Ruthi Postow Birch's Blog, page 5
January 17, 2022
10 FRUSTRATING FACTS & RANDOM OBSERVATIONS
“When I grow up, I’m gonna build a big, big, big house so you can live with me and my wife.”
Step 1 — bring in jackhammers and break up existing street
Step 2 — put down new asphalt and roll over it till it’s smooth as silk
Step 3 — paint yellow lines down the center
Step 4 — bring in jackhammers and break up the street
Step 5 — perform utility work
The post 10 FRUSTRATING FACTS & RANDOM OBSERVATIONS appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
January 3, 2022
MOST TREASURED GIFTS — MADE OF LOVE, TIME, & MAKE-BELIEVE
Our most treasured gifts are prized not for what they cost but for how they touch us — and what they were made of. Gifts made of love, time, and make-believe stay with us long after the colorful clutter of wrapping paper and ribbon are put away for another year. Here are four stories about gifts that were treasured.
What were your most treasured gifts — gifts that left you with memories you still cherish?
A BRAND-NEW BIKE FOR CHRISTMASThe year I was eleven, I was sure I wouldn’t get the gift I most wanted — a brand-new bicycle. And I knew just which one I wanted.
When I was a child, the Christmas season began with the arrival of the Sears and Roebuck Christmas catalog — Grandma called it a wish book.
Every year, I took the catalog and draped myself across the big green chair in the living room — the one that tattooed its design on my skin. I scoured and dog-eared the pages of toys, imagining them under the tree on Christmas morning.
I turned to the bike page and there it was — midnight blue with a red seat with white stars and shiny silver handlebars. But I saw the price and I didn’t dog-ear that page. There were other toys to dream of.
CHRISTMAS MORNING
Our living room was always beautiful on Christmas mornings. Christmas tree lights rained colors over the gifts Santa had placed just so — nobody knew how to make Santa Claus magic like Mama. (I knew the truth, but Mama and I kept playing the Santa game.)
That year the first thing I saw was the yellow sweater set I’d been wanting (the latest trend). “Mama, this is just like the one I showed you in the store.”
“Santa must have heard you.”
“And he brought a butterfly sweater clip too.”
Daddy asked, “Well? What else did you get?” I glanced at him because he sounded impatient but he was smiling.
I also had a hula hoop, two coloring books, plus a giant box of Crayola crayons — the box with the built-in sharpener! And two paint-by-number kits with pictures of horses. I loved horses.
Daddy cleared his throat. “Is that all?”
I moved things and looked underneath. “I think that’s everything. Let’s open presents.”
“TAKE A GOOD LOOK!” SAID DADDY.
“Maybe you missed something. Stand up and look.”
I stood but I still didn’t see anything else.
Then I did! A brand new midnight blue bike with a big red bow tied to shiny silver handlebars with red streamers.
It was the bike from the catalog! I couldn’t believe it.
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Then I remembered, “I don’t know how to ride a bike.”
Daddy laughed. “Let’s go to the yard. You can learn there where there’s grass to fall on.”
After my first few tries, I hardly fell at all. Riding was even better than I’d imagined. I wouldn’t leave the bike for a minute — even when I went in for dinner.
Before dinner, Mama brought out her Brownie camera and gathered us in front of the tree to take pictures. She wanted pictures of me without the bike, but I wouldn’t let it go — and I still have the photos to prove it.
BUT WAIT! THERE’S MORE TO THE STORY! My brand-new bike wasn’t new!
I didn’t know that until years later when my older sister told me the story.
“Mama and Daddy knew you wanted a bike, but they didn’t have the money. Daddy found a discarded bike in a junkyard. He hauled it to Mr. Parker’s garage and went there to work on it every day after work.
“I saw the bike before he fixed it. You wouldn’t believe it was the same one. He hammered out dents and patched rusted places. One of its tires was salvageable, so he patched it, and bought another tire used. Then he painted the bike to look like new and bought a new seat, and handle grips, and the red streamers.
“Daddy couldn’t wait to see your reaction to the bike. You didn’t let him down. When you saw it your eyes lit up. I know you didn’t notice, but Daddy was more excited than you were.”
That day I learned what a real treasure my bicycle was. I wish Daddy was here today to see how my eyes light up when I think of what he did for me.
My brand-new bike wasn’t new. It was better than new!
RON’S STORY — A SICK BOY’S MOST TREASURED GIFTS
When I was six, I had a strep infection that caused a heart murmur. I was confined to bed for a month. Imagine how that felt for a six-year-old! To top it off, a nurse came every day to give me a penicillin shot!
What could have been a scary and lonely time was made better by two people who gave me the treasured gifts of their time and love. My dad and Grandpa Sam owned a paper factory and running it was hard work. But no matter how tired they were, when they came home they dedicated themselves to making being sick less painful for me.
When Dad got home, he’d come straight to my room with comic books or the funny paper. He’d sit by my bed, talk, and share the funnies with me until dinner.
HUMPHREY PENNYWORTH
Our favorite comic was Joe Palooka, the sweet-natured fighter who hated to fight. And Humphrey Pennyworth, Joe’s enormous and always hungry best friend who rode into adventures on a gigantic tricycle. One day Dad came home with an actual Humphrey Pennyworth — a punching bag. I knocked old Humphrey for a loop, though more often than not, he bounced back to bop me on my head.
A GAME OF CARDS
After supper, Grandpa Sam came. I’ve watched the movie, The Princess Bride a dozen times. I never get tired of it because Peter Falk, the grandpa reading the story to the boy, reminds me of Grandpa Sam. But my grandpa wasn’t into story-telling. He taught me to play rummy and that’s what we did every night.
Dad and Grandpa Sam’s gifts were time, love, and the security that comes with them.
JANE’S STORY — CHRISTMAS IN A MAKE-BELIEVE NEW ENGLANDIn 1950, when I was ten years old, we moved from New England to Hawaii — just before Christmas. I was miserable. Hawaii didn’t even feel like Christmas. There was no chill in the air or smell of fires in fireplaces or icy ponds for skating. Even decorating our tree didn’t make us feel better.
Then, a week before Christmas, we saw Mom and Dad huddled together, whispering. Then brought home some wooden orange crates and mysterious packages. He put them in the garage and told us to stay out. He spent the next days out there. We could hear sawing and hammering and tried guessing what he was up to.
WELCOME TO CHRISTMAS LAND!
Christmas eve, we found out. When we came home from shopping with Mom, there was a giant snow-capped candy cane beside our walk. It had lights and a sign that said, “Welcome to Christmas land.”
Our front door was covered with red paper and tied with a big bow to look like a gift.
Daddy met us at the door. He was wearing a Santa hat. In the living room, under a window overlooking palm trees, was a red-brick fireplace — the orange crates transformed and painted to look like bricks. Red and orange paper flames shot up from cardboard logs. The mantle held candles and greenery.
For Christmas Eve dinner, Mom made toasted pumpkin soup and roast beef. Then, we played games and sang carols until it was time to hang our stockings by our fireplace and go to bed.
Christmas morning, our stockings were filled. We had hot chocolate and sat around the still-blazing fire to open our gifts.
Dad and Mom gave us a treasured gift for Christmas — and one of my most special memories.
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CHRIS’S STORY — A BOX FILLED WITH MAKE-BELIEVEMy best gift ever? The gift to let my imagination fly. My parents had the vision to see possibilities for fun in ordinary things. And they took the time to show me how to make-believe.
When I was a child, vinyl go-go boots were the latest fad. My friends and I all wanted them, but my parents said I was too young. The other fad was the Etch A Sketch. I did get that — and played with it for exactly a day.
But my parents showed me the fun of applying imagination to ordinary things — my non-gifts. My most treasured non-gift was my box filled with make-believe. It was the empty carton from the new fridge that my folks gave each other for Christmas. Instead of having the box carted away, they kept it. On Christmas morning, it was in our living room, along with the other gifts.
“What’s that thing doing here?” asked Dad in a fake angry voice. “Rocketships don’t belong in the living room!”
I laughed and climbed in for the ride to the moon.
Before the box finally collapsed, it was a fort, a hide-out from rustlers, and even my own place to go when I was mad at everybody. My parents helped me develop the imagination to see the possibilities life offers.
As we face the problems and pressures of these times, these most treasured gifts serve an important purpose. Receiving them today or remembering ones we got in the past makes us smile and lifts our spirits. Our better-than-new bicycles, dads and funny papers, grandpas’ card games, fake fireplaces, and empty boxes filled with make-believe were gifts made of powerful stuff — love, time, and imagination. When we pass them on, they become the treasured gifts that lift the spirits of other people.
The post MOST TREASURED GIFTS — MADE OF LOVE, TIME, & MAKE-BELIEVE appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
December 13, 2021
Pop Beads & Tie Clips – Memories Of Childhood Christmases
In my memories of childhood Christmases, one stands out. I was nine years old and I was on the bus to Prichard to go Christmas shopping — all by myself for the first time. And I had a whole seven dollars to spend. I was so excited I bounced up and down in my seat — till an old lady got on and sat beside me.
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THE TOWN WAS DECKED OUT FOR CHRISTMASWe passed the manger scene by the library fountain and entered the main street that was crisscrossed with green and red garlands. Santa Clauses waved from store windows that were filled with elves and toys. Silver stars and gold bells with red bows hung from the light poles. I felt like jumping up and down again — in spite of the old lady.
Finally, the bus stopped in front of Kress’s Five and Ten.
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I jumped off. Kress’s was the best store in Prichard for buying presents – maybe the best in all of Mobile. It had rows and rows of counters and they were all piled high with everything anybody could want, from ashtrays to wigs.
I marched right past the soda fountain where Grandma had bought me my first sundae. And I only stopped for a minute to check out the dolls in Toyland.
I was there on important business. I had to find the perfect presents for Mama, Daddy, and Grandmama.
I started with Daddy. It would be the quickest because there weren’t so many things to choose from. The men’s department was just half a counter, not like the ladies’ which was almost as big as Toyland. I first picked up a pipe made of dark swirly wood. It was beautiful but it was two dollars and thirty-five cents — and Daddy only smoked cigarettes anyway.
Then, I saw something even better, a fancy silver fountain pen in a case lined with blue velvet. I was sure it would cost too much, too, but it didn’t. It was only seventy-five cents.
I was drawn to a glass case with rows of tiepins going round and round. I stared, riveted to it until I spotted one with a little silver boat on it — Daddy was a tugboat captain. It was only fifty-five cents, so I could buy the pen and the tie clip and still have nearly six dollars to buy my other gifts.
THE MOST AMAZING GIFT EVERI was paying the saleslady when I saw IT — the most amazing gift ever — a little statue of a hobo with a red nose, bowed mouth, and black top hat. It had a hole in its stomach — but I figured that was why it only cost a dime.
The lady laughed. ”No. The hole is on purpose. It’s an ashtray. When you put a cigarette in the hole, smoke comes out of his mouth.” I knew Daddy would love it and show it off to Uncle Stanley.
With the perfect presents for Daddy, I headed to the jewelry counter. It overflowed with beads, earrings, pins, and watches. One necklace had two long strands of big sparkly red rhinestones. I thought it was gorgeous. I asked the saleslady what she thought of it for my mama. She wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Too showy.”
“I think she would like these better,” and she picked up a strand of pale blue beads. They looked plain to me. Then, she winked at me and snapped the necklace right in two! I must have looked scared because she laughed and put them back together. “See? They’re not broken. They’re called pop beads — brand new. Your mama can change them to fit what she’s wearing or even make a short necklace and a bracelet to match.”
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Pop beads! Mama would love them. I bought a set in three different shades of pink, and I had two dollars and twelve cents left for Grandma.
I found a little red-crystal rose pin on a green stem pin. She would like that. And I got a box of the Lilac Talcum Powder she used.
My shopping was done and I still had enough money for a coke-float and bus fare. The bus wouldn’t come for twenty minutes, so I ambled around the store. Way in the back, behind the dishes, I saw something that gave me an idea. It was a big display of wax flowers and vases – real crystal, I thought. And they were just ten cents each. I thought of Mrs. Gates, an old lady on our street who was sweet to me. She lived alone. I bet she didn’t get any presents for Christmas. She didn’t even have a Christmas tree.
WOULDN’T SHE BE SURPRISED?Wouldn’t she be surprised if I took her a present? And I had just enough money for the vase and three red roses. I didn’t need the coke float and I didn’t live too far away to walk.
But I didn’t walk home. I ran and skipped all the way. When I got home. I took Mama’s wrapping paper and tape to my room spread the gifts out on my bed and set about wrapping.
PRESENT WRAPPING LOOKED EASY WHEN MAMA DID ITPresent-wrapping was harder than I’d thought. I could see in my head what I wanted something to look like but I couldn’t make it happen. The boxes ended up patched and taped and tied with droopy ribbons. I looked at them. They were awful. I ripped off the paper in a fit of crying.
Finally, I blew my nose and started over. It took a few tries but at last, the boxes were done and with only a few patched places. I covered the patch on Mama’s beads with a funny note. “Dear Mama. If you break them, they aren’t broken — Joke!”
But the hobo! No matter what I did, he was still a lumpy, lopsided, blob, held together by a half-roll of tape. I sat him between the boxes with the pen and tie clip. They didn’t go together at all. I decided the only thing to do was tie them together with a note. I made a card from the cardboard that came inside Daddy’s new shirt and tied the three gifts to it with red and green ribbon. It looked funny. Daddy would laugh.
WAKE UP! IT’S CHRISTMAS!Christmas morning, I was awake hours before I could wake up Mama and Daddy without getting in trouble. Finally, six-thirty. Late enough, I decided. I ran to their room without peeking into the living room to see what Santa had brought for me. “It’s Christmas! Wake up! Santa Claus came. Come on!” I ran to get Grandma.
Finally, we went in. The lights from the Christmas tree showered the presents with color. Candy canes and boxes of chocolate-covered cherries stuck out of the stuffed stockings that hung on the mantle. I thought our living room was even more beautiful than the window of Gayfers department store in Mobile.
Nobody knew how to make Christmas like my Mama!
While Mama made coffee and hot chocolate, I sat on the floor inspecting the toys from Santa, a Barbie doll in a black evening gown, a real china tea set, a game, a hula hoop, a coloring book, and the biggest box of Crayola crayons.
Then it was time to open presents. I jumped up. “Open mine first! Here, Grandma. You go first.”
Grandma opened the pin. “Oh, my, my, my,” she said – she always said that. “Isn’t this the prettiest thing!” And she pinned it on her nightgown.
“Mama, here. Open yours.” When she saw the beads and the note, she grinned her crooked grin. “Pop beads — Mrs. Reeves was showing hers off on Sunday. I was hoping I’d get some. Now I have.”
I picked up the card holding Daddy’s gifts. They dangled like a broken puppet from the paper that bent and tore. “I couldn’t get it to look the way I wanted,” I said.
“It looks fine,” he said, and read the card and laughed. Then, he opened the pen. “I’ll write real fancy with this.” Next, he opened the tie clip and pinned it to his shirt. “Stanley’s going to be jealous of this.”
WHAT’S THIS? A BOWL OF GOLDFISH?Finally, he held up the hobo. “Now, what’s this funny thing? Let me guess. It’s a bowl of goldfish.” I giggled and shook my head.
“A turtle? No? Then it must be soup bones.” By then we were all laughing. “No? Not soup bones either? Then I don’t know. I’d better just open it.”
He unwound the paper round and round. When the hobo appeared, I jumped up and explained, “It’s got a hole in it, but it’s not broken. You put your cigarette in the hole and he blows smoke from his mouth.”
Daddy laughed and said just what I hoped he would. “I have to show this to Stanley. He’ll get a kick out of it.”
A GIFT FOR MRS. GATESAfter breakfast, I ran to Mrs. Gates’ house. It was a warm day and she was sitting on the porch. When she saw the gift, even before she opened it, she carried on. “You’re the sweetest girl I ever knew. How many little girls would think of an old lady?”
She opened the package and saw the vase with the roses. And you’d have thought I’d given her a Cadillac car.
She ran her finger over the vase and crooned, “Ohhh, my. It’s so fine. Why just look. Look how it catches light — just like crystal. It’s going to make my living room look so festive. How did you know red is my favorite color?” She stood up and hugged me. “You’ve just made my Christmas!”
Of all of my memories of childhood Christmases, that one, when I was nine years old, is the most vivid and the best. It was a first in so many ways — taking the bus to go Christmas shopping, all by myself. The excitement and the soaring sense of freedom and responsibility. The pride in seeing my family laughing and happy because of gifts I’d picked especially for them. But my best memory is of Mrs. Gates and the wax roses. It was the first time I’d done something I didn’t have to do for somebody who didn’t expect anything, and it felt wonderful.
The post Pop Beads & Tie Clips – Memories Of Childhood Christmases appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
December 6, 2021
How My Aunt Pauline Invented Recycling for Christmas
My Aunt Pauline invented recycling for Christmas. That’s because she knew a secret — by recycling, she could make sure her Christmas tree was the most beautiful in all of Prichard, Alabama every single year. We didn’t actually call it recycling because when I was a kid, we never even heard of the word — except about Coke bottles. Back then, you could take empty soda bottles to the store to recycle and the cashier would give you two cents each for them — the big bottles brought three cents.
But Aunt Pauline didn’t invent the recycling of Coke bottles. She invented the recycling of silver tinsel for her Christmas tree so it would always be the shiniest and showiest one in town.
“Icicles are what makes the tree,” she said, as she plugged in the Christmas tree lights for us to see the full effect of the tree we had just finished decorating.
I was eight years old and proud that I was finally big enough to have the honor of helping my aunt decorate her prized Christmas tree. Aunt Pauline was a personality as shiny and exciting as her decorations, starting with her bright red hair, which was always fixed just so. “When you have red hair,” she often said, “people notice. You can never come out without having it styled.”
That morning, I’d jumped out of bed, thrown on my clothes, and was at the breakfast table in minutes, antsy to get going. But no matter how big a hurry you were in, you couldn’t eat hot grits fast. I finally finished and ran around the corner and all the way to Aunt Pauline’s house.
The tree, with strings of lights already wrapped around it, filled the front corner of the room. And Aunt Pauline stood surrounded by boxes of ribbons, bows, and colored ornaments wrapped in newspaper.
ORNAMENTS OLDER THAN I WAS: RECYCLING FOR CHRISTMAS“You can unwrap the ornaments,” she told me, “but be careful. Some of them are older than you are and they’re fragile.”
I unwrapped red, gold, silver, purple, yellow, and pink glass balls and bells. “How come there aren’t any green ones,” I asked.
She finished hanging a big red bell with gold stripes on a high limb and turned to me. “You don’t want green ornaments because you wouldn’t be able to see them. Colors are what make the tree. Now you can help me hang the ones you can reach. But don’t hang the same colors next to each other. Mix them up so they’re even.
When the boxes were empty and the ornaments hung, Aunt Pauline stood back and appraised the tree. Once she approved the placement of each ornament, she smiled.
I said, “We’re finished?”
“Not yet. Now we do the most important part. Open that box and hand me the Magazine on top. I gave her the five-year-old Look Magazine and she opened it to a page where there were a dozen ribbons of silver tinsel laid in a row.
“Why do you have icicles in your magazine?”
“To save them so I can use them again.”
“Grandmama gets new ones in a box. It just costs a nickel.”
“A nickel and you have a paltry few icicles. I save mine and then add to them year after year, so I have plenty — and icicles are what makes the tree.
“During the war, the stores didn’t have icicles or ornaments or lights because aluminum was needed for ships. People had to make do for Christmas with drab decorations. But I had lights because I always saved them. If you keep them in their original boxes they will last for years.
“Even during the darkest times, my tree was lit up, bright and beautiful. With the lights and the icicles, it was a vision, and people came to see it. They drove by and stopped to look every night. It made them feel better. They still come by and stop.”
RECYCLING ICICLES IS WHAT MAKES THE TREEShe lifted nine or ten long strands of silver from the page. “Now, watch how I do this,” she said and hung one after another on a branch. Then she did another branch. Then another and another.
“Now you try,” she said.
I was getting bored. I grabbed a handful of the tinsel and started to toss it at the tree. “No!” said my aunt. “You don’t throw it or put it up in clumps. You saw how I did it. Hang them long and even, a few at a time so you fill all the branches.”
Once the magazines held no more tinsel, Aunt Pauline plugged in the lights. We stood back and looked at the tree, and she said again, “Icicles are what makes a tree.”
I didn’t volunteer to help undecorate after the holidays. Taking down one strand of tinsel at a time and placing it in the Look Magazine did not sound like fun to me. But later, when I had my own tree, I remembered and started building my own magazine cache of icicles.
Today I know the truth — Aunt Pauline didn’t really invent recycling. In our neighborhood, recycling happened all the time. We just didn’t know recycling was the name for it. Outgrown clothes were passed on to younger children or recycled into quilts. Nothing came with a label that said disposable. Broken things were fixed – televisions, toasters, radios, and frying pans. Christmas decorations were passed down the generations. And Aunt Pauline recycled icicles because —
“Icicles are what makes the tree!”[image error]
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November 16, 2021
Thanksgiving — Celebrate What Made You Happy In 2021
What are you thankful for this Thanksgiving? This year we’ve been bombarded with so much news of mean things, scary things, alarming things. Thanksgiving is a day set aside to remember and celebrate the things that made us happy. What made you happy in 2021? What made you laugh? Let us celebrate happiness in 2021.
Conversations with Aunt GloriaHaving my ninety-something-year-old Aunt Gloria still with us makes me happy. Remembering these conversations with her makes me laugh. I’m thankful that she’s with us, still ornery, still funny, and still dancing.
October 7 — Happy Birthday?*Phone ringing — brrrrrrring!*
Gloria: Hello.
Me: Hello, Aunt Gloria. Happy birthday!
Gloria, yelling: Who is this?!
Me, yelling: It’s Ruthi!
Gloria: Who?
Me, louder: Your niece, RUTHI!
Gloria: Who are you? What do you want?
Me: I called to say happy birthday.
Gloria: I don’t know you. I’m old. Why are you bothering me?
*CLICK!*
*Hugs are given all around.*
Gloria: Come in the kitchen. I made coffee cake.
Me: Aunt Gloria, you look beautiful. Is that a new dress?
Gloria: What?
Me: Your dress. Is it new?
Gloria: Linda picked it out. I don’t like it. It’s drab. I don’t know why she picks out dull colors for me. I like bright colors. She made me give away all my six-inch heels last year. Now she makes me dress in dull colors — like she’s getting ready to bury me.
Linda: You were right there in the store. You said you liked the dress. And you said you were afraid you’d fall in those heels.
Gloria: It’s alright. I put a scarf with it so people don’t think I’m dead and bury me.
Me, laughing: Aunt Gloria, nobody could mistake you for dead! You’re wonderful. I love you.
Gloria: Why don’t you ever call me if you love me so much? I guess you’re too busy.
Me: I do call you. I called you last Friday.
Gloria: Linda, why didn’t you tell me?
Me: You answered the phone. Linda wasn’t there. You couldn’t hear me.
Gloria: My hearing aids don’t work. I can’t hear a thing.
Me: I know. You said you didn’t know me and hung up.
Gloria: Well, call me anyway.
Linda: I’m taking her to get new hearing aids next week.
Me: That’s good news, Aunt Gloria. But you have to wear them so when I call you can hear me.
October 31 — Happy Halloween?*Phone ringing — brrrrrrring!*
Gloria: Hello?
Me: Hi, Aunt Gloria. Happy Halloween.
Gloria: What? Who is this?
Me, shouting: Ruthi!
Gloria: Who?
Me: Your niece, Ruthi!
Gloria: I don’t know you. What do you want?
Me: To say I love you. May I talk to Linda?
Gloria: There’s no Randy here.
Me: No. Linda, your daughter.
Gloria: I don’t know any Randy. Stop bothering me!
*CLICK!*
*Phone ringing — brrrrrrring!*
Nurse: Hello.
Me: This is Gloria’s niece, Ruthi. Is she awake?
Gloria, yelling in the background: Who is it?!
Nurse: It’s Ruthi.
Gloria, yelling: Hang up! I don’t know any Bruce. It’s probably one of those people who call all the time. They want to buy my house and put me on the street. Tell them to put it in the mail.
Nurse, yelling: No. It’s your niece, Ruthi.
Gloria: Rita? Why’s she bothering me? I never liked her. She’s always got some new ailment. Tell her I’m dead.
Nurse to me: I think you should try again when Linda’s home.
*Click.*
November 25 — A Visit with Aunt Gloria on Thanksgiving Morning*I walk into Gloria’s house and we hug.*
Gloria: You’re early. Dinner’s not till two.
Me: I wanted to see you for Thanksgiving but I can’t stay for dinner. I’m going to Florida.
Gloria: That’s good. It’s warm there. There’ll be too many people here anyway.
Me: I brought something for you. I found this Frank Sinatra record and I remembered you have a record player, so I got it for you.
Gloria: I have that one already, but it’s okay. Mine is scratched. Come in here. I’ll play it.
*Plays record at top volume.*
Gloria: Come on. Get up and dance with me.
*We dance. She leads.*
Me: Aunt Gloria, you’ve still got it!
Gloria: You bet I do.
Me: I have to get to the airport. I’ll call you – I wish you could hear me. When are you getting your new hearing aids?
Gloria: I got them. But I never wear them. They’re a nuisance.
Me: Please wear them. I like to talk with you. The last time I called, the nurse answered. She told you I was on the phone, but you thought she said it was Rita.
Gloria: Rita? Why would she call me?
Me: To talk? I saw her when I was in New York. She asked about you.
Gloria: I never liked her. She was sour.
Me: She’s one of the few people left from when you were a girl. You could talk about old times.
Gloria: I was popular. I had boyfriends and went out. She couldn’t get a date. She couldn’t even get a date to her prom. Her brother had to pay my brother to take her.
Me: Rita’s heart is not good. She’s been in the hospital.
Gloria: That’s Rita! Always something wrong with her. To hear her tell it she’s been at death’s door for the past 50 years. And, honestly, I never liked her. She never smiled. That’s why she couldn’t get a date.
Me: I have to go. I’ll call you, so wear your hearing aids!
Gloria: Tell me when you’re going to call, and I’ll put them in.
Me: Bye, Aunt Gloria. I love you lots.
Gloria, blowing kisses: I love you. Call me. And use hand sanitizer on the plane. Those things are full of germs.
*Phone ringing — brrrrrrring!*
Gloria: Hello. Who is this?
Me: It’s Ruthi, Aunt Gloria.
Gloria: Who? Talk louder. I can’t hear you.
Me, yelling: Ruthi!
Gloria: Who?
Me, louder: Ruthi, your niece.
Gloria: I can’t hear you. What do you want?
Me: Just to tell you I love you.
Gloria: I don’t know you. I’m old. Why are you bothering me?
*CLICK!*
I’m thankful for Thanksgiving, an annual reminder to stop, ignore the noise coming from the mean things, scary things, alarming things, and haters, and celebrate the happy events in our lives and the people who make our lives more secure, fun, and love-filled. Happy Thanksgiving.
By Ruthi Birch11/16
The post Thanksgiving — Celebrate What Made You Happy In 2021 appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
November 2, 2021
Old Doesn’t Mean Helpless — Or In Need of Assisted Living
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” — Jane Austin
It is another commonly acknowledged truth that a widowed man of advanced years must be in want of assisted living — or a new wife. Will Barnes rejected those notions, “Old doesn’t mean helpless — or in need of assisted living!”
A Man Without A WifeWhen Sally Barnes died, leaving Will to live alone for the first time in fifty years, the women in his life gathered around. They knew Will Barnes was now a man in need of care. And they were ready to give it.
First was Cindy, Will and Sally’s daughter. She assumed command, planned the funeral, and even told Will what tie he should wear. In the car after the funeral, Cindy was talking but Will was zoned out. He didn’t hear a word she said until they were getting out of the car and he heard her say, “Daddy, I just don’t want you to worry. I’ll take care of everything.”
He wondered, what the hell is she talking about? He said, “I’m not worried.”
As is custom, family and friends gathered at Will’s house after the funeral to be together, to talk, and to eat. Sally’s friends had been bringing food all day and the table was full — pies, cakes, two hams, sweet potatoes, potato salad, casseroles, fried chicken, biscuits, cornbread, sweet tea, and coffee.
Cindy led Will to the sofa. “Sit here. I’ll fix you a plate.”
Will shook his head. He wasn’t hungry. He was just weary and tired of people. He went over and poured himself a cup of coffee and took a chair next to his neighbor, Herman Sykes. Herman was a man of few words. Will liked him. He didn’t have to make conversation.
Ah, Casserole — The First Step in the Matin RitualAnother neighbor, Faye Wilson, came in and hugged Will. “I’m so sorry. Sally was a wonderful woman. So you don’t have to worry about cooking dinner, I’ll bring a casserole by tomorrow. Freeze it till you need it.”
She joined a group of women who stood at the food table, talking in whispers. “Poor man,” she said. “I can see he’s lost without her.”
Marcia Reed said, “He must be hungry. I’ll take him a plate,” as she forked chicken onto a plate. Marcia had been one of Sally’s best friends, a position that bestowed authority.
She took the food to Will. “Will, you should eat. I brought you some of my fried chicken and salad.”
Will took the plate and set it on the table. “Thank you. I’ll have it directly.”
“Okay, but I’m watching to see that you eat,” she said with a maternal smile. “I’m making chicken and broccoli casserole next week. I’ll bring you enough for two meals.”
“No. Please don’t go to the trouble,” is what he said. But what he was thinking was, Marcia, I’m a better cook than you are any day of the week — and I hate broccoli.
“No trouble at all. You know you can’t make just a little. With Joe gone, I can’t possibly eat it all.”
When she left, he turned to Herman. “Why do these women think I want their cooking? Truth is, I’m a better cook than any of them. And why are women always pushing casseroles?”
Herman grinned. “Ah, Casserole, the first step in the mating ritual. You better watch out.”
Will grunted, “I’m afraid so.”
We Need to Talk About Your LifeWhen the last person left, Cindy sat down beside Will. “Daddy, I told Ben to take the children home. I’m staying here with you tonight.”
“No, you’re not! I don’t need you to tuck me in. Just see to the food. I’ll never eat it. Take it home. Or give it to the neighbors. Or throw it away. Just leave me some ham to make an omelet. Then you go on home. I’m tired.”
“All right, but I’m coming over early tomorrow. We need to talk.”
“About what?”
“About what you’re going to do now — how you’re going to live.”
“What? Hell, no!” He stood up. “I tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to bed. Lock the door when you leave.”
The next Sunday, Will went to dinner at Cindy’s house. He made up a game for the kids and was having a good evening. Then, after dinner, the kids went out to play, and Cindy started.
“Daddy, you know Ben’s Aunt Harriet. She moved into an assisted living home near here. We just visited her. It’s a lovely place. It could be just the place for you. There is a cafeteria with excellent food. And they have planned activities and outings to shows and the grocery store, so your days won’t be empty.”
“I can have all the outings I want. I have a car.”
She ignored him. “Harriet has a darling little efficiency with a mini-fridge and microwave. You should look at this place. It’s pricy but with what you can get for your house….”
“Stop! Why the hell do I want to look at a cute efficiency with a mini-fridge? I have a house with a whole kitchen. It’s pricey too but it’s all paid for.”
“Daddy, think! You’re not young. You have to look at your options.”
“I’m as young as I was the day before Sally died, and you weren’t nagging us to move then.”
“But…”
“No buts! I’m living in my own house. And now I’m going home to it.”
“Wait. I have dessert.”
“I hope you enjoy it.”
Life UnassistedWill’s days were not empty. He had a busy and interesting life for himself. Every morning, he shaved and dressed in a crisp shirt, then headed out to breakfast. Some mornings he walked to Mae’s Market for café au lait and a croissant. Other days to La Madeleine where he’d have quiche and sit outside to watch the people go by.
Some afternoons, he picked up the grandchildren and took them to the zoo or the playground. Others, he worked in his garden. Sometimes he sat in the park by the river and directed tourists to the best places to eat.
Several nights a week, he cooked dinner. He’d always enjoyed cooking. He tried out new recipes from Sally’s cookbooks — and made Herman his taste-testing guinea pig.
Casserole and Onion TartsIt had been a year and the widows kept coming around. He heard the doorbell and looked out, hoping it was a Jehovah’s Witness rather than a woman bearing a casserole. But it was a woman. He opened the door — just a crack and said, “Why, hello,” sounding surprised.
“I stopped by to bring you some onion tarts and my cheesy chicken casserole. My late husband just loved it.”
“Thank you. It’s mighty nice of you,” he said as he accepted the food through the crack. Then he close the door and walk to the kitchen where he dumped the food in the garbage — just as he always did.
“You’re being rude,” said Cindy. “You should ask the ladies in.”
“They don’t have the right bait. If a woman wanted my attention, what she should say is, ‘Will, I was at the butcher shop and picked up a couple of two-inch porterhouse steaks. I thought you might like to share them.’ That would be different.”
She laughed. “But don’t you think about getting married again?”
“Hell, no! I already had a wife! I don’t need another one. She’d likely get sick the day I married her and I’d be stuck waiting on her.”
More Plans For HimA few days after Christmas, Cindy and Ben asked Will to lunch. They had a new plan. “Daddy, Ben and I have talked. We want you to come and live with us.”
Will choked on a French fry. “You can get that idea out of your head right now!”
She stamped her foot. “It’s not fair of you to worry us. You need care! Live with us or look into assisted living.
“I’m not doing either one.”
Ben said, “Then at least be practical. In case something happens and you need money or a hospital, we should have your power of attorney.”
“Forget that! You’re not getting power of anything over me! You don’t get to pull the plug. Stop that talk before I get mad.”
Will was quiet for several minutes. When he spoke, he was calm. “Cindy, you’re a good daughter and I love you. And Ben, you’re a good man. But get off my back! I’m healthy, I’m strong, and so far I have all my marbles.
“If any of those things change, I’ll let you know. Until then …” he suddenly stopped, and a wide grin came over his face. “Until then, keep an eye on my house for me. I’m going to Florida for the winter.”
“What!? When did you arrange for that.”
“In about twenty minutes — as soon as I can get a travel agent on the phone. I’m going to sit on the beach and read and relax — and run my own life.”
The next week Will was sitting in a lounge chair on the beach reading a book and sipping a piña colada. Suddenly a shadow came over his book. He looked up to see a lady in a wide-brimmed sun hat.
“Excuse me. I’m Ellen Jacobs. We’re staying at the same hotel. I heard you’re smart with investments and I’d like to ask your advice. My husband recently died and left me a few thousand dollars to invest…”
He cut her off. “Ma’am, stop. You’re doing it all wrong.
“Next time you want to get a man’s attention, you go up and say, ‘Excuse me. My husband just died and left me several million dollars. I was hoping you could advise me on investments. Then you’ll have his attention.’”
Assisted Living Florida Style
Will signaled a waiter and ordered a sandwich. Just minutes later the waiter was back with his lunch and a fresh piña colada decorated with a pineapple slice. He sipped the drink and smiled. This assisted living was alright after all.
By Ruthi Birch11/2
The post Old Doesn’t Mean Helpless — Or In Need of Assisted Living appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
October 15, 2021
My First Day at My First Job — Failure Isn’t Fatal
But it didn’t seem that way to me when I was a kid with my first big failure. When you were a kid did you ever fail at something then wonder if you’d be a failure your whole life? I did.
It happened when I got my first job — working Saturdays in a grocery store. I say I got it, but I didn’t actually get it or even have to interview for it. My mother knew the store manager and got it for me.
I was excited. I’d been in grocery stores and I knew what cashiers did. It looked simple. Confident that I would do well, I walked into the store bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Failure was the farthest thing from my mind.
People Used MoneyThat first morning went great. I mainly filled out forms and watched other people work. I was right. This job really isn’t so hard, I thought. Just punch in the prices, take the customer’s money, and give back change.
Money? Can you remember the last time you bought anything with actual money?
Cute ShoesThen I was assigned a register and I discovered a big problem – there was nowhere to sit. I was wearing new shoes. I’d bought them because I wanted to start my job off on the right foot. They were really cute too — orange patent leather with a white leather flower. But standing all day? They already killed.
Come to think of it, I’d never looked at a cashier’s feet. They probably never got to wear cute shoes.
But I had an idea. How about putting a stool beside the cash register? It would fit. I took my idea to the manager. He didn’t go for it. He didn’t seem to like new ideas.
I took my place at the counter, without a stool, but still positive. I was going to be good at this. Then the customers started coming. And right away, I learned I’d been wrong.
Simple? The cash register certainly wasn’t. It was a bully. It dared me to make a mistake. Hit just one wrong key and the whole price was wrong! And you couldn’t just go back and erase. I got another idea.
When I discovered I’d charged two cents too much for one item, why couldn’t I just take two cents off another one? The manager didn’t like that idea either.
There was a way to cancel the wrong price and re-enter it — but that didn’t work unless I caught the error on the spot — before ringing up more items.
Dirty MoneyOnce the whole order was finally rung up at the right prices, came the next hurdle. The customer handed me money — and never the exact amount. I had to count out change — dollars, quarters, dimes, and pennies … so many pennies. Where did stores get the idea that all the best prices ended in 9? And even nice people can get nasty about their change.
Too late I learned something else. Cashiering is a dirty job. Money is dirty — really dirty. By the time I saw that my fingers were black from handling money, I’d already ruined my favorite dress.
The next big hurdle was vegetables — they didn’t have price tags.
Why not? Was I supposed to remember the price of every vegetable? I couldn’t! There was a three-page pricelist where I had to look up the prices. I had to use it every time even if I’d just rung it for the customer before. It took time and a line of people was waiting.
When they loaded my counter with carrots, celery, squash, and beans, I wondered, don’t these people know that vegetables come in cans — price-marked cans? Apparently not. So, I fumbled through the pricelist again and again. And the line grew longer.
Parsnips!Then, a woman plopped a bunch of things on the counter that I’d never seen before. They looked like hairy yellow carrots. I didn’t want to show my ignorance, so picked up the price list and scanned for – I didn’t know what. “Parsnips,” snapped the woman and rolled her eyes. She didn’t have to sound so grouchy.
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I was getting frazzled and hit more wrong keys. The customers, who had been patient at first, were becoming irritable. When the line reached halfway to the meat counter, they started getting hostile.
One Little Mistake is Not a FailureThen I made one little mistake and they went off the deep end. I’d successfully faced the challenge of a shopping cart that was stacked chock-full of groceries. I was proud of myself. But then the customer found one little mistake.
I’d charged $1.23 for the flour instead of 93¢. I had to put everything back and start over. I’d never known people could be so mean about a little mistake. I said I was sorry, but it got ugly.
I saw the manager race-walking toward me and knew I was in trouble. He apologized to the customers and took over. He told me to go take a break.
I sat in the breakroom with that sick feeling in my stomach you get when you’re scared and in trouble. It was just like the day I got sent to the principal’s office in the third grade.
(Why was I sent there? For writing my name in the wet cement of the new sidewalk. I never found out who told on me.)
I didn’t know what the manager would say, but I knew the truth —
I was not cut out for the high-pressure world of cashiering!
I was sure I going to get yelled at. But he didn’t yell. He was really nice. I suppose I wasn’t the only person he’d met who couldn’t master the skills to be a cashier. He paid me for the day even though I’d only worked six hours. I left the room embarrassed but relieved that I didn’t have to do that job anymore.
There it was — failure. And on my first day on my first job. I needed chocolate. I bought a Baby Ruth and a Hershey bar and left the store with a fear of failure that would stay with me, drive me, and wake me up at night.
But failure isn’t fatal. I found my path to success, and it definitely was not one that required the ability to memorize the price of parsnips or master the art of the cash register.
By Ruthi Birch10/15
The post My First Day at My First Job — Failure Isn’t Fatal appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
October 1, 2021
Bad Bosses — Proud, Pretentious, & Entitled
Bad bosses — most of us have had a boss we didn’t like. But did you ever have a boss so bad, so outrageous, that it got funny? Janice did — two actually — a man and wife team.
They considered no task too large, too dirty, or too much to ask of her. In the twenty-plus years, Janice had been working for rich and powerful people, she had never encountered any as pretentious and entitled as the Smyths. He was a former undersecretary of something in the State Department — and darn proud of it. The first thing he said to her was, “Please address me as Mr. Under Secretary or Under Secretary Smyth.”
Why didn’t I quit, you might ask. I’ll tell you why — money! I bought a house in Florida on what they paid me. There was also the entertainment value. Working for them was like being in a dark sitcom. I never knew what the next episode would bring.
The show began on my first day. I was setting up the office when Mrs. Smyth came in with their two teenage children. She looked me up and down — one of those looks.
Then, without a hello or introduction, she said:
“This week you will finish setting up this office. Starting Monday, you will be working for me at our home most of the time. So I won’t need an office here. But Judith and Alexander will be working here during breaks. Set up desks for them.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Judith, Alexander. What supplies will you need?”
Mrs. Smyth turned to face me. “You mean Miss and Mr. Smyth.”
“Of course. Miss Smyth. Mr. Smyth,” I said, nodding at them, but thinking, Give me a break!
The Upper Crust Circle: Bad Bosses — Proud, Pretentious, & Entitled“Your most important job will be making our social and travel arrangements. Of course, first-class everything is de rigueur — five-star hotels and restaurants. You must understand that the people in our circle are quite wealthy and prominent — the upper crust. Arrangements must be impeccable.”
“I understand.”
“You’ve had exposure to people of wealth?”
“Yes. I was assistant to Pharrell Dankworth for seven years.”
“I’m not sure I know that name.”
“Mr. Dankworth was retired but he was active in his foundation. You may have heard of the Dankworth Charitable Foundation and the Dankworth Scholarship.”
“Yes. Well, let’s move on. Your first assignment is to plan our trip six-week trip to Asia in mid-October. We will be stopping in several cities. You’ve planned complex international travel?”
“Mr. Dankworth had homes in New York, London, and Morocco and traveled several times a year.”
“Then you know how involved this will be. Be at my home Monday at nine.”
The House Was Dark and Dismal — Almost Addams FamilyMonday morning I drove to their wealthy Northern Virginia neighborhood. The houses were beautiful — except for one. The Smyth’s house was not beautiful. It was spooky. I never knew red brick could look so gloomy.
Then, I saw the inside and my first thought was, these people have all the money in the world, so why do they live here? It was a dark and dismal place — almost Addams Family. And that was just the foyer.
Impressive, Irreplaceable, & Priceless“Fine. You’re here,” said Mrs. Smyth opening the door. She made a point of looking at her watch.
“Before we start, I’m sure you’ll want to see our art collection. Everyone does. It’s quite impressive — the largest private collection of Asian and African art in this country. The pieces are irreplaceable and priceless.”
The living room looked like an overcrowded museum. It was crowded with dark cabinets crammed full of dusty objects — weapons, bowls, boxes, statues of tall and skinny figures, short and squat figures, and one woman without a head. I backed up and almost bumped into a huge smiling monkey.
“Ah. You found our most unique piece. This is a guardian monkey from Cambodia’s Angkorian period. Very few are to be found outside of Angkor Wat.”
“Cambodian authorities are clamoring for its return. But this is irreplaceable and I don’t believe they can be trusted with it. You know how the Taliban has destroyed so much of ancient art.”
Aren’t the Taliban thousands of miles from Cambodia? I thought but didn’t ask.
“Now let’s go to your office.”
My office was off the kitchen and so small it barely held a chair and desk. But it had the basics — phone, file drawer, computer, and printer. And it was a relief after the living room.
A Puzzle of Exotic PlacesPlanning the trip was fun — like putting together a puzzle with dozens of moving pieces — the embassies of Myanmar, Cambodia, Thailand, and Laos, hotels in seven cities, business offices to set meetings for Mr. Smyth, and a dozen different airlines.
I learned about fantastic cities — like Siem Reap in Cambodia and Bagan in Myanmar. I’d never heard of them but when I started trying to get reservations I learned somebody had.
Available suites in Smyth-approved hotels were scarce and booking them took dogging hotel managers and begging — and miracles. I failed in Siem Reap. I couldn’t get the Amansara, so I reserved suites at Raffles, also with five-stars. But when I told Mrs. Smyth, she turned white with rage.
“Raffles! It’s middle class! I told you to get the Amansara.”
“The Amansara is full for the entire time you’ll be in Cambodia.”
“Hotels always hold a room for VIPs.”
“I know. That’s how I got the last suite at the Kempinski in Naypyitaw.”
“Did you speak with the manager and tell him who my husband is?”
“Yes. The manager actually helped me get Raffles — the king suite.”
“No! I will not stay at Raffles in any suite. Do you not understand? We will be entertaining important business associates and government officials. I’d be humiliated. Rearrange the schedule. I don’t care what it takes. Fix it!”
I started over, rearranged appointments, dates of flights, and hotel stays, building the entire trip around when the Amansara had available suites. Finally, the itinerary was drafted. Then, Mrs. Smyth moved on to who should be given the honor of entertaining them.
“We must write to Ambassador Albrecht right away. He would be miffed if we were in the country and he wasn’t allowed to put on a dinner for us. Coordinate dates with his secretary. And here is a list of people who will want to know when we will be in their city — they’re all in the Rolodex.”
Once the correspondence was handled and the social calendar was done, I expected that my work for Mrs. Smyth was finished, but no. She insisted she couldn’t possibly get ready to travel without my help.
It Was a Dirty Job But… It Paid WellGetting her ready meant doing the jobs she didn’t want to do. One morning she called me to come upstairs, opened her closet door, and pointed out shelves stacked with underwear.
“I need you to organize my underthings by color and sort them into plastic bags to be easier to pack.”
Then she indicated a box full of old stockings.
“And go through these to find those without runs and bag them as well.”
I looked at the stockings and the old undergarments, yellowed with age. But I thought, what the heck! I’ll have a great story. I’m sure it never occurred to her that this was overreaching. She was oblivious.
But I was yet to have the dirtiest assignment. This was a time before business casual. Women wore business suits to work. I was sorting through emails when Mrs. Smyth came to my office carrying a wrench.
“Janice, the man is coming today to fix the pool. I need you to turn off the water. The shut-off valve is under the porch.”
Can you believe I did it? I crawled under the porch, through spider webs and dust, and turned the valve.
I was looking forward to filing and other mundane jobs while they were gone for six weeks. But, no such luck. They called every day with changes for me to make.
At eleven they called to move their lunch reservations. At three, they called to say I needed to call the Kempinski because they needed three more days in Naypyitaw. That meant a chain of changes to be made. But the calls that were made on Southeast Asia time came to me on DC time. The eleven o’clock call came at midnight. And the three o’clock call came at four in the morning. So I was on the night shift.
The Christmas MissiveThe Smyths came back from their travels just before Thanksgiving. Mrs. Smyth gave me her Christmas missive to type — a three-page account of the year in their lives to be sent to their hundred closest friends.
But when I read what she wrote in her account of their travels in Asia, I cringed. She actually wanted to say this in a letter to be sent to a hundred people? I asked. She told me to type it as written. I can imagine the reaction of some of those people when they read this. “Traveling in Southeast Asia would have been wonderful if there weren’t so many Orientals.”
It was just another episode in the dark comedy, Life with the Impressive, Irreplaceable, and Priceless Smyths.
Do you have a bad boss story?Are there any bad bosses to top the Smyths — bosses so outrageous that it got funny? If you have, I’d love to hear your stories. By the way, Janice did save enough money (and collect enough episodes of the dramedy) to leave the Smyths and move to Florida with stories to tell and enough money to live happily ever after.
By Ruthi Birch10/1
The post Bad Bosses — Proud, Pretentious, & Entitled appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
September 15, 2021
Childhood Memories — Childhood Fears
What are your scariest childhood memories? What kinds of things scare you? The dark? The monster under the bed? Getting in trouble? That one scared me. But when I was a very little child — maybe six or seven — I discovered a terrifying possibility — Mama could die!
I have vivid memories of nights that I lay in bed so afraid that it hurt. My eyes would strain to cry. And my throat would burn like a scream — but no sound came out. What was worse was that it was something I couldn’t even talk to Mama about.
Mama could die that very night while I was sleeping. Maybe she had already. I’d get up and creep to her bed to make sure she was breathing. Then I’d go back to my bed, relieved — for a little while.
I wanted to pray to God to not let Mama die, but I didn’t dare — I was afraid it might give him the idea. So, the worst thing in the world could happen that night and I was helpless!
One night the answer came to me — I could trick God!
I couldn’t ask God not to let her die. But I could ask for something else that would keep it from happening. So I prayed,
“Dear God, please make Mama wake up feeling good in the morning.”
It worked. I prayed and the next day Mama woke up. The prayer made Mama safe for another day and eased my fear. I kept praying my prayer every night for years. I don’t remember when I stopped.
Grandmama Was Old and She Might Die – Childhood MemoriesAnother of my worries was Grandmama. She was old and she might die. I’d be sad, but that wasn’t the worst thing that would happen to her. Grandmama wasn’t going to go to Heaven because she never went to church! She read her Bible a lot, but I knew that probably wasn’t enough to make up for church.
Most everybody I knew went to church and Mobile had plenty of churches. There were three right at the end of Petain Street.
But Grandmama wouldn’t go to any of them — not to the Baptist Church with Aunt Pauline or the Methodist Church with Mama and me. I loved Grandmama and I’d miss her. But you had to go to church to get to Heaven — the rules were real clear to me when I was little.
Do you remember when you were certain about the rules?
I saw a balance scale displayed in Van Antwerp’s drug store. It gave me an idea. Maybe I could convince God to take her to Heaven.
I imagined Grandmama not going to church weighing down one side. On the other side, I piled the reasons she should go to Heaven.
#1. She reads her Bible a lot.
#2 She watches the TV preachers too. But that’s not the same as going to a real church, is it? I mean she can’t take communion through the television. Do you have to take communion to go to Heaven?
#3. She takes care of me and lets me lay in her bed and watch TV when I’m sick.
#4. She does nice things for people. She baked a chicken pie for the Carpenters when Mrs. Carpenter was sick.
Would the good deeds along with the Bible-reading and TV preacher-watching be enough to outweigh church?
I wasn’t sure. So, I told God my list and left it with Him.
I didn’t have to worry about Mama and Heaven. If only one person on earth was going it would be her. Because Mama knew God. They loved each other. She talked to him all the time. She’d go to Heaven all right — just not yet!
You might wonder why I didn’t mention Daddy. That’s because I didn’t worry about him. It couldn’t help. He would not be going to Heaven.
He never went to church, or read the Bible, or watched the TV preachers. And he cussed — a lot. He did do nice things for people. He helped our neighbors when they had a flood in their house. And when I had a sore throat he always took care of me. It made me sad but it was a fact. So I didn’t think about it.
What about me?I had never considered that I might not go to Heaven until one day in Sunday school. We had a new teacher who talked about the other place. She said even little children would go there if they were bad.
I could go to the other place?I was scared because I did a lot of bad things. Sometimes I talked back and pouted. I lied to Mama and said I’d practiced piano when I hadn’t. Once I took a dime from Grandmama’s coin purse. And I didn’t like going to church either. I never paid attention. And I had a fight with a boy in my Sunday school class and called him a bad name.
I took my fears to Mama.I cried and told her I was afraid wouldn’t go to Heaven and neither would Grandmama. Just like that, she put an end to my fears — except the one I didn’t tell her. “Get those thoughts right out of your head. God loves you and you’ll be with Him someday. And he loves Grandmama and knows what’s in her heart. Just trust Him.“
So, Mama convinced me I was going to Heaven — but that was something else to worry about.
What if I didn’t like heaven?I was afraid I wouldn’t. I wanted to be with Mama and maybe Grandmama. And my friend Delilah. She’d be there for sure. She was a Holiness. The Holiness had to be extra good because they had a lot more sins to watch out for.
But the way the grown-ups talked about Heaven, it didn’t sound like much fun. The things they were most excited about were the streets — they were gold. There were mansions too. And there were angels. And a Heavenly choir. And we’d all sing.
Angels and mansions and golden streets and singing — was that all there was? No playing or watching cartoons on TV — just singing day and night — forever.
It sounded boring — but it was still better than going to the other place. Grown-ups talked about that place a lot more than they talked about Heaven. It was made of fire and screaming people.
It scared me. So, no matter how boring it was, I prayed every night, “And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take.”
When I look back at these childhood memories, I feel sorry for the little girl who woke up nights agonizing about Mama, God, Heaven, sin, and the other place — things she couldn’t control. Did all children worry about them?
Now I’m grown, I don’t wake up worrying about such things. I wake up worrying about grownup things — what’s happening in the world. Haters. Do we need a new roof? A new AC? The price of gas. Will I have a stroke if I walk the dog in this 95+ degree heat and 80% humidity?
By Ruthi Birch9/15
The post Childhood Memories — Childhood Fears appeared first on Life(F)unscripted.
September 1, 2021
Raising a Puppy — In a World Full of Delicious Dangers
Have you raised a puppy — a curious, rowdy, wildly energetic puppy? A puppy who was always two – three – four steps ahead of you? Then you know raising puppy isn’t all sweet cuddles and licks. It’s exhausting! I know because I’m hopelessly in love with a soft-coated Wheaten terrier puppy named Mr. Magoo. But love isn’t enough. Mr. Magoo’s world is full of delicious dangers that he races to grab before I can stop him. Then he looks at me with those eyes that say I betrayed him — again. Doesn’t he know it’s my job to keep him safe?
You Are What You Eat?If that’s true, Mr. Magoo is a block of wood, a new sneaker, five cicadas, four rolls of toilet paper, a bar of soap, asphalt roofing tiles, three sponges, a plastic flower pot, seven dog toys, and the mail — including a check from the IRS. After the check, my husband Ron was the danger.
The law according to Mr. Magoo — if he can reach it and can get it in his mouth, he must eat it.
Purple Poop – Raising a PuppyThere is no such thing as a Magoo-proof toy. He turned the “indestructible” purple dinosaur into confetti in half an hour. At least the poop was colorful — much nicer than the color left after he ate the green roofing tiles.
He has toys in every room, but Mr. Magoo likes simple things best — household toys I call them. Tissues are the most fun. They shred and fly all about the room. Spatulas, stolen from the dishwasher, turn up with their wooden handles chewed off. (Are spatulas still spatulas if they don’t have handles?) Books are nice treats too — healthier than spatulas since they don’t splinter.
One day I heard the housekeeper calling, “Doggie, stop. Doggie, don’t!” And Mr. Magoo came trotting proudly into the kitchen — with a bottle of Clorox bleach in his mouth.
I used to worry over every upset stomach. What if it was something serious? What if he’d eaten something toxic? Lots of things are toxic to dogs. I knew because I’d Googled. Before the puppy was six months old, he’d been to the vet so often they were on a first-name basis.
Time has passed and Mr. Magoo is still alive, so I’m a little less uptight. He seems to thrive on strange and dangerous things.
Physics: Speed X Weight = Something’s BrokenI’m not a physicist but as best I can calculate, a thirty-pound puppy running into an object at 20 mph exerts six hundred pounds of force. (Feel free to correct me.)
When that force is exerted on people, ouch! And Mr. Magoo loves people — all people. He has no doubt they love him back — they need to touch him. So, his thirty-pound body runs 20 mph toward whoever comes into his orbit — friend, delivery person, gardener, painter, Jehovah’s Witness, or kid selling chocolate bars to pay for computer camp. He must reach them. He must jump on them. He must lick them. He knows they want it!
Barriers — doors, windows, gates — are not part of his reality. Whatever stands between him and his objective should not be, so it’s not. Therefore he throws the full force of his body into it.
I’ve come to dread the doorbell. To Mr. Magoo, it’s a new friend calling to him. To us, it’s the start of a battle that tests our strength, speed, and wit.
Before the bell, a sweet Mr. Magoo cuddles in Ron’s arms and looks into my eyes in a way that raises my serotonin levels.
Then, the bell! And we spring into action. Mr. Magoo jumps from Ron’s lap straight into the air. Ron grabs for his collar and strains to keep hold of the frenzied puppy. I run to the door, racing to get through and close it before he can break free and get there. It’s pretty much even odds on who wins.
When I win, he doesn’t accept defeat. He throws all thirty of his pounds into the closed door. The last time, the door stuck and we had to pay a carpenter to open it.
“Magoo, I’ve just about had it with you!” I screamed. He gave me that look again.
And I thought, oh well, the carpenter wasn’t all that expensive. The door probably needed work anyway.
Windows — You Can See Through Them So They Don’t ExistWe have a whole different problem when someone comes to the kitchen door — windows. Bay windows and door windows stand between Mr. Magoo and whoever is there to adore him. He can see them, so he can reach them. He sails through the kitchen and throws himself against the windows, again and again.
I run, screaming every command in my limited vocabulary, “Leave it! Sit. Come! Down! Want a treat? No! Stop! Please.” But he doesn’t stop until I finally get hold and drag him away. Luckily, we have really, really strong windows.
The smart little dog knows the command words. He learned them in one day — so he knows exactly which ones he’s not obeying.
Raising a Puppy – Why Didn’t We Think of That?Yesterday, I was slogging through 80% humidity and 90° heat to take Mr. Magoo for his morning walk. I was not up to the battle I knew was coming when I saw a stranger walking toward us. The closer she got, the more the dog jerked and lunged to get to her, to jump on her. I yelled the mutually understood commands. He didn’t obey. All I could do was clench the leash and hang on.
She stopped when she reached us. Why? I wondered.
“Beautiful dog. You should train him,” offered the stranger helpfully.
“Yeah. We could do that. But we enjoy the exercise. He’s done wonders for my figure.”
Actually, we did hire a professional trainer. He took Mr. Magoo and trained him for two weeks. When he came home, it was amazing. He was perfectly behaved — as long as the trainer was here. As soon as the trainer walked out, Mr. Magoo knew the boss was gone. Only the suckers were still here. We are the ones who learned a lesson — raising a puppy is not for the faint of heart!
By Ruthi Birch9/1
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