Dear Descendant,
I'm going to try to write more frequently. Actually, right now I have a lot of "irons in the fire" (remember that talk about speaking in 'Idiom'?). I'm going to get some of them out of that fire. They are all collectively keeping me from doing more of what I really want to do. But, enough about me. You can piece me together rather easily so I'm not wasting time.
Ancestor #3 that I'd like to have a sit-down with is my 3rd great-grandfather, James F. Jenkins. I suspect the "F" stands for Francis. So far, I've not been able to find out for sure but that name shows up here and there in the family. If you don't believe me that he is Number Three or you can't find the original post, here it is.
I'll warn you up front, James is a brick wall. I can't find a marriage record for him. In fact, I don't find much about him. Much of what I have depended on is family oral tradition passed down from my great-grandfather, Milton Minturn Jenkins, known as "Minton" and as "M.M.", who was the grandson of James F. Jenkins. Grandpa told the story he remembered to my grandmother, , his daughter, Monta Lee Jenkins Kells. She wrote it in one of those stenographer's notepads. (You'll have to look that occupation up; stenographers have been gone for a long time already.) I have also done a lot of looking here and there for this family. There are apparently some holes in the story, hence the looking around part. The upside is that you won't get very much incorrect information from Ancestry trees (if they still have them) because there isn't much on this line in the family out there and much of what is on Ancestry, came from me. One thing for sure, the Jenkins tribe will get in touch and nobody knows any more than I know. They will gladly share anything they have with you about their particular families. They are "giving" and cooperative folks. I like to think that's a quality that was passed down through James' line.
Know that my grandfather's people were good people. Take that to the bank. Their word was gold. They weren't ones to intentionally tell a lie. They told what they knew and they ALL knew the story I'll relate here. I've talked to some of Grandpa's nieces and nephews and some of their children and grandchildren and even though their parents gave some incorrect information to E.E. Barton, they tell the family tradition EXACTLY the same. So much the same, I can hear Grandpa Minton saying the words. Sometimes, however, I think they left out the unpleasant facts. Actually, I KNOW they did. I think that came from Grandpa Mathew, James' son. I think there were just things he didn't want to talk about concerning the Civil War and the family's role. It was just easier to let that part of our history be unspoken. I hope you will find that story fascinating and not be ashamed of our family's part in this era of history. Contrary, I hope you will be proud of them. We are currently in a social climate that is particularly harsh on the Confederates.
Above all, know that I consider us among the luckiest people in the world to have descended from this group of people. Also, know that I refer to M.M. Jenkins as "Grandpa". I do so because he raised my mother and she, like her mother and her uncles, called him "Pop". Both of my grandfathers (Carr & Kells) were either long dead by the time I was born or died shortly after and Grandpa was the only grandfather I ever knew. The summer that I finished the third grade, he and Grandma Kells came back to the family farm he sold my parents in 1959 to live next door to my parents, my siblings, and me. He was living there at the time of his death. To date, the farm is still in the family. Grandpa bought it in the 1920's so that's closing in on a hundred years.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
Monday, February 19, 2018
The Old Farm Truck
When my dad decided to replace his work truck, "Whitey" became the farm truck. Whitey was so named because he was a white Ford F-150. I think he was 1970 something model but he could have been older. By the time he retired to become a farm truck he was more like white and rust and the color of dirt and road tar. Whitey didn't go to the car wash often but he did go across creeks, up and down steep hills, and across flat, freshly plowed bottom land.
Whitey's parking place, once he was no longer the work truck, was in the side yard near the house. He'd be driven to town if he was needed. He'd also be driven around the farm. My brother became the principal driver once he got his license. Oh, my! That's a story! My brother was allergic to paying for his own gasoline. Seriously. If you could and would pay for it, he was willing. He'd siphon Whitey dry if he needed gas. Sometimes that backfired. Sometimes Brother had to drive Whitey and if Whitey was empty... well, you see the problem. My brother, being quick thinking and allergic to buying gasoline as I've already stated, would then siphon gasoline out of somebody's vehicle. None were safe. You had to be vigilant around him. I'm sure he wasn't above sneaking out in the middle of night to siphon gas so he wouldn't get caught. I've had a few sleepless nights knowing he was on the loose and I had to get off the hill the next morning. He'd also get the heating fuel and put it in the tractor but that's another good story.
My brother also collected Mt. Dew cans. The problem with that is that he never recycled them nor did he turn them into art. He just stashed them in Whitey (or any other vehicle he was driving for that matter). As his collection grew, there was less and less space in the passenger seat and you literally had to be careful getting in and out because your feet had to go on top of the cans. He'd also stash some in the bed, just in case, you know. At one point they were so deep, I'm sure my knees were even with the dashboard! You didn't want to have to go far in that condition. He also collected paper bags from carry-out at the Stop-and-Tell Restaurant, the Dairy Treet, and the Dairy Queen. They got wadded up and tossed in the seat, the floor, or in the bed. My dad added to Whitey's misery by always keeping a change of clothes, a jacket, and several long sleeved shirts in the cab because "you never know when you'll need 'em, Frenchman", as he said when I questioned the necessity. There were also bulldozer caps of all kinds and small hand tools. The tools presented a problem because you couldn't see them under the clothes and if you sat on the clothes you could be stabbed by a claw hammer, claw up.
One day my brother took Snoopy, our dog, to the vet in Falmouth. Whitey's services were needed. As Brother, the dog, and Whitey went down the road the floor mats began to blow. You see, the floor board, like the bed, was rusting out. Snoopy was surprised and decided he needed to sit somewhere else. I'm sure he realized he was just one mud puddle short of a bath or maybe even one bump short of falling through. He jumped up in the seat. God love his little heart! I just don't know how he managed it. The seat was nearly impossible to sit in. He started barking and continued to bark every time the mat blew up for the entire twelve mile ride. I'm sure he was hoarse when the vet saw him.
Whitey sat in his place of importance with the keys in the ignition when not needed. One thing is for certain, no one ever stole him.
An Arial shot showing Whitey in his place of honor.
The picture was taken around 1979/1980.
A closeup reveals all the valuable items in the bed and the tank to the left that was likely in the bed sometime before the picture was taken. Well, you never know when you'll need a tank, right? It belongs threre.
Monday, December 25, 2017
Santa Forgot the Doll, He Said
Ah Christmas... food, family, traditions all rolled into one holiday. It's not like any other for me. When I was a child, Christmas was the ultimate highlight of the year, each year. It meant Grandma Kells would be there from Ohio, Aunt Violet and Uncle Willie Jenkins would be there from Corinth, KY, and Grandpa Jenkins would either come from his home up the road or later on with Grandma from Ohio. There would be a ton of food and Daddy wouldn't work late. He'd come home when Grandma said for him to come home. I thought he was afraid of her and that's why he came home on time. He didn't do that the rest of the year. If you knew my Grandma, you knew she was all business. He had to be scared, there wasn't any other explanation. She wouldn't put up with him being late. And, of course, the ever illusive Santa would walk in our front door, leave presents, eat the cookies and drink the milk we'd left and do so without us ever knowing he was even there.
We had our Christmas on Christmas Eve. It was our tradition with little variation for many years. It went something like this: Mother would get me up at the crack of dawn. I really didn't like that part and it took me most of the morning to get my Christmas Cheer on. Aunt Violet and Uncle Willie, Grandma's brother, celebrated with their children on Christmas Day but they came to our house the night before. We had cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and turkey and cake that Grandma always insisted was made with my daddy in mind. After all, as she said, John loved his sweets and he worked hard. She almost sounded like she pitied him for working so hard. Therefore, he deserved to have his sweets. But that's another tradition for another blog entry. The table was full of delicious food. Then Santa would finally come and everyone opened their gifts.
In this particular year, I got busy as soon as the Sears Christmas Catalog arrived. I went through the pages carefully trying to decide which doll was THE one for me. I marked the doll by circling her picture. I'm sure I picked out other things, too, but I only remember the dolls. I usually wanted them all so the decision was hard. Mother let me pick out two or three "in case Santa ran low on his stock". That way I wouldn't be disappointed as much. Each got circled. This particular year I really, really, really wanted the Tiny Baby Chatty Cathy. She talked. None of my dolls had ever done that before. I "wrote" my letter to Santa with my mother's help and sent it off to the North Pole and waited for what seemed like eternity.
Then the day came. Grandma arrived and the cooking began. The house smelled great. Grandpa sat in the living room watching TV and asking me a bunch of questions. It seemed he always wanted to know something. Grandpa was hard of hearing and I had to shout to try to make him hear me. It usually didn't help. I would get frustrated. I was relieved when Uncle Willie got there. They could talk forever. Uncle Willie's arrival also indicated that it was getting close to the time Santa would come. Dinner would soon be ready and Daddy would be home. Then, after dishes were done, it would be discovered that Santa had left presents on the front porch. I learned that Santa liked milk and cookies. At some point, I started leaving some for him under the tree, hoping to catch him. He successfully evaded me year after year.
After dinner, the men sat in the living room, while the rest of us cleaned up the table. None of them ever saw Santa. I couldn't understand how Santa could come in and eat those cookies and drink that milk and not one of them could hear or see him. I always thought they fell asleep after eating such a big meal and maybe that was their excuse. Those men could really put down some serious amounts of food. Trust me.
Grandma always insisted that the dishes be washed, dried, and put away before we could have Christmas. Even from the smallest age, I was given a task in the kitchen. When I was younger I put the silver in its box and the Tupperware containers in the refrigerator as my mother filled them with leftovers. Those duties evolved until I was drying dishes and putting them in the cabinet (while standing on a chair. As I got even older and could be trusted with fragile items, I learned to set the table; where the knife went, where the water and tea glasses went, where to place the napkin, and so forth. Talk about fun! It was so neat to be so "fancy"). Finally, we would finish. I hated this part. I'd fuss. Grandma would assure me it wouldn't take long and that we'd "go through them like a dose of salts". I had no idea what that meant or what it had to do with doing dishes. I just wanted to be done with the task and open the presents.
Eventually we'd finish. Then, just as Grandma went into the laundry room/old back porch to hang up her dish towel to dry, a knock was heard, every single year. I remember that it always sounded like it came from the back door but Grandma always turned me around and said the knock was coming from the front of the house. I'd run. Daddy turned on the front porch light. Grandpa was on the edge of his chair with a grin on his face. Sure enough, Santa left the packages on the front porch. Daddy pulled them in and I got down to business opening my loot.
Typically, Aunt Violet always wanted to see what I had so after I opened each package, I'd hand it off to her for her inspection. We'd open our gifts to each other as well at that time. I'd play and play and play with my new toys, sometimes bringing out my older toys to join in the fun. Then it was over for another year.
But, 1964 was a different story. On this particular Christmas something went wrong, very wrong. I ALWAYS got a doll. I opened packages and handed the items off but there wasn't a doll. I began to cry. Aunt Violet thought surely the doll was there and she went through the discarded boxes. Grandma thought maybe a package was left on the porch. Daddy didn't think so. Mother checked and sure enough, Daddy was right. Grandma said maybe it fell out of the sleigh and suggested that Daddy go out in the yard and look. Daddy, again, didn't think that happened. After all, Santa didn't make big mistakes like this. He must have forgotten it. (Really? If he didn't make big mistakes like dropping the doll how could he make a bigger mistake by forgetting it?) Grandma insisted and Daddy resisted. I thought he'd better watch out, you didn't mess with Grandma. I cried and Aunt Violet pulled me onto her lap while the others discussed what to do. Finally, Grandma went to the coat closet and came back with a big flashlight. It was big and square, red in color, and had a handle. It was the super-duper flashlight. She shoved it into Daddy's hand and dispatched him onto the lawn in nothing flat. (I knew he needed to mind her or else...). Soon Daddy came in the house with my Tiny Baby Chatty Cathy doll in her box. He was a hero! I hugged him and told him I loved him. (I probably should have passed all that adoration to Grandma instead because if she hadn't put him on the straight and narrow, I'd still be crying.)
Years later it was discovered that Grandma and Daddy were in cahoots. Imagine that! My list of wanted items never went to the North Pole. Instead, it went to Brentwood Street, (Mayfield Township) in Middletown, Ohio where Grandma Kells and Grandpa Jenkins would open and read it and then go shopping at Montgomery Wards and Sears for the items on it. Grandma would make a trip to visit between Thanksgiving and Christmas and go to Falmouth before coming to the house. She would drop off the loot at the dealership and Daddy would store it in the upstairs. He had the farm machinery dealership in Shoemaker Town and we didn't get there often so that was presumed a safe hiding place. Then when Christmas Eve came, she'd call him at work (something we rarely did because Mother always said Daddy was busy working and we shouldn't disturb him) and let him know what time Aunt Violet and Uncle Willie were coming (what time dinner was going to be served). Then Daddy would always call and ask to speak to Grandma. I always thought that odd since I never heard them talking on the phone together any other time but, hey, it was Christmas. This was his "heads up" to her that he was on his way with Santa's gifts. The adults would keep me, and later on, my brother, busy so that Daddy wouldn't get caught pulling up in front of the house and unloading the Santa stuff onto the front porch. After unloading, he would then pull into the drive and drive around to the back of the house, coming in the back door like he did every other night.
As for the dropped doll, he never realized that he let it fall off the stack of packages. The yard was dark. He'd turned the lights off the truck so I wouldn't get curious if I had happened to be looking out the window. I often watched for him to get home. To his credit, he had his "thinking cap" on. He simply couldn't see where he was going and was more concerned with that than with losing packages.
When my son came along, Daddy helped with the delivery of Santa's wares. I always reminded him to count the packages because I didn't have a big, red, square flashlight he could use if we were short. We'd always get a laugh. He always made a comment about Grandma making him go out in the cold to look for THAT doll. Mother always sighed and said that "ordeal" was a nightmare. She just didn't know what they were going to do if that doll wasn't in the yard. She never did find the situation nearly as funny as Daddy and I did. Never.
Since I was let in on the whole story, it's been one that I think of every year. It causes me to remember our traditions and all the things that didn't make sense but I was willing to let slide, the very reasons that Christmas was a magical time. I remember the extra leaf added to the table, the silver coming out to be used, the crystal glasses we only used at Christmas. I feel the excitement that was in the air as I waited for the dishes to be done and Santa to come. I recall the people that are no longer here but yet continue to be with me in my heart every Christmas since their passing. I remember the joy I experienced and I savor the memory.
We had our Christmas on Christmas Eve. It was our tradition with little variation for many years. It went something like this: Mother would get me up at the crack of dawn. I really didn't like that part and it took me most of the morning to get my Christmas Cheer on. Aunt Violet and Uncle Willie, Grandma's brother, celebrated with their children on Christmas Day but they came to our house the night before. We had cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes, and turkey and cake that Grandma always insisted was made with my daddy in mind. After all, as she said, John loved his sweets and he worked hard. She almost sounded like she pitied him for working so hard. Therefore, he deserved to have his sweets. But that's another tradition for another blog entry. The table was full of delicious food. Then Santa would finally come and everyone opened their gifts.
In this particular year, I got busy as soon as the Sears Christmas Catalog arrived. I went through the pages carefully trying to decide which doll was THE one for me. I marked the doll by circling her picture. I'm sure I picked out other things, too, but I only remember the dolls. I usually wanted them all so the decision was hard. Mother let me pick out two or three "in case Santa ran low on his stock". That way I wouldn't be disappointed as much. Each got circled. This particular year I really, really, really wanted the Tiny Baby Chatty Cathy. She talked. None of my dolls had ever done that before. I "wrote" my letter to Santa with my mother's help and sent it off to the North Pole and waited for what seemed like eternity.
Then the day came. Grandma arrived and the cooking began. The house smelled great. Grandpa sat in the living room watching TV and asking me a bunch of questions. It seemed he always wanted to know something. Grandpa was hard of hearing and I had to shout to try to make him hear me. It usually didn't help. I would get frustrated. I was relieved when Uncle Willie got there. They could talk forever. Uncle Willie's arrival also indicated that it was getting close to the time Santa would come. Dinner would soon be ready and Daddy would be home. Then, after dishes were done, it would be discovered that Santa had left presents on the front porch. I learned that Santa liked milk and cookies. At some point, I started leaving some for him under the tree, hoping to catch him. He successfully evaded me year after year.
The morning after: 1964
I'm not a morning person. Never have been.
Me, Grandpa Jenkins, and my brother
After dinner, the men sat in the living room, while the rest of us cleaned up the table. None of them ever saw Santa. I couldn't understand how Santa could come in and eat those cookies and drink that milk and not one of them could hear or see him. I always thought they fell asleep after eating such a big meal and maybe that was their excuse. Those men could really put down some serious amounts of food. Trust me.
Grandma always insisted that the dishes be washed, dried, and put away before we could have Christmas. Even from the smallest age, I was given a task in the kitchen. When I was younger I put the silver in its box and the Tupperware containers in the refrigerator as my mother filled them with leftovers. Those duties evolved until I was drying dishes and putting them in the cabinet (while standing on a chair. As I got even older and could be trusted with fragile items, I learned to set the table; where the knife went, where the water and tea glasses went, where to place the napkin, and so forth. Talk about fun! It was so neat to be so "fancy"). Finally, we would finish. I hated this part. I'd fuss. Grandma would assure me it wouldn't take long and that we'd "go through them like a dose of salts". I had no idea what that meant or what it had to do with doing dishes. I just wanted to be done with the task and open the presents.
Eventually we'd finish. Then, just as Grandma went into the laundry room/old back porch to hang up her dish towel to dry, a knock was heard, every single year. I remember that it always sounded like it came from the back door but Grandma always turned me around and said the knock was coming from the front of the house. I'd run. Daddy turned on the front porch light. Grandpa was on the edge of his chair with a grin on his face. Sure enough, Santa left the packages on the front porch. Daddy pulled them in and I got down to business opening my loot.
Typically, Aunt Violet always wanted to see what I had so after I opened each package, I'd hand it off to her for her inspection. We'd open our gifts to each other as well at that time. I'd play and play and play with my new toys, sometimes bringing out my older toys to join in the fun. Then it was over for another year.
But, 1964 was a different story. On this particular Christmas something went wrong, very wrong. I ALWAYS got a doll. I opened packages and handed the items off but there wasn't a doll. I began to cry. Aunt Violet thought surely the doll was there and she went through the discarded boxes. Grandma thought maybe a package was left on the porch. Daddy didn't think so. Mother checked and sure enough, Daddy was right. Grandma said maybe it fell out of the sleigh and suggested that Daddy go out in the yard and look. Daddy, again, didn't think that happened. After all, Santa didn't make big mistakes like this. He must have forgotten it. (Really? If he didn't make big mistakes like dropping the doll how could he make a bigger mistake by forgetting it?) Grandma insisted and Daddy resisted. I thought he'd better watch out, you didn't mess with Grandma. I cried and Aunt Violet pulled me onto her lap while the others discussed what to do. Finally, Grandma went to the coat closet and came back with a big flashlight. It was big and square, red in color, and had a handle. It was the super-duper flashlight. She shoved it into Daddy's hand and dispatched him onto the lawn in nothing flat. (I knew he needed to mind her or else...). Soon Daddy came in the house with my Tiny Baby Chatty Cathy doll in her box. He was a hero! I hugged him and told him I loved him. (I probably should have passed all that adoration to Grandma instead because if she hadn't put him on the straight and narrow, I'd still be crying.)
Years later it was discovered that Grandma and Daddy were in cahoots. Imagine that! My list of wanted items never went to the North Pole. Instead, it went to Brentwood Street, (Mayfield Township) in Middletown, Ohio where Grandma Kells and Grandpa Jenkins would open and read it and then go shopping at Montgomery Wards and Sears for the items on it. Grandma would make a trip to visit between Thanksgiving and Christmas and go to Falmouth before coming to the house. She would drop off the loot at the dealership and Daddy would store it in the upstairs. He had the farm machinery dealership in Shoemaker Town and we didn't get there often so that was presumed a safe hiding place. Then when Christmas Eve came, she'd call him at work (something we rarely did because Mother always said Daddy was busy working and we shouldn't disturb him) and let him know what time Aunt Violet and Uncle Willie were coming (what time dinner was going to be served). Then Daddy would always call and ask to speak to Grandma. I always thought that odd since I never heard them talking on the phone together any other time but, hey, it was Christmas. This was his "heads up" to her that he was on his way with Santa's gifts. The adults would keep me, and later on, my brother, busy so that Daddy wouldn't get caught pulling up in front of the house and unloading the Santa stuff onto the front porch. After unloading, he would then pull into the drive and drive around to the back of the house, coming in the back door like he did every other night.
As for the dropped doll, he never realized that he let it fall off the stack of packages. The yard was dark. He'd turned the lights off the truck so I wouldn't get curious if I had happened to be looking out the window. I often watched for him to get home. To his credit, he had his "thinking cap" on. He simply couldn't see where he was going and was more concerned with that than with losing packages.
Baby Chatty Cathy and Me
When my son came along, Daddy helped with the delivery of Santa's wares. I always reminded him to count the packages because I didn't have a big, red, square flashlight he could use if we were short. We'd always get a laugh. He always made a comment about Grandma making him go out in the cold to look for THAT doll. Mother always sighed and said that "ordeal" was a nightmare. She just didn't know what they were going to do if that doll wasn't in the yard. She never did find the situation nearly as funny as Daddy and I did. Never.
Since I was let in on the whole story, it's been one that I think of every year. It causes me to remember our traditions and all the things that didn't make sense but I was willing to let slide, the very reasons that Christmas was a magical time. I remember the extra leaf added to the table, the silver coming out to be used, the crystal glasses we only used at Christmas. I feel the excitement that was in the air as I waited for the dishes to be done and Santa to come. I recall the people that are no longer here but yet continue to be with me in my heart every Christmas since their passing. I remember the joy I experienced and I savor the memory.
Friday, December 15, 2017
Joseph Macauley Lowe: The Indiana Years and a Happy Birthday
Earlier this week, on the 13th, was the day J.M. Lowe, the inspiration for this blog, was born in Callensville, Pendleton County, Kentucky. The year was 1844. He was the son of Moses and Nancy Watson Porter Lowe. He was the eighth of ten children and the youngest son. I found this picture of a young J.M. Lowe on Ancestry.com.
Joseph Macauley Lowe
As I said in this post, his father died when he was young. According to his biography found in Battles and Biographies of Missourians in the Civil War Period of Our State by W.L. Webb, J.M. was a courier in the Confederate Army, serving three months before ending up in Indiana. I have not found any official record of his service but haven't stopped looking. Just how did he wind up in Indiana before the war's end? I hope to find out one day.
J.M. first appeared in Indiana in 1863. He was teaching in one of the district schools in Greenfield, Hancock County. There doesn't seem be any information on the schools in Hancock County dating back to J.M.'s time there. I've checked in all the usual places; the Historical Society and the library. While employed as a teacher, he read law. This was done under the tutelage of James L. Mason, a local lawyer, during the evenings and his spare time. In 1864, he was appointed a clerk in the Indiana State Senate. He held this position for two years. He passed his exam and was admitted to the Indiana Bar on 15 Aug 1866.
This article appeared in his local paper in 1867:
The Hancock Democrat
November 7, 1867
found on newspapers.com
His bid was unsuccessful and he headed to Missouri in 1868. The communication apparently didn't appear in the paper either of the next two weeks (or part of the paper was missing from the Newspapers.com scan).
Sources:
Kansas City, Missouri: Its History and Its People 1800-1908 by Carrie Westlake Whitney.
Monday, December 4, 2017
Linda
In September my half-sister had a stroke and lived for a few days afterward, leaving this earth for good on September 25. First, is a post I made on Facebook after I posted that I was at Baptist Health Hospital in Lexington, Kentucky visiting my sister. I always took it for granted that people knew about her, after all I did. The hospital visiting post generated a lot of comments along the "I never knew you had a sister" line. So, I wrote this to kind of explain to all the people I went to school with and have been neighbors with over the years. The next was posted after we had her removed from life support. It had become obvious that she wasn't going to regain brain function. I've recopied both posts here:
I'm learning that many of you never realized that I have a sister. Wow! I didn't realize. I guess most people wouldn't since she didn't go to school in Pendleton County. She went to Kentucky School for the Deaf in Danville. She is actually my half sister. My father's daughter. Really we both were daddy's girls but she was first as she'd always reminded me. Reminded me, until I cried. I so wanted to be the first. She also made me cry over Davy Jones of the Monkees but that's because he was closer to her age and short like her.
I remember going to her school every fall to move her in. Her friends would play with me and hold me on their laps. The house mother would talk to me and then we'd leave Sissy behind. She never went to school until after Labor Day so she'd go to school with mother at Morgan until then. She'd play on the playground with the kids. I don't remember much more than that. She graduated from high school the same month I finished the first grade. I do recall that when they called the students name, the parents were to stand and that sissy was the only one whose parents were on opposite sides of the room. I wondered why Helen was there and why my mother didn't stand. I just didn't get it.
The picture below is how we got along. Pretty good for a 13 year age difference. It wasn't wise to let us go to the mall together. Mall security would follow us around. We couldn't help it. Sometimes I'd misunderstand her and when we'd figure it out, we couldn't stop laughing. (I mean really. If you are reminded you needed to by rubber bands for your kids braces and you point at condems, what was I supposed to think?) She could make me laugh until I thought I'd pee myself and then she'd make me laugh more. Linda never grew beyond 4'11" and had to shop the petite section. On one of our excursions to the Florence Mall, she decided to look for a winter coat. There wasn't much in the petite section so she went to the "other side" and tried on a pea coat. You know, those wool coats that sailors wear? I nearly died. It almost came to her knees and the sleeves came to the ends of her fingers. She thought it would work. I laughed until I cried and then I noticed the sales crew staring at us. We made a fast getaway and left the darned coat behind. We thought we were going to the pokey.
She hated dresses even though nearly every picture I have of her, she's in a dress. I guess my mother practiced adding insult to injury. Sunday mornings weren't fun. Linda would come out of her room dressed in pants for church. Mother would fuss. Dad would go to the car. Mother would get Dad out of the car. He'd go in the house and Linda would come stomping out wearing a dress. The air was thick.
She excelled in sports. If walking was a sport, I'd fail miserably. But not Linda. She was game. She loved to roller skate as a kid and play ball, all kinds of ball. Mr. Cecil Hellard was hers and daddy's next door neighbor for awhile and he'd pitch for her to hit over at the Falmouth School ball field. Mr. Hellard would ask me about her every now and then when I was in high school and he'd always tell me she was a good ballplayer.
She was often misunderstood by the hearing world. She never felt handicapped because of being deaf. One time she and my brother-in-law flew back to Chicago, where they lived. I think it was when they were moving back to Kentucky and I went with Daddy to take them to the airport. Daddy had the attendant mark her ticket "Deaf". That didn't go over well. I thought for a minute we were going to have to knock her out and put her on the darned plane or buy her another ticket. She didn't like the concept of the cochlear implant. That was for people that didn't like the deaf culture or deaf people and didn't want to be a part of if. It was for their parents and not for them. There was nothing wrong with being deaf, she'd say. And there wasn't. It was a way of life and it is. It is a very close knit community.
Sometimes she'd go AWOL. We'd let it go, she'd show up eventually. I know Daddy worried. When I worked at the IRS, he used to have me hunt down a deaf person and try to get a message to her to call home. The thing with the deaf culture is that they all know one another and they all keep in touch. It's not hard to find a deaf person that's missing if you try. They will protect each other though so you can't be threatening. So, anyway, I walked down the hall to a unit that had a deaf lady in it. Little did I know that in a few years I would work with her daughter at the middle school in Grant County where she was an interpreter. The lady's first husband was in my brother-in-law's brother's class at KSD, I also later learned. She wouldn't own up to knowing my sister but said she knew of her and probably knew someone that did. Linda called the next day. She was fine. I bought the gal a coffee and a doughnut courtesy of Daddy.
Sissy, as I always called her, isn't doing so well. She had a stroke Thursday and while in the hospital she went into cardiac arrest three times. She is in a coma. We await more test results tomorrow and then we likely face big decisions. True to form, none of us had heard from her in quite awhile. She last showed up on my doorstep (unannounced, of course; that's how the deaf do it) about three years ago. I think I was the last of the family to see her. I wrote her for awhile but Linda was never a letter writer and neither am I. She was more of a "let's sit down and chat" person. I try but I stumble through sign language. She was patient. She was an excellent lip reader so you had to be careful what you said if you didn't want her to know and you could never turn your back on her and talk. She would dump all the ice in an ice tray down your pants if you did. I've tried to outrun her many times. I bought her a cell phone to text me, but she refused; made me take it back. She promised she would take computer classes. There was an organization offering classes to deaf people and if you completed the course you got to keep the computer. She didn't do that either.
Got home about an hour ago. I'm really tired, emotionally spent, and beside myself. We met with the neurologist today at four. There was no change from yesterday in Linda's EEG. Although I hate trying to find where I'm going at Central Baptist, I must say they are "johnny on the spot" with interpreters. We have had a few over the past several days and they have been accommodating, patient, and understanding. It is a tough time and it's really tough if you don't understand what's going on. I will be forever grateful for this service.
Today my (ex) brother-in-law, Matt, and his brother, Chuck, came. I am glad they made the trip from Leslie County. As I write this, they still have two hours more to go before they reach home. They should get home about midnight. They stayed with me and made sure I found my car when we left. I am glad to have had them both with me. I felt the weight of the decision we made and it was heavy. Since the hospital made me "next of kin", I had the final say in the course of action but could never have made that decision without being in agreement with the nephews, Wayne and Jamie, and my brother-in-law. We have talked more in the past few days than we have in years. I felt Matt's support and I really needed to feel it. I needed to feel we all agreed and that the decision was the right thing. Matt will always be my favorite, albeit only, brother-in-law. I was ten when he and Linda married. I hardly remember life without him. I would walk to the edge of the earth and back for him.
Thanks from all of us for your thoughts, prayers, and the outpouring of love we have received over the past few days. I will keep you posted. (The picture was a school picture and my best guess is that she was in in the second or third grade. She was always so small it's hard to judge.)
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