Accompanied by my brother, Bob Peal, in August 2007, I made a pilgrimage to our hometown of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, while doing research for my second memoir, The Home for the Friendless.  Things had been going very well, and everyone we met that week was courteous and helpful in our quest for information and records regarding our wacky childhood.

On the last day of the trip, we went to L Avenue which turned out to be another wonderful “find” since we discovered three important locations there: the one-room house with no plumbing where five of us had lived; the inviting corner store that housed Hassan Murray’s Market where we could charge our groceries, and the tiny little house we rented when Bob was born in 1933. That mini house is located on L Avenue, about three houses from a dead end.  (Going the opposite way, L Avenue crosses the RR tracks where we lived in another hovel when Bob was one-year-year old.  We moved a lot.)

The “dollhouse” where Bob was born ends in a very tight, crowded cul-de-sac.  Tiny houses line the end curve and are set close together on both sides of the street.  When we realized it did not go through, we also found that it was very hard to turn the car around on that narrow road.  Since no cars were in site except those parked against the curb, I said “Bob, just park across this other driveway and let me pop out to take a couple of photos while you turn the car around.  I’m sure whoever lives here will understand if we tell them you were born here 74 years ago.”  And I jumped out with my camera and moved farther away so I could get the entire little dwelling in my viewfinder.

Suddenly, a car came zipping up that short street right against Bob’s hood so he couldn’t budge another inch.  A mean-looking wretch-of-woman rolled down her window and screamed at me, “DON’T EVER BLOCK SOMEONE’S DRIVEWAY!”

I said, “I’m sorry.  We’re from out-of-state and used to live in one of these houses when we were little, and we’re taking a picture.  My brother is trying to turn the car around.”

She didn’t care what I said.  She begrudgingly backed up and turned into another driveway so Bob could maneuver his way out of a tight spot.  When he was halfway past the driveway where she had temporarily parked, she started to back down toward Bob’s car while he was still creeping to avoid other parked cars.  Then she screamed again at the air, “GET THE F*** OUTTA MY WAY!”

By that time Bob was out of her range and he drove way down the street and parked in an open slot.  She was now very close to where I was standing to get my picture.  She struggled to turn her wheel so she could go up her own driveway two houses away from the one we were photographing.  She yelled at me again.

“YOU TWO ARE SURE THE SURPRISE IN A HAPPY MEAL!”

Was that a regional insult or what?

I snapped off a couple of fast pictures and marched down the hill to my brother’s car.  I was actually a bit shaky, but Bob never heard what she was saying.  He only knew she had been screaming at us and said, “What the hell was that all about?” When I repeated her insults, he was dumbfounded.  It was hard to get this awful woman off of my mind.

But, eventually both of us started using her sentences and laughing ourselves silly.  If someone was driving too slowly in front of us, I said so no one outside could hear, “Get the f*** outta my way.”  In the hotel room in Omaha if I set my suitcase too far out into the room my brother yelled, “Don’t ever block someone’s path.”  If he was being silly and said something stupid on purpose I said, “You sure are the surprise in a Happy Meal.”

That one still cracks me up.  Whatever in the world does it imply?

Eventually, we got over her rudeness and invented scenes that we thought might work like knocking on her door and confessing that we were from Time Magazine doing a survey on the friendliness of small town people.  We were going to ask to take her picture and send her a copy of that issue so we also needed the correct spelling of her name (we already knew her address), but we wanted to thank her for helping us get a real good story.  In other words, we got a lot of mileage out of that woman’s nasty, inhospitable performance. I think she either had serious behavioral issues or had just come from church.

*     *     *

story and illustration by Betty Auchard

My mother lived on the first floor of an independent living facility for seniors. Even though all of them were capable and confident, Mom referred to them as dingbats. She did not consider herself one of them and made harsh judgments about the others. She said, “I think everyone here is kinda “off” in the head, but the real weirdos live on the third floor.”

Isabel, a third-floor weirdo, approached my mother one day and offered to crochet an afghan for her. When Mom told me this I said, “That’s really nice.”

“Nice, my foot; the woman’s projects are crappy and someone should teach her how to crochet.”

Mom was an expert on this subject and used to invent her own patterns. Arthritic hands forced her to give it up, but she was still a good judge of crappy crochet.

I said, “Mom, if you felt that way, what did you say to Isabel when she made this offer?

“What could I say? I was caught off guard and didn’t answer. She finally asked me if I wanted one or NOT, so I told her to go ahead a make one. Then she asked what colors I wanted, and I said surprise me.”

(more…)

Rats were taking over our house and yard. Why? Because our property was a MacDonald’s for wildlife. Each time I spied one skittering along the top of the fence, I thought it was a squirrel with a skinny tail because the body was so large. If rats could read, our ad would go something like this: “EAT HERE FREE! dog food, bird food, fresh fruits, vegetables, and a living compost pile.” Hey, if I were a rat I would eat here, too.

We had tried catching them with large mouse traps, but they just laughed and went around those things. So–husband and I went shopping at Orchard Supply and found exactly what we needed: the Sure Fire Black Hole Rodent Trap for only $18.00. Whatta deal! We bought it, took it home, and read the instructions that informed us to set food inside the cave-like opening. It wasn’t ordinary food that we placed there; it was a gourmet snack of bacon and cheese. That should do  it. We went to bed knowing that we were, at last, the conquerors.

We slept peacefully until awakened by a loud crack. Denny said, “We got ‘im” and went back to sleep; but not me. I kept thinking about having to reach inside the cave-like opening to free up the carcass so we could throw it away. I finally relaxed and drifted to sleep, knowing the rat carcass was not my problem but my husband’s.

In the morning, Denny checked the garage and the rodent trap. Where was it? It was NOT where we had left it. We advanced with caution one step at a time and looked behind boxes, ladders and other garage type stuff when we heard a slow, dragging sound just like in a horror movie. Then it stopped. We heard it again but couldn’t identify the location until we saw the trap moving by itself behind a broom. The captured critter seemed to be propelling the thing. We agreed to shut the garage door and check back in an hour.  After an hour we had to locate the trap again, because the rat was injured and dragging the trap along trying to free itself.

Denny said, “This is awful. Let’s leave it alone until morning because surely it’ll be dead by then.”

Morning came and again we had to find where the trap was hiding. It was now behind a dust pan. My husband said, “Enough is enough.” He made me leave and asked me not to worry, but he added, “Don’t peek and don’t listen.”

I went to our bedroom and turned the TV up loud, but in the distance I could hear banging and thrashing of something on the concrete floor. The racket stopped for awhile and then picked up again until it sounded as though broken material was getting smaller or flatter. Eventually, Denny, very out-of-breath, came into the house and said, “I don’t want to talk about this. Let’s forget about it and go to a movie.”

So we forgot about it and went to a movie, which helped for a short time. But on the way home I wheedled out of him what all the banging was about. He was quiet for several seconds and finally said, “Okay…here’s what happened. I found a gunny sack, put the plastic trap with its big fat rat inside of the bag and bashed it to pieces with the sledge hammer.” My husband made a soft gagging sound and said, ” It seemed indestructible.”

Just telling about it had upset Denny again and he said, “No more traps for us. I want to “rat proof” our home.”

He found what he was looking for in the yellow pages under “vermin removal. It was a company called SWAT. The word created a mental image of a police team in black overalls and helmets entering our home with machine guns. But it was nothing like that at all. The SWAT “company” was one short slightly bald man who inspected our house for openings at the roof and foundation. He found many and sealed them so that squirrels, rats, and other creatures could no longer gain entrance to our house. If, however, a rodent was trapped inside the house, it also had no way of getting out.

And such was the case. We didn’t know this  until several months had passed and the walls were opened for new electrical work. Once opened the odor of old road kill wafted into every room. Back came Mr. SWAT, who with his special, mysterious skill, went under the house wearing rubber gloves and located the rotting carcass in the wall. He carried it by the long tail to a box in his panel truck that was full of cages holding a live skunk and raccoon that he would release into the wild. As he drove away he shouted back, “I’ll send the bill.”

Denny’s shoulders sagged. He  said, “I don’t want to go through this again so I hope this guy never moves away.” But he did move away. However, we’ve never had rats again which is proof that Mr. Swat really was a miracle worker. Whatta guy.

Story and illustration by Betty Auchard

I lay in the dark tight as a knot and listened. It was nerve-wracking. How long could he go without taking a breath? It seemed forever. Suddenly, he gasped and thrashed about sucking big gulps of air and never waking up before starting to snore again and then starting the cycle over. The nighttime routine scared me silly. My husband was a gifted snorer and if contests existed he would’ve held the crown.

Another abnormal occurrence was how he fell asleep during the day.  Usually, it was while watching TV but often while I was talking to him. When he didn’t take part in my conversation I realized that he was sitting up with his eyes closed. At breakfast one morning I brought up the touchy subject of his symptoms.

“Honey, I want you to talk to the doctor about your sleeping problem.”

“I don’t have a sleeping problem.”

“Well, then—your snoring problem.”

“Is it really that bad?”

“Yes, I believe it is.”

In my search for facts I learned that snoring is not good for one’s health and it causes personal dilemmas. A good friend of ours refused to do anything about his ear-shattering snoring, so his wife divorced him claiming cruel and unusual punishment. A woman I knew well snored so loud that it reverberated through the walls. But she and her husband agreed to work it out so he moved to the guest bedroom on the opposite side of the house. Visitations were held in his bed and sometimes in hers. They got so used to the arrangement that life was better than ever, so sleeping apart had saved their marriage.

I had considered sleeping in another room but instead tried a different approach. As soon as my husband went to sleep one night I whipped out my tablet and watched the clock as though a show was about to begin. Actually, it was and I had the best seat in the house. In ten minutes the curtain went up and snoring — the main character — entered the stage, hogging the spotlight for three minutes. I wrote it down. Breath-holding, the supporting role — snuck into the act for nine seconds. I made a note of that. Snoring had a few more lines and then breath-holding had a soliloquy that lasted 35 seconds. And each time Denny thrashed about and struggled for air while never waking up. I was writing like mad.

It was creepy and nerve-wracking, but for 45 minutes I observed Denny’s every breath or lack of it which produced three pages of notes and numbers. That done, I turned out the light and tried to at least doze, but it was impossible. Whenever he started to snore I patted his shoulder and the noise stopped, but so did his breathing. I was afraid to lie down in a different room, scared that he might die if I wasn’t there to nudge him back to life. I prayed: God, please let him wake up in the morning on his own because I’m tired of tapping him on the shoulder. I shoved in my ear plugs and trusted that my prayer would be answered. And it was.

In the morning I flashed my three pages and said, “Denny, if you don’t show these notes to the doctor, I will.”

My husband couldn’t ignore the facts so he made an appointment that we attended together. The doctor studied my evidence and he sent a sleeping machine home with us that would provide scientific proof. It kept a record of Denny’s breathing pattern for one night and I was so happy I could have cried. It revealed that my husband had a pretty bad case of sleep apnea.

Sleep apnea: a disorder characterized by abnormal pauses in breathing while asleep. The patient is oxygen deprived which could result in daytime fatigue or sudden death.

I told ya so!

Denny became an overnight patient in the sleep clinic. He packed his newest pajamas, slippers, robe, electric razor, toothbrush, paste and recent issue of Psychology Today. It must have felt odd climbing into bed with a video camera instead of with me. There were other gadgets recording heartbeats, sounds, and movement. The overnight analysis produced a polysomnogram revealing that Denny needed critical help.

If someone had listened to me in the first place, we could have saved a lot of time. The critical help my husband got was another gizmo that would train his lungs to do their job, so they sent one home with us.

Alas; Denny and the breathing gizmo did not bond…at first. After a few sleepless nights my husband’s lungs cooperated because they were no match for a system powered by electricity instead of oxygen. That new machine was designed to take snorers down.

My husband and his new gear were on his side of the bed and I was on mine. From the neck up he looked like a robot. The breathing mask fit like a gas mask and had a baboon likeness. A tube connected the baboon mask to the machine that was the size of a reel to reel tape recorder with dials. Denny usually slept on his right side but while using this device he had to sleep on his back. The machine forced him to inhale and exhale at regular intervals like other people. His breathing sounded like Darth Vader, and to be honest, from my side of the bed he looked like Darth Vader. His lazy lungs got retrained which was a miracle. Denny and I were starting to feel youthful again.

One night my husband accidentally flipped onto his right side dislodging the mask and almost ripping off his nose. He howled in pain and I dashed for a wet wash cloth to clean up his nose bleed. For days his schnoz was red and swollen forcing him to breathe through his mouth with no help from a machine.

Man, machine, and wife got used to the treatment, but after six months of mechanical respiration Denny’s sinuses were getting dried out causing little nose bleeds. Since he had improved, we surrendered the machine back to Kaiser Hospital. Oh joy; freedom from sleeping with attachments; but not for long.

My husband could hardly hold a cup of coffee because his right thumb hurt all the time. His doctor said, “Arthritis,” and he made a mold of Denny’s thumb. So my darling traded the baboon mask for a thumb cast that he wore only at night. Sleeping without his mask was safer for Denny, but sleeping with his thumb cast was unsafe for me. When Denny flipped onto his left side his big old thumb cast whacked me in the head. I didn’t sleep well during the thumb cast period.

To compensate for lack of rest I wanted to stay in bed late each morning, but that was when my husband did his exercises on top of the covers after he arose. I did not want to arise. Denny kept a strict schedule and did his exercises anyway as though I wasn’t there. He stretched one leg up, over and down then stretched the other leg up, over and down where it whopped me before I was awake. Since that didn’t get me up and about, he made his side of the bed, tucking sheets and blankets under the mattress. Then he plumped the pillow and smoothed the bedspread all while I was still in it. It restricted my movement and I felt like a mummy. Making the bed with me still under the covers was his way of saying that it was time to rise and shine.

Eventually we both “rose and shined” together each morning. Nighttime anxieties had become ancient history. What a relief. I didn’t have to tap his shoulder anymore and I could cuddle, snuggle, or even go to sleep if I felt like it. No more snoring or hands in casts. Finally, we were fresh-faced and wholesome every day.

Newlyweds must find out that sleeping with a partner for 49 years has its ups and downs, but not always in a good way.

On the night of December 31, 2006 the TV weatherman said, “If you live in the Bay Area of California you might want to stay home tonight. The New Year brings strong winds and rain, so tie everything down and prepare for heavy damage.”

Damaged things get fixed by guys and there are no guys in my house any more. In fact, those kinda guys don’t even live in my neighborhood. When things break, I consult the yellow pages.

I had never been in a big storm by myself. When I was a young mother we lived in Kansas where wind meant “tornado.” When a tornado alert screamed a warning, my protective husband, our toddler son, and newborn daughter and I fled to the southwest corner of the basement where four of us squeezed into our shelter. It was a ping-pong table propped against the wall to make a lean-to. Inside of it we kept blankets, pillows, water, and a radio to keep us occupied until a series of blasts meant that danger had passed.

Tornado warnings were scary, but serving time in twister country had provided the confidence needed to face a storm alone.  I gathered my arsenal: cell phone, flashlight, oil lamp, matches, and the resolve to be unafraid. I wanted to welcome the New Year on television while enjoying a hot toddy. Before I could practice being brave I turned on my favorite TV station, got cozy under a fleece blanket and waited. The storm started with lightening and a bang.  A sudden cloudburst produced water that hammered the house like machine gun bullets. Wind shook the walls so I turned on the yard lights and peered outside. My greenery was thrashing the air like leafy animals trying to break loose from their tethers. Trees convulsed and hedges trembled in a spastic rhythm as they joined the dangerous dance.

Mother Nature was as wild as a menopausal mama.

The first thing to go was electricity which meant no lights, heat, or land phone. A hot toddy was out of the question. With the help of my flashlight I used hot water from the tap to make a pitiful cup of instant cocoa that I enjoyed with soda crackers and cheese. If that didn’t satisfy my hunger I would light the oil lamp and devour the new catalogue from Crate and Barrel, but my spirit was getting as cold as the house. I put on a hooded jacket, scarf, and mittens. On a deep level I wanted someone with me who would say, “I’ll protect ya, Honey.”

I thought to myself, Snap out of it you wimp and build a fire. I reviewed my fire-starting skills. There was no kindling, but I had an artificial log…somewhere. Searching for it warmed me up. I read the instructions on the wrapper: “Always start with a clean fireplace.”

The ashes in the hearth were two years old because I hated cleaning the fireplace. If I didn’t thaw out soon, I would have to go to bed with the down comforter. I called my sons to see which one would like to have me as an overnight guest. Someone would have to pick me up because I couldn’t get the car out of the garage. I listened to each recorded message: “We are away for the holiday. Please call back later.” I had forgotten that the boys and their families were out of town for the New Year weekend. I was on my own.

The confident part of me took over and said, “Betty, light the oil lamp, finish the lukewarm “hot cocoa” and DON’T START FEELING BLUE!” I liked that part of myself so I hurried through an old catalogue from Furniture Plus to find the turned-down corners for things I had wanted. The house was growing colder, the rain louder, and the oil in the lamp much lower. There was time to grab my credit card that had no charges on it and the cell phone that had very little charge on it.  I dialed the 800 number and was greeted with this message:

“Good ev’nin’.

“Thank goodness; I thought you were closed.”

“Mam, we done evah close. Ahm heah till midnight then somebody else takes mah place.”

I enjoyed her strong Southern accent. I said,“ Good. I want to order several items on pages…”

“Hold on a minute. I have to give mah greetin’ cuz we’re bein’ recorded. Welcome to Furniture Plus in Florida. Mah name is Faith. How may I hep ya?

With that done, I wasted no time and ordered two small benches, two twin sized quilts, and a rug for my guestroom while Faith wrote it all down. Faith was not in a hurry so it It was slow-going. I said, Could we pick up the pace, Faith?”

“We shonuff can mam. But if I might say so, you sound kinda cited?” She ended the sentence up in the air like it was a question. So I answered it. I explained my situation; a storm here in Los Gatos…but she interrupted with “An where might Lost Gaddis be?” I told her it was in California and that I had no electricity or heat and I was wearing my snow clothes. Faith in Florida was quite amused at the thought of me bundled in a jacket, hat and gloves placing an order by the light of a kerosene lamp.

She said, “Ah cain’t believe THIS is what yore doin’ in a storm. You must LUUUVE owah products.”

“Faith, ordering from your catalogue right now is more important than anything.

“Well, whatevah winds yo’ clock.”

I wanted to say, “If I could open my garage door, I’d drive to the mall where I could stay warm while shopping.  Instead, I said, “Faith, I don’t have much oil left in my lamp.

“Well…we bettah get yo’ credit cahd numbah before that oyal runs out. Mam, this is so unusual. Ah’ve nevah had this much fun with a customah befowah.”

I said, “Well, I’ve never had this much fun spending money before.”

Faith giggled like a little girl and said, “Mayam, you ah SO funny.”

We wrapped up our business and I wished Faith a Happy New Year. Suddenly, the world seemed brighter even in the darkness of the storm.  I said, “Fireplace, “I’m gonna clean you up.”  I spread newspapers on the hearth, got the broom and dustpan, and the moment I lifted the grate out of the fireplace, the lights and furnace came on.  I could feel heat wafting through my jacket to the cockles of my heart, whatever they are, but something in my chest definitely felt warmer.  I said, “Fireplace, I’ll take care of you later.”

I could now cook food, stay warm, read by electric light, but I could not use the phone, TV or computer because the cable lines were still down. Who needed cable lines? Not me. I felt safe again, like so long ago in Kansas each time a tornado warning was called off.

By midnight things had changed. I was in bed hiding because the fury of the storm had set everything outside in motion. I heard chairs and garbage cans playing in the back yard. A distant heavy crash meant a tree had fallen. Car alarms shrieked like out-of-tune instruments. Near my head, the drumming of wind rattled the windows with such force that I was sure they would break. I closed the drapes so glass wouldn’t scatter over me like dangerous confetti. I drew blankets to my chin and stared at the ceiling. A water stain had formed in the shape of a clown’s hat. I rolled to the other side of the bed so I wouldn’t get wet.

The racket outdoors was fearsome so I concentrated on how nice my guest bedroom would look after my new furnishings had arrived. Because of the pleasant contact with Faith on the phone in Florida, an aura of calm hugged my body. I thought, Go to sleep, Betty, and check the damage in the morning. I dived deeper under the covers and slept peacefully through the worst storm we’d had in twenty years.

By morning the outside looked like a war zone with broken branches and lawn furniture everywhere. Pieces of shattered roof tile stabbed the ground like daggers, and the rest of the roof was all over the neighborhood. But I was still in one piece. I had things to do and first on my list was cleaning out those two-year old ashes. If fireplaces could talk, mine would’ve said, “Bring on the next storm, Betty, because we’re ready.”

Three weeks before Christmas in the year 2000, I browsed through the Crate and Barrel catalog for ornaments, tree skirts, and garlands. They were so gorgeous that I longed to buy them. Brand new holiday trimmings might get me in the mood for decorating, which had always been my husband’s job. He liked it. I had never enjoyed embellishing a package, a room, or a tree of any kind. Part of my lackluster attitude was the temporary nature of the activity—so much work to be enjoyed for such a short time. But now, visions of Christmas décor danced like sugarplum fairies in my head.

With no trouble I convinced my daughter-in-law, a “born-again” shopper, to accompany me to the Crate and Barrel store in the new upscale mall called Santana Row. We wasted no time and drove,  parked, and shopped; scooping up one satin tree skirt, two velvet pillows, three chains of garland, and a basketful of red and gold balls.

The next stop was Target in an old downscale mall on Hillsdale to purchase new lights. The choices were many: transparent, opaque, tiny, large, green, white, purple, and red. I voted for tiny red lights and a shiny gold ball to crown the top. I could hardly wait to start dressing it.

Excitement overtook me as I wound five boxes of red lights from the top to the bottom of my first Christmas tree while living alone. By the time it was laden with red and gold baubles, my enthusiasm had become my passion. I didn’t feel alone any more. It felt like my deceased husband was kicking my butt saying, “Snap out of it”–like Cher said to Nicholas Cage in the movie, Moonstruck. I couldn’t believe how intensely I was enjoying something I had previously disliked. That evening, to get the full effect, I turned off all but the tree lights so the only thing visible was the glowing red triangle in my living room picture window.  It was spectacular.

To view it from a distance, I stepped outside into the cold night air, then to the middle of the street and then across the street to my neighbor’s front yard.  From afar, my tree was breathtaking compared to the white lights that most people used. White Christmas tree lights represented the children’s choir and red Christmas tree lights symbolized me singing the Hallelujah Chorus all by myself.

I anticipated wholehearted admiration for such a distinctive tree. Instead, the responses were varied and emotional:

• “It’s so red.”
• “I LOVE IT! It’s romantic and sensuous.”
• To be honest, your tree wigged me out.”
• “I think it’s warm and inviting.”
• “It’s out of place and doesn’t fit.”
• “It makes me feel good.”
• “It’s a cross between beautiful and scary.”
• “Uhm…is it radioactive?”

There wasn’t a single neutral comment. My best friend said, “Betty, doesn’t it bother you that your tree has generated so much controversy?”

“Not at all. I love the attention my crimson tree has created.”

It was the truth. Finally, I cared about a Christmas tree like I had never cared for one before. And decorating it had lifted my spirits. I intended to defend my creation against those who didn’t appreciate that it was just a little bit different. I liked being near it. During the day, I turned on the red lights and curled up in an overstuffed chair near its branches to savor long detailed Christmas letters that usually bored me to death. At night, I sat across from its warm glow in the darkened living room and listened to Christmas carols. I was at peace and dreaded the time to dismantle it because I would miss what it had done for me.

Proof of my fondness for the bright red thing came when I opened a gift from my daughter-in-law, the “born-again shopper.” Inside the bag were five new red and gold ornaments to add to the others we had just purchased. I was so touched by her gift that my eyes watered. It was like giving birth to my first baby and receiving gifts of clothing to cover its nakedness.

After the New Year, I’ll undress the tree, but I won’t toss the new adornments into any old box. I plan to store them in their original packages with such care that they will look just as nice next year as they do now. And perhaps the dissenters will adjust to its smoldering radiance. Eventually they’ll realize that I intend to defend those scarlet globes until they burn out—and I’ll replace them when that happens. The red Christmas tree lights are here to stay. I glow just thinking about them.

from Dancing in My Nightgown: The Rhythms of Widowhood by Betty Auchard

(revised — This was originally illustrated and published on my blog last year: 11/25/2010)

Thanksgiving Day is predictable because the guest list never changes and neither does the menu. Even so, I’ve had a few that were out of the ordinary and whenever I share my unorthodox holiday stories someone matches them and they reproduce like rabbits. Stories beget stories, so, listen up and let the procreation begin.

One year my parents were so poor that we were thrilled to have liver and onions with our cranberry sauce. Another year my mother molded a meat loaf into the shape of a turkey. The year the oven caught fire we boiled our bird. All of these meals were memorable, but the most unforgettable was our Thanksgiving dinner in a tavern.

The Uptown Village Café in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, was a family tavern that my dear auntie Marge and Uncle Al owned when I was growing up. Dad tended bar and Mom cooked in the kitchen, so my siblings and I practically grew up there. Uppity people called it a beer parlor but Auntie Marge said, “It’s a family tavern. There’s a difference and people who come here know the difference.” Uncle Al loved the people who came there because they were like family. On holidays the Village stayed open so he could make free hot toddies for everyone.

Years later, Denny (my new husband) and I returned to Iowa for Thanksgiving. The holiday feast was in the tavern where we were surrounded by high-spirited customers enjoying free hot toddies and dancing to the Jukebox. To make room for twelve relatives, the waitresses used card tables to extend one of the booths out into the room. The makeshift dining table was camouflaged with a paper covering and matching napkins bearing turkey designs. Soon, the surface was laden with durable restaurant plates, army surplus silverware, heavy glass beer mugs, and pretty little place tags.

The table reached almost to the brand new, beautifully crafted portable shuffle board. The polished oak surface was so slick that the steel discs shot across it like silent bullets. Three older men in high spirits were in the middle of a hot game when my family squeezed into our assigned places for Thanksgiving dinner.

Auntie Marge signaled her waitresses to bring on the food. The first thing to adorn the table was a platter with our golden roasted turkey sitting in a halo of pears poached in pink wine. Next came a parade of taste-bud-teasing side dishes: orange yams, cream-colored mashed potatoes peppered with paprika, rich brown gravy, bright green peas, and crimson cranberries. It was a rainbow of food that I could taste in the air. Uncle Al wanted everything to be special and he made a little speech. “As you all probably know we have never had a Thanksgiving dinner in this tavern before, so this historic event means that we should give thanks to God.”

I didn’t know my uncle could pray or that he believed in God.

He said, “Denny, since you’re a preacher’s son, would you do the honors?”

If eyebrows could talk, Denny’s were saying, “What?” He was used to praying but not in a beer parlor. A cash register ding was not a churchy soundtrack. His eyebrows settled down and he took a slow, deep breath. Using his outdoor voice he said, “Everyone…please, let us bow our heads.”

The beer-drinking patrons took notice.

My head was bowed but my eyeballs were straining sideways to see why everything was suddenly hushed in the tavern. The radio was off, shuffle board discs were not sliding, and Uncle Al’s friends stood in place with heads bowed.

Denny waited a moment with eyes closed and said loud enough for all to hear, “Dear God — on this exceptional Thanksgiving Day, we thank you for these bountiful blessings and ask that you be with us here…in this tavern. Bless the hands that prepared the food…and drink for the nourishment of our…spirits, and let us really enjoy this day of fellowship. Ay-men.”

Ever so slowly, things came back to life, but Denny couldn’t stop grinning. He whispered, “Honey–that felt so weird.”

Uncle Al sensed my husband’s discomfort and said, “Denny, what would Reverend Auchard say about you giving thanks to God in our tavern?”

With no hesitation, Denny said, “Al, my dad would stand up and shout, ‘Ay-men and halleluiah.’ ” And that’s what my father-in-law would have said no matter where he was.

My father-in-law was a teetotaling country preacher in Kansas, and his experiences during prohibition were hair-raising. Just thinking about him reminds me of the time that he and the county bootlegger…

Uh oh.

Contractions have started.

I’m giving birth to another story.

I  miss teaching art so let’s pretend that you’re in my 10th grade drawing class. Today’s lesson is about seeing objects in a different way. Objects do not have black lines around them to show their contours, but we’ll pretend that they do.

Lines, outlines, and curves become shapes that represent objects. When demonstrating this with a pen it is called contour drawing. Let’s try it together.

Materials: black marker like a Sharpie with a fine point and a brown paper grocery bag.

#1) How to “see” the outside contour without drawing:

Place the object you’ve chosen to draw about five feet away on a table. It could be a potted plant, kitchen utensils, scissors sticking out of a container, a chair, etc.,

Practice Seeing:

Start looking wherever you want but pick a point on the outside edge of your object. Let your eyes travel slowly around the edge of the object. Go slow, but keep your eyes moving ’til you get all around the outside edge and end back where you started.                               #1 Practicing seeing the outside contour of an object

Practice Seeing while Drawing (Blind drawing):

Now, put your pen in hand and your hand inside the open bag so you can’t see what you’re drawing. Pick a point on the outside edge again and pretend your eyes are glued to the tip of the pen and you’re traveling around the edge with your “eye-pen.” Do NOT lift your eye-pen from the paper but do keep traveling slowly all around the outside edge of the object as you draw the imaginary line that is  the outside contour. With any luck your line might actually match up with the line that you started. Now, cut open your paper bag so it will lay flat and have a look at your drawing. It will look sort of odd but it takes on a new and curious life. The resulting shape is called a contour. #1 Blind Drawing –  inside of a paper grocery bag.

I like blind drawings because they’re funky but interesting. Now, stop admiring YOUR  blind drawing and do the same thing on a clean sheet of paper or on another paper bag cut open so it can stay flat and go to #2.

#2  Drawing the contour while LOOKING at the object and LOOKING at your drawing.

This time your eyes and hands are still working together but you can see what you’re doing. Bounce your eyes back and forth between the object and your drawing so you can keep the lines sort of where they belong. But still go slow as you travel around the outside edge of the object with your “eye-pen.” If you speed around the edge, the drawing will look rushed and too smooth and you won’t get a decent grade in this class. Pay close attention to every change in the direction of the line. Don’t rush and don’t miss a single bump or set of wiggly lines. Just keep looking back and forth at the object and at your drawing. Don’t worry if your line goes astray. That’s part of the charm of contour drawing. Just keep traveling all the way around the outside contour of the object and don’t miss any of the detours. Enjoy the trip to the end. With any luck you’ll end up where you started. However, if  your line doesn’t match the original line just fake it. Create a new line and introduce it to the old one. Trust me. They’ll be only too happy to meet.  The outside contour has now created an enclosed shape that is the same as a silhouette or shadow picture. Admire it for a few seconds and then move on to #3.

#2  Drawing while LOOKING at the outside contour of an object

#3) NOW, let’s get serious about looking for inside shapes or empty spaces inside of this silhouette. There are many. If you’re drawing a chair or kitchen gadgets sticking out of a container, there might be a lot of inside shapes (empty spaces). They may SEEM  like empty spaces but think of those “holes” as shapes or inside contours. The shape of empty space is called “negative space” or “negative shape.” Most people refer to it as the “background.” Background (empty space) is as important as the object you’re drawing. The shape of the background space works with the shape of the object to create an image that uses the space well.

Think of the positive and negative shape-spaces as a married couple. One partner is more noticed and outspoken and the other doesn’t mind a partner that hogs the limelight because love and admiration for each other holds them together.

Negative space (the shape of empty space) is as important as the object you’re drawing. The shape of the object that you’re drawing is called a “positive space” or “positive shape.” Don’t miss any and try to include them all; both positive and negative shapes.

#3 Adding the INSIDE shapes (empty spaces)

Isn’t this nifty? It’s coming to life.

Okay, okay…let’s move on to #4

#4) This is the time to look for any other lines or shapes that will liven your drawing and give it some “bling.” Do some more “seeing” and add any details you might’ve missed that are INSIDE of all shapes.  It’s like putting on your makeup, jewelry, cologne, after shave, hanky in the pocket, name tag, etc. There are more steps you can do on your own without me here such as adding different shades of gray, adding color, texture, pattern or whatever sounds like fun.

BUT, if f you leave the image as is with no more bling, the end result is called a LINE DRAWING. . Ta dah!

This is a line drawing by me, Betty Auchard

The first time I reinvented myself I was the new girl in the 10^th grade after my family moved from Iowa to Colorado. I made my own clothes and wore two braids that hung to my “buttocks.” I had four girlfriends and our little group was low profile, so very few students knew who we were. I didn’t have a clue that other kids referred to me as “that girl with long braids.” but how could they miss me? I was the only girl in Englewood High School who looked old-timey.

Because of my homey clothes (not homely) and long braids they assumed I was from a Mennonite community, though I wasn’t. Eventually I felt a need to look modern and I wanted to cut my hair. After a week-long discussion with my parents they broke down and gave permission only if I promised that I wouldn’t change anything else about myself. I made a promise that I couldn’t possibly keep and then almost broke a leg getting to the telephone to make an appointment at the beauty shop. Mom insisted on going with me to supervise the job.

I was thrilled but terrified. What if I didn’t like looking modern? I sure couldn’t glue the braids back on. After two hours of all kinds of snipping, washing, drying, and curling, the transformation was complete. I looked in the mirror and couldn’t stop staring. I felt so pretty that I assumed I must have looked pretty.

I floated out of the beauty shop and into a clothing shop where Mom let me buy a pleated skirt, Sloppy Joe sweater, cute penny loafers, and angora anklets. Before going to school the next day I dabbed a hint of color on my lips and caught the bus. I felt so happy and confidant that I thought my pounding heart must have shown through my sweater. My friends liked the new look but no one else knew who I was. They had no idea I was that girl with long braids. They thought I had recently enrolled. A boy stopped me in the hall and said, “Hi there. I haven’t seen you before. Are you new?”

I said, “Yeah, I think I am.”

This change in appearance changed everything. I was no longer shy and trying to blend with the furniture. I dredged up some confidence and became active for the remaining two-and-a-half years of high school. It was the first self-discovery period in my life.

Now jump ahead 50 years. I was 70, widowed for two years and couldn’t stop writing about it. My notes eventually became the memoir, Dancing in My Nightgown. The adjustment of being alone after a long, good marriage prompted all kinds of stories that I wanted to preserve so I would not forget what widowhood was like. I knew that I’d better get used to being alone because, for sure, things would never be the same again.

While thinking those pitiful thoughts I realized that being alone meant I could do anything I wanted without negotiation. It was a scary but liberating idea. I felt the same way when I was 15 on the day of my haircut — just as scared but excited. At 70, I had no idea that my obsessive writing about the funny/sad experiences of widowhood would lead to another reinvention of myself. But it did.

Now I’ve been writing steadily for 13 years which has resulted in a second memoir: The Home for the Friendless. Reflecting and writing about where I came from, who I am, and where I might be going has changed my life in more ways than I can mention. The work of writing is fun. The work of editing and revising is fun. The work of getting published is just plain hard work and promoting and marketing is actually a necessary grind that can’t last forever because it is so NOT fun. As a public speaker with two books to sell, I enjoy meeting new people until it starts to be a job that I have to do. And once you publish a book it really is the author’s obligation to help market it, just like when you give birth to children your obligation AND desire is to take care of them. Both are commitments.

Now, at 81, I day-dream about un-inventing myself. I would like to live a more private life. I’m tired of pretending that I can hear what people are saying even though I wear hearing aids. My children tell me that I often laugh inappropriately. Heck. What I hear is sometimes funny, but apparently it’s not. I look forward to NOT pretending that I hear every word. In addition to that I want to work in the garden again and keep the roses deadheaded. Now, they just die and the petals fall and dry up where they land. I would like to read more books with no homework assignments such as giving feedback. I long to take one of my grandchildren on a vacation without their parents. I would like to sew again and start up my neighborhood water color group. We used to gather once a month in my kitchen where I taught water color lessons. I love teaching art. I would also enjoy flirting with gray-haired studs before I lose the desire to do so. There are all kinds of things I really want to do while I still remember what year it is. But I can’t stick with one thing for a long, long time because the fun just plain wears off.

I think about winding down. I don’t know when to start but when the time comes, I’ll let y’all know. I promise.

– Betty Auchard

I’ve been single for a long time and my friends keep asking, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“Nope, not yet.”

“Are you looking?”

Of course. All the time.

“Then, what’s taking so long?”

“I have preferences that limit my choices.”

It’s true. My list of “wants” is so long that it’s ridiculous and things on my list sound shallow. For instance, I don’t want a boy-friend who is shorter than I. Now isn’t that silly? Tom Cruise is shorter than Katy Holmes and she’s fine with it. Not me. I feel chunky as it is, and a shorter man would make me feel like an elephant.

And here’s another thing…if a man I’m scoping is wearing cut-offs I do not want his legs to be skinny. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know, but I do want his thighs to be well-developed. I would also enjoy strolling with a man who is well-coordinated and walks with purpose. I want his face to be open and friendly, and I want his lips to be noticeable and not too thin. He must have eyes that smile and stay stuck to my face when I’m talking so I know that he’s listening. I want him to laugh with abandon and have a healthy sense of humor. I hope he’s smart, but not smarter than I am. He must enjoy reading, movie-going, walking, talking, and dancing. He will be spiritual, but not doctrinal. and a bonus would be kindness and patience. He must appreciate me just as I am, because it’s too late to change. I want him to be affectionate and loving because I can crank up my passion if time allows.

You now see how long my “want” list has grown and a pretty good reason I do not have a boyfriend.

In spite of these hurdles I’ve spent the last eleven years scoping guys and I love it as much as men love eyeballing women. But sometimes my enthusiasm backfires. One such occasion was a magnificent spring day when my children and grandchildren took me to the Oakland Zoo. I spent a long time getting dressed and looking good in case a nice gentleman hit on me. I needed to stay in practice and my bright pink sweater set might catch his attention…whoever he is.

(At this point in my story I will describe it as though we’re there in person so you can witness it first-hand) Eleven of us are walking in a disorganized line with me straggling behind. My 12-year-old grandson, Nathan, is strolling in front of me and points out various interesting creatures. Then I feel a strong tap on my back. I crank my head around expecting to see a nice fellow who wants  to ask a question just so he can flirt with me. But, no such fellow is there. Hm. I assume two things: that a large twig has  fallen from the trees onto my shoulder, and that I am wayyyyy too eager.

Then Nathan drops to the end of the line and walks behind me when  I hear him suck in his breath and say,  “OMIGOSH, NONNIE–you’ve got a huge bird poop on your back!”

My two daughters fly into action, remove my bright pink cardigan and clean it up in the women’s rest room. What a mess. That bird must have been an eagle. But I have to forget this unfortunate experience and enjoy the rest of the zoo.  We catch up with rest of the family and are now approaching the camels. They look grungy and moth-eaten with half of their hair missing. I guess they’re molting and I say, “Nathan, those camels look so weird.”

“Where?”

“Right over there.”

I raise my hand and point to the camel pen…and wouldn’t you know–another Eagle-sized poop plops on my outstretched arm; back to the rest room to clean up. By now, all delusional daydreams  of romance are right down the toilet. Instead of being hit upon by a nice man I am being hit upon by a large bird that is attracted to bright pink.

After a few days of sulking I pull out of it and start scoping guys again because the fun is in the hunt. But what happens if I find the man I’m describing? The possibility scares me. If I find him, I might have to keep him — but not all the time. Sometimes we can stay at his house and sometimes at my house and sometimes we can just just take a long break from each other.

Since the hunt is more fun than the prize I can scope guys until I die…but whatta way to go.

PS Today, August 18, 2011 is my 81st birthday, and I do not intend to grow up.

I was 18 when I learned to drive a car.

I was 68 when I learned how to put gas in it.

Why did it take so long?

Because that was my husband’s job and after he died his jobs became mine. Besides that, the gas tanks scared me to death. I’d seen too many movies where gasoline spilled on the ground, a careless cigarette got tossed into it, and the whole station blew up.

For several months my children took turns filling the tank and I was so grateful I could have cried. When no one was around and the tank was almost empty I felt panic stricken. I took slow deep breaths and realized there was no way out. I needed to learn how to do this awful job myself. But I needed help. So I called my neighbor and said, “Gracie, do you mind going with me to the Shell station to teach me how to use the gasoline pump?”

I actually thought she would say, “No problem.” But she didn’t. She said, “You mean…you don’t know how?”

“No. Denny always did it. ”

“I can’t believe that you drive a car and don’t know how to put gas in it.”

I was not a dimwit. Gracie acted like I didn’t know how to tie my own shoes. I said, “Well, it’s true. Will you teach me?”

The silence meant that Gracie’s shoulders had dropped a foot and she was thinking it over. I waited until she said, “Okay, let’s get this over with.”

On the way to the Shell station at the foot of our hill she said not one word. It made me uncomfortable. I wanted her to break the silence and she finally did after I stopped at the first tank. She said, “You’re not even close. Pull the car up. Not that far. Back up. Not that much. Try again. Okay, okay, stop. Now–step one: get out your credit card and stand next to me and watch what I do.

I felt like I was back in fourth grade when the teacher tried to explain the ruler to me; all those lines and numbers. I wasn’t gettin’ the ruler at all and was more interested in her pretty fingernails and the ring she wore. The same was true with Gracie at the gas pump. I was in awe, distracted by her efficiency, not listening to the instructions she rattled off so fast they flew right past my brain. I didn’t have the nerve to tell her to slow down so I just kept watching her smooth moves. She must have been nine-years-old when she learned how to drive.

At least my car tank was now full. But two weeks later it was empty again and the kids were all at work. I had no choice but to call Gracie again, because I could not recall her instructions.

She said, “I already taught you how to do this. Have you forgotten?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Then write it down this time.”

I was beginning not to like Gracie very much but I needed her, so I wrote fast because, again, she was hurrying. I think I got it right and thanked her over and over, realizing that my gratefulness was kind of sickening.

After the tank got low the third time I took my notes with Gracie’s instructions and tried hard to leave the impression with other customers that I had done this all my life. But I was nervous and had purposely left the card on the seat so I could pretend to be looking for something in the glove compartment while reading step one. After step one was accomplished I glanced at steps two, three, and four. I managed to look like filling the tank was a ho-hum job instead of a nerve-wracking necessity.

It seemed that I was finished but I was looking for a button that said, The End.” I was so afraid of pressing the wrong one. It could send gasoline spilling all over the concrete causing a deadly explosion that I always saw in the movies during gas station scenes. I was eternally grateful that nothing spilled and I was alive. Before driving away I looked around to make sure I was not still hooked up to the tank. I’ve seen those kinds of scenes at movies, too, where the driver leaves and takes the gas tank with him.

When I pulled out of the Shell station I couldn’t keep a smile from taking up my whole face. I was in rapture. If I could fill my own tank with gas when it scared me so much, this meant I could do anything. The world was mine. I smiled so hard that my face hurt, but I felt like a new person.

It seemed the car was floating down the street when I came to the stop light. Me, my full tank of gas and my smile sat there waiting for the light to turn green. Out of the corner of my left eye I noticed the man in the passenger seat of the car to my left kept glancing my way. So I glanced back and he waved and I waved back, feeling a tinge of excitement because he was flirting with me. I felt I should smile more often because it obviously made me look like a hottie. A smile can sure change your looks.

Then he rolled down his window and I knew he was going to hit on me, so I rolled down my window and said, “Yes?” I was feeling flirty, too.

He said, “Ma’am, your gas cap is hangin’ off.”

My smile froze in place and I said, “Oh, thank you SOOO much.”

What a bummer!

What gas cap? I didn’t remember any gas cap. Where was it? I got through the light, pulled to the curb to see what a hanging-off-gas-cap looked like. And there it was sitting in a little thingie inside of a small door that was wide open. I didn’t remember seeing that before, but I must have touched it because I had put gas in the car. I screwed the cap back on, shut the little door and drove home knowing that a smile is just a smile and that practically everyone but me knew how to fill a tank.

But maybe they didn’t.  I needed to find them and teach them how to do it.

This is a letter I received from a fan, Darryl Trapp,  who read my newest book: The Home for the Friendless

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve discovered that I simply cannot eat and drink the same things that I did when I was in my twenties. First to go were Vodka Gimlets (lime juice = acid indigestion). Next it was eggs (I developed an allergy.) After last night, I’m crossing red pepper hummus off the list.

When I was a kid, my mother was convinced that comic books, scary movies, and Dr. Seuss would give me nightmares. The only time I could get a fix of “Green Eggs And Ham” was if I snuck off to the children’s table at the doctor’s waiting room and pretended to be reading “Highlights” magazine. I can honestly say, though, as far as I can recall, none of those taboo objects of my childhood actually caused my nightmares, at least not directly. I read comic books at my best friend’s house, saw both “Psycho” and “The Birds” as a young child (thanks to my older siblings), and feasted on Dr. Seuss books at the doctor’s office. I had nightmares, but they usually had to do with flying and suddenly dropping out of the sky.

I’ve come to the conclusion that certain foods bring on these nightmares. Like Ebeneezer Scrooge, that “bit of undigested potato, that dab of gravy” can wreak havoc on a night’s sleep faster that you can say “double dip sundae.” Last night I had a snack of pita chips and red pepper hummus before going to bed. I paid dearly for it. I dreamed myself into Betty Auchard’s book, The Home for the Friendless – but I was an eight year old Betty whose mother was taking her for an operation.                                                               

I (as Betty) had developed a weird, mysterious growth, underneath the surface of the skin on my face, and it needed to be removed…not my face, but the growth. Without batting an eye, Betty’s mother, Waneta, escorted me to the local doctor, who evidently didn’t feel the need to operate within the confines of a hospital, but instead of an operating room, he used a hybridized Airstream trailer that was parked in his driveway. The sign on the roof said, THE DOCTOR IS IN. Very convenient for the emergency removal of almost anything.

The operation was a success, but to my horror, I discovered that the “growth” was a whole other face, complete with nose, chin, brow and lips, which the doctor had somehow removed all in one piece. It looked a little like the mask used in The Phantom of the Opera; white and waxy. Disoriented from the anesthesia, and terrified by this bizarre turn of events, I slipped away while the doctor was otherwise occupied, wanting only to be home with my mother. Keep in mind that I was a homeless 8-year-old Betty in this dream.

Moving from backyard to alleyways, I traveled from suburb to downtown. Nothing looked familiar. This was Cedar Rapids, Iowa of the 1940’s, complete with streetcars and congested with pedestrian traffic, but with a very different topography. The streets had changed and suddenly bisected at acute angles. The real Cedar Rapids is laid out in a square grid. In the dream, buildings shot up to impossible heights, bypassing the modern skyscrapers that exist today. Hills popped up where none had existed before. Everything had taken on an odd, dusty coloration.

I wandered into a department store looking for help, and suddenly even the laws of physics had deserted me. Without warning I found myself climbing up the banister of a set of stairs sideways as if it were a ladder. A trapdoor loomed in the floor – which was actually the ceiling of this topsy-turvy world. I could see two saleswomen, far below or was it above? I tried calling out to them for help, but my voice dwindled away, like a whisper on the wind. I was lost and alone, hurting and sad, and all my eight-year-old self wanted was to find my way back home. I was lost and friendless.

I woke up shaken and sweaty. From here on, I’m sticking to warm milk for a bed time snack. And just to be safe, I’m avoiding Dr. Seuss.

By Darryl Trapp, a grown up man

Betty’s Book Tour in Iowa

As many of you know I live in California and I had my first book tour promoting The Home for the Friendless in Iowa from June 8 to 16. The memoir stories are set against the backdrop of the Depression and WW2 in Cedar Rapids, Iowa where I was raised. My literary publicist, Stephanie Barko (www.stephaniebarko.com ) in Austin, Texas set all of the events up many months before they happened. Scheduling these personal appearances in my home state was only one small part of our book activities because Stephanie and I worked together for ten months promoting The Home for the Friendless with a “virtual book tour” that took place on the Internet. I never left my computer chair while traveling all over the country. My wardrobe was pajamas and my face and hair were in complete disarray most of the time. .

That was a virtual tour — this tour was different because my brother and I had to dress nice. He was my driver. We stayed in three different hotels in Iowa and drove over 900 miles. Gas was cheaper there.

Here was our schedule.

June 8, flew to Omaha, Nebraska, met my brother, Bob, and just started driving.

June 9, Iowa Public Radio Interview with Charity Nebbe in Iowa City – excellent interviewer

June 11, History Center book talk and signing in Cedar Rapids, Iowa – Great stories told by all

June 12, Tanager Place reunion former residents of The Home for the Friendless, same town

12 former residents of the institution attended the first annual reunion and now they want to meet every year.

June 13, Peal Family reunion in Tucker Park, Hiawatha, Iowa – met cousins I didn’t know I had.

June 13, Public Library book signing, Ames, Iowa – several writers in this audience

June 14, Prairie Lights Book Store, Iowa City – audience of summer writing workshop members.

June 15, St. Matthews Church, book signing , Cedar Rapids, Iowa, members were mostly seniors

June 16, Convent, retired nuns Mt. Mercy University, Cedar Rapids, Iowa – like no nuns I’ve met!

June 17, Left for California; from the air I saw miles of farms under waters of the flooded Missouri River. Terrible sight.

Highlights:

Bob and I reviewed our lives while driving from one town to another, laughed a lot and put miles behind us.

Charity Nebbe, a wonderful interviewer, asked many questions about our childhood. Even interviewed my brother, Bob.

The History Center program was a good mix of 24 people who shared stories about growing up in Iowa.

Tanager Place, the modern day rescue organization for children in jeopardy, hosted a reunion for former residents of the original Home for the Friendless. Twelve “kids” aged 50 – 85, attended. All of our records from 1902 to 1978 are at Tanager Place. It’s like a college campus with nine acres of land with classrooms and cottages. In the picture below I am in the front row between the red and blue blouses and my brother, Bob, is right behind me in the back row, third from the right.

The Peal Family reunion, June : the above photo represents cousins from three of the six uncles in the Peal Family. Bob and I are on the left end of the picture, and next to me is Bonnie whose dad was Uncle Jiggs on page 34 of The Home for the Friendless. The next six cousins in the above photo were in the story, Outhouse Adventure on page 110. This photo, taken on June 13, 2011, was a reminder of our frequent family gatherings as kids in one of the many parks in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, our hometown. But this time, none of our aunts or uncles were there. The only one still living was too frail to attend, and my cousins, brother and I were the new generation of  OLD people. First-cousins-once- removed were in abundance and we had to get acquainted all over again. Picnic food was plentiful and I could NOT get enough of the sauerkraut salad; YUM.

Ames, Iowa is one of the locations of Stephens Press, my publisher, and we had a lovely gathering of interested citizens in the public library there.

Prairie Lights Book Store is well known and I was at first intimidated about appearing there. The audience was made up of men and women from all over the United States who were attending the famous summer writers’ workshops hosted by the University of Iowa. By the way, the university was the first to ever  have a degree in creative writing. Famous authors graduated from there and are also on the faculty for the summer workshops. Those people attending were down to earth and not one bit too sophisticated for me. What a relief that was.

St. Matthews Church was a responsive crowd of men and women, our contemporaries (77 – 81) who knew exactly every location that was mentioned in the book. They, like my brother and me, are living history. I wonder if they realize it?

Mt. Mercy Convent and the retired nuns were such a surprise. I expected formal older women in long black gowns with black veils over their heads and hands folded in a permanent pose of prayer. But they don’t look like that anymore. These lively ladies looked like anyone you might meet in the grocery store. They were such fun and laughed at all the right places. What a great way to end our book tour.

My brother and I missed the presence of our younger sister, Patty, who we lost to cancer in March, 2010. But she was with us in memory during this whole trip.

Frequently asked question: Betty, do you plan to write another book?

My answer: Nope. I’m way too busy writing and illustrating my blog stories that I change every three weeks. See them for yourself at www.bettyauchard.com/blog.

PS I’ll write a blog story later about going to Las Vegas to record the audio book for The Home for the Friendless. This time I’ll be reading from a teleprompter instead of a paper manuscript. I love reading for recording. It feels like one long open mike night.

Betty and I met in cyberspace more than 10 years ago. She was just embarking on the first steps toward a career as a published author, and I was exploring the idea of writing fiction. Destiny landed us in the same online writer’s class. As we posted our assignments and participated in discussions, Betty and I connected on another level. Soon, we were emailing and phoning outside the group.

We continued to stay in touch after the class ended and had an opportunity to meet in person when Betty was in Nebraska for a reunion. At some point, we began to work together on the wonderful stories that became her first book, Dancing in My Nightgown. She would write a story, and I would suggest changes. The transition to a writer/editor relationship was as effortless as the friendship we had developed.

I’ve been editing for many years, and each experience is different. Working with Betty, however, wasn’t just different. It was special. The process reminded me of working with clay. The stories she created took on a life of their own, and I was privileged to help mold them into finished pieces. As we removed a blob from one place and added it in another spot, subtle details gradually took shape. We fine tuned and smoothed that clay until it became a work of art. Always, it was a labor of love.

Sometimes the process became heavy on the “labor” part. Translating life experiences into words can be hard work. That’s when silliness stepped in to lighten the load. If you’ve been reading Betty’s blog, you’ve sampled her delightful sense of humor. Fortunately, we found the same things funny. Most of it wouldn’t make anyone else laugh, but she and I found those exchanges hilarious! It could be a simple typo that completely changed the meaning of a sentence or a wacky idea that cleared the confusion when we ran OUT of ideas.

Eventually, the time came when each of her books was finalized and released to the publisher. Those were bittersweet moments for me. Excitement about the delicious possibilities for Betty had to share space with an awareness that our daily back-and-forth communication had come to an end.

That’s the nature of life, of course. Beginnings and endings tend to occur in pairs. Fortunately, endings are often transformations in disguise. Betty and I continue to work together on projects, and I celebrate her every well-deserved success. Other than Betty’s family members, I’m pretty sure I’m her biggest fan. She is a brilliant example that it’s never too late to become the person you were meant to be.

Sandi Corbitt-Sears, editor

www.sandi@writefriend.com

Holes Happen

Sometimes you dig a hole for a good reason and sometimes holes just happen. The news reports that the earth has opened up and swallowed sidewalks and cars. Now those are pretty big holes. Little sinkholes have appeared in my back yard and they cause us to trip, which brings us to the conclusion that most holes should eventually be filled up. Why? Because the space they occupy is wasted and could be used again.

Examples: the hole in my tire; the hole in my heart when a boyfriend dumped me; the depressions in my lawn where the earth caved in, and the two-foot pit we dug for our Doggie Dooley (a sort of waste station for dog poops).

All of the above holes were real. The tire had to be pumped up all the time; the old boyfriend had said, “You walk too fast. I’m outta here,” and the hole in my heart took a while to heal. The lawn holes caused us to stumble and fall. So we watch our step until they’re filled in. The Doggie Dooley took a lot of time to dig since the opening had to be the exact size of the metal flange that fit into the top so the lid could cover it up. That’s where we dumped the dog “logs” and then sprinkled magic powder on top of the pile to turn it to compost. The lid kept people from accidentally disappearing into the opening. We filled it with dirt again after our dogs died and planted a flowering vine that grew as fast as Jack’s beanstalk. No wonder.

Those holes are behind me now, but a new batch turned up recently. One of my adult grandsons called and said, “Nonnie, can I come for a visit?” I was delighted. “I need to use your washing machine because the one in my apartment house is always busy.” So he “visited” my Magtag  and was folding his socks and said, “These darn holes…”

“What holes?”                                                                                                                           

“In all of my socks,” he said. “I should just buy new ones and throw these away.”

“Oh no; don’t throw those socks away. Let me darn those darn holes.”

“Do what to these darn holes?”

I said, “Darn them.”

“You mean like cussing and swearing at them?”

It was obvious that the darning-holes-in-socks job was no longer part of the English language, so I explained. “Grandson, in the “olden days,” back in 1949, women mended the holes in socks.”

“With a sewing machine?”

“Heavens no; by reconstructing the fabric.”

“How would the fabric be reconstructed?” my grandson asked, so I explained.

“New fabric was created with a needle and darning thread by crisscrossing the strands across the hole as though weaving on a tiny loom. The thread color had to match the sock and a darning egg was pushed inside of the sock heel.”

“A darning…egg?”

I explained that a darning egg was usually made of wood with a little handle. When placed into the sock it made the newly woven area fit the shape of the heel. I used a light bulb in place of my long lost wooden darning egg. I got so caught up in the serene pleasure of mending my grandsons socks that I completely lost track of how much time and work I had put into filling up a sock hole with thread. It was unusually satisfying and the finished product looked like new. I was so proud of my work that I shared the results with everyone in my family and begged to mend their worn out socks so I could bring them back to life.

It takes a lot of time and effort to mend a hole in a sock, but the same is true for anything in life that loses its “wholeness.” We would be happier, be better company, and feel more fulfilled if we’d just take time to fill up those darn holes.

With no warning it died this morning, and it was only 25 years old. My deluxe top-of-the-line 1986 clothes dryer chugalugged, choked, then came to a stop. I was in shock. I had a profound connection with that machine so I needed an hour to grieve. I snapped out of it and lifted the wet sheets out and slopped them into a laundry basket and then to my car. I headed for the High and Dry Laundromat a few blocks away, lugged the heavy basket inside and waited my turn for a washing machine to spin out the water and then kept my eyes open for an empty dryer. A gray metal folding chair beckoned me to sit, so I did while I daydreamed about installing an old-fashioned clothes line in the back yard. What direction should I place it? If it’s the wrong way while wind is blowing the sheets will wind around the line instead of flapping in the breeze. And there are rules about how things are hung. I started reviewing them in my head.

I must never hang laundry outside on Sunday because it just isn’t done.

Before using the line it must be wiped clean with a wet cloth.

Sheets and towels go on the outside lines and underwear hangs out-of-sight on the inside.

Don’t’ use two clothes pins for one item, as one pin can be shared with the next item.

Never leave clothes pins on an empty line because it’s tacky.

If the weather is below zero the clothes will freeze dry and the whites will be whiter.

Before dinner, all laundry must be off the line, folded, and put away.

As these thoughts of a simpler life style flitted through my head I felt self-righteous and honorable. Visions of tribal women washing garments in the creek connected me to my ancestors and I could see them draping wet clothing to dry over bushes and boulders. How strange, feeling bonded to ancient relatives while waiting my turn for an electric clothes dryer.

Drying laundry reminded me of an old-fashioned poem that someone had sent. It stated that the clothesline was a free newspaper because by “reading” the clothesline you could tell what was going on in the neighbor’s house. If the family had been sick with stomach flu there would be extra sheets, nightclothes, and bathrobes hanging there. If they were having company the fancy tablecloths would be flapping in the breeze. If the lines were bare the folks were probably on vacation. If there was no inch to spare they had probably returned. The only stanza I remembered by heart was at the end:

Clotheslines are now of the past for dryers make work less.

What goes on inside a home is now anybody’s guess.

I really miss that way of life. It was a friendly sign

when neighbors knew each other best

by what hung on the line.

“Ma’am, I’m finished. You can have the dryer now.”

A man’s voice snatched me back to the High and Dry Laundromat. I grabbed those sheets and pillow cases, slung them into the dryer and set it on high, glad to be getting this job behind me. The fantasy of installing a clothes line disappeared in a puff of daydreams. I got real and wondered what kind of dryer to buy.

“You’ve reached the Los Gatos Fire Department. What is your name and address?”

“Operator, this is NOT an emergency.”

“Oh—okay—how may I help you?”

And that’s how it started. All night long rain hammered the windows and garbage cans clattered down the street. It was unnerving. I needed coffee and came downstairs to the sound of electronic beeping. It frightened me because I had never heard this noise before.  It was from the oven. The display panel flashed  F1 in red letters like a bomb warning.

I said to no one “What should I do?”

I found the oven manual; dialed the 800 number.

“Sorry,” they said, “but we are not open on Sunday.”

Next was the Pacific Gas and Electric Company. “We have a major power outage and are responding only to emergency calls.”

Beeping was not an emergency even though it was driving me mad, and that flashing red F1 was scaring me to death.  I found the Problems Page. There it was in bold letters: F1 and F7. It read: press the off button and hold it for three minutes. If that doesn’t work disconnect the power to the oven.

The heavy cord behind the refrigerator– look for it. I coaxed the fridge out an inch at a time so I could peek behind it. There was no such thing as a cord coming from the oven, but the dust bunnies back there looked like baby rabbits. Then I remembered: the built-in permanent oven connection was in the cupboard under the oven. Yep, there it was. Out in the rain I went to open the breaker box behind a large rosemary bush. I pressed the wet branches aside and opened the panel, found the breakers for the kitchen and dining room and turned them off. Back to the kitchen to see if the beeping had stopped. It had not. It was still screaming at me.

Got my hand pruners, went back out in the rain to cut off some branches; tossed them aside and repeated the power-off-for-three-minute-routine twice again and finally gave up. Neither of my two sons answered their phones, so the police station was my next contact. The dispatcher said, “Call the fire station and here is their number,” and that’s where this story started.

The fire station lady said she would have to send someone out. I said, “Okay, but this is NOT an emergency. Tell them NO SIREN.”

“Mrs. Auchard, I’ll tell them NO SIREN, but they’ll have to come out in a truck.”

The word “truck” fooled me. I imagined a fire station “pickup truck.” But five minutes later the heavy rumble of machinery on the street announced the real thing: a genuine fire engine with no siren. The big thing lumbered to a stop in front of my house and I waved the firemen inside. Two tall young Gods had come to my aid. I explained the problem and one of them spoke up. “Take me to your breaker panel.” I led him to the outdoors and he suggested I stay in out of the rain.

I said, “I’m already wet from going back and forth three times and I want to see how you fix this.” He showed me the main switch that would shut off everything in the house. (Why didn’t I see that thing? I could’ve saved them a trip.) He threw the lever in the opposite direction and it stopped the maddening beep that was causing my Headache from Hades.

Mission Accomplished. But I almost said, “Before you leave, could you guys pull the fridge out all the way so I can vacuum behind it?” I chickened out and said instead, “Could you guys push the fridge back against the wall for me?”

My dirty floor behind the fridge was not an emergency and neither was a maddening, mind numbing beep that couldn’t be shut off. They were trials that tested my preparedness. I was not prepared, so the next thing I must find is where to shut off the gas and water in case a REAL emergency comes my way.

All illustrations are by Betty Auchard.

Both of my parents have hazel eyes. My dad’s eyes are a more golden hazel, and my mom’s are a more green hazel. But the one unique thing about me is that I have gray-blue eyes. When the sky is cloudy or it’s about to rain, my eyes become as gray as the sky itself.  When the sun is high and the sky is clear, my eyes are   bluer than the ocean. Even if I’m inside a building my eyes seem to know what’s going on with the weather outside. My eyes don’t just tell the weather, they can express my feelings too. If I’m sad or gloomy their color will be more in a grayish tone. If I’m happy and joyful they will be brighter than a blue highlighter.

Sometimes I wonder, maybe my eyes know me better than I know myself.

– LMA

My granddaughter wrote this for her 9^th grade language arts assignment as an example of the literary terms, simile and metaphor.

I live in my computer chair because I’m promoting my new book online. This means that The Home for the Friendless is popping up in social networking places such as Twitter, Facebook, LinkedIn, GoodReads, and LibraryThing, and all of these important places spell their names funny. In addition to those sites, I’m learning about bookmarking, tags, blogging, html, and RSS feed. If you’re as new to the Internet as I am, these words are daunting.

I take online book tours and I don’t even leave the house. I’m sitting down all the time and usually in my nightgown, housecoat and slippers. I crawl out of the desk chair to get a bite to eat or use the bathroom. Sometimes, it feels like I’ve forgotten how to walk or how to see things in focus. And my torso is one big love handle. The worst part is this: after a lifetime of health, I now have high blood pressure. It went up last summer when I was trying to meet a book deadline. After a long revision, the final manuscript was sent to the printer. Seems like the right time to take a break, doesn’t it? But marketing started while the manuscript was at the printer being transformed into a book, and it’s still going strong. Even though all this work is on the computer screen, I am surrounded by piles of printed pages that I edit the old-fashioned way…with a red pen as I SIT in a lounge chair.

Enter stage left…my doctor.

She says, “Betty, your added weight gain and your physical inactivity have caused your blood pressure to go up.”

I say, “What?”

She says, “Record your blood pressure every day at the same time while standing up (This is the way they do it now) and take a 20-minute walk three times a week. Eat a healthy diet (We all know what that is) and email the results to me every week.”

I am determined to bring down my blood pressure by changing my routine. I will NOT open email the minute I jump out of bed. I WILL get dressed and hit the pavement for a 20 minute walk…ten minutes one way and ten minutes back. I can do this. I’ve started over many times in my life so I’m getting used to it. The best way for me to make a renewed commitment to health is to think about the present day and nothing more. Tomorrow I’ll think about THAT day and nothing more. If I see progress in lowered blood pressure I will welcome each new day with a song in my heart.

One more thing: I found an electronic helper online called www.myfooddiary.com. It costs $10.00 a month. I log my goal weight and every morsel of food I’ve swallowed and then I enter my exercise. The program reports many things but primarily how many calories I have consumed, what I ate too much of, and what I forgot to eat like vegetables or fruit. Green smiley faces mean that I did a good job and red frowning faces tell me I blew it. I eat three little meals a day and two tiny snacks. Lord only knows how this will end, because I’m hungry and I still need to take my blood pressure.

In spite of frequent lapses in my commitment, the motto, EAT LESS- MOVE MORE is tattooed to the inside of my brain, and it’s permanent…the tattoo AND my brain.

I opened my email and read “Bon jour, free-handed branded.”

What the…?

I opened another and read, “Good Afternoon, belt jot.”

I couldn’t’ figure out what was going on, so I deleted them and moved on to read the next message: “Howdy Septic Apply.”

This was a bad dream. The next message made no sense either.

“Well, well, well, unraveled tide. Salute, sallow-skinned moderns.”

The next letter was from my daughter. “Mom, good news. Louie got a job.”

I was thrilled because my grandson had been looking for a long time. I asked where he worked and she said for an advertising company. I was impressed and asked what his duties were. She said, “He creates SPAM messages all day long and someone else has to mail them.” I tried to gasp quietly and asked how much he got paid, and she said, “Not much; the lowest hourly wage that’s legal.”

“Oh. I see.”

“He’ll probably give you a ring and let you know.”

“OK. I’ll look forward to it.” So, the next email I opened greeted me with “Well, well, nostrils education.” I knew Louie was practicing his spam on me.

I replied with, “Take that postmark’ Elijah.”

“Back atcha, sobbing tip toes.”

I came back with “What next, tweed beam?”

He answered, “Would you, would you, puzzling expiring?

I wrote, “Good afternoon, belt jolt.”

“Nonnie, don’t leave yet. Whaddaya think of my SPAM?

“Louie, it’s very clever and nicely weird.”

“Thanks. I’m working my way up.”

“Up to what?”

“To longer sentences. It pays better.”

(Jobs are hard to find, so if anyone can write funny SPAM, Louie can.)

This is a SPOOF, and I have no grandson named Louie. My youngest grandson is Nathan and he works at Safeway.

But I must admit that I now read SPAM before deleting so I can save the ones that make me laugh. I may have discovered a funky art form.