Remembering Sadie

While looking for an old picture, I came across a letter that I had received from a friend telling me how sorry she was to hear that my little Yorkie had died. Memories of Sadie came flooding back.

She was already six years old when we brought her home. I had just lost a Yorkie that I loved and was sure I’d die if I didn’t have another right away! The breeder we always dealt with didn’t have any puppies but told me that she would have before long and I could get one as soon as they were ready to leave their mother. I didn’t want to wait that long, but agreed to do it since there seemed to be no alternative.

However, I had seen Sadie at the breeder’s house and fell in love with her cute actions. She seemed to be showing off for us. Mrs. Davis saw this and, after thinking it over for a day or two, called and asked if I’d like to take Sadie. I was thrilled!

From the time we walked in the front door with her, Sadie was “at home.” We put her food and water dishes down and she claimed them right away. She had been at the Davis home for six years, but it seemed she never looked back. We accepted her that easily, too. She was a member of the family from day one!

Sadie was six pounds of cute, bouncy, yappy Yorkie!  And it was obvious she thought she ruled the house – her attitude conveying that to get into our house, you had to get by her first. She definitely would not tolerate anyone who wore a hat or gloves. The yaps became vicious toward those who dared.

Since I fed her, brushed her and did most everything for her, she soon chose me as her “person.” Every time I sat down, she was there almost before I was, waiting until I got comfortable and then cuddling just as close as she possibly could. We watched TV together, took naps together and she wore her little body out following me all over the house on a busy day. When I had to leave the house without her, I was told that she very unhappily watched out the window the whole time I was gone – sometimes for hours.

We had eleven happy years with Sadie. During that time, my daughter got married and moved to Michigan – eight hours away. My husband and I took a trip to visit them about twice a year and of course, Sadie came along. We’d put a pillow between us in the front seat and she’d curl up on it and sleep a good part of the way – at least until we stopped at Rax for a roast beef sandwich.

She seemed to know the minute we pulled into the parking lot. She’d sit up,  look out the window and whine excitedly while my husband went inside and came back with the good smelling food. Oh, she just couldn’t wait for hers! I couldn’t get it unwrapped fast enough to suit her. Then she’d eat the yummy roast beef as fast as she could and as much of it as her little tummy would hold. Sometimes I feared she’d overdo and get sick... but she never did. When she’d finally stop eating, I’d give her a drink of water and take her for a short walk on her leash.

Once all that business was taken care of, we’d be on our way again. Sadie would settle down once more on her pillow and sleep the rest of the way.

We made many trips during the time our daughter lived away and my husband and I were getting a little tired of roast beef so, on one trip, we stopped for hamburgers. That didn’t work! When my husband came back to the car with burgers, Sadie sniffed the air, circled around a couple of times on her pillow and plopped down. She seemed to be saying, “No thank you!” I begged and pleaded with her, putting the warm burger right under her nose, but she just turned away and didn’t eat a bite... nor would she take a drink of water. That was the last time we tried that.

I’d like to say we lived happily ever after with Sadie, but that wouldn’t be true or realistic. Strange things started to happen when she was around fifteen. We’d hear a thump-thump-thump and go to investigate and find that Sadie had fallen down the stairs. After we knew she was okay, we’d laugh and accuse her of getting clumsy in her old age. Then one morning, she and I were sleeping in and I heard a thud and a small yelp. Checking to see what it was, I found that Sadie had fallen off the bed. She wasn’t hurt but a little dazed, I think.

After that happened a few more times, Sadie decided that she’d sleep on the floor beside the bed. I eventually gave her a special bed of her own at the foot of ours.

A visit to the Vet one fall afternoon, told us what the problem was. She had cataracts that were so advanced that the doctor thought, considering her age, it would be dangerous to operate. Sadie was almost blind. But she adapted just as blind people do. We soon noticed that she took a certain route from the family room to her food and water dishes in the kitchen. It was always the same. She had it figured out perfectly. If I didn’t know better, I’d have thought she was counting her steps.

I took Sadie almost everywhere I went. If I went to the grocery store, I’d leave the car running so the air conditioning would stay on for her. I’m not sure, with the car running, that she ever realized I was gone. Our family couldn’t help but chuckle a little.

She lived quite a while, but her overall health was deteriorating. Another trip to the Vet, at seventeen years old, revealed that she had liver disease. The doctor told me in his most serious voice. “You have a decision to make.” I said, “Oh no!  How long does she have?” He said, “I wouldn’t wait too long. When the time comes, it will be painful.”

I cried all the way home. But, unfortunately, I did wait too long. I just couldn’t bear to let her go, nor could I make the decision to put her down. So, as a result of my selfishness, late one night, Sadie curled up on my lap – a place she loved to be – and started whining... intermittently at first, but it soon  became steadily worse until she sounded like a screaming woman! It was a horrible thing to watch! I finally called the emergency animal hospital and was told to bring her right away. I did, but she went into convulsions on the way and died on my lap. I’ll never get over it. I called myself stupid and worse for months – no, years!

I haven’t had a dog since. Losing them is too painful. I can’t go through it again! I did adopt a cat that was destined for euthanasia. I promise, when her time comes, I will do whatever is necessary to spare her the misery that my beautiful little Sadie had to endure because of my selfishness. And I’ll do it before it’s too late!

My Inheritance

When my mother passed away, at 85 years old, I inherited her house… and her tiny Maltese dog, Jeffy, who was not housebroken. Lucky me! I had just lost a dog of my own and vowed I would never get another. But what could I do, having promised my mother in a weak moment that I would take care of Jeffy if she predeceased him?

Well... there was a Plan B. Since I couldn’t live in two houses at once, and it was going to take a lot of sweat and money to get hers into shape to sell, my son, Lee, who had always loved the old home place, said he’d move in and fix it up… letting Jeffy live out his years in the home he was used to. He said, “All I ask is that you take him for periodic grooming and veterinary appointments.” 

What could be better than that? 

The drawback: Lee had a cat. Miss Bits was a large tabby cat with a reputation for being mean… actually, down right dangerous! Furthermore, she had not been declawed and I was concerned for Jeffy’s safety.  

But there were no alternatives. My husband was not happy about the prospect of a dog that was not housebroken coming to live with us. So I decided to take Lee up on his offer with the understanding that, if it didn’t work out, I would make other arrangements for Jeffy. Lee and Miss Bits moved in with Jeffy.

It didn’t take Miss Bits long to learn that, besides not being very bright, Jeffy had another deficiency. He could not climb stairs. So when Jeffy, who thought he was king of the hill, tried to do his duty and chase Miss Bits—as any self-respecting dog would do—she’d merely let him pursue her for a while, and then go up to about the third step leading to the second floor, sit down and look back at him triumphantly. Jeffy, looking puzzled,  would sit there barking and panting until he got so tired that he’d give up and lie down to rest. This became an everyday game.

Lee had to go to work each morning but felt quite certain that, while he was gone, they got along fine, because he once came in unexpectedly and found them in the kitchen eating together. It seemed that the “evening chase” was just for his benefit. Happily for me, it seemed this arrangement was going to work out after all.

Fulfilling my part of the bargain, I took Jeffy for his first grooming. My mother had not been well for over a year and his appearance had been neglected. Maltese have long, thick hair that must be brushed daily to keep them from getting matted. Jeffy was very matted. The groomer took one look and said, “I think the best thing we can do for Jeffy is to cut his coat short—a puppy cut!”

“I don’t know,”  I said. “My mother never wanted him cut short.” 

The groomer smiled. “Since it’s summertime,”she said, “it’s a good time to do it. If you keep it in good shape as it grows, it’ll be all grown out again by cold weather.”

It was a good argument and I reluctantly agreed, knowing my mother would never have permitted it. When I picked him up, he was barely recognizable, but looked adorable with his short haircut. From the way he pranced around, it seemed he also felt much better. 

                                

Now there were just a couple more problems. Lee suspected that Jeffy had worms, as well as infected ears! A trip to the veterinarian was in order. I called the vet’s office and asked if I could bring a stool sample in, without the dog.  They said, "Yes." So Lee collected the sample and left it in a baggie for me to pick up. I also took an old, nearly empty tube of ear medication hoping they’d refill it for me.

The vet’s assistant took the sample to check, but she said, “As far as the ears are concerned, the doctor says that, because it’s been a while since he’s seen Jeffy, he’d rather not prescribe medication without seeing him.”

“Oh,” I said. “Guess you’d better make an appointment then.”

The only time she had any time soon was 4:10 that afternoon and it was now only 2:30. I said, “That would put me in major traffic going home later.” I lived about ten miles away and the evening traffic was dreadful.

 “But,” I added, “since I’m already here... I suppose I should stay until it’s all done?”  So I made the appointment and went back to Lee's to wait. 

To pass the time, I had a conversation with Jeffy, then Miss Bits, listened to music, and walked the floor while talking to my husband on the phone until almost four. When it was finally time to go, Jeffy flatly refused! I had no idea it would be such an ordeal getting him to go with me. I put him down on the porch to lock the door, and when I tried to pick him up, he lay down and scooted backward until he was under the porch railing. I thought he was going to fall off the porch, but no amount of coaxing would make him get up. 

Trying to balance my open purse, keys, and a bottle of Dr. Pepper while attempting to pick him up, I dropped the Dr. Pepper, and things started falling out of my purse. Angry words spewed from my mouth and I was embarrassed when I realized we were entertaining several neighbors. I finally put everything down, recovered Jeffy,  then slowly picked it all back up and headed for the car.  Somehow, I got the door unlocked and got in while angrily shouting at Jeffy—“BAD DOG!" 

 He whined the whole twenty minutes we had to wait in the waiting room. A boxer growled at him, a cat hissed at him and a large blonde woman tried to make nice conversation with me. I didn't feel like it, and was glad when someone said, "Mrs. Toney?"  (My mother’s name was still on the records.) 

I didn't bother to explain that I wasn't Mrs. Toney. It was easier to just go with it. The doctor checked Jeffy’s ears to find that they were indeed badly infected. He put the first drops in while instructing me, “I want you to do this twice a day for ten days.” I nodded. “The worm test was negative,” he said. At last, something for which to be thankful! I thought.

Arriving at Lee’s, I was grateful to find him home. I took Jeffy  in, gave Lee a full report, the eardrops, and left, still hoping to beat the heavy traffic. But I didn’t. It was an exhausting trip… and to make matters worse, I felt guilty about losing my patience with the little dog. I promised myself I’d never do that again.

That was Jeffy’s last trip to the vet. On a Saturday morning, several weeks later, my phone rang. When I answered, Lee said shakily, “I have bad news.”

“What is it?” I said… unable to hide my dread.

“Jeffy died in his sleep last night.

 “Oh, no! What happened?”

 “Not sure,” Lee said. “Perhaps it was a seizure. He didn’t suffer; just one little cry, some shaking and he was gone.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said. “But don’t feel too bad. You gave him a good home.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it still hurts.”

Lee buried Jeffy in his back yard that afternoon. Although our hearts were aching, we consoled each other with reminders that our joint efforts had given this little orphaned doggie a pretty good life considering all the dreadful things that might have happened to him otherwise. 

Somewhere in Heaven, my mother is smiling.


This story also appears in my book, Somewhere in Heaven My Mother is Smiling.

  

It's A Joy To Have Friends

                                        Published by Charleston Gazette -

                              Sunday, July 11, 2010~

Recently, I was pleasantly surprised to hear from two friends that I haven’t seen or talked to for many years.  How nice it was to reconnect with them after such a long time!

I enjoyed a lengthy phone conversation with each of them. Having experienced similar changes over the years, we had a lot of catching up to do. Besides growing older ourselves, our children have grown up, married and blessed us with grandchildren – some of whom are now adults. Admitting our advanced ages, we compared ailments, meds, healthy diets, and physical fitness programs – finally agreeing that retirement is the best thing about getting older. And sadly, each of my friends related how devastating it had been losing her husband to an untimely death. 

After hanging up from the most recent chat, I sat thinking of the good times the two of us had shared years ago, the secrets we’d tucked away, and especially, the way we’d laughed. Every time we were together, we found something that made us giggle like school girls. Our friendship was like that – fun!

There were sad times, too – the occasional problem with one of our children, family illness, the death of a loved one – all of the things that are difficult to face any time, but doubly so without a friend by your side.  Thankfully, true friendship withstands both good and bad times.
 

So why do we lose touch?  When we like some people so much, why do we let years slip by with no contact?

As I pondered this, I thought about something I read a few years ago, written by a young lady from the UK named Jessica Smith.  It made a lasting impact on me. Some excerpts follow: 

Life is like a train ride.
We get on. We ride. We get off. We get back on and ride some more. When we are born and we first board the train, we meet people whom we think will be with us for the entire journey. Those people are our parents!

Sadly, this is far from the truth.
Our parents are with us for only as long as we absolutely need them. They too have journeys they must complete. We live on with the memories of their love, and guidance... their ever presence.

There are others who board the train who eventually become very important to us.  These people are our brothers, sisters, friends and acquaintances, whom we will learn to love, and cherish.

Some people on the train will leave an everlasting impression when they get off.  Others will get on and get off the train so quickly, they will scarcely leave a sign that they ever traveled with you.

Remember, at any moment during our journey, any one of our travel companions can have a weak moment and be in need of our help.  We, too, may need someone we can count on to be supportive and understanding.

The biggest mystery of our journey is that we don’t know when our last stop will come. Neither do we know when our travel companions will make their last stop. Not even those sitting in the seat next to us.

We’re all on this train ride together. Above all, we should strive to make the ride as pleasant and memorable as we can, right up until we each make the final stop and leave the train for the last time.

The old friends that recently came back into my life are only a small sample of those that have traveled on the train with me, but these two, in particular, left an everlasting impression when they got off.  I’m glad they got back on – and delighted that they've been a part of my train ride!

This story also appears in my book, Somewhere in Heaven My Mother is Smiling~

A Summer Romance

In the summer of my sixteenth year, my best friend, Carol, and I spent most of our time together. We took long barefoot walks, went to Saturday matinees at the local movie theater, and had sleepovers – spending most of the night talking and giggling – but our favorite thing to do that summer was go to the roller rink. 

It was common at that time, for roller rinks to have side walls that were opened to the outside on warm evenings allowing passers-by to enjoy the sights and sounds inside. As lively organ music blared, my best friend and I whirled around and around the wooden floor holding hands. Sometimes, the lights would be turned down low and a kaleidoscope of colors would dance all around us while a soft melody played. They called this a “couples” selection and it was the last skate of the evening. Almost always, a boy would ask me to skate with him. Carol was asked, too. It was so exciting! 

One night, I noticed a good-looking boy standing on the outside looking in. He had curly brown hair, cut short, and twinkling eyes that smiled even when his lips didn’t. As he watched me skate, his broad grin exposed perfect white teeth. At first, I tried to ignore him, but soon felt self-conscious and burst into laughter. He laughed, too. Shortly, he came inside and swaggered around the floor that surrounded the skating area – still watching me. 

This boy was dressed in a most unusual fashion, even for that time. He wore pink pants, a pink and white checked shirt and white buck shoes. Carol took one look, poked me in the ribs and said, “Look, Maggie!”  I said, “I am looking.” She said, “Isn’t he cute?” Making a face, I said, “Can’t you pick ‘em better than that?”

I was not at all impressed with this boy and his peculiar clothes or his superior attitude, but Carol was taken with him!

However, when the last skate was finished and we sat down to take our skates off, he came over to me and started a conversation. “Hi,” he said. “Where do you live?” 

“96th St,” I said. “Where do you go to school?” he asked. 

“I go to Peyton High,” I answered. He looked surprised and said, “Well so do I. How come I’ve never seen you there?” 

“I just transferred from Bingham last year. I’ll be a senior this year.”

“Me, too,” he said. “What’s your name?”

“Maggie,” I said. He smiled and said, “I’m Ken. I live on the West Side. I still don’t understand why I never saw you before in a whole school year.”

“Don’t know,” I said, picking up my skates and heading for the door… with Carol close behind. 

“Hey,” Ken said. “Can I call you?”

Before I could answer, he handed me a small piece of paper and said, “Just write your number on this.”

I don’t know why I did it, but I wrote my number on the paper and then complained to Carol all the way home that I shouldn’t have because he just wasn’t “my type.”

He called – the very next day. When he asked if I’d go to a movie with him on Saturday night, I said, “Yes.” What’s wrong with me? I thought. I don’t even like this guy. He thinks too much of himself. Hope he doesn’t wear that pink outfit again.

That was the first of many dates. And with each date, I found myself liking him more. School started and we had a great senior year! We went to football games, movies, and spent as much time together as possible. The holidays came and we enjoyed them together, too, doing all the fun things young folks do at that festive time of year. Spring soon arrived and so did Prom time. How special that night was! I in a beautiful long gown wearing the corsage he’d given me and he in a tux, sporting a red rosebud boutonniere on his white jacket. Those happy days passed much too quickly, although we didn’t realize it at the time. To us, it meant we were almost adults. Finally, the big day came and we had a lovely graduation. We cherish the wonderful memories of that last year of high school together!

Suddenly, it was summer again. My parents were planning my future; his parents were doing the same for him. Little did they know that we had other plans. One day in early September, while my parents were at work, we eloped.

That was many years ago and we’re still spending all our special times together - along with our children, and grandchildren.

Just think - it all started with a pair of pink pants, white buck shoes and a winning smile!


This story appears in my book, Somewhere in Heaven My Mother is Smiling

 

Bye-Bye Birdies – Please!

                                                Published by The Charleston Gazette,
                                                                                       Sunday August 4, 2008~
      
It was not Alfred Hitchcock’s famous movie that caused my fear of birds, although I do feel a certain kinship with Tippi Hedren’s character when I’m working in my yard and hear a noisy twittering in the trees.  It gives me a chill every time!  It all started many years ago when I was very young.

It was common in those days to buy a live turkey for Thanksgiving.  Due to poor refrigeration, it had to be chosen, slaughtered, and made oven-ready right before the “big day”.  As the story goes, my father brought one home for my mother’s approval, and I, a mere toddler, was quite puzzled to find this strange looking creature walking around in our kitchen.  I had no idea what it was but was not about to get close to it, nor would I turn my back on it… and the feeling seemed mutual.

While my parents discussed its size and weight, this huge bird and I sized each other up.  She stared at me and I stared at her.  She took two steps toward me and I took two steps back.  She gobbled.  I shuddered…and we continued the two-step until my dad grabbed the rope that was around her neck and led her outside.

I never wanted to see that big bird again!  But I did when it graced our Thanksgiving table a few days later.

Now, that experience alone may not have done lasting damage, except that I was destined to have more “fowl” experiences.

A few years later, while playing in my grandparents’ yard and enjoying a cone of ice cream, a large rooster appeared unexpectedly and began flogging me like there was no tomorrow!  That rooster was definitely mad at me!  I threw my ice cream in the air and let out a blood-curdling scream that brought my grandmother to my side… fearing that I had met with a terrible accident. However, when she learned what had happened and that the only thing hurt was my pride, she soothed my ruffled feathers with a peck on the cheek and another cone of ice cream.  Reluctantly, I went back to my play—keeping an eye out for that big rooster, to be sure!

That same summer, I visited my maternal grandparents, too.  Unaware that they had acquired a parakeet since my last visit, imagine my surprise when I was introduced to Tweety.  “I guess a bird in a cage is okay,” I thought… but little did I know that Tweety was allowed to “mingle” occasionally.  So when I was sitting in front of the TV one evening and Tweety suddenly came flying into the room and landed on my head….I squealed hysterically until someone got that yellow bird off me and put him back in his cage.  I couldn’t stop shaking, and Tweety lost his mingling privileges until I went home.

There were other avian experiences throughout my childhood, but I managed to grow up in spite of them.  I got married and had a family, and we always had pets—dogs, cats, goldfish, hamsters, and turtles—but never a bird!

My children found my phobia amusing and devised all sorts of ways to mock me.  They’d place bird feathers strategically around the house…inside and out…just to watch my reaction when I found them, and I once discovered a stuffed bird on my pillow when I awakened.  That deed did not go unpunished!

One day, my daughter and I were in the checkout line at a pet store when I felt something brush against my arm.  I turned to look right into the face of a big green parrot sitting on a perch—no cage.  I felt paralyzed!  When I was able to speak, I said, “Let’s go”, and headed for the door putting my intended purchases down as I went.  My daughter enjoyed telling that story at dinner?

Occasionally, a bird falls to its death after colliding with our storm door.  When its limp little body is found, someone usually quips, “Aha! This one was trying to get inside to see you.”

Secretly, I do sometimes believe they are plotting against me.  Recently, I discovered a bird’s nest in a potted plant beside my front door. It had five eggs in it.  Not only are they plotting, but also brazenly increasing their numbers right on my doorstep!

The Lure Of The River~

This was published in The Charleston Gazette ~ Sunday, June 14, 2009~

A friend recently sent me an old photograph of a young girl standing on a small boat. She looks to be about twelve or thirteen years old. She exudes confidence with the jaunty tilt of her head and one hand perched on her hip. I can’t seem to put this picture out of my sight or out of my mind.  After two days, it continues to haunt me.

You see, the girl in the picture is me, and this old black and white, creased photo has evoked bittersweet memories from more than half a century ago. One in particular.

From the age of seven until my late teens, I lived in a house by the river. A dozen or so rickety wooden steps and a narrow path led to the river’s edge, where there was a dock with a couple of rowboats and a small houseboat tied to it. One of the boats was used as a ferry for taking passengers to the other side. There was also a long, log, moss-covered raft secured there.

 My parents gave me strict orders, on the day we moved there, to stay away from the river, especially when they were at work. Unbeknownst to me, they had enlisted neighbors to report to them if I was seen breaking the rules.

But I was drawn to the river like a hobo to a freight train!  Every chance I got, I headed down the rickety steps and narrow path, and jumped onto the deck of the houseboat.  I often took a friend with me.  We’d sit on the edge of the deck dangling our bare feet in the cool, green water.  It was especially fun when a paddleboat passed, sending wave after wave crashing against the boat, making it rock back and forth… splashing us as we giggled excitedly.

Too often, while sitting on the boat with my back to the shore, I’d hear a familiar whistle. Turning my head, I’d spot my dad’s striking figure at the top of the hill, his expression conveying—in no uncertain terms—that I was in a heap of trouble.  Reluctantly, I’d follow him home for my punishment.  Sometimes, I would be grounded for days. Other times, the peach tree switch, which I had to cut myself, was applied.  

But punishment worked for only a short time. When I thought I had my parents’ schedules down pat and could slip away to my favorite place without being caught, I was on my way again. Occasionally, I’d pick an apple from a nearby tree and munch on it while dangling my feet in the water. Life was good! 

Sometimes I got away with it.

One day I arrived at the river and the houseboat was gone. I looked in all directions but it was nowhere to be seen. Disappointed, but not to be outdone, I decided to approach unfamiliar territory…the log raft.

Barefoot, I stepped cautiously from the pier to the raft and realized at once that it was very slippery… and slimy!  

“Oh my gosh”, I thought.  “I have to go back”. Turning quickly, I lost my footing and slid off the raft into the murky water. I couldn’t swim!

I didn’t think it was deep this close to shore, but trying to touch bottom proved me wrong. I went under water, bounced back up, sputtering, and trying to grab the raft, but my hands kept sliding off. I went under again…and again… and back up…clutching at the slippery raft repeatedly.  I was so tired….

Panic stricken, I thought, “It’s cold…and dark…I’m drowning!”

Suddenly I felt a swift tug on my head..…Whoosh!  I was out of the water, lying on the slimy raft. Coughing and sputtering, I looked up into the scowling face of Mr. Taylor, a neighbor who ran the ferryboat. He said, “You okay, girl?” Fighting back tears, I nodded.

“What are you doing down here anyway?” Without waiting for my answer, he lifted me to the pier and said, “You git on home now and don’t come back, you hear?”

I ran all the way home. Luckily, my parents weren’t there, but I knew it was just a matter of time until they would be, and I was dreading the sting of a peach tree switch on my bare legs. I got out of my wet clothes and waited for the inevitable. When my parents arrived, I listened fearfully for the ring of the telephone or a knock at the door, but neither came.

Days passed… and then weeks… but to my happy surprise, Mr. Taylor never told my parents about the incident. Perhaps he thought that such a frightening experience was punishment enough.

I sure did!

I’d like to say I learned my lesson and never went back to the river, but I did, many times—even as a teenager. The only thing that changed was the gender of the friends I took with me—but that’s a whole other story!

This story also appears in my book, Somewhere in Heaven My Mother is Smiling~

Back Home Again

I jumped off the train steps and the conductor handed my suitcase down to Mother, who was waiting for me. I wasn’t ready to come home. Kingston was the only place in the world I could go barefoot all summer, climb mountains, and run around in a summer rain shower in my underwear if I wanted to.

It was so much fun when Aunt Betty, Cousin Sue and I climbed from the rock wall out back of my grandmother’s house onto a peach tree limb so we could walk over to the roof of the house. I don’t know what all the fuss was about when the whole family came running out of the house yelling at us, “Girls, girls, get down from there right now!” We thought it would be fun to get on the roof.

   “Heck, I won’t have any fun here,” I thought, as Mother opened the front gate. “Daddy won’t be home from the power plant until midnight. Mother will make me take a bath, shampoo my hair and go to bed before then.”

I loved my daddy!

Sometimes, when my best friend, Carol, and I went to the movies on Saturday, and they showed those awful newsreels about the war, I watched Japanese planes crash onto one of our ships killing American men and I worried so about my daddy! When I had nightmares about those newsreels and woke up crying, Mother said I should be grateful that my daddy had a good job at the power plant because, since he was doing something as important as making electricity, he wouldn’t have to go to war.

I was awake early.  Mother had already gone to work. The sun was shining and I heard Daddy in the kitchen singing… “Precious Memories, how they linger...”

Running into the kitchen, I squealed, “Daddy!” He turned, flashed a big smile, ran toward me and hugged me tight. “How’s my sweetheart?” he said.  Without waiting for an answer, he said, “What do you want for breakfast?”
“I don’t care.”

He gave me bacon, eggs and toast. I started eating and he started singing again. 

When I was finished, I got dressed and called my friend, Carol. 
   “What cha’ doin’? 

   “Nuthin. What’re you doin’?”

   “Nuthin. Wanna go for a walk?”

   “Sure, but I have to eat first.  C’mon down.”

Mrs. Lewis always wanted me to eat with Carol, who was a picky eater. I’d eat even when I wasn’t hungry because it seemed to please her.

Our walks always ended at the river. There was a small houseboat docked there and we’d sit on the deck, dangling our feet in the cool, green water.  Sometimes a paddleboat passed, sending wave after wave crashing against the boat, making it rock back and forth… splashing us as we giggled excitedly.

As we sat munching juicy red apples from a nearby tree, Carol told me about the summer she’d had while I was at Kingston. She’d gone to the beach, got a beautiful tan and met a boy named Emil who had promised to write to her. We were just beginning to pay attention to boys, and it was fun to talk about them, though we were still too young to date. Once, when we were at the carnival that always came to our town in August, a boy I’d just met, stopped me in the house of mirrors and put his arms around me, but I pulled away and ran. 

I told Carol about my summer, too… but she couldn’t understand why I enjoyed climbing mountains and picking blackberries; or why playing games and roasting potatoes in an open fire on the creek bank at night was so much fun. She knew nothing about the excitement of going to the Company Store or the admiration one feels watching weary miners with black faces trudge home from work in the evening. 

Some things are hard to share—even with your best friend.

This story appears in my book, Somewhere in Heaven My Mother is Smiling.