Fear of Flying

I am running zigzag across an open field. I scream and try to cover my head. The thing above me that set this frenzy in motion is still up there, still coming at me, still following me. My mother, who is a few yards from me, waves her arms, frantically, all the while laughing. I cannot be sure whether she is trying to protect me or enjoying my distress at a pigeon trying to land on my head.

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A Time of Celebration

Once a year a particular type of excitement came to our small town on the banks of the Ohio River. The Fourth of July, Independence Day, called for parades, and picnics and visits from relatives. But for me the great excitement happened all week—The carnival came to town with thrilling rides, a merry-go-round, cotton candy, and pony rides. I could hardly contain myself waiting for the Fourth, the night my family would go the carnival. Loud music, bright lights, and a duck pond where I could to pick a little plastic duck with a number on its bottom that corresponded to a prize hanging on the back wall of the stall.

I loved riding the real pony

I know now that the prizes were cheap trinkets, but then I was excited that I had actually won something.

Dressed for The Fourth

People dressed up then as though they were going somewhere special, and for some it was a special treat. I could go on describing the excitement and wonder of it all, but instead let me share a story I wrote some time back about a child, Emily, and her very first Fourth of July adventure which  mirrors my first experience of Goin’ to the Fourth.






Click on the title at the right or in the header for the rest of the story. Continue reading A Time of Celebration

Mother’s Day

I am Margie, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Bertha, daughter of Margaret, daughter of Mary Ann, daughter of Mary Ann, daughter of Drusilla, daughter of Mary. And the line goes on further than I can ever know. It has taken all these mothers and then some to make me. Mother and daughter is not always an easy relationship, but it is an unavoidable strong bond.

Grandpap, Granny, Margaret [Mom], and Marie
Other than my mother, Margaret, and her grandmother, Margaret “Maggie,” [aka Granny] I did not know any of these women, but I bear their genes and probably some of their personal characteristics. I am grateful that they persevered and managed to birth and raise their children; however not all of them were able to see their daughters into being women. That was the story of my grandmother, Bertha. Had it not been for Granny, I would likely not exist. Although Granny had a six-month-old baby when my mother was born to Bertha, she took Mom to raise when Bertha died six months later. Actually, she had been mothering both babies all along. Bertha had TB and was not able to care for Mom. Granny nursed both girls—Marie and Margaret. Mom weighed about 2 pounds when she was born. Granny settled her into a blanket lined drawer set on two chairs behind the wood stove, a sort of make shift incubator before incubators were widely used. The two girls were raised as twins. Mom was around nine before she learned that her sister was really her aunt.

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Homeless, Hungry, and Handled

There is something about men that I don’t understand. Well, honestly, there are a lot of things about men that I don’t quite get. Come to think of it, human behavior, in general, is a puzzle sometimes. Even my own, on occasion.
Right now, though, I am thinking of men touching women inappropriately. I heard a true story a long time ago about a woman coming home to find her husband with his hand up the skirt of her 80-year-old mother. What did he get from that? I can’t see that it was sexual attraction. So then what was it? It’s the same old question as why do people climb mountains? Because they are there. Where does a 200-pound kitten sleep? Anywhere he wants. So, it must be why did the man put his hand under his mother-in-law’s skirt? Because he could.

Years ago, when I was homeless for a brief time in Florida, I lived in a car with Mr. Ex (my former spouse) and two dogs. During the day, we spent time on a public beach. At night, we would sleep in parking lots or at parking meters, moving from place to place to avoid police. Money was limited, so we ate a lot of potted meat sandwiches. Mr. Ex would buy a loaf of bread and “lift” the can of potted meat, and that was dinner. I hate potted meat. Continue reading Homeless, Hungry, and Handled

Old is Not a Four-Letter Word

Only as Old as You Feel?

It finally happened. It has taken long enough, but still, when it does happen, you can be taken by surprise. I’m not saying I was hanging around waiting for it to happen. I was sitting in a waiting room in early January, when the “old” man in a nearby seat asked me whether I’d had a nice holiday. “Yes,” I answered, “We had a quiet holiday—just my husband and me.”

“Don’t you have grandchildren?” There it was. The first time that anyone had asked whether I have grandchildren. Now, granted, I am old enough to have grandchildren, but I never thought that I looked grandmotherly. At least not in the way people have thought a grandmother looked. At least not enough for someone to so boldly ask. Actually, I don’t feel old enough to be grandmotherly. How does a grandmother feel? How does it feel to be old? When will I start feeling old? Continue reading Old is Not a Four-Letter Word