BE GOOD FOR GOODNESS SAKES!

When I was about 7 or 8 years old, there was a very special doll that I wanted for Christmas.  Mama told me that if I wanted that particular doll, I would have to climb up on Santa’s knee and tell him.  But you see there was the problem with that song, “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” and the words that sent chills down my little spine. 

“…He knows when you are sleeping.  He knows when you’re awake.  He knows if you been bad or good, so be GOOD for goodness sakes…” 

I thought about all those times I didn’t do what my Mama said, along with the remembered pain from those subsequent hickory-switches to the back of my legs.  I was NOT always good, for goodness sakes!

In the weeks leading up to Christmas, I tried to behave.  I really did.  But you see, I always got into my fair share of trouble and this holiday season was no different.  Trying to stay out of trouble for so many days in row seemed an impossible feat.  I thought that Christmas would never arrive, seeing as how the earth traveled around the sun so much slower back then. 

Finally Christmas Eve arrived.  I carefully arranged cookies for Santa on a plate and placed it under the tree with a glass of milk.  I reasoned that perhaps the cookies would be so delicious that Santa would forget how I had hit my little brother the week before.  And if he did see me misbehaving, maybe he would know that my little brother deserved that whack.  Or maybe not.  I put two extra cookies on the plate for good measure.

Christmas morning arrived.  My brother and I weren’t allowed to go into the living room until we woke up our parents.  They were always bleary-eyed and sleepy as we stood by their bed, hopping up and down.  “Get up!  Get up!” we pleaded in unison.  “We want to see what Santa brought us!”

To this day, I still vividly remember the excitement and wonder as we stood in the doorway of the living room.  The lights and tinsel twinkled magically from the tree, casting a beautiful glow on the toys that were underneath it.  For a few seconds we were rooted to that spot in the doorway, staring in awe.  Then the excitement won out and we pounced!

There she was!  My special doll was there!  I fumbled for the wooden knob on her back.  I turned it and she began to move slowly as I cuddled her in the crook of my arm.  Oh, how I loved her from that moment on!  My very own Tiny Thumbelina!  Santa had brought me the best doll a little girl could ever receive!

A few months later at the end of a 1960s summer day, I forgot and left my Tiny Thumbelina lying in our yard overnight.  The next morning I rushed out to where I knew I had left her and she was gone.  It was a hard lesson learned that I needed to take care of my possessions.  I mourned Thumbelina's loss for a long, long time. 

Years later I once mentioned to my husband that of all the dolls I had ever received, the one I wished I still had was Tiny Thumbelina.  Several years ago, he gave me the gift of an authentic, still working 1960s Tiny Thumbelina doll in an original box.  Thank you, Monty (and eBay!)

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas. Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party


* * * * *

The Day We Drove Our Mama Over the Edge

It was a day that now lives in infamy – well, at least in our family.  Although we often laugh about what happened on that hot summer day, at the time the only ones who saw the humor in it was me and my little brother, Garry.  And that was only for a split second just before Mama told us to wipe those smiles off our faces.

Garry and I had been out of school for over two months.  It was back in the 1960s when school ended no later than the first day or two of June and it would be the day after Labor Day in September before we were back in school again.  Although she never said so, I now know that my dear stay-at-home Mama had always looked forward to Labor Day.  And not because we would have a cookout in the backyard with the neighbors and make homemade ice cream and split watermelons.  After three months of being at home - day-in and day-out - with me and my brother, my poor mama was more than ready for school to begin.

Garry and I spent our early childhood years participating in a lot of arguments and slap fights.  Once Garry realized he could get under my skin (stupid of me to let it show), then he would deliberately provoke me.  And if I’m going to be honest, I liked to pick on him simply because I was older and bigger. 

 “Mama, she hit me.”  “Did not.”  “Did, too.”  “Maaaama, make her stop hitting me.”  Smack.  Slap.  “Owwww!  Maaaaaama!!”

“You are so ugly.”  “Am not.”  “Are, too.”  “You stink like a skunk.”  “Do not!”  “Do, too.”  Slap.  Smack.  “Owww!”  “Maaama!”  “Owwww!”   Slap.  Slap.  Smack.  Smack.  “Maaaama!” 

We deliberately pushed boundaries to see how much we could get away with and just for the pleasure of annoying each other.  Our parents would only put up with so much so we both had our fair share of hickory switches to the back of the legs, spankings on the bottom, and stern reprimands.

But something was different on this particular August day.  Who knows why we were confined to the house.  It may have been raining or it could have been simply too hot outside.  In those days the temperatures frequently tipped over the 100-degree mark.  Regardless, I’m sure our poor Mama was feeling haggard from the rising heat and humidity.  And Garry and I weren’t  helping things with our constant bickering. 

As Mama tells it, we had been fussin’ and fightin’ all day.  She had already refereed several arguments and slap fights.  I remember that Mama was off in the other room when Garry and I got into it over something.  Again.  It quickly escalated into a slap fight and finally one of us ended up hurt and started whining.  “Maaaama!”

It was the wrong thing to do.  When our mama came into the living room, she looked like a wild woman.  Well, not really, but that’s how it seemed to us at the time.  When she spoke, she enunciated each word as if it were a sentence of its own.  “I.  am.  sick.  of.  this!  You kids are driving me crazy!  You want fight?  Do you?  Do you?” 

We didn’t answer, both of us looking at her like deer in the headlights.  Since it was a rhetorical question and we knew better than to say a word, Mama spat out the words, “Well, fine!  You got it!”

The heat of our argument vanished immediately.  What was Mama doing?  We looked briefly at each other, but didn’t say anything as our eyes moved back to her.  This was a person we had never seen before, not in our entire short lives.

She picked up toys, opened the door to the screen porch and slung them out there.  And slammed the door.  Hard.  Then she angrily moved the coffee table over against the wall.  The small rug in the middle of the floor was flung over near the front door.  Then she turned her steely blue eyes on us.  Uh-oh.  We had no clue what was going on, but we knew it couldn’t be good.

She grabbed Garry in one hand by his upper arm and then used her other hand to grab my upper arm.  She dragged us a few feet to the center of our now cleared living room.  Then she pushed us together, chest to chest.  All we could do was stare at each other.  What?

“Fight!”  Our heads swiveled in unison toward Mama.  “I said fight!  You two have been fighting all summer and I am sick of it!  You want fight?  Well, fight it out!  Fight now!  Get it out of your system!”  Her voice had reached a high pitch.

Garry and I stared at each other and both started grinning.  This was just too funny.  “Wipe those smiles off  your faces right now!”  In a split second we did as we were told.  She ranted on, “I. Said. I. Want. You. To. Fight!  Fight it out now and then I don’t want to hear another one out of either of you again!”

We just stared at each other.  All we could think is who was this woman?  When Mama realized we weren’t going to fight, it was like all the heat deflated out of her.  Wordlessly she put the rug and furniture back in its place and stalked out of the room.

Garry and I sat down on the sofa next to each other and grinned.  Then we started whispering to each, bonding over the fact that Mama had obviously lost her mind.  There were no more fights that day.  Nor any until school started back that September (or at least none that we let Mama hear).  By creating a boxing ring in our living room that summer day, our Mama had accomplished in a matter of minutes what hickory switches had failed to do that entire summer. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party

* * * * *

From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars

Who doesn’t love peanut butter?  I would venture to say that the majority of baby boomers can’t remember a childhood without peanut butter.  Smooth or crunchy?   Smooth has always gotten my vote.  Whenever I bite into a peanut butter and grape jelly sandwich, it almost always will transport me back to my childhood.

When I was a little girl, Peter Pan was the peanut butter of choice in our house.  My earliest memory of peanut butter is walking through the A&P grocery store along side my Mama, who was pushing the grocery cart with my younger brother, Garry, seated facing her with his chubby little legs dangling.  He was about three years old at the time and my Mama was always looking for something that he might like to eat.  You see, long after most toddlers had left behind their baby food jars, my three-year-old brother still loved his baby food and that’s basically all she could get him to eat.  Sorry to “out” you on this one, Garry, but the truth will always come out.  What else are big sisters for?

The only other thing Garry really liked to eat was pieces of loaf bread dunked into a glass of milk.  Since he seemed to like it so much, I decided to give it a try.  Once.  Ugh.  Soggy bread is not my idea of a feast.  But my little brother sure loved it!  Mama often fretted that if she could not find something he would eat, when he started school she would be putting slices of loaf bread and baby food jars in his lunch box. 

On this particular trip to the A&P my Mama spied something on the grocery shelf.  She picked up a jar of Peter Pan and held it out toward Garry.  “Do you want to try some peanut butter, son?”  He gave a quick negative shake of his head.  Mama opened the jar right there in the aisle of the grocery store and dipped her finger in it.  She held out the small dollop of peanut butter toward Garry.  He put his hand over his mouth, shook his head vigorously and firmly said, “No!”

Mama licked the peanut butter off her finger and held the jar toward me.  I dipped my finger in the jar to scoop out some peanut butter for myself.  As we licked our fingers clean, Mama and I made those “Mmmmmm, good” noises.  Garry looked at us warily from his perch in the grocery cart.  “It is soooo good,” I said as I tried to coax him into trying it.  “It tastes like candy,” I said.  Any other time my Mama would have scolded me for telling an outright lie but she must have been desperate to find anything her baby boy would like to eat besides baby food.  But then she had never before opened a jar in the middle of the A&P and started eating before she paid for it!  Desperate times call for desperate measures.

You could see that Garry was considering what I had said because he moved his hand away from his mouth and eyed the peanut butter jar with interest.  I dipped another finger in the peanut butter and held it toward him.  He backed his head away but didn’t cover his mouth this time.  He was undecided about this brown stuff on our fingers because it didn’t look like any candy he had ever seen.

Mama and I both licked a couple more dollops off our fingers, telling him how delicious that “peanut butter candy” was to eat.  Then I offered Garry another small dollop of peanut butter and this time he cautiously licked some of it off.  He didn’t spit it out and we could tell he was testing it on his palate.  We waited anxiously for the verdict.

“More,” he said.  Mama handed Garry the whole jar.  Thus began my brother’s life-long love affair with peanut butter.  Since he already liked loaf bread, getting him to eat it on a sandwich was not difficult.   Mama started weaning him off his baby food habit but still worried that his main diet consisted mostly of peanut butter, bread, and milk.  He did finally start eating regular food but only narrowly before he started first grade.  I am not sure, but I think I may have shamed him into it with my constant mockery of his baby-food habit. 

My Mama still keeps a big jar of peanut butter on her kitchen counter.  When Garry comes over to her house, he will pour a big glass of milk and chow down on a plain peanut butter sandwich.  I’m still not sure if he knows it is not candy.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party

A Three-Year, Three-Hour Tour

It was just supposed to be a three-hour tour.  Yet Ginger, the movie star, brought along enough evening gowns to stock the racks of a Saks Fifth Avenue.  The Howells - Thurston and Lovey – also brought so much stuff that it should have sunk the Minnow before she even left port!  The comedy, Gilligan’s Island, premiered in 1964 and had a 3-year run in prime time and then an incredible 40+ year stint of intermittent reruns. 

As a kid I can remember singing along with the theme song to the show.  That was then.  Now I am fully aware that I can’t carry a tune in a bucket without spilling it.  I’ve never been one to sing in the shower because you never know who might be lurking and listening near the door.  But when I’m alone in the car, I sing my little heart out.  During that private time I’m telling Barbra Streisand to eat her heart out as I belt out my own rendition of The Gilligan’s Island theme song:

“Just sit right back and you'll hear a tale * A tale of a fateful trip * That started from this tropic port * Aboard this tiny ship. * The mate was a mighty sailing man * The skipper brave and sure * Five passengers set sail that day * For a three hour tour, a three hour tour.

The weather started getting rough * The tiny ship was tossed * If not for the courage of the fearless crew * The Minnow would be lost * the Minnow would be lost * The ship set ground on the shore of this uncharted desert isle * With Gilligan * the Skipper too * the millionaire and his wife * the movie star * The Professor and Mary Ann * Here on Gilligan’s Isle ”

As a kid in the 60’s this was one of my favorite shows.  I loved each and every one of those seven eccentric characters but if I had to pick a favorite, then it would be the Professor.  When he wasn’t chasing butterflies and identifying flora and fauna, he was building contraptions using only the materials at hand – things like parts from the boat, coconuts, and bamboo.  Indeed, the Professor was the original MacGyver, minus the pocket knife.

The Professor once built a pedal-operated power saw using Mrs. Howell’s diamond necklace as a blade. He also made a stethoscope out of bamboo, a bamboo foot-pedal-powered car, a pedal-powered dentist’s drill, and even rigged up a lie detector machine using the ship’s horn, radio batteries, and some of that handy-dandy bamboo.  The only thing the poor guy couldn’t figure out how to do was fix that hole in USS Minnow.

Years later I ended up marrying my very own Professor/MacGyver kind of guy.  The Monty-Man once found an aluminum boat on the side of the road with a hole in it.  Unlike the Professor, my guy patched that hole, called it a yacht, took me out on the lake on a moon-less night and introduced me to a little sport called frog-giggin’.  That’s how a country boy romances a city girl.

My Monty-Man can make some of the most incredible things with junked parts, a welder, some solder, and country-boy ingenuity.  When I saw what he made using a train rail, a bulldozer cylinder, a Snapper lawnmower engine, and a road scrape blade, well folks, I knew I had found my very own Professor!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party

Pull, Move, Shove Your Sofa!

It seems that there is more to February, our shortest month of the year, than just little winged cuties indiscriminately shooting arrows at unsuspecting victims.  February is also Pull Your Sofa Off the Wall month.  You have never heard of that before?  Me either.  So I turned to internet research to make sure I understood exactly what Pull Your Sofa Off the Wall was all about.  The first thing I found out is that it would have been more appropriately titled, “Move Your Sofa Away from the Wall”.  

This is the month to take a contemplative look at your living or family room – any room that has a sofa or couch.  So as not to discriminate, I’m fairly certain that love seats, settees, davenports, daybeds and futons also qualify.  Apparently, you need to move your sofa away from the wall to see if there is a better furniture arrangement.  According to several blogs dedicated to this subject, it is also the time to give the room a good cleaning.  Apparently there is no need to wait for spring cleaning.  Who knew?  I certainly didn’t.

I am reminded of the house that I grew up in, the house that my Mama still lives in.  When we moved there, Mama found a living room arrangement she liked.  One she really, really liked.  Although I was barely 7 years old when we moved, I have no trouble remembering the configuration of our living room.  That’s because until last year my Mama never changed it.  That’s right.  For the next 41 years our living room stayed basically the same.  Mama never heard about Pull Your Sofa Off the Wall month either.

Unlike my Mama, I simply love moving furniture around.  It is something that I do often and not just in February.  Many years ago my hubby-then-boyfriend shared a tip on moving furniture – probably so he wouldn’t have to help every time the whim hit me to rearrange the room.  He showed me how to put the legs of furniture on towels or a blanket so that the piece would slide easily around the room without scratching the floor.  Using his little trick I can easily rearrange an entire room all by myself.

As a general rule I have found that most men hate this sort of thing.  My son-in-law will crawl into his bed and pull the covers over his head if he finds out that my daughter and I are planning to rearrange their living room furniture.  To say he hates it, well, that is putting it mildly.  Over the years I have also heard stories of men landing on their butts in the middle of the floor because they didn’t realize that their wife had moved the recliner.  Men don’t understand because unless they are tripping over a table every time they step through the door, everything looks perfectly fine just the way it is.

When I found out that February was Pull Your Sofa Off the Wall month, I confess that my imagination went a little wild.  Pull your sofa off the wall?  All I could think was that I never knew there were people who had sofas hanging from their walls.  No, my hair is not blonde.  I am a brunette-turned-gray gal who has quite the daffy imagination. 

So briefly I had visions of sofas suspended on living room walls.  Which brought to question what would be the appropriate height?  Just enough to dangle your feet?  Or much higher for thrills?  But how would you climb up and down?  Sofa step-stools?  Or rolling sofa ladders similar to library ladders?  Eventually my sensible side dashed that entire line of thought.  In all seriousness, sofas on the wall would require a major support system inside the wall.  Then there is the quandary of where to find custom-made sofa brackets.  It’s totally impractical.

It is getting a little off the wall, so enough of that!  Excuse me, but I really must move along.  I need to move my sofa.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party

How I Met Pollyanna Whittier

I’ll never forget the day in 1961 when I met Pollyanna Whittier.  It was when my Mama took me on my first visit to a public library.  I was doubly excited to be going on this outing with Mama because it was just us girls.

Carnegie Library (Photography by Patricia Montgomery)

Hand-in-hand we climbed the stairs of the imposing Andrew Carnegie Library on Broad Street in downtown Rome, Georgia.  As our shoes clicked across the wooden floor, I was in awe of the high ceilings and the rows and rows of books.  I had never seen so many books.  I was sure it was at least a million, maybe two million books.  At least!

The next thing that assailed my senses was the wonderful smell of books rubbing against each other on library shelves.  To this day I still love the distinct smells of libraries and book stores.

Mama had already instructed me that we must be quiet in the library and speak only in whispers so as not to disturb the people who were there to study.  Yet the silence of the library was so loud that it seemed to be all I could hear.  It was a quietness so big that I knew this was a very special place.

Mama marched us over to the card catalog files where she pulled out long, narrow wooden drawers until she found the card she was looking for.  Then she took my hand and we started down one aisle of books and then up another.  I craned my neck upward and the shelves of books seemed to reach the ceiling.  I thought that it must be 100 feet high.  At least!

Then we slowed down on the next aisle as she ran her finger along the spines.  My Mama was on a mission to find a certain book.  I followed along and trailed my hands along the books, too.  Then she found the book, pulled it out, and led me over to a nearby vacant table. 

Then in very low tones, she told me the story of how this was the first book she ever checked out from a library back when she was a little girl my same age.  How the story in this book had been the beginning of her life-long love of reading.  She told me how she loved this story so much that she went back to the library and eventually checked out every other book in the series until she had read all of them.  Even at eight years old, I recognized how earnestly my Mama wanted me to like this book. 

When we were done, we walked hand-in-hand out the door of the library.  Outside on the porch, as we stood between the four imposing columns, my Mama handed me my new library card along with the book she had selected.  “I can’t wait for you to meet “Pollyanna”, she said.   The book was so old and worn that the binding had black tape to hold it together.  On the cover of the book was “Pollyanna, The First Glad Book, by Eleanor Porter”.

Like my mother I, too, adored Pollyanna Whittier.  I loved her sunny disposition in spite of her unfortunate circumstances.  I loved the way she found things to be glad about even in her darkest hours.  Like my Mama, I also eventually read all of the other books in the series.  Meeting Pollyanna was the beginning of my own life-long love of reading and love of book stores and libraries.

After I became an adult, my Mama finally shared stories of what her own childhood had been like.  And it was not always a happy story.  In learning my Mama’s unfortunate circumstances as the child of a poor sharecropper, I realized that the Pollyanna books had been a haven for her.  For when she read Pollyanna’s adventures, she was able to escape for a little while to a world that was a brighter place.

On that day my Mama had taught me that the best gift you can give a child is to open up the whole world to them in the pages of a book.

Epilogue:  One day in the late 1990’s Pollyanna came up in a conversation with Mama.  And once again she reminisced about how much she loved those books when she was a child.  So began my mission to find those books.  It took several months, but eventually I found all 14 books in the series on eBay and it was just in time to give them to her for Christmas.

The Pollyanna Series

Porter, Eleanor H.

Pollyanna: The First Glad Book

Pollyanna Grows Up: The Second Glad Book

Smith, Harriet Lummis

Pollyanna of the Orange Blossoms: The Third Glad Book

Pollyanna's Jewels: The Fourth Glad Book

Pollyanna's Debt of Honor: The Fifth Glad Book

Pollyanna's Western Adventure: The Sixth Glad Book

Borton, Elizabeth

Pollyanna in Hollywood: The Seventh Glad Book

Pollyanna's Castle in Mexico: The Eighth Glad Book

Pollyanna's Door to Happiness: The Ninth Glad Book

Pollyanna's Golden Horseshoe: The Tenth Glad Book

Pollyanna and the Secret Mission: The Fourteenth Glad Book [written out of sequence]

Chalmers, Margaret Piper

Pollyanna's Protegee: The Eleventh Glad Book

Moffitt, Virginia May

Pollyanna at Six Star Ranch: The Twelfth Glad Book

Pollyanna of Magic Valley: The Thirteenth Glad Book

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’ve also been reminiscing, pondering, and musing on these topics:

One my early dates with the hubby
My first lesson on biscuit making

The lost art of letter writing
Cups for hot mochas.Say Good Night Gracie.
My first visit to the library with my Mama
Driving Mama over the Edge
It’s a Little Off the Wall
Crushing on The Professor
The Avocado Tree
From Baby Food Jars to Peanut Butter Jars
Christmas Memories
Theory of Pancake Relativity
The Pajama Party