When Uncle Roy was sick and after he died, Mother went to Memphis several times to stay with his wife, her sister Arliss. Aunt Arliss was already in her eighties and Mother was in her seventies, but both always had youthful, vigorous personalities. Aunt Arliss was usually a bit more serious–probably a case of older sister syndrome–but after a little time with Mother, they were like two girls together, laughing, teasing each other, and cutting up.
One evening Mother was doing the dinner dishes when Aunt Arliss took out the trash. She thought she heard a whoop and waited a minute for Arliss to come back inside. When she didn’t, Mother walked outside and looked around. Not seeing her sister anywhere, she called, “Arliss? Are you okay?”
“I’m in here!” Arliss yelled.
Mother looked around again and still didn’t see her. “Where?”
“I fell in the trash can!”
Mother hurried to the big plastic trash bin and found Arliss sitting inside it. They both started laughing so hard that it was quite some time before they had the strength to get her out.
“It’s okay. I always suspected you were a little trashy,” Mother assured her.
A few weeks ago I knocked my iPhone off my desk. The phone was fine, but a corner of the protective cover broke off and immediately began trying to shred my fingers when I held the phone. Which I do a lot, not because I’m talking on the phone–you know I’m not a phone person–but I do text (not while driving!), and I love playing Words With Friends, Draw Something, and Hanging With Friends. Lindsey and I are still tied for the worst Pegasus renditions ever in Draw Something.
One day Tim and Hanley picked me up to go phone case shopping. I was so blinded by sunlight that I barely got this crappy shot with my phone–and totally managed not to get the Apple logo in the picture.
Every trip to an Apple store is an adventure, and this was my first time to visit the one in Highland Village (I’ve only been to the Galleria store in the past). Do Apple employees love their jobs? Because they’re always so happy and friendly. They were also super nice to Hanley, who helped me look over all the selections and invariably went for something in pink or purple. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything there I loved except a Kate Spade case that was too pricey.
Then we went to Target, where I’d gotten my original iPhone cover for a great price, but there was nothing similar in stock. Since I couldn’t find what I wanted locally, I ordered the one I really wanted in the first place after seeing it in my Barbie Collector catalog. I’m sorry if anyone working in some warehouse in substandard conditions had to retrieve it for me. If it helps, I’m very happy with its retro illustration. Thank you.
Below are my vintage doll-and-fashion cases that the phone cover evokes.
This 1961 case is from the neighbor who gave me my first Barbies–her entire collection of dolls, clothes, accessories, and this case. I think it’s sad that there’s not a single picture of me playing with the dolls as a child, because it was such a kind and generous gift that gave me countless hours of happiness. This case is currently storing doll accessories from several decades.
This is Lynne’s doll case, manufactured in 1962. This is where Barbie’s bridal fashions and accessories are stored.
My mother also gave me a generic doll case for storage. It’s mostly empty right now–though my Mary Poppins doll’s fashion and accessories are in the drawers. I did find a pair of Barbie retro sunglasses inside it that I’d been looking for.
Another in the non-Mattel department is my Penny Brite case manufactured in 1964. I’m not showing you the inside, because all the dolls are there, and your fear of a gathering of Penny Brite dolls has already been documented.
Just a couple of “looking out” shots to remember times and places past as I cross my fingers in Houston and hope for a quick dissipation of Hurricane Isaac.
Tim looking over the Gulf from the pier in Long Beach, Mississippi, in 2004, a year before Hurricane Katrina destroyed it. We were there doing research for Three Fortunes in One Cookie. All along the Mississippi coast, we were welcomed and embraced by locals as they shared information with us.
Tim looking out at the mighty Mississippi from Washington Artillery Park in 2006, less than a year after the levees failed and Hurricane Katrina did her worst. We went there for Saints and Sinners and found a city struggling but plucky and determined to make a comeback.
I get agitated when I read ignorant things from people who don’t understand coastal topography, natural and constructed wind and water breaks and protections, and the historical reasons why coastal cities exist. I cherish Houston’s sister cities, towns, and communities along the beautiful Gulf Coast. Be safe!
And the Universe laughs, because I didn’t specify size or function. But that’s okay. My other car is a super cool hippie van.
Peace and love!
I got those vehicles at a thrift store and cleaned them up to toss into the small box of toys for youngsters who spend time at The Compound. It began when Hanley was a wee one and Tim would bring her over to visit. There was nothing Hanley-friendly for her to enjoy. So I gradually collected some baby toys for her and Lila. Even though over time I’ve added older child toys to the box, I always laugh when they go for the baby toys with an excited “I remember this from childhood!” attitude. As Hanley told us in Target the other day when we passed the aisle of infant toys, “I’m not a baby anymore.”
Lila likes to play with cars from the movie Cars. I don’t know if she and Hanley will have any interest in the toy-box cars. But I like playing with them! As you can see from the photos below, no matter what we threw into the mix for the grandkids–all toys being available to all kids–my camera seems to have caught them falling into “boy/girl” choices. Maybe it’s for the best, since Gina used the gender-neutral croquet mallet to bash Daniel in the head.
Josh and DanielGina and Sarah
ETA: Frequently after I post something, I’ll see an article about it within a couple of days. I hesitate to link to articles anymore because the comments are generally so deplorable. If you’re interested in reading more at your own risk, from cnn.com, When Kids Play Across Gender Lines by Emanuella Grinberg.
Back in the Permian period, sometimes photo processing labs where we sent our film(!) to be developed provided you with one normal-sized print and two little ones–the real-life version of thumbnails. This was a good idea for struggling young families; proud parents kept the prints and sent the free “thumbnails” to other family members. My mother had a “brag book” of these little photos for grandson Josh. I finally scanned those in so I can actually see them–my eyes not being what they were in said Permian period.
I have quite enjoyed them and hope to share several in the future. Here’s a Christmas morning when Aunt Becky helped Josh ride Daniel’s horse, Fido. Though I’m not sure diapers are proper riding apparel, he seems to be having a good time. Giddy up!
I was working on my Runway Monday design Saturday when The Brides joined us for a Craft 2.0/games/whatever Night. I mentioned that I needed to buy some new thread because I’d run out of a few colors. Lindsey said that she’d brought her late Aunt Gwen’s sewing box home and might have some of the colors I needed. When she and Tom went to the RubinSmo Manor to pick up some other things, she brought the case back with her.
Of course, I couldn’t wait to dig into it, and we found all kinds of treasures. Some buttons that Lindsey could use in jewelry making. Tons of old packets of snaps, hooks and eyes, and needles. An envelope with Aunt Gwen’s Chicago address from many years ago; Rhonda Google street-mapped it so they could see the location as it looks today. I had so much fun reorganizing the case, looking at the old Marshall Fields tins containing straight pins, and picking out lots of thread that I can use (plus some other stuff that I can incorporate into doll fashions).
It reminded me of going through Mother’s sewing case and all the things I found there. One thing I told Lindsey was that as I emptied the spools, I’d return all the wooden ones to her to keep. I still have some of Mother’s wooden spools. In fact, here are several she tied onto a ribbon for the grandkids to play with. It’s amazing how much enjoyment those babies got out of a bunch of old wooden spools. Yes, they did put them in their mouths, but no one got splinters or mangled them. Babies and spools used to be more durable, I guess.
I’m sorry if I’m repeating myself, but I’m so tired that though I’ve sort-of checked the archives for this story, I could have missed it. However, I had to hear it lots of times, so it’ll be just like you’re my father’s kid if you’ve heard it before.
Among the “college was a huge financial struggle” stories my parents told, one was about my father’s coat. It was a different time, when men wore sports coats and jackets, and my father always wore his to class. He said by graduation time, he hated that jacket with every fiber of his being. The day of his last exam of his senior year, his bus let him off as usual near a field. Before he began the walk home to Northington campus where their apartment was, he said he took off that coat, wadded it up, and hurled it as far as he could into that field.
I don’t know if it was this jacket, but since he always made it sound like there was only one, I’m guessing so. Today when I was taking a nap, I had a bunch of dreams. One of them was about my parents. He was not wearing this jacket. I know he’d appreciate that.
Most of The Compound has privacy fencing around it–the kind of wooden fencing that I never saw until I moved to Texas, where it’s practically standard except in the poorest or wealthiest neighborhoods. You see it in those, too, just not as abundantly. However, the area where we live also has many homes with iron fencing, and when we had work done on the property in the summer of 2000, we decided we wanted an iron fence at least across the front and down one side of the house (the other side already had it).
The contractor we selected for all the other jobs agreed to install the fencing, too. He went on a hunt for vintage or salvaged fence that would match our house and the existing fencing. When he couldn’t find exactly what he was looking for, he finally hired an elderly man, who did welding jobs for him, to custom-construct the fence. This gentleman came to measure the property and talk to us so he’d know exactly what we wanted. He did an outstanding job, and when it was completed, he told me one of the specifications he’d set for himself. He’d met our dachshunds, Pete and Stevie, and this was how he made his decision for spacing the pickets. As he told me, “I wanted to make sure your little ones would stay safe inside the fence.”
Sadly, Pete died on August 18 of that year, and Stevie died five days later on August 23. I remember sitting on the front steps and staring at the new fence that would have enabled them to spend so much more time running around the yard chasing lizards and squirrels or checking out the other dogs and their people who passed by. In the years since, I have often thanked the two of them for their legacy. Many Compound dogs and fosters have been able to enjoy playing, exploring, and sunning while also keeping an eye on the world around them. And thanks to one tradesman and his pride in his work, only Lynne’s Paco is able to slip out–and when I call him, he promptly walks to the gate and waits for me to open it so he can come back in. Apparently that space only works one way.
One of the things I’d do if I could is visit my brother and my sister with my scanner and my laptop and scan in the photos from the albums Mother made for them from her collection. Occasionally I come across a picture that she held on to, whether because she couldn’t bear to part with it or because it was so damaged, I can’t be sure. This is one of those photos.
I don’t know who the other two girls are, but David’s easily recognizable to me. Debby’s little face is practically lost. I decided to play around with it and see if I could get a decent photo.
Though Debby’s eyes don’t have a lot of definition, since I don’t have much to work with, in looking at photos of her granddaughter Morgan, eyes that look like little coals are actually pretty accurate.
I have a plastic container to keep or transport deviled eggs, but as anyone knows, a Southern belle has at least one and preferably several deviled egg plates, and this is mine. I love the rooster and the sunflower, but here is its quirk: there are slots for nine eggs. I don’t know how y’all make deviled eggs, but I cut my boiled eggs in half, scoop out the yolk, mix it with stuff, and fill the egg hollows with that stuff. At the risk of sounding mathy, you can’t add egg halves and come up with nine. I’ve decided this means the person who prepares the deviled eggs must, therefore, eat the extra one. This also works if you need a poison tester, because I connect deviled eggs to stuff like picnics and families, and you know both of those can be treacherous.
Daddy at a picnic–who brought those Pepsis? We’re a Coke family!
The process of deviling the eggs led me to think about two kinds of picnics: planned and spontaneous. My earliest impressions of picnics are the ones we took while we traveled during my childhood. Interstates were rare–we were more likely to take state highways and old backroads to get anywhere. We were also not yet a fast food nation. So trips meant either stopping at wonderful diners and cafes in small towns or–because we didn’t really have the budget for eating out that way–my mother packed sandwiches, fruit, chips, and drinks. When the back seat started sounding cranky, my parents knew it was time to find a shady roadside picnic area, pull over, and stuff food in us. The place might have been left to chance, but not the fixings, because everybody had to have the right things to eat (this one doesn’t like mustard, that one won’t eat Fritos, the other one hasn’t tasted much beyond peanut butter in two years, etc.).
A friend at a church picnic.
Somewhat irrelevant aside: One time I was watching an episode of Mad Men (set in the early Sixties, if you don’t know), and the Draper family was having a picnic in an idyllic spot–green grass, shade trees, nothing but the sounds of nature and the kids being kids. Don finished his beer and rocked my world by tossing the can as far as he could throw it. Then when it was time to go, Betty told the kids to get their things, stood up, shook the blanket free of plates, cups, napkins, and food remnants, and they all got in the car and drove off, leaving a pile of debris behind. I GASPED. I would just like to say that my family did not behave in a way that would make the Keep America Beautiful Indian shed a tear. We properly disposed of our trash before moving on.
Mother at a family reunion.
I think anytime children are involved, a picnic requires planning, and I used to be a champion planner myself, so I understand the compulsion. However, as I aged, I began to see how overplanning takes all the joy out of an event–both for the planner and everyone else. Because there will always be things you can’t prepare for, and I’m not talking about only nuisances like ants, mosquitoes, drunks, and rain. The world will not end if a picnic does not go exactly as planned–well, unless it’s taken over by zombies, but that hasn’t happened to me yet, so I disregard it. Consequently, I’m more in favor of the spontaneous picnic.
A garage picnic with friends from high school and college.
One such occasion began on a spring night when Lynne and I had a discussion about fried chicken. She said Craig didn’t really like fried chicken, and I said it was probably because he’d never had mine. (Y’all know Lynne is a fantastic cook, right, and taught me a lot of what I know? But never let it be said an Aries will miss an opportunity to be a little cocky.) So we decided to have a cook-off. We each separately spent a late night frying chicken and packed some other random foods. Early the next morning, we loaded Craig’s van, then the two of them, Tom, and I rode toward the Hill Country looking for the perfect picnic spot.
Aunt Lola (Headless! Maybe there were zombies?) and Uncle Gerald at a family picnic.
This is Texas, and they really mean it when they say if you don’t like the weather, wait ten minutes. A couple of hours later we were unloading the van in a bucolic setting with wildflowers and singing birds. And without warning, the temperature dropped about thirty degrees. Fortunately, Craig had some work coveralls in his van, so Lynne and I put those on, and we managed to stuff our food past blue lips with shivering hands. Crazily, that memory is one of my favorite picnics ever. And I can’t say it’s because Craig liked my chicken best–he did!–but it turned out that Tom and I liked Lynne’s best, so it all evened out. But we laughed ourselves stupid, rode home in the cozy van, and probably played cards all night with some good cussin’ and cold chicken.
Daniel making a face about his steak that should have alerted us he’d one day be a vegetarian.
Recently, Lynne asked me if Jess was with us on that picnic, and I remembered that he wasn’t. I’m not sure where he was–he might have been on spring break in Alabama with his great-aunts–but I knew for sure if he’d been with us, he’d have had the sense to get out of the cold.
