On Oscar's Nob: Ma's Lye

Ma had nerves of steel. She was orphaned at seven and worked in an uncle's home until fifteen when a boy six years older took her to be his. Wilbur, Nettie, and Ray died as babies, but with a farm to run and plenty of living children to tend, grief was an indulgence, action was necessary and family was grace.

Rising before dawn, Ma's day started at the stove. Fuel had to be chopped and gathered by the boys before school. Buckets of water were carried up the hill to a big iron pot for laundering clothes. Fire under the black belly boiled stink from rough cloth as lye soap dissolved dirt. Clothes were stirred, scrubbed, rinsed, rung, and hung no matter how hot or cold the air might be. Ma's hands were red raw. 

She often said, "Poor doesn't have to look poor." Using a triangular flatiron heated on the stove, she pressed pride into dresses and collars.

Mrs. Lemuel Smith courtesy freepages.history

Washing was done outside but other chores were done in the main room of the house on the hill. Food was constantly cooking to provide for the day and week. Toil in the garden began with sowing and yielded canning and preserving for the cold season. No day was without cleaning, baking, sewing, and the unexpected. 

Ma's ninth baby, Hannah, was alone for a moment. Old enough to walk and talk, she knew Ma scooped bright white flakes from the forbidden bucket of lye. Safe in the place of food, a tiny hand lifted a bite into her mouth.

And then she screamed.

Out tending the wash, Ma didn't need to see -- the anguished cry told her exactly what happened. She didn't flutter her apron and scream for help. They were three miles up an Appalachian hill, far from any road. She ran to the kitchen, scooped lard from a tin and swiped the baby's mouth clean.

Not a speck was swallowed, the deadly bits grabbed by thick, white fat. Hannah's tongue was scarred but it was a small price to pay. Ma held her second youngest tight, an infant boy the only other Oscar home, and thanked the Lord for his mercy and grace. 



fun link to lye soap: 

Communication and the Second Marriage

During our dating stage, my husband and I had to survive that murky middle where couples start to tip-toe around certain grating habits. He burped more and more and complained about dog hair. I griped about how the children got everything they wanted. With jaw muscles twitching, we stabbed away.

My dogs slept in the bed with me. Reese preferred to be under the covers and against my belly. However, he also liked to sleep in the middle. Sometimes he and I were back to back leaving his stiff little paws to push against J, as if to say, "she's mine." Every night this frustrated J but he didn't comment because Reese was my Boo Boo.  He understood that I loved my dogs and we had our ritutals.

However, he did sigh and grunt. He rolled around with emphasis night after night. I'd ask what was wrong but J didn't want to complain.

After a while, I quit asking.

Society teaches us to speak in passive aggressive language--never directly asking for what we need. We're taught it's rude and are encouraged to believe that our loved one ought to figure it out and do it for us; to read between the lines and prove that they know us perfectly. Instead, the loved one is bewildered and stymied. They grow angry because they don't know what's wrong.

For us, that meant there were many stunted quarrels and plenty of snipes because I came with dogs and my husband came with children--and we were equally fierce about each. Love me, love my dogs. Love me, love my children. And that meant accepting how the other dealt with their lovable baggage.

We were living in more and more silence and both suffering because initially, we could talk about anything. It was killing us to think it might not be real after all. We were so certain in the beginning that we changed everything to be together. The disappointment was too awful to face.

Finally, J told me that he didn't want Reese sleeping in the middle anymore. He said more but why didn't matter. From that night on, Reese slept along the edge. I'm a deep sleeper but I kept the little booger from sneaking in between us.

My husband was stunned. He told me what he needed and I complied.

Several months later I lost my precious Reese in one of the most horrible tragedies imaginable. J was at a loss how to deal with that much pain but he was there for me the best way he knew how. And though he and I were still struggling, we were also talking more and more.

J considers Reese to be the critical juncture in our relationship. Without him, J wouldn't have spoken up. In his previous life, his needs were often discounted, even intentionally disregarded. My response wasn't calculated. I heard him and it changed everything.

Slowly, we rebuilt trust with a simple tradition that continues today. We have deck night every weekend. We sit outside with beers and talk about anything that's bothering us: internal demons, professional fears, relationship needles, hurt feelings, and unstuff everything before it becomes a big ugly monster that haunts the dark. 

Reese reminded us how to talk. To talk. And to spend time together making our own traditions.

Evolution

In Dedication to My Eighth Grade English Teacher

I remember vividly a particular life-changing moment. It was eighth grade and I was still extremely shy. During a normal day in English class, my teacher, Mrs. Seaman, passed out a book report assignment--a creative, ORAL book report. Horror washed over me. I was a good student when left to work quietly, but speaking aloud, in front of people…that would be unbearable. With trembling fingers I chose the least painful presentation style, skipping News Anchor or TV Commercial, and informed my teacher of my choice. Mrs. Seaman replied with an unusually enthusiastic “Excellent!”

Wearing braces had few positives, but one was leaving school early for orthodontist appointments. Not that school was bad, but avoiding the bus was a treat. Happily climbing into the family car, I told my mother (of stuttering fame) about my day. When I mentioned the oral presentation, she asked with typical motherly interest, “What did you choose?”

“Dramatization.” 

The deep pause from mom was a warning and suddenly my stomach swung upside down as she asked the inevitable, “Do you know what dramatization means?”

Of course I do! But my certainty slipped into my rotating stomach and blended into dread as I answered, “I’m going to read it really well.” As those ludicrous words escaped, the truth lept up, waving like crazy to be seen.

“No,” mom answered, the ‘o’ lingering in the air, threatening to suffocate me. By the time the ‘o’ of no ceased to sound, I had glimpsed the beacon of truth leaping about like an insane bug, and sat mute with fear. “You’re going to act out a scene from your chosen book.”

Confirmation empowered truth and I slid down the seat crying, “I can’t! NO! NO! I can’t!”

“Ellen,” my mother kindly interrupted my tirade. “Do you remember how pleased Mrs. Seaman was?”

“Yes,” I answered, my voice childish from the affects of a tantrum.

“Do you want to tell her you’ve changed your mind?” I was being reminded, firmly but gently, that I and no one else would tell my teacher. It would be as bad as the oral presentation--maybe worse because it would disappoint Mrs. Seaman. Too chicken to face my teacher, I chose my book and prepared everything a week early. I practiced constantly. The best audience was my visiting grandparents. They smiled with tears in their eyes as I acted out a scene from James Herriot’s All Things Bright and Beautiful. The three of us loved James Herriot.

To sooth my anxious soul, I drew pictures to pass around as visual aids. Drawing freehand, my tongue sticking out, I copied photos from a book about James. I chose an aerial view of a Yorkshire farm and a waterfall. If only those were my project!

Too soon the day came. My note cards ready, my bar of soap wet and lying on a paper towel, I began my book report with hands throttling the written words. It was instinct that told me to ignore the bored expressions of my peers. Lifting my eyes over their heads, I performed the whole drunken debacle to Mrs. Seaman, sitting in the back of the room rapturously smiling.

With practiced timing I slurred my words, walked seemingly uphill to a phone (inside a home), and received a “large pancake of a hat” placed gently upon my head by the drunk farmer who’d hosted me with homemade wine. Rushing to an emergency, I described driving whilst watching the headlights weave in and out. At the farm, in an effort to be understood, I loudly requested, ”A bucket of hot water and some soap!” When the big moment came to shoot my wet bar of soap over my shoulder (as I prepared my arm for a calf birthing), the soap was dry.

OH NO!

Staring at the disaster in my hand, my tempo brought to a screeching halt, I gulped one deep breath before cheerfully crying out, “That didn’t work!” Then I promptly crouched down pretending to be the farmers hoping to catch the pesky bar of soap before it disappeared into the mucky corners of the barn. Once the calf was born, I again bore the “large pancake of a hat” being placed gently on my head.

During my finale, proclaiming in the sober voice of Mr. Herriot’s boss that those farmers were Methodists and didn’t believe in drinking, “Good God James, you don’t think they knew?” my entire body was quaking. I finished to the thundering silence of thirteen year-old boredom. My teeth chattering and my head aching, I took my seat immediately in front of a beaming Mrs. Seaman. Without a word, she passed me my grade sheet. Across the top was written, “One Hundred plus, plus, plus, plus!”

I was immersed in adrenaline and pride. I’d done it. And it was actually fun.

Blizt: 100 Word Story

A former professor and friend let some of us know about a new One Hundred Word Story Zine. I liked the challenge so I dove in. I've been trying to write about the apartment fire in which I lost nearly everything. It's feeling more bloggy than short story. SO, I decided to try telling my experience in the 100 word story challenge. Here are the results:

Blitz

Shattering glass invades my dreamless sleep. Incensed growling adds confusion. I reach for my eyeglasses, the night illuminated by unnaturally orange light. Once in focus, reality faints away as fire eats the living room ceiling, slinking forward with the prowess of a predator.

At first I’m stranded in a furnace. The heat binds me; the fury of the carnage leaves me lobotomized. Then I’m dragged outside to cool black air pierced by sirens answering an unnatural mating call.

I whisper, “fire!” embarrassed I’ve caused a ruckus. Trapped inside, my history succumbs, relinquishing its hold on me.