Dating last century ...

This was my Mom's "dating diary" in 1947 and 1948 when she was 23 years old. I remember being 10 or so years old, and going to visit my Grandparents in Auburn. I would find this thing and read it from cover to cover.

The little diary was free if you bought something at Hills-Bootery in Auburn, Alabama where she attended Auburn Polytechnic Institute. It was published by Friendly Sports.

According to her notes, she dated 13 different fellows! It wasn't all about boys, though. She marked down other things like spend-the-nights with other girls, jobs she took, and classes she attended.

Here's an inside page from January:

One section featured "no love lost" rejects ... where my Mom put the initials of dates who acted like these losers:

Thomas Technicolor - Bright shirt and tie and checked pants make a real picture and tell at a glance the artist, by golly - must've been Dali.

Charlie Conceited - Your hair is wavy your eyes are blue, you're quite some stuff according to you.

Spencer Spineless - Sure as the vine grows 'round a stump you'll sprawl on the sofa in a lump. One thing we never can condone is the man who sits with no backbone.

Larry Be-late - The date's at eight, you come at nine. Oh, who would be your Valentine?

""What are you looking at,?" as published in The Pickens County Progress on 6/16/2011

 “What are looking at?” It’s the prepositional faux pas that makes English teachers cringe. You don’t hear it much, because nobody notices anything anymore. We’re all too busy looking at our cell phones. That is – all us older folks. Little kids still notice things. Summer is here, and they know what to do. They live in the moment, and savor each one.

Grown-ups have to pay the bills, and work hard. Although most women will take the easy way out of one job: it’s too hot to fry your own chicken. That’s probably how, many years ago, my friends Jeff and Neal managed to ruin their summer in very short order. Their Mom had stepped inside the KFC to pick up a bucket of chicken, and left the two boys in her brand new Cadillac.

Jeff was lying down in the back seat, looking at the backs of his eyelids. Neal was up front, looking at the cigarette lighter. Jeff began to notice something smelling just awful. He sat up to look, and saw twenty-seven swirly burn holes peppering the front seat upholstery. I don’t know how they were punished, but it couldn’t have been pretty.

 Not long ago, I was invited to a baby’s first birthday. Relatives slipped folding money to the proud parents, while the guest of honor sat looking at the cowbell I’d brought. Then he began to lick it. We sang “Happy Birthday,” as he looked at his cake. His fingers touched the icing and he bellowed. Then he touched his lips and tasted sugar. His tongue knew what to do next.

A different cake was cut for the rest of us. A girl cousin seemed especially determined not to waste one little bit. Once her serving was gone, she spent five minutes luxuriously licking the plate clean. I have never seen anyone work so hard at something in my whole life! And I say; good for her mom, who didn’t try and stop it. (Childhood is fleeting enough).

This precious little girl got a second helping and did exactly the same thing, again. I was told she absolutely loves food. It was plainly true. So, I decided to call her “Plate Licker,” and the nickname has stuck.

She inspired me to change how I look at life. No more multi-tasking for me. Towels are folded neatly. Letters are written thoughtfully. And I eat just like Plate Licker, even in public. When someone stares, I’ll ask, “What are you looking at?” If she says, “Where I come from, we don’t end our sentences with prepositions,” then I’m quick to tack a noun on.

Baby diapers and other loaded subjects

“Train a child in the way he should go, and when he is old he will not turn from it.” – Proverbs 22:6



Her Father, my Mom (Phyllis) and her Mother
Notasulga, Alabama 1925


Today is my Mom’s birthday. She would have been eighty six. We became as close as two people can be during her last ten years of life.

At first, she went to assisted living. Then her health declined and she moved in with us, creating a "sandwich family." As Mom became more childlike, she was content to do whatever my daughters were doing. So for awhile, I had three little girls: Missy, Amber, and their Gammaw.

My daughters got older. They wanted to help take care of their "Gammaw" and Missy even volunteered for trips to the bathroom. You haven’t seen everything, until you’ve seen your daughter chasing your mother through the house waving an adult diaper, trying to get her dressed.  It’s sad, and funny, and surreal - all at once.

Today on my Mom's birthday, I wished to be little again. She took such good care of me. But if time went backwards, I wouldn’t yet have my two precious daughters. And the challenges we faced as a sandwich family would not yet “be.” Now that it's past us I have some perspective. Living together in a jumble with all the challenges forced us to find new ways to show our love for each other.

It seems like just yesterday her Daddy and I were diapering Missy for the first time. Who could imagine that she would ever diaper my Mom? I try not to imagine this at all, but someday she may even diaper me!

"Black Widow," as published in The Pickens County Progress on 5/19/2011

“A father to the fatherless, a defender of widows, is God. He sets the lonely in families.”
Psalm 68:5, 6 NIV

"Black Widow"

By Bettina Huseby

Times, they are a-changing. Defining what’s proper must keep social experts like Miss Manners indisposed, with a cool rag on her forehead. I made a Facebook page and then took it back down. I couldn’t define who was “friends” and who was “family.” I’m a grass widow, whose husband is alive and well, but we’re separated, divorced, or somewhere messy in-between. A true widow is a dirt widow, who’s separated from her beloved by six feet of red Georgia clay.

My best girlfriend in book-form, Jill Conner Browne, notes that both widows feel exactly the same, but the dirt widow gets better treatment. She’s fed, pampered and petted. Widows like me are lucky to get a black cupcake and a bouquet of roses with the blooms cut off.

My burden is the midlife task of wading through grief and finding a job. Raising my chilluns and husband into adulthood aren’t transferrable job skills. So it was off to trade school.

Book-learning isn’t easy when it’s interrupted by hot flashes. I was tempted to grab the first man to come along who still drew a paycheck. But married women can relax! Your husbands are perfectly safe. The smart grass widow doesn’t want half of your husbands; she wants a whole one of her very own. And her taste in men will change as she changes. She could even decide to fly solo.

You know, since Miss Manners is feeling so poorly, I’d be happy to speak on behalf of widows everywhere and squelch a few false rumors. My life is not as glamorous as it seems. I spend most of my time at home talking to Wilson, my soccer ball. I sleep alone; lest you count the many doggies who chew the covers, mouth-breathe and snore.

If you have growing concerns for my sanity, a blind date fix-up would be great, but remember I’m a woman, not a pack mule. My neighbors invited me to church for some “Godly man shopping.” But here was the husband’s pitch: He said, “Any guy would be lucky to get a strong, hard-working woman like you.” I said, “Stop, Mickey. You’re making me blush!”

But truthfully, my neighbors are great. They feed me. They visit me. A mystery man takes my trash cans to the street. And someone is sneaking over to mow my lawn, but the skinny little fellow gets away before I can I.D. him. You might say he’s the grass widow’s grass cutter. He knows that charity isn’t a tax deduction. It’s a verb.

Times may be a-changing for the better. I ought to put that Facebook page back up again. There are a bunch of new “friends” and “family” for me to list, once I learn all their names.

Recipe: Beer Bread

I went to a bridal shower this weekend for a very sweet bride-to-be. I shared this recipe with her:

Beer Bread

3 cups self-rising flour
3 Tablespoons sugar
one 12 ox. can beer, at room temperature
one stick butter or margarine, melted and divided in half

Preheat oven to 375 degrees. Grease a loaf pan well with Crisco. Put flour, sugar and beer in a bowl. Mix just to blend. Melt stick of butter or margarine and add HALF to other ingredients. Spoon into the loaf pan. Pour other HALF of butter or margarine onto the top.  Bake at 375 degrees for 40 to 60 minutes until knife inserted in middle comes out clean. Cool to slice.

I've had luck substituting part of the flour for whole wheat (and adding some baking powder and salt). I've also added cinnamon and brown sugar, or nuts on occasion. Using different beer makes a difference, too. Dark beer, for example, gives it a complex flavor.

This is my go-to recipe if we run out of bread. I keep a cheap 6 pack of beer at room temperature in the pantry, along with flour and sugar. The best stuff always comes from the most basic ingredients, you know?

Book review - "Shelter for the Spirit" by Victoria Moran, copywrite 1998

This is great book for summer reading. It costs $13.99 in paperback, but my library had it. I learned new ways to feel "at home" despite the loneliness of widowhood. Suddenly, my security blanket was gone. Anyone who has temporarily lost their child's favorite blankie can understand the level of panic involved.

The author was a true widow for many years. She and her daughter traveled around the world, so their home changed often. She tried to make each place a haven for them both.

Her claim is that home is more of a feeling than an address, saying "people put energy into a place." Making a home with heart and imagination feeds the soul. Wandering and neglecting the home will make the soul complain in emotional and physical disturbances."

(This made me think of Montezuma's revenge!)

Moran continues to say "we may think our insecurities will go away if we understand them and change our personalities. But insecurity may call for a more tangible response.

What makes us feel secure? Parents, friends, a familiar place, good work, and a real home. Whatever can help us feel "at home" while on the job, traveling, or in the house gives reassurance of being grounded and centered."

Tangibles include simplifying but relishing cooking and housekeeping, while elaborating on celebrations, sitting and relaxing, and just being comfortable. It all sounded good to me, and I think it will to you, also. *

* The exception for me was found in the Appendixes. This was where the author lost me. You will never find me trying to home school anyone, human or otherwise. I am woefully underequipped in that area. Teaching is for the brave and smart (I am neither).

And Home Birth is something I'd rather not tackle as well. That is why they have those nice, big hospitals full of drugs.

But to each his own, I always say.