Life Writing: Life as Usual

Now, the way I hear it told, for me everything began sometime in the summer of 1966.  A young couple in rural woods of Oklahoma found that they were going to have a new addition to their family.  The doctor said to expect this new family member sometime around March 23 of next year.  So in order to pass the time, R and D went about life as usual - though they could hardly wait.

Somewhere in the rural woods.

At this time, the green house on the hill by the road was home to them and the two rambunctious members of the family- 3 year old A and 1 year old T.  Grandpa G and Grandma E lived just a mile or so up the road and across the creek on the old homestead land.  Grandpa and Grandma H lived on the south side of town on Memorial Road.  Various other family members- aunts, uncles, cousins, great-grandparents, and in-laws- were located in the vicinity as well.  

As summer began to wind down, A’s 4th birthday came and went.  Autumn was in full swing when T’s 2nd birthday came and went.  Thanksgiving soon flew by and Christmas was just around the corner.  R took a job working on off-shore oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico off the Louisiana coast.  It was still life as usual.  

Winter ushered in Christmas and the New Year.  R celebrated his birthday.  Then, unexpectedly, almost a week later, D started experiencing contractions.  A quick trip to the doctor to make sure everything was all right was in order and then it would be back to life as usual.  So, off she went.  Soon, R was notified that D was in labor and should probably try to come home.  She spent 24 hours in uncomfortable but not highly painful labor.  He made it back to Broken Bow in record time.

Then, at 10:05 AM on a Wednesday, I breathed my first independent breath.  I was a fuzzy red bundle weighing in at a whopping 5 lbs and 2 oz while measuring 19 ½ inches long.  I was a little more than seven weeks early but overall, I was in great health.  There appeared to be a minor issue with my left eye as it was swollen shut.  And, with that being the worst, the doctor sent me home with my experienced Mom after only a couple of days at the hospital.

I was honored with a given name that means maiden. My middle name means, well, faith.  You know, the theological virtue defined as secure belief in God and a trusting acceptance of God's will.  It also is defined as confident belief that does not rest on logical proof or material evidence in the truth, value, or trustworthiness of a person, idea, or thing thereby producing trust, loyalty and allegiance.  I am aware there is power in what you name a child.  You may not realize it at the time but it will make a difference in their life.  Mom decided as a little girl that if she ever had a little girl, her name would be Faith and so it was.  And, then, there was a certain song which provided my given name.  I refuse to share it here.

There was joy and celebration everywhere (music begins…).  The world was singing my song (music swells…).  My birth was announced from the highest rooftops and proclaimed throughout the lands (music crescendo…).  It would never again be “life as usual” (music crash).  Okay, so it wasn’t really such a big deal after all and life did go on as usual; but, I am telling or, um, re-telling this story.

Life Writing: Dodge Polara

I have a few assorted early childhood “pictures” in my mind.  Some are of Head Start.  One is having the cots ready for our naps and another is riding in the 1972 Dodge Polara with Mom driving and going down the really big dip in the road.  The time I busted out my top four front teeth while climbing in the dirty clothes pile really was A or T's fault.  One of them left the number five washtub in the mound of clothes Mom was getting ready to take to the laundry mat.  When I started up the pile and pushed down on one side of the tub, the other side came up and busted me right in the chops.  Two of my teeth were already loose but two weren’t quite ready to come out.  They did anyway.  Yeah, that's a pretty "picture".

Ninth grade, T and I both attended the new Broken Bow High School.  T is in the first class to graduate from the new building.  I am in the first class to complete all four high school years in it.  This was the year that I read the “Count of Monte Cristo”.  I have never forgotten that story. (Shiver)

Along somewhere around this time, Dad began building a house primarily by himself.  It is a beautiful log home with 3 bedrooms and an outhouse.  It has no electricity, is heated by wood, and the remaining utilities are run off gas.  At 16 years old I thought this was horrible.  We were moving back to a time in the "old" days.  After we moved in, I became an expert at running over to Grandma's house each morning to take a shower and get ready for school.  At least she had indoor plumbing and a place for me to use my hair dryer.  Those are critical things to a teenager in the '80's.  It took a long time but I finally realized that it was an incredible thing my parents did.  They sacrificed so that they could have their own home and land.  

During tenth grade, we moved to the boonies.  Yes, the real boonies.  It’s just a mile past the end of the earth which is conveniently located in McCurtain County.  I got my driver’s license, barely, that year and started driving to school each day.  Yup, I was driving the same 1972 Dodge Polara that Mom used to take me to Head Start way back when.  I took Drivers Ed and Drafting this year.  Mr. Rick Banta was our drafting teacher.  His wife had been my third grade teacher.  Ah, the joy of small towns.

Life Writing: Beekeeping

I remember watching Dad walk though Grandma E's field sowing Vetch seed because he read the bees would make good honey off of it.  You see, one of Dad's hobbies was beekeeping.  His hobby became a hazard in our lives when it was time to extract honey.  But, it was also a freedom when we could watch with awe the bees in the observation hive.  

Dad's observation hive was under the Osage Orange tree in the front yard.  This tree is also known by the common name bodark, an altered version of the French "bois d'arc".  We also called it the "horse apple" tree.  This was a dangerous location as the thorns of the tree are painful and the horse apples hurt when they fall on you.  

We normally didn't check in on the bees during the winter as they would be balled up trying to stay warm but spring time was a different story.  Those worker bees would be dancing and gathering nectar while the drones just lazed about.  We could watch through the glass as the workers drew out the honey comb and filled it with pollen or nectar.  Then, they would cap over their food storage.  

There was an added excitement when we were able to spot the queen.  She was slightly larger than the other workers with an extended abdomen.  She stayed busy laying eggs.  If the honey comb cell had an egg in it, it would be capped over so the egg would hatch and develop.  Bees are pretty efficient at keeping things organized.  Rarely would there be brood (developing larvae), pollen, and honey intermixed on a frame.  

Late summer was when we would harvest the honey from the hives.  This was an activity that took place inside and by hand.  Dad, Mom, A, and T all took turns at the extractor.  Yes, I took a turn or two also but not near as many as they did.  The extractor was a large round tub open on the top with wire baskets on the inside and a turn handle.  Dad would go out to the hive, smoke most of the bees away from the frame, place it in a temporary box and, when the box was full, bring it in the house.  Once in the house, Mom or Dad would cut the caps (which served as a tasty treat) off the honey and place a frame in one of the two baskets of the extractor.  Then, the crank would be turned which caused the wire baskets to go round and round.  As the baskets went faster and faster, the honey would be slung out of the frames and collect in the holding tank.  Mom would then fill the jars from the holding tank.  

It was beautiful sight to see the golden honey in the jar with light glistening off of it.  Some years we would work a booth at the County fair selling the honey.  Though, it was for our own use most of the time.  You see, we didn’t buy much sugar and honey sure does give Kool Aid a unique taste.    Most of the time I was okay with this hobby, it was only when an angry bee jumped on a hand, arm, or face and stung me that I really didn’t like it. 

Life Writing: Getting Started and Squirrels

Welcome to the first installment of Life Writing.  I'm looking forward to sharing this endeavor with you.  Life Writing is writing about one's life.  It may be your own life in memoir or autobiographical style or it may be the life of someone else in memoir or biographical style.  For me, life writing is about capturing memories.  There is a distinct blur between fiction and non-fiction.  It's writing what you remember.  I started writing my life story several years ago.  I'm writing it scrapbook style and I'm on Volume IV.  I'll be posting specific excerpts here.  So...

Squirrel!

One winter Dad came home with a bunch of baby squirrels in his pocket, seven to be exact.   Mom raised five of those squirrels through the spring, feeding them from an eye dropper until they were big enough to drink out of a bowl.  One chilly evening, there was an escape.  We thought the poor squirrel escapee wouldn’t make it through the night.  Mom went to the store the next morning and when she got back, it was hanging on the screen door wanting inside.  They stayed inside in a makeshift cage until early spring when they moved to a large backyard cage my dad built just for them.

My brothers thought it would be hilarious to put the dog in the cage one day.  I calmly went and asked Mom if that would be okay.  She went straightway to discuss the situation with them.  I smiled a satisfied little sister smile until Mom chewed me out for tattling.  By the time those squirrels were old enough to fend for themselves, there were only three left.  On the day of their release back to the wild, two of them promptly ran across the road and up the transformer pole to the transformer.  The other lived to a fine old squirrel age next to the creek behind the trailer.