No One Messed With His Grandkids

 And . . . no one messed with his grandkids.

STORY: During the time Pop had the pizza shop, we (Pop's grandkids) received a threat from a customer he refused to serve, when the man came in drunk. Every morning, Pop would walk us to school and came back in the afternoon to walk us home, carrying either his double-barrel shotgun, that put food on our table, or the two handle pizza blade that resembled a square machete - a very large one. This was open carry before open carry in a state that does not have that law. Pop really didn't care. In our neighborhood, word spread through stunned parents and children alike, the Kenner kids had a guardian angel. 

 

STORY: In previous text, I mentioned that Mother could never spank my brother; everything she tried backfired by breaking. Pop had an issue with my brother and told Jerry to go to the yard to find a switch so Pop could spank him with it. When seven-year-old Jerry drug a very large tree limb to the door, Pop laughed so hard that my brother got a reprieve.

 

 

 

On holidays that Mother either worked or socialized with friends, we would stay up late and have a family party. New Year's Eve and Fourth of July were great times for this. Pop would play the spoons and we would dance. He taught us old folk songs like "The Ol' Oaken Bucket" and "The Erie Canal". There was always a treat that he acquired with some change he managed to save from grocery money; a soda, chips or candy.

 

When we were younger, he was constantly on us to pick up our toys. He particularly hated the ones left on the stairs. We turned a deaf ear, as children do. Sometimes it was just that we forgot. Sometimes, it was just being lazy. We got home from school one particular afternoon to find our toys in the yard and it was raining. "Leave 'em there", he said and that was all that was ever said about the matter. The rain ruined the toys and we never left them underfoot again. Period.

 

He preferred psychology to physical discipline whenever possible and it worked. Children need guidelines in order to feel secure. Indeed, decades later, I used the same psychology on a couple step children at the time. Actions do speak louder than words.

 

When we got sick and couldn't sleep, we knew we could wake Pop and he would sit with us in the kitchen over a glass of juice or tea to pass the time, rather than suffer alone. "Don't wake your mother. She has to get up for work." Many nights were spent at the kitchen table listening to his stories of childhood. Sometimes, he would have a candy bar stashed away just for this occasion.

* This is what our Lord does. When you spend time with Him, it is always a treat.

 

This time was mainly for my sister and me. Pop and my brother had difficulty relating as Jerry got older. Jerry had trouble coming to terms with not having a father. My brother, and his dog, spent his adolescent years in his room with model cars and motorcycle magazines. He didn't get along in school and became solitary until he quit at sixteen. Mother agreed, as long as he got a job. He did - and bought a motorcycle. At seventeen, she signed the permit papers for him to join the Marines.

 

Continued . . .

* This continuing story begins with the post on Dec. 19, 2024

Eyes In The Back of His Hiead

One more person I want to relate to you before my story moves on from innocent childhood, is my grandfather who has had a profound influence on me.

 
I instruct you in the way of wisdom; I lead you in courses of fairness. Pro. 4:11

Blessed are those who find wisdom. Pro. 3:13

 
When our father left, we moved to the inner-city neighborhood I have previously mentioned. That is when Mother's father moved in. He practiced tough love, practical thinking and common sense. I was eight years old, headstrong and a bit spoiled. I had been "Daddy's girl" and put a lot of misplaced blame on my mother for him being gone. Children cannot understand the nuances of adult relationships in their small, self-centered worlds. I harbored some resentment for Grandfather in the place of male role model. 

He had moved in to tend to us while Mother worked. This man took on cooking and tending his three grandchildren while Mother earned a living for us. This created a form of role reversal in our home. This was a good lesson that just because you are born into male or female gender does not mean you can't take on roles related to, or competing with the other gender. I grew up with this as a fact of life. 

 
Everyone came to call him "Pop". He was respected by everyone who knew him. Whether you liked him or not, you respected him. His word was his bond. He looked you straight in the eye and shook your hand firmly. He was six foot in bare feet with massive hands, straight black hair and a hook nose. He was always squinting from the cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Oh yeah, he had a firm protruding belly you could set a tray on but you could not call him "fat".

 
He was a retired house painter and was the first person to instruct me about primary colors and how to mix them. By the time I was ten, I could run a chalk line and cut a baseboard with the best of them. I took pride in being neat and never needed a drop cloth if there was a brush in my hand. To this day, I have the neatest art studio I have ever seen.

Pop was indeed an "angel in disguise". He saved all of us from lives misspent. No telling what Mother would have done without him. He served God by serving his children and their children. Before and after helping us, he had and did live with aunts and uncles helping them in much the same way. I don't know that he owned a Bible, but he never spoke irreverently about God and he did speak of Him.

 
STORY: Pop teaching himself to make pie dough is a memory that comes to mind. I don't remember if he had a recipe but that dough got the best of him for a long time before he finally mastered it. He would knead it and roll it, and it would fall apart. He would knead it again and again and it would fall apart again - or fall apart while he was rolling it out. I saw him, on more than one occasion, throw that dough across the kitchen. It would fall to the floor and he picked it up and rolled it again. "The heat will kill the germs," he said. That is what he always said when he was cooking. He hated waste - with a passion. Later, he taught himself to make bread dough that seemed to be easier for him - he didn't have to use that rolling pin.

 
I remember that he would eat anything, like cooked dandelion greens with fat back, fried mountain oysters and was very fond of sopping bread in bacon grease for calf brain sandwiches. Uugghh! No matter what was shot during hunting season or caught from the lake in the summer, we ate it. He detested waste.

 
He was self taught with the spoons, fiddle and harmonica. In deed, a great role model for being "self taught". He could cipher like a mathematician. He liked beer, occasional cheap wine and drank more as he got older. Pop had high blood pressure - no wonder. I wonder if the alcohol helped cut the cholesterol in his blood to be the only reason he lived as long as he did. 

Photos are Author, Brother Jerry, Sister Karen 
Circa: 1955 

 
This man put food on our table, turned all his pension income over to my mother, planted a vegetable garden, cultivated our grape vine and peach tree to make juice and jelly, brewed home made beer, canned, hunted and fished to put meat on our table. I remember picking buckshot out of rabbit and squirrel during supper. He taught us how to gig a frog, fish with a cane pole and gather mushrooms. He canned and fished in summer and hunted in winter. For several years, he opened a neighborhood pizza shop with pinball games and sub sandwiches. He mastered bread dough but gave up on pies.

 
To be continued . . . .

 This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

 

Grandmother's House Cont'd . . .

 

Grandchildren were never disciplined and allowed to run free on the "farm". On occasion, time was spent with children from across the road, running through the rows of corn with our imaginations right behind. We wandered great emerald jungles that would hide us until fireflies came out to play. The green apple tree was a favorite place while sitting on a limb with salt shaker in hand and a guaranteed bellyache to come. Green spiders were flicked off the mulberries as I sat among curtains of leaves and watched cars pass on the black top below. Mother would have had a coronary, if she had known. (She would have done her imitation of a flock of attacking birds.)

 

As stated earlier in my story, God was a constant companion.  I merely had to acknowledge Him to feel His presence.  In quiet solitude at grandmother's house, there was a lot of time to just "be in company of" my invisible friend.  He was there in the rows of corn, we shared mulberries and fed clover to the rabbits.  I was never alone; I ran with abandon without fear; my imagination soared beyond the clouds that built scenes of angel hair castles.

 

STORY: Chickenpox arrived when I was visiting Grandmother one winter. I remember a large galvanized tub she set up in the living room next to the potbelly stove. Into the water, which was heated one pail at a time, went baking soda and she poured it by the pitcher full over my lesions. Mother came to visit with one of the most unusual dolls I had ever seen; fourteen inches tall in a black and white nun's habit - rosary and all. ? (You remember: Mother sent the priest packin'.) Still strange to me. One thing about being sick: you feel so good when you are well again.

 

Grandmother would braid my hair and relate Indian folktales. Her brush stroke was so gentle and patient - not like Mother's. She was diabetic and shared her sugar-free ice cream which held a special attraction for me. I could eat an entire pint jar of her homemade pickles in one sitting with never a scolding. It was a magical world that was evidence of God in my life. Grandmothers can be such a special blessing.

 

 

 

 

STORY: I remember one visit in particular. My younger uncle was in his mid-teens, living at home and I was half his age. I used to torment him to get attention when outside excursions were called on account of rain or feeling restless. I was doing anything I could think of to take his attention away from his television program. The last time I did this, he carried me upstairs to his bedroom, laid me face down in the middle of his bed and pulled my panties down.  He then proceeded to rub his member between my thighs. I made such a commotion that he let me up. I ran and my visits to grandmother began to taper off.  On the couple remaining visits, I made it a point to know where my uncle was at all times so I could be sure to avoid him.  I was in my adult years before I related this story to my sister. Guess I felt like I asked for it. Guilt is a difficult thing for a child to cope with.  And, this has always been difficult for me to understand.

 

My uncle was a pubesic teen age boy is my excuse for him.  But this incident robbed me of a joyful part of my childhood.  I was now banished to the inner city of a crumbling neighborhood where we were no longer allowed to leave the safety of our own small yard.  No more running through emerald cities or climbing trees.  No more feeding clover to rabbits or drinking well water from a rusty ladle.  No more hours spent alone with my imagination or tales of illusive Indians.  Most of all, no more sitting with those gentle hands braiding my hair.

 

Diabetes was taking Grandmother's eyesight. She read her Bible cover to cover and back again, until the magnifying glass no longer worked for her. She and Grandfather were never divorced but they did not live together in my lifetime. 

 

 

 

Years later, Grandfather had three strokes over a period of several years. It was so sad for me to see him wither into such a frail person. It was just a few weeks after he died that Grandmother was taken to the hospital for exploratory surgery. She was failing fast and no one knew why. The doctor found cancer in her liver and sent her home to be with her family. She did not linger. Doctors could not understand why she never complained of any pain. To this day, I believe she withstood everything as long as Grandfather was alive. When he was gone she no longer cared to be here. You cannot chose who your heart will love.

 

To be continued . . . . .

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

A Two-Seater Outhouse

 

I hope for nothing, I fear nothing - I am free

 

Life is the dream from which we wake to the reality of death.

 

Summers with my maternal grandmother are some of my most treasured memories: corn fields, rabbit hutch, well water, coal heater and pickles.

 

She lived in the country in a long house covered with roofing shingles that looked like red brick, with a crawl space that set the house up on cinder blocks. Overhanging the road was a large mulberry tree, and a sour apple tree grew beside the dirt driveway.

 

So many wonderful memories retained all these years later, play like a picture album across my mind. There was the red checkered tablecloth with condiments in the center, her bed that sagged in the middle and the black cat under the coal burning, cast iron heater. This all-too-brief time in my life leaves me with wonderful food for peaceful daydreams.

 

> Her well water was a favorite drink of mine and I remember her saving enough at night for priming the pump, next morning, in the winter to get it started.

 

> There was a two-seater outhouse that I never did understand. I cannot imagine sitting in passing conversation with a fellow traveler. Under the eaves of the outhouse was a wasp nest that always gave me cause for concern. I remember my youngest uncle's rabbit hutch and the glorious cornfield that she hoed every morning at 5 a.m. in her straw sunbonnet. I was always excited to help.

 

> Inside the house, the kitchen held the galvanized metal water bucket with the rusty enamel ladle everyone shared for a quick sip. There were two cast iron heating stoves, one in the eating area, the other in the living room at the other end of the house. This one served to heat the two upstairs bedrooms in the winter because heat rises. In between was her bedroom and a makeshift pantry with a curtain that hid the shelves of canned goods.

 

Aunt, Grandmother, Mother

 

> The two bedrooms upstairs had beds heaped with blankets in the winter. One bedroom was occupied by my mother's youngest brother with the other generally reserved for visiting grandchildren. Behind the heater in the eating area was a fourth bedroom reserved for one of my older cousins who stayed more with grandmother than her own mother. In a small mud room off the back of the kitchen was the bucket used when it was not convenient to trek off to the outhouse. That was one cold metal bucket that left a ring around your butt if you sat on it. And, you better sit down squarely if you didn't want an overturned bucket.

 

> Grandmother had been an only child and wanted a large family. She lost three children at birth, two were twins. Nine babies survived that she and Grandfather raised through the Great Depression.

 

> I loved visiting. One summer, Mother called to ask if she would get to see me before school school resumed. "Are you ever coming home?" Every opportunity to visit Grandmother was accepted with great enthusiasm. Her country residence was always an adventure of monumental proportions. Every bit of it was adventure to this city girl and Grandmother was in her element with grandchildren around.

 

To be continued  . . . . . 

* This autobiography begins with "An Ordinary Childhood" posted Dec. 30, 2024

P.S. About Mother

 Not perfect:

She was not perfect and didn't pretend to be. She loved the night life and dancing and I saw her drunk more than once. "Cold milk" she would demand on a morning after. She was a champion at nagging. Even though she had a tough shell, there was that tender heart that got her taken advantage of many times.  

The nagging made me crazy! She was a very clean house keeper. Working long hours meant this chore fell to the oldest girl - me. A few quotes I remember fondly: "You call that dusting?", "I work seven days a week to put food on the table and you won't even run the vacuum." "Just look at the mess in that room. How can you stand it?" (In defense of myself, it was dusted and the bed was made. She had fits over clothes left draped over a chair.) Here is one everybody thinks was so cruel: "I don't have to take this. Your father left and so can I. What would you do then? You're gonna wake up one morning and I just won't be here." I remember waking and tip toeing to her bedroom door to see that she was in her bed. There were times that I thought, "Beat me; just shut up and beat me." But all this nagging got the job done.

 

STORY: In prior text I stated how she only had to shame me but I remember the two "floggings" I did get. I was about eight years old the first time. She had gone off to grocery for bi monthly shopping. Grandfather was taking a nap. May brother and I were in the cellar where laundry was hanging to dry. We were there with a coffee can and matches. My sister wanted to "play" too. We told her she was "too young". We had our little "bon fire" in the coffee can and fled upstairs when we heard Mother coming home. The "baby" was mad at my brother and me for not letting her "play" so she tattled on us. We were sat down on the sofa for the nagging lecture as Mother was boiling out of control from fear of what could have happened. Since I was oldest, I always had main responsibility for everything. When she could not control herself any longer, "Get up to your room, I can't stand looking at you." As I hung my head in shame and passed her, she lit into me like a flock of birds; slapping and scratching with those tallon-like nails of hers. It was fear for our safety that brought this out in her. Next time, I was about ten years old. My sister and I were arguing, she called me a bad word and turned her back to run. I lashed out and caught her in the middle of the back with the bottom of my palm. She began gasping for breath and turning an unnatural color, as I just stood there with my mouth open in shock. Mother came around the corner "What the h___ is going on?" (Oh yeah, Mother could swear, too.) "She called ma a b____." (Kids swear when no one is listening.) She took one look at my sister and let loose that flock of birds all the way to the stairway as I ascended to my room.

 

 I love remembering these stories. Mother was human and didn't pretend otherwise. The only apologies I remember was during the time of depressed confusion brought on by menopause. She did not apologize to her children. 

 

 

 

Grandfather used to say, "She lets her heart rule her head." She took in stray kids that my brother and sister would bring home. She got them jobs and gave them a place to sleep. Sometimes it worked out and sometimes she had to turn them out again for stealing or lying. She always had a soft spot for our father. My step-mother had the means to go across state lines and get him to court for back child support. The court ruled he had to pay for his first family first. He came to Mother with papers and asked her to sign them relieving him of any back or future support for his three children. She put the proposal to us, "He hasn't ever given us any support and we manage. He surely can't pay if they put him in jail" was her reasoning and we agreed. She signed the papers. I believe a large part of her decision was because of the love for him she never got over. You can't choose who your heart will love.

 

When I was around forty years old, I was living in a small house behind Mother's. She would knock on my door almost daily telling me I needed a break from my drawing board. We would go for ice cream and coffee or sit in her wooded backyard and watch her pet rabbit forage through the clover. On one mild summer afternoon we were sitting with a cold beer and girl talk. Out of the blue, came the story of rape. Many years prior, she had been on a date, drugged and raped. I had a baby brother somewhere that had secretly been put up for adoption at his birth. Oh God, my poor dear mother ! ! ! What a horrific thing for a woman to go through and keep secret all these years. Grandfather had helped her hide it from us kids and Dad's mother with lies. Mother loved her children, hated lies and had some strong moral beliefs. "I couldn't afford another kid. It was all I could do to take care of the three I had." I totally understand and loved her more.

 

To be continued . . .

Mother Knew Her "Heathens"

 and she loved them.

The first time my mother said, "I love you", I was twenty-six years old. She didn't have to say it. I knew it; we all did. She knew each of her children as individuals. That is exactly how she related to us. She used her understanding of us to discipline and mold us into adults. I can recall very few instances of physical affection. Mother never hugged us in our childhood. At least, not after she became a single mom, on her own, and began long work hours.

 

 I don't remember her ever physically disciplining my sister - "the baby". Mom seemed more protective of her. My sister has always been super sensitive with a big heart and eventually developed that hard shell of defense against a mean world. As she got older, Mother took the role of friend and advisor. Karen lived with Mother well into her twenties, when Mother remarried and Karen shared an apartment with a girlfriend. Their relationship always seemed more like roommates with long morning talks over coffee. I was always a little jealous.

 

 She proudly referred to my brother as "My Son". I remember a hairbrush, yardstick, ping-pong paddle and countless other objects, on separate occasions, that broke when she tried spanking him, which left him in mocking laughter. We all thought he was protected by the greatest of guardian angels. Mom often said how he reminded her of our father. My brother was always up to something, a big tease with a grin that said, "I am the cat and, yes, I swallowed the parakeet - So?". Always curious and fun loving, Jerry cheated at games and tormented his sisters relentlessly. We loved him completely.

 

 

 

With me, she only had to say she was disappointed. I would slink out of sight in shame and embarrassment for days, then try harder than ever to be what she wanted. I lived to see her proud of me. She has been gone from this life for around 20 years and I still ask myself daily, "What would Mother approve of?". She haunts my life in the best possible way. As I have grown in faith, I have come to relate to God in much the same way, what does He want of me?

 

Mother demanded respect, bragged on us every chance she got and never ridiculed.

 

I don't believe she ever gave a thought to our American Indian heritage. We grew up "white", in a white culture, in a white collar, Midwestern city of one million people (at that time). Her mother is the one who told me of her heritage and many years later my curiosity led me to research.

 

A workaholic, she instilled in her children the proud desire to make our own way and ask for nothing. To her credit, she never degraded our father for his lack of support. "We don't need his help; we are just fine on our own", was her standard comment.

 

It wasn't until I was in my early thirties that I noticed she read the Bible. It kept moving from her easy chair to her bed table. She always remarked about "a mother's prayers" and told us we should decide for ourselves, in our own time, what road we would take.

 

STORY: When I was too young to remember, a priest came to our home. (Remember my father's mother was Catholic.) My father never went to church and I suspect Grandmother was behind the visit from the priest. Mother welcomed him in and offered coffee. The priest was visiting to explain that since our father was Catholic, his children would be raised Catholic. Ooooh! He had no idea of the mother he was talking to. She insisted he leave immediately and not return. She "explained" that her children would be making that choice for themselves.

To be continued . . . .

"You're Just a Bunch of Little Heathens"

She gets up while it is still night; she provides food for her family.
She speaks with wisdom and faithful instruction is on her tongue.
(Quotes from Proverbs 31)

 
> Naomi Bonnilee Radner (ficticious name) was my proud, fiercely independent mother. Since she was the greatest influence of my life, there needs to be enough about her that the reader can understand just how much of an influence. For such a woman to be my mother is evidence that God loves me.

 
> She was the middle child of nine siblings. I thought she was perfect and the most beautiful woman in the world. Raven hair and dark eyes with olive complexion that tanned to bronze in the summer along with her good proportioning, gave her the appearance of a doll. Five foot/two inches in stocking feet, she was always a lady and fiercely outspoken. A "tomboy" as a child, she could, and would, stand up to anyone. The proof was her nose; a wide flat nose that had been broken three times: first, tumbling from a tree, and twice from fighting. She frequently informed me that she once had a pretty nose - just like mine.

 
> She loved and missed my father to the day she died. After he left, with a teenage waitress, I remember nights hearing her cry herself to sleep. Their relationship caused her so much emotional pain that she made wrong choices more than once. She wore a tough shell about herself that kept her emotionally out of reach in order to protect that softest of hearts. One of Mother's proverbs: "You can't choose who your heart will love."

 
> Faithful and generous to a fault, mom was fond of telling us there was always someone worse off than we were. I remember a couple Christmases that we were required to give up a possession that was in good condition (preferably something we cared for.) This was how we were to learn sacrifice for someone else and the joy of giving. You do not give something that you yourself would not want and there was always something to replace it.

 
> Ever heard the teaching that you are to do as though you were doing it for/giving it to Jesus Himself - ? Mother was that example.

 
> She also had a lot of "proverbs" that were frequently repeated. "Tell me anything but a lie" and "You can do anything you put your mind to" are only two of the dozens that come to mind. My all-time favorite, "You're just a bunch of little heathens". When I was an adolescent, she was fond of telling me I was special. Mom was sure I was going to do something that would prove it. I needed to hear her assurances but took them as just a mother's love.

 
> Mother was a vain woman with a definite idea of how a lady should conduct herself and how she should dress. She grew up in a time when ladies wore hats and gloves to go shopping and television commercials showed housewives with hair combed, make up on and aprons over their dresses.

 
> Mom never went out of the house without makeup, hair combed and coordinated clothes. She detested jeans for women and bare legs were out of the question; stocking were required. All this from a girl who came from a large farmer's family who lived grew up climbing trees in the countryside.

 
> STORY: A particular day comes to mind when I was going to visit my grandfather in the VA hospital. I was a grown, married woman at the time. It was the 1960's, the age of "bra burning". I stopped at mother's house along the way. When I came in the door, she immediately demanded to know where I was going "like that". I responded "to see Pop". "Not like that, you're not" was her decree. She took me into the bedroom and "put" a bra on me. That was that.

 
> She was stylish and loved "layaway" for quality items. "You get what you pay for" wan another of "Naomi's proverbs". She would deny herself something if one of her children was in need but she did not deny herself. That was part of the lesson that taught us to respect her. "You have to respect yourself to get respect from others".

 
To be continued . . . .

The Tola Worm

(Taking a break from my biography to post something I want to share.  Found this out during one of my personal Bible studies of the Psalms.)

In Psalm 22 (a Messianic Psalm by David about the crucifiction)

V. 6 states, "I Am a worm of and not a man".

 

> In Ex. 16:20, we find the story of the Manna from heaven to feed the Hebrew people in the dessert, how they disobeyed and how the extra manna became infested with a worm (maggot).

 

                                                       Manna
        

> The worm spoken of is the "Tola" worm (also: Toluth). This red worm is native to regions of and around Israel - only.

 

The Tola worm

 

> This worm was used to make a deep red (scarlet) dye for the garments of the temple priests; done by crushing the worm to obtain it's blood. This dye (the worm's blood) proved to be permanent; once used it could not fade or be removed by any means. (Once we accept Christ, through His blood, as our Savior, He will not let go of us.)

 

> When a worm is ready to reproduce, it will attach itself to a tree. The cross was made from a tree. On the tree, it will shed it's blood and lay it's eggs (plant it's seeds). When the eggs hatch into larvae (are converted), the new worms feed on the blood that was left on the tree - just as Christians feed on (believe in) the sacrificial blood of Jesus. 

 

                                          

> After THREE DAYS (Christ was three days in the grave), the blood turns white, as snow, and sheds from the tree in dry flakes - that resemble manna. Christ was pure as snow after His resurrection (He refused to be touched because He had not yet gone to the Father), and is referenced as our Manna (bread of life) from heaven.

 

> Read Isa. 1:18

SEEK and you will find.

A Small Family Unit

> The barrel chested father of my mother was a great mentor.

He taught me how to cook, "cypher" and run a chalk line. He spent many years as a professional painter and took pride in his work, often pointing out public buildings that he worked on. "Hold your head up and stick your chest out. You are as good as anyone else" was a constant part of his stern teachings; I adored him. He has been a huge influence on me. This man was undeniable evidence of God in my life.

 

 

 

As far back as I can remember (age 4 or 5), I talked to God. Before Mother sent me to Sunday school, I talked to God. Memories are clear of looking up at stars and talking to Him. I have no recollection of why other than it must have come from my mother. There have been times in my life when I felt lonely but never have I felt alone; there is a constant presence.

 

I often wonder if it wasn't because I was first born. The Bible defines special blessings for first born children. God says, "The first born of every womb is mine", "they belong to me". Parents are to dedicate their children to God (for His particular care throughout their lives) with special emphasis on first born. It's like offering the first of the flock for sacrifice, or tithe. With all God provides for us, this is all He asks - a small part. Jesus was "first born among many" and the supreme sacrifice. Samuel's mother, Hannah, gave her first born to become one of the greatest prophets to anoint the first God ordained king of Israel, David. I believe God has special work for "His" first born. I am not talking about favoritism, just singled out with a special purpose. Just a thought.

 

My brother, Jerry, was only eighteen months younger and we were as close as twins. I am ashamed to admit we left my poor sister, Karen, five years my junior, on her own other than torment from us. She did rebel with jealousy and "tattling" on our mischief. It is a wonder she survived the two of us or that she even grew up liking us. This serves as a testimony to her beautiful nature.

 

 

We were not to wander beyond our own yard after school unless on an errand to the corner grocery, so we became a tight family unit. Gradually, Mother distanced herself from her siblings - all but her favorite brother, who lived next door with his wife and six children. There were frequent visits from a sister who would come to cry on Mother's shoulder about her abusive husband. Early on, I do remember Thanksgiving and Christmas at our house with meals conducted in shifts so everyone got fed. There were lots of cousins, food, conversation and football games on the television. This stopped when it became too much for a single working mom to provide.

Childhood Memories

 

There were warm summer days, laying in the yard and watching tiny ants busy at their business. When I learned there were no two snowflakes or blades of grass alike, I took time to search them out. Reeds of grass were examined with great caution and snowflakes were caught on the tips of mittens to compare before melting into droplets.

 

> Among Native Americans, there are two times in life that a woman is considered a "changing woman". The first from child to woman, the second from woman to "silver hair". Mother entered the second change early in her life, her mid 30's, with great difficulty. There were terrible mood swings, depression and adjusting to her body's inner radiance. She often said she could understand why women used to be admitted to asylums during this time of their life. We thanked God those days were in the past.

 

> During one of her many moments of depression, she sat on the back stoop surrounded by her three adoring children, my brother's arm around her, as she sobbed uncontrollably. She was apologizing to us for not doing a better job as a mother. We had no idea what she was talking about.

 

> We were happy kids. We had no idea our lives might be different from others our age. We had food and clothes, went to school, argued with each other, played games, ran outside and managed to, occasionally, get into mischief. 

 

> Meanwhile, my paternal grandmother was a constant thorn in the side of Mother. From the day my parents were married, she never accepted mom as a suitable mother for "her" grandchildren. She always knew what was best for everyone. Never mind she made a shambles of her own life. An unhappy "know-it-all" with nothing better to do, she created a project for herself. 

 

> Unknown to us, she spent weeks taking us kids for "interviews" to meet various people she had chosen to adopt us. When Mother found out what she was doing, Grandmother was out of our lives. Devastated, she reluctantly accepted who was really in charge and was gradually allowed to visit with us, in her car, in the driveway. It was years before she entered the house again.

 

> In later years, I was in my teens, we had a particular falling out and I dismissed her to a minor role in my life. She eventually took her retired living to Florida where, we were told, she later died of cancer.

 

 

> "Flossy" (stage name) spent a career as a "vamp" singer (also called "torch") in night clubs. I remember watching her, at a very young age of four or five, dress and create her make-up with false nails, lashes, metal hair clips, shaved brows and sequened gowns. I used to listen to a vinyl record she made, over and over. Her voice was described as a cross between the great Sophie Tucker and Kate Smith. She once taught me a stage routine that I used in a school variety show, which made me the talk of the school year.

 

> To give her the credit she deserves, there were many years that would have been even more meager had it not been for her loving generosity. Those Christmas holidays would have been all but nonexistent, and she attended every one of our birthdays with a novelty cake she created and gifts of clothes and toys in an atmosphere of family celebration. The fly in this ointment is that she never let us forget who gave it and was always reminding us to thank her - again.

 

> During my grade school years, Grandma plied me with icons and literature of her Catholic religion. When I confided this to Mother, she advised,"Listen politely, then do what you want." She always said, "If you want Linda to do something, tell her not to." This was a truth that can not be denied. Grandma's pushing turned me away from following the religion of her choice, but was a great learning experience.

*  This "Book Blog" begins with my first posting on Dec. 30, if you would like to follow this story from it's beginning.  This biography is on going until the finish of the book.

Time to Grieve

 

I took a break for a week - or so - to grieve the sudden death of a very dear friend.  Her death was sudden:  We had had lunch just a couple weeks prior and I spoke to her two days before she went to hospital.  She told me she had been down with the flu. Not so.  The following is something I penned and posted to Facebook in her memory.  I do not grieve for her death but for my loss:

 

 

Heavenly Father, 

you are our Daddy God. We are your children, sitting on your lap with our arms around your neck. You hold us securely. Praise always to Your Holy Name.

A dear friend of mine is gone from my life; you will know her when she gets there. She knows you; we shared conversations with you many times. She is one of the last of her kind: a true lady with integrity and high standards for herself and those around her.

Nothing came before the love she had for her family and especially her grandchildren and great grandchildren. She lived an amazing life of service to family and children. She worked tirelessly for her community and never asked for recognition. There are so many words to describe her: sincere, adamant, stubborn, persistent, unforgiving, proud, kind, private, honest, determined, traditional, sweet, faithful, friend, steadfast, wise, educated and this amazing woman called me "friend" and I love her. 

 

 

We shared joys, sorrows, work, gossip, shopping, meals, prayer and something very special that has no description. Her close friends were few and she counted friendship to be a very rare and special relationship.

God was your only help if she perceived you as harmful to a child.

She was a bulldog when determined; never letting go.

I am blessed to have known this rare servant of yours; a warrior angel.

I know you will keep her safe in your arms and give her plenty of work to do; she really likes to shop for others.

Help all those who will miss her find comfort in the fact that she is safe with you, whole and happy.

All this in the precious name of our Lord and Savior, Jesus, The Christ.

Amen

Mother Struggled

Mother struggled:

to raise three children on tips and her less-than-minimum wage. At that time, a waitress salary was not required to be up to minimum pay standards because of monetary tips that came with the job. Unlike today when the gratuity is figured into your bill to assure you pay for services rendered - or not, which can encourage laziness and a disregard on the part of your "server". Mother took pride in hard work and a job well done. I am certain she was excellent at her profession.

> As a child, I frequently wrote to my father with never an answer. I would literally beg him to attend dance recitals and school functions. He never came. Memories flood back to mind of standing behind a stage curtain and peering out at the audience to scan the crowd for his face. I just swallowed the disappointment of a little girl seeking the attention of her adoring "daddy". That undefinable bond that develops between a father and daughter that can not be duplicated with any other man in her life time; that relationship that sets the standard for men for the rest of a woman's life. A certain yearning has remained with me for most of my adult life; a small empty place inside never filled. That special indescribable relationship between father and daughter never happened for me.

> Fathers everywhere should be made to understand the affect they have on their children. I never shared my deepest disappointments with anyone; just swallowed them down deep and struggled with controlling my growing need. 

 

Father

> Dance lessons and my first dream of "what do you want to be when you grow up?" (answer: a prima ballerina), died when my skills advanced beyond mother's income. Any advancement was out of the question. Mother couldn't drive, we did not have a car, no money for travel, costumes or advance training. This was another disappointment to be swallowed that God would replace with an obsession in a few years.

> A prominent childhood memory is searching the sofa many times to find hidden coins for a loaf of bread and some milk. There was always something to eat even if it was just soup beans and fatback. There was a time when Mother had surgery, then months recuperating and searching for a new job. She applied to the state for Aid To Dependent Children. This was before food stamps. Once each month, she would walk with a neighbor friend, pulling a little red wagon to the fairgrounds to pick up her commodities. She was so embarrassed that she would try to hide under a head scarf. That winter, the heat bill did not get paid and I don't know what we would have done without the ingenuity of Grandfather.

> Lest this story take on a morbid twist, let me state here we were never given to self-pity. Mother often explained that no matter how bad off it got, there was always someone in lesser circumstances. Besides, Grandfather always had a childhood story available of how he had it worse: trudging through three feet of snow, barefoot, for five miles uphill - both ways, into forty-mile-an-hour winds and drifts as high as barns, to the one-room schoolhouse with a coal stove for heat. When Grandfather finished talking, we thought we were rich.

 

*  This "Book Blog" begins with my first posting on Dec. 30, if you would like to follow this story from it's beginning.  This biography is on going until the finish of the book.