Barbara Headlines
My son-in-law Todd shared these “25 Reasons I Owe My Mother” somebody e-mailed him. These made us both laugh; me because my mom would have enjoyed the humor – and truth – of the piece so much, and him because his mother also has a wonderful sense of fun. On this Mother’s Day weekend, see if anything here – such as “Justice” – rings a familiar note in your family.
 
Let me count the ways.
Agatha Christie said all she needed was a small table. It could be carved mahogany in an elegant drawing room or she was up for using a rough board thrown over a saw horse during a Baghdad dig. Dame Agatha wrote in both those situations, being an English country lady as well as the wife of an archeologist. One of Ernest “Papa” Hemingway’s favorite refuges was Sun Valley, Idaho, where he wrote in the mornings and hunted and fished in the afternoons.
            Three decades ago I was a full time staff member of The Journal Scene. During that time a senior citizen named George Buell was a frequent visitor to the paper. A resident of The Presbyterian Home, he remained an active and concerned citizen up into his nineties. George wrote frequent letters to the editor and when he was able, brought them in personally. At one point he was the oldest living graduate of The College of Charleston and was much feted as such. Our daughter Cathy was then a recent diploma holder from The C of C and was an active alumna. The two often met at college functions and were fond of each other. When he came by, he usually stopped in the newsroom to say hello and get news of “our favorite girl.”
He walked slowly then and with a little difficulty. When I’d ask how he was doing, George would always grin and come up with some quip about aging. I’d walk him to the door and he’d make his exit, quoting from what he explained to me were the fifth through eighth lines of a favorite poem which made us both laugh. I came across the entire doggerel the other day and the words still make me chuckle – although now my 30-year-older body understands both the comedy and the candor of the sentiments.
Yes, thanks for asking, our five-month kitchen project is done. Well, almost. Construction is done. The family room side remains to be painted and a couple of decorative touches are still inbound, but the kitchen is up and running and yours truly is in culinary heaven. Thanks to my hero trio – husband, son and son-in-law – this new room, thrice the size of the gallery style that reigned for 30 years, is currently my favorite place to be.
I like to think of it as my Cotswolds Kitchen. We lived in England for four years and the Cotswolds, a hilly area in Britain’s center, is one of the most picturesque places in the country. There is abundant Tudor architecture and much use of natural rock and stone. It always looks like the sun is shinning in the Cotswolds because so many of their buildings, especially the pretty thatched cottages with mullioned windows, are built of a golden toned limestone, which literally gives the place a consistent friendly radiance. Hopefully my kitchen reflects that glow.
“Little pig, little pig, won’t you let me come in?” I growled, taking the part of the big bad wolf in this favorite tale of our granddaughter Anna, then three. “No, no,” she chimed in, reciting the lines by heart, “not by the hair of my chinny chin chin.” Getting into the spirit of reenactment, she stroked her jaw line and then reached up to mine. Before I could begin huffing and puffing and blowing the house in, Anna looked me straight in the eye and said delightedly in her best piggy squeal, “Gran Barbara, you have hairs on your chinny chin chin too!”
Drat children! They not only say the darndest things, they say the truest. This little imp must have eagle eyed vision, I thought, reaching for my magnifying mirror. Immediately I wished I hadn’t. There before me, sprouted an abundant crop of white stubble. And horror above horrors: a couple of those strands looked thick and black and seemed to curl into a kind of feminine goatee. Obviously more rigorous scrutiny was called for. The senior body can betray you in limitless ways – and quickly too.
I love the Flowertown Festival. It’s a Summerville product that benefits Summervillians. What’s not to like?
It’s true that it takes a great deal of support from Town departments – Street, Parks & Playgrounds, Police, Fire, Admin, Planning – all of them, really. And it can discombobulate nearby businesses and residents. But it’s only for one weekend a year and what an opportunity to show off our town’s hospitality, history and beauty. And maybe visitors will enjoy the festival so much, they’ll come back to sample more of our wares in more of our regular venues.
          When did we all get to be “guys?”  That used to be a kind of slang term for those of the male persuasion, such as in “Guys and Dolls.” No mistaken identity in that title.
          Nowadays when my husband and I go into many eateries, we are greeted by the host or hostess with the newly universal phrase, “Hey guys!” A waiter brings the menu and asks, “Would you guys like a drink first?” Then later, “How about dessert for you guys?” My sister and I are also often addressed this way when we have lunch together. Even our son will pop in for a hug, asking, “How are you guys doing today?”
Whenever my German-born grosmom (grandma) messed up, she’d thump her forehead three times with a balled fist, while muttering grumpily to herself in a soft Bavarian accent, “Duum, duum, duum like hell!” I knew exactly how she felt a couple of weeks ago when I lost my calendar notebook.
What would you do if you lost your scheduler overflowing with all your addresses, important meeting and writing notes, medical appointments, shopping lists and three prescriptions from three different doctors that you hadn’t gotten filled yet? How ‘bout if you had just that very week cleaned it out, organized your organizer, put in fresh paper, and updated everything? Yes, I went back to the shopping center, back through the parking lot, back in the store. I did all that 15 minutes after I missed the notebook and five times since. But not first.
On our front door is a bronzed plaque inscribed with the words “Ceud Mile Failte,” Gaelic for “A hundred thousand welcomes.” It came from Ireland, as did much of my father’s family, the Lynches. Most hailed from Galway and Cork.       
My husband was named for his Irish grandfather, James Tobin. The football team he played for in high school is called “The Fightin’ Irish.” He went to the university where the team is known as “The Fighting Irish.”
Do you remember where, when and how you got all the important “stuff” in your home, like furniture and nostalgic accessories? Have you told your children? Do they remember? Does it matter? It does to me. I was watching one of those historic home shows on TV and while touring the residence the host answered many questions that provided a lot of history, not only of the home, but also of the people who lived there.
Then it struck me. I’ll do my own house tour. Granted, this will only be historic to me and my family, but it’s only for them. The cassette tape and transcribed script will get tucked into the safe deposit box and hopefully give a bit of enlightenment to those who will one day pass these things along. Thus armed with ambition and industry, I pick up my tape recorder and begin my vocal reality tour.
My most devilish pleasure in being married for half century is that my husband’s bladder capacity has finally matched mine. You understand this is quite a downgrade for him. But really, it’s about time for reciprocity.
It seems to me that for much of my marriage, I’ve ridden in cars with my legs crossed. During our 25 years in the Air Force we’ve driven across the United States and Europe. I sipped ice cubes; Jim constantly drank coffee. And not once did that man ever stop at a restroom. Well, that’s not quite true, but it sure seemed like that to me!
Of the some dozen canines who have reigned over our homes during the last half century, one of the most memorable was a floozy named Happy. We got her, as we have acquired most of our animals, because my husband is a pluperfect pet pushover. All he needs to do is catch a glimpse of a cute puppy, and we are suddenly a blended family.
In the mid 1970s we moved from England to Sumter. While we were waiting for our house to be ready, we managed to rent the smallest model of a single-wide, three bedroom trailer in captivity. Six of us lived in these cramped quarters for two months. On our third day in the trailer, Jim came home with a new puppy. Our four kids took one look at the sleek black, curly eared dog with an extremely long tail, who couldn’t move without bounding with joy, and promptly dubbed her “Happy.” Had I known what we were in for, I’d have insisted that that be her middle name. Her first should have been, “Slap.” There was another trouble indicator present: even at six weeks old, I noted this little flirt had a definite swish to her hips.
I turned around in church last Sunday to offer the lady behind me a sign of peace. She said, "May the peace of the Lord be with you," then gave my hand a squeeze and added, "How is your kitchen coming?" As I have been asked that question in the frozen food aisle and at the gas station, as well as other locales, I'd like to send out this update.
We began the project about 90 days ago, in late October. It's a family effort with design and building being handled beautifully by my husband Jim, our son and son-in-law, my hero trio. We ordered the cabinets but much of the demolition, laminate flooring, granite tiling and the expected and unexpected minutiae, have been dealt with pretty much by Jim.
Jim and I have just completed our fifth decade of marriage with the close of 2007 and I feel emboldened to offer two my Two S's formula for our successful union. (Ironically, each S stands for "separate," which may be a major cause of our longevity.) My submissions: Separate Bathrooms and Separate Shopping Trips.
We have lived in several homes with four small children (including twins in diapers) which only had one bathroom and that on the second floor. We did have a large master bath once, and the only people who didn't fit in there were the master and his wife. This huge room always seemed to be full of little kids, two bathing, one brushing, one flushing. We adults usually fled to smaller enclosures. Our present home, which we've lived in since the late 70s, now has three and a half baths - and one of them is Jim's and the other is mine, all mine. That took over three decades.
I got two books on motherhood from two of my kids this Christmas. "just MOMS" compiled by Bonnie Louise Kuchler for Willow Creek Press, came from Cathy and her husband Todd and "Grandmas Gone Wild" from Courage Books, an imprint of Running Press, was the entry from David, his wife Amy and their kids Riley and Grace.
Both are picture books with appropriate quotes. Any mom or grandma can identify with these images.