Blue Christmas

Now that it is officially the Christmas season, I have a confession to make.

I am not that fond of this particular holiday. One reason is my estrangement with my father, which makes the season bittersweet and emotionally tiring.

In fact, when I sing carols, I sing "Deck the halls with Melancholy, fa la lala lalala there's no way I can be jolly..." which always earns me a "tsk tsk" from my husband.

He loves the holiday, so I try very hard to be joyful for him. I don't complain about the tree (if not for him I wouldn't bother) or the wrapping or the cards or the decorating. I do my best to get into it but I usually have at least one meltdown.

When I was a child the holiday was a time of great strife. My parents fought like insane rabid wolves this time of the year; I suppose they were cooped up in the house together too much. When your parents are yelling and throwing things at one another, it does not make for anything other than great trepidation. Certainly it does not lead to much in the way of anticipation when you're more worried if Dad will still be there in the morning than if Santa is coming.

It is cold and I worry a lot about folks who don't have a lot of money. I just know they are suffering.

Also, there is all of this crass commercialism and gimme gimme and I want I want I want, which I find to be a downer. I love to buy things for other people, or make things for them (I make pounds and pounds of fudge and give it away; I do enjoy doing that). But I really dislike being told "I expect this from you" unless I have specifically asked.

My husband has to work Christmas Eve this year. That day has always had more importance to me than the actual Christmas Day, and I enjoy going to the community Christmas service with him. That won't be happening this year.

I won't grumble about it again and from here on you'll probably think I just adore Christmas. I think it is a very sad holiday, though, and I hope I and others remember that many folks get the blues this time of year.

Remembering A Veteran

To honor all the veterans, I am printing here, made public for the very first time, another piece of my Grandfather Joe's writings about his service in World War II.

This is a little long and this is not all of it.

You may read the first part here, if you like.

The Push: February 11, 1940
By Joe Bruffy

After two days of forced marching and hitting small pockets of resistance, the Company came to a small bombed out village that had been held by a company of SS German soldiers. They had traveled approximately 50 miles through mud and rain and without food except K rations. The commander, Captain Scott, ordered a rest stop.

Joe, John, and Tony found an old dugout cellar filled with moldy hay - at least it was dry.

They hung a wet blanket over the entrance, got out their K rations, built a small fire by burning the K ration wrappings, and with water from their canteens made themselves a cup of hot instant coffee. Joe opened a can of canned heat that come from K rations. He laid a piece of heavy string cut from his undershirt in the top of the can and with his trench knife pushed it in to a slit in the canned heat, lighting it with his cigarette lighter, and made a small candle. John had found three sugar beets somewhere along the way. The men cut them open and scrapped out the pulp with their trench knives. Tony said he had never eaten a better salad.

Orders came down from the C.P. for everyone to dig in for the night, that they were staying all night. Lt. Nolan came by and told them to put out a guard and stay where they were, that their position was as good as any place along the line.

Joe took the first watch, standing just outside the entrance. Tony and John went to sleep. Joe woke Tony up in four hours to relieve him, and he took Tony's bed. The night passed without action.

The next morning, Joe had contracted some type of a cold and was coughing and sneezing bad. He figured it was caused by sleeping in the moldy hay, but it caused an asthma reaction for years after that.

About 7 a.m. the Company kitchen had caught up with them and had sent up hot pancakes with apple butter and the kitchen Jeep. There were three pancakes to the man packed in clean garbage cans. John said he had never eaten better pancakes and he didn't know he loved apple butter so well, especially out of a garbage can.

That afternoon orders came down to get ready to move out; the Germans were driving out of France across the ziefrig line into Germany,and we were going in after them. After 3:30 p.m. the company moved out. Hitting some small resistance, accompanied by tank destroyers, they traveled approximately 60 miles.

The company had lost approximately 20 men wounded to K.I.A. on the advance. On the last 10 miles the going was very rough, as it had started snowing and had fell about four inches deep. Third squad had lost three men just before dawn. They had come out of the woods into a small meadow. There was a rock wall around the meadow.

Don Cory, the squad leader, gave orders to cross the meadow to the woods on the other side. The moon was in full and with the light snow it was like daylight. Joe told Don that it would be suicide to cross the meadow by going through.

Don said we haven't met anything in the last four hours. So in a staggered group of three they started across, Don and Spitler and Oads in the front, Joe, John and Tony were to follow, with McBeen and some others bringing up the rear.

After Don and the other two guys got approximately a third of the way across, John said let's go, but Joe said give them a little more time. No use all of us getting knocked off by STS. When Don was about half way across the Germans spotted them and opened up with 88 mortar artillery. All three of the first guys got hit.

After the artillery stopped they could see the three soldiers laying on the ground. By that time it had clouded up and began to snow heavy, plus it was beginning to get daylight. Joe told the others to go out one by one with five minute intervals. He would go first.

He came upon Spetzler, who was hit in the thigh. Motioning John to come on, they carried him to the other side. Don was dead, with a piece of shrapnel between his eyes. Oads was hit in the shoulder.

Joe motioned for the rest of the squad to come on. A couple of the guys got Oads, and Don's body was carried across by the rest of them. After getting across and giving Oads and Spetzler first aid the best they could, they finally located the platoon.

Joe got in touch with Lt. Nolon, and gave him an account of what happened. Lt. Nolan told Joe you are to take over the squad with the rank of staff sergeant. Joe said in no way will I be responsible for this squad. I have a hard enough time keeping myself alive, and I am not a glory hunter. After some cursing and raising hell, the Lt. sent Sergeant Clem Crawley out of the second platoon over to replace Don.

Sergeant Crawley was an old combat infantryman coming out of the 45 infantry and had seen lots of combat. He was a very soft spoken low key guy that never done anything without discussing it with Joe, John and Tony, as they were his three right hand men. The push continued on through the day without too many casualties and not too much excitement.

During the day several young replacements had been sent in to the Company. One, a young guy by the name of Bumgardner, was sent to the third squad. Clem put him under Joe's care. That night the Company was halted and told to dig in. About the time they started digging in the Germans opened an artillery barrage.

Bumgardner was helping Joe to dig a hole. The shells were hitting the trees and shrapnel and tree bursts were flying everywhere. Joe pulled Bumgardner down in a rootwall tree hole and waited until the shelling stopped. After a while it quieted down. They finished the fox hole and Bumgardner got sick and turned pale.

Joe asked him what was wrong and he said his left arm was numb. Joe split the sleeve of his field jacket from shoulder to wrist; Bumgardner's shirt and sweater was soaked with blood. Joe called the medic, who came and administered first aid. A piece of shrapnel had went through the bicep of his left arm. He was sent back to a field hospital and never did get back into combat.

After about 8 hours rest, the company was ordered to move out. They had now crossed the ziefreig line and was in German territory. The T.D.S. came up and the combat infantry was loaded on them and into Germany they started. After about ten miles they had caught up with the retreating Germans and a battle started.

Lt. Harris was hit in the legs with machine gun fire trying to cross a railroad. He was pinned down between the railroad ties. Ferrier, the little yankee boy from Brooklyn, zigzagged his way under heavy fire and pulled him back to safety. He was awarded the silver star. After several hours of heavy fighting and severe company losses on both sides, the Germans retreated. The CO gave orders to move out to the next village. The squad moved out without out incident, traveling about 20 miles. The company was halted for a rest and to eat K rations. The third squad stopped by an old barn. Everyone was worn out. The men all sat down, leaning against the wall of the barn.

Sergeant Crawley leaned his rifle against the wall and went to sleep. He slept for a while and woke up. He started to stretch out his legs and kicked his rifle; it fell down and accidentally went off, hitting him in the leg. The third squad never saw him no more after that. He had been a top notch sergeant. Again Lt. Nolan approached Joe, Tony and John, wanting one of them to take over the squad. All three refused.

The squad was kind of looked after by Lt. Nolan after that, without a squad leader. The three men kind of took the squad under their wing and it went along without a leader for a few days.

Finally Frezer was sent out of the second platoon to lead the squad; he led it until the end of the war. About the middle of March the snow was melting and spring was beginning to come; the apple trees and peach trees was in full bloom. They were in the Rhine River Valley and pushing on into the heart of Germany.

The company moved on to the top of a ridge. The third squad was on the extreme left, advancing up the hill. Just before getting to the top, they had hit some small arms fire. John and Joe were approximately 30 feet apart, crawling on their bellies. There was a small bush about one inch thick in front of John's nose, and he looked over at Joe and said he wondered how he was going to get around it.

When he turned his head back, the bush was gone. A German rifle bullet had cut it off at the top of the ground, and John went into one of his praying spells. After getting up the hill, the third squad dug in. A couple of young recruits not over nineteen was sent in to third squad as replacements. One of the young men was put with Joe, the other went with Tony.

Joe, knowing from past experience the first watch was the safest, put the young soldier on guard duty the first part of the night while he tried to get a couple hours of rest. After 12 o'clock he got up, and the young recruit laid down in the hole and went to sleep. About 2 a.m. the Germans opened up with 88 mortars and screaming mimmies. The shells were going over head as they did not have the range yet. The young recruit woke up and, hearing the shells and artillery, he went completely berserk and started out of the hole screaming.

Joe hit him in the jaw and got him quieted down. The young fellow sat sobbing. Joe went to the next hole to the phone, called the CO, he said to bring him down to the C.P. This was done by Joe and Tony; they never saw the young guy no more. They didn't even know his name.

Happy Halloween!

My great aunt and uncle’s home in West Virginia supposedly was haunted.

When I was a child, we would visit and I remember my mother talking about the strange things that happened in the old house.

She did not like to stay there.

My mind is misty as I try to recall these spooky stories. Legends tainted with the eye of an imaginative youngster can often take a turn otherwise unexpected. I lay no claim to the truth herein.

The trip to Canvas, West Virginia was a long trek through the mountains, over winding roads that threatened us all with carsickness. It was always a relief to emerge from the vehicle into the sweet West Virginia air.

The house sat back in a hollow, shaded by huge old trees. The yard was a children’s paradise, with rocks covered with moss and beech and sassafras trees from which we would strip the bark. It tasted sweet and was a treat to us urchins.

Inside, Aunt Helen was always baking. The place smelled like a heaven of bread and fried chicken. The food spilled off the table in great abundance the entire time we were there.

Uncle Carmen and my father spent their day together picking guitars, singing bluegrass until the late hour forced my mother to ask them to be quiet so we could all get some sleep.

I have a teasingly faint memory of the sounds of a banjo playing late at night. Maybe it was my uncle or my father – but both men play guitar and mandolin. As a young musician myself, I knew a banjo when a heard it.

I rose and went to investigate. I hit a creak in the stair and the music stopped. Something rattled, like the sheathing of paper. I slipped on down the steps, shivering in a sudden chill. When I cut on the lights, there was no one.

The next morning I asked Uncle Carmen at breakfast why he played his banjo in the dark. Aunt Helen’s spoon froze on the way to her mouth.

“I don’t play the banjo,” Carmen said. Out of all my visits to his house, those words are the ones I most remember.

They told me I had dreamed the sounds.

On another visit, a clock in the living room where I slept on the couch that had never worked started chiming for no reason at all, waking me up.
It struck thirteen.

Suddenly the pipes in the bathroom sang, rattled and moaned with a fierce desire that made my hair stand on end.

And the rocking chair at the far end of the room began to creak as it rocked.

Back and forth.

Back and forth.

Then the water in the bathroom just off the living room turned on. The faucet handles apparently moved all by themselves, sending a splash of cold water down the washbasin.

This was a lot worse than a banjo singing out in the night.

If you think I sprang out of that room and hightailed it into the guest room where my parents stayed, you would be right.


**This originally appeared on October 29, 2008 in The Fincastle Herald under my column, Country Crossroads.

Jewelry Box Treasures

On my dresser next to the bed sits a very small jewelry box.


My grandmother, who passed away in June of last year, gave it to me when I was 12 years old. If you wind it and open the lid, it plays Somewhere, My Love.

I do not have jewelry in this box. Instead I have more precious treasures.


One of these treasures is a Silver Certificate dollar bill dated 1935. The story goes that when my mother was born in 1944, her first visitor gave my grandmother this dollar and told her to save it for my mother. She did, and after my mother passed away in 2000 my grandmother handed the dollar down to me.


These items are guitar picks and smashed pennies. The guitar picks were given to me by my paternal grandfather when he visited once from California.

The smashed pennies have a picture of San Francisco, which I visited in 1977,a picture of the Statue of Liberty, which I visited when I was 13, and the Lord's Prayer on the third.



These coins have various meanings. My maternal grandfather gave me the Kennedy half dollars. He handed them out on birthdays and other special occasions. Some of the coins are foreign, left over from my high school trip to Spain and France. Other coins simply have old dates.



This is a picture of a picture my paternal grandfather sent me that he painted in 1978. It is a Polaroid and it is beginning to fade.

These are my treasures, worth very little to anyone else but very meaningful to me.

Happy Birthday Grandma and Grandpa

Today is my maternal grandmother's birthday. She would have been 85. She died last June 28.

My last visit with my grandmother while she had consciousness was on this day last year. My aunt, my cousin and his wife, and I went to celebrate her 84th birthday.

In the waning days of her life, Grandma's mind wandered. When we walked in she greeted us but in the latter days of her life she stopped using names. For the last six months of her life I wasn't sure she knew who I was.

On this day she knew me because she told me my mother had been in earlier to see her.

My mother passed away in 2000.

Mom had fluffed her pillows and checked her pulse and then left. But she said she would be back, Grandma said.

A little later, Grandma asked, "What happened to your father?" She looked at my aunt, who said, "He isn't here."

Grandma looked very indignant. "He was here a while ago. He came in with you. That's just like him to leave before the party starts."

My grandfather died in 1976.

Shortly thereafter, perhaps the very next day, my grandmother lapsed into what I called a coma although I don't know if that is the proper word for it. I never saw her conscious again though I visited every few days. She had always been a little fey and I think she was seeing ghosts of people she loved as she prepared for her final journey on her last birthday.

Yesterday, June 10, would have been my Grandpa Joe's birthday, my father's father. Joe would have been close to 90 had he lived. He died in 1989 from lung problems caused by smoking and working in the West Virginia coal mines when he was young.

Grandpa Joe and Grandma Toots moved to California when I was a few months old. I seldom saw them; the first time I met them in person was in 1972, I think, when I was nine.

My grandfather and I hit it off immediately, apparently fashioned from the same cloth. Over the years we developed a letter correspondence and I learned more about him. He would have loved email had it been available to the public then.

He always teased me and said I was two days older than he was. Same joke every year. I never tired of it.

I knew the moment my grandfather died that October; I felt him pass even though he left us from the other side of the nation.

Grandpa left me a legacy of love of history, writing and music. Grandma left me a legacy of love of family. Between them I think I did alright.

Dibbas

When I was growing up in the late 1960s and early 1970s, we did not have computers or video games or even that much TV to take up our time.

My mother worked full time and I spent my early days with my grandmother. She was still raising two boys herself, an uncle who is five years older than I and another uncle who is a year younger than I (and born on my first birthday). My brother came along three years later, so Grandma had a house full.

We spent idyllic days playing outside as much as possible. As soon as the weather warmed we were out the door. We played tag, rode tricycles and bicycles around in circles, and forced dolls and army men to interact.

I spent an enormous amount of time surveying the yard looking for four leaf clovers. I also made lots of necklaces out of the clover flowers, which I presented to my mother in the evenings when she came to pick us up.

In late spring, the maple trees would shed their seeds. These rained down from the treetops in a shower, fluttering to the ground as the wind shook the leaves.



I would stand among them as they fell, enchanted. The seeds would spin around as if they were propellers.

And because they looked like propellers, they required a sound when I scooped them up and tossed them in the air to watch them fall again.

Dibba-dibba-dibba-dibba-dibba-dibba! I cried as nature's toy fled from my hand and into the sky. (I have never been very good at making car noises, gun shot noises, and similar things that boys seem to excel at.)

Soon these tiny seeds became known, at least to me, as dibba-dibbas.

I was reminded of this last Thursday. I was in Salem visiting my aunt, who was in from Georgia. As I left, the wind kicked up and a torrent of maple seeds from across the street flew straight into me.

"Dibba dibbas!" I exclaimed aloud, after which I was grateful no one was standing outside. My mind filled with instant memories of Grandma's house and the side yard where the maple trees provided shade and entertainment.

Proving, I think, that childhood never really leaves us. It simply lays there, awaiting a prompt.

Swayze and my mom

My heart ached when I read the news a few weeks ago that actor Patrick Swayze of Dirty Dancing fame had pancreatic cancer.

This was not because I am an ardent fan (although I like that movie), but because pancreatic cancer is the disease that eight years ago killed my mother.

My mother loved Dirty Dancing. She loved to dance and she loved music – what better movie, eh? Once we were shopping together, and she asked me to go wait for her in a chair in the corner while she tried on clothes. “Nobody puts Baby in the corner!” I huffed, giving Swayze’s line. Mom burst out laughing, as did I.

Cancer in any form is not pretty, but pancreatic cancer is a particularly nasty bugger.

Each year about 30,000 Americans are given a pancreatic cancer diagnosis. Most of these people will be dead within the year. Pancreatic cancer is the fourth leading cause of cancer death in this country.

In Spring 1999, my mother returned from Paris. It was her first trip abroad. She was pale and wan and complaining of stomach problems. She had been in a foreign country. We thought it was the water.

When June came around, my mother attended a small party at my home. She complained of her stomach hurting still. I remember watching her standing by the table, her fist in her gut.

I asked her, of course, if she had been to the doctor. She had. Several times.

A few weeks later, Mom told me she still wasn’t feeling well. I insisted she go back to the doctor. She called me from his office and told me she was being admitted to the hospital that Friday.

She had jaundice.

The following Monday, doctors wheeled my mother off for exploratory surgery. Something was blocking her bile duct. My aunt, who is a nurse, waited with me.

Mom returned to the room, still unconscious. The doctor took us aside. “Pancreatic cancer,” he said.

That was it. No statistics, no hope, no offer of help.

My aunt knew right away that this was a death knell. She explained the diagnosis and statistics.

I was in shock.

My mother’s first words upon awakening were, “Is it cancer?” I burst into tears and fled from the room, leaving my aunt to tell her.

It was the hardest day of my life up to that time.

The choices open were radiation and chemotherapy and little hope. The most radical procedure was a surgery called a Whipple, which entailed removal of the pancreas and surrounding organs, including part of the stomach. My mother chose this operation and opted to have it performed at the University of Virginia.

The surgery prolonged her life. She actually lived just a little beyond a year of the diagnosis. But it was a difficult time, because the surgery left her weak. It also damaged her stomach and she ended up with tube feeding for the rest of her short life.

About this time of year in 2000, I slipped away from work to visit my mother, as I frequently did. Most days I walked in and the house was still as a tomb. She said television bothered her and the music she loved had become noise that she no longer cared to hear. But on this day I walked in to find the radio on. My mother was in the back part of the house. She didn’t know I was there.

“Now I’ve had the time of my life, and I’ve searched through every open door…,” she sang, her alto chiming in on this Dirty Dancing song.

I was grateful she was having a good day. And I was saddened because by this time I knew that the cancer had spread and chemo and radiation wasn’t working. She wasn’t going to be with us much longer.

She died in August at the age of 56. That was the last song I heard her sing.

Give generously when cancer foundations come calling. You just never know where – or who – this disease will strike next.

**This was originally printed on March 26, 2008, in The Fincastle Herald under my column/byline. It didn't have the links.**

The Funnies

I learned to read when I was three years old.

My parents used to tell me this, and my earliest memories of books and stories indicate I was quite young indeed. I remember my uncle, who was five years older, telling me I could not read. I may have been four or five.

You just memorized the book, he declared. I challenged him to bring me something I had never read. He brought home The Cat in the Hat from his school library. I sat and read it to him.

No one questioned my ability to read from that day on.

Long before I started elementary school, I was reading the Roanoke Times. I started with the comics. I remember sitting on my grandmother's lap and sounding out the words as I read Blondie, Snuffy Smith, and Prince Valiant. Yes, I have been reading Prince Valiant for as long as I can remember. I still read it every Sunday.

I don't know how much I actually comprehended, but I must have enjoyed it. I still do. I have missed maybe 30 days of comic-reading in my lifetime.

Before I was 9, I was reading comic books. My grandfather, who lived in Salem, would pay the four of us (my two young uncles and my brother and me) to help him mow the lawn, and every Saturday we'd trek to the Orange Market for a soda, a candy bar, and a comic book, all of which cost about 50 cents (or less).

I was a Marvel Comics reader and I devoured Daredevil, the Fantastic Four, The Black Widow, Spiderman, and Captain America. I read DC Comics, too, but with not as much gusto. In DC Comics I read mostly Wonder Woman, Batman and Justice League comics.

I also read Richie Rich occasionally. He was not a favorite but I'd read him when I was bored.

We tossed our comics into a huge box (it once contained a washing machine, I think) in my grandparent's basement. We must have had thousands of them, because the four of us bought different comics every week and swapped them around. The box went out in the flood waters of 1972 or 1979; I'm not sure which year. It was a small fortune in paper at that time.

I do not read comic books anymore, although I went through a spell of reading them about eight years ago. But I'd been away from them for so long I found it hard to rekindle my interest in those characters.

I still read the comic strips in the newpaper every day. I turn to them every morning before redirecting my attention to the rest of the paper. I don't read every strip - I always try a new comic for several months but if it doesn't grow on me, I stop reading it. Presently there are four of the daily comic strips being printed in The Times that I do not read.

Funky Winkerbean has long been a staple. This comic has undergone several transformations, the most recent last fall. The characters have aged 20 years now.

I am having trouble figuring out who is who in this new version of FW. I don't look forward to this comic strip like I once did. I may have to stop reading it even though I've read it for at least 20 years (or however long it's been carried by the paper).

Things change, I guess. Maybe I've grown older too and that's why Funky Winkerbean no longer makes me smile.

The Hill

Last week I drove to a dirt road that I once traveled on every day by bus. I had not been on this particular road in more than 25 years.

During my travels as a child on the bus, this particular stretch of what was then an hour and a half ride brought me joy. This was because my dinosaur lived down this way.

The dinosaur was a fallen log trapped in a fence beside the road, and to my mind it looked like a dinosaur. The monster greeted me up until about the seventh grade, when my imagination failed and I couldn't find him anymore.

The last time I traveled this road was in 1983; my husband and I parked at the dead end one night for a long chat about our pending nuptials.

The road is no longer dirt; it's been hard surfaced. Houses have sprung up along the road, decapitating what used to be farmland.

There certainly was no dinosaur. Just a lot of houses.

I came to the dead end, which was at the foot of a steep hill. My destination was the house beyond. I drove a long way on a gravel driveway, winding around and then up and up a rather stiffly inclined path.

I rounded the corner to the house and the view opened up. The first thing I saw to my left was this:



To the casual observer it's a mountain with a grassy spot.



To me, it was the place I grew up. Yes, I rounded the corner and there was one of the fields my father owns. If you look closely you'll see the corner of the house he built in 1976 nestled in the woods.

I had never seen the hill from that angle, but I knew exactly where that grassy spot was. I confirmed it with the homeowner when I gestured toward the view and nonchalantly asked if that field wasn't over on a particular road.

This is the field where my brother and I played. We chased cows, picked wild strawberries, ran up and down like wild things until we collapsed panting in chairs on the back deck. I once lay alone on top of that hill and watched the sky all night, waiting for shooting stars.

I have not been back since July 2000. My mother died a month later.

My father and I have been estranged since that time. I do not regret it. But sometimes it is a steep hill to climb.

Mrs. W.

When I entered second grade, I did so with much trepidation. My school was new to me, as we'd moved. And the school where I spent first grade had left a terrible mark.

My new teacher promptly informed my mother, when we visited prior to the beginning of the school year, that nicknames were not allowed. Thus ended the use of a name bestowed upon me by my father when I was born (I suppose he did not like my given name). I don't know if this was a school rule or a teacher rule, but in any event, it was life changing.

Mrs. W. seemed ancient to me. She also seemed mean and I remember telling my mother she'd be like some old boat captain, ordering children around. "She'll tell us to scrub the floors!" I said. I always remember that when I think of these childhood days, because I grew to love Mrs. W.

First impressions are not always correct.

Second grade was the year of learning to write "cursive", or "real writing," as I called it. I was ahead of my peers - this school moved children along more slowly than my previous one. I read better, wrote better, knew more math. I tried not to let anyone know, but they still called me names. It has never been easy being someone who can think.

A number of incidents stand out from this year, which must have had quite an impact on my character formation. Mrs. W. gave me much self esteem several times when she chose me - me! - to go over to the first grader's classroom to "babysit" and read to them for the last hour when the teacher had to leave early for the day (it was a different world then). I always read them the dinosaur book. I could even pronounce "Brontosaurus"!

But I could not make an "A" in reading. I made the best grade in reading in the class, but it wasn't an "A." Finally Mrs. W. told me - in front of the class, something she excelled at - that the reason I didn't make an "A" in reading was because I did not read with inflection in my voice. Instead I read in a monotone and gave no life to the characters.

Well, why hadn't somebody told me? After that I did better. I made the coveted "A."

Then there was the note. Egads. A boy named Jerry, who is dead now, decided I should be his girlfriend. He began passing me notes. In my mind this incident is the first time we ever passed notes but I don't know if that is so. In any event, he passed me a note that said something about he wanted to take me out back and kiss me. He drew little hearts all over the paper. I don't recall if I wrote him back but I do remember Mrs. W. towering over me.

"What do you have there?" she barked.

I handed up the note. She took it to the front of the room and pinned it to the blackboard. Then she made every student parade by the note and read it.

I was so humiliated. All I could do was sit and sob. I think I ended up sick in the bathroom.

And finally, this is the memory that comes to me almost every year in December.

Back then we put on a Christmas pageant in the school. I don't think they do such things anymore.

I was chosen to be the angel. Not just any old angel, but the angel who spoke. The angel who was also the narrator.

My father did not want me to do this, but my mother made me a costume and told me to go ahead. I'm pretty sure they had a row over it.

I wore a white sheet and had little gold flecks in my hair. It was my duty to move forward and do the speaking.

I recited Luke 2 (King James Version):


1 And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.

2 (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)

3 And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.

4 And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)

5 To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.

6 And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.

7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.

8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.

9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.

10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.

11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,

14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

15 And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.

16 And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.

17 And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.

18 And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.

19 But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.

20 And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.


It was an hour I remember every year.

Retail Therapy

My mother was a super shopper. There was no abuse my father could heap on her, no inconsideration her children could bestow upon her, that could not be solved by buying something.

She swallowed capitalism and merchandising hook, line, sinker. She owned trinkets that, had we lined them side by side, would have stretched at least across the state. Maybe into Florida, I don't know.

Her clothes closet would have outfitted about three high schools when she died. She had blouses and pants hanging in the closet with the tags still on them, things she bought and never wore.

Goodwill is probably still selling her clothes even though it's been years since I handed my half over to them.

She shopped in shoes that made my feet hurt simply to look at them. No sneakers for her - she went in heels. Sometimes her feet ached, so she'd slip her shoes off and roam the mall barefooted, putting her shoes back on to enter stores.

She bought what I call "sitty-around" stuff and clothes, mostly. She did not buy art or things that would acquire value; she bought mass-produced beauties, glass things that would one day be broken. She had a collection of glass bells and a collection of glass birds and a collection of cheap carnival glass.

She collected things that make you blink and wonder who ever thought of creating such a thing in the first place.

When she was alive my closet was much better equipped than it is now, because she was always buying me clothes too. I confess I mostly did not appreciate the clothes and I seldom wore them. This is because, while my mother dressed exquisitely, it wasn't my style. I look very conservative but have a bohemian heart while my mother dressed flashy and had a movie star heart.

The two us rarely agreed in the dressing room, I have to say.

I hated to shop and still do. My mother dragged me after her for years when I was a child and a teen. She spent hours looking at clothes on the racks. She knew where all the sales were and where to buy practically anything in Roanoke.

I know I stood and whined pitifully when I was 10 and stood mulishly silent when I was 15. I did not understand how tightly the grip of purchasing was wrapped around her throat, er, pocketbook.

She lost me numerous times. I learned at a very young age to find a sales clerk and ask her to page my mother on the loudspeaker when my efforts to locate her set my eyes to overflowing. "There's a little girl here who's lost her mother. She says her name is ...." the voice would magically yell across Leggett's or Woolworth's.

My mother would come fetch me, her mouth set tightly. She'd grab my hand and scold me for running off and embarrassing her. I think it usually ended up in a whipping that I never thought I deserved because I didn't run off. I just turned around and she was gone, off in her shopping zone, her nose sniffing out a clearance rack.

No wonder I don't like to shop.

As Black Friday evolved into a kind of post-Thanksgiving freak show, my mother took notice. When the stores started opening early, she started driving in to town in the wee hours.

If she were alive today, she'd be marveling at the fact that she could be at J.C. Penney's at 4 a.m. on Friday morning.

I will still be in bed at 4 a.m. on Friday morning.

Capitalism is not democracy, though in this country the two seem to be as married as any old farmer and his wife. However, we don't have to buy things. Going shopping does not save the country.

In this day and age, I think my main job is to hold on to my money, while the job of everyone else is to take it away from me.

I am outnumbered by a billion to one.

My mother thought her job was to spend money.

She and the other billion got along just fine.

24 Years (and counting)

Today is my 24th wedding anniversary.

On a cold and snowy Friday night in 1983, I stood before the altar in my wedding gown and a hat. My husband was dressed in silver tuxedo.




We married in front of a church full of people and attended a reception at the Country Club. We dashed off to a weekend honeymoon at a B&B in Bath County.

A funny addendum to our new life together happened two days later. We returned home on Sunday. That evening we went to Burger King, which I think was relatively newly opened at that time and one of the few restaurants open then.

Something made us both sick. This was our first illness together. My husband was really more ill than I and he didn't want me around him. He was really missing his mother, as I recall. We had no medicine because, well, we'd just joined our households and we each came from our parents' house. I trotted out to a 24-hour convenience store for some very expensive Pepto. Upon my return he told me he couldn't sleep with me in the bed.

Our first night in our new home, I ended up sleeping on the couch!

Now when he gets sick, which is seldom, he wants me to take care of him. Which I do, although I try to do it from far away because I am very susceptible.

Last year I made a list of 23 reasons I love my husband. I won't repeat it but here's reason number 24:

24. He is considerate.

It could be a very long list because he's a great fellow. He's not without his faults, but who isn't?

We weren't supposed to exchange gifts this year. The dishwasher went clunk a while back and we replaced it and then I bought him an expensive gun safe because the lock on his other (cheap) one went bad.

However, I bought him several pairs of jeans and a very expensive hat because I couldn't help myself. The hat cost $50, which for us is a phenomenal amount of money to spend on a hat. We just don't make such purchases. But he'd been looking for a new "go to hell" hat to hunt in, one with blaze orange. I ran across this hat while shopping yesterday and, knowing he'd been seeking just such a thing (only for like, $3.99), I made the purchase. I haven't told him what it cost.

So I wasn't expecting anything, but when he came in from work this morning he handed me a bag.

He bought me a new Nikon lens for my D40. This is a 200mm lens for shooting shots of animals around the house, he said. It's something I've been wanting and thought I might get for Christmas so this was unexpected.

I am very anxious to get outside and shoot some pictures!

The Idiot Award

I gave myself an Idiot Award today.

Here's what happened.

My husband phoned before 9 a.m., mad as a hornet because a hot air balloon had drifted over the farm while he was trying to round up cattle to take to market.

The cattle stampeded and ran all over the place, causing him untold misery while he huffed and puffed and chased them every which a way. Hot air ballooning can be a problem sometimes for farmers.

He was not a happy camper.

When he called, he wanted the number of the county administrator's office so he could lodge a complaint.

"They're probably not in, today is a holiday," I told him. (This is very important to note for my Idiot Award.)

After listening to much muttering and fussing from him, I hung up the phone. I had to be at a ground-breaking ceremony for an article for the newspaper at 10 a.m. It was about a quarter to nine.

I decided to hustle to the newspaper office, which is five miles away (and in the other direction) to quickly take care of some business.

I breezed in the office just after 9 a.m. The editor was not yet in and I needed a word with him. I made some copies, bothered the typesetter, and then decided to leave.

I thought I'd go to the library and get a new book on tape.

I pulled in the library lot. Silly me. The library was closed.

Of course! It's a HOLIDAY.

What to do, what to do. I had 45 minutes to kill until I had someplace to be.

I know, I thought, I'll go to the grocery store and just not buy anything that needs refrigeration. So I sped down the road.

A few miles passed and I thought, Oh! I forgot the checks I need to put in the bank! I'd better do that.

So I turned down a road that would take me back towards my house, and off I went to home. I had just enough time, I thought.

I raced in the house and began filling out the bank deposit slips. As soon as I dated the form, I realized ... the banks are closed.

IT IS A HOLIDAY.

(I realize I could have used the ATM but I am old fashioned in that way. Don't use the ATM, don't pay the bills online. Hard to change my ways.)

So. By this time I was pretty sure I had the Idiot Award sewed up.

I hustled off to my ground-breaking, took my pictures, talked to the folks. Headed back home, stopped by the grocery, ran through there quickly.

I was home by lunch time.

My husband came in, still muttering about the hot air balloon. He asked about my morning and I told him, somewhat exasperated, about my forgetting about the holiday.

Then, as he was leaving, I reminded him to check the mail.

He looked at me funny. "The mail doesn't run today," he reminded me.

IT IS A HOLIDAY.

At that point, I gave myself the Idiot Award, and he laughed at me.

I laughed too. What else was there to do?

Defining Success

Try not to become a man of success but rather try to become a man of value.
- Albert Einstein

A conversation this morning led me to wonder how people define success.

Apparently in today's society, it is all about the money. If you have it, you're successful, if you don't, you're not.

Ostensibly that also includes the things that people can see to indicate success. If you have millions of dollars but drive an old clunker and live in a little house, most people will not consider you a success. Or so it seems.

In the Roanoke Times today, there is a story about a man who lived unpretentiously but left $50 million. No one knew him when he lived, but now that his finances are known, he is a success. (I can't find the story online but it was in the Virginia section.)

Success is not the key to happiness. Happiness is the key to success.
If you love what you are doing, you will be successful. - Albert Schweitzer

All of my life, I have judged success not on material things but on happiness. If someone is happy, I think she is successful.

Most artists are successful people, but they aren't necessarily wealthy. Art is not valued in this country so it is a hard field in which to earn money.

But the value of creating - to do it is to be successful, whether you sell it or not. To create is to succeed, don't you think?

How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving and tolerant of the weak and strong. Because someday in life you will have been all of these. - George Washington
Carver

You can be successful in many ways. I experienced a time in my life that left me beaten and downtrodden. I did not stay down. I consider that a success, even though my hard work to feel better gave me no material possessions.

It did bring me peace of mind. Isn't that success?

I long to accomplish a great and noble tasks, but it is my chief duty to accomplish humble tasks as though they were great and noble. The world is moved along, not only by the mighty shoves of its heroes, but also by the
aggregate of the tiny pushes of each honest worker. - Helen Keller

I have always worked. I began working when I was 15 and haven't stopped. I have not always worked full time but I have always had income of my own. I have never depended entirely on my husband for anything.Even when I was very ill and had six surgeries in as many years, I worked.

I also put myself through Hollins University. It took me eight years but I am the only one in my family with a B.A.
Is that not a success?

Those who try to do something and fail are infinitely better than those
who try nothing and succeed. - Lloyd Jones

The person I was speaking with today called someone "white trash" - and they didn't mean it in a way that indicated success. It reminded me of a conversation I have several years ago with my brother.

He called me "white trash."

When I asked him why he would lay such a title upon me, he said it was because I lived in a small house and could not have children.

My house is 1,560 square feet. My husband and I built it with our own two hands. We paid about a third for this place than it otherwise would have cost. We hauled the wood and nailed the nails. We (and I really mean my husband, he did most of it) put in the plumbing, the wiring ... everything.

It is our house through sweat and through dollars.

It is dwarfed by my brother's large 3,500 square feet house (which my father actually paid for). Compared to the monster homes in Ashley Plantation, I do indeed live in a little bungalow.

But it's a clean bungalow, filled with nice furniture. It's spacious enough for the two of us.

And as for the children, yes, my inability to conceive is a failure. My ability - and my husband's ability - to move forward in spite of this terrible blow, when we both wanted a baby so very desperately, is a success.

The secret of joy in work is contained in one word - excellence. To know how to do something well is to enjoy it. - Pearl S. Buck

My work does not earn me very much money. Writing is difficult and let's face it, it just isn't the greatest paying job.

But I do it well. I have a wall lined with awards. My name is known to about 30,000 people.

I serve as chairman of a government board, thanks to an appointment by a supervisor; I water-witched the well for the local circuit court judge. I hob-nob with county officials, know several sheriffs on a first-name basis; if you want to play Kevin Bacon, I'm just three degrees from some very high-ranking people.

But I don't drive a Lexus or live in a mansion. I don't have money to burn and frugality is part of my daily practice. And for those reasons, I suppose, I am not a success.

But only if you use the world's definition.

By my own, I'm not doing a bad job.

An Anniversary

Yesterday evening at dusk my husband and I stopped by the cemetery. I wanted to replace the flowers at my mother's grave.

I had been angry with her for the last year; ridiculous, I know, since she's been dead for seven years. But in my anger I had not visited the cemetery.




I replaced the flowers on one side of the tombstone with bright plastic fall mums. The old flowers looked faded and worn; apparently no one has been there for some time. My father probably hasn't been up there since the funeral, based on comments I've heard from my sister-in-law. She used to take my nephew by regularly because he missed his Nana, but perhaps he's out grown that.

Today would have been my parents 45th wedding anniversary, if my mother had lived - and my parents had stayed married. Most likely they would have been divorced. Their divorce was four days away from being finalized when my mother passed away.

Their marriage was stormy. They married because my mother was pregnant with me, and neither ever forgave me for (a) being born and (b) not being a boy if I had to be born. My brother was born three years later.

They fought verbally and physically. Most of my memories involve tears. There must have been good, pleasant times but they have always been overshadowed by the bad. When I do remember good times, they stand out starkly in comparison to the rest, like snapshots that belong to some other family.

I did not consider theirs a happy marriage and as soon as I was old enough to understand what "divorce" meant, I wished they would get one.

It wasn't until 1995 - and I'd been (very happily) married for 12 years myself by that time - that my father left my mother for another woman. My mother had been telling me he slept around on her for many years.

Despite everything, she loved him, and each time she'd file papers he'd come back and sweet talk her, and she'd forgive him. Then he'd leave again. He never filed for divorce; I think he didn't want to make a property division. It wasn't until my mother knew she was dying that she attempted a divorce in earnest, and I honestly think that was for my benefit. She knew my father would never give me anything.

So Happy Anniversary, Mom. Dad's remarried and I still don't speak to him. You haven't sent a message to me from beyond in several years. I hope that means you're happy. I know you were never happy when you were alive.

I am sorry about that.


(The photo was taken in 2006.)

You Can't Go Home Again

Hollins University

It took me eight years to obtain my four-year degree from Hollins College, now Hollins University. I started in 1985 and received my diploma in 1993. It was still called Hollins College then.

I was ill for much of the time I was at school. I had three major surgeries in six years, each requiring me to drop out of a semester. I was also working full time and going to school part time. It was not easy.



During that period I was unhappy with my work (I was a legal secretary), with my inability to have children, with life in general. I found great refuge in my classes at Hollins.

When I attended my classes, mostly held in Pleasant's Hall (above), I was most content. Hollins and its professors helped me find courage, self esteem, grit and determination, and a new lease on life.



When I went to the Hollins campus, I felt welcomed. The place was a magical balm. I could walk anywhere and feel inspired. The old buildings reverberated with history; the grass seemed to call out to me, the professors knew me and, if they didn't like me, at least had the courtesy not to let me know it.

I continued to feel this even after I graduated. I would go back for poetry readings, or just to visit an old professor. Sometimes I went just to walk around.

I always left feeling calm and sure and grateful for my time at the college.



That changed with the new millennium, and for a long time now I have not felt welcome on campus. I have not felt inspired or happy or glad to be visiting.

I attempted to return to work on my Master's in 2004 - I'm only about four classes short of finishing - but there was no joy. It felt wrong. I loved the creative writing class I took, thought highly of my professor, but the rest of the campus felt plain and ugly.

Where has the magic gone?

I don't know, but I honestly trace my feelings of unease to the construction of the new library in 1999. The library is a magnificent structure (it is visible behind the chapel in the photo above) and I enjoy the library when I visit. But it doesn't feel like Hollins. It feels new and institutional.

The campus has undergone many other renovations since then, including a new arts studio where the old library used to be.

I visited Hollins Tuesday and took photos. I also visited the new hall for the English Department, now called something I can't even remember. The faculty used to be in Bradley and I was pretty sure the creative remnants of past students, like Lee Smith, Jill McCorkle and Annie Dillard, were floundering about the hallway, waiting for some fool like me to pick up a thread and run with it.

As I left campus earlier this week, I knew with certainty that Hollins is no longer the magical place it once was for me. I hope that for those younger that it still may be, but I suspect that the cynicism of this new age, this time of fear-mongering and class warfare, has sent the magic scurrying far away.

I also know that if I ever do return to finish up my Master's, which seems doubtful at this time, it will be only for degree and not for the magical experience that learning there once was.

I doubt I ever again feel like the fairies dance at Hollins, their wings feeling the wind currents, their hearts happy while they twirl to make it all right.

Dishwashing

The dishwasher has developed a rinsing problem, leaving heavy residue on the dishes.

This is not the end of the world. A dishwasher is not a necessity, not like, say a water heater.

But I despise washing dishes. I would rather clean the toilet.

Some of my friends greatly enjoy washing dishes, and own no dishwasher. They apparently love to stand by the sink, their hands growing wrinkly, while they play in filthy water contaminated with the dregs of their dinner.

It is not my thing.

I began washing dishes before I was five. My mother would stack books on a chair and then place me on top of the books with orders to wash the dishes.

My memories of doing this are rather painful.

I recall once, before I was six, my father had purchased some kind of reel-to-reel recording device. He had it in the kitchen, and I was instructed to be very quiet while I washed the dishes. Of course halfway through his song, I dropped the silverware. He knocked me off the chair.

Later, when I was about 9, my brother, three years my junior, "helped" by dumping the macaroni salad into the dishwater in the sink instead of into the trash. He vanished, and my mother came in as I tried to fish out the macaroni. She flew into a rage and, after making me empty the dishwasher and clean the sink, she proceeded to empty the cabinets of every dish in the place and forced me to stand there and wash each piece. I remember watching my tears splash into the dishwater.

And another time, when I was 9 or 10, I ended up staying alone in the house for what seemed like a very long while my parents and brother went fishing, because I had not finished the dishes in a timely manner. I remember being absolutely terrified at being alone.

So as you can see, washing the dishes is not something I have been very happy doing.

Which means that unless my husband can fix this dishwasher, which is a Whirlpool we purchased in 2003, I will be getting a new dishwasher pretty soon.

A new experience

I know the city dwellers will laugh at me, but last night we ordered pizza. And had it delivered.

This is a first. My first time ever having pizza delivered. I've gone for 44 years without having pizza brought to my door.

It is also rather sad because it is a good indicator of how close in the city has come to the country. We are now within delivery distance of pizza.

I can remember when there was nothing in Botetourt to speak of. The Cavalier Burger and Big-T. That was in the 1970s. Then came Pizza Hut along about 1979 or 1980. Then McDonalds, Burger King, Hardees . . . on it goes, the homogenization of the country. We now look just like every other area of the nation.

One big shopping mall and a McDs. Bye bye, county that I love. You're losing your identity just as sure as the sun sets and the moon is in the nighttime sky.

Wineberries

Colleen over at Loose Leaf Notes mentioned wineberries in today's entry.

I was immediately transported back to childhood.

Wineberries were the stuff of youth. My brother and I roamed the farm in search of those sweet yet tart berries.

They are some kind of wild raspberry, I suppose, but oh! so much better. Tangy and sweet and delicious. The berries are red and juicy and they draw your eye and then your hand and before you know it, that berry is in your mouth and you're drooling for the next one.

They grew wild down along a ravine near the lot where my parents kept horses. We weren't supposed to go there without an adult, because the horses, though tame, were quiet large compared to two small children.

Heedless of danger, we slipped through the fence and over to the berries. We carried a small dish, ostensibly to take some back home, but inevitably we ate twice as many as we took to my mother.

The berries peeled off the vine, leaving a yellow something behind. They were sticky and we never found enough of them for a pie or anything like that. They were definitely berries just for eating.

My mother did not know where we found the berries we brought back until one day we were out riding, my brother and I on a pony. He pointed to the ravine. "That's were we found the berries," he said.

Being the eldest, it was my responsibility to keep said brother out of trouble. Failing this, even though we were uninjured, I received a beating when we finished our ride.

The beating was for disobeying, I was told, and leading my brother astray.

Okay, so that memory turned a little rancid in the retelling... still, the berries were good. When I find them now, which is seldom, they never taste quite as sweet as they did then, when I was still young and innocent and a child of the 1970s.

On Salem

Today I had occasion to drive through Salem as I ventured from Tanglewood to Richfield. I did some (very) early morning shopping, scoring nice bargains, before heading to visit my Great Aunt Susie at the retirement home.

I drove down East Riverside Drive. This road runs along the Roanoke River. It is not as wild-looking as it was when I was child. Then there were more trees.

My grandmother until 1992 lived across from the river in a house which still stands and remains occupied. Several of the homes have been torn down and the rest are supposed to be, I think, because they are flooded out frequently.

My grandmother's house flooded badly in 1972, during Hurricane Agnes and in 1985. It flooded one other time but I don't remember the event. Hurricane Camille, perhaps?

Anyway, the house looked much smaller than I remember. It is only about 1,000 square feet - not much for raising six children. But I have most of my fondest childhood memories storied in that house.

Grandma rocking me. Playing with superhero dolls (I was never much on girly baby dolls, I liked to play with Johnny West and GI Joe and when the superhero dolls like Wonderwoman came out, I adored those).

During the summer my grandmother would walk us up to downtown Salem. Salem them actually looked like a small town, not a junk heap like it does now (I know Salemites have great pride in their town, but honestly, looking in from the outside, it isn't what it used to be).

We'd go to Brooks Byrd Pharmacy for a snowcone. Yum. Then we'd tour Newberry's, which was a precursor to Walmart, I guess. A five and dime. It was the most delicious place, full of toys and smells. We'd spend our quarter (or 50 cents) on something like a balsam wood glider airplane (though I always liked the ones with a propeller) or a paddleball. When they started making "monster models" we all bought those and filled the basement with tiny plastic replicas of Dracula and the Wolfman.

There was a cafeteria uptown somewhere (Tarpley's, maybe? or was it Newberry's, too?) and if we were *very* good we could have pie or pudding. On the walk back, we'd stop off at various relatives and chat.

Because my grandmother's family, you see, pretty much owned a lot of Salem at one time, including the land where the hospital sits, some generations back. Or so I have been told. I don't know where the money went, but the relatives are there all over the place.

I enjoyed my drive down East Riverside Drive. I liked remembering, especially since it's not been so long since my grandmother's funeral.

It was a little like going to see her. I can almost feel her eyes on me and hear her voice calling to me in greeting, saying, "It's my granddaughter! You've made my day."