The sweet young girl who rips the hair from my face in an attempt to keep me from morphing into a generic human being, otherwise known as a man, kind of scolded me the other day. She said "Now, if you can leave your eyebrows alone for a month, I think next time we can shape them up and they will look real nice." Suddenly I felt like a five year old who just got caught cutting her own bangs.
It's funny how, here at blah blah years old, I can be shot down so easily. I know I should leave my eyebrows alone as well as my bangs, but the rebel in me still wants control. I want to show up for work in flip flops and I don't care if it is a bank. I don't care if I have a turkey neck and arms like a flying squirrel, I want to wear a halter.
To be a rebel or to live in bondage, I don't know whats worse. Do I put my glasses on a chain where I can find them, or wear those contacts that feel like two small pekingeses in my eyes.
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Sunday, July 24, 2011
The Best Things In Life Are Only A Memory Away
I was listening to my new favorite CD, the newest Gillian Welch, and she was singing the words, "I spent my childhood walking the wild wood". It sounded like something my mother would have said.
By today's standards, my mother's childhood was not an easy one, but her stories captivated me like a Jane Austin novel. She could make hoeing cotton sound romantic.
Story telling is an art form many of the older folks in my family possessed. I used to love to hear my Uncle Dorsey recite family history. He had done a lot of research and hard work to get the facts, but the best stories were the ones handed down to him from my grandfather.
I also loved listening to my father and his brothers reminisce. I remember a story about the three of them walking home from some job they had done. They were just little boys, but their father died, and they had to provide for their family. The boys took what was supposed to be a shortcut and got lost in the piny woods. Suddenly it started to rain, making it even harder to see where they were. When the rain became a down pour, the water rose so high, Daddy's brothers were carrying him to keep his head above water. They reached a clearing in the woods, just as the rain subsided, and turned to see a man staring at them. Daddy said he had a mean look and was holding an ax. Then they noticed the steel and realized he was warning them not to tell anyone about that place. They ran the rest of the way home.
I was on the edge of my seat as I listened, even knowing they, obviously survived the ordeal.
I also enjoy hearing my brothers reminisce and I have a few stories of my own now. But I'd like to hear what our children remember about their times together. That's my son in the blue and red coat, and these are his cousins. I want to know where that pile of dirt came from, (is there anything more fun for a kid than a pile of dirt) and what's the story with the dead flowers Chelsea is holding. I hope they can remember this day, because it seems like they had fun.
By today's standards, my mother's childhood was not an easy one, but her stories captivated me like a Jane Austin novel. She could make hoeing cotton sound romantic.
Story telling is an art form many of the older folks in my family possessed. I used to love to hear my Uncle Dorsey recite family history. He had done a lot of research and hard work to get the facts, but the best stories were the ones handed down to him from my grandfather.
I also loved listening to my father and his brothers reminisce. I remember a story about the three of them walking home from some job they had done. They were just little boys, but their father died, and they had to provide for their family. The boys took what was supposed to be a shortcut and got lost in the piny woods. Suddenly it started to rain, making it even harder to see where they were. When the rain became a down pour, the water rose so high, Daddy's brothers were carrying him to keep his head above water. They reached a clearing in the woods, just as the rain subsided, and turned to see a man staring at them. Daddy said he had a mean look and was holding an ax. Then they noticed the steel and realized he was warning them not to tell anyone about that place. They ran the rest of the way home.
I was on the edge of my seat as I listened, even knowing they, obviously survived the ordeal.
I also enjoy hearing my brothers reminisce and I have a few stories of my own now. But I'd like to hear what our children remember about their times together. That's my son in the blue and red coat, and these are his cousins. I want to know where that pile of dirt came from, (is there anything more fun for a kid than a pile of dirt) and what's the story with the dead flowers Chelsea is holding. I hope they can remember this day, because it seems like they had fun.
Saturday, July 16, 2011
Fried Potatoe Memories
A friend at work was telling me, yesterday, that when her family first came to this country and her brother was learning English, he tried to order some french fries at McDonald's. He kept saying potatoes and the girl kept telling him they did not serve potatoes. I could just see my friend's family sitting around telling that story and laughing. But when I thought about it, I wondered if that girl understood french fries were made from potatoes. Or most are, I'm not sure about McDonald's, although they are the best french fries in the world.
When I was growing up, my mother made fried potatoes. They were different from french fries as they were still recognizable as potatoes. I was talking about this with my brother, Jerry, once. He was saying it was important to soak the potatoes in salt water before frying them. When Mom heard this, she laughed and said, the only reason she had soaked them in salt water was, because she was cooking for 10 people. This was the best way to keep the potatoes from turning brown before she could finish peeling and slicing them.
Mom was an excellent fry cook, and we all have the arteries to prove it. She always used a large cast iron skillet and Crisco. We would likely all be dead by now, had she not discovered vegetable oil some time in the late 60's. But I think her magic was in that cast iron skillet. One of my ex-sisters in law used to call it her cauldron. She was not implying that Mom was a mean witch, this was one of my nicer ex-sisters in-law, but suggesting she was spooky in other ways. She dreamed things before they happened and always knew what her kids were up to. I think when God gives a woman that many children, He may also give her a heads up about whats going on. It's only fair.
Fried potatoes are one of the many things I try to avoid these days. I'm not even sure where my iron skillet is, but it does sound good.
Once, we were having one of those family get together things, and I was thinking about how everyone buys their chicken already fried. So I bought enough chicken thighs and legs to feed the whole tribe and fried them my self. After the first hour of standing over a hot stove, I remembered why I love KFC so much. The sad thing is, no one seemed all that impressed. It was just fried chicken. They ate it without ever realizing the love, devotion and hard work that went into it. Kind of like we were with Mom.
When I was growing up, my mother made fried potatoes. They were different from french fries as they were still recognizable as potatoes. I was talking about this with my brother, Jerry, once. He was saying it was important to soak the potatoes in salt water before frying them. When Mom heard this, she laughed and said, the only reason she had soaked them in salt water was, because she was cooking for 10 people. This was the best way to keep the potatoes from turning brown before she could finish peeling and slicing them.
Mom was an excellent fry cook, and we all have the arteries to prove it. She always used a large cast iron skillet and Crisco. We would likely all be dead by now, had she not discovered vegetable oil some time in the late 60's. But I think her magic was in that cast iron skillet. One of my ex-sisters in law used to call it her cauldron. She was not implying that Mom was a mean witch, this was one of my nicer ex-sisters in-law, but suggesting she was spooky in other ways. She dreamed things before they happened and always knew what her kids were up to. I think when God gives a woman that many children, He may also give her a heads up about whats going on. It's only fair.
Fried potatoes are one of the many things I try to avoid these days. I'm not even sure where my iron skillet is, but it does sound good.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Dear Jesus,
The antidepressants aren't working. My first thought this morning was, it's Lauren's birthday. My next was, am I still alive?
don't get me wrong. I'm so thankful for her life. The memories I have of her are worth every minute of sadness and pain I have experienced since she's been gone. I just don't know how to keep going.
I took daisies to the cemetery, today, but she wasn't there. I wanted to cry, but these stupid pills won't let me. My heart hurts, but my eyes are dry.
I lost a sweet friend to cancer this week. It broke my heart to see her husband and sons grieving, but still, I could not cry. I thought how much I will miss our little talks and how she made me laugh. I really need a good cry.
Lord, thank you so much for these lives, no matter how short they were. They made my life better.
Please give me back my joy, and forgive me for my anger.
I love You and worship You.
Your daughter, always and forever
Sheila
P S Tell Lauren happy birthday and I love her
The antidepressants aren't working. My first thought this morning was, it's Lauren's birthday. My next was, am I still alive?
don't get me wrong. I'm so thankful for her life. The memories I have of her are worth every minute of sadness and pain I have experienced since she's been gone. I just don't know how to keep going.
I took daisies to the cemetery, today, but she wasn't there. I wanted to cry, but these stupid pills won't let me. My heart hurts, but my eyes are dry.
I lost a sweet friend to cancer this week. It broke my heart to see her husband and sons grieving, but still, I could not cry. I thought how much I will miss our little talks and how she made me laugh. I really need a good cry.
Lord, thank you so much for these lives, no matter how short they were. They made my life better.
Please give me back my joy, and forgive me for my anger.
I love You and worship You.
Your daughter, always and forever
Sheila
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