Memorial Day 2009....

What do fried chicken, hot weather, racing and a radio have in common? They were all a major part of the celebration of Memorial Days for one family on a remote farm in Southern Illinois in the 1950's. Memorial Day was a very special day for the adults to remember and honor the veterans who only a few short years before had given their lives to protect the freedom of others. It was an easy assignment for the folks who had lived through World War II. Everyone had a relative, neighbor or friend who had either died or was seriously wounded in the war. Even I had not forgotten the worried look on my dad's face as he listened to the news every night while his two brothers and oldest son were in combat. Noone treasured their freedom more than the folks who lived through the great depression and the wars. Now they were enjoying a peaceful and productive period....the fruits of their labor.

As a child, Memorial Day represented for me a holiday filled with relaxation, good food and fun. It was one of the few days my father rested from his sun up to sun down work. Mother would spend the morning preparing a meal of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, creamed peas, salad and a tasty dessert. Everything tasted better then, because the young chicken had been running around the farm the day before and vegetables were either freshly frozen, canned or picked from our huge garden.

To me, it also meant that the official days of summer would soon be here. No more school until September. Memorial Day would be followed by bike riding, blackberry picking, swimming at the river and lying around under a shade tree reading books and imagining all of the things I would accomplish in life. If I was reading Tom Sawyer, I was going to cruise down a river someday. If I was reading the Bobbsey Twins, I knew that I would have twins when I got married. I read everything I could about the adventures of others and imagined myself experiencing everything I read. It also meant I could go barefoot. I loved the feel of the earth warming under my feet, and the grass between my toes. Long hot seemingly never ending summer days were ahead with Hank Williams singing on the radio while my brother listened to the Grand Ole Opry. He had photos of Hank Williams on his wall. Soon I would crawl into bed at night and listen to the tractor motor going back and forth across the field as my dad worked even into the night during planting and harvesting seasons. Memorial Day was as much about the beginning of summer for kids as it was about the holiday.

Every Memorial Day weekend, my dad would tune in the Indy 500 on our radio. We would all gather around and listen to the excitement of the race and dream of someday being there to see all the action. Imagine my excitement when my daughter many years later in 1998 competed against women from all over the world at the Indy track for a spot in the ALMS WGGT series. She would race the next two years in that series at tracks all over the United States, but there was never anything quite as special as being at Indy. As I walked through their museum, I remembered the names of drivers of the past. I was in awe looking at Billy Vukovich's car and remembering the day he was killed following three years of winning the race. We were all very sad that day. Another hero was gone.

The Indy 500 is still a part of my celebration. There will be no Hank Williams on the radio, but I do have a few of his songs on my i-pod. I will have good food, but not quite as tasty as freshly grown. Summer is just around the corner. Our country is at war again and on the edge of a depression. However, I am thankful for the veterans who have fought and are fighting for our freedom, and I am thankful for the blessing of family and friends much like my parents were in the 1950's. Time marches forward but many things stay with us forever...like special memories and traditions. Memorial Day, 2009.

I Quit My "Job."!!!

Ok...I love my daughter. I even admire her for stepping into her husband's job while he is recovering, managing a kid with 2 year old behavior who challenges the odds minute by minute throughout the day, and running to and fro to a hospital, meetings, making sure her aging mother (the dear one who has been willing to stay at her house and help her out....yeah that's me) has her favorite foods and a glass of wine (or two) in the evening and in her spare moments, shampooing her carpets. She really did shampoo her family room carpets at least once weekly while I stayed in her home. However, I now draw the line.

My last day there was a heart attack inducing experience. The two year old, my darling little granddaughter Carson, who tries to climb over security gates, chases the dog with a pastic 18 in. baton, flushes toilet paper down the toilet while saying "bye bye paper," in a soft angelic voice, runs from her grandmother and falls on the floor in giggles, takes over my blackberry and plays a game that most six years old couldn't handle....yeah that one had just fallen asleep yesterday morning. Her mother had checked in and was on her way home from work. She was actually a block away. I decided to run into the computer to check and see if a new hire had cleared fingerprinting. I heard the front door open, and I heard my daughter screaming..."Oh my God. Oh my God. Call Marty." Well, my first thought was that sleeping baby who I had looked at literally 2 to 3 minutes before must have woke up and was hanging or wasn't really sleeping but was unconscious or worse. I leaped up and ran into the family room and was told, "Call Marty. There is a rattler and he struck Penelope."

Penelope is a huge white English Bulldog. As Dana ran to get the rest of the dogs (they have five and yes, I have been babysitting in a kennel for the past couple of weeks,) into the house. I called Marty to find that he wasn't home, but was in another town at least 20 to 30 minutes away. Marty said call the fire department. Seriously? I thought animal control came after animals and predators. I called the fire department, and heard this wonderful kind lady telling me an "engine" was on its way and she hoped the dog would be ok. Dana, in the meantime, is putting a leash on Penelope who is starting to look stoned and leading her to the car. Her parting words were, "don't let that snake out of your sight, Mom. If it moves, follow it." WHAT????!!!!! Follow a rattler, I would rather take on the meanest bureaucrat in government. Follow a snake...surely you jest. I moved right on to..."Oh please God, don't let the snake move." All of this noise and little angel just dozed away in her buggy only 3 feet away from the snake with a sliding glass door between them. I watched the snake.

Soon...4 or 5 firemen arrived. The four dogs now safely locked into the kitchenette area were carrying on and if you have ever heard a Chinese Crested yell, you will know what I mean. I started to let the firemen out the door and said, "Oh, you can't go out there. There is a doggie door. Let's go through the master bedroom. Oh, I forgot, there is a doggie door there too. Ok...there IS a side yard. Can you go through the outside gate." The firemen said, "Of course. We can do that." they left, except one stayed in the house standing by the sliding glass door in front of the baby's buggy as if he wanted to make sure if the snake tried to come inside, he was ready to protect the baby. It was quiet now. The rest of the firemen were using a long pronged tool to pick up the snake and guess who chose to wake up at that moment. You got it. Precious little Carson. When Carson awakes, she always slowly opens her eyes in a sort of slit position sometimes going back to sleep and sometimes working towards being awake. Well, one little peek and her eyes opened up to about the size of silver dollars, and she reached out her little baby arms saying very softly, Nana...Nana...but never taking her eyes off the tall fireman standing in front of her buggy. I picked her up and of course, I then had to show her the scary...danger...oh no...(using all the words I could think of familiar to her to represent danger...don't touch.) The firemen put the snake in a bucket. They did tell me that it was good that Dana told me to watch it and go with it wherever it went, because too often, they go to pick up a rattler and people say, "It's here..well it was here a few minutes ago." One fireman did ask what kind of dogs are those? I asked, "Oh the naked ones." They are hairless Chinese Cresteds, the black one is a French Bulldog, the brown one is an American Bulldog and the English bulldog is the one that was struck by the snake."

The snake is captured. The baby now says "Nake...Nake...No, No, No," while she shakes her finger back and forth in my face. She goes to the front window and as the fire truck pulls away, she says "bye bye fire truck, bye bye fire truck."

Penelope made it to the vet on time. What a day...oh...and I forgot to mention, it was my daughter's birthday. Happy Birthday Dana. Your Mom is out of here. Your husband is coming home today from the hospital. Your dog is in the doggie hospital, and you have a $1,600.00 vet bill. Is there anything else you would like?

Bye Bye Carson. Bye Bye Nana. Nana loves you. Come and see me when you are 3. Oh, I forgot to tell you, Dana. Your brother says since the snake is a baby, there will probably be more of them.

Mother's Day 2009

Can it be that I am actually experiencing my 44th year as a mother? I vividly recall a very painful time period in my life when I thought I would never be one. I wanted a baby more than anything else in the world. I had been married for 4 years, and as my friends were basking in the throes and joys of parenthood, I remained childless with nothing to say in baby discussions. I had played with dolls from as far back as I could remember up until I reached 7th grade while always fantasizing about my future as a mom. There never was an alternative plan for me.

When he saw my emotional pain, my father said, "Joyce, when God is ready for you to be a mother, that is when you will become one. There is an unknown reason why you are not having one now." Three and a half years later following a divorce and another marriage, I was holding my first born in my arms marveling at the miracle of childbirth and a bit at Dad's wisdom. I got to experience that incomparable joy twice again when my daughters arrived two and twelve years later. This means on this mother's day I am the grandmother of two granddaughters, Leanne and Carson, 17 years and 20 months old, respectively and the mother of a son and two daughters. I see all of my kids and grandkids on a regular basis and sometimes phone calls several times each day.

Today the flowers and cards have started to arrive. Although it is a day used by kids everywhere to honor their mothers, I feel like it is a time for me to be reminded of God's greatest gifts and honor Him for answering my prayers. I simply appreciate and love my kids.

When Leanne gave me a card this morning with a hand written note "You will always be my favorite grandmother," I felt smug and happy. Hey, this girl has three other grandmothers, and it has taken 17 years to hear I am her favorite. I used to try and fool her into saying it when she was a tot, but she would laugh and say "Grandma Shirley says that too, Gold Grandma."

Leanne has so many grandmothers that she established a simple way of tagging a unique name on all five of us when she was 3 years old. Her grandmother Shirley had dark hair, so she called her Black Grandma. Her two step grandmas were labeled Grandma Kathy and Grandma Carole. She decided I had gold hair, so I became Gold Grandma. Her grandmother Meserole had white hair, so she ended up being White Grandma. Later White Grandma would become Little Grandma as Mother kept getting smaller each year. At any given time in my life, I might have been Red Grandma or perhaps even Multi-colored Grandma, especially on those bad hair dye days. I was grateful to end up being Gold Grandma when I think of all the possible names she could have given me. She did raise a few eyebrows in the small town of Red River, New Mexico with her name choices. She was having dinner out with her daddy, when he asked her if she was ready to go home and see her mommy. She said, "Yeah, I want to see Black Grandma too." They were on a father daughter ski trip when the little mountain city is always filled with Texans. No doubt the people sitting around them had to wonder how the pale faced little girl could possibly have a black grandma.

I wanted to make sure Baby Carson doesn't use Leanne's system today, since I am sure I would be Wrinkled Grandma. I have diligently prodded her into calling me Nanna.

Marty, my son, is the CFO of our company. He calls me Joyce or Dr. Swineheart most of the time in order to avoid the use of "Mom" in business meetings and/or when talking to employees. You know a response to a business associate of "I'll discuss it with Mom," or "You need to talk to my Mom about that," might sound a little strange for a 44 year old business executive. It would especially be shocking for those who might not realize that I am his mother. "Hey, I'm new here. Is the CFO whacked or something...telling me to have his mom handle this matter?" This same guy has given me beautiful rings and a diamond necklace for Christmas a couple of years ago that caused me to gasp, so I am not insecure about being called Joyce.

I get Mom cards from Marty for special occasions and sometimes he will say "Is my Mom there?" when calling unless he is in the work mode. Then he may ask Jerry if Joyce is home. My girls call me Mom and occasionally Mommy. If they are unhappy with something I have said, they call me Mother with an emphasis on the first syllable.

As I sit here enjoying this year's peaceful Mother's Day, I am just so happy that I am a mother. I don't care what they call me. It only matters that they exist. I cannot imagine life without even one of the people who have made such a significant contribution to my feeling whole and complete.

Many times, I heard my mother say she did not want to live one day longer than any of her children. I now understand what you meant, Mother. I am sure you are up there somewhere hearing my message while nurturing the babies in heaven. Happy Mother's Day 2009. You are the woman who taught me how to be a mother in a most loving wonderful way.

A blog sort of day....

The first thing I consciously heard this morning was the security alarm warning that someone had either entered or left the house. This means you have too few seconds before sirens start screaming, bells clang, dogs bark and the phone starts ringing. This also meant I jumped out of bed and was half way to the control unit in the master bedroom when I heard my husband plugging in the code. He opened the front door a second time, and a forestry department plane sounded like it was going to come through the front door. I thought, "Oh no. It's going to be one of those kind of days." I grabbed my glasses, so I could see the time of day. Without them, I can barely see my watch. 9:00 AM. How did that happen? I have already missed a couple of hours of the day. I consider crawling back into bed, but decide it would be only a futile effort to grab a few extra winks.

By the time I get downstairs, the bulldogs and husband have returned, and the bulldogs are standing in the kitchen waiting for their treats. Once again, Daddy intentionally "forgot" to give them their reward for being such good dogs. He has an attitude that dogs shouldn't have to be rewarded for answering nature's call.

The coffee is "perking," or whatever coffee does in today's modern pots. When I was a child, I always loved watching the coffee rise into the little glass lid handle as it perked away on the open flame while Mother hurried around the kitchen preparing my father's breakfast. I knew that soon the coffee pot would be placed on a hot pad on the table. My dad only had so much time before getting the tractor into the field to begin his day of planting or tilling, depending on the season. He would pour his coffee from his cup into a saucer to cool it and then drink it from the saucer. I wasn't allowed to have coffee then. It became one of the many goals I had like getting to iron his shirts, getting to bring in coal for the coal stove, carrying water into the house from the big well across the road and washing dishes. I was given no fail assignments like drying the utensils, going upstairs to get a jar of canned food for dinner,and wiping off the table. It's interesting how much time I spent longing to do chores, and how that matched up against the hours I would later spend trying to avoid them. I had an advantage in those days. I was a girl, and I was the baby of the family. That meant chores usually got assigned to my brother. The rest of my siblings had already grown up and left home.

I was an observer of life. I used to count how many times Mother would place her foot under a cat's belly and toss it across the yard when she was hanging out clothes and marvel that the cat kept coming back to rub against her leg. I swear it went sailing through the air further each time, always landing on its feet and returning. I thought it wanted to annoy her. Now I wonder if it simply liked flying.

There was a special way Mother hung the laundry linking one item to the next, white to whites, clolored items to colored items and always putting the clothespins in the same place on each piece of clothing. She managed the clothes basket, the clothespins, the wet laundry and the cats in a precision manner week after week. Wash day was always on Monday, and it was an all day job although she cooked three hot meals while getting the laundry done. Her laundry area looked like an assembly line with dirty clothes sorted in piles on the surrounding floor, a huge long tub of water heating on an open flame double burner stove, a washing machine that chugged like a little steam engine, the buckets she used to carry water into the house where she heated the water and poured it into the machine, the wringer where she ran every item through and let them fall into a big tub filled with cold water, which was the rinse water. Then she wrung the small items by hand. Larger ones might be put back through the wringer again. She carried all of the items outside to a clothesline strung between two poles the entire length of the house and more. I use to love to weave around through the wet clothes as they flopped in the wind but always had to stop when Mother saw what I was doing. Tuesday was also used for drying on the line, and Wednesday was ironing day.

Everything was ironed. Sheets, dish towels, Daddy's work shirts and pants, our dresses, skirts, and literally all items were ironed. Just like her laundry routine, she also ironed in a orderly fashion. First the collar on the shirt, next cuffs, then the sleeves, and next was the back of the shirt. She then ironed under the button and button hole areas and followed with ironing both front sides of the shirt paying close attention to both pockets. When she felt it was finished, she would hold it up for inspection and sometimes touch up the pockets, cuffs and collar. Every item was ironed in the same order weekly. When it rained, she had to change the laundry days and on a farm, this means you have to pick up the pace or get behind. You should have seen her run when the clothes were on the line, and it started raining.

There was always a precision to Mother's tasks whether she was doing laundry, canning, preparing meals, or doing the dishes. We didn't have a dishwasher. The water had to be carried in for cleaning and the dirty water carried out after it was used. There was no sink either, so she started with the cleanest and finished with the dirtiest. That's why glasses were always first followed by cups and saucers, then the plates and utensils and lastly, the pans beginning with the cleanest pan. Every item had to be dried also. Dishes were done after each meal, which meant she had to do this three times per day. No garbage disposals, so leftover food on plates had to be scraped into a bucket and carried outside.

Day after day, month after month, year after year, my mother kept our home going while my dad farmed the fields. I guess that's why they never spent much time wondering about life. They were just so focused on surviving.

Whew! As my mind wanders into the past, I think that security alarm issue this morning was a pretty minor annoyance. I have to go now. Oh one more comment...our security on the farm was my Dad's 12 gauge. It put the food on our table, and it killed many a varmit trying to steal from our garden or hen house. But that's another memory.....