Safe in His Arms.

 I was reading a MITFORD book in which Father Tim is recalling a stern and cold father who yet shared a wonderful moment with his son on Christmas Eve. I wanted to have such a memory of my own, to have and hold onto, shoving all the rest away.

I don't often write about my father except in passing. He was there, in my early life. His wishes and wants trumped all but our most basic needs. Shelter was provided by the church, including most but 

not all utilities.  Mama grew and canned most of our own food. Meat was usually provided by farming parishioners. We ate a lot of squirrel, rabbit, eggs, bacon, and chicken. Pork, beef and ham were holiday foods. I never ate a steak that didn't require pounding to a fare-thee-well until I was a grown woman. SOS was a staple in our home....made with one six ounce jar of chipped beef for the three of us. Daddy got most of it, Mom and I each got a sliver.  

We were decently clothed more due to my Grandmother and aunts than from his paycheck. My mother's cleverness with a needle mended many an outfit made to fit one much larger than I. Purchase of  a few yards of new fabric for clothing happened at the beginning of the school year and never seemed to stretch to anything new for Mama. One fall Mama and I each got a brand new store bought "Storm Coat". I think Grandma Downs saw what we had been wearing and took charge. 

But I am doing what I didn't want to do. I am recalling all the things that were wrong. Let me see if I can remember....the time he took me to the YWCA Father/Daughter dance...and asked loudly if anyone could believe he was old enough to have "one that age".  On a particularly bad hair day, saying as we were headed out to dinner "So, is that how the girls are wearing their hair, now?" Remarking sorrowfully to a friend, "I had hoped to raise a surgeon, but the best I can hope for is a librarian." I was doomed to be a disappointment. Curly, bushy hair, skinny, gawky, graceless figure, with no charm or gift of gab. He wanted those curls to be Shirley Temples, he wanted a daughter who danced, sang, played ball, or at least some kind of sport.  I could read. Who cared. Not him. 

The only praises I recall are public ones that told the world what a great guy he was. I don't remember a single bedtime story. I don't recall a single cuddle that wasn't public. Although by the time I was noticing, he was denying that he was old enough to be my father. 

The only time I remember having his full and absolute approval, I was 2 or 3 years old. We were in San Antonio, TX, at an amusement park. Against mama's  better judgement, Daddy took me on the roller coaster. Each time we finished a ride I begged to go again. I do not know how many times we rode, certainly three or more, before he tired of it.  I did not.  I wanted to go fly some more, with my daddy, holding me safe and tight and approving. There it is. That feeling. The reason I still love to ride long and fast and high.  Laughing in my daddy's arms. 

SUNDAY SUNDAY

We were sitting behind two couples in church Easter Sunday. They were at least my age, maybe older, all had
short gray hair still twisted up at the crown from the Lazy Boy. The women wore pedal pushers with  sweaters, and
sturdy, flat podiatrist prescribed sandals. Both men wore khakis and a cotton shirt, with Keds. My husband
is dressed similarly. I check my hair. It seems to be laying flat. So is Dick's. I smooth it down just to be sure and he
gives me that "huh?" look.
Two rows up and one over a black woman of our age group is elegant in hat, silky suit and
sensible heels. Dotted around the sanctuary like orchids amongst peanut vines are others in their Easter finery.
Our few contemporary black men are wearing suits, collared shirts and ties with good leather shoes.
My brain went into oddity overdrive and I began a mental poll of the congregation.
Nearly all the white women of my daughter's age (fiftish) wear jeans or clam diggers, tees or tanks and sandals with a moderate heel. Their hair is long, worn pony tailed or loose. Most of our black sisters in this age group are dressed in the cutest short swishy skirts,  astoundingly high platform shoes, and wonderfully intricate hair dos. The men are wearing vests, with dark slacks, and collared shirts, black or pink seem to be the prevailing color today.
The younger moms, both black and white, wear simple dresses, slacks or knee length shorts, and flat shoes appropriate for child chasing. Their hair is sensible and easy care with an occasional baby wrought twist.  The fathers are in slacks, tennies, polo shirts, no tie.
Except for a few, the teens and school aged kids are wearing cut offs, tee shirts, and sandals or tennies. Those who are dressed up seem ready to declare rebellion.
Toddler boys scoot happily around our legs in little suits, shirts and tiny ties. The toddler girls are without exception dressed to the nines, in starchy petticoats, pastel pinafores or sundresses suitable for a sunny Easter in Florida. In a few years they'll be in cut offs, but hopefully still in church.

The $25 ARK

We had moved to a small town in southwest Florida to be near my husband's elderly mother.
My mother and our 6 year old grandson, Sam, moved with us.  In rapid succession my mother, who was Sammy's best friend and caregiver died, and then Dick's mom died following a short illness.
We were reeling and confused, rocked to our foundations. We were trying to make a home,
find jobs, grieve, and be good parents, when one of Sam's teachers invited us to Edgewater United Methodist Church. Many of Sam's school friends attended there, people remembered us and included us. We had a church home.
That was wonderful, but we needed paying jobs. During the illnesses of our mothers, our savings had dropped drastically and neither of us was eligible for Social Security. Sam went on Florida Healthy Kids, and got free lunches at school.
 No one in either of our families had ever had to ask assistance, even during the Great Depression. Then we rediscovered football.
In Charlotte County Pop Warner is total participation. Everyone attends the games. The kids
from the high schools attend because they learned the game with Pop Warner. The Cheerleaders attend because they learned to cheer with Pop Warner. Their families go because they always had.
We registered Sam for Pop Warner football and became part of that community. Many of
our church friends were involved in coaching, playing and cheer squad. It was an enlarged family.
We took turns driving Sam and his friends to practice while Dick worked toward his real estate license. The football fields for Pop Warner are better than some schools I attended. Money to support the fields and the teams was raised by holding a raffle. They cost $25 and night after night I fended off the football moms saying I had no money with me.  But on one of Dick's nights, he pulled out his wallet and paid up.
I exploded. Our bank account is down to 3 very low digits and how could you be so foolish
and what did you think you were doing and all those accusations came out of my angry
mouth.
My anger sizzled for weeks. I am pretty sure it festered everything I touched. Then,
one night at Bible study, friends at our new church prayed with me for peace and the anger left. We hadn't starved yet, we had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and even decent cars to drive. We were blessed and Dick was studying for his real estate exam.
The day of the raffle drawing Dick came home stunned and bemused, holding the
winning ticket. He was now the owner of a big, beautiful boat contributed by a Marina
owner whose son played on Sam's team.
The generous contributor agreed to keep the boat on his lot and sell it for us. May God bless that good and decent man.
The proceeds from the sale supported us for nearly nine months while Dick learned the
business of real estate.
My family was saved by a $25 boat.

Silent little Christmas

It was our first Christmas at my father's new  pastorate, the First Christian Church in Aurora.  We had moved in the late summer and I had started first grade at the two story school that housed grades one through 12 in this little town.
The weather had turned suddenly cold and sniffles spread like the vicious little monster muggers they really are. Me, I felt fine! The church pageant and celebration would start at 6 p.m. so all good little children could be put to bed nice and early. And wonder of wonders, Santa was going to appear at OUR CHURCH this very night before leaving on his big round the world tour. The excitement was deafening.  I skipped, I sang every Christmas song I knew, I danced and I giggled the whole day long. I am sure my mom was going stark raving mad! Daddy was at the church organizing and I wasn't allowed to help. I really liked to help, but Daddy said it tried his patience.
At last it was time to go. We crossed the street and climbed the broad stairs. The heavy wooden doors were festooned with evergreen swags, holly and big red bows. Joy and sorrow flowed and ebbed side by side. This was the first full year after the end of the war and everyone wanted to make a whole new start. Forget the bad, remember the good was the byword of the year.
The choir sang gloriously, the tree sparkled and spangled, winked and blinked while we listened to the story of the very first Christmas gift.
Suddenly Santa appeared and sat himself in the big old throne chair beside the tree. His huge bag bulged mysteriously. Corners poking here, things curving there, with bright ribbons and colorful wrappings spilling out the top.
Santa had a list of names, and one by one he called us to the front to sit on his lap and listened to our requests and handed us a candy cane and a gift from his bag. I bounced and twitched awaiting my turn to tell Santa my Christmas list...the usual, a pony, some paper dolls...I liked to punch them out but was totally uninterested in playing with them, cowboy boots and a holster with a pistol that would shoot.
At last he called my name. I ran down the aisle and climbed on Santa's lap.
I could not utter a word. I was struck dumb. Nothing, not a whisper of a whisper came out.  My face flamed and I put on my strongest grin and trotted back up the aisle to my mother. I could not even tell her what was wrong, but my silence had her wrapping me up and whisking me back across the street to my big tall bed.
It was the quietest Christmas ever. I had Vick's spread from ear to ear and down my chest, Daddy's sock was wrapped around my neck and pinned securely. Tea and toast were my Christmas eve snack. I did sleep silently through the night, and silently opened my gifts in the morning.  I got paper dolls to punch out, a baby doll, and a cap pistol and holster.
I'll bet if I could have talked to Santa I would have gotten the boots and the pony.

Doc Martin's Sandals

Dreams, good or bad, do not stick with me on waking, but I an oddly memorable one not long ago.
I was in Doc Martin's car which was parked in front of Auntie Joan's barn. Excuse that the TV show never showed any barn, I was there, sitting in the driver's seat.
Aware that I had to change into sturdier shoes or wellies so I could enter the barn, I reached under the passenger seat.
The most gorgeous sandals came cascading out. Leather, suede, silver, gold, pastels, rainbows and technicolor.  Some had jewels, some had precious metals, delicate, elegant, all were my size, and all were for the right foot only. Out and out they spilled, each more lovely than the last, but no wellies to be seen and no shoe for the left foot.
I never got into Auntie Joan's barn, but my memory sees those sandals in glorious detail, and I wish I owned them all. Preferably for both feet.

THE ORPHAN FROM THE TRAIN

Most stories about the Orphan Trains seem to have pleasant endings with children finding forever families and living happily ever after. Our story did not go so well.

In the early part of the 20th century my grandfather's Uncle John Campbell and his wife, Aunt Henrietta, moved from Franklin County half way across the state to the small lead mining town of Aurora, MO. Uncle Johnney was a foreman at the mine and made decent money. He and Aunt Etta had a small acreage, a decent house and in the way of things at that time, they raised chickens, gardened, had a cow for milk and a sow with piglets to sell and/or slaughter in the fall.

They were hard working people and if Uncle Johnney drank a bit too much, well, it was a palliative for the lead mine's side effects. Aunt Etta was downright upright, working from dawn to dusk, never letting up. She was a founding member and chief fund raiser for Aurora's First Christian Church. The imposing brick building was and is located a block down from the Court House on Pleasant Ave. Following WWII my father became pastor there. I have no idea if the lingering memory of the Campbells influenced this, but it might be.

John & Etta had no children, whether God's decision, a side effect of the drinking or the lead mine is hard to know, but when the Orphan trains began to run they decided to get themselves a son to care for them in their old age. They would set a good Christian example for the world. A bit of help around the farm wouldn't hurt either.

They adopted a young boy and began training him up in the right way. The rod was not spared. My mother's family met him once, I believe. Was he blonde and blue eyed? She thought maybe so, but wasn't certain. He was thin to the point of emaciation and seemed cowed and dodged when anyone moved a bit too quick. Not long afterward he ran off.

Many years later Aunt Hazel traced him to Texas and she and my mother placed a phone call to his family home. He refused to speak to them. How could he know they came from the good and gentle side of the family?

I do not even know his name. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.

THE BLOWOUT SALE

      We are downsizing. The house will remain the same but the extraneous stuff has got to go.  My favorite Cuban whirlwind came over for a couple of hours on a weekend and accomplished more than I had in a month. It may be an energy level thing, but I'm guessing  it's a talent for organization, which I do not possess. She pointed, Geoff moved, I sorted, then she tidied behind us.
     Sale treasures went against the left hand wall. Keepables were sorted into plastic bins for storage. Five underbed boxes now live under my bed. There's not much room left for Bob the cat to hide when Chuchi the weiner dog comes to visit. Then again, he may be safer as chubby Chuchi cannot get over or around the boxes.
     Giant tables entered the garage. The day of the sale they would be filled with items that someone else surely longs to possess. Games with pieces missing. Games that have never been opened. Art works that have seen their day come and go. Clothing, some with tags still attached. Sheets, towels, lamps, curtains, pots, pans, dishes, kitchen pieces and parts.  Books, lamp shades, art, sewing, & craft supplies, things surely needed by someone else.  Debris and detritus, somewhat past the USE BY date.
     When Jenni came we cleaned the tops of the cupboards and sorted through my mom's grandmothers' remnant dishes. The blue gray bone china tea cup that only ever held gin belonged to my great grandfather Jerry's brother John. Grandpa Campbell's wooden shoe forms from the repair shop and a lidded withy basket woven by his grandfather were washed and returned to the shelf. Grandma Nettle's brass cherub got polished and is once more poised proudly on one toe, arm outstretched awaiting his gas lamp. Aunt Hazel's brightly painted Christmas cookie tray is sitting cornerwise waiting for it's place on the holiday table, Grandma Grethel's Franciscanware platter and bowls again lean bright and proud against the wall. Memories and family history washed clean, refreshed, relabeled and stowed carefully away again. Almost nothing up there, except the pitchers I bought for color, went into the sale. Even the rooster purchased to match the cutsie French chef décor got a stay of execution. I just like it. What can I say?
     Black and white checked curtains with red trim, ice cream chairs cushioned in toile,  a yellow wrought iron table and an old red toaster, faded to flamingo pink, went to the sale side.  Holes dot the house where too much used to be.  The feeling of accomplishment is wondrous.
     Even emptying waste baskets accomplished something. Files, folders, a 15 years of real estate research and such got pitched. Eight years of newspaper info and regs got tossed.
     Recycle those ancient phone books! Toss the tattered Real Estate study books! Pitch the old maps! Out with all the 'dexes (rolo, filo, etc.) We're retired and they're out of date! Into the fire pit with it all! Toast them 'shmallows! Build them s'mores! Get a little fatter, but the papers are burnt!
     On sale day, in the dark of the morning we set up the tables in the driveway and arranged our glorious array. The coffee was on and we sat in the chilly garage, waiting, but it was a sunny 8 a.m. before a steady stream of older male schmoozers came and asked if we have any tools for sale. No, we didn't.  Fishing equipment? Just an old rod and reel. Eventually a guy bought those for his grandson. A box of random electronic wiring I meant to toss got sold for $1. Wow. Who knew? How much for this? What do you want for that? Will you take $X?  The extremely heavy Creuset enamelware went in the 10 a.m. wave of older couples. We'd bought it at the Thrift Shop and used it for nearly 10 years. Towel sets from the closing up of multiple relatives' homes sold, along with sheet sets and random kitchen thingies.
     About 1 p.m. women in pairs and singularly began to show up. By 4 we were staring glassy eyed at one another. At 5 p.m. we dragged the tables into the garage and closed down.
     By 7 a.m. Sunday morning we were ready and rarin' to go. Unfortunately our first customer showed up at 11 a.m.
     The day dribbled on. $1 here, 50 cents there. A book, a plate, a tray.  In the late afternoon a lovely lady finally bought the wrought iron garden table with the ice cream chairs. She had a rather small car, but we slotted  and puzzled it all in and tied it down with ropes. We waved her off and carted the leftovers back into the garage. Boxes, books, bags, and things were once more stacked high around the walls. That was not part of the plan.
    It felt a bit better after counting the intake. We covered expenses plus a bit that we didn't have before. It went in the bank until the next time, because we WILL have a clean garage. We are determined! Sort of.