The View from Here

This Writing Life...

I apologize if you have recently taken the time to visit my little world and found nothing new to entertain or enlighten you. I’m still here, and despite some continuing physical challenges, I’m doing what I have always done: writing, taking pictures, writing, gardening, writing, researching, writing, reading, and yes, writing. You don’t always see the results of all that time and effort because I’m published elsewhere or my writing is done for personal benefit, but I still spend an average of six hours a day at the keyboard. (Yes, Dr. ___, I get up every thirty minutes and walk around the house just as instructed.)

I’ve always spent a portion of my time writing. Always. I wrote stories and poems as a child. I even illustrated some of them. I was published in the newspaper when I was barely a teen. As a young mother I wrote about some of my experiences and a few were published. I have continued to have moderate success as an author, but alas I have yet to write anything that has garnered critical acclaim or fame. That’s okay. Really. I still have this need, inherited I’m sure, to gather my thoughts, write them down, and share them with others. It’s really necessity, not ego, that drives me. Writing keeps me focused, sane, thankful, humble, happy.

So…if you are a fan I thank you. Don’t give up. I’ll be back here soon, sharing something that inspires me or discourages me or just fascinates me. In the meantime, here are a few photos of the things that have made me smile this week.

Phone Addiction

A group in Colorado citizens calling themselves Parents Against Underage Smartphones wants to make it a crime to sell fancy phones to little children, AND they want to punish retailers who do so by fining them $500-$20,000 if they violate the law. The person behind the group is a father of five who became alarmed when he realized that his children were addicted to their phones. His children were spending too much time in their rooms. They had outrageous reactions when he attempted to take away their phones. He was concerned about their health and future. So it seems that he did what so many people do: look for someone else to blame and prevent future problems by making the offending object illegal.  But even this old grandma knows that you can’t eradicate stupidity or control morality by passing a law. If that were true then the ten we started out with would have been enough.

Mr. Farnum insists that one of their goals is to inform parents. “Many parents don’t know the dangers of excessive technology usage,” he said, “or the permanent damage it can do to their children.” True…but that doesn’t mean information will change their actions or that a law will prevent them from making poor decisions. There was a report on the news this morning about the number of children who have died this year after being left in hot cars…despite years of warning parents of the dangers of doing that!

So…yes, Mr. Farnum, get the word out to parents that phone addiction is harmful. Form a group that encourages parents to “just say no”. Endorse the phone you think is more suitable for child safety. Be a role model by solving the problem in your own home. Write a book about it. But please don’t waste everyone’s time and energy by trying to pass a law that punishes retailers. Let your government officials spend their time and skills on real issues.  Save punishment for real criminals.

Questions from the Garden...

Why does it take me a full minute to open a suet basket that takes the squirrel ten seconds to unfasten?

Why are the moles most active two feet from my driveway and truck, instead of fifty feet away where I probably wouldn’t even notice them?

How do the ants know that if they travel up the metal shepherd’s hook holding my hummingbird feeder they will be rewarded with a permanent food source?

Why are the three plants I’m the least fond of the most prolific in the garden?

Why do I foolishly buy a hanging fuschia each year and then gripe because I have to water it every single day?

Why haven’t I ever purchased a hose that didn’t develop at least one permanent kink that drives me crazy?

Why does anyone, anywhere, EVER plant a sweetgum tree in their back yard?

Why do worms drag themselves up onto our cement driveway and patio to die a horrible death which requires me to remove their dried bodies? And why won’t the birds eat them?

Why do I admire the ripening crop of grapes on our trellis when I know the birds and squirrels will harvest them before I do?

Why do I ask silly questions?

Another Reset

I have to admit that I was mentally prepared for a surgical solution to my recent knee problems. We all want to believe that medical science can fix anything. But there are some things that are simply a natural consequence of years of neglect and abuse. Like most people, when I was younger and stronger and much more arrogant, I did whatever I needed to do. It didn’t matter if I was tired or sore or limping around. I was the manager of a household, and my family depended on me. I seldom noticed or cared that I was often the last person on my priority list.

Nor did I follow much of the advice given to me by my mother and doctor about taking care of my body by eating healthy foods and getting more exercise. Mother advocated whole wheat bread and low-fat cottage cheese, but I just rolled my eyes when she talked. My doctor suggested less sugar and salt, definitely less ice cream. I listened politely, but the fact that he was fifty pounds overweight told me he wasn’t a true believer. And more exercise? I was already running around like a madwoman, trying to accomplish a dozen tasks at once. What was he talking about?

Nothing in my earlier life was a direct cause of my current health problems, but a lifetime of accidents (more than a dozen) and poor choices can’t result in a perfect body. Just not possible. Add genetics to the mix- my grandmother walked with a cane due to bad knees- and rather than be surprised by a few damaged joints, I should be amazed and grateful that I can walk at all. And my older, wiser brain knows there are several things I can do to help my body cope with the damages.  

So…once again I’ve reset my attitude and my plans to adjust and adapt to this new challenge. But my message to you today is not to wait until you are coping with a damaged body. Take care of the body you have. Be wise and prepare for the future. Begin today and do something to improve your health.

Summer Safety

It’s still a few hours until summer officially arrives, but already the daily news is filled with the same safety precautions and health warnings they proclaim each and every year. Use sunscreen. Wear a hat. Drink plenty of water. Don’t leave your child or pet in a hot car. Don’t drink and swim. Don’t drink and drive a boat. Be careful around grills and campfires. Make sure your child is properly supervised in the pool. Don’t dive into unfamiliar water. And yet…you know we won’t get to the first official day of fall without at least one news report about the tragic consequences of ignoring those warnings. Why don’t we listen? I don’t know.  Perhaps we just get distracted or busy. Whatever the reason let’s try to make this summer a safer summer.  Heed the warnings, follow the rules, listen to your mother.

Happy Father's Day...

I wrote this in 2014 just after Dad died. There isn’t much more to say on this Father’s Day.

Stories Left Untold

This week my father died the same way he was born- quickly and without the meddling intervention of a doctor. My grandmother told me that she sent my grandfather to town to fetch the doctor, but because of heavy storms, they arrived after my father did. So on January 8, 1930, his grandmother’s 42^nd birthday, my father became the third Robert Lee Simmons in his family. Most of his family called him “Bobby Lee”.

He was a worrisome child from the very beginning- always taking risks, doing things other children had the good sense to avoid, and recounting elaborate reasons for his actions. My grandmother told stories of his childhood with a shake of her head and a grin, as though she couldn’t quite believe they had actually happened. Many involved accidents, broken bones, and near-death encounters.  Much of Dad’s life was like that. I sometimes stopped him in the middle of one of his stories and said, “You did what?”

There were two things Dad loved- people and a good story. His retirement years were spent enjoying both. He was a fixture at the local DQ, meeting there twice a day with his friends to reminisce about the past, discuss the problems of the present, and predict the outcome of the future. I’m sure many found his gift of gab entertaining, but when I was growing up it was a burden. It was my job to “go get your father”. It seemed to me that no matter where we lived or visited Dad could strike up a conversation with a stranger and talk forever. Mom knew better than to go into a store with him. Gas stations…forget about quick service. And if he ran into another farmer, welder, truck driver, or Okie we might as well buy a cold drink. But pretty soon Mom would tire of sitting in the car waiting and I was sent inside to fetch him.

I spent a lot of time in a car with my dad. In fact, my very first childhood memory includes Dad and a car…and screaming. My grandmother said I was two and a half when we nearly careened off a mountainside. Mom and Dad were in the front seat, Gran and I in the back. I was standing up, holding onto a little strap that hung above the passenger window, and Gran was screaming, “Slow down, Bobby Lee, slow down!” Perhaps the fact that he had overturned a car when I was an infant passenger made her less than confident in his driving ability.

But Dad could drive…and he drove as often and as fast as possible. He loved Sunday drives and long trips. He loved cars in every shape and size. We usually had one that he drove and two or more that he was tinkering with. I helped him work on cars when I was six and learned to drive when I was nine because he simply couldn’t wait any longer to pass on his skills. Thank goodness I soon had brothers to take my place in the garage!

We also spent a lot of time quietly sitting in a car…listening to Gunsmoke on the radio. Dad loved westerns and we didn’t have a television for several years. When we finally got one he enjoyed watching even more westerns and of course, the Three Stooges. If you look at the movie collection he left behind you will find nearly every movie John Wayne ever made, and a bunch of westerns from the days when good guys wore white hats.

One of Dad’s best stories involved other people’s cars. He and his brother hitchhiked from Oklahoma to California. I believe the year was 1947 or ’48. “Thumbing a ride” was safer and more common in those days, but still fraught with unpleasant experiences. He and Don found themselves in Flagstaff, Arizona with very little money and no one to carry them on any farther, so they spent the night huddled in a large cardboard box in the parking lot of a store. Yes, of course they made it to CA! And back to OK, and then they drove back to CA after he graduated in ’49.

I noticed that as Dad got older some of his stories got a little more “detailed”. I’m not sure if he remembered things more clearly or just added a few things that should have happened. Either way, I don’t think it matters. The gist of the tale was always true and the telling of it was entertaining. His purpose was always to make someone smile or feel better or enjoy their time together.

So…if you want to pay tribute to my dad in the coming days and weeks, tell a good story about your times together. He would love that!

Grandad

I was privileged to know both of my grandfathers, but I’m especially thankful that my father’s father, Robert Lee Simmons, Jr.  lived long enough for me to know him. Of course I didn’t always feel that way. When I first realized he was an alcoholic and later when he began to drink more and more, I often resented having a grandfather who was so “difficult”. His addiction to alcohol made his life and ours far more complicated than most and created a lot of conflict among the adults in my life. And certainly as a child I didn’t understand why he seemed to love that bottle more than he loved us.

Despite his problems, my relationship with my grandfather was still a good one most of the time. He loved animals and gardening and he was a skilled carpenter when he was sober. We spent time together working in the garden and playing with his guinea pigs and birds and dogs. He made toys and loved to play dominoes. He was always patient with me and I don’t recall ever being afraid of him. I suppose that is ironic since the following ad shows that he instilled fear in a few Caddo people during his early years here:

The Caddo Herald

March 7, 1947

Notice Dog Owners

You must pay your dog tax by March 1^st or dog will be killed.

Tags are $1 for males, $2 for females.

Act at once.

All dogs in Caddo that do not have a tag on them will be shot upon sight. Owners have had the warning, so I start killing.

Lee Simmons, dog catcher

                Of course I only knew Grandad after he moved to California, after he let alcohol control more and more of his actions, after he made a lot of mistakes that eventually cost him his livelihood, his marriage, and his life. I’m surprised by how fondly I remember him, but I think that is the strongest evidence that he was essentially a good man who made some bad choices in life. The life lesson I learned from him is that no one is “good” or “bad” but a mixture of both. How we balance those aspects and which is dominant determines how we live each day. And there were certainly days in his life when Grandad put aside all the bad and was a wonderful man that I wanted around to share my life. He was difficult, but worth the effort to deal with that challenge. Sadly, he only lived to be 67 and was buried on my 25^th birthday.

Carefree Summer Camping

Now that we’re approaching the official start of summer, Facebook is filled with photos of our lakes and parks, and posts about camping, fishing, and hiking. My mind travels back through memories of countless camping trips spent with family and friends. Many of my childhood memories are of fishing and swimming with my parents. I also went to church camp a few times. “Outside” was always my preferred location for rest and relaxation and I was fortunate to marry someone who felt the same way. We frequently took our children to the mountains or the beach to explore and just have fun. Sometimes we left the children behind with my grandmother and went camping alone. Once we were gone for four days and never saw another person. And we didn’t even have a cell phone! I sometimes think about the risks of those early situations and I thank God for the way He protected us and our children. However, I can’t recall worrying about our safety or losing sleep wondering “what if”. Perhaps that’s because I spent so much of my early life traveling around and adapting to different situations. Or perhaps I was just young and ignorant. Whatever the reason, there are days when I miss the carefree summers of the past. Nowadays I don’t even venture out to my own yard without considering “what if”. And yes, if I went camping tomorrow I would definitely take my cell phone!

 

Storing up the good...

Our grandparents’ generation survived the Great Depression and the Great War and many of their values and habits were a reflection of those times of struggle and sacrifice. My grandmothers were careful with their money and proud of their ability to provide for their families. My grandmother Springer grew much of the food she cooked for the family table. She made everything from butter to pickles and shared them with others. My grandmother Simmons loved to cook for crowds and kept her kitchen stocked with whatever might be required for an impromptu gathering. Because of the “bad years” as she called them, she kept a more than ample supply of coffee, tea, and creamer in her cabinets. She claimed two reasons for having ten pounds of coffee: she bought them “on sale” and she would rather go hungry than give up her coffee!

I too keep a well-stocked pantry, not because I’m a good cook, but because I hate to shop. By keeping a supply of the basics that we use I don’t have to shop so often. Yesterday I used the last drop of mustard out of one bottle and reached into the pantry for another. No traveling required! And yes, I usually have at least two or three pounds of coffee stashed away.

During my morning Bible reading I came across this verse in Luke and immediately thought of my pantry:

Luke 6:45  A good man out of the good treasure of his heart brings forth good; and an evil man out of the evil treasure of his heart brings forth evil. For out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.

Like my grandmothers, I keep good things in my pantry, things we like and use and desire. I don’t keep things that would be a waste of my money and pantry space. So I pondered this morning why we keep things in our heart that are a waste of our efforts and storage space. Resentment and anger and grief and pity leave little room for joy and peace. Grudges can overshadow good memories. Bitterness often prevents new pleasures.

What we choose to do and see and hear each day makes a difference to our little pantry, the brain. I’m surprised sometimes by the memories that surface in mine. Things that I didn’t consciously strive to remember were automatically recorded for later retrieval. And yes, some of them are things I would rather not recall seeing or doing. That should serve as a warning to us that we should strive to live a life we will want to remember. As often as it is within our control to do so we should avoid seeing, reading, and experiencing things that are evil. Remember the mantra “garbage in, garbage out” we were taught in the sixties? It’s even more relevant now when there is SO much garbage available. Our minds should focus as much as possible on good experiences so when challenges face us we can draw strength from what is stored in our heart.

Stitches in Time

My grandmother taught me to sew when I was barely old enough to hold a needle. It was a risky task, made a little safer by the use of a thimble, which I still have. It was also a task that required time and practice, then more time and more practice. Being the little OCD child that I was, I wanted my stitches to be as neat and evenly spaced as Gran’s. Of course I didn’t consider that she had been stitching quilts for decades. In fact, one of my earliest memories is of sitting on a cement floor with my dad and Gran. They had a bulky quilt laid out on the floor and they were stitching it with evenly spaced knots of yarn. I remember that the yarn knots were all different colors, probably scraps from Gran’s crochet bag, and the quilt turned out to be the heaviest and warmest I’ve ever used. We had it for years!

Of course it was quite some time before I was trusted to make anything useful. My first sewing tasks were just practice pieces- two scraps joined together. Then I learned to sew buttons. There were two methods for that because buttons were either flat with holes, or raised with a shank (it is a testament to my early training that I even remember that term). Next I learned to hem a skirt. Then I graduated to darning socks, something few people remember anyone doing. Finally…Gran helped me make doll clothes, which was my goal all along!

Making doll clothes required two new skills. I had to read a pattern and follow directions. I could already read quite well, but sewing patterns have their own terms, so those had to be learned. Following directions was something my father had already instilled in me through daily life and farm work, but sewing directions certainly required a little more precision and attention to detail than I was accustomed to. A tool known as a “seam ripper” was my constant companion for a while.

After I completed a few basic shirts and dresses for my dolls I ignored most of the patterns and directions and designed my own. Gran always had scraps for me because she sewed for the family and a few customers. My dolls soon had ten times as many clothes as I did!

Gran always had a sewing machine, and she also taught me to use it, but I don’t remember when. I think by the time she trusted me to sew cloth and not my fingers, I had already done some machine sewing with Mom. And in the eighth grade I got to take a home economics class. I was quite the little “show-off” because I already knew so much about sewing. Of course my teacher quickly set me straight about a few details, like washing and ironing fabric before beginning a sewing project. Anyone else who has ever sewn a stitch can probably guess what my first major sewing project was. Yes, an apron!! Everyone made an apron. Most of our mother’s wore one. It was the perfect gift for any occasion and also a great item for our “hope chest”.

Over the next four years my teachers and my grandmother taught me many more sewing skills, including tailoring. Mrs. Adkisson allowed me to make a plaid jacket without warning me about the perils of matching the pink and brown pattern, and then made me take it apart and reconstruct it three times before the side seams met with her approval. I both loved and hated her for that, but I was so proud when I got to wear my jacket on the Rudy Dockray show!

It’s ironic that simply learning how to guide a thread through a piece of cloth ended up affecting so much of my life. Sewing enabled me to make clothes and blankets and other items for friends and family members. Sewing provided me with extra income from crafts and sewing for customers. Sewing lead to embroidery, which I found enjoyable and entertaining for many years. Sewing paved the way for me to work in the theater department at college. For many years I also made costumes for church plays. Sewing even gave me an advantage when I worked at Macy’s. I was one of the very few employees allowed to work in the men’s suit department because I could do “fittings” and mark suits for alteration.

I no longer sew unless a button falls off a shirt. I don’t even own a sewing machine. However, I am confident that the skills are still there, waiting to be revived, if I need to make a few stitches.And I'm grateful for the women who taught me how to make them.