Every community has it's own characters--some just take a little more getting used to than others.
Our daughter had been living in her new home in Iowa about a year when she met one of the more exotic characters of the area.
She was at home one day when the dog announced the arrival of a truck in the drive. Having been raised with the open door hospitality of a rural area, she hurried to the door to see who her visitor was. With something close to awe she watched her visitor climb out of the truck, her startled gaze taking in the details from his size 14 work boots, to the enormous girth, clad in denim bib overalls and red flannel shirt. Topping it all was a long, bushy beard and a head full of wild hair with a seed corn "gimmy" hat perched on top. Piercing eyes looked out like a wolverine from a bush. Suddenly he shouted, "Who the HELL are YOU!"
Hanging on to the threads of her hospitality she responded with her husband's name. This met with no sign of recognition so she tried her universally known and liked father-in-law. Her visitor's head popped up and he roared, "That goddammed son-of-a-BITCH!" Totally flustered now, she just looked at him like a deer caught in the headlights. With no more ado, he marched to the back of the truck and demanded, "Well, what kind do you want?" "K-kind?" she stammered. He looked at her with a pitying look and said, "Yeah. Apple, blackberry, pecan, peach--what kind?" Now more confused than ever, she walked to the back of the truck to be met with the sight of neatly, lined up coolers. "PIES!" he roared, as though she was just a little simple and hard of hearing,"WHAT KIND OF PIES DO YOU WANT?"
Now beginning to become unraveled completely, she pointed to the first two coolers and ordered a pecan and apple pie. In short order a check was written and her visitor roared out of the drive with a shout through the window, "Tell that GODDAMMED SON-of-a-BITCH I said HELLO!!"
Her husband arrived home that night to the welcome display of homemade pies on the counter. Pleased at his industrious wife he beamed at her happily, only to have her ramble on about how they probably weren't even safe to eat but she was scared not to buy them. Shortly the story came out. Her husband started out sympathetic, then chuckling, soon he was laughing out loud. Between bouts of laughter he explained that she had just met Perry, the local character.
It seems the immense man had once worked for the vet who had lived in their house previously and was a great help since he could reportedly stop a cow with one blow to the head (an enormous feat since a cow's head is about the consistency of an anvil). He had done various jobs, but was now disabled and supplemented his income by making and selling pies to the area residents. In spite of his demeanor and looks, he was an excellent baker and his rounds were much anticipated.
The pies proved to be delicious and Perry became a welcome visitor--although he was always a little overwhelming.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Monday, September 17, 2012
A Keeper Married to a Keeper
There are people in this world who keep things and there are people that throw things away. As luck would have it, hubby and I are both keepers. We should have realized that this could become a problem when, with our first home, we kept welcoming kindly donations until we had five couches. Since we only had four rooms we already had a challenge. The challenge is that "keepers" can't say no and have a great reluctance to give anything up. (We actually managed to keep three of the couches.)
Although medical science has not proved me correct, I maintain that it is a genetic predisposition that makes a keeper. It's a gene we inherit. We can't help ourselves. Some people can ruthlessly clean out a cabinet or closet and throw away anything they aren't actually using, all without a twinge. A keeper will make five piles, 1) keep-I'm using this right now,2) keep-I might use it someday, 3) keep-I can probably make something else out of it, 4) keep-the kids might use it and 5) throw it out. I guarantee the fifth pile won't have a thing in it.
I have blamed it on the generation of depression era parents that raised us. They didn't live in a disposable society and made everything last and last. Some of that is true. I can't break hubby of wanting to save all his office shirts that are beginning to wear out for farm shirts. Then he wears one farm shirt at a time until it falls to pieces. At this rate he won't run out of farm shirts until he is 146 years old. That problem I blame on his parents, who were frugal and keepers. However, my parents were a mixed marriage of a keeper and a thrower. My dad was a grand "keeper" but my mom was a ruthless "thrower". I obviously inherited the keeper gene.
Another problem of keepers is that they like "things". They tend to enjoy having various objects and collecting more. Add to that a strong Swiss trend toward thriftiness and you have the beginnings of our dilemma.
As elderly relatives died off, we were often offered choice tidbits from their belongings. Sometimes there were treasures and sometimes surprises. Treasures, like the Jackson Press from Aunt Gertrude or surprises like the "unique" collection of nutcrackers from Uncle Jack. All are tucked neatly away for future use. Then you have the fact that part of hubby's job involves holding estate and/or farm auctions. There have been too many opportunities to get a bargain or just make an "opening" bid that remained yours. Of these some were treasurers, like the lovely crocheted bedspread stuffed down in a box of old linens that I impulsively bid on. Some surprises, like the opening bid hubby made on a collection of farm "stuff" that never got a second bid. The stuff contained over 700 feet of garden hoses. We watered everywhere on the farm for years with those hoses.
The problem is that the surprises and treasures are beginning to run us off the farm. Every nook and cranny is filled with our finds. The basement, closets, attic, out-buildings, barns, and now even the garage are beginning to look like an advertisement for the show "American Pickers". Our daughter looked at me the other day with a plea in her voice, "Please, Please! Do something about all of this before ......... " I could see she was wondering what would happen when we discovered that you really "can't take it with you". Then she and her brother will be left to deal with all the treasures and surprises.
It should be interesting---he inherited the "keeper" gene, she got the "thrower" gene from her grandmother!
Although medical science has not proved me correct, I maintain that it is a genetic predisposition that makes a keeper. It's a gene we inherit. We can't help ourselves. Some people can ruthlessly clean out a cabinet or closet and throw away anything they aren't actually using, all without a twinge. A keeper will make five piles, 1) keep-I'm using this right now,2) keep-I might use it someday, 3) keep-I can probably make something else out of it, 4) keep-the kids might use it and 5) throw it out. I guarantee the fifth pile won't have a thing in it.
I have blamed it on the generation of depression era parents that raised us. They didn't live in a disposable society and made everything last and last. Some of that is true. I can't break hubby of wanting to save all his office shirts that are beginning to wear out for farm shirts. Then he wears one farm shirt at a time until it falls to pieces. At this rate he won't run out of farm shirts until he is 146 years old. That problem I blame on his parents, who were frugal and keepers. However, my parents were a mixed marriage of a keeper and a thrower. My dad was a grand "keeper" but my mom was a ruthless "thrower". I obviously inherited the keeper gene.
Another problem of keepers is that they like "things". They tend to enjoy having various objects and collecting more. Add to that a strong Swiss trend toward thriftiness and you have the beginnings of our dilemma.
As elderly relatives died off, we were often offered choice tidbits from their belongings. Sometimes there were treasures and sometimes surprises. Treasures, like the Jackson Press from Aunt Gertrude or surprises like the "unique" collection of nutcrackers from Uncle Jack. All are tucked neatly away for future use. Then you have the fact that part of hubby's job involves holding estate and/or farm auctions. There have been too many opportunities to get a bargain or just make an "opening" bid that remained yours. Of these some were treasurers, like the lovely crocheted bedspread stuffed down in a box of old linens that I impulsively bid on. Some surprises, like the opening bid hubby made on a collection of farm "stuff" that never got a second bid. The stuff contained over 700 feet of garden hoses. We watered everywhere on the farm for years with those hoses.
The problem is that the surprises and treasures are beginning to run us off the farm. Every nook and cranny is filled with our finds. The basement, closets, attic, out-buildings, barns, and now even the garage are beginning to look like an advertisement for the show "American Pickers". Our daughter looked at me the other day with a plea in her voice, "Please, Please! Do something about all of this before ......... " I could see she was wondering what would happen when we discovered that you really "can't take it with you". Then she and her brother will be left to deal with all the treasures and surprises.
It should be interesting---he inherited the "keeper" gene, she got the "thrower" gene from her grandmother!
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Kindness in a Time of Tragedy
As people across the United States remember the horrible events that happened eleven years ago today, I find that I also have memories of the great kindnesses of people during that time.
Hubby and I had just finished a cruise to Alaska when the unbelievable news of the attack on the twin towers was broadcast over the ship's televisions. Within hours we arrived in Vancouver, Canada, to discover that the world had changed. Our cruise ship was greeted with a police escort and bomb sniffing dogs. Those of us who had reservations in Vancouver lined up silently to leave the ship. Each person was checked and screened as we moved through the dock area. We quickly went to our motel room and turned on the news to discover we were now stranded in a foreign country with our boarders closed to us.
After several hours of news we decided that we needed to get out of the room and move around a little. Unsure of what to expect, we wandered the streets of beautiful Vancouver. Everywhere we went, we were greeted with outpourings of sympathy. Clerks in shops, upon recognizing our accents, would grasp our hands with a warm squeeze. Other shoppers would stop and offer their condolences and friendship. Strangers were moved to give us hugs. Offers of assistance came from unlikely quarters, from the cabbie who showed us a beautiful park where we could have tranquility and quiet, to the waitress who was willing to track down a place for us to stay if we were stranded. (Many were stranded. With five or six cruise ships dumping thousands of passengers and airlines unable to leave, those without prior reservations were without rooms.) We were comforted by the show of support and empathy from the entire city.
The outpouring of concern and love wasn't just evident in Canada, but also across the United States. Our son was living in rural Kansas at the time of the attack. The immediate grounding of all the flights across America finally put into effect Eisenhower's grand plan for the interstate highways. When the interstate highway system was first envisioned, President Eisenhower, ever a military strategist, demanded that spots would be planned that would accommodate emergency landing of airplanes. If needed, these roadways could become landing strips for our military all across America. In rural Kansas, with no airports near when the call to land all planes came, a passenger plane was forced to land on one of the roadways. Stranded, literally miles from nowhere, the passengers exited the plane.
Surrounded by corn fields as far as the eye could see, on a road that stretched out to the horizon, the passengers were surprised to see a line of cars approaching them. The little community closest to the landing site was arriving to help. They ferried the stranded travelers to the local high school where they were soon settled into the gymnasium. With no restaurant to cater to them, the local "hot casserole" brigade went into action. Soon women began arriving with hot food, drinks, and comfort. With no Walmart to run to, they also showed up with anything they could grab to make their unexpected guests comfortable. Pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, newspapers, magazines, books, radios and even televisions appeared in the gym.
For nearly two days this community fed, comforted, entertained and housed the stranded travelers. When the buses arrived to take the passengers the 2 1/2 hours back to Wichita, the townspeople were there to send them off with hugs and snacks for the long trip. Strangers had become friends.
I love the old saying "every cloud has a silver lining". Over the years of my life I have seen that even the most tragic of circumstances can have moments of great joy and love. On this day, let us remember those moments, too.
Hubby and I had just finished a cruise to Alaska when the unbelievable news of the attack on the twin towers was broadcast over the ship's televisions. Within hours we arrived in Vancouver, Canada, to discover that the world had changed. Our cruise ship was greeted with a police escort and bomb sniffing dogs. Those of us who had reservations in Vancouver lined up silently to leave the ship. Each person was checked and screened as we moved through the dock area. We quickly went to our motel room and turned on the news to discover we were now stranded in a foreign country with our boarders closed to us.
After several hours of news we decided that we needed to get out of the room and move around a little. Unsure of what to expect, we wandered the streets of beautiful Vancouver. Everywhere we went, we were greeted with outpourings of sympathy. Clerks in shops, upon recognizing our accents, would grasp our hands with a warm squeeze. Other shoppers would stop and offer their condolences and friendship. Strangers were moved to give us hugs. Offers of assistance came from unlikely quarters, from the cabbie who showed us a beautiful park where we could have tranquility and quiet, to the waitress who was willing to track down a place for us to stay if we were stranded. (Many were stranded. With five or six cruise ships dumping thousands of passengers and airlines unable to leave, those without prior reservations were without rooms.) We were comforted by the show of support and empathy from the entire city.
The outpouring of concern and love wasn't just evident in Canada, but also across the United States. Our son was living in rural Kansas at the time of the attack. The immediate grounding of all the flights across America finally put into effect Eisenhower's grand plan for the interstate highways. When the interstate highway system was first envisioned, President Eisenhower, ever a military strategist, demanded that spots would be planned that would accommodate emergency landing of airplanes. If needed, these roadways could become landing strips for our military all across America. In rural Kansas, with no airports near when the call to land all planes came, a passenger plane was forced to land on one of the roadways. Stranded, literally miles from nowhere, the passengers exited the plane.
Surrounded by corn fields as far as the eye could see, on a road that stretched out to the horizon, the passengers were surprised to see a line of cars approaching them. The little community closest to the landing site was arriving to help. They ferried the stranded travelers to the local high school where they were soon settled into the gymnasium. With no restaurant to cater to them, the local "hot casserole" brigade went into action. Soon women began arriving with hot food, drinks, and comfort. With no Walmart to run to, they also showed up with anything they could grab to make their unexpected guests comfortable. Pillows, blankets, sleeping bags, newspapers, magazines, books, radios and even televisions appeared in the gym.
For nearly two days this community fed, comforted, entertained and housed the stranded travelers. When the buses arrived to take the passengers the 2 1/2 hours back to Wichita, the townspeople were there to send them off with hugs and snacks for the long trip. Strangers had become friends.
I love the old saying "every cloud has a silver lining". Over the years of my life I have seen that even the most tragic of circumstances can have moments of great joy and love. On this day, let us remember those moments, too.
Friday, September 7, 2012
Aaauugg!! Chiggers
I was rudely yanked back to my childhood when I woke up the other morning with a galloping case of chiggers. Scratching and muttering I inspected the 8 or 9 red whelps that were itching like crazy. Chiggers are something that you just learn to live with in the south. Actually, they are found just about all over the world, except in the very arid, dry areas. The little buggers thrive in the moist, hot climate in the Southeastern states. I usually am careful to use a healthy squirt of bug spray when I work in the yard, but never thought about it when we strolled around after the week-end of rain. Bad decision.
As kids, we seemed to be constantly scratching from mosquitoes or chiggers. Chiggers, which are actually the larval stage of a harvest mite, are tiny, almost microscopic little red bugs that cluster on leaves of plants waiting to jump on the food wagon as it passes by. They will attack about anything with skin, people, dogs, cats, birds, and even turtles. They then spit out an enzyme that dissolves the skin and they suck that up as their food. The itching comes from the body's allergic reaction to the spit.
Back in the old days, when we were kids, our parents were sure that the itching was caused by the insect burrowing into our skin. To kill the insect they would smother it by painting the spot with nail polish. If we were lucky, it would be the clear polish kept to stop runners in our mother's stockings, otherwise, we would be liberally painted with the red they kept for their nails. We would be treated and re-enter the world looking a lot like a red-spotted dog. It didn't help. We still itched like crazy.
Years ago I worked with a girl from an urban area. She thought living in the rural reaches of Kentucky was a never ending carnival. She and her husband had spent a sunny week-end boating and were on their way home. They took a break on the way and discovered a large patch of blackberry brambles growing along the edge of the road. The berries were lush and ripe and in no time Jodi was picking blackberries, filling every container they could scrape up. The more she picked the more she wanted and had soon waded deep into the brambles. Flushed, with thoughts of blackberry pie, they rushed home.
By the next morning she had learned that chiggers love to live in the blackberry bushes. The itching intensified as did the number of whelps. In desperation she went to the doctor to get some relief. The nurse told her to get undressed and put on the hospital gown and she would bring in the doctor. I guess Jodi missed the twinkle in her eye and the tremor in her lips. The doctor came in and asked her to show him the spots. She opened the gown and the doctor burst out laughing. Trying to control his mirth, he agreed that she did indeed have a terrible case of chiggers. With a chuckle, he asked if she had enjoyed her swim. She frowned, "how did you know we were swimming?"
You see, chiggers jump on board then travel until they find something that stops them. It can be a bend in the elbow or knee, or more likely a strap, waistband, elastic or any constricting clothing. When they are stopped they chow down.
Jodi had a perfect bikini outlined in chigger bites.
As kids, we seemed to be constantly scratching from mosquitoes or chiggers. Chiggers, which are actually the larval stage of a harvest mite, are tiny, almost microscopic little red bugs that cluster on leaves of plants waiting to jump on the food wagon as it passes by. They will attack about anything with skin, people, dogs, cats, birds, and even turtles. They then spit out an enzyme that dissolves the skin and they suck that up as their food. The itching comes from the body's allergic reaction to the spit.
Back in the old days, when we were kids, our parents were sure that the itching was caused by the insect burrowing into our skin. To kill the insect they would smother it by painting the spot with nail polish. If we were lucky, it would be the clear polish kept to stop runners in our mother's stockings, otherwise, we would be liberally painted with the red they kept for their nails. We would be treated and re-enter the world looking a lot like a red-spotted dog. It didn't help. We still itched like crazy.
Years ago I worked with a girl from an urban area. She thought living in the rural reaches of Kentucky was a never ending carnival. She and her husband had spent a sunny week-end boating and were on their way home. They took a break on the way and discovered a large patch of blackberry brambles growing along the edge of the road. The berries were lush and ripe and in no time Jodi was picking blackberries, filling every container they could scrape up. The more she picked the more she wanted and had soon waded deep into the brambles. Flushed, with thoughts of blackberry pie, they rushed home.
By the next morning she had learned that chiggers love to live in the blackberry bushes. The itching intensified as did the number of whelps. In desperation she went to the doctor to get some relief. The nurse told her to get undressed and put on the hospital gown and she would bring in the doctor. I guess Jodi missed the twinkle in her eye and the tremor in her lips. The doctor came in and asked her to show him the spots. She opened the gown and the doctor burst out laughing. Trying to control his mirth, he agreed that she did indeed have a terrible case of chiggers. With a chuckle, he asked if she had enjoyed her swim. She frowned, "how did you know we were swimming?"
You see, chiggers jump on board then travel until they find something that stops them. It can be a bend in the elbow or knee, or more likely a strap, waistband, elastic or any constricting clothing. When they are stopped they chow down.
Jodi had a perfect bikini outlined in chigger bites.
Wednesday, September 5, 2012
Marrying Well
All Southern girls are taught from an early age that the most important thing in life is to marry well. It was often said that girls in the South went to college to earn their M.R.S. degree. You could say that I have fulfilled my ancestors expectations...I married well. My hubby is a good provider, successful businessman and farmer, and we live a comfortable, good life. In short, I have lived the Southern girl's dream.
The truth of the matter is that marriage is a crap shoot. It's really just a roll of the dice as to whether the good looking guy you have your eye on will turn out to be a man to last a lifetime with or not. There aren't any guarantees that you'll end up with a happy life of wedded bliss and wealth, or just misery and hard times. Most likely, your life will be a blend of both. It's how you manage those times and what you do with your life that determine if you "married well".
After forty-four years I can attest that nothing about staying married is simple. There are always times when you really wish you could just chuck it and start over. Like the miserable time early in our marriage when I had suffered the miscarriage of our first child. I was despondent and frustrated that hubby couldn't seem to appreciate my heartbreak. I was too young to realize that no man can appreciate the feeling of bonding that every woman feels the moment she realizes she is carrying a child. He was bound up in working full time and farming at night and just couldn't figure out why I didn't just get on with my life.
Everything came to a head when we quarreled once again, over what I have no idea, and I just decided that I didn't want to do this any more. He slammed out of the house to go feed the cattle and I threw myself on the bed to cry some more. In frustration I decided I would go where someone appreciated my pain...I would go home. So I packed a bag, threw it in the truck and took off for the 2 1/2 hour trip to my dad's. (I don't remember making the conscious decision, but taking hubby's new truck probably hurt him more than my leaving!) I drove with a feeling of righteous indignation imagining how angry and supportive my family would be over my shabby treatment.
I pulled into the driveway and carried my bag into the door. My dad looked up from his newspaper and frowned, "What have you done to Bob now?" he exclaimed. Realizing that I wasn't going to get the welcome I expected, I muttered, "Well, I've come home." "That's a fine thing to do! Go call him right now and tell him you'll be back tomorrow!"
I decided right then and there that whatever the problems, I'd solve them in my own house. If I've got to live with an angry man I'd sure rather it was my husband not my father. After all, after a fight with your hubby, you can always make up!!
The truth of the matter is that marriage is a crap shoot. It's really just a roll of the dice as to whether the good looking guy you have your eye on will turn out to be a man to last a lifetime with or not. There aren't any guarantees that you'll end up with a happy life of wedded bliss and wealth, or just misery and hard times. Most likely, your life will be a blend of both. It's how you manage those times and what you do with your life that determine if you "married well".
After forty-four years I can attest that nothing about staying married is simple. There are always times when you really wish you could just chuck it and start over. Like the miserable time early in our marriage when I had suffered the miscarriage of our first child. I was despondent and frustrated that hubby couldn't seem to appreciate my heartbreak. I was too young to realize that no man can appreciate the feeling of bonding that every woman feels the moment she realizes she is carrying a child. He was bound up in working full time and farming at night and just couldn't figure out why I didn't just get on with my life.
Everything came to a head when we quarreled once again, over what I have no idea, and I just decided that I didn't want to do this any more. He slammed out of the house to go feed the cattle and I threw myself on the bed to cry some more. In frustration I decided I would go where someone appreciated my pain...I would go home. So I packed a bag, threw it in the truck and took off for the 2 1/2 hour trip to my dad's. (I don't remember making the conscious decision, but taking hubby's new truck probably hurt him more than my leaving!) I drove with a feeling of righteous indignation imagining how angry and supportive my family would be over my shabby treatment.
I pulled into the driveway and carried my bag into the door. My dad looked up from his newspaper and frowned, "What have you done to Bob now?" he exclaimed. Realizing that I wasn't going to get the welcome I expected, I muttered, "Well, I've come home." "That's a fine thing to do! Go call him right now and tell him you'll be back tomorrow!"
I decided right then and there that whatever the problems, I'd solve them in my own house. If I've got to live with an angry man I'd sure rather it was my husband not my father. After all, after a fight with your hubby, you can always make up!!
Sunday, September 2, 2012
The Redhead and the Gentleman
Hubby and I recently celebrated forty-four years of marriage. It has set me to thinking about some of the long married couples in our family. Probably the least likely, long-term marriage was my maternal grandparents. They stayed married because neither one of them would give in enough to split up. An unlikely couple, they cared deeply for each other, they just didn't get along that well.
My grandfather was one of five boys raised by a woman who took to her bed with "poor health" when the youngest was just entering school. From that point on the boys arrived home from school to do the housework and cooking. All five boys did homework, chores, cooking, and cleaning under the direction of a limp hand from the couch. They all grew up to be exceptional, gentle men who took their role of caretaker very seriously. In an age when men took no part in child rearing or housework my grandfather was a caring man always ready to lend a helping hand.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was a petite, fiery red-head. She was headstrong, impetuous, energetic, and thought nothing of tackling any project. She loved a challenge and was audacious enough to try anything. My favorite picture of her is one taken with one foot propped up on a dining room chair, dressed in knee pants, suspenders and a flat cap. She had wanted to see what a pool room was like so talked some male friends into taking her to one dressed as a boy.
I can see that the attraction would be immediate. To my grandfather this red-headed bundle of energy must have seemed as exotic as a jungle bird. She not only embraced life she flew at it with a fury. The exact opposite of the ailing woman he had been raised by. To my grandmother, the steady, handsome man with the quiet dark eyes was the image of every girl's dream. She was just barely sixteen when they married.
Opposites do attract, but they make strange room-mates. Their marriage was full of frustrations and confusions. He loved his peaceful yard and ordered household. She loved excitement and change. Supremely capable, she would tackle any project. The couch was boring, upholster it. The bedroom dull, paint it. The curtains drab, make new ones. He never knew when he left for work what he could expect when he came home. Murder or compromise was inevitable. They chose compromise.
She could do anything to the house, but she couldn't touch his chair or side table. She could stay up with friends as long as she wanted, but he would go to bed. He wanted lunch at 12:05, followed by the news at 12:30, returning to work at 12:55. The rest of the day was hers. The meticulous yard was his domain, but he allowed flowers on one end of the space set aside for his tomato plants. His side was ordered and regimented, hers was a riot of color, overflowing the borders.
Their marriage bumped along in it's own erratic way for 48 years. It may not have been picture perfect but it certainly wasn't dull. They would butt heads and yell, then reach a compromise that would let the ship keep sailing along. When my grandfather died of a ruptured aorta, the fiery little red-head found that life was incredibly dull without the steady, quiet man to tease and torment. The flame flickered on for a few more years, but soon died out without the breeze of dissension to keep it alive.
As my grandfather said, "Splitting up is impossible. That woman is just too damn bull headed to ever admit she was wrong about anything!"
My grandfather was one of five boys raised by a woman who took to her bed with "poor health" when the youngest was just entering school. From that point on the boys arrived home from school to do the housework and cooking. All five boys did homework, chores, cooking, and cleaning under the direction of a limp hand from the couch. They all grew up to be exceptional, gentle men who took their role of caretaker very seriously. In an age when men took no part in child rearing or housework my grandfather was a caring man always ready to lend a helping hand.
My grandmother, on the other hand, was a petite, fiery red-head. She was headstrong, impetuous, energetic, and thought nothing of tackling any project. She loved a challenge and was audacious enough to try anything. My favorite picture of her is one taken with one foot propped up on a dining room chair, dressed in knee pants, suspenders and a flat cap. She had wanted to see what a pool room was like so talked some male friends into taking her to one dressed as a boy.
I can see that the attraction would be immediate. To my grandfather this red-headed bundle of energy must have seemed as exotic as a jungle bird. She not only embraced life she flew at it with a fury. The exact opposite of the ailing woman he had been raised by. To my grandmother, the steady, handsome man with the quiet dark eyes was the image of every girl's dream. She was just barely sixteen when they married.
Opposites do attract, but they make strange room-mates. Their marriage was full of frustrations and confusions. He loved his peaceful yard and ordered household. She loved excitement and change. Supremely capable, she would tackle any project. The couch was boring, upholster it. The bedroom dull, paint it. The curtains drab, make new ones. He never knew when he left for work what he could expect when he came home. Murder or compromise was inevitable. They chose compromise.
She could do anything to the house, but she couldn't touch his chair or side table. She could stay up with friends as long as she wanted, but he would go to bed. He wanted lunch at 12:05, followed by the news at 12:30, returning to work at 12:55. The rest of the day was hers. The meticulous yard was his domain, but he allowed flowers on one end of the space set aside for his tomato plants. His side was ordered and regimented, hers was a riot of color, overflowing the borders.
Their marriage bumped along in it's own erratic way for 48 years. It may not have been picture perfect but it certainly wasn't dull. They would butt heads and yell, then reach a compromise that would let the ship keep sailing along. When my grandfather died of a ruptured aorta, the fiery little red-head found that life was incredibly dull without the steady, quiet man to tease and torment. The flame flickered on for a few more years, but soon died out without the breeze of dissension to keep it alive.
As my grandfather said, "Splitting up is impossible. That woman is just too damn bull headed to ever admit she was wrong about anything!"
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