Maywalk
Maywalk
- Location
- Leicestershire UK
Thanks Gary 0'
I gather that you wont want the pointer then?. I leave it with you.
I gather that you wont want the pointer then?. I leave it with you.
Vivid Memories of Childhood and Beyond
- Thread starter Gary O'
- Start date
I seem to be good without it....just clicking on the 'next page' block on the lower right
so far, so good
Meanderer
Supreme Member
Years back, in my first "home office" I installed a "spittoon". It was a prop, really....even had sand in it.......
Maywalk
Maywalk
- Location
- Leicestershire UK
Not quite sure where you are looking Gary0' but if your happy I leave it with you.
Cheers.
Cheers.
Years back, in my first "home office" I installed a "spittoon". It was a prop, really....even had sand in it.......
I have a brass spittoon
It’s not used for spit
(can’t imagine cleaning one)
I keep tubes of drawings in mine.
One set from an ancient gentleman by the name of John LaPorte
He designed several buildings in Portland
Saw his wee little ad in the paper, under professional services.
Drawings/Blueprints, $100
Coolest ol’ dude ever.
Pushing hard on the century mark.
Modest place in Lake Oswego (not a modest neighborhood)
Quite soft spoken, attentive
Horrible coffee
He liked my quad paper drawings, and loved my floorplan.
Showed me how he needed to change a couple things in my elevation renditions and what they’d reject in my roof pitch
I agreed to let him make the changes
Two weeks later the blueprints were ready.
Sipped another cup of liquid iron ore while waiting for him to shuffle to and from his office.
We sat
I handed him 5 crisp twenties
He handed me three prints
‘Uh, John, we agreed on four prints’
‘I know, Gary, but I liked the layout so well, I kept one….and they really only require two for approval, and then there’s your copy’ (big grin)
He had me
I wanted my four copies no matter what
But, this ol’ guy, designer of buildings in downtown Portland, liked my layout
My ego won out
The spittoon is a great conversation piece
Meanderer
Supreme Member
Great Expectorations: Ode to the Spittoon
December 19, 2005 by Charles Partee
"In the old days part of the masculine personality was formed by barber shops, which were an exclusively male preserve. Boys got to observe how men behaved apart from the civilizing presence of women. Getting a haircut (before you qualified for a shave) was being admitted to the non-effeminacy clubhouse as a very junior and silent member. One of the important things we learned was friendly masculine abuse. One guy would ask another, “Is that your real face, or did your neck just vomit?” We also learned the difference between a deliberate and accidental “spew.”
"Growing up before women’s liberation, I was not aware that some women might want to chew and spit tobacco. I went once with my mother to a beauty parlor. For some of the women it appeared to be the Last Chance Salon. The joint was filled with women and nice smells. So far as I could see, there was not a single spittoon in the place. However, the old-time barbershop had a spittoon at every chair. A boy learned very quickly not to get between a spitter and his spittoon. On this issue women were, so to speak, outside the main stream. The marvel of my boyhood was a gat-toothed fellow who, with considerable force and accuracy, could deliberately produce a nicotine spew through the gap in his front teeth. My life has been immeasurably enriched by watching half-chewed cigars trying to swim upstream in brass spittoons".
December 19, 2005 by Charles Partee
"In the old days part of the masculine personality was formed by barber shops, which were an exclusively male preserve. Boys got to observe how men behaved apart from the civilizing presence of women. Getting a haircut (before you qualified for a shave) was being admitted to the non-effeminacy clubhouse as a very junior and silent member. One of the important things we learned was friendly masculine abuse. One guy would ask another, “Is that your real face, or did your neck just vomit?” We also learned the difference between a deliberate and accidental “spew.”
"Growing up before women’s liberation, I was not aware that some women might want to chew and spit tobacco. I went once with my mother to a beauty parlor. For some of the women it appeared to be the Last Chance Salon. The joint was filled with women and nice smells. So far as I could see, there was not a single spittoon in the place. However, the old-time barbershop had a spittoon at every chair. A boy learned very quickly not to get between a spitter and his spittoon. On this issue women were, so to speak, outside the main stream. The marvel of my boyhood was a gat-toothed fellow who, with considerable force and accuracy, could deliberately produce a nicotine spew through the gap in his front teeth. My life has been immeasurably enriched by watching half-chewed cigars trying to swim upstream in brass spittoons".
RadishRose
SF VIP
- Location
- Connecticut, USA
cccccccccccccc
“Is that your real face, or did your neck just vomit?”
Been awhile since I heard that one
still good
HAH!Enjoyed your story of John LaPorte, Gary. Was he a founding father of LaPortland? ....or mebee President of the LaPorte Coffee Co?
View attachment 51143
He wasn't one given to bragging, but those are strong possibilities
(I've googled his name a few times since...there's quite a few LaPortes to chose from)
Penned several years ago, and eventually put in a reject file.
May one day tweak it
....or just toss
Anyway, it's a vivid memory;
Kids today seem to be having their imagination taken away from them, and given somebody else’s.
Got a 7 year old grandson that had a PS3 plugged to his wrist.
The lad was developing bad sleep habits.
His eyes had a continuous peevish look.
I get up at 3:30am weekdays, and a couple times when they stayed over, I’d see a flickering grey/bright light coming from underneath the door to the spare bedroom.
Cracked the door.
There he’d be, thumbs flittering at Mach II…..glazed eyes locked on the screen.
I surgically removed the controller from his hands, unplugging the umbilical cord to the box.
He threw a little fit and fell over in a twitching heap.
PS3 has mysteriously disappeared, replaced by my football, basketball, his now repaired bike, bugs in jars, and a myriad of wood scrap projects from my shop….and the summer pool.
If continued, I’m sure I would have looked in on him one morning and he’d be in the monitor, shooting bad guys and eventually getting zapped himself….
Back in the 50’s we relied heavily on our imaginations.
The converted broom factory we lived in yielded a pile of broom sticks.
These overgrown dowels easily became horses, swords, weapons of Little John of Sherwood Forest, and the prize creation of a carbine….wire two together and nail on a slab of wood and you could start pickin’ off bad guys….sure wish we’d had access to duct tape back then….
There were a dozen or so kids in our country neighborhood, and we all played together, ‘cept that time my big sister and Dennis Blickenson locked me in the garden shed most of one afternoon….still wonder what they were doin’……
However, generally we played with whatever was available……old tires, once flipped over a half dozen times to slosh out all the water, would roll all over tarnation and could be propelled by a piece of broom stick.
‘Course there were mud pies ‘n cakes created by our culinary experts Bessie and my sister.
Had a bite of their shiny pie once….pretty much the same experience I had when Gramma gave me a spoon of unsweetened chocolate….
One time at hilltop, we were all gathered at the flat part of the country lane (paved no less) where most the population lined their hovels…pardon…homes. A few visitors joined us, kids everwhere, pushin’ tires, ridin’ bikes, havin’ pine cone wars, chasin’ dogs, dogs chasin’ bikes, when the action lulled.
We seemed to naturly migrate together, cause Daryl was exercisin’ his jaw with a piece of bubble gum, and unfolding the comic. We all peered over his shoulder and listened to him haltingly read the mini episode of Bazooka Joe.
You know those childhood moments that you still vividly recall?
Well, as I peered over the shoulder of one of the visiting girls I noticed something a bit horrific. She was missing most of her ear! I looked around, and noticed another visiting kid missing one of his ears.
Then I just stopped thinking about missing ears, ‘cause one of the visiting kids had dug a chunk of melted road tar out of the pavement and started chewing it….now everyone was gathered around him, then we all dug out our own chunks….nobody mentioned how awful it tasted, and we chawed on our chunks most of the afternoon…..seems road tar retains its flavor long after Bazooka gets that gawdawful saliva saturated insipid wad taste.
Thinkin’ about it all a few years later, I remember getting a glimpse of Bessie Dodge’s ear one time (or where her ear shoulda been) when her hair was pulled back, and she too was missing most of it.
Kinda thru me off, ‘cause, even though she was my sister’s best friend, I had a crush on her, even before I knew what crushes were. But the thing that came to mind was the visiting kids. I put two and two together and came to the thought that they were all visiting the Dodges, ‘cause Bessie had a bit of a handicap and they did too…..7 year olds really start coming into realization of things if PS3s aren’t around….
Right about now if you are thinking, ‘I just read this and seem to be missing the point’, well then it’s just not for you, is it.
For everyone else, parents/grandparents, unite!
The road’s gettin’ hot!
May one day tweak it
....or just toss
Anyway, it's a vivid memory;
Kids today seem to be having their imagination taken away from them, and given somebody else’s.
Got a 7 year old grandson that had a PS3 plugged to his wrist.
The lad was developing bad sleep habits.
His eyes had a continuous peevish look.
I get up at 3:30am weekdays, and a couple times when they stayed over, I’d see a flickering grey/bright light coming from underneath the door to the spare bedroom.
Cracked the door.
There he’d be, thumbs flittering at Mach II…..glazed eyes locked on the screen.
I surgically removed the controller from his hands, unplugging the umbilical cord to the box.
He threw a little fit and fell over in a twitching heap.
PS3 has mysteriously disappeared, replaced by my football, basketball, his now repaired bike, bugs in jars, and a myriad of wood scrap projects from my shop….and the summer pool.
If continued, I’m sure I would have looked in on him one morning and he’d be in the monitor, shooting bad guys and eventually getting zapped himself….
Back in the 50’s we relied heavily on our imaginations.
The converted broom factory we lived in yielded a pile of broom sticks.
These overgrown dowels easily became horses, swords, weapons of Little John of Sherwood Forest, and the prize creation of a carbine….wire two together and nail on a slab of wood and you could start pickin’ off bad guys….sure wish we’d had access to duct tape back then….
There were a dozen or so kids in our country neighborhood, and we all played together, ‘cept that time my big sister and Dennis Blickenson locked me in the garden shed most of one afternoon….still wonder what they were doin’……
However, generally we played with whatever was available……old tires, once flipped over a half dozen times to slosh out all the water, would roll all over tarnation and could be propelled by a piece of broom stick.
‘Course there were mud pies ‘n cakes created by our culinary experts Bessie and my sister.
Had a bite of their shiny pie once….pretty much the same experience I had when Gramma gave me a spoon of unsweetened chocolate….
One time at hilltop, we were all gathered at the flat part of the country lane (paved no less) where most the population lined their hovels…pardon…homes. A few visitors joined us, kids everwhere, pushin’ tires, ridin’ bikes, havin’ pine cone wars, chasin’ dogs, dogs chasin’ bikes, when the action lulled.
We seemed to naturly migrate together, cause Daryl was exercisin’ his jaw with a piece of bubble gum, and unfolding the comic. We all peered over his shoulder and listened to him haltingly read the mini episode of Bazooka Joe.
You know those childhood moments that you still vividly recall?
Well, as I peered over the shoulder of one of the visiting girls I noticed something a bit horrific. She was missing most of her ear! I looked around, and noticed another visiting kid missing one of his ears.
Then I just stopped thinking about missing ears, ‘cause one of the visiting kids had dug a chunk of melted road tar out of the pavement and started chewing it….now everyone was gathered around him, then we all dug out our own chunks….nobody mentioned how awful it tasted, and we chawed on our chunks most of the afternoon…..seems road tar retains its flavor long after Bazooka gets that gawdawful saliva saturated insipid wad taste.
Thinkin’ about it all a few years later, I remember getting a glimpse of Bessie Dodge’s ear one time (or where her ear shoulda been) when her hair was pulled back, and she too was missing most of it.
Kinda thru me off, ‘cause, even though she was my sister’s best friend, I had a crush on her, even before I knew what crushes were. But the thing that came to mind was the visiting kids. I put two and two together and came to the thought that they were all visiting the Dodges, ‘cause Bessie had a bit of a handicap and they did too…..7 year olds really start coming into realization of things if PS3s aren’t around….
Right about now if you are thinking, ‘I just read this and seem to be missing the point’, well then it’s just not for you, is it.
For everyone else, parents/grandparents, unite!
The road’s gettin’ hot!
jujube
SF VIP
The only thing we did with tar was get it on our feet. We never wore shoes in the summer and the county tarred the street annually. First would come the tar truck, followed by the truck with the tiny gravel to pour on top of the new tar.
All summer long, the tar would bubble up through the gravel. Running back and forth across the street resulted in tarry feet. My mother had a bottle of gasoline and a rag sitting on the back steps and we would have to sit and rub the tar off with gasoline before we could come into the house or put on shoes. For that reason, the smell of gasoline always makes me think of summer.
All summer long, the tar would bubble up through the gravel. Running back and forth across the street resulted in tarry feet. My mother had a bottle of gasoline and a rag sitting on the back steps and we would have to sit and rub the tar off with gasoline before we could come into the house or put on shoes. For that reason, the smell of gasoline always makes me think of summer.
RadishRose
SF VIP
- Location
- Connecticut, USA
I enjoyed that story, Jujube.
fmdog44
Well-known Member
- Location
- Houston, Texas
Lik-M-Ade colored fingers
Mr Codger’s Neighborhood
Our country neighborhood yielded a gaggle of poverty stricken families, mixed with some retired folk with tidy houses and well maintained yards.
Actually, I have several family photos of us posing in front of one of those houses, like ol’ widow Jones’ little white cottage, picket fence, close cut lawn.
But for the most part, there were several families that had little or nothing with a yard full of cars to piece together in order to get to work.
One such family was the Elberts.
Four kids.
Ramshackle house.
Absolute junk throughout the yard.
I remember the one time I was invited in, thru the back door, directly into the kitchen. Mrs Elbert apologetically handed me a glass of water.
Hey, it was great! Those colored aluminum glasses could transform ordinary water into the coldest thirst quenching nectar you’d ever want.
I glanced through the house while I waited for Daryl to find a shirt.
Things were misplaced. Daryl yarded thru a couple piles to find his prized superman T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Mrs Elbert was busy extracting coins from a piggy bank…..possibly robbing the kid’s stash, but more likely the family savings plan.
Back in those days piggy banks didn’t have a rubber plug at the bottom, just the slot on top.
There she was, butter knife in hand, coins reluctantly traveling down the blade onto the kitchen table.
I remember noting that she was quite attractive, and equated her looks to that of Daisy Mae’s sister, the one that was always lying around with the pigs.
Mr Elbert was also a handsome guy, but a tad gruff, and not really home much.
When he was home, he was always working on cars or motorcycles. I found it all fascinating but never questioned why things were the way they were with them.
Kids tend to accept things.
What I did question was how they always had the latest toys, and some of the neatest stuff.
One time Connie came out to the street munching on an open faced peanut butter sandwich.
This was no ordinary sandwich.
It was Wonder Bread!
And it had Skippy peanut butter all slathered on top!
What an outstanding combination!
I dropped my sister’s bike and stared.
The Skippy glistened from the midmorning sun as Connie slowly gnawed away the crust.
Now I’d eaten a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and should have held back, as this was probably Connie’s breakfast and lunch, but I had to ask.
“Can I have a bite?”
Begrudgingly a small bit of corner crust with a hint of Skippy was handed over.
It was wonderful.
My first.
We never had the luxury of ever having anything but brown bread in our house, let alone Skippy.
Another time, Daryl brought out an egg of silly putty. This wondrous glob of mysterious abilities was smushed onto the Sunday comics with the heal of his hand, right there in the dirt driveway, then carefully pulled it away, yielding the image of Dick Tracy and his wrist radio, and in color! Then, with proper tension applied, Dick turned into elastic man. Utterly fascinating, but I knew to never ask for such a thing from Dad or Mom.
One time I traded Daryl my self-made wired together double broom stick shake butted carbine for his dual holstered twin six shooters. They were amazing as the cylinders actually spun, and the handles were surprisingly quite real, and heavy, not the typical molded plastic.
Dad came home, and shortly after was on our way to the Elberts to trade back. This was a mystery for me, as, being the youngest cowboy in the neighborhood; I usually got the short end of the trade.
Thinking about ‘the trade’ years later, those could very well have been real pistols, and Daryl may have actually tapped his dad’s stash. Come to think about it, I never saw Daryl ever have them again. Actually I never saw Daryl much either…..
Don’t get me wrong. My family didn’t suffer, but we didn’t splurge on things.
Easter was a personal huge event. Not because of the candy, or the egg/finger dying event. Oh no, it was solely due to what the candy came in. For several years in succession I’d get a straw cowboy hat. OK, it was straw, but it was a cowboy hat….mine. Oh-h-h-h oh, the coup de grace of several months of giddyup, at least ‘til the first rain.
Bobby Clehm was one of my best friends. Granted Billy Dodge was my pahdnah and trail ridin’ pal, but Bobby and I went way back. He never could get into cowboy mode, however, cause his dad never let him over for more than a half hour, of which by the time the story line and plot for cowboy’n was laid out, it was time to go back.
But when I visited him, I mostly just helped with chores.
I found it fun to milk ol’ Bessie, and feed the chickens, and we did get to romp thru the woods trying to find ol’ Flossy for her turn at the stanchion.
One time I stayed for lunch. They had strange things like squash, and Brussels sprouts, with some ungodly thing called bread pudding for dessert.
All this washed down with raw (warm) milk, garnished with floating clumps.
Oh man, was I glad to get home. OK, we didn’t have Wonder bread, but we sure didn’t have some horrible thing like bread mixed in goo and washed down with their rendition of milk either.
Our country neighborhood yielded a gaggle of poverty stricken families, mixed with some retired folk with tidy houses and well maintained yards.
Actually, I have several family photos of us posing in front of one of those houses, like ol’ widow Jones’ little white cottage, picket fence, close cut lawn.
But for the most part, there were several families that had little or nothing with a yard full of cars to piece together in order to get to work.
One such family was the Elberts.
Four kids.
Ramshackle house.
Absolute junk throughout the yard.
I remember the one time I was invited in, thru the back door, directly into the kitchen. Mrs Elbert apologetically handed me a glass of water.
Hey, it was great! Those colored aluminum glasses could transform ordinary water into the coldest thirst quenching nectar you’d ever want.
I glanced through the house while I waited for Daryl to find a shirt.
Things were misplaced. Daryl yarded thru a couple piles to find his prized superman T-shirt.
Meanwhile, Mrs Elbert was busy extracting coins from a piggy bank…..possibly robbing the kid’s stash, but more likely the family savings plan.
Back in those days piggy banks didn’t have a rubber plug at the bottom, just the slot on top.
There she was, butter knife in hand, coins reluctantly traveling down the blade onto the kitchen table.
I remember noting that she was quite attractive, and equated her looks to that of Daisy Mae’s sister, the one that was always lying around with the pigs.
Mr Elbert was also a handsome guy, but a tad gruff, and not really home much.
When he was home, he was always working on cars or motorcycles. I found it all fascinating but never questioned why things were the way they were with them.
Kids tend to accept things.
What I did question was how they always had the latest toys, and some of the neatest stuff.
One time Connie came out to the street munching on an open faced peanut butter sandwich.
This was no ordinary sandwich.
It was Wonder Bread!
And it had Skippy peanut butter all slathered on top!
What an outstanding combination!
I dropped my sister’s bike and stared.
The Skippy glistened from the midmorning sun as Connie slowly gnawed away the crust.
Now I’d eaten a bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and should have held back, as this was probably Connie’s breakfast and lunch, but I had to ask.
“Can I have a bite?”
Begrudgingly a small bit of corner crust with a hint of Skippy was handed over.
It was wonderful.
My first.
We never had the luxury of ever having anything but brown bread in our house, let alone Skippy.
Another time, Daryl brought out an egg of silly putty. This wondrous glob of mysterious abilities was smushed onto the Sunday comics with the heal of his hand, right there in the dirt driveway, then carefully pulled it away, yielding the image of Dick Tracy and his wrist radio, and in color! Then, with proper tension applied, Dick turned into elastic man. Utterly fascinating, but I knew to never ask for such a thing from Dad or Mom.
One time I traded Daryl my self-made wired together double broom stick shake butted carbine for his dual holstered twin six shooters. They were amazing as the cylinders actually spun, and the handles were surprisingly quite real, and heavy, not the typical molded plastic.
Dad came home, and shortly after was on our way to the Elberts to trade back. This was a mystery for me, as, being the youngest cowboy in the neighborhood; I usually got the short end of the trade.
Thinking about ‘the trade’ years later, those could very well have been real pistols, and Daryl may have actually tapped his dad’s stash. Come to think about it, I never saw Daryl ever have them again. Actually I never saw Daryl much either…..
Don’t get me wrong. My family didn’t suffer, but we didn’t splurge on things.
Easter was a personal huge event. Not because of the candy, or the egg/finger dying event. Oh no, it was solely due to what the candy came in. For several years in succession I’d get a straw cowboy hat. OK, it was straw, but it was a cowboy hat….mine. Oh-h-h-h oh, the coup de grace of several months of giddyup, at least ‘til the first rain.
Bobby Clehm was one of my best friends. Granted Billy Dodge was my pahdnah and trail ridin’ pal, but Bobby and I went way back. He never could get into cowboy mode, however, cause his dad never let him over for more than a half hour, of which by the time the story line and plot for cowboy’n was laid out, it was time to go back.
But when I visited him, I mostly just helped with chores.
I found it fun to milk ol’ Bessie, and feed the chickens, and we did get to romp thru the woods trying to find ol’ Flossy for her turn at the stanchion.
One time I stayed for lunch. They had strange things like squash, and Brussels sprouts, with some ungodly thing called bread pudding for dessert.
All this washed down with raw (warm) milk, garnished with floating clumps.
Oh man, was I glad to get home. OK, we didn’t have Wonder bread, but we sure didn’t have some horrible thing like bread mixed in goo and washed down with their rendition of milk either.
IKE
Well-known Member
- Location
- Oklahoma....U.S.A.
Another good read Gary.
This next memory is one from my high school years and has got to be approaching some sort of moral edge.
I tend to toe that edge.
So much so, I no longer have feeling in that digit....
anyway, I won't be offended if admin/mods delete this
and hope any chance readers are not either, nor disgusted
Can’t remember her name
Had a girlfriend in early high school. We didn’t really date…aaaand I didn’t really ‘have’ her.
Thing is, I was attracted to her lips.
Couldn’t take my eyes off them lips of hers.
Full lips, largish mouth.
Much like the blonde in the movie TO SIR WITH LOVE.
In those days, girls used a skin tone shade of lipstick.
It was like, ‘hey look, I don’t have lips’.
Didn’t matter with her.
So we talked a lot in the halls, between classes. Actually, she talked, and I just watched her talk…not listening, just watching her lips form words, like ‘you’ and ‘who’…..so, one Friday night I actually took her out….to my car.
We (she) talked a bit…it was like lip foreplay…for mine.
Then, after my lips almost overdosed on mime sex, I squared her shoulders, caressed her neck, thumbs just below her ear lobes, and drew her to me, planting one on that mouth of hers.
I’ve had better kisses with fish.
I came to the realization of a couple things that night;
A) We really weren’t attracted to each other, just eager…and hungry.
B) It takes two, like a tango, to enjoy a kiss.
After that, I focused on other areas of the female anatomy….like hind ends….ones you could pull up to and eat breakfast off of…some were just happy meals…some were grand slams.
Hallway conversation?
Naw.
Matter of fact, I don’t even recall what my next few girlfriends faces even looked like, or if they had heads.
(told ya, but you kept reading...)
I tend to toe that edge.
So much so, I no longer have feeling in that digit....
anyway, I won't be offended if admin/mods delete this
and hope any chance readers are not either, nor disgusted
Can’t remember her name
Had a girlfriend in early high school. We didn’t really date…aaaand I didn’t really ‘have’ her.
Thing is, I was attracted to her lips.
Couldn’t take my eyes off them lips of hers.
Full lips, largish mouth.
Much like the blonde in the movie TO SIR WITH LOVE.
In those days, girls used a skin tone shade of lipstick.
It was like, ‘hey look, I don’t have lips’.
Didn’t matter with her.
So we talked a lot in the halls, between classes. Actually, she talked, and I just watched her talk…not listening, just watching her lips form words, like ‘you’ and ‘who’…..so, one Friday night I actually took her out….to my car.
We (she) talked a bit…it was like lip foreplay…for mine.
Then, after my lips almost overdosed on mime sex, I squared her shoulders, caressed her neck, thumbs just below her ear lobes, and drew her to me, planting one on that mouth of hers.
I’ve had better kisses with fish.
I came to the realization of a couple things that night;
A) We really weren’t attracted to each other, just eager…and hungry.
B) It takes two, like a tango, to enjoy a kiss.
After that, I focused on other areas of the female anatomy….like hind ends….ones you could pull up to and eat breakfast off of…some were just happy meals…some were grand slams.
Hallway conversation?
Naw.
Matter of fact, I don’t even recall what my next few girlfriends faces even looked like, or if they had heads.
(told ya, but you kept reading...)
Last edited:
You paint such colorful pictures with your words...and I'm not talkin' about the ones duplicated on silly putty.
that's what drives me, kind lady, yes ma'am
if one can see what is in my head with what I write...mission accomplished
I got a “switchin’” more than once for runnin’ of to our neighbors, who were what we called dirt poor. No electricity, or running water. I’m not even sure now how many children they had, but for sure they couldn’t keep the little ones in clothes. It was a sad day when they came and took the children away. I was especially attracted to the little girl who had the same name as my mother.
I could never write whats in my head...people would run....I tell ya.
I could never write whats in my head...people would run....I tell ya.
I do have a story somewhere about one such family (I'll try to find it)
Please, give it a go
I can 'see' what you pen
Memories of my Granny…
Her and her old corn cob pipe. Settin’ on the front porch swing , singin’.. Go tell Aunt Rhody. Me just a little thing, crying with those goslings, wonderin’ what it would feel like to have a feather bed. Wishin’ The Old grey Goose wasn’t standing on her head.
Her and her old corn cob pipe. Settin’ on the front porch swing , singin’.. Go tell Aunt Rhody. Me just a little thing, crying with those goslings, wonderin’ what it would feel like to have a feather bed. Wishin’ The Old grey Goose wasn’t standing on her head.