HAIR CUT

 

“I feel pretty, oh so pretty. . . “  Well, maybe not as pretty as that song would lead you to believe, but I do feel better.  I just had my hair cut at a beauty shop.  With the exception of about three or four times, I have cut my own hair for over ten years.  I got a really bad cut in Mission, Texas way back then, by a Hispanic woman who could not speak English very well.  Something was lacking either, in my communication abilities or her cosmetology skills, and I ended up with a cut I felt like covering with a hat or scarf!  Since I wear my hair in a simple swing bob anyhow, and have so little of it and what I do have is as thin as tissue paper, I figured, heck, might as well stand in front of one mirror with another behind me on the door and do it myself.  While the results have been unpredictable and many times as bad as or worse than that historic cut, at least it was free.  I may retire as a hair cutter, as this one is not too bad today.

Marie

I AM NOT GROWING OLD GRACEFULLY!

 

 

I do not like what I see in the mirror.  I do not like the aches and pains of arthritis. I do not like the decline in stamina, muscle tone, good vision, hearing, libido and memory.   I do not like age spots, wrinkles, or bags under my eyes.  I simply do not.  Sure, these wrinkles on my face are supposed to represent “character”.  Sure, I am supposed to be (and am) glad that my wrinkled hands work, my wrinkled, saggy body functions as well as it does, and that I CAN see, hear and do so much. I know many other 71-year olds are not even this fortunate. It is not that I lived my life seeking beauty.  Heck, I have never had a professional manicure, acrylic nails, pedicure or body massage.   I have not wanted to and do not want to now.  I have cut and colored my own hair for years, and keeping up with the latest fashion has not been a priority, ever.  I sewed my own clothes for years and now I buy almost all of them at a Goodwill store!  I have never been obsessed with weight loss or weight gain.  I do not consider myself vain, valuing physical beauty over inner beauty, but gosh,  it is so discouraging to feel I have to wear long sleeves all the time, no matter what the temperature,  to cover arms that look more like the skin of a starving elephant than the human arms I remember from my past.  It is so discouraging to have hair which seems to become thinner and thinner with each day that passes.  It is so discouraging to realize this is only the beginning of worse to come.  I must try to be more thankful for what I do have, good health, great husband, wonderful son, daughter, grandchildren, daughter-in-law, son-in-law, brothers and friends, and that they do not seem to mind WHAT I look like!  I must try harder to age gracefully.

October 17, 2009

YOU CANNOT TAKE ALL OF THE KENTUCKY AND TENNESSEE OUT OF ME

Sure, I have been living in Missouri since 1958.  Sure, I have adapted many of the ways of my “Northern” friends and neighbors.  I do not say “soda pop” anymore.  I do not say “Lite Bread” anymore.  I do not say “rag or sack” to denote a cloth or a paper bag anymore (although Tom still does), or “pack” for carrying something, and folks do not ask me as frequently “what part of the South are you from?   Yes, I have made some real progress toward acclimating myself to a different region.  For sure, I am far more liberal in my thinking than many of my Kentucky and Tennessee friends and relatives.  I enjoy live theater and orchestra music and I prefer baseball to basketball.   My experiences with food have certainly gone full circle.  I enjoy many different regional and ethnic foods.  I have eaten, and even cooked, such things as Boeuf Bourguignon a La Julia Child (I admit, I have her cookbooks), Coq au vin, Sauerbraten, Paella, Pozole, Spanakopita and Moussaka.  I prefer French Onion Soup to Campbell’s Tomato Soup.  You can keep your Velveeta and American Processed cheese and give me Gouda, Sharp Cheddar, Bleu, and Gruyère.   I have made, and like very much, Crepe Suzettes, Cherries Jubilee, Canola,  Bananas Foster and Black Forest Cake. I love the Italian food so popular here in St. Louis, and the Creole/Cajun foods of Louisiana, introduced to me by our son, Vincent.  With all of that said, I have to confess that sometimes I yearn to have some good ole’ Southern cookin’; foods that I used to eat often, like white beans, okra, boiled potatoes and meatloaf, macaroni  and cheese and fried chicken (haven’t had THAT in a long time).

Today, sitting on my stovetop is a huge pot of Collard and Turnip Greens from our garden and a pot of Black Eyed peas.  Come dinnertime, ( and I do say “dinner” instead of “supper” now) , I will bake some sweet potatoes, cook some turnips and make some cornbread.  Maybe I’ll “fry” a pork chop or two.  Certainly, I’ll accompany this meal with sliced onions and vinegar on the side.If I am ambitious enough, I may whip up an apple pie or a banana pudding for dessert.  I admit, I now season with Extra Virgin Olive oil instead of bacon grease or Fat Back Pork, and I do like my green beans a bit more “al dente” than those of my past.  Even with these  modifications,  I have to tell you, a good meal that reflects my Southern heritage is mighty hard to beat, no matter what else might be served anywhere in the world.

I Loved Her Before I Saw Her!

She was our first grandchild.  Her conception followed on the heel of two failed pregnancies, so she was never, for one single moment, taken for granted.  Both anxiety and anticipiration were daily companions for all of us.  We hoped that she would make it to full term. Her Mom spent the week before she was born in the hospital, hooked up to many monitors.  I sat in the room, listening to her little heartbeat, which was surprisingly strong and steady.   Thanks to expert high risk medical attention, the healthy diet and lifestyle of her Mom, and most important of all, daily prayers for her life and safety, she  was only four weeks short of achieving full term.  She weighed in at 6 lbs 4 oz, not bad for an early birth, and she passed the Apgar test, given one minute after birth to determine general health,  with excellent scores.  The birthing room was crowded, with Mom, Dad, doctor, nurses, and both grandmothers.  The grandfathers chose not to be witness to either something they perceived to be inappropriate to watch, or perhaps too traumatic.  After all, they are from a generation of men who anxiously awaited the birth of their own children in the comforts of the waiting room.

She was given the name of Jessica Ashley Renz.  She was welcomed with excitement and love into a large extended family, each of whom arrived at the hospital for an early introduction.   She moved from the intensive care ward of the hospital, where they take all preemies at least a short time for observation, to her home within a few days.  A huge stork sign greeted her and her parents in the yard, announcing her birth and welcoming her home.  This was a gift from Grandma and Grandpa Renz.  Unfortunately, colic interfered with her comfort, and the peacefulness and adequate rest of her parents for weeks, which seemed like many months.  After that was over, she was a placid baby, who made few demands beyond the notification of hunger or discomfort from a wet diaper.

We all adored Jessica from the first heartbeat we heard, and continues to do so.  She has always been a delight to all who have been lucky enough to know her.  Her beauty was evident in each stage of her development; from a tiny baby to the fourteen-year-old teenager she is now.  She inherited her physical attributes from the Renz side of her family, a complexion that is peaches and cream in its perfection, a body that is tall and slim in stature, with long arms and legs.  Her disposition leans more toward that side of the family too, quiet and dignified, and perhaps a bit shy until she really knows a person.

Jessica is growing into a lovely young woman, beautiful inside and out.  She is intelligent, sensitive, caring and considerate.  She wants to please and would never willingly do anything to hurt another person’s feelings (well perhaps on occasion, her sister’s), and she is a person of deep faith.  She can be counted on for prayers of healing, protection, or other blessings. She is talented, with special abilities at swimming very fast and for long distances, and as an artist, who loves to draw.  After visits to our house, she has left behind wonderful drawings and messages to us, which we treasure and I save in my “Memory” box.  She has been willing and interested in exploring many different extracurricular activities, including dance, gymnastics, swimming, volleyball, violin and keyboard.  She is a good student, whose favorite subjects are science related ones, and an excellent daughter and granddaughter. She loves to read, and spends hours doing so.   She loves to help her Mom, and me, cook and serve food.  She is patient and kind with younger cousins and the children of friends.  She will be a terrific Mother, someday.

Jessica started her first year of high school last week.  She is attending Cor Jesu Academy, an all-girl’s parochial school, with very stringent standards for acceptance.  She is excited about high school and delighted that Molly, her best friend, was also accepted there.  I look back at the past fourteen years, which have passed so quickly, and realize how blessed all of us have been to have Jessica in our lives.  I know she is changing, growing into a young woman, and that before the blink of an eye, she will be dating.  I am positive that there will NEVER be a boy, or man, worthy enough of her attention.  My prayer now is that when she does start dating, she will be treated with the utmost respect and kindness, and that eventually she will find a person to love who will treasure the person she is, and who will make her feel like the princess she is to us.

Marie

August 27, 2009

The Many Faces of Jenna

JENNA

How do I begin to describe this little girl?  I could start with her present physical description.  She is a petite eleven year old.  She has the distinction of being the shortest, or almost, of any other player on any of the team sports she is involved with; volleyball, basketball, or softball.  Never mind that minor fact, she holds her own as a good team player!  Her tiny face, liberally sprinkled with freckles,  especially prominent in the summertime, breaks into a broad smile with the slightest provocation.  She has brown hair, not quite to her shoulders.  It is often in need of a brushing, but she is just too busy having fun or doing something else to be bothered with such a minor thing as that.  She is thin, limber, and in each stage of life so far, she reminds me so much of  Alison, her mother, at the same age, both in appearance and in personality.

I could describe her abilities.  She is smart and talented.  She could read before she started kindergarten and all of us soon learned we could no longer spell words we did not want her little ears to hear.  She has broad and varied interests.  At various times she has shown an interest in designing fashions, or interiors.  She has spent hours, quietly drawing pictures and adding captions.  There have been page after page of “Jenna’s Designs”, covering clothing needs for all seasons, with both “fancy”, (she loves fancy) and casual wear. As she so aptly put it on one of her design pictures, “Nothing is better than some nice style. ”  She is a creative artist, and loves to design and draw – anything.   .  She veered off from fashion designs to designing rooms, for a brief time.  This girl loves color, and she sees no problem at all in a bedroom with maybe two very pink and two bright orange walls.  In fact, she was successful in persuading her Daddy to paint her room in some such combination.  She has even sat for several hours, designing a board game.  I took her shopping once, to spend some of her Christmas money.  It is not easy for her to spend her own money, and although she wanted a particular board game, she would not turn loose of her cash for it.  She said, “I’ll make one like it”.  She spent the rest of that weekend at our house doing just that! Lately, her creativity is leaning more toward writing.  She has been interested in that, off and on  for several years.  Unfortunately, she gets stuck, unable to develop her plot, and gives up on a particular story and starts another one, never finishing any.  She loves to cook, and to watch cooking shows.  Her artistic nature surfaces in her desire that the “presentation” of the food should be attractive.  I am sure a lot of this has come from watching the cooking shows on TV.  When she was about three or so, and had misbehaved, her Dad told her she could not watch the cartoon show on TV that she liked,  meaning she could not watch any TV, but he failed to say that specifically.   She replied, “That’s OK, I like cooking shows”.  She, and her sister Jessica, have “helped” both their Mom and me in the kitchen since they were old enough to stand on a stool and reach the counter.

I could describe her energy level.  Like a tightly wound spring, she seems to just be waiting to be released, and when she is, she runs, jumps, bounces and moves.  About the only time she is still is when she is drawing, writing, or watching TV.  Her bedroom at our house is next to ours.  Often at night we hear, “thump”, “thump”, as Jenna practices some gymnastic move she has learned!  She turns summersaults in the back yard and rides her bike at home. No wonder she is thin.  That girl burns calories before they ever settle in her tummy.

I could describe her entrepreneurial nature.  She is always looking for an angle to earn a little money.  When she was about eight, and heavily into story writing, she offered to use Tom, her PaPaw’s name,  in her story, IF he paid her a quarter.  Another time, both she and Jessica were whipping out finger crochet chains right and left, fast as could be, and forming them into circles that they called “bracelets”. Jessica, who is extremely generous to everyone, gave us several.  Jenna offered to sell hers to us for a quarter each!  Her bedroom is a disaster zone most of the time, with everything she owns seemingly on the floor or under the bed.  I think she plans it this way, knowing that eventually her Mom or Dad will offer to pay her to clean it up!  She likes to earn it, but she does not like to spend her own money, especially if she can figure out a way to get her grandparents or parents to fork over the cash for this or that.  Once we went to Six Flags over America, near St. Louis, with the kids and their parents.  Jenna was about four then.  We had given each of the girls $5.00 to spend that day. Well, she just loved the Carnival area there, where you could take your chance at winning  “made in China”  item, worth nothing.  Gary allowed them to throw a ball or two, but then suggested we move on, explaining that it was just junk and hard to win and not worth spending money on.  Jenna had a melt down.  She threw a fit!  She sat down and cried and cried.  Daddy tried all manner of reason, but nothing seemed to help.  Tom and I, as grandparents, quietly watched, wishing the screaming would end. Finally, he said, “Well, if you want to, spend your own money here, go ahead”.  She promptly replied, “No, I don’t want to WASTE  my money!  I want you to pay.” That’s Jenna.   With that said, she came home from school one day, after the disastrous Katrina, and emptied her entire piggy bank, which held close to $200.00, I believe I heard, and took it all to school to donate to the relief fund for the people in New Orleans.

I could describe her personality, or try.  She is witty and cheerful.  She loves to joke around.  She generally wakes up in the morning before Jessica does, in a good mood and ready for action.  We bought a white noise machine for each of their bedrooms because one weekend they spent with us,  Jenna and I made too much noise the next morning, laughing and having fun as we a card game.  We woke Jessica up way BEFORE she was ready to get up.  She explained to us that we had been extremely rude to make so much noise, which was true!  Jessica and I are similar, in that we need to slowly move into the new day, while Jenna bursts into it more times than not, and attempts to draw the rest of the family into the action.  Jenna can drive her older sister crazy, wanting to do whatever she is doing, and to be wherever she is at a given moment.  Although she is not likely to admit it, she loves Jessica very much, but she can surly be a pest to her at times.

Finally, I could describe her sense of justice.  She does not like it one bit if she thinks anyone is treating someone else unfairly for no reason.  Actually, both Jessica and Jenna are this way.  She has developed an interest in the Civil Rights movement of the Sixties, and Rosa Parks is her hero!  She was so happy that a black man, Barack Obama, was elected president of the United States.  She would never even think of saying anything mean about any child with a handicap, or staring unnecessarily at them.  She is patient and kind with younger children, as is Jessica.  She will patiently spend time playing with our four-year-old neighbor, following her around and keeping a watchful eye on her, simply because Haley wants to play.

We are so fortunate, first to have such a good daughter and son-in-law, to guide and teach our grandchildren.  They do things differently from what we did, and probably from what Gary’s folks did as parents, but no one can dispute the good results of well-adjusted  kids who are smart, kind, generous, and fun loving.  The goodness of these girls is a testament to their love, wisdom, patience, and the amount of personal time that their parents devote to every aspect of their lives.  We are thankful for them, and for Jessica and Jenna.

Marie,

proud Memaw of Jessica and Jenna

August 27, 2009

Beautiful Granddaughter, Vintage Dress

It was hanging in a consignment shop when I saw it, about fifteen or twenty years ago.  The actual time is a blur now.  I noticed the perfection of it.  This simple, yet elegant dress had tiny seed pearls around the rim of the neckline, a slightly dropped waist, princess seam lines in the bodice, elbow length sleeves, which were lightly shirred, twenty-five tiny covered buttons, fastened by loops, that cascaded down the back, and it was tea length.  There was no brand label inside.  I knew someone had made this dress for a very special occasion, probably a wedding.  As a seamstress, I recognized the fine workmanship and the intense labor that went into this work of wearable art.  I don’t remember how much they were asking for the dress, but I had to have it.  Never mind that it is probably a size 1, and nothing I could ever fit into.  Never mind that even if I could have fit into it, I had absolutely no need for such a dress – no appropriate place to wear it.  I did not even have a granddaughter at that time, but for some reason I felt a compulsion to buy that dress, and I did.  I don’t remember what I paid for it, but it was probably something like $8.00, as I think that is the price range of the clothing in that shop at that time.  I bought it, and it just hung in the closet.  When we decided to live the nomad life, traveling around in our camper, I got rid of all but a few things that were nice enough for church or dinner out someplace special, and kept mostly casual things.  I did not get rid of this dress!  I packed it away into a plastic container and stashed it in the basement.  Don’t ask me why I removed it from there, and hung it in the bedroom closet of the room that we refer to as “Jessica’s Room”, but that is what I did when we returned to the house after about ten years of wandering.

Jessica is fourteen now, graceful, slim, tall, and absolutely stunning.  I never mentioned the dress to her, but she tells me she had seen it in the closet many times, and thought, “That  is a pretty dress”.  Well, this weekend she surprised me.  She came out of the bedroom, barefoot, wearing that dress.  She looked drop dead gorgeous in it.  She needed help buttoning it in the back, which I gladly did.  I insisted we had to take some pictures of her wearing “my” dress.  She loves to pose for me, so we took lots of them.  It fits almost perfectly now, but could use a tiny bit more filling up in the top.  Give her another year and I think that will be nicely taken care of.  She insists that someday she will wear it to a school dance.  Her little sister, Jenna, who considers herself a “fashion consultant” tells her it  is  ”old fashioned” looking.  Her Mom and I tell her it is beautiful on her, and a “classic style”.  We’ll see if this orphaned dress ever gets worn again in a festive place.  If not, it can continue to grace my closet, giving me the pleasure of remembering how perfect it looked on  Jessica, the day,  without any prompting, she tried it on.

August 25, 2009

He Is My Brother

He is kind, generous beyond reason, helpful, friendly and extremely social, as well as boastful.  He absolutely loves to talk – to ANYONE, ANYTIME, ANYWHERE!  He talks to receptionist at doctor offices, nurses, doctors, and clerks in any store, bank, or restaurant, to neighbors or strangers he meets on his walks.  Folks in a doctor’s waiting room are captive prey.  He has many stories to tell, and we have probably heard them all a hundred times.  A meal can bring a memory of “When I cooked on the boat”, and off he goes telling us how he cooked this or that and how they all loved it.  A person taking a walk or working in the yard on his route is also at mercy to his tales.  He is cunning and knows just how to get attention.  First, he will complement them on their “dog”, “cat”, “child”, or complement them on their beautiful yard.    Then he will launch into a dialogue on his health, how he worked for 41 years as a deck hand, when he came to live with his sister, or a blow-by-blow report on the progress of our garden and our war against deer. They will hear, whether they want to or not, how he had seven operations this past year, including a total knee replacement.  He is proud of that, and may even pull up his pant legs to show them his scar.  This is impressive, especially after they hear that he walks three miles a day (with conversation breaks, of course) and that he would recommend a knee replacement to “anyone who needs one”.

My brother’s arms and some areas of his chest are decorated with crude tattoos.  By crude, I do not mean vulgar; just extremely poor art work, done by friends when he was very young, and the artist were too.  He was a natural guinea pig for anyone wishing to practice their craft, and willingly allowed them to work on him with their very basic, and no doubt, unsanitary, tools.  He will forever sport the name “Cindy”, and when you ask you will learn that she was just a friend, not a sweetheart.  Now he is embarrassed about his tattoos, and says he would have them removed if it didn’t cost so much.  Somehow, they seem appropriate for him, and are a statement of the life he lived in the past, as an emotionally needy little boy who would do almost anything to please.

In addition to tattoo’s, his body, and especially his hands, is scared from burns he received in a home fire as a five year old.  Almost a year of his young life was spent in a Shriner’s Hospital in Kentucky, undergoing skin grafts and therapy to learn to use those badly burned hands, and learn to he did!  He spent most of his life doing all sorts of hard manual labor, and takes pride in the fact that he paid taxes and earned his own way.  Instead of being welcomed into a loving environment upon release from that hospital, he came home to a different place to live in Kentucky, not Tennessee where he had lived all his life before the fire happened.  He came home to an absent father, two sisters and a brother.  They died from the fire.  He came home to a Mother, a sister, and a brother he knew, but also to a new stepfather, whom he had never met.  He came home to deprivation of many basic needs, including food and perhaps most important, kindness and loving care.  He was severely punished for wetting the bed, or anything else the wicked stepfather could think of that in his evil mind warranted “correction”.  Nothing was as it had been before, and everything was very bad.  Eventually, at the age of eight, he was catapulted into the previously unknown nightmare of the foster care system, which in many ways, for him, was as bad as or worse than his home life had been.  It comes up, every now and then, in his various conversations, mainly to explain why he thinks he never learned to read or write.  From the age of eight until fourteen, he was in numerous places; some were farms where work took preference over education.  One was The Kentucky Boy’s Home, near Kentucky Lake, which was apparently a place right out of Oliver Twist.   At any rate, he did not learn to read or write, and shows absolutely no interest in doing so now, maybe because he figures he has managed without knowing how, or perhaps, fears he could not.    He tells us the teachers, when he did go to school, would put him in the back of the room and give him a sheet of paper with arithmetic on it and otherwise ignored him.  He learned to add and subtract, but never to read. He also admits to “playing hookey” a lot before he was taken to the foster home. Of course, reason dictates there were probably many factors that contributed to his illiteracy; the emotional turmoil of the fire, physical separation from his family, with no visits for almost a year, abuse, hunger, neglect, lack of any encouragement or assistance from teachers, no role models to pattern after, plus frequent relocations to different school settings and maybe also, some brain damage from the effects of the fire itself.

After he was dismissed from the Foster care system at the age of fourteen, he returned home to his stepfather and mother.  Life was still not pleasant there, so he didn’t tarry long.  He lived for a while with Aunt Pearl and Uncle “Dobbie”, and helped them buy groceries with money he earned.  In general, he was here and there at different places for years.  His first formal job was in a laundry in Paducah, Kentucky, at the age of sixteen, where he earned very little and worked very hard in an unbearably hot environment.   He quit that job at eighteen because he had worked for two years at the same low pay, without a raise, and they hired someone to do the same job at a higher salary.  Rightfully, that made him mad!  After that, he went to work as a deck hand for a riverboat company.  My brother was on the boat for weeks at a time, and then would have a couple of weeks off.  Other than the boat, he had no true sense of “home”, which explains why he often volunteered to work extra shifts.  One year he put in 306 working days. He worked in that capacity for about forty-one years, off and on, and suffered a crushed knee and almost total blindness in his right eye due to injuries.  He loved the work.  After all, he got room and board, got to travel up and down the mighty Mississippi, and had some money in his pockets.  He felt important and useful.   It became the nearest thing to home that he had. As he aged and begin to suffer from arthritis and could no longer safely do the dock work, he was put to work in the kitchen as a helper. Eventually he took over the duties as cook.  I asked how he learned to cook, since he could not read recipes.  He explained that he “watched” the cook, and that he didn’t cook anything “fancy”.  He is proud of his biscuits, chili, and huge cardiac breakfasts of fried potatoes, eggs, bacon, and gravy.  As he tells it, he could do a mean BBQ and fried catfish meal too, and the guys often requested his beans and corn bread. One Captain from Louisiana even asked him to make Red Beans and Rice on Mondays, and taught him how to do it. He is as proud of his culinary abilities as he is of his history as a “deck engineer” and stint as mate.   He married twice, in those early years, with each marriage lasting about one year.  Of course, while he was rarely at home, his paycheck went to the wife. They apparently liked it that way, steady check and absent husband.  I think in both cases the marriage dissolved when he returned unexpectedly and discovered the wife had a new love interest.  In one case, he found her in bed with his best friend!

When he had money, he was an easy target for “loans” which were never paid back, and for purchases of this or that, including cars, for half-brothers, friends, or just acquaintances that, monetarily, showed him some attention, and indicated a need.  There was a settlement for the eye injury, a large portion of which went to lawyers, but the lawyer assisted him in investing most of his share, so he would draw interest on it.  Of course, everyone knew about his new “wealth” and it was during this time that he made extravagant purchases and loans to family and friends. Before long, a “friend” suggested he go into business with him.  As I understand it, the business was sort of a flea market and used car establishment.  The “partner” convinced my brother to withdraw his money and put it into a safe deposit box on the premise, so it would be readily available for use in the business.  My brother said he faithfully went to work there, arriving early and staying late, and that the other guy would come in when he wanted to or not at all on some days.  One day, my brother went to the safe deposit box and looked in to find it empty, and when he complained, the partner fired him.  He went to see the lawyer about the situation, but it was pointed out to him that there had been no legal documents, or any sort of proof of partnership, so there was no way to have recourse.  That was the end of the business venture AND his money.  It was back to work as a dockhand, this time with a different company, a half-blind eye, and as a penniless person again, but unfortunately, not any less trusting than before.

My brother developed a love of alcohol, when he had money to buy it.  A lot of his time off duty from the boat was spent in bars, where he would treat his friends to free drinks, and of course, he had many as long as the money lasted.  He tells us he never drank on the job; that they were not allowed to bring it on the boat, but that eventually his drinking got so bad he would have a shot of whiskey before he had a cup of coffee in the morning.  It is not at all uncommon for some wounded souls to mask emotional pain and suffering with drugs or alcohol.  Of course, while alcohol IS a drug, he does not see it that way, and hastens to point out that “I never did drugs though”.   Apparently, he got to the point where he would be totally under the influence from the day he got off the boat until the day he went back on.  Most of his income went to support the alcohol and the cigarettes he was addicted to, and buying friendships.  That changed when he was fifty.  At that time, he met and married a woman who was truly old enough to be his mother.  I have always felt he was looking for the love of a mother.  Geneva had been married three times before, each husband dying of this or that, and she had grown children, one older than my brother.  She pursued him, they both said, and they married a few months after meeting.  As his story goes, she told him she had two husbands who had been heavy drinkers, and that she wished he would not drink.  There was a carton of beer in the refrigerator at the time of that conversation.  He said he took it next door and gave it to the neighbor, and that he never drank again.  He had about five years with Geneva before she died from congestive heart failure.

My brother, Robert Thomas, better known to most family and friends as “Tommy” or “Towboat Tommy to some has lived a unique, difficult and challenging life.  He has many health problems, including, type two diabetes, hemochromotosis, osteoarthritis and now, prostate cancer.  Often he does not feel well, but he never complains.  He is unsophisticated and speaks a language almost foreign in this St. Louis area, with his poor grammar, very strong Southern accent and unique mispronunciation of most words.  He has almost nothing in common with our friends and acquaintances. He can test my patience at time, since I have less of it than Tom does.  This can happen with his incessant talking, which starts early in the morning, when I don’t do well with even a “hello”, much less a long monologue or conversation, and lasts until his “good night folks”, in the evening when he retires to his room at about 6:30, to watch his favorite TV shows, which are not ours.   He is known to interrupt a conversation you might have with someone else, much as a child will do before being taught otherwise.  He can irritate me to no end when he insists on talking to one of us during a TV show we are watching and interested in, and I have to increase the volume, gradually, until he gets the idea I want to hear it, or when he talks back at the commercials. Thankfully, he has finally learned not to talk when we are reading a book or Tom has his eyes closed in a catnap.  It is often hard to show the appropriate degree of enthusiasm or interest over stores you have already heard so many times before,  which are repeated over and over, in the same way, often preceded by “I ain’t lying”,  and accompanied by the same body language to make a point.  He seems to crave attention, understandable, since he had so little positive attention when he was young.

Our lives have changed a great deal with his arrival, with more responsibilities and less freedom; nevertheless, it has also been enriched in many ways too.   I am grateful for the opportunity to have this time with my brother, and to get to know him better, and to learn some important life lessons from him.  With his sweet nature, trusting spirit, and lack of bitterness in spite of all that has happened to him, he has taught me a lot about the importance of forgiveness.   His arrival in our home has made me even more aware of the special man I married.  Someday soon, I need to write about my Tom, and what a remarkable person he is to have willingly accepted my brother into our family, and for being such a good companion, friend, and teacher to him.   They are a pair of “buddies”, and actually, that is what my brother calls Tom, “Old Buddy”.  He treats him with such understanding and respect.  Although it is not possible to have an in-depth intellectual discussion on politics, social events, movies, a good book, or even a TV show, he never “talks down” to him.  He interacts at his level and at the same time manages to show him how to do new things, or points out a different perspective on a topic without being obvious in his doing so. His excellent qualities as a teacher surface in his patience and with his “show and tell, and then you try”, approach to the use of a new shop tool or any task that is unfamiliar to my brother.  I watched them cane some chairs this past winter, and while my brother’s stiff fingers did not have the necessary dexterity required for the actual weaving, he was a constant “assistant”, cutting, wetting, and handing Tom each of the strips of caning material that was used.   My brother did the sanding and refinishing of those chairs, so both took pride in their accomplishments. I admire his desire to “help” Tom, and he truly does help him, mow, trim the yard, work in the garden, wash the truck or car, tinker in the basement shop, etc. This guy loves to organize and Tom’s shop and the garage greatly benefited from his skill and efforts.  His room is never disordered nor his bed left unmade, and God forbid, should I drink a soda and, briefly leave the room with the empty can on the end table, but what he pops up and takes it to the recycle bin.     There are many things that I admire about Tommy.

I admire and appreciate  his politeness each time he thanks me for ordering his medicine,  putting it into the daily pill box, washing his clothes, keeping  track of his doctor appointments or taking him to the doctor – anything that I do for him!   He is very appreciative and gracious.   He NEVER gets up from the table without thanking me for preparing whatever it was that I made for us to eat, and ALWAYS tells me “how good it  is”.  Of course, he loses some credibility as a food critic by never pointing out anything negative, and liking everything, no matter how bad it is.

I admire my brother’s will power and determination, against all odds.  He is not a quitter, no matter how difficult the task and when he makes his mind up to do something, he will do it.   Just as he quit drinking “cold turkey” when he married Geneva, he also gave up smoking the same way when he came to live with us.  He had smoked since he was a little boy and could manage to get a cigarette, but quit all at once with what seemed the greatest of ease, when we told him that when he came to live with us he would need to smoke outside.  We offered to stop at a rest stop on the way from Paducah to St. Louis, so he could have a smoke, but he announced that he had left his cigarettes in Paducah and that he was not going to smoke again.  I offered to get the anti-smoking patch for him, but he said he thought he could do it if I would just get him some sugar-free candy or gum.  By George, he did, and his temperament never got testy or ugly in any way, as I have been told is the case with other smokers who tried to quit! I admire his love for our daughter and her family, and the pride he takes in being able to be a part of family gatherings and celebrations with us.

In Conclusion, this special person, my brother, continues to teach us many things.  To be more patient, to be thankful to God for the blessings and opportunities we have had that he did not have, and to take time to appreciate the simple pleasures of life.   This he does in many simple ways. He has the immediate neighbors wrapped around his fingers, as he joyfully volunteers to trim the grass for one and sharpens the lawn mower for the other, and of course, refuses any pay for his efforts.    He eagerly approaches each day with the expectation of finding something useful to do. He takes pleasure in little things, like bringing in a tomato that has ripened in the garden, watching his “birdies” or our occasional trips to Ted Drew’s Custard or going to an outdoor concert.   He loves to watch our granddaughters play basketball, volleyball or softball, take excursions to Lowe’s Hardware Store with Tom or to the grocery store to buy the weekly lottery ticket. His favorite shopping place is Goodwill, where he has purchased nicer clothes than he ever owned before. He loves to dress up on Sundays, to go to church, and he is beside himself with joy when folks there speak to him and shake his hand. If someone should mention that he “sure looks nice”, his face breaks out in a huge grin and he beams with pleasure.  He treasures hello and goodbye hugs from Jessica, Jenna and Alison, or anyone for that matter, and calls the girls, “My Little Angels”.  He started doing that when he first arrived here, mainly because he could not remember their names, I believe, but it has continued.   He  appreciates the shake of a hand or the pat on his back from Gary and his father, or anyone else he meets, and later he and tells us about it.  He loves to watch wrestling on the TV in his room, filled with family pictures that he tells us he says “hello” to in the morning and “goodnight” to before he goes to sleep.  His most prized material possession is a Case pocketknife, which he will quickly whip out and offer for use with almost any job at hand, including cutting off a hospital identification band.  He loves to eat cabbage, corn bread and beans, among many other very common, simple things.  He is sweet, special and charming in his own unique way.  He is such a good man, and he is my brother, and I love him!

Marie Chaney

August 21, 2009

SLOP!

Yes!  My Grandma’s slop bucket is what this reminds me of.  All summer I have been “composting” kitchen waste. My powerful Vita Mix Food Processor,  formerly seldom-used, now sits out on the counter all the time, and into it goes the peelings, trimmings, corn husks (cut into smaller pieces with kitchen scissors), onion skins, herb trimmings, coffee and tea grounds, peach seeds, and even used paper towels. I pour in some water and chop it all up, so it will decompose faster. Each time I process a batch I pour it into a covered plastic container that holds about three or four gallons.  It sits on the deck outside the kitchen door, until Tom makes a daily run out the spot behind our garden, where he dumps grass clippings, leaves, and other such yard waste over it.  It is turned frequently and slowly but surely, decomposes and turns into a rich, dark mixture that is supposed to be great for gardening. It is astonishing how much we have accumulated this summer.  There is absolutely no odor, and pests have not bothered to get into the compost.  As I recall, Mamaw used to throw all kitchen “garbage” into a large bucket that sat in the kitchen.  Even dishwater, I believe, was dumped into it.  That mixture was called “slop” and fed to the pigs. I hope this rich compost, which is lessening the disposable waste and therefore supposed to be an environmentally friendly thing to do, will grow some great plants next spring and summer, to feed the human pigs of our family.