The Lightning Bug

 

    I have always been fascinated by how a tiny bit of light can dispel so much darkness. I am reminded of this when I decide to walk from the kitchen through the utility room to the garage of our house and forget to turn on the light near the door. The lack of windows causes the room to instantly fill with darkness, except for this tiny slit of light peeking from under the garage door. It is enough to find my way through. I have also been amazed at the way God has taken care of me through the years in small and large ways. One of the most surprising, appreciated, and memorable demonstrations of God’s care came about on a summer evening through a lightning bug.

    Our two girls, ages five and nine, were in Girl Scouts, and I was a Girl Scout leader. Our two-year-old was an adventurous boy who did everything possible to keep up with his big sisters. We were all planning and preparing for a weekend Girl Scout camping trip at a Boy Scout camp on Rainey Mountain.  This event included Girl Scout troops from the entire area, not just our troop. We anticipated making corn husk dolls, hiking through the mountains, watching the sunset, singing around a campfire, munching on s’mores, and counting the stars before bed. For this trip, my husband was coming along, so it would be our first family camping trip, and the girls would be able to participate in all the Girl Scout activities and work toward earning a new Girl Scout badge. We expected to have a separate tent for our family while still camping close enough to enjoy the fun.

    Life seldom goes as planned, and this was definitely one of those times. While my husband was at work, I was responsible for packing the clothes, food, and camping supplies, inspecting the first aid kit, loading the car, and making sure everyone was ready to go. I was busy checking things off my list, adjusting outfits to make sure we could “dress for the weather,” like proper Girl Scouts, trying to keep everyone focused, and looking forward to the trip. It was just a weekend trip; rain was expected, but not too much. I do tend to be overly optimistic. First, my husband decided to join us on Saturday morning instead of spending Friday night. His reasoning was sound, and I did not see any cause for alarm. Second, our oldest was having a “difficult day,” and in my frustration, I almost called off the whole trip. Third, did I explain that rain was in the forecast?

    I chose not to cancel the trip, but our preparations took longer than I had anticipated. My Buffington roots were showing, which meant I was running a bit late—really late. I “knew” that this was a group camping trip, that the large tent area was surrounded by lights, and that I would have some help when we arrived. As we made our way to the campground, the sun set behind the mountains and the sky grew dark. I amused the kids in the car by going over our fun plans for the weekend and singing silly camp songs, including our favorite, “Nobody loves me, everybody hates me, I guess I’ll go eat worms.”

    We arrived after the evening campfire ended, ready to set up our tent, unroll our sleeping bags, and get ready for bed. I met the organizer of the event who directed me to a different road to the right saying, “Because your husband is coming, your family will be camping in a separate area. Follow this road, turn left at the top of the hill, and you will see the Squirrel’s Nest—a three-sided shelter. Set up your camp there. The group is camping just down the hill from you.” Then she made a vague motion with her left hand that pointed somewhere in the darkness. I could not see any tents, campfires, or lanterns. I did not hear any singing, talking, or laughing. We headed slowly up the road, watching for the Squirrel’s Nest on the left.

    I was not concerned yet because I thought when I reached the top of the hill and found the Squirrel’s Nest, I would be able to look down the hill and see the group campsite, or the lights surrounding the area, or the embers from the dying campfires. I was not so fortunate. We found the three-sided shelter, which was a simple wooden structure, filled with six wire-framed cots, stacked in pairs like bunk beds. The description of our shelter was accurate. Three sides were enclosed and one side was totally open to nature—no door, no screen, and no way to separate us from whatever lurked in the darkness. The implications of my decision were beginning to settle over me as I tried to look down the hill for some sign of our group.

    Everyone was tired, and it was too late to retreat. I turned the car so that the headlights shone clearly on the inside of the shelter, and we began to set up camp. The night was quiet; the stars were asleep; and there was a gentle breeze. I found a large tarp and attached it to the open side of the shelter to make a pretend wall. Soon everyone found their flashlight, unrolled their sleeping bag, and arranged their pillow on their cot. The small outhouse was nearby, so everyone took care of personal business, changed into pajamas, and crawled into bed. We didn’t have a camping lantern, so I secured a candle in an old tin can, lit it, and placed it on the concrete floor, away from everyone and everything. It served as a night-light as my babies drifted off to sleep.  I quickly parked the car in the appropriate area and turned off the headlights. As I reentered the shelter, the candlelight shone brightly, and my prayers began in earnest.

    I quickly prepared for bed.  Gripping my flashlight with my left hand and my asthma rescue inhaler with my right hand, I climbed into my sleeping bag and stared at the bottom of the empty cot above me. The candle was no longer for the children; it was for me. I lay there listening to the wind pick up and watching the tarp flutter, realizing how small I was on this big Earth. And it began to rain.

    Sleep escaped me that night. I heard scurrying sounds around the shelter and hoped nothing would decide to join us. The rain increased and pelted the tin roof while the candle burned down slowly. Time inched forward as I waited for some sign of morning. Then the candle went out and total darkness enveloped the shelter. I thought I had experienced darkness, but not like this. I could not see my hand in front of my face, and opening or closing my eyes made no difference. The darkness was absolute, and the isolation complete.

    I quickly turned on my flashlight, finding the light bright and stark compared to the warm glow of the candle, but at least it wasn’t dark. The children continued to sleep peacefully, and the rain continued to pour. I have no idea how much time passed. I heard more scuffling and scratching noises outside, but the little shelter was dry. Then my flashlight blinked and dimmed, blinked and dimmed. The batteries were dying—and then the light was gone. In the darkness, finding other flashlights seemed impossible without waking the children, and that would have frightened them.  The returning darkness seemed even darker after the flashlight’s bright beam. I resolved not to panic and waited for my eyes to adjust, hoping to see a sliver of light coming in from outside.

    I lay there, praying silently and waiting—my prayers condensed to a single word: “Help!” Suddenly, I realized there was a small light overhead. It was a lightning bug clinging to the underside of the cot directly above me. There was only one; it didn’t fly away; it didn’t move; and the light didn’t fade. I have seen a sparkle of lightning bugs on summer evenings as we ran and played, but on that night, I gazed in wonder at how much light came from one tiny insect. More time passed, and eventually I got up, tiptoed to the tarp, and peeked out. The rain still poured in the dark gray of early morning. When I returned to my cot to dress and get ready to build a campfire, the lightning bug was gone.    

AI generated image of my memory.

    I trudged outside, slopped through the mud, and built a small campfire beneath a pot on the grate to keep the pouring rain from extinguishing it. As the rain continued to pour, the sky changed to a lighter shade of gray. The children awoke and discovered shreds of toilet tissue scattered by some nighttime visitor. My husband arrived, and the planned events of the day began in spite of the deluge. By evening, our toddler had gone through six sets of clothing; we were all tired and soaked, so we broke camp and headed home.

    As we gratefully left the rain and mud behind, I thought back to the previous night. The tiny light of a solitary lightning bug chased away the darkness and reminded me that I am not alone. Through the years, whenever life has turned dark and scary and I have felt alone and small, I have remembered that lightning bug and found comfort in God’s love and care. 

My Swing Set

    Mamaw, Daddy’s grandmother, bought me a swing set when I was three or four years old. Grandpa, Mama’s daddy, put it together and bolted it securely to the ground, which was a good thing because I was fearless. The swing set was modest by today’s standards, but to me it was the most fun.

    There was a glider swing, two regular swings, and a lawn swing, and each offered a different type of challenge besides swinging. My baseline was to swing on any swing as high as possible. On the glider, I would grasp the handles, brace my feet on the pedals, and swing so high that I had to lie back flat or lean forward like an Olympic rower. The lawn-swing was a sweet looking swing with two benches across from each other and a floor. Swinging while sitting on one of the benches quickly became boring, so I would stand on the floor at a right angle to the seats, grasp the poles, and swing sideways.

    The regular swings held multiple challenges. Each swing had a flat, rectangular seat, with a chain at each end attached to the top bar. I could sit on the seat, stand on the seat, or lie on my stomach across the seat and swing. I could also adjust the height up or down depending on my frame of mind. When the chain was shortened, I would feel high off the ground but couldn’t swing as freely. When the chain was lengthened, I was closer to the ground, but I could swing so high that I could see across the fence into the neighbors’ backyards or up the street to see who was headed home from work, depending on which direction I was facing. This led me to my favorite activity. First, I would swing so high that when I was at the top of the backswing, my eye level was above the top bar of the swing set. Next—and this took careful timing—when I was as far forward as I could go, I would let go and fly through the air and land on my feet—hopefully. Fortunately, I never landed on anyone or got hurt.

    The next activity the swing set provided was not part of the design. The poles on the end came together in an upside-down V shape with a brace halfway up across the middle—like an uppercase letter A. This brace provided a place to hang upside down by my knees and observe the world. I could also “skin the cat.” To “skin the cat” you hang upside down, grab the bar and flip backward, landing on your feet. Mama insists that I spent most of my childhood upside down. That explains a lot. 

The Whoop-dee-doo

    One of my favorite lessons in high school English class was onomatopoeia, words that sound like what they mean, like tick-tock, buzz, or meow. I suppose every family has its own unique vocabulary, but I think my mother went above and beyond in creating new words to keep us, and my Daddy, on our toes. It was surprising to us to find that others did not share or understand these everyday terms. We had Polish Egg Rolls, Buggie-boos, Mini-ha-has, and Whoop-dee-doos.

    I cannot say for certain that this word would be an onomatopoeia because, technically, it is more of a feeling than a sound. A Whoop-dee-doo was a special thing that we all enjoyed with giggles and glee. However, it is difficult to describe to the uninitiated.  Whoop-de-doos had a strong influence on how we navigated through town and how much we anticipated the trip.

    The earliest Whoop-dee-doo I remember was located on Jefferson Avenue in East Point, Georgia on the way to Mrs. Moore’s Wee House Kindergarten. In those days, kindergarten was not part of the regular elementary school program, so my parents paid for me to attend. My school was a Wee House located in an older neighborhood of tree-lined roads and sidewalks. There were rock walls, steps leading from the road to the front porches, and American flags flying proudly. Behind Mrs. Moore’s home, was a grassy area, a playground with a big swing set, and a small cinder-block building that served as our classroom.

    Getting ready for school in the morning can become tiresome and cause many children to dawdle, but I knew the ride to school would most likely include a Whoop-dee-do, so it was much easier for me to wake up and get ready to leave. It didn’t take long for me to memorize the route to school, and each morning I would anticipate the Whoop-de-doo long before we reached it.

    The location of the Whoop-de-doos varied with the direction of travel. Traveling east to west might be delightful, while traveling west to east on the same road might be disappointing. In addition, some Whoop-de-doos depended on going straight through the green light and some were not. Mama knew the secret to finding the best Whoop-de-doos regardless, and she looked forward to them with the same excitement that I did.

    Seatbelts were a thing of the future for us, so when we encountered a Whoop-dee-doo, we felt the full effect. Mama has always been a careful driver and did not need to increase her speed to make the most of the Whoop-dee-doos. When we encountered one, the car would roll over the bump in the road, we would briefly lift from our seats, our stomachs would flutter, and we would land with a small thud—laughing, with a loud, unanimous “Wheeeeeee.” 

    Mama was the one who took us to school and picked us up because Daddy was at work. As a result, Daddy was not informed about the location of Whoop-de-doos, the proper protocol for approaching a Whoop-dee-doo, or the correct emotional response. He lived in ignorance of our Whoop-dee-doo tradition much longer than we realized.

    Whoop-dee-doos are found in other locations, and Mama was always quick to identify them. So, when they moved to Hall County, Georgia, unbeknownst to Daddy, Mama started identifying the optimal routes for Whoop-dee-doos.

    One afternoon, Mama and Daddy were returning from a typical shopping trip. Hall County had recently extended McEver Road so that it crossed Browns Bridge Road at the traffic light. This was one of those supreme Whoop-dee-doos that was totally dependent on getting a green light. Daddy was driving a little Honda Civic and they were chatting and making plans for the evening. Mama was so involved in the conversation that she did not warn Daddy about the upcoming Whoop-de-doo until it was too late. Not knowing the proper protocol, he didn’t realize he should slow down a bit and was focused on getting through the light before it changed to red. In a split second, Mama said, “Bill, there’s a …” and the car became literally airborne and thudded back to the pavement. Daddy didn’t know the proper emotional response, so he responded with loud exclamations of gibberish. That’s how Daddy learned about Whoop-dee-doos. 

The Tinkerer

    

    Daddy’s workshop remained in the attic until after I completed kindergarten. As I got a bit older, I was allowed to carefully climb the attic steps and look around for a few minutes. A long-necked lamp illuminated Daddy’s worktable, but the rest of the attic felt mysterious, with light seeping through the shutter-like gable vent at the end of the house. In the shadows, I could see miscellaneous boxes and my old hobby horse straddling the ceiling joists. I had outgrown it and missed it, but I remembered the days when I would ride it so hard that it would bounce across the hardwood floors. To me, the most interesting part of the attic was Daddy’s worktable—because it was Daddy’s. It was filled with his newest project—usually another attempt at a radio-controlled model airplane that would take off, fly, and land where he intended.

    The summer before I started first grade at Eastern Elementary School, we moved to the new house, a red-brick split level home with three bedrooms, two and a half baths, a living room, dining room, a family room, an attached one-car garage, and a half basement. The basement provided enough space for Daddy to finally have a workshop more suited to his talents and interests. One corner of the basement held storage and another corner was set up for washing and drying clothes. Daddy’s new workshop stretched from corner to corner along the longest wall. He began by building a long workbench with pegboard for hanging tools, small shelves for bottles and jars, drawers for rags, brushes, and clamps, and deep shelves underneath for storage.

    Then, gradually, new tools started appearing. The first power tool was a Sears Craftsman radial arm saw. The next was a lathe, which he used to make two wooden lamps, stained red to match my new bedspread. (I still have them.) All sorts of hand tools started appearing: clamps, hammers, saws, files, levels, and other assorted tools. The basement soon smelled like sawdust and Tide detergent. From upstairs, we could hear the high-pitched buzz of the saw, the banging of hammers, and WSB radio playing in the background. Those were comforting sounds to listen to as I lay in bed, waiting to fall asleep.

    It was about this time that Daddy started transitioning from building model airplanes to woodworking. He still had his original work table nearby with his model airplane materials, but over time it became dusty as more interesting projects gained center stage.

    I was playing outside one fall day. The wind was calm and the trees held only a few dried, crinkled leaves. Daddy came outside carrying something unusual. It was a dry-cleaner bag from one of his suits, a birthday candle, and two strips of balsa wood fastened together in the shape of the letter X. Of course, I quit what I was doing and ran to see what he was going to do. The opening of the bag hung down and was connected to the outside edges of the balsa wood, with the birthday candle securely glued in the center. From his pocket, he grabbed his lighter and carefully lit the birthday candle. As the air inside heated up, the thin plastic bag began to puff outward. Daddy held it out in his hands and gradually the contraption began to lift into the air. Then he explained that it was a hot air balloon. It was like magic as it slowly, gently rose a few feet into the air, and drifted into the nearby oak tree.

    The peaceful magic of the moment was shattered as Daddy began hollering and running towards the spigot to grab the long, green water hose. Everything happened so quickly that I can’t remember if I was more surprised by the noise, the sudden movement, or the fire. It was the best day ever!

    To be totally honest, Daddy declares that the water was just a precaution and there was not really a fire, but he sure moved fast!

    Over time, he built cabinets, end tables, shelves, and other necessary items. Those were beautiful, practical, and special. My friends had cabinets and tables and shelves, at their houses. But nobody else’s Daddy made a hot air balloon on a beautiful fall day just because.

Harlan Drive

       There are some things about Daddy that never changed. He always seemed to have a mechanical pencil with a good eraser poking out of his front left shirt pocket, a notebook—or the back of an empty envelope—or an IBM keypunch card—nearby for recording ideas and sketches, and a semi-secluded workshop space where he could think and build. When Bill and Nancy started thinking about buying their first house, a workshop was not at the top of the list, but it was on the list. However, knowing Daddy, while Mama was deciding where to put the Christmas tree, he was figuring out possibilities for his next workshop.

    When Bill and Nancy started looking to buy their first house, Nancy kept an eye on the home section of the Sunday Atlanta Journal-Constitution. One Sunday, she saw a post-war, two-bedroom, one-bath home on Harlan Drive, south of Atlanta, listed for $10,500 with a $5000 down payment.

    Mama explained to me that anyone interested in buying that house could probably not afford to put down such a large down payment. As a result, the house stayed on the market for quite some time, and Nancy kept tracking the listing in the Sunday paper.

    Finally, one Sunday morning. she saw that the house was still listed at $10,500, but now, it required no money down and no closing costs. They did the math and realized the house payment would be less than their rent. They decided to take a closer look.  

    It was a little white house, with a grassy front yard, and a walkway leading from the front door to the sidewalk along the street. The front door opened into the living room. To the left, the kitchen had a small eating area. From the kitchen, a side door led down two sets of steps to the driveway and the backyard.

    There was a hallway from the living room leading straight back to the bathroom. My bedroom was on the left and Mama and Daddy’s bedroom was on the right. The kitchen and bathroom had tile floors, but the rest of the house had real hardwood floors.

    My grandpa, Mama’s daddy, came over and inspected the house to make sure it was built well. Then Mama and Daddy were worried that Granddaddy, Daddy’s daddy, would get his feelings hurt. So, they invited him over to check out the house too. Both grandfathers agreed it passed inspection.

    Mama laughed when she told me that at the time they bought the house, Bill was 21 and she was 20.  This meant that she was not old enough to sign the legal documents for the purchase of the house. She had to sit beside him and watch as Bill, barely old enough to sign himself, signed for them both.

    At the time we moved into the new house, I was a curious toddler—emphasis on curious. Safety required a more secure area for Daddy’s tools, glue, and model airplane parts. He decided to make space for his workshop in the attic. To access the attic, he had to pull down a set of narrow stairs from the ceiling. He created space for his worktable and chair by laying sheets of plywood over the ceiling joists to fashion a makeshift floor. The space was not tall enough for him to stand up, but he could sit at his worktable and continue building radio-controlled airplanes.

    Normally, the heat in the attic would have been unbearable, but Daddy put in an attic fan. Before air conditioning became common, attic fans were installed to pull hot air out of the attic and draw cooler air through the house to make it comfortable during the summer months. With the floor installed, the attic fan in place, and all his paraphernalia carried carefully up the narrow attic stairs, his workshop was ready for his next project.

    Daddy probably imagined his workshop would provide some peace and quiet while he worked. However, I remember standing at the bottom of the stairs and looking up toward the attic. I could hear the hum of the big attic fan, see the inside of the roof, and, if I moved just right, I could see Daddy’s back as he sat at his work table. His quiet would have been interrupted by questions like, “Daddy, what are you doing? Are you making another airplane? Will it fly? Can I fly it? Are you done yet?” and on and on until mealtime, naptime, or bedtime.

    Years later, Mama explained to me why I was always standing at the bottom of the stairs.  One day, while Daddy was working in the attic, I decided to climb up and join him. I only made it up a couple of steps before they caught me. From then on, whenever he went up to the attic, Mama folded the stairs partway closed, so that I could not climb them. When Daddy was ready to come down from the attic, he had to holler for Mama to pull the stairs down so he could come back down.

The La-Bor-a-Tory

    Daddy’s workshop—or “la-bor-a-tory,” as he pronounced it, with the accent on the second syllable—was better than Santa’s workshop. Yes, he said it that way on purpose, and yes, I know the world says “laboratory” the normal way, but what fun would there be in that? He would fix a glass of sweet, iced tea, tell Mama where he was headed, and retreat to his favorite place—his la-bor-a-tory.

    When Daddy was growing up, his workshop was in the basement of Grandmommy’s house. He would gather with his friend Sarge and work on radio-controlled airplanes on the weekend. After Bill and Nancy married, the question arose about where to put his workshop in their tiny apartment. Trying not to crowd the small living space, Bill offered to continue working in his mother’s basement. Nancy wanted their life together to be their life together, even if it meant a workshop squeezed into their living room.

    Daddy’s newly married workshop was not a separate building or a room in the basement, but instead a corner of the living room in their first apartment. At this stage of life, he was into building radio-controlled airplanes. His tiny workshop was a card table layered with old newspapers, and covered with parts to be assembled, strips of balsa wood, hobby knife, airplane glue, clamps, copies of Model Airplane News magazines, and other assorted tools. In his mind, he knew where everything was, he could picture the assembled plane, and the construction site was only temporary.

    However, to Nancy—or Nancy Lee as he had started calling her—the construction site was an eyesore afflicting the living room. In her defense, the living room was the first room guests would see upon entering their apartment.  She was concerned about her reputation if guests or, heaven forbid, her parents should stop by for a visit. She sweetly asked him to clean it up a little bit, just in case someone dropped by. He agreed, “No problem. I will take care of it in just a little while.”

    Time passed. Bill was busy with work and his latest project, and straightening up the workshop table in the living room was postponed. Nancy Lee, like a loving wife, waited patiently.

    A second reminder and sweetly worded plea came, when Nancy Lee, asked again, “Bill, there’s no hurry, but I wish you would just straighten up your workshop area in case someone comes by.”

    Bill replied with, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it. As a matter of fact, I was just fixin’ to do it.”

    Time passed. Bill’s attention was focused on solving the next problem, and tidying up his workshop was again postponed. Once again, Nancy Lee waited, not quite as patiently as before, but since she could not figure out a way to do it herself, there were no other options.

    The third reminder arrived in a sweet voice, but with a bit of an edge. “Bill, please straighten up your workshop area. If you don’t, I am going to move every last piece of it onto the front porch.”

    Bill laughed and assured her that progress was being made and the workshop would be tidied up right away.

    Bill knew that Nancy Lee meant what she said. He didn’t think she would actually do it.

    Time passed. Bill was coming home from work and noticed that their front porch looked like they were being evicted. As he came closer, he recognized a card table, a desk chair, stacks of magazines, assorted tools, layers of newspapers, and a partially assembled radio-controlled airplane. His entire workshop had migrated from a corner of the living room to the front porch.

    As he took in the scene, he remembered Nancy Lee’s promise, and realized she had been very busy that afternoon. He looked to find her watching him from the window, laughed, and winked. Then, he methodically began to reassemble his workshop—neatly—in the corner of the living room, exactly as Nancy Lee had requested in the first place. From then on, when Nancy Lee made a promise, Bill believed her. 

First Date

    Daddy was never one for algebra or musicals, but he rose to the occasion when necessary. In high school he was fascinated with electronics, radios, and eventually computers. He enjoyed history and dove into science, but algebra was his nemesis.

    One day, when his frustration peaked, he asked his algebra teacher the ubiquitous question students have asked for generations, “Why do we have to learn algebra?”

    The teacher confidently replied, “So that you can grow up and become an algebra teacher.” Daddy had no desire to become an algebra teacher, so he had no desire to master algebra.

    Twenty years later, I found myself in Coach Truett’s algebra class, wrestling with the same concepts. Daddy’s struggle was so embedded in the teacher’s mind that one morning, after explaining logarithms to me for the hundredth time, Coach Truett emphatically told me, “Buffingtons should not even take algebra!”

    Daddy was a senior and beginning to look seriously at his future plans. Because he was drawn to electronics, fascinated with airplanes, and wanted to explore the world, he planned on joining the Navy after graduation.  At that time, joining the Navy would give him an opportunity to work with radar, sonar, radio communications, and other sophisticated electronic equipment.  Daddy loved any gadget with gears or electricity.  As a matter of fact, his favorite toys growing up were soldering irons, resistors, capacitors, transformers—and basically anything with wires. He could take almost anything apart, explain how it worked, and put it back together. His plan was straightforward: after graduation, he would join the Navy—at least until his first date with Mama.

    After meeting at Collins Drug, Bill began driving Nancy to and from school. Suddenly, other classmates were curious about this cute sophomore arriving to school with the handsome senior. Within weeks, Bill asked Nancy out for their first date. Other than one blind date, neither of them had dated. Bill wasn’t sure where they should go, so he suggested the Stewart Avenue Drive-In, but he didn’t check out the featured movie.

    Friday night finally arrived and Nancy prepared for her date. She remembers that, of course, she wore a skirt and, of course, she wore a crinoline underneath. She insisted that the crinoline puffed out underneath the skirt and made her feel so much cooler in the early summer evening.

    When Bill arrived, proper etiquette dictated that he must come in and meet the parents. More importantly, even though Nancy was ready early and watching anxiously at the window for his arrival, she should remain calm—as if this were an ordinary Friday night.

    Bill made his way up the steps to the porch and rang the doorbell. After a brief wait, the door opened, and to Bill and Grandpa’s surprise, they recognized each other. It seems that some mornings, when Grandpa headed to work, he would see Bill with his thumb out, walking to school, and trying to hitch a ride. Grandpa would stop and give him a ride to school. Over time, the two had become good friends. Introductions were made and Grandpa and Bill laughingly explained how they met. With Grandpa’s stamp of approval, Grandma allowed Bill and Nancy to leave, with a reminder of the 10:00 o’clock curfew.

    Nancy remembers that they were both “nervous as an ant on a hot brick.” After paying admission to the drive-in, Bill parked the car.  Nancy rolled down the passenger-side window, grabbed the speaker from the post, and hung the speaker inside the car window. The pre-movie ads for hot, buttered popcorn and the cartoon gave them a chance to adjust the sound before the movie began.

    The buttered popcorn sounded tempting, but Bill’s favorite movie snack was a bag of Lay’s chips and an ice-cold Pepsi. In a way that almost foreshadowed future events, Nancy also thought Lay’s chips and an ice-cold Pepsi were the perfect movie snack. When Bill shared that his very favorite Lay’s chips were the ones with a bubble or the ones that were folded over, Nancy took the bag from him, picked out his favorite, and handed them over with a smile. Happily, for the next 60 years together, Nancy continued to find his favorite chips and pass them to him with that same smile.

    When the cartoon ended, the movie credits began to roll. The featured movie for the evening was the musical “Carousel.” Overall, the movie didn’t grab their attention until a dance number featuring Navy sailors tap dancing. When the dance number ended, Nancy teasingly turned to Bill and asked, “When you go into the Navy, will you learn to tap dance?”

    Bill emphatically replied, “No!”

    Nancy grinned and added, “I think you’d be good at it.” For some reason, the Navy was never mentioned again. On September 23, 1956, Bill left for Basic Training in the Army.

 

 

Little Girl Time

    The Buffington household was not always filled with smiles and hugs, especially when hormonal teenagers were involved, namely me. Daddy worked hard to provide for the family, even working second shift at IBM because it paid more money. He taught us history by telling stories, showed us how to gather wood and build a campfire, and modeled love and respect for our country. He also taught me my favorite childhood song that has the phrase, “Nobody loves me, everybody hates, me guess I’ll go eat worms.”  

    Mama worked just as hard with the day-to-day child-rearing. Mama focused on practical skills—treating others with respect, proper manners, and taking care of yourself. She also handled discipline when necessary.  The system worked well because Mama knows things—like what I’ve done, what I might do, and what I’m going to do. She can read my mind, even as an adult. Mama and Daddy always presented a united front when handling a problem, whether it was children, family issues, or finances. Their division of labor worked well and played to their strengths. Preparing us for puberty and adulthood mostly fell to Mama, and she did her best with remarkable foresight and wisdom

    Of course, no one in our family said the word S—E—X. It was always spelled out like some secret code. Mama didn’t realize I learned about S—E—X in the sixth grade from the new set of World Book Encyclopedias while doing a report on Spain. It was my most interesting report and I worked on it diligently. Soon, other sixth graders were fascinated with Spain.    

    As I grew to be a young lady, my mother was especially careful in what she told us and how she told us. For example, I found out about female monthly cycles at an afternoon Girl Scout meeting when a nurse came to talk with us. Mama had to sign a permission slip and it was all very hush, hush. I was totally disgusted at a wasted meeting and never wanted to talk about it again—ever! My friend’s mothers would refer to “that time of the month” as “Aunt Flo’s visit,” or the “Red-haired Aunt’s visit.” But not my mother. She sweetly called it, “Your Little Girl Time.” It was a phrase that, in my teenage mind, evoked a deep sense of anger and hostility, like some ancient beast rising from a pit.

    One Saturday morning, I cautiously emerged from my bedroom, skulked downstairs for breakfast cereal, and hoped I could be invisible to the rest of humanity. My hopes for invisibility were dashed when Mama reminded me there was housework to do. Like most epic battles, no one can remember the exact spark that ignited the blaze. I can only remember my intense wish to be invisible, to hide from the world and maybe find some chocolate. In response to her simple reminder, I turned into a raving maniac. In less than two minutes I had brought forth the attitude, the smart mouth, and the disdainful roll of the eyes—the trifecta of teenage rebellion. In the back of my mind, a small voice was pleading, “You’re gonna die! You’re gonna die!” I knew, I was gonna die, and it didn’t matter. I could not quit running my mouth.

    It was at that moment that mama looked me straight in the eyes and asked, “Is it your little girl time?” That phrase was like invoking the name of a monster, filled with rage and fury. I could feel the energy and heat rise from the pit of my stomach. I answered sternly through almost clenched teeth, “YES MA’AM!” Now I knew the end was near. She was gonna kill me dead and it was my fault. Instead, she paused, took a deep breath, and stepped back. Her next words were true genius and saved her from jail time and me from bodily injury. She said, “Me too! You go to your corner and I'll go to mine!” She turned and headed to the kitchen and I fled to my bedroom.

    In a little while, after we had both cooled off, she did something else unusual. She said, “Today has not started off well. Let’s start over.” The miraculous thing is that she truly started over, as if my bout with insanity had never happened. There were no lectures, reminders of respectful behavior, or discussions of punishment. The rest of that Saturday was remarkably ordinary. She simply started over. Mama was great about that. Even King Solomon has nothing on my mother.

 

Puppy Love

   

  

    The nineteen fifties—with its soda shoppes, bobby socks, poodle skirts, drive-in theaters, and rock’n’roll music—formed the backdrop for my parents' romance. It is a love story that overcame youth, inexperience, parental objections, financial struggles, six children, sickness, and death. My grandmother would scold, "It's only puppy love," and quietly, as only a teenager could, my mother would smile and add, "Puppy love is real to the puppy." Mama still tells the story with that sly smile and a twinkle in her eyes. 

They both attended Russell High School in East Point, Georgia. Bill, my future Daddy, was a high school senior, driving a black 1947 Ford Business Coupe and working part-time at Pope’s Grocery. Nancy, my future mama, was a sophomore, walking to and from school each day, and dealing with her parents’ divorce. They lived around the corner from each other, but had never met.  That changed one spring afternoon at Collins Drug Store, the neighborhood hangout.

On this particular day, Grandma’s friends were visiting from Ohio. Mama affectionately called them “Yankees,” referring only to where they were from, not the more notorious southern expression “Damn Yankees.” There is a difference. To avoid sitting proper, listening to boring adult conversation, and making small talk with out-of-towners, my mother, Nancy, wearing her cotton blouse, poodle skirt, bobby socks, and flats, along with her younger sister Pat, made a quick getaway by taking a walk to the Collins Drug Store.

It just so happened that Bill had finished his shift at Pope’s Grocery and was hanging out at Collins Drug Store, with his best friend Weyman, who had a reputation as a ladies’ man. Bill and Weyman were seated at a booth, and Daddy had just ordered his favorite Vanilla Coke.

The soda shoppe was arranged with a food counter and booths. Nancy and Pat sat down in the booth adjoining Bill and Weyman. As fortune would have it, Bill and Nancy could look past Weyman and Pat, who were back-to-back.  From the corner jukebox, Fats Domino, Little Richard, and Chuck Berry took turns keeping the room rocking. Eleven-year-old Pat proudly marched her quarter to the jukebox to make her own music selection. Well, you know how little sisters can be. Maybe she thought the song was about a dog named Boxer? Whatever possessed her, she did not choose Elvis’ crooning out “Ain’t Nothing but a Hound Dog.” Instead, she chose the 1949 polka called “When Charlie Was a Boxer” by Frankie Yankovic & His Yanks with The Marlin Sisters!

Just as Mama ordered her fountain Coke, the unexpected polka music filled the air, Nancy looked down, covered her face with her hand, and blushed beet red from the part in her ponytail to her rolled-down bobby socks. Just at that moment, her eyes met Bill’s. His eyes twinkled with merriment at her situation, and he winked. Daddy could say a lot with that wink. Nancy quickly assessed the tall, blond-haired, brown-eyed sweetie and decided she would need to thank Aunt Pat one day.

Mama knew Weyman because he was her friend Peggy's boyfriend, so Weyman began making introductions. When Weyman introduced Bill as Billy, Daddy quickly changed the name to Bill. Mama always remembered, and even though the whole world, at that time, called him Billy, she always called him Bill and eventually—her Bill. After introductions, the conversation flowed until dark was falling. As Nancy and Pat got up to leave, Weyman and Bill insisted on giving them a ride home in Daddy’s coupe, with its single bench seat. When Nancy feebly protested, Weyman insisted they were not strangers, and it was only a short ride. Nancy squeezed into the seat, next to Bill, with Weyman on her right. In the age before seatbelts, Pat ended up riding home in Weyman’s lap!

Mom-Wisdom

There are many different types of wisdom in the world: God-wisdom explains the whys and wherefores of our existence on Earth, Man-wisdom explains the whys and wherefores of governments and economies, and Mom-wisdom explains the whys and wherefores of proper behavior, attitude, and respect. My earliest recollection of Mom-wisdom occurred around the age of four, along a busy stretch of a city road near the local grocers, with cars and trucks whizzing down the hill to beat the light at the bottom and cars and trucks whizzing up the hill to beat the light at the top. We had walked to Harris’s Grocery that morning hand in hand on a spring day. On the return trip, Mama was carrying two brown bags full of groceries, which meant she could not hold my hand to cross the busy street. As we stood near the curb and watched the traffic, she firmly and calmly said, “Debbie, we need to cross this street.  You hold tight to my skirt, or these cars will run over you, and you’ll be dead. Then we’ll have to dig a big hole and put you in it and put dirt on top of you.” I held tightly to Mama’s skirt as we crossed the road to the other side. All the while she bragged about how good I was doing. Mom-wisdom and a good dose of encouragement took me safely across the road and down the block to our house. Three generations of daughters have now repeated the same line to their children, and no child has ever let loose and run into the road or across the parking lot — because of Mom-wisdom.

     Mom-wisdom covers a lot of territory and fits the age and disposition of the child.  Well-known examples include: “Eat your vegetables so you can grow strong.” “Brush your teeth so they don’t rot out of your head.” “Don’t talk to strangers.” However, my mother surpassed the usual Mom-wisdom in content, honesty, and flair. When dressing for church or a special occasion, Mama would remind us of proper behavior by looking us over approvingly, smiling, and then adding, “Pretty is as pretty does.” With five boisterous children in tow, she did not have time to explain why we needed to obey a specific request. When questioned, she simply replied firmly, in a no-nonsense tone, “Because I said so.” Our response, as it should be, was a quick "Yes, ma'am." 

     As we grew older Mom-wisdom advanced beyond immediate safety or obedience. It was important for us to be ladies and gentlemen and to set a good example. Daddy smoked cigarettes and no one thought anything about it. Of course, we didn't understand the health risks back then. However, Mama, while not explicitly telling us not to smoke, established the standard that, “Women smoke — Ladies don’t.”

    As teenagers, dating revealed new streams of Mom-wisdom that caused us to pause, reflect, and then laugh. My first love was a young man named Walter. We met at church camp one summer. Mom-wisdom warned, “The boy will go as far as the girl will let him.” There was also Mom-wisdom that taught us not to call boys, but wait for them to call us. While I thought it ridiculous at the time, I now understand the maxim, “The boy chases the girl until the girl catches him.” The Mom-wisdom that caught us most off guard and resulted in snickers was addressed to no one in particular one summer day when my brother's live-in girlfriend was bemoaning the fact that my brother had not proposed marriage. Mama, simply muttered, “Don’t buy the cow if you get the milk for free.” After a split second to process this new saying, we all snickered, except my future sister-in-law who stared at us with a blank look. 

    Mom-wisdom guided all five children through various stages of development and rebellion, and then let us loose and encouraged us to laugh, to love, and to live. Motherhood is something that a mother never outgrows, even when her children grow up to become well-rounded adults. Mama has always found the wisdom for what is needed at the moment, whatever our ages. 

    One of Mama's best pieces of advice, the top-shelf Mom-wisdom, arrived after several sleepless nights of comforting a teething baby. It came during an afternoon phone call on a busy day when my oldest daughter was finally peacefully napping. I was tired, frustrated, and venting about things I wanted to change. I lamented,” I’ll be happy when Amanda sleeps through the night. I’ll be happy when Andy has a better job. I’ll be happy when we get a bigger place. I’ll be happy when I lose weight." Mama listened patiently and then gently said, "Don’t put off being happy. Be happy today.” That bit of Mom-wisdom, lived out by example, refocused my priorities and enabled me to enjoy raising my own children without waiting for life to be perfect.

     Another treasured bit of Mom-wisdom was revealed when I was 35, had returned to college, was dealing with my own teenager daughter, and my husband was sick. Suddenly everything was my job and I was overwhelmed with the fear and responsibility. Mama was my sounding board, my rock, and my best friend. She would listen and without judgment or lectures, say, "Just do the next thing." I have hung on those words for decades. Mom-wisdom is powerful medicine. 

 

Camping Trip to Last a Lifetime

   

Whenever someone hears this story, they invariably think I am exaggerating.  After all, it is not unusual for families to sell their home in order to build a new house or to buy twenty acres of land in order to plant a substantial garden or to take their families on an extended camping trip in order to appreciate the simple life.  However, forty-five years ago, when the Buffington household decided to head for the hills of Hall County, build a home in the wilderness, and raise their own food, our lives were anything but business as usual.

    Daddy developed a plan that included selling the home I had grown up in, buying land, building a house with solar heating, growing our own food, and raising farm animals.  Mama lovingly explained to us that daddy had always been borderline eccentric.  My brothers, sisters, and I laughingly insisted that daddy had always been way over the edge.  Daddy prepared for this metamorphosis from city slicker to country bumpkin by reading publications like Independence on Three Acres of Land, the Farmer’s Almanac, Mother Earth News, and Organic Gardening.  He even had a daily schedule worked out ahead of time.  In the mornings, his plan was for us to work in the garden and finish chores, in the afternoons to mosey over to the lake for a swim, and in the evenings to gather around the home place for quality family time to the hum of Appalachian dulcimer music.  Throughout the entire enterprise, daddy would announce, “It’s not all going to be work!”  To this day, I don’t know if he was trying to convince himself or us.

     As always, my parents were a team.  Daddy had the dreams, but mama made them a reality.  It took over two years to sell the house that had been our home for twelve years.  After a multitude of contracts with real estate agencies, frequent cries of, “they’re going to show the house!” frenzied cleaning sessions of dubious quality, and parades of strangers roaming through our bedrooms, mama finally sold the house- to the Avon lady.  I did not realize then how difficult it was for mama to leave the home where each baby, except for Janet and me, was brought home from the hospital.  There had been a lot of loving, a lot of growing, and a lot of laughter in that house.  Mama’s heart overflowed with cherished memories and squeezed tears from her eyes, but she resolutely hitched her wagon to Daddy’s and they headed for northeast Georgia.

Cutting the driveway through the wilderness.

    The parcel of land was loosely divided into useable regions based on the terrain.  The upper three acres closest to the road were terraced into three sections for cultivating a garden.  Consequently, the rows of bean plants curved and stretched from one end of the garden to the other, like the ocean straining to meet the horizon.  The back five acres, closest to the creek, embraced the skeleton of a new home place, the hint of a future orchard, and the promise of civilization to seven uncertain pioneers.  Between the garden and the future homestead were woods, and nestled in a grove of hardwood trees was our new temporary home- the camper. 

Mama and Billy in the garden.

    Our family was experienced at camping, or so we thought.  The pop-up camper, which served as the main bedroom, had a metal base, two, full-size, pullout beds, and a canvas cover.  Zipped to the front of this was an extended room that served as a kitchen, sleeping area, and eating area when it rained.  A large, plastic dining fly-covered a picnic table for an impromptu dining room.  The living room was a circle of lawn chairs and campstools surrounding the campfire. 

Our new home.

    In a manner of speaking, we had all the comforts of home.  Our bathroom facilities consisted of an outhouse lovingly referred to as the throne room, thirty paces southeast of the living room.  Daddy even used his ingenuity to create a shower.  The water source was the neighbor's well, connected to a spigot, attached to a pine tree about six feet off the ground.  The pine tree was connected to three other pine trees by a swatch of black plastic forming a rectangular enclosure. The make-shift shower surround was placed at a fairly strategic level to shield our innocence from prowling eyes. The theory was sound, but the location was questionable.  The shower was placed northwest of the camper, south of the garden, and directly adjacent to the road used by the workmen when traveling to and from the building site. However, the workmen’s trucks were big, tall, hardy affairs that easily allowed them to see down from their lofty heights into our lowly shower.  We consistently endured the icy well water and took our showers after dark, when the workmen had gone home for the day.

Daddy, right, with his farmer hat.
Charles, left, allowed us to connect to his well.

    Daddy, being daddy, managed to get a hot shower every afternoon.  The hose, stretching from our new shower to the neighbor’s well, meandered along the driveway, across our property, and over their lawn in the sunshine.  True to the physics of solar energy, the sun heated the water in the hose enough for daddy to get a hot shower every afternoon before going to work.  Some days, as the summer temperatures rose, he was blessed with a hotter shower than he had anticipated.  Daddy continued to work for IBM and every day he left for work clean-shaven, sweet-smelling, wearing a neatly pressed suit, white shirt, and polished shoes.  I often wondered if his colleagues knew how he was really living.

    Mama must be descended from rugged stock.  She always could get more accomplished in less time than other mere mortals.  Facing the challenge ahead of her, she braced herself, put on her best, comforting smile, took control of her offspring, and proceeded to make a home in the woods.  Ordinarily, voluminous jobs, like doing the laundry for seven people, including five rambunctious children, became one of her biggest obstacles.  Every other day or so, we piled into the car, along with the clothes, and went to the Laundromat to wash.  As the clothes sloshed and spun in the electric washing machines, we eyed the traffic of people and cars going about their daily, colorless routine.

    Miraculously, mama also managed to prepare the traditional, southern meals we had always eaten, like fried chicken, breaded pork chops, and country-fried steak and gravy with all the extras, using only our makeshift kitchen.  We even had real iced tea, home-cooked blackberry syrup, and homemade jams and jellies.  She planted a huge garden, and as the crops began to come in, she canned food for the winter over a Coleman stove.  From beginning to end, I did not hear her complain, but I did hear her laugh.  She taught us, by example, to make the best of things, look to the future and keep working.

    For my siblings and me, this was the beginning of a grand adventure, an extended vacation, and wonderful home.  Looking back, we joke that we were homeless before it was popular, but at that time, we didn’t realize we were homeless in the traditional sense.  We knew where home was really located.  Our house was the camper, sheltered in the shade trees, but our home was wherever mama and daddy were together.

  

Mini-HaHa Dinners

    

    Mama is sort of like Mary Poppins, without the umbrella and carpetbag.  She always has a way of turning the most mundane, everyday situations into fun, by changing the name.  What you name something matters, especially to a child.  The right name sets the tone and can turn something yucky into something tasty or something worrisome into something fun.

    Mama prepared three meals a day, 7 days a week, 365 days a year.  Multiply that by 7 family members, 4 cousins, and various friends and neighbors over a period of years and years and you can begin to gauge the mammoth task she faced.  Eating out was not an option. To us, eating out meant that we were camping and Mama still cooked dinner. The task required a strong will, determination, a large dose of creativity.

    She always woke up before the rest of the family to brew a pot of coffee and hopefully drink one cup before the day started.  Then, she tackled breakfast.  On cool mornings she might make a big pot of oatmeal or cream of wheat, a cinnamon coffee cake, or buttermilk biscuits. On a warm summer morning, we might have cereal and milk or cinnamon toast.  Sometimes she made blueberry muffins, french toast, pancakes, or waffles.  We ate normal breakfasts like everyone else.  That changed early one morning when my little my little cousin, Byron, thought Mama was making pancakes for breakfast.  In a small, sleepy voice he pleaded, "Aunt Nancy, I don't like pancakes."  Hesitation and uncertainty cause many schemes to fail, but Mama never hesitated.  She looked him in the eyes and cheerfully replied, "We are not having pancakes, we are having Bugieboos."   That was good, because Byron liked Buggyboos, or was too confused to put up a fuss.  To make Buggyboos you start with pancake batter. Next, you heat up the pan and add a little bit of oil for frying.  I know it sounds a lot like pancakes, but the difference is in the technique.  Instead of making little round circles of pancakes, you drizzle the batter in ever-changing directions to make crazy designs in the pan.  It is like modern art only with pancake batter and a cast iron skillet.  Top the Buggyboo with butter and syrup and magically, breakfast for Byron. If you have ever watched clouds overhead on a summer day and said, "That one looks like Mickey Mouse or that one looks like a dog."  then you can imagine our conversation around the breakfast table while eating Buggyboos.  From that day forward, pancakes ceased to exist and Buggyboos ruled the world.

    The problem with lunch is that it seems to arrive just as you finish the breakfast dishes.  Mama had a lot of good ideas for lunch.  On cool days we might have Campbell's Tomato Soup with a grilled cheese sandwich or cheese toast.  One of my favorites was Franco American Spaghettios with wieners sliced up in it.  In the summertime, we would have a sandwich and potato chips. Sometimes we had bologna, or pineapple and mayonnaise, or peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Other times she made chicken salad, ham salad, roast beef salad, or egg salad, depending on the available leftovers. One afternoon Mama made a big bowl of egg salad for sandwiches.  My little brother, Wade, stated his preference.  "I don't like egg salad sandwiches."  It just so happened that Mama needed to use up the rest of the hot dog buns.  So, in her usual, confident manner she, answered, "We're not having egg salad sandwiches, we're having Polish Egg Rolls."  To make Polish Egg Rolls, you put mayonnaise on a hot dog bun and fill it with egg salad.  Wade said that he loved Polish Egg rolls.  So, a new household specialty was born. Egg salad sandwiches were banished in favor of Polish Egg Rolls.

    With so many mouths to feed sometimes, food ran low, just before Daddy got paid.  We didn't realize why, but suddenly the refrigerator had more room and the cabinets were not crowded with cans or boxes.  That's when Mama displayed her best tricks in the kitchen.  She would wash up the supper dishes and come into the living room to relax with the family, with a little smile on her face.  A short time later, we would smell something wonderful coming from the kitchen.  With a clever blend of thriftiness and imagination, mama turned the leftover rice, the rest of the milk, one egg, and the last of raisins into rice pudding with sprinkles of nutmeg on top.  The final cup of flour, the remaining sugar, the rest of the milk, and a can of peaches became a peach cobbler.  She would make banana bread, pumpkin bread, cinnamon rolls, or Wacky Chocolate Cake using whatever odds and ends of food were still in the house.

    Every artist has a masterpiece that exemplifies and commemorates their best work and Mama has hers. We didn't realize it at the time, but on this particular summer day, groceries were running low. As soon as Daddy's check came in the mail, Mama was ready for us to take the check to the bank and then buy groceries at the local A&P.   Lunchtime came before the mailman arrived and Mama had to come up with a plan to feed five hungry children in a hurry.  As a result, the Mini-Haha Lunch was born. Simply put, a Mini-Haha Lunch consists of whatever you have in the house that is quick and easily available: saltines, peanut butter, jam, canned fruit, or baby food. The baby's food was ordinarily reserved for the baby, except for the occasional Mini-Haha lunch. Back in those days, Gerber put sugar in the baby food, so it was very tasty.  My favorites were the baby apricots, the vanilla pudding, and the teething biscuits.   Mini-Haha lunches, or dinners, became a family favorite and the tradition has continued with my own children.  Last week, AJ was surprised to learn that the rest of the world did not know about Mini-Haha meals.  Now they know.

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.