Gold Star

We often hear of Gold Star families. As far as I know that is a fairly new term.

My brother was killed in Vietnam in 1970. He would have been 21 years old if he had lived until his birthday later in the year... just a baby.

There have been so many young people lost to the vulgarism of war.   Wars are usually caused by leaders who want to feel power. Then at least one other leader has to retaliate.

Young people who are trained to fight are sent. Some will be killed, some will be injured, most will have their souls scarred by what they see.

We hear about the warriors. They should be remembered.

But what about their families, friends, and fellow fighters?

My mother was at home and alone when the officers came to tell her. To their credit they stayed with her until my father could get home from his job. Their child was dead.

I was going on vacation with my family. I had long felt that we would be called home for his funeral. I was with my sisters all day because I was leaving that night. 

Daddy met our car to tell us what happened. I rushed into the house to see if Mom needed a doctor or anything. My youngest sister and youngest brother were sitting on the couch in total shock looking lost. 

Mom was nowhere to be seen. She must have taken to her bed.

I took my two very small boys outside so they would not bother anyone. I sat on the steps alone until my husband arrived.

I told him what happened. He was in total disbelief. They were good friends. We took the boys into the house. 

Mom was on the couch between my brother and sister. She wanted to know why I had not said anything to her when I was inside before. I am telling you I did not see her. Maybe I just could not stand to see her cry.

She asked if I would call extended family members for her. Of course.

This tragedy was the only time I had ever seen Daddy cry. He was terribly proud. He was excruciatingly hurt. The officers were there to help us with whatever they could. 

We asked for a military funeral. It was done. They did all the planning. Some of my brother's friends would be pallbearers.

My brother had one friend who went and immediately tried to sign up for military service when my brother was drafted. He just knew he would be there to protect his friend.

He was rejected because he was severely overweight. Immediately he set about losing at least two hundred pounds. As soon as he did he enlisted with the whole purpose of going to Viet Nam to protect his friend.

He was still in Basic Training. The officers informed us that the Army did not release anyone from their training. But they would try. He was a pallbearer. It was a comfort to us.

These are some of so many examples. So many people were affected by my brother's death. My youngest brother was too young to fully comprehend what was happening.

About a year later there was a ceremony to present medals to several of the soldiers from the city who had lost their lives. In a photo taken for the newspaper we all looked like zombies. It is not something you get over.

Needless to say I hate war. There has to be a better way to deal with disagreements.

Skipping School

When I was a senior in high school I developed a rebellious stage. I had always been a very good girl. I was a follower of all the rules.

I still followed my parents' rules. I never rebelled too much.

A couple of friends and I began to skip school.

My grades were good so occasionally missing classes did not hurt my grades.

Often we just went to the house of the girl whose parents both worked. We made pizza and watched TV.

Sometimes we went downtown. Because we were afraid of getting caught we were careful where we went.

One of our favorite places was the courthouse. We reasoned that no one would find us there. We were right.

It was not an exciting place to be. Still we felt so daring.

One time as we walked out of the building I looked up at the bright sky One of the pigeons who lived somewhere up in the outer building did what birds do.

The gigantic sized bird poop hit me right between the eyes.

I have to tell you it felt like someone had thrown a chunk of cement. I had to go back inside to clean my face. How embarrassing.

Measure Your Face

 When I was a young girl every girl was to have one goal in life. Catch a man, marry the man, and have children. My parents did not emphasize anything so silly but we were taught that concept in school.

Glamor magazines and women's magazines told us how to make ourselves more attractive so men would notice us and of course they would be interested if we looked good enough. There were so many beauty tips and instructions on how to act so that men would be interested.

Of course all of this instruction included the fact that men had very fragile egos. A female should not be too smart or the male would be intimidated by her. A female should be demur. If she was too forward or confident it would scare the male.

When I was in the 7th grade we were required to take a home economics course for a semester. This class was packed with all the things needed to turn us into well-rounded young "ladies".

We learned to make a cake from scratch. I had been doing that for my whole life so it was boring. We made a magnificent apron. If I ever decide to sew I would make another because it was an apron that was useful. It even covered the sides of the body. If the cook absent-mindedly wiped her hands (and of course it would be a her) down the sides of her body the apron actually covered the necessary area.

We made a skirt. Mine was a dismal mess. One side was about 6 inches above my knee while the other was about 3 inches above my foot. It was terrible. It was a pretty color though and my mother was able to make something from the material later.

We learned to dry and arrange flowers to make a comfortable home for our man. We learned to properly set a table and serve a meal. Serve from the left, remove from the right. That is how to place a dish in front of the person. Is that not a helpful thing to know?

We learned how to behave on an outing with a man. Listen attentively and always look at him when he speaks. Of course you must not be too forward. Always defer to his wishes. And men like to be considered the protector so you must seem rather helpless. Poor fragile men.

An important thing to know was to change your underwear daily because we were told men have a more developed sense of smell. We must not offend.

Cleanliness is next to something that will be important to that man. We even had to learn to wash our hair. One of the girls had an expensive sweater on that day so she removed it to keep from ruining it. That happened to be the day the janitor walked into the room unannounced. She screamed a lot.

It seemed to me that by the time we were 12 years old we should already know how to do all those things (with the exception of drying and arranging flowers). I thought it was a frivolous class.

But the class was required. There was one thing that I learned there that was fun and funny. It is how to measure your face.

We were told that this was the measure of beauty. It was used to determine if a model had a photogenic face. I hope you try it. It is fun and seems to work quite well.

First you hold your hand up with fingers open. Move your thumb next to your forefinger. It should reach ever so slightly into the first segment of your pointer finger. This is your measuring tool.

From the earlobe to the top of your ear should be as long as the distance from the end of your thumb to the end of your forefinger. Did you try it? Amazing isn't it?

From one corner of your mouth to the other should be the same length. The bottom of your nose to the spot between your eyes is the same. Each eye should be the same from corner to corner. From your eyebrow to the hairline (your forehead) will also be the same.

But the most important measurement is that your face from the side hairline to the other side hairline while going across your eyes should be exactly five units of measurement.

Now I know that models are not supposed to be full-faced these days. That was a long time ago. But how well do you match up to the beauty standard of those days? It was truly important if you wanted to catch that man.

Hidden Treasure

I hate doing dishes. I mean I really hate doing dishes.

My family built a new house when I was 15 years old. Once it was built we settled into our normal routines.

My sister and I did the dishes. I convinced Mom to let me do the weekly laundry for a family of nine on Saturdays. On Saturdays I did not have to do dishes. And remember (this included diapers) all were washed in a wringer washer and hung on a line to dry.

Monday was the day to iron all those clothes. I happily did that instead of dishes on Monday.

When I did have to wash dishes I started with lots of bubbles in hot water. Glasses and cups were first to be cleaned. For a few minutes I had fun with the bubbles. Bowls, plates, and saucers came next. I lost interest quickly. By the time the dirty pots and pans came wanting a bath I no longer wanted to be there.

I often tried to hide them so I did not have to wash them. Mom always found the dirty skillet in the oven or the sticky pan in the cupboard behind the bag of flour.

One item she never found was one dirty cookie sheet. There was just enough room in the basement under the furnace.

If new owners have not needed to replace the furnace it is still there.

That was more than 60 years ago. I often wonder about that cookie sheet.

Something Weird

I know what purple tastes like.

I know. That is a strange statement. I will explain if I can.

I love flowers. All those colors make me happy. 

My mother also loved flowers. She insisted that a large portion on every garden we ever had be devoted to flowers.

I love the pretty orange of marigolds. I do not like their smell.

Apple blossoms fill the air with such a beautiful sweet smell.

Violets are delicate little purple flowers that bloom shortly after the bright yellow dandelions.

The bright red of cockscomb is stunning.

None of these flowers project a flavor.

Gladiolus are flowers that grow from bulbs. They come in vibrant colors from all across the spectrum and they are all gorgeous.

The purple gladiola is a deep deep purple color. Their fragrance is extremely strong. 

Our sense of taste is usually combined with our sense of smell. Did you know that? Of course you do.

I have never eaten a flower. Except for sheep shower which. tastes like dill.

Purple tastes like purple gladiolas smell. Why no other color tastes like a particular flower I cannot tell you. I only know the taste of purple.

Emotional Vampires

Have you ever known a person who is always in a negative mood? Maybe they are permanently angry. Maybe they are a constant victim. Maybe they are always depressed.

No matter the cause of their negativity they are so willing to share it. They can make everyone around them feel terrible. They feel no better but the people around them carry that exhausted feeling for a long time.

I am not talking about someone who just got bad news and has not had time to deal with it. And someone with a condition they cannot completely control such as clinical depression. At times like that most people are happy to help.

But there are those who are not happy until they have made everyone around them as miserable as they are. And even then they are not happy. So they move on to make someone else share their pain.

Now I am a disgustingly happy person. I have had a wonderful life. I am content. 

I sincerely offer help or a shoulder to cry on if needed. I can afford to be helpful because I have such a good life.

My sister calls the doom and gloom people emotional vampires. I am terrified of vampires. I refuse to suffer for them. 

Do you know any emotional vampires? How do you deal with them?

 

A Dime For Your Thoughts

 I always left my coins on a table. It was simple to take them at the end of the day and just lay them there. 

Nobody bothered them. After a while I would roll them up and take them to the bank. It was almost like found money.

As my children got a little older they were sometimes home alone after school until I got home from work. The money on the table was for them to run to the store for a snack.

It made me crazy that they would not touch the money. 

Then I began having grandchildren. What a wonderfully unique feeling that is.

My grandchildren did not bother the money either. But occasionally a spare coin would try to escape and end up on the floor.

For some odd reason my second granddaughter was eagle-eyed. Even though she was only a toddler she would pick up the fugitive coins and give them to an adult. Except the dimes.

I do not know if it was because a dime is the smallest in size but she liked them... to eat.

If she was on the hunt for change we had to watch her closely. If she found one she popped it right into her mouth. We then had to pry it out and put it where it belonged.

Sometimes it would get caught in her throat and she would choke. I became a bit of an expert at applying a baby Heimlich maneuver. It made her spit out the dime.

Thank goodness she outgrew her love of dimes. She is beginning nursing school this year. Then she can deal with the little ones who put odd things in their mouths.