What Ancestor would I want to meet if I could?

 I have joined a group that wants us to talk about our ancestors every week.  This weeks assignment is to ask ourselves which ancestor would we want to meet. Of all of the people in my family tree, I would have to say that it would be either my grandmother Azzie Lee Bolden or Myrtle Bauldwin.  I am envious of those people who have enjoyed the presence of a grandmother in their lives. 

Myrtle Bauldwin 

Azzie Lee Bolden

                                                                 

Both of them passed away long before I ever got here on this plane. My parents suffered the loss of their mothers before they reached their teenage years. The longing for a mother's love followed my parents throughout their lives, especially for my mother.  

John Campbell and Azzie Lee Bolden Campbell

I've often wondered what kind of women they were.  What kind of personality did they have? Did they laugh? Were they good women? Were they kind? Were they women of faith?  I will never know. 

Myrtle Bauldwin Smith

I have asked relatives what kind of character these women had, but no one can tell me about them. Those relatives who knew my grandmothers are long gone.

If I could talk to either of them I would say: " I love you, even if I didn't ever get to feel your touch or see your smile and hear the sound of your voice. I still love you. I miss your presence that I could have had in my life." 

Old

 I have been working almost frantically trying to catch up on my genealogy research that I have missed since we have been working an enormous amount of overtime.  Last weekend, I spent nearly all day Sunday researching as if I didn't have time to waste. I knew that if I stopped there would be another delay in completing my desired goal for the day. 

What I have been doing is researching a grandfather and grandmother, then research all of their children. Each grandfather and grandmother as a couple has their own book. To date, I have 19 books. Then I decided to include pictures of the people that I am researching. It is nice to see what someone looked like instead of just gathering dates and other facts. Afterall, they were actual people and not just data to input into the computer. 

This evening, I was looking through a bunch of old pictures that I had printed to put into a scrapbook. I have been doing this in conjunction with my family research.  The picture above was in a drawer for a while. It is of my great grandfather Joseph Rufus Smith and his wife Bettie Mae Castle along with their children. Then it dawned on me that my grandfather, Daniel Boone Smith, was the little nine year old boy on the extreme left in the first row. He didn't change much over the years and I could tell it was him right away because of the look on his face and especially the ears. My Dad had those same ears.  

As a kid, I thought that he was old. He only lived to be 60. Now I am that age and wonder if my nieces and nephews think that I am old too?  I'm sure that they do. Inside I feel the same as I always have. The soul doesn't age, just the body. A few of my finger joints in my hands are now starting to enlarge where arthritis has settled and I often accomplish things at a slower pace than before. L'Oreal keeps the gray hair at bay until I am ready to let it all go. 

I love looking at old pictures and try to visualize in my head what those people were like. Sometimes, I wish to be able to go back in time and visit those people who helped me to my place here on earth. Don't you?

Cloning and having a soul

I just finished reading the book Never let me go by Kazuo Ishiguro.  I've never been one of those who reads all of the most popular books that are out currently.  Sometimes it takes me years to get to some of those books if at all. I found this by chance while looking for something to watch on YouTube. I watched a snippet and decided that this would be interesting to watch.  Then I went to my local resale shop and found both the book and the DVD. 

When the first sheep was cloned back in 1996 and Dolly arrived on the world's platform, I was amazed. Somehow, I felt that maybe we trying to fill God's shoes in the creating department or on the verge of it anyway.  Then I began to wonder if the sheep had a soul or if any being that was created in the lab had a soul. Does it or doesn't it? Isn't there something magical that happens at conception? 

The story centers around three characters, Kathy, the story teller, Tommy, and Ruth. Kathy narrates this sordid tale about their secluded existence in a place called Hailsham. The children were treated very well at this home for clones, unlike some of the other centers around the country we hear about in the story. All of the children are the same age, which piqued my interest more deeply as I read. It is hinted to them what their short lives will consist of but it is never out in plain sight. They are lied to, tricked, and manipulated so that they will be resigned to the fate for which they were created. 

They were encouraged to be creative and if they became good enough their "art" was taken to Madam's gallery.  Everyone aspired to have their work at the gallery even though they would never get to see it on display. If a student doesn't do well creatively they are made fun of by the other students. Why did they have such an intense focus on being creative?  Hint: It has to do with the soul. 

If you never read another book then this one should be your last. I was enthralled by this novel and how it played out.  Throughout the story I kept asking myself what I would do if I were in that situation.  The author kept my mind twisting and turning the whole time, not wanting to look at the horror of their lives, but peeking nonetheless. 

Cowboys and a Tiara

I had been thinking about getting a tiara for a long time.  Every time I would go to the craft store there they would be, all lined up in the bridal area. Sparkling like the sun shines on the water. They would look lovely on little girls when I took their picture, I told myself. Trying to justify the purchase in my mind. And I really wanted one. Every once in a while the craft store would have coupons for 40% off and there was one burning a hole in my pocket. I picked up each tiara and inspected it as if it were the crown jewels. Eventually, I settled for a small one with small clear crystal flowers. At 40% off the purchase wouldn't seem so extravagant. 

I brought it home and took it out of the package. It was lovely.  I placed it on my head and felt giddy with delight. My sweatpants, tee shirt and mismatched socks were a stark contrast to my head, but I didn't care. What mattered was that I felt beautiful. I looked in the mirror and smiled. You don't look so bad, I told myself. 

The next day, I was digging around in a wooden box for a piece of clothing and found a book that I had forgotten about.  It was oversized and didn't fit on my bookshelf.  So it ended up in the box. The book is called, The Tennesseans by Barry Parker and Robin Hood (seriously). The pages are full of beautiful photographs of the state of my birth. As I leafed through the book my eyes landed on three cowboys. They were fine specimens of the male gender, with their hats sitting low on their brow and thumbs tucked securely on each side of the belt buckle which snugly fit around each man's waist. Chaps donned their thighs and a couple men held ropes. I placed the book on my coffee table and thought that if I needed cheering up I would take a look at the cowboys and dream as I passed through the room. 

A friend came over for dinner the following evening.  Forgetting that I had left the book open on the table, I opened the door to let her in. Immediately, her eyes focused on the coffee table.

"So, you have been looking at cowboys?", She asked. I was a little embarrassed that she discovered my secret. 

"Why yes I have and they are in Williamson County, Tennessee," I said. "I didn't know there were cowboys in Tennessee. Maybe we need to go on a road trip. Aren't there cowboys in England?" I asked. (She is English)  

"No, but there are farmers and they can act tough, but they don't ride horses." She said, as she made her way to the kitchen table.  I had a hard time imagining that an Englishman could act tough and decided to talk about something else. Since she had caught me in one secret I thought that I might as well tell her about my other one." I bought a tiara." I said. 

My friend burst into laughter. " Now Jeannie, this Princess Diana complex has just got to stop. Why did you buy a tiara anyway?"

"For my photography," I said. " I thought that little girls would like it." 

She gave me a don't lie to me look and asked me if that was really why I bought the tiara.  "Okay,I really wanted one. I wore it for a long time the other night and I felt beautiful while I worked at the computer, even though I was wearing sweat pants and a tee shirt." 

"Do you wear the tiara while you are naked and walking around the house?" She asked. 

"Well, yeah! Please don't tell anyone because I don't want people to think that I am weird." 

Two sisters, tree sap, and another photography story

It was a perfect September day.  The sun stood high in the sky, beaming down its rays on the earth.  Roses were still in bloom, filling the air with their sweet perfume. The trees were full of leaves and they rustled when the wind blew. It is days like this that made me want to bask in the sun and relax, but there was no relaxing on this day.

 My sister Donna asked me to photograph her since she hadn’t taken any pictures of herself in a while.  I was glad to oblige her and it gave me the opportunity to work on my photography techniques.  With several changes of clothing and my camera gear, we headed to the various parks around town.  Never realizing the obstacles that would get in our way, although, this seems to be the story of my life.

I picked her up and we decided to go to the various parks in town to try and take some good photographs. The first place we went to was Foster Park. It was located very close to my house and there was an abundance of flowers and trees which provided a beautiful background. 

I was still very new at photography and owned a Canon Powershot at the time.  Oh the problems I had with that camera!  Most of the time I took 10-15 shots of the same scene hoping that at least one would be decent enough to use.  Most shots would be either blurry, have outlandish colors, some body part was cut off, or dappled sun spots would be on the subject’s face.  If I took pictures inside during the winter time, well, I might as well not have tried.  They would be dark, blurry or both.  And yet, I kept trying.

We arrived at the park and began the photo shoot.  Donna was a real trooper.  I had her climbing trees, standing in the midst of bushes and posing in awkward positions.  When we were nearly done, I saw a lovely tree with a low branch that my sister could sit on while I took her picture.  She plopped down and I tried to take a few shots. I noticed that she was sitting in an awkward position. I asked her to move her bottom forward a little so that she could lean back against the branch comfortably.

 “I can’t” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I’m stuck.”

"What do you mean you’re stuck?”

“I can’t move”, she said,” My pants are stuck to the tree.”

Not again, I thought.  The last time I took someone out on a photo shoot we got locked in the Botanical Gardens, now this. I felt a laugh coming.  I pried my sister off the tree branch and turned her around to look at the back of her pants.  Tree sap covered her entire backside.  There’s no way she is sitting in my car with that sticky stuff all over her pants.

“You’re not sitting in my car with sap all over your butt,” I said roaring with laughter.  She stood beside my car while I rummaged through the trunk looking for something that she could sit on.  I found a plastic grocery bag.  I asked my sister to turn around. I knelt down and I firmly pressed the bag to her bottom, making sure that no sap was exposed and the bag wouldn't come off.  I didn't care if people were looking at us while I was pressing the bag to her bottom; I was determined that no sap would be left on my car seat. By the time the both of us were in the car we were laughing hysterically.

“Jeannie, something weird always happens when I am with you.”

“I guess I am special.” I replied with a smile.

I dropped her off at home and I drove back to my house laughing the whole way.  I had a great day with my sister and it was one day that I will never forget. Sometimes it’s the weird things make our experiences more memorable.  

Recollections of My Dad

He had the most beautiful hands I had ever seen.  His fingers were long and slender, each one a twin of the next.  Sometimes, he would let me hold them as we strolled into a store.  His arms and legs were oh so skinny.  He never went without a shirt. When he was a child something happened and his spine had an unnatural curve to it. It was some kind of fever that caused his spine to bend, according to my mother.   I would watch him as he worked in the garage.  His thick black hair would often fall into his eyes when he was working hard at painting a car or a boat.  I would bring him coffee whenever he asked for it.  It was my pleasure to get him a cup, well, not always.  He smoked like a chimney and going on trips was almost unbearable for those of us who sat in the back seat. Fishing was his passion and he spent many Saturdays sitting on a riverbank somewhere.   I cannot say that he was handsome, nor will I declare that he was the opposite.  He always had a job and we never went hungry. This man I am talking about is my Dad. He has done things to make me happy and has, also, disappointed me.  Yet, still, he is my dad. 

 

Charles is his given name.  A few people called him Charlie, some called him Chuck, but Mom always called him Charles. My dad was by no means a literate man.  If I remember correctly, his education didn’t go past the fourth grade. He read the paper sometimes. Sherlock Holmes was one of his favorites. Then there were the fishing magazines; there was always one sitting on the table beside his chair.  Many nights he took a nap before dinner and went to bed early so that he could get up at four in the morning to start all over again.  He was in general a quiet man at home.  Arguments were always started by my mother and he never raised his hand to her. 

Dad took great pride in being a spray painter.  He painted tractor trailers for Fruehauf Corporation.  A perfectionist to the last detail.  I remember one time he took my brother and I to see a trailer that he had painted for the company.  It was a special edition trailer and it traveled to various places around the country.  His face lit up as he talked about his work.  As we toured the factory, my brother Randall and I were able to see his work station.  We met his good friends, Corny and Brock. During the times that he was laid off, he would paint cars to supplement his income.  This was when I realized that he was his own person apart my mother.  Part of his life was outside of our humble home.  It was a place where my mom would never be included.

Music was a big part of our lives growing up. We had record players and radios on nearly all of the time. Dad sang whenever we were in the car.  He whistled while working and he loved Jerry Lee Lewis.  Whenever my parents would have an argument, with a long sorrowful face, he would listen to, Who Will the Next Fool Be, made popular by his favorite singer.   We never lacked for musical instruments.  We had a piano, guitar, and drums.  I couldn’t play a note on any of them though, my brother has that gift.  Luster Laws, a neighbor from down the street, had a twin brother Lester.  Dad had invited Lester to come over one evening to play his guitar.  We all gathered in the family room.  Sitting on tall stools, my brother played his guitar right along with Lester.   It was like a scene from, O Brother Where Art Thou?  We were just plain folk sitting around singing and listening to the music.  Even though Dad was a good singer, he was too shy to participate. He sat on the sofa and listened, while I sang loud enough for the both of us.  

Many weekends he brought home enough catfish to fill the bathtub.  Some were as large at the tub itself.  It kind of grossed me out to think that fish were in the place where I bathed. There was a peace and quiet he experienced when he went fishing that was hard to duplicate at home.  Often my mother or brother would go with him.  I rarely went because I was a Sunday school teacher and spent a lot of time at church, but on one rare occasion he let me come along.   Early one Sunday morning, we loaded the car with the fishing poles and tackle and then headed out.  I cannot remember the lake or the river we went to.  Time alone with dad was something that I longed for.  I don’t ever  remember getting many hugs or kisses.  It wasn’t that he didn’t love us; he just didn’t know how to show it.  We settled in a spot on the water.  Cast our lines and waited for bites.  We talked as we fished.  He told me how proud he was of me.  “Teaching Sunday school is such a wonderful thing”, he said.  Even though he enjoyed having me along, he said that the children at church needed me more.  My heart sank.  I needed time with him and his love more than teaching a Sunday school class.  That day was my last time to go fishing with him.  A year or so later he was diagnosed with cancer and passed away.  If only I could have had more time with him. I never saw him as an old man when I tried to imagine him 20 years down the line.  Maybe my spirit knew that he would never grow old.  I just wish that he could have stayed a little longer.

April 22, 1984 was the worst Easter in history

April 22, 1984 was the worst Easter in history.  Well, at least it was for me.  When I reached my father’s bedside at the hospital, I was in tears.  Upon my arrival, I was totally disheveled.  My hair was standing on end, more people saw the slip underneath my dress than I dared to think about, and someone nearly ran over my felt hat.  

In January, my father was diagnosed with cancer. He was in a lot of pain by the time he was first diagnosed, but it was too late for chemotherapy to help.  Dad was a spray painter for Fruehauf Corporation.  The paint fumes and the two packs a day cigarette habit caught up with him.  By the time April came, the cancer had spread to several areas of his body.  As all children who have had terminally ill parents or relatives in their lives, I hoped for a miracle.  Besides, I am a good friend of God.  We know each other very well.  Surely my prayers for healing will be answered. 

Easter morning, I woke up and got ready to go to see my dad.  He had asked my mom to have a puzzle book brought up to the hospital so that he would have something to do.  Since it was Easter Sunday, I decided to put on my new dress.  It was black with a white collar and it buttoned at the waist.  There were no other buttons to keep the dress closed, because of the way it was designed; I wouldn’t have to worry about being indecent.  I put on high heeled black dress pumps.  To keep me warm, I wore a burgundy coat that came to my waist and zipped up the front.  I had a matching burgundy felt hat with feathers to top off my ensemble.  Admiringly, I looked at myself in the mirror. I looked good.  My dad will surely be impressed with how pretty I looked for him.

The wind had picked up during the night.  By the time morning arrived, there was quite a gale.  It was tornado season.  Even though I live in Indiana, we still get a lot of wind whenever there are tropical storms or tornados anywhere in the country.   I climbed into my car and headed to St. Joe Hospital.  My car rocked from side to side as the wind pounced upon it. The parking lot for the hospital was located across the street.  I found a place to park after having driven around the block several times.  The door of the car flung open wide when I pulled on the handle.  As I emerged from the vehicle my hat started to lift off of my head.  I quickly grabbed it and held it down tight.  The wind blew the flap of my dress open and exposed my slip underneath.  Thank goodness I had a slip on that day; otherwise a lot more than a slip would have been exposed.  With my other hand I tried my best to keep my dress closed, with my purse and my dad’s bag hanging on my arm too.  Another strong gale came along and the hat flew off my head.  I watched in horror as it rolled down the street, imagining that the hat would be smashed at any moment underneath the wheels of a car. Several cars had swerved, narrowly missing my hat.  I ran as fast as I could to get it, all the while trying to hold the flap of my dress closed, which proved to be useless.  My hair was swirling about my head like the funnel of a tornado.  I wasted my time styling my hair that day.  I should have gotten up straight out of bed and came to the hospital.  Surely, I couldn’t have looked any worse than I did just then.  After retrieving my hat from the middle of the street, I focused on getting inside as quickly as possible before another gust of wind swept me away.  I was very upset by the time that I got to my dad’s room. Tears were flowing down my cheeks as I handed him the bag and left without saying a word.  When I left, he called my mother asking what was wrong with me.  She was clueless. 

When I arrived back home, my mom met me at the door.  “Charles called here wanting to know what’s wrong with you”, my mother said to me as I walked into the kitchen.  I told her about my ordeal that morning with a lot of detail and exaggerated emotion.  Then I went upstairs to my room so that I could change my clothes and maybe cry a little more.  There would be no going to church for me that Easter Sunday, because, that day, I was a drama queen. I am sure that my parents had a good laugh though.

Teacher is it testicle or stethoscope?

 
True Story:

A pre-school teacher was giving a lesson about Veterinary doctors and what that they did for animals. She raised her book and pointed at a picture of a doctor. 

"What is this that is around the doctor's neck?", the teacher asked her class. 

"A testicle", said a little girl in the back. 

"No, no, children. It is a stethoscope." stressed the teacher while trying very hard to keep her composure.

 As the other children began to think about the thing around the doctor's neck, they agreed with the little girl. Of course, it sounded correct to them. Besides, stethoscope sounds like testicle to the untrained ear of a child. (maybe even a grown up too) 

"It is a testicle", they cried in unison.

"Now listen to me say it, steth-o- scope" she said.  The teacher deliberately sounding out the word for the children, hoping that they will eventually get it.  

It took a while, but the children finally believed that it was a stethoscope. Most importantly, they had the correct word for the instrument.
 

How would you do in this slightly embarrassing situation?

A tale about a brother, a sister, and a little dog too

“Randall?” was all I could say before I burst into tears when my brother answered the phone. “I have lost Chevy and I cannot find her anywhere.” Still sobbing, I tried to explain how long I thought she had been missing and that I had been trying to find her. On the other end of the line my brother tried to remain calm, but I could tell that he was on the verge of becoming frantic.  By the time I had called him the dog had been missing for several hours. I was beside myself and dreaded calling him with the news. That dog means more to my brother than I do, even though he says that I mean the world to him.  At that moment, I knew the truth, Chevy is his world.  If we cannot find that dog then I have no choice but to move to Siberia and I don’t know where it is.

Randall rescued Chevy from an abusive man in 1998. The owner bragged about trying to poison a two month old puppy with anti-freeze while at a party. My brother caught wind of it and tried to beat the man up for mistreating an innocent animal. Somehow Randall found the puppy and took her under his wings. He came to love his little golden Chihuahua\Spitz mixture of a dog like you would a child. She grew up to be a good natured little thing and if she liked you then she would try to lick you to death.  She was my brother’s constant companion and went with him everywhere.  

My brother asked me to dog sit Chevy while he and his girlfriend went to a retreat over the weekend.  I watched Chevy one other time and I tried my best to take good care of her. It was April 2, 2005 when this nightmare happened. I got up early to run some errands before I was to talk to Aziz on line later.  I had been in and out of the house several times that morning. Actually, I went out to buy the dog some bacon. My brother told me how much she loved it and I wanted to be a good dog sitter. I was anxious to talk to Aziz, a man that I met on the internet, and wanted to get all of my running around out of the way so that I could spend as much time talking to him as he had time for.  After we had been chatting for a couple of hours, I noticed that the dog wasn’t in the room with me.  I asked Aziz to hold on so that I could look for Chevy in the house.  She was no where to be found.  I panicked.  “Where could she be?” I asked myself.  I looked in every crook and cranny. I even looked in the dryer more than once.  Chevy was gone.  I came back on line and told Aziz that the dog was missing. He felt bad for me and blamed himself. I told Aziz that I was responsible for the dog, not him.  I said that I had to go and turned off the computer. I put on my jacket and went outside to look for her in the neighborhood. Up and down the streets I went, stopping people and asking them if they had seen a little golden dog.  I walked until I was exhausted, then headed back home to rest for a bit only to go back out again.  Once inside the house, I burst into tears.  Feelings of failure overwhelmed me. During the course of the day my brother called me several times. At 7:20 pm, my brother called again to see if I had found the dog.  During the conversation he tried to comfort me and said that everything will work out alright.  I tried to believe him. At that point, finding the dog seemed hopeless. The longer that she was gone the less likelihood we had of finding her.

I tried to sleep, but couldn’t.  I tossed and turned all night.  When I woke up the next morning, my eyelids were swollen from all of the crying. My brother came over around 8:30 that morning. He told me that he, too, couldn’t sleep the night before. I cried yet again. We walked around the neighborhood until at least one o’clock. Then he went back home to make posters, hoping that someone may have seen his dog.  I tried to talk to Aziz while Randall was home making posters, but I was too upset and worried about the fate of my relationship with my brother. Randall came back with the posters and we put them up all around the neighborhood, hoping that someone may have seen her. We walked until it was dark. As each day passed, I grew more and more frantic about his dog. He tried to comfort me, but I knew that deep down he wanted his dog back more than anything.  Again, I had another sleepless night. 

I called in sick the next day to work.  My mind was so distracted that I couldn’t concentrate on anything. My brother came over at 4pm and again we walked the neighborhood. Up and down the streets we went, calling out Chevy’s name. On the last leg of our walk we turned down Violet Street and there she was on a leash being led by a Mexican girl to a van. “Chevy” Randall shouted and the dog turned her head towards the voice calling her name. She tried to come towards her owner but was pulled back by the girl. “That’s my dog” Randall shouted, “You have my dog!” Chevy kept looking at us and her tail began to wag.  We both ran to the van and Randall demanded the return of his precious dog. Five men emerged from the van acting like they were going to do something if things got out of hand. Randall reached to his side making sure that his pistol was still there. Trust me; He would have taken out the whole city if he had to for his dog. He gave the girl $20.00 and she willingly gave up all rights to the dog. We noticed that Chevy’s collar and tags had been taken off and replaced with a different one. They meant to keep her with no intentions of looking for the rightful owner.  I have to admit that I thought we would never see the Chevy again. To me, it was a divine thing that we found her when we did.  In a matter of moments she would have been in a van going to some other part of town.  My brother says that he knew all along that he would find her. I am glad he thinks this, but I saw a little desperation in his actions to make me think otherwise. Most of all, I am just thankful that I didn’t have to move to Siberia.

Eight Chickens and a Date

I could have bought eight chickens with the amount of money that Glenn was willing to pay for just the meat as I glanced at the prices on the menu. The baked potato was seven dollars and the salad another ten. I closed the menu and looked at Glenn and said, “You don’t have to pay this much money for dinner.  I like you already, there’s no need to spend this kind of money.” Very firmly and in a low voice, Glenn assured me that he eats in restaurants like this all of the time. He just doesn’t know that I can prepare meals far more elaborate and delicious than what we were about to have. If he only knew that I am a good cook. 

I met Glenn in a chat room shortly before I was divorced.  We talked for a few months, and then he begged me to meet him. He lived in southern Indiana near Louisville and I live in the Northern portion of the state. We decided to meet half way in Indianapolis and make a day of it while we were there. It was really too soon for me to be dating someone. The divorce knocked the wind out of me, and I desperately needed to know that someone else would find me attractive.  

Glenn is a Native American from the Lumbee tribe, with short salt and pepper hair, dark brown eyes, perfect pearly white teeth, and is not a whole lot taller than I am.  He drove up in a silver car that resembled one from the 40’s with narrow windows that the gangsters used to shoot their guns out of in the movies.  He arrived, wearing jeans, a light blue dress shirt, and cowboy boots.  The boots were a golden color, almost yellow, with about an inch or so heel. He said that they were alligator. I’ve never seen a yellow alligator.  They looked so out of place with his ensemble, but strangely right for him.  Draped around his neck was a gold chain and his hands were adorned with rings.  He was dressed to impress. Glenn spoke with the most wonderful Southern drawl. I was quickly drawn in. Although, I found it odd that an Indian would succumb to speaking like the rest of the Southerners but was delighted that he gave in it.

Our day started with breakfast at a quaint little diner in the heart of the city.  We ate and chatted for a long time.  He told me stories about his family. Like me, he grew up poor.  Living in North Carolina with his mother and brothers, they grew tobacco in order to survive. Growing up on the reservation proved to be difficult, with lack of opportunities, and no prospects on the horizon.  In the middle of their one room shack was a pot belly stove that provided hot meals and warmth for their home. Their father left when Glenn was a child. His mother loved them all very much and administered strict discipline on her fatherless children as often as she saw fit, which means in Southern terms he got a lot of whoopings. He eventually worked hard enough to get an electricians degree and makes a good living.

After breakfast, we made our way to the White River Canal. I guess it is a well known tourist spot in Indianapolis. In a way it reminded me of pictures of Italy.  Shops lined both sides of the canal and one could stop off and have a cold drink or a bite to eat while strolling along. Quaint little bridges crossed the canal and I expected to see a gondola go by at any time. 

The next stop was at the Indian Museum and then on to the Children’s Museum. We spent hours looking at paintings, sculptures, and glass ceilings.  We walked and talked until near exhaustion. Around 4 o’clock we were starving. Glenn suggested that I choose a place to eat.  He expressed that he really wanted to eat steak.  I had only been to Indianapolis a few times and didn’t know where many restaurants were.  We were told that there were a lot of good places to eat in the area.  We were given a map and I picked Ruth Cris not knowing anything about the establishment. This restaurant is much like Eddie Merlot’s in Fort Wayne. When we arrived it was lavish on the inside. The lights were dim and the tables had white tablecloths with all of the finery that one expects in such a high class place.  I was not dressed well enough to dine there and felt out of place because I was wearing jeans and gym shoes. Glenn insisted that we give it a try.  We were shown a table right away and given menus.  The prices were extravagant for just everyday food.  I would have much rather ate at the Texas Roadhouse than to blow money in such a way.  We talked for a long time after dinner. Then we made our way back to my car.  We hugged each other and said goodbye, then each one headed back to their home.  He promised to call, but I knew that I wasn’t ready yet to put my heart out there again. I still loved my husband. I thought about him while driving back home. The tears welled in my eyes and spilled over onto my cheeks.  Why can’t love be easy? 

Writing My Memoirs



Me, my brother, and sister

As if I am not busy enough, I decided to take a class writing my memoirs.  For the next six weeks, I am going to be a writing fool.  When I write things in my journal it is an easy task.  I have something in mind to write about and everything is over and done with in about 30 minutes. I have called my brother twice already for the first assignment. As you can see, trying to remember my childhood has proven to be difficult.  I only remember bits and pieces. If my brother or sister tells me their version of the story then it might jar my memory of the event.  Randall, Donna, and I like to talk about the past when we get together.  Both of our parents have been gone for a long time. When together, we laugh, we cry, and most of all remember. So, by sharing our side of a story helps to keep their memory alive in us.  You know, we should all write our story down so that those after us might get to know us better through our writing.  There has been many times that I referred back to my journal for details about something.  Don't think that your life is not worth writing about, because it really is.  You are a unique person.  Your DNA belongs to you alone.  So, therefore, your story is just as special.  Come on...write something down about yourself, because your life is worth remembering.

A Tale of a Brother Defending his Sister's Honor American Style

Every time my brother, sister and I get together we talk about the past.  We bring up things that have been long forgotten by at least one of us.  Then the memory comes back in full force. Sometimes those memories make us laugh or cry, but then there are those stories that we just feel honored to have such a person in our life. Here is one of those stories.

When I was about 16 to 18 there was a boy name Bubby that wanted me.  I was a naive, church going teenager. I never drank or did drugs. On day I was taking a bath and my brother and Bubby came into the house. I was stranded in the bathroom, which adjoined the kitchen. They were in the kitchen and I was not about to parade myself in front of them. I heard Bubby say that he was going to come into the bathroom while I was still in the tub. Slowly he turned the knob on the door. The thought of him coming into the bathroom caused me to panic. I heard my brother tell him not to do it. From then on I didn't like the boy. Anyone who would violate me would never be considered entering into my life. Eventually, they all left. Then one day the boy made a derogatory comment about me. My brother caught wind of it. I have no idea what was said but my brother saw red and was determined to defend my honor. Bubby and two of his friends painted an obscene remark on our garage also. This all happened within a 24 hour period. Rejection obviously didn't set well with him. My brother drove to the boy's apartment, but he wasn't there. While at the apartment my brother took advantage of the situation and broke a few things, though he later went to court for the damage.  Eventually, the two met by chance at a gas station. My brother beat the crap out of Bubby and the two boys that were with him too.  Knowing Kung Fu helped a lot that day.  A day that I will never forget. It was a day that I was honored.

I know another boy that I would like for him to beat the crap out of too!