Part Three - The tales of Childhood

So few things are memorable when you are little. Oh, I know we all THINK we truly remember things that happened to us when we were small - but few of us truly do. My earliest "memory" is that of a very large rattlesnake outside on our porch when I was but three. I was precariously perched on a chair with tiny fingers straining to reach the latch, when my mother, who was outside hanging clothes on the line, saw me and the snake - at the same time. 
As a mom, I can only imagine her horror as she saw her tiny girl about to make the mistake of her life. Mother screamed for my grandma, who had just walked into the kitchen to find me teetering on the brink of success in my escape. She snatched me off the chair as my mother burst through the front door in a panic. A snake on our back porch!!! She almost got out the door - that snake would kill her!
By this time of course my grandmother had already called daddy and papa home from the boat to deal with the miscreant snake who felt this was his new home. 
Fortunately for all us women folk, the dock was moments away and they arrived quickly. Granddaddy took his gun, and promptly made skin from the snake. Funny, it didn't look like a six foot western diamond back rattler... but it was. 
This is not a true memory - it's a story told over and over again, of which I have stored the details from each telling. It is my mothers memory, passed on to me. 
I could tell all sorts of fantastic tales of the sea from my grandfathers 25 year career as a shrimp boat captain - all lived through him by a very imaginative and thoughtful little girl, who thought catching shrimp in the ocean was the most fabulous job ever. Like the one about his mole...
My grandfather had a very prodigious mole on his forehead - I mean this thing had it's own eyes! I can vividly remember being about six when I first mustered the courage to ask him how it came to be there... Of course, NOW I know that he was likely born with it, and that it had probably caused him immense pain as a child. I also know that it was rude of me to ask about it... but hey, I was only six, and he was my papa nothing was remotely rude with him. The story he told was one of sea-faring adventure, which convinced me even further that he was a hero of the finest sort! 
The tale was that he was about 20  miles off the coast of Campeche, Mexico hauling a mother-lode of shrimp, when suddenly over the transom of the boat lept the largest shark eyes had ever seen. Well that shark didn't like his shrimp being harvested, and he had it in for my grandpa. So when it landed on the deck with a wet, slimy plop, grandpa decided the shark could not stay. 
He asked the shark why he was there...and the shark told him he was just following his dinner. The argument of old... just who do the riches of the sea belong to - the fishermen who depend upon it for life and sustenance, or the fish who depend upon it for life and sustenance? 
Well that old shark, according to my grandpa, sat there and discussed this age old conundrum with him. And they came to an agreement - if the shark could have just a little human intelligence, then he wouldn't have to work so hard to eat... and in return, my grandfather could keep all he caught, without fear of retribution from the shark population, with the understanding that if grandpa's feet ever touched the water, all bets were off. Well grandpa made that deal, and the shark reached up and touched his forehead, taking just enough intelligence to keep him from having to work too hard to eat, and leaving the rest behind. When the shark pulled away, granddaddy's forehead stretched out, and pop! out came the mole. 
What a story to grow up with. I believed that tale until I was about twelve, and learned from the movie Jaws, that sharks not only cannot talk, but if they could, man was the LAST thing they would talk to, much less make a deal with. 
But that story gave me so many years of wonderfully imaginative games to play. I was a captain in my own right, sailing the seas in a ship built from rock, wood, dirt, or gravel, depending on my location when the fantasy took hold. I sailed from Greece to Austraila, around the Cape and down the coast of Africa. I was an adventurer on the seas and the fish talked to me. We had a wonderful arrangement in which sharks brought me barrels of freshly caught shrimp, that were carefully steamed over the blow holes of whales passing by. 
Other stories, that were true, remind me of my father's childhood, and what it would be like to grow up with siblings, as I had none at that age. 
They all had one underlying theme - the ocean. As a family, we were bred to be on the water. Saltwater flowed through our veins, and still today I hear the call of the gull, no matter how far from the ocean I wander. 
I had a great-grandfather who was an author. For close to forty years, he wrote for Fur, fish, and Game magazine. His stories were about a pair of hunters named Charlie and Lew. Their adventures fueled even more fantasies in the woods behind our house. 
Growing up in the relative seclusion afforded in Tennessee in that time molded me into an independent thinking woman. It prepared me for the things to come in my life - and it was an experience every child should have. The experience of unbridled imagination, untamed by reality. The experience of a rich family history, embellished enough to make even the mundane seem exciting and adventurous. For those memories, and many others, I am grateful to my family - the made me who I am today!

Part Two - Friends

So few people in their lives meet a person with whom they will bond forever. I met mine in the first grade. Mrs. Cavet's class to be exact. We were both six or seven - and we both liked the same boy... not in the same way we would like boys later in life - but all the same, it became a competition. The day we became friends one such boy was the cause. 
Standing in line next to "the boy" (who remains nameless because I have no idea where he is today) was a special treat for either of us, and on this particular day it was my turn. Being first graders, we were made to hold hands in two lines - boys in one, girls in another. This processional took us to the cafeteria, playground, or bathrooms depending on the time of day. This was long before the days of modern schools where bathrooms are right outside the classrooms, it was a hike in our Elementary school - which still stands today, and educates hundreds of little girls and boys just like us every year. 
We walked to the playground this day, hand in hand and I chattered away about swings, slides, and see-saws - the boy was mine for recess, and I intended to take advantage of it! The doors opened, and the playground was ours. It was just at that moment that I hit the ground... I looked up in time to see her hand in hand with him... 
She was pretty, long chestnut hair, beautiful eyes, and manners that rivaled even Emily Post. And she had just tripped me up, and stolen the boy!
Immediately, I was on my feet and across the playground... nobody puts me on the ground and gets away with it... and this is where memories get fuzzy. I cannot remember what was said, or done - but I remember one thing... That girl became my best friend that day. A friend that today, 38 years later I can still call in the middle of the night and cry to... A friend that no matter what it was, would be there in an instant if I needed her. 
No matter how many years or miles separate us we are still best friends. We still are the only ones that know the deepest and darkest secrets of the other. We know what the other's childhood dreams and goals were, and we know which of those dreams came true, and which was ripped away like so much wrapping paper. 
For the next six years of our lives we were totally inseparable. We spent weekends at each other's houses - or in my favorite place, the family sailboat. Many memories were made on the Chickamauga Lake - by two young girls who knew nothing but freedom, peace, and love. We had never been tainted by tragedy, sickness, or death. Our outlook on life was full of childish idealism and it was perfect. I would not change a moment of those years, and I'm pretty sure that Kim would not either. We were two girls living the life of Riley, and loving every minute of it.  
But as in most things in life our time was not to be forever. Things change rapidly when you are a child. And intertwined in all the changes are opportunities for growth. As things changed in our lives, we continued our friendship into the rich and wonderful relationship it is today. 
There were other friends along the way in those years, but none who impacted my life in the way Kim did... and none that I even know where are today. 
That is the way of the childhood friendship - some stay, and some you never see again.

Part One - Family

In our neighborhood there were only seven kids. Seven kids in an entire 3 block area, so we had a central bus stop, at the bottom of the hill, near the “main road” through our area. Once there, usually mom stayed, having driven me and the boys across the street. They stood near the road and watched for the bus, I sat in the warmth of the car, driving mother insane with my chatter and questions. I look back now and I know that she had to breathe a huge sigh of relief when she saw that bus every morning. For a while now, mom had been working the three to eleven shift at the hospital as a nursing aide. She saw me on to the bus in the morning, and then went home to do her thing. In the afternoon, my grandmother, my mom’s mother, picked me up and I went to her house; which coincidentally, was right next door to ours. I would hang out with grandma, snack on good food, and play until Daddy came home from work around 5 or so. He worked for TVA then, and it was a pretty long day for him as a heavy-equipment mechanic. After dinner, daddy and I would go home and do homework. Then it was time for television, relaxing, or playing in the yard till bed time. I was in bed and long asleep by the time my mom got home, but she never failed to come in and kiss me good night.

Mine was what some would describe as an idyllic childhood. My parents, married thirteen years by this time, never raised their voices to each other. They were totally dedicated to each other, and to me. Our lives centered on family-friendly events, sailing, fishing, swimming, traveling, and family visits. Ours was a close family, for the most part, made closer still by my father’s frequent visits to his parents, brothers, and sister. We also saw my mother’s sister and my cousins every holiday and for a while in the summer most years. It was family closeness that made the tragedy to come both easier to handle and at the same time harder than anything we’d ever faced, together or separately.

My childhood hero was my father. He was the ‘man with the answers’ to all my questions. While I was an exceptionally frustrating child, with my hyperactive energy and lack of concentration, my father had a lot of patience. Understand that looking back now; I know that even though my behavior and grades had to be a disappointment to my parents, they never, ever showed it. Yes, there were consequences for failing every class I took.  I can remember being grounded from television for nearly two years as a child. He was strict and unerring in his goal – to make me a better person. I was punished according to the infraction, in a fair and impartial way, and loved in spite of the things I did wrong, and I knew it. My parents were loving disciplinarians, with lofty goals for their only daughter.

My mother’s parents lived right next door to us and pretty much had for as long as I could remember. They spent lots of time with me, and fed me some of the best food I’ve eaten in my life.  I took it for granted that they, like my parents would always just be there.

My father’s parents lived across town and we spent every Sunday I can remember eating at Bea’s Restaurant. It’s a classically timeless place with a unique concept on buffet dining. Each round table seats about seven. A turntable center is loaded with fresh sourdough rolls and butter, cornbread, beans, fried chicken, barbeque pork, coleslaw, potato salad, and peach cobbler. Everyone serves themselves from the buffet trays that are never ever empty, the serving staff being so attentive and on the spot.

My dad’s three brothers were the source of endless entertainment and torture when I was young. They were seven and eight years older than me, and all boy. I was locked in cabinets, tied up with belts, picked on, and tormented. But I loved my uncles; they were very special to me when I was growing up. My aunt didn’t live in town, and I had no idea until I was older why. That’s another story, that’s not mine to tell. The time I did get to spend with her during vacations and family visits, she was awesome. I remember my first ever concert was attended with her not long before she moved away. She and her then boyfriend Bob took me to see the Charlie Daniels Band. It was an experience I’ll never forget.

My mother’s sister lived a state away, and visited as often as her busy career would allow. My cousins, both about ten years older than me, were just like my uncles, only I didn’t see them as often. My aunt had had a rough life, with several bad marriages. She met my uncle Don, and things were just right for her after that. My uncle was a computer engineer for a company called Allied Bendix, on a contract with NASA. Their job was designing the brains for the space shuttle program and naval ships. My aunt became his executive secretary, and because of that was able to travel the world; living in places like Quito, Ecuador and Korea. It was a great time in her life, and mine too as I got to travel vicariously through them, because there was always a new package in the mail, containing some exotic doll, or carved figurine, or something equally great for a kid.

Even my great-grandparents were nearby. My paternal grandfather’s parents both lived close by. Maurice, I know was an author, who wrote thousands of articles for a magazine called Fur, Fish, and Game. They were wonderfully sweet very old people.

My paternal grandmother’s mom was my favorite in the world besides my daddy. She was a sweet woman with a quiet loving spirit. She loved her family, her life, and her God. She was fully prepared to go home to Jesus, when he saw fit to have her there. It wasn’t until she reached the age of 105 that he called her home to him. I missed the funeral – and have yet to forget that faux pas.

We had good family friends too, folks that we barbequed with, that my parents went out to dinner with, that came and had dinner with us, and that were valuable parts of my childhood. My dad’s work buddy Cheney was a constant source of aggravation and amusement as he pulled countless pranks on my dad, mom, and even me. One memorable occasion included tying my shoelaces and bathing suit strings together into what seemed like a million little knots, that I had to untie before I could wear shoes or swim suit!

Across the street from us was a dear couple with kids of their own. Wanda and Buddy were probably my grandparent’s greatest friends. 

Writing and Stuff

Obviously, by now, you should know that I like to write... I guess that's an understatement, actually I LOVE to write. It's just one of the things I do. So, in keeping with that hobby, I thought I might begin to share some of my stories with you. Even though I know my only readers might be my kids, I still think it would be fun to share them! 
With that said, my next post will be the first installment of what will be a series of "short stories" from my life. Childhood memories captured in print.