Houses of the three Ogletree Girls

My mother and her four siblings grew up in this house "out in the country" amid peach and pecan orchards. They rode the "big yellow school bus" to school in Perry, Georgia.  On Sundays they drove into town to Perry Methodist Church.  Here's Carlene on our last road trip together before COVID:

Mimi's and Papa's funerals were here, seven years apart, Mildred and Earl Ogletree. They rarely missed a Sunday in their pew for seventy years! 

Once as a little girl, I was said to have talked too much and Mimi offered to take me outside.  "I stay to church with Papa," I replied. 

In their farming years, Mimi churned butter, gathered eggs, washed clothes in a bucket then hung them on a line, and made all the clothes for herself and her five children. 

***

Listening to Carlene and Dot talking on the phone is, as it was when we were kids, hilarious--even if the eavesdropper doesn't have a clue what they're laughing about.  

I remember them sitting on the floor together in Dot's kitchen "antiquing" furniture with green paint and stains.  They laughed so hard all us kids went running to see what it was about, but our five or six faces only made them laugh harder. 

Dot, sorting afghans to give to her girls.
atop a handmade quilt in blues.

Recently, Dot chose to move to an Assisted Living Facility.  She's a lively and healthy almost-92, needs no assistance. But when her husband went into a nursing home, she decided that it was time to simplify her possessions and move to a smaller place.  

All four of her daughters live within driving distance, and she's happy there. 

***

We all remember Mimi standing at the stove, making lunch or dinner for all of us--fried chicken, potato salad, butter beans, cornbread in a cast iron skillet.  I barely remember the original farm house, but I'd love to time travel back there, to compare it with my early memories.

"You sure are pretty, Susie," Papa told her every day.  

Here's Mimi cooking one of many big meals 
for us all--in her nineties

***

Betty, Bob and I standing in front of our house-under-construction
on Ann Street in Cochran. 
Bob was smoking a pipe in those days. 

 

 A couple of years later, 1957, we're having supper
in the knotty pine kitchen, drinking iced tea,
pork chops, squash, and potatoes in plates
on a white table cloth

***

         The houses and handiwork of the women of my family are inseparably connected to who each of them are in my mind, makers of home and meals, whose fingers guided yards and yards of fabric under the needles of their sewing machines.  Women who crocheted miles of yarn to make afghans.  Women who refinished and reupholstered furniture, who shelled butter beans and fried fish straight from the pond.  

         

Helotes Cowgirl Shines in State 4H competition

Headlines compliments of Elena' grandmother, of course--and I wasn't even there.  

This was Elena's first time to compete on a state level and she aced it.  Two weeks ago in a barrel race, with her Virginia family and me there to see, she knocked over a barrel and her time didn't count.  Did that bother her?  As usual, she came out smiling as if she'd won the event.  That's her way, happy girl. 

She's adjusting to  a new horse this year, her mom's, and Yancy is way faster than Junior was.  After lots of practice, she seems to have gotten all the parts working together, hers and Yancy's. The 4H competition involved 53 high school and middle school girls and she's among the top competitors, so she'll go to finals.  That's all I know for sure. They will be back Thursday and I'll get more details.

This girl is pure sunshine, on and off the horse. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.  

Yenna

Pieces of the American Dream

The women in my family prized their hutch cabinets, the lower cabinet for storage, the upper shelves for display.

According to my sources (aka Google), hutch cabinets date back to the Middle Ages!  Who knew?

I recently sold my late-18th-century hutch to newlyweds who loved it.  But for me, it didn't work.  The shelves spaced too close together for dinner plates was its main deficit.

The day after it left for its new home, I bought this one, much more to my liking: 

Before most families had built in kitchen cabinetry, there were many variations of hutches and china cabinets.  A modest farm house like my grandmother's (before they built the brick house in town) relied on various cabinets, built most often by the "menfolk" to serve specific cooking needs. 

Wealthier people had china cabinets in formal dining rooms, but for Mimi and Papa everything in my earliest memories happened in the kitchen.  Getting an actual dining room with a table to accommodate ten, along with a china cabinet for her blue dishes--was a big deal. 

Nostalgia drives us women of the 21st century to buy cast iron cookware, kitchen utensils, dishes and bowls that remind us of what our grandmothers were all too happy to replace with newer models. You can't shop for more than a few minutes in an antiques store or thrift shop without hearing someone say, "This is just like the one Grandma had!"  As children we weren't particularly interested in the furniture; what we remember are the dishes filled with delicious fried chicken (way tinier than chickens of today), butter beans seasoned with ham hock, mashed potatoes, coconut pies, and pound cakes topped with cream and strawberries.

What we are buying when we buy things "like Grandma's" are memories of the aromas and happy conversations around the table. No frozen meals, no microwaves, no eating at separate times, those years were homemade food, everyone eating together, three times every day. 

During the months our brick house was being built, mid-fifties, Bob and I traipsed all over Macon with our furniture-shopping parents, "bored to death" we probably said.   Like so many young couples a few years past the war, babies, and college, our parents were intent on creating a beautiful house in a pretty neighborhood.  They wanted proximity to other kids, safe streets, woods to wander in. 

Our house on Ann Street had a picture window, shutters, three bedrooms, flower beds, and  two bathrooms.    Our one car (rarely anyone we knew had two) was parked in the carport, usually a blue car, usually a Pontiac.

The American dream of the 1950s meant searching for hours to find the pieces that fleshed out the "homey" pictures in their imaginations. Flowery wall papers, modern appliances, pastel colors. The reward, for Bob and me, was s trip to Woolworth's (we each had a whole dollar to spend) and coke floats at the soda fountain.  

Hands down, Carlene's prize find was her long awaited cherry hutch. She can't recall how much they paid for it, but for some reason, $400 sticks in my mind--a seeming fortune in the mid-fifties. Papa gave us a dining table and chairs and soon we were able to afford a stereo and a few records.  

As we were talking about hutches yesterday, Carlene said, "I still think it's the prettiest piece of furniture in the house. I hope someday someone will enjoy it for another fifty years." 

 

Brutal Texas Summer 2023

 This must be the hottest summer on the planet ever! 

Even though the Spelling Bee folks at NYT proclaim me a "genius" (I love that game!) I am not. At 4:00 today, after a nap, I did something stupid.

I got in the car thinking I'd go get a foot massage and pedicure.  The temperature gauge on my car said 114, but it soon cooled off to 112 since Jackson changed my AC filter.  By the time I got to the salon it was 110 and I was feeling queasy and a tad nauseated, so I came home in my same old feet, no polish, no massage.  Walking on pavement, even in shoes, is intolerable. 

The heat rises in brutal waves to meet you and wraps around your skin.   News reports people going to burn centers after falls--needing skin grafts and surgery.  Pet's feet are scorched.  I carry Luci if we go anywhere after 10:00 when it's triple digits.  But we hardly leave the house after ten.  Today's foray was a reminder why.

We're all so lethargic and heat-averse that friends rarely visit each other.  

I have decided to spend next summer in a cooler climate.  Now, that's a genius idea!  

Play Like

In a regional dictionary of child-speak in the South (if such a book existed), the word "plike" would be over a hundred years old. My friends and I used it, as did my mama, as did--most likely--my mama's mama, Mimi. So far, it has not turned up in any of The New York Times word games I do every morning.

"Plike" is a blend of play and like--a hurried version of "play like" a synonym of "pretend."

Kids in some regions of the country might say, "Let's pretend you're the girl and I'm the monster. You think I'm a good guy, but if I drink a sip of this soda, I turn into a monster who could make a meal of you." 

My child self would say, "Plike you're the girl and I'm the monster?  You think I'm good, but if I drink some of this Coke, you can tell I'm fixing to eat you up." 

The first sentence of a story's set-up always ends with a question mark. "Plike we're in high school and we're the girls and this telephone pole here is Johnny Mullis? And we're kissing him?" 

Thus begins the improv. 

I remember those days of Pretend when  I watch Luci run at top speed, growling at her imaginary prey in the back yard.  After she's done pouncing, she checks out the whole yard for  intruders.

I always rattle the door a bit, just in case said intruder might be real and bigger than Luci. Meanwhile, she's scratching at the door begging me to just open it already!

Last week I saw a possum (opossum in the dictionary) right at the back door eating a snack Luci had refused.  I made enough noise that the possum would finish up before Luci bounded through the door. When the light comes on, possum turns and disappears into the bushes.  

Once Luci's assured herself that there is no real danger, she returns with a souvenir of her fantasy chase:  "Plike I'm a vicious big dog who can rip a fox to shreds?" 

Last night it was a piece of stale pound cake I'd tossed out for the birds. Luci doesn't care for sweets, but as point girl in her imaginary combat, it's a prize to hide somewhere in the house, usually under the covers of the bed. 

If she gets a burger patty, it's as if it's too good to eat today--so she promptly digs a hole and buries it, retrieving it a few days later.

If one night there is a real threat, I wouldn't be surprised if Luci high-tailed it back inside and morphed back into her calm little self.  But for a few minutes after dark, she gets to go wild--which looks like a whole lot more fun  than kissing a telephone pole. 

It will take me a while to find words again--as we nine have been playing charades and cards, eating out, and talking nonstop.  They left today for Helotes--a teary parting as always.  

What a wonderful thing to have messy house and lots of noise after long stretches of silence. Luci doesn't talk much.

Thursday and Friday

Elena, Will, Bonnie and I picked up the Leary crew at the airport Thursday night and we went to Brava Braza for dinner.  Came home afterwards for Elena to try on the top Janet made for her and she loves--

Today Nathan joined us in his new jeep: 

After breakfast Freda took the whole family (except me) to the pool for a long swim.

I'd bought an old fashioned ice cream freezer, so Elena made ice cream today and Will did the ice and salt, taking Will and Day and me all the way back to our Cochran summers.

We finished off the day with dinner at Sancho's and cards.  Tomorrow we'll do thrift shops, Hummingbird Handprints, then the rodeo in Floresville. 

Many Selves in One Person

On Sunday I visited  two of my favorite long-married couples, late seventies, early 80s.  It was wonderful to spend an hour, first with one couple, then the other, in their houses. I've loved these four friends for half a century, give or take a few years.  

We talked about regrets.  Septuagenarians and octogenarians have plenty, but we rarely talk about them. We've reached an age when it's freeing to say what was once un-sayable. 

When I've done things I regret, I think, "That was not me!" But it was.  It was just a part of me doing what the part I like better disapproves of. 

We talked about whether we remember most the wrongs we've done, or the wrongs done to us--a fascinating question, I think. 

Spontaneously, in a light-filled room filled with plants and art, we each shared actions of our former selves that still, after decades, make us cringe with guilt, remorse, or regret.  I won't list them here.

The older we get, the more selves are packed into each other, like the various sizes of wooden Russian dolls nested inside the largest one.  Inside the 80 year old are all the selves the elder self has ever been. 

Being with friends who go back so far is a great pleasure.  We know not only each other as we are today, but former versions, as well as stories we've shared that go even further back.  

Conversations are wide, deep,  layered--what (and who) we've loved and lost, our passions and plans. 

A party of two or three expands to way more. Out comes the 40-year-old professor, the shy seven-year-old, and a whole birthday party of goofy sweet brilliant befuddled former selves.  We say odd things like "twenty or thirty years ago"--not particularly interested in specific dates.

Sometimes "this self" fell in love with another person and somebody outgrows or out-loves the other until one decides to travel solo.  Some pairs grow old together, happy.  It's all part of what my friend Mary Locke calls "Life's Rich Pageant." 

So here we are, old, without some of our original parts (knees, hips, uteruses, and shoulders), some without our original partners.  Every day we grow more transparent and real. Nobody ever told us this stage of life could be so interesting. 

Grantchester Season 8

Over the years, I've probably watched several seasons of Masterpiece's Grantchester.  Last night I stayed up until 3:00 watching the 8th and final season.

Geordie, a police inspector in Oxfordshire, befriends the local vicar, Will--enjoys hanging out with Geordie as he questions suspects and helps solve crimes. 

This show is so PBS, so good-hearted, so proper, most episodes ending with a sermon. 

Like the characters in Call the Midwife, those in Grantchester are good souls. Except perhaps the murderers. Not all stories have happy endings.  

"He's in the frame" is what detectives say as they are narrowing down suspects.  Together, vicar and detective do a lot of sleuthing to find out exactly which suspect remains in the frame and goes to jail.  

But beyond the murders and detective work, this series appeals to me because the main characters are diverse people who care for each other and go the proverbial extra mile to help each other out: the detective and his wife; two men who, seasons ago, shocked the church-goers for being gay and who by later seasons are beloved by all; the townspeople. 

Everybody messes up from time to time. When they do, they apologize and make amends.  "I wasn't myself and I'm so so sorry," they say.  "What can I do now to help?" 

In Season 8, Will goes through a crisis of his faith, a dark night of the soul. While he's always been a guide and protector for the people in his parish, the tables are turned in season 8 as they rally around him and help him through his suffering.

I love watching a depiction of a social order based on truth-telling, forgiveness, and kindness.  I will miss it now that all 8 seasons have come to a close.   

Survival Guide if you live in Texas

1. Get up early.  Anything you HAVE to do should be done before 9 a.m.

2. The rest of the day should be spent reading anything that remotely interests you,  watching murder mysteries, like the new season of Grantchester, on PBS, doing jigsaw puzzles, drinking lots of cold tea or water with lemon.

3. Do The New York Times word games--I love spelling bee and Wordle and the easy crosswords on Monday and Tuesday.  

4. Take a nap anytime you like.  For as long as you like.  Put a "napping" sign on the door if you don't want to be disturbed. Turn off the phone.  Enjoy a happy mid-day sleep. 

5. Plan your getaway for next summer.  

6. Be thankful for every single little body part that still works.  If you can't dance, enjoy watching those who do it better than you used to.   If you can't lift weights, use your arms to hug people, deliver food, play with an animal. If it's too hot to walk, take a drive and explore something new. And do your best to keep your working parts working as long as you can.

How It Used to Be; How it is now

In my entire childhood, I rarely saw a dog inside a human house.  My daddy's mama (Mama Jim) had a penchant for pekingese puppies.  Bob says our Chattanooga cousins had a dog named Doc. But most people, if they had dogs, kept them outside.

Our daddy had a birddog named Dart.  I remember throwing him table scraps from time to time, but Bob said we also bought bags of Jim Dandy dog food at Piggly Wiggly. I barely remember him at all except that he sometimes got doctored by our dad with some purple medicine. 

We didn't play with dogs or notice their idiosyncrasies. 

Once we took Mama Jim a litter of pekingese puppies someone must have given us.  We drove six hours with those stinky dogs and Daddy said (probably teasing) not to "rub them too hard on their heads or their eyes would pop out."  I took everything literally in those days and avoided touching them for fear of making their eyes pop out right there in the Pontiac. 

My first Inside/Outside/Everywhere Dog was the one we sold wedding silver to buy--a German Shepherd named Tony.  When thunder or fireworks disturbed the quiet he preferred he jumped in the bed with us and trembled until it stopped. 

We lived in the country on seven acres, a long driveway to Scenic Loop.  People often abandoned dogs on the highway and we took in those who found their way to our house.  Overlapping Tony and always, we had two or three dogs at a time and loved them all, some more than others. 

We got them rabies shots, but we never did annual checkups.  None ever needed surgery or special medicine.  Almost every one met his end under tires when they were old. 

Even Ivan, our last dog (an abandoned and wonderfully smart red heeler) lived nineteen years. His only medical emergency in his middle years: his taut little body studded with 20 or so porcupine quills. Tony had two: a poisoning and a rattle snake bite. 

Today:

I feed Luci the best dog food, Dr. Marty's.  Poor girl gets no chocolate or bones.  (Former dogs salivated euphorically as they chewed steak or pork chop bones for hours.) 

We dote on our dogs.  Heartworm and tick and flea pills every month. Balls and toys scattered all over the place.  Occasional bites of real meat.  Salmon treats. 

Each has his or her unique personality, emotions, and quirks.  We "socialize" them.  We give them "sensory" stimulation.  We're the center of their worlds, and that's mutual. 

A man told me once, "I'll never marry again unless I meet a woman who meets me at the door with as much joy as my dog does."

It's been years, but I doubt very much he's ever met a woman who loves him as much as his dog did.  Am I being cynical just because I've never had a man meet me with such effusive joy as Luci does? Dogs make their people feel like rock stars!

July 5

Our 16-year-old Nathan is in love with Japan, said he wants to live there!

The rest of the family enjoyed Japan very much but are not planning a move to Asia.  It was so much fun to pick them up while their memories are still fresh and hear their perceptions about Japanese culture.  

I was visiting with a friend this morning and my feet were acting up as they have been since the cortisone shot wore off.  I was hoping acupuncture would be the solution, but so far, it doesn't seem to be.  

I kicked off my shoes and Luci began intently licking my feet exactly where they hurt for about 15 to 20 minutes without pausing.  She does this at least once a day, so I didn't comment on it.

"That's unbelievable!" my friend said.  "I never would have believed this if I hadn't seen it!" 

Every dog lover knows that each dog has his or her own gifts.  We had a German Shepherd years ago that was particularly attentive to my being upset.  He would come and sit beside me and put his head or paws in my lap.

Luci is a healing dog.  That's her self-assigned job. 

Treasures

Today Carlos, who now lives across the street, my new handyman, finished painting my bathroom and hanging stuff.  When he's not working at his real job, as a chef at a new restaurant in Southtown, he's available for handy-manning if you're looking for a yard man, hanger, or fixer. 

While he was painting I went for a haircut and found treasures at Goodwill.  Here are four:

Clear bud vases for the carnations Joy brought me last week.  These flowers are wonderfully long-lasting, as fresh as they were when she first brought them. 

Luci was met by her human pals at Shag The Salon.  To the question, "What kind of dog is she?" I replied, "A wanna-be Corgi." 

David said, "Yeah, an anorexic Corgi." 

Tonight, L'Indy (Linda from Indiana) invited Jan, Pam and me to come over for snacks and a game of RummiCube.  It turned out to be more than snacks--four delicious courses of finger foods, dips, dumplings and bacon-wrapped scallops.  I happened to win the game 👍 and L'indy brought out a wrapped winner's prize and two runner up prizes!  I hope I remember to post my prize tomorrow cause it's super cool! 

L'Indy and Jan in the kitchen: 

Pam and Silly Jan: 

Friendships, fun, and good food are priceless treasures!