This is my first beaded, split ring cross. I did it, and in one day! The pattern is from Georgia Seitz's book "Tatting On The Edge...And Beyond." I had wanted to try it for years, but couldn't get up the nerve. With encouragement and instruction from my on-line tatting friends, I finally figured it out. It's not as neat as Georgia's, but my husband was actually impressed with it. (That doesn't happen often.) I used size 80 tatting cotton with tiny blue glass beads. It measures 3 1/4" top to bottom. I've got to try again. I have the beads in the rings instead of sticking out on the picots. And, I had some trouble in the middle where I was joining the arms together. Anyway, I really love it and I'm going to frame it today! Thank you Georgia for the pattern and the ones who helped me, especially Gina! 

One of MY tattycats

This is one of my precious tattycats! Her name is Mao Mao and, as you can see, she is ever so helpful!
Mao Mao is the most prissy little thing you have ever seen! If mommy is doing it, it must be what she is supposed to do. I am working on the split ring cross with beads from one of Georgia Seitz's books. (My first time with beads.) That's a bit of edging I gave up on that she has taken possession of. Anything girly that is left out, is fair game. She has a hiding place somewhere that we have yet to find. Jewelry, ribbons, lace - you name it, she will take it. She always brings everything back after about two weeks! Thoughtful of her, huh? 

Some of my first tatting pieces

Madonna and Child by Mark Myers copywrite 1999. This was the November project in 1999 and I thoroughly enjoyed working it in 2001! Thanks Tatman!
This Celtic Heart is by Birgit Phelps, copywrite 2001. I'm sure I didn't do it justice, but I really loved doing it.
Same heart, different color. I worked both of these at the Navarre Beach, Florida Holidome over the Thanksgiving holidays in 2002, (I think.)

This pattern if from "Tatting With Friends", edited by Georgia Seitz and on pg. 140. The designer is Dorothy (Dottie) Wolfe in 1997. I worked it in big thread to fit this black, straw purse. It really draws attention!

tatting

I got back to my tatting yesterday - finally. I'm making an edging out of "The Tatter's Treasure Chest" by Mary Carolyn Waldrep and it is slow going. I was going to put a picture of my progress in this post, but after looking at the work on the other tatting blogs, I decided not to! Happy Tatting!

Bookmarks (Tatted and Crocheted)

The top bookmark is crocheted, but the other three are tatted. The pink and green one is my own design, (you can probably tell!) The dark green one is Celtic and I love it very much. It was fun and I have done a few more in different colors.


 

Crocheting My Grandmother Taught Me

I love to crochet, but mostly I tat or knit now due to some arthritis in my fingers. My grandmother started teaching me to crochet when I was 7 years old. I still have my first crochet hook - a "G." This is one of my favorite doilies and I keep it under glass on my dresser.
Another doily which is quite large. The pink ring is little flowers and every other one stands up if starched.

The middle of this one has a ring that stands up. 

Tatting - What My Grandmother Didn't Teach Me!

Here are some examples of my tatting. I had to learn this on my own, with much weeping, wailing and nashing of teeth! My grandmother had passed on before I developed such an avid interest in this, one of the few things she didn't teach me. I really love it and used to do a lot of tatting. Not so much now, due to my headaches, but I'm trying to pick it up. I would love to find some other tatters in Alabama.
This doily is from "The Tatter's Treasure Chest" edited by Mary Carolyn Waldrep. Thanks Mary! I particularly love this doily. It is hard to tell, but it's done in white, green and purple. I love this combination. I used DMC Cebelia 40 and it took a long time! I wish I could take credit for the designs of these pieces, but they all came from books I have purchased. I keep it under glass on top of my wicker dresser.
These are some of my tatted Christmas ornaments. The heart at the top right if one of Georgia Seitz's patterns.
The little Christmas tree is From "A New Twist On Tatting", by Catherine Austin. Thanks Catherine!
This is a little wrist bag that would be perfect for a wedding or prom. It is lined with white net.

Woodcarving

This picture is of my first 3 dimensional woodcarvings. The one on the right is the very first and done completely by hand with a Case knife. The Madonna and Child is one of my favorite subjects. 

This Is Me

This is a picture of me that I was trying to put in my profile. I can't seem to accomplish that, so I guess I will leave it here. This is my press photo for "Senior Living Newspaper" published in Birmingham, Alabama. I have been a contributing writer for several years and have enjoyed it so much. It has been one of my life long dreams to be a published writer and I was so thrilled when my editor offered me a column of my own. I was at work when I got the offer and everyone within two blocks heard me celebrating. The local newspaper and one other publication had blessed me with coverage several times, but nothing formal or continuing. Unfortunately, I am now having severe migraines and had to leave my job. I am also limited in the amount of time I can spend at my home computer as it contributes greatly to my migraines. I have written only one story for the paper in the last year. I am going to try and write a few lines every day and put them together for future stories. The title of my column is "I Remember". I hope those of you who have time to read my thoughts will share some of my memories and enjoy being reminded of "The Good Old Days."

It Takes A Village

From "Senior Living"

Growing up in my neighborhood was a sometimes confusing and overwhelming process as any number of adults might be telling you what to do and how to do it. All of this depended on where you happened to be at the time. Every adult you knew had the right, no obligation, to discipline and direct you as needed. The person I want to tell you about is Kate Ingram. She and her husband Chester and their two children, Billy and Beverly lived next door to us. Their house was on one side of ours and my maternal grandparents and aunts lived on the other side. Billy was one and a half years older than me and his sister Beverly was two years younger. We spent quite a lot of time together, both as families and as individual friends. For some unknown and unlikely reason, we always called them Kate and Chester rather than Mr. And Mrs. Ingram. Kate had a huge influence on my life and the lives of my two brothers. I don't remember when I was first aware of her presence, as she was just always there.

One of my fondest memories of her was of Kool-Aid in aluminum tumblers in a rainbow of different colors. It would be so hot outside and she would give us the icy beverage in these aluminum glasses that would be sweating they were so cold. This was half of the appeal during the hot summers in Alabama. Kool-Aid was a treat she loved to share with us. It was relatively inexpensive and made us so happy. Nobody we knew had cokes. They were just too expensive. I don't remember her giving us cookies or any other kind of sweets. She tried very hard to teach Billy and Beverly to eat right and stay thin and healthy. Mother thought it was a shame that they didn't get treats, but they were, and still are, thin.

According to my mother's account, one day when I was about two, Billy was sitting in our front porch swing and I got too close. Instead of stopping, he put his feet out and kicked me in the stomach sending me sprawling on the hard tile floor. Mother surprised herself by snatching him up and spanking him before she even thought about what she was doing. Then she started crying, picked him up and took him home to his mother explaining what had happened. She was so worried that Kate would be hurt and mad with her. Of course, she wasn't. She told Mother that was exactly what he needed and what she would have done, and maybe worse, had she been there. I don't remember Kate or Chester spanking me, but I knew they could and would if necessary and that was deterrent enough. However, I didn't behave totally out of fear. I wanted to please my parents and other parental figures. It made me happy to be good.

In 1968 when the freeway moved us out of East Lake, we ended up in Chalkville, my grandparents in Jefferson Hills and the Ingrams in Center Point. We had all been together for so long; you would think it would have taken more than this to separate us. However, since the three of us had no classes together at Banks High School, we drifted apart. Well, at least the children did. Kate never gave up being a part of the family and keeping up with us. She was faithful for 37 years, calling at least once a week to see how everyone was. She never kept Mother on the phone very long. She just wanted to know how we were. She would specifically ask about each of us and about my aunts who lived in Georgia and their families. About once a month she and Chester would drive from Center Point to our house to see us. My mother wasn't a very social person and I'm afraid Kate had to make all of the effort. Mother loved her; she just didn't know how to show her, anymore than she knew how to show us.

The Ingrams were older than my mother and daddy, but in better health and they were always there to see about us. After Mother and Daddy went to the nursing home, I became the contact person. She called Daddy sometimes, but it was hard to catch him at the nursing home since he had dialysis three times a week. She always encouraged me and told me what a super job I was doing taking care of everyone. When my mother died, she was the most supportive person in my court, other than my immediate family. I knew I could call her anytime and tell her anything. No matter how down I was, she would listen and bring me back to where I needed to be.

Last February, Chester was diagnosed with cancer and died very quickly. She was the most stoic person I have ever met. With the help of Beverly and her two boys, she cared for him at home until he was gone. I never saw her shed a tear. She held onto her faith and told everyone who would listen that she knew he was in a better place and that she wouldn't have him back here suffering for anything. She knew she would join him one day.

When my daddy died June 16th, she was there for me. The next week, another East Lake neighborhood mother died. She and Kate were close and I know it hurt her to lose Mrs. LeBlanc. It hurt more, however to watch her suffer. She even understood that it was too soon for me to be able to attend the funeral. On July 3rd, my best friend's mother died. I attended the funeral in Winfield on July 5th, came back to work for a few hours and then came home. When I arrived at home, Beverly was waiting for me. She had lost my phone number and had come to tell me her mother died on July 3rd. They think she just lay down on her bed and went to sleep. Here she was grieving for her mother, but after her mother's fashion, she had come to tell me of her mother's death in person. She was concerned about me. Only three weeks earlier, she had come to bring me food when Daddy died. Here she was back to tell me her mother was gone.

Her mother wasn't gone at all. Not really. Her body had given up and her soul had gone to be with God, but a large part of her spirit indwells her daughter's. Mrs. LeBlanc's daughter is not well. Beverly had forbidden her to come to the funeral. Of course she didn't listen. Kate meant as much to her as she did to me. She was there and we took care of each other. Now Beverly and I will share the responsibility of checking on each other and Teresa. We will be a circle of three.

It really does take a village to raise a child - unless the village has a Kate Ingram. She didn't need any help.

July 11, 2005

Little Coke Bottles

From "Senior Living"

Remember those tiny, little coke bottles they used to have. That was before the plastic one, two or three “liter” bottles. No one will ever convince me sodas didn’t taste better in those little bottles.

One very hot August when I was a pre-teen, one of my dad’s good friends died from cancer. We didn’t know a lot about cancer at that time and I remember my parents not wanting us children to be around him because we might catch it. Part of this fear could have been a result of my having polio at 22 months of age. As well as I remember, Daddy’s friend didn’t last long after his diagnosis. He was probably in his 40’s like my parents and left young children. It was a very sad time. I don’t remember where in the country he was buried, but it was definitely in the country. The church had no air conditioning, nor did we at home, but did supply “funeral home fans.” For those of you who have never heard of those, they are thick paper with advertisements or pictures on them and thin wood handles. I still have a small collection of them. Some of them are quite attractive, but none as attractive as those at this particular funeral. I have no idea what they looked like, just know I was glad they were there. I remember the windows in the church being open but no breeze stirring. All we had was the paper fans and they did little more than move the blistering hot August air around. That was small comfort, but the only comfort to be afforded. Never was there a longer funeral, or so it seemed. The preacher understood his duty to share with us God’s word and urge us to be ready should we be called to an untimely death. The heat in the church was said to be no comparison to a death without Christ. That was something else that stuck with me after the funeral.

We were all dressed up in our Sunday clothes. It didn’t matter that it was so hot. No one went to church or funerals in less than their best. It just wasn’t done. I have a friend who says, “If you don’t get dressed up to go to church or funerals, when do you get dressed up? God deserves our best.” That used to be the standard. So, we were dressed up just like everyone else and that much more miserable. I can remember so vividly the sun shining through the open windows and illuminating the dust filled air. I am reminded of this each time I see dust in sunbeams. We were so itchy in our Sunday clothes sitting on those old, wooden pews worn smooth from years squirming children. The adults must have possessed something special to sit so still and pay attention. They were no doubt as miserable as we children were, but they just fanned on quietly through the whole thing.

After the funeral was over we moved to the grave in the adjoining church cemetery. The only thing hotter than being in the church was standing in the sun in the cemetery. We didn’t complain, of course, as children would today. We knew better. When the ceremonies were complete, Daddy took us across the street to a little roadside store. He bought each of us our own soda in the little bottles. They were in an old, metal cooler filled with ice: never before or since has anything been so cold or tasted so good. Sodas were not something we were privileged to enjoy on a regular basis so they would have been delicious in any case. Being so hot and miserable just made it an over the top experience. Daddy turned his up and emptied it in one breath! We were impressed. It had ice crystals in it and as thirsty and hot as we were, we just couldn’t swallow it all at once. We wanted to make it last as it was such a rare treat.

Another treat that was always better in little bottles was grape juice. When we were really sick, and Mother could always tell, she would go to the store and buy grape juice in little bottles. Oh, how wonderful it was, especially if you had a fever. Just the sight of the bottles made us start feeling better. I remember waiting for them to get cold and then listening for the bottle opener to pop the top off. She always let us drink from the bottle and the cold felt so good in our feverish little hands. The only other time we had grape juice was when she could afford to buy a bigger bottle. It just wasn’t the same.

I will always contend that little bottles make things taste better. Coca Cola, grape juice, Dr. Pepper, and orange juice for example. My husband tells me there is a scientific explanation for this phenomenon. I don’t know the name of it as he has a hard time just getting me to listen. I don’t want my memories explained scientifically. However, I guess I should mention his idea as I’m sure he is right as usual. The first few bites or swallows of any food or drink always taste better than subsequent samplings. Once our taste buds have gotten used to any substance, they don’t react in the same way. We really should stop consumption as soon as that first thrill is gone. That is why wealthy people and royalty across the ages had kitchens away from the main house. They didn’t want the smell of the food cooking to spoil their initial pleasure of tasting. It is also why gourmet meals are usually served in minute quantity with several courses. I’ve always said that those small portions are only big enough to make me mad.

Intellectually, I’m sure my husband is right. The quality of the product is the same in big bottles as in the little ones. The taste buds just don’t have time to get used to it. The child in me still prefers to remember little bottles containing big treats.


March 14, 2005

Mother and Daughter

Story written and published in 2005

I've never done anything the easy way. If 99 out of 100 procedures are successful I will be the 100th one who fails. I couldn't have my tonsils out when I was a small child like most people do: I waited until I was 16. I had my share of sore throats, but my tonsils were never bad when I was little.

I can remember being so afraid, even if I was 16. In fact, being 16 may have made it worse. I hadn’t been in the hospital before and wasn’t sure what to expect, even though I had been with family members in the hospital many times. Mother promised me the nurses would give me ice cream after the surgery and that helped smooth things out. There was one more thing that encouraged me to make this trip to the hospital. I had a terrible crush on a boy at church. Of course, being the wall flower, it was a completely one sided infatuation. He was my “buddy” and dated one of my girl friends. It would hurt so badly when he asked me questions about her. I always wondered why he couldn’t see that I was the one who was best for him. It was obvious to me of course. In my 16 year old mind I just knew he would come visit me in the hospital and maybe recognize me as his one true love if we were away from everyone else. I was very careful to pack my best gowns so I would look pretty. I especially remember this because when the doctor came in to examine me he teased that patients always wore gowns in the hospital to make it difficult for the doctor. He didn’t know why they didn’t wear pajamas like they did at home. The idea that this boy would one day love me seems foolish now, but then it was a wonderful, hopeful vision. Naturally, he didn’t come see me and we never had a date.

This was way back when they put you in the hospital the night before surgery to get you ready. It was scary being there alone. I had been so protected and sheltered that I wasn’t nearly as mature and confident as some 16 year olds. I can remember Mother being with me before surgery. I’m sure Daddy and my grandparents were there too, but Mother is the one who made an impression on me. She actually kissed me on the cheek and told me she loved me. This may seem a small gesture that many of you experienced on a daily basis, but my mother wasn’t that way. She always told me she wasn’t shown affection as a child and didn’t know how to be affectionate with us. I knew she loved me, she just wasn’t demonstrative. She showed us her love when she cooked, washed, doctored, cleaned, taught, etc. This simple kiss was the first one I remember receiving from her. She told me later that she kissed me when I was a baby and I just don’t remember. Later in her life, especially after the grandchildren were born, she learned to give and receive affection and I am so thankful for that. We all would have missed so much: she more than anyone. When I woke up from the tonsillectomy, she was there and had bought me the most beautiful flower I had ever seen. It was a pink Cyclamen and I will never forget the beauty of the flower and the love it represented. I know I cried then and I usually cry every time I see one. They have come to represent love and the warmth of a mother’s touch. You know, I never did get any ice cream from those nurses, but Mother corrected that when she got me home. I got all the ice cream I wanted and was put to bed on the couch so I could watch television. She covered me with the “sick blanket” and took care of me for a whole week.

I miss my mother, that old couch and the sick blanket, amongst other things. Most of all, I would give anything to feel her lips brush my cheek with a kiss – just one more time.

April 9, 2005

Childhood Friend

Story written and published in 2003

Yesterday I received a call from a childhood friend. We went all the way through school together, from 1st grade through 12th. We have one of those relationships that endure the years no matter how long it is between conversations. Each time we speak I’m transported back in time to East Lake. Her grandmother lived in the next block to ours. Her mother was one of the few of our generation who worked outside the home so Barbara came to her grandmother’s house after school. We walked home together and played at one house or the other. Usually her grandmother’s as there were no little brothers there to interfere.

Barbara had a female dachshund named Sausage. Sounds better than wienie. She was transported for babysitting just like Barbara was. Grandmother Tucker took care of everyone. We all loved that dog so much. She met us at the door and played right along with us. Until… one day she was under the living room sofa. Well, part of her was under the sofa. You know how animals are – if their head is hidden, they are hidden. She had her tail sticking out and I backed up and stepped on it. For some reason, she reacted differently to me after that. She would meet Barbara at the front screen, sitting up on her haunches so she could see out. When she saw me, she turned around and made sure her whole body was under the sofa.

Grandmother Tucker’s house was a treasure trove. There weren’t a lot of toys. We didn’t need them. Under the same living room sofa was a box of little, glass bottles and some other trinkets that escape my memory. For some reason, I remember the little brown glass bottles well. We never seemed to tire of playing with these things and others that I’ve forgotten. The house was full of antique furniture. There was a big, oak dining room table and a little table in the kitchen. The back bedroom belonged to a boarder. She was an older lady who gave piano lessons. I think she had been a teacher. She was a little bit crippled and walked with a cane. I remember her always being well dressed, usually in a dark color.

The whole house was sort of dark and cool. There were, and still are, a lot of trees in the yard which gave great shade. They also made those little seed pods we called helicopters. We gathered them up and threw them as high as possible so we could watch them whirl their way back down. It was so much easier to entertain children back then.

We sometimes went outside in the back yard. There was a garage full of old stuff, but we weren’t allowed in there. I think her grandmother was afraid we would get hurt. In the yard, there was a circle of bushes we could climb inside of to play. It was like having a dollhouse. If we tired of this, we went in the front yard to play hop scotch on the sidewalk or sit in the porch swing.

We had another best friend who lived two blocks in the other direction from the school. Sometimes she would walk home with us. One day all three of us were in the porch swing. Big mistake as I had put on a “little weight.” You guessed it, just as we really got the swing going, my end fell. It’s funny now, but it wasn’t then. Of course, when my end fell, they fell on top of me. How embarrassing. To make it worse, they thought it was hilarious when they got over being scared. It was giggle city until Grandmother made it outside.

One of my fondest memories of Mrs. Tucker’s home was snack time. She would open a can of date bread, slice it and spread cream cheese between two pieces. It was so good. I had never had this before, and not too many times since.

When we were older, Barbara and her mom and dad moved to Roebuck Gardens and she didn’t walk home with me anymore. I got to visit there too and we had good times, but never the same as the old days at her grandmother’s. We would sit up all night talking, giggling and eating sauerkraut from the can. I know, it sounds terrible, but we loved it. We wrote stories about the Beatles and decided that Paul was our favorite.

Sausage was still around and still avoided my feet. Barbara’s dad taught him not to come into the kitchen. We could sit there and eat and he would sit back in the den and watch. As we became adults, went separate ways and married, our activities changed but we still got together. I was always very close to her mother. She was a good friend and could listen to my problems objectively and give good advice. When I was selling colored glassware via home parties, Barbara and Mrs. Tucker had lots of parties for me. Their houses were full of this glass. I guess Barbara’s still is. Her dad is still living in the same house, but she lost her mother several years ago. It had been a long time since I’d seen her, but just knowing she was there gave me comfort. I really miss her.

Barbara and her husband James Marbut are soon expecting their first grandchild. It seems just yesterday that I was crocheting baby things for their children. Sausage has been gone a long time. The last “picture Christmas card” I received from them, they had a big, auburn colored dog named “Aubie.” (Guess where they all went to college.)

Oh, how time flies. No matter what we have shared, the first thing that comes to mind when I think of her is our childhood in East Lake. Grandmother’s house, the box of trinkets and the date bread with cream cheese. I’ve tried to block out the porch swing.

May 16, 2003

Garden of My Childhood

Story written and published in 2005

I was wishing for spring as I drove home from work this afternoon. The sun was so pretty and I could almost visualize little crocus and hyacinths working their way up from fall and winter’s debris to show off their soft hues of new life. It made me think of buttercups. Not daffodils or jonquils, buttercups - those soft, paper thin pink flowers that grow wild, often beside our southern highways. I’m sure you remember them even if you haven’t seen any lately. When we were kids they grew in abundance at the back of my grandmother’s yard. We all knew what would happen if we stuck our noses in them, but we did it anyway. What good is it to have buttercups if you have no “butter” on your nose? They were so full of yellow pollen that if looked like you had been in a food fight supplied by a butter churn. It was even more fun to fool unsuspecting cousins visiting from Georgia. Georgia must not have buttercups. It always worked on them, at least once.

We always had great fun outside, which was fortunate since we spent so much time out of the house, partly to be out of our parents’ way and partly because there was no air conditioning. Mother and my grandmother both had the greenest thumbs. We lived next door to each other and it was like one great big botanical garden. They managed to have color in the yard all year, whether flowers, vegetables, bushes with berries or varying shades of evergreens. There were always places to hide in the garden if you were playing hide-n-seek or just waiting to jump out on an unsuspecting passerby. There were lots of big bushes and tall plants. There was also a trellis at the side of my grandparents’ house that had pink roses growing all over it. You had to pass under it to get from the backyard to the front. We had a tree in one corner that had seed pods that looked like green beans. We would “pick” these beans and pretend to cook them in old pots no longer used in the kitchen. We didn’t dare pick the real vegetables. Unlike today’s children, we knew the consequences of unacceptable behavior.

My grandmother always let me have my own tomato plant. We grew the biggest, juiciest tomatoes you ever tasted. They just don’t make them like that anymore. I liked to pull the small ones and eat them right there in the yard. We also had zucchini squash that would get big enough to use for baseball bats if you didn’t pick them often. She had beautiful roses, especially the yellow ones. My baby brother had a particular favorite. Mother called it summer poinsettia. I need to find out the proper name for them. As he was growing up the plants would often be taller than he was. We have pictures of him standing under them grinning from ear to ear. Grandmother always grew strawberries for this brother. They were his and no one else was allowed to pick them. He would run out everyday to see if any were ready. It was a good thing my other brother and I were a nine and six years older than Kevin and could enjoy him instead of being jealous.

I have to tell you a funny thing that happened to him one fall. He may not appreciate my telling it, but you will. Grandmother had let him help her plant pumpkin seeds in a raised flower bed on the side of the yard. He watched the vines grow and squealed with delight as the vines blossomed and then pumpkins began to form. One of them started to get a little size to it, but the vines weren’t doing very well that year. In order to keep the magic going for Kevin, my oldest aunt, who still lived at home, decided to start buying pumpkins at the store that were a little bigger each week and she would replace the one growing there so that he thought his pumpkin was growing bigger and bigger. He could hardly contain himself. It finally got big enough to use for a Jack-O-Lantern. It was all we could do not to laugh and give away the secret. As a matter of fact, we hid the secret very well. About ten years ago, we were talking about this and Kevin said, “What are you talking about?” He had no idea what our aunt had done. We couldn’t believe the secret had been kept for over 25 years. There have been very few times in his life that I have seen him more upset and disappointed. He was mad, not just at my aunt, but at all of us. We had tricked him and destroyed one of his happiest memories by telling him. I hope he has sufficiently recovered to laugh with us when he reads this in the paper. If not, I hope he will forgive me.

It is by no accident that we find garden settings for so many ceremonies, celebrations, religious retreats, etc. I am often drawn to our Birmingham Botanical Gardens, as I am no longer able to grow plants and flowers of my own. My husband and I took a stroll there this last Sunday. It brought back many lovely memories of trips there with my grandmother and the rest of the family. It also gave me ideas I would like to implement at home. Mostly, it gave me a sense of peace and contentment being surrounded by one aspect of God’s gifts to us all. It’s amazing that it takes a huge enterprise such as the Botanical Gardens to come remotely close to the garden of my childhood.

February 11, 2005

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.