Christmas in the Country

For as long as I can remember I've wanted to live in the country—buy some acreage in the woods and build a little log house with a large screened-in porch where I can sit on a  summer evening, relax on the porch swing, watch the stars twinkle in the sky and breathe deeply of the cool country air.  I imagine a big red chicken coop in the yard and two goats in a pen. Daisy and Dusty. (Oh yes, I've named them. Somebody stop me before I start describing the perfect rose hedge bordering the white picket fence for crying out loud.) As fate would have it, however, I married a city boy with no pinings for country air nor cravings for the piney woods so here we sit in the neatly paved, well manicured suburbs, and here we will undoubtedly stay.

Sigh.

Me, Grampy, Mandee and Mike in Texas, 1979

But there was a time in 1979 when my dream was briefly realized. We were living in Dallas, Texas. Mike's job seemed stable enough and we got a bee in our bonnets to buy a house. With remarkably little persuasion I convinced Mike we needed to move ourselves and our three small children to a little rural town called Kaufman, Texas. It was about an hour south of Dallas and looked exactly like Mayberry RFD. We found a five acre parcel of land off a dirt road out in the wooded countryside,  smack dab in the middle of nowhere. It was conveniently located 19 miles away from the nearest telephone and/or convenience store, and it looked like heaven to me. We purchased a brand new double wide, plopped it down parallel to the little pond across the road and right next to a grove of walnut trees. We then went back to the city, packed our bags and like Lot, fleeing the city of Gomorrah, we left Dallas behind with nary a glance backwards. Well I did at least.

That summer  I planted and tended the perfect vegetable garden, gathered wild Mustang grapes, canned a bazillion jars of jelly, and watched my children run outside half naked, barefoot, free and happy. I even had a rooster scratching in the yard that I'd rescued from a busy city intersection in Dallas right before we moved, and I wanted for nothing...except a front porch. I could see it in my mind—rustic and sturdy. A place for me to sit out at night after the kids were in bed and play my guitar with only the glorious stars and acres and acres of deep, dark emptiness for company.

The pond across the road and my newly plowed garden

It was a few weeks before Christmas that Grampy called to say it was high time he and mama drove out from California to pay us a visit. My mother in law never showed up without her white glove, so in preparation I cleaned the house from rafters to baseboards, set out the lame plastic floral centerpiece they'd bought us the Christmas before and mentally prepared myself for the invasion of my in-laws.

Part of the house and the tire swing as seen from my garden

Much to my surprise, (and I'll never forget this as long as I live) Grampy arrived—on time and  alone. He pulled into the yard in his beat up old pick up truck....which was carefully packed high with pieces of his prized scrap lumber. You remember his rather large collection of used wood he'd pilfered from construction sites for years and years. Well he had come out to Texas to share the wealth! He'd come out to Texas to     build me my dad-gummed porch!

I watched in awe the next few days as, tool belt in hand, he nailed short 2x4 weathered scraps of wood into place to build the deck off the front door. Each piece was varied  in color. Some were gray, some were dark brown, some were paint spattered, white, black or red and, once assembled, they made the most beautiful  12' x 7' deck I'd ever laid eyes on.  I was a happy country girl with my mis-matched quilted porch. Grampy stood back and admired it with me, then decided we needed a proper roof for covering —but he didn't have any pieces long enough to serve as posts.  He gazed off into the woods then picked up his chainsaw and took off into the brush. I watched as he cut down several young poplar trees, stripped off the branches and dragged them back to the house. He then fashioned them into supports for his hodge podge construction of multi hued lumber that formed the roof.

Can you see me? Standing back of the property in the woods

He finished the project within a week's time. It was a job well done, sturdy enough to survive Armageddon and just about the best Christmas present I'd ever received. I was living in the lap of luxury in my opinion, and felt gloriously  spoiled. The next day Grampy drove into town to the feed store and came back with six newly hatched chicks. He said we needed more than a scraggly old rooster if we expected to eat eggs for breakfast. The kids were in hog heaven and even the old barnacled rooster loved those chicks and managed to keep his good eye on them night and day.

A few days later, with a final admonishment to the kids to eat their broccoli and watch for ticks, Grampy climbed into the cab of his pick up and  left for home. Later that night as I sat out on my porch with our little black dog quietly snoring beside me, I played every country western song my father ever taught me on my guitar,  serenading the crickets and the vast dark emptiness around me. It was the best audience I'd ever had.  As I leaned back under the blanket of stars with a deep contentment in my soul, I thought of Grampy and how honery and cantankerous he can be, yet how he drove all the way to Texas to build me a porch for Christmas. With a deep sigh, I looked up at the twinkling heavens and said thank you to the creator of all that glory and I whispered, "I can't ever possibly be happier than I am at this moment. This is exactly where I'm meant to be."

And it was.

Stuck in a Lifetime Movie- Part 5

America's Favorite 50's family, The Nelsons

It was 1938 when, at 13, Tex decided to put an end to the beatings, shouting and threats. He said that he and little brother Willie were living in the orphanage for the second time when Tex smarted off, said the wrong thing and was duly punished. Severely. That night, when everyone was asleep, he and 10 yr old Willie ran away from that orphanage, and from his father for good. he said he didn't want to take his little brother but Willie begged him to and Tex didn't have the heart to leave him behind to face the music alone. Thus began Grampy's "Hobo Days" which is a story for another time.

St. Agnes Orphanage in the 1930's

Coming from a wholesome, Ozzie and Harriet type of upbringing myself, I try to imagine a chilhood like his.  How did Grampy and Willie endure? (and hopefully you've read my previous four blogs  so you know what I'm talking about) How do all the children in the world, past and present, withstand such anger and abuse from the one person in the world who should have nothing but love for them? It's no wonder Tex has never been able to wrap his mind around the concept of a loving God; one we refer to as "Father".

Mike says that the Grampy-apple didn't fall as far from the Arthur, Sr. tree as one would hope. As a father himself, Tex  was also a stern  disciplinarian and firmly believed a wide leather belt on the backside was the answer to any child's deviance from the straight and narrow, no matter how slight.  And he has always been quick-tempered and foul-mouthed.  But he was not an alcoholic and he worked hard to provide for his family and give them some semblance of stability. Let's say Tex was several notches better than his old man. Grampy's father died many, many years ago but to this day Tex is still simmers with an inside anger, and goes off on an unwarranted rant more often than anyone I've ever known.  Nevertheless, sometimes we get a glimpse through his gruff exterior into the kernel of goodness that lies within. Even if he has a difficult time expressing it, he loves us and we know it. We worry about him. Is he using his oxygen at night? He looks like he's losing weight—is he eating enough? He's more and more forgetful, will he leave the stove on?  Is he still threatening his neighbor with a shotgun? Will he get punched in the nose some day for loudly using the "N" word when describing the black family in the next aisle over while standing in line at Wal Mart?

Grampy is creeping up on 90 years old. Let's face it, he's mighty close to shuffling off his mortal coil. We have shared the love of Jesus and His redemptive power with Grampy repeatedly over the years—trying in love to explain the way to salvation. Mike and I recently made a pact to double up our prayer efforts for his dad. We know our children and eight grandchildren remember him faithfully in their prayers so surely the heart of God cannot resist. We aren't able see the future but we cherish every day with Tex in the present. We don't know what will reach the old man's heart, but we do know that Grampy has an all-powerful Father in heaven who loves him unconditionally. Our united prayer is that Grampy will meet God with confidence and open arms on that day in the not so distant future when he's called home.

Stuck in a Lifetime Movie - part 4

When Arthur Sr. absconded with the boys he moved them way out west to Phoenix, Az. Mind you there were no missing children photos on the milk cartons back then. It was 1933 and there were no " Amber Alerts" sent out when they left. Children were no more than parental-owned chattel. They wouldn't have been reported as missing anyway. Who would have reported it? Not Edna, who would have been living in fear that her husband might come back and kill her.

Orange grove and irrigation ditch

In Phoenix, Arthur Sr. got a a job shearing sheet metal. Grampy is quick to say here that Arthur Sr. was ONLY a shearer of sheet metal. He could NOT read blueprints and work the sheet metal into usable parts. Not like Grampy could after he became an adult—and did for 30 years. Arthur, Sr. was able to find dirt cheap lodgings for him and the boys in a tiny house in an orange grove on the outskirts of town.  In exchange for his low rent, the farmer who owned the fields required him to irrigate the orchard by flooding it with water from a canal several times a week. Easy Peasy, right? Unfortunately the demon of alcoholism does not let go simply because you've changed your address—he followed Arthur, Sr. to Arizona where the man spent his afterhours in sleezy bars and rarely came home before bedtime.

Tex was only 8 and little Willie was 5 but they were both aware that the prospect of homelessness was ever-looming, so every day after school they would trudge over to the irrigation canal and with all their combined might and main, those two boys would attempt to open the flood gates and water the trees.  Tex said at first that they couldn't do it—they simply weren't strong enough. They knew, however, that they desperately needed to get this done. They knew they were in for a beating from their dad if the fields didn't get watered and the fact that the were just two small skinny, helpless boys would not prevent their backsides from a tanning—not from a mean drunk with a leather belt itching to be used.

After several failed attempts, and several lashings with the belt, either they developed enough strength to open the canal gate or a kind-hearted angel took pity on them and helped, for they did eventually succeed, and it became their regular after-school chore.

They lived like this in Arizona for a good long time. Being the oldest, Grampy learned to cook for him and his little brother. Well, he learned to open a can and heat it on the stove anyway. One morning their dad decided to make himself some corned beef hash and eggs for breakfast. Grampy says his dad was half blind with a hangover but stumbled into the kitchen and opened the cupboard, reaching for a can of Hash. Unfortunately he'd gone to the store the day before in the same condition and had brought home several cans of “Dash” instead of “Hash”. We Baby Boomers remember that “Dash” used to be a popular canned dog food. Tex and Willie just watched him open the can, plop in into the frying pan and fry that dog food up. After he considered it done, their dad cracked open a few eggs on top as well. Willie started to say something to his dad....Tex silently shushed him. They both watched in delight as their dad took a plateful of Dash and Eggs to the table and commenced to eat it. “Come on boys, have some breakfast!” he told them, chomping his breakfast. “Um noo....we're not hungry” they said. “Dad”, Tex begain as he motioned Willie out the back door. Then (quickly over his shoulder as they dashed out the door) “YOU'RE EATING DOG FOOD!” They ran lickety split to the end of the orange grove, laughing hysterically all the way. Their dad was too sick and too mortified to persue them....this time.

Yum Yum DASH!

Sometimes their dad would decide to leave the boys so he could go off on a jaunt to who-knows-where, either on his own or with a new girlfriend or wife. (he married three or four more times before he died. Grampy doesn't remember the exact count) Most of the time he schlepped them back to Massachusets and left them with his sister. Tex described her as one notch better than her demon-posessed brother. One time Arthur, Sr. left them for several months in a local Catholic orphanage. Tex won't talk about it except to say he left that place with no love for the Catholic church, let alone the abusive nuns who ran the place. He has harbored that low opinion of all things Catholic ever since, and over the years has broadened his loathing to every other Christian religion as well. Now I grew up surrounded by nuns in the Catholic schools I went to, (I was in for 12 years and I'm still out on parole) and in their defense I must say that the majority of them were loving, caring and encouraging women and I only met one who rapped my knuckles with a ruler. But she was horribly senile and was put out to pasture the year after I graduated so I don't count her.

Stuck in a Lifetime Movie - part 3

Although I know better, every bone in my body wants to believe this Lifetime movie has a happy ending. After all, these two little boys, bereft of their mother deserve a happy ending. And what about Edna?

Downtown

After her husband left, she was eventually evicted from the house, abandoned by the father of her baby, and living on the streets. She was homeless, cold and fending for herself, depending on the kindness of strangers for food. Just before the baby was born she was walking downtown, hungry and exhausted, and fainted right there on the pavement. A kindly negro man was passing by named George Piper. After a brief hesitation, he picked her up and took her home with him.  He was a single working man with a good heart and he called the neighborhood midwife to come take care of her.  Edna was soon delivered of a surprisingly healthy baby boy, and in honor of the man who rescued her, she named him George. After the baby came, the older George took a shine to this beautiful white woman and Edna stayed on with him, keeping his house and before too long sharing his bed. Although they never married, I think she must have ended up falling in love with George. I like to think so. Grampy said she called George "pet". Surely you are in love with a fella that you nickname "Pet". He treated her with kindness and that was more than she'd ever had. More children followed and it would be years and years before they were to meet their half brothers, Arthur and Willie.

She named the baby George.

Grampy doesn't remember how or when his mother passed away. he insists she was a woman of loose morals to the end. We must remember that after his dad moved him out west, he never again grew up with his mother in his life, and only knew what his father told him about her. He didn't see her again till well after he became an adult, and then rarely. I sincerely doubt Arthur, Sr. would have had anything nice to say about Edna. And Grampy is old school. He hails from a time when a man could be described as a womanizer and a pillar of society in the same sentence. No one expected a man to be faithful to his wife...a "slip" now and then was slyly winked at and quickly overlooked. The women they were unfaithful with, well...shame on them, and even one indiscretion left them with a loose and ruined reputation in an unforgiving era of society.

Such were the times that Grampy grew up in.

(stay tuned for part 4)

Stuck in a Lifetime Move - part 2

1920s era house by the railroad

In bits and pieces, over the next couple of years, I learned more about Edna. She was a little bit of a thing; a beautiful, hard working woman who, at a very young age, made the unfortunate mistake of marrying Tex's father.  The family consisted of Grampy's dad, Arthur Victor Sr. and Edna along with their two son; Arthur Victor Jr. ( that was Grampy--he wasnt called Tex back then) and little brother Willie. In 1932, during The Great Depression, Arthur Jr. Was 7 years old, Willie was 4, and they were living in a ramshackle old house in Methesda, Mass., right next to the railroad tracks. Edna's  husband, Tex's father, was a drunk who couldnt hold down a job any longer than a one-armed farmer can hold down a greased pig. Times were tough and even though necessities were few—they were still hard to come by.  The coal train rode through town and right past their house. Grampy remembers his mother would run out and wait by the tracks for it. A kind hearted R.R. man would shovel a bit of the coal off the coal cars as they passed, and as it fell onto the dirt by the track she would run after it, gathering it in her apron and then take it home to heat the house on those cold winter days.

According to Tex, his father was a professional no-account bastard, who hung out at the local bar and came home drunk most every night. He had a foul mouth, a mean temper, and a good left hook. Drunken bar brawls were his forté. He oftentimes came home and beat his wife and his boys in the leftovers of his drunken haze. And to add insult to injury, he carelessly slept around with no remorse of conscious.

Lifetime Movie circa 1930

This is beginning to sound like a Made For TV Lifetime movie. The kind where we always hope for, and usually get, a happy ending.  But real life people don't have scripts and more often than not our lives neither end up happy nor sad-—they just end.

In those days divorces were scarce and women were taught to shut up and " take it". So for years, with no parents or other family members to support her, Edna "took it". She put up with the beatings, the poverty, the mental abuse and the downright meanness. She eventually found comfort, love and solace in the arms of another man. And maybe more than one. As usually happens in any proper Lifetime movie, she got pregnant. When Arthur Sr. found out he beat her solid then packed the 2 boys up, lock, stock and barrel,  left no forwarding address and took off...never looking back. Edna was finally free but at the cost of losing her children. As for Tex and his little brother Willie, their problems had just begun.

(stay tuned for part 3)

Stuck in a Lifetime Movie. (pt. 1 of 5)

Grandma Edna before

Grampy may be an old geezer but once upon a time even he had a mother. The loins from which he sprang were named Edna and she was born at the turn of the 20th century. I Never knew anything about her until a few years ago. At that time his half-sister in New Hampshire called to tell him that she'd been going thru her attic and found, hidden in the back of an old abandoned framed oil painting, a portrait that had been done of Edna when she was a young bride. Grampy told me about this phone conversation and said he'd forgotten what his mother looked like. His sister mailed it to him but wrongly sent it to my address instead of his. It was a justifiable mistake. He had  lived with us for 6 months about 13 years ago and it takes awhile for old people to update their address books. Grampy's name was clearly written on the package so naturally I opened it up right away. It had been carefully wrapped in toilet paper (single ply) and scotch tape. The large, black and white portrait was of a beautiful dark haired woman dressed impeccably in the style of the day. She had a haunting look of innocence and fragility about her. It had been done in the early 1900's and it was stunning.The canvas was, however, badly damaged. It was ripped in some places, folded in others and covered with countless mold spots.  

Grandma Edna after

Right then and there I had an epiphany. By, jingle, I'd restore it! Contrary to what Grampy thinks— he thinks I'm some sort of secretary/typist ever since I told him I work on a computer—I'm the director of Creative Services for an ad agency and a graphic artist. This is what I do for a living. The next day I scanned it and spent several hours in Photoshop lovingly and meticulously repairing it.

I printed it out and had it framed and decided to give it to Grampy as a surprise—an early birthday gift. When it was done, I admired how well it turned out, and it looked so good in the new frame. I wrapped it in my best wrapping paper and took it right over to his trailer park, proudly presented it to him and waited impatiently for him to open his gift. Finally I'd come up with a gift idea for him that would easily top boring white socks and a half-priced can of peanuts. When he took off the paper and saw what it was he just sat back and stared at it in silence for a few seconds. It was such a tender moment and tears began to well in my eyes. Then, shaking his head, he handed it back to me, proclaiming in disgust "Yeah, that's my mother—the Slut".

(part 2 to come....)

Road Bumps Along the Journey...

It was December 29, 1970 when I first met my husband. I was a baby, a mere child. I was all of 18 years old, Miss 1300 on the S.A.T.'s going to nursing college, working in a hospital, living the successful life my parents had planned for me and feeling hopelessly trapped by the Establishment. I was a starry-eyed teenaged flower child looking for my way into the world; he was an 20 yr old disillusioned Vietnam Vet looking for the way out. We were a match made in heaven —and every mother's nightmare for her young daughter.

Me in 1971 with our Great Dane, Lakaya

Mike was barely 20, an AWOL sailor with PTSD and fresh off the ship from a year's duty in Vietnam. He'd hitchhiked from San Diego to our home town in Lancaster, CA to see his mom. He'd been denied Leave when he requested it and was told that he was confined to the ship. Mike said “like hell” grabbed his duffle bag and promptly left. He was rebellious and dangerous — two of the qualities I was looking for in a man.

We met at McDonalds (one of my hang outs) that fateful night. He was dressed like a Sears catalog hippie, trying too hard to be cool. I wasn't impressed. His hair was short. His clothes were too new. I only dated bonafide long-haired Freaks. But he stalked me for a couple days until I would go out with him. I must have let my guard down. I must have been looking for something I-didn't-know-what and I gave in. We spent every day together for a full two weeks before we he swept me off my feet. We fell crazy in love and during the third week, announced our engagement to my parents. You can imagine my mother's reaction. The blood drained from her face as she stood there speechless. My dad, detached and unemotional as ever, just shook his head, muttering "Well I don't think it's a good idea" and walked out of the room.  We deemed that response our patriarchal blessing and a mere week later, sans wedding ring, I left home for good. I gathered up my tie-dyed shirts and patched up jeans as well as my guitar, climbed into the back seat of Mike's brother's Plymouth, and shook the dust of Lancaster, California off my sandals.

Looking back I should have read the signs. I should have seen the clues that might have deterred me from my hapless quest to Paradiso Perdu but I was too enmeshed in the throes of new love—whatever that is. And the first sign should have been meeting my future In-laws.

Bernie and Tex in their back yard-1971

We had been seeing each other for a full week when Mike asked me to meet him one morning at his parent's house. I had a VW bug and was fully mobile. He had his two young feet and a good left thumb for hitchhiking. I was to be there at 10 am and he would introduce me to the people that birthed him. I was foolishly excited. DANGER WILL ROBINSON, DANGER! I should have had orange flashing warning lights going off in my brain...that should have deterred me. But no.

I showed up on the doorstep at 10am sharp and knocked. I knocked several times before a middle-aged, short, red haired bespectacled woman with a cigarette in her mouth answered the door. (None too cheerful I might add.) “Yeah?” she stood there at the door looking me up and down, obviously disapproving of my appearance. “Um....I'm here to see Mike”. “Heh!?” she said, in a deep Bostonian accent, cupping her hand behind her ear. “Mike?” I squeaked. “Well shit, I can't heah a word you say.” At that she turned her head and yelled to the inside of the dark house, “Tex! Come heah! There's some girl at the doah!” So a few seconds later here is Tex at the door, standing next to her staring at me with the same frown on his face as his wife. He had a shock of greased black hair high on the top of his head and a matching cigarette perched between his lips. His resemblance to a bantam rooster was remarkable. He got right to the point. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. At this point I was inching my way backwards, hand in my jeans pocket fingering my car keys. “Speak up!” the woman yelled. “Um...Mike told me to meet him here at 10 am?” I asked more than announced. Tex turned to Bernie (for the red haired woman was, indeed, Mike's mother Bernie) and shouted “Where the HELL is your son! This girl is here to see Mike. Where IS he?” Nonplussed, Bernie pulled the cigarette butt out of her mouth, flicked it to the gravel driveway in back of me and shouted back at him “How the hell do I know? He's not heah!” They both glared at me again. Tex began ranting and this time it was aimed at me. “If he said he'll be here at 10 then he SHOULD be here at 10! So where IS he?!”

The camel's back broke. I burst into tears right there on their doorstep. I was speechless. I was horrified. My mascara was running. I had no idea where Mike was and desperately needed rescuing. This was the catalyst to a brand new wave of nagging from Bernie. “Aww Tex now look what you did! You went and made her cry. What the hell is wrong with you! You made her cry!” Tex countered with a disgusted “Oh shut up woman!” and stormed off, back to his recliner to finish The Rifleman.

Bernie w/her first grandchild, Kevin in 1971

It was precisely at that moment that Mike drove up in his friend George's car. He got out of the car and walked up to the front door. Oblivious to my tears and degree of humiliation, as well as his mother's scowl, he enthusiastically embraced both of us in a communal hug, and said “Oh I'm so glad. You two have met!”

He then stepped into the house, whistling like a fat canary and I, like a fresh young lamb being coaxed into a Greek restaurant, carelessly and innocently followed right behind.

For a good time to come our road to happiness would be paved with shattered dreams and salty tears. But that is another story for another day. Suffice it to say that now, over 40 years later we all know that the story did, indeed, have a happy ending. And I am quick to add “by the Grace of God” with gusto and conviction here because that is the only reason. I toughened over the years. Learned to ignore Tex's rantings and Bernie's disapproving glares...and I am still married to that same impetuous Vietnam Vet who actually turned out to be a wonderful man, a great husband and a good apple —who thankfully fell a decent distance away from the family fruit tree.

Mugsy and Other Tails...

Grampy is going on 87 now and his life has become very small. He can no longer drive, so the few activities he has to do every day have taken much more importance in his life than they would yours or mine. His days are pretty much centered around copious cups of coffee, the Western channel, collecting coupons and doctor visits.

Susie looks like this...but fatter

The highlight of his day, however, is walking over to the double-wide next door to his trailer to visit Susie. Susie lives with Alice. Susie and Alice are best friends. Grampy visits Susie every day at 1:30 sharp. He takes her treats and hand feeds them to her, massages her neck and lets her sit on his lap. He told me he doesn't really care about visiting with Alice but he has to in order to see Susie. Susie is a fat, wheezing, Russell Terrier. Alice is a 85 year old grizzly haired widow. The three of them together in Alice's living room is Grampy's idea of the perfect ménage a trois.

“But Dad” I tease him, “Alice is available and has most of her teeth. Aren't you interested in women anymore?” “Aw hell” he spits at me “She's got one foot soaking in epsom salts and the other foot in the grave. I've BEEN married and I don't want to go through that again.”

But we all need companionship, even Grampy. For 16 years he had his little dog Mugsy. Mugsy was a rescue dog from the SPCA and Grampy swore the dog was a purebred Cock-a-poo. “With Papers?” I asked, just to be a brat. “Well of course not. Me and mama got her from the pound. They don't give you the Papers at the pound unless you pay more.” Purebred or not, Mugsy was his life and his raison d'etre. He might have been a handsome dog with proper grooming, but his grungy gray and white hair was more often than not shaved close to the skin, “to keep the hair out of his eyes and from being matted” he'd say. Then Grampy kept a ratty sweater on that dog—mostly all year round cause Grampy said Mugsy had no hair to keep him warm. He has always been practical that way.

Grampy and Mugsy 2005

Grampy and Mugsy were rarely more than 3 feet apart. The dog slept with him, watched TV with him, went with him everywhere and ate his meals out of Grampy's hand. Grampy would curse at that dog like the dickens. Mugsy was a little deaf—nevertheless, I think Mugsy considered Grampy's rantings his love language. And he swore the dog talked back to him. He'd cut up leftover meat after family dinners and put it down on my kitchen floor for Mugsy to eat. Mugsy was finicky and would sniff at it for awhile then more often than not, walk away. We would wait expectantly for what always came next. Grampy would get down on his hands and knees close to that dog and shout in his ear “Eat it or go to Hell!” Booyah! Take that, Mugsy you ungrateful flea bag! We would laugh ourselves silly—silently behind Grampy's back. He was always calling the dog a liar. Mugsy would patiently sit by the back door staring outside till Grampy would finally get up and let him out. Grampy would watch that dog pee on every tree and bush outside, nagging at him to “do potty” (which means number two, mind you, not number one) the whole time. When Mugsy would prance back into the house, without performing his “doody”, Grampy would be so disappointed and would cuss at him like a sailor “You're just a (blankety blank) liar! You wanted to go outside to do potty and you did nothing!” Personally I think Mugsy just liked going outside to chase birds and mark his territory. I told Grampy that once and he just shook his head then proceeded for the next ten minutes to describe in detail to me the state of Mugsy's constipated bowels. Clearly I know nothing about purebred Cock-a-poos.

Mike and I really worried that when Mugsy passed on to wherever it is good doggies go, Grampy would not be far behind. I think he loved that dog more than he loved breathing...or even Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty. But Mugsy passed about two years ago and although he does NOT want another dog, Grampy is still going strong. I'm thinking we can attribute some of that to Susie. And everyday when he cooks up his hot dogs, cuts them into tiny pieces, takes them next door to give the little dog her “treat” and nag her to do potty, I imagine he's getting his battery charged to go on living... just a little while longer.

One Man's Junk...

Remember Gemco? I loved that store.

Tex has always been the thriftiest person I know. He has every cottage cheese carton he's ever used since 1998 stacked up on a side counter in the kitchen and every baggie tie from every produce bag he's brought home from the grocery store, along with the bags. He bought the plaid shirt and brown polyester leisure bell bottom pants he wears on sale at Gemco back in the 80's. The shirt is threadbare but usable so why buy a new one? When a hole breaks through he brings it to me and asks me to patch it. And polyester, as we all know, never wears out. Thousands of years from now when archeologists are digging through the dirt heap that used to be Grampy's trailer park they'll find his polyester pants still intact...and maybe his 12 mayonnaise jars full of root beer barrels.

Grampy's Mailbox

For some reason he is compelled to save every receipt he's ever gotten as well. His kitchen table is covered with organized stacks of receipts, letters, newspaper clippings, and coupons galore. His living room floor is as big as a postage stamp and is stacked with piles of junk mail he receives along with the tchotkes they enclose—plastic indian bead bracelets, greeting cards (that promise 12 novenas are being said in your name), calendars, calorie counter slide guides, bookmarks ad nauseum and Easter/Christmas Seals. The mailman's arrival every day is cause for excitement. One time he got a lap blanket screenprinted with advertising for the Disabled Veterans. That was a good day. He organizes the piles and meticulously keeps track of everything....then he picks out anything with kittens and puppies on them and tries to give them to me. Well I could use the 12 novenas, truth be told but calendars and scratch pads, I'm already up to my eyeballs in. After the January 2011 avalanche of the free calendars he was sorely disappointed I only needed two calendars and sternly told me he'd have to walk up and down in his trailer park and knock on doors, and try to give them away. “Is that a threat old man cause I really don't care what your crazy neighbors think of you.” It is slowly engulfing his living room but the thrifty side to him cannot throw it away. It is his holy mission to waste not, want not and to make sure his junk mail ends up in happy homes.

This is the one I bought, used twice then sold in a yard sale.

Watching him at his task one day, I pondered out loud why on earth he gets so much mail—“I don't know but I wish to hell it would stop” he grumbled. Then it hit me “Dad, do you send them back money in the envelopes they enclose?” “Well yeah ...” he admitted. “not much...and they DO send me all these  gifts.” So I reminded him of what P.T. Barnum said “There's a sucker born every minute”. He said he'd never read THAT book of the Bible and where the hell did I get off calling him a sucker when I'm the one that bought the RonCo Showtime Rotesserie Oven back in 1998.” He had a point there so I took my 2 Scenic America 2011 Calendars, 4 packs of Kute Kittens greeting cards as well as my flourescent, glow in the dark rosary, kissed him on the cheek and left. As I walked outside to my car I could hear him shouting at the TV “Miss Kitty you CAN'T help that idiot Chester out anymore. He's gotta help himself!” Ah Dad....words to live by. Words to live by.

FIRE! Wood

Grampy has many talents. He can build anything with wood, play the spoons and watch 8 episodes of Gunsmoke back to back without falling asleep. But raising three honery, free spirited sons was not something he ever acquired a knack for. You could say he stunk at it and he'd be the first to admit it. In his defense, the only role model he ever had was his own waste of a father who should have had his little head pinched off when he was born...but that's another story.

By 1957 Tex found himself on the parenting end of three rambunctious boys; Ron was 11, Gary was 9 and little Micky was 7. They lived on a chicken ranch out in the Mojave desert with only rattlesnakes and Joshua trees for neighbors, and come summertime there were long, hot days around the ranch with the sublime forecast for those boys of having nothing to do. Grampy vehemently believed that “Idle hands are Satan's tools” and devil be damned, his boys would not be idle. So he had copious chores planned every day in summer to keep those impish hands busy... and those three little guys didn't like it one bit. One odious task stood hands and feet above the rest—that was Moving Wood.

Tex's great passion, was collecting scrap wood. He'd drive by construction sites in his truck after work. In the dark he'd find small pieces (and sometimes long pieces) of 2x4's and 4x6's. He'd help himself, load them in the truck and take them home. He did this for years. He knew where all the new housing tracts and building sites were and what he'd expect to find at the end of a day. “But dad”, I asked when he told me about it, “wasn't that stealing?” He snorted and answered “Naw. They don't need it and they want you to take it.” “Well I don't know if the judge would have seen it that way before he sentenced you to prison” I answered. Once again I was on the receiving end of Grampy's stink eye as he quickly dismissed me, shooing me away like an annoying fly.

The stacked wood might have looked something like this...

By 1957 he had a healthy supply of wood—enough to last him till doomsday. He'd stacked the longer 2x4s in neat little box shaped piles with care and precision, adding more as more was pilfered, er I mean, collected. There was a large hole they'd dug in the ground around back which was meant to be the start of a swimming pool. The pool plan went asunder, so he threw the smaller pieces of scrap wood into it. Over the years the scrap mound grew huge, and filled that hole completely. He got to feeling proudly smug about all his lumber. One morning he was surveying his wooden kingdom when it occurred to him that all that wood would be better placed on the other side of the lot. It was summertime and the boys always needed more chores, he figured, so he commissioned them to move the lumber. “Aw dad, do we hafta?” they implored. “Get your butts out there and move it. Hard work is good for you” he replied with no mercy whatsoever. So out they went and those boys moved and re-stacked that lumber. It took them all week but they did the job. Tex was happy. The lumber DID look and fit better over there. The next day the boys grabbed their bikes and rode off into the desert right after breakfast—out of danger of being bidden for more chores.

Several weeks later Tex was once again perusing his newly stacked lumber piles. By gosh, he'd never realized it before but those piles of wood really were better where they'd started. Why hadn't he seen that before? He woke the boys up at the crack of dawn and once again explained their chore for the week....move the lumber back. They grumbled and complained but to no avail. His mind was set and there was no changing it. So once again Ron, Gary and little Micky moved and re-stacked that wood, moved the scraps back into the aborted swimming pool, and cursed their father with every breath. When finally they finished, they wiped their brows and rode off on their bikes into the desert again to lick their wounds.

The final blow came late summer when Grampy had an epiphany. He realized that the lumber really needed to be farther away from the house. So once again he approached the boys while they were eating their breakfast (and before they could get away). “Me and mama are going into town. I want you boys to get started moving the wood piles out farther next to the back fence. I want to see some progress by the time we get back.” The boys were stunned and speechless. They heard the screen door slam and the car start up and back out the driveway before they could respond. They looked at each other in disbelief. Ron, who was the oldest, the smartest, and therefore the leader, had a plan and quickly took action. He got up from the table and marched defiantly out the back door, yelling over his shoulder “I am NOT moving that lumber again!” Gary and Mike went scrambling after him. “What are you gonna do!” they were yelling after him. He marched right up to that huge hole in the ground full of scrap wood, took a book of matches out of his pocket and by gosh he set that wood on fire.

Into the sunset....

The three of them stood back and watched the lumber burn. It was gorgeous, it was huge and the smoke nearly choked them to death—it was the perfect bonfire. Gary and Mike were in awe of their older brother. His tenacity! His brilliance! Mesmerized by the cleverness of their solution and the burning spectacle before them, they failed to remember that we always reap what we've sewn—that the devil has his due and the piper must be paid. Before too long they all three looked up to see the tell-tale dust cloud of their folks car coming back down the dirt road about a quarter of a mile away. “Crap!” yelled Ron. “RUN!” 

When Tex and Bernie drove up into the driveway they were alarmed by the smoke coming from the back lot. “What the hell?!” Tex was dumbfounded as he exited the car and ran closer to see his wood collection happily burning away. “Is that my....?” Gape-faced, he stared in shock then looked up and across the desert to see three puffs of dust trailing off into the desert— three bicycles with three tiny riders far off in the distance, whopping like Indians and pedaling their bikes just as fast as their little legs could go...away into the sunset. 

He'd deal with them later—and truth be told, he tanned their hides when he finally caught them. But by jingle those boys never moved that lumber again.

Orphans and Rags

In the late 1940's times were tough for many of the soldiers who'd returned from WWII. Especially soldiers like Grampy who had dropped out of school in the 8^th grade and with the advent of war, saw the Army as the easy, go-to choice for employment. The fact that he got drafted also influenced his career preference. These men soon discovered the realities of a life that involved rising at dawn in a cold, wet fox-hole, and daily watching their backs for foreign soldiers wanting to kill them or, worse, killing those same strangers first —all the while missing family and country for far too long.

Ron, Bernie, Gary, Tex and Mike

Soon after the war he shook the dust of military life off his proverbial sandals, returned to Massachusetts and never looked back. He had a gal waiting for him there. Tex and Bernie were married soon thereafter and, as every fairy tale goes, babies followed and time marched on. Ron was the first baby born about a year after they wed, then two years later came Gary. About that time Grampy found himself jobless. Again. Times were tough and PTSD wasn't popular enough yet to validate any problems he might have had adjusting to civilian life. There were no food stamps or government assistance program to fall back on. These sturdy men, these war heros, these G.I. Joes who would become known as the “greatest generation” had only themselves, strong backs, and a clever wit to see them through.

So Tex joined up with an Army buddy of his and the two of them became Rag Pickers. Grampy told me this story with a straight face—as if it were a noble profession—clicking his dentures for effect. Every morning he and his buddy would go to the town dump. The dump trucks would inevitably lumber in with their heavy loads and commence dumping their contents into deep trash pits. “So you'd jump into that crap and pick out rags?!” I asked in disgust. “No! Now shut up and let me finish” he said. Chastised and zip-lipped I sat back and listened. He said the Sanitation workers would set the trash on fire as soon as they were done dumping so he and his buddy got two very long sticks and fashioned sharp hooks on the end. As soon as those trucks started dumping they would lickety split stand on the edge of the pit and fish out whatever they thought they could sell. Rags, cardboard and magazines—quickly before it was set on fire, all the while being careful not to fall into the pit itself, which would spell utter disaster. “LOOK magazines fetched the most” he told me as a final matter of fact. “What kind of 'utter disaster'? What does that mean?” I asked. But he was done. He sat back, rubbed his stomach and glanced toward the kitchen, asking if we had any ice cream. “Wait dad”, I said, “Who the heck would buy that stuff in an era before Goodwill stores and recycling? How did you make money?” He squinted at me...a bit irritated at my ignorance, leaned forward a bit and said “Junk yards would buy them.” That's all. Junk yards. Then he walked off to check out the freezer.

Meanwhile, zoom back to 1948. As his Rag Picking career took a dump (pun intended), Bernie and the boys found themselves evicted from their apt. Rag Picking doesn't bring home much of a paycheck at best so Bernie relied on her own clever wit to come up with a Plan. She went to the local Catholic orphanage and begged for a job doing housework, cooking, whatever they needed in exchange for room and board for her family of four. Mother Superior looked doubtful but even crusty old nuns have hearts so she gave her the job—chief cook and bottle washer. Bernie told me this story herself several years before she died. For many months, she worked from dawn to dusk cleaning and cooking while her boys lived there with the orphans and were cared for by the nuns. She seldom was allowed to see them but she knew they were eating and were warm. They socked away whatever money Tex brought in, dreaming about the day when they would get their own little apartment again at last—dreaming about hitting the high road.

NOT Mother Superior - He just plays one on TV

I asked Grampy about this Orphanage story as he was eating his ice cream, just to see what he'd have to say and fully expecting him to pronounce his dearly departed wife a damn lunatic and a bad liar. But no, he corroborated her story completely, with his own version of course. He added that Mother Superior was a mean old so and so. If the orphans said anything she didn't like she'd pop them in the mouth. Well one night at dinner Grampy said something she didn't like (it was only a matter of time) and she hauled off and hit him. POP in the mouth. Grampy is a doer, not a thinker. He stood up, wiped the blood off his lip, pulled back his left hook and popped her back, BAM! Before she could get up off the ground he'd grabbed Bernie's elbow, ran upstairs for his boys and left that orphanage for good.

Well truth be told, it's questionable the woman actually hit him and I sincerely doubt he'd really hit her back. He likes to exaggerate from time to time. He was only a scrawny 5'3” pencil stick Canadian, while Mother Superior was a corn-fed, bible-thumping Amazonian. Chances are he just ran... and never looked back.

Grampy Meets His Match

Bernadine Ann - 1946

An important part of Grampy's life was and always will be his late wife, my mother in Law, Bernie. When I met her in 1971 she was 90 lbs., 4'10", and a red-headed spitfire, inside and out. The kids called her Grandma B. I called her "Scrappy". (But never to her face.) She was Grampy's perfect sparring partner. And spar they did. They couldn't have a simple conversation without eventually disagreeing and arguing—loudly. Even on a subject as innocuous as the weather. "It was HAWT in the Cah(car)" she'd say in her deep Massachusets accent " What the hell are you talking about old woman?" Grampy would protest " It's only 88 outside! " "Go to hell, Tex!" she'd shout " It's HAWT!"

Current view of the House that Tex Built in 1953

Grampy loved the country, Bernie loved the city. Grampy loved chicken farming and collecting lumber. Bernie loved slot machines and shopping. When he said tomato, she'd counter with tomawtta. For several years in the 50's they lived in a little house Grampy built in the middle of nowhere. A little pink and gray home with gingerbread trim in the California desert with their three young boys—as far from town as Grampy could get without hearing the threat of divorce. Bernie hated it, but she endured. Much to her disgust, Grampy raised and butchered chickens in the back yard. She endured. Grampy eventually let his alcoholic loud mouthed father come live with them there. She endured. The boys rode their bikes like wild Indians in the surrounding desert, often bringing home snakes and tarantulas just to torment mama. Bernie endured.

Endurance was in her genes. Grandma B. was born Bernadine Ann which is a perfectly lovely name For a girl, but it was nonetheless quickly shortened to Bernie. She was the baby in the family and the only sister in a brood of 9 brothers. They all lived in a tiny upstairs apartment on the wrong side of the tracks in Lawrence, Mass. Although her family was French/Italian, they grew up in an Irish neighborhood and so they thought they were Irish. Those boys were rowdy miscreants, known for bar fighting, gambling, and any other sort of mischief they could dream up—often dragging little Bernie along with them on their adventures. Her mother, God rest her soul, provided for those kids alone after her husband was gone. There was no government help in the early 20th century for widows. You just worked two or three jobs instead of one to make ends meet and that she did, leaving her children to raise themselves.

Tex and Bernie knew 41 years of holy (and I use the term loosely) matrimony. She fought and cajoled until Tex finally agreed to move them, in their later years, to Laughlin, NV. They bought a double-wide down by the Colorado river where she was finally content. Slot machines and Bingo games were just a hop, skip and a jump down the dirt road. But it was Colon cancer that finally delivered the knock out punch to my feisty mother in law. She put up one heck of a fight but died in the hospital in 1997, Grampy at her side. When she surrendered her last breath he was watching her like a hawk then climbed into that bed with her, holding her for as long as he could for the last time. In spite of their tumultous past, she was his soulmate and he loved her. That's how the nurses found them.

After the funeral, as we were sorting through and boxing up her things, he seemed to me so lost and defeated. My heart went out to him. "I don't know how I'm supposed to go on without her" he told me in a tiny voice as we were working. "Dad you just endure. You just endure. That's what Mama would do." He nodded his head. "Yeah, I know" he mumbled. He quietly stood up a minute later and pulled the cardboard flaps down on the box he'd been filling, looking around the room while he did— "Now where the hell did that woman leave the damn packing tape!"

Cats on the Porch

Ricky Ricardo circa 1955

The other day Grampy was over for dinner. He has three sets of clothing and one outfit for each set. His "Stay at home" patched jeans, white tshirt and old cowboy boots; his "Going out of the house but to nowhere special" outfit of a pair of newer jeans (turned up at the cuff), a flannel shirt and his old boots, and his "Puttin on the Ritz I'm going to a Party" outfit which is a brown polyester leisure suit circa 1983, turquoise bolo tie and his good cowboy boots. He even slicks back his hair for this. And if the weather is cool, wears his Ricky Ricardo jacket. You have to be really old to know what a Ricky Ricardo jacket looks like. And since some of you are whippersnappers,  I've posted a picture of him here.

Everyone that knows Tex, knows what he'll wear to any given occasion. So when he was over the other day, he brought some new jeans with him and I was flabbergasted. "You bought some new pants?!" "Yeah I went to the Goodwill and bought these but they have a hole in them". He handed them to me to hem and patch. He had actually ironed a large, dark, contrasting patch he'd cut himself into a funky shape on them and drew a dotted line around the perimeter of that gaudy patch so I'd know just where to sew. I've only been sewing for 40 years and he doesn't sew at all, so its understandable that he has to tell me how to do it.

He was talking to me as I got out the sewing machine. "Those damn cats are back again". "Huh?" I said. Cats? First I'd heard of it. "Yeah, there are two of them and they like to sleep on my porch and won't leave. Hell I hate cats. I stand at the patio door and bang on the door and shout at them to leave. They just sit there and look at me. Can't stand cats". " Do they have collars?" I asked "No. They are abandoned cats and they won't get off my porch!" "Hmmmm" I thought- (then it hit me) "Dad do you feed the cats?" "Of course I do! They're abandoned! No one else feeds them so I have to. Every day I cook up chicken and cut hot dogs up small and put tuna out there for them." This last part was said in disgust. I don't know if he's disgusted cause someone deserted them or because the odious task of feeding them has fallen on him. "Well dad, congratulations" I said. "For What?" he asked. "You are the proud owner of two abandoned cats". "Aw hell no I ain't" he insisted. "Yeah you are!" I couldn't let it go, it was funny. I had to laugh. Out loud. He got up and walked out of the room, practically tripping over my cat. "Hell I hate cats!" he ranted as he stormed down the hall.

Hobo Stew

Life really is just a matter of perspective.

A couple years before my mother passed away I went on one of my weekend visits to see her and we were sitting at her kitchen table talking about her memories of growing up during the Great Depression. You know —that period of time before you were born that your parents and grandparents refer to with awe in their voice. Awe and respect. They know how transient a stable economy can be and with uneasiness remember a time when everyone had so little but made do with what they had, and were none the worse for wear.

Mom grew up in a small town in Arkansas and was remembering how sometimes Hobos would come to their door. Grandma called them Tramps. They were looking for food and would offer to do work around the house for it. She said sometimes Grandma gave them work but more often than not, she just made them wait on the front porch while she went inside and made them a sandwich. Grandma never turned anyone away. She always said "The least we can do with what little we have is share it with those that have nothing." That made quite an impression on mom.

Mom also talked about the Big Celebration they had every fourth of July. She said it was the one day of the year when friends and family gathered at their house and had a feast. They had a family friend who worked for a Soda Pop company, and he'd show up with a huge tub of soda pop. She said all the kids drank pop all day and as many as they wanted while the grown ups were talking and laughing and not paying attention. What a treat that was! They always had a heaped tray of hamburgers for supper. Grandma made the absolute BEST hamburgers in the world Mom said. She could still remember how good they tasted. "Did you BBQ them outside on a grill? "I asked. She looked shocked "Oh No. Grandma would never have done that. She said 'that's how the hobo's eat, outside cooking on a fire. Why would we do that when we have a nice stove and an inside kitchen?!'"

Interesting viewpoint when you think about the hundreds and thousands of dollars people now spend on BBQs and backyard kitchens.

The next weekend after this talk with mom, we had Grampy over for dinner at our house. Grampy lives in the same town we do while my mom lived about an hour and half away. So Grampy comes over often. He and my mom are the same age but never cottoned to one another. We were sitting at the kitchen table and I got him to talking about growing up. "Oh yes...the Great Depression" (reverential pause as he gathered his thoughts) "When I was a young teenager, my little brother Willie and I ran away from home, heading east from Phoenix to Dallas and lived with the hobos along the way. We rode the trains with them and we camped in their hobo camps. They took us under their wings." Grampy paused again, fond memories tramping through his mind. "The Hobo Community took us in with no reservations or second thoughts. We were just kids but there were a lot of kids riding the trains.  We were all in the same boat and we all shared everything. Of a day we'd all go into town to scavange and come back to the tent camps in the evening. Someone would have onions they found, someone else a meat bone they dug out of a trash can. Everyone brought what they had and we cooked it all in huge pot on an outdoor fire. Mmmmm. It was Hobo Stew and the BEST food I've EVER had. I can still taste it now — how good it was!" He was patting his belly while he said this and I reckon he was telling the truth.

I told Grampy what my Grandmother had said about Hobo cooking. About her nice, inside kitchen and stove. He frowned, wiggled his finger in front of my face and said "Well that woman was a damn fool!" The next weekend I went to visit mom and told her Grampy's story and what he'd said about Hobo Stew being so good and all. She just laughed "Yeah" she sniffed (her nose a tad high in the air) "I expect Tex was always so hungry even an old shoe would have tasted great if they'd thrown it in a pot and cooked it. Hobo stew indeed!"