College the First Time Around
When I went off to college right fresh from high school, I don’t know what I expected. Oh, I suppose I had some kind of plan that included a degree, but I certainly didn’t know what type it was. The only occupation I had ever aspired to was that of wife and mother. So I guess it was inevitable that I ended up getting bogged down in the social life found on all college campuses.
The first experience occurred soon after I arrived – the sorority scene. I jumped right in and joined what I thought was the best on campus (still think so) and made many new friends. These girls for the most part were interested in academics, but they were also into all kinds of social activities (they were the super moms of the future). I liked all of the latter action and shunned the former.
I did “make my grades” the first semester and was initiated into the group, but it went pretty much downhill from there. I don’t want to give the impression that I made all D’s and F’s; that was definitely not the case. I simply got interested in the classes I liked (history and Spanish) and those I didn’t, I just didn’t study for or I cut a lot of those classes.
So what did I do with my time? Well, I became a pretty good bridge player, always able to pick up a game in the student center. And I honed up my flirting skills. (I must have done a pretty good job of this because whenever I walked into the student center, a certain football player would start singing “Hummingbird, Hummingbird should be her name.”) And he was right, I was very fickle, having several “serious relationships” each lasting a few weeks.
During my sophomore year, I began to really tire of this type of life and was pretty sure that this was not the college for me. So I convinced my parents to allow me to pack up and come home after the first semester. That spring I “ran into” the genius at a Vandy fraternity affair and the rest is history.
A year later we were married and my “wife and mother” career began. And what a fascinating ride it has been!
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Saturday, September 29, 2007
The Lawyer and the Farmer
My maternal grandfather was not as warm and affectionate as my Mississippi “Grandpaw.” Whereas the latter always had a hug for us and cried when we left, Granddad seemed to just tolerate us. Of course, we saw him a lot more since we lived in the same town – if my grandparents in Mississippi saw us more than once a year, they may have reacted in a another way.
But the differences were many between the two men. I never saw Granddad dressed in anything but a 3 piece suit with that ever present watch chain on his vest. It seemed to me that he was forever taking out his pocket watch and looking at it. (He even cut the grass in this get-up.) Grandpaw, on the other hand, wore old work pants with suspenders and a white shirt and often no shoes in the summer. He was content to sit on the front porch in a rocking chair watching us and being always available to us.
Granddad liked to tell stories about his railroad days or other old times that he had and he repeated them – a lot! We would sit down to a big dinner and after he said the blessing at the head of the table, he would begin, “I remember 34 years ago when . . . .” My sisters and I would look at each other and try not to giggle (or worse, roll our eyes).
I can’t help but admire this man, going from a Kentucky small town to railroad conductor to lawyer – and at one time – a judge. But he was not easy to know – compared to Grandpaw, he seemed cold and austere. He never joked or teased, but he did give us a nickel or dime to walk to the drugstore and buy ice cream. Looking back, it was probably to get three little girls out of his hair so he could hold forth in peace.
Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him, but I can only go by my feelings (which are surely colored by his past actions). But one thing I am sure of – I always enjoyed seeing my step-grandmother. She was the bright spot of the visits.
My maternal grandfather was not as warm and affectionate as my Mississippi “Grandpaw.” Whereas the latter always had a hug for us and cried when we left, Granddad seemed to just tolerate us. Of course, we saw him a lot more since we lived in the same town – if my grandparents in Mississippi saw us more than once a year, they may have reacted in a another way.
But the differences were many between the two men. I never saw Granddad dressed in anything but a 3 piece suit with that ever present watch chain on his vest. It seemed to me that he was forever taking out his pocket watch and looking at it. (He even cut the grass in this get-up.) Grandpaw, on the other hand, wore old work pants with suspenders and a white shirt and often no shoes in the summer. He was content to sit on the front porch in a rocking chair watching us and being always available to us.
Granddad liked to tell stories about his railroad days or other old times that he had and he repeated them – a lot! We would sit down to a big dinner and after he said the blessing at the head of the table, he would begin, “I remember 34 years ago when . . . .” My sisters and I would look at each other and try not to giggle (or worse, roll our eyes).
I can’t help but admire this man, going from a Kentucky small town to railroad conductor to lawyer – and at one time – a judge. But he was not easy to know – compared to Grandpaw, he seemed cold and austere. He never joked or teased, but he did give us a nickel or dime to walk to the drugstore and buy ice cream. Looking back, it was probably to get three little girls out of his hair so he could hold forth in peace.
Perhaps I’ve been too hard on him, but I can only go by my feelings (which are surely colored by his past actions). But one thing I am sure of – I always enjoyed seeing my step-grandmother. She was the bright spot of the visits.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
Surviving Life's Heartbreaking Events
Before I leave the subject of my ancestors, I feel the need to relate a little about my mother’s side of the family. She had so many tragedies that it is sometimes easier to dwell on other subjects.
My grandfather and his wife moved to Nashville about the turn of the century from a small town in Kentucky. He was a conductor for the N.C.&St.L. Railroad but took correspondence courses for a law degree at the same time. He wasn’t quite through with the courses when he took the bar exam just for practice and passed it! So he opened a practice in Nashville which he maintained until his late 70’s.
My maternal grandmother died of cancer when my mother was 16 years old. Although, Granddad told Mother that he could never love anyone like her mother, he was married within 6 months. Naturally, Mother and her brother were crushed.
The marriage did not work out and five years later he was divorced, another embarrassment for the two siblings. Then Granddad married again, a college student who was about 25 years younger than he and a year younger than my mother. (I want to go on record here and say that my sisters and I loved this woman as much as if she were our real grandmother.) But this was the last straw for Mother and after graduating from college, she moved to Mississippi.
About a year after my parents married, Mother’s only brother John, her pride and joy, was killed in an accident on the Cumberland River. One wonders how she survived these six years of disasters in her life and retained her faith in God throughout it all.
If there were times when I didn’t understand Mother, I would often stop and remind myself of the many hardships she had endured. This process didn’t always take away my frustrations, but it certainly helped me in my own struggles to maturity.
Before I leave the subject of my ancestors, I feel the need to relate a little about my mother’s side of the family. She had so many tragedies that it is sometimes easier to dwell on other subjects.
My grandfather and his wife moved to Nashville about the turn of the century from a small town in Kentucky. He was a conductor for the N.C.&St.L. Railroad but took correspondence courses for a law degree at the same time. He wasn’t quite through with the courses when he took the bar exam just for practice and passed it! So he opened a practice in Nashville which he maintained until his late 70’s.
My maternal grandmother died of cancer when my mother was 16 years old. Although, Granddad told Mother that he could never love anyone like her mother, he was married within 6 months. Naturally, Mother and her brother were crushed.
The marriage did not work out and five years later he was divorced, another embarrassment for the two siblings. Then Granddad married again, a college student who was about 25 years younger than he and a year younger than my mother. (I want to go on record here and say that my sisters and I loved this woman as much as if she were our real grandmother.) But this was the last straw for Mother and after graduating from college, she moved to Mississippi.
About a year after my parents married, Mother’s only brother John, her pride and joy, was killed in an accident on the Cumberland River. One wonders how she survived these six years of disasters in her life and retained her faith in God throughout it all.
If there were times when I didn’t understand Mother, I would often stop and remind myself of the many hardships she had endured. This process didn’t always take away my frustrations, but it certainly helped me in my own struggles to maturity.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Reuniting: Then and Now
Ever since I can remember my father’s family has had a reunion in northern Mississippi within a few miles of my grandparents’ old house. Although the times and people have changed over the years, some things remain the same.
When I was small, we always had the reunion in someone’s pasture or some kind of park in the blazing heat of summer. People began arriving in midmorning, loaded down with folding chairs, tables, and food enough to feed most of the county.
The food was incredible! My mother always roasted a “leg a’ lamb” with barbecue sauce (I can still recall that smell today) and made a chocolate cake. There was so much fried chicken I don’t see how there was a hen left within 25 miles. Potato salad, slaw, fresh tomatoes, stuffed eggs, hams, roast beef, all kinds of vegetables straight from their gardens are just a few of the items I remember. We always had pies, cakes (heavy as lead, but delicious), watermelon and homemade ice cream. Everything, in fact, was homemade. No one would dream of bringing anything else. I don’t remember what we drank, but it was probably iced tea or co-cola.
My grandparents sat like royalty and ruled over this day. Everyone came to pay homage to them because, after all, if it weren’t for them none of us would be there. People came from all over Mississippi to attend this feast and to visit with each other.
Today we still have a reunion, but it’s not the same. Oh, we still have reigning monarchs: my 2 remaining aunts hold court just like their parents did. They sit side by side with their walkers close at hand and greet everyone who comes in. But we meet inside now (thank goodness!) and in the fall. The food is still plentiful and delicious, but the fried chicken comes in Mrs. Winner’s or KFC buckets, and not everything is homemade.
But the fun and fellowship is the same. And strangely enough, many of the people there (including my sisters and me) show a striking resemblance to each other and to photographs of my grandparents when they were young. Their genes must have been very dominant!
Ever since I can remember my father’s family has had a reunion in northern Mississippi within a few miles of my grandparents’ old house. Although the times and people have changed over the years, some things remain the same.
When I was small, we always had the reunion in someone’s pasture or some kind of park in the blazing heat of summer. People began arriving in midmorning, loaded down with folding chairs, tables, and food enough to feed most of the county.
The food was incredible! My mother always roasted a “leg a’ lamb” with barbecue sauce (I can still recall that smell today) and made a chocolate cake. There was so much fried chicken I don’t see how there was a hen left within 25 miles. Potato salad, slaw, fresh tomatoes, stuffed eggs, hams, roast beef, all kinds of vegetables straight from their gardens are just a few of the items I remember. We always had pies, cakes (heavy as lead, but delicious), watermelon and homemade ice cream. Everything, in fact, was homemade. No one would dream of bringing anything else. I don’t remember what we drank, but it was probably iced tea or co-cola.
My grandparents sat like royalty and ruled over this day. Everyone came to pay homage to them because, after all, if it weren’t for them none of us would be there. People came from all over Mississippi to attend this feast and to visit with each other.
Today we still have a reunion, but it’s not the same. Oh, we still have reigning monarchs: my 2 remaining aunts hold court just like their parents did. They sit side by side with their walkers close at hand and greet everyone who comes in. But we meet inside now (thank goodness!) and in the fall. The food is still plentiful and delicious, but the fried chicken comes in Mrs. Winner’s or KFC buckets, and not everything is homemade.
But the fun and fellowship is the same. And strangely enough, many of the people there (including my sisters and me) show a striking resemblance to each other and to photographs of my grandparents when they were young. Their genes must have been very dominant!
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
The Indomitable Aunt
My father was one of the twins. He had many interesting tales to relate about growing up in such a large and close family. But one of the stories he didn’t discuss was something that happened when he was about twenty. This incident compelled him to leave home for several years.
His twin sister became “with child” but didn’t want to marry the father. My grandfather and one or two of the older brothers went to pay a visit to the boy and his family (probably with shotgun in hand). But the culprit had eloped with another girl. There was nothing to be done but face the shame and disgrace of having a baby out of wedlock.
Of course, the entire family was affected by this affair, but my father took it particularly hard. He moved to a town about twenty miles from where they lived and didn’t return home for five years. (During that time his family would come to see him occasionally.) When Mother moved to the town and met Daddy and they became serious in their relationship, she insisted on driving out to meet his family. She was soon to get a taste of the family humor.
They purposely seated her at dinner in the middle of one side of the table and proceeded to ask her to pass food every time she picked up her fork to eat. She finally caught on and told them to get it themselves. They were forever playing jokes on each other and to this day the aunts who are alive still have that dry sense of humor.
Yes, there are two aunts who are living today not too far from where they grew up. Tommie, the youngest of the litter, is 94 and lives in the same town where my parents met. Her grandson lives with her, but I’m not sure who takes care of whom.
My father’s twin is 106 years young and still keeps her own house. A son and grandson live with her, and her daughter lives close by. Until a couple of years ago, she still tended her vegetable garden. Now she just cooks and crochets. (Her children insist that she use a walker, but I've seen her pick it up and carry it across the floor if she were in a hurry.)
When her first son was 4 or 5 years of age, this strong woman married a widower with five daughters, and then she went on to have five more of her own. (One aunt once told me that my grandmother was crushed when the little boy left because she felt like he was one of her own. I guess this is where I get my strong maternal instinct.)
My aunt has definitely had a difficult life, but she has maintained her sense of humor through it all. She said last year, “I don’t guess I’m ever going to die!” And when my sister told her that we would see her next year, she answered, “I hope not!” Well, we disagree with her – we hope she lives another 10 years, at least!
My father was one of the twins. He had many interesting tales to relate about growing up in such a large and close family. But one of the stories he didn’t discuss was something that happened when he was about twenty. This incident compelled him to leave home for several years.
His twin sister became “with child” but didn’t want to marry the father. My grandfather and one or two of the older brothers went to pay a visit to the boy and his family (probably with shotgun in hand). But the culprit had eloped with another girl. There was nothing to be done but face the shame and disgrace of having a baby out of wedlock.
Of course, the entire family was affected by this affair, but my father took it particularly hard. He moved to a town about twenty miles from where they lived and didn’t return home for five years. (During that time his family would come to see him occasionally.) When Mother moved to the town and met Daddy and they became serious in their relationship, she insisted on driving out to meet his family. She was soon to get a taste of the family humor.
They purposely seated her at dinner in the middle of one side of the table and proceeded to ask her to pass food every time she picked up her fork to eat. She finally caught on and told them to get it themselves. They were forever playing jokes on each other and to this day the aunts who are alive still have that dry sense of humor.
Yes, there are two aunts who are living today not too far from where they grew up. Tommie, the youngest of the litter, is 94 and lives in the same town where my parents met. Her grandson lives with her, but I’m not sure who takes care of whom.
My father’s twin is 106 years young and still keeps her own house. A son and grandson live with her, and her daughter lives close by. Until a couple of years ago, she still tended her vegetable garden. Now she just cooks and crochets. (Her children insist that she use a walker, but I've seen her pick it up and carry it across the floor if she were in a hurry.)
When her first son was 4 or 5 years of age, this strong woman married a widower with five daughters, and then she went on to have five more of her own. (One aunt once told me that my grandmother was crushed when the little boy left because she felt like he was one of her own. I guess this is where I get my strong maternal instinct.)
My aunt has definitely had a difficult life, but she has maintained her sense of humor through it all. She said last year, “I don’t guess I’m ever going to die!” And when my sister told her that we would see her next year, she answered, “I hope not!” Well, we disagree with her – we hope she lives another 10 years, at least!
Monday, September 24, 2007
What’s in a Name?
My grandparents had the daunting task of coming up with names for their fifteen children. Many of them sounded very strange to my young ears, but a closer examination reveals old fashioned Victorian names plus creative rhyming ones for the twins. Maude, Bertha, Faye, and Velma are names we seldom hear nowadays, but they were popular in the 1800’s.
And for each set of twins it is obvious that an effort was made to have them sound alike. The names Velma and Selma, Boyd and Maude, Eva and Era, Faye and Wade, as well as Gene and Adine (pronounced to rhyme with Gene) all show that someone gave the naming process some careful thought. But to me they sounded very odd and even weird.
And the pronunciation of them could be different, too. Uncle Andrew (pronounced Andra) married a woman named Oma (pronounced Omie).
At the next generation level there was an array of names that boggles the mind even today. Juanice, Lavonia, Lawan, LaDean, O’Neal, O’Bion, and Lynval are examples of a few of them. While I don’t remember making fun of the names, I do remember discussing the oddity of them at home. We just didn’t know anyone else with names like those.
In the end, I believe that Shakespeare (Juliet) had it right: it’s not the name that’s important, it’s the person. And we very much admired our aunts, uncles, and cousins for their toughness in dealing with their difficult daily life on the farm.
My grandparents had the daunting task of coming up with names for their fifteen children. Many of them sounded very strange to my young ears, but a closer examination reveals old fashioned Victorian names plus creative rhyming ones for the twins. Maude, Bertha, Faye, and Velma are names we seldom hear nowadays, but they were popular in the 1800’s.
And for each set of twins it is obvious that an effort was made to have them sound alike. The names Velma and Selma, Boyd and Maude, Eva and Era, Faye and Wade, as well as Gene and Adine (pronounced to rhyme with Gene) all show that someone gave the naming process some careful thought. But to me they sounded very odd and even weird.
And the pronunciation of them could be different, too. Uncle Andrew (pronounced Andra) married a woman named Oma (pronounced Omie).
At the next generation level there was an array of names that boggles the mind even today. Juanice, Lavonia, Lawan, LaDean, O’Neal, O’Bion, and Lynval are examples of a few of them. While I don’t remember making fun of the names, I do remember discussing the oddity of them at home. We just didn’t know anyone else with names like those.
In the end, I believe that Shakespeare (Juliet) had it right: it’s not the name that’s important, it’s the person. And we very much admired our aunts, uncles, and cousins for their toughness in dealing with their difficult daily life on the farm.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Babies Abundant
My paternal grandmother, like many women of her era, was a baby-producing machine. About every two years she churned out one or two babies until she was in her mid-forties, and the doctor told her to stop. She would probably not make it through another birth.
Her first two children were girls and next came identical twin girls. My grandfather must have wondered when he was going to have some boys to help out on the farm. Then another set of twins was born – this time a boy and a girl. Eventually, fifteen children arrived, ten of whom were twins! There were five boys and ten girls, three of whom didn’t make it to adulthood.
I used to try to imagine how they all fit into that four room house, but my mother informed me that 1) they didn’t live in that house, but a bigger one (though not much), and 2) by the time some of the younger children came along, the older ones were already married with children of their own.
The next generation was as prolific as my grandmother. She had fifty grandchildren, though no multiple births were part of that number. What would probably put her in Guinness was that she had both fraternal and identical twins, but I’m sure there is no way to provide adequate proof of that. What is true, though, is that out of all those who came after, there are only four boys left today to carry on the name. As one cousin put it, we daughtered out.
My grandmother was one tough cookie. She was 68 when I was born and for at least ten years after that until my grandfather died, she had a very hard life on the “farm.” They did have electricity before I was ten (a bare light bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling in each room). But she still cooked on a wood stove, kept the chickens and a garden, and had no plumbing.
Once, my mother brought them to visit us. They saw their one and only movie and also got a taste of city life. I don’t remember much about that visit except that my grandmother spoke a lot about Frances, the talking horse she had seen on the big screen. I wonder now what she thought of all the modern conveniences we had and if she was at all envious. She certainly never showed it and I guess we’ll never know.
What I do know is that I would put her near the top of my “most admired people” list.
My paternal grandmother, like many women of her era, was a baby-producing machine. About every two years she churned out one or two babies until she was in her mid-forties, and the doctor told her to stop. She would probably not make it through another birth.
Her first two children were girls and next came identical twin girls. My grandfather must have wondered when he was going to have some boys to help out on the farm. Then another set of twins was born – this time a boy and a girl. Eventually, fifteen children arrived, ten of whom were twins! There were five boys and ten girls, three of whom didn’t make it to adulthood.
I used to try to imagine how they all fit into that four room house, but my mother informed me that 1) they didn’t live in that house, but a bigger one (though not much), and 2) by the time some of the younger children came along, the older ones were already married with children of their own.
The next generation was as prolific as my grandmother. She had fifty grandchildren, though no multiple births were part of that number. What would probably put her in Guinness was that she had both fraternal and identical twins, but I’m sure there is no way to provide adequate proof of that. What is true, though, is that out of all those who came after, there are only four boys left today to carry on the name. As one cousin put it, we daughtered out.
My grandmother was one tough cookie. She was 68 when I was born and for at least ten years after that until my grandfather died, she had a very hard life on the “farm.” They did have electricity before I was ten (a bare light bulb hanging on a cord from the ceiling in each room). But she still cooked on a wood stove, kept the chickens and a garden, and had no plumbing.
Once, my mother brought them to visit us. They saw their one and only movie and also got a taste of city life. I don’t remember much about that visit except that my grandmother spoke a lot about Frances, the talking horse she had seen on the big screen. I wonder now what she thought of all the modern conveniences we had and if she was at all envious. She certainly never showed it and I guess we’ll never know.
What I do know is that I would put her near the top of my “most admired people” list.
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Mississippi Memories
My childhood was pretty “normal” for the 40s and 50s; most of the people I knew were about like us – neither rich nor poor in a relatively safe small city environment. That’s why as I reflect back on that time that I’m surprised that my happiest memories (my sisters agree) were when we spent several weeks each summer at my grandparents’ house in rural Mississippi.
My grandparents lived on a dirt road in a four room cabin (shack, really) down in a little valley behind the slightly larger house of my aunt and uncle. In fact, several other aunts and uncles and older cousins lived all around them within walking distance. That was certainly one of the attractions – being able to see many relatives. And there was always someone close enough in age with whom to play. (We had 47 first cousins on that side of the family, but that’s another story.)
But why did we like the visits so much when they had no indoor plumbing, no electricity, no toys, bicycles, etc.? Every night we took sponge baths and on Saturday nights the big wash tub was filled and we all bathed in the same tepid water. We slept on “pallets” at night and sometimes woke up with bed bug bites on us. What was the appeal, and why do we recall those times with such pleasure?
I believe that the biggest reason we liked it was because of the immense differences we encountered there from our life at home. There was something exciting about lighting kerosene lanterns at night and drinking well water out of a dipper shared with everyone else. When the iceman came, it was a big deal to ride on his wagon for a while sucking on little slivers of ice he chipped off for us.
We loved to collect eggs and feed the chickens and were fascinated when our grandmother killed one or two of them for our dinner. She always gave us a chicken foot to play with and we enjoyed pulling on one of the tendons and watching the claws contract.
There was so much to do that we were never bored. Our toys were discarded bottles and cans. I remember a huge stump that we invented all kinds of games to play on. A cousin showed me how to cut out pictures from an old Sears catalogue and we played “paper dolls” for hours complete with all kinds of paper furniture. Once in a great while we were allowed to go splashing in a “swimming hole” located deep in the pasture. All this and more kept us fully occupied while we were with our grandparents.
The biggest mystery of all was why would our mother, a city-bred, lawyer’s daughter, put herself through that every summer? She never sat around being waited on either. She pitched right in and worked from morning till night just like our grandmother did. Even our Mississippi relatives wondered about it, but they always admired her for doing it. All I can say is that my sisters and I will be forever grateful for those experiences and appreciate the sacrifices she made to give them to us.
My childhood was pretty “normal” for the 40s and 50s; most of the people I knew were about like us – neither rich nor poor in a relatively safe small city environment. That’s why as I reflect back on that time that I’m surprised that my happiest memories (my sisters agree) were when we spent several weeks each summer at my grandparents’ house in rural Mississippi.
My grandparents lived on a dirt road in a four room cabin (shack, really) down in a little valley behind the slightly larger house of my aunt and uncle. In fact, several other aunts and uncles and older cousins lived all around them within walking distance. That was certainly one of the attractions – being able to see many relatives. And there was always someone close enough in age with whom to play. (We had 47 first cousins on that side of the family, but that’s another story.)
But why did we like the visits so much when they had no indoor plumbing, no electricity, no toys, bicycles, etc.? Every night we took sponge baths and on Saturday nights the big wash tub was filled and we all bathed in the same tepid water. We slept on “pallets” at night and sometimes woke up with bed bug bites on us. What was the appeal, and why do we recall those times with such pleasure?
I believe that the biggest reason we liked it was because of the immense differences we encountered there from our life at home. There was something exciting about lighting kerosene lanterns at night and drinking well water out of a dipper shared with everyone else. When the iceman came, it was a big deal to ride on his wagon for a while sucking on little slivers of ice he chipped off for us.
We loved to collect eggs and feed the chickens and were fascinated when our grandmother killed one or two of them for our dinner. She always gave us a chicken foot to play with and we enjoyed pulling on one of the tendons and watching the claws contract.
There was so much to do that we were never bored. Our toys were discarded bottles and cans. I remember a huge stump that we invented all kinds of games to play on. A cousin showed me how to cut out pictures from an old Sears catalogue and we played “paper dolls” for hours complete with all kinds of paper furniture. Once in a great while we were allowed to go splashing in a “swimming hole” located deep in the pasture. All this and more kept us fully occupied while we were with our grandparents.
The biggest mystery of all was why would our mother, a city-bred, lawyer’s daughter, put herself through that every summer? She never sat around being waited on either. She pitched right in and worked from morning till night just like our grandmother did. Even our Mississippi relatives wondered about it, but they always admired her for doing it. All I can say is that my sisters and I will be forever grateful for those experiences and appreciate the sacrifices she made to give them to us.
Friday, September 21, 2007
MY MOTHER, THE PIONEER
My mother was a woman ahead of her time. While she taught all three of her daughters her excellent ways of “keeping a house,” (it took with the other two) she really raised us to be career women first. If we wanted to marry and have children, fine, but marriage and family weren’t necessary for women to have rewarding lives.
So, what in the world did she think when only one of us finished college before marriage, and we all had either brief working stints or none at all before jumping into the motherhood role? A clue to her thoughts could be found in her remark when she learned of each pregnancy. It was always, without fail, “Oh, no!” And it wasn’t as if we had tons of kids a year apart. Most of them (three per each daughter) were carefully planned and spaced out.
Maybe she thought our marriages would fail and we would drag the children back to move in with her and my father. She did tell each one of us when we married that to be sure it would work because when we left, that was it. (Actually, all three of us at one time or another lived with our parents for a few weeks/months while waiting to move to another location.) But her ideas seemed to be more about something else than just worrying about having us and the grandkids underfoot.
Mother was a Vanderbilt graduate in an age when women didn’t even go to college. After her marriage, she didn’t work outside the home until the principal talked her into being the secretary at our high school during my freshman year. (She had to teach herself to type over the summer in order to take the job.) That position lasted only that year when she took another one at the Methodist Board of Education, eventually working her way up to a level dominated by males. She seemed to find real fulfillment all the years she worked there.
After all is said and done, perhaps this was the real issue: She felt that women should be valued for their intellect as well as their other abilities – their reasoning powers should be appreciated! Fortunately, she married a man who agreed.
So back to my original point – she was ahead of her time. But on second thought, maybe not; perhaps, she was just in the minority. What I do believe is that she was breaking new ground in the field of women’s rights without even being aware of it.
My mother was a woman ahead of her time. While she taught all three of her daughters her excellent ways of “keeping a house,” (it took with the other two) she really raised us to be career women first. If we wanted to marry and have children, fine, but marriage and family weren’t necessary for women to have rewarding lives.
So, what in the world did she think when only one of us finished college before marriage, and we all had either brief working stints or none at all before jumping into the motherhood role? A clue to her thoughts could be found in her remark when she learned of each pregnancy. It was always, without fail, “Oh, no!” And it wasn’t as if we had tons of kids a year apart. Most of them (three per each daughter) were carefully planned and spaced out.
Maybe she thought our marriages would fail and we would drag the children back to move in with her and my father. She did tell each one of us when we married that to be sure it would work because when we left, that was it. (Actually, all three of us at one time or another lived with our parents for a few weeks/months while waiting to move to another location.) But her ideas seemed to be more about something else than just worrying about having us and the grandkids underfoot.
Mother was a Vanderbilt graduate in an age when women didn’t even go to college. After her marriage, she didn’t work outside the home until the principal talked her into being the secretary at our high school during my freshman year. (She had to teach herself to type over the summer in order to take the job.) That position lasted only that year when she took another one at the Methodist Board of Education, eventually working her way up to a level dominated by males. She seemed to find real fulfillment all the years she worked there.
After all is said and done, perhaps this was the real issue: She felt that women should be valued for their intellect as well as their other abilities – their reasoning powers should be appreciated! Fortunately, she married a man who agreed.
So back to my original point – she was ahead of her time. But on second thought, maybe not; perhaps, she was just in the minority. What I do believe is that she was breaking new ground in the field of women’s rights without even being aware of it.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
LIVING IN AN ALLEY
The first time I looked at the house we now live in, I didn’t even go in. Who would want to live in a house that is at the dead end of a street with nothing but duplexes on it? But it was being offered at such a good price, and the house itself was very roomy. So we went back and checked it out. As soon as we walked in and saw the floor plan, we fell in love with it and soon it was ours.
The street is a strange one. Apparently, it is officially an alley because it cuts down between people’s rather large back yards, and there are houses on one side only. The other side is mostly woods filled with bamboo, a small creek, and all types of trees so that we don’t see the backs of the houses that are there. On the other side of the barrier at the dead end is another street with no outlet, but the houses on that street are worth close to a $1,000,000.
So here we sit, the only non rental property on the street in the middle of a fine neighborhood, close to shopping centers, the interstate, and less than five minutes from the school where the genius teaches. So it seems perfect for us; we feel like we live in the country with all the greenery surrounding us, but we’re in the middle of the city.
But here’s the really interesting thing about living here. We have all sorts of wild life: squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, possums, raccoons, hawks, ducks, coyotes, foxes (both red and brown), and we even saw three deer amble down the street once.
Our little alley is not but a block long, so the fact that that short stretch of wooded area can support so much wild life is amazing to me and very fascinating to all the family, especially Rufus. He perches where he can see out of either a window or the front door and is entertained for hours.
The first time I looked at the house we now live in, I didn’t even go in. Who would want to live in a house that is at the dead end of a street with nothing but duplexes on it? But it was being offered at such a good price, and the house itself was very roomy. So we went back and checked it out. As soon as we walked in and saw the floor plan, we fell in love with it and soon it was ours.
The street is a strange one. Apparently, it is officially an alley because it cuts down between people’s rather large back yards, and there are houses on one side only. The other side is mostly woods filled with bamboo, a small creek, and all types of trees so that we don’t see the backs of the houses that are there. On the other side of the barrier at the dead end is another street with no outlet, but the houses on that street are worth close to a $1,000,000.
So here we sit, the only non rental property on the street in the middle of a fine neighborhood, close to shopping centers, the interstate, and less than five minutes from the school where the genius teaches. So it seems perfect for us; we feel like we live in the country with all the greenery surrounding us, but we’re in the middle of the city.
But here’s the really interesting thing about living here. We have all sorts of wild life: squirrels, chipmunks, rabbits, possums, raccoons, hawks, ducks, coyotes, foxes (both red and brown), and we even saw three deer amble down the street once.
Our little alley is not but a block long, so the fact that that short stretch of wooded area can support so much wild life is amazing to me and very fascinating to all the family, especially Rufus. He perches where he can see out of either a window or the front door and is entertained for hours.
Monday, September 17, 2007
Word Games
Our family is big on word games, especially the use of puns in our daily conversation (too many years of teaching Shakespeare). The practice has carried over into the third generation.
This summer we were keeping Jay (10) and Annie (7) for the day and we decided to go out for lunch. Granddaddy said, “Jay, go wash your hands, you’ve been playing with the dog.” So he complied.
Then Jay in typical big brother fashion said to Annie, who was busy playing games on the computer, “Annie, go wash your hands, you may have a computer virus.”
Our family is big on word games, especially the use of puns in our daily conversation (too many years of teaching Shakespeare). The practice has carried over into the third generation.
This summer we were keeping Jay (10) and Annie (7) for the day and we decided to go out for lunch. Granddaddy said, “Jay, go wash your hands, you’ve been playing with the dog.” So he complied.
Then Jay in typical big brother fashion said to Annie, who was busy playing games on the computer, “Annie, go wash your hands, you may have a computer virus.”
Saturday, September 15, 2007
GAFFES GALORE
When I taught school I was known as the teacher most likely to make faux paus in the classroom. And the fact that I taught mostly 8th graders whose hormones were dancing around the room made a slip of the tongue twice as likely. My family was used to my blunders and could testify (if asked, but they never were) that that’s just the way I am, these wonderful unintentional phrases just pour forth out of my mouth.
Two instances come to mind: once I asked the class to write down the adjectives in each sentence and the only 2 in one question were “long” and “hard.” Another time we were planning a celebration and I said that I would bring the doughnuts, except I pronounced the “g” because at home we sometimes make a game of ignoring silent letters in words. Both of these brought snickers and snide remarks.
But the granddaddy of them all occurred after I had been teaching only a couple of years. I was teaching American history to a class of 8th graders and we were studying early twentieth century Presidents. Every time I would mention Theodore Roosevelt’s “Walk softly and carry a big stick,” the boys in the back of the room would look at each other and giggle knowingly. Later on in my career I would have said something like, “OK, OK, let’s quit acting like 8th graders and try to learn” and that would have diffused it. But in this case, I just ignored them.
We finished the chapter and the review for the test and I was about to wrap it up. As I was walking toward the door to pick up the daily announcements to read to them, I said, “OK, remember that Taft was the one with the dollar diplomacy foreign policy, Wilson had the idealistic policy, and Roosevelt was the one with the big stick,” (except that for some strange reason I didn’t say stick, I will leave it to your imagination as to what I really said).
Two things occurred that day: the announcements never got read, and Roosevelt’s foreign policy was forever stamped into nineteen 8th graders’ minds.
When I taught school I was known as the teacher most likely to make faux paus in the classroom. And the fact that I taught mostly 8th graders whose hormones were dancing around the room made a slip of the tongue twice as likely. My family was used to my blunders and could testify (if asked, but they never were) that that’s just the way I am, these wonderful unintentional phrases just pour forth out of my mouth.
Two instances come to mind: once I asked the class to write down the adjectives in each sentence and the only 2 in one question were “long” and “hard.” Another time we were planning a celebration and I said that I would bring the doughnuts, except I pronounced the “g” because at home we sometimes make a game of ignoring silent letters in words. Both of these brought snickers and snide remarks.
But the granddaddy of them all occurred after I had been teaching only a couple of years. I was teaching American history to a class of 8th graders and we were studying early twentieth century Presidents. Every time I would mention Theodore Roosevelt’s “Walk softly and carry a big stick,” the boys in the back of the room would look at each other and giggle knowingly. Later on in my career I would have said something like, “OK, OK, let’s quit acting like 8th graders and try to learn” and that would have diffused it. But in this case, I just ignored them.
We finished the chapter and the review for the test and I was about to wrap it up. As I was walking toward the door to pick up the daily announcements to read to them, I said, “OK, remember that Taft was the one with the dollar diplomacy foreign policy, Wilson had the idealistic policy, and Roosevelt was the one with the big stick,” (except that for some strange reason I didn’t say stick, I will leave it to your imagination as to what I really said).
Two things occurred that day: the announcements never got read, and Roosevelt’s foreign policy was forever stamped into nineteen 8th graders’ minds.
The Obits
My family makes fun of me because I read the obituaries everyday. But, as I try to explain to them, I do it for two reasons: 1) because I’ve lived here for most of my life and obviously like to keep abreast of who has died, and 2) the sheer entertainment of it has provided me with much enjoyment.
What people or families decide to write about themselves or their loved ones can be very interesting. Where they grew up, went to school, honorary organizations, occupation(s), etc. may all be listed out in an orderly fashion. And of course, the survivors are usually named down to the children and often the grandchildren.
The variety of the notices is what makes them so fascinating to me. Some have nicknames after their given names. “Cockroach,” “Chief,” “Chicken,” “Big Mama” are just a few of the names I have seen in print. Another time my attention was caught by an obit written in the first person – the reader was able to get a small picture of what this guy was really like.
And the pictures are another subject altogether. I can’t count how many times I have looked in the paper and seen a person’s photo straight out of the forties (a dead give away as to his/her age) (pardon the pun). I once saw one of these old snapshots of a woman next to another woman’s photograph who looked 102, wrinkles galore all over her face. It made for an interesting comparison. But the best picture of them all was the shot of a lady birdwatcher facing the camera with a hat on and holding binoculars to her face. I suppose she didn’t want anyone to remember what she looked like.
I wouldn’t take anything for this daily diversion.
My family makes fun of me because I read the obituaries everyday. But, as I try to explain to them, I do it for two reasons: 1) because I’ve lived here for most of my life and obviously like to keep abreast of who has died, and 2) the sheer entertainment of it has provided me with much enjoyment.
What people or families decide to write about themselves or their loved ones can be very interesting. Where they grew up, went to school, honorary organizations, occupation(s), etc. may all be listed out in an orderly fashion. And of course, the survivors are usually named down to the children and often the grandchildren.
The variety of the notices is what makes them so fascinating to me. Some have nicknames after their given names. “Cockroach,” “Chief,” “Chicken,” “Big Mama” are just a few of the names I have seen in print. Another time my attention was caught by an obit written in the first person – the reader was able to get a small picture of what this guy was really like.
And the pictures are another subject altogether. I can’t count how many times I have looked in the paper and seen a person’s photo straight out of the forties (a dead give away as to his/her age) (pardon the pun). I once saw one of these old snapshots of a woman next to another woman’s photograph who looked 102, wrinkles galore all over her face. It made for an interesting comparison. But the best picture of them all was the shot of a lady birdwatcher facing the camera with a hat on and holding binoculars to her face. I suppose she didn’t want anyone to remember what she looked like.
I wouldn’t take anything for this daily diversion.
Friday, September 14, 2007
FACT VS. FICTION
Until recently, the genius has never appreciated the genre of fiction . . . period. If it wasn’t a true story, the book went back on the shelf. He has actually been known to speak disdainfully of people who read made-up stories. I once reminded him that part of our income was from my teaching students to enjoy and even treasure the great classics. So he admitted that it was fine for others, but not for him!
A few years ago the administration at the boys’ prep school where he teaches (math, of course) decreed that all teachers and students would read the same book over the summer break. And . . . it would be fiction! So he has reluctantly joined in.
The first two books he didn’t enjoy at all, but this past summer the book was The Count of Monte Cristo. I am happy to say that Alexandre Dumas did not let us down -- my pragmatic partner loved it! We had many interesting discussions about the characters, plot, movie version, etc. as he read through it. When he finished the novel, his question was “Do you think there are any more good books out there I would enjoy?”
I am happy to say that he is now voluntarily reading through Les Miserables and taking pleasure in the adventures of Jean Valjean.
Until recently, the genius has never appreciated the genre of fiction . . . period. If it wasn’t a true story, the book went back on the shelf. He has actually been known to speak disdainfully of people who read made-up stories. I once reminded him that part of our income was from my teaching students to enjoy and even treasure the great classics. So he admitted that it was fine for others, but not for him!
A few years ago the administration at the boys’ prep school where he teaches (math, of course) decreed that all teachers and students would read the same book over the summer break. And . . . it would be fiction! So he has reluctantly joined in.
The first two books he didn’t enjoy at all, but this past summer the book was The Count of Monte Cristo. I am happy to say that Alexandre Dumas did not let us down -- my pragmatic partner loved it! We had many interesting discussions about the characters, plot, movie version, etc. as he read through it. When he finished the novel, his question was “Do you think there are any more good books out there I would enjoy?”
I am happy to say that he is now voluntarily reading through Les Miserables and taking pleasure in the adventures of Jean Valjean.
How Wide is the Ocean?
Brenda, our youngest, reminded me of a Daddy Tale the other day and I think it’s worth repeating just because it’s so like him. One summer all the children, spouses, grandchildren, and Jim and I set off for a week in Florida. We also took a teenaged baby sitter named Elizabeth, who had been warned by Brenda about the genius and his “math” ways.
One evening we were all sitting peacefully on the balcony of one of our condos when he said out of the blue, “We’re on the twelfth floor, and assuming that each story is twelve feet high, and knowing the circumference of the earth, how far would we be able to look out over the ocean before the curvature of the earth interfered with our sight?”
Brenda said the look on Elizabeth’s face was priceless.
Brenda, our youngest, reminded me of a Daddy Tale the other day and I think it’s worth repeating just because it’s so like him. One summer all the children, spouses, grandchildren, and Jim and I set off for a week in Florida. We also took a teenaged baby sitter named Elizabeth, who had been warned by Brenda about the genius and his “math” ways.
One evening we were all sitting peacefully on the balcony of one of our condos when he said out of the blue, “We’re on the twelfth floor, and assuming that each story is twelve feet high, and knowing the circumference of the earth, how far would we be able to look out over the ocean before the curvature of the earth interfered with our sight?”
Brenda said the look on Elizabeth’s face was priceless.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
Getting Burned in All the Wrong Places
The genius LOVES hot foods, and I do mean hot! When we first began eating at a certain Thai restaurant, the servers would sneak over and discreetly watch him eat because they knew how hot he had ordered it (15 stars when the maximum was 5). I guess they were expecting SOME sort of reaction, but none came.
So when someone gave him some habanera peppers, he was thrilled. He got together his utensils (cutting board, knife, and food processor) and began his operation in a corner of the kitchen. Soon, he had a nice pile of finely chopped peppers ready to sprinkle on his food.
He started out of the room and I mentioned that it was time to eat, but he said he would be right back – he had to use the bathroom. In a VERY few minutes he came quickly out of the bathroom and was TROTTING toward the stairs. I said, “Where are you going, dinner is ready.” He said in a rather panicky voice, “I have to take a shower.” Well, actually, he took FOUR showers to try to get relief from the fiery sensation that had transmitted from his hands to another part of his body. I tried to be sympathetic, but I was laughing too hard.
We lost no time in buying a box of disposable gloves.
The genius LOVES hot foods, and I do mean hot! When we first began eating at a certain Thai restaurant, the servers would sneak over and discreetly watch him eat because they knew how hot he had ordered it (15 stars when the maximum was 5). I guess they were expecting SOME sort of reaction, but none came.
So when someone gave him some habanera peppers, he was thrilled. He got together his utensils (cutting board, knife, and food processor) and began his operation in a corner of the kitchen. Soon, he had a nice pile of finely chopped peppers ready to sprinkle on his food.
He started out of the room and I mentioned that it was time to eat, but he said he would be right back – he had to use the bathroom. In a VERY few minutes he came quickly out of the bathroom and was TROTTING toward the stairs. I said, “Where are you going, dinner is ready.” He said in a rather panicky voice, “I have to take a shower.” Well, actually, he took FOUR showers to try to get relief from the fiery sensation that had transmitted from his hands to another part of his body. I tried to be sympathetic, but I was laughing too hard.
We lost no time in buying a box of disposable gloves.
Numbers and Exercise
The love of numbers is especially evident in the math genius’ aerobic exercise records. For years (he can tell you how many) he has kept a daily account of his workouts whether it was jogging, playing tennis, walking, or bike riding, and how many aerobics points he achieved that day.
About 10 years ago he gave up most every form of exercise except for indoor and outdoor biking. He now has accumulated 28,500 + miles over a period of 2346 consecutive days, or 6 1/2 years, and his average is 12 miles per day. (All the above numbers he rattled off from memory.)
These years of daily riding have continued through cataract and thyroid surgeries, in sickness and in health, during vacations and business trips. I might add that his resting heart rate is in the low 50’s.
The love of numbers is especially evident in the math genius’ aerobic exercise records. For years (he can tell you how many) he has kept a daily account of his workouts whether it was jogging, playing tennis, walking, or bike riding, and how many aerobics points he achieved that day.
About 10 years ago he gave up most every form of exercise except for indoor and outdoor biking. He now has accumulated 28,500 + miles over a period of 2346 consecutive days, or 6 1/2 years, and his average is 12 miles per day. (All the above numbers he rattled off from memory.)
These years of daily riding have continued through cataract and thyroid surgeries, in sickness and in health, during vacations and business trips. I might add that his resting heart rate is in the low 50’s.
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
MATH GENIUS
Being married to a mathematical genius has many advantages. I have never had to pay the bills, or balance the checkbook, decipher the taxes, or better yet, figure out the tip for servers. As soon as the children became old enough, I had him teach them how to work out the tip, so they could do it whenever we ate out without him. On the rare occasion I have to leave a tip on my own, I usually give too much in an effort not to be stingy. If the genius finds out, the comments begin, “You left a THIRTY-SIX PERCENT TIP!” or “This server must have been GREAT!” So I solve this problem by leaving cash.
This mathematician is REALLY all about numbers. He was a very happy camper when they put those trip counters in cars, so he could set it whenever we start out anywhere. Not just on long trips, but jaunts to the grocery or post office or whatever. Many times I hear remarks like this, “Did you know it’s 14.2 miles from our house to this restaurant?” or “The Perrys only live 3.8 miles from us.” Of course, being a woman, I’m not at all interested in how far some place is, I just want to know how long it takes to get there and what time I need to be ready to go.
This mathematician is REALLY all about numbers. He was a very happy camper when they put those trip counters in cars, so he could set it whenever we start out anywhere. Not just on long trips, but jaunts to the grocery or post office or whatever. Many times I hear remarks like this, “Did you know it’s 14.2 miles from our house to this restaurant?” or “The Perrys only live 3.8 miles from us.” Of course, being a woman, I’m not at all interested in how far some place is, I just want to know how long it takes to get there and what time I need to be ready to go.
Sunday, September 2, 2007
THE WALK
Some of my most enjoyable times are spent on the walks Y,mommy and I take every day. They usually begin with me ringing the bell on the front door. Then the fun begins!
Y’mommy comes toward me with the leash and I wait until she gets just above my head . . . and I run away. Then she tries to catch me by dangling the leash in front of me hoping I will try to leap for it. This tactic usually does not work. Then she gets dirty and doesn’t play fair. (C’mon, maybe we’ll see Joe or Charlie, or . . . the fox!) She has my attention, all right – I’m ready to leash up and take to the streets!
The first task is to rid the front yard of all small varmints – chipmunks, squirrels, whatever -- I have to let them know who’s boss. Then we start down the street. I am swiftly drawn to the other dog smells in abundance on our street and begin sniffing around in each yard. If it’s really been a while since I’ve been out, I quickly try to cover up those smells with some mark of my own. Otherwise, I am content to wait for the PERFECT SPOT.
We continue to meander on down the street in search of just the right place. Sometimes, Charlie is in his fence and we go over and say “Hello.” Charlie, the beagle, howls, and I yip, yip, yip as hard as I can. Or Joe, the retriever, might be out and his deep woof, woof always gets me in a frenzy. I love to jump all over Joe and run in circles around him while he just stands there ignoring me. Personally, I worry about Joe – he seems to be past his prime.
Finally, I find the yard and I begin sniffing in earnest. (I believe he’s doing the pee walk, please let it be the pee walk, ahhhhh yes! It is!) The walk back to the house is not quite as exciting – Y’mommy always seems anxious to get back. I will admit that she is usually very patient unless it’s raining and then the entire walk is reduced to her standing on the front porch and me in our yard.
Some of my most enjoyable times are spent on the walks Y,mommy and I take every day. They usually begin with me ringing the bell on the front door. Then the fun begins!
Y’mommy comes toward me with the leash and I wait until she gets just above my head . . . and I run away. Then she tries to catch me by dangling the leash in front of me hoping I will try to leap for it. This tactic usually does not work. Then she gets dirty and doesn’t play fair. (C’mon, maybe we’ll see Joe or Charlie, or . . . the fox!) She has my attention, all right – I’m ready to leash up and take to the streets!
The first task is to rid the front yard of all small varmints – chipmunks, squirrels, whatever -- I have to let them know who’s boss. Then we start down the street. I am swiftly drawn to the other dog smells in abundance on our street and begin sniffing around in each yard. If it’s really been a while since I’ve been out, I quickly try to cover up those smells with some mark of my own. Otherwise, I am content to wait for the PERFECT SPOT.
We continue to meander on down the street in search of just the right place. Sometimes, Charlie is in his fence and we go over and say “Hello.” Charlie, the beagle, howls, and I yip, yip, yip as hard as I can. Or Joe, the retriever, might be out and his deep woof, woof always gets me in a frenzy. I love to jump all over Joe and run in circles around him while he just stands there ignoring me. Personally, I worry about Joe – he seems to be past his prime.
Finally, I find the yard and I begin sniffing in earnest. (I believe he’s doing the pee walk, please let it be the pee walk, ahhhhh yes! It is!) The walk back to the house is not quite as exciting – Y’mommy always seems anxious to get back. I will admit that she is usually very patient unless it’s raining and then the entire walk is reduced to her standing on the front porch and me in our yard.
NIGHTTIME RITUAL
Every night Y’mommy and I climb the stairs for The Ritual. It begins with going into the bedroom where I wait patiently (yeah, right!) for Y’mommy to finish her bathroom duties. (How can it take anyone so long to wash her face and brush her teeth?) Finally, the moment arrives – she emerges, dressed in her pj’s and NO SHOES on her feet. The fun begins!! I chase her across the room, all the while nipping at her heels and calves. And then the best challenge of all – how many toes can I grab while she climbs into bed? On a REALLY good night, I’m able to get a bite of BOTH feet.
But the fun doesn’t end here. I race to the foot of the bed, jump up my doggie steps, and try to reach the toes, or at least the ankles, before they can get under the covers. (She’s getting wise to this part of the game though, and is getting pretty quick for her age.) At this point I have a decision to make – do I begin the cuddling up now, in which case I head for the lap while she reads, or do I play hard-to-get and start my settling down process on another part of the bed? It’s a tough decision, but when the lights go out, the choice is easy – I head over to her side to keep her company and protect her from the dark.
Every night Y’mommy and I climb the stairs for The Ritual. It begins with going into the bedroom where I wait patiently (yeah, right!) for Y’mommy to finish her bathroom duties. (How can it take anyone so long to wash her face and brush her teeth?) Finally, the moment arrives – she emerges, dressed in her pj’s and NO SHOES on her feet. The fun begins!! I chase her across the room, all the while nipping at her heels and calves. And then the best challenge of all – how many toes can I grab while she climbs into bed? On a REALLY good night, I’m able to get a bite of BOTH feet.
But the fun doesn’t end here. I race to the foot of the bed, jump up my doggie steps, and try to reach the toes, or at least the ankles, before they can get under the covers. (She’s getting wise to this part of the game though, and is getting pretty quick for her age.) At this point I have a decision to make – do I begin the cuddling up now, in which case I head for the lap while she reads, or do I play hard-to-get and start my settling down process on another part of the bed? It’s a tough decision, but when the lights go out, the choice is easy – I head over to her side to keep her company and protect her from the dark.
Old Dogs Playing Tricks
It has been my observation that people respond to Maltese in one of two ways: either they think they’re adorable and want to cuddle them, or they show disdain and barely tolerate them. My Phoenix daughter and her husband Mike are in the latter group, which surprises me because they have three indoor cats and two huge “real dogs” who (unlike Maltese) shed constantly and smell like dogs. But during her visit with us this summer it became apparent that she had obviously become concerned over how much Rufus has taken over the household in a year. So Y’daddy and I decided that a little light-hearted fun was in order.
Y’daddy went out and bought a birthday card with a picture of a dog that looked much like Rufus on the front. We both wrote endearing notes on the inside about how much he means to us and signed it. Next, we wrote his name and the date of his birthday on the outside and sealed it, and finally, tore it open and left it on a table in the living room. The stage was set.
The next morning we all meandered into the living room and I busied myself at the other end of the room. I heard my Franklin daughter say, “Is this what I think it is?” I turned around and asked innocently, “Where did you find that? I’ve been looking for it to put in Rufus’ scrapbook!” This last was said with my back turned because I was afraid I would lose control. But I turned around to see both daughters staring at each other and the Phoenix one finally said, “Well, I can hardly WAIT to tell Mike about THIS!”
I wish that I could say that we kept them in suspense for a while, but my control was gone, and it was all over.
It has been my observation that people respond to Maltese in one of two ways: either they think they’re adorable and want to cuddle them, or they show disdain and barely tolerate them. My Phoenix daughter and her husband Mike are in the latter group, which surprises me because they have three indoor cats and two huge “real dogs” who (unlike Maltese) shed constantly and smell like dogs. But during her visit with us this summer it became apparent that she had obviously become concerned over how much Rufus has taken over the household in a year. So Y’daddy and I decided that a little light-hearted fun was in order.
Y’daddy went out and bought a birthday card with a picture of a dog that looked much like Rufus on the front. We both wrote endearing notes on the inside about how much he means to us and signed it. Next, we wrote his name and the date of his birthday on the outside and sealed it, and finally, tore it open and left it on a table in the living room. The stage was set.
The next morning we all meandered into the living room and I busied myself at the other end of the room. I heard my Franklin daughter say, “Is this what I think it is?” I turned around and asked innocently, “Where did you find that? I’ve been looking for it to put in Rufus’ scrapbook!” This last was said with my back turned because I was afraid I would lose control. But I turned around to see both daughters staring at each other and the Phoenix one finally said, “Well, I can hardly WAIT to tell Mike about THIS!”
I wish that I could say that we kept them in suspense for a while, but my control was gone, and it was all over.
Some Rufus Antics
Last night I was sitting in the living room, working on the laptop, and Rufus was being a real pest. He just hates it when he doesn’t have my undivided attention. Finally, I whispered, “Where’s Y’daddy? Go find Y’daddy!! So he obediently went up the stairs in a search for something to do.
The next thing I hear is “Oh, no!! Not again!! (I could interpret those words several ways so had no real clue) But, here came Rufus, flying down the stairs with Y’daddy’s underwear in his mouth, dancing around and daring me (no, begging me) to try to take it away. I just ignored him, but Y’daddy yelled down the steps for me to try to get his dirty clothes back. (What the little boy loves to do is to sneak quietly into Y’daddy’s room and if the closet door has been left open, it’s open season – dirty clothes, shoes, you name it -- it’s fair game.) The quickest way to retrieve anything is to wait a few minutes, he goes on to something else, and I can then pick it up. The solution to this particular problem is obvious to me, but far be it from me to suggest it – I enjoy the show too much.
Last night I was sitting in the living room, working on the laptop, and Rufus was being a real pest. He just hates it when he doesn’t have my undivided attention. Finally, I whispered, “Where’s Y’daddy? Go find Y’daddy!! So he obediently went up the stairs in a search for something to do.
The next thing I hear is “Oh, no!! Not again!! (I could interpret those words several ways so had no real clue) But, here came Rufus, flying down the stairs with Y’daddy’s underwear in his mouth, dancing around and daring me (no, begging me) to try to take it away. I just ignored him, but Y’daddy yelled down the steps for me to try to get his dirty clothes back. (What the little boy loves to do is to sneak quietly into Y’daddy’s room and if the closet door has been left open, it’s open season – dirty clothes, shoes, you name it -- it’s fair game.) The quickest way to retrieve anything is to wait a few minutes, he goes on to something else, and I can then pick it up. The solution to this particular problem is obvious to me, but far be it from me to suggest it – I enjoy the show too much.
The Name
Now, about my name – I THINK it’s Little Boy, or Rufus Boy, or maybe just Rufus. Y’daddy said that I have a very long name, that I was named after him, but had a D after the Shackleford instead of III. He says that D stands for DOG – or 500 -- whichever I wanted. Sometimes they call me Good Boy, and I like that because this is usually accompanied by a treat or a pat on the head. The worst name I have is Bad Boy, usually spoken with an exclamation mark after it and in a very stern voice. I usually just go off by myself when I hear that name. For such a little dog, I sure do have a lot of names!
Now, about my name – I THINK it’s Little Boy, or Rufus Boy, or maybe just Rufus. Y’daddy said that I have a very long name, that I was named after him, but had a D after the Shackleford instead of III. He says that D stands for DOG – or 500 -- whichever I wanted. Sometimes they call me Good Boy, and I like that because this is usually accompanied by a treat or a pat on the head. The worst name I have is Bad Boy, usually spoken with an exclamation mark after it and in a very stern voice. I usually just go off by myself when I hear that name. For such a little dog, I sure do have a lot of names!
The Drive Home
They put me in their car that day and we began our ride to our new home. I was again snuggled right up next to Y’mommy and again, I – was -- happy!! But something began to happen – my stomach started to feel a little peculiar. Suddenly, there was my breakfast on Y’mommy’s shirt, and she was squirming around trying to clean up. I felt much better, though and settled in for the rest of the ride home. I could hardly wait to see my new abode.
But wait!!! THIS doesn’t look like a home!! Could it be??? Yes, it IS a doctor’s office. I had been to one of these before to be abused by needles and I don’t know what all. And I was NOT a happy camper. They put me on a co-o-o-ld table and yes, I received another shot. And then the worst!! I was violated!! Not once, but twice! The only good thing about that visit was that the doctor gave me some sweet stuff out of a tube and then gave it to Y’mommy to take home. Good!! I would get some MORE of that!!
They put me in their car that day and we began our ride to our new home. I was again snuggled right up next to Y’mommy and again, I – was -- happy!! But something began to happen – my stomach started to feel a little peculiar. Suddenly, there was my breakfast on Y’mommy’s shirt, and she was squirming around trying to clean up. I felt much better, though and settled in for the rest of the ride home. I could hardly wait to see my new abode.
But wait!!! THIS doesn’t look like a home!! Could it be??? Yes, it IS a doctor’s office. I had been to one of these before to be abused by needles and I don’t know what all. And I was NOT a happy camper. They put me on a co-o-o-ld table and yes, I received another shot. And then the worst!! I was violated!! Not once, but twice! The only good thing about that visit was that the doctor gave me some sweet stuff out of a tube and then gave it to Y’mommy to take home. Good!! I would get some MORE of that!!
Rufus Tales
Background
I, like Snoopy, was born on a puppy farm. There were just two of us in the litter, my sister and me. I didn’t really get to know her very well; mostly, she and I just fought for nourishment and attention from Mother. A man named Billy (Y’daddy thinks he looks like someone out of Deliverance) gave us crunchy food and let us out of the cage to play outside each day.
One day Billy came and got me and put me down on a cold linoleum floor with some other puppies. That was the first time that I saw Y’mommy and Y’daddy, and I was so excited to see them that I just squatted right there and emitted a stream on that cold floor (a sign of things to come). Y’mommy picked me up and I snuggled right up next to her – she felt fine!! They didn’t take me that day but promised to be back and take me home with them.
About two weeks went by and one night I was taken from my cage where Sister and I were snuggled up together and did I get a rude awakening!! I experienced my first bath!! But it was worth it because the very next morning Y’mommy and Y’daddy returned to take me home! I was so glad to see them and to realize that I would have a home of my own.
I, like Snoopy, was born on a puppy farm. There were just two of us in the litter, my sister and me. I didn’t really get to know her very well; mostly, she and I just fought for nourishment and attention from Mother. A man named Billy (Y’daddy thinks he looks like someone out of Deliverance) gave us crunchy food and let us out of the cage to play outside each day.
One day Billy came and got me and put me down on a cold linoleum floor with some other puppies. That was the first time that I saw Y’mommy and Y’daddy, and I was so excited to see them that I just squatted right there and emitted a stream on that cold floor (a sign of things to come). Y’mommy picked me up and I snuggled right up next to her – she felt fine!! They didn’t take me that day but promised to be back and take me home with them.
About two weeks went by and one night I was taken from my cage where Sister and I were snuggled up together and did I get a rude awakening!! I experienced my first bath!! But it was worth it because the very next morning Y’mommy and Y’daddy returned to take me home! I was so glad to see them and to realize that I would have a home of my own.
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