Trouble

     Some people are born with a knack for avoiding trouble and some people are born with a knack for getting into trouble.  Unfortunately, I fall into the latter category.  When you are a kid there are two types of trouble.  The first is when you choose to take a calculated risk that you might be clever enough to get away with something or that the punishment, if you are caught, will be such that the crime was worth it.  The second type of trouble is when you never saw it coming and then BOOM! Life as you know it seems over and you have to pay penance or lay low for awhile.
     The first type of trouble is possible to avoid, depending on your temperament, or impossible to accomplish, depending on your parents.  Out of the five children in the Buffington Clan, I was not the one with the temperament to avoid trouble.  Fortunately, my parents, especially Mama, could read my mind, so I rarely thought it was possible to get away with something and the punishment was substantial enough to thwart a great majority of my mischief.    The problem was that my mind was, and is, always planning and scheming to build something, try something, or say something, all of which leads to unforeseen trouble.  One of my favorite activities was to confiscate leftover boards, bricks, and miscellaneous items to use for building forts, swings, tight ropes, and obstacle courses.  Mama categorized all of my building accomplishments as "contraptions."  The safety record for my contraptions only involved two accidents, both of which could have been avoided if the injured party had listened.  I warned them not to climb on it yet because it wasn't ready: I hadn't tested it yet.  As the oldest, I was concerned for the safety of family and friends, therefore all of my contraptions went through a rigorous testing procedure in which I climbed on top and jumped as hard as possible to see if it collapsed.  If it didn't collapse, I declared it safe. The earliest incident involved my friend Doug. I was one year older than Doug and I hadn't started kindergarten yet, so it is easy to see that my propensity for trouble began early.  It was a simple contraption leaning against the pole of the swing set.  He fell climbing on it and busted his lip; blood went everywhere.  Mama was babysitting that morning and did not appreciate my explanation of why it was not my fault.  The second safety incident involved my sister, Janet.  After my warning, she looked me straight in the eye and climbed on the newest contraption.  She fell, knocked out both front teeth, and had to wait about three years for her permanent teeth to come in.  That definitively ended my access to raw materials and decreased my enthusiasm for building.
     As I said earlier, I always wanted to try something different, like humming with my fingers in my ears, making the thickest sandwich possible, while mama was on the phone or chiseling the shape of a rifle in a piece of pine, (not good, pine splits).  Sometimes my curiosity and scientific inquiry called for testing a hypothesis. One evening I was cleaning the kitchen after dinner.  Unloading the dishwasher sounded like a straightforward task until I noticed that a serrated knife looked sort of like a drill bit.  Then, I started wondering if maybe this type of "drill" could make a hole in a piece of wood if it was held perpendicular to the wood and had a little pressure behind it.  The knives and a wooden drawer front were conveniently at hand.  In my mind I kept thinking this won't really work, so why not try it?  So, I carefully held the serrated knife at a right angle to the drawer front, leaned into it slightly, and rotated the knife clockwise.  Oops!  The result of my experiment was the neatest, cone-shaped hole in the drawer.  Of course, at that point, there was nothing to do but finish the kitchen, go to bed, and pretend I knew nothing about it.  I was so relieved to hear mama and daddy talking and discover there was such a creature as a carpenter beetle.  That poor insect took the blame for 40 years.
     As a child, I had a perfect talent for saying the wrong thing, at the wrong time, or to the wrong people.  Getting in trouble for saying the wrong thing is not limited to children:  albeit, children do have a way of getting the most mileage out of misspoken words.  Daddy and I were in the backyard on a clear, fall day, assembling a new swing set.  I thought I was helping, but mostly I was hanging out and talking to Daddy.  I decided to ask a simple question that had puzzled me for a while.  I had observed that Daddy and Mama's mother were polite, but not friendly.  So, I asked, "Daddy, do you like Grandmama?" Daddy gave a witty, funny response that made me laugh, and then we went on working.
     I loved going to spend the night with Grandmama and Grandpa.  Grandmama made the best homemade pancakes the size of dinner plates and Grandpa took me fishing.  Grandmama and I would go shopping and come home with chocolate eclairs or a box of white-powered doughnuts.  Even so, the best part of the visit was just getting to talk.  Grandmama and I would chat about everything and she would tell me stories about when Mama was a little girl.  Mama and Daddy always warned me not to tell family business.  That was easy to do because I didn't know anything about money.  On this particular visit, we sat in the kitchen eating lunch and Grandmama asked one simple question, similar to the one I asked Daddy: "Your Daddy doesn't like your Grandma very much, does he?"   Suddenly, I remembered Daddy's witty reply and quickly answered with a chuckle, "He says that you're alright in your place, but they haven't dug it yet."  It is now clear to me that the reason Mama and Daddy can read my mind is that I inherited my predisposition for trouble.
   

Suppertime

     Years ago, as a young mother, I began to realize how much I was like my parents.  I sounded just like mama on the day our oldest daughter, then a toddler, turned her back to me and purposefully began to walk across the library to investigate.  I began my correction with a firm, "I'll give you once...."  I literally turned around to see if mama was standing behind me.  I follow the news, grumble about politics and worry over the future of our country, just like daddy.  However, it took me becoming a grandmother to begin to see how much I take after my grandmothers.  It is a comfortable feeling overall, but a bit disconcerting at times.
     The grandchildren called mama's mother, Grandmama.  It was known to all that Grandmama ran a tight ship.  Her motto was, "A place for everything and everything in its place."  That was a difficult concept to handle when I woke up early one dark morning to go to the bathroom and returned to find the bed made with several fancy, lacy pillows arranged neatly at the head of the bed.  Obviously, it was time to get up.  I wondered sleepily into the living room and saw her busily preparing breakfast. There was nothing to do, but perch on the edge of the couch, barely touching the overstuffed, colorful, sofa pillows that were  arranged symmetrically at both ends, and await further instructions.
     The grandchildren called daddy's mother, Grandmommy.  The name Gramdmama was taken and she didn't want to be called Granny.  Later in life she told me that if she had known she was going to live so long, she would have chosen something else.  Both grandmothers woke up in the early hours of the morning to prepare a fine breakfast for their husbands, but the similarity ended there.  Once again, I awoke early one morning, while it was still dark, in time to give Granddaddy a hug and kiss good-bye before he went to work.  Grandmommy and I were still in pajamas, so after a fond farewell, we did the most sensible thing possible: checked that the stove was off, piled the dishes in the sink, and went back to bed until a decent hour.
     In my mind, I want to be like Grandmama when it comes to fixing a nice dinner, setting the table and saying the prayer before dinner.  It never mattered if company was coming or not, the table was beautiful: each place setting laid out with care, folded napkins, glittering silverware, sparking ice-tea glasses, lacy tablecloth, and decorative serving dishes laden with good home-made food.  She fixed a juicy, tender pot roast with potatoes and carrots, made creamy scalloped potatoes, and served up Spam breaded in cracker crumbs and fried in butter. She even promised desert, after you cleaned your plate, by including a small desert dish to the left of the plate.  Desert could be pudding with a few vanilla wafers, a slice of toasted pound cake, or a dish of ice-cream.  Meals were delicious, on time and attendance was required.
     In reality, I am more like daddy's mother, when it comes to meals.  She owned many cookbooks, some of which have been passed on to me.  She particularly seemed to like the cookbooks with ideas for what to have for dinner.  Along with her recipes, she has copious lists of menus, groceries, and ideas paper-clipped to various pages.  Thankfully, the window wash solution made with kerosene is clearly marked POISON.  Even with all the suggestions, dinner time at Grandmommy's didn't go as smoothly.  Dinner time was whenever time dinner got ready, and that could change depending on whether she had to go to the store first or not.  Everyone sat to the table for the blessing, and  almost everyone sat to the table to eat.  As soon as Granddaddy said the blessing, "Lord, for this food, make us truly thankful,"  Grandmommy would pop up from her seat to retrieve or check on something she left in the kitchen.  Even with all the chaos, Grandmommy made the best grits for breakfast, the tastiest potato salad, and the most colorful congeal salads.
     My intentions are good, I know how to cook, and I own hundreds, (yes hundreds) of cookbooks, but the execution of my best-laid plans are sketchy.  The table becomes the temporary landing place for the mail, library books, ironing, tools, school books, and laptops.  By the time dinner is ready, we sit in our recliners in front of the television and discuss the day's events during commercial breaks or whenever the Internet streaming gets bogged down and has to catch up.  In addition, on Monday and Tuesday, IHOP has buy one-get-on deals for senior citizens, age 55 and up, so we tend to eat out regularly.  I think that is the closest we have been to a sit-down meal in the last month.  (The new school year began, but that will be another blog entry.)  It is sad to see dinner time fading away like land-line phones, board games, and snail mail.
     Once again, I am setting a goal of having a healthy dinner ready, at a suitable time.  I would love for us to sit down at the table to eat.  I even have the table cloth on the table and a colorful fall flower arrangement for a centerpiece.  So, here I sit with a stack of cookbooks, a collection of favorite recipes, and a notepad to make a grocery list.  In true Doodlebug fashion, I am not giving up my dream of having a nice, sit-down dinner, as a family, with time out to say a decent thank-you for our blessings. So, this week I vow to do better: clean out the refrigerator, make a meal plan, clean off the dining room table, and enlist the family's help.  We'll see how it goes.

Grandmama's Fried Spam

1 can of Spam, sliced about 1/4" thick

   2 eggs, beaten with a fork

saltine cracker crumbs

butter

Melt the butter in the pan.

Dip a slice of Spam into the egg

and then into the cracker crumbs.

Fry in the melted butter, until

golden brown on both sides.

Wizards of Aviation

     As I was growing up, mama always said that I was a daddy’s girl.  Daddy’s girls, by definition, believe their fathers are supremely handsome, all-knowing, and absolutely perfect.  What she may not have realized was that second only to daddy, was his kid brother Bobby.  Like daddy, Uncle Bobby has always been extremely handsome, sagacious, and beyond compare.  Uncle Bobby is a strategically placed guidepost between daddy and me, close enough in age to daddy, to be his sidekick, and close enough in age, to me to be a mentor.

Daddy is back center. Uncle Bobby is front center.

            Daddy and Bobby have a treasure-trove of adventures predating my arrival, but through the years I have gathered my own nest-egg of tales.  One summer morning, mama asked them to babysit while she went to the grocery store, and they agreed.  She cleaned out the refrigerator, made a grocery list, and hesitantly left me in their care.  Daddy and Bobby, like their predecessors Orville and Wilbur Wright, decided to spend their day experimenting with the science of aviation.  They began by making paper airplanes.  Of course, these were not typical paper airplanes.  These were tiny- smaller than the end of your finger- and they had an imaginative energy source, which allowed them to zoom freely around the kitchen in varying arrays.  Daddy and Bobby loitered around garbage cans, ambushed their prey, and placed it quickly in the spotless refrigerator to slow its movement.  Next, they carefully prepared the folded paper airplane, quickly removed a prisoner from its frosty cell, and meticulously glued its legs to the tip of the aircraft with quick-drying model airplane cement.  While the glue dried, the houseflies slowly warmed up to room temperature and then soared into the air hauling the miniature airship.  Bobby remembers, “We weren’t able to perfect the landings.”  Laughingly, he claims, “When a crash was imminent, the ant fire department quickly sprayed the runway with foam.” I would love to have heard their sheepish explanations to mama when she returned from shopping and found her immaculate refrigerator filled with houseflies.

            During the summer of 1968, Uncle Bobby, at age twenty-one, carried his aviation experience a step further by becoming a Cobra pilot, for the First Cavalry in Vietnam.  A young man named Bobby Towe was the pilot, Uncle Bobby was the copilot, and the mission was to fly the Ho Chi Min Trail, a route which supplied the enemy, the Viet Cong, with ammunition, troops, and medical supplies.  Their plan was to take off at 7:00 p.m., about one and a half hours before dark, but the preflight check revealed gun system failure.  After replacing the gun system and preparing to take off, only a sliver of red sun remained in the sky, crowning the treetops.  Their aircraft, the Bounty Hunter was forty minutes behind the others.

            Within a horseshoe-shaped range of mountains, referred to by the Vietnamese as “The Seven Sisters,” was the holy mountain of Nui Coto.  The Vietnamese people believed the gods of South Vietnam lived in a pagoda atop this mountain, and whoever controlled the mountain would win the war.  As a result, the fighting was heavy in this region.  Because it was impossible to fly over these mountains, the Bounty Hunter had to maneuver around the mountains, into bordering Cambodia, and back into South Vietnam.

           Suddenly, while the Bounty Hunter sailed at 2,000 feet, the “gods” from the pagoda on Nui Coto attacked, shooting balls of fire, which pierced an oil line, created a hole the size of a silver dollar, caused heated oil to gush onto the burning jet engine and plummeted the aircraft to the jungle below, without the slightest chance to return fire. 

            Radio signals travel in a straight line- a line–of–sight that does not curve with the horizon or arch over mountaintops- and so, maintaining radio contact in such mountainous terrain is difficult.  Consequently, as the helicopter dropped below the mountains, their communication was isolated from the outside world.  The flames from behind the cockpit raged and cast an eerie red glow onto the windshield, making it difficult for the pilot to see the terrain ahead. 

            With one minute before impact, flying at 200 miles per hour, it was vital to radio their location and status, keep control of the aircraft during the landing, and fight the engulfing flames.  The scream of the engine and the roar of the blaze deafened their ears.  Bobby recalled, “Mayday!” “Mayday!” Radio location; check for fire; lock seatbelts; push collective down.” At 150 feet: Turn on the landing lights, try to stretch out the glide, don’t hit the treetops!”  At 100 feet: “Flare, nose up, turn forward speed to rotor, increase pitch, try to gain control.”   At 15 feet: “Nose-down- still traveling at 37 miles per hour- keep the nose up, touch down!”  The aircraft crash-landed in a rice paddy turned 180 degrees, and slid twenty to thirty feet, slinging mud and trash over the cockpit.

            The heat from the fire was so intense, both pilot and copilot believed the other was being burned alive.  Bobby Towe exited from the left of the craft, just as Uncle Bobby exited from the right, and both men ran around the front of the helicopter, hoping to save the other from the flames.  In the darkness and confusion, they collided head-on, knocking each other flat to the ground.  After catching their breath and getting to their feet, they fled towards the jungle, to a creek about 55 yards away, still insight of the aircraft, to hide from the enemy.  To conceal themselves they rolled in the muck and spread mud over their faces and hair.  Between them, they had two, 38 pistols, with six shots each, a radio to call for help, and a quart thermos of cognac mixed with hot tea. 

            They attempted to radio for help, hoping to be picked up soon, but found their pack radio was broken.  Reluctantly, they hid in the jungle, five or six hours, waiting for sunrise to inspect the remains of the Bounty Hunter.  The Cobra’s cockpit was in good shape, the radio was still working, but the batteries were almost dead.  They transmitted their location, confiscated the “green book”- pilot’s logbook filled with critical information- and returned to the jungle to hide.

            They hid all day, sweltering in the heat, slapping at mosquitoes, and swatting at flies.  The creekbed was inhabited by leeches, a parasite that sensed the reflected heat from their bodies, attached itself, and sucked their blood.  To force the leeches to turn to lose they had to burn the leeches’ heads with the tip of their cigarettes.

            Late in the afternoon, in the middle of a Cambodian jungle, lying in the slime of a rice paddy, two civilized gentlemen- Bobby Towe and Bobby Buffington- observed the old English custom of an afternoon tea by drinking the brew of cognac and hot tea, making elaborate plans to get home, and writing absurd remarks in the green book, concerning the last flight of the Bounty Hunter. 

            The sun went down, night fell, and once again they waited for help to arrive.  They heard bombs in the distance and wondered if they would be safe.  Around 3:00 a.m., even though the power level on the radio claimed there was no power left, they attempted to call for help.  “Mayday!” "Mayday!”  Bobby’s signal had managed to clear the mountain top and was intercepted by an air force pilot flying at 30,000 feet, 600 miles north of their location.  If Bobby had radioed five minutes earlier, or five minutes later, the air force jet would not have been in a position to hear the signal.  The pilot, in turn, radioed the Bounty Hunter’s position to a “Spooky”- a C47 airplane, like in the old World War II movies.  The two-engine, propeller plane was gutted inside and manned with six mini-guns on each side, which fired 8,000 bullets per minute.  The two survivors were told to listen for the airplane, which would be flying “on the deck”- fifty feet off the ground- and without lights, to avoid being shot down.  When they heard the engines they were instructed to pop a flare.  Then the plane would turn on the landing lights, fly over, and climb to 1,000 feet in order to confirm their position.  The First Cavalry would quickly send a helicopter to pick them up.  The Army of the South Vietnamese burned the aircraft to avoid vital information and radio systems from being captured.  Bobby Towe and Bobby Buffington were rescued the following morning.

            Uncle Bobby finished his tour of duty in Vietnam and returned home safely.  In 1968, the same year he was shot down, one-fourth of all the pilots in his class were killed.  Bobby reflects now, “The war was wrong, but we weren’t wrong.  No one wanted to go, but they either went and supported their country, or they deserted their country.”  As a nine-year-old when he left, I did not understand the war or why he was leaving, but, from his example, I learned the importance of duty, patriotism, and family.

  

          Today, I find myself in a sixth-grade classroom saying the Pledge of Allegiance each morning.  As I look at the flag and reflect on those words, I find myself thinking about the men and women who have given so much to secure and protect our freedom.   Thank you is not enough, but it is all I have.  So, I will remember, and vow to do my best to pass on this legacy to my children, grandchildren, and students.

PS- Daddy says that the flies were in a glass jar, but I don't remember that part of the story. 

When Daddy Had Hair and Mama Made Biscuits

   The daughter in me started this blog a year ago, in a attempt to capture family stories, favorite recipes, and pictures, but the perfectionist in me prevented any progress being made.  I have started numerous blog entries, but shied away from publishing until today.  I finally decided to jump right in and share with you. I've had the title of this blog for about 15 years, and the stories, recipes, and images were carefully saved in a computer file that migrated as each computer became outdated.  With today's technology, it only seemed fitting to become a blog.
     One day, driving to work, I was trying to think of one phrase that summed up the differences between my parents as I was growing up and my parents today.  Hence the title.  Daddy had a thick head of blonde hair with a wave in the front that curled when he slept.  I clearly remember going in to wake him early one morning. Daddy's nightly routine included carrying a glass of sweet iced-tea into the bedroom, to sip while he read a for a few minutes before going to sleep.  In the morning, the remains of the melted ice and tea would be in a glass, on the nightstand, beside the bed.  On this particular morning, his comb was also on the nightstand.  Daddy has always been a sound sleeper and it was understood that waking him up might take several tries.  As a four year old, I tried, "Daddy, Mama said breakfast is ready."  No movement.  "Daddy, Mama said its time to wake up."  No results.  He looked so peaceful, with the blonde curl on his forehead.  At that moment I thought, Daddy's hair needs to be combed.  He always wet the comb and combed his hair to the side.  So, I did the most logical thing: I dipped the comb into the glass of tea and began to comb his hair.  As the tea dripped from the comb and ran down his face, he woke up quickly, yelling and mumbling incoherent words.  Mama walked in just in time to see the action and stood in the doorway laughing so hard she was crying.  I don't remember being asked to wake daddy up again and I don't remember the comb on the nightstand ever again.  I wonder why?  Today Daddy's hair has changed from waves to beach.
     Mama always made BIG pans of homemade biscuits.  With a large family to feed, a husband, 5 kids, and sometimes cousins, the biggest cookie sheet was barely large enough.  She didn't need a recipe and she used the biggest mixing bowl possible- a large, metal bowl like restaurants use.  The resulting biscuits were golden brown, crispy on the outside, soft on the inside, and oozing with melted butter and homemade jam or apple butter. ( I get hungry thinking about them).  As time progressed and the kids left home mama didn't need to make biscuits for an army, so she made "Whomp Biscuits."  Whomp biscuits are commonly sold in the dairy section of the supermarket, and after peeling away the paper, you whomp the can firmly on the counter, to pop open the can and get to the biscuits.  The biscuits were still hot from the oven and filled with butter and homemade jam.  Today, all the kids are at, or near, middle age and we usually avoid biscuits in favor of light, whole-grained toast with sugar-free preserves, but we all have fond memories of a fall day, a cozy kitchen, a full table, and a pan of hot, buttered biscuits.
     So, this blog will be a mixture of family stories, recipes, and pictures, old and new.  It will also chronicle my attempts to pass on the love, traditions, and family spirit that holds us close through good times and hard times.
     Mama told me that White Lily Flour is her favorite flour, and so here is the recipe for White Lily Buttermilk Biscuits, clipped from the back of the bag.  I saved this recipe years ago because, unlike Mama, I needed a recipe and these were the closest I could get to Mama's biscuits.    Make sure to knead them very gently and place them fairly close together in the pan.  Serve with butter and the best preserves- homemade if possible.