A Long Lost Friend

I was checking out in Wal-Mart, one of my least favorite places, when the cashier suddenly questioned, "Sallie Jo?"  I knew immediately that she had to be someone from my past--my distant past.  Growing up in the south, I was accustomed to everyone having a double name.  We are crowded with Barbara Ann's, Anne Marie's, Sarah Jane's, and Betty Sue's.  I quit introducing myself as "Sallie Jo" when I entered college in 1966.  That was when I introduced myself to a girl on my floor from Detroit who squealed delightedly upon hearing my name, "Oh, how wonderful!  Sallie Jo!  I just knew when I came to Kentucky I would meet a "Jo" just like Billy Jo, Bobby Jo and Betty Jo on Petticoat Junction!"  Being compared to the popular hillbilly sitcom did not make my day.  After that, I generally dropped my second name, so, I knew when I heard that name that this had to be someone I knew from way back. 

Puzzled, I looked at her as she rushed out from the cash register.  Facing me was a middle-aged woman with short, white hair and arms open wide.  "I know I must know you, but who are you?" I asked, smiling.  Not graceful, but I have always been stymied by these situations.  "Pam York" she beamed.  Immediately my mind rushed back to the carefree days spent at my grandmother's during the long summer vacations from school.  Throwing my arms around her I hugged my irrepressible partner in mischief from those bygone days.  She was still living in Bardstown, actually on the same street that was our playground during those days of endless summer.  Our reunion was cut short by the patiently waiting customers behind me, but not before she told me that she had always kept an eye out for me, sure that eventually I would come through her line.  Parting with contact information and promises to meet when we could truly visit, I left the store in a daze. 

On the drive home my mind was flooded with memories of those glorious days.  My grandparents had lived on a quiet street surrounded by young families.  In an effort to help my mother out over the summer months when we weren't in school,  they often kept us for extended stays.  I don't know how she put up with us for the amount of time we were there,  but having several kids on the block certainly helped.  Pam had lived next door with her three older sisters.  Being almost the exact age and similar personalities (tomboys) we were immediately best friends.  One house up the street lived our third playmate, a lovely, dainty only child.  I'll say this, she was game.  I know sometimes she was appalled by some of the stuff we got into but she followed right along. 

Pam's yard was our playground of choice since it had the most fun to do things in it.  On one side of the sprawling old house was a low building that had originally been a chicken house.  Probably, the old house, now surrounded by modest ranch and cape cod homes, had been the farmhouse on a small farm adjacent to town.  Behind the house was a large metal building housing a shop and garage for her dad's truck.  Next to this stood a huge old willow tree that had branches that draped to the ground all around, creating secret cave behind the green limbs.  The rest of the yard was shaded by mature maples, just begging for kids to climb them. 

The chicken house (long since cleaned up and made into a storage building), became our clubhouse.  We stored our most treasured possessions in two large cardboard boxes in there.  One was filled with old cast off dresses, hats, purses, belts and lengths of left-over fabric, which we used to transform ourselves into whatever characters our imagination created for us.  We held tea parties, sailed with pirates, piloted space ships, fought off Indians, and plotted continuously  against the two boys from across the street.  We would low-crawl behind the bushes around the house to achieve the perfect ambush, only to often be surprised in turn.  With squeals of mock terror we would run to our favorite hiding place, the branches of the old maple in the front yard.  Like monkeys, we would scramble up the tree and smother giggles as we hid in the leafy bower.

The moms on the street left us pretty much alone (they were mostly all stay at home moms at that time) unless things started to get out of hand or someone was actually hurt.  Then we would be called in for a little "rest".  Television was strictly for adults, so a rest meant we would lie on the bed with the windows open for the breeze, read and listen to the noises of the neighborhood and maybe fall asleep. 

With no daylight savings time keeping daylight around all night, dusk just created more adventures for us.  After supper, the adults would gather on a porch and talk about the happenings of their days while we caught lightning bugs and put them in jars.  (yes, we broke some jars, but no one ever amputated a finger or bled to death from the broken glass)  Later when it got full dark we would play kick-the-can or hide-and-seek with the older kids, running from yard to yard, seeing strange and scary new shapes in the shifting shadows.  Before the big boys could scare us completely to death, the adults would call for us to come in for baths. 

For about five years my summers were lived on that little street that will always be wrapped in the heat of summer with the heady smell of cut grass, flowers and warm cookies, echoing with the sound of childish laughter.  Then my grandfather retired and my grandparents moved to our home town to be closer to my mother.  Despite vows to keep in touch, we never really saw each other much again.  We were briefly reunited at my grandfathers funeral, when we were all in high school but never after that. 

Now, with a hug from another middle-aged lady, I was suddenly transported to that time when a eight year old little girls promised life-long fidelity and friendship.  Maybe we weren't so wrong after all.

The Music Minister

Back when my daddy first came for a visit that lasted eight years, he stayed in our house.  It soon became apparent that another solution would have to be found.  Any farmer knows that you can't put two bulls in the same pasture without some head-butting to determine who is boss.  For the sake of my sanity, daddy really needed a place to call his own. 

He wanted to live in the country.  I needed him to be close enough that if the need arose I could get to him quickly.  After looking at spot after spot that involved long, winding drives up and down steep, narrow roads, we began to consider alternative solutions.  One solution arrived over coffee at the local men's gathering place.  "My son got a divorce." one reported.  "His wife left him and he's moved home for his mama to take care of him.  Why not buy his trailer, then you can put it wherever you want to."  Never one to hesitate on a decision, within days daddy was the proud owner of a two bedroom mobile home. 

He then looked around for a place in the country, close to me that he could put his new home.   Before you could say, "Jack Rabbit" we had a trailer in the back yard. 

After daddy was gone the trailer became a mecca for young men needing a temporary place to stay.  I'm not sure why -- do I look like a den mother to everyone?  Over the years we have had several come and go and all of them have become my boys.  I've listened to their woes, fed their spirits (and stomachs), enjoyed their foolishness and their help, then seen them married off and moved on.

Probably the one that gave more back to us than  we gave to him, was the young student from Brazil that became our music minister at church.  In an effort to offset the meager salary our small church could pay we offered to let him stay in the trailer.  He arrived one spring day to meet us and check out his new home.  He bounded up the walk, a slim, handsome young man with dark curls bouncing in the sunlight.  He greeted us with excellent English with a delightful accent.  We proudly showed him his new home in the now aging trailer.  In our ignorance we assumed that this poor kid from the primitive jungles of Brazil would be overwhelmed by our generosity.  It wasn't until later, we found to our horror that he not only came from a fairly wealthy family but had grown up in a cosmopolitan city on one of the beautiful beaches in Brazil.  (Think Miami) It must have looked like a slum dwelling to him but he must have been happy there because several years later he returned to take pictures of his wonderful Kentucky home.  It was just one of the many things this talented and charismatic  young man taught us.

Coming from a background of city life and culture (he played three instruments, sang beautifully, and spoke three languages) he probably thought he had been dropped into a primitive culture.  Farm life was definitely a new experience!  He embraced the whole idea with enthusiasm and excitement.  He would pop into the barn to help with whatever chore was going on.  Usually clad in flip-flops and shorts, he would gamely offer to help.  "Umm, you might want to watch where you step", hubby would warn mildly, then let him help. He actually did learn to drive the tractor and became a big help during hay time.  He never quite figured out the cows.

What he did do was open our eyes to a whole new world.  We became quite familiar with the culture of Brazil and the vast diversity of that country.  Through his influence we expanded our music knowledge and attended wonderful concerts featuring some of his many talented friends.  We became members of an extended Brazilian  family living in Florida and Brazil.  We learned a lot about soccer.  But mostly we learned to appreciate people that sounded differently but loved and laughed the same.  And when he married we were proud to stand as his "patrons" at his wedding.  An honor given to couples who have been important in the lives of the bride and groom. 

Thanks, Nuno, for enriching our lives.

Beach Blues

Once, years ago, before all our vacations involved hauling cattle and kids to shows, I was scrambling around getting the household ready to head to Florida for spring break.  A friend, who was witnessing the preparations, slowly shook her head, "I don't know why anyone would leave Kentucky in April and go anywhere".  She had a point.  While the weather can be changeable, for the most part it is beautiful here.  The grass is lush and green and everywhere you look something is blooming.  You can almost stand in one spot and watch things grow and change.  The temperature is warming nicely and the bugs haven't taken over the yard.  I should have remembered her warning.

When hubby announced that we would be traveling to Hilton Head during April for the insurance trip this year,  I was thrilled.  It seemed a perfect time for a trip to the beach--early enough not to be miserably hot, but perfect for a get-away after a long winter.  We planned for a few extra days and decided to drive down to enjoy a beautiful trip through the mountains, viewing the dogwood and redbud trees on route.  After spending a night in Charleston, we arrived in Hilton Head.  The weather was a little unsettled, but the forecast promised improving weather.  We immediately headed to the beach to walk a while and enjoy the ocean.  "It's a little windy," hubby remarked as he struggled to light his cigar.  "It's the ocean breeze," I responded.  Upon returning to the hotel, we discovered the opening night dinner had been moved inside.  Good choice.  Late arrivals reported driving through hail storms and torrential rain. 

The weather steadily progressed downward.  We had one day that was partly cloudy with the rest of the week getting steadily colder and more blustery.  The beach was deserted and even the poolside bar gave up and closed.  Winds hovered around 20-30 miles an hour, temperatures around 70.  In a beach community about the only entertainment other than enjoying the beach is shopping.  Hubby was just thrilled.  Even I found that you can only look at so many $300 dresses in a size 4 (doesn't anyone at the beach wear a reasonable size?). 

We were all gathered in the bar, trying to decide if we needed to go buy coats, when my cell phone pinged for a text.  I opened it up and started laughing as I passed it around.   My daughter had sent a picture of her two girls building a snowman in their yard.  Iowa was in the middle of a snowstorm with schools closed.  They eventually got nearly 10 inches of snow.

You know, all of a sudden the weather didn't seem so bad after all.

(It was sunny and 80 degrees at home!)