Tomorrow is our last-ditch, surgical effort to end the circus of strep that has haunted our house since December of 2005. Yes, you read that right: December of 2005. That was when Logan was officially diagnosed with his first bout of strep. I was riding high that week, pregnant, happy, looking forward to the holidays. Logan had a fever and a sore throat. I took him in and was shocked when the strep test was positive. We picked up his antibitoic (he'd only had one twice before in his life) and headed home to a craft party.
The strange thing is that I can remember it like it happened last week, not almost two years ago. I can actually see the road in front of me as I explained to my friend J. via cell phone that we'd be picking up Logan's craft booty and running. Logan was in the back of our minivan, enjoying the fat sore throat sucker I'd picked up in the natural foods section of the grocery store while we waited for his script to be ready.
Since that time, Logan has endured more strep tests than many people face in a lifetime. He has come full circle with them, from not caring, to hating them, back to not caring. He has had more antibiotics than I can actually recall. Round after round of amoxicillan, zithromax, augmentin, omnicef, keflex. He is still growing like a weed, still strong as an ox, but always there is this slight pallor to his face, this slight raggedness to his little voice. He has lived with a near-constant infection for as long as his little mind can remember. He is tired.
And so are we. We have lived in a state of heightened awareness for so long that I wonder what it will be like to be in a strep-free zone. What will it be like to not take his temperature every time he says he doesn't feel like eating? Will I eventually go back to canceling playdates for things like suspected colds, rather than just calling people in advance and letting them know that yes, he has strep ... but he's two days in to his antibitoic? Will there come a time when Logan actually goes back to telling us that his throat is sore, rather than assuming that everyone's throat is sore all the time?
Tomorrow is the day. I am dreading it, but giving it over to God. He created this little man with his peculiar weakness, and I know I can trust Him to bring the reign of StrepBoy to an end.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Monday, October 8, 2007
Ikea
A confession: I am not much of a shopper. I don't enjoy looking for new stuff, first of all, and second, well ... I find it silly. The truth is that I am something akin to those Zero Population Growth people, except I apply the theory to material possessions. Call me a Zero Possession Growth groupie. I just don't get the constant desire to buy something.
Do I own things? Of course I do. I have your standard 1,500 square foot house complete with two water hoses and a barbecue grill and curtains and a kitchen table. None of these items are made from recycled sustainably-harvested materials. I'm not an extremist. But I do know how to make do. If you ever doubt that, come and check out my couch. As my cousin will tell you, I have had the same black-patterned love seat in use since 1993. It was about twenty years old when I inherited it, so ... well, you do the math.
I hate shopping. Hate making big purchases. Hate making little purchases. Hate getting new stuff to fill my already stuffed home.
This works all well and good, except when I actually need, you know ... stuff. Things wear out, are outgrown or need to be supplemented. (The love seat is still in fine shape, though!) And of course, sometimes you just need to get something specific.
That is the season we are currently in. DH and I have been slowly transitioning the previously storage-space atmosphere of our garage into a homier little game room nook. We started the renovation a year and a half ago with the construction of a small school room out there. The vision for the project kept growing, and before we knew it, we were asking ourselves what was more useful for our family: 300 square feet of storage or an area to play board games, and hang out. Thus was born the idea of the game room.
We are nearing the end of the actual construction work, and are moving on to the next phase: the acquisition of furniture for the game room. This is where it gets sticky for me, because while I have no problem saving up to buy insulation or drywall--which seems fairly reasonably priced for the most part--I balk at the price of say, a floor lamp. Do we really need a floor lamp? I find myself asking. And the answer right now is, we do.
Yesterday, we gathered the crew and headed to Ikea, land of the cheap stuff. We've had mixed experiences with Ikea in the past. I have four plastic bins that I store bulk goods in that came from Ikea. They are undoubtedly worth every penny we spent for them. We also have some industrial metal shelving from Ikea that makes me nervous enough to avoid stacking glass canning jars on it, even though it's bolted to the wall. We've learned enough to be leery, but we've also learned that on a very tight budget , you can't beat Ikea for stuff.
Apparently, everyone else also knows that Ikea has mass quantities of cheap stuff, because just about every citizen of voting age in the state was there, pushing their little carts around and piling them high. There was a noticeable absence of children, but I'm not sure if that's because most parents prefer to park their children in the Enforced Containment Center prior to getting their shopping high or because the area I live in is somewhat notorious for its lack of breeding. At any rate, it was me, dh and the three children milling around the Ikea with about a million hipsters. Let the fun begin!
To be fair, I'll let you know in advance that we bought stuff--lots of stuff. We bought a huge shelving unit from the As-Is room, a floor lamp (yes, we need one), two table lamps, a set of curtain panels, a table top and legs, wall shelves and some food storage containers. (Think Tupperware. Now think Ikeaware. Same thing, only cheaper.) We'll be going back when we save up enough money for a sleeper sofa and some huge sisal throw rugs.
The experience, though, was less than satisfying. First off all, every item that went in the cart caused dollar signs to pop off in my head. We paid $12.99 for a set of two table lamps. I know for a fact that I could not have gotten those two lamps for less anywhere else. But that didn't make it any less painful to put them in the cart, know what I mean? All I could think was, $12.99 in Burma buys ....
All around us, folks were diving into their role as consumers with the kind of glee you normally reserve for a wedding, a birth, or your firstborn's first lost tooth. One well-dressed couple in particular--who seemed offended that our children were breathing the same air that they were--seemed consumed with an almost worshipful desire to have, have, have. The items mounted in their cart, and they kept exclaiming how "marvelous" they would be, how "fabulous," how "perfect." Maybe they were just excited to be buying for their very first home together. Who knows?
At the end of the day, I came home with some nice stuff. (None of it actually used before, which is a bit of a novelty for my children.) We'll put together the game room, and we'll enjoy it. We will play our favorite board games out there, and eat our popcorn, and have our family movie nights. Before too awful long, we'll forget what the garage was like before it became something else, and we will take it for granted. And therein lies the rub of stuff, folks. It is, in the end, just more stuff.
Do I own things? Of course I do. I have your standard 1,500 square foot house complete with two water hoses and a barbecue grill and curtains and a kitchen table. None of these items are made from recycled sustainably-harvested materials. I'm not an extremist. But I do know how to make do. If you ever doubt that, come and check out my couch. As my cousin will tell you, I have had the same black-patterned love seat in use since 1993. It was about twenty years old when I inherited it, so ... well, you do the math.
I hate shopping. Hate making big purchases. Hate making little purchases. Hate getting new stuff to fill my already stuffed home.
This works all well and good, except when I actually need, you know ... stuff. Things wear out, are outgrown or need to be supplemented. (The love seat is still in fine shape, though!) And of course, sometimes you just need to get something specific.
That is the season we are currently in. DH and I have been slowly transitioning the previously storage-space atmosphere of our garage into a homier little game room nook. We started the renovation a year and a half ago with the construction of a small school room out there. The vision for the project kept growing, and before we knew it, we were asking ourselves what was more useful for our family: 300 square feet of storage or an area to play board games, and hang out. Thus was born the idea of the game room.
We are nearing the end of the actual construction work, and are moving on to the next phase: the acquisition of furniture for the game room. This is where it gets sticky for me, because while I have no problem saving up to buy insulation or drywall--which seems fairly reasonably priced for the most part--I balk at the price of say, a floor lamp. Do we really need a floor lamp? I find myself asking. And the answer right now is, we do.
Yesterday, we gathered the crew and headed to Ikea, land of the cheap stuff. We've had mixed experiences with Ikea in the past. I have four plastic bins that I store bulk goods in that came from Ikea. They are undoubtedly worth every penny we spent for them. We also have some industrial metal shelving from Ikea that makes me nervous enough to avoid stacking glass canning jars on it, even though it's bolted to the wall. We've learned enough to be leery, but we've also learned that on a very tight budget , you can't beat Ikea for stuff.
Apparently, everyone else also knows that Ikea has mass quantities of cheap stuff, because just about every citizen of voting age in the state was there, pushing their little carts around and piling them high. There was a noticeable absence of children, but I'm not sure if that's because most parents prefer to park their children in the Enforced Containment Center prior to getting their shopping high or because the area I live in is somewhat notorious for its lack of breeding. At any rate, it was me, dh and the three children milling around the Ikea with about a million hipsters. Let the fun begin!
To be fair, I'll let you know in advance that we bought stuff--lots of stuff. We bought a huge shelving unit from the As-Is room, a floor lamp (yes, we need one), two table lamps, a set of curtain panels, a table top and legs, wall shelves and some food storage containers. (Think Tupperware. Now think Ikeaware. Same thing, only cheaper.) We'll be going back when we save up enough money for a sleeper sofa and some huge sisal throw rugs.
The experience, though, was less than satisfying. First off all, every item that went in the cart caused dollar signs to pop off in my head. We paid $12.99 for a set of two table lamps. I know for a fact that I could not have gotten those two lamps for less anywhere else. But that didn't make it any less painful to put them in the cart, know what I mean? All I could think was, $12.99 in Burma buys ....
All around us, folks were diving into their role as consumers with the kind of glee you normally reserve for a wedding, a birth, or your firstborn's first lost tooth. One well-dressed couple in particular--who seemed offended that our children were breathing the same air that they were--seemed consumed with an almost worshipful desire to have, have, have. The items mounted in their cart, and they kept exclaiming how "marvelous" they would be, how "fabulous," how "perfect." Maybe they were just excited to be buying for their very first home together. Who knows?
At the end of the day, I came home with some nice stuff. (None of it actually used before, which is a bit of a novelty for my children.) We'll put together the game room, and we'll enjoy it. We will play our favorite board games out there, and eat our popcorn, and have our family movie nights. Before too awful long, we'll forget what the garage was like before it became something else, and we will take it for granted. And therein lies the rub of stuff, folks. It is, in the end, just more stuff.
Friday, October 5, 2007
The Mathetes Award
I am absolutely speechless (and I bet you can tell how often that happens). Christine at Touching Heaven had honored me with a Mathetes Award. Christine says:
Did I say I was honored? :-)
Now it's my turn to nominate!
1. Jana at The Joy Box. Not only is she prolific in her writing, she is encouraging to boot! I am constantly amazed at her ability to always find joy, and inspired by her desire to seek a further refinement of herself through Christ.
2. MJ at Thoughtful Motherhood. I have read her blog for about two years now, and while I have always found her warrior spirit and graceful femininity attractive, more recently I have drawn special encouragement from her personal story of God's bountiful blessing of her once barren womb.
There are certainly others who have been used by God to brighten my day, to redirect my tendencies, to rebuke me or to give me a much-needed pep talk. A special thanks to those of you who take the time to post about your lives. Trust me--it matters.
Mathetes is the Greek word for disciple, and the role of the disciple (per the Great Commission) is to make more disciples. In the spirit of this award, the rules are simple. Winners of this award must pick other "disciples" to pass it on to. As you pass it on, you mention and provide links for 1. this post as the originator of the award and, 2.the person that awarded it to you.
Did I say I was honored? :-)
Now it's my turn to nominate!
1. Jana at The Joy Box. Not only is she prolific in her writing, she is encouraging to boot! I am constantly amazed at her ability to always find joy, and inspired by her desire to seek a further refinement of herself through Christ.
2. MJ at Thoughtful Motherhood. I have read her blog for about two years now, and while I have always found her warrior spirit and graceful femininity attractive, more recently I have drawn special encouragement from her personal story of God's bountiful blessing of her once barren womb.
There are certainly others who have been used by God to brighten my day, to redirect my tendencies, to rebuke me or to give me a much-needed pep talk. A special thanks to those of you who take the time to post about your lives. Trust me--it matters.
Infertility is...
... announcing someone else's good news to your husband, hearing a long pause, and then the dear man asking, "How are you, love?"
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
It feels so good
We are on week 4 in our SL Core 4 (6.5 weeks into school total), and I tell you, I think that this has the potential to be our best year yet.
When we first started this Core, I was terrified that the frantic pace of juggling three children's educational needs would overwhelm me. Chief among my concerns was what I saw as signs that next year would have to be our first "official" year of two complete Cores. (Currently, I blend elements of WP and other resources into our SL Core to make it accessible for even my 5 year-old.) Just a few weeks later, I am seeing that that isn't necessarily the case just yet. With a little effort, I can probably keep them all on one Core for another complete year, them branch off into two once we reach Core 6, which combines quite nicely with Core 1.
I have found that doing three separate lessons of Math-U-See still takes less time than two children working on separate Horizons lessons. That's a big bonus. The bigger bonus is that they seem to be learning a whole lot more math in thirty minutes than they did in a hour.
The books in this Core thus far have been fantastic. The time period we're studying (just prior to the Civil War) is chock-full of good stories and fanciful characters, and SL capitalizes on this with such rich literature that even Logan is captivated.
We've also been enjoying my eclectic LA plans. Jo is working on Writing Strands and Rules of the Game, as well as journaling. Atticus is using A Beka LA 2 in addition to Writing Strands. The biggest surprise with him thus far is that he has written a full-scale story each day in his journal! Granted, most of them start out with the tantalizing opening line: "The cockpit of my fighter jet slammed shut ..." :-) Then there's my little Logan, who has also enjoyed working on his journal. He is still occasionally using 100EZ, but more often than not he is either using one of the Letterbooks my K teacher MIL sent, hitting starfall.com or reading a simple story on his own. All three of them still contribute regularly to the daily newspaper they publish for members of our household.
Music has been an especially hot topic, probably due at least in part to the presence of a stuffed rabbit visitor named Bonnie who travels from "school" to "school" chronicling how different classes learn about music education. We have been reading music for the first time in our homeschooling career. This has been especially draining on a particular homeschooling mommy who put down her saxophone in the 10th grade and hasn't looked back. Jo can play "Amazing Grace" on the recorder now, though. Thankfully, recorder notes are fingered much like those on a clarinet--my first instrument. :-)
Then there's Greek. And Spanish. And Science. And all the other good stuff that makes for well-rounded kiddos. School is taking a long time right now, but it's fun. And that's all that matters. Well, that and the actual learning. :-)
When we first started this Core, I was terrified that the frantic pace of juggling three children's educational needs would overwhelm me. Chief among my concerns was what I saw as signs that next year would have to be our first "official" year of two complete Cores. (Currently, I blend elements of WP and other resources into our SL Core to make it accessible for even my 5 year-old.) Just a few weeks later, I am seeing that that isn't necessarily the case just yet. With a little effort, I can probably keep them all on one Core for another complete year, them branch off into two once we reach Core 6, which combines quite nicely with Core 1.
I have found that doing three separate lessons of Math-U-See still takes less time than two children working on separate Horizons lessons. That's a big bonus. The bigger bonus is that they seem to be learning a whole lot more math in thirty minutes than they did in a hour.
The books in this Core thus far have been fantastic. The time period we're studying (just prior to the Civil War) is chock-full of good stories and fanciful characters, and SL capitalizes on this with such rich literature that even Logan is captivated.
We've also been enjoying my eclectic LA plans. Jo is working on Writing Strands and Rules of the Game, as well as journaling. Atticus is using A Beka LA 2 in addition to Writing Strands. The biggest surprise with him thus far is that he has written a full-scale story each day in his journal! Granted, most of them start out with the tantalizing opening line: "The cockpit of my fighter jet slammed shut ..." :-) Then there's my little Logan, who has also enjoyed working on his journal. He is still occasionally using 100EZ, but more often than not he is either using one of the Letterbooks my K teacher MIL sent, hitting starfall.com or reading a simple story on his own. All three of them still contribute regularly to the daily newspaper they publish for members of our household.
Music has been an especially hot topic, probably due at least in part to the presence of a stuffed rabbit visitor named Bonnie who travels from "school" to "school" chronicling how different classes learn about music education. We have been reading music for the first time in our homeschooling career. This has been especially draining on a particular homeschooling mommy who put down her saxophone in the 10th grade and hasn't looked back. Jo can play "Amazing Grace" on the recorder now, though. Thankfully, recorder notes are fingered much like those on a clarinet--my first instrument. :-)
Then there's Greek. And Spanish. And Science. And all the other good stuff that makes for well-rounded kiddos. School is taking a long time right now, but it's fun. And that's all that matters. Well, that and the actual learning. :-)
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Balancing act
MJ asked in a comment to my last post how I juggle writing, being a wife, homeschooling, homemaking and breathing. (O.k., I added the breathing part.) It’s a fairly common question, and one I’ve put a lot of effort into answering in my own life. Like most answers, though, it needs a little backstory to tie up the loose ends that you see in the (never) final product.
First, I have to explain that if I am not writing, I am not a balanced person. I have tried at various points in my life to squash the urge to write, and have found that it brings me a level of misery that only a masochist could revel in. Clearly, God gave me a desire to write, and while He has not as of yet revealed His purpose for doing so, I assume that at some point it will be made clear to me. Until then ... I must write.
This is easier than it sounds. Since anyone with children knows that carving out an entire hour of time to devote to a solitary pursuit is near to impossible, it doesn’t sound that easy at all. Add to that homeschooling, housekeeping, ministry and the children’s extracurriculars, and you can see that full plates are my specialty. Having said all of that, however, I refer you to my earlier comment: If I am not writing, I am not a balanced person. Perhaps that explains why I keep writing on my list of priorities.
On to the nitty-gritty. How do I get that time? First and foremost, I have trained my children that rest time is an absolute law in my home. Everyone needs--and gets--a rest time. This started out as Jo’s nap time all those years ago, and has morphed into a time after lunch when all three children are tucked into their own beds, propped up with a book and surrounded by quiet play options. At this point in our family’s life, the sacred rest time is easy to maintain because everyone looks forward to it. Of course, it wasn’t always this way. When each of my children hit the end of their nap-time years, there was a definite training curve that ate into my writing time. Trust me, all that work has paid off.
Nowadays, I take that hour and a half as uninterrupted writing time. And I write something every day. Some days, I sit down and begin laying out the opening line that has been bouncing in my mind. (Almost all of my stories start with one line that sets up the voice in my head.) Sometimes it is simply a blog entry where I unload my brain. Other times, I edit a previously finished short story. Maybe I have a new idea that I jot ideas down for. Or, of course, I can always keep going on an existing in-progress piece.
My own preferred genre makes it easy to write in fits and starts. I have always loved short stories, and have made them my mainstay. I also love cataloging and expanding on the rich stories passed down to me through my eclectic family. These things “keep” better than other, more intricate styles of writing, which demand an increasing attention to detail as you grow the tale. I have attempted a piece longer than a novella only once, and it was clearly not my forte.
People ask me if it isn’t frustrating to have an uncertain amount of time to set aside for writing. It took me literally having a long, dry spell of not writing at all before I realized that it was better to take the time I could squirrel away than to live in that desert. This particular patch I am speaking of started when Logan was having a hard time napping and I had to accompany him to bed each afternoon to make sure he actually slept. Guess who was out first more often that not? Yep--Momma. Contributing to all of this was the fact that my new friends and neighbors (this was shortly after our move to WA) place no value on writing beyond the grades that their own children bring home from freshman composition. To say, “I didn’t answer the phone because I was writing,” was something akin to announcing that I had just dyed my hair bright pink. (And while I have also been known to dabble in the dye in my lifetime, I certainly wouldn’t admit that little nugget to them, either!)
I still do not have an extended network of support for my work here in this area. A friend has invited me multiple times to a Christian Writer’s Group, but I am not a joiner in general, and the idea intimidates me. I have one very old friend who asks from time to time what I am working on (God bless him!) as well as a brother who wants to know when I will singlehandedly revolutionize the publishing industry and put a halt to the production of the smarm that often passes as Christian literature. I don’t talk about my writing with anyone outside of my husband, children and the aforementioned friend. That’s clearly not a huge system of encouragement, but at this point, I don't let a lack of understanding or interest on behalf of others stop me.
I have to admit that at this point, I only submit a handful of my stories for publication each year. I continue to edit, rewrite and refine, but I do not currently have the time to maintain a database of submissions. I’m sure that that season will come.
I also admit that my writing time is sacrificed at least once a week to a phone call, a book I’m reading, research, ministry, quiet snuggle time with an especially needy child, or whatever else God has put on my plate for that day. The key for me is not letting it happen two days in a row; if it does, it becomes a habit quite quickly for me.
First, I have to explain that if I am not writing, I am not a balanced person. I have tried at various points in my life to squash the urge to write, and have found that it brings me a level of misery that only a masochist could revel in. Clearly, God gave me a desire to write, and while He has not as of yet revealed His purpose for doing so, I assume that at some point it will be made clear to me. Until then ... I must write.
This is easier than it sounds. Since anyone with children knows that carving out an entire hour of time to devote to a solitary pursuit is near to impossible, it doesn’t sound that easy at all. Add to that homeschooling, housekeeping, ministry and the children’s extracurriculars, and you can see that full plates are my specialty. Having said all of that, however, I refer you to my earlier comment: If I am not writing, I am not a balanced person. Perhaps that explains why I keep writing on my list of priorities.
On to the nitty-gritty. How do I get that time? First and foremost, I have trained my children that rest time is an absolute law in my home. Everyone needs--and gets--a rest time. This started out as Jo’s nap time all those years ago, and has morphed into a time after lunch when all three children are tucked into their own beds, propped up with a book and surrounded by quiet play options. At this point in our family’s life, the sacred rest time is easy to maintain because everyone looks forward to it. Of course, it wasn’t always this way. When each of my children hit the end of their nap-time years, there was a definite training curve that ate into my writing time. Trust me, all that work has paid off.
Nowadays, I take that hour and a half as uninterrupted writing time. And I write something every day. Some days, I sit down and begin laying out the opening line that has been bouncing in my mind. (Almost all of my stories start with one line that sets up the voice in my head.) Sometimes it is simply a blog entry where I unload my brain. Other times, I edit a previously finished short story. Maybe I have a new idea that I jot ideas down for. Or, of course, I can always keep going on an existing in-progress piece.
My own preferred genre makes it easy to write in fits and starts. I have always loved short stories, and have made them my mainstay. I also love cataloging and expanding on the rich stories passed down to me through my eclectic family. These things “keep” better than other, more intricate styles of writing, which demand an increasing attention to detail as you grow the tale. I have attempted a piece longer than a novella only once, and it was clearly not my forte.
People ask me if it isn’t frustrating to have an uncertain amount of time to set aside for writing. It took me literally having a long, dry spell of not writing at all before I realized that it was better to take the time I could squirrel away than to live in that desert. This particular patch I am speaking of started when Logan was having a hard time napping and I had to accompany him to bed each afternoon to make sure he actually slept. Guess who was out first more often that not? Yep--Momma. Contributing to all of this was the fact that my new friends and neighbors (this was shortly after our move to WA) place no value on writing beyond the grades that their own children bring home from freshman composition. To say, “I didn’t answer the phone because I was writing,” was something akin to announcing that I had just dyed my hair bright pink. (And while I have also been known to dabble in the dye in my lifetime, I certainly wouldn’t admit that little nugget to them, either!)
I still do not have an extended network of support for my work here in this area. A friend has invited me multiple times to a Christian Writer’s Group, but I am not a joiner in general, and the idea intimidates me. I have one very old friend who asks from time to time what I am working on (God bless him!) as well as a brother who wants to know when I will singlehandedly revolutionize the publishing industry and put a halt to the production of the smarm that often passes as Christian literature. I don’t talk about my writing with anyone outside of my husband, children and the aforementioned friend. That’s clearly not a huge system of encouragement, but at this point, I don't let a lack of understanding or interest on behalf of others stop me.
I have to admit that at this point, I only submit a handful of my stories for publication each year. I continue to edit, rewrite and refine, but I do not currently have the time to maintain a database of submissions. I’m sure that that season will come.
I also admit that my writing time is sacrificed at least once a week to a phone call, a book I’m reading, research, ministry, quiet snuggle time with an especially needy child, or whatever else God has put on my plate for that day. The key for me is not letting it happen two days in a row; if it does, it becomes a habit quite quickly for me.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Work to be done part 2
More from my grandfather's memories:
From the time he was old enough, Papaw was looking for a way to make money.
“I knew you had to have money to make something of yourself and have yourself a good family. So that’s what I went after.”
He hired himself out for whatever work was available after the pitiful crops in Poppy’s sorry fields failed. Bad years were a mixed blessing; if the rope beans and sweet corn failed too early, there might not be enough to feed the family through the winter, but he would have plenty of chances to cut hay and pick for other farmers. Most years, he says, things worked out just right. They didn’t starve, and he had a little money socked away. He kept it, like most little boys, buried under the house in a Mason jar. His brothers and sisters all knew where it was, but also knew better than to touch it. Like most men in the family, he had a mean streak even then that kept smart people from crossing him.
The year that World War II ended, my grandfather plotted how to strike out on his own. Mick was a gutsy 14 year-old, hardened by an empty belly and muscles honed taut with the work of a grown man. He’d seen his four older brothers move out on their own in the past two years, and was feeling the itch. He knew he was young and he had no intention of marrying yet. As he saw it, that was the only legitimate reason for leaving home and letting your parents and siblings fend for themselves. But he had a jar full of money and a plan that kept him awake at night.
He had no sorrow for the old man. Poppy would, as always, come out of it fine. It was the three younger boys Mick worried about.
“I knew they’d be left carrying my part of the load, and I felt real bad about that.”
Mick worried the most about little H.T., the baby, who had been sheltered from the hard work by Nanny.
“I knew when I was cut loose, H.T. was gonna leave school. Mommy had fought so hard to get him in school, and here I was gonna ruin it for him. No way Poppy was gonna let him sit in a classroom when there was work to be done.”
Mick himself had set in on three or four days of school back before he was strong enough to help with the really hard work. There were older boys at home, besides, and he’d have done nothing but cause mischief—that was Nanny’s excuse for packing a greasy breakfast biscuit into a tin can and sending him down the holler to see what Miz Gray could do with him.
The first day he arrived at the schoolhouse—which was really only a shack that had been outfitted with long plank tables and pews that had been salvaged when a church had burned nearly to the ground—he was surprised to see children he’d never known were in the holler. Mick had thought at age 5 that he’d pretty much known every soul on Lick Creek. It wasn’t a big place, really, but he’d been thorough in his wanderings and had come across houses buried deep back off snaking main road and even dwellings that weren’t really houses at all, just shanties thrown up to keep the rain off folk’s heads. Mick wasn’t an overly friendly type—that was what H.T. was known for—but he knew proper protocol when passing by a neighbor, even one that was miles away. As long as there wasn’t a pillar of smoke nearby (that was a sign of bootleggers, and bootleggers had a tendency to shoot on sight) he’d approach the dirt yard and call out, “Hey, yu’ns home?” No matter how poor the house, someone was usually home and they more likely than not had a glass of water to sip and a spot of porch to sit on and visit. Kin or no, he’d learned just about every citizen of Lick Creek.
Except, of course, the half-dozen kids in Miz Gray’s schoolhouse. Mick knew from looking at them why he’d never heard tell of them. They wore clothes that bore the signs of having been washed in fresh water. Their hair was clean and combed. A couple of the strangers wore shoes. These, Mick knew without being told, were children whose chores were milking, mixing corn bread, rinsing dishes and hanging wash. Children well looked after. Children whose fathers didn’t cook up likker or farm barren fields.
Children he had nothing in common with.
He stayed in school long enough to learn what his name looked like. Miz Gray, it is said, took great pride in the proper penmanship of her pupils. She followed the precise methods of the day, spending hours reciting the letter forms: “S. Start top, slide left, curve down right, pass right, curve down, and left, curl up.” My grandfather wasn’t interested in an elegant hand.
“I told her I wanted to write my own name. She said I had to do other things, like summing up and recitin’. I said no, just my own name. So I told it to her, and she wrote it down on the little board. And I just copied it over and over ‘til I recalled it. Then I quit the school.”
H.T., however, had gone through nearly six years of education. He could read and write. If he put his mind to it, he could get a good job someday, maybe with the government. There was no call for anything but farmers and day laborers in the holler, but in the big cities, a learned man could make good money minding shop counters and selling things like radios and soft chairs. H.T. was gonna be that kind of man, if his momma had any say.
Mick didn’t begrudge his baby brother the dreams their momma had poured into him. Big Mommy had borne twelve children and not one had had so much as a fighting chance from the time it’d hit the ground running. But maybe, just maybe, one of them would live to see something more than the inside of a coal mine or the view from behind a plow. The best Nanny could see for any of her children was a job that kept their hands soft. Ralph knew at fourteen that his hands were already calloused thick and deep. H.T.’s, he knew, were still smooth, except for the ridge he’d worn on the side of his index finger from working with his pencil so much to practice penmanship for Miz Gray.
Besides, Mick didn’t want to narrow his options too much. He wasn’t above any kind of work, as far as he could see. There wasn’t any job—any paying job—he wouldn’t stoop to do. Folks who only did work that appealed to them or came up to their station in life either had money in the bank or were on aid, one.
Later on in life, Papaw’s jobs would read like a laundry list of occupations. There was farmer, of course. Fence post-digger. Lay farrier. Carpenter. Picker. Mechanic. Glazer. Miner. Driver.
All before he hit twenty and found the job that would finally give him the warm house, the clean children, and the plentiful food he had always dreamed of.
From the time he was old enough, Papaw was looking for a way to make money.
“I knew you had to have money to make something of yourself and have yourself a good family. So that’s what I went after.”
He hired himself out for whatever work was available after the pitiful crops in Poppy’s sorry fields failed. Bad years were a mixed blessing; if the rope beans and sweet corn failed too early, there might not be enough to feed the family through the winter, but he would have plenty of chances to cut hay and pick for other farmers. Most years, he says, things worked out just right. They didn’t starve, and he had a little money socked away. He kept it, like most little boys, buried under the house in a Mason jar. His brothers and sisters all knew where it was, but also knew better than to touch it. Like most men in the family, he had a mean streak even then that kept smart people from crossing him.
The year that World War II ended, my grandfather plotted how to strike out on his own. Mick was a gutsy 14 year-old, hardened by an empty belly and muscles honed taut with the work of a grown man. He’d seen his four older brothers move out on their own in the past two years, and was feeling the itch. He knew he was young and he had no intention of marrying yet. As he saw it, that was the only legitimate reason for leaving home and letting your parents and siblings fend for themselves. But he had a jar full of money and a plan that kept him awake at night.
He had no sorrow for the old man. Poppy would, as always, come out of it fine. It was the three younger boys Mick worried about.
“I knew they’d be left carrying my part of the load, and I felt real bad about that.”
Mick worried the most about little H.T., the baby, who had been sheltered from the hard work by Nanny.
“I knew when I was cut loose, H.T. was gonna leave school. Mommy had fought so hard to get him in school, and here I was gonna ruin it for him. No way Poppy was gonna let him sit in a classroom when there was work to be done.”
Mick himself had set in on three or four days of school back before he was strong enough to help with the really hard work. There were older boys at home, besides, and he’d have done nothing but cause mischief—that was Nanny’s excuse for packing a greasy breakfast biscuit into a tin can and sending him down the holler to see what Miz Gray could do with him.
The first day he arrived at the schoolhouse—which was really only a shack that had been outfitted with long plank tables and pews that had been salvaged when a church had burned nearly to the ground—he was surprised to see children he’d never known were in the holler. Mick had thought at age 5 that he’d pretty much known every soul on Lick Creek. It wasn’t a big place, really, but he’d been thorough in his wanderings and had come across houses buried deep back off snaking main road and even dwellings that weren’t really houses at all, just shanties thrown up to keep the rain off folk’s heads. Mick wasn’t an overly friendly type—that was what H.T. was known for—but he knew proper protocol when passing by a neighbor, even one that was miles away. As long as there wasn’t a pillar of smoke nearby (that was a sign of bootleggers, and bootleggers had a tendency to shoot on sight) he’d approach the dirt yard and call out, “Hey, yu’ns home?” No matter how poor the house, someone was usually home and they more likely than not had a glass of water to sip and a spot of porch to sit on and visit. Kin or no, he’d learned just about every citizen of Lick Creek.
Except, of course, the half-dozen kids in Miz Gray’s schoolhouse. Mick knew from looking at them why he’d never heard tell of them. They wore clothes that bore the signs of having been washed in fresh water. Their hair was clean and combed. A couple of the strangers wore shoes. These, Mick knew without being told, were children whose chores were milking, mixing corn bread, rinsing dishes and hanging wash. Children well looked after. Children whose fathers didn’t cook up likker or farm barren fields.
Children he had nothing in common with.
He stayed in school long enough to learn what his name looked like. Miz Gray, it is said, took great pride in the proper penmanship of her pupils. She followed the precise methods of the day, spending hours reciting the letter forms: “S. Start top, slide left, curve down right, pass right, curve down, and left, curl up.” My grandfather wasn’t interested in an elegant hand.
“I told her I wanted to write my own name. She said I had to do other things, like summing up and recitin’. I said no, just my own name. So I told it to her, and she wrote it down on the little board. And I just copied it over and over ‘til I recalled it. Then I quit the school.”
H.T., however, had gone through nearly six years of education. He could read and write. If he put his mind to it, he could get a good job someday, maybe with the government. There was no call for anything but farmers and day laborers in the holler, but in the big cities, a learned man could make good money minding shop counters and selling things like radios and soft chairs. H.T. was gonna be that kind of man, if his momma had any say.
Mick didn’t begrudge his baby brother the dreams their momma had poured into him. Big Mommy had borne twelve children and not one had had so much as a fighting chance from the time it’d hit the ground running. But maybe, just maybe, one of them would live to see something more than the inside of a coal mine or the view from behind a plow. The best Nanny could see for any of her children was a job that kept their hands soft. Ralph knew at fourteen that his hands were already calloused thick and deep. H.T.’s, he knew, were still smooth, except for the ridge he’d worn on the side of his index finger from working with his pencil so much to practice penmanship for Miz Gray.
Besides, Mick didn’t want to narrow his options too much. He wasn’t above any kind of work, as far as he could see. There wasn’t any job—any paying job—he wouldn’t stoop to do. Folks who only did work that appealed to them or came up to their station in life either had money in the bank or were on aid, one.
Later on in life, Papaw’s jobs would read like a laundry list of occupations. There was farmer, of course. Fence post-digger. Lay farrier. Carpenter. Picker. Mechanic. Glazer. Miner. Driver.
All before he hit twenty and found the job that would finally give him the warm house, the clean children, and the plentiful food he had always dreamed of.
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