Monday, October 30, 2006

The Quilt of Love ©


I felt excitement in the air.

"A couple more stitches and this one will be finished," a man’s voice said.

"There it is, it’s finally alive."

I felt the needle penetrate and come out my other side.

"You know," there was quietness as a calloused hand gently brushed loose threads from the material, "George needs this one." "You know that he is laid up with a major cold and he’s alone. The church has been taking him food until he gets back on his feet."

"He kind of different, you know," another voice spoke up. “I feel uneasy around him. There is something that's always eating at him and he's been this way since he started to come to this church."

"I know. I've been observing him in the past year," Karl responded. "He's had a rough road to hold onto."

"Well, then you take it to him and explain about the quilt” a voice rang out from the background.

"Give me a hand in shaking and folding it," Karl said. "Don't let it touch the floor."

"George, I see you are still under the weather," Karl said.

"I just can’t shake it." "It's just as bad as catching a cold in Korea. You'd have walking pneumonia and you still had to go on patrol," George replied.

"The church still brings in fresh food for you?” Karl asked.

"Yeah, if you can call it food," George replied.

"I've brought something else," "We just finished it this morning," Karl said. He stopped speaking briefly and showed George the quilt. George looked at the quilt and shook his head.

"This is what I do every second Tuesday at the church," Karl said while he unfolded it on top of the bed where George was lying underneath the covers. "It will help keep you warm and get you well quicker."

Karl was silent while he tucked the ends of the quilt in.

"It’s a different kind of quilt. We call it 'The Quilt of Love.’ These are sent all over the world, not just to folks in our local area," Karl said and looked at George while he was tucking in last of the quilt.

"I know that you don't go for all that preaching stuff, George," Karl said as he walked next to where George was lying. "The reason we call it 'The Quilt of Love’ is because it’s a parallel to God's love. The quilt covers you like God’s love covers your life. The quilt gives the warmth that a person needs from the cold just like God protects you in your walk through life."

"I know that you have been through it. I saw the Purple Heart on the front of your car. They did not give those out in Korea for just being there. This is not to mention about the wives you been married too.”

“Some of us are lucky to get a woman that can put up with us," Karl said in a low voice.

"Speaking of wives, I have to go pick up mine," Karl voice said in louder voice.

"You gonna be all right?” Karl asked as he turned to walk out of George's bedroom.

"Yeah," George replied in a low voice that Karl could not hear.

As I heard these words spoken, I wondered what kind of world I had been put into. Would this man be good to me? Would he just leave me be and not take care of me? What was my life going to be like with this man?

The next thing I felt was a large hand grabbing me and pulling me like every thread that I was put together with would pop loose.

"Damn blanket!" his voice rang out. "He tucked it in too much. Damn it! I've been shot at, nearly bled to death and four women have tried to change me. No blanket ain't gonna change me!" the loud voice rang out as he pulled and pulled on me.

I was so thankful when I moved forward. This man was so strong he could have bent a piece of iron with his bare hands. My life was going to be a miserable existence with this man. I was glad when he didn't touch me anymore for a long time.

That night I was in for a rude awakening. Both his hands grabbed me for dear life and in the same instant he screamed. I could do nothing but what I was made to do - keep my owner warm and secure in his world. This was my task until my owner saw fit to change my destiny. This lasted for several minutes.

I suddenly felt his large hand softly touch the fabric that I was made of. The hands that stroked my cloth were wet. I hoped he could feel the purpose I had been designed for.

His hand moved back and forth as if searching for something while he stroked my soft cloth. I felt him relaxing into a calm state with each stroke of his hand. I heard the strangest sound. There was nothing I could compare the sound to, but it was very loud and could shake any loose object to the ground. As time passed, I came to cherish his snoring, for then I knew he was at peace.

The next morning, I found myself very different. I was half on and half off the bed where I was supposed to be, not to mention the hot dark liquid that touched me. This was not a happy experience and it happened nearly every morning for the next several months.

Life was not going to be an easy one with this man.

Something happened that evening, which changed our relationship forever. George started to feel the cloth that I had been made of. Maybe it was what had happened the night before. No one will ever really know, however, he commented how soft I was. He suddenly laughed out loudly.

“I’ve been shot at. I've been hit with six bullets and still not died. I've been dragged over the coals by four women and been left penniless. Now I have a blanket of love to take care of me like God. It's suppose to protect me from all the evils of this world," George said and laughed out again.

I know this is not a giant step and did not I gain his overwhelming confidence but he did recognize my presence and my purpose in this world. Nevertheless, I had moved into his world, this was part of my role in his life.

At the end of the week, he did wash me but he was so coarse with whatever he used. This was not to mention when he threw me over the back yard fence to dry out. This was no fun at all. Even with coarse detergent that he used, I turned out just as soft as before.

To be honest, I was very surprised when he threw me back on his bed. I thought for sure that I would wind up in a corner somewhere or under one of his cars while he fixed it. This was not to mention that after his bad cold left him; he still kept me as a cover.

The nights were still unbelievable to me but both of us survived. I could understand partly why his wives did not want to spend the nights with him in this condition.

Over the years, I have been with him either covering him or at the bottom of the bed where he rested. He has nearly found peace. Please pardon me in taking credit for this achievement but I think both of us enjoy the touch that he gives me while he sleeps. I knew that I had broken the ice, as the saying goes, when one he commented to me one night how he liked me being around.

Karl came by several weeks later after he had given me to George. I heard them talking in the kitchen about some "stuff.” It was really about me. George told Karl that he had started to be at peace with himself.

Karl did not reply to this statement. I wasn’t winding up on the back yard fence and his place in general was being taken care of better.

The next thing I felt different was another presence in the household. I first noticed this with a change of detergent that was being used on me. She had a nice soft touch. I wonder if George would notice the “gift” that she had with things.

I was in luck and he did. Now, when the cold weather comes I cover two people instead of one.

I must admit that there was one tremendous scare this one spring morning. I heard her voice telling George, "Where are we going to put this 'quilt'?” I knew then my life could be terminated at this time. Had my purpose for existence found an end or would I be sent to another person to give my gift to?

“It will always go at the foot of the bed," George replied. "It’s a very special blanket. It's a blanket of love," I heard George tell her after she had placed me. Neatly folded, at the foot of the bed.

This is my story. Granted, I have only one complaint. George will probably never know the difference between a blanket and a quilt but I think everyone that has or will meet him will overlook this minor mislabeling of me.

Written by: Franklin P. Smith
All rights reserved. Do not use without author's permission.

fpsmith3@bellsouth.net

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

One More Time

written by J.A. Heitmueller

Frail, stooped and clutching the precious offering to his chest, liken to one of the three kings, he precariously stumbled across the newly mown lawn toward us. Lagging far behind, walking cane grasped securely, she faithfully and methodically staggered in his footsteps; just as she had done through the potato patch, corn row, garden path and chicken house during the past 65 years of their marriage.

The offering, presented with gnarled, blotched, weathered hands was bestowed with the same sacredness as was the gold, frankincense and myrrh. A plastic bag of snapped green beans from their garden. Another year, another harvest-meager though it may be.

Hidden by the visor of his well-worn cap the mournful, tear brimmed eyes slowly emerged. Through quivering tones he spoke. "It's the Fourth of July and I've never missed one in my life," he stammered. "We just had to come home today. It might be our last one." He was 87. She was 85.

What had originated as Great Grossmama's birthday celebration in 1874 had evolved into an annual, jubilant, festive family and community gathering and had continued through five generations of family participants. And so they gathered---the remnants of the family, just as they had done for the past 127 years.

Elder brother, Herbert, had been gone three years now. Sister Margaret was submerged in her own mentally tangled world, probably never realizing the significance of the date. Only Edward, bride Arnice and Herbert's wife Radah, age 89 remained. Each one immersed in his own subdued physical and mental state, dealt to all through the natural digression of age. Satisfied to rock placidly on this steamy southern summer afternoon, sheltered securely by the overhanging limbs of the massive Mulberry trees for which the home place had by so aptly named---Mulberry Farm. Flashes of "The Good Old Days" were recalled and relived as they rocked and reminisced.

Today was the Fourth of July and they had come home ---one more time!

Sunday, October 22, 2006

Southern Fried Tradition

As a people, we in the South tend to show our finest character traits during times of great importance like births,weddings and deaths. If somebody in the family has an event of major life importance, you can be sure that we'll be there with comfort food and support. The family is by no means defined strictly as "blood kin." We tend to extend the familial connection to those with whom we have shared work and love and a lifetime of friendship. It y'alls Mama was friends with my Mama and we had babies around the same age that played together....that qualifies as family. When one of your folks passes on to glory, we will either stand in line outside of the funeral home for visitation or show up at the graveyard to pay our respects. You can flat out expect for deviled eggs and fried chicken to be delivered to the doorstep to feed the grieving family during their time of need. Somebody else will call the florist and arrange for a proper tribute. The sympathy cards and church memorials will come in a flood at first and then trickle in over the next weeks and months.

Babies are named after family and friends, and their births are preceded by henfests known as showers where all the womenfolk gather for fingerfood and fellowship with a side of labor pain horror stories and child rearing advice. God bless every one of us who has known the simple pleasure of buying an outfit for an unborn Southern child only to find that it's the wrong color. Yellow and green are always a good choice to avoid cumbersome returns for the rare mother-to-be who doesn't know the sex of her offspring six months before delivery. On the next Sunday following the birth, a rose will appear on the pulpit in honor of the birth of a new Southern child.

Southern weddings tend to be extravagant affairs involving yards and yards of tulle and satin. The mother of the bride is traditionally the one who bears the weight of the stress during such an event, fussin' over every little detail as if the world would quit twirling if a thank you note got missed or the silver had a speck of black on it under the food on the reception table. Come rain or shine, the wedding takes place on the appointed date and everyone says it's the prettiest one they ever attended. Mothers and grandmothers march down the center aisle on the arm of a southern boy who would much rather be hunting or fishing than dressed up in a tux because it's the honorable thing to do.

We do so love the holidays down South. From Easter to Christmas, we mark family tradition with dinners for the clan and whoever else feels like showin' up for the feast. Wise southern women buy their Easter hams on sale and make the cornbread for Thanksgiving dressing well ahead of time. The "good china" comes out on these occasions along with the linen and lace for great-grandmother's antique table. If there is family silver, it shall be polished to a sheen and laden with enough food to feed an army. Leftovers are the best part of all.

We grow a lot of our own food and put it up in the freezer, or can it. I can't tell you anything more sweet than the taste of homegrown purple hull peas cooked 'til they're just right and served up with peaches-and-cream corn in the dead of winter. Pure heaven on earth, y'all. Here's my Mama's cornbread recipe to serve along with the vegetables:

1 1/2 cups cornmeal
3T flour
1 t salt
1 t soda
2 cups buttermilk
3 T bacon drippings

Turn oven to 450. Add some oil or bacon grease to a seasoned iron skillet and put in the oven to pre-heat for fifteen minutes.

Mix dry ingredients well. Add buttermilk and bacon drippings and stir well. Open the oven and pour the batter into the hot oil. Cook for twenty minutes or until top is brown and bottom is crusty. Cool for five minutes in the skillet, then turn onto a plate. Slice it up and put some real butter on it.


Tuesday, October 17, 2006

Summer

We usually didn’t lack for anything to do in the summertime when school was out. The tobacco fields, corn fields, garden and hauling those infernal rocks pretty well took up most of our time, but with the longer days we usually found fun and games to occupy our time. It is hard nowadays to imagine life without television, X-box, Play station or video games, but we survived somehow. We used our imagination and what limited resources we had to have a great time.

We had swings of all descriptions. We’d take an old rubber tire and hang it with a rope from a big limb on the oak tree. If we didn’t have a tire, we’d tie the ends of the rope together and put a sawmill slab for a seat and swing from that, splinters and all. My favorite was the grapevine swing .Big, long lengths of strong limbs that were pliable enough to swing you across the branch (most of the time) to the other side. We’d mark who could go the farthest, so we’d all take a runnin’ jump to get up the most momentum. Anything to do with water, we were all for that. We’d wade in the branch and look for crawdads. We’d try not to step on one ‘cause granny told us if they grabbed aholt of you, they wouldn’t turn you loose ‘til it thundered.. The branch ran into the creek, which of course lent more opportunities to play in the water. We would take rocks (the ones we had carried in proliferation out of the field) and make a dam across the creek so the water would back up, then we could pretend swim in the deeper water. We’d make mud pies and bake them on the hot rocks for “pretend” biscuits. The only pollution we had to worry about was to make sure we built the “swimming hole” above where the cows came down to stand and drink. We’d put a fallen sapling or tree limb that was big enough to hold us, across the creek and see who could walk across without falling in. There was always someone who loved to jiggle the limb and make sure you didn’t get to the other side without being dunked. Uncle Travis had made a big pond that he used for irrigation. It was deep enough to swim in, but we didn’t go in there much. He told us there were water moccasins in there and we believed him. Going up the logging road to the Hog Cove, there was a tiny little waterfall coming across a rock cliff that was barely big enough to stand under, but we loved to do that when it was real hot. Just stand there and let that cold mountain water raise chill bumps on your arms.
We loved to play hide and seek (or whoopy hide)... We played cowboys and Indians, with a tree branch for a gun or a rifle, a tobacco stick for a horse and ride the range all day. All our games were outside games (no playing in the house). When it was raining, we played in the barn, climbing and hiding. We’d play “button, button, who’s got the button”, with one person trying to guess which hand of all the others the button was in. When we would play “tag”, we would count “one potato, two potato, three potato, four, five potato, six potato, seven potato ore…you…are…it…you…old…dirty…dish…rag…you….with “you” being “it. All the rest would run away from “it” and “it” would try to catch you and “tag” you and then you would become “it.

Uncle Travis would sometimes come up to us and say “don’t you younguns have anything to do?”, “if you don’t I can find you something”…we’d always answer with something like “oh, yeah, granny has had us busy all morning and we’re wore out, we were just resting a minute before we get back to what she had us doing (did that fool him for a minute?). It didn’t take us long to figure out that “nothin’ to do” was better to be done out of sight of the house.

We played “Ring around the Rosie”, “Red Rover, Red Rover” and “Hopscotch”. Hopscotch was considered a “girlie” game so we didn’t have many boys participate in that. We would play a game of “Jacks”. We had a little rubber ball and 10 metal “jacks”. You’d throw the ball in the air and pick up a “jack”, then throw it again and pick up 2 “jacks”, and on until you had all 10. If you missed one, you gave up your turn. I have spent many an hour playing marbles. How I wish I still had my old “shooter”. The “shooter” was a bigger marble than the rest. We made a circle about 2 feet in diameter. Each one would put their marbles in the circle and the one who shot first would try to knock the others’ marbles out of the circle. If you did, your turn kept on, if you didn’t, you gave up your turn. Sometimes we would play “keepsies”. You got to keep the marbles you knocked out of the circle. My cousin Edward was an expert at that, so we tried not to play “keepsies” with him or we would end up without any marbles. (Is that how I lost my marbles?)

On one of our trips to Marshall, they had a shiny, red Pedal Car in the window of the Home Electric. I can still remember wishing for that Pedal Car. I put it on each and every list available to me until I was too big to fit into it, but never got one. I see them for sale now on the internet and the wazoo prices folks are getting for them.

From my other articles, you got to know my Uncle Ed, the practical joker. Uncle Ed was the one that sent me on my first (and only) snipe hunt. He played it up for months, long enough to get me to begging him to let me go. He even had me practicing the “snipe call”; until he was assured I had gotten it right. The night came when he said I was ready. He gave me a burlap sack (we called them toe sacks) and a stick and showed me where to go down in the woods next to the creek. He said he would go the other direction and run them my way and for me to catch them in the sack. I asked him what they looked like and he said “you’ll know them when you see them coming”. I went down there in the black pitch dark and began my practiced “snipe” call. I was so scared. I heard the screech owls and was more scared. I saw every ghost and goblin from 100 years coming down that path in my direction, but never saw a snipe. When I got so scared I thought I was going to pass out, I began running to the house only to find Uncle Ed, and others who had joined in the fun, laughing and having a great old time at my expense.

We have come a long way since those days of care free abandon. It is sad that children cannot experience the wonderful world of games as we had them. When we talk about our “games”, they think we are “old f….s”, and I suppose I am proud to be one.

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

Our Sisters of the Ostentatious




It was the fall of 1992, and Right Said Fred was getting far "too sexy for his shirt". In an attempt to outdo even Fred, these three sisters helped keep florists' registers ringing and boyfriends scrambling for an advance on their meager allowances.

Each sister had the appropriately sized mum befitting birth status and thus preventing WWIII in their humble domicile and shared bedrooms; for it would never do to have Elder Sister sport a less than triple-decker, over-the-shoulder, mum harness complete with: count 'em - not one, nay two, but THREE stuffed mascot bears!

*This photo is submitted by the Mother Superior of the Sisters of the Ostentatious with their blessings and hopes of preventing shoulder pain, wrenched necks and silly historical preservation of campy high school d'objets d'art for young women all over Texas (not to mention the salvation of young mens' wallets and sense of male pride).