All I Want for Christmas

Dear Santa,

We have a problem. The Pollywogs, all seven of us, wanted a Pollywog vacation for Christmas, but now we can’t go and it’s all your fault. Well, not your fault exactly, but one of your reindeer. Let me explain.

My name is Anna Lauren (but you already know that), and I’m in Kindergarten. Grammy put me in Mrs. Cha’s class, because she likes to keep her eyeballs on me. Mrs. Cha was Grammy’s student in eighth grade, and Grammy has her email address. I like school and love telling ‘Once Upon a Time’ stories. Even more than that, I love going on Pollywog vacations. The very best thing in the whole world is playing with my cousins.

This year, Bryan and I looked for dinosaurs at the La Brea Tar pits, and Tyler and I spent one day holding a baby monkey named Lisa at Little French Key. I watched princess movies with Aiden and played hide-and-go-seek with Wynn. Keegan took me to the bathroom in the middle of white tablecloth dinners. Leighton is my sister, but I still like to play with her.

Pollywogs love beach vacations, because we don’t really spend much time on the beach. Salt water up your nose and sand inside your swim suit—ugh! We like beach vacations where you ride a camel, sit in a wind tunnel, see a mummy, feed lorikeets, stand very still for butterflies, play laser tag, watch movies, eat junk food, and swim in the pool. The Littles—Wynn, Aiden, and Leighton—mostly babble in baby talk, take each other’s toys, and poop. But they love a good Pollywog vacation, too.

Pollywogs are good at cave tubing, zip lining, and dancing to a Zydeco band. We eat beignets and lick the confectioner’s sugar off the saucer. Last year I ate iguana soup, and this year I ate alligator and frog legs. Keegan eats sushi, but she’s the only kid I know who does that.

There are two things we don’t like—getting covered with sunscreen that gets in our eyes and nostrils and all the picture-taking. We get really tired of being good and smiling. One time Grammy let us wear our favorite outfits, fix our hair all by ourselves, and bring props. Grammy’s prop was Leighton’s pink Crocs hanging on her ears. That was the best picture ever!

I wanted to go on a Pollywog vacation for Christmas, but at first, Bryan was afraid you wouldn’t know where we were. Then we remembered that the Tooth Fairy always found us, so we weren’t worried any more. Last summer when I dropped my tooth on the deck at the beach and it fell through the slats, Aunt Rachel called security to bring a flashlight. She laid on her stomach for about an hour but never did find my tooth. Grammy texted the Tooth Fairy and explained the situation. Bryan lost two teeth on a cruise ship, and the Tooth Fairy found him in Cozumel. We think you’re at least as good at finding children as the Tooth Fairy.

Then we got the bad news. Grammy said we couldn’t go on a Pollywog vacation for Christmas, because “Grandpa got run over by a reindeer” and needs a new hip. Then he nearly cut off his finger while he was building something. Good grief!
Please bring Papa another hip for Christmas. I’ll speak to Jesus about healing the finger. Maybe next year I can get a Pollywog vacation for Christmas.

Love,
Anna Lauren
PS—I’ll leave you some milk and cookies, but I’m not feeding your naughty reindeer.

The Other Minnie

From Stuff with Stories


“Was your grandmother named after the mouse?” asked Anna Lauren.

“Not really. She was named after her mother,” I replied.

“Was she…”

“No, she wasn’t named after the mouse either.”

And so it began. Anna Lauren, 5, forever curious about various family members, was spending the weekend at the lake. She was catching frogs, examining snails, and pretending to read. Kindergarten was starting soon, and life was about to change for the little girl with the big imagination.

I glanced at the over-large diploma from Huntsville Public Schools hanging on the wall. It wasn’t mine; it had been awarded to The Other Minnie. On Thursday afternoon, May 31, 1900, Minnie Strother Jones took her place among the graduates of Huntsville Public Schools. She listened attentively as Superintendent S. R. Butler gave a short speech before handing out the certificates. At seventeen, Minnie didn’t understand the significance of her achievement or what it would ultimately convey to her daughter and granddaughters. At that time, less than half of all school-age children in the US were enrolled in school and only 6.4% of those graduated from high school; Minnie Jones was one of those.

Undoubtedly, Minnie’s family needed her at home to help with the four younger siblings. And after all, there was no competitive job market where a very basic education was the key to a great salary with lots of benefits. Schools concentrated on reading, writing, and arithmetic. Alabama didn’t even enact a compulsory attendance law until 1915. Minnie didn’t have to go to school.

In those days, an academic education was for wealthy children and regarded as unnecessary for everyone else. While that idea is no longer pertinent, the relevancy and competency of public schools is often in question. That is an argument for another day. What is not up for debate is the undeniable, transformative power of education.

Minnie, my grandmother and not the mouse, never worked outside her home. But she used her education to read her Bible, balance her household accounts, and write beautiful letters to her sons as they served their country during the war. She didn’t see herself as an extraordinary woman, but her 1900 certificate from Huntsville Public Schools is testament to something very different. Her life was transformed through education, and her daughters and generations of granddaughters took that meager beginning and used it to transform an entire family.

The other day Bryan, 8 years old and in third grade, told me that he had taken an IQ test.

“Do you know what IQ stands for?” I asked.

“Sure,” he replied. “It stands for Idiot Quiz.”

Perhaps “transform an entire family” was a little premature.

Study Abroad

“Study abroad? You must be kidding. He’s only in second grade.”

Bryan’s teacher surely thought Shelley was nuts. What eight-year-old leaves school early to go to Europe? When my sister-in-law explained the opportunities afforded by the trip, Bryan’s teacher decided that she would like to be adopted and go, too.

Tim and I were taking Bryan, pollywog #1, on a transatlantic cruise to Barcelona with visits to Paris and Iceland thrown in. Pollywogs 2, 3 and 4 were invited to come along, but a variety of excuses to stay home were offered up. Anna Lauren couldn’t miss her dance recital, because the costumes were already paid for. She no longer turns her back to the audience and stares at the scenery, so I could understand her parents’ interest in seeing their investment finally pay off. Tyler’s principal threatened to take Rachel to family court if he missed all those jam-packed learning days at the end of school. And Keegan…well, Keegan…hadn’t yet come to terms with being away from her family for more than 24 hours. I have no idea what she thought they might do without her.

So Bryan had us all to himself. We carefully explained that this wasn’t the gift shop experience of a lifetime, but an adventure of epic proportions. He had to behave every day and not cry like a little girl if the ice cream machine didn’t have strawberry. He agreed to all the rules, threw four pairs of underwear into his suitcase, and grabbed his passport. The boy was ready to roll.

Life onboard the Disney Magic was indeed magical for Bryan. After he realized we weren’t going to sink into the depths of the Atlantic where he would be eaten by sharks, he settled right down and quickly made friends from around the US and England. He took drawing lessons from a Disney cartoonist and won her sketch of Dopey. He and Tim concocted a boat out of a couple of plastic cups and entered the boat race in the pool. He went on a scavenger hunt, camped overnight in the Oceaneer Lab, attended lectures on sea monsters, watched movies and plays, marveled at the magician and the hypnotist, and swam until he was waterlogged. He plotted the home countries of many crew members on a world map and left gifts for his Secret Mickey. Unfortunately, he also learned that he didn’t have a future in towel folding.

When we arrived in Madeira, we took the cable car up the mountain and rode a wooden toboggan down. As we careened through the streets, trying to avoid cars and trucks, Bryan screamed, “I’m gonna die today. Tell Momma I love her.” There is nothing like facing death to focus one’s priorities.

At Gibraltar, he got up close and personal with a few of the Barbary apes. He always wanted a monkey; so when we left, I checked his backpack for a stowaway.

Finally, the cruise was over, and we disembarked in Barcelona. We dropped off our luggage and met Ann-Marie, our Runner Bean Tours tour guide. We were her only clients, so we got a fantastic private tour. Bryan learned songs, ate candy from one of the oldest shops in town, saw the giants used at carnival, played games, and fell in love with Barcelona. As Ann-Marie left us, he assured her that he would be back—next June to be exact.

Our hotel, located in the heart of the Barri Gotic, was quintessential Europe. I warned Bryan about the elevator, but he didn’t believe me. He and I squeezed in with our luggage—and I do mean squeezed. Tim waited patiently for his turn. El Jardi offers a more realistic experience for an eight-year-old than Marriott.

The next morning we were off to Paris and to meet Shelley. She was determined that she wasn’t missing all the fun. We rode the train from the airport and then the metro. We found our apartment, and after some confusion, managed to drag our luggage up three flights of circular stairs. The apartment was spacious in places and tiny in others. The kitchen was usable; the dishwasher-not so much. It was the size of a drawer and leaked. Four or five items, say three pairs of granny panties, one bra, and a tee shirt, fit in the washer; the dryer was a wooden rack. When I washed my face in the bathroom sink, I had to open the door. Otherwise, my rear end had nowhere to go. We made do.

We spent the next few days strolling the streets like real Parisiennes. Breakfast was a fresh pastry from the bakery down the street; lunch was wherever we happened to be at the moment; and dinner was either at a neighborhood restaurant or something whipped up by Shelley in our tiny kitchen.

Bryan’s Paris favorite was the Egyptian exhibit at the Louvre, but the Eiffel Tower was a close second. He stood at the bottom of the obelisk where Marie-Antoinette lost her head and visited her palace at Versailles. Bryan had never seen “real dead bodies,” so we went to the catacombs. I had sworn after going with Rachel a few years ago that I’d never do it again. The exit stairs, circular and extremely tight, were every bit as awful as I remembered. The defibrillator was still hanging on the wall. I think Bryan has a picture of himself at most of the underground cemeteries, so he should be satisfied for a while at least.

Next we were off to Iceland. The place is a perfect setting for alien movies—all black lava, few shrubs and fewer trees. We loved it. The lava beach didn’t quite measure up to Destin, but we weren’t there for a beach experience. We stood inside a glacier, walked among thermal springs, rode among volcanoes, and boated out to see the puffins. Shelley and Bryan walked behind a waterfall; Bryan was looking for treasure left by trolls or so the story goes.

On our last day we decided to swim at an indoor thermal pool. No tourists here; only the locals. Dear God, we should have known better.

We walked the few blocks from our apartment to the pool. At the desk, we were given a locker key and a towel. Tim and Bryan headed to the men’s locker room while Shelley and I searched confidently for the ladies.
As we reached the corridor, we noticed a lady removing her shoes and then saw the sign, “Remove your shoes.” That should have been all the warning we needed. But no…..

Inside the locker room, a young mother, naked as the day she was born, was nursing a baby while another child made a few attempts at dressing herself. An older woman was at her locker presumably changing into her street clothes. Shelley and I found our lockers and proceeded to take off our clothes, hang them in the locker, and put on our socially-acceptable swim suits and cover-ups. Satisfied that we had accomplished job one, we headed for the pool.

As we walked through the shower area, an old lady yelled at us in Icelandic. We froze in our tracks. We turned to see this butt naked old lady pantomime showering. Specifically, she made sure we knew exactly which parts needed special attention.
We looked around—mortified—when Shelley saw the sign. Indeed, showering was required before entering the pool. Resigned to our fate, we removed our cover-ups, stripped off our swim suits, and turned on the water. Unfortunately, the soap dispenser was across the room and old eagle eye was making sure we used soap.

After a good lathering of all the required places, we redressed and again tried to find the pool. We found Tim and Bryan outside in the hot tub. We took off our cover-ups yet again and shivered to the hot tub. At some point, we thought none of the other people there could speak English (later learning that nearly everyone in Iceland speaks English), so we brought up the subject of the showers. Tim and Bryan had known ahead of time to shower. Apparently, Bryan had had some trouble getting his water to turn on, and an elderly gentleman had kindly helped. I can only hope the boy isn’t scarred for life.

For the next two hours we enjoyed the pool. Shelley and I tried to stay in the water and not walk around like a couple of bank strutters. We were the only women in bathing suits with skirts. Not to mention those damn cover-ups. Then it was time to leave. Oh, dear, the showers again.

We knew the drill but we didn’t like it. We stripped; we soaped; we rinsed; we redressed.

Outside in the cool air, I said to Shelley, “I don’t know about you, but I’m still hot.”

“It’s just the embarrassment,” she muttered.


Love,
Gay, an old dog who is learning new tricks
July 1, 2013

Portia’s Cookie Jar

From Stuff with Stories

The cookie jar knew lots of secrets. Important things, like which cookies the children liked best and which ones were fed to the dog. He knew how many cookies were burned over the years by a distracted cook. He had eavesdropped on all the coming and goings, all the laughter and tears, all the hard, sad times, and all the squeals of delight. The cookie jar kept all the secrets.

The cookie jar was a short, round baker with a brown face. He spent his early years sitting on the kitchen counter at Portia’s house. All five of Portia’s children loved the baker and his tummy of cookies; but for one child in particular, so many memories of his mother were associated with the cookie jar. When Portia died, George took the little round baker home to sit on his kitchen counter.

George and his wife, Pat, filled the jar with homemade cookies--peanut butter cookies, filled cookies, sugar cookies—and even store-bought cookies. Their children, Tim, Mike, and Debbie, ate them all. And the cookie jar, once again, kept the secrets learned from his years on the kitchen counter.

When Pat died, George asked the children to choose something to take to their home that best reminded them of their mother. Tim asked for the cookie jar.

That was when it happened. That was when George told one of the secrets the cookie jar had kept for so long—since George was a little boy.

George hesitated for a moment.

“Tim, my mother didn’t have an easy life, but all five of us kids knew she loved us. I was the baby of the family; and by the time I was born, Mother was deaf. She had been sick, and when she recovered, she couldn’t hear.

“That didn’t stop her from knowing when I was up to something. I thought she had eyes in the back of her head.

“I loved my mother. I always wished that she had heard the sound of my voice.”

What is there about an old cookie jar that can stir up such memory, such raw emotion as contained in the heartfelt yearning of a little boy for his mother to hear his voice. I suppose we never know for certain where secrets are hidden.

Love,
Gay, the family storyteller
June 24, 2013

A Postscript to Mothers’ Day

Mothers’ Day isn't the warm and fuzzy, gushy and gooey, sentimental day depicted by Hallmark. Oh, I suppose there is some of that, but another view of Mothers’ Day is equally as real. For many, it is a day fraught with sadness, grief, and dashed hopes. For me, celebrating Mothers’ Day has been more about giving up expectations and enjoying surprises.

We always wore corsages to church on Mothers’ Day. I wore a red carnation, because my mother was alive and watching me from the choir loft. My mother, however, wore a white corsage, because her mother was watching her from Heaven. Neither of us wanted to get in any trouble with our moms. It never occurred to me to ask Mother how she felt about being motherless.

My three children brought home cards made at school and, with Tim’s help, showered me with presents. I rarely gave the significance of the day much thought until Mother died. Then, I was so terribly sad I could barely get through that day or any other for that matter. I haven’t yet returned to church on Mothers’ Day; some things are just too painful.

Somehow, as the years went by and my own personal grief subsided, I developed a different view of Mothers’ Day. First of all, I explained my expectations to Jeremy, Evan, and Rachel; don’t show up on Mothers’ Day with a gift purchased on sale at Walgreen's if you treat me like crap the rest of the year. Too little too late! They got the message. Yesterday, Evan and Rachel texted me—no gifts, no phone call but we’re good.

Next, I realized that some of the best mothers never had children of their own. Laura McEntire, spinster, and her mother, Mac, lived across the street from my mother’s family. Mother and a few of her younger brothers—there were seven boys—spent lots of time in the McEntires’ big house on Meridian Street. During WWII, the brothers wrote letters to Laura and Mac from foreign fields of battle, a testament to their love for the spinster and her mother. My brother, Ted, and I never thought it peculiar that Laura lived with us; she was sort of our quirky aunt/grandmother who loved us dearly.

When I became a grandmother, my views about all kinds of things changed—including Mothers’ Day. I didn't think I’d ever have grandchildren; the boys weren't married, and Rachel preferred furry critters. But life is more about surprises than expectations and in the blink of an eye, Bryan, Tyler, Anna Lauren, Keegan, Wynn, Aiden, and Leighton Belle—my pollywogs—wanted to go on a Disney Cruise, and I was indebted to Shelley, Rachel, Jennifer, and Krissy.

Yesterday, Tim and I spent Mothers’ Day with Jeremy’s family. Anna Lauren (5) knew a secret and wanted me to guess it.

“Grammy, Daddy got you a present for Mothers’ Day, and it starts with a “ch” sound.”

I thought a moment. Hmm.

“A chimpanzee! I've always wanted a chimpanzee.”

“No, it’s not a chimpanzee. Guess again.”

“A chipmunk. I don’t really want one though.”

“Oh, Grammy, it’s not a chipmunk.”

“What about a chihauhau?”

“It’s not a chihauhau. Okay, I’ll tell you what it is. He bought you a puma.”

“A puma!! What will I do with a puma?”

“The puma’s name is Freddie, and he won’t last long.”

“What do you mean he won’t last long?”

“He smokes cigarettes and cigars, so he won’t last long.”

When Jeremy gave me a box of Harry and David’s truffles, I felt tremendous relief. How in the world would I have explained to a gas station attendant why I was buying cigarettes for a puma named Freddie?

Mothers’ Day—surprises are always better than any of my expectations.

May 13, 2013

Wishing

The other day, Bryan, my 8-year-old nephew and pollywog #1, was feeling a little blue. For someone who has worn a wide grin since the day he was born, the sad face piqued my curiosity. So I asked him about it.

“I wish I had grandparents like everybody else,” he said.

My heart broke for him. Three of his grandparents died before he was born; only my dad was alive to share the excitement. Daddy doted on the little boy who reminded him of himself for about 15 months before he, too, was gone. All Bryan wanted was for his family to include some grandparents. That wasn't too much to ask, now was it?

I had the old-fashioned kind of grandparents. Both sets, the Berrys and the Millers, were pretty much worn out by the time my brother, Ted, and I arrived. I vividly remember spending the night at each home one time. At the Berry house, I heard mockingbirds for the first time and ate cinnamon rolls that popped out of a cardboard can. My grandfather Miller lived with us, so my once-in-a-lifetime spend-the-night was with my grandmother and my aunt, Mary Belle. They bathed me in a metal pan filled with water from the well and heated on the wood stove, cooked some kind of varmint brains scrambled with eggs, and listened to the radio while my grandmother dipped snuff. Treks to the woods took the place of indoor plumbing. The idea of hands-on grandparenting hadn't yet evolved; or if it had, they didn't feel the need to embrace the concept.

Jeremy, Evan, and Rachel, my children and Bryan’s cousins, were fortunate to spend their childhood with Mother and grow to adulthood with Daddy. I want Bryan to know something of his grandparents.

Bryan, I want to tell you about your Miller grandparents—Mildred and Chat. Both were colorful characters, had lots of friends, and loved life and each other. You would have spent many nights at their house and eaten made-from-scratch biscuits every morning for breakfast. You would have listened to Manna read a hundred books and probably lost to her at ping pong. Gran told stories of going barefoot to school, skipping third grade, and picking cotton on the farm. He might have taught you to say your ABC’s backward like he did. You would have worked at the store every summer and mowed his yard. They would have been in the stands for karate, basketball, and baseball. On report card day, Gran would ask why you didn't make all 100’s and wait while you tried to explain yourself.

If you were sick, Manna would stay at home with you; Gran would check you out of school for trips to the orthodontist which would include lunch. If you needed a haircut, Gran would take you to Mr. Hinkle. Every Sunday you would see Manna in the choir and Gran ushering. After church, you might have gone to Piccadilly and gotten a dollar if you added up all the tickets correctly. Of course, Manna cooked most Sundays and invited the family for fried chicken, Spanish rice and pork chops, or roast. If she had shrimp, you were thankful that they were peeled, deveined, and the shells were in the garbage at the Elks Club. If you left any food on your plate, Gran would remind you of the starving children in India.

Gran would give you a $2 bill on special occasions, and Manna’s laugh would reassure you that the world was a wonderful place. You would know every day how much they loved you.

Bryan, I told you the day you were so sad that I also wished you had grandparents; because if you did, my mother and dad would still be alive. Life doesn't always work out like we wish it would, but somehow it always works out for the best.

Although Uncle Tim and I aren't your grandparents, we love you for them.

Love,
Aunt Gay
April 26, 2013

Fish Tales

A fish story from a reliable source

Once upon a time in a kingdom not far from here, a beautiful little girl and her handsome father were invited to a Valentine’s Day dance. This wasn't their first father/daughter dance, for they had been attending the Valentine dance at a local establishment since the girl was quite young. This time, however, things would be different.

In years’ past, the dance had proven to be a disappointment for the little girl. For sure, she was never disappointed in her dress, because each February the girl’s mother bought her a new red dress for the special occasion. And she was never disappointed in her dancing, because her legs could dance all night. Of course, her father never disappointed her; she loved him with all her heart. No, she was disappointed, because she never won any of the contests. She and her father participated in all of them, but she never won—not once—not ever. This year, the little girl was determined that she and her father were going to win all the contests—or at least one of them.

Every afternoon for quite some days, the little girl hid away in the basement. She ran; she danced; she practiced quickly putting on a tutu and a tiara. She would be ready when the time came.

One night, her father came home from work a little early and asked his wife, “Where is my beautiful little girl?”

“Oh, she is in the basement,” replied his lovely wife. “She has her heart set on winning a contest at the dance.”

The handsome father tiptoed down the basement stairs and found his little girl working very hard.

“Daddy, come and watch me.”

The father considered the situation. Yes, it was time; time for the little girl to learn about competition.

“You see,” he explained carefully, “there are only two kinds of people—winners and losers. The winner gets the prize, and the losers get a ‘thanks for coming’.”

The little girl’s big blue eyes widened. This year the prize was a gold fish, and she wanted it. A ‘thanks for coming’ wouldn’t do at all.

For days, the little girl and her father practiced in the basement, and for days the little girl listened to her father explain competition and the difference between winners and losers. After all, he “wasn’t brought up in a family that believed everyone should get a trophy!”

The night of the Valentine’s Day Dance finally arrived. The little girl was ready. Her red dress fit perfectly and the big red bow held her hair back from her sweet face. Her father kissed her softly as they left home.

The beautiful little girl and her handsome father danced and danced. When it was time for the contests to begin, the little girl was ready. This year she wasn’t going home empty-handed; this year she was going home with the gold fish.

The announcer called for the girls to line up for the “Tutus and Tiaras” contest. He blew the whistle, and all the girls ran across the room. Well, not all. One stood very still, unable to move. The beautiful little girl, so intent on winning just moments before, burst into tears.

Later that evening, the little girl introduced her mother to her two new goldfish, Marina and Keeki, while her father set up her new pink aquarium. He was so glad the pet store had been open.

And they lived happily ever after.

March 15, 2013

Lucy’s Valentine


No presents for Lucy
This Valentine’s Day,
Her mother said softly,
“Go out and play.

“Chase a gray squirrel
Or roll in deer poo,
Bark at the birds,
Just do what dogs do.

“Dogs don’t get cards
Or suckers and stuff,
Or heart-shaped Peeps
With marshmallow fluff.

“No Cupid corn candy
Or cherry love pops,
No pink glitter wands
Or red rose flip flops.

“You are too furry
For ‘Love Me’ tattoos,
Dog lips can’t blow
'Kiss Me’ kazoos.

“You cannot wear
Ruby wax lips.
Pink sugar cookies
Would land on your hips!

“Cinnamon red hots
Make your nostrils flare
Bouncy heart headbands
Won’t stay in your hair.

“Dogs are allergic
To chocolate sweets.
They eat dog biscuits
And rawhide treats.

“Look in the mailbox
With your very own eyes.
Valentine’s Day
Will bring no surprise.

“Oh, my. What’s this?
Three packages for you.
What could they be?
I haven’t a clue.

“From Rigsby, the cat,
A pretty pink box.
A stinky pig’s ear
And four doggy socks.

“A candy necklace
And a pink PEZ
From Lou, Chunk and Al,
So the card says.

“Darby sent love mints,
‘Be Mine’ candy hearts,
Frozen pupsicles,
And a bag of sweet tarts.”

Lucy was smiling
And wagging her tail
Valentine’s Day
Came with the mail.

The Milking Stool
From Stuff with Stories


Wynn, pollywog #5 as he is known in some circles, is a funny little boy with ostrich hair. He is not yet two years old, and a little on the short side, much like his grandmother. Wynn is a master at problem solving—door knobs and drawers that are just out of his reach, as well as sofas and chairs that are not easy to climb—nothing is too difficult for a little boy whose most prized possession is a milking stool.

I don’t know where the milking stool came from, but I do know that it never sat under a cow. It appeared at Mother’s house around 40 years ago, where it sat quietly in the corner by the stereo. It didn’t fit into any décor that she might have thought she had going on. Precious little thought was given over to interior decorating, because the home of these mom-and-pop furniture and appliance dealers was filled with stuff that didn’t move quickly off the floor.

Most everything else we had came from either the GE wishbook or was acquired with S & H Green Stamps. One year my brother, Ted, and I were surprised with brand new bicycles in the middle of the summer. Apparently, the GE points had to be used quickly, or we would have gotten another refrigerator box instead. No doubt the milking stool was obtained in much the same way, because I seriously doubt that Mother went to a real store to buy it.

The milking stool eventually found its way to Rachel’s house. My daughter can’t abide clutter; so why she kept Mother’s milking stool is a mystery. Although, I guess she wanted it for the same reason I wanted an old parking meter from downtown Huntsville. Some desires remain clouded between old memories and grief for what might have been.

I often imagine Mother watching Wynn drag around that milking stool. He babbles loudly, shakes his blonde head that really does resemble an ostrich, and laughs and laughs at the world as he watches from high atop his milking stool.