Memory

That time between Christmas and the new year seems to lend itself to nostalgic reflection.

Memory: Bob's Axiom 1

Memory permits us to enjoy the past without having to relive it.

A Mile Farther Down the Road

When I was young I was surprised when I met an old person who seemingly could remember nothing about the day in which he was currently living, but had detailed recall of things that happened seven and eight decades earlier.  Eerily, I was uncomfortable being around them.  I did not understand.

I have lived some decades since then, and now I think I get it.  And now, I guess, people are uncomfortable being around me.  We can't remember today because there is nothing to remember. Nothing is happening.  To the external world, we no longer exist.  But the memories of the past. .Ah, the memories bring life back, if only in the mind.

Jeepster!

String Too Short to Tie

Willys-Overland Motors built the Jeepster for about three years, from 1948 to 1950. The mother of a girl in my high school senior class owned a jewelry store and curio shoppe downtown. The girl, Geraldine, drove a Jeepster. Many of us were green with envy, though we would never admit it. The four-cylinder engine provided sufficient power for cruising around, but the thing was no good of course at a stop-light challenge. Thus the car was dismissed as “girly.” Yeah, we were a sexist lot, acned, hormonal, and envious. But then, Gerry was a girl, after all. And if you were one of the truly lucky guys, you would actually have ridden in the Jeepster!

Scootering around Rockport yielded this old car spotting. The Jeepster is sitting next to a couple of old boats and between two buildings right downtown. As BBBH observed, “It’s been sitting there for a long time.” The grass is witness to that, and yet it has no flat tires. 

The last of the phaetons, and a nice looking old car.

Farm Living

String Too Short to Tie

It was during the time we lived in Bladen that I was awakened to my surroundings and began to recognize a world outside myself.

A few days ago, BBBH was reading one of her Westerns, or perhaps a pot-boiler with a western setting, I'm not sure which, and I was, yes, you guessed it, at the computer.  She made a comment on her reading by way of asking, "Can you imagine living in a soddie?"  Actually I could, for while I never lived in one, I remember visiting people who did.

My father had a cousin, Lester Taylor, who lived on a farm not far from us, perhaps less than twenty miles distant.  Lester had a family, yet I do not recall how many children there were, nor their names.  I do remember a couple of things about the visit. (I don't recall whether or not we visited more than one time.)  The first thing that happened when we got out of the car was that a terrifying and fearsome great grey gander, beak open and squawking like Donald Duck, ran toward me, obviously intent on devouring me, or  at the very least, inflicting serious bodily harm on my person.  I put my puny little four-year old legs into action and tried to flee the monster.  This encouraged the beast to pursue me.  He ultimately nipped the seat of the dratted short pants I wore.  Daddy rescued me, but the terror lived on.

On to the house.  While my recollection may not be totally reliable, I believe the sod house was about half dugout/half above ground.  I am surprised yet to this day that once inside this earthen structure, the home-like nature and furnishings of the place were much like any other house I'd ever seen.

So, yes, I can imagine what it might be like to live in a soddie.  Thank you for asking, Beautiful.

Rerun of a fun story

String Too Short to Tie

This story was posted last fall.  It is an Easter story, though, in a manner of speaking, so here it is again at this joyous season.

The Pig and the Duck

Our cottage was situated on a very nice lakefront lot with a fifty-foot seawall and pier.  The area close to the seawall, especially at the east end of it, was soggy a good bit of the time, though it was planted to grass.  Too, forget-me-nots grew freely in that area, and very pretty were the shiny blue punctuation marks they provided in the lawn.

Across the lane and opposite our next door neighbor's house lived a young man named Steve with his son, Trey.  One summer, probably about our tenth year at the lake, Steve acquired a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig as a pet for himself and his son.  What a cute little pet!  The neighbors adored the animal, and it was allowed, more or less, free range of the territory.

Summers come to an end, though, the October leaves are raked, the pipes are drained and the cottage is put to sleep for the winter.  But oh, frabjous Spring when the place is reopened and "the season" starts again!  Now we discover that Pig, while still very friendly, is much larger than she was in the fall.  As the summer wears on and the days become hotter and hotter, the human inhabitants of the environs spend more and more time in the lake.  The Pig likes to swim, too, and she strolls across the lane and down to the lake for a dip betimes.  However, she is a pig, and pigs are given to rooting and wallowing.  Pig discovers the soft spot in our yard this side of the seawall.  The little blue flowers are so attractive.  Let's dig them up!  Pig is a very talented digger, and when the hole is sufficiently deep to satisfy her needs and accommodate her body, she wallows.  This is not a pleasing behavior to the human inhabitants.  Pig must be banished from the yard.

Now it should be related that Pig had a playmate and frequent companion, for at Easter time Steve's next door neighbor acquired a little duckling.  Duck grew, as ducks will, and it attached itself in friendship to Pig.  Everywhere Pig went, Duck tagged along.  Duck's owner would take Duck to the lake and attempt to get it to swim, but Duck was having none of it.  Believe it.  A duck that did not want to be in water.  So much for the old saw, "Takes to it like a duck to water."
Karen was frustrated that Duck would not swim, for it was her plan that when fall came the duck would respond to the call of the wild and fly off to wherever ducks go when the vee formations soar overhead.

I was fortunate enough to witness this little vignette.  One afternoon Pig walked across the lane and down to the lakefront.  Duck waddled along close behind.   Pig stepped into the water, launched herself and started to swim leisurely around the area.  Duck stopped on the bank, quacked loudly, no doubt scolding Pig for her reckless behavior.  But it became clear that Pig was enjoying her swim and was not giving it up.  Duck stepped into the water; and to her surprise she discovered that she could remain afloat on the surface.  Then she discovered that she could swim!  Oh, fun together with friend in the water!  The story of the pig that taught the duck to swim.

Fall came, leaves were raked, and so on.

When the cottage was opened in the spring we missed the presence of Pig.  I saw Steve one evening and asked what happened to Pig.  "Well," he said, "she went to the farm.  When I got her I was told she would probably get to a weight of 45 pounds in her adulthood.  When she got to 150 pounds I realized that I could no longer keep her as a house pet."

All things come to some end.