Christmases Past

Another story published in Senior Living

CHRISTMASES PAST


As we approach this holiday season, I find myself with mixed emotions about the quickly encroaching festivities. Having lost my mother this past March 9th, I don’t quite know what to expect. In the spirit of Dickens, I’m thinking of past, present and future. Christmas present is certain to be difficult. Christmases future hold promise and I can look forward to happy times of worship and celebration – hopefully with grandchildren one day. Christmases past might bring sorrow for my present sense of loss, but they also hold the memories and joy Mother brought to all of us. I’m going to do the best I can this year, not in the least for my husband, children and father who deserve to have me living in the present and not constantly grieving for the past. However, I know it will be Christmases past that will give me the strength to hold on. I see no harm in borrowing happy memories to help us work through situations that are less than desirable.

One of my earliest Christmas memories is when we lived in a very small two bedroom house we rented in East Lake. In addition to the two bedrooms, there was one bath, a living room, dining room and kitchen. As well as I remember, the back porch had been closed in and the washing machine was in there as well as my brother’s huge toy box. The water heater was exposed and sat in the corner of the kitchen. The only heat we had was a large gas space heater in the dining room. After my second brother was born, the dining room became a bedroom. Sometimes it was my bedroom and sometimes it was Mother and Daddy’s. It depended on what kind of mood Mother was in. Daddy would come home from work and find the house rearranged. He always said he never knew in which room he would be sleeping.

This particular Christmas Eve, Mother and Daddy’s best friends were spending the evening with us. I can remember the smell the tree gave off with the big lights warming the branches and see all of our ornaments sparkling through the clumps of tinsel we had thrown onto the tree instead of placing individual strands as Mother had requested. All my brother and I could think was “when will they ever go home so Santa can come?” Normally we enjoyed their visits very much. Our families were very close and they had a daughter and son close to our ages. This night, we just wanted them to leave so Christmas could get there.

At long last, or so it seemed, our friends went home and my parents put us to bed in their bedroom. That was probably the best way to corral us so Santa could work his magic. I don’t know if we slept any that night, but I do know we woke up very early. We kept making little noises trying to wake Mother and Daddy up. We coughed, giggled, etc. to no avail. Finally, they told us to be quiet until it was time to get up. That meant when they were ready with the camera and my grandparents and aunts had time to walk a half block from their house to ours. I can remember all these little details, but couldn’t tell you one present we received. I can see the magic everywhere, smell and taste the wonderful food, and feel the love all around me. I could pull out pictures and find an exact record of what Santa brought, but that wasn’t the important thing. Well, at that time we thought it was, but looking back it wasn’t the point at all.

When we got through with Santa, we opened presents from each other and then we had breakfast. Mother made the best biscuits in the world and we had eggs, bacon, grits with cheese, etc. After breakfast we played for a while then got dressed to move the party up to my grandparent’s house. We had a huge lunch, of course, and lots of desserts. I don’t know how the “women folk” managed it. There were so many different cakes and pies. Everyone had a different favorite and Mother and Grandmother made them all. Granddaddy had to have a Lemon Cheese Cake, Mother loved Macaroon Pie, Daddy’s favorite was fudge made from the recipe on the Marshmallow Cream label. It was so wonderful. All that love, presents and food wrapped into one happy day.

Later in the afternoon, they tore us away from our presents to go to the home of my other grandparents. My dad’s sister had four or five children by then and it was a house full. We had more presents and then another feast. I always feel sorry for the grandparents who get the second shift meal because everyone is still too full to really enjoy it.

By the time we got back home, it was time for bed. I remember objecting, but not too strongly. Mother would tell us tomorrow was another day and we would have all the time in the world to play with our toys and games: if only that were true. Time flew by so quickly. One Christmas faded into the next, moving measurably faster each year. We moved from that rental house to one we bought next door to my grandparents. Then, when I59 came through East Lake, we built our present home. It would take me a book to share all the wonderful memories with you. This is where I remember most of my youngest brother’s Christmases as well as Mother and Daddy’s first two grandchildren. It seems Christmas has always held magic for me since my youngest brother was nine years my junior and Santa always included the grown children when he stopped. There were also lots of cousins from Georgia here for the holidays. We moved from this generation to grandchildren almost seamlessly.

In 1993 when my husband and I married, I became a mom for the first time. I have two precious step-daughters that have filled a very vacant place in my heart. The oldest is married now and will one day fill our house with the excited sounds of children at Christmas. It has been much too long since this house has held that kind of joy. I’m trying to move from daughter to matriarch and plan the festivities for the first time. It’s been a long time since Mother was able to plan, decorate and cook, but she was always in charge anyway. We had to have our holidays at the nursing home. Now it is up to me to make it happen and hold it together. This will be a bitter sweet Christmas. There is no way around that. My prayer is that these wonderful memories will help me to prepare for my children and friends and keep the traditions alive. Mother always led by example and in this way, she still does. She was the best and I know she will live in our celebrations as long as I do.

Tattycat

November 3, 2004

Brand new Baby Isaac with Grandma
and.... with Granddaddy! 

I'm a Grandmother!

Finally trying to get caught up on my bragging! Here is a story published in Senior Living Newspaper in Birmingham, Alabama.




I’M A GRANDMOTHER



On February the 26th of 2006 I experienced the miracle of childbirth for the first time - at my age. Hard to believe I made it this far without witnessing such a marvelous gift from God. Looking back over my life, I realize that I have been blessed with many babies and children through the generosity of my mother, aunts, brothers and cousins. They have all been very kind to share their little miracles with me. I also had lots of friends with babies and I did a lot of babysitting in my younger years. I used to pour the sorrows of a barren woman out to my mother. She was sympathetic to my pain and also her pain of missing grandchildren, but would not indulge my misery. When I expressed concerns about growing old with no daughters to care for me, she wisely pointed out that giving birth did not guarantee a caring presence in old age. She was right, of course.

I have so many beautiful memories of numerous babies and children starting at an early age. I was always the designated little mother. I absolutely took over my baby brother from my mother. I look back now and see that I probably did both of them an injustice, but he was so adorable and my mother instinct, even at the age of nine, was tremendously strong. He assures me he “suffered not”, but I wonder. I guess my aunts were lucky they lived in Georgia and I only got to “mother” their children during visits.

Then my nephew and niece were born. Oh, how I loved them. I got to drive my nephew and his mother home from the hospital and give him his first bath after coming home. He absolutely light up my days and it is a good thing, as the nights got very long. He was quite ill at three weeks old and had to have surgery. We took turns sleeping propped up on pillows on the couch with him on our chest so he could breathe and we could monitor him. Come to think of it, he’s still a lot of trouble…

When my niece was born, they told us no way would she have the same problem as her older brother. It was written that only first born males had this condition. Of course, they were wrong. If there is even a 1% chance for something to go wrong, in my family, it will. We went through the same thing with her, except at six weeks of age.

Early in my marriage I did not work out of the home. I kept several children during the day, including a number of infants over the years. One day my brother was working close to our apartment and came by to have lunch with me. I think I was keeping six children of assorted ages at that time. He sat at the table for a few minutes just shaking his head. When I asked what was wrong he said, “I can’t see anything but peanut butter and jelly, Kool-Aid and elbows. How do you stand it?”


I finally grew resigned to having no children of my own and moved past it. There were, and still are occasionally, periods of regret and sorrow. However, for the most part, it was okay. Years later, after a failed marriage and a period of being single, I met the most wonderful man with two beautiful little girls. Almost instantly we became a family. Informally at first, and then after 1 ½ years of dating and engagement, the four of us got married. Yes, the four of us. They were very much included. I even bought a little cross necklace for each of them that I gave them at the end of the ceremony. Having been childless for so many years, my prayers had been answered. I won’t pretend it was always roses. I had been told it would take six years for things to be right with a blended family. I would have none of that. I was determined there would be no problems, and for the most part, there weren’t. Bill always assured me that the few small things I went through with them were normal mother/daughter things and had nothing to do with being a step-mom. Looking back, I can see that he was right.

This brings us back to the first of the story. Back in July of 2005, right after the loss of my dad, I went out on the carport one morning and there was a black shoulder bag sitting on the floor. Not having sense enough to suspect something sinister, I picked it up and brought it inside. When I unzipped the top compartment, what should appear but an assortment of diapers, baby bottles, pacifiers, etc. and a special card to “grandparents.” I’m sure Bill thought there was a snake or spider inside after I squealed and started crying. I was too surprised and overjoyed to convey the contents. He just had to look for himself. Our daughter and son-in-law had traveled to the home of each grandparent, great-grandparent, brother, sister, and close friend the night before so we would be surprised the next morning. She had always said that if and when they were expecting, she would have a very special way of letting us know. I didn’t think she could pull anything over on me, but I was wrong.

We went through the usual ultrasounds, bored all of our friends with pictures of “the baby”, etc. We soon found out it was a boy and he was to arrive March 24, 2006. We knew we were to have a baby, and we were happy, but it just didn’t seem real. All through the pregnancy, we would talk about how unreal it seemed. We just couldn’t grasp the concept of how much our lives would change.


Our daughter told me she wanted me to be with her when the baby was born. I was overjoyed. Still, I wasn’t fully prepared for the extent of my involvement, especially when he came almost a month early. She called us on a Saturday night at about 8:00 pm and told us not to be alarmed but she was in the hospital for observation. The next morning, we were instructed to “get to the hospital.” Our little boy was very impatient to see everyone and wasted no time. When the nurse asked how many of us were going to stay in the birthing suite, mom said, “all of them.” Her mother, sister, dad and I were to be in there with her and her husband. The nurse was a little shocked and said the doctor would have to okay that. They usually only allowed one in addition to the father. I will forever be indebted to our daughter, her husband and the wonderful doctor who delivered our grandson. The doctor, who I later learned had never seen our daughter, was wonderful. He told us if we promised to be good, stay put and be quiet, we could stay. We huddled in a corner as they prepared for the delivery and I’m not sure I took a single breath until it was over. I have never been so overwhelmed with emotion and wonder in my life. I rode to the hospital with our youngest daughter and her mother and she made me promise she wouldn’t be the only one crying. That was one promise I made unnecessarily. I couldn’t have kept from crying had I tried. When that tiny little bundle was delivered, I further held my breath until he moved and cried and then I was completely washed with love and awe. It was like the universe had opened up and given us a little glimpse into Heaven. My eyes seemed open for the first time.

I had thought I would live out my life pondering the mysteries of childbirth. Thanks to my daughter, I have experienced the greatest miracle on earth. I am sure there is no way I will ever fully understand what it is to be a real mother or grandmother, but I’ve come as close as I’ll ever get. Isaac Paul Deason, all 5 lbs. and 12 oz. of him, has completely stolen my heart. It is hard to let a day pass without seeing him. I had always said parents turned into complete fools when they became grandparents. Now, I understand why. For all of you who went before me, please accept my sincere apology and chalk it up to the ignorance of one who had never been there. Now I am one of you in the worst way. Incidentally, would you like to see some pictures? I just happen to have a few in my purse.

Tattycat
March 10, 2006

My first grandchild, Isaac at 5 months!
Isaac at 6 months!
Isaac at 6 months! Grandma loves her baby! 

New Phone - Treo 600!

My brother and sister-in-law gave me a Treo 600 for Christmas! This is the single most unselfish thing anyone has ever done for me. My sister-in-law asked what my brother wanted for Christmas and he said, "All I want for Christmas is to buy my sister one of these phones." I was totally surprised and am so happy. Of course, I had to call him immediately when it was delivered, (they live in Florida), and I cried a lot.

One of the most special things about this gift was the card that he hand drew and colored for me. He used his beautiful handwriting to tell me how the gift came about and how much he loves me. I have framed it in a beautiful mirroed frame my daughter gave me for Christmas.

My brother and his wife are both very special people and I love them very much. I just wanted everyone who reads this to know how extraordinary they are!

"Home And Hearth"

HOME AND HEARTH


When we built our family home, my dad insisted on a “real” fireplace - none of that prefab stuff for him. It had to be all brick and very big. We cut cost on other things so we could have this fireplace. It has an 24” hearth, a railroad tie for the mantle and will burn a log almost 4’ long.

We couldn’t wait for it to be finished so we could build a fire. We three children had never had a fireplace and the excitement was high to say the least. At last the day arrived and Daddy got ready to show us how to build a fire. A little paper first, a few pieces of small kindling on top of that and, finally, some thin logs when it got started. We had to start small until we were sure the chimney was going to “draw” the smoke out. He explained which woods made the best sounds and smells and to never, ever burn pine logs because the creosote would coat the inside of the chimney and could cause an explosion. We could only use pine as kindling. He was part owner of a cabinet shop and we always had scrap wood for this purpose.

The fireplace worked and we were thrilled. It’s amazing how much joy can come from the simplest of things and even more amazing how hot it is with a fire burning in a new house in August. Yes, August, We just couldn’t wait any longer. Daddy would never admit it, but he was just as anxious as we were.

That fireplace has been the center of so many wonderful memories for all of us. I had never had a spend the night party before. That winter, I was allowed to have six friends over and we put blankets and quilts on the floor in front of this fireplace and slept there. I say slept, but you all know how much sleeping goes on at a spend the night party. We had so much fun and I was so pleased that I finally had a nice, new home to share with my friends. The den was very small and the kitchen cabinets still didn’t have doors, but I don’t remember that making any difference. Daddy even let us roast marshmallows in the fire which was high up on the list of things we couldn‘t normally do. It was right up there with not walking barefoot on the new hardwood floors which would discolor them.

When we had company, my brothers and I would argue about who would sleep on the couch in the den by the fire. Daddy taught us how to “bank” the fire so it would be easy to start back up in the morning. If we had a big, backlog burning well, it would last until the next day without any trouble.

Lots of times for Thanksgiving and Christmas, we would move the dining room table into the den so we could enjoy the fire with our extended family. This was after we had enlarged the den to include the back deck. Now we have no deck, but a wonderful, large den.

Daddy loved his fireplace, and still does. He sat there in his grandfather’s rocking chair and watched the fire and listened to it crackle. He has rocked all of this grandchildren in front of this fire and I hope to rock mine there someday. He and Mother are in a nursing home now, and they both really miss home and hearth.

What made me think of all of this was when I was in the basement the other day and noticed the little door at the base of the concrete block fireplace support. I hadn’t thought of it in years. Daddy had them build a trap door in the floor of the fireplace. After the ashes had cooled, we just opened the door with the poker and shoveled the ashes down the shoot.. It occurred to me that we have never cleaned it out. We’ve been burning wood for 34 ½ years and it still isn’t full. This amazes me. All the years of sweet memories, happy times, warmth during a power loss, Christmas weddings, rocking babies and slumber parties contained behind that little metal door. All the trips to the woodpile, that’s after cutting and chopping the wood, mind you. Bringing in the kindling, and tending the fire during a storm so it won’t go out - and still it’s not full.

I guess this is just one more thing my dad did right. We had all those wonderful fires and not once did we have to carry out ashes. They are still here in the house, right along with all the beautiful memories they helped to build.

Laura Blanton
March 7, 2003

"Become As A Child"

BECOME AS A CHILD

Recently, on a late summer afternoon while I was resting on the back deck, I had the misfortune to drive a huge splinter into my heel – sideways. I have a very high tolerance for pain, but this thing was like the middle half of a round toothpick, only a little bigger and with jagged edges. It was one of those “hold your breath until you almost pass out” moments. I was home alone as my husband was working late and there was no one to help. Luckily, I had the phone outside and called the most obvious person – my dad. We never get too old to need our dads and moms. I’m so blessed and happy to still have mine. I knew he couldn’t really help, especially from the nursing home, but I had to call him. First I had to assure him that I was in no real danger, then it went something like, “Daddy I have a huge splinter in my heel and I need you to get it out.” To which he replied, “let me get my pocket knife and I’ll be right there.” Of course this was exactly the response I would have written into a script. It’s what he has always said. It is his theory you can accomplish almost anything with a good, sharp pocket knife.

I went from a middle aged woman to a little girl in the space of a few seconds. All I could think was that my daddy could handle this if he were here. I didn’t always feel this way. When I was really a little girl, the “let me get my pocket knife” line wrought fear and dread in my heart. Oh, such screaming and crying. He had to threaten me with a spanking to get me to be still and let him remove a splinter. After it was out, he became an instant hero – until the next time.

This all came to mind last night after our inaugural meeting of the Family Council at the nursing home. We were trying to establish some goals and taking suggestions for speakers, programs and activities. One of the things I discussed with a few of the family members was that we give the residents an opportunity to share their vast knowledge and experience with those of us still in need of so much guidance. I too often get lost in the roll of caregiver and forget that these are still vital human beings with a longing for purpose and accomplishment. Some of them are in no mind to participate in this activity, but many have sharp minds and are only physically debilitated. I learned this several years ago before my mother’s oldest sister died. I had been caring for her a number of years, all my life if the truth be told. When I could no longer accomplish this at home, along with Mother and Daddy and a full time job, we moved her to Lake Villa in East Lake. She had a beautiful room, if small, and received good care. It is a wonderful facility. I had neglected to visit her for longer than usual and was feeling very guilty in spite of the fact that I was about to lose my mind trying to cover all the bases of wife, parent, child, niece, aunt and employee. I finally could put it off no longer and had to face the guilt. I went into the room and she was so happy to see me. I started trying to explain why I had not been by. Suddenly, I just lost control and became the child she had loved and cared for so much. I fell on the floor, laid my head in her lap and cried like a baby. Her mind wasn’t very good, but she knew in her heart what to do. She sat quietly patting my head and started to sing to me like she did when I was little. It was such a comforting, cleansing experience – at that time. Right now it is breaking my heart just to tell it. I really miss her a lot. It just hadn’t occurred to me before that day to let her be the adult and me the child in need of guidance. I’ve tried to remember this and rein in my “bossy self” when needed.

Mother and Daddy are very dependent on me, but they are still my parents and need to be treated appropriately. Sometimes I just have to tell them my problems and let them handle it for a while. It helps them to understand what I’m going through and makes them feel needed and helpful for a change. We all reach a time in our lives, if our parents are blessed with long lives, where we change places with them and have to become the mother or dad. That fact can not, and will not be changed. But we don’t have to be locked into that roll 24 hours a day, seven days a week. It’s okay to slip back for a while and let them do what they did so well when we were growing up. I’m going to suggest that this be one of the family council’s first orders of business – forming an advisory group of residents. I’m sure many of them have a lot to offer in their particular areas of expertise. All they need is to be asked and given the opportunity. Even if the advice doesn’t turn out to be right or put into action, they will have been given a chance to feel needed and useful.

I really did need my daddy that afternoon. I ended up trying to remove the splinter myself and broke off the end. When my husband finally got home, we sterilized various implements and managed to remove most of the splinter. It wasn’t nearly as quick, painless or thorough as Daddy’s pocket knife.

Laura Blanton
August 29, 2003

"Freight Trains and Pot-Bellied Stoves"

One of my stories published in the "Birmingham Post Herald"


FREIGHT TRAINS AND POT-BELLIED STOVES


Granddaddy worked for Seaboard Coastline Railroad for 45 years. He had several different jobs during this time including Breakman, traveling work crew during WWII, freight conductor and passenger conductor. I came along during the freight conductor era. Lucky me – no really, it was terrific. He had the Birmingham to Atlanta run which was perfect since we had a lot of family there. Great excuse for a train trip. In the summer I would ride with him to Atlanta and one of my aunts or uncles would pick us up. Sometimes he had a little while to visit before he had to turn back around. I would stay for a week of two and play with my cousins and either ride back on the train or Mother and Daddy would load my brothers in the car and come over for the weekend and pick me up.

One of the best parts of riding the train was the trip to and through the Terminal Station. It was so grand and beautiful. I, like so many other Birmingham natives, miss this architectural marvel so much. In case you weren’t here at the time or don’t remember, it had a high, domed ceiling and lots of gold gilt everywhere. There were long wooden benches for people to wait and, as well as I can remember, some little places where you could purchase newspapers, magazines, cokes and snacks. I wasn’t allowed to wander around very much.

Riding on the freight train was the absolute greatest – one of the highest points of my youth. I have a sneaking suspicion that I wasn’t really supposed to be on the freight train, but that’s where I rode anyway. I’m sure everybody on the train knew I was there. They just overlooked it if you kept a low profile. Besides, everyone liked my Granddaddy. They called him “Doc.” I don’t know why – I never asked. Probably wouldn’t have gotten an answer anyway. He never had very much to say.

Granddaddy had Caboose # 5678. That was my domain for the ride. I loved the pot-bellied stove that heated the car and kept the eternally brewing coffee hot. You never threw coffee out. There was no such thing as bad coffee, no matter how thick it got.

My favorite place was up the ladder into the observation area of the car. It was great – like being queen of the hill. I wish I had realized at the time just how fortunate I really was. Not many children had this opportunity. My brother Steve got to make the trip only a couple of times. He wasn’t nearly as calm and quiet as I was. I can’t imagine him ever keeping a low profile.

I still love a train ride: the rocking motion, click-clack noise of the tracks and the scenery speeding past. I’ve never minded the side tracking for other trains to pass. Admittedly, a freight train in August can be less than pleasant when standing still. I still liked it better than the passenger train that he started working during the last few years of his career. I had no choice but to ride with the people who were mere passengers. Granddaddy would get me settled in and come check on me off and on. I still have his uniform and hat. He was so handsome in it as he walked up and down the isles. I was a very proud and happy granddaughter.

Sometimes Granddaddy would get “rolled” for his run by one of the men with more seniority. I don’t know who was the maddest when this happened – Granddaddy, my Grandmother or me. He was upset because of lost work, Mama was mad because they were mistreating her beloved husband, and I, of course, was mad for all of those reasons plus the depth of disappointment over a missed trip. When you are a child, waiting until tomorrow or the next day just isn’t seen as an option.


Laura Blanton
November 16, 2002

"I Remember"

One of my other passions is writing. All of my stories and poems are about the things I have experienced since I was a child. Some are devotions, one of which was published in "The Upper Room", a United Methodist Church publication. Most of the others are "rememberings" from a precious childhood in a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama from 1951 forward. A few are accounts of my nursing home experiences. I cared for two grandparents, one aunt, my mother and still have my dad in a nursing home. Many of these have been published in various media including the "Birmingham Post Herald" and "Senior Living", a monthly publication in which I have a column titled "I Remember."

I would like to share some of them with anyone who cares to read them. They might bring back precious memories for you!

Here's one with more to follow. Hope you enjoy it!

THE BREAKFAST ROOM

The house where I grew up next door to my grandparents and aunts had a breakfast room. Some of you will remember these, some of you won’t. I know the term is self-explanatory, but the particulars of the old ones are worth exploring. Today’s kitchens have “breakfast nooks”, often in a bay-window. That’s not a breakfast room. They were usually tucked in between the kitchen and the dining room, in varying sizes. My grandmother’s was larger, with room for a table and six chairs. She also had corner cabinets hung on the wall to hold some of her salt and pepper shaker collection. Ours was more compact. There was a table with built in benches on either side and a window fan on the end wall by the table. This fan was used to push hot air out of the window as we had no air-conditioning. On the other side were built in cabinets. The overhead ones had glass doors so that you could display pretty things. I think there was hope that they would get less dusty that way, but you know that didn’t happen.

I loved this room. We hardly ever ate in the dining room. In fact, I remember it being turned into a den with the dining room furniture moved into one end of the living room. We ate in the breakfast room – all of us – together – at the same time. I know it sounds barbaric by today’s standards, but that’s the way it was. We tried at times to talk our way into the den in front of the television, but it never worked. There wasn’t that much to watch on t.v. anyway. I can still close my eyes and remember so many of those meals. My mother was a terrific cook. We all had our favorites. Mine was anything with potatoes, didn’t much matter what else, just lots and lots of potatoes. My brother next to me loved Mother’s casserole made from sausage, cheese, and potatoes. She started out baking the potatoes, scooping out the middle, putting a browned sausage link inside, covering with the rest of the potato and topping with cheese before putting them back in the oven. As the family grew, and the appetites, she just started stewing the potatoes and putting it all in a casserole dish. My baby brother’s favorite was spaghetti. Mother’s spaghetti was different – very mild and all mixed together. I think Daddy preferred roast beef cooked with potatoes, onions, and carrots. I remember having my very first pizza in this room, having donuts and coffee, (milk for us), when my aunts and uncles visited from Georgia, and playing games as a family.

During most of these years, times were hard and Mother really had to work at keeping us fed. I know she pretended not to be hungry sometimes so there would be enough. One of the things she cooked the best was diced potatoes fried with onions. My oldest brother and I would race through our first helping to see who could get the little bit that was left on the platter. Yes, we used platters and serving bowls - none of this helping yourself from the stove. We always set the table properly with fork on the left and knife and spoon on the right. We had to use proper manners as well. We couldn’t even prop up one side of the plate with a knife or spoon to keep the turnip green juice from running into everything else. Daddy hated this. He said if we didn’t behave properly at home, we wouldn’t remember to do it when we were out. I’m sure now that he was very wise in teaching us this, but it sure seemed unreasonable at the time. Looking at people in restaurants today, I seriously doubt they were raised like we were.

We no longer have a breakfast room. There is a breakfast bar between the kitchen and the den, but we don’t usually eat there. Yes, I’m afraid the television has finally won out – except for early on Saturday mornings. I have an old English pub table by the window in the den with an antique lamp on it and a chair from my grandmother’s kitchen to sit in. I like to fix my breakfast or a cup of tea and sit there for a little while before my day starts. No television, no newspaper, just quiet except, for the echoes of past meals in my Mother’s breakfast room.

Laura Blanton
July 10, 2003

"I Remember

Woodcarving

My father, Robert J. Slaughter, shared his marvelous talent with me and helped me get started carving. My first carving was done after the accidental death of my brother, Stephen D. Slaughter, in August of 1987. I just picked up a piece of wood and started carving what I was feeling. This became the catalyst which enabled me to reach a state of acceptance and peace with his death. I named it "Beside the Still Waters." I will post a picture of it when I can.

Meanwhile, I continued to carve and improve my art. I especially love to carve the Madonna and Child and will attach some pictures of a few pieces as soon as I learn how!

I have sold all but three pieces of my work! It is so satisfying to know others value what you do!

In The Beginning

I should have done this a long time ago... My brother Kevin in Florida is teaching me over the phone.

I will be adding things that I love to do and sharing ancestry information on the DeFoor, Mullinax, Reed, Dowdle and Moore families in the future.