Setting Pins

As a child I had many little jobs. Weeding gardens was hard work. 

Delivering newspapers was a large enough task that my two brothers shared the job with me. On Sundays and holidays Daddy helped because we had to go to the next town to pick up the papers then deliver them to farms on the way back. Then we took a stack of them to the town after ours and left them with a cafe. Then we went back to our town and got on our bicycles for our regular routes.

Of course I was a babysitter. 25 cents per hour was the going rate.Almost any little chore that people would pay for I did.

The bowling alley in our was located beneath the post office. We had 8 lanes. We were advanced enough that we had a pin frame so we did not have to crawl out and reset the pins manually.

I guess I should mention that I worked there as a pinsetter. It was the first job I had where I had a schedule to work. It was also the first job where I was paid by check and paid taxes and had Social Security deducted from my pay. I was 11 years old.

Usually a pinsetter was assigned to two adjacent lanes. We went back to the pit behind the pins by walking along the gutters and then sliding under the frames. There was the extension of the ball return lane that we sat on when people were in the process of bowling.

The ball came down the lane and knocked down the pins. The pinsetter then jumped down, picked up the ball, and sent it back to the bowler. Then the pins that were knocked down were collected and put into the spots in the frame that had no pins under it. Hopefully the pins fell into the pit.

If all the pins were knocked down or after the bowler's second try the pinsetter pulled the cord that set the frame down. It would place the pins for the next bowler.

The pit was aptly named. It was dark, dirty, and collected bits of the wax that keeps the lanes smooth. We were not pretty creatures when our night was over.

A complete game in bowling is called a line. Most people bowled several lines and there were multiple people at a time. We were paid a penny a line. It was good money.

One of the reasons I tell you this is because I was 11 years old when I began working there and paying taxes. When I was laid off from my final job I was 62 years old. 

I worked and paid taxes for 51 years. I was happy to be retired. A person should not have to work that long.

Ring 'Em Up

 The first year I worked as a cashier at the store that sold all things from grocery items to clothing to auto supplies Christmas came. 

Christmas is a busy time for all stores and a store like that is no exception. Sales for one day at our store would be at least a million and a half dollars. The selling season is about a month long.

Needless to say there were a lot of people with really big orders. You could see carts piled high with merchandise. Most cashiers did not mind ringing up those big orders because they would simply slide the merchandise down to the end of the lane and someone else filled bags.

For people who only stopped in to pick up a few things and did not want to wait in a line of big orders we had express lanes. If a person was buying 20 items or less these were the lanes to use. It was a lot faster for them and easier for the cashiers.

That first Christmas I was assigned to an express lane. I was kept busy all night.

Then I looked up. Pulling into my lane was a woman with 2 carts piled high with merchandise and groceries. 

I nicely said, "This lane is only if you have 20 items or less." I pointed to the sign above my register. 

She told me she had been sent there. By who? She pointed to my manager.

I looked at my manager. She shrugged her shoulders and lifted her hands as if to say, "What else could I do?"

I gave the manager a dirty look. Then I smiled at the woman and rang up het groceries. I bagged them as I went. Some of the other items were too large for bags. Those I placed right back into her carts.

Then I did what the baggers were instructed to do. I asked if I could help her take her merchandise to her car. She said she could manage 

I then turned off the light indicating that my lane was open. I took my 15 minute break.

Lefties

 I am left-handed. Being a lefty in a right-handed world can be terribly confusing. 

Most things are designed for righties. So we try to adapt. Another problem is that since we are so used to seeing the right being used the left does not look correct either.  

The Latin word for left-handedness is sinistral. It comes from the word sinister which is what we think of as bad.

For many years if a child showed a preference for using the left hand teachers would insist that they use their right hand instead. That caused problems for so many people who actually became no-handed.

As I grew up the only other lefty I knew was my uncle. He is three years older than me. 

When he started school the teachers trained him to write with his right hand. His handwriting is illegible.

When I started school my mother told the teacher that under no circumstances should she try to change me. 

Then Mom taught me how to slant the paper I was writing on. A righty's paper is slanted so the top is toward the left. It stands to reason that the opposite works for a lefty. 

Because of that my hand does not curl over the top of my paper. The only problem I have is the lefty's curse... ink or graphite staining the side of my hand.

You would be surprised at how many famous people are known as lefties. I am about to bore you with a partial list.

Lisa Kudrow, Jennifer Aniston, Gordon Ramsey, Mother Theresa, David Bowie, Rinfo Starr, Paul, McCartney, Julius Caesar, Judy Garland, Harpo Marx, Spike Lee, Madonna, Annie Lennox, Aristotle, Da Vinci, Michelangelo, Matt Groening, Marie and Pierre Curie as well as their daughter Irene and her husband Frederic Joliot Curie... WHEW...Ty Cobb, Barry Bonds, Babe Ruth, Sandy Kofax, Ted Williams, Emma Thompson, Helen Keller, Mozart, Joan of Arc, Lewis Carroll, Mark Twain, Morgan Freeman, Bill Gates, Mark Zuckerberg, Steve Jobs, 8 presidents, and Napoleon.

There are so many more. You can look them up.

Two of my four children are lefties.

Now you know more about lefties than you ever dreamed you would.

 

Different/Same

As you know I have four children. It has always amazed me how much alike they are. Yet they are so different at the same time.

It began at birth. The first was the ugliest thing I had ever seen. It broke my heart and at the same time I loved him so much. After a couple of hours his features settled and he was beautiful. I was glad I had loved him from the beginning.

My second son was perfect. He had a pretty round face, pink cheeks, and blond hair. He looked like a cherub or Cupid.

When I had my third baby the umbilical was wrapped loosely around his neck. He was the prettiest lavender color for a few minutes. While we were still in the hospital he developed a little brownish spot on one eye. As I watched in fascination it got larger while we were there. By the time we went home he had green eyes.

My daughter was as red as a beet when she was born. Her head was covered with little dark curls. The most interesting thing was her legs. She had legs like a girl. Not baby legs... girl legs! My mother said, "What did you expect?"

All of them inherited their father's quick temper. Some manage it better than others but they all have it. Then they also hold a grudge like me. It is a terrible combination.

They all use what we call the family finger. When angry they pull out a pointer finger and shake it at the person they are mad at. The first time I saw it my mother-in-law was mad at my father-in-law. I was horrified.  

My second son is not particularly interested in music. The rest are. KISS is a favorite but my third son is just short of being obsessed. My oldest likes Queen the best. My daughter likes Bon Jovi.

I could go on but I will tell you one last way they were alike. I once told them I knew it was hard to have a mother like me. (I have not completely grown up.)

I was told, " Not really. We thought all mothers were like that."

Kids!

I always wanted children of my own. At the same time I have never felt the need ro be the "great earth mother" to other people's children.

Of course children need to be supervised and to be cared for. And there are some who are so beautiful and some are so cute. 

My daughter-in-law adores all children. She is the first to run and grab a new baby. She gravitates toward any child. 

My son and daughter-in-law had my two grandchildren who were 2 and 3 years old. My daughter-in-law also took care of her cousin's two children. The little girl was in kindergarten and the little boy was still a toddler and disabled. 

One afternoon my son called me to say that he needed to rush his wife to the hospital. Could I come take care of the kids until they got back?

I rushed over to their house. There I was with four beautiful very small children. We were fine.

My daughter-in-law had an emergency appendectomy. My son told me he would talk to the cousin about her children.

I told him I would take care of all four children while his wife was in the hospital. They were a young family and needed the extra money.

The most difficult part was getting all four up, fed, and dressed to take the girl to school.

The little girl was a very pretty child. And she knew it. Nothing wrong with that. But she had learned that her looks helped her do whatever she wanted with no consequences. 

We butted heads because I expect children to mind me. We developed a truce. If she misbehaved she quietly accepted that she would have to sit quietly for the time of atonement. 

Then came the day that she decided to bully the other three incessantly. I would no sooner let her off the couch than she would pick on one of the others. Back to the couch.

When she went over to pick at her brother who was sleeping I snapped. I ran towards her fully intending to kill her.

She saw me and knew what was in my mind. She screamed and ran. 

She managed to evade me until my murderous rage abated. Then she climbed onto the couch and sat there quietly until my son came home.

She jumped up and ran to hug him. She had not done that before.

I am sure she meant to tattle on me. It did not work. I always told my son what had happened during the day. He thought it was funny. He should have been there. He would not have laughed.

My daughter-in-law came home from the hospital a few days later. I stayed for a few more days to help her. The little girl behaved better and my daughter-in-law was amazed.

Death Of A Rabbit

 This is a re-post. I wrote it a few years ago and it is true... every single word. 

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My daughter and I took her children for a walk. My grandson was 6 or 7 and my granddaughter was 4 or 5. We walked through their neighborhood looking at flowers and watching for animals and birds.

As we usually did, when we returned to their house we made a tour of the back yard. In the spring we watched as the flowers came up through the soil then grew and bloomed. We smelled all the smells and tried to identify where they came from.

On this day it was autumn. The leaves were falling from the trees at a record pace. The flower beds and the grass were covered with fallen leaves. Sometimes we would startle a rabbit back there but we did not see any that day.

Until my grandson went, "Oooooh" in a sympathetic tone. My daughter and I realized at the same time that he was starting to reach for an animal. We both yelled at him to stop. He looked at us, startled.

We quickly went over to him. There lying in a flower bed was a dead rabbit.

We explained to him that whether the animal was sick or dead we did not know what was causing the problem. You cannot just touch any animal you do not know because it could cause injury or illness to you. He seemed to understand.

My daughter did not want to leave it lying there. I told her to go get a shovel and we would dispose of it. She was worried about my grandson being upset. I told her that was why we always held a funeral for animals when she was growing up. It is a way to say goodbye and it showed the finality of the animal being gone.

My grandson loved the idea of a funeral. He went and found an old shoebox. When we asked where we should bury the rabbit he chose a spot under the bushes right in front of the house. He wanted to conduct the ceremony so we let him.

We dug a hole and my grandson placed the box containing the rabbit carefully into the hole. We covered the box with dirt and tamped it gently down. Then my grandson started to speak.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to say goodbye to our friend, the rabbit." I stood in total shock. He had never been to a funeral so I could not understand where these words were coming from. My daughter and I looked at each other in amazed amusement.

He continued with his little tribute about how we did not know the bunny but we felt bad that he was dead. Then he knelt to say a prayer. I started to choke a bit with laughter. He looked like such a little angel with his hands pressed together looking toward the sky imploring that this little bunny rabbit be taken to a better place. Finally there was an "Amen".

My daughter and I started to go inside. I was actually halfway up the steps. Then my grandson stood at attention and put his hand to his forehead in a salute. His other hand formed into a loose fist and was placed at his mouth. Through that hand we heard, "Phtt, phtt, Phhhhhttt...". He was playing Taps!

I was choking trying to keep from opening my mouth and laughing out loud. Tears were running down my face. I did not dare look at my daughter because I knew I would not be able to contain myself. So I stood there not able to breathe with tears all over my face, turning red.

At the end of Taps, my grandson sweetly said a soft goodbye. "Goodbye, little bunny rabbit." It was over.

I jerked myself into the house so I could breathe and laugh without hurting his feelings. When my daughter came in shortly after she was laughing almost as hard as I was while berating me for leaving her out there all alone.

Bugs Bunny was the culprit. My grandson had seen a Bugs Bunny cartoon in which a funeral was held. He had practically memorized the whole thing. Thanks a lot, Bugs!

You've Got Mail

 When my children were small there was not often any mail for them. I remembered wishing for mail when I was a child.

As a teenager I wrote letters. I sent them to family members and I had pen pals. Remember pen pals?

Pen pals were people you did not know but had regular correspondence with. Some might be from another country or a different part of your own country.

Letters were regularly sent and received. I loved getting mail from the box and seeing my name on it. I liked feeling important enough to receive mail.

When I had small children of my own I wanted them to feel that way too. By that time junk mail was an everyday thing. I discovered a way for the children to get mail too.

Junk mail was given to whichever child was nearest. If there were enough of the mails each child would have some. They felt special even if they were only being asked to purchase a cemetery plot.

These days most of my correspondence is on the computer. Email is faster than mailing a letter to a loved one. Most of my 'pen pals' are bloggers.

Of course I still receive some bills and notifications in the mail. Most of those are handled online too. 

My son and I share a mail box at the post office. Here in our small town there is no postal delivery. We have to pick it up at the post office.

My son gets most of the mail now. And he gleefully chuckles as he hands me the junk mail from the day.