Motherhood and Muffin Tops

Wednesday, July 7, 2021

Reflections of the Farmer’s Wife

9:04 PM

Davis came home with three bushels of peas that needed to be put up, which I assure you is precisely the reason the Farmer in the Dell took a wife. And all that ‘hi-ho, the derry-o” makes it sound way more fun than it actually is. His little garden seems like a great idea on Good Friday when the seeds go in the ground, but the harvest always comes at the absolute worst times. Holiday weekends, trip planned, company coming, feeling tired- Mother Nature cares not. He did run them through the pea-sheller and so my first world problem was that I had to cancel dinner plans to stand in my air-conditioned kitchen with Spotify on my Bluetooth speaker while I culled, blanched, and bagged 24 Ziplocs of the garden jewels.

Our garden is really small potatoes, pardon the pun, but whenever I put up our little harvests, I feel like my Grandmother- only a really amateur, slothful, unskilled version of her. Just the process of putting up vegetables reminds me of her standing at her kitchen sink for hours on end- cutting corn off the cob. She’d be in her duster with her hair wet with sweat- putting up bags and bags of creamed corn for all of us to enjoy through the year. They were bags of liquid gold, really. If my young self had only known then what it knows now about how much work was involved, I would’ve eaten it much more regardfully and with some added reverence.

Some of my favorite memories of her house involved all of us on the front porch with a pan of peas in our laps- shelling and swinging and rocking. There was always an old sheet in the middle of the porch for throwing our hulls. Not a phone anywhere in sight. Just good conversation and waving at the passing cars. Every now and then, somebody would go in the house and ask if anyone wanted anything while they were there. A glass of tea or a slice of pound cake were common requests. We’d shell everything in our dishpan or roasting pan or Tupperware cake carrier lid- whatever Grandmother had scrounged up for us all to use as pea-shelling vessels. With our thumbnails green and sore to the touch, we’d knock out the huge undertaking and get a whole lot of visiting done at the same time.

Gardening is mostly a hobby now, but it hasn’t been too many generations ago when it was more a matter of survival and not a choice. We just celebrated the birth of our nation and I thought about the centuries of men and women who have worked to scratch life and sustenance for their families out of the ground since its very beginning. Most without tractors, electricity, freezers, Ziploc, and, perhaps most notably, air-conditioning, they worked circles around us, I’d venture to guess. With each generation, more inventions, modern conveniences, and access to food have been added to our arsenal and now we have little need to do things the hard way anymore.

I’m not really interested in going back to the pilgrim days and doing it their way. I’ve always said I would’ve been the first headstone in the pilgrim cemetery and I mean that. God knows who belongs in what century and He was so wise in His placement of me. But, I do wish we could take it back just a little ways- maybe to the time when families and friends sat on porches for hours and worked and talked without any distractions or interruptions. When there weren’t so many other options competing for our time and we were content just to be with each other doing not much of anything. Yeah, maybe we could revisit that……but only if we can take the air-conditioning with us.

Hope y’all are having a great week!

JONI

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Thursday, July 1, 2021

The Dawgs Have Their Day

9:40 PM

So, if you’ll notice, M&M has a fresh look. I’ve had watermarks, as of late, due to some expired licensing on some of the images the blog designer used when I first started blogging, so my new designer suggested we just redo the whole thing to solve the problem and so it did!

Also, Feedburner was discontinuing their email subscription service and I needed to have my email list transferred to another service before losing your addresses. Licensing, email subscriptions, web design- all significantly over my head, so Amanda from Cutest Blog on the Block helped me with all of my technical challenges and made it look really good in the process. Bless her sweet heart.

So, if you aren’t receiving email notifications about posts and would like to, just enter your email address on the right side of the page. If you’re already receiving those, then there should be no interruption in service but if there is, just enter your address again. Also, there are links on the top right side to my Facebook and Instagram pages if you want to follow along there. I’m going to try to post more useless and meaningless stuff more frequently, so you certainly wouldn’t want to miss out on that. And now, this concludes the technical portion of today’s post.

So, how about my Mississippi State Bulldogs winning the College World Series?? Is that something else or what!? I admit I’m not the avid baseball watcher. Unlike my son, I can’t tell you the scores from all of the 982 games they played this season or recall anyone’s batting average. As a matter of fact, if we’re being real honest, I find baseball to be painfully slow and, most of the time, just a little dull. I don’t mean to offend the baseball people, but it’s just a personality thing. I’m more of the impatient sort and require the constant action that football brings. But, while baseball’s not my favorite to watch, I do appreciate the skill it requires and I do so love Mississippi State!

My brothers and I graduated from there. My husband and his brother. Our daughter and, Lord willing and the creek don’t rise, our son will graduate next May. Our ties are strong and our love for maroon and white runs deep. Deep enough to make this football fan sit on the edge of her seat with a pounding heart for 3 straight nights watching baseball- which, I have to say, was rarely slow or dull. And anytime my precious home state gets positive attention of any kind, well, we’ll sure take it because it seems to happen so rarely. When we do make the news, it’s usually of the bashing sort, but we’ve learned to be ok with that. We know who we are and that’s all that matters. Those young men showed great athleticism and sportsmanship, this week, and they made our state so proud of the way they represented us.

During my unusual baseball binge watching, I made some mental notations.

-Men spit a lot. I never have gotten that. What is it that makes swallowing spit less appealing than spurting it out from between one’s teeth onto public surfaces? I’m sure my failure to understand is along the same lines as their failure to understand why we go to the bathroom in pairs.

-I can imagine the mothers saying to their sons before the game- “Son, play hard. Give it your very best. Enjoy the experience. Take it all in. Represent God and your team well. And, please, for the love of all that is good, don’t pick your nose and embarrass your family on tv.”

-If the bases are loaded with two outs and you’re up to bat, do you secretly wish it was somebody else’s turn?

-Ball, strike, foul, foul, ball, ball, foul, strike, foul, foul, hit. This game seems the perfect fit for those who also enjoy driving slowly on the interstate, having their driver’s license renewed, and texting on flip phones in their spare time.

-If you’re not from around these parts, you might have watched the CWS and been confused by the widespread misspelling of our mascot name. In case you haven’t noticed, southerners like to shorten words. Some might even call us lazy in our speech. We shorten Bulldogs to Dogs and then put the southern spin to it- thus the spelling Dawgs. “D-ahhh-g” is a northern dog. “D-awww-g” is a southern dog.

-Young people amaze me. Baseball for 50-somethings would definitely require a stool for the catcher and those wristband play cards would be an absolute must. Any sliding would be purely accidental and require emergency medical services.

-The scratching and “situating” of oneself is generally considered to be a socially unacceptable behavior in the public square with the apparent exception of the baseball diamond where it is not only admissible, but expected.

-The sweetest sound to TV sports announcers is clearly the sound of their own voices.

-If you win the national championship, it doesn’t matter how bad you smell, people will still want to hug you.

-No matter which team you cheer for, let us all agree that the whistling Vanderbilt fan is conclusively the most annoying human to ever walk the planet. Since we do not condone violence in any way here on M&M, I’d just say- bless his heart.

-And if you have ever tuned in to other sporting events and you saw our fans ringing cowbells and wondered what in the world, I’ll give you a brief history as stated on the Mississippi State website. The cowbell came on the scene of MSU sports history in the 1930’s. “The most popular legend is that during a home football game between State and arch-rival, Mississippi (Ole Miss), a jersey cow wandered onto the playing field. Mississippi State soundly whipped the Rebels that Saturday, and State students immediately adopted the cow as a good luck charm. Students are said to have continued bringing a cow to football games for a while, until the practice was eventually discontinued in favor of bringing just the cow’s bell.” I would say this was a wise substitution and I love traditions with a good story behind them.

Well, that’s all this rookie baseball-watching Mississippi girl has for tonight. I hope you all have a wonderful 4th of July celebrating this great country. She’s had a rough couple of years and has taken a lot of bad mouthing and abuse. She deserves to have a BIG celebration! May we all realize how very blessed we are to live here! God bless America and Hail Dear Ol’ State!

Happy 4th! Be safe!

JONI

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Thursday, June 24, 2021

Celebrating the Menfolk

10:54 PM

I was so busy last week that I feel like I didn’t address Father’s Day properly. I hope you all had a great weekend celebrating the dads in your life by consuming a lot of grilled red meat and bestowing upon him a new tool of some sort. Our Davis is certainly a dad worth celebrating every day. Sure, I too often have to ask him questions like, “Are you wearing that?” And “Don’t you have any clothes that don’t say Columbia?” And on a regular basis, I may send him back to change when he tries to wear too many shades of the same color at the same time. And, yes, he may be such a predictable and consistent creature of habit that even the clocks and calendars envy him. And, sure, he might have the body temperature of a lizard and find it almost impossible to stay awake for the news, but we all hit the jackpot with him. Every bit of himself that he has to give, he gives it. A completely selfless soul. A man who absolutely loves to work- any kind of work. And a guy who asks what God would want him to do in every situation he faces. He’s a man of integrity and a man of God who prays for the good of his children every single day. We couldn’t be more proud that he’s ours or love him any more than we do. He’s our predictable, routine-loving, early to bed, rooster-rivaling early to rise, fashion-challenged, cold-natured, lovable guy and his valiant leading of our family was rewarded with a new cordless drill, a blueberry picker, and MSU sun hat for Father’s Day.

Carson turned 21 on Father’s Day, so we had all kinds of things to celebrate around here. I felt like we didn’t do anything exciting. The weather was nasty on Saturday and that put the brakes on the hike we wanted to do with the dogs. But it was also hard to plan much of anything when the menfolk just wanted to plant themselves in front of the College World Series- no matter if our Bulldogs were playing or not. We did eat an impressive amount of food and, when we went out, the restaurant was chosen solely on the basis of the number of televisions on site. You can imagine what fine dining that was. We did manage to work some volleyball and whiffle ball into the weekend on Sunday afternoon. We like to get outside and play stuff when everybody is here and our neighbors helped fill in the teams. Of course, we have a wide range of skill levels, but that’s what makes it so humorous and entertaining. We have everything from a former college pitcher to elderly people who require pre-game Advil and still others with bladder problems when they laugh at people who run funny. Sadly, Carson’s team was saddled with the latter and the score reflected it.

I remember my 21st birthday. It doesn’t seem like that long ago, but it was. Don’t you ever wish you could go back and do things over knowing what you know now? I tried to think of what I’d tell my 21 year old self now that I’m slightly older. First off, I’d probably slap her and tell her she’s not as smart as she thinks she is. I’d assure her that she has so much to learn. I’d tell her not to worry about stuff so much or take things too seriously- good or bad- nothing lasts forever. I’d promise her that with every year of living comes a greater sense of calm and a lesser tendency to sweat the small stuff. I’d remind her not to waste time because it goes by lightning fast and she’ll have these crazy chin hairs coming out of nowhere that’ll rival the grass coverage in her yard before she can turn around. I’d tell her to keep up the good work with taking a lot of pictures because, one day, they’ll be the only way to look into some of the faces she loves. I’d assure her that the things that are really big stressors for her now likely won’t even matter in a year or even a month, so don’t get bogged down with them. I’d really emphasize the truth behind what Eleanor Roosevelt said- “You wouldn’t worry so much about what others think of you if you realized how seldom they do.” I’d tell her to not to get busy and let up in visiting her grandparents- to write down the things they tell her- and that they’re precious links to her past that are gone too soon. I’d give her a reminder that what she puts in relationships is what she can expect to get out of them. I’d advise her to really watch her words- they can never be taken back so measure them carefully before dispensing. I’d warn her to never get so busy that she can’t spare some time for the people she loves. I’d tell her not to always take the safe road but to stick her neck out a little, every now and then. I’d describe to her how painful the feeling of regret is and urge her to seize opportunities as they come. I’d ask her not to get cranky with her parents and remind her that she won’t really know how hard they work or how much they love her until she’s paying for her own insurance and waiting on her own children to get home from prom. I’d tell her that with all the paths ahead, the choices to make, and the blanks to fill in that God is always for her and always with her.

I decided to ask some friends what they’d tell their 21 year old selves. I got a lot of good answers.

-God’s way really is the best way and it’s designed to protect us.

-Don’t spend time worrying about things you can’t control.

-It’s all just a season. Enjoy it while you have it, or suck it up while it lasts, but know that change will come. This too shall pass.

-Pray more and worry less.

-Don’t be gullible.

-Get the dog.

-Everyone doesn’t need to know your opinion on everything all the time.

-Be more considerate of others.

-Choose your friends wisely. They rub off.

-You’re not the center of the universe.

-Live your life without worrying about what other people say or think.

-Enjoy this time and have fun.

-Don’t be overly cautious. Sometimes, throw it to the wind.

That would probably be good advice for all 21 year olds and most of us who are slightly older, too. I guess in Carson’s case, I’d warn him that he’ll be telling Dad jokes and wearing white leather Reeboks and blue jean shorts before he knows it. Before he can bat an eye, his kids will be having to repeat things, his calendar will be full of doctor appointments, and he’ll develop a growing obsession with gas mileage and the weather radar. But, for now, you’re 21, son. Seize the day, the moments, the opportunities, the relationships. And wherever you go, go with God.

“Do not be afraid or discouraged, for the Lord will personally go ahead of you. He will be with you; He will neither fail you or abandon you.” Deuteronomy 31:8

Happy Weekend and Go Bulldogs!

JONI

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Tuesday, June 8, 2021

Thoughts From Between 18 and 88

8:24 PM

I asked you to pray for our friend, Tim, last week. Sadly, Tim passed away over the weekend after a sudden, unexpected illness. It always seems to me like death that we don’t see coming hits harder than the kind for which we have time to brace ourselves. I appreciate everyone who messaged me that they were praying for him. Please replace those prayers with prayers for his family. He and his wife, Sherry, have always been among my very favorites and, from where I’m sitting, Tim just had too much left to give to be taken, but God has ordained our days and we trust Him. Tim was one of those people who could do anything. He was very wise, genuine, strong, funny, and lovable. He was a man of God- steady, consistent, and honorable. He was one of the good guys.

Sherry and I were in a women’s weekly bible study together for a decade or so. Having gone to church together, I’d always loved and admired her, too, and our time in that group only grew and cemented my respect for her. I was the youngest of all the ladies- the others were 10 or more years older, so Tim and Sherry were a little further down the path of life than me, but so young at heart. Tim was 70.

Today, I considered how much age changes our thinking. When my Daddy died soon after his 71st birthday, I was just arriving on the scene of my 40’s. I remember thinking that he wasn’t old, but he’d lived a pretty long life. To my 40 year old eyes, 71 seemed like quite a generous number of years. As Davis and I sat at Tim’s funeral today, I realized how much my perspective on age had shifted in just 12 years. Seventy suddenly seems quite young. And my Grandmother died at 79- the age my mother is now. At 34, I considered her to be quite elderly at 79. At 53, my mother doesn’t seem nearly as old as I considered Grandmother to be at that same age. Funny how the years skew the way we view life.

Last week on June 2, some of my high school classmates were posting that it had been 35 years since our graduation. I was with one of our two class valedictorians over the weekend and we both agreed that we certainly don’t feel like it’s been that long. I remembered my parents going to their 35th reunion and thinking- “my soul, how could anybody be that old?” In my mind, I feel like I’m still in my 20’s or 30’s, but it doesn’t take long for my body to remind me that, clearly, I am not. If those 35 years have gone by that fast, then how much faster will the next 35 go- which will take me to age 88- probably in the activity room of some retirement facility doing chair aerobics and wondering why my children haven’t called.

I suppose recent events just have my thoughts rambling about the increasing speed of life. Davis and I talked about his retirement plans over our lunch today. That seems to be a popular topic of conversation among our friends, these days- how many years before you retire? The 18 year old in the picture thought that she had so much longer before she’d be discussing things like that with her husband.

So, here I am halfway between 18 and 88. I feel like I’ve been living more intentionally, the last couple of years. I suppose with the emergence of my 50’s came a stronger sense of urgency to make the days count. The last week has given some reminders of that. We exchange every day for something- either something hollow or something lasting. May we make good exchanges with our time. Like Tim.

Blair and John Samuel have a picture hanging in their house that I think has a good word for us all-

“This is the beginning of a new day. You have been given this day to use as you will. You can waste it or use it for good. What you do today is important. When tomorrow comes, this day will be gone forever. In its place is something that you have left behind. Let it be something good.”

Y’all have a good week.

JONI

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Wednesday, June 2, 2021

The Cutting Room Floor

10:31 PM

I have a movie that plays in my mind. It’s the motion picture of my life. A compilation of memories, faces, events, losses, firsts, turning points, special occasions, victories, milestones. There are love scenes, sappy clips, heartwarming family moments, adventure segments with friends, and a gracious plenty of boring parts that would rival any subtitled foreign film in the snooze department. I would be a little heavy on the comedic clips- some that make me chuckle no matter how many times I’ve replayed them in my mind. And, yes, there are some goodbye scenes and heart-tugging segments that still require Kleenex if I go back and watch.

The movie also has a soundtrack that’s always playing quietly in the background of my head. The sounds of my life. It’s like the music they play in elevators and department stores. You don’t really realize it, but it’s always there- the quiet hum of your life’s recordings. Voices, conversations, music, words. I can hear the precious way my children mispronounced words as toddlers. I hear my Daddy singing in the car on road trips and the squeak of my grandparents’ screen door. I can hear the sweet voice of my third grade teacher and the melodies of old hymns I learned when I was young. I hear our wedding music, last conversations, the Saturday morning cartoon theme songs, and affirming words of friends that I’ve never forgotten.

Every now and then, something in my day will bring up clips from my movie. The last few weeks have been especially rich in visits with my friends. Living in my hometown does has its advantages because many friends are still here and we do very well staying connected. And when friends, who’ve moved away, come back home to see their families, well, there’s a chance to visit them, too, so I have a lot of opportunity to stay in touch with people and I love that about having lived in the same place most of my life. Most of the time, a visit or conversation can bring a certain highlight of my movie to the big screen of my mind. The film will rewind back to the places where my present company is featured and the memories are so fun to rerun. College, high school, childhood, young parenthood- whatever segment we filmed together becomes fresh again and usually leads to a lot of laughter and a longing for the good ole days. A smell, a sound, a song, a holiday tradition, a photograph, or a host of other triggers will all cue the tape and roll the happy footage that correlates.

But, from time to time, my blooper reel will appear on my mind’s screen. Like today. There’s usually no obvious trigger to make it start playing, but there it goes. Rolling the unedited version of my life on loop. All the mistakes I’ve made since the womb. Not any biggies like armed bank robbery, prostitution, or treason. No, just the words I wish I hadn’t said. The times I embarrassed myself. The dumb decisions I made. The missed opportunities I didn’t take. The feelings I hurt. My youthful ignorance on display. The moments I wish I could take back. All the film that I thought was tucked away on the cutting room floor just randomly starts playing for my own private viewing for no apparent reason. There are scenes that make me wince and audibly call myself an idiot. There are parts that make me close my eyes and shake my head. Some of them prompt me to give myself a good, “What were you thinking, Joni?” It’s pretty painful to watch your worst moments play in your mind- no matter how far back they go.

I’m convinced we all have a blooper reel that gets stuck on repeat from time to time. I became certain of it when my own Mama told me she wished she had a big eraser that she could use to go through and remove pieces and parts of her life that she wished weren’t there. There were things she wanted to do over differently and things she regretted. I thought then if my own mother, who’s the driven snow level of pure, has regretful scenes that replay in her mind then, heavenly sunlight, we must all have a blooper reel. Although, I’m sure mine is significantly longer than hers- probably enough for a blooper marathon weekend.

I’ve tried to think what the origin of these unpleasant and unsolicited movie showings might be and I contemplated the lack of self-forgiveness. We can usually forgive other people pretty well and extend mercy and grace to them as it’s needed, but we have a really hard time offering that same gift to ourselves. I also think Satan uses those clips to intimidate us. If he can make us self-conscious and focused on our own weaknesses, we’re less likely to be aware of the power of God that’s available to us and we become ineffective in the life He’s called us to live. And if we’re always second-guessing our words and actions to avoid additional blooper episodes, we just stay distracted from our calling to be God’s light in a dark world. What better way to achieve self-consciousness and distraction than to roll the tape of our missteps for our own private viewing.

I know my movie doesn’t look like yours. And your bloopers aren’t the same as mine. We all have a unique movie and an original soundtrack and a bunch of stuff that’s been edited out and kept from public viewing- at least, as much as is in our power. Jesus’ life was the only one that required no editing. He lived a perfect life and died a cruel death so we could have complete forgiveness for all the times we didn’t get it right. And that’s a bunch of times. He offers His beautiful gift of redemption to anyone who asks.

“For His unfailing love toward those who fear Him is as great as the height of the heavens above the earth. He has removed our sins as far from us as the east is from the west.”

Psalm 103:11-12

“No, dear brothers and sisters, I am still not all I should be, but I am focusing all my energies on this one thing: forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead. I strain to reach the end of the race and receive the prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us up to heaven.”

Philippians 3:13-14

If your cutting room floor is ankle deep or neck high- God’s forgiveness is just the same. Leave it all and come away from there. We’ve got better stuff to do.

(When you say your prayers, please pray for my friend, Tim. He and his wife are very special to me and Tim is very sick. I would really appreciate your prayers for him.)

Much love,

JONI

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Wednesday, May 26, 2021

Old Summer Days

8:57 PM

This is our final week of reruns here on M&M. Next week, I’ll be back to new posts but, in the meantime, I thought we’d continue our stroll down memory lane- this one from 2017. Hope you all have a safe and happy Memorial Day weekend.

With Memorial Day practically here, it feels like summer has arrived. I don’t know why but I’ve always considered summer to be officially kicked off only after Memorial Day weekend. Around here, most kids have already been out of school for a few days. We live on a street with a cul-de-sac and there are kids living in many of the houses. We love our sweet, little neighborhood but I can’t help notice that kids don’t stay outside like we used to when we were young. Of course, I see an occasional bicycle roll past or hear the faint bouncing of a basketball, but they certainly don’t reside outside like we did. It was almost like our job to be outside all day. Only bookworms and kids who had fever were inside on a summer’s day.

On the typical summer weekday, I’d stagger out of my room around 9:00, greeted by my mother who was anxious to get us, kids, outside so she could commence with the house cleaning. She’d get the bowl of made-from-scratch pancake batter from the fridge and melt the butter in the iron skillet. I’d get out the Mrs. Butterworth syrup and tub of margarine then go put on my cut-off jean shorts, t-shirt, Keds, and Pom Pom socks while she finished cooking breakfast. If it was a particularly busy day for her, she’d set out the box of peanut butter Captain Crunch and I’d pray the submarine prize would fall out into my bowl but with two brothers that rarely happened. Anyway, on days that she was on top of her game, (which was most days) she’d call us all to the kitchen where she’d fried up pancakes or made homemade biscuits or cinnamon toast and we’d eat until we’d had enough. By that time, I was hooked on the episode of Card Sharks on TV and Mama would fix my hair into a ponytail or pigtails while I watched to see who was going to win so I could move along with my day.

After Card Sharks, Bob Barker would start calling people to come on down on his long microphone and that seemed to be my mother’s cue to have everyone vacate the house for the day. It was like a fire alarm. The Price is Right theme music meant “EVERYONE OUT! MAMA’S GOTTA CLEAN!”
If you were still in there when the Cliff Hanger yoldeling started, you’d be assigned chores.

With a full stomach, we headed outside into the Mississippi sun knowing we’d been evicted for the day. By then, there was a small gathering of kids forming in the street. A brief meeting was held as the crown grew. We’d kick the gravel on the road and break sticks as we discussed all the possibilities that the day held. Country Jay, whiffle ball, baseball with a tennis ball, kickball, hide and seek, bicycle obstacle courses, fishing, fort building. If you can’t tell, the boys were in the majority but those things were fine with us, girls, too. I don’t know why but we always seemed to follow the sports seasons, so basketball and football were reserved only for the fall and winter months. Anyway, each possibility was carefully debated until one or two rose to the top. I mean, we were going to need some careful planning to fill all the humid hours ahead and it usually required a patchwork of activities to get us all the way to the end of it.

Fishing was usually better in the morning so that was a good lead off activity. We’d break up and everybody would head home to get their poles with instructions to grab some white bread from the Sunbeam bag while they were there. Not to limit ourselves to just one bait, we’d dig for a few worms under the pine straw mound that Daddy kept down by the back fence. The black dirt under that straw was a popular hangout for the long, slimy things. With dirt under our fingernails and a can of doomed worms, we’d climb the barbed wired fence over into the adjoining pasture where the neighbors had a small pond. On any given day, a couple of us would be left with long, bloody scratches down the back of our legs from the rusty barbs but we couldn’t be worried about lock jaw and things like that because the crabapple tree was just over the fence and they were the Sour Patch Kids of our time. We’d stuff our shorts pockets with the little sour gems and head to the pond.

The boys usually used the worms for bait because, while the girls didn’t mind digging for worms, stabbing them with a hook was another thing altogether. We’d use the white bread and toss our hooks into the water. After an hour or so of catching various forms of small fish, we’d head back to see what else we could find to do. Sometimes, a stop by the railroad tracks to lay out coins on the track before the train was scheduled to come by was in order. We’d go back and collect the flattened currency after it had passed. Children playing near train tracks must have been commonplace back in the 70’s. I guess our parents assumed we had enough sense to know that if a train was coming, we should get out of the way. I guess they were right.

By this time of day, it was usually humid and the southern sun was hotter than a $2 pistol as my Daddy used to say. I’d usually run to the house to get a little drink before the gang got started on another activity. Mama was usually vacuuming at this point with The Young and the Restless playing in the background and with the floor still wet from mopping, she’d shoo us away and bring a glass of Kool-Aid or sweet tea to the door. They weren’t the most generous portions but we were warned if we went overboard on the drinks, we’d ruin our lunch. Oh, the air conditioning felt so good from the door...if only we were allowed to stay in and enjoy it. But, there was cleaning still to do and the house hadn’t yet reached an adequate saturation level of Pine-Sol fumes, so we were sent on our way and told that she’d call us when it was time for lunch.

Lunch usually came after The Young and the Restless went off because, well, you didn’t want the house full of loud kids when you were trying to see what was going on in Genoa City with Nicki and Victor. This was about the time that Katherine Chancellor was missing and presumed dead after the tragic fire, so missing a day was not an option. Now, thanks to me, my mother’s Sunday School class knows that she watched a soap opera in the 70’s and early 80’s and for that I’m sorry. I’m sure they’ll extend grace.

Since there usually wasn’t enough time for another lengthy activity before lunch, we’d all agree to play something like Follow the Leader on our bicycles. Somebody would be selected as the leader usually through a process of eeny, meeny, miny, moe or something terribly sophisticated like that. The leader would hop on her bike and we’d all follow. She’d take her hands off the handlebars for a while and so would we. She’d zigzag from one side of the street to the other and we would, too. She’d pop a wheelie. We’d pop a wheelie. She’d rid off the side of a driveway and jump a ditch and we were right behind her. The fact that nothing stood between our delicate heads and the pavement only made the game more exciting. We looked like Hell’s Angels all lined up in a row with the roar of playing cards flapping in our spokes. Banana seats, baskets, handlebar streamers, and fluorescent bike flags as far as the eye could see.

About the time we’d be getting tired of that, we’d hear Mama yelling for us to come have lunch. It usually consisted of a hot dog, grilled cheese, or a fried bologna sandwich with chips, apple, and a piece of pound cake or a couple of duplex sandwich cookies. By that time of day, there was nothing that appealed to us on TV so, after we’d eaten and cooled off, we’d head back out. The other kids would trickle back out from their PBJ buffets and we’d usually decide to get together a game of kickball or whiffle ball. Captains were usually selected by drawing straws or picking a number between 1 and 20 and then the draft would begin. Of course, the older boys would go in the first round which included my older brother. And while I don’t like to brag, I went pretty early in the draft considering I weighed 70 pounds soaking wet and my arms looked like you could snap them like a twig. Players were picked, one by one, until it was down to the tiniest, most uncoordinated of the neighbors, but there was a place for everyone in the backyard league.

At this point in the day, most of us were barefooted. Shoes were only for climbing barbed wire fences and pedaling ten speed bikes with the spiky pedals. The side yard between our house and the neighbor’s house was a popular ball field because of its length, width, and overall turf quality. The bases were usually the bare spots worn in the grass from their continual use, while home plate was always the water meter cover. We’d play for innings and innings. We’d move in when one of the kids with two left feet came to bat and back way up when it was one of the older boy’s turn. And if someone hit the ball out into the woods, we’d all go tromping through the brush to find it.

We always had the rule that you could get someone out, not just by catching, tagging, or forcing outs, but also by pegging your opponent with the whiffle ball or kickball in the head as hard as you could or anywhere else on their body. This only added to the allure of the game. There was the occasional timeout called when someone would step on a sticker bush, or heaven forbid, a fresh pile of dog excrement. Of course, rules were usually made up as we went along to fit the circumstances. Like if the score was really lopsided, we’d declare that all the big boys had to bat left-handed or something like that.

Sometimes, later in the day, we’d splinter off and do things in smaller groups. If we were thirsty and didn’t have time to stop, we might get a drink from the hose. If the coast was clear, I’d go in to cool off for a minute with a pudding pop but then I’d be ready to find the others to climb trees, play board games on the carport, run through somebody’s sprinkler, play croquet, or find a swing set and make one of the legs pop up out of the ground when we’d swing really high. I knew if I stayed inside too long, I’d be handed a rag and a can of Pledge and I wasn’t really interested in that.

We’d play until the sun started to go down. The crickets started chirping. The frogs started singing. the mosquitos would begin nibbling on my skinny legs and, in the distance, we’d hear our Daddy whistle. He had a loud, two-part whistle that the three of us recognized as our call home. It didn’t matter how far away we were, we could hear it and it meant it was supper time. We’d pedal as fast as we could to a big supper of fried chicken, roast and gravy, or, sadly, sometimes, the dreaded salmon croquettes. We had to get fed, bathed, take in an episode of The Waltons or Barnaby Jones and then get some rest because, well, the next day, we had to do it all over again.

And we couldn’t wait.

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Wednesday, May 19, 2021

Oldie But Goodie

10:05 PM

In less than two weeks, Carson is leaving to work for my brother for the summer and so I’m taking this opportunity to get some use out of his young muscles while they are here at my disposal. We’ve worked on some projects already and, tomorrow, he’ll be moving beds so I can clean under them. He is as excited as you might imagine he would be about this plan.

In an effort to get all the good out of him while I can, I’m posting blog reruns this week and next week so that I can continue to chip away at my to-do list with my free labor. My social media feeds have been flooded with graduations, end of year programs, May Days, and recitals and I thought we’d go way back to a 2014 post about my memories of the glorious month of May. By the way- still celebrating my May birthday over here! I love when they keep going and going.

My Old Friend, May

May makes me feel a little nostalgic- like a school kid again. A May day has a different look about it. They’re just a little brighter and clearer than other days of the year. The birds even seem to sing a little louder. It’s a month that brings back happy memories for me.

Back in the day, when the calendar was turned from April to May, I’d get that excited feeling in my stomach as all of us, kids, knew that the end of school was getting so, so close. Invariably, at some point during the month, our class would enjoy some kind of special day whether it was a May Day at the school, a field trip out of town, or a day at a local attraction. Regardless, it meant no schoolwork that day.

I remember one year, my Mama took me to the local Sears Roebuck and I picked out a pink and tan striped shirt with matching pink jeans for my May field trip. I believe it was Garanimals and who didn’t feel extra chic in those? I got on that bus that year feeling extra cocky. I also remember that, for some reason, she always washed my tennis shoes the night before a field trip. I suppose it was from the same school of thought as having clean underwear in case of an accident or maybe it was just in case we ran into the governor or somebody important. Whatever the reason, I always went on field trips with clean shoes. On the morning of the big day, if the shoes weren’t quite dry, the hair dryer would take turns in each shoe to dry up the lingering moisture. .

Field trip day meant that I didn’t carry my usual Muppet Show metal lunchbox and thermos. No, field trips were brown bag occasions. Since there was no thermos involved, my mother would wrap the Chek cola flavor of my choice in a few layers of aluminum foil as this was the cutting edge of drink insulation in the 70’s. Throw in a Little Debbie cake, some Golden Flake potato chips in a fold over sandwich bag with a PBJ and you were ready to get on the bus.

May also brought the dreaded piano recital. It was always something you hated, but you knew in order to get to those 3 golden, lesson-free summer months that you had to do it and get it over with. I loathed piano lessons when I was little. I didn’t mind them so much when I got to be older, but when I was younger- yeah, loathe would be the appropriate word. I was always woefully unprepared for my lesson each week and, by the time I left the teacher’s house at 4:30 on Thursday afternoon, it felt like the world had been lifted from my 9 year old shoulders. Every single weekday, while the sun was shining, the birds were singing, and the yard was filled with the sound of children playing, I would be sitting on the piano stool putting in my 45 minutes- pecking out beautifully moving pieces like “The Swan Song” and “Evening Prelude.” Forty-five minutes seemed like at least 13 months to a young girl, who just wanted to ride her banana seat bike with the long, flowing streamers.

Anyway, the recital always fell on a Thursday or Friday evening and it usually took place at a church and involved wearing a dress and playing your piece from memory. Playing from memory either went really good or really bad- depending on how nervous you were. Afterwards, you were awarded a plastic bust of one of the great composers. That’s what every 8 year old wants- a plastic head of dead man. That seemed to make all 85 hours you’d spent on the piano stool, that year, while your friends played outside - oh, so worth it. I still have my extensive collection of plastic heads somewhere in the attic. I always thought Tchaikovsky looked suspiciously similar to Ulysses S Grant, but I had plenty of time to think about things like that during the pieces that followed mine in the recital.

I remember at one recital, I was sporting my YoYo shoes and looking too good. I was to perform a Bach piece with which you’re never supposed to use the pedal. I always questioned Bach’s judgment with the whole pedal thing as I felt the songs were a bit flat without it. The night of the recital, I decided I would overrule Bach and my piano teacher and insert some pedal. I mean, what could she do- stop the recital? Oh, you’ve never heard Bach sound so good. Afterwards, I’ll never forget my teaching pulling me aside at the fancy cookie and punch reception and assuring me that Bach, had indeed, rolled over in his grave on that evening. I didn’t care if Bach was facing up or down, he was still dead and me and my plastic Mozart were outa there for three glorious months.

May always brought around the standardized tests, which was another one of my favorites. Back then, they seemed pretty easy and there wasn’t any preparation for them. You just bubbled in the correct circle with the golden #2’s that your mama had been instructed to send in the same note that asked that she get you to bed early. For the rest of the school day, we were able to do fun things like extra long games of kick ball or Mother, May I? Whatever happened to those fun playground games we used to play? Red Rover, Doggie, Doggie, Who’s Got the Bone?, Red Light, Green Light.

“Red Rover, Red Rover, send Joni right over.” You’d back up a few steps, look for the weakest link between the two skinniest girls and try to ram yourself right through there. Maybe someone broke an arm or dislocated a shoulder and the game was deemed unsafe, and maybe Doggie Doggie is now thought to promote larceny, but we sure enjoyed it. There was never any homework or tests during that week, which meant you could play outside longer when you got home. This was another week of May that you could check off with little problem.

My birthday falls in May, which is another reason for its warm recollections. Birthdays weren’t HUGE like they are now, but just big enough to to make you feel awesome for the day. I remember having a couple of parties at the skating rink, but mostly my parties consisted of a cake in the backyard with the neighborhood kids. We’d get one or two modest gifts from the parents and a few little things from friends. Add a cake and getting to choose what was for supper and you had yourself a special day.

May was also full of end of the year programs, school plays, certificates and receptions with cake. You seemed to eat a lot of sheet cake that month with generous helpings of those fancy little, pastel mints. It was all very sophisticated. The May of my fifth grade year found me listed in the school program as part of a trio to perform “A Bicycle Built for Two”, which was choreographed with some alternating side to side kicks- not unlike the Rockettes- only not near as impressive. It was a moving number. My parents had to have been proud.

Then, there was the last day of school. Ahhh, you’d made it. There was nothing like that feeling when you placed your textbooks on the towering stack and returned to your seat to gather all of your remaining supplies out of your desk. Usually the crayons were about an inch long, at this point, with no wrapper left. You’d turned in all of your library books, thrown away the dried jar of white paste, gathered up what was left of your construction paper and were headed to the door that led to freedom. Freedom to stay up late enough to watch all of Hawaii Five-0 and have friends over to spend the night. From this point until fall, shoes became optional and Kool-Aid was always in the refrigerator. The last day of school opened up a whole new world of possibilities.

I don’t know how but, every year when May rolls in, I still get those same feelings. A month full of special days and treats. Doing things out of the normal routine. Having feelings of accomplishment. Anticipation of fun days ahead. Finally crossing the finish line.

It’s been a long time since I turned in a textbook, performed in a recital, or played Red Rover, but I still feel like I did back then- every May.

Hope you’re all having a great week!

JONI

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