Papa was the designated cook on the caboose. He did all of his cooking on a Coleman Stove. One day, the men requested he cook some rice for dinner.
Now Papa had had never cooked any rice before, but he did not let that stop him. He went out and bought a sack of rice, in preparation for the next meal. I feel the need to point out again that he'd never cooked rice before. I think those of you who have, can almost guess what happened next.
He emptied the entire sack of rice in a pan of water, and soon noticed it was cooking over. Papa took a smaller pan and scooped some rice out, throwing it out the caboose's back door. After numerous times of discarding rice, he finally was able to finish cooking it. He learned the hard way that it only takes two cups of rice to feed four men.
My paternal grandfather, known as Papa, died before I was born but I often hear wonderful stories about him. Here is one that my father loves to tell.
The following is the story, in my father’s words:
When my dad (Papa) was a Conductor on a freight train, they would tie it up on each trip in Farmersburg, Indiana. The men ate and slept in the Caboose while they were on the road. Several nights a week, one of the local restaurants served fried fish, so they would eat there. After dinner, Dad would always purchase a small sack of chocolate drops from the local store to eat on the way back to the caboose. One of his co-workers, Abby Shaw, was a practical joker. He would grab the sack of chocolate from Dad’s hands, take off running, and empty it in his mouth before he could be caught. This happened on a frequent basis.
A few nights later at home, Dad had several boxes of Ex-lax that he broke up and placed in a sack. He carefully placed the sack in his pocket the next time they went out for their regular fish dinner. As they were walking back to the caboose, he took the newly made sack out and pretended to eat it. Abby Shaw immediately ran past Papa, grabbing the sack on his way, and quickly ate the whole thing.
The next morning as they were at the Mine, picking up coal cars, Abby jumped off the engine to open the switch and promptly filled his shoes (no one knew this at the time). The group was ready to leave and couldn’t find Abby. A while later, someone located him at the river, washing his long underwear, overalls, socks and shoes. This broke him of the habit of stealing candy.
I was emailing back and forth with this lovely lady, and we struck up a conversation about felt tip pins. The topic was started due to the latest Caption Contest post. It doesn't take much thought to figure out where our conversation went.
I remember when my step daughter was about 5 (she is 24 now), she put spots all over her body with felt tip markers, and proudly came into the room announcing that she had the "chiten pots." It was difficult not to laugh, as we didn't want to encourage her, yet at the same time I had an urge to bang my head against the wall out of pure frustration. On a side note, it took a few days for us to finally get rid of all of the dots. Did I mention these were PERMANENT markers?
Do you have anything memorable like that to share? About yourself? Your kids? Your friends?
On July 16th, my parents had their 55th wedding anniversary. Pretty amazing if you ask me. You hardly see that these days.
I'd heard bits and pieces about how they met, but decided to ask my Mom and Dad for the full version.
My Dad and Mom went to the same High School and were in the same English class in their Junior year. They knew each other by name, but ran around in different crowds.
Four years later, my Dad was in an automobile accident. His friend hit a parked car, and Dad was asleep in the passenger seat and his head went through the windshield. He lost his front upper teeth and split his upper lip open. He ended up on a floor (ward) in the hospital where Mom was working as a Graduate Nurse (she is an RN). She was the medicine nurse, so she applied medicine to his injured lip and gave him ice packs.
About three months later, she went to work for Dad's family doctor. Dad came in because his upper lip was hard and about twice the normal size. The doctor decided to open up the incision and remove some of the scar tissue, and discovered that the Emergency Room doctor had sewed up part of his tooth in the lip. A lip is a particularly sensitive area, and seeing Dad in pain, Mom held his hand. He asked Mom out on a date at that time, but she refused.
Dad continued to ask her out every time he came into the doctor's office and she kept refusing. After nine months, he invited Mom to attend a Marine Dance. She mentioned this to my Aunt who told her, "For goodness sake why don't you go? You're just going to a dance, you don't have to marry him." So Mom accepted. They had a really good time together, so she continued to accept dates from him.
One night, after a show, they were window shoping on Main Street (money was tight in their generation). As they were strolling along, a wedding party came honking down the street. It turned out to be a classmate of theirs from high school. Dad said "poor sucker".
After dating for three weeks, Dad proposed and Mom said "you don't want to be a sucker, do you?" He was so angry with her that he ran out the front door, and she thought, "well that is the last I'll see of him."
It turned out, Mom was wrong. Dad called the next night and asked her for another date. He proposed again after they had been dating for five weeks and she accepted.
And that, Internet, is how they met and then married.
This lady posted an absolutely hysterical post about, well, um, just go read this post. You'll see.
Note to Key: Smiley faced underwear?
When I was about 7 months pregnant with Meelie No, and Chickie was 3, we took a trip to the grocery store. After I put her in the front of the shopping cart (and let me tell you, when you are a beached whale, that is no easy feat), she patted me on the chest with both hands. I don't know about you gals, but I was rather tender in the boob area for both pregnancies. I gently stopped her and said "be careful sweetie, Mommy's boobs are sore."
We headed over to the produce section to pick up some stuff for a salad. There was a drop-dead-OMG-hunk-of-a-man picking through the selection. He had to be in his early to mid-thirties.
Let me preface all of this by saying Chickie was seriously friendly. Never met a stranger she didn't like. Can you see where this is going? Nuff said.
We walked over to the lettuce and the conversation went something like this:
Chickie: Hi, how you doing?
Hunk: I'm doing great! How about you?
Chickie: Guess what?
Hunk: What?
Mom's mind: Heh...that's so cute. She is so friendly.
Chickie: My mom's boobs are sore.
I don't remember much of the conversation after that. I do remember we didn't have salad that night.
Now I'm passing the baton over to you. Can you think of a seriously embarassing moment in your life? Share it with us, either in the comments section, or on your own blog (be sure to send me a link if you do).
I have a lucky dollar. Perhaps you don't believe in things like this, but I do. I guess most people believe in pennies. You know, find a penny, pick it up and you will have good luck? Or some such.
On November 1, 1992, my father had a heart attack. Cardiac arrest, or whatever term you want to use. They estimate that it was at least 5 minutes before he got to the hospital. Five minutes that he was not breathing. He was with my mother.
It seems, as the story goes, they were getting ready for church that morning. Dad didn't really feel all that well so he told Mom that he would meet up with her later for the service. Mom was teaching Sunday School and he usually would come with her.
So the story moves forward and Mom is ending the Sunday School with the normal songs with all of the classes and she spies Dad in the back of the building. He signals for her to come over to him. She does (it's important to note that my mom is a retired Registered Nurse). She notices he is sweating profusely, and he tells her that he is having some pain down his right arm and is nauseous. I'm sure that most of you can figure out where this is going.
Mom notices the symptoms and calmly tells my Dad that perhaps, they should take a trip to the hospital. She talks him out of taking his truck, which he drove to church and begins the drive to the hospital. A few minutes away fromt he hospital, Dad cries out "Martie, I can't take it" and promptly goes limp.
Folks, can you imagine what was going through my Mom's mind at the time?
She took stock of the situation, figured it would take longer if she called 911, and gunned it, petal to the metal, to the hospital. She had previously reached over and realized he wasn't breathing. She told me that she weaved the car in and out of the lanes in hopes that the police would pull her over, then give her an escort, but no such luck.
She pulled into the Emergency Room parking lot, honking her horn full blast. No one came out. She ran into the Emergency Room but there was no one around. I get sick to my stomach every time I think of that. She ran back out to the car and saw a man in a white coat and a nurse, running for the car.
To summarize, the doctor (the one who was running in the parking lot) got the ball going and a gurney was brought out, my Dad lifted on it and my mom said all the way into the Emergency Room the doctor was pounding on his chest...literally. He climbed up on top of my Dad, desparately trying to save his life.
My mom spent I don't know how much time in the emergency room waiting for news of Dad. Someone was watching over him because he made it.
I remember getting the call early in the morning on that day. It's a nightmare that I would rather not relive. I called my older brother with the news, and we got the next flight out to Florida. I remember being really numb and my husband picking up the slack and helping me pack.
I don't remember much about the plane ride. Mom had told us to come right away. They weren't sure he would make it.
I remember my brother, and my then sister-in-law meeting us at the airport. I remember looking at my brother, straight in the eye. I remember his slight nod of the head. He was still alive. It was the only communication I needed. We were all trying to hold it together.
I remember seeing Dad that first time. The respirator. The tubes. They were everywhere.
I remember touching his head, rubbing his hair. Telling him that I loved him. At this point, they had him fairly drugged up so that his heart could rest and heal. Or at least, that's how it was explained to us.
I remember putting my hands in my pockets because I didn't know what else to do with them. I remember finding the dollar in my pocket that must have went through the washer and dryer. I remember grasping it in my hand, and holding it as if it were my father's life line. I don't know why I thought that. I just know, that for whatever reason, it gave me comfort.
I remember the nausea. The bone chilling fear. This was my father. He was immortal. This could not happen.
The following days were long and filled with fear. I remember going home at night, and sleeping with my mom. She needed to be with someone. To not be alone. And so did I.
I remember that my mom would get snatches of sleep. And then get up out of bed and walk around and pray. All through the night. I added my prayers to hers.
The nurses called my father Angel. Because, by all accounts, he should not have made it. He survived. He did not need surgery. He had, obviously, some damage to his heart but at that point and time, he could control it with diet an exercise.
I still have my lucky dollar. I carry it with me all the time. Just like I did when my father was in the hospital. I have no clue why it is lucky in my mind. Most likely because it comforted me when my state of mind was not what it normally should have been.
Everyone needs their own version of a lucky dollar, don't you think?
A few posts back I talked about earthquakes, more specifically, one of them I experienced as a child. While that one did have a profound effect on me (I was terrified of after-shocks for months), nothing prepared me for 5:04 pm, October 17, 1989.
We had just gotten home from work and were relaxing a bit with the dog. We lived in a townhouse on the west side of town, and were on the second story of our townhouse, reclining on the bed in our master bedroom. At the time, we had a queen size waterbed, the significance of which will be explained shortly.
I lived in California for a greater part of my life. You'd think I would have gotten used to them after the first several hundred. Most of them I experienced were rather small in nature, with little or no damage to the areas they hit.
The first big one I was witness to happened in the early hours of the morning sometime in the early 70's. I slept in a big four post, spool bed. I remember the bed shaking, and thinking that my dad was trying to wake me up. The shaking turned out to be an earthquake, and a fairly sizable one at that. I did hear my dad's voice, but it was him telling me not to get out of bed.
It was still dark and I had a goldfish bowl on my dresser. He felt some water on the floor and was afraid the bowl and gotten knocked off the dresser and that there was broken glass on the floor. He didn't want me to cut my feet. I remember him carrying me out into the living room, whispering soothing words of comfort to my still foggy brain. I'd never been in an earthquake before, so I was a bit scared to say the least.
When we all got into the living room, we noticed that the front doors were wide open. It was one of those deals where the one side was always closed, and the other one you used to come in and out of the house. It was at that time we realized the dog was missing.
His name was Samson and he was a Peakapoo. Just a little mop of a dog, but he played an important role in our family. Being as young as I was, I was more distraught over the fact that he was missing, than I was at all the damage it had done to our house, or, more importantly, the surrounding community.
We lived in Southern California at the time, and our house butted up to the desert. We had a lot of trails to explore as well as the hills behind our house. The man across the street had said he saw Samson high tail it out the front door and up into the hills. We searched high and low for him, but to no avail. He was nowhere to be found. We were all heartbroken. The neighbor next door had lost his dog as well.
Samson slept by the couch in the family room, on the left hand side as you were facing it. There was a rather large picture hanging over the couch. It had fallen down during the earthquake. The way my parents figure it, once that picture hit the floor, the dog bolted. It was just bad timing that had the doors fling open as he was making a break for it.
I was pretty sure that we'd never see him again. My folks tried to be positive, but that's a pretty hard thing to do in the face of everything that had happened.
A couple of days later, a bunch of us were all standing around talking. I really think that this is when I got my first introduction into miracles. All of a sudden, one of the men said "Well, would you look at that?" When we turned our heads to gaze over at the hill he was pointing at, Samson and Thor (the neighbors German Shepherd) were trotting along, side by side. Seems they went to higher grounds until it was safe to come back.
How cool is that?
One of the best Christmas presents I ever got as a child was a set of pots and pans. Well, they were an old set, but my mother knew she was getting some new ones so she gave her old set to me.
I had alot of fun with those. You have to understand, I was a child with a vivid imagination. Heck, I'm an adult with a vivid imagination when it comes right down to it.
My father traveled alot when I when I was growing up. I really loved to make him "meals" with my pots and pans. I even had some wooden spoons to add to my kitchen. That same year I got some poker chips as well. Poker chips make great pretend food. I would stir up soups, carefully simmering them in the pot, so that the minute my father would walk through the door (when he was not travelling) I could serve him up a gourmet meal.
I remember getting my first bike. One that wasn't a hand-me-down from one of my brothers. I can picture it clearly now, just as if it were in front of me.
I named it Pink Panther.
It was, not surprisingly, pink. At that age, everything in my life was pink, so it's not surprising that my parents picked that particular color for me.
It had a pink banana seat, with a white basket with flowers in the front. My dad attached one of those long flags in the back, that had a picture of the Road Runner on it.
I am the youngest of three children. To top that off, I am the only girl. I always wanted a sister. Now that I have two daughters, I would like to retract that statement, but alas, that is for a different post.
I adored my brothers. They adored me, and it showed. I was horrible to them. I'm always suprised that they still talk to me. We are close. I was a little shit and they covered for me. To this day, I've never understood that.
There were times that my britches got too big and I felt I could get away with anything.
Since I was the only daugher, I always had my own room. My brothers always had to share. The rule was, you had to ask before you went into the others room. Like I was going to let that stop me.
I had this routine down pat. One of my brothers would be laying in bed reading, and I would march into their room and smack them a good one. Now, I ask you. What would your reaction be?
They would get out of bed, and chase me all the way back into the room. At this point I would scream "Mooooom, they are in my room and I didn't say they could...and they are hitting me!" Doh.
I don't recall how long I got away with it. I do recall when I got caught. I snuck into their room and ran up, hit my oldest brother, turned around to run back into my room and ran smack dab into my mother. Busted.
Obviously, I had to stop doing that, but it didn't stop me from tormenting them every chance I got. The funny thing is...they covered for me more often than not. And they still talk to me.
I'll always be the little sister. Even when I'm in a wheel chair and wearing depends. There are some titles you can never get rid of. And secretly, I'm glad.