Just a thought...

When was the last time you skipped?

My grandmother was given to odd musings. We all are, I guess, but she'd say hers out loud. One time when she and my mother were in the car, waiting to enter traffic at a busy intersection, my grandmother said "Look at all those people going by in those cars. Now just picture them going by like that without their cars. Just zooming along with their hands out like that."

Now that I think about it, I remember a gas commercial - I think it was Gulf - that showed people going down the road like that without cars. If gas prices don't drop, I may give it a try.

Grandma said to me one day, in all seriousness, "Now why do you think God put your mouth right under your nose? Wouldn't it have made more sense to put your nose under your mouth?" I thought about it a moment, and then ran outside to play.

Getting back to the skipping thing, I loved to skip when I was a kid. It was fun. It made me feel light-hearted. My parents should have given in right then and bought me a Barbie doll. Really, though, when you give it some thought, when was the last time you skipped anywhere? In addition to saving time, it would be hard to stay in a bad mood. I would wager that it would be impossible to gripe and frown while you are skipping.

What if everyone replaced walking with skipping? Would it be possible for world leaders to decide to go to war if they skipped into a defense conference? I'll bet Osama bin Laden would be a changed man if he started skipping from cave to cave. He might even start shaving and grooming himself.

Think of the health benefits. Skipping burns twice the calories of walking, and it doesn't inflict the same wear and tear on joints that jogging causes. Americans could become examples of slim physiques instead of the world's fat-asses if we started skipping through the grocery store aisles. The next time you're out and about, picture everyone skipping instead of plodding along.

I believed I had an original thought when this skipping thing occurred to me, but I should have known better. Take a look at this website. If you act fast, you may become the Head Skipper in your state.

A Quick Thursday Post

I got this suggestion from Janet, who lives across the pond at Parkeresque. Try this:

1. Go to google.com
2. Type in find Chuck Norris
3. Click I'm Feeling Lucky

The image on the left comes from Jeremy, and he offers a nice selection of toilet paper for home or office. You can visit his site by clicking here in case you're looking for an imaginative (but useful) gift for a housewarming, birthday, or just want to spruce up your own home. Karen, there's even TP inspired by your hero, John Wayne!

Take a look at this story in the Chicago Tribune about one of my blog buddies, Billy Bump. I found it quite inspiring. Bill has 27 years worth of hard-earned sobriety, and despite a challenging homelife, works each day helping others who still suffer with alcoholism. Thanks for sharing your story, Bill!

I hope everyone is doing well, and enjoying signs of spring. We're seeing the early seasonal flowers here in Richmond, and my sinuses are telling me that spring is already here. This morning before my early AA meeting the birds were singing their hearts out as the sun was waking up. Whee!

Happy Easter!

I'm all dressed up for Easter, looking like a Junior Hit Man. Who would have guessed that they made old man hats in such small sizes? Maybe my mom boiled one of Fred Dowling's fedoras, and hung it on the clothesline to shrink. Note the shed in the background. You may encounter that in an upcoming story.


I really don't have many memories of Easter as a child. I do not remember Easter baskets so much as I remember the first year I did not get one. As I recall, my mother had warned me in advance not to expect one because I was getting too old, but I am chuckling right now at the bitter outrage I felt when I discovered she wasn't kidding. My ire only tripled when I found out that a friend my age got an Easter basket, and I was quick to point this out to my mother. I'm sure she gave an offhand reply such as "How nice for them. Maybe they'll share some candy with you." My mother was always immune to my pouting.


In high school my friends and I decided it would be fun to have an Easter egg hunt. We prevailed upon my mom to hide eggs in our yard. This was a mistake. For one thing, we had a big yard, and it wasn't a blank one like the yards of some of my friends. Our place had been filled out with many more trees and bushes than when the above picture was snapped. There were lots of places to hide eggs, and my mother took her assigned task seriously.


I had to clear out while Mom played Easter Bunny. My friends and I showed up at the appointed time and we began to hunt. It was fun at first. My mom sat in a side yard beneath some shade trees. We'd bring her eggs while she sat in a garden swing, and she'd tell us how many more we had to find. We searched all the likely places several times and there were still hidden eggs. She started giving out clues like "Did you look in the sky?"


In the sky? This was turning into the Egg Hunt From Hell. These were just your run of the mill pastel-dyed eggs, and she hid them cunningly so they would blend into their surroundings. Someone found a green one in the middle of an expanse of lawn. I guess they employed a grid-pattern technique to find it. The one in the sky was tied in the branches of a tree, a blue egg so that when (if) you looked up it matched the blue of the sky. She'd used a stepladder to conceal it.


She finally had to start helping us find them, but by then even she didn't know where all of the remaining ones were. I was still finding rotten colored eggs in mid-summer when I was tending the yard. Some childhood activities just shouldn't be revisited.

Feeling Testy

I have a T-shirt from a trip to St. Pete's beach in Florida emblazoned with Crabby Bill on the back. Although the shirt seemed to be made with me in mind, it was a souvenir shirt from a beachfront restaurant near our hotel. My friend and travel companion Brenda and I agreed, though, that it suited me just fine.


I've been crabby the past few days because I hurt my foot, and I've been having trouble getting around. I'd like to say that the injury resulted from rock climbing, saving a child from a mad dog, or even jogging, but I'd be lying. It was an unprovoked attack from my vacuum cleaner. I'm not sure if it lunged, or I made a misstep. Either way, I slammed my foot into it and - boy - does it hurt. I tried ignoring it the first day, but when I took my sneaker off that night my foot "swole up." as Pam would say. The pain has made sleep difficult, and I turn into Crabby Bill when I don't get rest. All this because of a stupid Electrolux. That'll learn me to stay away from housework.


Sitting at the computer makes my foot throb. Watching movies in bed with my foot propped up seems to be helping, so I hope to be back on both feet soon. In the meanwhile, I've included some tests and a game below to help pass some of your time. The first one concerns your health, is from the CDC, and is a must for anyone considering long-range travel.

adult immunization quiz

Do you think you know yourself? I found out that I've changed. Below is one of the best personality tests around.

Jung/Myers-Briggs

You can take a variety of morality tests through the next link. Ooh, scary!

morals

This one is just silly, but it may take you awhile to get the hang of this game.

cat-with-bow golf

I'll be mending my foot and working on a new post in the meantime. Have fun, and please check back soon!

p.s. I forgot to say Happy Easter! Here's a seasonal quiz for you. Hop to it...

What Your Easter Egg Says About You

You are truly optimistic, open, and hopeful. And your optimism gives you the courage to live life adventurously. You love new experiences, ideas, and challenges. You see life as a fluid, growing process.

The Easter Egg Personality Test

Clayton Ralston

Here we are! Me and my Grandpa! We were best buddies, and this picture was taken on his farm in Iowa. I wanted to be just like him, and if our caps were off, you'd see our matching flat-top haircuts. I wore overalls just like he did, too. I followed him all around the farm, helping him with chores and other important stuff. My mother's old doll carriage made a handy farm wagon, and Grandpa would hand me things for hauling so I'd feel useful.

My grandfather, Clayton Ralston, was born in the late 1890's. He was a farmer most of his life. He was a hired hand on my grandmother's girlhood farm, and that's where they met and fell in love. My great-grandfather did not approve of his daughter falling in love with a hired hand. According to my grandmother, one of the main obstacles was the length of time my grandfather's family had lived in this country; Clayton was not a first-generation German-American. Things got so divisive that my grandfather left and became a cowboy on a ranch outside Flaxville, Montana. If you look it up, you'll see that it's within spitting distance of the Canadian border.

My grandparents continued to pine for each other, and wrote each other regularly. Grandma told me that he begged her to move to Montana to marry him and live on the ranch. My grandmother would have none of that; as she told me, "Why would I want to do that, and have to cook and clean for all those men? I told him no." There's a blurry photograph of my Grandpa, sitting at a table with tins of tobacco spread across the table. When I asked Grandma about the picture, she explained that they only went to town once a month, and that was my Grandpa's monthly supply of tobacco.

Clayton returned to Iowa, and my grandparents eloped on Christmas Eve. My grandmother told me that there was a bad snowstorm that night, and their wagon got stuck as they were returning to her father's farm to tell him the news. The first person who happened upon them in the stranded wagon was, of course, her father. He was not at all pleased. He drove them back to his farm and told my grandmother to go in the house - and instructed my Grandpa to follow him out to the barn. Grandma said she was afraid she was going to be a bride and a widow on the same night. Instead, her father told Clayton to pick out his choice of the horses as a wedding gift.

In the summer after I graduated from high school, we went to Iowa to visit my grandmother. We rode out to the cemetery where my Grandpa is buried, and then we rode through the surrounding farmland. We drove slowly past the farm where she grew up, and she focused on a thicket of trees and bushes. "See there?" she pointed, looking at me with a twinkle in her eye, "Clayton and I used to go there to spoon." She turned back for another look and fell silent.

I'm thinking of Grandpa today as I remember him from the above picture. A visit to their farm was a dream come true for an adventurous boy. My grandparents would also spend long weeks or months with us in Virginia during the winters. He was my hero and best friend. When I would come home from kindergarten, we would play Uncle Wiggily, a board game similar to Candy Land or Chutes & Ladders. We played this game daily, and he took it as seriously as a game of chess. I would snuggle up next to him when we watched Lawrence Welk and Gunsmoke on our black & white television in the evenings.

Grandpa died on St. Patrick's Day when I was five. They were with us in Virginia, and his heart had been giving him trouble. I talked my mom into letting me eat breakfast with him that morning in the guest room before I went to kindergarten, and he seemed to be feeling much better that evening. We were sitting together on the sofa that night, and he got up to get his eyeglasses off the fireplace mantle. He made it halfway across the room. Nothing could be done to save him. Today, I can be glad that I got to eat breakfast with him that morning - just us two best friends - and that I was with him that night when he took his last breath.

It's My Party

Have you ever tried to explain the difference between the major American political parties to someone from another country? It can be difficult to define each party's characteristics even for natural-born citizens. However, it is an election year, and we should dive in with eyes wide open. These quick facts should help.

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Democrats!

1. Democrats have four noses.



2. The Democrat-fighting market in the Philippines is huge - several thousand Democrat-fights take place there every day.



3. Wearing headphones for an hour will increase the amount of Democrats in your ear 700 times!



4. Democrats will often glow under UV light!



5. Louisa May Alcott, author of 'Little Democrats', hated Democrats and only wrote the book at her publisher's request.



6. Democrats will give a higher yield if milked when listening to music.



7. It takes forty minutes to hard-boil Democrats.



8. If you lace Democrats from the inside to the outside, the fit will be snugger around your big toe.



9. The blood of mammals is red, the blood of insects is yellow, and the blood of Democrats is blue.



10. Marie Antoinette never said 'let them eat cake' - this is a mistranslation of 'let them eat Democrats'.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

Ten Top Trivia Tips about Republicans!

1. The moon is 400 times closer to the Earth than Republicans, and 400 times smaller.



2. Americans discard enough Republicans to rebuild their entire commercial air fleet every 3 months!



3. The word 'samba' means 'to rub Republicans'!



4. Wearing headphones for an hour will increase the amount of Republicans in your ear 700 times!



5. Three seagulls flying overhead are a warning that Republicans are near.



6. Republicans can usually be found in nests built in the webs of large spiders!



7. Peanuts and Republicans are beans!



8. Influenza got its name because people believed the disease was caused by the evil "influence" of Republicans.



9. Republicans were first grown in America by the grandmother Maria Ann Smith, from whom their name comes!



10. Research indicates that Republicans will be attracted to people who have recently eaten bananas.

I am interested in - do tell me aboutherhimitthem

I found this helpful information tool while having a cup of coffee with Lemuel over at The Greedy Maelstrom. You can also find out unknown facts about yourself and your friends. I never knew, for example, that if you cut me in half and count the seeds, you will learn how many children you will have. I wasn't at all surprised, though, to learn that Scott was banned in Finland for not wearing pants.

Kid For Sale - Cheap

I remember being afraid when I was a child that my parents would put me up for adoption. There must have been a law against this, otherwise my parents surely would have thought of it. Children certainly are a lot of fuss and bother, and I was no exception. As I work my way through my mom's diaries, I'm sending silent sorry-about-thats heavenward to my parents, especially to my mother. She was the one who was stuck with me most of the time.


In just a few days worth of diary entries the three-year old me has surprised my mom with crayons in the teakettle, messed with the washing machine causing water to overflow all over the garage, and spilled an entire glass of juice in the bed.


Prior to this, I went through a long spell of "running off," as my mother puts it. I ran off to visit neighbors before my parents got out of bed in the morning. I ran off and stole a neighbor's toy tractor and rode it a couple of blocks from home. I ran off from my mother while we were traveling by rail, and made a beeline for the men's room because she couldn't follow me in there. I remember being told about this story, with a few more details than the diary contains. She waited outside for awhile, and finally asked a man to go in after me. He dragged me out and explained that I was scampering from toilet to toilet, flushing like mad, happy as a clam.


Department stores were a land of enchantment for me. I would run off and hide in the middle of circular clothing racks, or crawl into the storage areas beneath display counters. I loved to close myself up in those tri-fold full-length mirrors so I could spend time with legions of Little Billys.


The icing on the cake was when I escaped from her in a multi-floor department store in downtown Norfolk. She hunted from floor to floor, even the mezzanine, but could not find me. Becoming alarmed when she remembered my fascination with the revolving doors, she dashed outside. What if I had been hit by a bus in downtown traffic?


There was a little crowd on the sidewalk, but they weren't looking down the street for a bus. They were looking back at the department store display window, and they were laughing their heads off. Sure enough, when my mother turned to the window, there I was. I was having the time of my life, unwrapping display gifts in the window.


My mother bought me a little harness and a leash. She had seen other children wearing these, and she had viewed their mothers with disapproval. Suddenly, however, she understood the wisdom of these women. With me on a tether, she could sally forth without breaking out in a cold sweat. If I became grumpy or whiny because of my restricted range, she had a secret weapon. Knowing that a mother waling the daylights out of a child could raise eyebrows, she would disguise a sharp pinch as a comforting hand, and adults would look at the sweet, frail mother of a monster child with sympathy.


One cold winter evening I decided to play my trump card. Things weren't going my way at the supper table, and I announced that I would run away from home. My mother was out of the kitchen in a flash. She suddenly reappeared with my coat and a tiny suitcase. Before I knew what was happening, I was bundled up, kissed good-bye, and whisked out the back door. I may have been told "Good luck!" or "Don't forget to write!" but I don't recall. I do remember that the brick step was very cold on my little behind, and my tears of frustration tasted bitter.


My mother had won another round.

Spring Dance

This one is just for fun. Scott sent me this video of himself at home dancing, and I catch myself watching it at odd moments because it makes me smile.

(It isn't really Scott)

I think you'll enjoy watching Scott dance just as much as I do!

(It is not Scott)

I think he has fantastic moves, and this really is my buddy Scott.

(not)

You will smile while you watch this clip. This assertion comes with Planet Bill's Quality Guarantee, and I will personally refund your money if you are not satisfied. Simply give your detailed banking information (routing code, etc.), your social security number, your mother's maiden name, and your first pet's name in the comments section, and your account will be adjusted before you know it.

Driving Ambition

I was told that when I was a tyke and we were visiting my grandparents' farm, I got in someone's car and drove it into the side of the barn. I am staunchly denying the truth of this fable until I see it in print in my mother's diary. I'm not saying I wouldn't have taken advantage of an available vehicle, but I defend my abilities to avoid such an obvious target, even at a tender age. I have always enjoyed driving.


I was one of those fortunate brats who was given a brand new car as soon as I got my driver's license. I had been eyeballing a neighbor's red Fiat, which was for sale, and my father wisely told me to offer him $50 less than he was asking. My dad knew that this man was such an asshole that he wouldn't take one penny less than his asking price, and I didn't know that my dad was already roaming the car dealerships for my first car. I was thrilled to learn that I would soon be driving a 1975 Datsun B-210 Hatchback.


These cars were wildly popular at the time, and we were put on a waiting list. The wait, of course, seemed interminable. I had to submit two color choices, and neither were guaranteed. My first choice was Sherwood green; the second choice was Cocoa brown. I got brown, and I was happy later that I did. The interior was cream-colored vinyl, and the car had an FM radio! At the time, an FM radio was the ultimate teen luxury, in or out of a car.


I had learned to drive in the years between The (alleged) Barn Incident and the Datsun B-210. I started out behind the wheel at a young age, when I was six or seven. No, I didn't actually drive, but my dad agreed to keep a car for one of his men when he was deployed overseas temporarily, and we had a new 1966 Oldsmobile Toronado at our house at my disposal. Unmarried sailors are notorious for spending their money on flashy cars, and this one was a beauty. From my point of view, this car was a wonderful playhouse, because you didn't need a key to operate the electrical gadgets. My friends and I would spend hours raising and lowering the windows, moving the seats back and forth like amusement park rides, and popping the hide-away headlights up and down. So much for the car's battery.


Later, I somehow figured out that if I simultaneously pressed the brake, flipped on a turn signal, and turned on the emergency flashers, I could turn on the radio in my dad's 1968 Dodge pick-up truck. I learned how to drive in this truck. It was the plainest vehicle ever produced; it didn't even have an ashtray, and the radio was an add-on feature. My dad's best friend William Worsley, a smoker, gave my dad two magnetic ashtrays for the dashboard. Yes, the dashboard was a broad expanse of metal; safety was not an available option.


The truck featured power-nothing. It had three-on-the-column, and a clutch that you had to push it in about a yard before it engaged. On cold days you needed to finesse the manual choke. The steering wheel was huge, and you had to wrest it about like a madman to get the truck to alter three degrees on the compass. I loved that truck, and I would drive it all over our big yard. We had a lot of trees, so I learned to avoid obstacles and reverse when required.


After my parents were confident that I could maneuver fairly well, and knew the difference between the brake and the accelerator, I was allowed to back the Buick up and down the driveway. Back and forth, back and forth, a bit boring, but I avoided the brick posts that flanked the driveway entrance, and I didn't ram the house (I don't want to hear another word about that barn. The story is not confirmed.)


Time for the next step. One of my parents, usually my mother, would take me on practice runs through our neighborhood after I graduated from Driveway 101. These forays were always in the dark of night. We lived in a quiet neighborhood, so I rarely encountered a fellow driver, and I learned how to turn corners without taking out shrubbery or street signs. These lessons went well, and I was a good suburban nocturnal driver at age twelve.


One evening, however, was memorable. I was driving along, minding my own business with my mother at my side, when a car appeared behind us. These were secret missions, and my mother certainly didn't want to get caught in the passenger seat with a pre-teen behind the wheel. My mother remained calm, and told me to turn at the next intersection. I did.


So did the car behind me.


"It's okay. Turn left up here onto Lakeview," Mom advised. The car behind us thought that was a good idea, too, and followed us.


"Turn left up here," said my mom, with a trace of irritation in her voice. Left we went, with the car headlights still behind us.


"Good grief. Turn right." The car followed.


"The jackass! Just turn into one of these driveways!" said my mother through clenched teeth.


I picked a driveway, and the jackass turned in right behind us. What were the chances I would choose the jackass's driveway for our escape hatch?

Mini-meme

Or is it MEME? I'm still unfamiliar with a lot of the internet language. Java and cookies sound tasty but they aren't. An entire generation will probably not know what "adobe" really means. I used to see HTML and think "Oh, no! Hate mail!" It's likely that I have deleted a few legitimate messages from friends using hotmail because I thought I was getting spammed by a porn site. Speaking of spam, my grandmother developed an occasional craving for spam sandwiches in her twilight years, just ask my cousin Sheri. Either way, it's a bad thing, and should be outlawed. I've concluded that "meme" means that something is "all about me," but I could be wrong.


In any case, Jen tagged me with a meme, and I'm supposed to tag other people. I'm not going to do that, but here are the friends I would have selected:

• Scott - because I visit his site every day for great quotations on life. He is an accomplished artist, and I'm grateful for his friendship.


• Pam - who has been sober since 1991 and has fun with life's quirks. You should check out the "Conversations with Mama" section on her blog.


• Karen - because of her grace and humor, and because we shared the same mom in different bodies.


• Jean - who has a fascinating mind, and a beautiful soul.


• Dave - because reading his blog is like ordering one of those "surprise boxes" from a catalog; something I always wanted to do when I was a kid, but my parents never let me.

On with the meme...

Five names you like:

Michael

Felix

Timothy

Cosmo

Katharine


Five names you do not like:

Donald

Lester

B.J. (Why, oh why would a parent do this to their child?)

Junior (Ditto. My guess is rampant ego)

Barry (I have my reasons for this one)


Five things you do, or should do, daily:

Drink coffee

Pray and meditate

Go to an AA meeting at dawn

Read my daily blogs

Take a nap


Five stores you like, in person or on-line:

Target

Yoder's Country Market

Sur La Table

Artisan galleries

Local farm produce markets


Five people you would tag:

(see above)


If you'd like to join in, just leave your lists in a comment.


Today marks eleven months of sobriety for me. You did not see me blogging this time last year. One year ago today I was isolated in my home, vomiting daily and shaking uncontrollably until I put more alcohol in my body. Life was very bleak. What a difference these months have made, and it all happened day by day, moment by moment. I'm very grateful to be writing this today, and I thank you for dropping by for awhile.

The Horsehair Wig

In 1988, Michael and I decided that we would take a road trip to Iowa to visit my grandmother. It was April, during that in-between time when the weather is restless and grumpy, like a woman who is seven months pregnant. We made it to a spot in the middle of nowhere west of Indianapolis on the first night. We figured that putting ourselves on the far side of the city would keep us free of morning traffic, but we hadn't counted on running out of motels as soon as we did. We finally found one called The Riviera, a twin for the one made famous by Alfred Hitchcock. The next night we stayed in Urbanna, Illinois. The following day put us in the middle of Iowa.


The first thing we did when we got to Grundy Center was check into the little motel east of town. I knew that if we showed up at Grandma's before we checked in she would barricade us in her home, because spending money on a motel was just crazy when she had plenty of room for guests. When I was growing up we would take a family trip to visit Mom's relatives about every third summer. I could always count on the color of Grandma's house and the color of her hair to be different than the last time I'd seen her.


On this trip, Grandma's house was still barn red, because she was now in a wheelchair. Since her leg amputation, she couldn't get out to paint her house like she used to do. Michael was nervous about meeting her, because I'd already told him that she either liked you or she didn't, and there wasn't any room between the two. It was dusk when we pulled into her driveway. Did I tell you this was a surprise visit?


We knocked on the door and Grandma swung it open, peering up at us. She looked first at Michael, then at me, and then back at Michael.


"Why, Michael!" she cried warmly, and ushered him in. She'd never even met the guy, and I was like a wagon he'd dragged along with him. I followed, feeling a bit neglected. And that was that; they were like two peas in a pod. We spent a wonderful evening with Grandma, drinking coffee and talking. She was outraged that we were spending good money on a motel room, but when I told her we had already checked in, paid cash, used the towels, and licked the water glasses she relented and let us return to the motel for the night.


I thought a motel would have kept Grandma from going to a lot of trouble. Instead, when we returned the next day we discovered that she had stayed up all night baking pies, bread, and cookies. She had also pulled out her old family photo albums. She knew how I loved to look through these pictures from the early 1900's, and we sat and drank coffee and ate pie while we turned the pages of the album. Michael and I sat across the table from Grandma, and she provided commentary and back-stories on the people in the old albums. Some pictures were studio portraits, but most were candid shots of daily life at the turn of the previous century.


Grandma thumped one picture with a gnarled, arthritic finger. It showed a very handsome man, and even though the picture was black and white, you could tell his eyes were as piercingly blue as my grandmother's. She told Michael "That was my dad. I didn't like him much." As I said, she either liked you or she didn't.


Another was a picture of a big old pig with swarming piglets. "That sow had fifteen pigs!" Grandma said in wonder. I thought of vintage Iowa chops and scrapple.


At the very front of the album was a studio portrait. At first glance, a woman in a beautiful white gown, hands clasped behind her, a handsome face framed by coarse, dark hair pulled back and secured at her neck.


"That was my teacher," Grandma said proudly, "He taught me how to tat."


Indeed, a closer inspection showed Michael that this was either a handsome guy, or a woman with unfortunately mannish features. D.G. Berg, formerly in the U.S. Cavalry, later a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse, lived with my grandmother's family. My great-grandfather was the head of the school board. Back then the term was "confirmed bachelor," and D.G. Berg always wanted to have a nice picture of himself in a dress. So, my great-grandmother made him a lovely dress; he got a horsehair wig and followed his dream.


There are at least seven other pictures of him in my grandmother's photo album. Some are formal portraits, others show him around the farm. He was part of my grandmother's household. D.G. Berg had served his country (one picture shows him in his Cavalry uniform), and then he served a growing farm community. He lived with them, played with them, helped with farm work and household chores, and taught my grandmother to read and write. She loved him.


He also taught her how to tat, and that was a beloved hobby that she continued until she died at the age of ninety-two.