'm still working on that project.
I missed my teachers who have all passed away. I should switch my legs for waiting so long to tell them how much I appreciated the little things they did for students in their time. Perhaps one day they'll find out.
The idea of dying creeps into my life occasionally, just a flit of a reminder of the number of folks who pass away in the seventies of their lives. I don't feel nor think I look "old". Anyway, I've reminded my God that He can't take me until I've cleaned up the house and given away all the accumulation that crowds my space.
Last year I embarked on the journey to contact all those friends I made from elementary to high school to thank them for being in my life. Unfortunately, so many had passed away or moved away and out of the phone books. I did find two teens of that time who shared the love of Civil Air Patrol. an Air Force auxiliary for teens. We spent two weeks at an encampment learning the fundamentals of army life. We girls wanted to be a part of the armed forces, but in our time that was not the pick of young women. We were born too early. Fortunately, the young woman in Ohio and I are still emailing. They young man I found in South Carolina, a happy changed person from the one I once knew. He reminded me of my mother's generosity in helping him once with lunch money while he was attending college. I had been corresponding with him during our college days. That phone call and subsequent emails brightened my time spent in locating them.
Next, I found in a high school scrapbook the newspaper article of an outstanding high school basketball player. I knew him to have joined the Navy and left Mississippi, only to return later in life. His picture was snapped at a community center for seniors. I called a number I hoped was his and found him at home. He was delighted to know I had the article highlighting his basketball days. Dropping that into the mail was the third move.
The last person I found lived on the Gulf Coast. I had a snapshot of him standing in front of a ten on maneuvers while in the Army. I mentioned in the phone call who I was (I remembered him quite clearly, but he wasn't sure of me) and said I had the snapshot. He was delighted, as several hurricanes had wiped out all his precious mementos. Sending that to him completed my fourth contact.
In each case I remembered something nice about the person and thanked them for coming into my life. Of course, I knew that many of them are still wondering who that woman was who called, but within myself I had started the ball rolling. Sadly, I've not found enough people to whom to show appreciation. I'm still working on that project.
I missed my teachers who have all passed away. I should switch my legs for waiting so long to tell them how much I appreciated the little things they did for students in their time. Perhaps one day they'll find out.
Monday, October 03, 2011
Searching Through the Past
I've sailed through past families in my journey through ancestry-land, but I've never been so stumped as I am with aspects of the Mitchell families of Louisiana and Mississippi. I've even encountered other "cousins" who send me information that still mystifies me. Why did these old folks make discovering their lives so difficult? Unlike the East and Southern states like Virginia, Maryland, and North Carolina, there was a time that family name meant something and their lineage was written down.
You can gag at the idea of families wanting to record their lineage for posterity, but it's greater than you think. I am part of their posterity. But as many families journeyed southward to Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee the importance of who they came from weakened. I recall my still-active aunt telling me that when she was attempting to write down her family's history the standard reply was, "We weren't important." Ah, but keeping the chain going is what 's important. They were thinking of the then--a time they weren't interested in knowing, not the now when one and two generations want to connect.
One of my Mitchell "cousins" is as mystified as I about the connections of this Mitchell with that Mitchell. Together we are trying to piece together other people's lines where dates and connections to people have taken a side road from ours. This is where we realize that we should have started this trip some 20 years ago, not wait until we retired and needed something to keep us busy as we age. No, we knew we could only scratch the surface, but a few generations back was better than none.
My plan was to find a few generations of relatives. I was pretty ignorant of family ties. I had in mind four families -- two from each of my and my husband's lineage. But those lines developed into additional lines--this person marrying into that family and having 15 kids (no fooling!) who bear the same surname as I and before I knew it the families were multiplying as fast as rabbits. There's no such thing as pulling out six people and their families. The number is more like 1,006 or 10,006.
One point about searching for your long, lost relative -- it is as exciting as a fox hunt. Only you as the hound is seeking anything hidden anywhere that verifies relationships. the thousands of pieces of paper microfilmed of marriage and birth certificates, federal censuses, biographical listings, preserved family histories begun in the 1800's or earlier, DAR applications, countless lists of army enlistees of the various wars, to name a few. You have to know where to look. What helps is finding photos, traipsing through old cemeteries to snap that particular headstone or the old home place and collecting from relatives their photos and sources like birth certificates to lend you for scanning. Then there are the endess number of people you meet who have seen your line and want to know if you have information about a similar relative 200 years back.
All of this makes for an exciting day when the temperature is too hot or too cold or too miserable. Searching can occur when you are bored with television, tired of cleaning house, or have finished the dinner dishes. I've been known to follow a line as late as 3 p.m. when I couldn't let go of the keys because I'd discovered a relative.
There's no way life gets weary for a family researcher. Trust me. I know from experience.
You can gag at the idea of families wanting to record their lineage for posterity, but it's greater than you think. I am part of their posterity. But as many families journeyed southward to Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Tennessee the importance of who they came from weakened. I recall my still-active aunt telling me that when she was attempting to write down her family's history the standard reply was, "We weren't important." Ah, but keeping the chain going is what 's important. They were thinking of the then--a time they weren't interested in knowing, not the now when one and two generations want to connect.
One of my Mitchell "cousins" is as mystified as I about the connections of this Mitchell with that Mitchell. Together we are trying to piece together other people's lines where dates and connections to people have taken a side road from ours. This is where we realize that we should have started this trip some 20 years ago, not wait until we retired and needed something to keep us busy as we age. No, we knew we could only scratch the surface, but a few generations back was better than none.
My plan was to find a few generations of relatives. I was pretty ignorant of family ties. I had in mind four families -- two from each of my and my husband's lineage. But those lines developed into additional lines--this person marrying into that family and having 15 kids (no fooling!) who bear the same surname as I and before I knew it the families were multiplying as fast as rabbits. There's no such thing as pulling out six people and their families. The number is more like 1,006 or 10,006.
One point about searching for your long, lost relative -- it is as exciting as a fox hunt. Only you as the hound is seeking anything hidden anywhere that verifies relationships. the thousands of pieces of paper microfilmed of marriage and birth certificates, federal censuses, biographical listings, preserved family histories begun in the 1800's or earlier, DAR applications, countless lists of army enlistees of the various wars, to name a few. You have to know where to look. What helps is finding photos, traipsing through old cemeteries to snap that particular headstone or the old home place and collecting from relatives their photos and sources like birth certificates to lend you for scanning. Then there are the endess number of people you meet who have seen your line and want to know if you have information about a similar relative 200 years back.
All of this makes for an exciting day when the temperature is too hot or too cold or too miserable. Searching can occur when you are bored with television, tired of cleaning house, or have finished the dinner dishes. I've been known to follow a line as late as 3 p.m. when I couldn't let go of the keys because I'd discovered a relative.
There's no way life gets weary for a family researcher. Trust me. I know from experience.
Friday, September 16, 2011
We Have Maids Still
The big hoop-la about the movie and book The Help has created a hush-hush attitude about our hiring help for the home. True, all of the women in the book/film were wealthy and in some kind of need for a second hand --BUT they do not represent all of the Jackson and Mississippi women from the 1960's to present. I lived a few blocks from Brent's Drugs in an area we call Fondren and I had a maid. If the word those days had been "housekeeper" we would have used that word, but we had always called our help "maids". My story is similar to many women who tried to understand and help the plight of the black maid.
I worked as well as my husband and we had kids aged 7, 6 and 3. Edna was hired to take care of them, see the boys got to school and home safely, and take care of the youngest. She and the youngest were at home, so they ate lunch together, took walks and oftentimes waited at the school for the boys. She had her own two at home under the guidance of her sister. I think we paid her $25 a week then; that was just about what I made teaching school. We picked her up and took her home daily. She wore a uniform at her choice. She sat in the front seat with us when either of us drove her home. She used our bathroom.
When civil strife broke out we never thought to discuss it with her. Despite the Rabbi's home being bombed two blocks from us and despite the roaring headlines in the newspapers reviewing the actions of the previous day -- our lives with Edna went unspoiled. She didn't talk about the happenings nor did we. Mainly because we were only with her the 15 minutes' drive to her home.During those twice-travels we were either anxious to get to work or anxious to return home for supper. She had her weekends free.
One day shortly after she'd worked a few months, I asked Edna if she were on social security. She didn't know about it. I went to the SS office and picked up the papers, filled them out, explained to Edna what this was, and she signed the papers.
Edna Gill was a huge woman, clean, and loveable. She was quiet and rarely conversed with us outside home matters. We respected her. We loved her and distressed to give her up after four years.We moved to another town and couldn't arrange transportation for her. I put an ad in the paper for" a good home for our maid." I interviewed three women who were looking for more than what Edna's responsibility had been with us. I balked and refused to give her up to them. A week or so after the ad had run its course, a woman called . She came to our home and we talked. She seemed genuine in understanding that she was to treat Edna fairly, provide her transportation, keep up her social security, and if for some reason she couldn't employ Edna in the future, carefully select Edna's next boss. Edna worked for this woman about two years.
Several years later we visited Edna's house one weekend to see how she was doing, expecting her to still be working for our replacement. No, she stated, she was now working for the state. She was a caretaker for babies with health deficiencies, working nights. My replacement had found Edna a job with a retirement. We were overjoyed. She was "set for life".
One Christmas the family took holiday fixin's to Edna and her son, only to find Edna retired, living off her pension and social security. She was suffering from diabetes. In the course of conversation she thanked us and for her replacement. Together we had put her on the right track for retirement. She died five years later.
Our family is typical middle-class, among the many who hire a maid for various reasons. Right now in my subdivision I see maids picking up the mail, sweeping porches, and whatever they do inside is probably clean house. The few black women who advertise by handbills or advertisements now charge $50 an hour, some requiring at least two hours' work. These black maids now have competition from white women. This has become a business, not a helter-skelter hiring and firing. We have 40% of our population black and many uneducated, disinterested in education (age, perhaps) and housecleaning is their only experience. I see maids driving older women to appointments, helping with grocery shopping, and many are hired by companies as companions to the elderly. Clearly we have plenty of black women who need work, unlike other sections of the country.
If you have difficulty understanding our use of help in the Deep South, think of the Latino or German or Swedish maids in your hotels and the myriad of workers in the restaurants where you eat, stores where you shop, parks that are kept clean --you'll find an equivalent of our black maids there, and then -- maybe, you'll understand.
I worked as well as my husband and we had kids aged 7, 6 and 3. Edna was hired to take care of them, see the boys got to school and home safely, and take care of the youngest. She and the youngest were at home, so they ate lunch together, took walks and oftentimes waited at the school for the boys. She had her own two at home under the guidance of her sister. I think we paid her $25 a week then; that was just about what I made teaching school. We picked her up and took her home daily. She wore a uniform at her choice. She sat in the front seat with us when either of us drove her home. She used our bathroom.
When civil strife broke out we never thought to discuss it with her. Despite the Rabbi's home being bombed two blocks from us and despite the roaring headlines in the newspapers reviewing the actions of the previous day -- our lives with Edna went unspoiled. She didn't talk about the happenings nor did we. Mainly because we were only with her the 15 minutes' drive to her home.During those twice-travels we were either anxious to get to work or anxious to return home for supper. She had her weekends free.
One day shortly after she'd worked a few months, I asked Edna if she were on social security. She didn't know about it. I went to the SS office and picked up the papers, filled them out, explained to Edna what this was, and she signed the papers.
Edna Gill was a huge woman, clean, and loveable. She was quiet and rarely conversed with us outside home matters. We respected her. We loved her and distressed to give her up after four years.We moved to another town and couldn't arrange transportation for her. I put an ad in the paper for" a good home for our maid." I interviewed three women who were looking for more than what Edna's responsibility had been with us. I balked and refused to give her up to them. A week or so after the ad had run its course, a woman called . She came to our home and we talked. She seemed genuine in understanding that she was to treat Edna fairly, provide her transportation, keep up her social security, and if for some reason she couldn't employ Edna in the future, carefully select Edna's next boss. Edna worked for this woman about two years.
Several years later we visited Edna's house one weekend to see how she was doing, expecting her to still be working for our replacement. No, she stated, she was now working for the state. She was a caretaker for babies with health deficiencies, working nights. My replacement had found Edna a job with a retirement. We were overjoyed. She was "set for life".
One Christmas the family took holiday fixin's to Edna and her son, only to find Edna retired, living off her pension and social security. She was suffering from diabetes. In the course of conversation she thanked us and for her replacement. Together we had put her on the right track for retirement. She died five years later.
Our family is typical middle-class, among the many who hire a maid for various reasons. Right now in my subdivision I see maids picking up the mail, sweeping porches, and whatever they do inside is probably clean house. The few black women who advertise by handbills or advertisements now charge $50 an hour, some requiring at least two hours' work. These black maids now have competition from white women. This has become a business, not a helter-skelter hiring and firing. We have 40% of our population black and many uneducated, disinterested in education (age, perhaps) and housecleaning is their only experience. I see maids driving older women to appointments, helping with grocery shopping, and many are hired by companies as companions to the elderly. Clearly we have plenty of black women who need work, unlike other sections of the country.
If you have difficulty understanding our use of help in the Deep South, think of the Latino or German or Swedish maids in your hotels and the myriad of workers in the restaurants where you eat, stores where you shop, parks that are kept clean --you'll find an equivalent of our black maids there, and then -- maybe, you'll understand.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
TODAY
Today is MY DAY. The sun is shining and the weatherman predicts 101 deg for the day. I can't complain. We've experienced harrowing hours watching Irene rip across states leaving death and destruction. My day has seen disasters and accidents in the past: Katrina six years ago,the flooding of the Delaware River while we were in New York (one of several times in early 2000) and Diana's accident. Death, destruction and happiness rolled into the last of August.
I came into the world to two hard-working people who lived in Jackson, Mississippi.. Mother was 19 and Daddy 21. They had been married 13 months. I'm not sure my appearance was a good omen or not, because I remember nothing of my childhood but their struggles and their attempts to keep me happy while shielding me from the poverty of the Depression years. From the moment I was able to talk about birthday, they asked me what I wanted for my gift. I replied, "A pink dress with two pockets." I didn't get that dress until I was10 years old. It was probably on lay-away for months. Thanks Mom and Dad for rearing me in hard times.
Happy Birthday to me. Thank you family and friends for remembering an aging creature who appreciates her life.
Above is me at aged 7 or 8 in a flowered dress made by Mother,carrying a purse with a Kleenex inside.
I felt so grown up that day.
I came into the world to two hard-working people who lived in Jackson, Mississippi.. Mother was 19 and Daddy 21. They had been married 13 months. I'm not sure my appearance was a good omen or not, because I remember nothing of my childhood but their struggles and their attempts to keep me happy while shielding me from the poverty of the Depression years. From the moment I was able to talk about birthday, they asked me what I wanted for my gift. I replied, "A pink dress with two pockets." I didn't get that dress until I was10 years old. It was probably on lay-away for months. Thanks Mom and Dad for rearing me in hard times.
Happy Birthday to me. Thank you family and friends for remembering an aging creature who appreciates her life.
Above is me at aged 7 or 8 in a flowered dress made by Mother,carrying a purse with a Kleenex inside.
I felt so grown up that day.
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