November 25, 2011

 My daughter, Mandy, was born in February.  The Thanksgiving holiday after she was born, my Aunt Leona and Uncle Worden invited me to drive down from  Youngstown for the holiday so they could see the new baby.  I was teaching with a woman who had a sister  in Louisville, so  we decided to make the trip  together. By the time we got to Louisville, I had come down with a huge, huge chest and head cold.  Not to worry, Onie and Worden  put me on the sofa and took complete charge of the baby, dressing her, checking her for scratches and rashes (No one ever thought I had enough common sense to be a Mother, don't know why) .

Every four hours, Onie, a huge believer in 'Better Living Through Pharmaceuticals' kept calling me into the kitchen.  She would hold out two pills (they were red, I think),  "Now, Sally, this is the ticket!  I give these to John (his name was John Worden,  but she was almost the only person who ever called him John)   everytime he gets a cold, and he just perks right up.'

Uncle Worden

Since one didn't say no to Onie any more than one said no to my Mother, I took the pills and headed back to the living room and  the couch.  As I passed through the dining room,  every single time,  I'd run into my Uncle.  He was standing there  holding a jigger of bourbon. 'Here, take this.  The pills are ok, I guess, but this is what REALLY makes me feel better.'  So,  I swallowed the bourbon.  Right hand up to God, I was drunk that entire weekend.   I was still about halfway in the bag when we got back to Youngstown.  Between the pills and the booze, I guess it's a minor  miracle they didn't kill me. Thank God, Ann didn't expect me to help with the driving.


 Thanks to my brother, Tom,  here is Onie's Bourbon Ball recipe.  Enjoy and Happy Thanksgiving to all.
                                                         
                                              Onie's Bourbon Balls
                     
                            1 cup of vanilla wafer crumbs
                            1 c. powdered sugar
                            1 c. chopped pecans
                            2 T.cocoa
                            2 T light Karo syrup
                            2 jiggers of bourbon

Mix everything together really well.  Roll them into bite-sized balls. Onie used to mix this recipe up around Halloween (Usually a double or triple batch at a time), then put them into those pretty Christmas tins she'd buy at the five and ten cent store..  She'd splash an  extra dose of bourbon into the bottom, seal them,  and put them into the basement to 'cook' til Christmas. Then, she'd either give them away for Christmas presents or serve them, for dessert, with ice cream.  And, oh yeah, if Uncle Worden was nearby while she was working on them, you can be darn sure  that there was more than 2 jiggers of bourbon in those things.

Happy Thanksgiving, Love you each and every one.

Onie 

November 19, 2011

Last summer, I was sent to a BIE conference in Reno.  The opening exercises began  with a presentation of the colors  I watched as men and women from all the branches of the armed forces  and several different Native Nations carried the flags down the central aisle and onto the stage.  A drum circle group accompanied them.  As wrong headed, evil and downright tragic as the policies directed at their ancestors were, these men and women are proud Americans,  willing to raise the flag, present it and back it up with their lives if necessary.

This past Veterans' Day, again, I watched a parade in which service men and women, of all ages,  veterans of wars going back to World II,  followed the United States flag down a road, eyes front, heads high., back straight.  Again,  I felt humbled and grateful.

On Thursday, our students made Thanksgiving dinner for their guests. Prior to eating, one of the kids'  grandmother offered an opening prayer in which she offered thanks for all her blessings (Since I couldn't understand one word, I'm assuming here, but her attitude appeared to be grateful) Once again, I was humbled.  As I've noted before, Thanksgiving didn't end well for the ancestors of today's Indigenous Peoples.  And yet, this woman was offering thanks, and my students stood, respectful and  quiet....for once.

It's no secret, to anyone who's been listening to my rantings, that I have deep , deep concerns about the direction in which this country is headed.  I'm not going to discuss politics here.  I simply want to make  note that I give thanks, myself, that I have friends, family members  and co-workers who are honorable, good people. I have been allowed to do work I love. I  have  insurance .....o---kay, we know it didn't pay for my recent bout with the you know what, but I am in a better position than,  unfortunately, a good many of my fellow citizens.

 For those who have been blessed with way more , materially speaking, than the majority of the rest of the world's population and yet, still want ever more and are increasingly unwilling to bear their share of responsibility for the well-being of our society, karma is a you know what.  People with way  less are way more grateful, their sons and daughters are the ones who fight and die so that you may continue to behave so shamefully.  But, that's all I'm going to say along that line.  Just for today and the rest of this week, I'm going to attempt to maintain a grateful presence.

Everyone have a Happy Thanksgiving.

July 6, 2011

When I was in Tulsa last month,my brother had everyone over for dinner, and it was great.  My niece, Teresa, brought THE potato salad, and a spirited discussion was begun on what were the 'appropriate' ingredients for Grandma Alene's potato salad.  Which pickles, which potatoes, and oh yeah, the perennial mayo versus Miracle Whip discussion.Teresa, a true purist, insisted that only Idaho potatoes and Heinz Kosher pickles would do. Me?  I just use whatever white potatoes are at the store, and for pickles, as long as they don't have spices and crud floating around in the brine, I'm good.  We ALL agreed that a Salad Master grinding machine was of paramount importance;  a modern food processer is just not gonna do it. ( You can find Salad Masters , sometimes, on Ebay if you are really motivated)  We never got around to discussing the proper hamburger mix, but I know that, when company was coming, my Dad would drive  into a grocery  in town , the name of which  I cannot remember,  and watch while the butcher ground the beef to his satisfaction.

This discussion put me in mind of just how many, many family get-togethers that I have attended in my young life, and , of course, each and every one was accompanied by some sort of gastronomic episode.  That thought led me to another thought: we, in our family, are quite interested in family history and, often, e-mail each other with questions about this or that dead relative.   As the train of thought kept chugging through my'station' (that's the way my mind works, one stop, then another;  used to worry Daddy, 'Dear, do you find that your mind tends to wander?').   I started thinking that Baker/Britton family recipes were as integral a part of our history as where we lived and died and which dead family member was the craziest.  (My money is still on Uncle Commie for that 'award')

For example, when I think of the summers that my family spent in Louisville, I remember  Onie and Worden's screened in porch. On that porch, in the heat of the day, my aunt , mother and various cousins and 'aunts' would sit and play canasta until  the temperature dropped.  While playing, they would drink iced tea out of brightly colored aluminum glasses that Onie had bought from the Meadow Gold milk man when they were full of cottage cheese. With the iced tea,  there would be  sandwiches of home made cheese spreads. At these times,  I felt quite anticipatory for  I knew that as soon as Onie decided the temperature had cooled enough (usually, I observed, about the time it looked as though someone else was going to win the card game), we kids would be gathered up and taken over to the swimming pool where we would splash until supper time.

I was never all that crazy about cheese sandwiches, but now, all these years later, at least once during the summer, I will find myself mixing up a batch each of pimento cheese and pineapple cream cheese spread.   While this summer, I took those  spreads with me on my Reno trip, a lot of times, I won't eat it and will end up giving it away.  It's not the eating of the cheese sandwiches, I don't think, as much as it's the memories that come back to me as I'm mixing it up, the conversations that went on in the kitchen while the preparations were being made.

I was peeling potatoes for potato salad one Easter morning when Mother realized she did not have enough Easter napkins.  She looked up and seeing only my husband and Libby's husband ordered them to go down to the TG and Y to get some.  I remember that Antonio asked her 'What do they look like?'  My Mother, impatiently, I thought, replied, 'Oh don't be silly.  You know what Easter napkins look like.'  At that point, Daddy walked in, and commented, 'Alene, for one thing, the TG and Y is closed on Easter Sunday.  For another, would you look who you're sending out for Easter supplies? The Jew and the Iranian.'   Since my Mother never acknowledged being wrong, she didn't bat an eye.  Just ordered the two of them  out of the house with instructions to bring back napkins.  Even my idiotic husband, who never did one darn thing he was told, had enough sense to keep his mouth shut, get up  and go look for napkins.

Other foods that bring back those kinds of memories to me are Grandmother Baker's raisin pie, Grandmother Britton's applesauce cake, my Aunt Joan's divinity which she only made at Christmas.  As a matter of fact I was e-mailing her the other day, and she mentioned her Spaghetti Red.  I remember that, too, but I gotta tell you, it's remembering her divinity that puts me in mind of all the Christmas dinners that were held in Grandmother and Grandaddy's  love filled  little house.   I'm going to make an effort to gather up some of these recipes and from time to time, post them.   If anyone has a favorite that they would like to share, please feel free.

                                                   Onie's Pimento Cheese Spread

                 1 lb cheddar cheese ('Extra sharp, Sally')

                 1 small jar of pimentoes, drained

                 1/4 cup of Heinz Sweet Pickle Relish(Heinz, Sally. Nothing else tastes right)

                 Mayonnaise to taste (she liked a lot)

Grate the cheese, (I use my Salad Master with the finest grate cone), throw in everything else, and refrigerate it.  Serve it with Ritz crackers , preferably, but if you've got a bunch of little kids around, it's ok to spread it on white bread.  Onie  didn't like to do that, but she would.  It was one of the few concessions she'd make to the fact that little kids didn't often appreciate the finer things in life.

                           

                                                           Skyline of Tulsa, Oklahoma

                                           
                                              Onie's Pineapple/Cream Cheese Spread

                    2 bricks of Philadelphia Cream Cheese, room temperature (no off brands)

                   1/4 cup of chopped scallions or green onions

                   1 bell pepper , diced (she liked red for the color, although she DID admit that green tasted the same, 'But I think the red is just so much prettier. Don't you? '  I never disagreed.  One did not disagree with Onie any more than one disagreed with Mother)

                   1/4 cup of chopped pecans

                   1 can of crushed pineapple (drained)

Don't use the blender on this, just dice it all up and mix it with a fork. And, here is where  the true hosteses (Onie) are separated from the posers (Me) .  Onie would mix that concoction up, form it into a ball and roll it over some more crushed pecans.  Then she'd put it in the middle of a pretty plate and surround it with those Keebler club crackers.  I just smoosh it into a plastic bowl and set the cracker plate alongside.  Even as I do it, I experience pangs of guilt, but not enough to take the time to roll that sucker in pecans.  

          

June 19, 2011 Father's Day

Over Memorial Day I was in Tulsa, and my sister and I drove by the cemetery where Mother and Daddy are buried.  The graves had been decorated by my brother and cousins, and they looked lovely.  Across from where Mother and Daddy were lying, was the Britton family plot, and I stood there, struck by how many patriots were lying there.  My Uncles  served in World War II as did my Dad. Members of our family have, historically, held political beliefs that  have, and will , fall over the political spectrum.  They run from just a little left  of straight up communism to a little right of Rush Limbaugh.  However, at any time that our country has been in jeopardy, you can be sure that Bakers and Brittons were in line to defend her. 

 When Daddy  passed away, someway, somehow, I ended up with the letters he had written to Mother while he was  aboard a PT boat off the waters of New Guinea.  When I first got them, I read them all.  It's been said that military service will 'make a man out of a boy,' and some, no doubt, mature when placed in the structure that IS the military.    Not my Dad. For one thing, he was in his thirties when he was called up. He had lived through the Depression, worked from a young boy to help his Dad feed the family. Without a doubt, he WAS a man by the time World War II rolled around. But,  he knew he had to go, and he went.  He knew what had to be done, and he did it to the best of his ability (and his abilities were substantial).  He hated every damned minute of it.  He hated being away from his wife and infant son.  He hated the food.  He hated seeing people hurt and dying.  However, I think,  most of all, he just plain old hated being told what to do.  He didn't ever like being told what to do. By anyone.  Even my Mother, a strong woman as we all know, didn't tell him what to do without giving a lot of thought about how to approach the subject.  The way he went to the Navy was the way my Dad lived his life. He stood up, looked it in the eye and did his duty.  Make no mistake, he complained every step of the way.  Long and loud.  But, he did it. 

He was not my friend (at least not until I was grown).  He was my Dad.  I told the story while I was home, but I'll tell it again. When I was a teenager and would get dressed up to go out on a date, my Dad, if he was home, would say, 'Stand in front of the door, kiddo, and let me see how pretty you look.'  And, I would stand in front of the door , with the evening sun shining through the screened in porch. I was a full-grown woman before I realized that he was making me stand in front of that darned door so he could see if I had put a slip on under my dress so that  underwear didn't show!  I suppose he saw it as his parental  job to make sure I dressed like a lady and didn't open myself up to potential danger by going out looking like a slut.  

I know, now, from the viewpoint of an adult that I was a source of concern for him.  He worried that I didn't have any common sense, so he always made sure I had oil in my engine, gas in my  tank and air in my tires. Although I never said so, he knew that I wanted to see the world outside of Turley, and he worried about that.  He worried that I'd run off with some clown (and I certainly did that).   He was not a 'Father Knows Best' kind of father, but he showed up, made it quite clear what he expected of us and  made sure we had what we needed

Happy Father's Day, Daddy.

Happy Father's Day, Uncle Dennis, Uncle Jean, Uncle Leland, Uncle Dudley, Uncle Raymond and Uncle Dick. Each and everyone you took your responsibilities to the kids in your lives seriously.  You were great examples and good men.  I miss you all. 

February 23, 2011

Last week was my Grandad Baker's birthday, February 13. He left West Virginia for Oklahoma  as a really young man, leaving his entire family behind.  I never knew why he wanted to do that.   I'm guessing he was looking for work, but he never said. On a day when he was being real conversational,  he didn't say a whole lot so what I knew about him, I learned by watching what he did

As much as he loved her, he thought my Grandmother was just sloppy about her grandkids. She was. I was not present the day that my brother, Johnny and our cousin, Greg were playing cowboys and Indians and tied my Grandmother to a tree. As  family legend goes,---I'm fuzzy on those details--Grandaddy came home for lunch just in time.  It's hard to say who he was madder at....the boys for doing it,  or our Grandmother for letting them do it. I know it took some tall talking by Grandmother to keep Johnny and Greg from getting a good bottom dusting.

My cousin, Jana, swears she does not remember this one, but I do...She and I were upstairs in the big fat middle of a feather bed, and we were busy burning candles.  We were pouring   the melted wax  onto our skin just to see if we could stand the pain. A FEATHER BED!  He walked up the stairs, looked at us , turned around , went back downstairs and sent Grandmother up.  I'm sure she did some tall talking to save us that night, too.

It wasn't that he didn't love us.  He just thought we shouldn't be allowed to kill ourselves or others...especially his wife. He could be just the kindest, most thoughtful man When I was in seventh grade, Mrs. Kirkpatrick taught the homemaking class how to make cornbread.  I made it for supper one night when Grandmother and Grandaddy were coming.  Just before they left to go back home, he followed me into the kitchen where I was washing dishes.( My Dad didn't buy an automatic dishwasher until we were all grown. He didn't feel the need.  He had four perfectly good dishwashers.)  Grandad said , 'Kiddo, that was the best cornbread I ever ate,'  Since he didn't talk much, I was just stunned and so very flattered.  He had given me the best gift I think I ever got.

 Grandmother and Grandaddy  raised kids in the middle of the Great Depression, and they struggled.  Really struggled.  Once, when we were studying that period of  history, I asked him what it was like. I remember we were sitting under that big tree in their front yard, and  he was quiet for such a  long time that  I thought he wasn't going to answer.

"There were a few  nights when  I watched my wife feed what little bit we had to our kids, and then I would listen to her say ,'Well, I'm not really hungry, and  I'm trying to keep my figure.". Then she'd just sit there and watch us eat.' Quiet, then   'The food doesn't go down too easy after that, you know. But, I knew that I had to eat so I could work the next day.   Sometimes, after supper, I would take a walk, and I would think, 'Tonight is the night that I'm going to jump off a cliff.  And I'd get to the hill, and I'd stand there looking down.  I'd think of her, and I'd think of them.  Then, I'd turn around, walk back home, saying to myself, 'Well, one more day.  I'll try for one more day.'

Canyon deChelly. Chinle, Arizona , a truly spiritual place 

I could not have been more than about thirteen when he told me that story,and what does a thirteen year old kid with absolutely no people skills whatsoever say or do after that?  I got up, hugged his neck and said, "I love you, Grandaddy."

My Grandad was a man who kept his promises, honored and loved his family and did the very best he could. I wonder what he'd say about what some people in this generation regard as their entitlements, what they  are owed rather than what they are obligated to do.I wonder what he would say to the lawmakers who appear to be able to find money to line their own pockets but unable to find ways to provide assistance to people whose families are where his family was in the thirties. Then again, I don't have to wonder.  He wouldn't say squat.  What he'd think, I don't have to wonder.

February 13, 2011

 On a positive note, the snow has begun to melt.  Which brings me to a negative note...when the snow leaves, the mud shows up. On Thursday, the UPS man brought me a new pair of jeans, a size smaller than the ones I bought  last year.  I wore them  to work on Friday, got out of the truck and watched as my foot sunk ankle deep.  I got mud all over my pants cuff.

I forget sometimes that I am not in Philadelphia.  In Philly, I lived in Mt Airy and taught in West Philadelphia.  That meant that none of my students or colleagues knew where, exactly, I was.  I could run down to the trash dumpster or to the laundry room in my jammies, and no one( except the man down the hall who was a chubby chaser) cared.  This morning, I put on my robe and took out the  trash.  Just as I was heading back into the house, one of my co-workers drove by, waved.  Attired in my robe and fuzzy slippers, I waved back.  Another difference between here and Philly:   in Philadelphia, except for mail carriers, no one is up before noon.  Out here, if you're not up and out by seven, you've missed half the day.

Check out that foot print, will you?  Oh well, my Park Seed catalogue arrived with the jeans. Since coming out here, this is the first year that I've had a place with   a little yard. I think I'm going to order some container vegetable plants, maybe some herbs.  The last frost date is so much earlier than it is in Pennsylvania. Of course, if I start them, I'll have to put them in the truck and carry them back to Pittsburgh when school is out or they'll die.  Wonder if they'd survive the trip?



Today is my Grandad Baker's birthday.  He was such a great guy that I don't want to just knock something out. I'll give it some thought and write about him next week.  Let's just say he loved his family and worked hard all of his life to provide for them.  A true man of his era. 

January 25, 2011

    He may be grounded for the rest of his life.  While practicing for the driver's test, he ran  over the family rooster.  I empathized, because although, now,  a reasonably good driver,  I did not begin my driving career at all auspiciously.

      When I was fifteen, Daddy  bought me a nineteen fifty five Ford, painted it baby blue and installed an air conditioner. I loved that car. He gave me the keys and told me that I could practice driving around the back field until I was fifteen and a half and could  get my learner's permit.  I never ran down  a rooster, but I did scare the neighborhood dogs real bad. Even Mr. and Mrs. Thompson's bad dog, Mugsy, took off when he saw me heading out with my car keys.

    It did not get much better right away as I the driver's test twice before getting lucky on the third time out.  The first time I didn't even get out of the parking lot because I pulled away from the curb before the examiner was all the way in the car. Thank heaven,  he didn't trip and fall under the car.

    There was the time, while showing off to my cousin, Karen, I took the corner by Billie's Drug on two wheels.  As it happened, Billie, himself, was standing on the front stoop just as I rounded the corner. He picked up the phone , called my dad who was waiting at the corner by my Uncle Raymond's feed store. Daddy  took the car, the keys and left Karen and me to walk the rest of the way to our respective homes. I was on foot for two weeks over that.

    As I write this, I am reminded of how things  have changed.  It would never have occured to Billie not to call my Dad.  It would never have occurred to me to deny that Billie , of course, saw what he saw.  Obviously,  if I had been so stupid as to take that tone, I may not be here writing about it.    All the parents looked after all the kids. Today, all too often, people take their kids' side of an argument when everyone else involved knows that kid needs to be reined in.  Well, for what it 's worth, I was definitely reined in. 

   Once, while I was in college, Daddy sent me back to school in his fishing station wagon.  I can't remember why.  Probably, mine was out of commission.  Anyway, at the Oklahoma City end of the Turner Turnpike, I was in line to pay the toll.  Blinded by the sun, I rear-ended the car in front of me.  Daddy called my dorm room, said 'Park it!' and hung up.  I parked it. 

   Not long after that, having been forgiven and had my Ford returned to me, Mother called.  When  I came home for the weekend, I was to go into downtown Oklahoma City  and pick up my Aunt Verma.  A resident of California, my Aunt Verma never, ever, I don't think,  left the house unless she was dressed to meet royalty. She had been in town  to attend   a Methodist Preacher's Wives Conference.  I pulled up,  torn jeans, bleached blonde hair,car belching black smoke, and  my Aunt was standing there in a gorgeous cashemere coat with a matching little hat.  One of her friends, obviously concerned  for my Aunt's safety, ran up, 'Verma, Verma, we're going through Tulsa.  We would love to drop you off at your sister's house,' a worried,  side long glance at me

   My aunt,  always, always polite, smiled a big smile and said, 'Oh no, I'll be fine. This is Sally, my nephew, Russell's girl. I am so looking forward to the ride so we can visit.' 

   And, off we sputtered.  Keep in mind this was not too long after the rear-ending incident with the station wagon.  In those days, you  exited the Turner Turnpike in Brookside  and took Peoria Avenue  all the way to Turley.  We got to Tulsa right in the middle of evening traffic and were slowly, slowly inching up Peoria when   we heard this tremendously loud crash as someone rear ended someone else a few cars back.  I darn near jumped right out of the car. All I could think was that somehow, someway, I had hit someone, and Daddy would have me walking for the rest of my life. 

   Aunt Verma  laughed all the rest of the way to Turley, and when we stopped by Daddy's garage for him to say hi, she said, 'Russell, I do think you've got your daughter properly in awe of you."  And laughed some more.  Daddy didn't crack a grin. Just looked at me.

   I was not, by any means, the worst driver in our family.  There were a couple of others who would have been in  line for that prize.  First would have to be my Aunt Georgia, Aunt Verma and my Grandmother's sister.  That woman drove that nineteen fifty Plymouth as though she were auditioning for a spot on NASCAR.  She would take those  back roads up to my Grandmother's house at no less than forty or fifty miles an hour, singing hymns at the top of her lungs.  Guess Jesus heard her, cause she died, peacefully,  in her bed, not in a ditch off North Quincy Avenue.   Once , while pulling out of the driveway at our  house, she rammed the front gate. The gate flew up, the hinges froze causing the thing to stop,  stuck  frozen in mid-air at a forty-five degree angle. My dad refused to fix it.  Said he wanted Aunt Georgia to see it there, every time she came to visit.

   My Uncle Jean was another one who was lucky not to kill himself in a car accident.  He drove way too fast.  When they invented those regulators that would beep if you went over a pre-set speed limit, my Aunt Skeet made him get one installed on his car and had  it set at sixty.  He and I were driving someplace.  Oklahoma City?  Texas?  I can't remember, but the entire trip that regulator beeped and beeped and beeped.  As we drove, he kept mumbling to himself.  And would hit that accelerator again. 

   "Why don't you just take it out?" I asked.
   "Cause I'd rather listen to that blankety blank beep than to your Aunt."

    If he were still here, he'd empathize with the kid who killed the rooster, too.

                                                                  A picture of where I'm living now. Note the baseball field behind my place. Come baseball season, I'll be able to watch the games from my patio. 

January 16, 2011

Me: ' This problem is wrong.'
Him:  'It's not wrong'
Me:  'It IS  wrong, thank you very much.  Why are you so sure it's not wrong?'
Him:  'Because I did it with my calculator.'
Me : (Out loud)  'Do you mean the calculator that I, quite specifically,  told you not to use?'(To myself)  'Lord, please, just  get me through this day.'

And that was not even the most annoying thing.  At 3:15, I read an e-mail from my boss about a report that is due Tuesday at 8:30 a.m.    Finishing it after school would have taken me an extra hour. Right before a three day weekend?  Was  she kidding?  My head felt as though it was going to pop right off my head.   I left the report  on my desk, decided to set the alarm on Tuesday  for an hour earlier than usual and walked out.

Stopped by the house, picked up my camera bag and took off. Turning onto the main road, I loaded up my Dixie Chicks's CD, and soon they were singing, 'I Shouldn't Be Wearing White, and You Can't Afford No Ring.'   Loudly.    Yeah, I know, the kids say I should   download, but that just seems to be  one more thing I would need to learn how to do.  I headed  in the direction of  Monument Valley, got a few nice pictures of more big red rocks, and when the light was gone, I headed home.

Driving back, I knew I was hungry, but having just read an  article in the Huffington Post on what is actually IN fast foods(chicken nuggets are loaded with petroleum products, in case you were wondering), I didn't feel like spending my money at any of the four or five places I passed.  I rounded a corner and saw a tiny little place named  'CAFE' .   It was  smaller than Claybrook's in Turley,(I wonder if  Claybrook's is still there), maybe  about the same size as the old Goodwill that used to sit where my Dad's garage was, later,  built.  This cafe  was so small that it looked like it had more cars out front than it could, possibly,   have had tables inside.  On the one hand, there might be no place to sit, but on the other, lots of cars out front is a good sign. Right?

I walked in, and, while this cafe  may not have been much bigger than the old Goodwill, it was a lot nicer than I remember the Goodwill being.  A little pellet stove was sitting in the corner giving off  good heat, and on the wall hung a working pay  phone with a rotary dial.   There were a  bunch of  antique Navajo photographs decorating the walls.  The floor was wood, and I do not mean like the ones you see on decorating shows.  I mean someone nailed some boards onto a sub floor and called it a job.

As it happened,  the place was full, so I took a seat at the counter and ordered a chef salad  with a side order of  fry bread. The salad was nice and fresh,   and the fry bread was hot. Hot fry bread is ok, but cold  it tastes like day old pancakes.   All in all, a heck of a lot better than a happy meal. Had a lovely conversation with the waiter regarding places I might want to visit on Monday.  Then, I asked him to put my coffee refil into my  travel mug, and I  left.

On the way back, I realized my headache had gone.   I gave thanks that that I have, apparently, matured enough that although strongly ticked off, I  had gotten through the entire day without calling one single person an 'illiterate troll'.    The second thing that I realized has to do with the fact that I, sad to say, actually  know what day old pancakes taste like.  The thing is, although I was stressed and headachy, I had resisted the urge to retire to my bed  with a bag of chips, some onion dip  and a bowl of ice cream. OK, it took me sixty two years to learn these lessons, but I think that I have learned them.

I don't know if the world is ready for a 'kinder, gentler' Sally.

Happy Birthday, Grandmother Baker

Today my Grandmother Baker would have been 111 years old.  To be absolutely honest about it, I did  not appreciate my Grandmother when I was growing up.  My Grandad, now that was another matter.  I adored him and would have walked to China if he had asked me to do it.  But, I was a grown woman before I realized how much my Grandmother Baker had taught me.

Oddly enough this mess in Tuscon has brought her to my mind and heart.  My Grandmother believed that the Bible was a literal gift from God.  She believed that a real Adam and a real Even lived in the Garden Eden, and that the world had been created in six days, and on the seventh day the Lord rested.  I can remember once , as a kid,  I said something absolutely heretical in Sunday School.  I am pretty sure I said something about the veracity of the Immaculate Conception.  At any rate, one of my fellow Sunday School students went home and told his Mother who told my Grandmother who called my Father.  Ended up with me having to go talk to the Preacher.  Daddy told me to just sit there, listen and go tell Grandmother that I had seen the light.  Because Daddy so very rarely told me to do anything, when he did speak up, I listened.   It worried her, most dreadfully, when I converted to Judaism.  

But, here is what I learned from her.... No matter what her beliefs may have been, I do not believe that she ever, ever, not once, not ever  said an unkind word about anyone else's beliefs.   Everyone's beliefs and opinions were, to my Grandmother, to be treated with respect and politeness. Of course, I, also, knew that, once the person with the different beliefs was out of sight, my Grandmother would be on her knees praying for their soul. However, she would never have dreamed of hurting their feelings or being unkind.  It just was NOT something WE did.  I, so very much, wish that those who feel the need to rant, say hurtful things, do hurtful things to those who do not hold the same beliefs as they do, had known my Grandmother.

The other thing that I inherited from my Grandmother was her deep, deep, downright cellular love for her family.She breathed every breath she ever drew for her family .  Every morning, when my Grandad left for work, she would stand at the dining room window and wave good bye to him.  When I asked her why, she said she wanted to make sure that he knew that he was loved.  He did.

I am attaching this picture so you can see the way she looked at my Dad.  When I found this picture among my things, I posted it on my facebook page for my family to see.  I mentioned to my cousin, Jana, that I was unsure if the man she was looking at was my Dad or our Uncle Troy.  Jana nailed it when she said, 'Well, I hardly think Grandmother would be sitting there with her hand on Uncle Troy's knee, and besides, look at the way she is looking at your Dad.  That is her baby!'

Happy Birthday, Freda Lorraine Capps Baker. I'm sorry I was such a little snot, and if it helps, I named my first child after you.

January 10, 2011

When I first heard of the tragedy in Tuscon, I thought, of all things, of an interview I saw of David Crosby.  You know..the David Crosby of Crosby, Stills and Nash.   The interviewer asked him what Crosby thought of the hostility that was apparent in the lyrics of some new music.  To paraphrase, Crosby replied, 

'You can't underestimate the power of the lyrics, man."

 Along this line, and work with me here, I'm gonna bring it all together in a sec:  While employed at the prison,  I was active in the union which, at times, placed me in the position of being in conflict with the administration.  Yeah, I know, surprise, surprise, right? However, when I would have to file a grievance, the searches of my classroom would become more frequent, the searches of my person would be stepped up, and the White Hats (Lieutenants) would start doing 'walk throughs' past  my room.  Nothing much more than your standard intimidation tactics, the other union shop stewards got the same treatment, however, with my temper, it could get stressful.

 The inmates , with very little going on in their lives, would spend their days taking sides.  Some would back the administration, quite a few would identify with me.  Harmless amusement, right?  Well, mostly.  Trouble is, many of my students were, merely, not wrapped too tight.  Some of them were not wrapped at all.  They had a tendency to make my problems their problems.  While I favor filing a grievance when I have a labor issue, some of my students preferred the sock full of rocks method of dispute resolution. One of my students said to me, one time, 'You know, Ms. Sally, the Lieutenant walks to the dining hall alone a lot of nights.  He can be dealt with.'  While I may have strongly disagreed with the labor policies of the prison administration,  I had no wish to see one of them hurt or worse. I learned to keep my temper and mouth in check.

At times, I  may wish to go out,  get screaming drunk and walk home singing my rendition of  'Take This Job and Shove It', but , for the most part, I  refrain from such behavior.  When I retired from the Department of Corrections, I truly, and really truly, wanted to get someone to drive my truck through the parking lot at Western Penetentiary while I rode in the back and mooned the entire population at the institution.   I did not so so, because a.)  I knew that Alene Baker would rise from the dead and smack me into the next week, and b.)  I did not want my students to remember that one thing about me. Besides, as one of my co-workers pointed out, the world , no doubt, was not prepared for that sort of 'full moon'.

Is speech any different than behavior?  Well, maybe.  Saying you are going to kill someone is not the same, obviously, as actually killing him  Talking about mooning the Correctional Officer  on South Tower is not the same as actually hopping in the back of a pick up truck and dropping your drawers.   However, we need to remember that the 'nut ball' section is watching and listening.  We need to get back expressing ourselves civilly and respectfully.  I can think of no two individuals who were further apart , politically, than William F. Buckley and Hubert H. Humphrey.  And yet, I can never remember hearing the nonsense fall out of their mouths that has been expressed by the likes of these 'commentators' who foul our airwaves today. 

"You can't underestimate the power of the lyrics, man."