Archives
July 2000
July 16 --- Small Town Tale Link "...sound of woman who sings low alto shreiking in high soprano..."
I used that phrase to express frustration about something a few days ago, but it reminded me of an occurrence that could only happen in a small town.
A few years ago my mother was hospitalized rather suddenly. A friend of ours had helped her get to the hospital, and had been kind enough to alert the local police in my small hometown that the house would be empty for at least the first night (until I could get there). When I got to town, of course I was spending most of my time with Mother, at the hospital. I didn't think about the police having been notified.
The second night I was there, a police officer came to the front door, figuring I was the person in the house, but wanting to make sure. He was a friend of the family, so we chatted for a few moments, and I thought the rest of the officers would be informed that I was indeed the person in the house--which is a block away from the police station.
A few more days passed, with Mother continuing to improve. It was autumn, and still warm enough to have the windows and doors open. I was sitting in the back of the house, giving a progress report by phone to a friend. Since I had let Mother's dog out to play in the back yard (fenced), the back door was open.
All of a sudden, I heard a man's voice on the back porch. He spoke to the dog and called him by name. I was so startled that I began to shreik. In very high soprano.
My friend was still on the phone, scared, of course, preparing to break the connection to call the police for me.
But she didn't have to do that. As soon as I paused for breath and was starting another shreik, the man's voice got louder as he said. "Ma'am? It's the police. Please calm down!" So the shreik dwindled, and the officer introduced himself, made sure of my identity, and apologized for scaring me. Seems the announcement of my presence hadn't reached him.
My friend and I both calmed down, and made plans to get together at Mother's house the following afternoon. Shortly after my friend arrived, the phone rang. I answered, and the caller identified himself. It was the police chief. His first question was, "Are you the lady we scared so bad?" I said I was, and apologized for screaming. He assured me I had done exactly the right thing by making so much noise, then went on to tell me what had been going on the night before.
It seems the officer who knew the dog's name had been watching a young prospective mischief-maker, to see if the kid was planning trouble. The kid got a clue he was being watched, and took off. The officer was chasing him on foot, and thought the kid had come into Mother's house, because the officer saw the open door. (He didn't know I was there either--gee, for a small town, the grapevine was faulty that week!) So the officer jumped our fence, and was expecting to find a miscreant in the house.
The chief went on to explain that he himself had been on the scene, too, but he was in the front yard and heard enough to be sure that whoever was in the house was allowed to be there. He figured I'd had enough excitement for one evening, especially with a sick mother, so he didn't come to the door. We had a good laugh, he asked after my mother, then he promised he would make sure the rest of the force knew I belonged in the house.
Oh--the kid? Apparently he had run the rest of the way to his home. No trouble was had reported.
I spent the rest of my time there feeling very safe.
July 17 --- Notes Link There seems to be an astonishing lack of manners or common sense this week. Apparently some people haven't been grocery shopping in such a long time that they've forgotten some of the etiquette involved. I've made a few notes.....
Note to man following me to the shopping baskets in the grocery store: the open area at the front of the store is a really big space. There is no rule that requires walking in single-file, and passing on the right is permitted. Following too closely is perceived as rude or clumsy, depending.
Note to threesome laughing at private joke: while I appreciate your attempt to get out of the main aisle, your forming a body barricade at the aisle's entrance sorta didn't help!
Note to stock clerks: if we didn't buy the stuff, you wouldn't have a job. Please don't be so pissy if someone happens to need to shop on the same aisle you're working on.
Note to two women having conversation just outside the store: it was ill-mannered of you to block the doorway to people coming or going. You really could have moved your chattering and your shopping carts a few feet away. But it was unspeakably rude that you glared at the woman who was trying to leave the store.
Note to people who leave carts "loose" in the parking lot: if you're able to walk out to your cars pushing the cart, and unload the groceries, you're probably able to park the cart where it belongs. If not, please ask someone for assistance.
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It isn't just people in grocery stores who have exhibited poor manners this week. Some people in Myrtle Beach, S.C., are lacking social graces, too. Jackie's husband and another businessman have been there recently, and have been meeting with people who were lacking in social graces. Jackie was kind to thank me for my comments. Go say hello to her, and wish her luck in her upcoming new job.
July 18 --- Change of Plans Link Sometimes plans change in mid-upload. I had an entry written and ready to upload for today, but when I was reading through Rishara's entry for yesterday, I realized my planned entry could wait, because introducing you to her is more important.
Rishara has just recently started an online journal. She lives in the mountains of North Carolina, and will start college in the fall.
Once I read her first few entries, I wrote to ask if I might have the privilege of linking to her. I told her that I wanted to do an entry pointing to her as an example of my lifelong thought that people of ALL ages have something valid to say. I'm happy to say that she answered in the affirmative.
I found it offensive to have people undervalue my thoughts and comments solely because of my age when I was a teenager, and I find it offensive when I hear other people dismissing someone younger merely on the basis of age now. (I take equal offense at dismissive behavior toward elders, but that's another day's topic.)
I direct your attention to her site. I believe you will come away with a great deal of respect for her and for her talent. I certainly hold her in high esteem, and consider it my honor to share space on the Web with her. (This entry edited to remove dead links.)
July 19 --- No Cable in Beckyland Link A shocking confession: I have neither cable television nor a satellite dish. Yes, I do watch television; plenty of it. While having really good reception for broadcast stations and being enough of a couch potato without paying for the privilege may be the prime reasons I don't have cable now, neither are the first reason. That goes back a few years.
When cable service first came to my town, the company (long since bought out) made plans with all the apartment complexes to come in and wire all the apartments, whether or not the residents planned to subscribe. It made a lot of sense to do this, since it would ultimately hold down cost.
Our management duly notified us of the dates, and told us to have furiture moved out from certain walls, and the closet floor left empty, so the cable guys could do their thing. I was happy to comply. My apartment was to be done on a Friday.
I dutifully moved the furniture that needed moving, and went to work. I was in for a surprise when I got home.
It was immediately obvious the guys didn't get finished in my apartment. There was a small hole in the living room wall where the connector was to be placed, and a gracious amount of sawdust in my carpet. There was a similar amount of sawdust on the other side of the wall, in my bedroom (with corresponding hole, of course). But no cable was anywhere to be seen.
Until I opened my closet door. The cable guys had left unrolled cable draped all over my closet, scrunching clothes all sorts of wrinkly ways. I had known the closet would be part of their work area, of course, but since they hadn't drilled the hole for the cable to come through the closet wall, I hadn't expected to be confronted by what appeared to be enough cable for several apartments, coming from a hole in the ceiling.
I was almost angry enough to take a wire cutter to the mess, but decided that making the cable take up less of my closet by winding it around itself and parking it on the shelf would suffice. And would also cause me less trouble, since technically they did have a right to do as they had done.
But I decided at that moment there was no way I would contribute to the salaries of people who had caused me that much unnecessary work.
A couple of weeks later, I got a call from a salesman for the compamy. I told him in excruciating detail (including what clothes got wrinkled, I believe) about the installation, and that I had no desire to subscribe.
I think he must have realized I had no plans to change my mind, either. From that day till the company was bought out several years later, I didn't get called again.
July 20 --- Wrong! Link Have you ever realized that someone you've known a long time really doesn't know you at all? I've recently had that experience, and it wasn't a lot of fun.
I met Joe about 20 years ago, when he was a volunteer at Non-Profit Agency #1. We've been casual friends all these years. He's lived in another part of the state for a long time now. We'd get together once or twice a year for lunch, and exchange notes off and on.
And I thought I had made my political and religious leanings pretty clear to him over the years. I have, as long as he's known me (and prior to that) been pretty liberal in both areas. And made no secret of it.
A few years ago, Joe joined an ultra-conservative congregation of an already-conservative denomination. That's fine, of course; I believe in religious freedom. But he got weird about trying to convert people to his way of thinking. And he finally did two things that went way too far for me.
Early this spring I got e-mail from him, with an attached jpeg file. He had sent it to quite a few people, according to the address block. From the subject line, I was expecting a joke---"Mary Had a Little Lamb." The joke was on me. I opened the file. to see a picture of Jesus. Superimposed on it was a poem (rhyming, of course; Joe never did believe it was all right for poetry not to rhyme). The poem ended with a plea to support a very conservative right-wing political/religious position regarding organized prayer.
I broke several speed records deleting that thing.
And I didn't respond to the message, one way or the other. I figured my silence was the best response I could make. Apparently I should have pointed out to him we didn't see eye-to-eye on such matters. My silence apparently conveyed acceptance.
But I didn't realize that until few weeks later, when Joe sent me (just me, this time) an invitation to join a right-wing online Christian Singles' Group, to help him. Seems that if I would join (giving them all sorts of personal information, of course), he could have another week's membership absolutely free! And he thought that was cool!
That one I answered: No, it wasn't for me.
I was truly afraid of what would come next if I didn't.
July 21 --- News Link I hadn't expected to mention "Survivor," and had news of Kelly Wiglesworth's being wanted in Greensboro not been broadcast, I wouldn't have. But I'm sure I can't be the only person who wonders if perhaps CBS miscast her---sounds like she should have been in "Big Brother."
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The columnist Sidney Harris would occasionally write about things he learned while looking for other information. That happened to me today: I learned that if I want to start a porn website, I don't even have to look outside North Carolina to have it hosted. Hmmm...I had planned to do a site highlighting my crochet work. But the possibilities are intriguing, even down to the notion of cross-promotion. For instance, I don't ordinarily crochet garments, but I could whip up a few, um, string bikinis.
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Second part of the above: the company that hosts porn sites also hosts non-porn, but under a different name and address. How do I know? Same contact person and phone number. FYI: porn costs more.
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My friend David has started a message board at Planet SOMA. He also has another message board set up here, for those with knowledge of or interest in grocery stores and their history. Last time I checked, it had a lot of information about west coast stores, primarily in California, and it needs some input from the rest of the country. So go say hey.
July 22 --- Sharing Thoughts Link There's been much discussion in online journal circles this week about whether or not it's appropriate for journallers to ask readers to pay to read their journals. It all got started when one journaller put a donation button on a site, alongside an entry saying donations to defray the expenses incurred in privately running the site were voluntary. And the discussion has gone into side issues of whether or not banner ads on journal sites or journallers having wish lists at Amazon, etc., were appropriate. I haven't had much to say about it, even in private, because I hate to speak before I've thought. But now I have thought, and now I'm speaking.
I won't be donating to read anyone's site. It really doesn't matter to me that their cost in site maintenance is higher or lower than someone else's. It doesn't matter to me that their content is or isn't something someone might consider "worth paying for"---that's really subjective: just because something is popular doesn't mean it's what everyone wants to read. I won't pay for it for the same reason I don't send a friend a donation every time I get mail, nor would I accept one in return. Sharing thoughts is just that. And I won't ask for donations to this site, either.
I do see a difference in the use of donation buttons and the banner ads. Clicking on a banner is a benign act for me--on sites where there are banners, especially if there's a note asking me to click to help keep the site free, I'll usually go click, though as a visual thing I hate flashing banners. Costs me nothing, and sometimes the ads themselves are interesting and/or informative. If not, I have at least learned to avoid that company's ads! Also, I see this as my way of "thanking" the site host for giving me access to someone, in much the same way that I see paying my ISP and my phone company and the Postal Service is "thanking" those agencies for helping keep me in touch and sharing thoughts. My site host has asked that its users include host contact information on our pages, and I'm happy to do that. People who choose to pay for hosting, or who own their own servers, have made a choice of how to spend their money. They probably were not refused free service. (If they were, that's a whole different issue.)
If the question is why one would pay for a newspaper/magazine/ movie/live show but not for reading a journal, my answer is that I've "hired" those writers/performers/others involved to do the job of informing or entertaining me. Should some journallers write in other venues? Sure! Would I pay? Well, if a writer's insight is so profound, dog is so cute, or child so precocious that those things are salable to some other venue, then maybe I'll go "hire" them to tell me about it. In the same vein, if I've written something I think is worth selling, I'll try to do just that.
And as to journallers with wish lists: I see that as a whole different thing. It's a list of wishes. I've never felt that I was being asked to pay the writer by running over to Amazon and buying a gift. I have, however, gained some insight into other interests some of my favorite writers have, by looking at those lists.
Do I ever give something to online journallers? Yes, my respect and attention. Some I've written to, just to say I like their work. Sometimes I've sent notes of moral support to people going through a rough time. Sharing thoughts.
Those whose work I respect the most, I ask for the privilege of linking to from here so that I might possibly introduce them to someone new. (Note to those who've said yes but who have not yet been linked or whose mentions were brief: gimme time!) And when some of them have linked to me, I have been profoundly honored. But I see all of that as sharing thoughts.
That's what I want from people who read my entries: respect and attention. I will try to deserve both. It's lovely if you write me, because you want to share a thought. But don't send money.
July 23 --- Less Alone Link Sometimes these entries have their start in the stray sentence I've written to someone in e-mail. That's the case today. I have told several people that my grief over my friend Debbie's death hurt worse than any death significant to me since my own mother's, four years ago. I spent some time pondering that, and I think I've figured out at least part of why that's the case. It's that in some wonderful ways, she mothered me, too. Never mind that she and I were pretty close in age. She was really good at being a mother, so say her children. And when I needed some motherly nurturing, she gave it. It was never intrusive. It was wonderful. It made me feel less alone.
After my mother died, I was alone in very many ways. My father died when I was quite young. Not only am I single, I'm an only child. With Mother's death, all my immediate family was gone.
I had lived on my own for years before Mother's death, but we had been in touch frequently enough that we each knew the events of the other's life. Even the mundane things. And we always made sure to say "I love you" to each other when we talked. We both knew we were loved.
During her illness (she had three strokes over a six-and-a-half-year span), I spent quite a bit of time with her. And in some ways, I became her mother. That was especially true after the second stroke, which left her with expressive aphasia. In case you aren't familiar with this, it's that the stroke victim can talk, but often the wrong words are used. (Another time I will write more about that.) Even though her speech wasn't always right, her hugs were.
So after her death I was largely alone, at least in earthly ways. But, as Alain Draeger said, "...loved ones don't vanish with death; they become invisible, but their shadows go on falling upon the living, waiting to continue the dialogue."
And sometimes people help us cast some light on those shadows, so that the dialogue can continue. Several people did that for me, right after my mother's death. And people have helped me and helped me help Debbie's family, in the wake of hers.
One of the people who has helped, in part by providing me with some lovely quotes, including the one above, is Bev Sykes. She knows grief firsthand, and continues her dialogues with those she has loved on earth in some wonderful ways. She writes eloquently of them in her journal, and in letting us have glimpses, she shares these people with us. Bev is one of the most sharing people I know of; she does a lot of volunteer work one-on-one with people who need, among other things, someone who will listen with an open heart. I've read enough of her journal to be sure they have found just that in her. And I thank her for sharing the quotes. I'm sharing them with Debbie's family when I write.
July 24 --- A Month Now Link So a month ago today I woke up and started an online journal. Oh, all right, it was a little more involved than that...actually, I had coffee and read a journal first. One that was at diaryland, as it happens.
And something clicked with me. I knew I had thoughts I'd like to share. I knew a lot of other people were comfortably sharing thoughts online. And I liked that I could come to diaryland and write to my heart's content. So I signed up, picked a template, and started writing. The urge to do so had been growing in me for a while. I'm glad I decided to go with the urge. Doing this writing is a good discipline for me. And damn it can be a lot of fun!
That you are there to read it pleases me more than you know. I have heard from people from all sorts of places, some of whom I knew before this started, and others who were strangers. I've received lots of encouragement, along with comfort and solace when I needed it. And I have appreciated the mail.
Knowing people are reading makes me feel watched over. And that's a lovely, safe feeling for me. It doesn't happen that much in my offline life. I'm sure that wanting to be watched over played a role in my wanting to have a personal site. I hadn't thought too hard about that, though, until Patrick brought it up in his July 7 entry. (See note below for URL.)
Patrick's writing is among the best I've encountered, on the web or otherwise. Some of his entries are so profound (the one I mentioned, for example) they move me to tears. And some are so uproariously funny I'm afraid I'll bother the neighbors with late-night laughter. He's written pieces that have helped me understand things in ways I had not before. He makes me think.
Sometimes he graces his readers with a short play, a movie review, or a short story. Whatever he chooses to write, the talent is obvious. So is the fact that he really enjoys writing. Go read his journal. You'll see what I mean.
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I'm sorry, folks, I don't know why the links weren't working. To go where I was trying to send you, it's http://www.spies.com/~xingcat/inside.html
NOTE: Patrick has stopped updating, but the archives are available.
July 25 --- Wrong Number Tales Link I occasionally get wrong number calls on my answering machine. Sometimes I return the call---like the one from a young boy who wanted to get together with his friend one school holiday. Unfortunately, the day he called I didn't check messages for several hours. I hate that they didn't get together, but I at least was able to assure the caller that his buddy wasn't ignoring him.
Another call I returned was to a major national department store's credit department. They had called for someone named Vanessa Not-my-last-name. Still don't know how that mistake got made, but I hope Vanessa paid her bill---they were planning to start legal action against her if she hadn't called to arrange payment on her bill by the end of the business day---five minutes after I got the message.
One I couldn't return---well, actually, several, but all from the same man who was trying to reach his girlfriend. He would call from what must have been a retaurant pay phone, based on the background noise. The calls were probably being made during his lunch break. Each time, he'd address her by name (not mine), leave his first name, and ask her if she was mad at him, since she hadn't returned his calls. I wonder if he ever called her at the right number. (This was prior to *69 service, in case you're curious.)
Two of the more interesting wrong numbers I've ever had were both live calls. One from a man thinking he had reached "Margaret," and wanting to tell her how much he had enjoyed their date the night before. He was nervous, and jumped into his monologue before I could stop him. When he learned I wasn't "Margaret," he was terribly apologetic and hoped he hadn't said anything offensive. Since the most personal thing he had said to that point was that she was sweet and beautiful, I certainly took no offense!
But then there was the girl who called about 3:00 a.m. one Sunday. I was at my mother's house, and was still awake. Mother was sound asleep, so I grabbed the phone quickly. The girl wanted to speak to "Jim." When I said she had the wrong number, her reply was, "I don't THINK so! I think he's there and you're f***ing him!"
Now I can come up with all sorts of answers to that one ("Oh! He said his name was Fred!"), but I went with honest and told her she was mistaken, then I broke the connection. I took the phone off the hook for a bit, figuring she would try calling back.
I'd love to know who she thought she was calling.
July 26 --- Meet My Mother Link From time to time, I'll share anecdotes about my mother and father. In fact, I already did tell you about the brownie-baking episode. But before I tell you much else amusing, I want to tell you about the people themselves. Today, I'll tell you about Mother. She's been dead for over four years now, but her influence will live on.
Mother was born in Wilkes County, North Carolina, on November 11, 1911. Her name was Mary, and her fraternal twin sister was named Rebecca. They were their parents' only children. Most of their early childhood was spent in Wilkes County, then the family moved to Winston-Salem. The two girls went to high school there, then stayed to attend Salem College. After that point, my aunt married, and my mother went job hunting.
It is important to note here that during the Depression, Salem College "forgave" the tuition for students who were not able to pay it. This allowed my mother and my aunt to finish their degrees on time. It is something for which I am grateful.
Mother's degree in Latin and Spanish did not land her a teaching job right out of college, as she had hoped. Seems all the schools wanted slightly older teachers, with experience. So Mother took a business course, and moved to Gastonia to live with her uncle and aunt while she worked as secretary for the county district attorney. The district attorney's nephew was also an attorney, named Frank. (Nineteen years after Mary and Frank met, they were married. I came along a couple of years later.)
During World War II, she decided to join the Army. Although she was amply qualified to apply for officers' training, at that point most WAC officers were being kept in the States and she wanted to see some of the world, so she passed on the training. She was assigned to work in the Provost Marshall's office (think JAG), and served several different places in the States before being sent overseas to New Guinea, then to the Philippines. In the Philippines, she not only worked in the Provost Marshall's office, she also taught Spanish classes.
After the war, she came back to North Carolina. Her sister, brother-in-law, and nephew were living in the mountains, where the two adults were teaching school. Mother found a teaching job, in Fayetteville, where she remained until she married my father. During her time in Fayetteville, she earned a Master's from Teachers' College at Columbia University, during summer sessions. She always loved learning.
They moved to Gaston County, where he had resumed his law practice after the war. They didn't live in Gastonia, but four miles away in Dallas, which is my hometown.
Before you ask: no, it isn't named for Dallas, Texas. Both of them were named for the same man, though.
The first year she lived in Dallas, Mother taught at a school in another small Gaston County town, Cramerton. She took time off to have me. When she returned to teaching, it was at Dallas High School. She remained there, and at its successor, North Gaston High School, until she retired. After her retirement, she did some tutoring, and indulged in a few hobbies.
She was the single most important influence on my life. And I am blessed to have been her child.
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My friend David's new message board at Planet SOMA is attracting some interesting comments. He also has a message board set up here, for those with knowledge of or interest in grocery stores and their history. We got started talking about stores in the South today.... Come see what we've been saying. And add a note to either board.
July 27 --- Invent-a-Spouse Link This entry was inspired by a now-gone entry of Sandy's about a man in her hometown she did NOT want to date. After I read it (and could quit laughing at the word picture she painted), I sent her a note, suggesting that she might want to do something similar to what I did some years ago---invent-a-spouse!
Back during the 1970's gasoline crisis, I found myself needing to get from college back to my hometown one weekend. This was during the time when gasoline was in short supply, and was being rationed to drivers based on several criteria, the complete list of which isn't important now.
Suffice it to say, I was going to need to stop for gasoline on my way between the two places, something necessitated by the rationing. Headed south on the interstate, I saw a station on the outskirts of Greensboro, and could see that the line wasn't too long, A sign proclaimed that they had plenty of gas. So I took the exit and pulled in.
The station wasn't allowing self-service, to prevent theft. So when it was my turn and I pulled up to the pump, an attendant came to my window. He looked to be college-aged himself, and was a chatty sort.
He did all the station-attendant things, coming back to the car window after each whatever to chat a bit more. Well, I'm a little thick-headed about such things, but finally I picked up on the hint that he had a surcharge in mind for the gasoline, one that involved giving him something other than money. And I had no intention of obliging.
For once my brain kicked into gear quickly. Without stumbling with my words, I invented a husband. I said my husband, who remained unnamed for the occasion, was waiting for me in High Point (the next city after Greensboro on the interstate). I casually mentioned that if I wasn't there on time, he might get worried enough to hit the road looking for me, as he would be afraid I had run out of gas or something.
Since the attendant apparently hadn't noticed what ring I was wearing on my left hand, and since it was one with a wider band, I nudged it around so the smooth side showed. Just in case, you understand.
The story seemed to work. He finished up, got a little less chatty, took the money, and wished me a safe rest of my trip. I got out of there as fast as I could, ring still turned wrong-way-out. And I never went back to that particular station.
But I kept my husband in High Point handy, just in case.
July 28 --- Pleasant Friday Link Something very pleasant happened today. I had a chance to talk with a friend for a few minutes. We've known each other for a long time, and have shared quite a few experiences, but we don't get to talk very often.
Today's conversation was pretty much in the shorthand that two people who know each other often develop. I doubt anyone hearing it could have made much sense out of it. But we knew what we were talking about. And what we were laughing about. And that felt good to me.
We keep in touch fairly often these days, mainly by e-mail. Back in the days before the Internet, we didn't get to see each other all that often, but always seemed to be able to pick up where we left off. That was nice. It was comfortable.
And our e-mails are like that now. We just sort of pick up where we left off, knowing that each other is looking forward to the update.
I like being able to be that comfortable with friends. I like having friends know my shorthand, and me know theirs.
I'll tell you more about my friend another time, and about some of our shared experiences. Tonight, I'll say I'm glad she's my friend.
July 29 --- Meet My Father Link I told you about my mother a few days ago. Today, I'd like to tell you a little about my father. His name was Frank, and he was born June 1, 1906, in Kings Mountain, North Carolina. He was the second of four sons.
He was brought up in Gaston County, in Dallas and Stanley, specifically. College years were spent at Lenoir-Rhyne (a Lutheran school in Hickory) and at UNC-Chapel Hill. He went to law school at Wake Forest.
In telling you about my mother, I mentioned that they met when she was secretary for his uncle, and that they (my parents) knew each other nineteen years before they were married.
His law practice was in Gastonia. It was mainly a general practice, but he didn't take on criminal defense work, in part because he served part-time as Solicitor (District Attorney) of Recorder's Court, a lower-court division of the court system that no longer exists as such in North Carolina.
The position of Solicitor meant that he was occasionally visited at our home in Dallas by sheriff's deputies dropping off paperwork. On one visit, the county sheriff himself showed up with the papers, at a time prior to my bedtime, so as a three-year-old I met the sheriff. And promptly ran to hide behind my mother. I had never seen a gun "in person" before, and the sheriff was in full uniform.
After supper and on Saturdays were my main times with my father. Sometimes in the evenings he would take me to walk, and sometimes we would go to ride---especially if he needed to drop off paperwork. I always loved it if we happened to go to Gastonia at a time when the evening trains were coming through---because I loved watching the trains go by. I don't know this for a fact, but I have a strong suspicion that my father timed our travel to coincide with the train schedule, just for me.
On Saturdays we often went over to his office. I would play on his typewriter while he read or did other work that didn't require the machine. It was with that typewriter (which I do still own) that I began my love of making words appear on a page. I knew how to spell my name by that point, and a few other words, so I loved seeing them appear, magically, just because I pressed down on the right keys.
Sundays were family time. After church, the three of us would have lunch, then frequently head out on an afternoon trip to visit relatives, or just go to ride.
My father was widely known in legal and church circles as a man of high ethics. One time my mother told someone, in front of me, that I was as ethical as my father. That was one of the highest compliments she could have paid me. And she often told me that he would have been proud of me. That always made me happier than she could know.
Unfortunately, my father died a week before my fourth birthday. It was a sudden, unexpected heart attack that took him, and I am grateful that he did not suffer long.
In the years after his death, many relatives and many more friends have told me anecdotes about my father. It is a tribute to him that he is remembered so many years after his death. Those kind souls have helped enrich the portrait of him for me, and in doing so have given a priceless gift to my daddy's little girl.
July 30 --- Confessions Link I'm an unrepentant packrat. I try to be neat about it, but I've managed to accumulate a lot of stuff over the years. I was reminded of that this afternoon when I was trying to take a picture of something and had to do some hard thinking about which room had the least stuff that would have to moved out of the way to give me space to spread out the object of the photograph.
And, of course, it took twice the time to put the stuff back that it had taken to move it in the first place.
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I also have a lazy streak, of the kind a friend calls "good lazy." I'm willing to work hard to get something done right, but I hate doing things twice if once will do. That's one reason I'm glad to have word processing, and why I'm the queen of backing things up.
And that means keeping copies of things till I'm sure I don't need them again, which leads into the item above....
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And occasionally I jump on a bandwagon. I jumped on a one this afternoon, and set up a "Becky Says" store. I've seen the idea several places, including a mailing list I'm on. Several members were doing it this weekend, and it sounded like fun. I'm not including everyone else's stores here becaue I don't have the complete list of owners.
Items for sale include t-shirts, two sizes of coffee mugs, and mouse pads. While telling you these things exist for sale may seem like I'm going back on my not-asking-for-donations notion, it isn't at all. First, you do get a tangible product if you buy. Second, unless you send me e-mail telling me you've bought something, I won't know. I will be told that a certain amount has been sold, but you're actually giving the buying information to Cafe Press, not me.
And you must admit, it would be an interesting conversation piece. Something with "Becky Says..." on it is probably going to get you a question!
July 31 --- Monday Notes Link It has rained here off and on all day. We've had a lot of rain this month, and the area is extremely soggy. Which made me laugh at a comment made by some learned gentleman on a news program. He announced that humidity in the South was less this summer than it had been in past years. I came to the conclusion that he's been too busy to leave his office since the end of April.
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All the rainy weather has seriously affected the schedules of lawn maintenance crews in the area. You can pretty much predict their appearance, though. They'll show up fifteen or twenty minutes after it has stopped raining, and do what amounts to making grass soup. Then they'll get out the leaf blowers, which I believe they are using in an attempt to dry the sidewalks. Doesn't work, by the way!
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(NOTE: Links in this paragraph have been removed. Kay's journal met its demise with the closing of nbci, and Themestream is no more, either. I would love it if she started another journal) Today I want you to meet Kay, if you haven't already been reading her "Letters from New England." I look forward to sitting down in the evenings and reading her journal entries, which are indeed letters to her readers. Kay has been keeping journals for a long time, and is certified through the Center for Journal Therapy to teach writing workshops for personal growth. She shares writing hints with her hometown through a series of newspaper articles which are republished at Themestream.
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CORRECTION: Yesterday I told you that I wouldn't know who had ordered what "Becky Says" merchandise from Cafe Press. It turns out that I am told the customer names and the items ordered. I didn't find that out till this morning. Sorry for the misinformation.