A Woman of Class

My paternal grandparents moved west from Iowa in the early 1900's. I'm not sure when exactly, but my father was their fourth child, and the first one born in New Mexico, in 1909.

I believe Grandma came from a fairly well-to-do family, and she may have "married down" a bit when she wed my Granddad, who was a carpenter. In any case, they had a nice home with nice furniture, some of which he made. Their fortunes changed when he fell ill with tuberculosis and was unable to work. Doctors told them he might have a chance if they moved to a dry climate, and like many others around that time, they packed up their household goods and moved to New Mexico with three small children. With what little money they had left, they bought a small two or three room house.

Granddad was bedfast, and the family now had no money, so Grandma went to work in a laundry and in a bakery to support them. Between jobs, she rushed home to check on her husband and children.

"Oh, Vi," he groaned, "my back just hurts so..." He was unable even to change positions in bed without help, and the children were too small.

 "Papa's not dead yet," they would say when they met her at the door.

 Their father's health slowly improved. He was never again able to do a full day's work, but he found small jobs to do at his own pace, for the local lumber yard and for the city. Grandma was able to quit the laundry job.

The children contributed, too. They learned how to work at home, and as soon as they were old enough, they industriously sought chores outside the home that people would pay them to do. And every penny was brought home to their mother to help meet the needs of the family. It was this kind of work ethic that earned the family the respect of the community and a higher social standing than one would expect at their level of poverty.

Grandma also made sure that, despite their reduced circumstances, all of her children knew that they were "somebody", and more was expected of them in the way of character, hard work, education, and service. More was expected of them than of others. They must never forget that they represented the family in everything they did. I don't think she ever told them, you are a better "class" of people than some, but she made sure they knew they were not a lower "class" than anyone.

The oldest girl, after high school, went to work for the telephone company and paid for her sister to go to teacher college, and they both paid for four year college educations for their youngest sister and oldest niece. My father took his younger brother under his wing in a business partnership, and served his community in city government.

 My much older brother was the last grandchild to grow up under the influence of our matriarch grandmother, who passed away about the time he graduated from high school, and I was about three. He attributes to her a feeling he refers to as his "superiority complex". He does have one, but not in a bad way, if you get my meaning.

 I still have some thinking to do before I can say how much of my grandmother's influence trickled down to me. I think I'm often a character, but not always classy. It must be in the blood somehow, though, because my daughters are amazingly fine young women.

This week three of them were at my house for breakfast, for my second daughter to meet her new niece, my granddaughter, for the first time. The bookcase under the window was made by my father, the baby's great-grandfather, who was also a pretty good carpenter. And the table was shipped on the train from Iowa by my grandmother, the baby's great-great-grandmother, over 100 years ago.

Skipping Rocks and Puppy Dog Tales

Today is my cousin Don's birthday. I will always remember the summer he went on the road with my family, and we had our birthdays in Del Norte, Colorado. First there was my birthday, when Billy gave me a sparkly elephant pin that I treasured for years. The next day the puppies were born, and then the next day was Don's birthday. He was 16 and I was 11.

There were five of us kids that summer. It could've been the best summer, had I not been the youngest and smallest, and still a child. The others were all teenagers and found it both necessary and convenient to lord it over me most of the time. Billy was 13 and very tall and good-looking. He had been my friend the summer before, when there was no Patty or Don, and my older sister kept strictly to herself and her teen magazines and nail polish. This year Patty, 14 going on 20, was traveling with her aunt, who was somehow related to the show's owner. And Don had come with us. The four older kids formed a close-knit group, exploring the towns and hanging out during the daytime hours, shooting the bull and listening to Billy's large and complete collection of Elvis records before the show opened in the late afternoon. I was forced into the unhappy position of a tag-along little sister, and they never let me forget it.

Thankfully, I had Susie, a little reddish-brown dachshund who had joined our family in Lovington at the end of May. Daddy had parked the trailer in an actual trailer park for the week, and we had hot and cold running water and a small grassy front yard just as if we actually lived there. I had been playing with the little dog all afternoon and was already calling her Susie, when Daddy came home from a long, hard day of setting up the rides.

"Hello there, Susie!" he greeted her, his eyes sparkling and his face crinkling in a smile as he leaned down to pet her. He looked so happy, I recall, realizing now what a special treat it must have been for him to have his family with him for the summer now, after a long spring, during which we would arrive Friday night to work the weekend and leave Sunday evening to be home for school on Monday morning. When Daddy opened the screen door, Susie hopped right into the trailer, the first jump onto the floor and the second jump onto the couch, where she settled happily as if she belonged there.

I played with the little dog every day. Surprisingly, my mother encouraged it. Leave that stray alone, and whatever you do, don't feed it, or you'll never get rid of it, was a lesson already ingrained in me for life. She had observed what I didn't: when I was otherwise occupied, Susie roamed the neighborhood begging for food and affection. Children abused her, holding her upside down and beating her with a stick. On tear-down day, when Mama had finished cleaning the concession trailer and house trailer and all was packed for the move, she suggested we take a walk. We walked around the block with Susie, and Mama spoke to people out in their yards, and even knocked on a couple of doors. No one could say for sure, but everyone believed the dog had belonged to some folks who left her behind when they moved out of the trailer park.

When we left, Susie went with us.

In Roswell, the rides were set up on a busy parking lot beside the main thoroughfare, and it was dangerous for a little dog to run loose. Daddy told Susie and me to come with him, and we carried her right into Sears, where he bought her a nice leather harness and leash. She stepped along at the end of that leash like a show animal, head and tail held high; she was a little princess of a dog, and everyone who saw her smiled.

After Roswell, we traveled north to join the big carnival Daddy had booked us on for the summer. The weeks went by as we moved from town to town, and it became apparent to my parents why someone had abandoned such a fine little dog. Susie's middle grew until she became a big round ball with a head and tail and little short legs, and she had to be lifted into the trailer and up onto the couch. She gave birth there on a old folded blanket, and my sister and I watched and encouraged her. "You can do it, Susie!"

("How do people have babies?" I asked Mama. "The same way," she replied, matter-of-factly.)

Daddy had to help the last one out, which was breech and stillborn.

Since she was my dog, I named her puppies: Sweetie Pie, Sugar Plum, and Honey Bunch were pretty reddish-brown pups like their mother; the others, who were different shades of tan with brown markings, I called Billy, Patty, and Ringo.

In just a few weeks, we were back home for school to start. For the first time in four years, my best friend and I were in the same class, where we made two new close friends, and were all cheerleaders for one of the sixth grade football teams. In the afternoons when I walked home, I was met by six excited, wiggling puppies! Life was good.

Sugar Plum and Honey Bunch were given to good homes. Billy and Patty went with some people visiting our neighbor, and we long enjoyed reports of their wonderful lives on a farm in Arkansas. Susie and the last pretty little girl puppy, Sweetie Pie, just disappeared one day. We never knew for sure what had happened to them, but neighbors had seen the city dogcatcher's truck skulking about. For many years after that, the dogcatcher and families all up and down the street where he lived had pretty little dachshunds in their yards, and my mother muttered almost under her breath yet still in her deep, angry voice, "...them pretty little dogs...that thievin' SOB...!"

Ringo, the one puppy who was not especially pretty, was the only puppy left, and went on to live his own life stories.

************

I'd like to go back and visit Del Norte, where so many memories began. The Rio Grande was just outside of the town, within easy walking distance of the lot, and Daddy took me there and taught me to skip rocks across it. Sometimes during the week when the teenagers were being mean, I walked to the river alone and skipped rocks while daydreaming and thinking faraway thoughts. I had never thought of the Rio Grande being anywhere but in New Mexico while on its way to become the border line between Texas and Old Mexico, far south of where I lived. It was a surprisingly big river in Colorado, unlike what I was used to seeing in Albuquerque and further south where river water was diverted for irrigation and other purposes.

Forty years later I taught the oldest and youngest of my daughters to skip rocks across the Rio Grande on the edge of Texas in Big Bend National Park.

It's Raining!

I can't believe it's raining! Thank you, Don*! I really didn't believe any moisture would make it this far north in Texas. I'd like to be out in it, dancing, glorifying, but there's this dog sitting on my foot.


We were out on the porch and I was noticing some small, but puffy, gray clouds floating around, when CRACK! THUNDER suddenly boomed and even rolled a little. It's been so long, the dogs have forgotten. Frankie and Harley hurried from their respective spots in separate yards to where I sat in my chair by the connecting gate, and Chelsea... Well, Chelsea actually tried to climb up in my lap! She's a little too big for that now. She was almost too big the last time she did it, frightened by fireworks on the Fourth of July three years ago as a six month old grown pup.

Now it's over. I'm so wishing for more, and more, and more to soak into this dry, dusty yard of mine.

Chelsea still hovers, licking my feet, pawing my leg, lying against my foot - any and all reassuring contact with Mom.

I'm about to disappoint her. I'm going back out and try and attract some more. A rain dance, perhaps. 


 *Tropical Storm Don, now giving some relief to parts of south Texas and Mexico.

My Quilt Journal

This morning I started a new blog to share and write about my quilts. I'm not sure how to direct you to it other than type the url, or suggest you go to my profile and click on that blog.

http://fabricofourlives-byjudeann.blogspot.com

I like blogger, and am figuring out what I want to do here. This quilt journal is a must. Judyism, my original blog, will trend more toward memoirs - the telling of stories from my past experiences that make me "Me". There will be at least one more blog to come. I'm not sure anyone is actually reading me yet, including my "followers", but that's all right now. I just need to write about stuff. And if others - family, friends, quilting buddies and dog friends - find it interesting, that will make it fun.

The Birth of a Quilt

The Deer Quilt

(for son-in-law)

My favorite time with a quilt is just after its first wash (hand wash, of course), when I'm drying it on the line, snipping little threads and watching the quilting design pop out.

It's similar, actually, to feelings experienced just after the birth of your child. The work is all done, the hullabaloo is over, and both you and your baby have been washed clean and sweet-smelling, swaddled in your large and small blankets, and left alone to get acquainted. Oh, you already know one another very well - so many months you have spent together in this process of creation and growth! Now it is done, and with pride and love swelling your heart until you feel you may burst, you thoroughly examine this new thing, each crease and seam, each point and curve, and caress its incredible softness. No matter where this child or this quilt may go during its lifetime, it will always be a part of you.

If you look for imperfections, you are sure to find them for none but God is perfect. The birthmark at the base of the spine, the elfin ear, Grandpapa's nose... none of them matter. This is the most beautiful child you have ever seen.

We are more critical of our quilts as we note the slight pattern variation caused by the misplaced square or the substitution for fabric that didn't go quite far enough, and always in my creations, the quilting that meandered off into next block when it wasn't supposed to. It can be very disappointing if we allow it - we hope to someday make the perfect quilt! I'm reminded of the lesson of the Amish, who are widely known for their beautiful, exact quiltmaking. They intentionally include a mistake in every quilt to glorify God. It is a visible reminder that only God can be perfect.

How often throughout the quiltmaking process do I say, "Well... there's my one mistake," and a little bit later, "Well... there's my other one mistake." And later: "Well... there's another one." Hallelujah!

Back of the quilt, in sun and shadow

Chelsea and Frankie showing how good they'd look

on it, back when the top was just completed

A Secret Pleasure

Teehee! It's not what the title would lead you to believe - it's another dog blog!

 Frankie, my 100 lb pitbull mix, is often called "Mister". Mister Personality, Mister Enthusiasm, Mister Tippy-tail. Head into the kitchen, and he leaps up and bounces after you, toenails tap-dancing on the wood laminate floor. The more noise, the better, he thinks, as he clatters across the tiles to the corner cabinet which houses the large box of dog biscuits. By this time, Chelsea is prancing and dancing along as well, and in the bedroom, Harley has sprung up from his lumpy imitation of a wooley rug and is bobbing back and forth behind the hallway gate. You reach through the crowd of noses (yes, two can be a crowd) to get three bones from the box. Frankie takes his and runs back across the kitchen and living room to leap onto the couch and crunch it up, Chelsea hunkers down and eats hers right there on the kitchen floor, and when you pass Harley's through the gate, he whips around and hops onto his futon at the foot of the king-size bed. Throughout the evening, they beg for milk bones, and ALWAYS it's an all-for-one, one-for-all deal - everybody gets one. If one of the three happens to have gone outside, we wait for him to come back in. We do this three or four times every night.

Eventually I slip through the gate to get ready for bed and let Harley out the utility door. Chelsea and Frankie jump up to go out with Jack, as he picks up his lighter and taps out a final cigarette from his pack. When they all come back in, they complete the ritual by having one last dog treat before Chelsea joins Harley and me for the night.

The other night Frankie and Jack could not go to sleep. Frankie especially was still restless long after the other dogs and I were sawing logs in the other room. He began to be quite pestersome, so the story goes, hopping up beside Jack and whiskering him in his face, then jumping back down to the floor and pushing a cold nose in his ear.

"Do you want something?" asked Jack. Smiles and wags replied, "Uh huh."

 Jack sat up and whispered to the dog: "Okay. But we have to be quiet about this - absolutely quiet!" He could hardly believe what happened next.

 Frankie turned and walked slowly on the pads of his feet making no noise whatsoever on the way to the cabinet in the kitchen. He sat very still, waiting as Jack carefully extracted a milk bone from the box and handed it to him. Then, he walked slowly and soundlessly back to the couch and stepped - not jumped - STEPPED up onto it, curled up with his face to the wall, and ate the treat with as little crunching as possible.

 He never ceases to amaze.

The Prankster

FRANKIE

One day I brought home a package of three hard rubber, high-bouncing balls as a surprise for three bouncy dogs. They were curious and full of sniffs, but not overly excited as I led them out onto the big cement slab we called the patio. But when I tossed the first one down and it rebounded high in the air, the game was on! Balls and dogs were all over the place, and if somebody else snatched your ball just before you could get it, it was no big deal, you just ran after another one. Every once in awhile, one of the balls would get lost under something, and Jack and I would help find it quickly before anybody started feeling left out. It was a fun, fun playtime.

After a bit, though, two balls were lost at the same time. Frankie still had his, held under one outstretched paw as he rested on his brisket with the other paw curled in toward his chest. Surprisingly, he just watched as the rest of us hunted everywhere - usually he'd be right in front of you everywhere you looked, completely blocking your view while he stuck his nose in first. Harley and Chelsea eventually gave up, greatly disappointed, and started looking for other dog things to do. The game was over.

I was pretty impressed that Frankie wasn't tossing and bouncing his ball, rubbing it in. Then as I strolled past him, I happened to catch his eye, and it was absolutely sparkling. He saw me looking at him, and then he was grinning. Did he? Could he have? I leaned over to look, and sure enough, just under his chin and hidden behind his paw, were the two missing balls.



He's the mischievous boy! What can you do? I motioned to Jack, who quietly made his way over to see what I'd found, and then the three of us all had a good laugh. Chelsea and Harley glanced up curiously from their dog business for a moment, then got back to it.