A Tribute to My Friend, Debby Brown

These are the words I spoke in honor of my friend, Debby Brown, at her graveside services on Friday, May 24, 2013.  

Deborah Mae “Debby” Ezelle Brown

“A faithful friend is the medicine of life.”

August 30, 1952 – May 21, 2013

I was blessed to be friends with Debby for more than 46 years.  I wanted to share just a bit about mine and Debby’s teenage years.  I only wish she were here instead of me to tell the story of our youth.  We all know that she would have had us smiling and laughing in no time at all. 

As a teenager, my life was tightly interwoven with not only with Debby but also Janiece Duke Kelley.  In those days, where you saw one of us, you saw the three of us.  We even named ourselves “The Three Musketeers” because at that age we were beginning to spread our wings and everything seemed such a grand adventure. 

Janiece Duke Kelley

When God put the three of us together as friends, he hit on a perfect combination.  Janiece was the cute but spoiled only child, I was the shy no-nonsense one, and Debby was the witty yet mature one.  Janiece and I were the ones most prone to trouble and Debby was the one who kept the two of us grounded.  As a teenager Debby was wise beyond her years, and she scolded both me and Janiece when she felt we needed it.  And we both needed it more times than either of us care to admit.  Deb also knew right where our guilt buttons were located and she didn’t hesitate to push.  I will always be eternally grateful to Debby for being my teenage conscience.

Me
Patricia "Pat" Branton Montgomery

Back in the late 1960s and early 70s the three of us were “cruisers” and our mode of transportation ranged from Janiece’s parent’s 1967 Dodge Coronet to my parent’s 1962 Ford Galaxie and later on Debby’s very cool Ford Mustang.  We must have put forty-11-thousand miles on those three cars, riding around -- going nowhere. 

We would circle the West Rome McDonald’s parking lot, drive slowly through the Krystal parking lot which was the halfway point and then on to the East Rome McDonald’s.  Then we would start the loop again.  We were three happy girl-cruisers in a car, talking about boys, giggling about boys, and daydreaming out loud about boys! 

You might not know this but back in those days Janiece, Debby and I were real “lookers”.  Nooooo, we weren’t vain.  We were lookers -- you know -- looking for boys.  I remember one time we followed this carload of boys all over town in the green Dodge, the three of us in the front seat with Debby in the middle.  When those boys suddenly stopped and tried to flag us down, we just whizzed past them, waving.  

Janiece, the Mario Andretti of her day, sped away with the boys now in hot pursuit of us.  Debby and I held on to each other for dear life as Janiece made turns on two wheels onto one street and then another until we lost them.  More than likely the boys just got tired of the chase. 

Did we know those boys?  Nooooo, we didn’t know them and when they started to chase us, we were all three scared out of our wits!  I think “The Three Musketeers” might have been the only boy-chasing girls around who were afraid they might actually catch a boy!

Around the time we graduated from high school we did finally get brave enough to actually meet some boys.  There was a parking lot on Shorter Avenue where Buffalo's Cafe is located now, and guys would be pulled over there standing outside their cars. 

As we pulled in, Janiece and I would check our faces in the mirror and be "ready to impress".  Then Debby opened her mouth and we knew it was all for naught.  Oh my, how she entertained those boys with conversation and funny stories!  

Janiece and I would look at each other, shrug, and hope for a better outcome for us the next time.  Debby might have told some of you differently, but Janiece and I both know for a fact that she was quite a little charmer where boys were concerned.

It is no surprise that of the three of us, Debby was the one with the king-size personality in a pint-sized body.  Even back then she was full of life, a little whirlwind with beautiful auburn curly hair. 

All and all, though, Janiece, Debby and I were tame for those times.  We never took drugs.  We didn’t smoke.  We didn’t sleep around.  We were probably considered by most as quite boring.  But I don’t think there were three girls anywhere who laughed more or had more fun growing up together. 

Okay, I know some of you are thinking, yeah, but you didn’t mention drinking.  Well, the truth is that we saved alcohol until Janiece turned 18 and she legally bought our first bottle of wine - Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill.  Debby declined to partake as she didn’t see the point when a Coca-Cola tasted just fine.  She tried pushing our guilt buttons on that one but to her dismay, it didn’t work that particular time.

Now I would like to share with you the biggest impact that Debby had on me personally.  I had been raised in church from the age of 2 but by the time I hit my teenage years, like many do at that age, I drifted away from the church.  Debby did not preach but during those years we did have conversations about God, the Bible, and scripture.  And, yes, she did use that guilt button to keep me on the straight and narrow!  And later, as young married adults, we began to attend the same church together.

I believe the Lord specifically used a teenage Debby to help guide my path until that time in my twenties when I accepted the Lord as my Savior.  There is no greater gift that Debby could have given me. 

The heart is truly an amazing organ.  You can fill it until it is bursting with love for others and there is always room for one more person to love.  I believe that Debby had biggest heart in the world.  I am humbled to be counted among her many, many friends, to be the recipient of her art and her stories, and to see her eyes glow with mischief as she wrung those deep belly laughs out of me. Every life that touches another leaves an imprint and the impact Debby made on my life was tremendous and it has rippled forward in so many positive and beautiful ways.

Debby Brown was a Christian, a loving mother to Mollie and Quentin, a big "little" sister to Wayne, a generous friend, a pet whisperer, a lover of old time ways, one who loved the earth and all the beauty of nature, a professional storyteller, a talented artist, a historian of Rome's past, and an expert on the Cherokee Nation. She positively impacted the lives of countless adults and children in this area and we should all strive to be like her. 

I would like to close with this.  The day after she passed away was such a hard day for me.  It was the first day in over 46 years without my sweet friend, Debby, being in this world with me.  My world seemed dimmer, my heart hurt, my tears could not be numbered.  That afternoon I decided to work a bit in my garden and got lost in all my memories of Debby.  When a rain shower popped up, my own tears mingled with the raindrops. 

Then just before dusk the rain stopped, the skies began to clear, and a beautiful rainbow decorated the sky in front of my house.  The Bible says that when there is a rainbow in the sky, God sees it along with us and it is a reminder to Him and to us of His faithful promises. 

I think on that afternoon in heaven God placed a paintbrush once again in Debby’s hand so she could paint that happy rainbow for all of us to see.  Even though there is an empty place in my heart that only Debby can fill, I’m happy that she is in the happiest place of all.

Debby's Rainbow
May 22, 2013
[Click image to see larger]

Brothers & Sisters = Love and Thorns in the Side

Today I am thankful for my only sibling - my baby brother - Garry.  In our mother’s last years we became a team to lovingly care for her until her life on this earth was over on March 5th of this year.  During our childhood and adult years, both Garry and I had seen families (including our own) sometimes splinter and fracture over family funerals and their aftermath.  I am so proud to say that Garry and I stood together - once again as a team - to make it through the difficult task of handling Mama’s funeral and estate without disagreement.  I will be forever thankful to him for that.

New Arrival   I am also thankful that when I think of my childhood, he is there in my memories.  I still remember climbing up on the rail of his baby bed, peering down at that tiny four-day-old baby boy, and wondering to myself what all the fuss was about.  You see when he came home from the hospital, he was responsible for redirecting the path of my little life.  His mission, if he decided to accept it (and he did) was to make sure I did not become a spoiled, only child who was the center of attention of both her parents.  Um, thanks, Garry.  (Wink)

New Baby Brother

Dollies   One summer day when Garry was a cute little two-year-old with a mop of cotton-colored hair, I realized that he was the exact same size as my life-sized doll.  Barricading both of us on our screened-in porch, away from Mama’s ears, I proceeded to force my new live wriggly doll (Garry) into a pretty pink doll’s dress.  It was a perfect fit on a crying baby boy.  Although I tried to hold him down, he eventually ran to Mama for rescue.  To this day, he loves to tell this story and say that it damaged his psyche.  I beg to differ.  I think he would have turned out the way he is no matter what. (Wink, Wink)

Me and my life-size doll

A Thorn in My Side!    On another morning when Garry was about 8 years old, we were standing together in front of an antique dresser mirror.  He had recently become fixated with looking at himself in the mirror.  Being taller I stood behind him, looking over his head as I combed my hair.  He picked up a comb with an impish grin on his face and began slowly running the comb through his blond hair in greatly exaggerated movements.

Out of the blue he said, “I sure am good looking."  Then his blue eyes stared at my brown ones in the mirror as he continued without a beat.  "What happened to you?  Are you sure you aren’t adopted?”  I was so mad that steam must have been coming out my ears.  He just laughed and with even more conviction began to tell me all the reasons that he was sure I was adopted.

A few days later Mama caught me rummaging around in the dresser drawers in her bedroom.  “What are you looking for?” 

“My adoption papers.  I know I am adopted.” 

Mama laughed right out loud and told me I most certainly was NOT adopted.  “It’s okay, Mama.  I know I’m adopted and it is okay.  You can show me the adoption papers.” 

It took me a long time to accept that I was not adopted and Mama wasn’t trying to protect me from the “truth”.  Bummer.  I thought it would be cool to be adopted and also it would explain what Garry had pointed out.

Touche, Baby Brother.  I received my payback for that pink dress.  But you have to admit, you were cute!

Now I must lick my finger and with gusto draw an imaginary check mark in the air for my side.  These days Garry doesn’t have enough hair to run a comb through. 

I love you, Garry B!

Me and my brother

Halloween Reminiscing

As a little girl in the late 50’s and early 60’s I remember wearing a costume with tie strings.  Since the costumes were made of thin, flimsy scraps of material, it had to be tied over my regular clothing so I would be warm on Halloween night.  Today I couldn’t tell you what any of my costumes looked like back then, but I certainly remember that too tight elastic band on the matching mask that would cut into the tender skin above my ears, causing the nose and eye openings to fit painfully tight against my face.  But no matter how uncomfortable, I would not have taken off that mask for anything.  Being normally a shy child, hiding behind that mask emboldened me for a few hours each Halloween night.

We always toted a big brown grocery bag to collect our Halloween candy.  Mama would turn the bag inside out so that the A&P logo would be on the inside.  Then my brother and I would decorate our treat bags with crayons, drawing orange jack-o-lanterns and white-shrouded ghostly figures and then printing our names on both sides of the bag. 

All the parents on the street felt secure about sending the kiddies out as a group on their own to each door on the street.  Since I was the oldest, I was in charge of my little brother and the two younger little girls who lived next door.  When we would meet other groups of children who lived on our street, we would stop to giggle and try to figure out who was who behind the scary masks. 

Our little group of four would eagerly climb the steps to the porch, the youngest two in front and the two oldest in back.  We would knock on the door, waiting expectantly for the adults to come to the screen door.  Then we would yell in unison at the top of our lungs “Trick or Treat!”.  Sometimes the neighbors would tell us how scary we all looked.  Sometimes they insisted they were really just too frightened to open the door.  Then we would reassure them, “It’s us, Mrs. Cantrell!  It’s Pat!  It’s Garry!  It’s Kathy!  It’s Diane!”  Sometimes the adults would ask us which did we prefer, the trick or the treat?  “TREAT!” we would yell, holding our brown bags up even higher!

In those days parents did not worry about sending their children to knock on doors after dark.  Every parent on our street knew all of the neighbors.  All the children on our street knew if we didn’t behave, it might not be our own mother standing at the door scolding us – it could just as well be someone else’s mother.

It was a time when as children we felt safe in our neighborhoods.  It was a time when parents didn’t worry about letting their children play outside long after dark chasing fire flies with mason jars in their hands.  In those days Halloween was just another night to play outside after dark.  It was my time of fearless joy, a time when all seemed right with the world.

The Unmade Bed

Erma Bombeck once said that no one ever died from sleeping in an unmade bed.  That might be true but it brings back memories of my Mama’s stern face as she ordered me to make up my bed each morning.  At the time I always wondered if I did not make up my bed, would I live to see the next unmade bed?

Okay, so that was a bit of an exaggeration.  Still, my Mama was strict and she had her rules and making up the bed was one rule that was not to be broken.  She did put the fear in me.  As a small child it was no problem for me or Mama because I thought that making up my bed seemed like fun.  It made me feel all grown up to be doing something so adult-like.  

Fast forward a few years and I was over that pretty quickly.  By the time I was ten or eleven years old, I no longer saw the point in making up my bed.  I mean, really, in just 12 more hours or so I would be crawling back in the bed and messing it up again.  What was the point?   Mama’s stance was more or less, don’t ask stupid questions.  Just make up your bed.  End of discussion. 

I did try to reason with Mama.  But there was no reasoning with that woman about an unmade bed.  It simply didn’t happen in our house.  No way.  No how.  So I made up my bed every single day while I lived under Mama’s roof.  And that was that.

When I married at 21, oh, the freedom I felt!  Just to spite my Mama, I did not make up my bed.  I was the master of my domain now and the same old reasoning still made sense: why make up a bed in the morning that I would just be crawling right back into that night.  Boy, it felt good to get back at her.  Of course, she never knew that because I never told her.  And if I knew she was coming over to my house, I rushed to make up my bed before she got there.  The fear of Mama was alive and well.

I don’t know exactly when I started making up my bed every morning.  I do remember that one day I realized that even if the rest of the bedroom was not as spotless as it should be, simply making up the bed would transform the room into some semblance of order.  So the habit began and I turned into my Mama.

To this day If I’m running late and don’t have time to make up the bed, it will be the first thing I do when I get back home even if it’s bedtime.  I know it won’t kill me, but I really cannot stand to crawl into an unmade bed.

Shot Through the Heart (by Cupid’s Arrow)

The day of the year when Cupid and his arrows-of-love will reign supreme is due to arrive on February 14^th.  For weeks now every store has had displays of candy and cards and balloons and cuddly animals holding stuffed hearts with messages of love on them.  No one could possibly miss the fact that the official day of love is at hand!

      I am reminded of those Valentine’s days in my other life - that long ago time when I was married for the first time at a too-young age to a boy who was so wrong for me on so many levels.  When the holiday of love rolled around, I wanted and needed that confirmation of his love.  From the start it was of mega importance that just the right gifts were presented – a card proclaiming his undying love and a box of expensive chocolates and outrageously priced roses.  It was an assurance that the marriage was on solid ground.  But it never really was.

      Taking into account my youthful immaturity along with the shaky foundation of our marriage, well more was the pity for my unfortunate first husband if he didn’t deliver a card that was romantic enough or a box of candy that was big enough or a bouquet of roses that numbered a dozen or more.  I was insecure about our relationship so consequently I desperately needed affirmation of love on Valentine’s Day.

      Let’s fast forward to my current life.  Those who know me also know that the second time around I found the right man and was mature enough to appreciate having a second chance at true love.  Monty and I exchange cards on February 14^th but we haven’t bought each other Valentine’s gifts in years.  Not because we have become complacent – that is the farthest thing from the truth.  After twenty-five years together we are blessed to still be in love.  Our only long-standing argument is about “who loves you more”.

      I don’t expect or need flowers for Valentine’s Day.  But it was lovely last week when Monty surprised me with a hand-picked bouquet of wild flowers and said, “Pretty flowers for my pretty girl.”    

      I don’t need a big box of Godiva chocolates but I do love it when he occasionally buys a bag of my favorite Hershey’s kisses and holds it behind his back.  “Who wants kisses?’  

      I have many friends with great marriages and I applaud the fact that their husbands further show their love and affection with Valentine’s gifts.  There is absolutely nothing wrong with a little extra love on February 14th!  Monty even did all those things for me early in our relationship.  Eventually I asked him to stop the gifts on Valentine’s Day because the practical side of me thinks that roses are too expensive and will eventually die.  The candy just expands my waistline even further so please don’t tempt me!  Since we stopped that tradition, he has asked me every single February if I’m still sure I don’t want flowers and candy.  My response is always, “No, but if I ever do want it, then you will know that something is wrong!” 

            My personal epiphany about love is that receiving gifts on a single day of the year is not nearly as important as feeling loved each and every day of the year.  When I met Monty, Cupid’s arrow hit me square in the heart and it has never dislodged.  I know I am loved and that I am loved well.  

* * * * * * * * * * *

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
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *

Don’t Mess With Mama

In 1959 my parents bought their first home on a short little street in West Rome.  There were lots of kids around for me and my little brother to play with and we made friends fast.  Mama and Daddy soon made friends with everyone on the street so I have some great childhood memories of our neighbors at backyard barbecues and watermelon cuttings. 

About two years after moving there, things changed when our next-door neighbors moved away and then rented their home to a new family.  This family made no attempt to fit in with the rest of us, ignoring all our attempts at friendliness.  The two little boys were brats with “potty” mouths and they continually picked fights with the rest of the kids in the neighborhood.  Soon the mother of the brat-boys began joining in our childish skirmishes.  She would stand at the doorway and actually “fuss” with us kids, acting like a kid herself!   

When Mama would hear the squabbles, she would come outside to see if she could work with the boys’ mother solve the problems.  As soon as Mama set foot outside our door, the boys’ mother would then retreat inside her house.  This frustrated Mama to no end and soon she began to admonish us to not play on that side of our house and to ignore the boys and their mother.  But that would be simply too boring for kids, right?  So we were always sneaking over near their property line, just waiting for a “fuss fight” to start.  

On one particular day, the “brat boys” took a water hose and sprayed it over into our yard, wetting four of us kids with water.  They told us that their Mama had instructed them to do it and sure enough, she was standing at the door grinning in approval.  When my Daddy came home during his lunch hour that day, the mother of the brat-boys came rushing outside and began telling my Daddy that he needed to “do something” about his kids.  Daddy was trying to smooth things over when Mama walked out our front door and it was obvious she was mad.  Uh-oh.

Mama confronted her immediately.  “I have tried to come out and solve this problem with you countless times.  Every time I do, you run in your house and hide.  But when my husband comes home, you think you can rush out and tell him about it instead of me?”  The woman denied hiding inside her house so Mama said, “That’s not true.”  “Are you calling me a liar?” was the woman's response.  Mama looked her squarely in the eye and said, “Yes.  If that is your side of the story, then yes, I guess I am calling you a liar.” 

At that point, the brat-boys' mother made a bad decision.  She stepped forward with one arm up in the air as if to strike Mama.  Mama also took a step forward and grabbed the woman’s upraised wrist, effectively stopping the swing.  The would-be assailant assessed the situation for a few moments and must have decided she didn’t like the look in Mama’s eye or the vise-like grip on her wrist.  As the woman began to lower her arm, Mama let go of her wrist.  They stared at each other coldly for a moment before the brat-boys' mother turned and stalked back into her house, hiding out once again. 

At lunch our parents reinforced what we had already been told countless times: do not engage in any conversation with the boys or their mother. At the end of the discussion about the would-be fight, Daddy told us, “Kids, I hope you know that no one messes with your Mama.”  Those words quickly became a mantra in our home and having witnessed our sweet-natured Mama show courage in the face of potential violence only reinforced that fact.  No one messes with Mama.

Within a couple of weeks, the brat-boys and their parents moved out of the neighborhood.  On the weekend following their departure, the neighbors spilled outside into our backyard.  We ate grilled hotdogs and drank RC Colas and then split watermelons for dessert.  It was a celebration of sorts, I suppose, because now things were back to normal in the neighborhood. 

* * * * * * * * * * *

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
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *

Remembering the Drive-In Theater

Anyone who knows me well knows that my childhood memories are a little hazy at times. What I remember, I remember well. But what I don’t remember, well I just don’t. Unless, of course, someone helps “jog” that nebulous bubble in my brain.

 
Through conversations and photos recently posted in a Facebook group I had a memory breakthrough – recollections of my long-ago visits to the drive-in theater. Yes, there were dates as a young woman at the drive-in, some of which I remember and some I wish I didn’t. However, my fondest memories are those going to the drive-in as a little girl with my parents.

The Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater was located at Six Mile near the intersection of Highway 27 and Highway 411 South (going toward Cave Spring). I can still recall the awe I felt as we turned off the highway onto the entrance drive by the lake. Ahead was the two-story “mansion” with the drive-in name shining brightly in neon above it on the back of the giant outdoor screen. To a little girl it seemed an enormous, but grand sight!

Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater, Rome, GA
Photo of the Cedar Valley Drive-In Theater used
with permission from Ralph Tilly, Jr.]

Those days in the late 1950s were not easy for my parents on the financial front. While Daddy worked our Mama stayed home to raise me and my brother. On just his salary alone my parents had to find creative ways for the family to have fun. Creative meant no cost or low cost. So the he drive-in was a perfect cheap date for a family of four.

Late in the afternoon before Daddy came home from work Mama would send us off for our daily bath. By the time Daddy got home from work, we were already in our pajamas and pretty much jumping up and down in excitement. After a quick supper Mama would clean up the dishes and then things would start “popping”. Since they couldn’t afford the concession stand, Mama would use a lidded saucepan on the stove to pop a big batch of popcorn and then drizzle it with melted butter. In the meantime Daddy would take the ice trays from the freezer and pack ice cubes in the cooler around RC colas, his favorite drink in those days.


Drive-In Speakers / Route 66 / Oklahoma
©1987-2011 Bucks Mtn Galleries | Patricia Montgomery


Once at the drive-in it always took several tries before Daddy could find a speaker that would actually work or one that didn’t have a lot of static. The speaker hooked onto the raised car window and was one of two metal speakers perched at the top of a concrete pole. Two cars could pull up beside each pole, one on each side. One car had a speaker pulled to the passenger window and the other car had one on the driver’s side window.


If we arrived before dark then my little brother, Garry, and I could play at the playground. Mama would put our clear galoshes over our footed pajamas so that we wouldn’t get them dirty. Does anyone remember those clear galoshes? They fit over your shoes and the top folded over as a flap and was held down by an elastic band hooked over a button on the side of the boot. [NOTE: A vintage pair of the clear galoshes can be seen in the NVintageWest Etsy store.]

I still don’t recall much about the actual movies but I vividly recall cartoon commercials with dancing popcorn boxes, drink cups, and hotdogs. Then the countdown would be splashed across the screen stating that the movie will start in 20 minutes so visit the concession stand while you wait. We waited impatiently for the countdown to end so the cartoons-before-the-movie would start.


Dancing Food Circa 1960s
[The poster of the dancing drive-in food can be viewed/purchased at Bob’s Garage.]




Once the movie started, Mama drew an imaginary line down the middle of the back seat so that she would not have to hear complaints like, “Mama, she is on MY side!” or “Mama, he touched me!”. We would curl up on our respective sides of the back seat, snuggling into the pillow and blankets from home. After a few spiteful kicks, Garry and I would fall asleep, toe-to-toe, long before the movie was over.

I do remember family movie nights at two other drive-ins in Rome, one on the site where the Big Lots shopping center is located and the other one out on Highway 53. At the West Rome Drive-In there was a huge slide on the playground. It might not have actually been any bigger than a normal slide but it seemed gigantic in my little girl’s eyes.
The first drive-in in the U.S. opened in 1933 in Camden, New Jersey. By the 1960s drive-in theaters had reached their peak with almost 3,000 drive-ins across the United States. The largest was on Long Island, New York and sprawled out on 29 acres! A decline began in the 1970s and now, by some estimates, there are less than 400 operating in the United States.


If you still live in the Rome area and would like to experience a movie at a drive-in theater, the 411 Twin Drive-In is open during the summer months in Centre, Alabama. It is located just off highway 411 South, between Leesburg & Centre, behind Mufflers & More. You can call 256-927-2855 for showtimes.

* * * * * * * * * * *

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
Betcha Can't Pop Just One

* * * * *



 

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

* * * * *