It's A Wonderful Life

  December has really flown by, and it's almost Christmas.

 I finished my shopping early, and have had a lot of free time to watch Hallmark Christmas movies, and make candy. It's been great.
 I made Martha Washington candy, several varieties of fudge, and tried some new recipes. One of those was Bourbon Balls. This is a very easy recipe, once you find the chocolate wafer cookies, and if you follow the instructions well, which I did not on the first try. The recipe called for a cup of this, a 1/4 cup of that, and so on. After mixing up the first batch, I could see it was too thin to make into balls, so I asked Jon what he thought I did wrong. He looked over the recipe, and our conversation went something like this. Jon, "Did you use one cup of powdered sugar?"
Me, "Yes"
Jon, "One cup of cookie crumbs, 1/4 cup bourbon?"
Me, rather indignant, "Yes"
Jon, "1 and 1/4 tablespoon corn syrup?"
Me, a little more sheepish this time, "Is that what it says?"
Jon, "How much bourbon did you drink?"
I had added 1 and 1/4 CUPS of corn syrup, and I hadn't drank any of the bourbon. I was not drunk, just blind. I don't really need my glasses, unless I want to see.

 Like I said before, I finished my shopping early. In years past, I have gone so overboard, I never knew when I was through. It was just a matter of running out of time. I think, for so many years, I was trying to give my kids that classic, over the top Christmas, building traditions and memories, that just could not be achieved with material things. It was stressful to everyone involved, and ran up terrible debt to be paid in January, or more likely, February and March. Jon and I decided to tone it down this Christmas. We want to try to make it all about Jesus, and just enjoy being with the people we love.

  At Bible study, our core leader wanted us to share a happy Christmas memory. I heard some pretty funny stories. One lady talked about her grandmother buying all the kids bicycles. She said she had them all lined up by the Christmas tree, and when the kids came running in, one was bumped and they all went down like dominoes, crashing into the china hutch. There was broken glass and china everywhere. I don't know why that's funny, but I laughed. Another said her mother is nurse practitioner, at a large hospital emergency room in Houston, and brings a stranger home for Christmas dinner every year. Of course, the stranger is welcome to come back the next Christmas. She said they never know who is going to show up. I thought that was nice, gutsy, but nice.
  I was a very little girl, when I received my most memorable gift. Santa had been to our house, and left toys, fruit and candy. Everyone was happy and all was right with the world. I saw my daddy walk out to his pickup where he had hidden two gift wrapped boxes. He gave the first one to my mother. It was a black negligee. I thought it was a slip and embarrassed her, by telling everyone I knew about it. The other gift was for me. I opened it and was tickled to find a little pair of gold house shoes. I put them on my bare feet, and suddenly felt very warm. It warms my heart now. I can imagine Daddy was in a store, looking for Mom a gift, when he saw the gold slippers, and thought of me. Maybe he knew my feet were cold. Or maybe he was thinking about his other little girl, who got so sick, it damaged her heart. Anyway, he was my daddy and he loved me. This will be my first Christmas without him.
 I miss you, Daddy. Thanks for the shoes. The memory is still keeping me warm.
 


                                                      

A Child's Perspective on November 22, 1963

   I remember the day our president died.
 I was sitting at my desk, cutting a pilgrim hat from black construction paper. My first grade teacher, Mrs. Tullis, was taping the hats, and some paper turkeys, to the window that looked out on the playground. My school was one of those old country school houses, with three classrooms, and a cafeteria that doubled as a library. The third grade teacher, who was also the principal, called Mrs. Tullis, and the second grade teacher out of class. I looked out the door and saw the three of them crying. I had lost my grandfather six months earlier, and knew when grownups cried like that, it must be something bad.
 Mrs. Tullis walked back into the classroom and announced President Kennedy had been shot. I don't think she said he had been killed. Maybe she didn't know yet.
 They released us from school, and I walked home with my brothers.
 My mom was crying when we got home. She, like most homemakers that day, were watching As The World Turns, when the news broke. It was the saddest day, and we watched it over and over on our black and white TV.
 As children, we had no idea, of the fear and uncertainties the country was facing. We knew it happened in Texas, but not that the rest of the country hated us. I asked why Oswald did it, and was told he was a Communist. Then, we saw Jack Ruby kill Oswald on television, and knew our questions would never be answered.

 It was different time. We prayed and sang Jesus Loves Me, before saying the Pledge of Allegiance, every morning at school, and no one complained. We were taught to respect our elders and honor our leaders. We loved our president. Even most adults hadn't heard all the negative rumors about JFK. Sometimes, I wish I still hadn't heard. I know it's a good thing, freedom of the press and all that. We have a right to know the truth. But, do we really need to know everything? It was nice having a hero in President Kennedy. I loved looking at the Life magazine photos of him and Jackie. I wanted to be Caroline. I had a Caroline Kennedy doll. I remember being upset that Jackie had to move out of the White House. I didn't know she was rich and could live anywhere. I saw her as the widow of my hero, pitiful, sad and deserving.
 We watched the funeral procession, the flag draped casket pulled down the street on a horse drawn wagon, all day. We saw little John John's salute as it happened. And then, it was over...until 1968.


 

A Legacy of Blessings

  We had a family reunion, here, at my house, last weekend. We didn't have a great turn out, but good for a first try.
 Getting ready for the reunion, I made a photo album and put together a notebook with Bacon family genealogy, and some letters and newspaper clippings I found in my mothers bible. One of my cousins sent some stories and poems written by her mother and brother, as well. There were some great stories about the people we came from.
 During all this, I was taking a 13 day round of steroids, which tried to kill me. It almost turned me into a man. Seriously, I'm still tweezing the hairs from my chin. It kept me awake at night, and I couldn't eat. Nothing tasted right and I was just not hungry. Also, I found myself, with the television remote, mindlessly changing channels. See, just like a man.
 When I did sleep, because of all the family stories I was reading, I would wake up, in the middle of the night, and think, "Where is my butter churn?", or something like that. Silly, I know, but I walked the Trail of Tears and fought in the Civil War, until morning.
 This all has me thinking, today about suffering. Those of my generation have lived, what some might consider charmed lives. We were born after the country recovered from the big war. Our parents owned their homes with color TVs and frost free refrigerators. Most of us never picked cotton. We rode our bikes to and from school and watched The Monkeys and I Dream Of Jeanie, while doing our homework. When the boys, in our generation reached Draft age, The Vietnam war ended and the Draft was no more. It does sound like a cushy life. Most hardships and sufferings were self inflicted.
 I wonder why we were so blessed. I wonder why my father had to be fatherless during the Depression, and my grandparents went through fires, devastation, and the loss of four children. Why were my ancestors forced off their land and made to live on a reservation?
 All I know for sure is, if any of these things had gone a different way, I might not be here today. If my great- great grandfather had not had a calling on his life, to educate and bring the Gospel to the Indian Nation, I might not be a Christian today. And, I am thankful for these things, and for the life I have been given.

 

 I believe in Heaven. I wrote the previous post for a friend, who enjoys ghost stories. It was fun, and good practice.
 But, I feel it is necessary to say, I believe in Heaven. I believe in God. If ghost were real, why would they hang around old buildings and cemeteries, instead of people they knew and loved in this world?
 C. S. Lewis said, we do not have souls. We are souls and we have bodies.
 I see our bodies as chains, keeping souls attached to this world. Someday, our chains will break, and we will be set free.
   

A Ghost Story For Teresa

  Once, while visiting Savannah, Georgia, my husband and I decided to take a tour of the Maritime museum. If you've ever been to Savannah, you know some of the beautiful old historic homes have become museums. The Maritime museum is located in the Scarborough house.
 The house was built sometime around 1818. William Scarborough was a wealthy shipping merchant, who became destitute, after his biggest project, the Steamship Savannah, failed to become a commercial success. After being sold a couple of times, the house became property of the board of education until 1962. After years of abuse at the hands of school children, the historical preservation society took on the project, restoring it to it's original beauty. Soon after, it became the Maritime museum.
 You can probably tell, I am more interested in old houses than ships, but the museum is impressive, with it's ship models and wood carvings. At the time, I didn't know it had been a school, also.

  We visited the museum on a week day, when very few people were around. It's a self guided tour, so we went through pretty quickly. We walked back to the entrance, where the gift shop was, just as rain began to pour. We thought we would wait a while, hopping the rain would let up, and started a conversation with the gift shop girl.
 We waited and waited, but the rain just got worse. It started to thunder and the wind blew, until it was a real storm. We were bored and asked the girl if we could look through the museum again. She said sure, as we were the only people there. While we were looking through the old house, the power went out. It was very dark and, the wooden figureheads, lurking in every corner, were throwing eerie shadows around the rooms. I heard children laughing and decided a school field trip must have made it in from the storm. If they could handle the rain, so could we. It was time to go, but first, I needed to visit the ladies room, in the basement. Several children passed me on the  stairs down to the dark basement. They were dressed a little odd, long skirts and bonnets, but I figured it was part of their field trip. Besides, they were so cute.
 When we got back to the entrance, it was still raining, but we said we were leaving, anyway. The gift shop girl said she was leaving also.
 I said, "What about the field trip kids?"
 She suddenly turned very pale, and said, "You saw the children?"
 I said yes, I had seen them in the basement. At that, she started packing up her things to go, and walked out the door with us. I suppose, the children were my imagination....hmm
    

A Little Bump On The Road Of Life

 This past weekend, my husband and I were shopping in Rockwall. We pulled into a parking place and heard a noise. Jon had driven the car all the way up to the curb, which was pretty low, and the front bumper went over the curb. He decided he was too close and tried to back out. Well, the bumper got hung on the curb, and he nearly pulled the whole thing off. We got out of the car to look, and there was nothing I could say, that he would not hear as completely annoying. So, he said go on into the store and he would see what he could do.
 I walked around the store, looking at stuff, but couldn't see anything I wanted or needed, because I was too worried about the car.
  He walked into the shop, like everything was okay, then left again, real soon. This worried me, so I left, too.
  I asked him if he was able to put the bumper back on, and he said he tied it on with a rope. It actually looked pretty good and I thought we might make it home with the car intact. It's a good hour drive from Rockwall on a busy interstate.
 Driving home, he told me he had looked for some duct tape in his backpack. He thought that would hold the bumper better, but he instead found some rope.
 You may be thinking, how odd, that a man would be carrying rope around in his backpack, but I understand completely. This is a man who plans for any and everything that could possibly go wrong. Sometimes, I think I will grow old, waiting in the car, while he goes around checking doors and windows, I have already checked. Then he starts on the car. Do we have everything? Check the tires, the oil, the windshield wiper fluid.
 No, this didn't bother me at all. All I could think was, Thank God he didn't have any Duct tape. Have you ever noticed, when a man "fixes" something with duct tape, he seems to think it is "fixed"? He will never go back to it, as it is a finished project. I would be driving a duct taped car for the rest of my life.
 Fortunately, he took it to a body shop and got the bumper reattached, by professionals, who charged 189.00, but no duct tape was used.


 

Home Sick Blues

  My father died a few months ago, and recently, one of his neighbors bought his house. Everything is finale, all loose ends tied, nothing left to do, but miss him, terribly.
  It's a sad and strange feeling to know I can never go back to the house where I was raised. Someone else is living there. Someone else has my room. I find I'm thinking about it constantly.
  I hear the sound of dishes clanking, and I'm back in my mothers kitchen setting the table, while she busily prepares lunch. It's Summertime, and Daddy, as well as my brothers have been working all morning under a harsh West Texas sun. There will be discussions about the elections, the war, and those who are not with us, because of the war. There will also be laughter and lighthearted discussions. This is where I heard the term, birth control, for the first time. My sister had a new car with bucket seats, which one of my brothers called birth control seats. That was pretty rough talk in the 60's, and my mother ended it quickly.
  The scent of freshly cut grass brings a picture of my dad, hot, exhausted, smoking a cigarette and drinking ice tea from a canning jar. It wouldn't be long before his second wind would have him playing baseball with the boys. How Daddy loved baseball.
  We slept through hot Summer nights with all the doors and windows open, trying to find a breeze. Mom said a person would be crazy to break into a house so full of people, so I was never afraid. Most nights, after everyone had gone to bed and the house was quiet, I could hear my dads radio playing some faraway baseball game. It was AM radio, of course, and so static filled, I could barely understand what the announcer was saying. Still, it calmed me.

 
  Someone else is living in my parents house. Someone else will benefit from the hard work of planting and cultivating a peach orchard. Another family will see their kids and grand kids grow up under those trees. I hope they will know how fortunate they are to live in a home built with so much love.