A Birthday and a Funeral

She was my mother's younger sister.

Born just 18 months apart in the early 1920's, in the steep hills of Eastern Kentucky coal mining country, they were best friends as well as sisters. On their front porch they cut out paper dolls from old newspapers and whisked "cherries from the basket" in games of jacks.



As they grew older, Aunt Dortha learned to play guitar, and she'd play while Mom sang. They'd sit around for hours on that front porch, performing duets of "Blue Heaven," "Corrine, Corrina" and "No Letter Today."

One day, their love of music led them to bring home the hit song of the day, the Andrews Sisters singing, "Queenie, the Cutie of the Burlesque Show."



Grandma Robertson promptly threw it away.

But all too soon their childhoods ended.

In 1943, my grandfather was killed when the brakes on his coal truck went out on Big Hill and Grandma moved her family to Dayton, Ohio, a major manufacturing center for the war effort. There, the girls got jobs to help support their two younger brothers and sister.



Mom was 21, Aunt Dortha, 19, when they began waiting tables at The Green Mill restaurant on West Third Street. They'd work their shift, flirting with the soldiers home on leave, and then walk home together, arm in arm. It was at the Green Mill that Aunt Dortha met Ed Williams, the man who would be her husband for over 50 years.



From that long marriage, she culled many life lessons that she passed on to me and my sisters.

When my younger sister, Robin, got married, Dortha offered this counsel: "When you disagree with your husband, always give in 75% of the time. Because if you think you're giving in 75% of the time, you're probably really giving in half the time."

With my sister, Lelane, she shared this sage advice, "Never throw hot spaghetti sauce when you're angry. It's really hard to clean off the wall."

And to me, "When your husband wants to go somewhere or do something, you go with him. Because if you won't, some other woman will."

But the words of wisdom we heard most often from Aunt Dortha while we were growing up were these: "You have to suffer to be beautiful." Over the years, these words have sustained us through acne treatments, fad diets, pilates classes and sleeping on brush rollers.

Although Mom passed away nearly 38 years ago, today is her 89th birthday. Tomorrow, we'll say goodbye Aunt Dortha.

Happy birthday, Mom. You have your duet partner back again.

Raisin Rules: Facebook Rule #2

As with the rest of life, you can't just "Like" everything on Facebook.

Some discrimination is called for.

The other day, I saw a post saying a woman's grandfather had died and someone, I kid you not, had clicked Like.

A couple of posts later, I read where a ton of granite fell on a man's son, severely injuring him, and there it was again: Like.

Seriously?

If you're not sure what to say when something bad happens, "I'm sorry to hear that," or "My thoughts are with you," work just fine.

And if you can't drum up the energy to press that many keys, just keep on scrolling.

A Lovely Story

Lovely Abraham Powell, along with being my great-great-great grandfather, was reputed to be the meanest man who ever lived.

One day a deputy named Moody rode out to Lovely's cabin in Big Hill, KY, to arrest him for moonshining and tax evasion. Lovely came out of his cabin just as the deputy rode up.

"My wife is ill," said Lovely. "One of the neighbors is on the way. As soon as she gets here to care for my wife and children, I'll come with you peacefully."

But Deputy Moody was the kind of man who gets drunker on a little bit of power than Lovely's customers ever did on 'shine. He refused to wait.

"I'm the law," he said, "You'll come, and you'll come now." And he made to slide down from his horse.

Lovely put up a warning hand.

"You get down off that horse," he said, "and you're a dead man."

Moody didn't listen. He slid down from his horse and no sooner had his feet touched the ground than Lovely shot him through the heart.

Grandpa Lovely never served a day in prison for that shooting, though. The judge ruled Moody's death a suicide.

"Everyone around here knows that Lovely Powell is the meanest man who ever lived," he said. "He told Moody that if the got down off his horse he was a dead man. When Moody decided to get down anyway, he killed hisself."

The less interesting explanation for why Grandpa Lovely never went to prison for his crime is that his wife's brother was the Governor of North Carolina, who interceded.


Lovely with his wife and children.

(Thanks to my cousin, Sue, who reminded me of this story. She prefers the factual version, but I tend toward the better story.)

Baptism by Fire

This is the baptismal font at my church.

The stained glass window doubles as a door. When it's open, you can see little steps leading from the water to a staging room that lies behind.


What you can't see is that the overhead light in that staging room is set pretty far back. Far enough, in fact, that if someone stands at the top of those stairs, that person will be backlit. So that if the window is closed, the congregation will see that person in stained glass silhouette.

And if, after dunking his sheep, that young pastor is impatient to get out of his wet clothes, that congregation will see the stained glass shadow of their spiritual leader shuck off his drawers and briskly towel off before donning a pair of dry pants.

Best baptism, ever.

Toddler Transsexualism

(Figure that title will get me a hit or two....)

Last week, my daughter-out-law was bathing her three-year-old daughter.

"When I grow up," said Harper, "I'm going to be a boy, like Phinn."

"No, you're not," said Mom. "You're a girl."

Harper considered this.

"Phinn has a penis," she announced. (According to my daughter, this is a favorite topic of conversation at their house.)

"Yes, he does," agreed Mom.

"And I have a vagina."

"True."

"But when I get big, I'm going to have a penis, like Phinn's."

(Somewhere, Sigmund Freud is rubbing his hands together in glee.)

"No," said Mom. "You're a girl. Boys have penises and girls have vaginas. You'll always have a vagina."

Harper was outraged.

"I will not! It will grow!"

You see, Harper's best friend at pre-school is a little boy named Vince. And when Vince plays with the other little boys, they have a rule: "No girls."

It kind of reminds me of that episode from the Little Rascals where the boys formed the He-Man Woman Haters' Club.

Except I don't remember Darla threatening to grow a penis....

Occupy Woodstock

I took this picture a few weeks ago, when I was in downtown Dayton at the theater. Since then, this trio has grown into a larger group that is currently battling with the city council, who wants them to leave Courthouse Square before the tree-lighting ceremony the day after Thanksgiving.

As you can tell from the title of this post, my sympathies are with the kids hanging out in various city centers around the country. They remind me a lot of my generation when we were youngsters, back when we were still had ideals and weren't forced, by our desire for a comfortable old age, to ignore inconvenient truths.

The Fox News crowd, of course, is screaming bloody murder about them. Even the people who are on their side complain about the lack of a unified message. I, on the other hand, can't help noticing that, cohesive message or no, they got the big banks to roll back a planned $5/month charge for using your debit card. (Thanks, OWS!)

I'm kind of happy that the X-ers, who were content to wait for the world to change, have been succeeded by a more activist bunch. And I'm a little worried, as I watch the clashes with the cops around the country escalate, that they will learn, as we learned, that peaceful activism is no match for an Establishment that is willing to kill to maintain the status quo.

Godspeed, Occupiers.

The Grocery Getter

Old Dog and I have a system worked out for buying groceries.

Each Saturday, I record everything we need for the week on a pre-printed form that lists, in order, the aisles at our local supermarket. I write down, very specifically, the brands, flavors, sizes, etc. Then he takes the list and, with the blood of the ancient mammoth hunters flowing through his veins, tracks down the items on that list.

We don't do this, as you might think, because I'm a control freak. We do it because Old Dog prefers it that way. (The satisfaction of my inner dominatrix is a byproduct).

And, lest you think that, at our house, it's all about me, Old Dog has the right, and the privilege, of choosing pretty much all the snack foods. I am on a mission to maintain, my weight, so I try to ignore the snack food aisles on the list.

He generally keeps us supplied with lots of things that, due to my allergies, I can't eat, so it works out pretty well.

Except at Halloween. This time of year, I'm forced to provide a little helpful input about the importance of good nutrition.