That Awesome Pill

I think I've always thought that I had written this down, but I can't find it. So, I will take this opportunity. It's a cute little short story and it's on me. That makes it okay to tell.

One afternoon after Ron and I came to Georgia Jill and the kids had come for a visit. The kids were off somewhere playing, Jill was in the kitchen and Ron was at the kitchen table. It was a very quiet time in the house, but for some reason my morning wasn't going as smoothly as it should have been.

Just around the corner from the kitchen I had been doing laundry. Anything can go wrong with such a chore, and something had evidently set me off. 

With my head stuck in the clothes dryer I suddenly mumbled to myself, "I think I forgot to take my Zoloft."

The two in the kitchen had heard me, simultaneously looked at one another  chagrined and said, "Oh-oh."

DECORATION DAY

Decoration Day was a big holiday back when I was growing up in Richardson County, Nebraska. Our kitchen was busy for days before we headed out for the day that we really looked forward to. Even me. Growing up alone, you would think I'd rather stay home to play with the kids in the neighborhood, but there was my kind of fun to be had that day.

Today's kids know it as Memorial Day, and most adults as well. The big thing to do that day is to invite your friends over for a bar-b-que.I even hear fireworks going off in the distance, an activity we only thought about on July 4th. No fireworks were sold in our state until a couple of days before the 4th, and it was illegal to fire them any other time. 

Mom and I took inventory in our yard just a few days before May 30 to find out what flowers would be blooming or near blooming
by that day. We didn't go to the store to buy plastic flower arrangements unless we had no other choice. We checked on the peonies, iris, poppies, and tiger lillies, These were the spring flowers that would be blooming at the tim

Grocery lists were made for the potato salad, macaroni salad (the only pasta we ever had),  dozens of eggs for deviled eggs, potato chips (again the only time we ever had chips), gallon jugs to take our kool-aid and iced tea in, unsweet. 

On Saturday afternoon, Mom and I filled 5-gallon buckets half full of water, then we cut as many flowers as we could find that were ready to go to the cemeteries. If we knew we wouldn't have enough, we would plan to stop at some friends' houses in the country near Stella or Shubert to buy extras. 

Decoration Day, always on Sunday, started early with breakfast at the Prairie Union Baptist Church. Across from the church, where my Dad had been baptized years ago, was a fairly large cemetery filled with most of my ancesters from my dad's side. My parents were in their 40's when I was born, so lots of their aunts and uncles were already dead. My brother, Billy, and my sister, Janice, were buried there, and in a few years my dad's parents would be there. For a medium size country cemetery you would think a couple of hours would do it. We were there most of the day.

Immediately after breakfast we walked directly across the road to the statue representing the Unknown Soldier. There was a short speech, Taps, and we were off.

This was the day of the year that relatives from every state in the union who had ancestors here came to pay their respects, and to visit all the other relatives who came. These cousins and aunts and uncles, great aunts and uncles, and friends spent hours on their feet, walking the whole cemetery, not a small task, passing out flowers to the dead and hugs and kisses to the living. I stuck around just long enough to meet the first batch.

There are some beautiful monuments in that cemetery. And even the plain one held fantastic storie for my enormous immagination. I needed to see the familiar stones first. One was a beautiful stone for a child that had been there since before me. I must check to see it was still there. Then I perused every inch of the place; who was new, who were they, was it anyone the family knew? If I knew someone had died that year, I scoured until I found their place.

Now and then I would run into someone who remembered me and told me how much taller I'd grown. Moving on.

Lots of the family gathered in the basement of the church and brought out all our food. Those who lived close had fried chicken and Jell-o salads. I hit the potato chips and chicken wishbones.

We visited another hour or so, but we still had 3 more cemeteries to visit. We first drove 60 miles or so to Nebraska City, backtracking to a small country cemetery outside of that town, then on to Falls City where my mom had nephews who had died in the war. Falls City had absolutely marvelous monuments, and I delayed leaving there as long as I could.

I've left so much out of my memories for Decoration Day, but I am thinking you've been bored long enough with all this. I absolutely loved it. There was never a more beautiful time of year in Nebraska, unless it rained.  OH! And let's not forget the Indianapolis 500! Dad and I listened on the road, and sometimes snuck away to the car while the ladies visited. So much to do, on Decoration Day, until they made it Memorial Day. Oh, how I miss those good days!

Learning My Vowels

When I was in 3rd grade I had Nellie Kelly for a teacher. I got in a lot of dutch with her because, as we all know, our mothers are always right.  And in this case, mine was, but not in America. You see, my mom told me as I was memorizing my vowels that they were a e i o u and sometimes y and sometimes w. That is true in Wales, w is a vowel pronounced oo. But old lady Kelly wouldn't hear of it, and I got punished every time I insisted that w was a vowel. My mom had no idea she had gotten me in so much trouble, and I never told her.

The Train Ride

I went to upload a picture of mom, and every time I came to a picture of me i saw my mom staring back at me. that was eerie. I told Ron a story about when I was 4 or 5. Mom and I would take the train from Auburn Nebraska to Waxahachie Texas to visit my grandmother. our train car had two bench seats facing each other. so I slept on one, and my poor mother had to sleep on the other, sitting up. I didn't care then, but oh, I understand and sympathize now. mom put up with a lot, and she hurt a lot. she never complained. never. if you asked her how she was she'd say, well, I can't complain but I do anyway. no. she didn't. I wish I were more like her instead of just look like her. I'm like my dad. ornery, stubborn, hot-headed, difficult, and ornery. oh. I said that. 

My mind is full of memories. I spent a lot of time with her and learned to know her well. As we washed the clothes on the wringer washer or hung clothes on the line, as we walked to town together, as we sat and popped beans together, she would tell me stories of her childhood or of her family. She and my dad had a completely different life before I was born....3 other children of whom I only knew 1, and they lived on a farm. There were so many things I wanted to know and she always talked to me about anything.

Merril, the Gentle Man

I've often proclaimed my love and adoration for my dad. Despite his sullen moods and harshness of temper, he was an exceptionally charming and handsome man. I enjoyed being with him because we shared the same interests, and what interest I didn't share naturally, I purposely cultivated. I wanted to be like him, and in adulthood, I realized how like him I was. Alas, I was like him in manner, but my brother Marvin had his handsome looks. I look like my mother, but Marvin was kind and gentle as she was. And yet, the older I get the more like her I am becoming, not in gentleness, but allowing my Lord to shape and mold me into a kinder and more loving being.

Dad could be gentle. Sometimes I would crawl into his lap and many times on Sunday mornings I would snuggle with him in his feather bed. Those times were sweet and tender moments as he read the Sunday funnies from the newspaper, sometimes reading aloud, other times just allowing me close.  Each day he came home from work he always lay on the sofa, his feet propped on one arm and his head on the other because he was so tall. He would read the newspaper, and when finished he read a western of some sort. He seldom watched television though in the same room. But as he read, he would either sing softly in his beautiful bass voice, sometimes hum, and often he would whistle a tune through his teeth. I loved to listen to him. He sang hymns, which always surprised me. And sometimes he would sing along with whatever song my mom was singing. My mom sang continually, from the time she awoke until she finally got to bed. Then when he was sure he was done for the day, he would stop me as I would pass and say softly, "Tootsie, would you please take my shoes off for me?" Are you kidding? Would I fly to the moon for him? Would I jump over mountains for him? So I carefully untied his wingtip shoes and removed them as he would sigh and then say, "Thanks, Tootsie. That feels so much better." My daddy's feet never smelled bad, but I honestly can still recall the odor of them as they came out of his shoes.

When dad did little jobs around the house, or if he was dabbling with his fishing tackle and was in a good mood, he would whistle. He never whistled with his lips, but always softly through his teeth. He often chewed gum, and he would always offer me a piece. I tried and tried, but I never developed a liking for it. As soon as the flavor was gone I had to spit it out. And one thing that you could always count on was my dad had a toothpick somewhere in his pocket or his mouth. If he came up to kiss mom or me he would make the toothpick quickly disappear into his mouth, then it would appear as he walked away. I can see him bent over the car parts book at the work counter, he's humming or whistling with a toothpick protruding and his glasses at the end of his nose. He would look up to see me watching him, and he would grin at me.  Oh, I loved that man!

Dad was about age fifty when he had his first heart attack. After that, he would keep a bottle of peach or apricot brandy in the freezer and under the front seat of the car. His doctor told him to take a swallow if he felt his heart pounding too hard. If mom wasn't looking, he would hand me the bottle from the freezer and I would take a drink. He had two more heart attacks that I am aware of. Another change was that he began to sleep in a separate bed from mom. He said that he couldn't have sex anymore, and to sleep with her was just impossible. So he got a feather mattress, which would have hurt mom's back, and they slept side by side in different beds. This would never amaze anyone who knew my dad very well. He was a man of many passions, and my mom was one of them.

Before we left Auburn to live in Falls City mom and dad would often sit on the front porch of our house after I had gone to bed, and they would sing and dad would play the harmonica for her. They would talk for hours, or it seemed like hours, for I fell asleep and never knew when they came in. My mom told me a story often of when she was hospitalized in Humboldt sometime before I was born. Dad would come to visit her, and they would talk and laugh the whole time he would be there. One day one of the nurses came into the room and asked my mother how long she and dad had been married. She could hardly believe their answer. "We just can't believe you two have been married so long," she said to them. "You two talk and laugh with one another as if you are newlyweds," I remember those days, but they stopped when we moved in with my dad's mother. I've always believed that he felt torn between the two women. My cousin, Evelyn, had moved in with us and so there were three women. Maybe that's why he would take me along with him because I was safe.

As I went through childhood I loved my mother, but I adored my dad. Mom was the disciplinarian, and I was with her more. She worked hard at home and didn't appreciate when I would dawdle at getting my work done, procrastinate at doing the dishes. She and I did a lot of yelling back and forth, and I often talked back to her. I often got spanked, too. But, when I got older my feelings changed toward my dad, and after I got married my mom became my best friend. She and I shared so many long hours of talking about things in ways we couldn't when I was a child. My dad died soon after I married, so mom came and stayed at our home often. We loved having her there. It's interesting to me how my affections transferred over the years. I can't say that I ever really missed my father after he died. But still, forty years after her death, I miss my mom a lot, often sobbing tears at the thought of her. There's a line from a movie, You've Got Mail, where the female character is trimming a Christmas tree, and she says, "And missing my mom so much I can hardly breathe." Yes. I know that kind of miss.

Merril, the Scallawag...Part 2

Merril Johnson could have been considered a very complex fellow. He had varying sides to his personality which must have been the reason that he had so many friends. Men either loved or hated him, I think, for he could endear himself readily to those he chose to like and quickly spurn the ones for whom he had no respect. He was seldom verbal about his feelings. He simply gave them no attention. I do remember once when I came home from a new job and announced the name of my new boss. My dad's eyes rose to meet mine, and he said, "Don't ever trust him. ______ ________ is a son-of-a-bitch." Frankly, I took that to heart and never, ever trusted the man.

Dad had a very hard life, which led to much heartache and not a little hardness and anger toward his Maker. When people talk about the characteristics of a person with red hair, I have to agree with the assessments. Within my family, there are quite a few of them, and they display them strongly. My dad was no exception. He was quiet and reserved but had a fiery temper that was almost never seen at home but was displayed in his employment with either firm words of quiet anger or he would simply leave. Once you had made an enemy of my father, you could never expect to be forgiven. My son, Jay, is like this. Rather than confrontation, it is simply easier to walk away; permanently.

Another side of this man was an excellent work ethic. He worked long, and he worked hard, diligently, honestly, precisely, making sure that his customer or the end product was of great satisfaction.  One job Merril Johnson had was to sell auto parts for a national company, and two days in each week he was required to travel around about a fifty-mile radius. In the summers I took great delight in being allowed to accompany him. These trips opened my eyes to the respect and true friendships that my dad had. Of course, I was always introduced as if I belonged in the encounters, and I was mostly introduced as "Tootsie", my dad's nickname for me. At every stop, dad stood and talked at length to each of his customers, creating a good relationship, even personal, getting to know their families and hobbies and such. He wasn't there to just sell something. He went in the business to befriend and show interest. He never had to tell me why he did these things. I knew instinctively as I was to receive these same gifts.

Years before I was born my parents had, in some ways, had a different life. They were both forty-one years old when I was born, and by then there had been tragedies and harshness that I would never experience. They were farmers for years, leasing land and a home located somewhere between Verdon, Stella, and Shubert, but closer to Verdon. I asked many times to be shown the exact place, but there was always some hesitation on their part to point out a definite spot. After all, it had been quite a few years later, and changes to the area made it difficult to recall. I always felt a hollowness in this reasoning, and I understood it.

A few stories have been recalled to me by my mom about life on the farm. Both parents were up long before dawn to milk cows, feed poultry, gather eggs, slop hogs, etc. Farm work. And the farm work had no motorized equipment. Plowing and reaping were done with strong mules and horses. The years were the 1930s and 40s, and most farmers had tractors and combines and such. My parents couldn't afford such luxuries, and their work and their home were primitive.

My mother had three jobs, keeping the house, raising the children, and helping with the outside farm chores. All food was prepared from scratch. All bread, pies, cakes, were endless and daily work. The meat was butchered from the farm.

My mother was outside raking leaves one day and later noticed that her wedding ring was gone from her finger. Now, this ring was far from an expensive piece, but it was the sentiment that mattered to her.  They searched and searched the yard and leaves but never found it. Later that evening, during supper, my dad received a bit of surprise when he bit into his thick slab of bread and found the silver jewelry that they had been searching for most of the afternoon. Kneading the bread dough that morning, it must have slipped into it, with no notice.

When mom had a baby to attend to, there were arrangements to be made while she was outside at the barn working. Marvin was her firstborn, and small babies can't tag along. There was an old wooden rocking chair on the front porch where mom would place Marvin on the seat and, using a kitchen tea towel, tie it firmly around his waist and tie it on the back of the rungs. There she started the chair to rock and then left him to enjoy the ride and, hopefully, fall asleep. Meanwhile, mom was in the barn or yard. Marvin was born in 1930, remember. Things were done much differently then and there on the farm.

My dad was a disciplinarian, but he loved his children very dearly. He had high expectations for them with the hope that they would not have the hard life he lived. Dad left school after the 8th grade, so his options were limited for employment. Marvin was his pride and joy who worked hard at home and school and was a wonderful son. Dad never hesitated to use his huge hand to his children's rears to get them to understand his intentions. Even if mom had done the duty, when dad came home he added to it. I remember often being spanked twice for one infraction, and I never felt there was a fairness in it.

My father's second son was William Dwight. My mother says Billy was a delightful child, full of smiles and vigor. He was a redhead, and full of mischief and fun. There is one black and white photo of Billy, and you can see that he was tall for his age, long in limb, and I think he might have been just a bit shy with people outside his home. He was born in 1936. He died in 1942.
The first daughter was Janice May. She was born in 1945 and died three days after her birth.  The story is that mom had a fever of some kind when she gave birth to Janice. The doctor instructed the nurses to not take the baby to my mom until the fever was controlled and mom was feeling better. (By the way, Janice was mom's first birth in a hospital.) One of the nurses evidently didn't read the instructions, or perhaps they were jus

t given verbally, but one of them brought the baby in for my mother to nurse and Janice developed a fever and died. In today's world consequences would be paid for such a mistake. At that time, there was remorse and sympathy, and they buried their child. As was told to me, money could never take the place of their lost child, and that was that.

Shirley Ann was the last child born to Merril and Lucile in 1947. My father had lost two children before her, and he was not about to lose this one. I was "daddy's little girl" for many years. He doted and adored, but was firm and extremely over-cautious. The word is strict, and he was so strict with me that it made things for me a bit difficult. I wasn't allowed to wear certain types of clothes, go to many places without a parent, and my friendships were sometimes forbidden if he didn't like their father. I adored him and wanted to be like him, but later in my teenage years that changed. I began to resent his strict ways, feeling repressed and almost like a prisoner. It was the 60s, and my friends were going to all the activities that I long to go to, and I was resentful.

My mother's family were devout, staunch churchgoers. Her father Calvin Connor Campbell was a strict disciplinarian with his children and even his grandchildren. Being of Scottish descent, he considered himself lord of the clan, and they got away with nothing. None were rebellious, fortunately, and most grew to adulthood being pillars of their community, quietly being pious and good. His sons all married well, women from fine families of which he approved. His daughters did not marry so well. My father was a foul-mouthed, hot-headed, dirt poor, albeit very handsome man. My mother's sister, Leora, married a drunk who was also dirt poor. These two men were not approved by my grandfather and were hardly welcomed into his home. Mom's brothers did not have that same attitude, though they were not overly affectionate, so my dad believed they, too, didn't like him. Therefore, my father kept a distance from the Campbells. The one brother my dad liked was Russell, and we visited them frequently, but never any of the others. They seldom visited us as our home was not as nice as theirs, he would say. In photographs of mom's family when there were reunions, they would all gather together with my dad standing two or three feet to the side. His feelings were quite apparent. You always knew where you stood with my dad. His feelings were seldom hidden from view, another trait I have inherited.

Merril Johnson was a man of his time, the early twentieth-century man who expected certain behaviors from men and from women. He set the bar high for his children, and he demonstrated in his life what he expected. He was an entertaining and fun fellow with those he liked. He was a joker and loved to laugh. Both my parents loved to laugh, and in my mind, I can hear both of them talking and laughing loudly. They both had infectious laughs. If you heard it, you began to laugh without knowing why. They were just fun people. But, my dad was haunted by the personal losses and hardships in his life. I believe he died unhappy and unfulfilled. But there's hope that on his deathbed he finally made peace with his Savior and that I will see him again in eternity.