THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN

A number of the family members were math whizzes. My mother kept books for Uncle Rodger's business for many years, so was good at math as were others, but Uncle Cleo and Uncle Rodgers were the real whizzes. I always complained that others got all the math genes and left none for me. I was lousy at math but I think I had a mental block about it. I trudged through General Math but really enjoyed Algebra I and II; Algebra was like working a puzzle and I made good grades in it. I refused to take classes in higher mathematics, however. As soon as I left school, my biological computer clicked "delete" and Roy always had to help the children with their math homework. I could not work the simplest equation.

Uncle Rodgers graduated from University with a degree in Chemical Engineering, turned down all the lucrative offers from headhunters and founded a business. Starting off with one truck, trailer and a backhoe machine, he built his business into a multi-million dollar enterprise with fleets of trucks and heavy equipment machinery. Basically, he dug holes, trenches, ditches and any other kind of hole in the ground or earthwork that a business required, no matter how large or small. And as I said, he was a mathematics whiz.

When one of his sons started calculus class in high school, the teacher gave the students an "impossible" problem to play with, just as a mental exercise. Paxton was good at math but such an advanced problem was beyond his capabilities so he showed it to his father. Uncle Rodgers promptly solved the problem.

Paxton was a quiet boy , even laconic. When he turned the paper in to the teacher the next day, the teacher was amazed and flabbergasted and wanted to know who solved it. The teacher asked what kind of work his father did, no doubt expecting to hear that Uncle Rodgers was employed in some field involving higher mathematics.

Boy of few words, Paxton replied, "he's a ditch digger." The mental image of a man employed as a ditch digger did not fit a man who could solve such a difficult calculus problem. Paxton did not elaborate, leaving the teacher mystified.

That became a family joke and thereafter Uncle Rodgers was always referred to as a ditch digger. In high good humor, he adopted the designation and also referred to himself as a ditch digger. Probably many outsiders wondered how a ditch digger afforded such a fine large home and late model automobiles.

I seem to be on a memory lane trip about school days. Several family members were teachers. My elder sister, Joyce, taught music at the Conservatory and also taught private music students in her home. Perhaps that doesn't qualify as a school teacher. Joyce was musically gifted and could play virtually any instrument she picked up. I was a complete failure at playing music, although I could pick out (with one finger) by ear many tunes on the old piano.

My Uncle Cleo and Uncle Rodgers attended University at the same time, both graduating with Engineering degrees. Uncle Rodgers founded a business and became a multi-millionaire. Uncle Cleo opted to teach mathematics in high school and anyone who knows anything about our education system knows that he fell far short of becoming a millionaire. He sometimes joked that he wasn't even a "thousand-aire", but said he had other compensations. He loved math, he loved teaching, and derived great satisfaction from having young minds blossom under his tutelage.

He lived in a small town in a county of small towns, farms and ranches. Those students from his class that opted to attend the local yokel college in the county seat were so well versed in the subject that the college excused his students from taking the entrance exams in math. I discovered the high regard in which he was held in the community when I was looking for rental property for guests at a Family Reunion we held near the old farmstead. I was aware that my grandparents were held in high esteem and well remembered nearly twenty years later but didn't know that Uncle Cleo also enjoyed such an excellent reputation. When the people found out who I was and my purpose in seeking rental, they spoke highly of Uncle Cleo and asked if they could attend our reunion! The word spread and many of the locals showed up and spoke to the crowd about him and my grandparents.

Uncle Cleo had a rollicking sense of humor but was a strict taskmaster. He had little patience for tomfoolery and none for shirking one's responsibilities. He was both liked and feared by most of his students as well as the younger family members. Few were the youngsters that dared prank him, but a couple of my cousins tried it.
Two actually did it and got away with it. He is nearly 90 now and when I asked cousin Arlie if he would now confess regarding who put the 6' chicken snake in Uncle Cleo's tool box, he declined, saying , "Nope. He's still alive, ain't he?" He still was not prepared to face Uncle Cleo's displeasure.

Uncle Cleo demanded the best of which they were capable from his students. He told of one student who had great potential but was a slacker and an all around "bad boy", always in trouble about the town and school. He gave no slack to the boy, made him stay after school for extra tutoring and in general rode him hard. Word got back to him how much the boy disliked him, even hated him, and had uttered threats of retaliation. In spite of the boy's rebellion and lack of cooperation, he passed with good grades, thanks to Uncle Cleo's determination that the boy would learn.

Years later Uncle Cleo retired to a small farm in another rural area. One day as he walked down the street of a small town near his farm, he espied that rebellious trouble maker coming to meet him on the sidewalk. No longer a gawky teenager, the boy was now a robust man. Uncle Cleo had not seen nor heard of the boy since graduation but he remembered how much the boy disliked him and the threats he had made. He debated with himself about the prudence of quickly turning aside and entering a store, but continued on his way, not knowing if he was in for a thrashing.

As the boy-now-man neared Uncle Cleo, he called out to him, "Mr. Estes!" and sped up to meet him. He shook Uncle Cleo's hand vigorously instead of beating him up. He recounted his life since leaving school, the good job he had, his successes, and the family he had established. And thanked Uncle Cleo for "riding my ass" and seeing to it that he learned his math, the knowledge of which had helped him get the good job he had. He attributed his success to Uncle Cleo for laying the groundwork for him to straighten out his life, teaching him high standards and responsibility as well as mathematics.

Uncle Cleo was pleased not to get a beating, but greatly gratified to hear the success story. Although I am sure that there were many other success stories from his former students of which he was unaware, he said that one boy's success in life made all the hard years worthwhile. A scoundrelly little punk had become a responsible, contributing member of society. It made his day.

Teaching is indeed all too often apparently a thankless job. Students go their way in life and by the time they mature sufficiently to realize how much they owe their former teachers, it is too late to find them, like me and Mrs. Oglesby and her Music Appreciation class. I am so glad for Uncle Cleo's sake that he encountered his former student and received some thanks and praise for his efforts. He deserved it.

Things we read or hear about, even odors and music, trigger memories. The post below reminded me of other school experiences.

I was a quiet child in school, although an active tomboy at home, and was in trouble at school only twice in my student days. Once was at the beginning of a school year, we had a new teacher and text books had been issued. Books, my downfall.

Apparently the teachers had had a conference and discussed ways and means of maintaining class room discipline. Back then, maintaining discipline was not the problem it is today in most schools. A stern look or call to order, or the very worst fate, being Sent To The Office! was enough to quell the rowdiest child. It was unthinkable to create a disturbance in the class room or to disrespect a teacher. Being sent to the Principal was the Fate Worse than Death! Sometimes boys received swats from the Principal or Coach, although only for severe infractions of the rules, but girls never received swats. Punishment was rarely needed for any student.

On that first day of school when I got in trouble the teacher informed us of proposed punishment for misbehavior. Said punishment was to take the "easy seat" in view of the entire class. To take the easy seat was to assume a sitting position but unsupported by anything to sit on. We were allowed to brace our backs against the wall while our bottoms were suspended in mid air , our knees bent and feet on the floor. It sounds easy enough but difficult and eventually painful after prolonged "sitting" .

We changed class rooms and had different teachers for each subject but the various text books were delivered to us in Home Room, where I was when I was punished. Some students cast baleful looks at the stack of books piled on their desks but my reaction was one of happy anticipation. Science! (wonderful!), History (oh joy!)!, Social Studies (anh, so-so), General Math (Ugh!), English Literature(Heaven!!), Health (OK), and so on. As the teacher droned on with her instructions and welcome speech, I couldn't resist idly flipping pages in the books. Surely enough, a piece of text caught my eye and I began to read, glancing up at the teacher from time to time. In no time I became completely absorbed in what I was reading. All else faded from consciousness.

I was rudely brought back to reality by the accusing voice of the teacher. After verbally chastising me for reading instead of paying attention to her, she ordered me to the front of the room to take the easy seat as punishment for my inattention and for reading. As I precariously balanced myself in such an unaccustomed position I was humilated beyond measure for being punished in that manner and doubly so as the other students gawked, some snickered, and some even stood up in their seats to gain a better look at the offender.

I have no idea how long I was required to remain there but it was long enough that my legs began to ache, then tremble, and my back muscles were like fire. When the teacher finally allowed me to return to my seat I had difficulty standing and walking. Later in life I realized that she chose to make an example of me. I also realized that she was correct to regain my attention and take me to task for my inattention, but I felt that she should not have punished me for my eagerness to get into the textbooks. A child's love of reading and interest in text books should be encouraged; she should have pointed out that the timing was inappropriate, scolded me for inattention but not for reading, and should not have punished me for that. Needless to say, I did not touch a text book again in school until I was in the class room for each subject. I reserved my reading for Study Hall or home. Fortunately, my love of books and of reading was so intense that I was not off-put from reading.

Later in the year and in another class room, a different teacher caught a class mate, Nellie Ruth, chewing gum and ordered her to take the easy seat. The teacher must have forgotten Nellie, a timid child and not prone to make an outcry, for she left the child in that position for the duration of the class. Her attention was directed to Nellie only when the child collapsed to the floor, sobbing in pain. At first the teacher tried to make Nellie stand but became concerned when Nellie floundered and could not get to her feet. The teacher half carried the weeping Nellie out of the room, on the way to the nurse's office. Nellie did not return to any of the classes for the rest of the day and there was no more easy seat punishment.

Sometimes a punishment sounds good in theory but is not good in practise. I wondered if any of the teachers had tried taking the easy seat themselves in order to determine its effect, how long a time constituted punishment before becoming torture.

On January 14, 2007 The Future Was Yesterday posted "A Love Affair That Never Ended". It is a great post and it brought back memories of my early school days. Not that I ever secreted comic books inside a text book; I never even saw a comic book in my early years. FWY told of falling in love with books and reading.

I carried on a life long love affair with books. Like many aged lovers, the desire is there but performance is weak. I love books, love to read but dimming and weary old eyes limit my pleasures with the beloveds.

I cannot recall when I learned to read nor when I fell in love with books but it had to have been in my first or second year of school. I attended school in a little clapboard country school that had no library. Twice a month the county library sent a Bookmobile out to the hinterlands and it would call at our school. To the uninitiate, a Bookmobile was a large bus-like vehicle with a center aisle and each side was lined floor to ceiling with books. You were allowed to check out two to four books just as in a regular library. I remember the odor inside the bus, the odor of books, and it was sweet perfume to me, the scent of adventure and excitement and fascinating tales.

I skipped the second grade and went from first to third, so I was about 6 or 7 years old when I began the love affair. One of my best loved books was the story of Little Black Sambo. I had never seen a black person but I understood there were such people in a land called Africa. I admired Sambo tremendously and thought he was the smartest and bravest little boy in the world to outsmart the tiger as he did.

In later years when African-American activists kicked up a hullaballoo and got Little Black Sambo removed from library shelves, I was furious. I loved the little book, and the favorable picture it presented of the black boy helped shield me from biased input later in life. But the activists howled that it was denigrating - how I cannot imagine; some said the name "Sambo" was a stereotype. So what? It was a name given to many blacks of that era and no more insulting than Rastus or Jane or Jemima. I think the activists were flexing their muscles and enjoying their new found power.

The few books I was allowed to check out each visit were devoured in a day or two and then it was an eternity of fasting until the glorious old bus would come again, growling and complaining and belching blue exhaust fumes. Then would come the agony of choosing. So many wonders; how could one possibly take this and not that? Too soon the teacher and driver would be urging me to hurry, other children were waiting or it was time the driver had to leave. A last minute, hurried choice and I could bear the treasures to the schoolroom. And oh, the unbearable wait, the impatience for school to be out so that I could open the books and begin to read!

Mother maintained a home library as well as the library at Church, but those books were too mature for a small child. It was many years later before I could savor and appreciate "The Life and Works of Josephus".

It wasn't necessary for a teacher to introduce me to the world of books, but it was a school teacher that opened the world of music to me. Prior to Mrs. Oglesby's music class my only experience with music was church hymns and the country-western and popular music of the era. I purchased a small radio and a wind up Victrola and 78s with baby sitting money. I could listen to them if Mother was gone and if I didn't allow "that noise" to disturb my father. Mrs. Oglesby introduced me to classical music and I was in love again. One day she brought more of the heavy, thick albums and opened another door to heaven; it was opera. I had never in my life heard such soaring voices, so tempestuous, so dramatic. I was in love all over agin.

I was not then nor now a fickle lover. I did not love 'em and leave 'em; I loved them all dearly. To this day I like country and western, ballads and folk, contemporary, classical and opera. I even like (a little) heavy metal and other types that make parents scream "turn that (bleeping bleep) off!!" I like much of the foreign music of other lands. I do not like rap; I find it monotonous and often the lyrics are offensive.

[Don't I wish I still had that old wind-up Victrola now!! I do still possess some old 78s, including some huge, multi-record classical albums. I wish I could find a collector who would appreciate them. I know that when I die they will go in the trash or a rummage sale . These old records appeal only to a select market.]

Mrs. Oglesby was a tall, greying, rather stout woman in my 6th grade of school, so I know that she is long dead now. I have often wished I could have found her and told her how much I appreciated her. By the time I matured enough to realize what a debt of gratitude I owed her, she was retired and long gone from the school district. I think she would have liked to know. All too often teaching is a thankless job and teachers seldom know the end results of their efforts.

I began and opened this blog to the public in response to reader requests to know more about me. I am a very private person and it was difficult for me to expose my life and self to the public, but I tried.

I installed sitemeter on most of my blogs and when perusing the list , information and location of visitors I found that there were many more lurkers than I expected. To open my life to friends is one thing; to open it to strangers is quite another.

I am friendly and hospitable to my friends and my policy towards them has always been "Mi casa es su casa" - my house is yours, and many of my friends were included in the family circle as family members. However, to open my life to strangers is like leaving the door open to my home for any stranger and passer-by to wander through at will. I cannot tolerate that.

Therefore, this blog is now closed to the general public except by invitation. Personal posts are kept on draft and even those will be limited.

Labels: Notice to visitors

The next two posts are about nudity. This one is about a different kind of nudity. After hiding behind anonimity for so long, I feel naked and exposed by opening a personal blog to the public.

I don't really know where to begin so I opened with a little history of myself, identified my offspring (some of them; the posts are still under construction as are those about antecedents), tossed in a couple of Christmas cross- posts, and a post about one of my days. I have a toe in the water, maybe will soon get my feet wet, and eventually take the plunge. It is hard for a very private person to go public. Those (few) reader/emailers et al who have asked me about my self had better appreciate my effort and read the blasted thing! I have sitemeter so will know if anyone visited.

Cheers....Old Woman

Labels: feeling exposed - open blog

The Family is in an uproar. Elder Sister went to visit Mother at the nursing home and found her strapped in her wheelchair totally nude except for her diaper! All of her clothing had been stolen and the male nurse who usually attends her had simply diapered her and left her nude otherwise. Nursing homes do keep patient gowns or robes as a rule, even paper disposable ones, and there was no excuse to leave an old lady exposed to the world in that condition. He could have at least left her abed and called my sister to bring more clothing.

We are outraged! Mother is a very modest woman and if she was in her right mind would have been shamed to tears. Just because a person isn't mentally alert is no reson to rob them of their dignity. Even the elderly and mentally impaired deserve respect.

Elder Sister and Younger Sister scheduled an appointment with Mother's representative and also an all out assault on the administrator of the nursing home, roasting his ears about such treatment of our mother and demanding that the staff search for her stolen clothing. Many residents of nursing homes have mental handicaps and theft is common, but the staff must keep up with such incidents. They certainly do not just leave the patient naked!

Labels: mother - naked

January 2007
I fell again yesterday. It was both unfortunate and fortunate that Jeannie was spending a few days with me. Unfortunate because I don't want the girls to know about the falls, and yet fortunate because Jeannie was here to help me up.

The diabetes has caused neuropathy in my feet so sensations of touch are impaired. I was about to get in the shower and the floor felt unusually cold. Unable to determine if the tiles were merely cold or if they were wet, I bent over to feel of them with my hands. Wet tiles are a safety hazard, especially for old people. When I bent over, a wave of dizziness made me lose my balance. I strove to spring upright again, to no avail. I fell like sack of wet cement.

I wasn't injured, just a skinned knee and elbow, but wallowing around stark naked on the floor like a beached whale is an unenvious position to find oneself. All efforts to get up by myself were fruitless. Jeannie was out on an errand so I considered my options. The emergency call button cord was near at hand as well as the telephone on the lavatory cabinet. I could pull emergency for management and have them send up a maintenance man to hoist me up, or I could call 911 for the paramedics. Imagining either scenario with me lying nude on the floor was unacceptible. I wasn't sure the men could recover from being exposed to such a view. Or I could wait for Jeannie to return and have her assist me. Regardless, I didn't want her to experience the view either.

I managed to yank my mumu down from its hook and struggled into it. At least my modesty was preserved and any assistant who came to my aid would be spared the sight of a beached whale on the bathroom floor. Now and then I would resume my efforts to arise, only to fail. Drat!! I wasn't hurt but the force of the fall had jarred my ancestors back about 3 generations and I felt weak and woozy.

Eventually I heard Jeannie come in and go to the computer in my bedroom. When I called her she had a fit to find me on the floor. Jeannie is a petite 5' tall and her left arm is impaired due to an old injury. Getting me hoisted to my feet was an extreme effort on her part and mine, but eventually we prevailed. Once up, I sat on the commode for a bit to get my wits together before she could escort me to my rocking chair. In a little while I was fine and suffered no ill effects except a sore knee and elbow.

This dizziness upon bending over is a new developement and a confounded nuisance. It is not uncommon for me to lose my balance (and I have fallen before) but the dizziness is. It is disconcerting to have the universe go tilt and whirl around madly. Maintaining equilibrium is impossible. Ka-thunk! There I go!! Getting up is difficult. Once when I fell off a ladder I had to crawl around trying various means to hoist myself erect. Finally crawled to my rocking chair, put one hand on the coffee table and one on the chair arm and managed to raise a hip to the chair seat. After that it was merely a matter of squirming around until I was seated properly. The fall from the ladder was an interesting experience in space flight but one I concluded I should not repeat. I no longer climb ladders.

I have been fortunate so far in failing to sustain injury when falling. Aside from fear of breaking a hip or damaging another important body part, my greatest fear is that my children will decide that I am no longer safe to live alone and will force me to move in with one of them. Old people like to maintain their independence and their own little nest. I am fiercely independent and it torques my jaws to have to bug them for transportation; I certainly do not want to have to move in with one. Pity the one so elected! Besides, I'd have only a bedroom at their house so would have to give up most of what possessions I have left. I like my "stuff" and want to keep it. It gives me pleasure and comfort.

Getting old is a bummer. But as I have said many times before, the alternative is not desirable at this time.

Labels: falling - old age

When Husband Dear abandoned me for his new "family" and cut off my spousal support, I was unable to maintain my home so sold it and moved into an apartment complex for the elderly and handicapped. I was extremely grieved to give up my home and after nine years I still miss it very badly. However, common sense and reason tells me that this was the best solution. I rattled around in that large 4 bedroom home like a dried pea in a bucket; I could not afford the maintenance and upkeep of it nor could I maintain the grounds. My once lovely yards and flower beds became unkept and certainly no longer were fit for the beautiful garden weddings we once held there.

Moving from the large home into this tiny one bedroom apartment meant that I had to give up most of my pessessions. This entire apartment is not much larger than the living room at my home. I had accumulated quite a collection of objets d'art and souvenirs from our travels, a huge library of books and videos, and other collections of interest to me. Visitors often exclaimed that my home was like a museum. The majority of these things had to be disposed of as there was no room for them here. That, too, was a painful thing to do.

I gave most of my Grandmother's antiques and others to my children. They would have inherited them anyway when I died so they may as well have them ahead of time. Grandmother's huge dining table, circa 1800s would have taken all the dining space here with no room to pass between it and the breakfast bar, far less have space for the buffet and hutch. I retained the small 1920s breakfast table and 2 chairs and even it crowds the space. I left the modern 9'x9' sectional sofa for the buyers of my home. If I had kept it, there would have been no room for anything else in this living room except for the hand carved coffee table Husband shipped to me from Bali. A love seat suffices here.

What I saved for this apartment are small items representing my collections and interests. My extensive collection of dolls and porcelain masks is pared down to a few favorites. Choosing between which books and videos to save and which to eliminate was a desperate series of choices. The save/eliminate piles were sorted, revised and sorted again and again. After 9 years I still go the the bookshelves and hidey-holes to search for a book that I sadly realize did not make the save pile. My saved videos are primarily documentaries that I use like encyclopedias to research information or re-watch for pleasure. One closet here is reserved for shelves of videos. Two 7' bookshelves hold books and other books are secreted underneath the skirts of bedside tables, as well as tucked in other places.

Only a few geological specimens and exotic sea shells made the cut. Objets d'art are few, sacrificed to make room for family photos. Likewise my own artistic creations: a few award winning ceramics and a few sculptures. Wall pictures are limited due to lack of space. 3 African prints, the signed and numbered Henri Matisse seriograph, a Gustave Moreau print from his museum in Paris, a few paintings by Professor Bob, a Van Gogh print of Starry Night (my favorite), several pieces of wall art, and my pride and joy, two creations by grandson Chris. One is his interpretation of Van Gogh's Starry night and a Picasso-like color drawing.

When I first moved in here I envisioned a completely different life style than what it proved to be. I brought some of my good china , crystal stemware and silver for fine dining, lovely luncheon dishes, delicate bone china coffee and tea services, and other items for gracious living. The first time I invited some ladies in for a coffee, they stared at the coffee service as if rattlensakes had been placed before them. Another guest, who was a beer drinker, had been served with a crystal pilsner glass; she stared at it for a moment then jumped up and left the apartment, only to return with a Tupperware glass into which she poured the beer. I was utterly flabbergasted. Repeated efforts proved to be more of the same. To avoid making guests uncomfortable, I stopped using my things and reverted to paper and plastic. Last year I emptied the china cabinet and gave all the items to my girls. Eight years of taking up space and being unused was enough. I store something else in the cabinet now.

I kept a few of the bone china coffee and tea cups that I bought in England and which I admired very much. Sometimes I use a set myself, sipping coffee or tea and remembering old times. I love the sensuous feel and touch of bone china and heavy silver spoons. I use neither sugar nor cream in coffee or tea but I stir a bit simply because I enjoy the feel of the spoons. I saved back 2 of the balloon glasses, not that I drink alcohol, but they are lovely to use with layered desserts.

There are times when I resent the loss of my home and my way of life, especially the huge family get-togethers, and I have to take myself in hand to quell an uprising of bitterness. I must remain positive and accept the changes in good humor. I do not want to be an lonely, embittered old woman. A certain degree of lonliness is inevitable for one accustomed to being surrounded by friends and family, but I cope by keeping busy with interests here. Sheba the Cat and I do all right. I fulfill my maternal role by always being here as a sympathetic ear when the girls call to vent and bewail their troubles, and with occasional visits with the little ones. One small great grand informed her mother that Grandmas were meant to spoil the children. I suppose she is right. Grandmas usually do.

My extended family is far too large to even go into on a post. They are more than a Horde; they are a veritable army.

My immediate (biological) family consists of 6 children, 15 grandchildren, and 24 great grandchildren (and more on the way). This does not count the "adopted by love" families who I call my children, grands, etc. My born-to-me children are E.M. "the Wild Child", Dorothy "Buttons", Walter "Bubba", Joanna "Jo" or "Nonnie", and Terry Lee (who would disown me if I posted his nickname here).

Jeannie has a dual role. She is my biological grand daughter but I legally adopted her when she was 5 years old, which makes her my daughter. This family situation is very confusing to outsiders. I am her biological grandmother but her legal mother. Her biological mother is her legal aunt. Her biological aunts and uncles are her legal brothers and sisters, and her biological siblings are her legal nieces and nephews.

Photographs of my children are posted below but the posts are incomplete. They are a work in progress and will be added to later.

Labels: My family

Cross posted from Is America Burning


Three year old Donovan. Can anything be more boring for a 3 year old than having to endure a wedding, dressed in a tuxedo? His face , posture and hands in pockets reflect his opinion of his ordeal.
Three year old Donovan and his beloved Nana.

Labels: Donovan - Christmas 2006

A Christmas Tale
My daughter, Jo, has 4 small grandchildren who firmly believe in the existence of Santa Claus and all the attendant tales about him. One Christmas Eve the four were wildly excited , each feeding from the energy of the others until they could not contain themselves. All parental and grandparental efforts failed to get the little ones settled down to sleep.

My son, Terry, lives with Jo and Lloyd, and Terry happened to have a complete Santa Claus suit. He donned the costume, made a makeshift toy bag of a sheet gathered at the 4 corners and twisted around. He filled the bag with pillows and boxes to give it bulk and slipped out the side door. Jo parted the drapes and opened a window, at which signal Terry gave a hearty, "Ho! Ho! Ho!" Shocked into silence, the little ones gasped with indrawn breath, their eyes round and wide, and immediately stampeded to the window to look out.

On the moonlit lawn they saw Santa turn away and begin walking down the driveway toward the street."He's leaving! He's leaving!" the little ones wailed in anguish. As one they rushed to their beds, pleading with their grandmother to ask Santa to come back. "See, tell him we're in bed! We're asleep! Tell him, Grandma!" They drew the covers up to their chins, and as as they continued their pleas, covered up their heads. "Tell him we're asleep. Tell him to come back!" Grandma promised to see what she could do but they had to be alseep before Santa would come.Not a single whisper nor giggle emanated from the rooms and soon the children were truly sound asleep.

The next morning Josh arose first, yawning and rubbing his eyes as he staggered sleepily down the hall to the family room. When he beheld the mountain of gifts and the shiny bicycles around the tree, he was instantly wide awake and shouted, "He DID come back! Santa did come back!" and ran to awaken his sister and cousins.Ofcourse the usual pandemonium ensued.

The children were even more convinced of the reality of Santa Claus and solemnly advised their playmates to always be in bed at bedtime on Christmas Eve, or Santa would leave. Grandma Jo was a hero for talking Santa into giving them a second chance. As children grow up it is rather sad to see them lose that innocent faith. I think the adults enjoy it as much as the children do.
#PermanentLink posted by Worried @ 12/26/2006 02:38:00 AM 6 people speaking out - links to this post

Cross posted from

Is America Burning

The excitement of the Christmas Tree Farm and choosing a tree for Grandma and Grandpa Terry' home.

Three of the four Terry "miniatures" and a small friend help choose a tree, supervise the cutting of it, and help carry it to the truck.

Labels: Jo's grandchildren - Christmas 2006

// posted byWorried American @ 1/07/2007 02:09:00 PM 0 comments links to this post

It is not necessary for a child to be born to you in order to love it, else adopted children would never be loved.

It is not necessary for adoption to be a legal process in order to love a child; one may be adopted through love, not law.

It is not necessary for a child to be a minor in order to be loved. An adult child is equally loved and an adult child may be adopted by love also. To persons of a certain age, any adult of a similar age as her offspring is a child.

Children of all ages are meant to be loved, regardless of their maturation level.

Love just is.

The lower posts of rogue's gallery are incomplete . Some of my children have not yet been posted. Additions will be made when photos are loaded into computer. Some posts are held on draft at present.

I post my children because 1). I like to see their photos. and 2). so any readers can know of whom I am speaking when I mention them, if they want to. I have spoken of The Wild Child and of Jo more than any of the others. Now I may speak of others now and then.

These are the children born to me. There are others who I claim as mine but are actually of no relation. It would take up too much room to post on each of them.

As I get photos downloaded to the computer, I will add photos of each one's offspring, my grands and great grands.

Labels: My family

save Terry

Labels: Terry Lee

save Joanna

Labels: Joanna and Lloyd

..........................................Walter, first born son............................................................Walter "Bubba" and spouse, Cherie, his 3rd spouse................

Labels: Walter and Cherie

[Work in progress. additions later]...............................................Dorothy..................................................................
...........Dottie, "Buttons and Bows" and husband C.G., "Seege Frog"....... C.G. is a retired Junior Captain of the Fire Department. Dot is a retired book keeper.

Labels: Dottie and C.G.

Work in progress; additions to be made later.

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My third ( last) husband, now my ex , the "wife-in-law" and children

When husband, Roy, worked overseas he was usually gone for 11 months, back state side 3 weeks, then back overseas again. He found 11 months to be a long, lonely time so always took a "comfort woman" to provide all the comforts of home, and I do mean all. To have a live-in woman eliminated the problem of failing to "get lucky" when trolling for a night's companion. On his second tour of duty in Indonesia, he found his house maid to be amenable to such an arrangement . She was pregnant by another expatriate but he didn't mind. When the child was born, Roy named him Terry, his favorite name for a boy and the same name he had given our son. The child was also given Roy's surname, which made the two boys bear the exact same name. At the time, Roy thought no one at home would know and that there would be no conflict. His usual habit was to abandon the woman when his tour of duty was completed. However, the following year his daughter was born to the woman and his duty tour continued long enough that he bonded closely with Sela. He could not bear to abandon the little girl. For nealy ten years he kept me dangling, always promising to return home but never doing so, unable to make a decision, and kept Wijianti living in fear that he would abandon her and the 2 children. Finally I settled it by telling him to come home, I would give him a divorce, he should then marry the woman and take responsibility for the children. So that is what he did, relieved to have the decision made for him. He purchased a 3 bedroom home on 3 wooded acres near my daughter Jo and son Terry Lee and brought his new family to Texas. Wijianti is only 3 years older than our eldest grandchild; the children are younger than our grandchildren. He and I maintain a distant but amiable relationship. We have mutual children and grands and family situations. Roy's new family: rear: Roy, and Terry (not MY Terry; child was sired by another expatriate but Roy named him his favorite name); front: Wejianti and Roy's daughter, Sela.
Roy with pet bird. Sela in background.
Lloyd and ex-son-in-law cutting firewood for the fireplace at Roy's home. Roy in orange cap.

Labels: Roy and new family

work in progress: additions will be made laterEthel Caroline Estes Wheeler - age 96 1/2 - 2006 (turned 97 in July) She had cut her hair and had it permed the previous year, the first time she had cut it since I was a child. It had hung to her hips and she wore it in a braided coronet around her head.
3 year old Llacie, Jo's grand daughter, attends her great-great Grandmother Wheeler by leading her to a chair. "She said, "I'll help you Grandma. I'll take care of you." Little Lloyd watches apprehensively.
Little Loyd, Jo's grandson, gives his great-great Grandmother Wheeler a hug

Labels: Mother at 96

The Matriarch and Patriarch of the Estes Clan - photos taken during their young married years. Grandmother always dressed to the nines and wore stylish hats of the day. She was always a lady...............................................................Mittie Rodgers Estes.........................
...............................................................Charlie Eathel Estes.................................. ..
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.Part of the Thundering Horde of that era. I do not know the names and relation of these children, other than that they were family. The family was as prolific as a bunch of rabbits. Grandmother and Grandfather Estes had 9 living children, one dead at birth and Grandmother suffered numerous miscarriages. I believe the little girl sitting on the front fender is my mother.
The automobile upon which the children are sitting was very modern in its day. How I wish it was still in the family now!! One of my paternal Wheeler cousins belongs to an Antique Automobile Club and he restores old cars like this one. One of his projects was a car shaped like a carriage and had lanterns affixed to the front. He kept its parts and frame in a spare bedroom; he took no chances for theft or damage to it.

Labels: Mittie and Charlie Estes

I was born in the rural area of a Texas Gulf Coast city to a large, closely knit extended family. Ours was a typical melting pot American family with Italian, American Indian, English, German, Scotch-Irish, and French ancestries. We trace our ancestry primarily through my maternal grandfather's Italian lineage that is the family patronymic and which has the most complete genealogical records dating back to Roman times. The family name is traced back that far; provenance of our family line dates back to the 1300s. The family genealogists have had varied and limited success in tracing other ancestors.

The family was fortunate to live on a farm during the Depression and during those hard times, many family members returned to the farm to survive. I learned a good lesson: the land will always feed you (excluding droughts). We had crops of foodstuffs , meat animals for slaughter , chickens and other fowl for eggs and meat , dairy cows for milk and butter , and wild plants , herbs , and animals for hunting. The women folk canned huge amounts of food in glass jars; later cans became available , mother purchased cans, lids and a sealer and some foodstuff was canned in cans instead of jars, although jars were the favored method of canning. Mother and Grandma even canned extra milk. Some meats were canned.

Meats , especially pork , such as hams and sausage links, were smoked in the smokehouse. They had apparatuses with which to inject a salt solution along the hambones , and a machine with which to fill the sausage casings with the sausage mixture. Image of a sausage stuffing machine below right, next to cream separator; sausage mixture was placed in the top, a casing was fitted over the spout, and as the handle was turned the sausage meat was forced into the casing. Some beef was dried and smoked. Most meat animals could be processed at any time. Pigs and hogs were slaughtered only when there was a cold snap and the pork could be kept cold and processed quickly. We had no means of real refrigeration. 50 pound blocks of ice could be purchased in the city , transported wrapped in canvas and kept in an Icebox. It was a rare treat, however.

I escaped most of the intensive labor involved in the preservation of food but still participated in some of the prep work. The work was very labor intensive and canning was hot, steamy work. I shelled so many bushels of peas, snapped so many bushels of green beans that to this day I dislike doing it. I also helped in prepping tomatoes and still do not like that either. Processing tomatoes consisted of holding a tomato on a fork, dipping it in scalding water that loosened the skins, then slipping the skins off before the tomato cooled. That left a nice, whole tomato neatly skinned .....and burning fingers.

When the cows were milked, the milk had to be strained through cheesecloth and set in a cool place until the cream rose to the top. Milk does not come from the cows nicely homogenized nor butter in nice blocks. The cream was then carefully skimmed from the top of the milk and churned. Later, a cream separator was purchased, which separated the cream from the milk. Image on left of photo, blue base. Milk was poured into the large metal bowl on top; turning the handle lower on the side forced the lighter cream to be forced to the top and out the upper spout and milk out the lower spout.


Our early churns were wooden barrel like containers with a hole in the lid to accommodate a handle. The handle had a cross piece affixed to the bottom. Churning required that the handle be plunged up and down rather rapidly for an eternity until the cream separated from the whey into clumps of butter. Butter then was washed clear of residual whey and either packed into a butter mold to form blocks, or simply spooned into bowls. Churning was usually a child's chore and I did plenty of it. Later we obtained a modern method of churning. A large pot bellied glass jug had a lid with holding handle, gears, and a turning handle affixed to a rotating set of paddles similar to an egg beater. Then you turned that handle for an eternity until the butter separated from the whey. Sometimes Mother or Grandmother would use some of the skim milk to make cottage cheese; the completed ingredients were then poured into a cheesecloth bag and hung to allow the whey to drip from it until it was a more solid lump.



Laundry day illustration from the internet. Wash water was heated over a bonfire in a large cast iron kettle, image lower left. Rinse water in tubs was placed on a bench, image lower right. Clothing was scrubbed on a scrub board, image upper left. Washed, rinsed and wrung out clothing was then hung on a clothesline, image upper right.


Laundry day was an all day ordeal for the women. Soap bars had been made previously, which was another ordeal. Lye was made by pouring water through a barrel of wood ashes to leach out the chemicals. Lye is extremely caustic. The lye was then mixed with rendered pig fat , poured into a flat container, and when set solidly, cut into bars. (the pig fat was made by boiling the solid fat until the "grease" rose to the surface and was skimmed off. Clumps of fried fat were called Cracklings and used elsewhere.) Commercial soap bars were too expensive to be used in laundry so were reserved for baths. You do not want to bathe with lye soap.

Illustration from internet: Making lye. A barrell was filed with clean wood ashes. Water was poured in the top and allowed to percoate down through the ashes. The resultant liquid that poured from the spout was lye water, very caustic, but when mixed with pig grease made soap.


We had large, cast iron kettles set over a bonfire and which were laboriously filled per buckets of water carried from the well pump. Water weighs about 8 pounds per gallon, so each 5 gallon bucket weighed about 40 pounds; toting a number of those became quite a chore.

It took many buckets full of water to fill the kettle and washtubs. Buckets like these were also used for milking the cows but kept separate from water buckets.

#3 washtubs were large enough for children and women to bathe in. Even the men did with their knees bent over the rims and their legs hanging outside. However, men often bathed standing up, pouring the bath water over themselves in an impromtu shower bath.

The lye soap was shaved into the kettles and melted as the water heated. Clothing was washed and rinsed in strict order. Whites first, then nice colored clothes, then everyday colored clothes, and the men's work clothing last. Items were lifted from the kettles with a "punching stick" and the steaming hot cloths placed on a rub board (also called a scrub board). The clothing, sheets, etc. were then rubbed by hand against the corregated surface of the rub board to remove any soiled spots , burning your hands in the process with both heat and lye.

A scrub board. The center metal surface was corrugated and clothes were rubbed against the corrugations to remove soil and stains. There was an art to proper scrubbing to avoid rubbing the skin off your knuckles. You pushed the clothing against the corrugations with the heel of your hand, not the knuckles.

Three or four #3 washtubs were set upon a bench in which to rinse the clothes; these tubs were also hand filled with buckets of water. As the laundry progressed and the water got soapy, these tubs had to be emptied and refilled with fresh, clean water. The hot items were lifted from the rub board, wrung free of the soapy water and dumped into the first rinse water, hand wrung and placed into the next water tub. Grandmother's whites had to be snowy and the last rinse for them contained a product called bluing. Clotheslines were strung from poles set into the ground and the finished wet items, wrung of all water as possible, were hung from the clothes lines with clothespins. Rags and men's overalls were spread out atop bushes to dry.

There was no wash-and-wear in those days so certain items had to be starched and ironed. All dress clothes must be starched as well as the counterpanes for the beds. Counterpanes were the equivalent of bed spreads and Grandmother kept hers snowy white , starched and ironed. Grandmother was a lady and even though married to a farmer and Depression-poor, she insisted on maintaining standards. She made her counterpanes from yard goods of unbleached muslim, which she then bleached to her satisfaction. She embroideried lovely designs on them and completed them with crocheted or tatted "lace" borders. Starched and ironed and spread on the made beds, they were untouchables. No one dared to sit on a bed and wrinkle them. At night they were carefully folded or rolled and put up until morning.

Ironing was another laborious chore. Wood had to be brought in to stoke a fire in the old cast iron stove. Cast iron flat irons were heated on the stove, tested for the correct temperature by a quick touch with a wet finger, then the item was smoothed with the hot iron. As it cooled it was replaced with another hot iron from the stove. Think about ironing a counterpane without wrinkling it in any manner, an expanse of cloth as large as a bedspread spread across an ironing board. Prior to ironing, all the starched items had to be dampened by sprinkling and rolled in towels to prevent them from drying out. Ironing was an all day chore also, considering how many people were in residence and the number of clothes that had to meet Grandma's standards of proper dress.


Similar cast iron cook stove at the CC farm. Wood was burned in the firebox which heated the burners on which food was cooked and irons heated as well as heating the oven. It now amazes me that mother and grandmother could gauge exactly how hot the oven was by opening the door and placing their hand inside the oven. They knew whether or not to add a stick of kindling wood to the fire for more heat or to shovel out some of the coals to reduce the heat. They baked bread, cakes, cookies, and meats to a nicety without thermostats or automatic stoves. They cooked huge meals on the old stove, then heated dishwater and bath water on it.

Ofcourse first of all the men had to go to the woods, chop down trees, haul the trunk and limbs to the homeplace, cut the wood into proper lengths for its intended usage before fires could be built. The old cookstove also served as heat in the winter when we children would take our baths in one of the #3 washtubs. During the summer we often bathed in the tubs underneath a tree outdoors.

Life was a hard round of labor for everyone. The men tended the livestock, did the milking, worked the fields planting and harvesting, supervised the laborers working in the cash crop fields, like cotton, weighed and hauled it to market, slaughtered and processed meat animals, baled hay, and did all maintenance and repair around the farm.

Cotton pickers. When the cotton bolls opened, revealing the tufts of cotton, it had to be plucked and put in a canvas sack. When the sack was full it was dragged to the cotton wagon, weighed and then emptied into the wagon. Hands were paid for their labor by the poundage harvested. When the wagon was full it was taken to a cotton gin where machinery separated the cotton from the seeds and packed into bales. Cotton fibers were valuable and so were the seeds, from which cottonseed oil was pressed. When Grandpa had the farm in west Texas, his hired hands were usually blacks. At the Corpus Christi farm the majority of the hired hands were Mexican labor.


They worked very hard and it is difficult to determine whose roles were the hardest - the men's or the women's. In addition to the work described above, women also kept house (and Grandmother's house was spotless in spite of the large number of people in residence), looked after the hordes of children, cooked gargantuan meals on a cast iron stove and hand washed all the resultant mountains of dishes.

Cash was limited and Mother and Grandmother learned frugal ways to care for their families. Animal feed to supplement the graze and hay diet came in 100 pound cotton sacks imprinted with floral patterns; sugar and flour came in white cotton sacks. All sacks were closed with cotton string sewn in a zigzag pattern. The women accompanied the men to buy feed so they could select a desirable floral pattern on the sacks from which they sewed children's clothing on the old treadle sewing machine.

Sugar, flour, and some coffees came in white sacks like these. The sacks were washed clean of the labeling and bleached to a snowly white. Then mother and grandmother sewed undies from them.

One-woman-powered sewing machine. Pedaling the treadle caused a belt attached to the flywheel to turn the machinery that made the needle jump up and down, creating stitches. Sewing on one of these machines was a lot of work but not as much as hand sewing. In later years mother obtained a small electric motor that could be affixed to the wheel and turned it via electric power. I sewed many of my babies' clothes and blankies on it.

Panties and petticoats were made from sugar and flour sacks, and Grandmother salvaged every piece of string to use for crocheting "lace". Because Grandmother adhered as best as she could to her previous standard of living as a lady and because of the respect held for the family in the community, I never realized that we were poor until after I grew up. Only then , in retrospect, did I realize how poor we really were.

Poor financially, but rich in family, love, and good times. In spite of all the hard labor, we did have good times. Box suppers at the school house, social gatherings at church, home parties of square dancing (because the Baptists disapproved of dancing in any form, the square dancing was called "ring games", which made it respectible), playing with the cousins, and the wonderful gathering on the front porch in the evenings after work was done.


Kerosene (coal oil) lamp such as we used on the CC farm.

The soft, golden glow of the kerosene lamps shining through the windows lit the figures of family seated on the porch, conversing, telling old time tales, laughing and joking. I usually played with the other children at these times but often I would creep close to the porch edge and listen to the old family stories. I learned a great deal about our roots and came to know my progenitors as persons instead of merely names.



Kerosene (coal oil) lanterns for outdoor use. We had no flashlights in those days.


A hand cranked ice cream maker. A rare and wonderful treat was home made ice cream. The men would haul a precious block of ice from town wrapped in canvas tarp. The women would make the ice cream mix from milk and cream, sugar, vanilla flavoring, and if they were in season, chopped peaches or strawberries. The mix would be poured into the steel cylinder, it was screwed shut, and chipped ice piled in the bucket around the cylinder. Rock salt was added in layers between the ice. Turning the crank rotated wooden or steel paddles inside the cylinder, which helped chill the milk mixture evenly. It took a lot of cranking to make ice cream. When the resistance of the freezing milk mixture was deemed sufficient, a folded quilt was placed over the top to allow the cream to "ripen". At last the top would be removed and the delectable delight exposed. It melted quickly but it was devoured quickly also. My first taste of commercial ice cream was at a church affair where eskimo pies were served. One time in town Mother splurged and bought a quart of banana nut ice cream. The fact that these events are so well remembered shows how rare they were. The Depression was hard times.

At one time over thirty family members resided on the farm; those that remained in the city returned often to visit and obtain food supplies, or to stay for varied lengths of times. There were many hobos in those days and it was not unusual for destitute men, ruined by the Depression, to come down our country lane to ask for work or beg for a handout. Grandpa didn't want strange men hanging about the house when the menfolk were gone to the fields so the hobos were not set to work to earn their meal, but Grandma never turned a living soul away hungry. She couldn't bear to see people hungry, plus she lived her faith and the Christ's admonition that, "as you have done it to the least of these...you have done it unto me" was very real to her, as well as "be ye kind one to another". She was at all times kind and forgiving of her fellow man.


A hobo migrant worker


Single men weren't the only homeless wanderers. Entire families were too.

So were the elderly. The legend under this photo from the Great Depression stated that these folks walked 30 miles to relatives' home.

We were fortunate to have the farm and the closely knit extended family. Other people were not so blessed. The mid-west was cursed with a terrible drought that caused the Dust Bowl and farms to fail. An estimated 3 million Americans were jobless and homeless. Grandpa's farm was a life saver and I came to know the family at large and all the neighbors.

Growing up in that environment, cousins became as close as siblings, aunts and uncles like second sets of parents. We learned that family is the most important factor of life, and family always helps family. Everyone was poor in the rural community and everyone extended a helping hand to others, so friends and neighbors often came under the umbrella of "family". The practise of including non-relatives as family members has followed me all my life and I see some of my children continuing the practise.

My maternal Grandmother was the Matriarch of our clan, my beloved mother-image, my mentor, role model and idol. I loved my mother, ofcourse, but Grandmother was first with me and I adored her. She exerted great influence on the developement of my character, standards, and belief systems.

I started school in a little country school, skipped the second grade, and in the fourth grade attended a consolidated, more modern school. During WWII there was such a huge influx of military families to the naval and air military complexes with children requiring education, that two rural school districts were consolidated, and a new modern school building was erected near Main Side N.A.S. All us country mice were bussed to the new school where we attended classes with children from all over the United States and some from other lands. Until that time the only foreigners we had encountered were the Mexican immigrants who casually entered and left our borders as they desired, and we didn't consider them foreign; they were just Mexicans and a part of our communities.

Mother and Grandmother purchased land in a new subdivision about six miles from the city limits, built houses on the lands and I then had access to public busses to the city proper. My world expanded considerably; the country mouse became a more cosmopolitan mouse. I met and married a yankee sailor from Pennsylvania and started a family.

We do make unwise choices when we are young and green. I do not regret bearing my children, nor the opportunities to see other parts of the U.S. and experiencing other sub-cultures of the American peoples. I did have regrets about other things.
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This post is about the Yellow House Farm outside of Corpus Christi. Grandpa had several farms as well as the Cities Service gas station in Gardendale. The last farm was the one in Sabinal. I'll write about it one day. When I get a scanner I will post family photos.

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To learn about the Great Depression, search "Great Depression" on the internet. An url for the history of the Great Depression is: http://www.tms.riverview.wednet.edu/LRC/Great%20Depression.htm It has many sites to click on.

Labels: Depression times-growing up