KITH AND KIN

Today, I share a portion of a letter dated 1889 written by my great-great-grandmother, and yes, I have the original in its envelope, as well as others. I treasure these letters that speak of what we would consider mundane things... coach rides to town, Sunday church services, the state of  friends and relatives, and so much more. 

My dear daughter,

It is night, past nine o'clock, and your Pa has just come into his room where he has a good fire. He is all alone with a candle on a little stand and is writing to his sweet child. He got a letter yesterday from Cousin Annie and one from Sister. He was sorry to hear that Aunt Mary is ill and my dear daughter's throat is not yet well.

It has turned cold today, but I have a good piney woods fire to go to bed by. I hope that you also have fire to warm your feet. Little Herndon is down on the hearth keeping me company. He has been at school only four months and reads very well, writes some, and spells wonderfully for his age and time at school.

I'm not much of a walker these days, having broken myself down last summer going up the mountain to your watermelon patch. I would never have gotten to the top if it weren't for you and Alex. He pulled and you pushed and at last I found myself on the top. It was a spectacular view.

I'm getting a little cold and will stop writing for this time. Hoping to hear from you soon. I remain as ever your loving and affectionate...

Mother

Times like these are long gone but the sweetness and simplicity of the words live on.

Peace,

Barb

*FELINE FRIDAY*

Ah, the feline...my favorite animal. Today, I'll share my fur children with you, all ten of them - seven of my own and three inherited from my son and his fiancé when they moved.

TEN! you say...not so much when taking care of them is a labor of love. A routine helps, plus separating several who would cause mayhem or have mayhem done to them. 

ROUTINE:

    Morning: 1. Turn on coffee...oh yes, must have fortification.

                     2. Open blinds, let sun in. Stand in window and

                        greet the day.

                     3. Rinse and refill cat water bowl.

                     4. Change cat boxes.

                     5. Divide cat food into three bowls...an important step.                                    They know their spots, two to each bowl.

                     6. Place food on floor. Step back. :)

                     7. Make coffee. Ahhhhhhhh.

                     8. Relax in living room with morning news.

                     9. Playtime during the day with toys and red dot. :)

       

     Evening: 1. Feed basement cats. They have dry one day, wet the
                        next.

                     2. Refill dry food bowl for first floor cats.

                     2. Clean and refill water bowls for all.

                     3. Clean boxes for all.

                    4. Playtime with red dot. :)

PICTURES: :)

So little pampering, rewarded with a lifetime of purrs and love.

Peace
Barb

*THURSDAY TALES*

Today's post is in remembrance of my sister, who died May 15, 1963.

THE LOSS

My parents  had been so very careful. The new bridge where the children were gathering bugs for their biology projects appeared secure. If the children were alert, they would be safe.

Around 7:00, Mama drove my sisters to the bridge. Carrie only needed five more bugs for her science project, and the twins were anxious to help. Parking on the grass and giving her children last minute instructions to stay off the highway, Mama settled to read. Other children were there also. Mama could hear them shouting to each other as they found their prizes. She smiled, for they were all so perfect and dear, each in their own way.

She heard a new sound, and as it drew closer, she became apprehensive. A car passed her, traveling at a high rate of speed, and she could see two men in the front seat, one wearing a hat. It all happened so fast. Hearing a horrible sound, Mama immediately left her car, running onto the bridge. She could see a man kneeling over a small body on the pavement. The man said repeatedly, “What have I done?”

Her heart stopped, and she began calling her children. “Carrie, Ellen, Marie?” One of Carrie’s friends ran up, then Carrie and one of the twins. Mama called for her missing child. “Ellen, Ellen?”

Carrie’s friend said, very softly, “I’m so sorry.”

Time stopped for mother. She ran, pushing the man away, and knelt by her child, feeling for her heartbeat. Ellen was so small, lying there on the pavement, her face turned to one side. As Mama stroked her cheek and ran her hand down her neck, she stopped, for blood ran down the road in rivulets. She refrained from turning her child's head, not wanting to see the destruction. She told Carrie and her sister to sit on the curb, covering the small body with her own, trying to spare them from seeing what she had seen.

A police car pulled up. Two officers emerged, and their only comment was, “How are we going to get him out of this one?” 

They made no move to see who the child was or to help the woman kneeling over her body. The man who hit my sister had been drinking, wishing only to scare the little girl by the side of the road.

The police called an ambulance to take my sister to the hospital, telling Mama to wait for her husband. She knew it was no use going in the ambulance. My sister had died instantly from the impact. Carrie’s friend called my father, and when she told him what had happened, he put the phone down and left tthe house, running down the middle of the street. 

A cousin picked him up and took him to his car. At the bridge, Daddy hurriedly collected his family and drove to the hospital, blowing the horn all the way. Mama said, “Darling, don't hurry. It's too late. She’s already dead.”

At the hospital, the family doctor and assisting nurses were around the small body, wanting to do something to ease the agony. Mama went over to the table where my sister was lying. She wanted to say goodbye to her child.

Time, if you let it, heals many things. The pain of remembering is still there, only more bearable. After two years of torment, Mama sent a message to her spirit child. “I'm going to forget you for a while, or I will not be able to continue.” She gradually returned to us, giving love absent too long.

*WEDNESDAY WALK*

Good morning. :) Take a few moments, sit back, and enjoy today's images. 

You are there - in a boat or taking a walk, enjoying nature's beauty. What do you feel - the wind, the warmth on your skin? What do you hear - waves lapping on the shore, birdsong, the happy voices of children? What do you smell - fresh cut grass, the wood of an ancient tree?

Let your mind wander and relax.

Stay safe and well, my friends.

Peace,

Barb

KITH AND KIN

If I could have one wish, I would be back in my mama's house. I loved her company.  She was a brilliant woman with a wicked sense of humor.  I think she knew me better than anyone, and for the most part, she was a delight. We spent many times in the car on the way from one place to another, discussing ethereal topics, her mind wandering as far as mine. She seemed to know no limits in her imagination and I found her a joy. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as fascinating.  

I remember sitting in Grandma's kitchen when young, watching Mama cook.  She was a fantastic creator of food. Despite what you had in your kitchen, she would produce a delicious meal.  I asked her how she would feel if I died, and she answered, “I would cry for the rest of my life.”  That, to a paranoid kid, meant the world.

She was fixing dinner in a pressure cooker, leaning over to inspect the pot, and it blew up in her face.  I remember her consoling me in my terror, telling me that she would be fine as she was taken to the hospital.  I counted every second until she returned, her face wrapped in gauze.  Luckily, she suffered no real damage.

Another memory…she made wonderful donuts and shook them in a bag of sugar.  My sweet tooth raged as I watched.

When I was around 12, my parents discovered I could sing.  I hid it from them for a long time, letting them think that it was the radio. She was so proud and engaged a German voice teacher nearby to give me lessons.  She would sit in the car and read while I sang.

She was a voracious reader, everything she could get her hands on.  It tickled her when we girls shivered as she told us about Rasputin, the mad monk of Russia.  I’ve never forgotten the look on her face as she watched our reactions.

Mom was also a talented writer. I grew up reading her family anecdotes and thoughts on life. She was my inspiration that resulted in my lifetime efforts and recent publications.

She had a good work ethic, often leaving home in later years, traveling several hours away to make a sale.  She could sell clothes to a nudist and no one could resist her charm. I don’t think she ever met a stranger, no matter what race or nationality.  She had many friends and was a friend to them as well. 

My sisters and I were blessed to be her children.

Peace,

Barb

Going through cassette tapes, I've found real jewels, most I'd forgotten. I'll be sharing many in the future from family gatherings over the years. Today, however, I'm in a playful mood. This particular recording was made before karaoke became popular. I still have the record with the instrumental sing-a-longs. I hope you enjoy it. I certainly had fun making it.

From 1973


https://www.facebook.com/barbara.chioffi/videos/vb.600093428/10155671922078429/?type=3/

Good day friends. I have been long absent due to family issues and a bout with depression. In an effort to revitalize my blog, I've decided to post remembrances relating to my family and the many people I've met along the way.

 We all look back on what we've accomplished, what we meant to do but didn't, and what we did but shouldn't have. With my sense of humor and belief in the good in everyone, I'll post the successes and failures I've experienced during my 75 years.

Postings will be on Tuesdays and Fridays with occasional meanderings when the mood allows.


Ship of Dreams was written shortly after my mother passed in 1996.

SHIP OF DREAMS

I have come home to my father’s house for the last time. My sisters and I are here to lay my mother to rest. She followed my father several years after his passing, dying on their wedding anniversary. There is a sense of regret that I did not have a chance to say goodbye to either of them. As with my father, Mother was cremated. Ashes seem such a poor representation of a person’s essence.

This is also my final visit to the house that has been my companion for many years. My grandparents owned the house until their deaths when it passed to my father. We moved to the house when I was fifteen, but I remember the many trips from North Carolina to Alabama where I spent every summer with my grandparents. My travels began when I was seven. Mom and Dad would put me on a bus seated behind the driver, who promised to watch me during the ten-hour trip. It was a great adventure.

As I walk into the house, whispers of past events and motion picture memories overcome me. The front hall, now devoid of its countless books, is covered with dust. The shelves are a silent testament to lifetimes of preachers, teachers, and philosophers. Going into my mother’s room brings instant tears. It is empty now, but I can still see her lying on the long, yellow couch, frail and angry that she should be so. Without her presence, the room, the house, seems lonely and forgotten.

There is a palatable sense of loss in three generations of joy, sorrow, everyday events, and whispers in the dark. I am surrounded by sounds of children running through the hall, music from the upright piano in the living room, births and deaths and the old ones who died when their time came. Mementos are gathered--books, an afghan I made for Mom years ago, and other small bibelots. Only unwanted items remain when it is time to leave. The house seems to be saying, “Don’t go. Stay a while longer.”

My siblings and I gather on the front porch, and our sister of the heart and a dear cousin are with us. Comfortable rockers, worn by many sitters, hold us close. Ashtrays and plant stands are friendly reminders of the countless evenings spent with family and friends and the shared camaraderie. We remember evenings sitting silently in the darkness, watching spiders spin their webs. Friends from across the street bring wine, and we sing, talk, laugh, and cry far into the night.

Time passes, leaving bittersweet memories. The house will always be a part of me, of my soul. All that I have loved resided here at one time or another. It was a safe harbor for a ship of dreams.

A safe harbor? A ship of dreams? Yes, but I, the house, am also a keeper of secrets held close in love. My walls have felt and absorbed your emotions and your dreams. You have meant so much to me, all of you. Your goodbyes touched my heart. Yes, a house can have a heart. Built of wood, brick, and mortar, it comes to life when a family moves in with all its hopes and human frailties. Sometimes, the house weeps, sometimes it rejoices, but it always revels in the human condition.

How can I respond to so many souls? Several generations of your family have lived within me--the earliest during the depression, raising their children in a simpler time, and the second, wildly passionate, finding humor and wonder in their children, watching them grow in the same passionate manner.

A life cut short, that of your sister, was the most sorrowful event in all my years with you. A beautiful child, she was torn from her family by a drunk driver trying to scare a little child by the side of the road. I can still see each of you in your pain and grief, trying to comfort each other. Your memories will remain with me forever--your mother who covered her child’s body so the younger sisters could not see her, the father running down the middle of the road toward his injured child, and the oldest daughter, in the days to follow, finding herself giving comfort, tapping into an inner strength she did not know she possessed.

I remember fondly the mornings with you girls and any visiting friends piled on your mother’s bed with cups full, brimming over with coffee and laced with the previous night’s conversations. Also remembered are your parents, sometimes driven by their own private hells, but always seeing their children as precious and unique. They were willing to sacrifice everything for you. Those sacrifices, given freely in love, negated any failings.

There were the happy times, the simple enjoyment of a family being together--poker games until the wee hours, discussions that covered everything, celebrations with neighbors that centered on scintillating conversation, and music--the father and oldest daughter providing the entertainment with their glorious voices.

And the funny things you did. One in particular comes to mind. Barbara, the oldest, ever seeking to shock, but always looking for approval, brought home several albums by Doug Clark and the Hot Nuts. The name of the group was kept from your father. Your mother shuddered, but to her credit, listened with an open mind to the crude jokes and sexual innuendos. She stood it as long as she could, and one night, after several drinks, showed her true feelings by sailing one of the records out the front door and into the bushes.

I will always love each of you. I wept silently as you walked through my rooms for the last time. I knew why you had to leave and watched your departure with a breaking heart. Your sorrow was mine, and if I had wings, I would have carried you back to happier times. You will always be the ideal by which all others are measured. Never again will I experience that pure joy in your lives, the love as I hold you close to myself.

Barbara, you called me a safe harbor for a ship of dreams. I say to you, “You have sailed your course, poorly at times, but always with a faith that has sustained you. I love you past caring and will hold forever, the vision of a tall, proud ship on its quest.”

Peace,

Barb