Ankle Socks and a Johnny Cash Concert…

Today, as I pick at my writings, I am thinking of days gone by and those I miss the most.

I miss Uncle Cecil.

When I was a child, I was fascinated by the way Uncle Cecil put on his socks.  He wore those very thin white socks.  He would pull one all the way up his leg and then, in one fast motion, roll the sock down with the palms of his hands.  It made a fine thin roll at his ankle.  I tried doing that, recently, with one of my pricey trouser socks, and it didn't work as well.  Sock-rolling may be a lost art.

I also miss that, after Uncle Cecil would "take a drink" on Friday night, he would go to the livingroom, put a Johnny Cash album on the old record player, and sit on the sofa, alone, strumming his guitar along with Johnny.  I watched, mesmerized, from behind the door.   My own private Johnny Cash concert on Buttermilk Road in Anniston, Alabama.

Even though he isn't here anymore, Uncle Cecil lives on.  He told me some dandy stories before he went to meet Johnny and the Lord.

WHEN GRIEF COMES TO CALL…

Grief doesn’t come and go

He mostly stays.

He is like a stranger who comes to call.

A big nasty stranger with mud on his shoes.

Someone frightening – someone you would not normally let into your house.

But he doesn’t even ask - he opens the door and walks through you -

like in a nightmare.

He picks your favorite chair and props his feet on the coffee table.

You don’t like this uncomfortableness in your home

And hope this stranger will leave right away so you can get on with your chores.

But he moves in without even asking your permission

Claiming closets and bathrooms and dresser drawers and even your secrets.

Un-invited, he sits in the chair beside you

No matter which chair you choose.

He watches you undress.

He watches you eat.

He hears you laugh and rushes to make you bite your lip to stop.

He mocks you when you pray.

And he stays.

   

Sara Joanne Saxon Hill

September 28, 2009

Choices and Rules....

"My Flowers" - by Majo

Yesterday, I came out of Macy’s to hear a young mom ask a 

two-ish-year-old two questions:

1.  “Do you want to put on your hat?”  

(It was the kind of weather that requires a child to wear a hat)

2.  “Can you be calm?”

(The child seemed to be behaving very nicely.)

Funny – when I was a kid, I did not realize that I had an OPTION to (A) be calm, or to (B) act like a heathen.

The one thing I would wish for today’s young parents is that you would behave like a PARENT and not like you have to be your child’s best friend.  I think the best friend part is a given – you are required to be always be there for your child.  But being a good parent is different and carries a lot more responsibility.  There are rules you have to explain and enforce - whether you want to or not.   

I am speaking this on the authority of the Bible.  Dad and Mom are required to be in charge of their household.

In some things you don’t teach a CHOICE.  You teach the RULES.  You are responsible for teaching your child what is expected and what is necessary to get along in this society.

I realize that small ones are sometimes going to have melt-downs.  Children do that.  But if they are doing it a lot, ask yourself:  By giving them choices instead of rules, are YOU causing most of the melt-downs?

"Night Sail..."

"WAIT"

“Wait,” I begged.

“Wait just a little while. 

There is more I want to say to you. 

I have some things to show you!  

We have more things to do!”

But you paid no attention. 

You ignored me quietly and then curtly,

With your eyes fixed on something I could not see nor could I be a part of – yet.

You had something else to do and it could not wait for me.

Grandmother's New View...

Grandmother has a new view.  

I wonder...

When will I?

Blessings to all those who wonder....

Joanne

WRITE ON!

There is a debate going on about whether or not cursive handwriting should continue to be taught in schools.  Some teachers say that knowing how to type is more important these days.  Okay – I understand that.  At times, I am a “mad texter” myself.  I have always loved to type, and I do love the email!  But I do hope the teaching of cursive will not be discarded.  I believe penmanship is something that is part of our identity.  The way our handwriting looks tells a story about us – how we go about doing things….

In elementary school, just learning to write in cursive, we called it REAL writing.  If the teacher wanted sentences, a paragraph, or an essay, the question always came, “Do you want it in “real writing”?

I can remember the handwriting of some of my school chums from so many years ago!  I watched my left-handed friend hunched over her desk, carefully copying something from a textbook.  I was mesmerized by the careful movement and the perfect letters that came out of the awkward way she held her hand and pencil.  And the way the little boy I had a crush on crunched up his face as he wrote.  Looking over at his paper, I fancied I could see his facial expression in his handwriting!  When I helped the teacher, I knew whose test paper I held, without looking at the name.

Oh how I loved to watch my husband write his name!  The movements were as unique as he was.  The handwriting of my children makes me happy!  I remember my Mother’s small neat script…my Father’s scrawl.  I remember the handwriting of some of my teachers on the blackboard.  One teacher stood very close to the board and wrote hard and slowly - as though the chalk were going to jump out of his hand at any moment.  Then he went back to dot all the I’s and cross all the T’s as a final job.  He performed this task as though he were mad at the letters for needing something extra.  Another teacher wrote with a flourish and used lots of exclamation points after her flowing writing.  The handwriting style said so much about who they were…

I recently helped some elderly people shop for groceries.  I watched, as each person slowly and carefully signed their name in the electronic box at the check-out counter – in cursive.  I sensed that they wanted to write their names perfectly – it was as if they were positive their signature would be seen by everyone.  “This is who I am,” their slow, spidery, crawling penmanship said to the electronic box on the counter.

I love to write letters and receive letters.  But what is a handwritten letter unless it is in “real writing”?

What will happen if they stop teaching cursive writing in public schools?  Will this technique only be taught in college under a “Special Studies” curriculum?  Will we slowly become a culture that uses only electronic devices to communicate?  (Gee – I think I already know the answer to that.)

Will the love notes that I used to put in my husband’s lunch bag be unearthed and put in a museum someday, as a rare item – perhaps called a hieroglyphic?  (Uh – I hope not….blush)

Cursive penmanship makes me happy!  Perhaps something in real writing will be in the mailbox today!

D I V O R C E and a SUNTAN

The following is an excerpt from my book,
 "Golden Slippers".

A book about coming of age
in a Penecostal environment....

Chapter 16....

D I V O R C E  and a SUNTAN...

One Wednesday night, just before church, me and Shelly were sitting out in her daddy’s truck, minding our own business and listening to the radio. All of a sudden, real quick like, Patricia Elaine Duncan yanked the truck door open and said, “Yall move over.” Julie Ann, my smart-aleck little sister, was right behind her. We all squeezed together in the front seat. “I’m trying to get away from your stupid little sister, Molly,” Patricia said. “She is worrying me to death. Tell your little shit-ass sister to get lost.”


“I will not,” Julie Ann said. “I asked you a question, Patricia. Why are you orange?”

“You little shit-ass – I am not orange,” Patricia said.

But she was. Shelly and I were staring. Patricia's hands and face and especially her elbows and knees were a rusty colored orange.

Patricia waved her hand in the air. “This is a suntan,” she said. “I went to Florida last weekend with my daddy.”

Patricia’s mama, Teresa, and her daddy, Max, were divorced. They were just about the only divorced people we knew. Talking about divorce was kind of like talking about blaspheming the Holy Ghost. It was something we didn’t know much about, but we knew it was something you needed to be afraid of. When Teresa and Max got divorced, they had to put Patricia in the hospital for three solid days. The day her daddy left her mama, Patricia stopped eating and she cried so much they had to put her in the Mercer County hospital and feed her through her veins.

The next time I saw Patricia, after she got out of the hospital, she seemed happy as a pig in a mudhole. And she didn’t look like she had missed a meal since. After that, her mama and daddy kept her spoiled rotten because they were scared to death they were gonna kill her.

Patricia’s daddy, Max, would come over to her house to pick her up every other Friday at 5 o’clock sharp. Their weekends together sounded like Heaven to me. Max would take Patricia to restaurants and they would usually go to the picture show. Max would buy her all kinds of stuff she didn’t need. Patricia got to go to the beauty shop on a regular basis too. She had an appointment at Ozella’s Beauty Shop in Mercer County every other Saturday morning at ten o’clock. Patricia’s hair was short and shiny black. She wore it straight and it was just a little longer on the sides than it was in the back so it did a pretty little swing when she moved. She had a thin streak of blonde peroxided down the right side and she was just in the seventh grade. Patricia got a TEEN magazine every blessed month and she had picked the hairdo out of one of the magazines. Ozella fixed Patricia’s hair the exact same way as the picture.

“You big stupid liar,” Julie Ann said in a mean way to Patricia. “You are orange. What is that stuff you’ve got on?”

“Well, okay, if it's any of your beeswax, I’ve got on QT. It’s a lotion that’s supposed to make you look like you’ve been to the beach,” Patricia finally admitted so Julie Ann would shut up. You couldn’t get away from Julie Ann once she started in on you.

Patricia had gone to Carrollton, Georgia to spend the weekend with her daddy and he had given her twenty dollars and she spent it all at the West Georgia drugstore. That’s where she got the QT.

Patricia was always telling us that her daddy and mama were going to get back together someday because they still loved each other. She told over and over about the time her daddy came over to pick her up and he came inside the house to talk to Teresa. “My mama was crying when my daddy left that day,” Patricia informed us. “And it wasn’t because she was mad at my daddy. It was because she is in love with my daddy. And while he was there, I saw him, with my own eyes, put a band-aid on a little bitty ole cut on my mama’s finger and it didn’t even need a band-aid. So, they still love each other,” she said smugly. “And I’m gonna to see to it that my daddy moves back in with us when the time is right.”

All I know is that Patricia Elaine Duncan could get away with more stuff than you could shake a stick at. One time she shaved all her eyebrows off and painted them back on with an eyebrow pencil. She looked downright scary. I asked her what her mama said about it. Patricia said her mama didn’t say anything except to remark that one of the eyebrows was crooked so she had to wipe it off and start all over again....

Sara Joanne Saxon Hill

Golden Slippers

All rights reserved....



Just wanted you to know that I am feeling completely bona-fide!

The proof is in the flour.

I am now making biscuits on a regular basis and they are stomp-down GOOD.

A friend from the South read my whiny blog and sent me a bag of White Lily Self-Rising Flour via priority post. She paid $10.95 to mail a $2.00 bag of flour. Lord-have-mercy! Thanks, Melinda!

I couldn't make it down South during the holidays, but I was able to find White Lily Self-Rising Flour when I went to Illinois for Thanksgiving. I brought back 15 pounds of the good stuff! Although I haven't quite used up one of the 5 pound bags, I have certainly gained more than 5 pounds!

Do THAT arithmetic, will you?

The best recipe for biscuits is the one on the back of the White Lily Self-Rising Flour Bag. I use solid chilled shortening instead of butter. Always use buttermilk! Also, I use my hands to roll out the biscuits - the old-fashioned way. No kneading or biscuit cutters involved!

Happy Biscuits!

Hello - I'm From the South and I Can't Make Biscuits....

Biscuit 1

PRETTY - but not a real biscuit. This recipe called for all manner of things, including sugar and an egg and cream of tartar. Clip and Save: Biscuit recipes calling for sugar and eggs and cream of tartar do not make biscuits. Where I come from, that makes cake. Lay some strawberries and whipped creme on these suckers and have dessert.

Biscuit 2

Looks pretty good - but more "crispy" than the biscuits made in my family. Taste is pretty good - but not what I'm looking for. Note: When these get cold, they can injure small animals.

I am ashamed.

I'm a good old gal from the South and, while I can make all manner of delicious things to eat, I cannot make good biscuits.

I am totally ashamed of myself.

I don't feel completely "bona fide". I have a friend who makes all kinds of commotion and carrying on about how good my cooking is, so I have been hesitant to tell him I cannot make good biscuits.

Good biscuit-making ran in my family - until I came along. It all stopped with my generation. As far as I know, neither of my Sisters can make up a good biscuit either. My Mama got her first biscuit-making lesson when she was five years old and she must have been bona fide, because right after that, she had to stand on a stool in the kitchen every morning to make biscuits for the family. Whew - you talk about some good biscuits - my Mama could make some bread!

I have an Uncle who can make a biscuit so soft, they literally melt when you take a bite. I had him give me a lesson one Sunday. It didn't take. Then I had him come over to my house and I video-taped him making biscuits - so I could practice it later. I still couldn't get it right. Uncle John said it was all in the way you "pinched" the dough.

Lord.have.mercy.

After using the frozen "southern-style" biscuits several times, I decided to come clean and tell my friend that I am just not up to snuff on making up bread. Before that, I said things like this to him, and got clean away with it:

"We are both gaining weight, so we are cutting back on bread."

"Bread is filler - I'd rather you enjoy the rest of your meal without filling up."

"Who needs bread when we have rice?"

"Who needs bread when we have macaroni?"

"Who needs bread when we have potatoes?"

"Who needs bread when we have peaches?"

and, once, trying hard to sound like I was joking, I said:

"My biscuits would likely hit and kill all the small animals out back, when I throw out the scraps." (That shook him up a little - he likes to watch the critters in my back yard and knows all of them, so he would know if one went missing.)

I finally just said, with my head hanging quite low, "Dear Friend, I can't make biscuits worth a toot."

He was downright sweet about it and called me Sugar- but the day I admitted I couldn't make biscuits was a sorry day for me....

I am currently blaming my bad biscuit-making on the fact that I do not have access to the flours that are in Alabama. My Mama never used anything other than Martha White Self-Rising, and my Uncle John swears by White Lily Self-Rising. You can't get that exact kind in Kansas, that I know of.

My sweet friend finally caught on to the fact that I'm missing a bread gene. He called me Sugar and told me not to worry about it - that HE is going to make some bread for us when he has time. He's a great cook too - but I am not about to let him get the best of me with a dern biscuit!

I've decided to put an end to the worry. I'm going to try biscuit recipes until I get it right. I sure do want to make good biscuits for a man who calls me Sugar.

Best Blessings and Good Biscuits!

...RUSTY ANGELS....

"Rusty Angel"

Please

Don't

Push me,

Shove me,

Rush me,

Just be Patient,

Loving,

Kind...

Just like you,

I'm a Rusty Angel,

Looking for a place

Where I can shine....

Joanne Saxon Hill

February 20, 2006