Gone But Not Forgotten (Aunt Phyllis)

Aunt Phyllis was my mother’s younger sister, being born in 1944, and nine years after my mom (Louise). My aunt and uncle lived with grandma and grandpa Walser (her dad & mom) for a short time after Aunt Phyllis and Uncle Terry Yokeley were first married in 1959 or 1960. They later built a brick house with a full basement beside my mom and dad’s. All of us were next-door neighbors and remained a close-knit family. During my childhood years there was so much foot traffic between the three houses that a dirt path led from Terry and Phyllis’s house, through our back yard, and ending at grandpa and grandma Walser’s back steps. I’m sure that my cousin Keith and I riding bikes contributed to part of the wear and tear of the path as well.

The earliest memories of Aunt Phyllis were that of watching her iron clothes while watching soap operas on TV. When weather permitted she hung her clothes out on the line to dry and on overcast days Phyllis had clothes lines in their basement. Keith and I often used part of the basement as a race track for our tricycles and peddle cars. The track was closed on those “wash days”. Aunt Phyllis had the coolest device in her basement. In a closet upstairs there was a laundry shoot which emptied into the basement. As a child, I had never seen such a cool way to transport dirty laundry. Yes, I know it didn’t take much to amuse me back then (or now). The shoot was off-limits to us kids for obvious reasons, but I’m sure we used it a few times for some transports of our own. That’s all I’ve got to say about that.

Living next to a working farm, Keith and I helped with field work but looked forward to our play time during the summer months. We alternated play between his house and mine, thus his mom played a big part in it. Our mothers were the schedulers for our adventures from day to day. As we got older we rode bikes, built houses out of cardboard boxes, flew kites, and whatever else we could get away with. Keith and I behaved more like brothers than cousins most of the time. We always tried to play well but occasionally Aunt Phyllis or my mom would have to separate us. Time limits were sometimes placed on our activities or a phone call (or yell) summonsed one of us back to their respective house. Of course, it was not always popular with Keith and me to end our vital fun. One such instant stands out in my mind to this day.

One summer day Keith and I were in a serious playing mode in my back yard with no intentions on stopping anytime soon. Aunt Phyllis on the other hand, had different plans. She walked to where we were playing and announced that it was time for Keith to come home. They proceeded to walk away via the path that leads from my house to theirs. At that time there was a freshly plowed field that separated our houses. The more distance that Aunt Phyllis and Keith covered the more my anger mounted. I reached a boiling point and out of sheer defiance I picked up a dirt clod. I threw the clod toward Phyllis before any rational thought process took place on my behalf. With the accuracy of a major league baseball player the clod hit Phyllis in the back of the head. Luckily for me the speed of the clod wasn’t as consistent as the aim. The projectile only hit hard enough to make her extremely angry without inflicting serious injury. Aunt Phyllis shouted out “I’m telling you mom!” Keith was taken to his home but I knew that Aunt Phyllis would return with wrath. Now rational thought sets in to my brain! My only hope was to get to my mom before Aunt Phyllis did. I ran inside my house and “spilled my guts” to mom. I explained the whole ordeal as fast as possible. I pleaded, begged and groveled. “I didn’t mean to hit her!” I cried. In God’s infinite mercy (and a tête-à-tête of siblings/mothers) I was spared casualty. I had to make a formal apology to my Aunt and in return received a suspended sentence followed by a probation period. Never under estimate the power of negotiation or just out right begging.

My aunt was a hard working and went after any task with a vengeance. My uncle Terry was employed at a local meat packing company as a meat cutter. At that time Aunt Phyllis was working at the same company as a meat packer. My uncle later moved up the ranks until he became a meat inspector for the state of North Carolina. This allowed my aunt the freedom of becoming a “stay-at-home mom”. My aunt and uncle also became quite good at collecting and selling antiques. Years later Keith became an auctioneer and Lisa his younger sister became a paralegal for our local D.A. and received her real estate license. In the process of time my uncle retired from his job and started devoting most of his time to antique sales and buying out people’s personal property. The entire family started working together as a unit in business. Keith would auction personal property, Lisa sold houses, Phyllis and my mom would sell homemade concessions at the auctions, and Terry would help with auctions and buy/sell antiques.

Due to the death of my grandma Verna Zell and age, my grandpa Cleve slowly moved away from larger farming projects. Grandpa down-sized his farm to a small garden spot and some thorn-less blackberry vines. The whole family still pitched in from time to time if needed but our family was growing and starting to become more separated.

The 1990s found most of us doing our own thing. My mom and dad were retired, I was in my second marriage, Keith was in his third marriage, Lisa was married and doing well, and Terry and Phyllis were still dealing in antiques, etc. During the course of time Keith, Lisa and I procured seven children/step-children in our individual families, plus pursuing our own careers. I also married my third wife (until death do us part). Who knew how much one unforeseen upcoming event could have such an effect on the closeness of a family?

In 1995 Phyllis was diagnosed with cancer. Needless to say, it sent a shock through the family. Cancer had established itself as an enemy in our family through Grandma Verna Zell and was not a welcome visitor. Aunt Phyllis immediately started whatever treatment necessary to keep the cancer at bay. My aunt was tough and a fighter. I knew she wouldn’t go down without a fight, and fight she did. Through the years she continued to have good days and bad days nevertheless she hung in there.

Academically Aunt Phyllis was a straight ‘A’ student in school and was gifted in many ways. She played piano for Good Hope Methodist Church for years and was an active member of the church. My aunt could also cook some mean desserts. She was most famous for her homemade oatmeal cookies. She sold the cookies at Keith’s auction sales and at a local farmer’s market. It was seldom that she ever brought any cookies back home and people would constantly ask her, “Hey, have you got any of those oatmeal cookies left?”

Crafts were another of Aunt Phyllis’ strong points. Her handmade teddy bears, dolls, baskets, dried flower arrangements, and wreaths were always in demand. The main problem Aunt Phyllis had was keeping up with people’s requests for her creations. She could only do so much in a day.

My aunt and uncle were known for their goods throughout a large area. They sold their merchandise at a large gathering once a year at Hillsville, Virginia and often set up a booth to sell antique furniture at the Metro Carolina Fairground at Charlotte, North Carolina. On top of all of there business they still managed to maintain a large greenhouse that was located behind their house. Their greenhouse abounded in many types of plants. They grew sweet and hot peppers, tomatoes, various flowers, hanging basket plants, ferns, and many types of vegetables. I have never seen people with such an unpredictable and spontaneous schedule as my aunt and uncle did at that point in time.

When my aunt’s sickness would raise its ugly head it forced her to slow down. As I said before, she had good times and bad times. In those bad times she would slow her pace long enough to recoup strength but she would not stop. She lived through periods of chills, fever, hair-loss, pain, weakness, and shingles for eleven years but I never once heard her complain or give the impression of feeling sorry for herself. She began to weaken in the last stages of her sickness and I began to see a strong determined mind trapped in a failing body. I can’t imagine the frustration and pain that Aunt Phyllis had already been through by the death of her mother and the recent death of her father-both an indirect result of cancer.

My uncle did everything physically possible to make her life comfortable. Traveling to and from the hospital for treatments and medications became common place. As the hospital bills soared there were insurances to file and prescriptions to be filled, plus the everyday responsibilities of keeping up with their home and business.

My aunt was a fighter but even the best warrior grows tired. In March 2006 at the age of sixty two Aunt Phyllis’ fight ended. Her faith in God as a Christian allowed her to exchange her frail body for a glorious one with no more pain or suffering. Yes, we miss her but she wouldn’t want us wasting our time feeling sad for her absence from us in the physical. I’m certain she remembers all of the good times and would want us to do the same.

Blackberry Season is Here!

Good news for blackberry lovers (not the cell phone!). My blackberry vines are producing ripe fruit. The blackberries usually start coming in strong around the second week in July.

The following is my price guide for this season:

2 pints or less for $2.00 per pint
3 pints for $1.75 per pint
4 pints or more for $1.50 per pint

I will sell my berries at a "first come, first serve" basis so get'em before they are gone. The berries usually produce for about a month or so depending on the weather conditions.

Job Opportunity, God "Set Me Up!"

According to the Merriam-Websters Dictionary the phrase "to set up" means: "to make carefully worked out plans for". To fully appreciate the depth of this story I will have to give you a brief review of my career life for the past four or five years.

It all began back in 2006. I was working at PPG Industries Inc. in Lexington just minding my own business when, thanks to foreign trade I was laid off. Because my lay-off was trade related I qualified for TAA Government benefits. Translated into English that meant that Uncle Sam would pay for me to go to college and get an associates degree. Manufacturing jobs was all I had ever known and the thought of going back to school was overwhelming to say the least.

To make a long story somewhat shorter, I graduated from Forsyth Technical Community College in 2008 with an Associates Degree in Applied Science with Biotechnology as my major. Just prier to graduation I did my internship at North Carolina A & T State University working in a laboratory within the Department of Natural Resources/Environmental Design. The Mushroom Biotechnology Lab was enjoyable work for me, giving me good "hands on" experience working in a "real" lab setting. I completed a research project without a hitch and ended up with a 3.3 GPA upon graduation.

By the grace of God I landed a QC lab job at a specialty fabrics plant in Greensboro within two weeks after graduating from FTCC. The only draw-back was that it was a third shift (11:00 pm - 7:00 am) position. It was the best paying and best all around job that I have ever had but constantly put a strain on my home, church and social life.

I have endured the "grave yard" shift for about two years now and recently made a lateral move to another lab within the same plant. Being a glutton for punishment I went from working third shift (8 hrs. a day) to working second shift (12 hrs. a day, 3 days/4 days a week)! Sure I had more time off but it further alienated me from church services, choir/band practices, etc. The main bummer was the fact that I had to drop out of my much loved guitar playing at church (policy:not at practice, no play Sunday). So much for a short story! Sorry, but it gets better.

Here comes the "God set me up" part. Check this out! Earlier this month I get a call and an email from the head of the laboratory back at A & T State University and he offered me a full-time job in his lab. Needless to say, I was totally blind-sided and was astonished at the fact that he considered me after a period of over two years! I forgot to mention the lab working hours are 8:00 am till 5:00 pm, five days a week. Needless to say, with some family discussions and prayer I excepted the staff position of Research Technician with N.C. A & T State University in Greensboro.

In this time of job losses I feel guilty in some ways because within a period of about two months I have technically had three jobs back to back. I guess the main thing I want to express to everyone is don't give up on your dreams. Put your trust in God and he will "set you up" in a good way. We all want what we want now and the heck with waiting for anything in this fast, microwave society. We see things on a day to day basis but God looks at the overall picture of our lives. The lessons that I have learned from my experiences is to never give up or underestimate yourself but above all stay diligent and let God "set YOU up"!

Gone But Not Forgotten (Grandpa Cleve)

Cleve Walser
(Grandpa Cleve)

Cleve Walser was my mother’s father. Cleve was born in 1910 and was part of a family of ten children. He received his education in a one-room school house. He had to quit school while attending the fourth grade to help out on the farm. He was raised in a small community called Reedy Creek near Lexington, North Carolina. Upon getting married he moved to a small log home off of Mount Carmel Road in Lexington, North Carolina.
The house was drafty and in need of repair but it was home. The house had no indoor plumbing and a small ‘spring box’ was used to keep milk cold. The natural spring was located over two hundred feet from the house.
A new house was built later on another part of their land beside Mount Carmel Road, which was a state-maintained dirt road. My grandpa Walser built the house himself. He never worked a public job in his life, making his revenue off the land. Farming wasn’t a hobby for Cleve, it was his life. Grandpa Cleve didn’t have much of an education as far as school goes, but he made up for it with common sense and determination.
Some of my first memories of grandpa Cleve were that of selling produce from his old blue GMC truck. My cousin Keith and I would take turns going to town with grandpa on his ‘truck route’ on Saturdays. Grandpa would be carrying whatever was in season for that time of year. Throughout the year he would sell water melons, eggs, onions, tomatoes, squash, okra, corn, cantaloupes, cherries, strawberries, and sometimes country ham. Grandpa Cleve would use me as a ‘door knocker’. Upon pulling along side the curb in front of someone’s house he would send me to knock on the door and let them know that the “produce man” was here. I also filled the job of baggage handler if the customer was unable to carry their purchase to their house. The selling was the fun part of the process and also the easiest. The real work took place behind the scenes. First there was plowing and fertilizing. Then you had to plant the seeds. As the seeds began to grow, then comes the maintenance to keep the weeds and bugs away. Of course the veggies have to be picked and stored. The produce then has to be organized on the truck. Finally, most of your Saturday is spent going from house to house on the truck route to sell your goods. Couple this with the day by day upkeep of the farm plus the raising of children and later the toleration of grandchildren. A piece of cake!
Grandpa Cleve was easy-going most of the time. He had a long fuse. But he did have a fuse and every once in a while it became lit. Grandpa didn’t have much self-control when it came to disobedient farm animals, especially hard-headed pigs. The maddest I’ve seen grandpa is over a hog stuck in a fence by its tusk (overgrown teeth). I have seen him literally hit a hog on the back with a hoe handle trying to get the hog’s attention. At that point I’m really not sure who was the most stubborn, grandpa or the hog. The real gauge to tell of grandpa’s true anger was in one signal. If grandpa was mad and proceeded to bite his bent index finger it was going to be a bad day for somebody. This gesticulation was only directed at me once that I can commit to memory.
One summer day I was being a typical boy. I was climbing in one of two large cherry trees that grew beside my grandparent’s house. I was about half-way up the tree resting in the forks of a limb. I’m not sure how long I had been resting but Mother Nature was calling and I had to pee something terrible. Convenience overrode rational thinking. “Hey, who’s gonna’ know anyway”. I unzipped, aimed for an opening between the limbs, and let it rip. Oblivious to me was the fact that grandpa Cleve had came out the back door and saw the entire scene unfold before him. I shut down all bodily functions as best I could and then I saw it. Grandpa was moving rapidly in my direction with his teeth firmly biting his index finger. Terror ran through my body in waves. All I could think was “feet don’t fail me now!” I hit the ground running and didn’t/couldn’t stop until I got home, never looking back. I knew I was ok because I was still alive. Grandpa didn’t track me to my house. I guess he thought that he scared me bad enough without having to physically punish me. Good for me. I shutter to think what he might have done had he got his hands on me in that state of rage. Pigs have much thicker and tougher skin than I.
My first car was a yellow and white 1957 Ford. I borrowed $300.00 from mom and dad to buy the car from grandpa Cleve. The car still had the original spare tire in the trunk and had plastic seat covers on the back seat. The car was previously driven only to church or the short trip to town. I remember Keith and me riding years before in that same car with grandpa driving. Keith and I were teasing him about the car, commenting on how we couldn’t image the car going very fast. Grandpa took the challenge and gunned the gas on a straight patch of road and didn’t let up until we got to 80 mph. Grandpa still had a “wild hair”. The car wasn’t too fast according to most race car standards but it was tough and carried me through my high school years. I wanted a more ‘hip’ car so the Ford was sold to my uncle’s brother shortly after I graduated from high school. I ended up with a 1970 Dodge Sports Satellite: deep dish mag wheels, white letter tires, low-profile front wheels, air shocks and a “Fuzz Buster”. That’s another story.
If you spent any time at all at Walser’s Carp Pond in Reedy Creek you would most likely have seen Cleve there too. His brother Jack and his wife Ester owned and operated the pond. The trick to carp fishing was to bait a spot the evening before and then come and claim the fishing spot before anyone else around daylight the next day. There was always a daily and a weekly jackpot for the biggest fish caught. To enter the contest a fisherman had to pay a fee for the jackpot that you wanted to enter. Carp fishing was a “hurry up and wait” game. Most people fished with three reels at a time. Carp usually take the bait and move slowly. If you grab up the reel too fast you usually pull the bait right out of the carp’s mouth without hooking him. The bait making itself was an art form. Each person had their own formula for the ‘dough ball’ used to catch carp. It usually could be made up of grits, bran, molasses, corn meal, Sugar Pops, onion juice, or any number of combinations of ingredients. Most experienced fishermen would cover their bait to keep their secret safe from wondering eyes. Grandpa Cleve was convinced that he usually got the best ‘hits’ on his rod & reels when he was eating one of Ester’s hamburgers and drinking a cold Sunrise Grape soda. It was also well known that you had to hang your fishing net on a nail and make sure it wasn’t touching the ground. If not, you wouldn’t catch any fish at all that day! I’m not sure about the fishing net superstition, but the hamburger theory is true because it happened to me more than once. Go grandpa! Just for the record. I won the weekly jackpot once with a nineteen pound carp and without the aid of my dad netting the fish, all would have been lost. I recall one fishing episode when between grandpa Cleve, Keith, my dad, and me we had about fifty feet of shoreline taken up with little space between. On one such expedition we caught so many fish that by the time we could bring one fish in and get it weighed, a fish would hit another reel! Other times we would set for hours and not get as much as a nibble. I’ve heard it said, “A bad day of fishing is better than a good day at work”. Go figure.
Grandpa’s favorite place to eat was a local restaurant called Tarheel Q. It was a Lexington Style barbeque restaurant about 5 miles from his house. Grandpa once told me of the time when he was around 90 years old and visited the Tarheel Q. He asked some of the waitresses to guess his age. They guessed him to be about 65 years old! He did always look very well for his age. All the waitresses liked him and he would always hand out chewing gum to all of them every time he dined there.
Grandpa was also a faithful member of Good Hope United Methodist Church. He only missed church one time in all the years that he attended the church. I was privileged to be able to attend his 90th birthday celebration that the church held in his honor. One church member recited a history of his life and presented grandpa Cleve a plaque before the church parishioners. Keith (my cousin) & Teresa (Keith’s wife) sung the song “Daddy’s Hands” to honor grandpa. A birthday dinner was given in the fellowship hall following the presentation.
One puzzlingly chapter in grandpa’s life was his second marriage. Two years after my grandmother’s death grandpa remarried. This was not in itself an unusual or uncommon occurrence. Many senior citizens get remarried after the death of their spouse. Their extraordinary living arrangements were a constant mystery to me. They lived together in my grandpa’s house for a short period of time. The next thing I knew, Lucy (my step-grandmother) started fixing up her previous house. I thought she might be considering renting her old house but that wasn’t the case. She moved out of grandpa’s house and moved back into hers. Grandpa stayed weekends with her but the rest of his time was spent at his house. The marriage stood and they kept up this arrangement until grandpa died. The will stated, “What was his was his and what was hers was hers upon either of their deaths”. I have remained friends with Lucy to this day, but I have never really understood their odd arrangement. I do have some theories. (1) It could have been too hard for Lucy to live in grandpa’s house with all of the memories of grandma still there (2) perhaps she felt an underlining pressure from our side of the family concerning thoughts of “taking grandpa from us” or (3) As long as they were happy it wasn’t any of our business!
Grandpa Cleve drove until he got tired of getting his license renewed at the age of 92. During the course of time my uncle Terry gave grandpa a golf cart to help keep him mobile. He still drove his tractor past his 92nd year but had to stop because he was just getting too old to get on and off of the thing. He also had a “spell” and almost ran off the road into the woods and possibly could have driven down an embankment. He also was starting to lose his footing while walking and had fallen down a number of times.
I personally don’t remember grandpa getting sick very often. He once had a mild heart attack, but it didn’t do any damage. He developed cancer near the end of his life, but I don’t think the cancer was the main cause of death. I believe he was tired and his body just wore out. He lived a full 94 years and was alert in mind almost until he drew his last breath in June of 2005.
One memory etched in my mind is that of grandpa coming home from squirrel hunting with his single barrel 16 gauge shotgun. He came out of the woods, shotgun in hand, with a squirrel sticking out of almost every pocket of his overhauls. Grandpa and I sat in the back yard under a Maple tree and skinned those squirrels. From time to time grandpa would let me borrow the gun for several of my hunting trips. Grandpa Cleve is now gone, but thanks to my mom and dad I now have the old 16 gauge shotgun. Mom and dad bought the shotgun for me at grandpa Cleve’s personal property auction shortly after his death without my knowledge. They surprised me with the gun as a Christmas gift the Christmas following grandpa’s passing. That is one time in my life that I was totally blown away with emotion. I lost it!

Warning: OF NO SOCIAL VALUE WHAT SO EVER!

It’s Not What You Thought

Artery- a building where paintings are viewed
Canopy- a urine specimen
Stationary- a train station with broken windows
Aromatic- an automatic bow & arrow
European- when you use the restroom
Cosmetic- a doctor in space
Trampoline- a nick-name for a call girl named Oline’
Catalyst- a person who studies cattle or cows
Homonym- what a person does when they can’t remember the words to a song
Caterpillar- what a feline naps on
Marriage- an illusion seen in a desert
Synonym- a naughty M & M candy
Cinnamon- a naughty Jamaican
Recommended- to be thanked over and over again
Hybrid- to be raised by a wealthy family
Statistic- what Dustin Hoffman was in the movie “Rain Man”
Porous- having no money
Asteroids- a painful butt condition
DJ- the letter before decay in the alphabet
Decay- the letter following DJ in the alphabet, duh!
Oyster- one who rows a boat
Paradise- two small cubes with dots used in gambling or board games
Furrier- not close by, at a distance
Lactose- what you call it when there’s no bread for breakfast
Recycle- the act of getting a new bike when the old one is torn up or stolen
Internet- what happens when a tennis player’s serve is too low
Supervisor- a really large panel that you pull down to keep the sun out of your eyes while driving or riding in a vehicle
Parachute- two people target practicing with guns
Geranium- a metallic chemical element used in the making of a nuclear bomb
Disposition- where I am located at this time
Acronym- a single M & M candy
Defoliant- the person who folds a piece of paper
Assault- German for butt?
Interior- a small breed of dog that is usually kept indoors
Weekly- the opposite of really strong
Intersection- the inside of anything
Contentment- where an inmate sleeps while on a camping trip
Condensation- the act of talking down to someone
Conversion- an inmate’s opinion
Transmit- gloves that can be worn on either the left or right hand interchangeably
Conform- an agreement or form signed by an inmate

Happy Father's Day Dad

Thanks dad for being there for me when I needed you and even when I didn't think I did. I am glad that we "grew up" together and most of the time you were more like a big brother to me. Happy Father's Day and I hope for many, many more to come!

Your Number One Son,
Lynn Luffman

School Daze

I started my quest for learning via the public education system in September of 1963. Kindergarten had not been thought of yet, so at the age of six I started the 1st grade at Reeds Elementary School. I lived only two miles from the school but I still rode the school bus and was never car pooled to school as is the custom of so many today.
To this day I can still visualize Mrs. Myers, my first grade teacher. She had a high pitched voice that could be heard and picked out among a large group of adults or an even larger group of loud mouthed first graders.
We were made to take a nap after lunch. We had all brought a small mat from home to aid in this activity. Many of these so called nap times did not line up with my need to talk and be active. As a result, Tina Lanier and I felt it necessary to talk while we were supposed to be resting and/or napping. Mrs. Myers decided if she couldn’t shut us up she would at least move us to where we wouldn’t disturb the other sleepers. In her wisdom she made Tina and I sleep in an adjoining utility room that was located between the auditorium and our classroom. Yes, I know what you’re thinking. What business did the teacher have of putting a girl and a boy in a room to themselves to “sleep”? Give me a break; we were only six years old! Anyway, Tina and I were pleased to find out that the utility room was also used as a storage room for many of our classroom games and activities. If this was to be punishment for talking during nap time I guess we might as well make the best of it. We played games, talked and endured our punishment while the rest of the children were forced to rest. It was also our good fortune that there was a sizable space under the door leading from our classroom to the auditorium and also the classroom door. It allowed us to be able to monitor Mrs. Myer’s goings and comings without any problem. It allowed us ample time to put away our toys preventing us from being busted. I might mention that Tina Lanier was also the first girl I kissed. It happened on a church hayride years later but that’s another story.
Other than lunch, my highlight during my elementary school days was recess. It was a time to release stored up energy that a teacher probably didn’t want to see during class time. It came with its risks. I remember the time that Ken Dorsett fell off the monkey bars and cracked open his skull. We all thought that he was going to die. He was taken away, stitched up and ended up living after all.
My little group of friends did a lot of role playing games during recess. We played Star Trek using the stoop and steps of the gymnasium as the control room of the USS Enterprise. We took turns “transporting” each other to places unknown. One craze that overtook us was the year that the Monkees (the singing group) was televised. My group of recess buddies became the Monkees. I was Peter. We even had some of the girls in our class chasing us around for our autographs (we wouldn’t have known what to do it they caught us!). Looking back, I’m really not sure how we got the girls to chase us. I guess they were role playing too. We went as far as entering the school talent show lip singing one of the Monkees’ songs. We had borrowed guitars and drums from someone to make it more authentic. We won honorable mentions (2nd place) to a group of upper classmen that actually preformed live another Monkees song. Come to think of it, this might have been when the girls started chasing us.
I must have been somewhat of a rebel during part of my schooling. Not a trouble maker, I like to think of it as having a need for some mischief (or practice stupidity). Who knows, I may have been diagnosed as having ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). I think it was more or less just part of being a kid.
The graveled area where the buses were parked was off limits to students during class time. Billy Lanning and I decided to play near the buses during recess one summer day. It started off playful enough but ended badly. Billy had ran and hid behind a large shade tree next to the bus parking lot. I decided to flush him out of hiding by throwing handfuls of small gravel from the parking lot. What I was unaware of was the fact that I had in my haste, picked up larger gravel with the lot. I threw the gravel high into the tree limbs and let them fall from above in hopes of scaring him out of hiding. The next thing I knew I saw Billy running out from behind the tree holding one hand to his head. One of the larger gravel had hit him in the top of the head and he was bleeding. I felt bad and we both knew that it wasn’t my intention to hurt him. My mind has tried to suppress some of my bad memories but I think I ended up getting a paddling from one of my teachers for my little stunt. Billy survived and I didn’t go to the “forbidden zone” anymore nor did I feel the need to continue throwing rocks at my friends. The key to making mistakes is that you learn something from them and quit repeating the same ones over and over again. I call it M.L.M. Mess-up, Learn, Move-on.
Speaking of messing up, I did another stupid thing during my elementary school days. This happened when I was around nine or ten years old and knew better. At those times we had old iron water fountains outside near the school sidewalks. My second cousin Bonnie Swicegood was drinking some water from one of those fountains and I thought it would be funny to push the back of her head and cause her to have a good face washing. I over estimated my push and caused her to bust her lip on the guard just above the water outlet. Lesson learned here: “engage brain before acting”. I’m not sure if she ratted on me but she should have. I probably apologized profusely and begged her not to tell. These types of things are funny when nothing bad happens (like pulling a chair out from under someone as they start to set down) but when someone is disfigured or maimed who is laughing then? Lesson learned: for every action there is a consequence, good and bad.
Think about a pebble that is tossed into a calm lake. It may not make a big splash but the ripple caused by the impact goes on for a while. The point is, once the ripple starts it can’t be reversed or stopped. Even if you throw another pebble in the lake to head off the outgoing ripple, you have merely made yet another ripple that may only serve to go in another direction. We all need to take a moment and think before we act or react to a situation. No decision affects only us and no one else.

Gone But Not Forgotten (Continued)

Verna Zell Walser (Swicegood)

“Grandma Walser”

I have many childhood memories of my grandmother Verna Zell Walser. Verna Zell was one of J.O. Swicegood’s (my great-grandpa) eight children and my mother’s mother. Verna Zell Swicegood was born February, 3^rd 1917.

I spent the first 16 years of my life getting know her. Distance wasn’t a problem since I lived next-door to her. Grandma Walser seemed to always have a good nature about her. I rarely remember her getting upset. She was always very hard working and I have seen her fingers literally bleed from working outside in the fields. My cousin Keith and I would take turns spending weekends with grandpa and grandma Walser in the summer months. Keith and I weren’t allowed to both stay the weekend at the same time because it was just too much mischief created when we were together. While I’m on the subject of mischief there are a few stories to tell about harassing grandma Walser.

Being little boys, Keith and I loved playing jokes on grandma Walser because she was an easy target. Keith was three years younger than me and grandma favored him most of the time when it came to him and me getting into fights. I usually won the fights and grandma would say “now you know that Keith’s smaller than you”. Meanwhile, I’ll get back to the jokes. On one occasion Keith and I tied a rubber snake with monofilament fishing line, pulling it through the grass directly in her pathway. Oh course we were out of sight and giggling like crazy as she yelled “you boys should be ashamed”. Later we got more sophisticated with our pranks. I had purchased a booby-trap that consisted of a spring, a trigger, and a hammer that struck a “play gun” exploding cap when tripped. It worked on the same principle that the trip-wire bombs work in jungle warfare. The booby-trap was tied to a tree. A thin wire or string was tied to the trip-mechanism on the “bomb” and then tied to another tree with the wire only clearing the ground by a few inches (just enough to catch your foot). This trap was set and then left for future entrapment and didn’t require us to remain present at the “crime scene”. Sooner or later we would hear a bang and then a short scream; mission accomplished! I know we shouldn’t have played tricks on grandma, but it didn’t stop us. You can’t reason with young brain-damaged kids sometimes.

It wasn’t always fun and games on their farm. Grandpa and grandma owned more than forty acres of land and most of it was “under-plow”, meaning crops were being raised. I was just old enough to help with the smaller chores, but not quite old enough to handle the more heavy-duty work of the farm. I helped “slop” the hogs, feed the chickens, gather eggs, occasionally help skin a rabbit or squirrel, or assist with killing a chicken. As I got older I was trusted with hoeing the garden and helping prime tobacco in the fields. One incident I’ll never forget was one of the rare times that my grandma got mad at grandpa.

Grandpa was driving the tractor and grandma was steering the hand plow to dig out potatoes from the row. She would yell to grandpa which direction he needed to go to make digging the potatoes easier. She would yell “up the hill” or “down the hill”, depending on which direction she wanted him to steer the tractor. One instance I remember her getting perturbed at grandpa because he wasn’t driving the tractor to suit her. Grandma yelled out “you fart blossom” which was her form of cussing.

Another story comes to mind that involves a tractor as well. This time grandma was driving the old ‘red-belly’ Ford tractor. Keith and I were riding on the back of the tractor, sitting on opposite fenders. We were headed home from doing some field work and she was driving on a tractor road along the edge of a field beside the woods. She was so busy watching to make sure we didn’t fall off that she ran out of the road, hitting some bushes and almost running into the woods. I must admit her distraction was set in motion because of Keith and me acting stupid to begin with. Boys will be boys.

One of my favorite events was “comin’ up to eat” at lunch time while working in tobacco. Grandma, and sometimes my aunt Phyllis or my mom would stop off early enough to cook lunch. After giving ample time for cooking, everyone would gather under two large maple trees in the back yard and wash our hands before lunch. You didn’t dare go in the house with tobacco tar on your hands. Keith and I always made a contest out of our black, tar stained hands. We would rub or peel the tobacco tar off of our hands and roll it into a ball. The person with the biggest ball had done the most work that day. It probably only indicated who got the dirtiest instead; the working part was questionable! Meanwhile back at the house. We ran hot water in small pans and used clothes washing detergent to remove the crud from our hands. I recall one of my favorite pastimes was pouring out the old wash water on the ground and waiting a few minutes for earthworms to come out of the ground. It drove the worms crazy!

The meals grandma cooked were always great. Most of her meals were homemade (from scratch) and not from the can. I’m talking about cholesterol filled, heart stopping, sugar saturated good ole home cooked food. Back then (1960s) there were no microwave ovens or fast-food restaurants and folks took time to cook and enjoyed “gettin’ together”. I admit the fatback meat, lard, or sugar-packed desserts may not have been the healthiest of foods back then, but they were good!

We have certainly come a long way with our mono and diglycerides, monosterates, partially hydrogenated oils, beta carotene, calcium propionate, and numerous other food additives that boggle the mind, but have we really added anything to our quality of life? Heart attacks, sugar diabetes, and obesity are on the increase like never before. Fresh vegetables and can goods are now imported with threats of E.coli and our children’s toys are laden with lead paint from China. More and more of our foods that we get from plants (tomatoes, beans, etc) are now being processed in plants (manufacturing plants), stripping our food of much of its nutritional value. Preservatives are added to make for a longer shelf life and animals are fed chemically enhanced food to increase meat demands. As I look back, maybe they were the “good ole days”. Folks worked hard, enjoyed family, ate home-canned/grown foods, and died happy.

Almost every Sunday my family could be found eating lunch at grandma and grandpa Walser’s house. My aunt and uncle (Phyllis and Terry) would usually be there with my cousin Keith (a few years later his sister Lisa was born). We went to the same Methodist church and thus we all got out of church at the same time, making scheduling a breeze. Mom, dad and I usually ate there unless we made the trip to Winston-Salem to visit my grandma Ruth (my dad’s mother).

One fond memory is that of grandma frying ‘fresh caught’ fish. Someone had caught and cleaned some bream (blue-gills) that had been caught from a nearby pond. I remember as if it was yesterday. Grandpa Cleve and I were sitting at the dining room table while grandma was frying the fish. Grandpa and I were eating the fish as fast as she could fry them. She laughed and told us to slow down!

Grandma and grandpa had the first color TV in the neighborhood. I remember watching “Dialing for Dollars” and “Winn Dixie Horse Racing” on that TV. In this modern age of plasma TVs it’s unreal to image watching black and white television. To the younger generation I know that it is hard to believe but, once upon a time-‘Ripley’-there were only black and white “boob tubes”.

One evening while visiting my grandparents the discussion turned to mom telling about our daily family activities. She made the comment that we were in a hurry so she had me to “take a bath in the sink”. Translated, that means that I ran water in the sink and used a wash cloth to wash off instead of taking a regular bath. My grandma started laughing and laughed until she cried. She had envisioned me setting in the sink taking a bath, which would have been an accomplishment for a pre-teen. I was recording the whole story on my new cassette recorder, but unfortunately sometime later I unknowingly erased it. I wish I had that recording today; it would be priceless!

Stubbornness can lead to our own ruination. My grandmother was not an exception. I’m told that my grandmother found a small lump on one of her breast when she was in her mid 50s, but delayed getting it looked at by a doctor. One thing leads to another and she had to eventually get a double mastectomy. Regrettably by this time the cancer had spread to her liver. Near the end she didn’t suffer because of heavy doses of morphine, but never the less at the age of 56 her body lost its battle with cancer.

I was sixteen in 1973 when grandma Walser died. My wish now is that I would have taken more time to really listen and learn more about grandma while she was living. When you are young, one doesn’t give much thought about people around you dying. When death suddenly comes to people you love, it’s too late to do anything about it. Grandma would not have wanted me to dwell on what could have been, so I will think on the good times we had instead. Nothing can change the past; however, good memories can help shape our future.

Gone But Not Forgotten

Great-grandparents “Julius and Cora Fritts Swicegood”


I was probably eight years old and the year would have been around 1965. My first memories of my great-grandfather and grandmother Swicegood were the smell of wood smoke upon entering their house. The house was two stories with white weather-boards. The house itself wasn’t fancy or decorative but was conservatively country-like. As far back as I can remember I never went upstairs but I do remember certain things about the downstairs. There was the wood cook stove in the kitchen and I recall an old kerosene heater in the bathroom. Hard candy filled a glass candy bowl in one of the rooms and I was offered a few pieces at each visit. Of course I was more concerned with the outdoors and playing than spending time with the “old people” inside the house.
A cement walkway leads to the front door with boxwoods on ether side. I remember some of the outside buildings. Nearby were an old barn, a car shed, a ‘tater’ house, and other miscellaneous smaller out-buildings. While playing around in the old barn one day I was stung on my head by a bumble bee. I ran crying to the adults inside the house and was administered first-aid which consisted of snuff that was dampened and put on the sting. It worked. I also remember playing with matches in the car shed and almost catching the shed on fire (don’t try this at home). Near the tater house was a small apple orchard. Not Granny Smith, Red or Yellow Delicious, but what I called ‘horse apples’. The apples were slightly red and not large. They also didn’t boast a very sweet flavor but were ok for pies (if you applied sufficient sugar).
There is also a popular story that my parents often tell. I was very young and burned my hand on the electric stove at home. Nothing would stop my crying until grandpa Swicegood came and “blew out the fire”. I can still remember grandpa Swicegood walking down our dirt road (at the time) that ran in front of our house, headed to Temple’s store which was about a mile away or maybe visiting a relative nearby. Temple’s was a small country store with one gas pump in front. Some of the older men would hang out at the store, drinking their Coke with peanuts mixed in or eating a pack of nabs (cheese crackers). On rainy or cold days it wasn’t unusual to see Grandpa Swicegood walking down the road wearing a burlap bag tied around his shoulders, secured by a nail.
Julius Swicegood came from a large family consisting of at least seven brothers and two sisters. Julius made his living farming and had a regular truck route in town. Packing up his truck, Julius would head to town to sell his vegetables. Sometimes Great-Grandpa would incorporate the help of Cleve Walser (his son-in-law, my grandfather) or Bill Luffman (my dad). To this day I still remember seeing potatoes lying on the ground, covered with lime in Grandpa Swicegood’s tater house. The lime covering helped keep the potatoes from spoiling.
Another great place for exploration was the farm fishpond. Down the hill from the main house was a pond about two acres in size. I wasn’t allowed to visit the pond by myself in my younger years because of the possibility of drowning, which was reasonable. My family and I spent a lot of time here fishing in the warm summer days. We would catch catfish, bream (Bluegill), and if you were lucky, a large-mouth bass. One day I was bored out of my mind because the fish weren’t biting at all. I was playing at the edge of the water, dragging a plastic worm near the banks edge. To my complete surprise a good-sized large-mouth bass hit my bait with a vengeance. Somehow I got the fish out of the water and was in total shock.
Grandpa Walser also used the pond water for farm projects. He would fill one or two fifty gallon barrels that were on a trailer pulled by his tractor. The water was pumped into the barrels and taken back to his tobacco beds for irrigation or sometimes used to provide water for setting out tobacco plants in the fields. One of my jobs was to help steady the barrels during transport and at the same time avoid getting soaked by the sloshing water whenever the trailer hit a bump in the road.
Tobacco planting/harvesting time was always a hard but necessary time of the year. Hand-held tobacco setters were used for planting the tobacco plants. I was too young to use a setter properly so I usually dropped the ‘sets’ into the setter and an adult manned the setter. There was a certain skill required in dropping the sets properly. Here was the order: (1) the operator would heave the setter in the ground (row), (2) the ‘dropper’ would toss a single plant (dart style) down into the side chamber of the setter, (3) the operator would then press a lever that releases the plant along with a small amount of water from another chamber of the setter and at the same time pull the setter out of the ground. This seems easy enough but if the timing was off dropping the plant or if your aim was off, missing the chamber; it had to be done all over again. In other words, you keep the timing and rhythm of the operator or it made for a very bad day for all involved. Sorry for the “rabbit trail”.
As I became older I was allowed to visit the pond alone. I spent many days roaming the nearby woods and streams, ending up sooner or later at the pond. In my mid-teens I remember doing nature walks and bird watching near the pond and also in the nearby woods. Red-winged Blackbirds could be seen perching on low hanging tree limbs near the pond. A grove of tall pines cast shadows overhead and I watched as tadpoles swam at the water’s edge. Time spent there was therapeutic and I sometimes long for those periods of refreshing. As a young boy these were times of adventure, a way of evading summer boredom. Now it would be a welcomed form of escape from the pressures of life in general.
Each year the Swicegood reunion took place at grandpa and grandma’s house. I have seen pictures of the gathering and the crowd was fairly large. If the weather was fair it would always be held outside. Dinner on the ground is what I believe they used to call it. In later years (just before grandpa’s death) the reunion took place in a local Lion’s Club building. Grandpa Swicegood was also known for giving out chewing gum to everyone attending the reunion (for a number of years after grandpa’s death Ronnie Swicegood [my 2nd cousin] and I would give out gum to try and keep the tradition alive).
One winter day in February of 1966 my grandfather Swicegood was having trouble with his well pump near the house. The pump was located down the hill from the house. The cold weather and added stress was too much for his heart. As a result, at the age of eighty-eight Grandfather Swicegood died of a heart attack. I was still quite young and didn’t know exactly what was going on. I just knew that grandpa wasn’t going to be around anymore. This was the first time I saw my father cry. Just after grandpa’s death I saw my dad walking through our kitchen and he hit the kitchen wall with a balled up fist. His eyes were wet and he was angry and sad.
One of my memories of the event was the attendance at the funeral home. The funeral home was filled with well wishers and grieving family. My grandfather was well loved in the community and was a good man.
My great-grandmother Cora Fritts Swicegood moved in with her daughter (my aunt) after she got on up in the years (80+). I recall grandmother received cataract surgery when she was around 90 years old and saw everything she had been missing from years of dealing with cataracts. She outlived her husband by five years and died in January of 1971 at the age of 94, having lived a full life.
Since that time the Swicegood reunion has become a small affair. Many of the “old timers” have died. I still attend from time to time but it’s not like the old days. Everyone has moved on with their lives and most don’t take time to see other relatives (me included). Upon the recent death of my aunt Phyllis (2006) none of her family attends the reunion anymore. The old house (Swicegood) was sold many years ago and was purchased by someone outside of the family. The pond was filled-in by one of the owners for fear that his child would drown in it. The father in that family died years later and the wife remarried, but still ended up selling the house. I still live within walking distance from my great-grandparents’ old home place but in over 30 years I haven’t been near the property. Some things are better left to memories.

Work, Work, Work

“And unto Adam he said, Because thou hast hearkened unto the voice of thy wife, and hast eaten of the tree, of which I commanded thee, saying, Thou shalt not eat of it; cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; Thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; and thou shalt eat the herb of the field; In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken; for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.” (Gen. 3:17-19 KJV).

There is no call for crying over spilled milk or half-eaten forbidden fruit. Adam and Eve messed up; end of story or the beginning of the story depending on how you look at it. The consequence of Adam and Eve’s blunder was a nature to sin and the need to labor for a source of revenue or in other words, “if you don’t work, you don’t eat”. Sinning is way too easy and work can at times be way too hard.

Of the fifty-one years I have traversed on this planet, thirty-five of them have been spent in quest of living by the ‘sweat of my brow’. I joined the work force while attending my junior year in high school. Because of a work program I was able to leave school each day at 1:15 P.M. to work a part-time second shift job at Indiana Molding & Frame Company in Lexington, North Carolina. The school program encouraged students to get work experience and in turn, obtain school credit for participating. It was a win, win situation. I was able to skip out of school early, gain school credit, and make money in the process. A small number of my fellow students were employed by the molding and frame plant at the same I was hired.

Indiana Molding & Frame specialized in making picture frame stock and wooden clothes hangers. The production process began with rough-cut material and ended up in the finishing department as decorative picture frame material. The lengths of frame were then sent to another company to be made into the completed product.

I vividly remember my first day on the job. Our ragtag group of seventeen year olds were given a pair of gloves and introduced to a train boxcar load of rough-cut lumber. Our task was to unload the entire load one board at a time (by hand) and then place the lumber on neat stacks to be picked up by a forklift later. We were all young, tough, testosterone-raging men, how hard could that be?

To sweeten the pot our boss challenged us, “if you guys unload this boxcar completely by shifts end I’ll buy all of you a steak dinner.” We went to work like demons with no tomorrow. In the course of well-intended blood, sweet, and tears our efforts quickly waned; we didn’t get the steak dinner. Matter of fact, within days our work crew dissolved leaving merely two people. This was survival of the fittest (or the dumbest, who’s to say)?

The sole survivors were a guy nicknamed Radar and me. Our jobs had been reduced and specialized into a fine art. Our job title and occupation was that of Janitorial Engineers. Translated, we cleaned up the offices and swept sawdust off of the production area floors. My salary for my first taste of real public work was $2.10 an hour with no benefits.

The finishing room was the only functional department at this hour of the night leaving the remainder of the plant a ‘ghost town’, thus Radar and I soon were able to fine tune or efforts to include play time. What is the saying? “All work and no play make Jack a dull boy.” If it was good enough for Jack, it’s good enough for us, right? Radar and I concocted our own version of the popular game of ice hockey. We had no ice but we had imagination. Our game consisted of a large area of cement floor, two brooms, and a partial roll of masking tape. Another game we played was a combination of “hide and seek” with a touch of war games. The rules were simple. One person was the hunter and the other was the hunted. At the onset of the game both players were allowed to fill their pockets with an assortment of small screws, bolts, or nuts. The hunted was given a minute or two head start, allowing ample time to hide in the outside lumber yard area. The hunter then stalks the other player but at any point in the game the player’s roles could reverse quickly. The goal of the game was to avoid being pelted by incoming bolts or nuts and also maintain the status of “untagged”. Our game of “Killer Hide and Seek” came to a screeching halt when hardware supplies became noticeably missing and our boss started finding miscellaneous nuts and bolts all around the lumber yard. It was fun while it lasted!

Radar soon faded from view and I befriended the second shift supervisor of the finishing room. Billie and I became good friends. She even bent the rules and let me operate some of the machines that could only be operated by an eighteen year old or older. Billie found out that I played the guitar and once insisted that I give a private “mini” concert during one of their lunch breaks. I pulled in one of my band members and together we entertained the Indiana Molding & Frame finishing room department. The attendance was small, the pay non-existent, but it was fun for all.

All things considered, my first work experience wasn’t that bad. It was the start of an ongoing quest for monetary gain and self-sufficiency (you work or starve!). Through the years my career has not always moved in a vertical direction monetarily or positional. As the national economy and employment rate changed, so did my employment. The “old school” way of living faded out quickly. In the mid-1900s the American Dream was to work, raise a family and retire after putting in thirty years of service with the same company. Now days if you have lasted ten years at the same employer you are considered an “old timer”. My longest consistent work period with any company was for nine years, followed by a lay off. I sought employment elsewhere but returned to the same company years later until a work slowdown forced me to leave again. I had a combined period of seventeen years with that company. I have not worked over three years consecutively with a company since then (around 1989)! To date, I have been laid off four times and two of those layoffs were with the same company! I was fired from one job when I was around twenty years old. I was young and easily influenced by an equally young bride that talked me into staying home when I should have been working. She wasn’t totally to blame but that’s another tale.

My employment has included: Craver Block Co., Dixie Furniture Co., Lexington Motor Co., United Face Veneer, Linwood Manufacturing Co., Proctor Wolverine Inc., Thomas Built Buses, Wackenhut Security, Kel-Way Rentals, a telemarketing firm, PPG Industries, Dirty Works (Handyman Service), DPJ Graphics, Hayward Industries, and Precision Fabrics Group. My job titles/skills include: block cube person (stacking cement blocks), clipper operator (face veneer cutter [furniture]), grease monkey (oil changes, etc), assembly technician, security guard, and telemarketer, creeler/twisting machine operator (fiberglass production), handy man, musician, graphics technician (service station renovation), sandblaster, industrial painter, water spider (assembly line supply), laboratory assistant (mushroom biology & fungal biotechnology lab) and quality control laboratory technician (specialty fabrics, physical testing). Are you familiar with the phrase “jack of all trades and master of none”? Yes, I have a sufficient amount of knowledge in enough areas to be utterly confused in everything. Sometimes it’s not what you know that’s important, but how well you can convince somebody that you know something, when in truth; you really don’t have a clue what you’re talking about! That is real talent and no book can teach you that. I have heard it said “when you can’t dazzle your friends with diamonds, baffle them with bull!”

When I graduated from high school in 1975 the job market was considerably different than it is today. In my hometown of Lexington, North Carolina textiles and furniture manufacturing was our mainstay for many years. Textiles had already “bit the dust” by my high school graduation. The furniture industry hung on for some time but most of the plants in Lexington shut down by the end of the twentieth century, leaving a wake of unemployed folks. Duracell battery had a substantial workforce but it too sank and is now an empty building just outside of town. PPG (Pittsburg Plate Glass) boasted over 1,500 employees in years past but now only employs around 500 people. Many people, including myself, have sought employment in another city. We’ll cover that later.

The Early Years

I am of the opinion that mothers contribute more care and education with children during the infant stage than do fathers. Women have that built-in nurturing ability that babies need and crave. Don’t get me wrong, fathers are important in the development of children in all their stages of life and should be active in them. As a child becomes more sure-footed and coordinated most fathers are drawn into active play with the child. Between the ages of two and ten most children’s energy level is almost unlimited. Fathers use this time to focus their child’s energy in a useful direction and at the same time show them who is the boss (for the time being). For boys, hitting, throwing, running and kicking can be redirected through football, baseball or soccer. Girls get rid of their nervous energy through pretend tea parties, dress-up, dolls, and ratting on their siblings.
It is healthy for a father and son to go through a type of male bonding that carries over to adulthood. Mother and daughter should become best friends in a similar way. Fathers and daughters sometime go through a “daddy’s girl” stage where they grave a father’s affection and the father basks in the glory. Mothers and sons sometime go through a “momma’s boy” stage and regretfully sometime never stop. That’s another story.
I have more “hands-on” training with girls in view of the fact that I have three daughters. At this writing their ages are fourteen, twenty-one, and twenty-nine. As a result I also have six grandchildren (all boys!). My grandchildren range in age from two to ten years old. I confess that most of my experience with boys has always been short-term. Spoil them and send them back home. You can do that sort of thing with grandchildren and get away with it.
Children-especially boys-must run, throw, kick, jump, giggle, and yell. I have witnessed kids that can do all of the above concurrently. One of my six grandchildren is a good example. Within three minutes of arrival to our house, eighteen month old Cody opened every kitchen cabinet, turned off my TV, chased the cat, opened three doors and tried to climb our stairway leading upstairs. I chased him down, nabbing him I yelled, “JUST STOP!” His movement through our house was a cross between the Roadrunner and the Tasmanian devil on speed.
On the flip side is Austin. He was a curious two years old but was more of a climber and a constant asker of questions. He had what I like to call “dyslexic clumsiness”. Many times I have watched in amazement as Austin ran full speed down a hill with not so much as a stumble. Unfortunately while walking at a normal pace horizontally he could trip over his shadow. Simply astounding! Another source of amusement was Austin’s exploits with our kitchen bar stools. On numerous occasions I have watched Austin climb up and sit on our bar stools but I have yet to see him dismount gracefully. Austin sitting on a stool could be compared to a rider on one of those mechanical bulls; the exception being the stool is stationary! Regardless of whether Austin was eating at our bar or just setting in order to rest, his butt would scoot around on the stool like a pat of butter in a hot pan. Almost like clock-work, within minutes, boom, off the stool he would fall. Thankfully, years have passed and Austin’s abilities have improved greatly.
My niece Lexie had still another aspect of child behavior I call “child stealth” or “silent but deadly”. She was in this stage around the age of three. Lexie wasn’t noisy like her two older brothers. She would walk around checking things out with a smile on her face. She had one of those “OK, what you have done” smiles. One minute she could be setting quietly on the floor playing less than three feet away. The next minute she could disappear from the room unnoticed. Total stealth! I witnessed the phenomenon first-hand one Christmas at our house. Our whole family-Lexie included-were in our living room socializing. All of a sudden I realized Lexie had vanished into thin air. With my powerful “spider senses” I heard a faint metallic noise coming from the direction of our kitchen. Upon further investigation I found Lexie with her hand rummaging through our knife drawer. Being the good uncle, I sprang into action. I quickly closed the drawer (with her hand removed) and calmly said, “No, you can’t play in the drawer”. She didn’t say a word but gave be one of those Linda Blair/exorcist looks and stormed out of the room. Who said, “Sugar, spice and everything nice?”
Being an only child I had no qualms with playing alone. I also got along well with others. I suppose children have exceptionally vivid imaginations and it’s quite easy for a child to enter into his or her own world of fantasy. It can vary in play from a sea battle in the bath tub, to war games with plastic toy soldiers or maybe being a gourmet chief constructing mud pies. The sky is the limit.
My childhood was filled with activities like attaching a string to a June bug’s leg, watching it make loops in the air while I held on to the string and trying not to freak out if it landed in my hair. Summer nights would sometimes find Keith and me doing batting practice near the security light behind my house. One of us would throw a rock into the air above our heads and the other would try to hit a bat as it swooped down at the rock thinking it was a bug. I might add a word of caution here about the batting practice (pun intended). It was not one of the brightest games we could have played. A bat could have bit one of us or the rock could easily have cracked one of our skulls. There were simpler games like catching fire-flies and putting them in jars or flying a kite in a large field near my house. I had no Playstation, Xbox, MP3 player, Gameboy or DVD player. There was no MTV, HBO, ESPN or MySpace to rivet my attention.
Technology is a wonderful thing but at what cost? Modern games have taken away the desire of a child to go outside to play. The lack of activity is making many children obese and lethargic. Some gaming companies are catching on with physically interactive games such as the Wii system. I hope it’s not too late to reverse the trend of effortless play. Of course there is soccer, basketball, football, hockey and many other physically demanding games but what if you don’t do sports. As a last alternative one could swim, take a daily walk, or dare I say, do some household chores.

Fatherhood and Poopie Diapers

I am reminded of my first daughter’s birth.She made her mark on this world seconds after exiting the womb.The incident occurred immediately after her birth and involved a delivery room nurse. My precious newborn bundle of joy proceeded to have her first unexpected bowl movement while being carried across the delivery room. No Pamper had been implemented as yet; consequently the floor caught the blunt of the deposit and the nurse unknowing stepped in it. Perhaps pooper-scoopers should be a mandatory part of delivery room equipment!
Here I was, a father at the age of twenty-three. Not too young, not too old. I was clueless of what fatherhood was all about but willing to discover.
Thirty years have past since my daughter’s birth, but some memories are still fresh. I was the only expectant father in the waiting room on that cold February morning. A few traces of ice from the last sleet storm were still visible on the sidewalk outside. In the distance I heard the faintest cry of a baby. I glanced up at the wall clock which read 7:26 am.Within my line-of-sight was a nurses’ station approximately fifty feet away with several glass-enclosed cubicles separating us. A few minutes past and I noticed the nurse at the station pick up her phone. As I watched, she turned my way and I read her lips, “It’s a girl”. I smiled from ear to ear and gave her the “thumbs up” sign. A short time later the doctor came to give me the good news. I’ll never forget the first words out of his mouth, “You’ve got a silly little girl”. Mother and baby were fine. I was fine. Everything was fine!
Everything was fine that is, until I had to change my first messy diaper. I tried my best to “man-up” and do the foul deed. Had I not left the scene there would have been two messes to clean up. I started dry heaving before I even got close to the dirty diaper. I had no problem changing a wet diaper; soiled diapers were a whole different ball game. It was fortunate for me that my mother-in-law lived next door and was a stay-at-home mom. My mother-in-law must have really loved me because she volunteered to be “on call” when the occasion offered itself for a messy diaper change. Yes, I admit it. I wimped out on the dirty diaper thing but give me some credit; at least I had a back up plan!

Potty Training, The Aquired Art

Please excuse me for appearing crude, but there is nothing more satisfying than a good B.M. (i.e. Poopie). Eventually we all had to learn the three W’s. When, where, and wipe. You must acquire sufficient skills in this area A.S.A.P. for apparent reasons. I am told that the process shouldn’t be rushed. The transition from diapers to underwear should be carried out in steps. These steps depend on three variables: (1) the child’s personality/nature, (2) the child’s tolerance of “soiled conditions”, and (3) the patience of the parent. If the child is stubborn and endures a dirty diaper-coupled with an impatient parent-you have the “perfect storm”. Good luck.
I’m not sure what Dr. Spock says about the subject but I have my own version of potty training and I think it would work. I thought about suggesting the same technique that I used on Dinky (my first indoor dog) when she would relieve herself on the living room carpet. Of course, rubbing the child’s nose in its diaper or hitting the child with a rolled up newspaper would pose jail time so both are out of the question.
One idea is to reverse a trend in potty training. The trick has always been to get the child to go to the bathroom/potty when they have the “feeling” they have to go. Why not do it the other way around? I suggest putting the child on the potty when you feel it’s getting close to “that time” and when the child poops and/or pees ring a bell. Keep this up until results are expected and carried out (a cookie could be given as a reward to speed up the success). When it is convenient, you ring the bell, they do their business, and it’s all according to your schedule, not theirs. Think how much time this could save on family vacations. Five minutes before you leave home you simply ring the bell; no stopping on the road one hour later. Problem solved. The cookie thing could be a problem later in their lives so use with discretion. Taking a cookie to the bathroom may be considered a health issue or just down right nasty. Come to think of it, the bell ringing thing could possibly present a problem at the Christmas season. Consider visiting your local Wal-Mart store and passing the Salvation Army bell ringer in front. Oops, use your imagination.

Let Toys Be Toys

The need to explore over shadows impending dangers and pitfalls. We learn at an early age that freedom comes with certain restraints. The young mind says “please let me play with the shiny kitchen knives or the fresh smelling toilet cleanser”. It is difficult to reason with an eighteen month old concerning access to the TV remote control or the need to practice their keyboarding skills on dad’s laptop computer.
Thanks to companies like Fisher-Price children have their own stuff to play with. I am convinced that these new toys with “bells & whistles” aren’t designed for education of the child. They are truthfully only a diversion to draw children’s attention away from our adult toys. A conspiracy is stirring between toy makers and young children that are undermining our efforts to differentiate adult stuff from kid stuff. The toy makers came up with the bright idea of creating toy lookalikes for everything from cell phones to power tools. The problem is some of the toys can and are mistaken for the real thing by kids and adults alike.
Image the embarrassment of mistakenly picking up your child’s toy cell phone, taking it in an important meeting and then trying to make a vital business call in front of your peers. This problem is trivial compared to your surprise when you get your next cell phone bill. You discover over two dozen long distance calls to some guy in Hong Kong in which your two year old has discussed-in length-their latest adventures in potty training. What on earth happened to kids being content with Silly Putty, Lincoln Logs or Tinker Toys?

First Taste of Freedom

Scooting and crawling on “all fours” is cool for a season, but let’s face it, this is for the dogs (I mean literally)! The advantages of walking upright on two feet are overwhelming to say the least. The first attempts are much akin to the Wright brother’s earliest attempts at flight. The need for balance is the first problem to be dealt with. The first objective at this point is to hope for a soft place to fall. Reason being, if balance is not obtained then gravity can and most likely will take over. One note of caution should be remembered here. The first week or two of practice take-offs should be clear of sharp cornered coffee tables, stairways, grouchy dogs, and sleeping cats. Adult supervision is always helpful but is not usually on an eleven month old child’s priority list.

Once center of gravity, balance, and forward thrust are mastered, the world is at your finger-tips. Limitations are soon realized, but objects approximately thirty-six to forty-eight inches or less from ground level is fair game. This is no big problem. The good news is that there are still many areas available for exploration. Toddlers are only limited by his or her individual skill levels. Unfortunately for the rest of the family, TV controls, DVD players, door knobs, electrical outlets, and kitchen cabinets are all fair game for the post rug rat. With this new-found freedom comes the discovery of a new word into their vocabulary-NO!

First Things First

One of God’s greatest miracles takes place, the spark of life, put into motion as a tiny zygote (fertilized egg). After about nine months of comfort, contentment and security we are thrust into this world kicking and screaming. Most of our lives are spent trying to obtain that same level of comfort, contentment and security that the womb supplied.

Infancy consists of mostly “supply and demand” or more appropriately “demand and supply”. Nourishment and a clean bottom are of the utmost priority-in that order. With the exception of cooing or gurgling, most communication at this stage is restricted and very basic. We soon learn that crying works well to get what we desire. This trait is frequently carried over to adulthood, but we’ll cover that later. Life at this time is uncomplicated and easily satisfied; hungry-fed, wet-dried.

Babies at this point are very predictable. They eat, sleep and poop-not necessarily in that order and sometimes all of the above instantaneously without warning. The newness of discovering one’s fingers and toes are short-lived and soon boredom sets in. There are places to go, people to meet, and it ain’t happening while lying here being cute. In the course of some trial and error mobility is discovered, thus life will never be the same. The first monumental question arises, “Where am I going and what will I do once I get there?”