Long, long ago, in a far away world, there lived a woman who did not know how to sit and enjoy life. She could only work on household chores. If she couldn't find an obvious chore to do, she would create one. She cleaned every single day. She dusted, vacuumed, mopped, washed, scrubbed, scraped, whisked, whooshed, think of any work word and that's how she occupied her days. From morning until late afternoon, she cleaned. Her house shined and shined and sparkled and looked perfect. She took time off every day to cook and bake, but she cleaned even as she worked in the kitchen. And she talked on the phone for hours. But yet she cleaned. She had two daughters who weren't allowed to clean, because they couldn't possibly do it to her satisfaction, but they were allowed to do some odd chores. The older daughter had the responsibility of waxing the living room wood furniture every Saturday morning and cleaning the fixtures in one of the bathrooms that same day. The younger daughter was given the chore of stripping the bed linens and putting them in the wash. They were also allowed to wash and dry the supper dishes (once upon a time, there were no dishwashers). The daughters had to attend school during the week and church on Sunday, so Saturday was the one day they could get in a few extra winks. But not in that house. The older daughter would be startled awake by the vacuum - not in another part of the house, but slamming up against her bed headboard at 7:30 every Saturday morning. Bang, bang, bang!!!!! Unfortunately, the younger daughter slept in another room and unwisely decided to pretend not to hear the vacuum, so the wicked mother threw cold, wet washcloths on her face. Yowza!!!! The younger sister would jump out of her skin!!! This scenario continued every Saturday morning for the longest time. Like years. The sisters each had separate incidences where they helped friends clean their homes, and stupidly told the wicked mother. The mother then began one of her famous 5-6 hour tirades on laziness, which made no sense to the daughters because they weren't so lazy, they were just not allowed to perform those jobs in their own home. The mother was famous for her hours long wild, out of control tirades. These tirades also involved throwing anything within grabbing distance. The daughters learned to duck and hide frequently, but they couldn't escape the screaming. And the screaming would generally revolve around the same topics - laziness, laziness, and laziness. Every now and then, another topic plucked from thin air would be addressed, but usually it was some form of laziness on the sisters part. So when the two sisters grew up, they decided they would never ever allow housework to rule their lives. Even though they like their houses to be clean, they realized life has too many fun things to offer. They realized there are beautiful days out there and they wouldn't live forever. They realized you could pay people to clean your home. But the biggest lesson they learned was to never, ever scream at people, because when you scream for hours on end, you really do lose your voice.
So when I'm not working hardy har har I'm always making something. I've made stuff for a long, long time. I come from a long line of people who made stuff. Food, clothing, shelter, etc. It's true. My dad built our house by himself. He did everything except the electrical wiring. No doubt he didn't want to listen to my mother busting him when the house burned down, even though it's brick, so that was a very wise thing to do. I'm very proud of that house, too. He took great care in every single thing that went into the building of it and it took him quite a while, as he was aiming for quality and perfection. Now this house is not a grand house - it's a 50's rancher, but it's fabulous. Because my dad built it. And while he was building this house, every now and then he would allow my sister and me to do something wild and crazy, like color all over the bathroom walls. They were eventually covered with tile, but those pictures are still there. I would love to see them. He also showed me a couple of tiny hiding places for notes and such. Every now and then, I would insert a note into one of the hiding places, and a few days or weeks later, I would look and the note would be gone. And after a bit, the note would re-appear and my dad would have written or drawn something on it. Dad had many talents - he could draw, work with mosaic tiles, play the banjo, dance like crazy, make anything, and DO MATH!!!! In our eyes, he was perfect! I think his very best talent was loving my sister and me. He was superb at that. He was born into a very talented family; they all followed their artistic skills and my sister and I received some of those goods, too. A few weeks ago, I made Rudolph, the Sequined Reindeer. I think he's rather adorable, but for the life of me, I couldn't get a good photo of him so you have to believe me (even though ya'll know what a liar I am because I told you) when I tell you he's fabulous. He really sparkles! He'll be on my tree this year, but he would be cute on a package, too. He's about 7 inches tall and around 4 1/2 inches wide and he's completely made of wool felt. And sequins. I'll make one for you if you want, but you'll have to pay for it because I'm mercenary. 8 bucks a pop. And I'll make as many as you want. You just need to message me. I love making things.
When I was a little girl, Halloween was a very special holiday, just as it is for kids today. Who doesn't love dressing up and getting boatloads of candy?? I remember my first costume was a skeleton. I was 5 years old. The next year I was a bride. I was so excited to be a 6 year old bride (many of ya'll know that's when I got married) that I was just about jumping out of my skin! I couldn't wait for Halloween. Back in the 50's, most schools had Halloween parties and parades. My school also partied and paraded. I was going to be the coolest girl in the lunchtime Halloween parade, because I was an outstanding bride in my beautiful white dress and veil. I had tried on my costume about 10 times before the big day. And then BAM. I woke up on party and parade morning with the mumps. Oh fate, you sometimes deal cruel and unmerciful blows. My mother called the school and told them I wouldn't be there because I was now a carrier of a dreaded childhood disease AND I would not be participating in the grandest party and parade ever!! Oh sure, Taft school, go ahead and have fun without me!! I'm only home suffering the agony of realizing there will be NO party and NO parade for me. And my face is fat by now. My mother must have really laid on a sad, sad story about me, because the teacher came up with the idea of parading down our street so I could "be with" my classmates. My mother even suggested I put on my costume and "be a part" of the parade - only I would be imprisoned on our porch with my fat face. But I really, really needed to wear that costume. And so lunchtime came and sure enough, a loud, semi-dancing, twirling, costumed, happy group of kids came parading down the block and when they reached our house, they all yelled "Happy Halloween, Barbie," and I waved and waved and when they moved on down the street, I threw myself down on the porch and bawled my eyes out. Because that's what brides do when they're miserable. I didn't even get to trick or treat that year. But I did get married. Same difference.
When I was a little girl, we lived in the downtown area of my home town, in a row house. We lived in the top half of the row house and another family lived under us. The entire block lived this way. Looking back on it, I think it was a cool way to live, although I'm not sure I would want to live with those same neighbors these days - now that I'm old and crotchety and set in my ways, all finicky and spoiled in the way old ladies get. I've gotten used to living in the sticks where it's fairly quiet and always silent at night, save for the wildlife that every now and then chitchats with one another. Or at one another. Back to the row house. My maternal grandparents owned a corner grocery store and it was on our corner. They lived in a house around the corner from us, which was deadly because my mother and her mother had a very tense and ugly relationship. My grandmother was very demanding. VERY demanding and my mother and her sister were her puppets. She would call our house and say to my mother, "I'm going to let you take me to the beauty shop/doctor's office/friend's house/downtown you name it." That was the match that would light my mother's fire. She would go ballistic and scream at my grandmother and tell her she already had her day planned and then the arguing would escalate and my mother would eventually buckle. Not a healthy relationship. I'm not going into more of that relationship - I'll save it for another day. The family who lived under us in the row house included 7 kids. In a two bedroom one bathroom row house. That's the way we lived back then. We never thought we needed one bedroom per child. The father in that family came home every now and then - always drunk. The family who lived beside us was a retired couple with a grown son. The Mr. had a bad little habit of getting drunk, taking his clothes off and sitting on the front porch smoking a cigar. His wife would freak when a neighbor would call her and you could hear her shrieking at him to get back inside. The neighbors directly across the street also had an alcohol problem and would fight just about every weekend night over something or other. One of the fights involved a pot of coffee that one of the adults had attached to a rope and hung out the kitchen window in an effort to aggravate the other adult members of the family. They were drunk by Christmas morning every year, and somehow their fully decorated Christmas tree always ended up somewhere on the street or sidewalk by daybreak. The police frequently visited that house. Surprise, surprise. Another family was a mother, adult daughter and young son living on the top floor of the third row house from us. The mother had the habit of going on her front porch in her bra and just sitting. Another neighbor across the street owned a monkey, who got loose one day and went through some of the neighborhood houses, tearing up everything he could get his hands on. It was a hot summer day, in the time before air conditioning so all doors and windows were open and my mother remembers hearing the monkey throwing china and other breakables in our neighbor's house. This was not Mr. Rogers neighborhood, but it was a great neighborhood for observing people and their lives. And apparently a neighborhood where a lot of alcohol was needed. We left this neighborhood when I was 7 and moved to the house my mom still inhabits. This house was built by my dad and what a great house it is!!!! Houses carry a lot of good memories, bad memories, and secrets. Just like people. I live in the orange house here with red windows - the one on the hill. I learned a long time ago to live on a hill, not a valley. When you live in a valley, water may get you.
"Why, hello! Come right in and sit down. How have you been? Can I get you something to eat, something to drink? I know you want a Coke!"
That was my world growing up, except no one was ever invited in, they just walked in. Our door swung both ways all day long and most evenings - my mother and her friends, neighbors and our relatives. And my mother never asked them if they wanted anything to eat or drink - they always walked into our kitchen, fridge, cabinets and helped themselves. It was all very chummy. Can you imagine doing that to any of your friends or relatives?? It was the 50's, friends. Remember how life was so very different way back then? Our house ALWAYS had baked goods, ALWAYS had Coke, and was ALWAYS open to chitchat. Usually gossipy type chitchat. When I was really young, my mother would watch what she said, I'm sure because she was afraid I would repeat it. And I'm so shy..... Anyway, she was trying to be a good friend and neighbor by not allowing her child to hear bad stuff about them so she and her friends/relatives would use code words. I eventually caught on to this code and I would take my coloring book and crayons and sit under the kitchen table and pick up every bit of dirt they were jabbering. Oh, I was in heaven!!! I knew more stuff on more people than you could shake a stick at!!! When I grew older, it was a little awkward to sit under the table with a coloring book and crayons, so I would take a book in the living room and "read" while they were in the nearby kitchen, gossiping. I could hear every word, of course. I never took the information outside the household because I was too afraid of getting into trouble. That's a lie. I was really afraid of losing my listening privileges. The best and juiciest stuff involved my mom and her sister talking about the relatives, especially when they complained about my grandmother. I loved hearing all that. It was better than any book I was reading. As I grew into adulthood, my mom and her friends/relatives still talked about everyone, as was their habit, but I had lost interest in the gossip and had moved on to other things. Like soap operas. My mother never let us watch television, so turning the tv on in the daytime was a real treat when I was first married. Now that I'm writing this, I see there's a very fine line between the gossip and the soaps. I also outgrew the soaps, but I still remember my mom and all the girls chatting away a morning/afternoon/evening and I miss people popping in and rummaging through the kitchen to see what mom cooked up yesterday. It really was a different time....
I've been working on Christmas. Yes, I have. Yes, I know it's October, but when you make stuff, you don't make it in December. You make it year round. Besides, if Lowe's can put out their Christmas goods, so can I.
I have nothing to say. Not a thing. I know you don't believe me, but it's true. I just sat down here, wondering what will come flying off the keyboard, because that's what I do. I never have a plan, I just sit and type. Such forethought and organization. HA! That rarely exists in my mind/world/situation. I've told you about my brain problem. Having that problem also means I could have had a fabulous idea a few minutes ago but when I sat down to type, I have nuttin. So now I have nuttin. I will tell you this regarding this watercolor: While my sister and I loved our father dearly, he drove rickety old trucks that two princesses thought they were too good to ride in. Therefore, he would take every opportunity possible to make sure we rode in one of the trucks. The first truck was a red job, big and ugly and we always knew when Dad was coming home because you could hear it a mile away. Seriously. That truck was louder than loud. I can't remember why the truck disappeared, but we were sooo happy. The screaming red truck was followed by a blue truck, not as noisy, but, really! It was still a truck. And he still tortured us with it. That truck left, and he bought another truck. This one was a real pip. It was a white utility truck and it was HUGE. That wasn't enough for Dad - he put very large decals on the sides of the truck. Large, Indian head decals. Classy. And he still made us ride in the truck whenever he could. He would take us to the neighborhood pool and we would ask to be dropped off about 2 blocks away. No, he drove us to the pool. I missed the school bus one devastating morning and Dad drove me to school. In the truck. "I can walk from here." No. Dropped me off right in front of the school. And everyone in the school came running out to mock me. Not really, but that's how I felt. I would spend the night with friends and Dad would come pick me up in the truck. I would die a thousand deaths. Oh, the humanity!!! It was horrible. And then some time passed and I had kids and Dad still had a truck and, unbelievably, they thought his truck was so cool!!!! Who says parents are smarter than kids??? Every time I see certain trucks, I think of those truck hating days and what a little s**t I was and how my dad wisely and mischievously handled my attitude. I really miss him....
Many of you know when I was but 8 years old, huzbin plucked me from my family and married me. It was a most unusual wedding, taking place in a tiny North Carolina hamlet with the service performed by an ancient toothless oddball who also tried to sell us some property as he was performing the wedding ceremony. Nothing but the best for the huzbin and me. We had a chance to return to the scene of the crime this past summer. We were on our way to our yearly vacation spot and happened to see signs to the same wedding hamlet. "Could this possibly be the same place???" We really needed to see if that place had existed because I have questioned the authenticity of this marriage since day one. Of course, it's two kids too late now. Not that it matters these days... Anyway, we got off the main highway and followed the signs to said hamlet. We drove and drove and drove and drove. With each passing mile, I could see the huzbin beginning to fume, as he has no patience. He was more interested in the vacation laying before him than the past he couldn't find. One final curse word and we turned around. "We'll just have to believe it's there." Kinda like Camelot. Now you see it, now you don't. Thankfully, the marriage is not like that. I remember when we moved into our first apartment. I was soooo full of joy. Being married and having an apartment was so exciting. I was excited over being such an adult. We lived in student married housing, so everyone in the entire complex was just like us - young, married students. Those years were some really fun times. Fun people, fun experiences, fun parties, and we made lots of good friends. Then we grew up a little (well, he did) and we bought our first house. There were fun people, fun experiences, fun parties and we made lots of good friends. After a few years in our first house, we bought another house. This was a fixer upper and I hated it, but the huzbin insisted it would be a wise move as it was a real dump in a great neighborhood. Friends, do not EVER EVER EVER fall for that line. We had to make it livable and that meant construction, construction workers, mess, tools, machines, mess, noise, endless intrusions, mess, dust, mess, it was awful in the worst way. We added a second story, pushed out the front of the house 13 feet, and refinished the basement and turned the back porch into a sunroom. It was wintertime and we had no heat, save for a small wood stove. The rain poured and caused a roof to fall in, damaging everything in the living room. The workers failed to read the architects plans clearly and ended up screwing up the second floor. I began yelling at the builder almost every day - to the point he told the huzbin he didn't want to come back. And to think it only took 9 months. 9 miserable months. It was one of the lowest points of my life and I will never do it again. And after all the construction was over, I sat back and said, "I hate this house and I'm looking for a new one." And so we moved. That was 36 years ago. I cannot believe we've been in this house that long, but I love my house. It's just perfect for us. Oh, it has it's flaws and bumps and such, but they can be fixed. And the best part is everyone we know loves our house and they always want to return. I would like to think it's because they can feel love here. That's important to me. I always want my house to be full of love and happiness. And a few other things, too. Maybe it really is a sort of Camelot after all.
If you're going to read this, stop right now. The artwork says "make this day special," and this day is already dwindling into the late afternoon hours. You need to stop in your tracks and save this for tomorrow so's you really have a good launch at making that day special. My day has been a very ordinary day so far, so I did nothing to make it special. I slept about 2 hours last night. That's not special, nor does it lend itself to making the day special. I wasted the morning. I can't remember what I did, but I know I must have pretty much wasted the morning because I have nothing to show for any effort I put forth. Did you know I have memory problems? Yes, I do. Yep, I can't remember much of anything. I'll try to give you the Cliff note version of my problem. I have von Willibrands disease - sister to hemophilia. Therefore, I bleed a good deal. I try to stay away from surgery because nothing good ever comes from surgery when you have von Willy's. I thought I had covered every last base for my last surgery, but as it turned out, I was allergic to the blood thickening agent I was given and suffered hyponatremia. That's sodium loss. And if you don't have enough sodium in your body, your brain can fry. So my brain fried and I suffered memory loss. My surgery was supposed to be an overnight, no big deal experience. It turned into a five day ICU visit. I was under watch for seizures. Thankfully, seizures didn't happen. That would have really made me mad, if I remembered to be mad. I have no memory at all about this event. I remember going into the hospital and I remember being at home 6 days later, but that's all. Huzbin says he never left my side heh heh heh - how would I know? Anyway, this little happening has changed a lot in my life. I have a notebook in which I'm supposed to write down everything I'm scheduled to do. All the time. Every single event or chore that I do is supposed to be written in that notebook. And sometimes I forget to make entries. Then my life unravels and gets ugly. My family gets agitated with me because I can't remember the smallest things. It's really annoying. Huzbin signed me up for Lumosity, but I can't remember to play it. I can't remember names at all. I know some of you are thinking the same thing, but my name problem is different. I can be introduced over and over and I can't remember the name, unless I remembered the name pre-surgery. Sometimes I can't pull up a face, either. And you should hear me try to tell a story! HA! Trying to grasp names, words, places, objects in my scrambled eggbrain is sad. Pity the person who has to listen to me talk. Unfortunately, I've talked too much all my life (my report cards ALWAYS said "talks too much") and now, I think twice before I open my mouth. Ooops! That's a lie. But then, ya'll already know I'm a liar. I should say I NEED to think twice before I open my mouth. And I'm getting better at that. Sometimes it's embarrassing when I start to talk and can't remember what I'm talking about. Mostly, I don't care because I'm so in love with myself. Anyway, tomorrow, when you read this, make your day special! Even if you can't remember what you're doing. I really do believe every day is special, even if you just lie around in your pajamas all day, eating chocolate cream pie. Seriously, that's VERY special!!
