My husband and I are planning a trip to Florida in January for a trade show.. It is business with a little bit of family and pleasure mixed in.. The kind of trip that serves two purposes, or so you hope.
When I started shopping for lodging I looked at several different sites on the web and finally went back to an old favorite, Marriott... Marriott is good for business travelers. They cater to them, with high speed Internet, a good business center, and free parking, for the most part. And they have several different brands for all kinds of different budgets. I have, at one point or another, stayed in most of them. The Renaissance , the Courtyard, the Marriott brand, Springhill Suites, and Fairfield Inns. My favorite is either the Springhill or the Fairfield..so for this trip I picked the Fairfield.
When I woke up this morning I was thinking about the trip and my choice of lodging and I realized why I like that hotel. It is on the bottom of the list of all their brands, and by that I mean the least expensive. You tend to get more for your money there. Free breakfast, free Internet, free parking, a suite usually with a small kitchen so you can prepare some of your meals in house, a separate place for you to work if you need to, a comfortable bed and usually a very good television, not that there is ever anything on it that I care to watch, but just in case there might be, I want one in the room. It is true you bypass what some people would call luxuries, such as having valet service, someone to carry your luggage for you, some one to come to your room and pick up your laundry and so on and so on.
And I realized that is exactly why I like it. I like to carry my own luggage, especially since I have a husband with me who is always willing to lug it for me. I like to cook in the room and eat there, too. I like to park my own car. I don't want someone to wait on me. I didn't grow up with people doing that. I grew up working. Doing whatever had to be done on the farm. Feeding cows and pigs and chicken. Gathering eggs. Canning fruit. You name it, we did it.. So I am uncomfortable when people want to fuss over me. I like to independently take care of myself and my husband. And when my kids were at home I felt the same way about them. I didn't want to drop them off at the baby sitter and let someone else watch them while I went off to pursue a career. I must admit, if I'm being completely honest, there were times I would have given a king's ransom to just leave them somewhere for a week or maybe two, and then come back and pick them up when I was totally rested up and starting to miss them. But that didn't happen. Come what may, I had them with me, day in and day out. And now that they are grown up I am so happy that's the way things worked out. I'm not knocking working mothers. I realize many women have to work to make ends meet and I admire them for their hard work and sacrifice. But I was thankful that I had a husband who worked hard so I could stay home and raise our family. The bonding that takes place as your child grows up is irreplaceable, and I got to accomplish that with mine. They no longer need me to look after them, but they are all still a big part of my life.
And so we are off. Off to the beach. Off on an adventure. Off to watch the sunrise together as it comes up over the Gulf of Mexico..After many years and many sunrises, I never grow tire of watching the day break on the horizon. And to be able to watch it over the ocean, over white sand beaches and sea birds flying, and sea oats swaying gently in the ocean breeze, with the person I love more than anyone else on earth, well, it just doesn't get much better than this..
Saturday, January 5, 2013
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Ordinary Days
Recently I was talking to my father in law on the phone and he asked how my day had been.
"Oh, it's just been an ordinary day," I said. "Just routine, doing ordinary things at work and around the house."
And then I got to thinking about all the years in the past when I spent what I would term ordinary days. Grocery shopping, cleaning house, getting the kids off to school, picking them up in the afternoon, cooking dinner and then waiting for their father to come home so we could eat together.
He usually arrived home between five thirty and six, and then we would all set down around the table. Everyone had their assigned place and each one set in the same chair night after night. Daddy at the head, me on his left, The boys in their spots around the table. We all just naturally went to our place at the table. After the evening prayer we would commence our meal, and in those days I usually always cooked a lot. An entree, a salad, at least two vegetables, a green and a yellow one, and then dessert. When I picked our middle son up from school the first question he usually always asked was, 'what's for dessert'. When I picked up the youngest one his first question usually was, 'what's for dinner.'
Now it seems to me those years flew by, although at the time it seemed like they would never end. One day I turned around and those times around the dinner table were over. Recently I tried to get everybody together for a family cookout and it took me three months to come up with a time that would work with everyone's schedule. I no longer had to pick up kids from school, there was no need to stop whatever I was doing at four o'clock and start thinking about what I would cook that evening. My husband and I found if we ate a large meal at night we didn't sleep too well, so in the evening we usually just had something light. Those ordinary days that went for so long were now only memories. I had to figure out who I was all over again.
When I stopped to think about it after that conversation with Pappa, I realized how thankful I was for ordinary days. It was always a sense of relief in the evening when everyone arrived home safely. Days when all the kids were well and being their usual 'pick at your brother' selves were really good days. The conversations at the table were about what happened at school that day or what they wanted to get with their allowances when they could manage to save the money, and there was always the opportunity for which ever parent so felt inclined to offer to make up the difference if the afore mentioned child should have a shortage of funds. It usually didn't happen, but the child usually made sure we had the opportunity to contribute if we felt the urge.
Sometimes the talk would be about Dad's work and what he had encountered as he set out to make a living for his brood. And I always felt so thankful for the fact we never had a shortage of food. Once my husband made the comment that a king two hundred years ago probably would not have been able to eat as well as we did. Due to refrigeration and modern transportation there was an abundant of food from all over the world. Bananas and pineapples, tomatoes and watermelons from Florida, green produce even in the winter, spices and herbs and good things, all taken for granted because they were, for the most part, ordinary things.
And so it seems, now as I look back on it, that the things I remember the most and the fondest are everyday things. Ordinary things, things that made up the fabric of our lives. And I realized you should never take those small ordinary things for granted, for some day they will become the big important things you remember.
"Oh, it's just been an ordinary day," I said. "Just routine, doing ordinary things at work and around the house."
And then I got to thinking about all the years in the past when I spent what I would term ordinary days. Grocery shopping, cleaning house, getting the kids off to school, picking them up in the afternoon, cooking dinner and then waiting for their father to come home so we could eat together.
He usually arrived home between five thirty and six, and then we would all set down around the table. Everyone had their assigned place and each one set in the same chair night after night. Daddy at the head, me on his left, The boys in their spots around the table. We all just naturally went to our place at the table. After the evening prayer we would commence our meal, and in those days I usually always cooked a lot. An entree, a salad, at least two vegetables, a green and a yellow one, and then dessert. When I picked our middle son up from school the first question he usually always asked was, 'what's for dessert'. When I picked up the youngest one his first question usually was, 'what's for dinner.'
Now it seems to me those years flew by, although at the time it seemed like they would never end. One day I turned around and those times around the dinner table were over. Recently I tried to get everybody together for a family cookout and it took me three months to come up with a time that would work with everyone's schedule. I no longer had to pick up kids from school, there was no need to stop whatever I was doing at four o'clock and start thinking about what I would cook that evening. My husband and I found if we ate a large meal at night we didn't sleep too well, so in the evening we usually just had something light. Those ordinary days that went for so long were now only memories. I had to figure out who I was all over again.
When I stopped to think about it after that conversation with Pappa, I realized how thankful I was for ordinary days. It was always a sense of relief in the evening when everyone arrived home safely. Days when all the kids were well and being their usual 'pick at your brother' selves were really good days. The conversations at the table were about what happened at school that day or what they wanted to get with their allowances when they could manage to save the money, and there was always the opportunity for which ever parent so felt inclined to offer to make up the difference if the afore mentioned child should have a shortage of funds. It usually didn't happen, but the child usually made sure we had the opportunity to contribute if we felt the urge.
Sometimes the talk would be about Dad's work and what he had encountered as he set out to make a living for his brood. And I always felt so thankful for the fact we never had a shortage of food. Once my husband made the comment that a king two hundred years ago probably would not have been able to eat as well as we did. Due to refrigeration and modern transportation there was an abundant of food from all over the world. Bananas and pineapples, tomatoes and watermelons from Florida, green produce even in the winter, spices and herbs and good things, all taken for granted because they were, for the most part, ordinary things.
And so it seems, now as I look back on it, that the things I remember the most and the fondest are everyday things. Ordinary things, things that made up the fabric of our lives. And I realized you should never take those small ordinary things for granted, for some day they will become the big important things you remember.
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Ethyl remembers Mississippi thunderstorms.
Rain! How much we need rain. The South is hot and parched right now. The grass is crunchy and the vegetable plants in the garden have to be watered every night just to keep them alive. Summers in the South without enough rainfall are murder. They kill all the living things growing in the yard and they come pretty close to devastating the human population also.
I remember summer thunderstorms when I was a child growing up in Tishomingo County, Mississippi. The earth would become dry and parched and there would be a weariness that hung over both the animal and human population. The old dogs would try and find as much shade as they possibly could and then they would just lay there and pant, waddling up occasionally to take a sip or two of the water that had been left out for them, even though by mid day that water would be warm enough to make a cup of instant coffee.
Everything started to suffer. The animals in the barnyard didn't move any more than absolutely necessary. The frisky calves that had been so bouncy and full of themselves in the spring, by the summer heatwave had pretty much calmed down. Not as much as the old jerseys who barely moved, but still, greatly reduced from their former liveliness.
The old hens who pecked at the worms and insects in the grass, that was by now pretty much parched and withered, seemed to go about this task in slow motion. The entire world we lived in had slowed down. We spent a lot of time on the front porch or under the big shade tree in the front yard, trying to keep cool with either a glass of lemonade or super sweet iced tea. The old ice trays came out of the freezer much more often and went in again in a flash when we had totally emptied them in a quick movement of the hands. We never seemed to have enough ice until the summer we got the big freezer. Then we started freezing it in big plastic bowls and dumping it into a large dishpan where we beat it to death with a large metal spoon. Enough beats and we had all kinds of ice to go in our huge goblet ice tea glasses. It also served very well as a means to cool our bodies to a slight degree. We dumped huge chunks of ice in a wash tub, filled it with water and submerged our feet and legs in it. Whee! I can still feel the chill go up my back from that icy cold impact of flesh on ice.
Clouds would start to gather, at first gray and on the horizon, and then a short while later, black and ominous as they postured themselves over our heads. The first thing would be the thunder, followed by the streaks of lightening as it shot forth out of the sky. The first drops of rain that fell on the freshly plowed Mississippi red clay would smell so like the earth itself, and tiny puffs of steam would rise from the parched earth. Then the rain would start. Like the heavens themselves had opened up. We would make our way from what we were doing, either work or play, and head for the house. The old country house had a porch that went across the front and we could sit under it and hear the rain as it beat on the tin roof. There is no other sound on earth like that of rain on a tin roof. It stirs all kinds of emotions in a kid.
The air itself would be full of the smell of the rain, as it watered and brought back life to our parched corner of the earth. The air would cool, the puddles would fill, and then when it was over, often a gorgeous rainbow would appear. Is was as if all the life, both plant and animal, would perk up and drink deeply of this precious fluid from the sky.
I remember one particular summer day when my mother and I had gone to the garden to pick some green beans. It was hot and dry and we so needed rain. The sky blackened, the lightening flashed, and the rain started. We ran across the road from the garden and got under the porch where we waited for the rain to cease. I must have been about ten years old but I remember it like it was yesterday. When the rain had come and gone the most beautiful rainbow appeared in the sky. As I stood and admired it, my mother told me of the rainbow covenant God made with Noah to never again destroy the earth with water. Over fifty years later I can still hear her voice and feel the wonder of a small child as I listened to her. And today I am so thankful for the rains from heaven that bring back life to a parched earth and for a mother who taught me to believe in a loving Creator who looks after us all.
I remember summer thunderstorms when I was a child growing up in Tishomingo County, Mississippi. The earth would become dry and parched and there would be a weariness that hung over both the animal and human population. The old dogs would try and find as much shade as they possibly could and then they would just lay there and pant, waddling up occasionally to take a sip or two of the water that had been left out for them, even though by mid day that water would be warm enough to make a cup of instant coffee.
Everything started to suffer. The animals in the barnyard didn't move any more than absolutely necessary. The frisky calves that had been so bouncy and full of themselves in the spring, by the summer heatwave had pretty much calmed down. Not as much as the old jerseys who barely moved, but still, greatly reduced from their former liveliness.
The old hens who pecked at the worms and insects in the grass, that was by now pretty much parched and withered, seemed to go about this task in slow motion. The entire world we lived in had slowed down. We spent a lot of time on the front porch or under the big shade tree in the front yard, trying to keep cool with either a glass of lemonade or super sweet iced tea. The old ice trays came out of the freezer much more often and went in again in a flash when we had totally emptied them in a quick movement of the hands. We never seemed to have enough ice until the summer we got the big freezer. Then we started freezing it in big plastic bowls and dumping it into a large dishpan where we beat it to death with a large metal spoon. Enough beats and we had all kinds of ice to go in our huge goblet ice tea glasses. It also served very well as a means to cool our bodies to a slight degree. We dumped huge chunks of ice in a wash tub, filled it with water and submerged our feet and legs in it. Whee! I can still feel the chill go up my back from that icy cold impact of flesh on ice.
Clouds would start to gather, at first gray and on the horizon, and then a short while later, black and ominous as they postured themselves over our heads. The first thing would be the thunder, followed by the streaks of lightening as it shot forth out of the sky. The first drops of rain that fell on the freshly plowed Mississippi red clay would smell so like the earth itself, and tiny puffs of steam would rise from the parched earth. Then the rain would start. Like the heavens themselves had opened up. We would make our way from what we were doing, either work or play, and head for the house. The old country house had a porch that went across the front and we could sit under it and hear the rain as it beat on the tin roof. There is no other sound on earth like that of rain on a tin roof. It stirs all kinds of emotions in a kid.
The air itself would be full of the smell of the rain, as it watered and brought back life to our parched corner of the earth. The air would cool, the puddles would fill, and then when it was over, often a gorgeous rainbow would appear. Is was as if all the life, both plant and animal, would perk up and drink deeply of this precious fluid from the sky.
I remember one particular summer day when my mother and I had gone to the garden to pick some green beans. It was hot and dry and we so needed rain. The sky blackened, the lightening flashed, and the rain started. We ran across the road from the garden and got under the porch where we waited for the rain to cease. I must have been about ten years old but I remember it like it was yesterday. When the rain had come and gone the most beautiful rainbow appeared in the sky. As I stood and admired it, my mother told me of the rainbow covenant God made with Noah to never again destroy the earth with water. Over fifty years later I can still hear her voice and feel the wonder of a small child as I listened to her. And today I am so thankful for the rains from heaven that bring back life to a parched earth and for a mother who taught me to believe in a loving Creator who looks after us all.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Ethyl remembers Mayberry.
I haven't written much lately. Just haven't had much to say, I guess. But today I kind of feel compelled to share a memory. A memory of an old Zenith television with a small screen on which we watched shows like Dragnet and Perry Mason and Leave it to Beaver. And of course the Andy Griffith show.
My oldest brother was working in Chicago and he bought the television for us. We could only get three channels and two of them were snowy with poor reception. We had an old outside antenna that had to be turned if we wanted to change the channel, so somebody had to run outside and manually swing the pole around so we could get a half way decent picture. That was alright if the weather was good, but it was murder if it was raining or coming a thunder storm. We would all gather around the tiny little set and there was no debating what we would watch. We would watch whatever happened to be on if we could pick up a half way decent picture.
Andy Griffith died today. And I couldn't help thinking about how that show represented a much simpler time. A time when little old ladies made pickles to enter in the county fair and people sit on their front porches sometimes in the evenings and played guitars and sang old songs. When the biggest problem the townspeople had to worry about was who would sing in the Fourth of July celebration or which baby would win the prettiest baby contest. Poor Andy had been appointed the judge for the contest and all the mothers in town started bringing him gifts of food and other goodies to ensure their baby was picked. Andy, in his wisdom, choose the ugliest baby. Since every woman knew their baby was far prettier and it was merely an act of kindness on Andy's part to pick that ugly baby, they all went away happy, secure in the knowledge their baby was really the winner. Or the lesson Opie learned when he killed the mother bird and he ended up having to care for her babies himself. Or Barney Fife and his talent for always putting his foot in his mouth.. 'Nip it in the bud', Barney, with his one bullet and his inability to ever get his gun out of his holster.
The people who lived in Mayberry were real characters, in more than one sense. They were allowed to grow and develop on the show as it moved out of the early sixties, a time when the world changed forever. We the audience were allowed to see them grow and change and really get to know them. They were characters in another sense too, in the fact they were all originals. No two alike. People we could relate to and in a way see ourselves in.
And our tv sets changed too. The screens got larger and black and white morphed into color. I remember back in the mid sixties when color was first being introduced and there were just a few shows to start with that were in color. One of the first was Bonanza. The Cartwrights would ride across the screen with the Nevada territory map burning in the background and that theme song blaring in our ears. Man, how I loved that show. And the announcement was always made 'the following program is brought to you in living color on NBC'. And the NBC peacock would appear with his full color wing span.
Rest in peace, Andy. You made us laugh and you made us cry and you made us think and you kept us entertained. And those of us who were around to see the original shows will never forget you.
My oldest brother was working in Chicago and he bought the television for us. We could only get three channels and two of them were snowy with poor reception. We had an old outside antenna that had to be turned if we wanted to change the channel, so somebody had to run outside and manually swing the pole around so we could get a half way decent picture. That was alright if the weather was good, but it was murder if it was raining or coming a thunder storm. We would all gather around the tiny little set and there was no debating what we would watch. We would watch whatever happened to be on if we could pick up a half way decent picture.
Andy Griffith died today. And I couldn't help thinking about how that show represented a much simpler time. A time when little old ladies made pickles to enter in the county fair and people sit on their front porches sometimes in the evenings and played guitars and sang old songs. When the biggest problem the townspeople had to worry about was who would sing in the Fourth of July celebration or which baby would win the prettiest baby contest. Poor Andy had been appointed the judge for the contest and all the mothers in town started bringing him gifts of food and other goodies to ensure their baby was picked. Andy, in his wisdom, choose the ugliest baby. Since every woman knew their baby was far prettier and it was merely an act of kindness on Andy's part to pick that ugly baby, they all went away happy, secure in the knowledge their baby was really the winner. Or the lesson Opie learned when he killed the mother bird and he ended up having to care for her babies himself. Or Barney Fife and his talent for always putting his foot in his mouth.. 'Nip it in the bud', Barney, with his one bullet and his inability to ever get his gun out of his holster.
The people who lived in Mayberry were real characters, in more than one sense. They were allowed to grow and develop on the show as it moved out of the early sixties, a time when the world changed forever. We the audience were allowed to see them grow and change and really get to know them. They were characters in another sense too, in the fact they were all originals. No two alike. People we could relate to and in a way see ourselves in.
And our tv sets changed too. The screens got larger and black and white morphed into color. I remember back in the mid sixties when color was first being introduced and there were just a few shows to start with that were in color. One of the first was Bonanza. The Cartwrights would ride across the screen with the Nevada territory map burning in the background and that theme song blaring in our ears. Man, how I loved that show. And the announcement was always made 'the following program is brought to you in living color on NBC'. And the NBC peacock would appear with his full color wing span.
Rest in peace, Andy. You made us laugh and you made us cry and you made us think and you kept us entertained. And those of us who were around to see the original shows will never forget you.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Ethyl Reflects: Nursing Home Visit.
My father in law's wife is in a nursing home. She was not placed there because no one cared. In her case it was just a matter of the ones who could still care for themselves being able to survive. Sometimes the care of a person who is disabled is more than one person can handle, and in his case, her care fell primarily to him. He did it as long as he was able, but ultimately the lack of sleep and the stress of coping with her disabilities was more than he could handle, so he had to make the painful decision to place her where someone who was qualified could help care for her.
My husband and I went with him last week to visit her, and that lead to coming face to face with scores of people in the process of reaching the end of their lives. I walked down the hallway to the cafeteria to get her some extra milk and a little carton of ice cream to go with her chocolate cake they served her for lunch and my heart literally hurt. I saw an old black woman in a wheel chair sitting in her door way, head bent, rubbing her forehead as if she was in pain. If the truth be known, she probably was. And I wondered what she was thinking as she sat there looking so sad and forlorn, perhaps forgotten by family and friends who were just too busy taking care of their mates and children, going to their jobs each day, pushing back thoughts of responsibility toward those who no longer were able to give them anything, who could no longer be an active part of their every day existence. And I could not help thinking how our present day society honors and glorified youth and beauty, and to a huge degree, has thrown away the old and helpless like so much refuse that has no further use except to be placed on the rubbish heap.
When I reached the cafeteria there were several older ones sitting around the tables having lunch, and one elderly gentleman was yelling for the nurses to bring him another piece of chocolate cake. The lady that waited on me laughed and made the comment that Charlie liked his sweets. I chucked to myself at the fact that no matter how old some of us get, we can still find pleasure in the taste buds. Even if the highlight of his day might be no more than enjoying his cake, at least he would have that.
And it occurred to me that old age just might be the time when humans get rid of all the fluff and feathers we tend to surround ourselves with each day and just get down to basics. To feel thankful when we can go to bed at night and sleep through the night, without waking up in pain or having our sleep disturbed by having to make a middle of the night trip to the bathroom. To be able to eat a piece of our favorite cake and appreciate the sweet taste on our tongues, and thank God that our taste buds still work and we have enough of a digestive system left to take care of what we put into it. To be able to walk from one point to the next, even if we have to have the use of a cane or a walker to do it. It occurred to me that perhaps at this stage of human existence, we might tend to be much more thankful for the small things in life. Things we tend to expect and take for granted when we are full of youth and energy. I think maybe there is a lot of truth to the old saying that we never miss our water until the well runs dry.
When I left the cafeteria and walked back up the hall way to my mother in law's room, a volunteer aid walked with me to help me find my way back. The building was like a maze, so many different corridors going in so many directions, I would have had trouble finding my way by myself. My father in law told me that one day he heard an old fellow in the hall way screaming for someone to help him find his way to the cafeteria. I could perfectly understand why. She and I passed an old gentleman with a walker making his way back from lunch, and he was pushing that walker ninety to nothing. She chucked and told me they called him Speedy. He may not have had anywhere to go that day, but he sure was in a big hurry to get there.
And so ended that visit to the nursing home. I came away with a sense of sadness for all the hopelessness I saw there, but also with a renewed determination to try and do a little bit to lessen it if I possibly can.
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Ethyl Says. Going To The Mountain.
I'm missing dirt roads again.
Tishomingo County roads.
Roads that lead to the top of the mountain.
Never mind that in Tishomingo County what we call a mountain is actually a great big hill.
It has to officially be a thousand feet to be a mountain.
Ours falls short by about two hundred.
But never mind.
In our minds and hearts it will always be a mountain.
The tallest in the state.
We are proud of our mountain,
Proud of the fact we are officially the State's hillbillies.
Not low land folks like the rest of Mississippi.
Wild ferns grow on our mountain,
And moss
Cool and green and soft.
And trees
Woods, lovely woods, cool and green.
Looking for peace, we climb to the top of our mountain.
Up, up, up, the dirt road.
Till we reach the end of the road.
And arrive at the tower situated on top.
A quite place to sit and contemplate
Where we've been and where we're heading
Wondering what lies ahead.
Searching inside
Who are we and what will we become.
What will our future hold.
Who will we be tomorrow?
That having been considered
We head down the mountain
Back to our homes and our families
To everyday.
Down the dirt road that brought us to the top,
Leaving behind today,
Heading into tomorrow.
Our doubts and fears and hopes will all resurface
Of that we can be sure.
But as for now there has been a coming to terms with them.
At least for the moment.
Tishomingo County roads.
Roads that lead to the top of the mountain.
Never mind that in Tishomingo County what we call a mountain is actually a great big hill.
It has to officially be a thousand feet to be a mountain.
Ours falls short by about two hundred.
But never mind.
In our minds and hearts it will always be a mountain.
The tallest in the state.
We are proud of our mountain,
Proud of the fact we are officially the State's hillbillies.
Not low land folks like the rest of Mississippi.
Wild ferns grow on our mountain,
And moss
Cool and green and soft.
And trees
Woods, lovely woods, cool and green.
Looking for peace, we climb to the top of our mountain.
Up, up, up, the dirt road.
Till we reach the end of the road.
And arrive at the tower situated on top.
A quite place to sit and contemplate
Where we've been and where we're heading
Wondering what lies ahead.
Searching inside
Who are we and what will we become.
What will our future hold.
Who will we be tomorrow?
That having been considered
We head down the mountain
Back to our homes and our families
To everyday.
Down the dirt road that brought us to the top,
Leaving behind today,
Heading into tomorrow.
Our doubts and fears and hopes will all resurface
Of that we can be sure.
But as for now there has been a coming to terms with them.
At least for the moment.
Wednesday, February 15, 2012
Ethyl recalls: Waiting for the Mailman
"What matters most is not the first chapter in your life but the last, for it shows how well you ran the race, how much you persevered, how hard you tried."
The first chapter in my life took place in Tishomingo County. And I will never forget the things that upbringing taught me. I learned that it didn't kill me to do without things I thought I had to have, to make do with what was available, to work hard for what I got, to dream, and also to always look forward.
And so for the most part of my life, I have looked forward. But now that I'm older I find I spend more time looking back. Back to a simpler time. Back to gravel roads, and creeks, and picking blackberries and muscadines; back to waiting impatiently for the mail to arrive for that letter I got at least twice a week from my boyfriend.
I have a memory of waiting on the porch or the front yard, watching impatiently for our rural mailman to come around the corner. When I saw him heading up the road, I started toward the mail box. He would watch me and if he had no letter he would shake his head no and if there was something for me, he would smile as he stopped at our box. It was later in life that I started to wonder what it was he learned about people from the mail he delivered. Did he know those who were receiving news they wanted to hear and those who were getting mail they would rather not receive. He certainly knew about me, that I was carrying on a long distance romance with a young fellow who was not native to our part of the country. He also knew how frequently the letters between us were sent and received. Every other day to be exact. I would get a letter one day, answer it that night, mail it the next day and then a reply would follow in exactly the same manner. Wonder what he thought. He understood that I would be watching the mailbox, and he also knew the look of disappointment on my face if there was nothing there for me that day. Such a sweet memory.
I remember selling seeds for some seed company and the little prizes they gave you if you sold them all. Remember pondering over the gift catalog, taking forever to finally make up my mind what wonderful thing to order and then waiting forever during the two weeks it took them to ship it. That type of anticipation is gone from your life when you get older. It belongs only to the young, I think. It's not unusual to place an order now on line and have it arrive at my door step in a day or two. That never happened when we were young. The world wide web and UPS and FedEx changed all that. Still in most cases the anticipation and excitement over the gift far exceeded the value of the object once it arrived. The best I can remember most of the prizes you won were pure junk. But junk to an adult can be absolute treasure to a kid.
And then there were the weekly phone calls. Expensive for the young with a limited amount of money, so the talk had to be brief and to the point. A few years ago the above mentioned boyfriend who has been my husband for the last forty five years had to spend a week away from me in New York. It was still as hard as it used to be spending weeks apart when we were young. But the big difference was the methods of keeping in touch. Every night I sent him an email that he would get when he checked his mail each morning. He sent a good morning back to me. At noon when he wasn't in class and got his lunch break he called me on his cell phone. Every night when class was over he walked the grounds and talked to me on the phone. After forty five years we were still writing love letters to each other, only this time they arrived in minutes, not days. And the phone calls could last as long as we wanted them to.
So we come to today. It's not the beginning of the race that matters. It's the end. But sometimes looking back to the beginning can elicit memories that are sweet. And no doubt they do get better with time. Somehow or other when we look back we tend to remember only the good. And it is such a sweet memory to remember our mailman and how he so often made my day when he stopped at our crocked little mailbox attached to the side of the big oak tree in our front yard.
The first chapter in my life took place in Tishomingo County. And I will never forget the things that upbringing taught me. I learned that it didn't kill me to do without things I thought I had to have, to make do with what was available, to work hard for what I got, to dream, and also to always look forward.
And so for the most part of my life, I have looked forward. But now that I'm older I find I spend more time looking back. Back to a simpler time. Back to gravel roads, and creeks, and picking blackberries and muscadines; back to waiting impatiently for the mail to arrive for that letter I got at least twice a week from my boyfriend.
I have a memory of waiting on the porch or the front yard, watching impatiently for our rural mailman to come around the corner. When I saw him heading up the road, I started toward the mail box. He would watch me and if he had no letter he would shake his head no and if there was something for me, he would smile as he stopped at our box. It was later in life that I started to wonder what it was he learned about people from the mail he delivered. Did he know those who were receiving news they wanted to hear and those who were getting mail they would rather not receive. He certainly knew about me, that I was carrying on a long distance romance with a young fellow who was not native to our part of the country. He also knew how frequently the letters between us were sent and received. Every other day to be exact. I would get a letter one day, answer it that night, mail it the next day and then a reply would follow in exactly the same manner. Wonder what he thought. He understood that I would be watching the mailbox, and he also knew the look of disappointment on my face if there was nothing there for me that day. Such a sweet memory.
I remember selling seeds for some seed company and the little prizes they gave you if you sold them all. Remember pondering over the gift catalog, taking forever to finally make up my mind what wonderful thing to order and then waiting forever during the two weeks it took them to ship it. That type of anticipation is gone from your life when you get older. It belongs only to the young, I think. It's not unusual to place an order now on line and have it arrive at my door step in a day or two. That never happened when we were young. The world wide web and UPS and FedEx changed all that. Still in most cases the anticipation and excitement over the gift far exceeded the value of the object once it arrived. The best I can remember most of the prizes you won were pure junk. But junk to an adult can be absolute treasure to a kid.
And then there were the weekly phone calls. Expensive for the young with a limited amount of money, so the talk had to be brief and to the point. A few years ago the above mentioned boyfriend who has been my husband for the last forty five years had to spend a week away from me in New York. It was still as hard as it used to be spending weeks apart when we were young. But the big difference was the methods of keeping in touch. Every night I sent him an email that he would get when he checked his mail each morning. He sent a good morning back to me. At noon when he wasn't in class and got his lunch break he called me on his cell phone. Every night when class was over he walked the grounds and talked to me on the phone. After forty five years we were still writing love letters to each other, only this time they arrived in minutes, not days. And the phone calls could last as long as we wanted them to.
So we come to today. It's not the beginning of the race that matters. It's the end. But sometimes looking back to the beginning can elicit memories that are sweet. And no doubt they do get better with time. Somehow or other when we look back we tend to remember only the good. And it is such a sweet memory to remember our mailman and how he so often made my day when he stopped at our crocked little mailbox attached to the side of the big oak tree in our front yard.
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