Middle-Aged Women Don't Bounce: Part 4

While I was in school that day, my father was working busily behind the scenes scouting out a car for me.  I can't tell you what a shock this was to me because my father was a tough character.  He and Miss H had a lot of the same personality traits except Dad didn't wear bright red lipstick, dye his hair black or wear pantsuits with proper foot attire. 

I had come along late in life for my folks, my dad was 45 when I was born, and by this time, he was 63 years old and still farming with no end in sight.  He was born on the farm he was still working, and though this sounds Abe Lincoln-ish, he was born in a log cabin.  The doctor who finally arrived to attend his debut to the world was a bit tipsy and forgot to fill out the paperwork, so it was some time later my grandparents remembered they'd never gotten a birth certificate for their sixth child.  Then they couldn't remember when he'd actually been born, so there was some debate back and forth until they finally settled on September 20-27, 1913.  The general consensus was it was around that time, anyway.  Dad finally picked the 24th when he had to send away for a birth certificate at age 62.  He said it sounded as good as any other day.

To put it mildly, there was no molly-coddling going on in my father's childhood, and there would be none in my late brother's or mine, either.  Dad was raised Old School, children are to be seen and not heard, and should at all times make themselves useful.  He had a love of reading and arithmetic and dreamed of going on to school past the eighth grade, but there was no money to buy better clothes and shoes, and his father had a farm to run.    Dad ended up staying on the farm he'd been born on for the rest of his life and though he was a good farmer, he was not a happy one.  I think his dreams (though he never spoke of them) were always for a different life, one away from blood, sweat and cow manure. 

My brother, Bob, was thirteen years older than me and had left home at nineteen to join the Army during the Viet Nam war.  Other kids were running to Canada or signing up for college in droves to escape the draft, but my brother went right down and enlisted.  I think it had more to do with his dislike of both higher education and farming than anything else, so off he went.

Bob had to go to the barn in the morning to milk cows before school with my parents.  When he left for basic training, I was six years old and we really didn't know (or like) each other very much.  He felt I was spoiled, and seeing our circumstances through his eyes, I'm sure it did look that way.   While he was gone, I became my father's right-hand man out of necessity.  Our farm was only 98 acres, but all Dad had left to help him run it was my mother and me. My father did not want me to milk cows in the morning before school, though.  I'm not sure why, but suspect it was because he didn't want me to be picked on for smelling like a farmer.   Back in those days, you didn't jump in the shower (we didn't have one) every day; you simply changed your clothes and washed up as fastidiously as you could in the kitchen sink.  Bath days were Saturday night.  I did, however, milk every night and helped with any and all field work I was capable of handling.



 When Bob's two year hitch was up, he came home a very different man than the farm boy who had left.  He was only home about a month and burning the late night oil and doing a little carousing. His girlfriend had taken up with someone else in his absence and he was restless.  And angry.  There was only room for one angry man under our roof, so Dad took matters into his own hands and said if Bob was going to live at home, he was going to keep decent hours and help with the farm work.  Bob hated farming and refused.  Dad said he'd then have to pay $50 a month rent.  This incensed my brother no end.  Ironically, with Dad's help, he got himself a car, a job (in the same town I was now headed for) and an apartment all in quick succession.  My mother never got over it, to this day she still feels she should have stuck up for her son, but that was that.  Being his sister, and now being a mother myself of a 21 year old man, I can see it now from two different angles; I think it was the right thing to do in some regards.  He was much happier on his own.  For awhile.  

Anyway, while I was in school that fateful day attempting to wrap my head around my future, my father was out trying to buy me a car.  A new car.  I didn't know this was the plan.  I hadn't asked for a car, either.  Ever.  I realize how spoiled this makes me sound, but trust me, Dad was not a push-over in any way.  He had dropped me off at the school door that morning and at some point after breakfast gone to another little town eight miles away to haggle with a car dealer on a brand-spanking new 1976 Chevy Nova.  (Alison, if you're reading this, quit laughing!) 

I didn't know anything about this when I stepped off the school bus that night.  Mom was baking again, the woman was a tireless worker even though her day had started at 5AM and wouldn't be over to well after 10PM, being a farm wife she had unending chores in the barn and the house.  I still don't know how she did it, but then, being a teenager, I took her for granted.  Ingrate that I was.

Turns out, Mom hadn't known about Dad's adventure, either.  My getting a job so suddenly was such an unsettling thing that we were all sort of spinning in circles.  Dad was always a 'take the bull by the horns' kinda guy and he'd gone off on a car hunt alone unbeknownst to either of us.  We didn't find his absence unusual, he frequented a few bars in our little town and would often come home when we were already in the barn doing the evening milking. 

That Monday night, though, he came home with Big News.  I was to wait for him after school on Tuesday and we were going to go to the Chevy (my folks always pronounced it 'shivy') garage and see what price the dealer in town would give us.  He already had a number on a little business card in the front pocket of his bib overalls but he wanted to see if he could get the guys in town to squeak under it.  I took all this in with amazement, having to finally sit down on a milk stool before I fell down in the alley.  I was going to get a new car?  And who was going to pay for it?

Well, he had that all worked out.  In his slightly inebriated state, he sternly told me that he would pay for this new car in cash, but I was going to pay him back in installments.  Now that I was employed, I should be able to make car payments of $200 or more a month and still set some aside for savings.  As long as I kept working on the farm at night after working in the office, I could live at home for free and he would not charge me any rent or interest on the car loan.  However, if I reneged on the deal, the car would be his.  End of story.

In the space of less than twelve hours I had gone from an 18 year old kid to a woman of the world with a car loan and payments hanging over my head.  This grown-up world was not all that great.  I got up off the milk stool on wobbly legs and took the milker off the poor cow who was by now, bone dry.  I agreed to his terms, because they were fantastically fair. 

I never felt I'd grown up 'poor' because by the time I came along, we always had plenty to eat and a roof over our heads.  Like just about everyone else, we always had to be careful with money, though.  Always.  My father had grown up poor and never forgot what it was like to go to bed hungry as a kid, and though my mother was eight years younger, she had also come through some unbelievably tough times, including the Great Depression.  They knew the value of a penny.  And a penny saved was truly a penny earned in those times.    That's why my father buying me a new car was such a stunning development.  I don't think he could have shocked me any more if he'd come home wearing Miss H's curly black hair.  I went to bed that night and tossed and turned.  How was this all going to work out?

Middle-Aged Women Don't Bounce: Part 3

So, here we go again, yes, it's still 1976.  And I'm a newly hired records clerk at a big insurance company with less than three days of high school left to my senior year.  In less than a week, I'd leave high school behind and join the ranks of the working class.  But first, I had to get a car.

If you read Part Deux of this tale, you understand why the 1964 Buick Special wasn't going to be a very dependable ride to and from my new job.  Sure, I knew how to fix the shifting problem, but could I find a place to pull over in traffic every day?  Besides that, the car's floor had rusted out so badly that we had to keep a floor mat over the hole that had formed, especially when it rained.  Hit a puddle the right way and you were in for a not-so-pleasant shower.

I didn't know how to answer my father when he asked me what I was going to do about a car because that idea was as remote as the earlier call telling me I had a job had been.  I had other things on my mind.  I was late for school and Miss H's first hour Office Practice class.  I didn't know what to do with the news I'd been hired, and though I hadn't been what you could call 'close' to Miss H., I felt maybe she'd excuse my tardiness if I went straight to her with the tale. 

 A word here about the late Miss H.  She was a rather stout little woman who walked with a slightly shuffling gait.  She had coal black hair and always wore bright, red lipstick and proper, neat, attire.  She usually wore a rather haughty smile on her red lips and had a shrewd twinkle in her eye which could turn to a merciless stare if crossed.   She was the most single-minded teacher I had ever had.  She lived for teaching Office Practice; it was the woman's passion and she did it well.  The Office Practice room was always a hive of very intense activity.  Dolly would never tolerate hilarity, tomfoolery or hijinks in her Girls.  We were to behave in a proper, office-like manner at all times, or be ushered out of her class.  Either you wanted to be there to learn or you could leave. 

Though I attended a rather small high school with a graduating class of around 100 or so, it didn't mean we were saints.  There were some very tough characters in the school at the time, and Smoking in the Boy's Room was not just a song lyric.  In our school, smoking in the Boy's room (and the Girl's Room and any other room in between)  was done on a regular basis.  I still am not sure why this wasn't nipped in the bud by the teachers or the principal.  I guess it was that time when teachers were no longer allowed to clobber errant brats any more for fear of being sued.  In any event,  the place reeked of cigarette smoke and we had many smoke bombs tossed in the hallways and cherry bombs flushed down the toilets.

Oh, and if you were a Popular Girl, some of the guys would stop up the huge sinks in the bathrooms with paper towels and drag the Unsuspecting, Squealing Victim into a Boy's Room to dunk her into the water tank the sink had become. The girl would emerge screaming in mock-outrage for her soaking- wet state, but I figured the Ladies Doth Protested Too Much.  In other words, in my opinion, I think it was an Honor for most of them to be baptized in this manner.  Sort of like being named Prom Queen or something.  It made you Cool if the guys tossed you into a sinkful of water because at least they noticed you.   Unfortunately, I was Not Cool and therefore trudged through my high school years in a completely undrenched, arid condition.  

All of the bathrooms in the school were inhabited by smoking and other shenanigans, except for the one adjacent to Miss H's turf.  Her bathroom was Not To Be Messed With.  Anyone caught loitering would be summarily booted out.  She patrolled on a regular basis and tossed any ne'er-do-wells out on their ear.  I don't know how this five foot two inch woman succeeded in removing flim-flam from her territory when other, bigger male teachers could not, but Miss H. did and with no more than a curt, "Get OUT." 

They listened and out they got. 

I will never forget the day a nervous titter arose in the Office Practice Room, though.  One of Dolly's Girls had used the facilities and came back to report a most unusual sighting-- someone had plastered across the mirror in Dolly's Bathroom a centerfold picture of a very naked, very well-endowed man.  The news spread like wildfire through the classroom, but in a very restrained manner.  Everyone wanted to see this affront to the sanctity of Miss H's domain before she did.  One by one, the Girls demurely excused themselves from their typewriters to take a gander.  In case you're wondering, yes, I did, too, hey, I wasn't a Cool Girl, but that didn't mean I couldn't sneak a peek.

In her uncanny manner, Miss H. detected dissension in the ranks and within five minutes of its discovery by her students, sallied forth to the restroom herself.  Then there were open guffaws coming from the Girls, it was just too funny to think of what her reaction would be to this latest swipe at her dignity.  In less than a minute, Miss H was back from the bathroom with her head held high, holding the offensive poster folded in half with a triumphant look on her face.  She stopped just inside the door and regarded her giggling Girls with a disapproving glare and immediately silence reigned supreme.  There was, however, many a covert glance to see just what she had done with the centerfold, though none of us ever did know for sure. 

It was to this intrepid educator I was headed that memorable morning.  I found Miss H. seated in her glass-enclosed cubicle where she could survey the antics of her minions.  There, they sat in orderly rows behind their trusty typewriters wearing their 'Dictaphones' as a steady, droning voice narrated a series of business letters into their ears.  Tap, tap, tap, tap.  When I walked in ten minutes late, I caught the eye of my two closest friends in the whole wide world.  They were both typing away, but chanced a glance and raised eyebrows in my direction when I walked in.  I made a grimace back in answer and knocked politely on our Fearless Leader's door.



I explained to Miss H. why I was late and for the first time in the three years I had known the woman, she actually grinned.  In fact, she beamed.  I had never seen her so happy.  This was the news she'd been waiting for; in all the years of her teaching career, she had been striving to place one of her Girls in this particular insurance company and had never been successful.  She often told us that every summer during the break she would apply to work at their office so she could glean from the  employer what they looked for in skills and behavior of their employees.  Year after year she had taken a busload of hopefuls to their marble vestibule only to have them all receive courteous rejection letters.  Finally she had a Winner! 

Me.

I was stunned by her elation, I almost thought she was going to hug me and then I was equally fearful she would burst into tears.  She said this news called for an announcement and before I knew what was happening,  I was unceremoniously hauled out into the Office Practice Room.  There with my arm tightly in her grasp, she literally shouted, "May I have your attention!"


  Startled wannabe secretarial students stopped typing in mid-sentence to see what manner of calamity was at hand to make their teacher behave in such an unheard of way. 

"Girls, I have wonderful news for you!  Karen V has just come in to my office to tell me she was hired this morning by All Calamity Mutual.  I know you are all as excited as I am and will wish to join in congratulating Karen on her new position!"

About this time, I would have welcomed a celebratory dunk in one of the Boy's Room sinks.  This was So Not Cool.  

I looked into a sea of not-so-happy-for-Karen V faces.  What Miss H forgot was most if not all of the girls had gone through the same interview process I had and had been rejected by ACM.  How, exactly, were they to jump up and down for joy at the news that dear ol' Karen V had succeeded where they had not?  If I had been in their shoes, I would have probably bounced a bottle of Whiteout off of Karen V's head. At the very least, I expected to see a few hand gestures that were decidedly not of the 'V' is for Victory variety aimed in my general direction, but there was a general murmur of, "Oh" and a few smiles from my two buddies, and that was about it.  Everyone donned their Dictaphones without being told and soon the room was filled with melancholy tapping again.


I think even Miss H belatedly realized this probably wasn't the best way to announce my employment status.  She was still very jolly, though, for the rest of the school year.  I was glad I could provide her with at least four happy days, anyway. 

I did owe her all the credit for what I had learned.  She was a fantastic teacher even though my high school years were all nose to the grindstone.  I had learned how to take a mean Shorthand and how to type quite well.  

Unfortunately, I would not use either skill on my new job at All Calamity Mutual. 

And I still had to figure out how to get there.



 

Middle Aged Women Don't Bounce: Part Deux

For those of you who have read Part One, yes, you're right.  I did fall and injure my pride and my coccyx.  (Who ever dreamed up that word for the humble tailbone must have had a weird sense of humor, by the way, but I can assure you, it's no laughing matter.)    

We were at Sharon and Duke's home, like I said before, and we were all happily engaged in a rousing game of Sheepshead this past Sunday night.  The way the mishap occurred I'll get to at a later date.  And the way I met Sharon will also be forthcoming.  But you all know me, I have to digress. But this time, there's a good reason for it.  Trust me.  There is. 


So back to the saga and 1976.  Think of this as a slightly warped 'It's a Wonderful Life' if you will. 


I finally hung up the droning phone and went and sat down at the kitchen table.  Now what?  I knew I was supposed to be elated, but elation was far from my first reaction to this turn of events.  I sat there for a bit and then, remembered what my mother always said, "When you don't know what to do next, just do the first thing in front of you."  I looked at the clock and realized I was going to be late for school since the bus was long gone.

I made a mad dash for the barn and got my father's attention from the other end of the alley.  They had finished up with the milking and were feeding the calves when I ran in the feedroom door.

"What's up with you?  Did you miss the bus?" he asked.

"Yes," I replied rather shakily, "I got a phone call from the insurance company this morning.  I'm hired."

My father was a very stern man and not given to sappy, emotional outbursts of any kind, but I could tell my announcement had stunned him as much as it had me.

"When do you start?" he asked, gruffly.

"Next week Tuesday."

"Well, get outta the barn, you don't want to stink the school up when you get there.  I've got the truck keys in my pocket.  C'mon, I'll drop you off."  He set about cleaning his shoes on the lawn as we exited the barn.

I clambered into the Ford F-150 pickup next to him and we headed off on our three mile drive to the high school.  He didn't say a word for the first half-mile of our side road.  We met a few neighbors on the highway in their trucks, coming home from the sale barn.  Monday was the weekly cattle auction in our little town and most farmers wanted to get their cattle to the yard early in the morning.   My father gave them the standard two finger salute, which can be given without raising one's hand from the steering wheel.  They returned the greeting in kind.

Then he startled me by saying, "What are you going to do about a car?"

I drew a blank.  Yeah, what was I going to do about a car?  The job I had just accepted was a stunning twenty-two miles from home, a distance we only traveled when visiting my father's sister once or twice a year.  And even at that, my Aunt Dorothy lived on the outskirts of the big city, not in the very heart (or bowels) of it where my skyscraper office was located.

We weren't well-to-do farmers by any stretch of the imagination and our little farm was prosperous, but well, it was little, so there were no huge profits being made every year.  My folks owned two vehicles in 1976, the 'new' 1968 Ford truck and a 1964 Buick Special which both had standard transmissions.  Learning to drive both of them was no problem for me, since I was driving tractors by the time I was seven.   I loved the pickup.  I was driving a truck when girls driving trucks was decidedly Not Cool.  My dad didn't think it was proper however, and said I should always drive the car on the few occasions I had call to be out and about in public.   Of course, I did not drive either the car or truck to school, the bus went by our door and since it did, I was to be on it.  Except for when I missed it.

When I took Driver's Ed in high school, we were provided with a brand-new 1974 Buick Century with, an automatic transmission.  Oh, dear.  This was a dilemma for me.  I had been driving standards for better than half my life, and now what?  I told my mom about it the night before behind the wheel instruction started.  She didn't know how to drive one either.

When I was plunked behind the wheel with the semi-bored, oft terrified seen-it-all-before Driving Instructor, he gave me the standard instructions.  I tried to interrupt him to tell him I had no knowledge of the new-fangled automatic tranny, but he cut me off in mid-stammer.

"This is the steering wheel.  Adjust your seat and your mirrors.  Look before you move and then look again.  Check your blind spots.  Now proceed," he sighed, long-sufferingly, and was gazing at his checklist. 

My driving partner was a very popular city girl cheerleader who was nice enough, but let's face it, we didn't move in the same circles.  She was also named Karen, in fact, there were five of us in the same grade, so we'd both respond whenever the instructor said our name.  Long ago, in elementary school, the teachers had used a complex code to differentiate between all of us.  There was Karen G, Karen K, Karen T, Karen W and finally, me---Karen V.  Throughout my entire time in school, I was Karen V, which was fine by me, because no teacher could ever pronounce my maiden name correctly.  It was sort of a standing joke for the entire class to shout the correct pronunciation of my last name whenever a new teacher got it wrong.  I was too shy to do it.  I had one English teacher insist my name really wasn't pronounced the way I was taught, she insisted she knew how to pronounce it the 'correct' way.  I wasn't very fond of her. 

But anyway, back to the Driver's Ed car.  I backed up and my left foot automatically went for the clutch.  Oh, my, no clutch; my foot hit the floor with a thud.  I quickly corrected and stomped down on the brakes (which of course, were Power Brakes, yet another new development for ol' country gal me) and we screeched to a very abrupt stop.  The instructor had been wearing sunglasses, and I looked over to see him carefully readjust them back to the bridge of his nose from the top of his lip where they had landed. 

"What in the world are you doing?!  You do NOT use your left foot to drive a car!  You use your RIGHT foot to brake and accelerate.  I thought you knew that!"

I glanced in the rear view mirror and saw Cheerleader Karen nervously readjusting her seat-belt to a more snug position.  Both of my passengers were ghastly white and clearly terrified.  I received another lecture about my seeming lack of respect for the usage of the correct limbs in the safe operation of a motor vehicle, and somehow, I made it through my first experience driving an automatic.  I wasn't so sure the automatic transmission was an improvement. 

I longed for my Dad's trusty Ford pickup and any and all of our farm tractors.  They were dependable and made sense. 

I did not like our family car, though it was my mother's pride and joy; the first Buick they had ever owned. It may have borne the prestigious 'Buick' nameplate, but I swear it had a lot more in common with Stephen King's famous Plymouth Fury, Christine.  The Buick Special was just as cantankerous.  My dad had bought it from an insurance salesman and often said he thought the odometer had been turned back, because that car had issues.  The chief issue was it's tendency to become stuck in third gear.   If you've never driven a standard, this will be a 'huh?' moment, but if you have, you'll understand the implications of having to pull out from a stop sign in high gear. 

To get a car to move without stalling starting out from a dead standstill in high gear is a talent all it's own.  You have to ride the clutch and step on the gas all at the same time, lurching ahead ever so slowly with the car's engine running at high rpm's until the vehicle gains enough momentum to smoothly hit it's stride. No matter how many times Mom or I drove the car, at some point in our little outing to town three miles away, it always managed to get itself stuck in third gear.  Dad taught me what to do to fix it, we merely had to pull over to the side of the road, raise the hood and jiggle the linkage until it was aligned properly.  Then, with any luck at all, we could proceed until maybe the fifth or sixth time downshifting from third to second was required.  Simply, park, jiggle and return to the driver's seat.  Good to go.

The Buick also had an air cleaner problem for awhile too, which entailed two people's assistance.  After church on Sunday or after grocery shopping (the only times we ever went anywhere) I would go around to the front of the car in the parking lot and Mom would climb behind the wheel.  She would then reach down and pop the hood and I would raise it and place my hand over the end of the air cleaner while Mom turned the key.  Then the engine would fire and I would bid her to rev it a few times and we'd be ready to roll---after I checked to make sure the linkage for the transmission was properly seated.

I remembered the sleepless night before I took my driver's test two years before.  I had politely asked (you didn't beg my father, or wheedle, wail or complain to him, as he would brook no such nonsense) if I could take the Ford truck to the police department for my behind-the-wheel test, but he would hear none of it.

"There's nothing wrong with the Buick.  You just don't know how to drive it!  I never have a problem shifting it.   No daughter of mine is going to be seen driving a cop around town in a pickup truck.  Both of you women shift too fast, that's the problem.  Just go slow and it will work.  And for cryin' out loud, don't try to force the shifting lever inside the car, one of you two idiots are going to break it clean off and then what will we have?  A car without a shifting lever, that's what."

Ahem.  Ok, so I had to take the Buick to our local police department in the end, anyway.  Luckily, the examiner was an older gentleman who appeared to be on his last legs.  I don't know if he was dying from tuberculosis or was a ten pack a day smoker, but the poor man would give me a direction and then break out in the most horrendous coughing fit I had ever heard.

"At the corner, turn right, hack, hack, hack, ahargh, arrgh, aaaack...." and as he coughed and spluttered, he turned his head to direct his spasm out the open passenger window.  Which, turned out to be a mercy for me in more ways than one.  One of the rules of the DMV is that the car you appear with to take the test be in 'Good Operating Condition'.  Well, I knew I was going to flunk if the car wouldn't shift.  I had gone to the police station with the full expectation of being sent home a failure.  The official DMV examiners were only in our little town the first Wednesday of the month, since they came from bigger cities and traveled to and from the outlying areas as a courtesy to those of us who didn't venture so far from home.   

The examiner had me drive through a few residential streets in our little town of no stop lights and watched as carefully as he could, between coughing attacks, my form behind the wheel.  He had me stop on a hill and park and all was well, because I never had to put the car in third.  For the back streets we were on, the speed limit was just about right for first and second gear.  With any luck, I might pull this driver's test off without a hitch.  But then came the clincher.  I had to drive down Main Street and that entailed shifting up to third whether I wanted to or not.  So, here goes, we're in third gear and we're cruising back down to the police station.  Maybe he'll just have me park the car and that will be it!   I won't have to shift again if I do this just right and no traffic gets in my way.   We were within a block of the station when my hopes were dashed.

"At the next corner, please make a right-hand turn," my spasm-ridden examiner requested. 

Great.  Now I was going to have to shift from third into second.  I nodded imperceptibly and held my breath, signaled my intention, stepped in the clutch and raised the stick on the column from third up into second.  To my utter amazement, all the gears meshed correctly and we were now blissfully in second gear.  I could have kissed the car then and there.  But we weren't home free yet.  Looming ahead was the last stop sign of the trip.  The examiner told me to turn right again at the corner; I was going to have to go for low gear from second.  This shouldn't be a problem, low gear had never been an issue before.  And that's when it happened.  The Buick was stuck in second gear.  I knew it just by the way the gear shift felt in my hands.  Luckily, there was some traffic coming and I had to wait.  But how was I going to explain the fact we were going to be pulling out into traffic in second gear? 

I thought it was all over, time to 'fess up and admit the car is not roadworthy and neither am I.  But as fate would have it, at the very same moment I was debating whether to cry or break the gear shift off in a fit of despair, the examiner sailed off into a fit of coughing the likes of which has had no equal in my life ever since.  He was in agony.

And so was I.  While he was hacking out my passenger window, gasping for air and spluttering, I was wiggling that gearshift like a maniac, willing it to shift, just SHIFT one more time, you can do this!! and though I had felt the shifter bend in the middle, miraculously, it finally settled into low gear.  I was so stunned you could have knocked me over with a feather. Luckily, at the same time my transmission recovered, so did the examiner.  I was seriously worried about the good fellow.  Finally the traffic cleared,  I smoothly negotiated the turn and we pulled up to a triumphant stop back at the police station.

"I was going to ask you to parallel park," he said, 'But since you can handle a standard tranny, I don't think it's necessary.  You passed with flying colors.  Congratulations."  Before he could hear my profuse thank yous, he was off on another coughing fit and merely waved his clipboard at me to follow him into the building where I would pick up my license and my anxiously waiting mother.

And wouldn't you know it, on the way home, I had to stop just before the stop sign on Main Street to adjust the linkage before we could go home.  Just like Jimmy Stewart/George Bailey kissing that old loose knob on his staircase, I felt like smooching the old Buick right on Main Street.


Part Three when I can sit for awhile longer.

Middle-aged Women Don't Bounce Very Well: Part 1

I've been gone for a few days and oh, how I've missed blogging; boring you all with the mundane details of my day-to-day existence.  The reason for my absence is so embarrassing that I was just going to pretend I was busy with Christmas preparations, like cookies and decorations and wrapping presents and other holiday-esque things.  Well, I have been doing some of those things, but that's not the reason I haven't been blogging about my super-scintillating life.

I haven't been writing because I can't sit down.  And typing standing up is not my forte' either.  And sleep has been eluding me, too. 

Why can't I sit down or sleep, you may ask?  Well, there's a reason.  (And, you can rest assured,  there won't be any pictures in this post to protect the squeamish among us.)

It all started last weekend.  I was so excited.  We were invited to play cards at my friend Sharon's house.  But, I have to back up the truck one more time and tell you how I came to meet my dear friend, Sharon.

Way back in 1976, I was a senior in high school, and a very serious one at that.  I had no aspirations for my future other than secretarial work since I was a fair to middling hand at typing and also very proficient at Shorthand; which, by the way, after three years of classes, I have never used once and for the life of me, can't recall now. I actually spent some time looking at Gregg Shorthand online the other day and was saddened to find so much of it had vanished from my brain.  But anyway... 

Our Office Practice teacher, Miss Dolores H. was as serious a teacher as I was a student.  She was known sarcastically-affectionately as 'Dolly' behind her back and her students, all female, were known as Dolly's Girls.  Miss H. (ok, Dolly)  was adamant about the supreme importance of Shorthand.

"Always go into your future employer's office with at least one spare pen in case the one you are writing with malfunctions.  You do NOT want your employer to have to pause in his dictation of important company business because you are in need of a new writing instrument.   And, never leave the cap on the pen as the additional weight will slow you down.  It is my duty to prepare you girls for your careers after you have left my classroom, and I intend to turn out nothing but the finest product for your future employers."

Dolly was also a tad overboard about typing business letters perfectly.  One mistake on a typing assignment led to an automatic F.   I was so very cautious about typing then.  Remember Whiteout and correction tape?  How about those pencil-looking erasers with the little brush on the end meant to gently erode the mistake off the paper,but instead left a gaping hole if you pushed too hard?  I learned how to type on a standard typewriter, the kind you had to actually push the keys on, but then one year our school upgraded to the IBM Selectric typewriter and I was stunned.  What an invention!

But what can compare to today's marvels?  The Word Processor and it's hallowed Backspace key are on my list of the Top 100 Best Inventions Ever.  I've nearly worn the printed 'Back' part of the Backspace key clean off my keyboard after all these years. Yes, that's right, you read it here, I'm not the greatest typist anymore.

And Dolly was extremely serious about one thing, after three strict years of office practice classes, she was determined to help all of her Dolly's Girls obtain employment.  She loaded up her senior students on a bus and whisked us off to a very large insurance company in  the big city where we were given job interviews and aptitude tests.  It was a nerve-wracking day for me because I am a worrier by nature.  I barely slept the night before.

When I got off the bus with my fellow Girls, I looked around with dismay.  We were dropped off on a side street next to a (gasp) ten story tall office building.  This was the biggest building I had ever seen in my life, yes, I admit it! and I was petrified.  The smell coming off the pavement and through the sewer grating was nastier than anything I'd ever encountered in the barn.  I detested the fumes of diesel and gasoline, and the cars rushing by on the street scared me no end. What was I doing here, so far from my farm?  I felt claustrophobic in the little town I went to school in, which at that time, had a population under 3,000 and not one stoplight. 

I did rather badly in the interview (I was so scared!) and assumed I'd bombed on the tests (so much Math!)  and went home on the school bus with the rest of my classmates, confident I didn't have to worry.  There would be no job for me in this town.

Imagine my surprise when I got home from school about a week later and my mother, who was mixing bread, pointed with her elbow to an envelope lying on the table.  "It's for you, from the Insurance Company," she said in a hushed tone.

"Oh, well," I said, "I guess I might as well read my rejection letter."  I thought by saying that it would hurt less when I opened it, but it didn't help much.

It was indeed a Dear Karen letter.  "Thank you for seeking employment with our company.  At this time, we are not hiring, but will keep your name on file for future reference.  No further action is required of you.  Thank you for your interest in our company."

Yep, don't call us, we'll call you.  Ouch.

I really did feel blue after getting the rejection letter even though I didn't expect I was going to get the job.  There were more than a dozen of us who applied that day and none of them were hired, either.  I changed into my farm clothes and headed out to the tractor to get the feed bunk out of the cow yard and do the day's greenchopping.  Out in the alfalfa field on the 574, no one noticed the tears.  I don't know why I was bawling; the insurance company and the town it was in had intimidated me to my very core. Rejection hurts no matter what direction it comes from, though.  Still,  I much preferred the tractor seat and the fresh air.  By the time I had a load of hay for the cows, I was feeling pretty optimistic.  Who wants to work in a stuffy old office anyway?

So, imagine my surprise when two days after the rejection letter, the phone rang in my parent's kitchen on the Monday before I graduated high school.  It was 7AM and my folks were still out in the barn doing chores, so I picked up the phone and believe it or not, it was the big insurance company calling me to tell me I now had a job if I wanted it.

"I know this is rather short notice," the lady on the phone said, "but we have an opening in our Records Department and we are wondering if you could start work on Tuesday."


"Tuesday, as in tomorrow?" I croaked.


"Yes, as in tomorrow," she said.


"Well, I don't know if I can get out of school.  Um, I mean, I haven't graduated yet."

There was a pause.  "You haven't graduated yet?  Oh.  I see.  Well, when do you graduate?"

"On Sunday."

"All right.  Well, then we will expect you to start work on the following Monday."

"Um, well, that's Memorial Day...."

(Big Sigh on the other end.) "Oh yes, you are correct, the office will be closed.  Then we will see you in our office on Tuesday.  How does that sound?"

"Uh, well, great....I mean, yes, I'll be there. But could you tell me where I am to report?  And where do I park? And what time I should arrive?"

The patient lady from Employment filled me in on all the details rather vaguely.  I was to simply show up in the Employment office by 8AM on June 1, 1976.  And as far as where I should park, well, somewhere nearby, and they'd assign me a parking lot later that day.

"Thank you, Karen, and welcome to the Company.  Good bye."  Click.

I was standing with the phone in my hand, listening to the dial tone hum when I heard another noise.  The school bus pulling away from my driveway.  I had just gotten hired by a big insurance company and missed the bus for high school all in one morning.

Wow.  


Stay tuned for Part Deux.








 


 

Fertilizer Friday: December 9

Oh, boy, Fertilizer Friday again over at Tootsie's and nothing is blooming.  Or growing-- except for my anxiety.  And my ulcer. I have to get at Christmas preparations around here.  There's no putting this off any longer. I refuse to let the GADS get the upper hand.

I told Pudding we could no longer stare back wistfully at last summer.  (Yes, that's right, I talk to my dogs.  A lot.  And you only thought I was long-winded in writing?  Ah, no, you would be wrong.) 

She didn't want to hear such sad news. 

I said, "Pudding, I have to stop wandering around in the Back Eight with you and Teddy when I need to be baking, cleaning and sewing." 

No more peering around in the White Forest, examining next year's mulch supply.

"I know, you love this time together and so do I, and we are very lucky there's no snow yet."

"But, now, are you listening?  Pudding, do you realize Christmas is less than two weeks away?  Do you know how much work I have to do yet?  I'm not sure if we'll find the time to fit in our Walkies every day if I don't get some more work done around here.  And since both of us are losing our girlish figures, you won't be able to have as many treats as usual."

 "Ah, NOW I have your attention!"

"Your brother isn't as worried about all the fuss and frenzy as us girls are.  Teddy's sure it will all come together like it always does with no effort on his part.  But his coat is getting a little tight, too..."

What will happen if we run out of time for Walkies?  Hmmmmm.......maybe even Teddy will have to cut down on his treat consumption."

"Aha!  Now I have your attention, too, Teddy?  I know, I don't want to give up treats either, so we'll have to all work harder to get the Christmas preparations done."

"Let's head to the house and I'll finish up the silly tomato cage tree I was working on, ok?"

"Pudding, no lollygagging around, c'mon now, we have to hurry."

"Treat consumption is at stake. Let's run!"

"We can make up for lost time if we try!"

"Ok, guys, help me with this last tomato cage/tree, would you?"

"Is that the best tomato cage you could find?  Ok, it will have to do.  It would work better if it weren't so crooked, but if I had the time I could straighten it out.  I don't, so I won't."

 "Now, go find me some garland....oh, is this all we have left?  Ok, it's green, but it falls apart really easy.  Oh, well, let's start wrapping it around the cage:"

"Just tie an end to the cage and start walking in circles.  I'm really good at it."  (Walking in circles, that is.) 

"Ok, Teddy, so I ran out of one type of garland and had to switch to another type up near the top, but you get the general idea, right?  It's pathetic, I know, but it's supposed to look like those 'skinny trees' they sell at the big box stores, and if you squint your eyes and turn your head just the right way, you can kinda see it.  If you try REALLY hard.  Pudding, can you see the look I'm going for here?" 

"All the inventive people out there in Blogland could find fantastic things to make this look more appealing, of that I'm sure.  But this is me, and you dogs know how it goes around here.  Make do with whatcha got.  And what I got is a lot of Autumn Joy sedum flowers that tipped over in that first snowfall.  So I got out the red spray paint and changed them from brown to crimson a few days ago while you dogs were napping."

  

"Pudding, you may notice I left the stems of the sedums real long so I can just poke them through the garland and they'll be hidden inside the tomato cage."

'Just stick them here and there, all over the tree."

"And if you two can find any red bows lying around, we can use them, too.  Another thing I found out is the red spray paint works wonders for faded silk flowers and red bows, too.  I took the washed out-looking, tired flowers and bows and gave 'em a new coat of red.  So far, they're holding up really well."

 "Feel free to spray paint some dried hydrangeas, too.  We'll see how long they last in the weather."

"It's ok to leave some of the sedums their natural color and some of them red.  Just trying to mix it up a little.  What's that, Teddy, you wanna go in?  I know, it's getting really cold out.  Ok, let's take off your coat."

"Teddy!  Will you stop tearing your coat apart?  I know you think you look like a sissy in it, but sheesh.....

"You're gonna need it tomorrow."

"Pudding, what do you think?  Maybe if we hurry we can get it all done?"

"That's my Girl!"

"If we run as fast as we can,  maybe we'll both get our girlish figures back too."

Hey, us girls can dream.

Read 'Em All Tuesday: Deaf Dogs and Benevolent Gnomes

Today, being Tuesday (already?) it's time for Read 'Em All Tuesday again over at Tootsie's.  

Please allow me to introduce you to another of my favorite bloggers, John (aka El Gaucho) of a blog entitled: Deaf Dogs and Benevolent Gnomes.

How I came to find John's blog on the vast interwebs was serendipitous, like so many good things in life.  I usually read all comments at the end of other people's blog postings (yes, I'm nosy like that) and when I read one of John's comments, I found myself laughing out loud.  I had to find out more about this character, so I clicked on his name which led me to his blog.  There was no looking back, I was hooked. 

Here's his blog description:
'My attempts to move from California and create a happy and sustainable urban homestead in North Dakota, with some musings on life with deaf dogs, a gluten free girlfriend, and the occasional mischievous garden gnome.'
 
And here is John's introduction in his very own words, shamelessly pilfered from one of his early posts:


'I am John, son of John. I live in a house with one girlfriend, two very deaf dogs and two garden gnomes. The deaf dogs provide entertainment, solace, and a furry thing to pet. The garden gnomes inhabit the out of doors and not only watch over my humble abode, but scamper around late at night and become involved in some entertaining hijinks.'

El Gaucho has a fantastic sense of humor and wit.  Last night I told my friend Ann I was going to write about Deaf Dogs and Benevolent Gnomes for Tootsie's meme.  She was online at the time, too, and decided to search for John's blog while we were on the phone.  In a very short time I heard her chuckling, and I knew she'd found it.  That's just the reaction I have every time I read John's work, too.  

And here's another perk of reading El Gaucho's blog...in Ann's own words:

"Oh, that was funny!  He writes very well, doesn't he?  And his posts are really nice and short." 

Uh, yeah, Ann.  You're right.  John gets to the point rather quickly, or at least in under 4,502.3 words.  (Unlike me.  Ok, I can take a hint.)

You read me for War And Peace- length posts, but you can read John for pure enjoyment. 


And trust me, you won't doze off halfway through.

Please go and visit El Gaucho, you'll be glad you did!    

Fat Talk: Part 2

 I realize this is a long-winded diatribe, and again, I'm not blaming anyone for my present circumstances.  I am an adult and if I point a finger, there are four pointed right back at me.  Why I feel the need to write about all of this long-ago, far-away stuff,  I'm not sure, but by the time this series is over, I think it will make more sense.  Especially to me.  Hindsight is always 20/20.

I don't know what set him off.  Something. It was always something, and it didn't have to be a big something either.  He was grousing about the government, the powers that be, the weather, or some other thing which was not in his power to change.   He had just finished whacking a cow with his stool for daring to take a leak while he was trying to put a milker on her.  I thought his rage was spent on that activity, but I was wrong.  Right back to the grousing about the unchangeable, unfixable stuff in his life.

And then it happened.

I sighed.

"OH.......am I BOTHERING you??!" came the dangerously quiet question.

"N...n...n..o...o...o," I stammered.  I was emptying a milk pail for him at the time into the tote bucket we had parked in the alley on a cart.

"Well, if you are 'bothered' by something I said, why don't you just get the hell out of my sight?  You heard me, GET OUT."  This was delivered in a distinctly menacing tone, enough to make the hair stand up on the back of my neck.  I knew what he was capable of.

I held the milk pail aloft to hand it back to him but he ignored my gesture completely.  He shut down immediately, I was dead to him.  Oh, how I hated this.  He was officially not speaking to me now, and this would go on for days, indeed, even weeks, before he would thaw.

All because I sighed.

Why did I do it?  I berated myself, oh, how stupid could I be?  Didn't I know any better than this?  What was I thinking?  It was simply the innocent reaction to holding my breath for so long while he was beating the poor cow coupled with the hope he would now be over his anger that did me in.  I sighed because I thought it was over, but it was only just beginning.

Tears welled up in my eyes, traitorous things.  Nothing would set him off more than tears.  I tried to blink them away and stood there, looking down at the barn alley, willing myself to stop crying.

"Are you hard of hearing, too, or just plain dumb?  I said Get OUT!"

I blindly set the pail I was holding down on the cart and left then;  my feet barely touching the limed alley as I made my exit from the barn and his presence. My mother was milking a cow of her own on the other side of the alley and made no comment.  I knew there would be no word from her, she was as powerless as I was.  She knew it wouldn't pay to get in the middle of it.  There was no winning with him.  He was raging on about my disrespectful attitude now; well, at least I had given him something closer to home to holler about.  And there was definitely something he could do about me, so now he had a mission. 

I pushed open the door of the feed room and found myself out in the November night gasping for air as the sobs I had fought finally found release.  I found I'd been holding my breath as well as my tears for fear I'd say something else that would make it even worse.  I made sure to distance myself from the barn in case he'd catch me crying, but then thought the better of it.  He'd never look for me now so it didn't matter. There would be no more conversation between us for at least a week or two.  He had the Silent Treatment down to a science.  And I was his unwitting victim.

Not that we really ever had any conversations.  Mostly it was one-sided dialogues just like the one that had gotten me in so much trouble had been.  Him ranting about some perceived injustice, real or imagined, and me nodding in all the right places, strenuously agreeing, even when I didn't.  I often thought I was the model for those bobble-headed statues you sometimes see; my head was always either nodding up and down or to and fro, depending on the topic and his mood.

He loved to rag on my mother.  I don't know why.  Talk about setting a kid up to be two-faced.  He was always talking behind her back, she was lazy, she was slow, she was this, she was that.  She was such a big disappointment to him.  And so was my brother, thirteen years older than me who had left home when I was seven to enlist in the Viet Nam War.    We all let him down over and over again.  More than once he had grumbled, "All I have is two G-d women to work with."  Yes, all the neighbors had sons and more sons to help them farm, but all Dad had was Mom and me since my brother had left.    Two G-D women.  Yup, that was all.

Feeling ever more sorry for myself, I started to walk slowly down the frozen gravel driveway toward the house.  But then I stopped.  He had told me to get out.  Did that mean I was no longer welcome in the house, either?  I wasn't sure what to do.  My parents were still out in the barn and would be for another hour at least, but they would be coming in when chores were done.  And if I was in the house, would he order me out of there, too?   Somehow, I just couldn't bear the thought; so I headed off to the peace and relative serenity of the farm fields.

I walked along the frozen mud lane, finding immediate comfort in the darkness.  I was a failure in so many ways, apparently fatally flawed for life.  We had a rock pile up along our fence line about a quarter mile from home, the same one we still have today, and I went up there and sat down with a yet another big sigh.  I wasn't crying any more, but I was forlorn.  I could see the barn lights from my perch, and I knew Mom's work load would be doubled due to my insurrection.  She would have to take on my work, too, and she'd already put in a long, hard day. 

I had a pile of homework to do yet.  Back in the day I was a fairly good student, but in fact, I could have done much better had I tried harder.  I made the honor roll most of the time, even high honors, but found myself being disliked by other kids when my grades were too good, so I dumbed things down considerably. Better to be average and liked then too smart and annoying.  Just like at home, my goal in life was to please people and blend into the woodwork. 

I sat on the rock pile for a few hours until I could no longer feel my feet or hands.  It was a very cold night.  Every now and then something would rustle in the nearby woods.  Though I wasn't afraid of much of anything in the dark, unless it was on two legs, I was seriously starting to wonder where my living arrangements were going to be from now on.  I hadn't run away from home, I'd been banished. 

Sigh.  There, I did it again.....why did I sigh all the time? 

Finally I gave up and walked back home.  I stood outside the house for some time, observing my parents through the window.  My father was seated at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper and smoking his evening cigarette.  Mom was washing the supper dishes.  Dad spent a lot of time at the local bars which I didn't see as a problem, since it made him easier to live with.  I was hoping he would have left that night to go out, but of course, he didn't.  He was parked at the table and somehow or other, I had to get by him.

Mom and I often milked cows alone at night, and even though it was a hard work, we both preferred it that way.  We worked well together and life was much more pleasant.  I'd turn on the radio to my favorite rock station which Mom tolerated, and we would chat as we did the chores.  I could talk about my day at school and how I felt about things without being called a 'Chatty Kathy'. 

Dad didn't want to hear any talk that didn't interest him.  When I was in the sixth grade, we were in a bus accident on the way home from school.  The brakes on our bus went out; I had noticed as we were leaving the parking lot that the driver seemed to be having problems slowing down and was pumping the brakes frantically and talking to himself.  This was his first day on the route, and he was very nervous.  I noticed a person's demeanor much more than most kids my age because being aware of my surroundings at all times was imperative for survival. 

While the other kids on the bus were goofing around and talking, I realized we were in big trouble.   We were headed down the highway at about 35 mph when the bus in front of us put his red flashers on to make a stop.  Our rookie bus driver went for the brake pedal, but there was nothing there.  He pumped it once, twice, three times.  Still nothing, his foot went right to the floor.  I saw him go for the clutch and braced myself for the abrupt downshift to first gear.  He yelled, "Hang on!" as kids flew forward from the loss of momentum. 

The bus in front of us was stopped on the highway, letting kids off.  The children in the backseat were staring backward at our bus, flipping us off and cutting up, acting tough.  All of a sudden their expressions of taunting changed to terror as they realized we weren't stopping.  We plowed right into them going approximately 25 mph.

It was a nightmare and yes, it all happened so fast.  Kids went flying past me, some hit their heads on the metal bars on the back of the seats and bit through their lips, some were rolling on the floor in pain, it was a mess.  Since I had braced myself, I wasn't hurt too badly, but my left leg had been jammed under the steel seat with considerable force.  It wasn't broken, but it was swelling.  Luckily no one was killed.  The kids in the back seat of the bus in front of us had some broken bones.  An ambulance was dispatched and a cop showed up.  Eventually two more buses were brought out about an hour later to haul the not-so-terribly injured and I finally arrived home at 6PM, limping up the driveway.

Dad happened to be home that day.  They were seated at the supper table when I came in.  I thought it might be ok to share my adventure with Mom and Dad since this wasn't some stupid story about playing kickball at recess.  I mean, heck, I was involved in an accident!  This should be something I could tell him about, right? 

Wrong.

"That's why you're home so late?  Why did the driver keep going if he knew the brakes were out?  Sounds pretty stupid to me.  I've heard enough, I don't have time to sit and listen to you complain all day.   It's time to do chores."

He left for the barn.  End of  discussion.  Of course, I talked to Mom about it when he left the house, and she looked at my swollen leg with concern.  I changed my clothes and went out to the barn.  So much for my exciting experience.

Life went on like this for years, living with alternating sarcasm, silence, violence, and at times, praise.  Sometimes he seemed genuinely proud of me, and those times I cherished.  I was never sure what foot I was on, it was all so confusing.

 Until one night, when something changed in me.

  I had always helped my father chop hay for the cows at night with a machine called a green chopper.  My job would be to open the cow yard gate for him; a big, wooden structure and quite heavy, while he drove the tractor through to pick up the bunk feeder.  As the tractor went through, I would shut the long gate again to keep the cows from escaping and then run to the wagon to lift up the tongue and put the pin in place securing the wagon to the tractor.  Then I would run to the gate one more time, open it, wait for the tractor and wagon to pass by, and shut the gate one more time.  In this way, I saved my father having to climb off the tractor a half dozen times.  Usually he'd wait for me to hop on the tractor with him and we would proceed to the field where I would pull the pin releasing the wagon from the tractor for him.  Then he would back the tractor up to the green chopper and I would once again put another pin in to join the two together.  He stayed on the tractor while I hooked up the PTO shaft and lowered the jack that held the chopper up when it wasn't attached to the tractor.  After I had the chopper hooked up, he would back up to the wagon and I would once again hold the tongue and put the pin in place.  Now we were ready to chop hay.

As soon as the load was full, all of the above steps were reversed one more time and we came back home with the load of hay in tow.  I didn't mind this routine; in fact I enjoyed all field work of any kind, anything to do with a tractor was a delight for me.  As long as Dad was happy, I was happy.

What I hated about this job was when he waited to chop hay until after dark, after he got home from the tavern.  He didn't want the neighbors to know we were working late at night, so we couldn't use any headlights.  After the dew falls, the hay would be wet and as you may know, mowing your lawn doesn't work too well when it's damp, and neither does chopping hay.  The blower would get plugged up and he'd keep going until the drive belts were smoking before he'd shut down the power.  Then it would take us an hour or more to pull the wet and sloppy chopped hay out of the machine.  Sometimes he'd command me to stick my hand in the blower while the machine was running to clear the chute.  It's amazing I have both my hands yet.  I can still feel the breeze from the steel paddles rushing by.  Just a tad lower and I wouldn't have a hand to worry about.  I was lucky.

As I got older I started to see things in a clearer light.  I knew this routine was ridiculous.  One night he came home from the bar three sheets to the wind and though he wasn't talking to me again, I dutifully went out to help him like I always did, opened the gate, shut the gate, and went to the wagon to hold up the pole.  Instead of backing up slowly as he usually did, he came back at a high rate of speed, and just like those kids on the bus, I realized he wasn't going to stop.  I aimed the wagon pole for the back tire of the tractor and when the two collided, I went flying backward with the wagon, sliding for a good ten feet through cow manure and mud.  Even though it was dark out, I heard him laughing hysterically as I got back on my feet.

I was covered in crap. 

And he was laughing. 

Something snapped in me.  I walked to the gate, crawled over the fence and kept going. 

This was the last time I was going to put myself in danger to help him.  He was on his own that night.

I felt justified being disobedient.  Some time before this, Mom and I had made plans to go to a movie in our little town on a Sunday night.  The movie theater was tiny and it was only showing old films by that time, but there was a 'nature film' Mom wanted to see and she decided we were going to go for a treat.  We milked cows that night as fast as we could, starting early so we'd be on time for the curtain rising.   Mom asked Dad if he wanted to come along, and at first he entertained the thought, but as the days went by he was against it.  Why would we want to see a dumb movie?  But it was in color, and we only had a black and white TV.  How I looked forward to this day.  As chores drew to a close, Dad wasn't speaking to either of us.

Nevertheless. we raced to the house, cleaned up, got in the Buick and headed for town.  The movie was really good, I don't remember much about it, but it was in color and I was with Mom.  The seats were red velvet and so were the curtains.  Everything was was so exotic.    Afterward we stopped at a restaurant for a chocolate malt.  Gosh, that was fun. 

Until we got home.

Upon our arrival back at the farm at around 10PM, the house was dark.  And the doors were locked. We only had one house key in those days, in Dad's possession.  His truck was home, so he must be, too.  Now what?  Mom tried knocking on the door, and when that didn't work, she pounded on the kitchen window and then the bedroom window.  No response.  We stood there, looking at each other.  We were being punished for having fun.

Not to be outsmarted, Mom pried open a side window and since 'fat' eleven year old me wasn't all that fat, I squeezed through the tiny opening and opened the door from inside the house.  There.  We'd made it in.  Dad was sitting in the living room in the dark in creepy silence.  I quickly changed into my pajamas and ran upstairs to bed.  I felt guilty, but I didn't know why. 

Knocking me down in the cow yard was the last straw.  I finally came to realize my safety, heck, my life and well-being was now in my hands.  I'd grown up enough to know my father wasn't well.  And what was I going to do about it?   I took on the hay chopping and any other chores I could handle by myself.  I was thirteen years old and Mom was terrified. 

"I don't know if a girl should be doing this alone," she said from her perch on the tractor fender the first day of my emancipation.  "What if something goes wrong?  I don't want you to get hurt."

"Don't worry, Mom, I'm safer doing this alone than I am working with him," I replied.

Mom went along with me the first time out of parental concern, but she relaxed when she realized I knew what I was doing.

When Dad came home from the bar that night, he told me it was time to chop the hay. 

I was washing the udder of a cow when I answered, "It's already done."

"What do you mean, 'it's already done'?  Who did it?"

"I did."

"What did you chop?  Was it hay?  Or did you run into the oats?"

"It was hay."

"I can't wait to see what the field looks like in the morning.  I bet you were all over the place," he taunted.

I said nothing.  The next morning dawned and he didn't say a word about my performance.
I handled the evening green chopping by myself for the next seven years. 

But the night he kicked me out of the barn had come long before my emancipation proclamation.  I was much younger then, and had no choice but to slink into the house as quietly as possible and see what would happen.  When I got to the top of the kitchen stairs I took a deep breath and quietly walked in.  The newspaper he was sitting behind never moved.  I changed my clothes in the bathroom and went past him up to bed.  I would usually kiss him goodnight on his forehead, but I wasn't going to tempt fate. 

Climbing into my bed, I breathed a huge sigh of relief. 

There I go, again.  Sighing.