Monday, January 21, 2008
'I'll tell what I been doing'
Big Brudder ER brought me a treasure when we met yesterday at the Pig Out Palace in Henryetta, Okla.:A post card a little ER had sent to his mama back in 1972, when by turns he spent a week at Big Big Sister's house in Dallas and Little Big Sister's house in Fort Worth.
The postcard has Charles M. Russell's "Smoke of a 45" (attached), from the Amon Carter Muesum of Western Art, which is now a little more uppity and called just Amon Carter Museum.
I remember the two weeks well. I had just turned 8. I think it was the first time I'd ever been that far from home without Mama and Daddy ER. But I don't remember this card.
Thurs. June 22 1972
Hi Mommy. Watcha been doing? I'll tell what I been doing. I been swiming 4 times We been to two museums and two zoos. We rode all the rides We been to an ice cream parlor We been to Six flaggs and just everything. And I'll be home Sun. or Mon.
Love always, (ER)
Dang. I've been -- I mean, I been a blogger for a long time My typos and punctuation ain't improvved a lick, either. :-)
Sniff-sniff. Mama ER kept it all those years. Of course she did! I've got a box of stuff from when my Bird was little.
But, Proverbs 31 and stuff.
--ER
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Incredibly sweet. I believe that's what's making my eyes leak a little around the edges. Must be an allergy or somethin'.
Yep, made me cry
and isn't strange meeting up with yourself after all those years
and isn't strange meeting up with yourself after all those years
# posted by 
: 9:47 AM
: 9:47 AM
That's some nice stuff. My mother kept a lot of those little things, too, but she tossed 'em in boxes, and they haven't been found. Of course, I say my dad keeps 'em hid, so the kids don't go rifling through his "mess."
My mother-in-law is exceptional about keepsakes. I'm so impressed. The wife and I haven't even been married two years yet, and I've already got my own full scrapbook. That's freakin' impressive, now.
My mother-in-law is exceptional about keepsakes. I'm so impressed. The wife and I haven't even been married two years yet, and I've already got my own full scrapbook. That's freakin' impressive, now.
It's very useful too: my twin daughters went through a difficult adolescence where I was the worst mother, they had always hated me and they only had memories of growing up locked in their bedrooms writing the excruciating details about their lives with their horrible mother - in their diaries.
Well, I had kept all those childhood diaries, and brought them out for them to read: they had filled them with all the activities they were involved in, all their wonderful friends and with how much they loved their wonderful mother- about not wanting to grow up, because life was so good.
So you start out by keeping everything for emotional reasons, and then you need them as proof.
Well, I had kept all those childhood diaries, and brought them out for them to read: they had filled them with all the activities they were involved in, all their wonderful friends and with how much they loved their wonderful mother- about not wanting to grow up, because life was so good.
So you start out by keeping everything for emotional reasons, and then you need them as proof.
# posted by : 1:59 PM
: 1:59 PM
First, I see you were honing your journalistic style even at that tender age. Pithy, short, to-the-point sentences, bare of anything but bald fact.
Second, on the whole subject of keeping stuff. As the youngest of five, I have often wondered how much "stuff" my parents really have, not just from me, but from any of us. A few years back, I discovered boxes with our names on them. Letters, postcards, school papers, assignments going all the way back to kindergarten and first grade. It was striking to see stuff a younger self did - kind of like seeing a twin one never knew one had. Except for one gem, from second grade - I had to draw a picture of something and write a poem about it. I drew a golden eagles flying over some mountains (I had probably watched Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom the previous Sunday night and seen something about them). The poem, for which I received an "A" follows. Ahem:
The golden eagle is a golden bird
With golden feathers
And golden turd.
You can't make this stuff up.
Second, on the whole subject of keeping stuff. As the youngest of five, I have often wondered how much "stuff" my parents really have, not just from me, but from any of us. A few years back, I discovered boxes with our names on them. Letters, postcards, school papers, assignments going all the way back to kindergarten and first grade. It was striking to see stuff a younger self did - kind of like seeing a twin one never knew one had. Except for one gem, from second grade - I had to draw a picture of something and write a poem about it. I drew a golden eagles flying over some mountains (I had probably watched Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom the previous Sunday night and seen something about them). The poem, for which I received an "A" follows. Ahem:
The golden eagle is a golden bird
With golden feathers
And golden turd.
You can't make this stuff up.
Aw. You just sucker punched me in my Mama Spot. Sucker punch in a good way, though. It makes me glad for all those Rubbermaid containers filled with kids art and momentos...
# posted by : 5:04 PM
: 5:04 PM
Ya know, I just know some old crochety ol' cynic out there is wantin' to say this to derail the Mamathon, so I'll say it:
I mighta been a titty baby.
... but that's how mama's boys start out ... and I was an utterly unabashed mama's boy.
I mighta been a titty baby.
... but that's how mama's boys start out ... and I was an utterly unabashed mama's boy.
There is nothing wrong with being a "Mama's Boy", if you have mama's like you and I did. The epithet is usually reserved for men who have such huge hang-ups they can't let go of the apron strings long enough to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.
I, for one, had a strong, determined, sometimes neurotic mother who insisted I grow up (although some of the things she did to promote it seem odd in retrospect) to be a good man, a good human being, and a good husband and father. I try not to let her down.
So send a big raspberry to anyone who says that.
I, for one, had a strong, determined, sometimes neurotic mother who insisted I grow up (although some of the things she did to promote it seem odd in retrospect) to be a good man, a good human being, and a good husband and father. I try not to let her down.
So send a big raspberry to anyone who says that.
BTW, re: "First, I see you were honing your journalistic style even at that tender age. Pithy, short, to-the-point sentences, bare of anything but bald fact."
Don't know who done it, but I got whupped with a stick labeled subject-verb-object early and often! :-)
Don't know who done it, but I got whupped with a stick labeled subject-verb-object early and often! :-)
Er says: "Ya know, I just know some old crochety ol' cynic out there is wantin' to say this to derail the Mamathon...."
Was that some sort of dare?
Was that some sort of dare?
Ah, yes. I can just picture little eight-year-old ER now. Tooth missing, slight caking of dust from his rough and tumble boyishness, a streak of snot smeared over the upper lip, skinned knee, perhaps with a band-aid or two, well worn sneakers, maybe Red Ball Jets. *sniff* I can hardly contain myself.
As for my yoot, much has been lost in a fire. As a result, much more value is placed on the photo albums with a picture history of each of Ma's kids given to each of the respective brats. Perused my brother's just a couple of weeks ago. Some different memories there. It's a very groovy thing.
As for my yoot, much has been lost in a fire. As a result, much more value is placed on the photo albums with a picture history of each of Ma's kids given to each of the respective brats. Perused my brother's just a couple of weeks ago. Some different memories there. It's a very groovy thing.
Howdy, MA. Here, let me adjust yer set.
Strike the tennis shoes, for black boots. (I did not know how to tie shoes until fifth grade. Never had to! Don't recall wearin' anything but boots. On rare occasions when I had to wear dress shoes, somebody tied 'em for me. Now, that sounds kinda squirrely, but lookin' back, I'd say I was livin' a kid example of a cowboy way, as explained by cowboy crooner Michael Martin Murphy: Cowboys ridin' three abreast in a pickup truck, which is the best place to be? The middle: 'Cause you don't have to drive, and you don't have to mess with the gate. I didn't have to mss with tyin' shoes, so I didn't.)
Rarely, if ever, wore shorts (or to this day, and never in public. Sears Toughskin britches. So, few scraped knees.
Some kind of pullover shirt, but not a T, unless it was an actual white T.
Strike the tennis shoes, for black boots. (I did not know how to tie shoes until fifth grade. Never had to! Don't recall wearin' anything but boots. On rare occasions when I had to wear dress shoes, somebody tied 'em for me. Now, that sounds kinda squirrely, but lookin' back, I'd say I was livin' a kid example of a cowboy way, as explained by cowboy crooner Michael Martin Murphy: Cowboys ridin' three abreast in a pickup truck, which is the best place to be? The middle: 'Cause you don't have to drive, and you don't have to mess with the gate. I didn't have to mss with tyin' shoes, so I didn't.)
Rarely, if ever, wore shorts (or to this day, and never in public. Sears Toughskin britches. So, few scraped knees.
Some kind of pullover shirt, but not a T, unless it was an actual white T.
ER, I'm not a cynic about your love for your Mama. That's sweet to me. Any man that loves his Mama has to have some good in him.
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