Requiem

Dorothy Evelyn Rita Madigan King Madigan 12-29-39
She didn't want to be alone.

Occupy this!

All those Occupy protesters camping out with no clear focus: Why not occupy the meat counter of your local supermarkets and protest the prices, such as more than $4.00 per lb for ground beef that's at least 15% fat. We're going to need a lot more helper in our Hamburger Helper.

And another thing...

For years and years, I was the only one who made the bed. When I was incapacitated for a while several years ago, he would make the bed sometimes. Instead of turning the sheets and bedspread down at the head of the bed like a normal person, he would fold the sheets and comforter over at the foot of the bed. At first I thought it just a case of retarded development, and sometimes I would correct it and other times just let it be. When he persisted in this practice every time, I pointed out that he was not following proper bed-making procedure. He said he didn't like the extra folds around his neck, preferred them at the foot of the bed. I have no answer for such thinking. (Yes, I do--it's stupid.)

Dichotomy

How can two people live together for more than forty years and see things entirely differently? Case in point: I think of Christmas Eve as the day before Christmas, but his concept of Christmas Eve is the evening before Christmas. It's not important, has never made a difference, both interpretations have credibility, but wouldn't it just seem that some convergence of thought would have developed over all those years.

Now I get it

At a certain time in their lives, my mother and her sister began to qualify their future plans and coming events by using the words, "God willing, or "if I'm still around." I don't remember how old I was when their vocabulary changed in this way, but I know I was young enough to resent hearing those words. I hated hearing them speak that way; in my heart I wanted them to be around forever, in a way thought they would be, and I didn't like the chill that went down my spine when the fated expressions were uttered. Any more than I don't remember when they started to verbalize their mortality, I don't remember when I began to follow that thought pattern myself. I'm thnking that my mother was preparing not only herself for the inevitable, but also letting us get used to the idea. In that respect, she was not successful; everybody must die, but the concept of knowing that doesn't explain anything, does it?

Who's there?

We're supposed to recommend to the needy adolescents in our program that they seek out a trusted adult, to help counsel them in times of trouble. And that would be------a member of the clergy? A coach? A psychologist? An elected official?

XYZ Factor

I think I would be more receptive to rap if the singers didn't grunt. I don't get how they represent. Uhhh!

God and Country

Country singers reek at singing Christmas songs. They sound off-key even to me. And those twangy voices are what you might hear in Purgatory. Where is Elvis when we need him?

My Christmas Wish List

Not that a single person has asked, so Dear Santa, I am counting on you. My first request is the same as for the last 12 years. I need a new lint brush, not just any old lint brush but a replacement for a 30 year old model. I don't want the kind with the bristles, I don't want the kind with the flimsy (usually red) pads that fall off after a few uses, I don't want the roll around type, and I don't want one with replaceable inserts. The one I want would be white plastic, about a foot long counting the handle, with a 5 inch oval cleaning surface, firmly secured. The cleaning head does reverse for left or right hand use. The handle on mine has broken off, and the cleaning head has so many miles on it that it's worn down to the bare surface, but it still works better than the other dozen or so that I've tried to replace it with. A modest request but I'm pretty sure an impossible one. And the list gets even harder: second on my list is a way for me to learn how to put pictures in ebay or facebook, or email, or any place. If there is an App for that, one that doesn't involve murder, mayhem or divorce, please leave it under the tree. And third, I would like you to help me pot a fig tree.

PS to Santa: 2 out of 3 so far.

Publicized Junk

"Ameliorate is a word. Google it!"

I hate myself....

for, without thinking, viewing the pictures of the Duggars' dead fetus.

The News Today

A message just in case it should ever happen to you: If someone steals your identity and/or hijacks your credit rating, don't just report it to your card company. Everyone knows that any fraud will be reimbursed. Be sure to act out your horror when you can't make a purchase. Make that purchase a touchy-feeley one, like a Christmas gift for a child--a three-year-old girl would be ideal. Check to see that there are witnesses before you disintegrate into tears. And, above all, be sure that you contact your local TV station. You'll be guaranteed that gifts will flood in. And there's a lot less collateral damage than leaving Christmas presents in your car, where a thief will most likely find them. Bah, Humbug!

TV's Most Disgusting Sights

#3) Dr. Oz palpating a cadaver organ assisted by an adoring fan. HE's a rock star?

#2) A cat, no matter how adorable, using a litter box. Who needs to be reminded?

#1) Anything to do with the Kardashians. Speaking of cats and cadavers.

Horror Movie

Our family had gone to the movie theater only a few times when we were little. My mother did like the idea of going to the movies but the budget was tight and my father worked every day, and it was not the thing then to ever take a day off work, and certainly not in order to take the family to the movies. We went a few times, on Saturdays; I remember The Bijou Theater, I think on Hoosick Street. I don't think there were too many movies made then for children anyway, and I found out that some of what were comedies scared the daylights out of us, particularly frightening Dorothy, the youngest and the most emotional. A memorable opening scene showed a man lying on his sickbed, while outside someone was riding a bicycle at night, in the rain, amidst the sound of howling dogs. Or so I recall, something like that. Dorothy was terrified, I was nervous, and Joseph never commented.

But the movie that marked me for life was the one I saw in first grade. We weren't shown many movies in school back then: later I remember watching some really boring film about composers, and probably a few educational public health reels, boring even to us culturally starved children, and once we were treated to a western, starring a cowboy on a white horse, possibly Hopalong Cassidy. The movie shown to us in first grade was probably also a message movie, though the message was lost on me. I was too overwhelmed by the content to take away anything except the feeling of constant worry that it instilled in me. The movie starred,or so it seems to me, a young girl who I identified with. We both had long pigtails. I surmised later that the actress might have been Margaret O'Brien. People used to compare my looks to her. I didn't think she was that cute, but I did admire her braids, longer than mine. The movie started with the mornings in the lives of 5 families, all preparing for the day ahead. I think the movie must have announced that something terrible was to happen to one of the families that day. One family featured was an Italian family with 5 or so children, with the father driving off to work in an old truck which had faulty brakes, which he knew needed fixing, when he had the time and money. Another may have been a teenager, with a penchant for speed, and who had been warned by his parents about the dangers. The other families and details have faded from my memory except for the that of the pigtailed girl, and her little brother. Their mother was widowed, a single mom a rarity back then. (Most likely, her husband had been lost at war.) The mother was off to look for a job, and was bidding goodbye to her daughter, telling her to look after her little brother. So all of the families drove off to start their day. Close to twilight, when all left at home anxiously awaited the return of their loved ones. One by one, they all returned to the embrace of their families. Only two were left. We saw a scene of the Italian wife and all the little kids wondering where Daddy was, and another scene of the pigtailed girl and her baby brother waiting for Mommy to come home. The two kids were sitting at the kitchen table, the girl visibly agitated while the toddler played with his toy cars. She wondered aloud what was keeping Mommy, and the little boy smashed one of his little cars into the other, and said "Mommy's car go boom." His sister looked aghast and told him to never say that again. The final scene showed the children sitting somberly while some adults were preparing to take the kids and their belongings out of their house. ...Pretty much every time after that,whenever my mother, or father, or anyone I knew was out in a car, I would get that gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach. And what's more pathetic, that's not in the past tense.

Somebody Help Me

Three flights of stairs in the elementary school, but only two flights in the middle school. Near the top of the second flight, a young teacher, descending at a fast clip, advised over her shoulder that there were elevators available, (for the likes of me, I suppose.) "Thanks," I offered, "maybe on the way down." " Oh, I wouldn't take the elevator," came another voice, male this time, "The custodian got stuck in the elevator yesterday, for quite a while, and it hasn't been fixed yet."

Yesterday, I contemplated taking a shorter route home, but opted not to, because the driver has to keep the gas pedal depressed on an incline while waiting to merge out onto the state road, and I don't like that balancing act. So I drove the longer way only to be held up in traffic at the site of a massive rollover and deploying of junk all over the road. If I had that Crystal Ball, I would know what to do; where is it anyway?

Holiday Greetings

Wishing all my loyal blog followers the happiest of holidays, and May a Jaguar rip out the Throat of an Antelope. (I hear that's trending now.)

Mindedlessness

From an early age, I've wondered how other people's minds worked, so that I might be able to form a mold for my own thoughts. I can remember looking up at my mother's face while we were in church. I was small, and her expression, reserved for religious occasions, seemed far away, physically and emotionally, from what was familiar to me. She was intent on the priest's words and I could hear the words, thought I understood them, but they had no impact on me. I knew I was missing some link, but I didn't know what it was. It was the same effect as when I would read the newspaper, and try to figure out why my father would react so strongly to the words he read. I read them, and...nothing. The words didn't move me at all, not newsprint, not homilies. Later on, I would have the same feeling when I attended concerts, or musical performances. Those in the audience sat with rapt attention on their faces. What was going on in their minds, were they thinking how beautiful the music was, or were they at that state where thoughts dissolve into pure consciousness without thinking. I took a graduate course in religions years ago; one of the books we read was the Bhagavad Gita, which delved into the principles of Meditation: when our thoughts die out,we enter into a new level of consciousness which we can then begin to explore freely without the disturbances of thought. If I had known then what was to come later in life, I would have taken meditating more seriously, anything to stop the flow of conscious thought, any measure to achieve the eternal level of pure consciousness far removed from thinking. But I don't know. Meditation is supposed to be an involved and painstaking process, fraught with the ironic axiom that if you set out to meditate it will not be meditation. Yet I know people who seem able to empty their minds of conscious thought, and I don't think it was through a conscious process. When asked what they are thinking, they answer nothing, when a loved one has a crisis, or a person is unaccounted for, or a health diagnosis is pending, they can sleep, and wait for answers to come in due time. Conscious thinking brings all sorts of unnecessary issues into play, not at all conducive to peace of mind. The purity of self realization filters out all the excessive and useless thought and permits the flow of pure consciousness. I'm good with that, who wants the morass of a troubled mind. If I live another full lifetime, I could possibly attain that goal, but in this lifetime, I cannot conceive of having even an instant of thought-free time, even if I'm only thinking of what I'm thinking about. A Blog in place of the Bhagavad Gita may be a poor substitute, but it's all I can muster.

Hex on the Factor

I'm cringing. There ought to be a law against the exploitation of children. Is it in the genre of entertainment to watch a teenaged girl be tortured for the second week in a row? And the "sing for your life" gauntlet is just a sham anyway. And if a judge can't judge, why hold the title of judge. But that had to have been one of the most uncomfortable displays ever. Simon Cowell should rethink his show. And didn't he used to say children should not perform in public?

Preposition Please

OK, take your pick: Presents on the tree, by the tree, 'neath the tree, from the tree, below the tree, and the tree (oops, a conjunction), or "unereath" (slur as needed here). Why can't we all just get along?

The Icks Factor

L.A. is the only person I've ever seen who keeps time and indicates mad cool approval by turning his head side to side, instead of nodding up and down. Seems hard to do. Nicole S. seems dumb as a rock. That shaggy singer looked lost in the desert, thirsting for water. Rachel Crow is borderline between obnoxious and just plain annoying. Melanie Imaro has an awesome voice, but her please may I just say something routine along with her on again, off again Hispanic accent is wearing a little thin. And those hair extensions from hell. Marcus Canty is a mediocre singer with phony puppy dog expression in his eyes bordering on the absurd, and weighted down by the gigantic crucifix hanging to his stomach. So all hail the winner, the tattoed rapper singer who has overcome adversity and drugs to give Simon's new show an edgy success story. Let's see what the re-habbed rapper does with the 5 mil or whatever it is.

Christmas Spritcz

I didn't know that there was a song called "Red Solo Cup" sung by Country's Entertainer of the Year Toby Keith, and I don't care. The only thing more unsettling was a rather bloated looking Michael Bublie trying to affect a light touch as the host of a show. The skits looked worse than the lamest of SNL, and his chat with the child actors had me silently saying, "Watch out, kids, for the hugging and Nooo, don't be sitting on that nice man's lap." And his so-cool hip hop tempo "Baby, It's Cold Outside" with Kellie Pickler reminded me of the mating dance of those little birds you see on Animal Planet--or YouTube. What's next?

Blank Slate

I guess I could say I've always kept a kind of blog, except back then it would have been called a diary, and later on a journal. In seventh grade, everybody was required to have a notebook for social studies, and it had to be one of those black and white notebooks, the only color at the time, though now they come in a variety of colors and designs. We wrote, in pencil, the facts the teacher wrote on the blackboard, lots and lots of words. We were to keep those notebooks, as a study guide, I guess, though they were subject to be called in if the teacher (Mrs. Foster) had reason to suspect lack of due diligence on the part of the note-taker. Me being a strict follower of rules, I had no cause for concern on that front, but I did violate the integrity of the notebook's purpose by keeping my own little journal in the margins, writing sideways so as not to intrude on the actual note taking. It was the year my grandmother took sick and died, and I secretly kept an account as the events unfolded. I can remember my first post: "Oct.8, Nanny fell." After she died, about a month later, I used my eraser to clear the margins of all my scribbled notes. We didn't have delete buttons then.

Self Aggrandizement

I wonder when it became customary for game show contestants, Hollywood stars and generic celebrities to refer to their "beautiful wives" or" wonderful husbands" and "beautiful and wonderful children." Didn't there used to be a time when it was considered poor taste to compliment yourself, your family and your lot in life, and praise words were left to others to bestow on you?

December 7

They had gone in to town together; I don't know what day of the week it was, but it must have been a Saturday. Otherwise they would have been at work. Couldn't have been a Sunday, because nothing was open on Sunday back then. The wives would have stayed at home of course, with us kids. Upon their return, my father and Tommy were in the barn, in the house on what is now called Brundige Road. The entrance to the barn had a raised stoop and my father was sitting on that stoop with a hammer in his hand pounding out the beat to the song they were singing---"When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again."

Talk to the Animal...

I've never been one to talk to animals, except to call them, yell at them when they're in the wrong, and praise them when they've behaved well.  So that's how it is with our present cat, with one exception.  When I'm ready to  leave the house for an extended period of time, I find myself  telling Maybe, curled up on the couch, that I've left the kitchen door ajar so that she can go to where her litter box is.  She always looks at me, widening her eyes slightly, and so far seems to have complied. 

Shopping Mania

I used to shop, a lot.  And walk.  Early on, we used to walk all over the city of Troy.  If we went shopping, it seemed only fair to visit all the stores:  Frears, Denbys, Peerless, Up-to-Date, Towne Shop, and others that I can't even remember, even Stanley's way down the street.  The only discomfort I remember was the stores' being so warm in the winter that we had to take  our coats, usually heavy woolen coats, and hats and gloves of course, off and on in each store,  and then carry them around with all our purchases and stash them while we tried things on.  I can remember later when I worked at the Education Building, shopping in downtown Albany by myself at night, trying to find the right party dress, or buying mens' clothes at Spector's.  I think Colonie Center was the first mall  in the area, and opened in the early-ish 60's.   Hallelujah, indoor shopping!  And you could check your coats and earlier purchases in lockers.  Macy's was at one end and Sears was at the other, and a million jillion stores in between.  By now, Dorothy and my other friends were married, so I mostly shopped alone.  One night I was shopping there and had parked by Macy's. When I went to leave, closing time, I think it was 10:00 p.m., had come and the Macy's exit was locked.  I had to go all the way to the Sears exit to get out.  I was Christmas shopping, had packages to carry, it was cold and dark outside, and there were snowbanks.  Not only that, there was a steep bank dividing the 2 parking lots, it was hilly, I had to walk completely around the mall in the dark and cold, and then try to find my car.  I was completely disoriented, having known where I'd parked in relation to Macy's but had no reference point at all once I'd circled the mall.  And no one else was around: the other shoppers had a better sense of time, I guess.  Oh, the horror!  Another memory I have of that mall was going there each Christmas with Ma and Marilyn and David to have their pictures taken with Santa.  Of course we had to go to the upper level to look down and take in Santa's display, little choo-choo and all.  Ma would get so nervous; she was afraid the kids would fall through the railing.  I tried to reassure her that they couldn't fit through the openings, but she still had that fear. 
     
        So it was a relief to her when Clifton Country Mall opened and everything was on one level.  That opening pretty much coincided with Danny's first Christmas, I seem to recall, so Ma no longer had to worry about a grandchild or two dropping down onto Santa's lap.  But 1978 was the year Ma had her heart attack, and that pretty much signified that what had become our  routine was going to be changed.  Before that happened, her only weakness was in her knees, and she was so strong and seemed so ageless that it seemed that time sort of hung suspended.  Getting old, it seems, is rather like the sun shining in on the carpet;  you don't realize  how  much the carpet  has faded until you move that chair, and find that what had seemed like a gradual process has taken a serious toll.

Is it true?

"I'm walking the floor over you.

I can't sleep a wink;

That is two."
     WTH, Did Ernest Tubb have a lisp? Or did he used to be able to pronounce "true" and then he took an arrow to the knee?

Words to live by

Life can be a challenge.

Life can seem impossible.

It's never easy when there's so much on the line,

But you and I can make a difference.

There's a mission just for you and me.

Just look inside and you will find just what you can do.

(You can quote me on that.)

Correction

FYI: It's not that I can't spell. I just can't type, or see, or edit. I don;t know why my editing feature ceased working. It used to allow editing: then it took an arrow to the knee. (I know, unfunny, trite

Children and Trust

I'd just gotten the census for a new family in West Hebron, on the same road as a family I was already working with. They were scheduled to move in that week, so I pulled off the road into the site where the trailer had been plopped down in the middle of a field, no driveway, just tire tracks. I 'd seen bicycles off the roadside, and thought that maybe the kids I had been working with, just a distance up the country road, were visiting the 2 young girls of the new family. As I got out of the car, I could hear music, very loud, coming fom inside the trailer. When I knocked on the door, the music suddenly went silent, and no one came to the door. A lot of strange things occur in this job, so I didn't think too much of it, but got back in my car and went to the other house. No one was home there either, again another fairly regular occurrence, so I got back in my car and on the way back decided to stop in again at the new household. This time, I didn't even bother geting out of my car, but just beeped the horn. As soon as I did so, the 2 girls came bouncing out of the trailer right over to my car, and leaned into the car window to tell me, "We saw you when you were here before, but our parents told us never to answer the door if we were home alone." (The parents, in the process of moving in on that late summer afternoon, had had to make a last trip to deliver some more stuff, and had briefly left the girls, aged 8 and 10, with those strict orders.)

Sabotage or Coincidence??

Since I promoted Freschetti's Pineapple and Canadian Bacon Pizza on my fabulous blog, I have looked in vain for one of the few foods I crave. For the last month or so, Shop N Save has had all the other varieties of that brand's frozen pizza in stock, but not the Pineapple one. Either the vast contingent of my Blog followers have stormed the frozen food aisle, making off with my pizza, or else it's such an unpopular choice they've stopped making it. As a matter of fact, the same thing happened with the flavor of frozen yogurt I mentioned last summer. Oh the horor!

Me Me

I used to be a contender: then I took an arrow in the knee.

February 27, 1973

I remember the clothes we wore that day. I wore a ski jacket, dark blue with pale blue spots. I'd bought it when I was still single, at Cohoes Manufacturing on a shopping trip with Pat White, the exchange teacher from England, and another teacher when we were planning a ski trip. It was a nice jacket, and I received compliments when I wore it. (OMG--this can't be my life I'm writing about). The day was quite warm for February, so the kids wore only the jackets of their snowsuits. Marilyn's was pink, and David, who was 2 years old, wore his first winter jacket, not a one-piece snowsuit. The jacket was blue, with a few red accents, including a little airplane embroidered on the front. The jacket had pockets, which may have contributed to his fate, and the hood was shallow and didn't come very far forward on his head, which may have been a life saver. As was our usual routine, we all got into my old Impala Supersport convertible and drove to the post office to get my mother's mail. The post office than, before handicap accessibility, had steps on the side as well as the front steps. As I ushered the kids up the side steps, we were met by a large black German Shepherd, who was evidently anxiously waiting for his owner to emerge from the building. He came toward the 3 of us in a very friendly manner; I remember he had silver chains with tags attached to them that were jangling as he moved toward us. He appeared very friendly, tail wagging and body moving, and I recall moving the kids to my right, against the wall so that he would not accidentally knock them down the steps. We went into the post office, spoke to his owner who was chatting with Gloria the postmistress. Looking back, I can think that they'd probably been talking for quite a while, possibly a cause of the dog's anxiety. Marilyn used the combination to open Ma's mailbox. (People were astonished she could do so, because the boxes were fairly new, and baffled a lot of the customers.) As we left with the mail, I started to take David's hand to help him down the single step at the door, but he pulled his hand away, wanting to put it in his "new pocket." The dog came to the doorway as we left, saw his owner was not coming out and retreated to the far side of the porch, out of our area, or so I thought. Marilyn was a few steps ahead of me on the porch, David a few steps behind, and I was scanning the mail which I was holding when I heard a terrible sound behind me, incredibly loud snarling, and a child's cries. Looking back, I saw this huge dog, (130 + lbs) on top of and mauling David, who was 28 months old and weighed 27 pounds. David had been knocked onto his back, and the dog was repeatedly biting at his head. The 3 of us were all still on the concrete porch, but I remember it seemed a mile away from where I was to where David was being attacked. I ran to the scene: I have no memory of any encounter with the dog. I think he might have just left when I got there. I'm not sure. I picked David up, his whole head covered with and dripping blood and carried him back into the post office, which I'd just left seconds ago. Marilyn followed me in. The owner was horrified when she learned what happened. Gloria brought us into the back, sat us down, took a box of kleenex, and placed them all on David's bleeding head, while she called 911 and Dave at work. I remember asking her to look and see if David's eye was there. I wasn't able to look. She lifted off the wad of blood stained kleenex, and told me that his eye was there. (Later I learned that in one of the bites, the dog's tooth was stopped by the drawstring in the jacket hood, and that bite ended just above his eye. That shallow hood may have saved his eye.) The ambulance came, Joyce Bott had come in to get her mail, and she drove Marilyn to Ma's. She later told me that she thought Marilyn was about 5 or 6 because she gave such clear directions to the house. I hadn't thought to do so. Of course, there's much more to the story, maybe for another day,or maybe not. I know when I finally got home from the hospital for a while, after the surgery and when Dorothy and Gus came to relieve us, I put my ski jacket in the sink to soak, and the water turned red with blood and clots. David did get an infection, Dr. Grattan ordered the dog euthanized amidst owner protests because the dog had had his rabies shots. Dr's case was that because the teeth had penetrated the skull, the 10-day wait for test results could be deadly. He also told us that because of the force of the bites that if the dog had bitten him anywhere else but the head, he probably would not have survived. David still has the scars to show, a little more noticeable now than when he had his mane of hair. But at least his brain was unaffected. My mother always had a dread of any fever or injury that could result in a person's being "not quite right." She had prayed and kept the candles lighted for the 3 days he was in the hospital. Because she was watching Marilyn, she didn't see him until he came home from the hospital. He walked into her house, and the first thing he said was ,"Nana, did you get your mail?" She told me that she knew then that he was all right.

Damn Horses

My mother loved horses all her life. When she was young and the family moved to Pittstown after her brother was killed in a tragic accident, they invested in a plowhorse to help work the fields. The remaining brother worked with the horse, and my mother said he hated it, both the field work and the horse. Not my mother, though, she would ride that horse to school, probably her only happy memory of attending that Cooksboro school. After she married, and we kids were born, our family would visit the old homestead every two weeks. One year, on our return trip, my father pulled in to what must have been a recently opened business venture, horseback riding. Several horses were available to be ridden for what must have been a small fee, and so my mother must have saved up for us kids to have the experience of our first horseback ride. I was small enough for someone to have lifted me onto the horse, and I remember it seemed a long way up. The horse I was on would barely move, keeping its head down to eat the sparse grass growing along the edges of the "trail." I don't remember where the other kids were when the owners decided to feed the horses; they must have already returned to the starting point. Feeding the horses meant throwing hay down beneath the apple tree where the horses were stationed. When my horse saw the food, which was all he'd been interested in during the ride, he took off at a fast pace----toward the food, which was under the tree. Somehow I managed to stay on his back; that is until he reached the tree where the hay was strewn. The next thing I remembered was a bump on my forehead where my head had crashed into the tree branch. I realize now that the ranch was early LAZY J, and that the horses were probably very hungry. I also realize I will never share my mother's love for horses.

Close Call on Aznuzewski

Aznuzewski Lane is a long, very long, and picturesque driveway, or rather private road, off Route 40 heading toward Greenwich, and I'm pretty sure I almost died there. I drove down that road on a beautiful September day trying to find a teenager who was in our program. She had left home and was said to be living with her grandparents at that address. I parked my car in front of the trailer that was on the property where the worker lived. I stepped out of the car and saw a large white German Shepherd lying near the doorstep. He didn't bark, or even get up when I spoke to him. His demeanor seemed non-threatening, so I went up the step and knocked on the door. No one responded so I started back to my car. I could see to my left a large barn where a mare was tied to a post at the end of the barn , with her colt free by her side. A man, the grandfather, drove up in the field across from the driveway where I was getting ready to leave. He sat on the tractor, and told me that his grand-daughter was not living there at the time, and was proceeding to tell me where she might be found when all of a sudden he yelled to me. "Watch out for that horse!" I'm standing across the drive from where he was sitting on his tractor in the field, and there is the colt charging down from the other end of the driveway straight at me. I was more than willing to "Watch out," but couldn't see where that would get me. If I'd tried to run toward my car, my back would be turned,and I was pretty sure I couldn't make it in time anyway. It is true this was only a colt, but it was a very tall and large colt, almost full grown, just not yet filled out to horse status. I must have appeared pretty helpless, because suddenly the man jumped off his tractor just as the colt neared where I was awaiting my fate, assuming that I was to be kicked by a horse. The grandfather ran up to the horse, yelling at it as loud as he could, and smacked it as hard as he could. The colt ran back to its mother. The man, climbing back on his tractor, told me that it was a particularly mean horse. I asked him if it kicked, (since I'd been readying myself for that.) "No, he said,"it jumps up on you." I knew then that I would have been dead.

Dose of Reality

At one point in our lives, my mother decided we were in need of medicine. She must have heard it from Agnes, or else from Arthur Godfrey (if his radio show even had a medical segment.) Anyway, from wherever she had gleaned the information, she thought it in our best interest for us to take 2 Milk of Magnesia tablets weekly, the chosen day being Friday. The little white pills had to be chewed; they tasted awful and had the consistency of chalk. I can remember all 3 of us protesting and I recall gagging, but my mother insisted they were good for us. I don't recall how long we were subjected to this torture. It seemed endless, at least in child time. And it might have been longer until one day my mother was cleaning, probably the requisite intensive spring cleaning of those years. Taking off the couch cushions, and reaching down into the depths at the back of the couch, she made a discovery---a cache of the Milk of Magnesia pills, wait, more than one area, a hoard on either end of the couch, multiple doses of sticky, decomposing little white pills. Again, she interrogated us. Again, I was totally surprised, astonished beyond belief. Since there was obviously more than one perpetrator, my mother did not pursue the subject. She was not a big fan of medicating anyway, was only doing so because it was the advice of the time, and was most likely glad of an excuse to stop the pills. I can't recall if I was more shocked because the other 2 had been so defiant as to break the rules, or if I felt left out because doing so had never even crossed my mind. I guess that proves I lacked imagination-- a whole lifetime of following the rules and what has it gotten me but a bitter pill to swallow.

The dog didn't do it!

One day my mother went outside and found a hole dug on the side of the house, in close proximity to where she had planted some flowers. The dog was tied outside to the nearby doghouse, so she scolded him and probably gave him a few whacks too. The next day, another digging, and repeat the process. Bad dog! Then a third hole, again the same location. My mother, frustrated at his disobedience, dragged the animal over to the site of the big dig so as to reinforce that he was never to do that again. Surprise! She found that the dog's chain did not reach that far, so he was innocent. There had to be another digger. The only other potential suspects were us three kids, so she asked us who had dug the hole. I was astonished at the question. We really never did anything wrong, and I had no idea who could possibly have done such a thing. She got three no's for answers. Finally, my mother put on her hat---serious business--and announced she was going up to see the judge: Judge Center lived upstreet in one of the big white houses there--maybe Overocker's. My stomach turned over, and I'm sure I was shaking, because I couldn't even imagine what was going to happen. Was somebody going to jail? Finally, as my mother was opening the kitchen door, Dorothy, in tears, confessed that she had dug the hole. I don't remember what her punishment was, probably just my mother's disapproval. I probably suffered more out of shock at the whole situation. Just in the last year, talking over old times, I asked Dorothy about it and why she had dug all those holes. She seemed bemused and a little pensive, and said she just felt like it. Now I understand.

THE PERICHOLE

When I was in high schoool , I read "The Bridge of San Luis Rey" and one of the characters was La Perichole, a woman whose looks had been so disfigured by smallpox that she refused to go out, or to be seen without a veil. I'm pretty much at that point now, and I don't even own  a veil. I think the effects of time are even worse than smallpox. The only other memory I have of that novel, besides the names of twins Manuel and Esteban, is the theme arrived at, something like: There is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the only bridge between the two is love." So I guess I'll hang a drape over all the mirrors in my house, and cross that bridge when I come to it.

Seasonal Loss

Are we ready for the heart breaking story which surfaces every year at this time, where a thief breaks into a family's house (or sometimes car), and makes off with all the children's Christmas presents ? The usual amount of the loss is $800, adjustable, of course, for inflation.

The Power of Print

There were no books in our house. The reason were compelling: books were an extravagance, my parents, as renters who had moved at least 6 times in the first 7 years of their marriage, had no place for book storage or relocation, and, busy with the struggle for survival, they had no time for leisure reading. And, until we moved to VF, none of the houses we lived in had electricity, so reading time was pretty much limited to the daylight hours. Oh, there was an ancient Bible handed down from some forbearer, and my father had a picture album from WWI, and an old dictionary. Even so, I think all 3 of us kids could read before we started school, probably thanks to my mother's teaching us the A, B, C's when she could find the time. So, we had no books, but as I recall, we always had the newspaper, The Troy Record, delivered every day. In the early years, it came by US Mail. In the absence of even radio reports, newspapers were the method of finding out what was happening in the world. My father would read the paper after supper. I would watch him when he read the news, and quite often, listen to him, because at times he would become infuriated with what he was reading, and relay his feeling to my mother in a very emotional manner. His reactions were so heated, and his opinions so strong, that I wondered what the paper could have said to make my otherwise calm and quiet father so angry. I was so curious that I couldn't wait to be able to read the "big words" to find out if I would get heated up too. As soon as I could read most words, I would sneak away with the paper (I thought my reading it might have been frowned on), and read as much as I could. While I could read the words, it was still a mystery to me how those words could have elicited any reaction at all. I chalked it up to those few "big words" that I didn't know. I was far too young to understand politics.