I like the way Sue makes pot roast. Like a rodeo cowboy wrestling a steer to the ground, she wrangles the raw meat out of the package and plops it into the pot. Then she throws a bag of carrots in there. Why chop something up if you’re going to chew it up anyway? She sprinkles a package of spices and turns it on low. Before long, the house smells like Sunday dinner.
Sue works graveyard shift and I work swing shift, so we don’t get to have dinner together very often. Because I’m at work at dinnertime, my dinners usually consist of whatever I threw together before work; some crackers, a few slices of cheese, cantaloupe, whatever I can find. Sue is usually asleep when normal people eat dinner, so her dinner is in the wee hours of the morning most days. Sometimes I put together something for her to take to work. Otherwise, she will go to 7-Eleven and buy chips and a candy bar for dinner.
Sue cooks two huge pans of dog food every weekend, enough for Lisle, Pete, and Mac for a week. They eat better than we do. They get chicken, gizzards, rice and eggs every day. She holds Lisle’s bowl for her while she eats. She doesn’t hold my plate for me. When Sue comes home from work, she kisses the dogs and pats me on the head.
We had pot roast last weekend and we ate it while watching Count of Monte Cristo on TV. That was an excellent movie and I recommend it. The pot roast as usual, was exquisite. Although last weekend, I think I’m the one who made it. No matter. I like it better when Sue makes it. When Sue makes pot roast, it’s a treat.
Saturday, August 14, 2010
Why - by Sue
I am not famous. No one checks The Huffington Post to see what I did that day, and 50 years (or much less, probably) after I am dead, no one will ever know or care that I lived. All of the little souvenirs I have saved out of sentimental value will probably mean nothing to anyone. My father's watch, for example, will be one more rusting trinket in a land fill. Still, I wrote a memoir, and no one will care except, for the present, a few people whose lives have intersected with mine.
I did not write an autobiography for posterity, recording for historical purposes. I don't care whether future generations in the next century and beyond know when I went bird watching or started high school. Those dates are not important. I did not write a diary, just for my eyes. I wrote a memoir for anyone who might find it interesting. Maybe someone who just likes to read memoirs will enjoy it. Maybe someday my grandchildren will want to see what Maw Maw did way back in the 20th Century. Maybe it reads like a story, which is what I had hoped. But unlike a story, it's all true. I had recalled many events that reared their ugly heads as I clacked on my keyboard, complete with flaming nostrils, horns and warts. But they were only ghosts and I made them vaporize.
I wrote what I remember from true events, as accurately as I could. Some names were changed. And it's not memories of my entire life up until now, but only the first years, when the jello was still liquid and could be poured into any shape mold. I didn't write in any defined sequence or chronology. I wrote the emotions that came from events, and, like in anyone's life, are what shaped the mold.
I was asked why I would do such a thing. Why would I not just "move on?" Forget things. Let it go. Forgive. My answer is blank, other than the fact that I like to write, and always have. I went on my happy-ass way a long time ago. When I was eight, it was easy to invent stories with the main character overcoming odds, the result of an uninhibited, naive imagination. Now, it's impossible. There are rules when it comes to writing, and it should be honest. So, in a memoir, I allowed myself the pleasure of describing scenes and characters as long as it was the truth. It had nothing to do with "moving on" or letting anything go. It just had to do with writing. It had to do with crossing the first hurdle first, before mixing it up with made up stuff. I had to get the real thing out first, because that was what was boiling at the top.
I had it printed by an "on demand" printer, and it arrived yesterday. I have a few changes to make, and will order more copies. And then when it's completely done, who knows?
I did not write an autobiography for posterity, recording for historical purposes. I don't care whether future generations in the next century and beyond know when I went bird watching or started high school. Those dates are not important. I did not write a diary, just for my eyes. I wrote a memoir for anyone who might find it interesting. Maybe someone who just likes to read memoirs will enjoy it. Maybe someday my grandchildren will want to see what Maw Maw did way back in the 20th Century. Maybe it reads like a story, which is what I had hoped. But unlike a story, it's all true. I had recalled many events that reared their ugly heads as I clacked on my keyboard, complete with flaming nostrils, horns and warts. But they were only ghosts and I made them vaporize.
I wrote what I remember from true events, as accurately as I could. Some names were changed. And it's not memories of my entire life up until now, but only the first years, when the jello was still liquid and could be poured into any shape mold. I didn't write in any defined sequence or chronology. I wrote the emotions that came from events, and, like in anyone's life, are what shaped the mold.
I was asked why I would do such a thing. Why would I not just "move on?" Forget things. Let it go. Forgive. My answer is blank, other than the fact that I like to write, and always have. I went on my happy-ass way a long time ago. When I was eight, it was easy to invent stories with the main character overcoming odds, the result of an uninhibited, naive imagination. Now, it's impossible. There are rules when it comes to writing, and it should be honest. So, in a memoir, I allowed myself the pleasure of describing scenes and characters as long as it was the truth. It had nothing to do with "moving on" or letting anything go. It just had to do with writing. It had to do with crossing the first hurdle first, before mixing it up with made up stuff. I had to get the real thing out first, because that was what was boiling at the top.
I had it printed by an "on demand" printer, and it arrived yesterday. I have a few changes to make, and will order more copies. And then when it's completely done, who knows?
Don't Draw Pictures You Don't Want Anyone to See...Phyllis
It was 1962. I was standing at my desk after school in my blue cotton dress that tied in a bow in the back, white ankle socks and saddle shoes. My 3rd grade teacher, Mrs. Harelson, was sitting with a trash can at my desk. I knew this was coming. She had been standing behind me earlier that morning as I was frantically shoving things around looking for my spelling book.
“What’s this?” She pulled out a paper with a stick drawing of a girl with spots all over her face and big buck teeth.
“A picture of Susan”, I said. Susan’s desk was across from mine. It was a pretty good likeness.
Mrs. Harelson pulled out some more old papers. “Here’s your arithmetic paper you couldn't find last week,” she said as she slapped it down on the pile.. She pulled out an envelope and my heart stopped. “What’s this?” she demanded. “Rattle snake eggs,” I said. She opened the envelope and it jumped out at her…it was a button attached to a hair pin with a rubber band and twisted so that when the envelope was opened, the button spun around in the paper and made a loud rattling noise. It was meant for Susan. She jumped and I cringed. She threw it into the trash can.
She pulled out a wad of papers with more pictures of Susan stuck together with purple goo. “What’s this?” “Popsicle,” I said. My shame and humiliation were growing in proportion to her disgust. She pulled out a paper airplane I had made with a straight pin sticking out the tip. “What were you going to do with this?” she growled. “Throw it at Susan,” I said.
“Here’s yesterday’s spelling paper you couldn't find.” She slapped it down on the pile. “Here’s your report card. You told me your parents forgot to sign it.” She shoved it at me. “What’s this?” She held up a picture of a fat lady with glasses and a huge nose. “A picture of you, “ I said. She took a second look and threw it in the trash.
Out came more pictures of Susan, more pictures of Mrs. Harelson, the remains of a jaw breaker I had hidden, a huge wad of gum that I chewed on whenever her back was to the class, some pennies stuck together with something even I couldn't identify, an apple core, half a bologna sandwich, and a Barbie head with the hair cut off and a mustache drawn on it. She pulled out a library book, opened it to see when it was due and found still another drawing of her inside the cover. She was turning red as a hot poker and I stood and watched in silent horror as one by one she brought all my treasures and messy secrets out to the open.
When she was finished the trash can was full. My books and what was left of my papers were in a neat pile in my desk. “This is how I want your desk to look from now on. Do you understand me?” she demanded. “Yes, “ I said.
I ran home, threw my school clothes on the floor, got my blue jeans from under the bed, found one sneaker behind the door, found the other on the back porch and ran outside to play.
“What’s this?” She pulled out a paper with a stick drawing of a girl with spots all over her face and big buck teeth.
“A picture of Susan”, I said. Susan’s desk was across from mine. It was a pretty good likeness.
Mrs. Harelson pulled out some more old papers. “Here’s your arithmetic paper you couldn't find last week,” she said as she slapped it down on the pile.. She pulled out an envelope and my heart stopped. “What’s this?” she demanded. “Rattle snake eggs,” I said. She opened the envelope and it jumped out at her…it was a button attached to a hair pin with a rubber band and twisted so that when the envelope was opened, the button spun around in the paper and made a loud rattling noise. It was meant for Susan. She jumped and I cringed. She threw it into the trash can.
She pulled out a wad of papers with more pictures of Susan stuck together with purple goo. “What’s this?” “Popsicle,” I said. My shame and humiliation were growing in proportion to her disgust. She pulled out a paper airplane I had made with a straight pin sticking out the tip. “What were you going to do with this?” she growled. “Throw it at Susan,” I said.
“Here’s yesterday’s spelling paper you couldn't find.” She slapped it down on the pile. “Here’s your report card. You told me your parents forgot to sign it.” She shoved it at me. “What’s this?” She held up a picture of a fat lady with glasses and a huge nose. “A picture of you, “ I said. She took a second look and threw it in the trash.
Out came more pictures of Susan, more pictures of Mrs. Harelson, the remains of a jaw breaker I had hidden, a huge wad of gum that I chewed on whenever her back was to the class, some pennies stuck together with something even I couldn't identify, an apple core, half a bologna sandwich, and a Barbie head with the hair cut off and a mustache drawn on it. She pulled out a library book, opened it to see when it was due and found still another drawing of her inside the cover. She was turning red as a hot poker and I stood and watched in silent horror as one by one she brought all my treasures and messy secrets out to the open.
When she was finished the trash can was full. My books and what was left of my papers were in a neat pile in my desk. “This is how I want your desk to look from now on. Do you understand me?” she demanded. “Yes, “ I said.
I ran home, threw my school clothes on the floor, got my blue jeans from under the bed, found one sneaker behind the door, found the other on the back porch and ran outside to play.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)