Sudden memories

Grandmother and Grandfather Nordyke on the
Callahan County, Texas farm. The grey Chevy
is parked under the cottonwood in front.

Have you ever been reading a book and suddenly swept up by it, you land right in the middle of your own memories? That’s what happened when I read the first chapter of The Sound of Windmills by Jackie Woolley. She so described life on a hard scrabble Texas farm in the 1940s that all of a sudden I was back in the grey Chevy going to visit my grandparents on that on-the-edge farm where my dad grew up.

Here’s the review I wrote of this book for Story Circle Book Reviews. ( You can read my review at http://storycirclebookreviews.org/reviews/windmills.shtml.

The Sound of Windmills

Jackie Woolley

The trip to see Grandmother and Grandfather on their family farm on the semi-arid, windy, and lonely edge of west Texas delighted this little girl. As we drove up the dirt road in our old gray Chevrolet, I bounced all over my side of the back seat knowing I was going to have so much fun--gathering eggs, watching Grandmother milk the cow, walking down to Greenbriar Creek to gather dewberries, not to mention gobbling up the dewberry cobbler that came out of the woodstove just a little later. All of this played out  to the background serenade of the whirring windmill. It was lots of fun for a city girl, but not so much for the couple who wrestled their living from these 287 acres for most of their adult lives. It remains a memory I treasure: not only for the fun but, now, for the character and good natures of these two strong people.

            All these memories and many more, came rushing back as I read Jackie Woolley's multigenerational saga of the Taylor family. Myra and Joel Taylor live with their daughters, Marilyn and Rugene on a working farm, much like my grandparents', near the fictional town of Langor, Texas. It's a hard life, and Woolley has an excellent eye and ear for it. I do not know exactly how much of this story is autobiographical; I suspect, quite a bit.

            The hardness of farm life is made even harder for the Taylor family because as the story opens, Joel, a polio victim, is dying. Myra, who has done most of the farming and managing for years, expects to carry on with the help of her daughters and a trusted hand, but after Joel's death, their long-time landlord (they are sharecroppers) mercilessly tosses them out within days. Stricken, Myra lands on her feet, and begins to form a new life for the three. This is the true beginning of the long story.

            The focus is primarily on the younger daughter Rugene, a strong spirit and sometimes lonely bookworm. She is determined to go the college and find a life for herself but not in Langor. At the same time she is determined that "I'll be back someday. I'm going back to buy the old farm.” Rugene manages to live much of her dream. Meanwhile, Marilyn and Myra also struggle with their own lives and as well as with holding the three of them together as a family.

            Because the novel spans several decades, it might have been confusing to a reader. What is happening to whom and when?  Woolley handles this problem skillfully by working historic happenings into her story without being obtrusive. The book is no one-night read. It is a rather daunting 545 pages, and is full of twists and turns; however, the main story moves nicely along holding the reader's interest. By the time it comes to a close most of its issues are resolved and three strong women are at peace with themselves and with each other.

Towed! or Whitey's big adventure

A good day, a busy day, we both thought we deserved a treat as we headed for home up Houston's lower Westheimer. That’s easy to accomplish. Lower Westheimer is a food Mecca. Where? What kind?  French, Italian, Italian, Italian, Indian, eat-the-whole pig, middle Eastern, eat! Eat! Eat.

And so we decided to grab a bit. We picked a favorite, wheeled around the corner to the parking lot, but wait! A lovely spring evening, a gentle breeze, big trees gently waving, twilight falling in. "Know what, let's park around the block on the street and stroll around. And so we did.

Bet you can guess the rest of this story.

We saw cars parked curbside in the beautiful 300 block of Avondale. Looked good. "Oops," said Bob, pointing at a dim barely visible sign. "No parking from here to the corner." So we backed up and found a nice place midblock. After our pleasant saunter, we sat by a window to watch the cars go by and ordered rissoto with sauted sow belly. Lovely, but small.

We been so good lately, we decided, let's indulge. "One nutella sundae and two spoons please." The waiter was prompt, friendly, and full of chat. We enjoyed, and  then headed back through the pleasant evening to the car.

Just as we turned the corner Bob stopped, frozen his posture that of a fox who has just heard the first bay of the hounds. I could feel the fur rising on his back.

"The Jeep is being towed! I just saw it go down the street." It was one of those moments lost in time, never ending.

"A Jeep is being towed. You know it's not ours. We didn't do anything to get it towed," says the chipper eternal optimist—me.

"A Jeep with a luggage rack and a bike rack on the back?"

We both broke in to the trot of two foxes when the hounds are getting close. We turned the corner.

No Whitey. (Not a really original name for a white Jeep, but there you are.)

That's when we read the sign more closely. True, it said no parking to the corner, but it also warned that cars parked between the signs (yes, there was another one) without a resident permit would be towed. It meant it.

Fortunately, the restaurant is only about a mile from our house, so, after I warned Bob that I was not in walking shoes and no more sprinting, we headed home.   Bob remembered that there is a neighborhood Houston Police Station on the way. Guilty as can be, we might as well 'fess up and find out how to find Whitey. What a nice policeman!

First, he told us that every time he works that station seemed like someone comes in and complained about getting towed off Avondale. Then, he asked us our license number. Dumbstruck. We both were dumbstruck. We looked at each other. I did a mental struggle and came up with the first three letters. The fellow laughed.

"Looks like she expects you to finish it." Bob shrugged.

"Well, you'll need the license number or the vehicle identification number to get it back."  Oh yeah. Then he went on, "I can't remember mine either, so I took a picture of it on my I-phone." Good idea, after the fact.

As soon as we walked in, took off our shoes, and had a drink of water, Bob grabbed the "paid bill folder" and started flipping. Before long he had it--the license renewal form with both numbers. 'Course neither of us will ever forget that license number again. After some deacceleration, our hearts were still pounding, off to bed. Even with the license number the nice woman on the phone told Bob after a 10 minute wait and a scare when she said Whitey wasn't in the system, it's four hours before they can tell you where the car is.

We found him. Not to far, but too far to walk. As soon as rush hour was over, Bob called a cab and set off on the rescue mission. There was Whitey, lonely among the other cars with miscreant owner. A mere $238 (that's not counting the taxi) later, Whitey brought the penitent Bob home.

Whitey's now happy in the driveway and Bob and I are resigned to valet parking and separating our strolling from our dining.

Happy Mother's Day, Grandmother Nordyke

Nancy Narcissus Coffey Nordyke--Happy Mother's Day!

In honor of Mother’s Day a few words about my grandmother, Narrie Coffey Nordyke, mother of my dad, Lewis Nordyke.

I was always a little in awe of Grandmother, not just because she could wring a chicken’s neck without ruffling her starchy newly ironed apron, but because she had been a pioneer.         

            Narrie (Nancy Narcissus Coffey) was born in 1874 in Dalton, Georgia to Molly (Mary Catherine—Katy, my Catherine is partly named for her) Ferrington and E.N. Coffey, a Confederate veteran of  the Battle of  Chickamauga. When Narrie was small the Coffeys pulled up their Georgia stakes—land was scarce and mostly farmed out—and headed forTexas. As a kid I envisioned the covered wagon, the campfires, the winding road, until one day I asked Grandmother, “What was it like to be on a covered wagon?”

            “I have no idea!” She pulled herself up to her full six feet and said with her usual dignity, “We came on the train.” My vision changed. White gloves were Grandmother’s thing. She wore them to the beauty shop in Baird, to the café downtown; almost anything was worth putting on her good suit and white gloves. Now I saw a parlor car with a little girl in white gloves and a Sunday dress walking down the aisle. Later, I learned they came on an immigrant train sharing a boxcar with their livestock, household goods, and several other families. I can only guess that they wished for the open trail and a campfire.

            I think about Molly, getting onto the train with her youngsters knowing full well that while there would be many letters (wish I could find them) sent with love, likely she would never see her family again. Far as I can tell, she didn’t.

            Narrie grew up in Callahan County, Texas surrounded by Georgia family and friends. But when it came time to fall in love, she picked a sort-of Yankee fiddler from Limestone County who’d come to visit relatives before heading for fiddling jobs in the saloons of Alaska.

Nancy Narcissus Coffey and Charles T. Nordyke
Married in Callahan County, Texas, December 24, 1899.

            On December 24, 1899 Narrie and Charlie Nordyke married. After a brief stint inLimestone County, and, yes, this time they did go in a covered wagon, they lived and farmed in Callahan County the rest of their long lives. Lewis was the middle child and middle boy in the family of seven.

On the farm, probably in the late 1920s.

At the 50th wedding anniversary celebration.
I'm the imp in the jumper planning mischief with
my cousin Charles Reid. (Can't you tell?)
Poor little Paul Gene--the likely victim--is

Thanks for the memory

I promise. This won't be sad. But. . .

Twenty-four years ago today, my mother died. I'm not going to tell that tale. Rather, I'll share a favorite story.

We'd moved to Houston. Mother lived in our family home on Lipscomb Street in Amarillo.  We or, at least, the three kids and I made the right-at 800 mile drive every summer for a couple of weeks of fun--memories they treasure. (I looked on one of the guy's Facebook profile and found he was claiming Amarillo instead of Houston as his home town. Hmmmmm.)

Mother came to see us as well, but it was rarely for fun. Usually she'd dropped what she was doing, walked away from her desk at the Amarillo Globe-Times just as soon as she could find someone to cover for her in reponse to my cry for help. One time a kid had been a terrible accident, I needed to be at the hospital, who would keep the other babies? Mother. That was but one.

This time was different. She'd come as part of my birthday present. I got a sitter for the day and she and I set out for a day of grown-up fun. She'd lived in Houston as a bride. We found the duplex where they lived. Ever the reporter she hopped out of the white Studebaker and sprinted to the front window. She came back with a funny look on her face.

"What is it?"

"It's the same furniture!"

Now it was time for the real fun--shopping downtown. Hard to believe, but this was pre-Galleria Houston. The fine stores were all downtown. This was a special trip. I suspect now that Mother had engineered the whole thing. Almost all of my birthday presents had been money. Not just Mother, but Bob, my grandparents, even my sister, who was on as tight a young-family budget as I was managed  five bucks. Mother told me that it was time I had a good dress. Not something I'd made myself, and not, not, not that cut down maternity dress.

Off we went to Neiman Marcus for lunch. This was the start of a great tradition. For the next twenty or so years, every time Mother made a non-emergency Houston visit, we alway had lunch at Neiman Marcus--downtown, then Galleria, finally the now long-gone Neiman's in Town and Country near our house.

"We'll look for that dress here," Mother told me.

"No. Let's go to Foley's. I can get two for what one will cost here."

"Let's at least look. It's so much fun." We hopped on the escalator.

The prices in the dress department knocked me out. "Let's go."

"Oh, try on a couple." Mother pulled a dress off the rack. "This one's not too expensive, and there are so many thing you can do with a black dress. Dress it down for church, dress it up with a pin for those company parties." She gave me that look. I'd had an almost lecture over afternoon coffed the day before about a wife's responsibility to make her husband proud, or, at least not embarrass him with a made-over maternity dress.

Just to hush her, I agreed. It was my money; I was going to buy two dresses at Foley's.  The saleswoman acted like I was the most important customer she'd had in two weeks. Was this dressing room fine? Would we like a cup of tea? What else could she do?

I wanted to cry. I'd never looked so good in my life. Not even in the wedding dress I'd bought on sale. I turned, I looked this way and that in the three-way mirror. Another mirror on the other wall showed my back. I looked good all the way around.

"Just imagine it with  your pearls."  Mother had given me and my sister pearls for high school graduation.

I could. Time to finish this before I wavered. Just as I reached for the zipper, the saleswoman reappeared.

"Can I bring something else."

Mother smiled brightly. "She'll take it."

"Wonderful choice."

I waited until she left with the dress before I started. Mother held up her hand.

"Listen to me. You are worth it. That's why we all gave you money. So you'd have a dress worthy of you."

I hushed. I also wore that dress until it was a thread and loved every minute of it. I still love it's memory.

Thanks Mother.

So what to do today to honor her memory. I can't drive 800 miles to put flowers on her grave. I could make a donation, but no.

I'm going to buy a new outfit and make her proud.

Unpredictable--those cats

More on our ongoing and everlasting cat drama.

I’ve spent considerable time on two activities—keeping one cat, Douglas, out, and keeping one cat, Ginger, in.  More than once I thought why fight it? I’m only making all three of us unhappy. Just open the door and see what happens. But no, I didn’t.

            Until one day last week, oops. I didn’t do it on purpose. I brought in the mail and got so busy looking at that I didn’t notice I left the front door wide open. Oh, no!

            Oh, yes! No Ginger! I went through the house rattling a bowl of cat food—my never-fail way of calling Ging. Nothing. Then I went outside.

            “Here, Ginger.”

            “Here, Ginger.”

            Douglas came. Ginger didn’t.

Happy (sort of) to be home.

            I confessed to Bob. “I left the door open, Ginger is gone.”

            He consoled me and predicted Ginger would be back in 30 minutes. The minutes came and went. No Ginger. We had to run an errand that took a couple of hours. I tried not to think about Ginger.

            When we pulled up who do think was sitting on the porch, complaining about the door being shut. That’s right. Since then there hasn’t been nearly so much door sniffing and meowing—from the inside.

Easter Morning nap on the porch.

            But Douglas has taken up steady residence on the front porch. He likes breakfast early then a nap. Sometimes Mac and Arthur come. Sometimes not. Last night, we heard Douglas’s good-night meow. Suddenly Bob mellowed. Was it the Easter spirit?

            “Let’s let Douglas in,” says old not-in-my-lifetime Bob.

            Now it’s, “Here, Douglas.”

            There is no figuring out cats. After months of begging and sticking his nose in the door, Douglas declined. So back to where we started. We have an inside cat and an outside cat, by their own choices. I’ve quit worrying about it.

Weekend fun--whereever

On March 28, I shared out fun experience of heading to Houston’s downtown oasis, Discovery Green Park where we found new friends and fun with the Egyptian community, happily celebrating new freedoms coming to the country. Lots of city fun.

            When I checked Katy’s Facebook page that day, I found she’d managed to have fun too. Not city fun in Atlanta, where she lives. But little town fun! And that may be better.

            After careful planning, she presented herself in her once-upon-a-time hometown of Blakley, Georgia, the self-proclaimed Peanut World Capital, on the best day of the year to visit. She took in the Peanut Parade with old cars, politicians, beauty queens, marching bands and lots, and lots, and lots of peanuts.

            Weekends are great, and another one is just around the corner. What adventures await?

Bluebonnet Baby

Bluebonnet Baby

Another baby!  Yea! And, maybe, maybe this time a girl? Not that I really cared, but for several months all liquid that entered my body, even at parties, came via my pink mug. I got a handbag big enough to carry it everywhere.

            But that wasn’t what really bothered me. What bothered me was that we lived in Oklahoma. This wouldn’t do. I might have a girl (I hope, I hope, I hope) or a boy (fine by me) but by gosh or by golly, I was going to have a Texan. My plan? About a month ahead, visit my mother in Amarillo and refuse to leave.

            Then, a bolt from the blue! Bob was transferred to Houston. Off we went in the big Chevy wagon—Daddy, Mother, the four-year-old, and Mr. 17-months, and Daffodil the part-cocker.  That was in March.

            April 8—we welcomed our bluebonnet baby, our bluebonnet girl, born in the peak of bluebonnet season! Katy joined the clan. (Daffy didn't make the picture.)

            She was a joy then, and a joy (and lots of laughs) along the way. She became a lovely young woman.

            

And a fantastic daughter. I can say that—last July my birthday gift was a ticket to Atlanta and a ticket to a Joan Baez concert. Here we are sharing that splendid evening.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY KATY P, MY BLUEBONNET GIRL.

St. Urban's Day 2 Tales of 2 Cities

In honor of St. Urban’s Day here’s a happy tale of  two cities.

Yes, we moved from quiet country tranquility to city hustle. Yes, sometimes there are downside—fire trucks whooooooooooooeeeing down the street, strange (but also interesting) folk strolling by—we live on a major street, no telling what we’ll see, but we can also walk to the best food in town. “No,” to the valet, “we walked.”

Last Wednesday was our day for grandson fun. We were running a bit late. As the Jeep hurried up Mandell a couple of blocks north of Westheimer, we past a jaunty, sporty red Toyota being pushed and steered by a comely young African American with dreadlocks to dream about.

            “If we weren’t late, I’d help him,” sez Bob.

            “Yeah” sez I.

            Then we looked at each other and, on her own, the Jeep turned around.

            We figured out, after introduction—our new friend was Ashley—that the cars fit and we could push him. This was a relief to Ashley since the garage had told him to be there by six. He didn’t know if he could make it; it was about 4:30. Bump, slide down the street. Then at busy, busy Westheimer, two of the fully uniformed valets at a major eatery saw us and came to consult. So there we were—two over-the-hill white folk, one articulate and well-coiffed African American, and two uniformed Hispanics all trying to figure out what to do.  

            Continuing pushing was the unanimous vote and off we went.

            Not too many minutes later, Ashley rolled into the garage; we took off for Bobba and Bob duty. I opened the window and waved; Ashley waved back and yelled “Thanks.”

            End of story?

            NO.

            At exactly the same time in Atlanta—well let daughter Katy tell you via Facebook.

 So, Petey, the PT, blew a hose on the way home. I had to call a wrecker to return him to the garage that worked on him yesterday and lo and behold, a neighbor saw my EAV (East Atlanta Village) bumper sticker and offered me a ride back home. Silver linings to all stories everywhere!

 

Meanwhile, I didn’t (darn it) get a picture of Ashley, so here one of Katy and her mom enjoying Mom’s birthday gift last summer at a Joan Baez concert in the middle of Atlanta.

At-lan-ta, At-lan-ta, it’s my kind of town.

I’d do Houston, but the syllables don’t fit.

If you want to know more about St. Urban--

http://bit.ly/cesKUh

Rabbit, Rabbit? Rabbit?

  

Somewhere along the line years and years, well yes, and years ago, son Patrick came home from school on the last day of some month seriously informing us we must say “Rabbit” the next morning before we said anything else.

            We questioned “why?” I’m not sure he knew. Was it to bring luck? Avoid bad luck? Why?

            Didn’t matter. We had to do it. Period. (Maybe he’ll read this and comment on what he remembers.)

             

            In all those years it has been a challenge. If I remember (and I’ll do it in just a minute) I e-mail Patrick and siblings a few days ahead a terse one word message, “Rabbit.” Sometimes, I remember midday on the first. Sometimes, the next week. Sometimes, not at all.

            I’ve met a few people who also do it.  A few insist it must be “Rabbit, Rabbit.” And recently I learned that proper form is “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.” Okay. It is according to one account properly done on the first day of the lunar month making it even easier to remember. It is a salute to Nature’s sacred critter, not a rabbit but looks like one, whose name may not be spoken.

            It might be that the last word on the last day of the month is “Hare.” I think that is pushing it.

            Here are a link that explain it more, http://www.guardian.co.uk/theguardian/2010/jul/21/rabbits-hares-first-of-month

     The source is the UK because, apparently, England is where the tradition began, and in some sort of poetic justice, or quirk of luck, Patrick now makes his home in jolly old England.

     Since this is the year of the Rabbit, seems more appropriate than ever to follow the practice.

     So tomorrow morning--Rabbit! Rabbit! Rabbit.

Celebrating with new Egyptian Friends

I love days that just happen—like yesterday. We’d had a busy-ish week so we made on-purpose no plans for Saturday. Just hang out and see what happens.

            Of course, even on a planless Saturday, there are errands. That’s why Bob was in the Office Deport parking lot when he saw two young women in head wraps in a car sporting a bumper sticker celebrating the new freedom in Egypt. Ever the friendly (and nosy) Texan he went over and knocked on the window. He said they were so young he didn’t know if they understood his “roll down” hand motion.

            The must have, because the window came down. He asked—knowing the answer from the sticker—how they felt about the recent events. “Elated!” (No political commentary about the future is appropriate here.) They shared their enthusiasm for a few minutes, and then told him they were headed down to Discovery Green to join a celebration for Houston’s Egyptian community.

            “Why don’t you come?” One of them handed Bob an invitation.

            Planless Saturday, planless no longer.

            Around 7:00 we hopped in the Jeep and headed downtown to Houston’s wonderful downtown gathering spot, Discovery Green where we joined many, many celebrating Egyptian families and friends. Quite a crowd. The men mostly wore Western clothes, the women ranged from full burqas, through light robes, scarves, right on to barely anything. The dancing girls on the stage were in full, and lovely, sequined costumes and interesting moves. 

            Of course, I bought a tee shirt. Then we enjoyed the sunset over the city.

            Where to have dinner after such an adventure? Why Aladdin (http://www.aladdinhouston.com/ )is on our way home at the corner of Montrose and Westheimer. We saluted Egypt and our new Egyptian friends with lamb shanks, tabouli, mushroom salad, fresh hot bread and the best cauliflower in the world.

What have I unleashed?

What have I unleashed? Or is unleashed even a word to use when discussing cats? (Note the plural.)

            I opened the breakfast bar for Douglas this morning, not quite as early as he thought appropriate. He’d requested early service when Bob went out for the paper around six.

            Douglas munched his fill. Dinner from M. must have been glorious, for for all the meowing pleases, he didn’t eat much. For the leftovers, he invited not one but two (!) friends.

So what to name them? Since they are Douglas’s friends, I’ve dubbed the Mac and Arthur. But which is which?

While Mac and Arthur chowed down, Douglas sat by the backdoor regally maintaining that he is too an inside cat.

My problem now? What to name the next one. . .Suggestions?

Douglas? Here, Douglas! Here, Douglas!

Bob, Ginger and I discussed it at length. I still thought it would show hospitality to invite our new friend in from time to time. The fellows voted together, and voted emphatically, “NO!” Bob cited fleas, cat hair and vet bills. Ginger just said, “NO!” We compromised on the breakfast bar.

            I the next morning around six when I opened the back door, Douglas was on the top step. Talk about kitty intuition. This worked fine for several days. Douglas and I  got friendlier and friendlier. He even let me brush him and cut out some really knarly hair wads.

            One afternoon I was giving him an illicit snack, when my neighbor from the garage apartment behind our house strolled by. M. and I discussed our mutual friend. Turns out M. doesn’t have the compunctions of Bob and Ginger, he’s been inviting Douglas in. What’s more, M. is a waiter at a good restaurant and allowed that most nights he checks with the chef about leftovers. Douglas may be having dry cat food for breakfast, but he dines well at night. M. and I left it that Douglas is a community cat. We even talked about getting him a lion cut to take care of the remaining hair wads.

            Then last Saturday, Douglas disappeared. “Douglas? Here, Douglas!” “Here, Douglas!” Nothing. Several times I strolled around the block to see if he’d wandered back to his old digs. “Here, Douglas!” Nothing. Oh, dear. I hoped for the best and feared the worst.

            I still looked out every morning. This morning, there he was, nose pressed against the backdoor, looking aggravated that I was a little late with breakfast. I brought an extra helping. That was good, because Douglas invited a friend. (More about the local covey of feral cats another time.) M. is at work now and has promised an extra special dinner.

            

Ginger still maintains the breakfast bar is fine, but he is and always will be the one and only cat of the house. Sorry! King of the house.

Gentle Ginger and Determined Douglas

In the very early days in Georgia

‘Way back early in this blog, I shared how Ginger came to our house in South Georgia and declared it his homestead—or perhaps, he declared us his people. (Check out the ‘Gentling Ginger’ entries.) For the house is still in Georgia, but Ginger, Bob and I are growing happier and happier being more and more Texas.  

Here Ginger! Here Ginger!

Ginger’s changed lots since he was sliding under the house and reluctant to be touched. He’s now a lap cat (this is new) and it appears is becoming something of a computer expert!

About those attachments!

Naptime

            Meanwhile. . . outside our leased house another drama unfolds. We met Douglas last summer when he’d drop by all well-groomed and wearing a collar with his name. One day when I was walking around the block, I met his owners.

            But things have changed. Douglas isn’t combed and groomed. In fact, he’s matted and miserable looking, missing his collar. And he’s hungry. One of our neighbors speculates the owners moved and Douglas didn’t.

            Ouch.

And here's Douglas

            So, no, Douglas is not going to come in. (He’s surely a charmer, though!) But we will open a breakfast bar by the back door.

            We’ll see how this unfolds.