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.

Merril Johnson and His Family....Part 1

My father's name was George Merril Johnson, but he was always called Merril, one (l). It was pronounced Mai-rel, not Mur-rel. He was the oldest of six.  After him was Howard, Vera, Harold, Lawrence, and Randal who died in infancy. All of dad's siblings were, um, not touchy-feely kind of people, but they were very sensitive.  The first three all had red hair, and they had the temperament to go with it. But even the younger sons were the same, touchy, hot-tempered, moody, extremely sarcastic, hot-blooded, strong-minded, opinionated, intolerant bigots. Believe it or not, they were all quite likable, but they all had enemies as well. As a child, I loved them. As an adult, I respected and tolerated them. And, except for the bigoted part, I tended to take after them.

These attractive characteristics were passed down from their mother, Margaret Ann Morris Johnson.
My grandmother was far from being my favorite person. Margaret was a snooty, snobby, (no. they're different), mean, gossipy and sour old woman who loved throwing cold water on anyone having a good time. She had no time for me, and if I wanted to play a game or to just talk, she would instantly shove me off to my grandfather with whom I had a delightful time. He and I belonged to a mutual admiration society, and we had way too much fun when we were together.

William Johnson was a quiet, soft-spoken and gentle man who I always felt a little sorry for. He could never go home and get away from her as I could. He wasn't allowed to smoke in the house. He was forbidden to drink, but I saw him bring bottles of beer home more than once and, with a rye smile, drink it in front of her. I have a picture of him outside the house holding up a bottle with pride I think. Still, he was a sweet man and I loved him dearly. I always thought it was such a rare mistake for God that he took Grandpa first and left her to terrorize us.

After my grandfather died, we went to live with my grandmother until she died. During my teenage years she and I spent lots of time trying to get on one another's bad side, and we both were very successful. I'm ashamed now of how I behaved toward her, but, if I had to do it over again I probably would do much the same. I think I would try to be just a little more respectful, but, wow, that would be very difficult indeed.

Just a note here before I go on. My grandmother was so mean and childish that even my dad would laugh at her behind her back. Often she would stomp through the house, upset about who-knows-
what, and my dad and mom would chuckle. We had a parakeet that was truly a remarkable bird. Peewee picked up comments and phrases, he laughed like my mom, and was just a very entertaining fellow. When my grandmother would stomp through the house, Peewee would laugh. But he didn't care if she heard him. She would stop at his cage and glare at him, then stomp away while Peewee continued to laugh just a little louder.

My mother was never unkind to my grandmother, and mom took loving care of her when she developed breast cancer and until she died.

The William Johnsons were a respected family. They were all hard-working and honest people. I honestly don't know what occupation my grandpa had when he was a younger man, but I knew him to be a janitor at more than one school in Falls City. He was janitor for Grandview grade school until it closed. He was also employed by another grade school and I went with him often on weekends when he worked at the Junior High school. I'm not sure that he was paid, but grandpa also cleaned the First Christian Church building where he and my grandma were members.

My uncle Howard chose to be a preacher in the First Christian Church, but not in Falls City. My uncle  Harold was a salesman for Sunshine Foods in Iowa, and uncle Larry was a police officer in Wichita and Grants Pass, Oregon. My dad was a mechanic, a car salesman, and finally sold car parts for Sidles. When we first moved to Falls City he owned a Texaco service station at 20th and Stone. I loved when he had the station. In the summers I would ride my bike there with the lunch that my mom would make for him. I remember that the sandwiches were wrapped in wax paper because that was before they made sandwich bags. I was allowed to choose a bottle of pop from the pop freezer that I would drink while he ate his lunch. The pop was Big Chief brand flavors, orange and grape et. al. and Dr. Pepper and such. I usually chose orange, but sometimes I would get strawberry or root beer. After he ate his lunch there were usually jobs in the garage to do like fixing tires or lubing a car. I loved when he fixed the tires because he would let me help. I was very little help. If a customer came in for gas I went with him to the pumps, and if I hadn't already been introduced, he would introduce me to all his customers. Dad had lots of customers who were his friends. When he introduced me, I think I must have felt ten feet tall, as he always told them my nickname that he called me. He would say, "This is my daughter, Tootsie." And I would beam.

Riding my bike to the station was about a mile. But, even at the age of 8 it was no big deal. I was allowed to ride anywhere in the town of 5200 because it was the 1950s and it was a small enough town. I ache for today's kids that don't have that freedom.

We got farm fresh milk from either of two dairy farms just outside of Falls City, so two days a week I would grab the two empty gallon glass milk jars and wait either on the front porch or inside the door if it was cold. Dad would pull up about 5:05 pm, five minutes after he got off work, toot his horn, and I would run out to the car. Many nights he would grab a bite of supper and we would take off for the Nemaha River or some creek nearby and sit quietly on the bank fishing for a couple of hours. Sometimes we talked. Other times we would watch the bubbles from the fish on the water and he would point to silently say, "There's one. Maybe he'll get your hook." I didn't mind if he did because daddy never made me clean what I caught. If I'd had to do that, I would have thrown them back, and he knew it.

In the fall I went hunting squirrels, pheasant and quail with him, and in winter we went rabbit hunting. I never got to go deer hunting with him because he usually went with other men. There came the time when I decided I didn't want to go with him. That's when things changed. I changed and he changed. It was never the same after that.

I loved my daddy to the moon and back, and I can't say I ever stopped loving him. But there came a time when I hated my father. At first I didn't know why I hated him, but reality began to invade my innocent and naive love for him. I hated the man I loved, and that's a very hard combination of emotions for a young woman. When I finally knew the reason he was no longer alive, and I will never have that opportunity that one needs to say, "I know now, and I understand. It was wrong of you, but I love you anyway." So, I've told my Lord, confessed my anger and repented, and that's enough. Or, it will have to be enough.

After writing this I looked up the word "scallawag", and I have determined that scallawag may be a very good word to describe the William Johnson clan.

My Mother's Right Foot

It's a shame that parents no longer have a free hand, pun intended, to discipline their children. We've all witnessed bad parenting in the supermarket or in the dress shop. I've heard parents that are clear across a large store yelling at their children and being completely out of line in their own behavior. But normal, every day, run-of-the-mill parents usually know moderation and selecting battles is the true key to being a good parent. Of course, we all have a bad day here and there, but the idea that parents have no rights for spanking is absurd.

It's a very embarrassing situation for a child to be harshly reprimanded publicly. My mom embarrassed me once when I was a teenager, and it was traumatic for me. It really wasn't deserved, but I can now, having been a parent of three teens, understand that sometimes frustration can build and release itself explosively. Nevertheless, a parent should have the freedom to let a kid have it if it is necessary. Trust me when I say, I never repeated that mistake.

Another error in judgment that I never repeated was the day that I ran from my mother. Some may get away with such misguided action, but I am not one of them. If my mom had been a mother in today's society, she would have been jailed often, and perhaps the key to the cell disposed of. My mother was anything but mean, she was extremely kind and sweet-tempered. But she carefully tried to make sure that I obeyed when she spoke. Usually, her method included speaking firmly. When that didn't work, she yelled a lot. I think I inherited that trait from her, and I want to make sure that I give credit for that where it is due.

I could always tell when out at play if I had pushed my limit too far. She would call out the back door for me, "Shirley" to come in for supper. If she had to call the second or third time, it was "Shirley ANN!" Life would be over if I didn't respond to the third call.

The day in question is the day she must have called three times. That part I don't remember. What I do remember is that I must have been about 8 years old; old enough to know better, as they say. I remember turning around as I played with my friends, to see my mother walking briskly, and with purpose, down the sidewalk toward me. This wasn't a good thing.

Now, my mom was a large woman. At 5 feet and 11 inches, she at one time had had a very fine figure. But after bearing four children, and having me at age 41, she no longer was slim and trim. This tall frame carried some weight with her, and I was in deep trouble if she got hold of me when she was angry. Mom was seldom angry. She simply had so much to do each day that she didn't have time for my nonsense, and she would get very frustrated. I looked at the woman marching toward me. Yep. That woman was angry.

I guess I just didn't think. Reason wasn't an option in my mind. It seemed that I had only one hope, and that is unfortunately what I chose. I ran. I ran like a running back on a football team who had the ball and was being chased by five 300 pound linemen. Oh! If I could only go back and relive that moment! All 5'11" and 200 pounds of that woman too easily caught up with that 8-year-old, and my mother did not wait to get me home for my punishment.

She grabbed my arm, turned me around toward home, and ushered me quickly and painfully up the sidewalk. Without a word, mom took one step, and then she swung her right foot and planted it on the back of my right leg, one time on my back thigh, one time on the back of my calf.  And let's not forget my rear end. One step, kick. One step, plant. All. The. Way. Home. which was, thankfully, only one house away. I was sent to my room. I had no supper. Frankly, it's a wonder that I didn't get a spanking from my dad. But my punishment was harsh and memorable.

The neighbors saw what was happening. Did they call for police? Did they file a complaint of child endangerment? Of course not! The moms looking on were no doubt cheering my mom, and thinking, "bet she never does that again."

The next day my leg and my butt were covered from top to bottom with bruises. Today, my mom would surely have been in trouble, I would have been removed from my dear home, and my sweet mother would be behind bars, all because a little brat of an 8-year-old dared to disobey. It's a sick society that takes away the freedom to lovingly parent a child.

And you can bet your bank account that I never, ever, ran from my mother again.

The Last Time I Saw My Mother

It was 1978, a sunny, summer Saturday in Nebraska. We spent a quiet morning talking and getting my mom's belongings packed. She had been with us for two or three weeks, I don't remember exactly, but she seldom visited less than two. The whole family would beg her to stay longer, but she had others to see. She loved to visit us, but we didn't have an extra bed, and so she needed to go back home to her own comfort.

The plan was to pick up my friend, Bobby, and drive mom to Omaha where we would drop her at her brother's house, and Bobby and I would spend the rest of the day shopping. Mom's plans were to visit my uncle for a few days, then take a bus to Oklahoma where she was living with my aunt. I was extremely excited, for I never shopped anywhere but Lincoln, where we lived. This was the high point of my day, yet later I would realize that I completely missed out on, and considered trivial, the only moment that was important, and the only one I remember. That's the moment I wish I could take back and relive.

Bobby and I briefly visited with my uncle and my mom, trying not to let our impatience show. We finally said our "good-byes" and we all strolled out the door. My friend and I walked down the steep steps in his front terrace to my van parked on the street. Mom and my uncle stood up on the porch to wave.

And that's the picture that lingers. I opened the door of the van and turned. I looked up to see my mom in a navy blue dress, leaning against the white rail with her hand holding the post of the porch, and her other hand waving. The smile she wore for me was bright and filled with the love she felt. I waved, threw her a kiss, and climbed into the van. We drove away.

My mom teaching our bird to talk.

That was the last moment I saw my mother alive.

Some people get that opportunity to be with their loved one, knowing it's their last moments, and privileged to share it with them. When you know it's coming you can say those words that need to be said. When you know it's the end of their life, you can make those words "I love you" more special. Can't you? Or is that possible? Shouldn't we make those words special every time we say them?

I hear people throw out the words "I love you" as they hang up their phones, or walk out a door. Sometimes you barely hear them if you don't listen closely. I wonder if that passing sentiment would seem good enough should something happen to that person before they see them again. Just a thought.

A popular commitment between those close to one another is to vow to never say good-bye without a kiss and those three words. But let me tell you, when I left my mother I kissed her, lovingly, and I told her that I loved her, more than once. Still, it wasn't enough. I wish I could have her back for just a few moments so I could kiss her and tell her again, over and over. And still..........

Put love in every moment. Don't skimp on it. Shower your special person with it. Touch them lovingly. Hold them close. Make memories of moments of love. Then do it again. 

Because, I can guarantee you, when you look back at it all, it will never be enough.

Tribute to a Childhood Friend

Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.

When you read that name you instantly know two things about her; she was Irish, and she was Catholic. I knew her when she was a young girl. She was my neighbor, and we spent hours and hours together growing up. Looking in, my perception was that she led a charmed life. So many things about her life were different than any of my other friends since I had no other friends that were so.....Catholic. I knew other kids that went to the Catholic church, but they seemed to be less into their religion than Mary was. It appeared to this outsider that in the Casey family everything was about their religion. And I was extremely envious of it.

I attended church on Sunday. I went to Vacation Bible School in the summers, and I went to all the special revival meetings and soup suppers. But there was nothing special about these things. The big stained glass window in the sanctuary of the First Christian Church was beautiful with Jesus carrying a lamb across His shoulders, but it wasn't the same as where Mary went to church. And, she went to school at the same place! 

Mary and I rode our bikes those three blocks on many summer afternoons to the Catholic church. The building was elaborate and awesome. Memory of the outside produces a tall, dark steeple. It could have been brass, it could have been wood. But it is the main site in my mind along with the front doors in an archway. Mary and I at age ten would go in to pray after we lit candles. She knelt before she went into a row of pews. Interesting. As I sat quietly while Mary prayed I took in my surroundings. The sanctuary was dark with eyes staring at me from every angle. Amidst the carvings along the walls were statues of Jesus, Mary, and many others. In the front were all the votive candles, some lit, and more elaborate statues and tables. Before we left the building she stopped to pray to a huge statue of Virgin Mary, dipped her fingers in the holy water, and made the sign of the cross, which she did many times in all this process. I was in love with the Catholic church.

Then we went next door into the school to talk to all the nuns who were hanging out. It was summer. What on earth would they be doing in the school? I didn't ask, and I always enjoyed our visit. My teachers all stayed home in summer, and the school doors were locked. 

I'll never forget the day Mary told me about her new name. She was being "confirmed", I think. I didn't have such a ritual in my church, and this was so exciting. At confirmation she selected a new middle name, Catherine. So now she would be Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey. Romantic. And very Irish. I wanted a new middle name, but there was no point and no ritual. If I wanted to take communion on Sundays at my church, all I had to do was go to the front pew at the end of the preaching, and the next Sunday I would be baptized. Big deal. No new name.

Mary and I climbed trees, painted pictures in her basement on rainy days, played Annie Annie Over, roller skated around and around the block, played Parchisi and Monopoly, dressed our dolls, and played school on her front porch. We climbed the maple tree in her front yard and sat in it for hours reading library books. We raked the leaves and made whistles from the whirly-bird seeds that fell from the maple. We played our made-up game of King Tut, and we played Simon Says on the front walk of the church on our block. After a good rain, we scrambled in the mud in the yard between us to catch night crawlers for my dad's fishing hooks. We ran up and down our alley to scare all the wild neighborhood cats from the garbage cans and burners.  We ate homemade popsicles and braided the hair of the little girls next door. Hours and hours of imagination and fun is my sweet recollection of Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.

I received a text last night from a mutual friend from our neighborhood. Mary had died. For years I had wanted to contact her, and finally, just last summer I had come across her brother and was able to write a letter and touch base with my old childhood friend. I got a letter and then a Christmas card from her, and now she's gone. So many words not shared, but I did tell her how special she still was to me. In her letter to me she said so little, no stories of her family, only a few words. She wasn't well. But she didn't really say why. Mary wasn't always so quiet, but I do remember how closely she held to her family, and perhaps she didn't feel as open to share with me as I did with her. I entrust my life stories to perfect strangers, so I must remember not everyone is like that.

My childhood friends and I are getting old. I am having to face death more often than I would like, and, if I stick around long enough, I will face it more and more. I hadn't seen Mary in over fifty years, but that doesn't change the feelings of a melancholy, sentimental, and terminally loyal friend. I ache in my heart for days if I've offended you. I will mourn a friendship for years after moving on to a new one. Maybe it's because I have no siblings to share life with, and my children, and what little family I have, all live hundreds of miles away. Whatever the cause, I cry many, many tears over the friends I have left behind. It's who I am, and I can't stop it.

Today I am remembering that old Brownie camera snapshot that I have misplaced of a short Irish Catholic girl with maple leaves piled on her head. I hope to find it some day and attach it to this story. I remember how fast she could run, and how seriously she memorized her catechism. My memories are haunted by the many years I tried to locate her, but couldn't. And today my memories are haunted by the knowledge that I won't write any more letters or get another Christmas card from my long lost Irish Catholic friend, Mary Elizabeth Catherine Casey.

Daddy's Fishing Trick

One summer evening when I was about fourteen, my Dad and I went fishing on a river close to our home town. It was a very popular fishing spot, and surprisingly there was no one else there that night. 

It had just begun to get dark. All was quiet, and Dad and I were enjoying the sounds of the summer night. I noticed that Dad had begun to look over at me quite a bit, but he said nothing. Trying to stay quiet, I didn't ask why. We sat a while longer, and He kept looking at me, and he began to grin. I knew my Dad well enough to know he was up to something, but I had no idea what. 

All of a sudden there was a loud, screeching sound right behind me, so loud that it hurt my ears and frightened me beyond belief. The next thing I knew I was up to my knees in the edge of the river, soaking wet from the splash, my hair dripping. My Dad could hardly stand up to help me out of the water because he was laughing so hard. He had watched a tiny screech owl walk up behind me, not realizing that this very still statue sitting on the ground was a real person. It must have finally realized I was there, made an alarmed and frightful scream, and ran for the brush. 

After I was out of the water, and the truth was known that I was not going to be eaten by some huge animal, I had a good laugh about it, but it took a long time for me to stop shaking and calm down. It took a long time, months...years, for my Dad to stop laughing about it. It didn't seem to bother him that this was one of those few times we went home empty handed.

Back When I Was A Good Little Girl

I was a very compliant and respectful child. Still, I received enough spankings to cause me to admit that I had my moments of rebellion. My teachers all were glad to have me as a student. I was smart, cooperative, didn't talk much in class, and never disregarded instructions. I was pretty much a model student until I got into high school. But that's another story for another time.

At home I was obedient most of the time, but I guess you could say that I was lazy, and I had no other desire than to play. That's not unusual for a child, but it was enough to get me into a bit of hot water from time to time.

Speaking of hot water, one of the most hated duties that I had was washing the dishes. My mother would get everything ready for me which meant that she filled the dishpan with the hottest water that came from the faucet. And the rinse water she prepared was just as hot. All I wanted to do when I had finished a meal was to run outdoors to find my friends, or sneak off to my room to play with my dolls. But, the dishes had to be done, and it was my job to do them. To my mother's dismay, I immediately had to go to the bathroom. Every time. And if she insisted that I start the job anyway, and my dad wasn't around, I would whine and cry and yell and insist that I couldn't wait. So, off I would run to sit in the bathroom for a long, long, long time. I needed to wait long enough for the dish water to become cool enough for me to put my hands in it. 

Soon my mom would begin to come to the door to remind me that the water was getting cold. Yes, I was counting on that, but I didn't say so. Her calls became more and more frustrated, "Shirley Ann! Your water's getting cold!" It wasn't a good sign when she used my middle name.

Finally I would emerge, positive that the water would now be tolerable. But when would I ever learn? Mom had either just changed the water, or as soon as she saw me enter the kitchen she would hustle over, dump the nice cool water, and run more hot water. Again I would begin to whine and cry, and that's when I had gone too far. Out came the yardstick, and my poor legs ended up red and sore. She never aimed at my bottom. And I never learned my lesson.

Finishing my meals is what caused me the most trouble. I was a very picky eater. I didn't, and still don't like vegetables. There were some meats I didn't like, liver, sometimes she cooked things like beef tongue, we had a lot of ham, which I still don't care for, and we had a lot of fresh fish. The rule was if it's on the table you have to eat some of it. I knew that rule. But, I just couldn't get that asparagus or carrots into my mouth. I tried, but I would gag every time. The worst part was that the longer I waited to eat it, the colder it got, and eating cold asparagus or cold cooked carrots is the worst thing in the world. So, I sat and sat and sat. And my mother would say over and over, "Shirley, clean up your plate." I couldn't. I tried hiding the vegetables under my plate. I tried throwing up on my plate. Nothing worked. Even Peewee the parakeet would nag at me, "Shirley, clean up your plate."

Eventually here she would come with the yardstick. It was a very thick yardstick with half inch size holes lining the center of its length. Those holes whistled when the stick was swung quickly. I was sitting on a wooden, hard backed chair, and every time my mother would swing that yardstick the holes would make a shrill whistle, and I would shift to the other side of the chair. Strike one. Immediately she swing the yardstick on the other side of the chair. The whistles would blow, and I would quickly shift my bottom over. Strike two. Mom broke many yardsticks this way by hitting the chair rather than me, and I would end up not getting the spanking. Strike three was when there was no more yardstick to wield, and she would send me to my room for the whole day. I never cared. Even if I couldn't play with my dolls, I didn't get a spanking, the yardstick was broken, and I ended up not having to finish that totally gross, cold asparagus.

The yardsticks weren't all the thick ones with holes. Many were thinner which meant they stung more. But all were usually free at the hardware store or even other stores had them. This makes me wonder why she only kept one yardstick on hand. She was a seamstress, so she used them for better purposes than to torture me, and always used them. If she had more than one, the second one never came out when I needed special attention. I wonder, well, do you suppose that she loved me enough to punish me, but not enough to hurt me? 

There were times, just a very few, when I did something bad enough that mom would spank me then tell dad when he got home, and then I would get another spanking. Dad took his sweet time in the process, giving me plenty of time to sweat. Mom spanked me out of frustration, but Daddy planned and gave it a lot of thought. He would then invite me into the bathroom, talk to me about what I had done, and tell me how disappointed he was. Then, with his huge, strong hand he would spank my bare bottom as I leaned over his knee. Those were the worst spankings I ever got. I was again sent to my room for the night, no supper, no dolls, into bed. I usually cried myself to sleep over those spankings. They hurt the worst mostly because of my broken heart over Dad's words to me.

I did a very unwise thing once. I tried not crying when he spanked me. No, I never tried that again. That was the time I cried because my butt hurt.

I guess I should say that I really was not as well-behaved as I would like to make you think, and I deserved every spanking that I ever got, and then some. I did tell you that my mom spanked me out of frustration. Once, when I must have been out of my mind, and I knew I was going to get a spanking for not coming home from the neighbors when she called me, I ran from her. I'm glad that happened in the 1950's, because today she would be charged with child cruelty for taking one step and swinging her foot and literally kicking my butt all the way home.

As a 70 year old woman, I can positively tell you that I never have resented those spankings. Some left red marks, but none hurt me. I learned that my parents loved me enough to care about my behavior and safety. I learned that bad choices gave bad results, one way or another. I learned to respect authority, and especially to respect the wishes and love of my parents. I learned that everything is not going to be always "my way", and that selfishness and self-centeredness were not appreciated in this world. And, I learned to hate yardsticks.