I am sitting here in my recliner looking at my Christmas tree.  It’s the same artificial  tree I have used for the last few years.  There was one much the same before this one but one string of lights stopped working and I gave it away and bought the current tree.  Trying to fix a string of lights used to piss me off big time so I don’t do that any more.  Same with live trees; too much aggravation so we switched to the plastic stuff.

We accumulated the ornaments for this tree during fifty years of marriage.  Early on we decorated with a lot of tinsel and strung pop corn.  Now the tree is trimmed with a collection of ornaments, no two alike and each with a memory attached.  There are ceramics made by my mom and sister, Hallmarks to mark particular years, gifts from the grand parents, trinkets from trips we made and special hand-me-downs. Prominently displayed near the top is a red glass globe with stripes of blue, yellow pink, green and white.  It is the only one I have that belonged to my maternal grandmother.

Bammy died very young when I was about four years old so my memories of her are those from early childhood that live in the mind as moments and images rather than events.  I can taste a butterscotch sundae and transport my self back to the window booth at the corner drugstore just a block away from my house.  The house belonged to Bammy and Popaw. My parents, my brother and I lived with them at that time to help take care of Bammy who was very ill.  Even so, she felt well enough at some point in time for she and I to walk to the drugstore and have a butterscotch sundae prepared by either Gracie or Ethyl who worked the soda fountain.  It was a special treat to walk down the street holding her hand and greeting neighbors on their porches.  She knew everybody and everybody seemed happy to see her.

My grandmother spent most of the last part of her life in a bed that had been moved into the living room where she could see out the window.  Friends often walked up on the front porch and visited with her through the open window for just a few minutes since she did not feel up to going out.  I remember sitting by her on the bed to read story books.

I don’t remember her dying but going to see her at the funeral home is still clear in my mind.  My dad walked with me and picked me up to see her lying there, so very still.  Her brown hair was done up in waves on top, she was dressed in a dark dress, either navy or black, with a white lace collar.  Only the top half of the casket was open and I could not see her feet.  We sat down on a pew and several people I knew stopped and either patted my head or kissed my cheek.  I remember that I wore white gloves.

 

 

I was thinking about what kinds of things I remember as I sat waiting in a doctor’s office.  It seems that I have always had this capacity to entertain myself inside my head.  If this has to have a name let’s call it imagination.  Anyway, I amuse myself with memories some times and today I was trying to decide what my first real memory is.

There are events from childhood that I remember my family talking about and I can’t be sure if I remember them or if I just remember the story about them.  For instance, I remember the story about  how my new born brother peed in my face the first time I watched him get his diaper changed.  I used to think maybe I remembered that but if I ever did I don’t remember it now.

So as I sat quietly waiting I came up with a first real memory that I am sure happened just as I recall it.  I don’t remember everything about this memory to tell it as one would a story because it is not like that.  It’s more about recreating the moment.  I remember my dad taking hold of me at my waist and lifting me up so that I was looking down into his face.  It felt like flying.  We were laughing as he turned round and round and I held my arms out and pointed my toes to pretend to be an airplane.  My dad has green eyes and brown hair parted on the side and kept in place with hair oil.  His smile shows the small gap between his front teeth.

That’s all.  I wish I could put this happy feeling in a time and place but what I am sure I remember is the happy sensation of flying above my dad’s face.  I would have to have been small for him to lift me up like that, probably less than three years old.  I wonder if I could begin with this memory and put what I remember in order from then until now.  This may prove challenging since I right this minute I cannot remember whether or not I locked the door after taking the dog out.

 

 

The parchment paper skin is blotched with brown here and there and the scar from a snake bite is a white bump between the third and forth fingers.  These hands have bumpy looking veins, wrinkled knuckles and cuticles a little dry.  The nails are clipped short, as they have always been.  The gold band on the left hand is worn down so that it resembles a fine copper wire.  I have never seen these hands in repose before, the left folded over the right, perfectly still.

Grandma’s hands were always busy, always moving.  They started the morning rolling biscuit dough and frying bacon and eggs.  The day would be filled with chores; cooking and cleaning, feeding chickens and pigs and grandkids, gathering eggs and churning butter, washing clothes and hanging them to dry, always working.  Come evenings after the kitchen was put back in order after supper there would be sewing to do.  Mending torn pants and  patching an apron or piecing a quilt top in preparation for the weekend when Grandma and the aunts would gather in the front room to quilt.

When Grandpa came into the house looking tired and worn Grandma caressed his cheek with her hand and taking his hand in hers told him to have a seat at the kitchen table where she brought him a cup of coffee and sat down to talk with him while she finished snapping beans for supper.  A grandchild with a skinned knee would be wrapped in a hug followed by iodine and a band aid carefully placed by Grandma’s hands.  Those same hands could deliver a stinging swat to a small, round bottom when the need arose.

When Grandma died her children had the usual viewing, visitation and funeral at the funeral home in her small hometown as was expected back then.  As I filed by the open casket with the other grandchildren I paused to study her hands and noticed the very pale pink polish on her nails and thought to myself that she would have laughed at that.  Grandma would have said it was silly to paint your nails knowing that you would chip it all off by the end of the day.

On Saturday afternoon I attended the funeral of my cousin at the church where I once was a member.  This is most unusual for me.  After what some people in my life consider a reverse epiphany a few years ago I realized that I did not accept the teachings of the church.  I just no longer believed what I had been taught, so going to church would be hypocritical.  As in many areas of my life there are exceptions to the norm such as attending a funeral at a church when someone special to me has died. I do not consider this gesture of respect for the deceased and concern for the widow and my cousin’s family, all of whom I hold in high regard, to be contrary to my chosen beliefs.  I consider attending the service just that — a gesture — nothing more.

I have a friend whose religious faith is central to her life and unquestionable in her mind.  She has questioned me about how I could believe at one time and then change to  not believing at all.  I have explained as best as I can, hoping not to offend her because she is important to me and I respect her choice; I just can’t share it.  She doesn’t understand, probably can’t understand and keep her faith at the same time.  So, we are considerate of each other and support each other, love each other and have decided time will tell if either of us has found the truth.  Time will tell.

 

via Daily Prompt: Fierce

Shakespeare comes to mind.  I believe the line from A Midsummer Night’s Dream is something like, ” and though she be but little she is fierce”.  I gave my granddaughter a charm with this quote to remind her of her soccer days.  For a small girl she sure played large. I miss going to her games, which we did from the time she was four until her last year of high school finished only a couple of months ago.  She is now beginning her adult phase and I hope she remains fierce through it all.

via Daily Prompt: Cheat

Earlier this evening I had some twenty somethings here for an impromptu supper.  This happens now and again when my grandson and some friends show up hungry and I happen to have fast fixins on hand.  They were talking about mutual acquaintances who split up because she cheated on him.  Hmmm.  What exactly does that mean in today’s world?  Apparently these young people were dating, which in itself is very different now from when I was young a long time ago.  Dating, if it includes several dates, probably includes sex, not just sharing a malt and seeing a movie.  So, cheating seems to consist of sex with someone else.  In my world it wouldn’t be cheating unless there was a committed relationship.  Dating may not actually be a committed relationship and if it is not then a date with someone else would not be cheating, it would just be a date.

Maybe it’s only cheating if you are sneaky about it.  Now that makes sense to me.  If a girl and a guy are spending time together frequently there may be an implied agreement that this is an exclusive arrangement.  I am not fond of implied situations.  I much prefer explicit definitions of what the relationship consists of and what behavior is expected and what is unacceptable.  So, youngsters, here’s what might save you some grief.  Say what you mean.  Say it early. Assume nothing.  If you are dating and you want to be with someone else be open and honest about that.  Chances are if you are interested in someone else the relationship you have isn’t a committed one.  This is one of those things better discovered sooner rather than later.

Of course there are many kinds of cheating.  It happens in sports and at school all the time. People cheat at work.  Tax cheats are common.  I wonder if I know anybody who never, not ever, had someone else do their homework or sneaked a peek at someone’s paper on a test.  Now I am not much into confessions but I can’t honestly say I never cheated in school.  I am sure that I didn’t cheat on taxes because the consequences could be a problem.

Is a cheater a bad person?  Maybe, maybe not.  And maybe just how awful one is because of cheating is a matter of degree.  Is it really horrible to round the number down a bit when asked about your weight?  Do we refuse to have a person in our life if they didn’t tell a cashier about making a mistake and giving back too much change?  I think we usually consider these to be minor, human failings and tend to overlook them.  Cheating that is also a betrayal is another matter.  I think my young friends have low regard for a cheater because of the betrayal, the lie.  If one of them tells the person they have been going out with that they are going out with someone else they would think that is unkind, but would not call it cheating.

via Daily Prompt: Obvious

My substitute word for obvious is “duh”. Not an especially mature or intelligent statement, but it does at times serve the purpose. For instance my husband might say that I made the dinner I wanted instead of what he would have preferred.  Well, duh.  Or when my dear, marvelous grandson asks if I want him to walk his dog.  Well, duh.

via Daily Prompt: Miniature

Miniature immediately brings to mind very small dogs for me.  I once knew a social worker who carried her tiny dog in her purse everywhere she went.  I believe there is an actress who does the same thing but I am not sufficiently impressed to remember who she is.  Several years ago there were ads in magazines for tiny dogs that fit into a tea cup.  Not my cup of tea.

 

via Daily Prompt: LearningDaily Prompt: Learning

Learning is living.  When one stops so does the other.  There is something to be learned in every day, often by accident.  I read a lot for entertainment, mostly fiction.  Even though my aim is only to amuse myself or maybe escape to a fantasy world for a bit I learn about cultures, eras and places as I follow the plot. Historical novels let me feel as if I were there better than a history text book might.  I think learning is better and the knowledge acquired has more staying power if the process is pleasurable.

via Daily Prompt: Fifty

For several days I have been looking at these daily prompts and promising myself I would write something, even if only a sentence for each one.  But then my computer died and then the basement flooded and then the dog needed his nails clipped and my husband wanted company watching the Olympics and stuff just kept happening  and I am just now writing after planning for days to do so.  I am going to have to figure out what I will do about that.  Sometime.  Soon.

Fifty immediately becomes an age for me.  I remember fifty.  I thought I was getting old when I had lived for fifty years, but here I am twenty years later and I don’t feel old at all.  My feet feel old, but I don’t.

Fifty dollars is not much money but fifty million dollars is a life altering sum. A fifty / fifty chance of rain doesn’t tell me much about what to expect weather wise.  Fifty or more employees can subject a business to more regulations than fewer than fifty.  I wonder what the process was to arrive at fifty instead of say, forty-eight.

I think I can do this!  I would not have thought about fifty at all without the prompt but there are really many things to be said about it.  Now I wonder what tomorrow’s word will be.