July 17, 2014

Between the turnoff to Rock Point and the turnoff to Rough Rock.

Today was the first time since I broke my ankle that I got up, took my camera bag and went for a drive.  Not a long drive and not to anyplace I haven't been before, but still, a drive.  I drove from Rough Rock to Lukachukai and back past Rock Point before returning to  Rough Rock.  Didn't get many pictures, too hazy.  But, considering where I was this time last year it was a blessed day.  Believe me.

I converted to Judaism in October of 1969 and, though, only sporadically observant, the teachings are meaningful and valuable to me.  However, on those days when I want to feel close to my Turley roots, I find that if I turn the radio up full blast and play Tom T.  Hall's 'Me and Jesus Got a Good Thing Going', I can, seriously, feel my Grandmother Baker's spirit sitting beside me in the car with her hand on my shoulder.  When I really want to enhance the 'Turley experience', it helps to turn off the air conditioner, roll the windows down and do a slow bake.

Daddy  wanted Grandmother on the road as little as possible, and once I got my license he would send me to drive her anywhere she wanted to go.  Grandmother and her sister, my Aunt Georgia, both lived fairly long lives.  Which is, when you think about it, a minor miracle  because they  were both ridiculous drivers. Grandmother would let my brother, Johnny, and my cousin, Greg, sit in her lap and steer that old Plymouth Hydramatic up the back roads of Turley--Quincy to Sixty Sixth Street North , all the way to her house.  If they begged, she'd go the long way around, up Sixty-third over to Trenton  She was so short she could barely see around them.  Thank God, they never wrecked.

  I still remember the time Aunt Georgia hit our yard gate with her 1950 Dodge, or was it a Plymouth, too? Can't remember,  I was standing on the porch and saw her back  into that gate in such a way that the entire thing  flew up and froze in midair.  It remained  attached to the fence at  forty-five degree angle.  And did not come down.  Right hand up to God , my Aunt Georgia looked at that gate, locked in that position and asked me, WITH A STRAIGHT FACE, if I thought Daddy would notice.  I didn't laugh out loud.  I knew my dad was going to be aggravated when he got a look at that whopper jawed gate.  However, if I had laughed at my aunt, and he had found out about it, the word 'aggravated' would not be the word I'd have picked to describe his attitude towards me.  He could gripe about them , but no child of Russell and Alene Baker would dare to voice any such thing.  There would have been nothing left of me except for the greasy spot where I had been standing.

He didn't have that much regard for my driving ability either.  Not that he didn't have his reasons.  Once,  I had driven home from Oklahoma City for the weekend, and he decided he wanted to keep my fifty-five Ford Fairlane with him to do some work on it.  For my return trip, he let me take a station wagon that he used for a fishing car. About the second day I had it, it stopped running.   I called home and told Mother the car was broken.  As it happened, Daddy had a friend who was going to Oklahoma City on a business trip so Daddy asked him to stop by and take a look at the station wagon.  Dan Scott , the friend, came by OCU just as requested.  He left me a note taped on my dorm door.  'Sally! It'll run better if you put gas in it!'

I can remember more times that my driving antics put gray hairs on my Dad's head, but that's another post.

July 4, 2014

Been thinking about the recent Supreme Court decision a lot lately.  I have come to feel that, merely, voting is not enough. Probably never was, but certainly, as things are now, it isn't.   Once the elections are over and the government has been installed, the elected officials  begin to serve their true constituents...big business, conservative religious groups and wealthy contributors.

So, how do we influence policy, take back our government and force it to be responsive to the will of the majority of the populace?    There are a few ways, but I think the most effective is always through the dollar bill.  If we disagree with the current Supreme Court decision, we can refuse to shop at businesses which choose the benefits they will provide based on their religious beliefs.  When it comes to Hobby Lobby, boycotting them should be relatively easy.  Every town I drive through has, at least, one craft shop that sells knitting, quilting and scrap book supplies and is owned by a local individual who will take the money you give her (or him, don't mean to be sexist) and spend it locally.

 If we feel that the factory farms are selling us tainted foods and contaminating our planet, we can begin to grow our own food from heirloom and non-hybridized seeds.  What we cannot grow, we can purchase at independently owned organic groceries.  Even if all you have is a window sill or a balcony, you can grow salad greens.   If enough of us quit eating out and began packing our lunches, we would impact the fast food industry.   They'd quit serving us food made out of petrolueum products and pesticides.  Not to mention the money we'd save.

When we do eat out, we can eat at small, locally owned cafes and restaurants.  Had I not eaten at a nice little cafe in West Memphis, I would never have known there was such a thing as fried dill pickles.  Think of it, in one snack, it is possible to eat dreadful amounts of both salt AND fat.  Tell me that's not worth doing.

Although we make these resolutions, are we ,as a populace, able to hold to them long enough to make an impact?  Or, do we take our anger, spread it all over social media, and then, return to our lives?

When I was in AmeriCorps, I served  at a half way house where I provided instruction on how to re-enter society and the job market.  I taught a little course that addressed ethics.....what is ethical as opposed to what is legal. My students had lived their lives , for the most part, on the wrong side of the law.  As they  were making an attempt to join society,  too many times, they would voice the opinion that as long as they were staying within the letter of the law, their behavior was acceptable.  I wanted them to understand there was a  distinction.  

One day the conversation turned toward the sixties, the  Civil Rights and Anti-War movements. The Memphis Bus strike came up , and many of them had not realized how long that strike had lasted.  I pointed out to them that the strike had lasted for a little over a year.  During that time, people walked many miles every day.  And, one of my students asked, 'Do you think we could carry that momentum today?'

I had to say then, and I have to say, now....I just don't know.

Men and women have given their lives and health so we can live as we do.  If we don't stand up and do our part, we are letting them down and will, in all probability, continue to have our freedoms eroded.

April 13, 2014

NOT Church Rock, This formation is
between Tsaile and Window Rock

Thursday was the first time since I came back that, after school, I pulled out of the parking lot, turned the radio up to the point that the doors of the truck shook, and left.  All by myself....well, to be scrupulously honest... I had my walker.  I can get by with just the cane as long as the footing is good, and there is no wind, but 'no wind' isn't likely in this part of the country in April.  I didn't want to wind up  rolling along the desert like a chubby , white ball of cotton.  The phrase 'Tumbling Along With the Tumbling Tumble Weed', in my case, brings to mind more than a great Western song by the Sons of the Pioneers.

Monument Valley 

So, I pulled out to the main road, turned left and headed towards Kayenta.  Since I came back, I've gone into Chinle   many times and have felt pretty safe doing that.  I know that if anything happens, my cell phone works up there, and besides, if I had a problem,  sooner than later, someone who knows me will drive by.  The drive to Kayenta is another thing, though. It's a lot less travelled and even with my local phone, there are dead zones in coverage.  But, it's a very restful drive.  The rocks that are in that direction are just  gorgeous, with the striations of color , dark red to a paler off-white.  As you get closer to Monument Valley, they become even more striking, mystical even.  Just sitting there and looking at them calms me, and I do not know why.

As I got to the T-where you can turn left and go to Kayenta or turn right and head towards Shiprock, I , as always, have to stop and marvel at Church Rock.  No matter how many times I see it, depending on the light, it looks different.  I, most especially,  love it when the sun is setting .  With he rock jutting up against the blue sky,  the clouds behind it,  it never fails to take my breath away.  I pulled off the side of the road and sat, listening to the radio.  Queen was singing.  Queen?  In Kayenta?  Whatever....at least it wasn't that vanilla nonsense  that passes for country music today.  Deciding it was too late. by then, to drive up to Shiprock and see if my hairdresser was working, I started the truck, headed towards Kayenta and the Sonic.  An I-40 sized unsweet tea, and I'd head back.

I'm , definitely, not a hundred percent.  For one thing, my weight loss has slowed, and I''m at exactly the point where, at all times before, I have given  up.  I'm struggling because I know that I , this time, I simply cannot. Work environment is , quite simply, gaga.   However, all in all, I'm so much better.  Feeling grateful. Not to feel grateful would be just so wrong.

uld just be so wrong. 

March 24, 2014

This weekend our extended family lost a member.  My son-in-law lost his brother.  I didn't know Tootsie that well, didn't know him at all, actually.  I met him a total of, maybe, three times.  But, I know this about him:  He was very  much loved, and that, alone, is quite a legacy.

  Also, today is my Dad's birthday.  To be honest, my father wasn't the easiest man to know. Quiet, didn't talk a lot.  Of course, when he did talk, you really needed to listen , because he didn't tend to say things twice.    He was a good family man, as he understood the job.  Not a 'buddy', most definitely not that.   He was a father...he provided us shelter, food , support and love.  He kept a watchful eye on our doings, and if he thought we were going astray, he'd , well, he'd tell Mother to handle it. Except for the time, that is, when he and Mother came home early from a weekend trip and found me cozied up in the back seat of a boyfriend's Pontiac  GTO.  THAT, he handled himself.  He didn't strike me.  He  didn't strike his daughters. However,  I didn't get out of that house for what seemed like years.  Looking back, it was  probably only a couple of  months.

These two occurrences, the passing of Oliver's beloved brother, and the birthday of my beloved Daddy, have caused me to think about re-thinking things.  It is a reminder that we are not promised tomorrow, not promised five minutes from now.

 I don't want to wash family laundry here, but I spent a lot of years with an individual who lived for tomorrow, who sacrificed time with his family for the  job and money that he thought would bring him happiness.  He thought he'd have time, I guess, but that's not the way it turned out.  His time on earth ended before he had a chance to see what terrific adults his children became and before he saw the gorgeous and sweet grandchildren he had. .

So, as the day comes to a close, I am thinking:  If we are not doing what we want to do, why not?  If our work takes us away from our loved ones, then it darned well better be good and valued work.  Otherwise, why do it?   Happy Birthday, Daddy.  Safe passage,Tootsie.  To have been loved as much as you both were, you had to have given  a lot of love.  And, that is, as they say, every thing.

 And, Daddy, I'm sorry about that GTO thing, but Daddy? !  It was red, black interior and four on the floor!  He let me drive it  around Mohawk Park!  Still no slack, huh?

Christmas Memories

For the greater part of the year, our dining table was my Mother's office.  To remove one scrap of paper from that table, without Mother's permission, was to just beg for trouble.  But, on Christmas, that would change.

When I was very little, both of my Grandmothers made Christmas dinner. However, by the time I was in upper elementary, Mother had begun to have everyone for dinner at our house. Mother set the most beautiful Christmas table.  Red tablecloth with gold thread decoration.  She would put the big candlesticks in the middle and place the turkey at Daddy's end where he could carve it easily. The table had  been set with the china that Grandmother Britton had painted , and the good silver had been brought out. Into my Great Grandmother's green glass compote, Mother would put the cranberry sauce.

The green glass compote came with  something of a story.  There had been two matching compotes.  One had belonged to my Great Grandmother, MeMaw. Her name was Blanche Malone Capps, and she had been my Grandmother Baker' s mother. The other compote was the exact replica, and had been discovered at a second hand store.  For years they had stood at opposite ends of the table.  One was filled with jellied cranberry sauce, the other held the whole berry type.  Well, it's unclear who was responsible but what is known is that one year, when I was in elementary school, one of them had gotten broken.  The question became :  Which one  had been broken?  The junk store compote, or heaven forbid.....MEMAW'S?  My Grandmother decided , based on nothing more than what she wanted to be true , that her Mother's dish  had survived, and the broken one had been the one which had been rescued from Mr. Neely' s second hand store.My Grandmother was good at that positive thinking stuff. If she,wanted something to be true, it was true.  Simple as that.

Back to the table.  Once she had determined that it  was presentable, Mother would light the candles, summon us to gather and call Daddy to get the camera.  Most of the time. there were two many diners and a card table had to be set up in the living room for  overflow. However, for the picture, we would all assemble in the dining room, prepared to say cheese.  My unmarried Uncle, Dick, and if he was between wives, my Uncle Leland.  My Grandparents, Aunt Georgia, Aunt Susie , Aunt Juanita and Uncle Raymond and anyone else who wanted to come.  After dinner, other loved ones , who had eaten in other places would stop by for dessert

The day would end the same way every year. After the turkey had been stripped to the bone, the potatoes, gravy and stuffing eaten, and there was nothing left of the sweet  potatoes but a few crusts of cooked on marshmallow, Daddy would, once again, reach for the camera. He would proceed to photograph the post dinner scenario. It annoyed Mother, I can hear her say 'Oh, Russell' right now as clearly as if she were standing here next to me. I think he thought it was funny, but I, also, think it was his way of making note that our family had gotten through another year and had arrived at that  time and place together and with the food, shelter and love that too many people lacked.  It was his way of giving a thank you.

I love you all.  Happy Holidays

December 22, 2013

As moat everyone knows, by now, I am being discharged from rehab on December twenty seventh.  I'm going home for a week, see the Doctor for one final x-a and planning, at this point to return to Arizona on January 5.  My immediate family members are not, at all, happy with me as they are concerned.  Even the brother who, when I have, in the past, asked his advice has always replied, "Why are you asking me?  You'll do what you want, anyway"  Yes, even that brother is worried. Or would it be more appropriate for me to say that he is vocal with his concerns this time.  Truth be told, I think all of my siblings worry about me. As I do them, of course.

I have decided to address their concerns in hopes of alleviating their fears, and to be totally truthful, allay some of my own concerns in the process

Why am I going back?  After all, I'm sixty five, and I could retire.  The  short answer is that I want to go back.  Everyone thinks it's because of the money I'd make if I work another few years, and yes, that's a consideration.  But, it's not the only reason.  In the months that I have been in this facility , I have looked into people's faces, and I have gained a little insight into the aging process.  I've learned that, at some point, in each person's life, he or she makes a decision to disengage from this world and begins  to make the  exit.  There doesn't seem to be a particular age or physical condition a person has to be in for this condition ( decision?) to occur.  Each individual seems to come to this place on his own terms, in her  own time.  And here's the thing:  I'm not there, yet.  I may get there in a short  while, maybe a longer while.  But I'm not at that place, yet.

As I'm not ready to disengage, then I want to go back to work  I'm the first to acknowledge that I could use, probably, another month or so of physical therapy.  And, I do, in fact, have the time coming.  The thing is, the educational system in which I am employed works on the semester system.  If I don't go back at the beginning of the semester, I may as well take the rest of the semester off due to the work I'll miss.  So, I've made arrangements for accommodations so I can get back for the beginning of the semester. 

I know this is not going to be easy.  I know that I have to continue my therapy on my own, and I have to lose weight.  My problem, in both of these areas, is that when I get busy, I don't take care of myself.  I'll do what everyone else needs to be done, and put exercise and eating heathfully last. This must stop, or , as I have said, I'll end up in a sad shape.

I want everyone to know that I've thought this through and through and through.  Yes, I may not be able to pull this off.  I may decide that the whole idea was a mistake and turn the truck around and head home.  But, as the inmates in the prison used to say, " Scared money don't make money"  And if I don't try, it will always be something that I didn't do that I wanted to do.  And, on one of those viral posts, isn't that a big regret people have when they're old?  They don't regret what they did, but what they didn't do? 

So, here I go. Back to Arizona.  Oh, and by the way.....that scared money comment?  Don't put a lot of stock in that.  When one of them would say it, it was , usually, right before they did something shady which , invariably, landed them in the Hole or got them indicted.  

I love all of you and am so very grateful for the love and support all of you have given back to me

December 15, 2013

Well, I am scheduled for discharge on December 27, returning to work for second semester on a light duty basis.  I'm far from one hundred percent and will require some accommodations in order to work, but even so I have made the decision to return. I realize my age, truly I do, but I've been lucky enough to find work that I like among people I like with kids I love. I want to go back.

I want to take a minute to thank all the people in my life who have been so supportive during this tough period.My family has been so supportive.  From my kids who have visited, to my brothers who flew in for my birthday, my sister who calls every day without fail, I am blessed.  The other day, I felt, at once, guilt and pride.  As I was leaving the day room, one resident said to another, 'She's so lucky.  She has a nice family.  Someone comes to see her every single day.'

  I know people have some reservations about social media, but during the past months, I have been so grateful and have felt such support from people with their positive thumbs up and sweet comments.  These have made such an impact upon my recovery. From the 'kids' with whom I grew up ( as much as any of us did, in fact, grow up) from Turley and the north side of Tulsa, my beloved extended family of cousins and their families, the 'kids' who grew up with my kids and have , after becoming adults ,stayed on to become friend s of mine, all the friends I've made in my life's journey   to my 'new' friends that I have made on the rez, both Navajo and Filipeno, I have been so uplifted by your support.

Now, as I enter the second stage of this issue, I am preparing to ask for your help again. I have always been, as my Grandmother Britton used to say, 'a big girl'. Or as K.D. Lang sang, 'a big boned girl'.  For the record, I'm not big boned.  I'm fat.  Just saying  My weight has never been a problem for me because I was, also, a pretty healthy girl.  I walked, navigated , traveled.  In short, I lived the life I loved, doing the things I loved  to do. Over the past several years, however, this 'situation' has gotten out of control.  I , truly, did not realize what a problem my obesity had become until I was faced with a limb threatening injury and my recovery was so negatively impacted by my weight

In the past, when faced with problems, my response has been to shut up, suck it up, stick my chin and head in the air and move on.  If I reached out to anyone, it was to family and to a few friends, and I didn't like to do that. I guess, figuratively. I've been eating my feelings.  Along with a heck of a lot of egg foo yung and cheesecake. To need help, to ask for help was, always, to me, a sign of weakness.  I have learned, since July fourth weekend, when I cinderized  my ankle that this is not a constructive way to think.

I have got to lose weight, and now, with my leg on the mend, I am going to address this issue.  Not to do so is to, with a virtual certainty, guarantee myself  a life of limited mobility.  I'll probably end up in a wheelchair.  I will be limited in what I can do in terms of a job, and, in the near future, in retirement. How can I buy a camper to drive across the country if I am not fit enough to set up camp alone?  Riding a train through Thailand? Out of the question. I'd never fit in those seats.  Those are some tiny people.

Although I have enough exercise DVD s to get  a small village into shape , in order for them to work, they have to be utilized. Since being in rehab, I have been exercising daily, and my therapist says that has helped my recovery tremendously.  I plan to continue exercising as I return to my daily life.  I haven't settled on an eating plan, yet.  Siince I live alone and don't have to cook for anyone else, I'm considering one of the commercially available plans.  Besides, my Part B Medicare gives discounts on some of them  It, also, gives discounts on gym memberships, but since I'm returning to Arizona, and as there are no gyms closer than Gallup, I'm going to have to rely on DVD s.

I have decided that by involving my Facebook buddies in this endeavour, I stand a better chance of achieving success. I think it would help a lot in the same way it kept me focused these past months. .  I'll be posting, weekly, my progress, and since I will be among my co workers who are also facebook friends, I'll have to stay honest.  D.L. And Lorinda, in particular,  can be trusted to call me out .  Elaine and Andrew  are too polite to say anything, but they will be quick to pray for  me when I fail.  I will be grateful for both actions

Let's be honest. Weight loss, at my age, is gonna be tough, and I could fail. The research shows the odds ain't good.  Still, I have to try.  Here I go.  .

November 4, 2012

The thing is, policies that sound as though they should work, a lot of times, just don't. Giving big business tax cuts should translate into  jobs for the little people.  Sounds good, but it has not worked.  Big business takes the profits and sends the jobs overseas. Another example:  Privatizing services that have, traditionally, been publicly funded should provide better services for a lower price. So goes conventional wisdom. Sounds good.  Doesn't work.  If you want proof, check the performance statistics of privately run prisons, charter schools or for profit hospitals.  The only people who make out on any of those deals are the stock holders.

 How about this one?  People, according to urban legend, should 'pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, do it for themselves, and if things don't work out, well, it must have been something they did.  I can't help but notice that the biggest proponents of this philosophy were born into well-to-do families.  I'd be willing to bet a day's pay these people don't even clean their own bathrooms.  They darn sure didn't achieve their goals all on their own.  Another:  All babies should be planned, wanted and born into a family which has two committed, mature adults. Therefore, it's ok to curtail poor women's access to medical care, because this will force them to think twice before they get pregnant. Guess what?  Partners run off, and babies are conceived during rape.  This idea, to me, doesn't even sound as though it should work.  When people vocalize this one, I can barely restrain myself from saying, 'Duh'.

I grew up in a large, politically and religiously, diverse family. And, vocal. Really, really vocal.  Opinions were freely given, even if you didn't ask.  My 'authority figures' possessed opinions that were all over the spectrum, from slightly left of those held by Huey Long to just right of Barry Goldwater's platform. Additionally, I attended a high school with excellent teachers.  They encouraged us to read literature of all varieties.   I have read the works of Ayn Rand--in fact, I'm willing to bet I've read more of her books than Paul Ryan has.  I have read the speeches and writings of Gandhi and Martin Luther King, Jr. Point being, I was exposed to all sorts of opinions. 

However, all of my family members, regardless of their political beliefs held certain core beliefs:

1. We were, under no circumstance, to make fun of those with special needs. This also went for calling 'normal people' --whatever that is-- by derogatory names such as 'retarded', 'tard', 'feeble minded'. God help you if you were heard saying such a thing.  The adult who heard you--regardless of whether he or she  believed Franklin Roosevelt was a savior or the anti-Christ,--would be in touch with your parents immediately.  Probably sooner.

2. We were not to blame people who were down on their luck.  Even if they had made a boatload  of poor choices, we were not to judge. The phrase I heard was, 'Don't kick a person when he's down.' We were taught to put out a hand, not point a finger.

3. We were not to behave in ways that were considered to be hypocritical .  State your opinion and back it up.  Being 'wishy -washy 'was just the worst thing. Behaving in such a way would get you laughed off  the back porch where my Grandmother's big dining table was placed. I did mention the vocal part, right?

4.  No matter what a person's religious beliefs were, we were not to be disrespectful of them. If they were not hurting anyone, it was not our business if they wanted to bay at the moon.  No discussion. 

And, that, when you get right down to it, is why I don't like this batch of Republicans.  They are not nice people. They are judgmental, hypocritical and wishy washy.  Recipients of government welfare,  sorry, 'tax breaks', they begrudge any sort of  tax relief or services to the rest of us. Recipients of government funded programs--legislative insurance, medicare, they, nevertheless, scream about 'socialism'.  Proponents of 'less government', they still  attempt to barge into our bedrooms, churches and doctors' offices in order to enforce their life view on the rest of us.  If one is known by the company one keeps, I guess I just don't want to be in their company.

And, oh yeah, this President's policies are working.  Just making note.

In closing, please vote. I already did.

September 11, 2012

In comparison to the agony of others, my 9/11 story sounds so small and inconsequential. However, it stays with me and, I guess it will forever.

 Once I'm awake and in 'going to work' mode, I get so preoccupied that I, seldom, take time to notice the day. That day, I remember.  As I drove up Germantown Avenue,  I rolled the window down and thought to myself that this was really just a gorgeous day.  I can't say I felt any sense of something about to happen, none of that. Just a small thought, then I let my mind go on to the day ahead and all of the things that needed to be done.

Around ten I had my prep hour, and I walked up towards the office.    One of the other teachers was walking out just as I got to the door, and she looked sort of strange.  I thought she was coming down with a flu bug or something, 'How's it going/"  She looked at me, looked through me, and said, 'Someone just attacked the World Trade Center'

You know, when things really get bad, I don't comprehend too well.  I just keep thinking that I must have misunderstood, that this can't be happening. And that's what happened then.  I did not comprehend the magnitude of what Bonnie had said. 'Attack'  and 'World Trade Center' did not belong in a sentence together.

After that, things get blurry.  We just walked through the next hour or so , following the normal routine.  Our principal came on the intercom.  She told us to take our kids to the lunch room and have them given their lunches:  a hot pack, a cold pack and a milk.  She was thinking, I'm sure, that heaven only knew when they might be getting another meal.  Then, the walkers were to be released, the bus kids escorted to the buses , and everyone  sent home. .  Once the students were safely out of the building, the teachers would be  dismissed. .

 None of us looked into each other's faces as we went through the motions, keeping our game faces on.  We knew that something awful had happened, something beyond comprehension. But, it wasn't the 'what had happened' that was scaring the wits out of me, it was the 'what's next?'  We didn't know who had done this. We did not know what else were they going to do.  By that time, we'd heard that the Pentagon was a target--I can't remember if it'd had been hit yet or not.  So, was Philly next?  And if Philly was next, were would they strike?  Would they blow up the 30th Street Station?  One of the bridges?  We were lining our kids up and putting them on buses with absolutely no idea what was coming.

That year, I was teaching low-incidence kids--the sped term for very low functioning students with many attendant health problems.  It can be heart breaking , gut wrenching work.   But here's the thing:  Children who have some of the most devastating disabilities can, also, be the  most loving, non-judgmental little beings on the planet.  Every morning, as they get off the bus, it's  big smiles and hugs all around.  At the end of the day, it's the same thing.  Their love is unconditional, absolute,  unequivocal.

That year, I had this one little boy who was just the epitome of that sort of attitude. Every morning, he would move his desk right up beside my desk.  If I put it back to where I thought it belonged, he'd wait a minute til I was busy and move it to where he thought it belonged.  In the end, I just gave up and left it there, right by my desk.  As we walked from the cafeteria , heading towards the buses, he took my hand and looked up and smiled at me.  I helped him put his lunch into his bright red book bag and pointed him towards the bus.  His arms went around my waist, and he said, 'I love you teacher.  See you tomorrow' ,turned and got onto the bus.

Would we see each other tomorrow?   Who knew? I turned around, went to my room , locked everything up, headed home and spent the next week in front of my television in my apartment.

See what I mean?  My story is so small.  Of course, the sun came up in Philadelphia.  A week later, we all went back to school.  I met  the bus, got  my morning hug, and the world began to spin again.  Still, when I think of that day, I get , as I said, the heeby jeebies all over again.

Then, I slap myself, give thanks for my blessings and send prayers to those who lost loved ones on that day.

I've used this picture before, but it is one of my favorites.  It reminds me of the men and women who have given their all for the rest of us.   

September 5, 2012

A  lot of my conservative friends have been saying, 'Oh yes, the unions did a lot of good in their day.   However, they've outlived their purpose.' Oh really?

When I was first married, my husband worked for the railroad.  He made a decent wage, he  had benefits, and he had a pension plan.  I worked for the school district.  I made  so-so money, but I , too, had a pension plan, and health benefits.  My birth control pills were covered, and when I did get pregnant, I got to stay in the hospital six days for a vaginal birth and ten days for a cesearean section. Later,  after my third child was born,  I didn't have to ask permission from anyone in order to obtain the a tubal ligation.   That was the nineteen seventies.  As the years have passed, I have watched as health care benefits have been decreased and those that are still available have been placed on 'employee contributed' status. Plus, aside  from having  less and less coverage, my insurance company has placed itself  in the middle of my personal, private business .  I am now forced  to have my life impacted by the religious beliefs of others.  

Other  changes in the working environment have been  made since then:   A full crew on a train locomotive went from  four men , to three, to two. I don't know how many they have on a crew now. , but a lot of people, at the time,  felt that the reduction in crew size endangered the lives of the remaining crews.   The railroad tracks in Pennsylvania between Youngstown and Buffalo were, with full union acquiesence, pulled up and the jobs of the men and women who worked those routes were lost.  Defined pension funds  have gone the way of the 1963 Corvair and have been replaced, when they were replaced at all,  with 401k plans. The data which is turning up lately, is showing that 401k plans  can be risky and the associated fees, paid by the employees, are high.  The give backs in the area of public education have been well-documented.

While union leaders , publicly, decried these changes ,  as far as I can see, they have done very little to stop the gutting of union members' contracts.   I believe that union leaders have become soft and afraid to make an active play to protect the rights of the people who pay their salaries. When one studies early labor history, incidents such as the Homestead Labor Strike of 1892 are a sharp contrast, indeed,  to the 'You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours' mentality that has become popular today.

I used to read the papers and think, 'Well, that's the last straw.  Someone is going to call for a strike vote for sure, now.  Then, nothing. Why?  Why  no strike vote?  Or for that matter, even a public , informational picket in which no work stoppage occurred? And, as long as I'm asking Why questions, here is another.  Why has there been no descernible movement  to organize un-represented areas:  hotel workers, food service personnel?  Could it be, possibly, that union leade are predominately White men, and new workers in these areas are overwhelmingly female and minority?  Just a thought that runs through my mind every now and again.

When I hear some knothead get on the television and praise management on Labor Day I do not even get angry. History has demonstrated that  management personnel will do whatever they are allowed to do:  protect management, exploit the workers and send the jobs to countries where children are paid pennies an hour and work hours and hours each day.   It's the union leaders who should be giving themselves a good long look in the mirror as this Labor Day 2012 draws to a close.


Unions have not outlived their purpose, far from it.  The workers in this country need, badly, a revitalized union moving.    What the working people in this country really need I think,  is a few more leaders of the ilk of Cesar Chavez.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/blogs/ezra-klein/wp/2012/09/04/was-the-decline-of-american-unions-inevitable-ask-canada/

As sometimes happens, as I was working on this post, I read this blog article which presents more insight into this issue of unions and their role.  I  found the Canadian approach to be fascinating.

August 27, 2012

As   a  child of Alene and Russell Baker of the 'Sunday School and church on Sundays,  choir practice on Wednesdays' Bakers I was schooled in the Bible and its teachings.   And, of course one must not discount my  Grandmother Baker--this woman knew her Bible, and she did everything within her power to ensure that her grandchildren were equally knowledgeable. Additionally since converting to Judaism,   I  have learned a thing or two from that perspective.   So, should I ever find myself a contestant on Jeopardy and the Daily Double is a question on religion, I will go all in and  bet the farm.  I never miss. 

The point, you ask?  There are three:

Church Rock Kayenta

1.  I know what I think, I know what I believe. I was taught by people who loved me and  who loved their fellow human beings.I do not need , nor do I want, to be  told what to do or think  by some ding dong preacher who thinks the poor should work in order to earn their right to be helped.  I don't want to have even in the same room with me any knothead who hides his pathological fears of women under a cloak of religious zealotry.  A woman can't get pregnant if she's been 'legitimately' raped?  A woman needs a man to tell her when and whether she should have access to birth control options?  Because God said so?  That nonsense had nothing to do with what God said.

2. I do not need, nor do I want, to place politicians in charge of my eternal salvation. Please, I mean PLEASE!  You can't run a government, I'm going to trust you to get me into heaven?  (Assuming , of course, there is a heaven.  You see, in this country, so long as church and state remained separated, I can be honest with my doubts).

3.  Throughout history, people have not fared well under theocratic governments.  Without even thinking a full second, I can come up with the following examples:  Salem Witch Trials, Spanish Inquisition, Holocaust..

If a person feels called to preach and engage in evangelism,  please step up.   Get a flipping soap box , stand on the nearest street corner and go to town.  Get a blog and get with it.  But, if you cannot convince people with the power of your faith and knowledge, you don't get to legislate them into obedience.  That's where the line gets crossed. 

In closing, If I am doing or have done things which are abominations in the eyes of God, and she exists, I'll deal with that when I get to whatever is on the other side.  That's my business, not yours.  OK?

A few of my favorite scriptures: 

Matthew 25:35: ' For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in,'

Leviticus 19:18  'You shall not take vengeance or bear a grudge against the sons of your own people, but you shall love your neighbor as yourself: I am the Lord.'

Romans 12:19 'Dearly beloved, avenge not yourselves, but rather give place unto wrath: for it is written, Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord. ' (I put that part in  bold print.  I always try to remember that seeking of vengeance is not my role.)

Deuteronomy 6: 4-9 "Hear O Israel, the Lord is Our God, the Lord is One, Blessed be the Name of His Glorious Kingdom, forever and forever. And you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your might.And these words I command you today shall be in your heart. And you shall teach them diligently to your children and you should speak of them'--There's more, but it's long. You get the idea. 

 

June 19, 2012

Well, I'm back from the BIE conference in Denver  Each year, and this is the third  year that I have gone, I find the opening ceremonies to be incredibly moving and humbling.  As the members of different Native Nations ,  veterans of the different military branches, bring in the colors, chills go down my spine.  Marching in, to the accompaniment of a drum circle and traditional songs, the auditorium is in complete silence.  These men and women have offered up their lives in defense of this country, others have given their lives in the defense of this country. Given the history of these peoples, I cannot help but feel both incredibly grateful and inadequate at the same time. 

The conference was, as always, quite educational, but now, I am concentrating on washing my clothes and re-packing in order to leave tomorrow for,  first, Oklahoma, then Missouri, and finally Pennsylvania. 

A friend of mine came by to help me get my house cleaned (rhetted up, as it is called in Pittsburgh), and she made some decorating contributions.  She attached my two Pittsburgh Terrible Towels to the wall in the bathroom so I can think of Pittsburgh as I shower.  Finding a lovely picture of my children taken when they were still in high school,  she dug up a frame and hung the picture  in my bedroom.  I love the memories those fresh faces bring to me,  and I hate to say anything, but.....but, it's got my ex's mug stuck right in the big fat middle of 'em.  That brings back memories I could just as soon do without!  Oh whatever. I heard someone, once, say, 'Own your past, claim it."  Can't think who it was, but maybe it's time. 

I'll try to post pictures of my trip.  Everyone enjoy the rest of the summer.  Oliver, Alex,Victoria, Leeland and Danny--Grandma's heading home! 

May 8,, 2012

 I gotta admit....I'm not a huge fan of 'Team Building Exercises'.  I haven't been since , once, while  working in the prison, we got a counselor with a brand spanking new degree.  For what reason, only she and God know, she convinced  the participants  in her group to pair off and take turns falling backwards while the other member of the duo caught him.

Now, don't think for a second that I did not  understand the objective:  build trust, right?  However, let's remember that these people were incarcerated. Each had brought  to jail  life experiences that  A.  had not , probably, given  him  many opportunities to trust or be trusted, and B. most were not, to be blunt, wrapped all that tight. Figuratively speaking.

Guess what happened?  Well, some of the catchers just 'happened' to move causing  their 'partners' to fall flat on their backs.  Since these guys , also, were not big fans of the 'Turn the Other Cheek' philosophy, the resulting altercation required  Correctional Officers to move in and set things right.  I remember standing there and wondering how Alene and Russell's baby girl had gone from hanging out at Jack's Hamburger Stand to watching a bunch of screaming neurotics go to war over a team building  exercise that went wrong. Really, really wrong.

 I knew a Correctional Officer once who , when I asked him, if he had ever been afraid, replied: 'I haven't been afraid, but I've been concerned.  That night, I was 'concerned'.


I like to think that, after that experience , I can be forgiven if I tend  to get tense when I arrive at any function and find 'Team Building' the first item on the agenda.  However, our new superintendent is a big fan, and , therefore, my boss has started to begin each  staff meeting with one.  Yesterday, we were asked to put our names on blank sheets of paper and pass the paper to the person to the left.  As each paper came to you, you were to write two positive things about the person whose name was on each paper.  When your paper came back around to you, there were positive comments from  your co-workers.  Nice idea, right?  Didn't make me any more tense than I, normally, am.

However, this is the concern:  I am used to being told that I have a good sense of humor (sometimes the term is 'nut job', but I take that positively).  I'm used to being told that I am helpful.  All the Bakers and the Brittons are helpful.  We just are.  However, I had four comments from four different people who said I was 'wise'. Wise?  Huh?  Since when? And the question that I have is:  Is 'wise' the current code  for 'old'?  Just asking.

OK, Both pictures were taken from the exact same spot.  One was in the middle of a dust storm.

January 29, 2012

Seems that, lately, everytime I look at a newspaper (yeah, I still read newspapers), listen to radio and television commentators , or check in on the social networking sites, I find comments that would appear to blame the most vulnerable among us for the economic predicament in which we find ourselves.   Political candidates think the poor children of the world need to be taught a work ethic. While once a mandate, the price  of providing a decent public education to all children is , now, apparently considered to be an option.  Increasingly, it has become acceptable to blame the people who were scammed by the mortgage industry for being 'irresponsible.'   I have had someone mention that Jesus would tell people to go to work.  Oh yeah?  Both of my parents were quite devout, and I don't think I ever heard that from them.

 Everyone who knows my family is pretty clear on what my Mother felt about social issues.  They might think they know what my Dad thought, but I'm betting they really didn't.  Daddy never talked much, and when he did, he didn't want what he said to leave the immediate family. As his daughter, I was a trial to him.  Growing up  in the sixties,  the civil rights movement was in full swing, and    I remember  someone asking my Dad if he would fix the cars of  Black people. (That was not the term used, but you get my drift). Daddy's response was:  'Is their money green?'  I, of course, stated that to someone , and it got back to Daddy that I had quoted him.  At dinner, a few nights later, he looked at me with THAT look (and Daddy's LOOK was even more intimidating than Mother's LOOK) and said, "If you have to go to the bathroom, don't tell Sally.  She'll announce it in church.'

Any one else might have gone into a tirade about the ethics of basing one's approach to people on the color of their skin, but my father would never have thought to do that.  There were certain social conventions that he felt needed to be observed: 1. Always be polite. In his opinion, voicing political opinions was rude. Vote and keep your mouth shut was his mantra.  I'm sure he wished all of us (particularly his more vocal in laws ) felt the same way.  2.  All people should be treated as we, ourselves,  wished to be treated.  3, Those who are able to take care of themselves  should take care of themselves, but 4.  When people were down and needed help,it was our job to help them, and while were helping, we should keep our mouths shut, not pass judgment and above all else, don't brag about the good deeds we have done.

My Mother  kept Daddy's business finances straight until she took a full-time job.  After  she did that, the task of organizing his 'books' fell to me. He kept his incoming receipts in one cardboard box, his outgoing receipts in another  cardboard  box, and then there was this other  box, also cardboard,  marked 'miscellaneous'.  I had to determine where the  receipts in that box went.   While performing this chore, I learned a few things about my Dad that  I would never have known otherwise.  For one thing, no pastor of any church, whatever the denomination,  ever paid full price for car repairs.  Daddy felt that if a man  (or a woman, though, there were not many female pastors when I was growing up) devoted him or herself to the service of God, then they should be given consideration by the rest of us.  Old Ladies never paid full price (Now, that I am an old lady, I only wish I could find a mechanic that felt that way.  As it is, I rely on my brothers).  Also, people who were down and out, but struggling to get back on their feet would be given special consideration.  There was a big sign in the garage that said something about 'no credit', but when I would go through the receipts, I would find some that had not been paid.  When I would ask Daddy about them, he'd say, 'That old boy lost his job,' 'That woman's husband left her and the kids, and she needs a car to get to work.' ' They'll pay when they can.' Don't get me wrong, if a person stiffed him, they wouldn't get a chance to do it twice, but if they were trying, he'd cut them some slack.

 Monument Valley Utah

When I was growing up, Daddy worked six days a week.  On Sundays he went to church.  At least, he went to church unless Mother, deciding that he'd had a rough week would let him sleep in.  'We'll pray for Daddy today, he's tired.' she'd say.  Of course, when he woke up and realized she'd let him sleep, he'd fuss.  'Alene, if I go to hell, it'll be your fault.'    This was a man who knew what it was to work, he'd lived through the Great Depression and knew what it was to be hungry.  He knew what it felt like  to be sick and unable to pay a doctor. 

In this judgmental , 'do as I say, not as I do, society that we find ourselves, if those who are in a position to make decisions, had known my Dad, maybe they would not be so heartless.  

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.