LOOK I’M A SUPER HEROINE

Things have been as hectic lately as a Shell station selling gas for 0.979 per gallon. Everyone’s in line to be serviced, and just when I think I’m at my wit’s end and just when I think no one appreciates me, I’m pulled out of my own tail-spin by my hero, Rockin’ Roy. He lets me know that I’m his SUPER-HERO.

We’ve managed to get Rockin Roy’s mom back to her assisted living apartment. That was no small feat, spending all day last Friday wading through red tape and sitting in the lobby of the nursing home with Gen, who didn’t seem to know she was getting her wish….getting sprung. She had just spent a month at the nursing home getting therapy, and she was getting to go back to her own furniture and friends at the assisted living apartment. There are some loose ends to tie up, such as arranging for the upgrade of her care at the Atria, straightening up her meds list and turning her back over to the care of her own doctor, and making sure she has everything she needs. This last stroke has increased her “needs list” quite a bit. Bless the wonderful people who take care of her at the Atria.

In the mean time, three of our granddaughters plus their beautiful stepsister were here to visit for an unknown length of time. They are here visiting from Bullhead City, AZ. We were originally to share visits between their dad (Buford), and his sister, their Aunt Deborah. This is going to be fun! I had plans of library, skating, bowling and swimming, and just hanging out with the girls.

My dear friend, Ginger arrived on Friday afternoon as planned for an annual party on Bolivar Peninsula and to visit with us. She asked me to be her “date” for this event, as her husband elected to stay in Fort Worth to be left alone with an entire carrot cake left in the refrigerator. We know that’s why he didn’t come. Of course I would go with her for a day of sun and food and fun one the beach! We were to get up early Saturday and head down to the ferry from Galveston to Bolivar.

The three of us went out to eat that night at a steakhouse with four more of our friends. This is our usual Friday night fare, and a grand time was shared by all. We even got some pretty goofy pictures before heading home to relax and get ready for our adventure to Bolivar Peninsula.

As we walked in the back door, the phone rang. It was our oldest granddaughter, in tears saying between sobs, that her daddy had been taken to the hospital in an ambulance with a possible stroke. “Don’t worry honey, I’ll be right there to get you girls!” My imagination pictured four little girls sitting on the curb, sobbing while waiting for their grandmother to come save the day. Ginger and I jumped into the Durango and headed over to get the girls. Thankfully, they were not alone. Their Aunt Deborah had been the one to call an ambulance before zooming 50 miles to over-see her brother getting loaded up to go to the hospital and to take care of the girls until I could get there. She must have flown, and it’s a wonder that she didn’t get a ticket. I was really surprised to see her. She lives a long way away and she was there so fast.

We loaded up the girls, introductions were made all around, and we headed to the house. We got the girls settled in, making sleeping assignments for everyone. I was prepared to just stay home the next day and let Ginger go on to her party alone. Rockin'Roy stepped in and volunteered to entertain the girls so that Ginger and I could go on to with our plans for fun, sun and food at Bolivar. What a guy! With that, we all turned in for the night.

The three of us arose the next morning to enjoy coffee and sit out on the deck before the girls got up. We dressed and headed out for a day at the beach. I knew Roy would royally entertain the four little girls bravely, and I didn’t worry about them. Ginger and I had a great time, great food, conversation with people our own age, and I even got the first sunburn (not a bad one) I’ve had in years. Even that was sort of a good feeling. We headed back to Spring, and called our respective home-base contacts. As I suspected, Rockin’ Roy had the girls out hunting for food at the great hunting reserve, H.E.B. This is one of those hunting reserves where all the “game” is rounded up for you in isles, and you just throw it in the basket and shoot it with a check, cash or debit card. What a brave man!

The next morning, the three of us got up once more and met on the deck for coffee and the Sunday paper. We walked across the street to visit a bit with Lou the Bromeliad Man. That’s always enchanting. Ginger walked away with a treasure trove of plants from Lou the Bromeliad Man and some from our own back yard.

Monday, Rockin’ Roy left for work, and the girls and I were left to our own resources. We tried the library, but it was not opened yet. So, we did the old standby thing and went to the grocery store again. Came back to the house and checked on their daddy. He’s still in the hospital, but is going to be alright. We went back to the library later in the afternoon. Two out of the four actually got books, but mostly they all wanted to touch (via email) base with their friends back home. Yes sireee! They went there to get online to visit. Why, in my day, we went to the library to get books and to do term papers!

Today, I think we’ll make smoothies for breakfast, go pick blackberries and maybe go to the pool. Because Rockin’ Roy told me I’m his super hero, I will make it through this day and more.

MY DREAM SHE-CAVE

or

Utility rooms are a necessary evil……..or are they necessarily evil? We are back-door people, therefore, all of our friends come to the back door. The front door is reserved strictly for people canvassing for sales, kids asking for funding so that they can go to Europe for the summer, ministers trying to save my soul and Girl Scouts of America. It’s also a place to leave donations for pick-up and for large parcels of mail, UPS, Fed Ex and etc. Come to think of it, anyone who’s ever been to our house to visit before knows to go to the back door. The first thing they come into is a very small room only big enough for the washer, dryer and freezer. The half bath is stuck at the end like an afterthought. If you’re very large you have to suck it in to get in there. You literally cannot turn around in there without knocking something off the wall or the counter.

First of all, the location for a utility room is all wrong. The utility room should be discretely attached to the master bedroom and facing the back yard. My idea of a utility room has been in my mind for years. So far, the only person I’ve seen come close to my specs has been my sister, Anne. She’s the one that convinced me that the logical place for a utility room is off of the master bedroom. She is absolutely correct as far as I’m concerned. She even has secret passages to her project room, and I remain pea-green with envy.

Most men have their own space. A place where they can go to not be disturbed. It’s a place where they display all of their trophies and neon beer-signs. They can smoke their stinky cigars, watch whatever they want on TV, and play computer games endlessly. If it’s not a MAN-CAVE DEN or a MAN-CAVE OFFICE, then it’s a MAN-CAVE GARAGE. There used to be Monster House and Monster Garage. Now there is THE MAN-CAVE, but, I’ve never seen a design for a SHE-CAVE. I had a really hard time even finding a picture of what might be a She-Cave.

If I haven’t made myself perfectly clear, I’ll just say that I WANT ONE!!!!! I’ll even make myself more clear than that. I do not want your MAN-CAVE. The Royster has been more than gracious in sharing his office and garage with me, but I just want my own, and I intend to take things just a bit further. I not only want a utility room / sewing / beading / writing room, but a place of solitude. This idea sprang from watching DIY and all of the reality shows on room and home do-overs.

For starters, my She-Cave will be as a large a master bedroom, and it will be located discretely off the back of the master bedroom. My list of specs for this room is as such:
• I guess a washer and dryer would be in order.
• Closet, cabinets, shelves for storage
• Desk with computer and phone
• A sewing machine area
• A 5’ X 6’ project table (to my waist) with a lighted surface for tracings and plug outlets.
• Proper lighting through out
• Good ventilation because I intend to use my beading torch
• A sink with hot and cold running water (definitely NOT for cleaning fish).
• A Coffee Pot
• Small refrigerator
• A small television
• Window facing the back yard
• A door opening to the back yard
• An ironing board that folds up in to its own cabinet - I guess this just goes with my generation.
• A small couch and a chair for visitors.

Well, that’s just about it. I don’t think it’s too much. Every woman should have one. I’d even share it with the Royster for special projects, like a nice stained glass project. Now I’ve got to justify this and make it happen. What do you think?

Wish me luck.

ONLY IN THE WEE HOURS

A LABOR OF LOVE

An eerie feeling woke me suddenly, and I bolted straight up in bed. Oh My gosh! It’s started! I looked at the clock. It was 4:00 a.m.

“Honey! Wake up! It’s time! Throw something on and let’s go!”

“Okay…..What time did it start?”

“About 9:30 last night!”

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?!”

“Well, it wasn’t far enough along yet, but it is now! HURRY!!!”

I threw on my robe, grabbed the camera, some scissors and a flashlight and dashed out to the back yard. Let me tell you…..This is quite an event for a 60 year old woman. Roy was right behind me, ready to help with the scissors.

“We’ve made it in time!” Snap-flash, snap-flash. “They’re only just finished opening!”

“Good! You just keep taking pictures and I’ll get us some coffee and I’ll be right back out to help you.”

This has become an annual event. A dear neighbor gave me a Night-blooming Cerus about two years ago. The first time it bloomed, it only had two blooms. This year there were four. These are absolutely some of the most gorgeous flowers I’ve ever seen. Their aroma is to die for. I expect there will be more next year, and we will rise to the occasion once again.

Since I’ve retired, it’s been my business to keep track of every bloom in the yard, from the orange, lemon and lime trees to the Angel Trumpets, Magnolias, Hibiscus, Plumbago, cactus flowers and African Iris. This is a new fascination with us. I guess it just goes with our age. It’s a new appreciation.

This spectacular event is really special since they only bloom once a year, and then only at night. As soon as dawn hits, they’re gone until next year. Gone are the days when we could have pulled an all-nighter to watch this event unfold. First of all, at that young age, an all-nighter would NOT have been to watch a bunch of flowers open. Secondly, Night-bloomers were Night-blooming-Car-Parkers in those days. I guess something like this might have been wasted on youth. It was hard enough to drag out of bed in the mornings for school.

We’ve both worked very hard in the yard, specifically the back yard. It’s become a tropical sanctuary. We love to sit out there in the evenings and early in the mornings to absorb the soul soothing tranquility that we’ve created over the years. It’s been worth every last drop of blood, sweat and tears shed over the years in this undertaking.

Oh, it’s still not finished, and probably won’t ever be. It’ll be a labor of love for as long as we live here.

Wasted Days and Wasted Nights

That old Freddy Fender tune hums in the back of my mind. Many nights I laid awake tossing and turning, and for as many days I went from task to task fretting and could not for the life of me figure out why.

The core of things came to light one day when I discovered that I was brooding about something that had occurred in my life when I was very young; something that I let get under my skin that long ago. How could a person hang on to something that supposedly no longer had the power or strength to hurt? The only value it still held was that at one time, it was a learning tool; something in my path that I dealt with poorly or maybe didn’t handle at all. That must have been the key. Possibly I didn’t handle it right then and there, or maybe I just hadn’t learned what I was supposed to learn from that experience that was right there in my path to learn from. Thank goodness I’ve learned to search for the source of uncomfortable feelings, take it out and examine it, and discard it into the pile of Lessons Finally Learned. Why on earth would I let something that ancient cause such havoc in my life today? Could it be guilt? I had taken it to confession. This was not an isolated incident with just one thing, but several things through out a lifetime that occasionally come up from the past to make me feel uncomfortable to the point of feeling suffocated.

I was born in 1948, and raised in the then Catholic tradition of “fear, guilt and shame”, and according to all of my Catechism teachers and all of the nuns and priests, I owned all of these loathsome traits. My little 6 year old soul was already black. I remember my first confession, as I was preparing for my first Communion. What horrible sins could a six or seven year old have, that they must kneel in a small, very dark closet and beg forgiveness from a man they could not see, a man who would pass judgment on them and punish them with penance? I remember specifically telling the priest hearing my confession that I could not think of anything I had done wrong. The priest’s reply was, “No one is without sin! You must tell me your sins!” So, I actually started making things up to pacify the priest. Actually, My grandmother had just told me the day before, that I was growing up too fast, and that it was “…just a sin the way you are growing up so fast!” “Well…I… I committed adultery.” I said with shame. I could hear nothing of the priest except the sound of choking. That confession saved a lot of time, and the priest gave me my forgiveness and my penance, and I was free to go; and to receive my First Holy Communion.

From that time on, I spent many a Saturday afternoon standing or kneeling with friends in our youth group all lined up for the confessional. I spent almost that length of time going over my “mea culpa” list with a priest that was, in my opinion, more curious and prying than someone should be who was supposed to administer absolution and penance for your sins. Also, as I grew older, I no longer had to make up something to tell the priest. There were sins to be committed around every corner. Some of these priests only stopped their queries short of asking for names and phone numbers, and it seems they always knew who they were talking to as surely as we knew which priest was sitting on the other side of the screen. The priest sitting on the other side of the screen was usually the same priest that ran our local C.Y.O. group (Catholic Youth Organization). This was a Holy Man of the Cloth, above reproach, and to be respected and trusted beyond all else.

Please bear in mind that back then, the Catholic Church had changed little from the 14th century. It was still pretty archaic. I believe now things have changed a great deal. This was a huge contradiction of what we were taught in our Catechism class, that the Catholic Church will never change. We were also told not to ever question Catholic teachings or Catholic authority. That was what they called blind faith.

Don’t get me wrong. I believe that confession is good for the soul, but just not that way. It’s one thing to sit face to face and talk with another person about your own sins and shortcomings, but it’s quite another to be required to sit cloistered in a dark closet to confess to another human being that you don’t even know. This person could be yawning or snickering behind the screen.

To be fair, there were some really devout and honest priests that truly had our best interest at heart. They earnestly wanted to help people. These priests were everyone’s favorites, and the only ones that made me feel that that I was truly forgiven for my sins. They let you know they were human and that humans make human mistakes. Unfortunately, there weren’t very many of them, and the ones that I knew and who were my favorites eventually left the priesthood to marry. Even as a young girl, I respected and admired these men for that. It must have been a really agonizing decision for them to make. If I knew where to find them, I’d trust them to mentor me today.

Anger is another aspect that can trigger these uncomfortable feelings. If you are wondering why being angry makes you feel so uncomfortable, I believe it’s because anger is a symptom of fear. When you don’t understand something, you understandably fear. For instance, people fear the unknown, so they fight, kill or flee whatever it is that they don’t understand. People fear that someone will hurt them or fear that someone or something will take something away from them. Anger wells up when someone or something threatens you. When children fear the dark, they plan all kinds of defenses (usually angry) to fend off the monsters of the dark. “I will kick them and hit them with a big stick, and stab them with a knife!” Once you let go of the fear, the anger will go away. Once you let go of anger, then fear will go away. Fear and anger nearly always go hand-in-hand.

Some harbor childhood fear and anger into their adult lives. This causes blaming. The blaming thing in adulthood is just another way to deflect blame for bad behavior. They blame an imperfect childhood for their own present behavior. Well, this is just wrong. You’ve known the difference between right and wrong since you were five years old. Forgive yourself and your offenders and get on with your life! As someone close to me used to say, “Build a bridge and get over it!” Adulthood is complicated enough without bringing a bunch of anger, resentment and fear from childhood into it. As far as I’m concerned, you are officially grown up when you can forgive all of the indiscretions of childhood, your own and those of others; just and/or unjust. Just let go of them. They were learning tools then, and you should have learned from them. If not, dig them out and have a look at them. See what you might have missed and then toss them into that pile of Lessons Finally Learned.

My Lessons Finally Learned pile has grown into a huge mound. It may grow bigger still, but I’m glad for having invented it. I’ve finally started getting some sleep, and the humming of Wasted Days and Wasted Nights has stopped droning in the back of my head. I’ve forgiven myself and others of my childhood. I’m a pretty decent person, and my soul is no longer black, but I intend to keep working on it. It still needs work.

THE WAY I SEE IT

You are who you are and I am who I am because that's the way The Powers That Be made us. I have total faith in that. Granted, every thing we are exposed to from environment to people, places and things helps bring out who we actually are. It's a matter of what we do with it. Our whole lives are a challenge, and I sincerely believe that we are here to love, learn and create. That seems pretty simple, but it's as complex as all get-out.

I don't believe that our parents have much influence, if any, on exactly who we actually are. We've inherited their genes for our physical attributes, and we take on some of our parents' mannerisms and quirks, and we certainly ascribe to some of their beliefs and teachings. This is because we are exposed to them day and night for the first 18 to 20 years of our lives.

Our parents are here to raise us into adults, teach us, shape us and to put us on the right track to adulthood according to their own learned knowledge, beliefs and values. That's all they have for this grueling task. For all of that, even with their influence, we will form our own beliefs as we grow into our own selves anyway. We know of right from wrong and good from bad by the time we are five years old. After that, we just have to learn how to use that knowledge. We still need to be guided and coached.

Why does it always shock and distress parents when their children don't always share their own values? We learn behavior patterns, mannerisms and habits (good and bad) from them. But, the person we ultimately become is exactly who we already are. I think we actually know exactly who we are the moment we are born, but soon forget as soon as the delivery room lights hit our little faces. At that very moment, we are a new little mind to bend.

Our challenges and choices eventually mold us into that which we are and will be forever more. The challenges are already lined up, and our choices determine when we meet these challenges.

That may sound just trivial, but I believe it's the truth. We are all born with separate and uniquely different souls and spirits, with a whole set of challenges to meet. It's not IF we meet these challenges but when, and when we meet these challenges is solely up to us. Oh, we will meet all of them if we live long enough. We choose to meet them whether we are conscious of the choice or not, now or later. When we meet them depends on when we recognize that we can't move forward to the next challenge until we take care of the one right in front of us.

Isn't that just the way it is? I mean, there are certain steps we have to take before we can run on to the next one. Don't we have to acknowledge that there is a challenge, a problem to solve or an inquisition to face? I'm guessing that the acknowledgment of this challenge is the first step. The next step would be to examine the possibilities. After that, acceptance of the challenge would be in order, and then actually taking new steps to meet the challenge or solve the problem.

It's realizing that the Powers That Be have designed these challenges for us to learn by. Acceptance is a very important step in this. You don't have to like it, but you do have to accept it eventually. I'm told that we are made in God's image. This makes me think of God as one huge kaleidoscope of brilliant color, and I just happen to be one of the tiny, beautiful shards of color, and I am very flattered to be a part of that.

The more challenges we take on, the more we grow, and the more colors we accumulate the more complete we become, and the more we can create, whether it be a sculpture, a building, a work of art in a museum, invent something, or create a wonderful environment for our future generations. Our challenges help us grow enough to meet the criteria for creation, and that is precisely what we are here for; to live, love and create. That's the way I see it. Now, please excuse me. I must be off to work on my own kaleidoscope colors.

Who’s Responsible Debate

Many of you know that I’ve become involved in an online organization of writers from everywhere. Mostly, it’s people like you and me who just enjoy writing. At this site, whatever story, article, essay or debate you write is rated by all the other people who have joined this community of writers. Everyone gets to rate everyone else’s writings. I’m new at this, and only joined because I was cruising around to see what was offered for publishing one’s own work.

So, I’ve found Helium.com (no longer what it used to be) to be an excellent place to write about whatever I know something about. Mostly I’m having a ball. I just snoop around, pick a subject and start writing. Once I’ve checked it for errors, I submit it, at which time I am snapped into a place where I get to rate other people’s work while mine is being rated by others. This is fun!

I started noticing that I was getting pretty good at this when I received my very first ratings. I was just honored! I hadn’t gotten a gold star since the third grade. What elation! I was just on cloud nine. I started writing more and more and would click into the site to check my rating. Egad! I was rating in the top one quarter of most everything I wrote! Conceit was looming.

Last week, while checking my ratings, I noticed that my most current article was rated #1 of 26. Well, there went my ego, right through the roof. Oh! But there’s more! I had a blue star for writing. Well, this spurred me on to write again. I was so excited I could hardly contain myself, and soon I was snooping around for a subject too write about.

And there it was. A debate. Well, I’ve never been very competitive, with the exception of trying to secure more floor in family yack-a-thons. So, I wondered if I could pull this one off. The debate was Should Smokers Bear the Responsibility for Health Risks of Cigarette Smoking? Of course, there was a YES or a NO vote. Clicked on the NO vote, and a blank page popped up for me to begin writing. It didn’t take me long, and when I finished and checked it for errors, I submitted.

Of course, I was checking in and out of Helium to see what my rating was. There weren’t very many submissions yet, but I was #2 of 4 for the NO side of the debate. Not too bad. I decided to check my e-mail before going about my usual chores around the house. I’d check ratings again later.

What a nice surprise! I had an e-mail from one of the other writers. She had placed just one point under me in the ratings. Her note was very pleasant and flattering. Oh! I liked her immediately. I wrote her back and told her thanks very much for the kind and flattering words. And that I liked her article too.

BUT WAIT!!!!!! There was another e-mail from yet another member of Helium. Gosh! I’ll be getting flowers and speaking engagements next. I clicked into that e-mail and read:

“The government made me do it. The ad campaign made me do. Help! Help! I can't control myself, I'm under the control of a mind bending, death ray and nothing is my fault. You are where you are because you put yourself there. To shirk responsibility is juvenile.” Napoleon

Many of you will be pleased to know that I did NOT address this man as Dear Mr. Hot-Snot! No sireee. I maintained a certain amount of brevity and dignity in my response with:

I'm guessing you don't and never have smoked or had any other vices....ever.
I did choose to smoke, albeit at age 14. I also chose to continue to smoke. Unfortunately, it took something stronger than my urge to smoke to quit.
I'm so glad you're free of any bad habits, or anything socially unacceptable.

I read your article too, and it was fair.
M. Brown

He responded with:

"What's fair? The weather is fair. What did you think?
I've got more than my share of bad habits, but I don't point at other things or people and say that's why I'm bad. Everything I am or will every be begins with me. It's called taking responsitility for my actions. If I make a mistake, I try to correct it. If I cause pain to others, I generally apologize. Of course, I smoked just like most kids raised in the 50's and 60's, but just like I said, I knew then that cigarettes were bad for me, I ignored that and continued to smoke. When it came time to quit, I quit. It's that simple."
Napoleon

I don’t mind saying that I was tiring of this little twerp, so I went back and found his article, which was listed as #4 of 5. As I gazed at it, trying to get through, I noticed that he had a particularly long dissertation with NO paragraphs. And, He’d voted on the wrong side. His story indicated that he most certainly did believe that smokers should bear all of the responsibility for the health risks of cigarette smoking. I also clicked in to “Read more about this author.” The only thing there was his dissertation about Smoking. Bingo! I shot back:

"I think you need to learn how to use paragraphs. It makes it easier to read.

You voted on the wrong side. The question was Should Smokers Bear the Responsibility for the Health Risks of Cigarette Smoking? You voted NO. The way your debate Article read, you really meant to say YES Smokers Should Bear the Responsibility of the Health Risks of Cigarette Smoking.

In my debate Article, I’m not shirking responsibility. I own the mistakes I’ve made, and I know what they are without having to have someone else enumerate them for me.

My statement was (and still is) that No, smokers should not have to bear all of the responsibility. We all know the difference between right and wrong by the time we are 5 years old. However, a person still needs guidance for making decisions until they are more of an adult. People who are responsible for targeting minors for their own gain should shoulder the blame as well.

This is a debate, not a rock throwing contest, nor a contest to get on the Don Rickles Heckling Hour.” M. Brown

I have not heard a peep out of “L.T.” since I shot that last note to him. I do hope he learns to use paragraphs, and I wish him success.

I feel much better for having responded to “L.T.”, but I guess it doesn’t really matter. I wonder if he wrote that little note to other debaters. But again, I guess it doesn’t matter anyway.

I just clicked into Helium. I’m #1 of 8 on the NO side. My day is made!

MONKEY BUSINESS

It all started on a whim. Since Anne had worked so hard to get her book on chocolate published, and had her fingers in at least 5 other enterprises, I decided that her logo, Choco Monkie, needed a girlfriend. So, I made a sock monkey for her.

As I made this little monkey, I made up a story to go along with it. She was a French monkey that came over on a boat to live with Anne. I named her Chocolette, and dressed her in a pair of white Capri's with a red and white stripped shirt. And a wide-brimmed straw hat. I put little earrings on her, and gave her a duffel bag that carried a change of clothes for her, a skirt. Anne was delighted, and she carries her with her on speaking engagements.

After that, I decided that I’d make one each for my daughters and grandchildren. I was really having fun with this. I ordered more socks on line, and started in on Savannah’s. After I’d made three of them, a friend of mine asked me to make a pediatrician monkey for her daughter, who was a pediatrician. She loved it, but asked me if I could put hair on her, so I bought some yarn and started fashioning hair for the little monkey. I also found a ”baby” sock monkey that I’d been hanging on our Christmas tree. Soon the baby was affixed in the arms of the pediatrician monkey.

Okay, the ball is rolling. This was fun. It wasn’t just an assembly line of socks and fluff. As each little monkey progressed, it started taking on a personality of its own, and since there was no one but Hank around to hear, I actually started talking to them. Hank listened intently, cocking his head one way and then another. I’m sure he thought I was talking to him. When I’d get quiet, Hank would quietly walk over and very gently grasp the monkey’s tail in his teeth, and very carefully try to ease it off my lap. He must have thought it was his. He’s done that several times. Actually, Hank has his very own sock monkey that I bought at a garage sale for a dime. Unfortunately, it’s in shreds in his toy basket. He still loves it, though.

I made all the rest of the monkeys with hair. I also dressed them to suit personalities and preferences. I made a Grease Monkey for Chris to over see him in the garage, while he restores an old Le Mans. I also had a couple of other requests lined up from friends. I made monkeys for all of my sisters and sisters in law.

Well, I thought that would be the end of it, but as soon as I put away my monkey stuff and stowed my sewing machine, I got three more requests. Why sure! I just whipped those two little charmers out. At last count, I've made about 25 of these little charmers. I wish I could put them all on here, but, alas. There's no room.

At last! I’ll just put my sewing machine up and …………….. “What’s that George? You want a sock monkey too? A what kind of monkey? This will be the crowned jewel of sock monkeys. I’m only in the planning stages so far, but once I get it all together, it’ll go pretty fast. George will have his doll. I will post it for all to see. In the mean time, all of you try to think of what kind of monkey GIII would ask for. It’ll just let it be a big surprise.

WHAT'S YOUR MONIKER?

In the beginning, the only moniker I owned was Alice Melissa Lewis, but it soon escalated into a whole bunch of identities, aka, George & Alice Marie’s daughter, Joanie’s sister, Oliver and Thelma’s granddaughter (#2), Gammie's grandaughter #2, Ollie’s, Jack’s, George’s, Dan’s, Torch’s, Joan’s, niece. Then I got my own first nick name, Missy. Later there were other nick names added, one of which was M’liss. That was soon changed to Melissa Sit DOWN!!!!!, and still later, Damn it Melissa, Sit Down!!!! Of course, much later, I became Mommy, and then Mom. Even that got changed to Oh! Mooommmmm! And then around the same time it was one word that was two syllables….Mo-om! Oh, and, I am also Aunt…what-ever.

I told my daughters that I would answer to whatever my first grandchild decided to call me. So, around the time my first grandchild, Savannah, was about nine months old, I went with my daughter, her best friend and the kids to a Mexican food restaurant for lunch. Savannah got to sit on a booster seat between us, so I thought this would be the ideal time to try to prompt some kind of name for myself from this child. The conversation went somewhat like this:

“Who’s this, Savannah?” Barbara asked, pointing at me.

Savannah did not really know what she was supposed to say yet, so there was no response. I chimed in pointing to myself with, “Savannah, say Queen Mother…”

This prompted a definite look of disapproval if not disdain from Barbara.

Still no response, so I tried again. Barbara was getting increasingly un-easy, afraid that Savannah just might say Queen Mother. So she said.

“Try to get her to say your name!”

We tried, but got absolutely no verbal response. Savannah just looked at me like she’d never seen such an abomination before, and our food was starting to get cold, so we gave the poor child a break. Savannah kept staring at me, like I was a bug on an ice cream cone.

After a few minutes, I tried again. This time, after about the third time, I begged her. “Say ‘Melissa’ sweetie!”

She started to utter something, and then smacked her chubby little baby hand down on the table three times and said,

“Mefffalla! Medaffala! Mfloonaah!”



To which Barbara said, “Hey! I think she said, 'Mena'!"

How she got Mena out of that, I’ll never know. I’d pretty much lost all hope of being called Queen Mother, so, I decided that Mena couldn’t be all bad, and I’d better stop while I was ahead. After all, it was much better than some names I’d heard people stick their grandmothers with.

Now, I am Mena to all our grandchildren. Because we told the Queen Mother story to Savannah, she and I will share a giggling session every now and then. She’ll say some thing like, “Queen Mother, can we make some Monkey Bread?” That will always get "Of course we can!" and we always dissolve into a fit of secret giggles. I love it when she does that.

Roy is “RoyPa”, and I think that's really sweet. He wishes it was something else, and I always remind him that he could be called PeePa, Crap-Pa, PooPa, or even Grumpy. He’ll answer to RoyPa every time……but not RollyPa. That’s cutting it a bit too close.

I’m still acquiring monikers, but then I’m sort of used to it after all these years. They all fit, and I still know who I am, and that’s a really good thing!

GETTING BUFF

I have found out once again that it can be lonely in a crowd.

Actually, I felt pretty out of place when I first started going to the YMCA. I had started out doing aerobics with the Silver Sneakers group. This is supposed to be people 55 and over, but it’s mostly over. In fact, there were no other people younger than me, and not even one my age. I was the baby. Yes, I am over 55; however most of the people in Silver Sneakers were around 75 and upwards of 95 years old. The reason I felt out of place is because when I first started, I couldn’t keep up with them.

They were warm, friendly and very considerate of me. ” Here, sweetie… just sit right here and I’ll get you some water!” And, “You shouldn’t try to do so much at first!” and…”Claude, keep an eye on this one….she’s new.” This sweet woman (Celeste) is 86. These wonderful women and men show up religiously to do a solid hour of aerobics…..non-stop. Granted, I have a limited breathing capacity. I should have started slowly and worked out a little longer each time.

After a couple of months, I decided that I’d just go to the work-out room and ride the stationary bikes and do some weight bearing exercises. I bought a set of ear phones so I could watch and listen to the news while “spinning”. This was much more to my liking. Yes, I did get winded at first, but it got easier, and I was able to work up to an hour. I was really getting into doing this three days a week. I actually felt smug, and thought of my neighbors sitting at home watching soaps and turning into lumpy curds and whey.

Suddenly, I was snapped out of my self-satisfied, smug-trance when I heard,

“Hey Celeste!” You’re late, Darlin’, so let’s get to work!”

In waltzed all 4’9”, 85 year old of Celeste, waving at everyone; everyone being about eight of the Silver Sneakers group that had sneaked in while I watched the news and enjoyed my smugness. They had just finished doing an hours’ worth of aerobics, and most of them were running on treadmills. Celeste was there to work out with her trainer. I interrupted up my cycling and sauntered over to Celeste, who was bench-pressing her own weight. As I approached, she spoke cheerfully to me:

“Hey Sweetie! We thought you’d given up on the class. Are you coming back? We’ve missed you!”

Well, I honestly didn’t know what to say, so I hatched one up.

“Well, I’ve really had a problem with…..” Celeste interrupted with,

”Do you by any chance know how many reps I’ve done of these lifts?”

I didn’t know, but I told her,

“Six. How many are you supposed to be doing?”

And she said:

“Started on ten today!.......seven…… eight….”

This was wearing me out, so I excused myself and went back to the comfort of my stationary bike, put my headphones back on and closed my eyes to finish my spinning and listening to the news.

As I was dismounting, Celeste came up to me and asked me if I’d like to go have some Mexican Food with her. She was famished! Well, why not! She was just adorable, and I was just a little intimidated with her 85 year old ability, and pea-green with envy of her and her determination and her stamina. We got changed, and she said,

“We’ll go in my car. I think you’ll like it!”

“Sure thing!” I said. “See you in the parking lot.”

We each refilled our water bottles and headed out. I walked over to put my gym bag in my truck. Soon Celeste was there, tooting her horn. She was fast. I turned around to see a fire engine red, 1970 fully loaded and restored Pontiac Firebird. She must have seen my jaw drop down. As I got in, she patted the console of the classic and told me that it was her husband's’ “baby”. It was the first brand new car he’d ever bought. She drove it daily, and he drove the Lexus. Then she volunteered that he was her second husband, and that she’d traded up by marrying a considerably younger man. I guessed that she was probably older by about 23 years. That would make her husband about 63 years old. She did look great. Geeeeeeeezzzzzzze!

Over lunch, she told me that she was probably the most pampered “older woman” that she knew, and I’d have to agree. According to her, he gave her anything she wanted. Her husband worked for HP, and was going to retire in two years. She said that it was her mission to stay in shape for him, so he wouldn’t get bored when he retired. That’s all she volunteered. The little thing ate like a horse and had two giant ‘Ritas on the rocks. What a woman! I had a taco salad and water.

Instead of going home right after lunch, I went back to the Y and picked up three membership applications for the YMCA, determined to recruit some of my friends (my own age) to work out with me. Most of them still work, by the way. I took an application to one of my dearest friends. She was busily getting files together for their CPA. I explained that she could meet me at the Y on her lunch hour or before work. It was very close by and it would be fun. I’d go any time she wanted. I was dangerously close to begging, and I was fighting back tears. She looked at me from across her desk with a look of deep caring and concern, and then burst out laughing and said,

“Are you crazy!?”

That having been a bust, I took an application to my next door neighbor, and she actually agreed to go with me one day as a guest…. just to check it out. She actually got up early the next day and was ready. I was really encouraged. Afterwards, she said that it was just too early for her. She’s a night owl, and I get up entirely too early for her. I just tossed the third application in to the shredder. I’d just have to brave it alone in Silver Sneakers.

‘Nuff said…… I continued to go to the "Y" until I needed some minor surgery, and then placated myself with the excuse that I needed to recover from that surgery before resuming my work-outs at the gym……and my own resolve to work out three times a week just sort of fizzled out, went down the toilet, petered out and went away for the next year.

There is new resolve looming.



In the almost year that I haven’t gone to the gym, I’ve gained about ten pounds. That’s over what I’ve gained over the past five years. I have a closet full of clothes I can’t wear, and I refuse to buy bigger. That is not trading up. It’s not that I expect to get back to the “cute and adorable” days. Those are long past, and I truly wouldn’t trade anything for where I am today. It’s just that I’d dearly love to shape up, tone up and yes…..buff up what I’ve got just one more time. It’s much harder than it used to be. Gone are the days when I could eat all of anything I wanted and maintain a svelte 135 lbs. And, spending the day working in the yard was plenty of exercise. No, I don’t expect to get down to that weight ever again. I just want to take off the additional ten lbs. What that extra ten lbs. is added to, I’m not saying.

So, I’m resolving, once again to get back into decent shape. I’ll go back to the Y. I’m not much of a challenge for myself, because I’m the only one that believes my lies. (No, no, no ! You look great in tight jeans !) I do need the inspiration of anyone willing to sit beside me, exercise with me and crack a whip over my head.

By this time next year, I should be in good enough shape to at least wear Bermuda shorts. Does my butt make these jeans look fat?

The Dog's Got Manners

Yeah…………….He does. And, most of the time he uses them, too. He is also a Con-Dog extraordinaire, and he will make you feel guilty faster than your mother.

Hank has been a member of our family for at least 10 years, since he was about 2 years old. Perhaps I should give you a brief history of this dog. In 1996 this young artful dodger first owned our brother George. An educated rogue at best, this dog would magically appear at George’s place in the country to steal food. But, pretty soon, he just sort of took over. George’s girlfriend had cats, so George dutifully tried to run the stray off, but the black and white pest kept coming back day after day. Once, he even smacked the poor pooch with a broom hard enough to break the broom handle, and immediately regretted it. It was a flimsy broom, but that's no consolation. The rascal would not give up. He seemed to know that he could wear George down, and finally did. George’s girlfriend named him Hank. I’m guessing it was for Hank the Cow Dog.

George (aka GIII) said of Hank: “He humored me with learning tricks about as quickly as I could come up with them. Maybe that was because it meant I spent more time with him. I could make a hoop with my arms and say "Jump!" and he will jump right through. This was an old standby trick my family regularly taught our dogs. If I said, "Howdy," Hank would offer his paw to shake hands. If I said, "Witness!" Hank confidently barked out his dogma. He especially liked the "High Five!" prompt for him to jump completely off the ground and hit my raised and extended palm with his paw.”

Not long after Hank showed up, a new pup joined the family. It was a beautiful coon hound that GIII rescued from the entanglement of a swing set chain in his neighbor’s yard. The neighbor decided that this beautiful dog would be better off at George’s house. GIII named him Bob. Hank was older, bigger, smarter and more athletic than Bob; therefore Bob was under the tutelage of Hank. Hank taught Bob everything he knew. They ran freely out in the country chasing varmints and checking pee-mail. Though GIII thought the two of them were staying on the property, they were actually sailing over or under fences to chase rabbits, skunks, opossums, raccoons, or what ever would give them good sport. Eventually, though, Bob out grew Hank. They still ran together, but they had periodic disputes about who would be the Alpha Dog. Blood would be spilled. One or the other would occasionally require a stitch or two, and eventually Hank let it be known that he was born to be an only dog. Something had to be done, so GIII handed Hank over to our nephew, John.

Hank now owned John. They lived in California for a while, and then moved to Houston. In this time, Hank got royally used to living the good life. He even had his own feather bed. They were best buds and went on long trips together. When John had to go out of town, he’d put Hank up in the best doggie resorts. There, Hank was pampered even more. He was turned out daily to herd sheep and geese. Oh, this was not a job! This was recreation, fun….great sport! John's job had started keeping him away for many hours. He often had to be out of town. Poor Hank had no one to boss around, and didn’t get to go out and check pee-mail as often as he would have liked. John called me one day, and asked me if we could keep Hank for him for a couple of weeks while he went on vacation in Italy. Of course I would, but Roy was pretty apprehensive. We hadn’t had a dog in years, and he didn’t want a dog tearing up the house. I convinced him that any dog that had been under the tutelage of GIII would be well behaved and have some manners, and Roy half heartedly relented.

While John was in Italy, our grand twins were born. I flew up to Amarillo help out with the new babies, and Roy followed a couple of days later in the car….with Hank. Roy stopped at regular intervals to check pee-mail and at McDonald's for burgers. Yes, they did. They bonded with McDonald’s quarter pounders. Hank got his very own quarter pounder. The training of Roy had begun. They showed up like they’d been together since Hank was a pup. They were litter mates now, and I could tell that Roy didn’t want to give Hank back to John. And then, a couple of weeks after John had returned from Italy, he called us and asked if we would like to have Hank. Well, of course we would. I know John wrestled with the decision to give up his only dog. It wasn’t easy for him.

Hank has been our master for almost 6 years. That would make him 12 years old this August. He minds us pretty well, but I’m more of the ummm….caretaker, and Roy is definitely Hank’s litter mate. During the day, I feed Hank, get him bathed and walk him. He follows me from room to room. Promptly at 4:00 in the after noon, he starts barking commands at me. “Get in here and open these blinds!” Then he herds me to our bedroom window so that I’ll open the blinds so that he can sit at the window to watch for Roy. As soon as he sees Roy’s car, he races to the back door to go out and meet him, barking, ”He’s here! He’s here!” After a brief greeting, Hank shows off a little, by cutting a circle around the back yard, clearing out all birds and squirrels. Of course he has to tell Roy about our day, and then he herds us until we’re both in the same room. Then the wrastlin’ begins. They roll around like a couple of puppies for about 15 minutes. After a while, Roy is exhausted, and settles back to watch the evening news. Hank didn’t say he could do that, so he gets right in Roy’s face and looks him in the eye. Then he lifts his right front paw and pokes Roy in the chest……."Boy! I’m talkin’ to you!” “You are NOT through playing with me!”

As I said, the dog’s got manners. He knows that he’s not supposed to be in the room while we eat. Automatically, he goes into the living room a respectful distance and lies down. One eye opened, he watches the progress of our meal. As we finish up, he has magically moved half way across the living room floor. By the time we’re finished, his toenails are just across the threshold of the kitchen. Mind you his position has never changed. It’s as if he’s levitated himself to move as we progress with our meal. As we are taking our dishes to the kitchen sink, he’s on It …. right at our heals to help clean up the dishes. There is bound to be a morsel we will allow him to have. Dessert is a totally different matter. Since we often have ice cream in the bedroom while watching television, Hank will come in and sit on his bed….with his back to us. This way…."They can’t possibly see me.” Actually, he’ll sneak a peak to check on our progress so he can lick the bowl. If we catch him peaking, he immediately looks ashamed at getting caught peeking, and looks away….back in hiding.

We don’t typically give him people food. Well…..Not often. Mostly, he’s a free feeder, and we give him Ol’ Roy Dog Food for Older, Fatter, Lazier Dogs. He grazes at will, and when he sees me at the kitchen counter making my lunch, he lies down (as the Romans did) and noshes as he gazes at the horizon to watch for possible food thieves.

He loves to go in the car, but there are times when he must be left behind. I will say that most of the time, he’s pretty good about being left behind…..If we leave him a treat. Even then he hangs his head, strikes a pose at the end of the couch with his back to us, looking over his shoulder as we walk by to leave him behind. I can actually hear and feel his horrible admonition…."Leaving me here again!……You sonofabitch!” Here’s the clincher. He won’t touch the biscuit we leave for him until we get back. I’m taking that as, “I’ll be damned if I’ll relieve your guilt by eating that biscuit in front of you!” We always leave this house with out Hank…feeling guilty as charged!

His hearing is just about shot, but he can hear clapping, and high pitched whistles, and he can hear a squirrel chattering. That’s very important. He’ll sit in the back yard, patiently watching squirrels eat the squirrel bait that we put in the feeders. There is a fine string of drool running from his pink bottom lip into the grass. He really wants to chase them, but he’s got arthritis in his front paws. He seems happy to sit there and drool. But, if you interrupt his drooling reverie, he dashes off to get the squirrel, just to show you he can still do it. He’s never caught one, but if he ever did, his first inclination would be to let it go.

One of his favorite things is to go to the drive through at the bank. They all know him there, and he’ll entertain them by singing for them…….any Elvis tune. Then he’ll tell them “I want!” Which means, That’ll be two cookies, please! This always gets him a dog biscuit and an extra bone-nus. Those are the best days….when he gets two biscuits. It just doesn’t get any better than that, except when they invite in to be fawned over.

I’d say that Hank still loves to do tricks, but that’s not really the case. George and I both agree that they are not tricks. It’s something he loves to do. It’s playing and showing off in the grandest way. He still loves to jump through your arms, just lower you arms a little. He’ll still gladly give you a high five, but his hind legs stay on the floor. You’ll just have to come down to meet his high five. As I write, he's sitting beside me giving me orders again, "Hey! You promised to take me to the park!" He's still our master and best companion. He's still the best dog ever. I'm off to the park

1619 GRAND AVENUE

There were five of us (siblings) when we moved back to Texas from St. Louis; Joan was about 8, Melissa almost 6, Anne going on 5, Joe 3 and Claire was just a baby. Dad had left his sales position at Corning Glassware, and he was looking for work in Fort Worth. Later when we asked, Dad would just say that we moved back to Texas because Mom was so miserable and homesick in St. Louis.

We stayed with Munnie and Granddad for a short time before moving into the house three blocks northwest. It had been a particularly hard time, but I hadn’t been aware of it, or why until some years later. Dad ended up taking a job at Shannon’s collecting premiums on life insurance policies, specifically from very poor people. I knew then that Dad was unhappy with this kind of work, but he needed to do something to support our growing family, and apparently, there just wasn’t anything else available at that time; and Mom was pregnant again with GIII. So, we moved into a house about two and a half blocks to 1619 Grand Avenue.

The house was built in 1924 in an area called Belmont Terrace Addition. It was just short of 3,000 sq. ft. The picture you see here is the only picture of the house that I have, compliments of Diver Dan, who went there at sunset recently to snap a picture. I must say that, except for the landscape around it and the fence, the house looks just the same as it did when we lived there. There had been a huge old hackberry tree to the left between the house and the driveway...

…………..where there was a tractor tire for our sand box and Dad would replenish it with clean sand about once a year.



The front porch was very large, as was the front door. The front door single pane was cut glass and there was a full length cut glass paned window on each side of the door.



The house just sort of enfolds a person as it takes you through room by room. This was a really fun house. Walking in the front door was the living room, which was not very large itself, but all the ceilings were all 10’ high and made it seem cavernous. On the left and at an angle in the room there was a fireplace. It was functional at one time, but we never had a fire in it. We had a gas space heater in front of it. A little further to the left was a single French door that led to a sunroom, or solarium that faced the street on one side and the driveway along the adjacent the side. There were two windows on the front, and two windows on the side facing the driveway. In the middle of this small room was a fountain. There was never water running in that fountain while we lived there.

That room was used for Dad’s office….sort of. There was a desk, a chair and a telephone; and there were piles and piles and piles of papers that over-flowed to the floor and filled the little fountain.

Back to the living room, standing at the front door again.

On the right side of the living room there were glass paned pocket doors to the dining room. The room was large enough to accommodate the pre-Civil War sideboard and dining room table that was large enough to accommodate a family of 13 later.

The dining room set originally belonged to Daddy’s great Aunt – I think Mary Bryan Lewis.

There was a large bay window that faced the front porch. At the other end was the door that led to the kitchen.

Through that door to the kitchen there was a small breakfast nook. On thee right was a bank of glass cabinets under a high window that went to the ceiling on either side of the window. Through there was a large kitchen….hot water heater and stove on the left with a space for a work table on the right next to the place for the refrigerator. Further on the left was the “L” shaped kitchen counter with sink, and cabinets below, and above to the ceiling. Through the kitchen, one would walk out onto the screened back porch. There was a place for a washer and dryer and another refrigerator and a storage closet. That porch led out to the back yard.

I remember the box of 4 baby opossums that I had found. Their little teeth were like little needles. After a couple of days, they started to really smell bad, and Dad told me that I had to do something about them. So, I gave them a bath, and they died that night. I guess they died of pneumonia from the bath I gave them.

There was another huge hackberry tree with a very thick cotton rope hanging from it. Dad put that there with a big knot at the end so that we could swing on it. I’m sure the old hackberry in the back yard is gone now.

The back yard overlooked the hillside above the highway and beyond that…
From the back yard on the hill you could see Jacksboro Highway, Rockwood Golf Course. There was Northside Drive that became University Drive after it crossed Jacksboro Highway. University Drive crossed White Settlement, Camp Bowie, past Forest Park Zoo to TCU and Paschal High School.

F.Y.I. Historically, on November 22nd, 1963 President John F. Kennedy’s motorcade went from The Texas Hotel in downtown Fort Worth to Carswell Air Force Base for a 13 minute flight to Love Field in Dallas. There’s just way too much to say on this subject, except that I was in school that day. Mom and Dad went down the hill to the highway to watch the motorcade drive by. I was in class that day, when they announced that President Kennedy had been assinated. I think some of my siblings were at home that day, and got to see the motorcade.

Back through to the living room.... Standing back at the front door, directly in front of you would be the stairs. There would be a door at the foot of the stairs, leading into a large bedroom.

That was Joanie’s bedroom until we all got moved upstairs. Then it was Mom’s & Dad’s room.

There were large windows at the far wall looking out at the back yard, and to the left a large bathroom, complete with tub and separate shower. Another door to the left leads into a room that could be a bedroom or a den.

Anne & I shared that bedroom until Mom and Dad moved all of us upstairs. After that, it was the den, where we used to watch TV.

There was another room next to that room faced the driveway. Mom and Dad used that as their bedroom for a while.

In that bedroom, Mom would put us all down to take naps in the summer. She read classics to us, Alice In Wonderland, Treasure Island, Tom Sawyer…just to name a few. The list was very long.

Back in the bedroom/den room, there was a huge closet and a large storage closet above

Dad used to keep his bow and arrows and his Samurai Swords up there. Those items got stolen.

Coming out of the T.V. room you are right back in the front hallway at the foot of the stairs. Go on up!

There was a small room to the right, originally sort of a sewing room, and just down the hall was a very large room that Joanie, Anne & I shared. There was one small closet that Joanie used, and there was a huge closet that Anne and I used. We also used that closet for a game we played.

Anne, Suni (Judy at the time) and I used to call that closet The Time Machine. We imagined that we could transport ourselves into another time, and then we would make up a story to fit that time as we went along. We played Time Machine a lot, and once we were transported into another time, we could be anywhere to play. However, that will have to be another story.

There was a door and two windows that faced the driveway. The door led out on the roof, where we used to just go out to sit or sunbathe.

The boys were in the big bedroom that faced the back yard. That room ran the entire width of the house. There were six windows that faced the back yard, and one on each end of the room. Actually, Mom would move us around occasionally, as we got older. So, we (Joanie, Anne and I) had that room to at one time.

There was only one small bathroom up stairs. Next to that bathroom was a small hallway and there was a huge bank of built in drawers. The drawers had to be 6’ X 4’ and about 2’ deep. I think it was a storage space for winter blankets and clothes.

We used to hide in them when we’d play Hide ‘n’ Seek. There was also a small space on top of those drawers. A person could get up there and hide too.

I believe we moved from there when Mom was pregnant with Tommy. Mom and Dad had taken us into the room that we used as a T.V. room and announced that a.) she was pregnant again, and b.) that Munnie and Granddad were building a house out close to Lake Worth, called Greenfield Acres, and that we would be moving into their house at 1407 Grand Ave.

There are way too many stories to include in this blog, so I'll just have to tell them later.

                                               AS PARADOXES GO 

I don't remember exactly how long ago it was when people started asking me about, or just commenting on how fast time flies by as you get older. It is a true paradox. Now, this to me was a sign that since I thought of these people as old, and they're prompting me with this bit of paradoxical information; then these people were looking at me as if I could identify with it. Therefore, they must have recognized that I was about their same age or older. So, I guess I do qualify as older. I have also talked to my siblings and peers about this phenomenon. What I have gleaned from these conversations is this:

When we are young, we just can’t wait for Christmas, Easter, summer camp, the circus and summer vacation from school. All of those wonders are full of surprises, special comfort foods, candy, surprises and fun times. As we get older, those things become less exciting to us until they’re just another holiday that’s zooming up our rear ends. They not only zoom up on us, they become costly, require a lot of time (not enough) to prepare for and are just plain not looked forward to with as much zeal, relish and enthusiasm as they were in our youth.

It’s not just that we have gotten bored with these wonderful times. We have just already seen and experienced these things, and we require new experiences and surprises. In Louisiana it might be referred to as a lagniappe. This means (roughly), an unexpected pleasant surprise. That’s not exactly what Merriam-Webster says, but you get my drift. Maybe that’s not even hitting the nail on the head, but we starting looking for things that we might have we missed, and we start asking our selves, “What happened?" How could I have missed that, let it slip by?

You wake up one morning and there’s a strange older person staring back at you in the bathroom mirror, asking what you’re doing here. "Who’s that older person in the mirror?” Then you start seeing this person on a daily basis, identifying with and you start talking back to him/her. “I never saw that before!" "Wow! Where’d that come from?.....you know, that stuff drooping down over your/my/our belt?" ...and "How did I miss that white hair on my chin?" ...or "Hey! Our chest looks like it’s been slept in!” …and, “Those boobs would look so much better in a pair of support hose.” This is when you really know you have reached the age where you look much better in clothes than out of them.

I used to have a pretty good singing voice.....great range and clarity.  The voice is still here, but it's very much strained with less and less range.  I sound much better in the shower or just humming along with old tunes I love.  On another note (pardon the pun), I know many of my contemporaries struggle with the same singing challenges that I do, and they still love to sing along.

We start appreciating things we would never have appreciated as a child……a visit or a phone call from our kids, a cousin, or an old friend, a sight-seeing vacation, where you don’t see water parks or Mickey and Goofy, a little road trip in the country, a good report from our doctor, the adoration from grandchildren, the trust of your loyal old dog, occasionally getting out of bed in the morning without aching and limping.  Now I gracefully swing my legs over the side of bed, planting my feet firmly on the floor, and slowly straighten up while silently directing myself..... "Back straight, shoulders back, chin up and proceed gracefully to the kitchen for a cup of coffee."  After my stroll to the kitchen, it's easier, but I still have to remind myself to straighten my posture. 

I get the feeling here, that I’m starting to frighten the next generation. Listen up! Pay attention! This stuff does happen. Well, it’s not really all that bad. You also start to discover, appreciate and use freedoms and talents you never knew you had before. You try new things, and You finally have time for the things you had wished to have time for in your child rearing days. You take a picture of a spider web in the morning dew that you might have just knocked down a few years ago (if you get up that early). Learn to cook just for two again. You discover new interests, or are at least willing to try new things……Well, I am, and I’m finding out that I’m pretty darn good at things I wouldn’t have dreamed of doing years ago.

Over the years I received various types of beading paraphernalia from my wonderful family. The Royster has given me beautiful beads on many occasions.  I love stringing them up into something beautiful, and thinking of the people I love while I play with the beads. Just look at all the colors and textures!  It's like going into a different world as I work. Hey! This is great! Roy's cleaned out a spot in the garage just for me. To me, that's true love. He's sharing his garage/shop with me after many long years. 

There are so many things to be grateful for. We're both in pretty good health for our age.....a comfortable home, family and friends that we love and keep in touch with.  We live in a pleasant neighborhood with  great neighbors, a wonderful, goofy and entertaining dog that keeps us on our toes, and a wonderful hobby that lets me be creative. Roy picked up arrowhead collecting, and has covered every available wall with these old, historical points.  He's also a really good photographer.  To quote Joe Ely, "The Road goes on forever and the party never ends!"  We got to see him in Houston years ago at Rockefeller's.  He was a little ball of raw energy.

This isn't bad at all. I think I'll just continue with it, and start experiencing new things and finding excitement around every corner. Listen, kids! You'll never know until you get there. There's nothing really to be afraid of. This is great!

HERE’S TO ALL Y’ALL!

HERE’S TO ALL Y’ALL!
Another One of Those Lewis Kids

I am referring to our huge family of siblings, children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, cousins and close friends. A lot of large families lose touch. In our case there were eleven of us (siblings), and we have we have kept our noses in each others' business from the beginning and have never lost touch with each other. My sisters-in-law and brothers-in-law are also my brothers and sisters in life; as are our dear friends who have braved the family yackathons. That increases our number greatly.

We’ve kept in touch with our extended Texas family, and most recently, have had a wonderful reunion with our cousins from various points in the northern hemisphere. What- a- bash!!!! We talked, exchanged stories and pictures and we all vowed to keep our noses in their business as well. This adds quite a few to the kaleidoscope, and makes life all that much more fun and interesting.

When you’re from a large family, or even when there are only a few of you, it doesn’t matter how close you are to any of them or all of them. For reasons of survival, we (my siblings and I) were all groomed to vie for our parents’ attention and later, that extended to other family members, and family friends. You just can’t get enough said in a single visit, especially if there are more than two of you.

It’s particularly hard to make yourself heard when we are all vying for the floor at the same time. It’s not because we’re all rude, or that we think that what the other person has to say is not important. We’re all interrupting because we think we have something important to say, and that if we don’t say it, and say it now, we’ll forget, and we won’t be heard at all. Well, just how tragic would that be? Once, while trying to make myself heard, I just got frustrated and just quit trying. I actually shut up, and I swear I heard one of my siblings say, “It’s ok, honey. I heard you.” And then I wondered (of course to myself), Hey!….maybe it wasn’t one of my siblings….Maybe it was God !

You’ve just got to jump right in there with both feet, preferably not in your mouth; because as sure as you stick your feet in your mouth, someone will decide to shut up and listen, and you’ll never hear the end of that. None of us has ever had a lack of something to say, nor have any of us been struck speechless. That includes cousins and close friends. We do hold each other accountable, and if you’re a cousin, inlaw or close friend, you’ve probably learned that you’d better get in there with your words and defend yourself.

I have learned that if I just shut up, within a few minutes, everyone else does too. A very brief moment of silence ensues. However, the only comment that follows that moment of silence is usually, “Are you alright?” or, “What’s the matter?”, and rarely, “I’m sorry. I interrupted you….but…..” Aaaaaand further, I am aware that if I open my mouth to make an utterance in answer to their question, they all start talking again. It just goes with the territory of being One of Those Lewis Kids. And I do it too! No doubt about it. Please don’t think I’m complaining at all. This is just one of those challenges we are all issued at birth.

We take care of each other, and it shouldn’t go without saying that when one of us is in trouble we jump in there to help, armed with advice to help (solicited or not). We literally care each other back on our feet. This is the way it’s always been, and over the years I’ve observed that together we can accomplish anything. I find my siblings and cousins more and more loving and giving every year. Seems we pay more attention to each other. I’m very proud of each and every one; watching us all grow and becoming the people we were destined to become …..all good people; some having a harder time than others coming into their/our own. We are all just being just who we are.

Over the years, we have lost people we’ve loved, and we came together to honor them. I’m sure that I’m not alone among my family and friends in wishing that I’d just had 30 minutes or an hour alone with those people before they were gone. For this reason, we should keep in touch…keep our noses in each others’ business as long as we live. I intend to, and I fully expect that my family will do the same for me.

FOX OVER THE HILL !!!!!!!

FOX OVER THE HILL!!!
1619 Grand Avenue

There was a fox on the hillside! We were about 5 and 6 years old. "Mommy! We saw a fox over the hill!" Anne and I looked at each other, waiting for Mom's response. I was so excited I could have just popped! Never mind that we'd been terrified when we saw it. We lived in North Fort Worth on a hillside over-looking Jacksboro Highway. All of us played along the hillside that ran along the highway, and invented games as we ran in and out of the Johnson grass and the cane that grew wild to cover the hillside. All of us eventually outgrew that wonderful time. Each of us eventually arrived at an age where we were too old for that stuff. To us it had been the greatest adventure in the world, and the very best source of inspiration for inventing games to play.

Anne and I had been nosing around the hillside and were playing on an old sycamore tree that had fallen years before. There was no bark left on it and we were just inventing a new game, when out of nowhere a fox appeared. As I recall, it looked exactly like the pictures in one of our storybooks. Wasn't there a picture of a fox in Grimm's Faerie Tales or Peter and the Wolf, or maybe Peter Pan? We were terrified and both of us started screaming. You know, that high pitched piercing scream that little girls do? Those are the kind of screams that would surely set off sensors at Carswell Air Force Base and probably ionize the lower cloud layer.

Finally our next-door neighbor appeared at the top of the hill. At last! Someone was going to come save us. We continued to scream so he'd be sure to know exactly where to find us. Finally he was close enough that he could see us, and then he shouted, "SHUT UP!", and turned and walked back up the hill. What in the world was wrong with him? Couldn't he see that we were trapped and in danger? Why didn't he come rescue us?

The little fox just sat there a few yards away, probably wondering what we were, and how we could possibly make a noise just like an injured rabbit. I think we'd both stopped breathing, eyes transfixed on the monster before us that would devour us if we even batted an eye. After what seemed like forever, the little fox almost shrugged and then trotted off. We looked at each other and wondered if it was safe to run up the hillside to the house. Would the fox come back and chase us? We ran all the way back up, just in case. Whew! That was a close one!

Mom wasn't even surprised when we told her that we'd seen a fox. She said, "Well, it probably came up from the river to hunt for mice to eat. Somehow, it took some of the excitement and adventure out of having been "trapped" by a fox. It only wanted mice? Our older sister didn't believe it, and said we'd made it up, and then she poked her nose back in her book. Our brother got all excited and ran out the door to try to find it.

After that, we looked for the little fox every time we went to play on the hillside, but we never saw it again. We never forgot the little fox and it proved to be another source of invention for games to play until we no longer needed to be chased by a fox.

A little break from growing up history................

THE TEMPLE OF MY SOUL
Women never get too old to hate their bodies, and I hear it's a sin not to be satisfied with what God gave you. I am also told it's a sin not to take care of the "Temple of Your Soul", and I've always wondered if I'll be punished for being vain. What I mean to say is; I want to regain and maintain my youthful appearance because that's what society says is acceptable, not because it's the Temple of My Soul. There. Maybe that's the best way to put it.

If I'd really been concerned with The Temple of My Soul, I'd have taken better care of it from the beginning. Didn’t Scat Man Carruthers say that first? No smoking, no drinking alcohol, no carbonated drinks, no coffee, no sugar and no salt; no sun bathing no stress, get plenty of sleep, all the right foods, at least 8 full glasses of water a day, cleanliness, floss, floss, floss, keep the skin lubricated, and don't forget to exercise the mind and the body! That alone would take up nearly all of a person's time. Can you believe that there are actually people who do this?

So, I still hated my body. Always had; my teeth, my towering height, my small breasts, and my thighs, long feet ... Why couldn't I have had blue or brown eyes like my siblings. Why couldn't I have perfectly straight teeth like Mom had? I didn't just want to be like someone else, I wanted to be someone else. So, since I couldn't be someone else, I decided to make do with what's just me, never letting myself get over weight, and always staying active, which wasn't a problem for me. I'm certified A.D.H.D., so, keeping myself busy and "presentable" for 55 years wasn't all that hard. Looking back, I think that the Powers That Be really gave me good stuff to start with. I was very fortunate. I just abused the hell out of it.

Now, I've seen enough at 60 to realize that I should count my lucky stars for the healthy years I have remaining. What would that be? Ten, twenty years? Only God knows. I've been through quite a lot, as have a number of my peers. My particular wrestling match was with treatment for a disease I caused myself, using my "free will" to smoke. I was diagnosed early enough, cut on and treated with chemotherapy and radiation. With that treatment, I lost about 25 lb. that I really couldn't afford to lose anyway. I looked drawn and gaunt, and my eyes were sunken in. My belly button actually rubbed my backbone. No kidding! My treatment had to be stopped until I could re-gain some of the weight. One of my oncologists told me to drink as many as eight Ensures a day. I also couldn't have done it without Roy’s constant love, devotion and help. He fed me ice cream and took me to Denny’s to eat pancakes. My many siblings took turns coming to help, and bolster Roy. Finally, I gained enough weight to resume treatment. I am truly grateful to have gained the weight back, because I would have had to start all over from scratch with the treatment had I not.

But hold on a minute !!!!! The weight just kept coming on until I could no longer wear the clothes in my closet. Geeeeeeezzzzze! I had to buy two sizes larger! I HATED MY BODY!!!!! It was imperitive that I slam on the breaks. It wasn't until about about two years out from treatment that it started to level off. I wasn’t happy at all with the weight. I simply could NOT eat the way I used to, all of anything and everything I wanted, and expect to not gain weight. One of the reasons is because I'm missing some of my breathing apparatus, so I can't be as active. Here's the truth of the matter. Shedding all of the extra weight I gained after treatment may not be a very good idea. Guess I'll need to keep some of this "extra" weight to fill in the wrinkles on my face and....oh, well... here and there and everywhere else. So, I'll do the best I can.

It's really not so bad, getting older. I just don't want to get old and useless. If I had my druthers, I'd like to just keep some of my so-called rational mind as I grow older and yes, OLD. I have a number of friends that have also been through the medical malady mill as well. Some of them haven't come out very well, and some not at all. For what I put myself through I'm pretty well off, and for that, I am truly grateful. The Temple of my Soul has made a remarkable recovery. I think I can say that I actually do like her. She’s amazingly resilient.

After having looked at my parents, and my mother-in-law, and having been to a few class reunions, I've come to realize that you just don't get to keep it. Beautiful youth has something to do with the survival of the fittest. If you look at it that way, it's absolutely true, and makes a lot of sense. In our youth, we strutted our cute and adorable stuff under the noses of the opposite sex, courted and snared one another, and spawned our very own successors. We are so busy with our own agendas that we didn't even think of the new generation we were creating as actually replacing us. We still thought of ourselves as invincible, irreplaceable and immortal. We'd always be here. This is a condition called burying our heads in the sand, not looking at the whole big picture, or....denial. We just never planned on getting old.

Society has delegated people of advanced age as "old and ugly", In our society youth is valued and synonymous with usefulness. No wonder our elderly clam up and get crabby. They are no longer looked upon as vital and useful, and it terrifies us. Here's another way to look at it. I think it's because everyone fears and dreads the unknown of getting to that point (old), and rejected. People fear getting old because they don't want to lose their usefulness; and death, because we don't really know what's beyond life on earth. Come on....we don't really know. My daughters have a nice petting zoo all picked out for me. I’ve told them that I don’t mind that at all, as long as I have everything I need and love. Really, it won't be bad at all.

I hope that when my number is up, I can don a red and purple hat and gracefully waltz out the door. There are no pockets in the shroud, meaning you can't take it with you. Maybe I won't even put that hat on. Just like that.....no drama or fan fare.....no lingering. I will have been here long enough....no procrastinating. I suspect there will be an agenda to attend to when I get to uh, some where else.

Growing Up in Fort Worth (1950 thru 1966)

SMELLS AND AROMAS THAT WILL TAKE YOU HOME

Everyone has memories of their childhood and growing up places and times. Often a smell or an aroma will waft by my nose that will suddenly place me in a place and time of Remember When. Most of these aromas stoke very fond memories, where there are some smells that speak of an age of times gone by.

Several days ago, while at the grocery store, a clerk was cleaning up an ammonia spill on Aisle #16. The distinct smell of ammonia abruptly caught my attention and reminded me of the smell of growing up in Fort Worth. If you are one of my age group peers, you would think it smelled like a diaper pale. If you are 39 years old or younger, you don’t even know what a diaper pale is. The smell is unmistakably the smell of a rendering plant, Uh...yes, that's it!

It was the Swift & Company Meat Packing Plant in North Fort Worth by the Stockyards, where they were rendering fat and making anything from lye soap, lard and dog food to fertilizer. I must say, that this process was evident more than often, and it really stunk! I haven't smelled that in visits to Fort Worth in years. In 1971 Swift closed its Fort Worth meatpacking plant. Two fires in the mid-1970s destroyed the plant, leaving only the firm's administrative offices, which later housed the Old Spaghetti Warehouse Restaurant. So much for the history of the "Stinky Smell of the Swift & Co. Meatpacking Plant ".

There was another very familiar smell, and I will try to get these out of the way quickly. It was the North Fort Worth Stockyards. I say it was stinky, but actually, it was very endearing to all people who lived in that vicinity. We were and are proud of the North Fort Worth Stockyards. There is nothing like ambling through the shopping area or the Exchange Building and smelling the distinct smell of horses, cattle and leather. This is not unlike wandering through the exhibit booths at the Livestock Show and Rodeo. It's just a wonderful reminder of what used to be, and what really made Fort Worth grow. Cattlemen found hot meals, saloons, gambling halls and bordellos. Because Cowtown was in the middle of the Chisholm Trail, Fort Worth prospered as a leader in the cattle business. To quote Dad (almost)… the history of Fort Worth is “richer’n 2 feet up a bull’s uh…rear-end”. Ok, I said almost a quote. Dad was a bit more graphic in his discription.

There were so many familiar smells. I'll start with waking up in Fort Worth. The aroma of the sheets still smelled like sunshine and fresh air. No one hangs sheets out to dry any more. Homeowners Society will see that you get fined if they catch you hanging sheets out to dry. There just aren't any softeners or dryer sheets that can duplicate the smell of sheets just taken off the line. There was definitely the smell of dew in the mornings, and on many mornings, the aroma of freshly mowed hay or grass. It went nicely with the sounds of owls, mourning doves, meadowlarks and whippoorwills. And, later on in the morning, you could almost smell the heat of the day when the locusts would start rattling their song.

You could smell the first blue norther of the year just before you could see it in the northern sky. Soon after that, you could feel it. This was a ceremonious ritual. We'd start talking about it as soon as we could smell it. We'd go out in the front yard to play (in our shorts) to watch it come in. It was truly a steel blue sky. As soon as it hit, we'd run in the house to help mom get all the wool blankets out and start putting them on the beds............The old wool, olive drab Marine Corps blankets............USMC was emblazoned across one end of the dark olive drab blankets. The whole house smelled of mothballs for a couple of days. Well, I liked the smell. There was yet another smell that falls in this category. That would be the smell of an electrical storm. We could go out and stand on "The Wall", which was a stone retaining wall above the hillside to Jacksboro Highway. You stand up there and feel the wind and watch the electrical storm come in. It was a real display to watch.............aaaaannnnd, you could smell it!

There were many, many aromas that come to mind, but one particular one was Mrs. Baird's Bakery in Downtown Fort Worth. That alone could make a person start drooling as you walked outside the door. As we got older, we'd snag a stick of butter from the refrigerator and get our dates to drive the back door of the Mrs. Baird's Bakery, where we could get a free loaf bread, fresh out of the oven. We'd drive down to Forest Park and sit there and slather the butter on and just eat the whole loaf right then and there. Couldn't do that now, for a lot of reasons.

As I said, there are many more memory stoking the smells and aromas of Fort Worth in the 50's and 60's. I'll just mention one more. It can't be helped. At the end of a day, my little brothers would come in from a hard day of "playing over the hill"; sweat and dirt streaming down the sides of their little faces. They would have been playing a number of games; army, cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, or just hanging out...building a fort with the bamboo cane that grew in abundance "over the hill". Okay... here it is. They always smelled like little goats! We couldn't wait to get them in the bath tub, if we could catch them before they fell asleep on the floor in front of the television or in their own beds to dream of more forts to build.