Second Blooming

Spin Cycle: What Ever Happened to May Day?

When I was a little girl, Mama enthusiastically celebrated May Day. She would spend hours filling May Baskets with treats and delivering them to the neighbors. She always wanted to have a party for me where my little friends and I could dance around a May Pole, which she would decorate with flowers and colorful ribbons.

And I hated it. Why? Because NOBODY else we knew celebrated May Day in any way. The neighbors would smile uncomfortably when we brought them their May Baskets, confused about what it was all about and if they were expected to reciprocate. In fact, you're really supposed to leave the May Basket secretly on someone's doorstep and run away, but since nobody else did it, she always had to knock and explain what it was. It just wasn't a "thing" in Texas. I wanted to be enthusiastic about Mama's holiday, but it was just a little...embarrassing.

Why was Mama so into it? I don't know. She wasn't from Texas, she grew up in South Dakota, then lived in Chicago. I always assumed that the May Day thing was a tradition from those places, the distant North. Or maybe it was something she got from her Norwegian relatives - some Scandinavian thing.

I've poked around on the internet, and can't find any evidence for this - nothing special in either Norway or South Dakota. Maybe it was just that when it's that stinking cold for such a long, hard winter, when everything finally thaws out, you want to have a little outdoors fun.

It's still popular in Great Britain - lots of May Poles and Morris dancing. The Irish have Beltane, and the Germans and Finns have Walpurgis Night. And it's all wonderfully wild and pagan. Lots of dancing and bonfires where effigies of Old Man Winter are burned. In ancient Rome, tributes were made to Flora, the goddess of flowers.

Sadly, as I got older, Mama stopped the May Day thing. I don't remember any May Baskets by the time I was in sixth grade or so. I don't know if she just kind of forgot about it, or if she gave up on trying to get me interested. It must be lonely being the only person celebrating a holiday.

Interestingly, Jude's school celebrates May Day. Mama would LOVE it.  As it has always done throughout history, the Catholic church has hijacked the pagan holiday, and May Day is now a celebration for the Blessed Virgin Mary. Every year they have a May Crowning, when they place a crown of flowers on the head of their statue of Mary. All the children bring bouquets of fresh flowers picked from their yards and gardens and they gather around Mary and sing things like "Hail Holy Queen" and "Immaculate Mary". The second graders all wear their first communion outfits. It's really terribly sweet.

 

Do you celebrate May Day in your part of the world? Did you when you were a kid?

Maybe I should try to bring back May Day. It all seems like a lot of fun to me, and it would sure have made Mama happy. I'm guessing my neighbors would enjoy a nice May Basket. Who wants to build a May Pole? Does anybody know how to Morris dance?

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Please visit our other May Day spinners! And come back on Monday when Ginny Marie and I share the spin topic for next week.

 

 

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Spin Cycle: Dog Vs. Cat

I was raised by dog people.

Before I came along, Mama and Daddy were one of those childless couples who filled their photo albums with pictures of themselves with their much-beloved dogs. When I was born, I joined my brother Judge in all the pictures.

 

Judge, me.

 

Mama and Daddy LOVED that dog. His registered name was actually Chief Justice of Blue Haven, Blue Haven being what they had christened their land. Judge stories abounded. Mama swore that I learned to walk by holding on to this very patient dog's collar. One of their best friends swore that Judge walked up to her once and said "I'm hungry" in a sort of Scooby Dooish voice. The dog was brilliant.

Our first dog that I remember was my sweet, precious Fido.

 

Me, Fido.

 

Mama had desperately wanted a poodle, a breed which Daddy deemed ridiculous and girly. He agreed to get the poodle only if we named the dog Fido, the most over-the-top poodle name he could think of. On his registration papers, Daddy insisted on spelling it Fideaux, which he thought was hysterically pompous. Fido proved himself to be decidedly NOT poodlelike, always into trouble with skunks and such. I loved that dog. Unfortunately, Fido's second favorite hobby after chasing skunks was chasing cars, and so his life ended tragically.

After Fido came Abe, and after Abe came Rover. And then, when I was in 7th grade, I talked them into letting me get...a cat. That's right, a cat. Her name was Tatta. And yes, the 7th grade me named her, and I'm not sure why.

Tatta was Mama and my baby. We adored her. Daddy, the dog man, pretended to hate her. He always refered to her as "that cat". But secretly, we knew he loved her too. We would always catch him with Tatta asleep on his lap, and he'd feign ignorance "I don't know why this cat is on me. She got up here and I couldn't get her off."

About a year after Tatta joined us, we got Lady, our first female dog ever, who Daddy registered as First Lady of Blue Haven. Lady was very sweet, but as dumb as a stump. If I walked into my bedroom and came out wearing a hat, Lady would freak out barking because she didn't recognize me. That's dumb. However, she was the only dog we had who didn't end up a victim of the road, so maybe not so dumb. Tatta loved her deeply.

 

Mama is rolling in her grave because I'm sharing this picture, taken during the year before she joined Weight Watchers, but it's the only shot I have of Tatta and Lady snuggling. And yes, we did have red shag carpeting.

 

Tatta and Lady lived happily together for long and happy lives, both living far after I had grown up and moved away. After Daddy died, they were Mama's loving companions.

When I got my first apartment on my own, I decided I too wanted a companion, and since dogs weren't allowed in my apartment, I got a cat, and this was the beginning of my many years as a Cat Lady. You can read a post about my Cat Ladying HERE, which features a rather creepy Cat Accumulation Timeline. I hadn't set out become a cat person, it just...happened.

And then, after our last kitty, Imogene, passed away at the age of 23...

 

 

Imogene, in her dotage.

 

...we got Fancy.

 

Wuv her!

 

Santa Claus brought her to us on Christmas morning 2009 and suddenly...I'm a dog person again!

Fancy is possibly the sweetest, mellowest, most easy-going dog that ever lived on the Planet Earth. She never barks, barely sheds, never chews, never seems to have to pee, and loves us all deeply. I can't believe that I lived so long without a dog. Soon after Fancy joined our family Jude said to me "Mama, hearts are coming out of my head. That's what happens in cartoons when you love a dog." And it's true. Fancy makes hearts come out of my head.

But now...I'd kind of like to get another cat. A teeny little kitten. Wouldn't that be sweet? Then Fancy would have a little pal to hang out with. They could be like Lady and Tatta. I need to start working on Jimmy.

Which are you, a Dog Person or a Cat Person?

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Visit our other Dog Person/Cat Person spinners! Feel free to add your post in the Linky below. And check back on Monday for Ginny Marie and my next Spin Cycle topic!

 

 

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Spin Cycle: Love Is...

Love is...

...Etta James (this, btw, was Jimmy and my first dance at our wedding. Awww.)

 

...Grandma's Quilt

My sweet paternal Grandma, Martha Elizabeth Peters German (known as Mattie) made this quilt back in the 1930s. It was pieced, as a quilt really should be, from fabric cut from her children's old clothes, and her dresses which had worn out. I remember having it since I was just little. It was always our camping quilt and picnic quilt, and as a result, is worn and stained and frayed. I never use it, because it's so worn out, but on a recent particularly cold night, I pulled it out and tucked it around Jude as he was going to sleep. I told him that I liked to think that Grandma was wrapping her arms around him and keeping him warm at night. That sentimental little boy has taken to sleeping with it every night, it's his new favorite thing. Maybe he needed a little hug from his great-Grandma who he never knew.

...Words to be Proud of From My Wise Little Boy

The other day, Jude said to me, "You know, Mom, most guys say that when they pick a girl to marry they want a girl who's foxy and hot and everything. But I think I'd rather marry a girl who is kind." I swear to God. That's what he said.

...My Favorite Picture of my Grandparents

On the back is the date - February 14, 1932.

...The Love Story of Pups and Lambie

Pups and Lambie are Jude's very most favorite special lovey animals since he was little. When he was about six he announced to me that Pups and Lambie had gotten married. Apparently, it happened while we were on a Cub Scout camping trip, which  puzzles me a bit, but I never asked for the details. Nonetheless, they are a happy and much loved couple. Recently, Pups and Lambie have been a bit...sigh...forgotten. In fact, I hadn't even seen them in a while. I guess that's to be expected now that the boy's ten years old. The other day, in a fit of cleaning, I decided to tackle the Ninth Level of Hell, also known as the area under Jude's bed. There I found, amid numerous books, toys and dust bunnies...Pups and Lambie, and they were, fittingly, right next to each other. I rescued them and arranged them on top of the bed where they belong. Jude was happy to see them. Their love story continues.

...My Nomination For Best Rock and Roll Love Song

 

 Inspired by the most enduring rock and roll marriage of all time. Kills me every time.

...Dog Love

The other morning Jude woke up complaining that he hadn't slept very well. When I asked him why he said that our little dog, Fancy, had slept on top of him the entire night. When I asked him why he hadn't just shoved her off, he said "But she looked so happy!"

...Friends

I am blessed to have a writer's group which I meet with once a month. We are five women who met  because our boys attend the same school, and we all had an interest in writing and reading. We started out as a somewhat unlikely quintet, with diverse upbringings and sensibilities. However, over the last two years, we have gone through a tremendous amount together, Cecilia having lost her son, and Julie, her husband. We have shared our writing and our pain, and we have come to depend on each others support. Last Saturday, when we met, Cecilia, who is understandably sensitive and intuitive about these things, was worried about how Julie was going to get through Valentine's Day, having so recently lost her husband, George. So she decided to buy her (and the rest of us) a little Valentine's something. She went to the store and stood there, unsure what to buy. Should she get her a card? Flowers? Champagne? Finally, she just looked to heaven and asked, "George, what should I get her? What do you want me to get for her?" And suddenly she knew she should buy her (and the rest of us) chocolates. When she gave them to us that night, Julie burst into tears. Because George had always given her chocolates. Isn't it great to have friends?

...My Very Favorite Picture of My Parents

The look on Daddy's face, the look on Mama's face, the look on my face. Perfect.

...This Year's Valentine's Feast

Those of you who are old-timers here at Second Blooming know that many years ago Jimmy and I decided to forgo the crowded, over-priced, bad-service Valentine's meals in restaurants in favor of a decadent meal at home, prepared by me. We love it. In the past, I have often made so much food that we seriously over-did it, and a couple of times never even ate the dessert. So this year we're simplifying, but it's probably the richest and most decadent meal yet. This year's menu...

Cioppino - This is the same thing I made for New Year's Eve, and it was so stinking good that we were licking our plates. Seriously, one of the best things I've ever made in my life. Recipe is HERE.

Molten Chocolate Cakes - For my chocolate-fiend husband and son. Everybody gets their own little ramekin filled with chocolately love. Recipe is HERE.

...The Return of the Beef Broth

Several years ago, I wrote THIS post about a silly ritual that Jimmy and I shared which involved silently hiding a can of beef broth for the other one to find. If you don't remember it, go read it now. No really, seriously, go read it, or this won't make sense. And it's a really good story. So READ IT now. I'll wait.........Are you back? Okay, so not long after writing that story, I decided that for the sake of public health, I needed to throw the old soup can away. It had been expired for years, and I was honestly afraid that the thing would explode and kill us all. Sad, but true. But...marriage has been stressful lately. I guess we all go through this. And I decided that we needed a reminder of why we fell in love in the first place. So I bought a new can of beef broth. The can made it's return under Jimmy's pillow one night. The next day I found it in my boot. Right now, it's here...

Jimmy's sock drawer.

Ain't love grand?

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Add your Valentine's Day Spin in the Linky below. Be sure and check out everybody else's post, and come back on Monday to find out what Ginny Marie and I have in store for you next week.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all!

 

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Spin Cycle: The After School Treat

Unfortunately for my food-loving mother, my Daddy was an old-fashioned meat-and-potatoes Texan.  Every night for dinner, he wanted meat and potatoes and more meat and more potatoes and even more meat and even more potatoes. He ascribed to the three rules of Southern cooking -

1.  Deep fry it.
2. Cook it in a pot with a bunch of pork.
3. Smother it with cream gravy. 

Mama did her damnedest to work in as many non-fried vegetables as  possible and the occasional fish dish, but Daddy would greet these offerings with begrudging acceptance at best, and outright hostility on occasion. He would, however, eat whatever she gave him, because she was an excellent cook, and her food was delicious, even if it was too gourmet for Daddy.

Mama had spent many years living in Chicago during and just after World War II, so before moving to Texas she had experienced a bit of big city life. She loved going to fancy restaurants and trying new and exotic cuisines. I'm afraid going to cafeterias with Daddy and feeding him the same old/same old was a bit tragic for her.

Luckily, she birthed me. I was her gourmand cohort. We delighted in sneaking off for secret fancy dining experiences - what Daddy didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Unfortunately, Mama's tastes were a bit expensive, and we were not wealthy people. So Mama would save up her grocery money on the sly to finance our foodie experiences.

Occasionally, we'd go to restaurants. Mama loved to go with Daddy on business trips to bigger cities so that we could sneak off for lunch at glamorous spots with white linens and fine china. I distinctly remember going to The Adolphus Hotel in Dallas and having filet mignon (prepared medium-rare, the only civilized way to eat meat in Mama's mind, as opposed to Daddy's bourgeois choice - well-done) and a salad with Roquefort dressing. Fancy. I also remember going to Maxim's in Houston and having my very first lobster.

But getting away to a restaurant was rare. Mama and my favorite food-sharing experience was the after school treat. About once a week, I would get home from school in the afternoon to discover that Mama had prepared us something special. Just for us. I loved it more than I can express. She spent quite a bit of time making it wonderful and filling it with love. It was our special time.

Sometimes it was something simple. A popular snack was a cheese tray. In the land/time of Velveeta, Mama would buy Baby Swiss, imported Bleu or maybe even Brie. She would cut the cheeses into tiny cubes, stick in toothpicks and serve them on a silver tray.

But our very most favorite indulgence was seafood. Mama loved seafood more than anything in the world. I am happy to say that when she passed away, we found a lobster shell in the sink. Yes, her last meal was a lobster tail she had prepared for herself - I can't think of anything more fitting.

In those days, there used to be a guy who would catch fresh seafood down at the Gulf of Mexico in the morning, then drive up to Austin and park on the side of the road and sell it out of the back of his truck. Mama was his best customer.

Mama would make us raw oysters on the half-shell, which we'd slurp up with homemade cocktail sauce and Ritz crackers. She would fry up crab cakes with tartar sauce. She would steam mussels and clams and serve them with tiny silver cocktail forks and drawn butter. She'd serve shrimp cocktail in special shrimp cocktail glasses which had a compartment on the bottom for ice to keep it chilled. She would lay it all out on the coffee table, and we would sit on the floor around it and stuff ourselves silly.

But our very most favorite treat, was Mama's Crab Dip, something that became one of her signature dishes. If I was VERY lucky, she would whip up a batch just for the two of us, and we would gobble up the whole bowl, shoveling it in with Ruffles potato chips.

Mama's Crab Dip

Cream together 8 oz. softened cream cheese and one cup of mayonnaise. Mix in as much fresh crab meat as you can afford. Season with lemon juice, garlic powder, salt and a bunch of Worcestershire sauce.

I would be a very happy and spoiled little girl when I then went to do my homework and watch Star Trek reruns, my belly full of tasty treats and love.

 

Cohorts.

Nowadays, I am lucky to have Jimmy, a husband who is also an omnivore, and loves sitting around the coffee table slurping up treats. I've often written about our elaborate holiday meals, but it's only just now that I realized that the reason I love eating around the coffee table in the living room is because of Mama's after school treats. It just seems like the ultimate indulgence.

It would have made Mama SO happy that Jimmy and Jude both love seafood. I desperately wish she had lived long enough to make them both some crab dip and love. I guess I'll just have to keep up the tradition as well as I can.

 

Jimmy slurping up mussels and love at the coffee table.

 

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Spin Cycle: The Little Trailer

When I was a little girl, summer vacation meant one thing. Renting the Little Trailer.

Every summer, from when I was about 4 through when I was about 13, our little family of three rented a small travel trailer, hitched it to the back of our station wagon, and took off on a two week tour of the USA.

 

Daddy and Mama with little trailer. Artsy photo courtesy of 6-year old me.

There was a trailer rental place over on I-35, and a couple of days before we headed out, Daddy and I would go there and pick out our trailer. I LOVED those trailers. They were so cute and compact - everything fit together just right - it was like a little mobile doll house that we got to live in for a couple of weeks. I remember the smell of those trailers - imitation wood paneling, formica, foam rubber. Every trailer had a little dinette area, which converted into a queen-sized bed with an extremely firm mattress, a separate sofa/single bed and a tiny kitchen that ran off that little propane tank mounted on the trailer hitch.

We had three routes we took from Austin - 1. Due north, through the midwest to visit Mama's family in South Dakota and Montana. Included Mount Rushmore, the Badlands and Yellowstone. 2. The South, a loop through Louisiana then the old South, up through the Great Smokies then back through Arkansas. Included Civil War battlefields and cool old plantations.

But my favorite trip was 3. The Southwest. We'd head northwest through the Texas Panhandle, northern New Mexico, southern Colorado, then down through Arizona and back through southern New Mexico and back home.

That Southwest USA trip was filled with magical, fanciful locations, which amazed me and filled my childhood imagination...

 

The Petrified Forest, Arizona. An entire forest of petrified trees that lived 225 million years ago.

Daddy and real fossilized dinosaur footprints in New Mexico.

Lake Powell, newly created when they flooded the great Glen Canyon by damming the Colorado River. The walls were lined with Navajo drawings.

White Sands, New Mexico. Miles and miles of white gypsum sand in the heart of Apache country.  Again, apologies for my 6-year old photographic abilities.                                                                                                                                                                                        

Daddy would write out detailed vacation itineraries, pouring over AAA Guides for weeks. He knew exactly how long it would take to get to each destination, and exactly how long we could stay there before we needed to move on. We would hit the road at precisely the time Daddy planned, stopping to eat a picnic lunch at exactly noon (I can just taste those sandwiches - Wonder bread, mayonnaise and pimiento loaf) and stopped at every single historical marker and landmark on the way.

We pulled our little trailer across America, staying mostly in trailer parks...

 

...but occasionally stopping for a couple of days to visit relatives. We loved visiting our cousins the Sommers, who had a massive ranch in Springerville, Arizona, right next to the New Mexico border.

 

Sommers family

The Sommers fascinated me, not just because they lived on this enormous working ranch, where we were allowed to dig up Indian arrowheads and pottery shards (everyone who knows anything about archaeology may now shudder), but they were also...Mormons. Which was very interesting. Every night, Mama and Cousin Nell would sit on the porch - Mama with her bourbon and water, Nell with her "Mormon cocktail"- lemonade.

I remember hours and hours of playing by myself in the backseat. Well, I say by myself, but I had as many dolls with me as Daddy would allow me to take along, and they were good company. I also had piles of coloring books and paper dolls and puzzles. And Mama was full of tons of fun car trip games. We played the license plate game and the alphabet game and something Mama called "Zip" which involved spotting white horses.

I look back on those sweet summer days driving across America with such nostalgia. And it's a little bittersweet, not just because Mama and Daddy are both gone now, but because I know I could never recreate those trips for Jude. Jimmy, alas, is NOT a cartripper. Bad back, bad patience. I keep thinking of trying to organize a moms RV trip to the Grand Canyon. Anybody up for it? I'd be happy to plan the itinerary, and I promise I'd be a little looser with the schedule than Daddy. Let me know.

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More Summers Past spins...

Nain at View From Down Here

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Kendra at Life in the slow lane

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

Reruns

Okay, this is an easy one. Or maybe not, because a choice must be made (and I'm terrible at that).

When I was a kid, summer meant reruns on tv. Which was good if you'd missed an episode of your favorite show. And sometimes, there would be an episode that you LOVED and here was your big chance to see it again.

So next week is your chance to rerun your favorite blog post. It could be your favorite post ever or just your favorite post of the year, or just what you feel like sharing again. And it will be your readers chance to read something they missed, or reread something they loved. Win/win.

Decide. Post it. Let me know. I'll link it.

See you next Friday for my Reruns spin. Oh man, this is going to be hard. I hate playing favorites. Any requests?

 

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The Possum

The great George Jones died on Friday.

Growing up in Texas, I tried very hard to hate Country Music. I was part of the Rock and Roll generation. I thought Country was old-fashioned and hickish.

But my sweet Daddy loved Country-Western music. It's what we listened to on the radio in his car. And I have always hidden a deep and abiding love of the Country greats. Hank Williams. Patsy Cline. Loretta Lynn. Glen Campbell. Eddy Arnold. Johnny Cash. Merle Haggard. Tammy Wynette. Willie and Waylon and Dolly. Bobbie Gentry. And "The Possum", George Jones.

 

Jones lived a hard life, filled with heartbreak and drinking and torment, but nobody could channel heartbreak into music like he did.

RIP George Jones. 9/12/1931 - 4/26/2013.

In honor of George and of my Daddy, please listen...

 

Dear Diary

When I was 10 years old, Mama gave me this...

My Diary. For many years, I protectively locked it, hid the key and then carefully stowed away the diary itself. I never used it as a journal per se, not a daily record of my activities. It was more of a...dumping ground. A place for me to spew forth my preteen/teenage angst, safe from judgment or recrimination.

I fervently wrote in it for short spurts of time, first when I was 10 and 11. I then lost interest for a few years, returning during my traumatic puberty years, then again during my senior year in high school, when I wrote loooong, angst-ridden, gossipy diatribes about who did what to whom and how sad it all made me. Much time was spent on various boys who I had crushes on, but didn't know I was alive. Sad.

It's all very embarrassing stuff. But I'm always up for a challenge, and seldom shy away from public humiliation. So when Andrea at Maybe It's Just Me e-mailed and invited me to join her My So-Called Teenage Life Blog Hop, I just couldn't resist.

And so for your enjoyment, dear readers, I am now opening up my Five Year Diary of old. I tremble and take a deep breath...

Diary arrived during the summer after 4th Grade, just in time for our summer vacation car trip...

 

Yes, trailors are nice. I should note that not only did I think Brandon Cruz from "The Courtship of Eddie's Father" was grose (sic), but I also thought his name was pronounced "cruzz" like "buzz".

 

5th Grade seems to have been quite traumatic. First off, there was this problem...

 

The much-loved Mrs. Middlebrook left to have a baby, and we ended up with the grose (sic) Miss Shepard. Shudder....

 and then there was...Robbie Dobbs...

Much thought was invested in Robbie Dobbs.

 but then there was this...

Oh Happy Day, indeed!

Fifth Grade Peyton Place

Our next stop in my diary's Sturm und Drang tour of my childhood is 8th Grade, when I next put pen to paper. I will spare you my tiny and almost indecipherable handwriting...

January 29, 1975

Dear Diary,

It's been since 5th Grade when I last wrote you. I decided that it was about time to start again. A lot has happened, but I can't tell you all of it because it would take too much time. Mama and Daddy make me really mad a lot. Mama does more than Daddy. She's always complaining that I'm never doing anything right. She just makes it worse. Everything is changing so fast. Everybody else is changing too. Last summer, almost all of the guys voices changed, and they have all shot up in height. I like a lot of guys and have a lot of boys that are friends, but no boyfriends. It really makes me mad that all of the more popular guys are so predudice [sic] against all of us girls in other cliches [sic] besides there's [sic]. Why is our grade so split up? Now it's better than it was last year, but it's still terrible. There are a lot of more popular girls that are really nice and I can understand why they are popular, but there are also girls (like Claudia) that are perfectly boring and have no personality, yet they are cute and flirty and have a lot of friends, not because they are nice to be around, but because people think that if they are around them, they will be popular. And it probably true. But I'm not going to be a hypocrite!!

Wow. Think I was jealous of Claudia? Much?

August 15, 1975

This summer has been really strange. I really have done a lot, yet I feel as though I haven't done anything. I guess that it is because I really don't know what I want to do, but I know that I'm not satisfied with what I have.

I went to a party at Mark's house. It was fun, and was probably the only time all summer that I've felt satisfied. Mark is a really sweet person, but he's just not what I want. Mary has a terrible crush on him, but I'm afraid that he is beginning to like Flavia.

Of all of the guys in our grade, I think that Blair is probably the sweetest and cares the most about other people's feelings. He is such a love. I think that he thinks that I'm a nice person, and I think of him as a good friend. He is always making cracks about my height. I really don't like them though. It makes me mad that I'm taller than him. We would be a lot better off together if I wasn't.

Oh my, oh my. I can't get no satisfaction. Sadly, I really don't remember the aforementioned Blair ever really paying much of any attention to me. And yes, by this age I was already an Amazonian 5'10". Dances were deeply painful. But despite that...

January 9, 1976

Dear Diary,

I've decided that 1975 was a pretty good year. A lot of changes have happened. I had a lot of problems (I still have them) but I think that I've really matured a lot. I also think that I've made a lot of new friends, and one way of having a good life is having a lot of friends. Here are the major good things that happened to me in 1975 -

1. Teahouse of the August Moon. I had a great time doing this play. All of the people in the cast were wonderful. We were all so close and are still good friends. Joe Evans became a great friend. He goes to Crockett [another high school] and is extremely good looking. There was a lot of backstage fooling around. Kaysie was in it too. She and I always fought over Joe. I was in a lot of other plays too, including 1776 and The Ugly Duckling.

2. Mark's party (mentioned before) was really fun, and so were a lot of other party's [sic]. Mary and I had a party at her house. It was a lot of fun for her and me, but I don't know if it really was for all of the other people. I think it was.

3. The Pizza Place has become a local "hang-out". Mary, Flavia and I go down there often on Saturday nights. One Saturday, we were down there and everybody decided that we should all go somewhere and have a party. Well, Mary somehow let Blair know that Mama and Daddy were out of town and then Blair conned me into letting a bunch of people come over to my house! Robin was the only one who could drive us, so in his Mustang was in the back seat David, Flavia, Me and Mary. Worth and Jimbo were sitting on our laps! In the front seat was Robin, Blair, Keith and some high school guy. On top of them was Kelley. I don't know how we did it, but we had a good time at my house.

I'm fairly sure that my parents never knew about this party. Fairly.

Okay, that's enough for today. I'll spare you senior year. Or maybe I'll just save it for the next blog hop. Andrea? When's that happening? I suggest you head over to Andrea's place and check out more teenage angst!

Did you keep a teenage diary? Please share!

Cedar Choppers

The neighborhood where I grew up, the hills west of Austin, Texas, has changed tremendously over the last many years. Nowadays, its green, rolling hills are filled with subdivisions of million dollar homes and trendy shopping centers, but back when I was a little kid, it was much more rural. That's not to say it was poor or even blue collar, in fact our closest neighbors were a newspaper editor and a county judge. Many people owned acreage (I grew up on 16 acres) but the land wasn't farms or ranches, it was just scenic.

However, back in the '60's, deep in the woods of cedar trees, down long dirt trails that snaked off the Ranch Roads, you could still find rickety shacks inhabited by families referred to in the local vernacular as "cedar choppers". This was probably a derogatory term, but it did refer to the way many of these people made a living; they would chop down cedar trees on their land, and sell it for firewood and fencing. Rumor had it that they were also the local source of moonshine. The houses were often doorless and windowless, and the yards were overrun with dogs and messy little children. I always found these folks a bit scary, but fascinating. Think a little Beverly Hillbillies and a lot...Deliverance.

I remember the man who ran the dump. This was before the City of Austin's sanitation department began garbage collection out our way, and once a week, Daddy had to load all of our garbage into the back of his pickup truck, and drive it out to the County Dump. I used to love riding along with him because the dump was just such a big, nasty experience - acres of giant piles of seething trash. The Dump Man lived in a rickety house on the edge of the garbage, and his entire place was filled with "perfectly good" junk he'd salvaged from other people's trash. I loved it! I can only assume that the Dump Man's had lost all olfactory perception, because that place stank!

Mama used to take me with her to visit the Egg Man, who sold her fresh eggs every week. The Egg Man lived in an ramshackle house surrounded by chickens. I always thought it was apropos that the Egg Man was the egg man, because he had a shiny bald head that looked like...an egg. He also had a bunch of peacocks, who wandered around freely, screaming and occasionally showing off their tail feathers. Once, the Egg Man gave me a peacock feather which had fallen out, and I treasured it for years. I kind of can't believe that Mama let me keep it, as who knows what kind of bugs and germs must have been on it.

But the cedar chopper family which we had the most dealings with were the Johnsons. The Johnsons were a large family who lived back in the woods not far from us. They would often be seen driving around in a dilapidated old truck, which looked very much like the one the Clampetts drove on The Beverly Hillbillies. The leader of the Johnson family was Grandma Johnson, a weathered old woman with long, grayish/yellowish hair, which blew out behind her as they drove along with the windows open. Daddy regularly bought our firewood from them, and had developed a peculiar friendship with the oldest "Johnson boy", Duane, who must have been in his twenties. I say peculiar, because there could not have been two less similar men. But Duane would often drop by our house, and though I don't remember him ever coming inside, Daddy would go out and sit with him and chat. Daddy was that kind of man, he always had a number of young people who liked to just sit and listen to him talk.

At some point, Daddy, who was not a hunter, let Duane go deer hunting on our land. I suspect Daddy felt okay about it because the Johnsons would certainly have used the deer for food, not just as a trophy to mount to the wall. The story goes that once, when I was about one, Duane pulled up and said "Mr. German, I know you've got that new baby girl, and you need to come out and see what I just shot on your land." And there, in the back of his truck, was a dead mountain lion. Which was probably a good thing, since Mama sometimes used to leave me outside on a quilt with just the German Shepherd as a nanny. Though now that I think of it, that German Shepherd may have been able to take on a mountain lion.

My favorite of all the Johnson family stories is a tale I once overheard Duane tell Daddy, which for some reason, I still often find myself thinking about. It's a really, truly disgusting story. Which might have something to do with my lifelong obsession with it.

Duane had owned some kind of souped up muscle car, which he'd been tinkering on for many years. Think The General Lee from The Dukes of Hazzard. One day, he was driving along the Ranch Road that went past our house, speeding much too fast, rounded a blind curve, and there in the middle of the road, discovered a dreadful sight. Some critter (probably a raccoon or a possum) had previously been taken out by a car, and a huge, mean ol' buzzard was chowing down on the road kill, it's belly stuffed full of all the dead goodies it had been eating. Duane was driving too fast to veer around the critter/buzzard, and had run straight into it. The buzzard had smashed through his windshield and kind of exploded all over Duane and the car, its stomach contents covering everything.

 

It's amazing what disgusting images you can find on the internet if you Google.

This image was a little much for a 5-year old to take, and has created in me a lifelong fear of road kill.

I don't have any memories of the Johnsons or really any of the other "Cedar Chopper" families after the late '60's or early '70's and I don't know what became of them. I guess that the area became too gentrified and they were pushed farther out into the sticks and just became run-of-the-mill rednecks. Only a couple of kids I went to school with were from what could have been considered cedar chopper families, so I'm guessing they were long gone before the big Austin Hill Country real estate boom.

But I like to think that some of those families like the Johnsons held onto their land and ended up making a killing, selling their acreage to builders and developers. And I'm sort of sorry that they're not still there, because the Johnsons would, no doubt, have made an excellent Honey Boo Boolike reality tv show!

For more on the cedar choppers of the Austin Hill Country, check out THIS and THIS.

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This post was inspired by...

Prompt #2 - Tell us about a "character" in your town or neighborhood who left an impression on you.

Acceptance and Release

For the last 15 or so years of her life, my Mama had a dear and wonderful best friend named Gaynell.

Gaynell was the epitome of those wonderful Texas women I grew up around. She was smart and funny and strong and Christian in the best sense of the word. She was a wonderful cook and homemaker, a mother and grandmother, a powerful volunteer and fundraiser and always had her hair perfectly coiffed and her nails beautifully manicured. She was also a lot of fun, and she and Mama consumed quite a bit of bourbon in each others company.

She and Mama met at church, and were both active members of The Ladies of Charity , in fact, between the two of them, they pretty much ran the whole shebang.

When Daddy died in 1987, Gaynell was one of two of Mama's friends who came to the hospital and sat with us and his body while waiting for the funeral home to show up and take him away. After Daddy's death, Mama and Gaynell became even closer, and after Gaynell's dear husband Dow's death a few years later, they became virtually inseparable.

After Mama died, I stayed in touch with Gaynell. We called and wrote each other. While Gaynell had children and grandchildren of her own, I know that she felt a responsibility to Mama to be there for me. I'd call her and let her know whenever I was going to be on tv, and she was one of my biggest fans. She's the one I would call if I needed a good Southern recipe, and she never failed to provide a tasty one.

At some point in the mid-90's, I went to visit friends and family in Austin. I had written Gaynell a couple of weeks before, to let her know I was coming, and told her I'd call when I got in town. I hadn't heard back from her, but didn't really think much of it.

When I got to Austin, I gave her a call, and was surprised when her daughter, Pam, answered the phone. When Pam heard I was in town, she started to cry, and said "Thank God, you can come and say goodbye to her!"

It turned out that Gaynell had had a catastrophic stroke, from which she would not recover. She had a living will which stated that she did not want to be put on life support or fed by a feeding tube, but chose to die naturally. And so, her family had taken her home, surrounded her with beautiful things, and had come from far and near to tell her goodbye. She was only expected to live another week or so. I rushed over.

When I got there, Pam told me that the doctor claimed that Gaynell wasn't really aware of what was going on around her, and was unable to communicate, but Pam knew that this was crap. She said Gaynell recognized everybody who went in, and though she couldn't speak or write, she was very expressive. She also told me to prepare myself.

I walked into Gaynell's bedroom, and was greeted by a beautiful sight. She was lying in her bed, her hair and nails done, wearing a lovely white nightgown. A rosary was draped in her paralyzed right hand. The room was filled with the fragrance of the many flowers, and a CD player played soft classical music. The walls were covered with pictures of her family and sweet drawings by her grandkids. The room was filled with grace, peace and acceptance.

Pam said softly "Mother? Look who's here."

Gaynell turned her head toward the door, and when she saw me, she gasped and reached out to me with her one good hand, a huge smile on her face. Pam left us alone, and for the next 30 minutes, we held hands, laughed, cried and said goodbye.

When it came time for me to leave, she held tight to my hand, her eyes filled with emotion, and I paused, unsure of how to take my leave. Finally, I said quietly, "Mama is going to be so happy to see you again, she loved you so." Again, Gaynell  gasped, smiling and nodding her head emphatically. We both started to cry, but the tears weren't from sadness. She knew where she was going, knew she'd see Mama there, and knew it would be wonderful. It was the most perfect example of grace and faith that I've ever witnessed in my life.

She passed on a week later.

I have thought of Gaynell's death often since then. Of the amazing synchronicity that I just happened to be in Austin when she was dying. Of her expressive eyes. Of the beautiful death her family arranged for her. And I hope and pray that when it's my time to go, I will be able to muster the acceptance that Gaynell had, and the faith to release and move on with such grace.

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This post was inspired by...

 

Prompt #2 - Release

and

Prompt #4 - Acceptance

Spin Cycle: Christmas at Grandma's

It is my earliest memory. I was two years old, and my family was gathered for Christmas at my Grandma's house.

My Grandma, Daddy's mama, was the only grandparent I ever knew. Both of Mama's parents had died when she was a little girl, and Daddy's father had died long, long ago. For my Daddy, I was a seriously late-in-life baby - he was 54 when I was born, so for Grandma, I must have been a very exciting little treat. Until I came along, she only had one grandchild, my cousin Keith (Margaret Keith, but everybody calls her Keith), who was already 16 when I was born.

I remember very little about Grandma, except that she was very snuggly and liked to hug. And she must have been extremely indulgent, because I clearly remember playing tea party with my dolls on her bed, using all of her good china and silver. In my memory, the bed was about as high as my eyes, and I carefully arranged all of the dishes around the bed, then climbed up and had tea with my dollies. Don't you love that she trusted me to play with the "good stuff"? And it's a good thing for me that I was worthy of her trust, because I inherited all of this very china and silver!

That Christmas, we all gathered at Grandma's house to open presents and have Christmas dinner - Mama, Daddy, Uncle Paul, Aunt Mary Frances, Cousin Keith. Uncle Francis may have even been in town from New York City, but I don't remember that.

The thing I most remember, was that for Christmas that year, Santa had brought me a gorgeous new doll. She had beautiful, long, golden braids, blue eyes and wore a cute blue mini-dress and blue tights. I had decided to name her...Homadarlin.

 

Grandma, Homadarlin, Me, Keith

"Hmmm..." you say, "that's a very odd name, Gretchen." Perhaps I should explain.

At that time in my life, my very most favorite cartoon was...

 

 

Huckleberry Hound, that sweet, hapless, easy-going, Southern-drawling sheriff dog. For those of you who were too lazy to watch the video, Huckleberry Hound had a trademark song, which he sang all the time - Clementine. Remember that song? "Oh my darling, oh my darling, oh my daaaaaahrling Clementine..."

Well, little 2-year old me, used to go around singing the song all the time too, but apparently, I got the lyrics a little confused, and never realized that the girl's name was Clementine, I thought he was singing "Homadarlin, homadarlin..." and that was her name.

So that Christmas, I clearly remember going around and showing all the adults my new doll and telling them her name, and they all laughed and laughed and made me sing the song over and over (which for a little actress-in-the-making, was terribly exciting!), and I thought that they must think I was VERY special and a VERY good singer, but of course, now I know that they just thought it was hysterical that I thought the girl's name was Homadarlin.

I'm afraid that was my last Christmas with my one and only Grandma. She passed away the next April.

But, oh look at who is STILL spending Christmas with me...

 

Homadarlin!

Her hair is no longer shiny, her blue eyes are filled with dolly cataracts and her skin has taken on a peculiar yellowish tone, but she still wears her groovy blue mini-skirt and spiffy tights. Here she is having a tea party on the bed with Grandma's china...

 

Okay, I am hereby the biggest dork in the room!

On that note, I wish you all a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Hanukkah, a Wonderful Winter Solstice, and may this year create beautiful memories for all of you!

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Don't forget our other Christmas past sharers...

Vandy J at The Testosterone Three and Me

Ginny Marie at Lemon Drop Pie

Stacy at Stacy Uncorked - NEW on FRIDAY!

Nain at View From Down Here - NEW on FRIDAY!

Janice at I Got Nothing - NEW on SATURDAY!

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Next week on The Spin Cycle...

NADA. That's right, I am officially taking a vacation until the end of the year!

I need the break to spend some time writing a project I'm working on. I will try to do some thinking on how to improve things around here. Any input from any of you is most welcome!

Check back the last week of December and I'll post something for the new year. Maybe my resolution will be to improve the Spin Cycle!

Have a fabulous vacation!!!