Friday, August 21, 2009


Well, I told you I would rant and cry on here, so here it is. I miss my dead parents...I miss them everyday, I cry- everyday when I think of them, and it has never gotten any better. I am crying now, but I am also a big mushbag with alot of red hair.

Have you ever thought you would give up ten yrs of your lifespan just to have someone back-the way they once were-healthy and happy- for

I want the lovely afternoon teas me Mum would have waiting for me after school in the parlor. Surrounded by the dolls and dollhouses, handmade lace curtains on windows so clean you thought there was no glass, huge family portraits(which I own) and hard victorian furniture we would meticulously dust and polish every Sat. morn after chores and before my beloved cartoons. There she would be, waiting at the front door of our lovely big white farmhouse when I got off the bus-everyday! Waiting for ME! I always felt so special and loved, she saw to it.

Tea would be set on the marbletop table with the finest bone china one could ask for, daintily painted with flowers and garlands, ribbons and lace. Some of it over 145 yrs old, family heirlooms passed from generations to generations. A teapot, two cups and saucers, delicate little silver spoons and of course sugar cubes in a crystal bowl and matching cream pitcher. It would be sitting on delicate handmade doilies-most from little old ladies who would make them for me for birthday gifts or for my hope chest. The home would always smell of love and cookies, antiques and Murphy's oil soap, old books, and the fresh breads and pies from our orchards and bushes. There on the silver tray on two matching china plates would be what she had made for our private little time together, be it peanut butter cookies, blackberry pie, rasberry tarts or whatever was in season. My favorite was her apple pie, with the crust of her own secret recipe-which she went to the grave with. So buttery and flaky, unlike any I have ever had since.

And there we would sit in our lovely parlor, chatting about our day, reveling in long lost music on our Edison cylander machine with glorious black and gold horn. Sometimes reading to each other, discussing the crops and animals, or perhaps playing piano and harpischord together. Having tea, just special for her and me. OUR time. Precious time.

When an hour had passed, we would clean up our messes, change our clothes and head to the barn together to assemble the milkers, clean and bed the stalls and throw grain down as appetizers for the cows to come in to. Life was bliss.

I consider myself to have had the best childhood and upbringing anyone could have ever wished for, and I consider myself very lucky for that.

Not that all was perfect, by any means. There was lots of sickness(my own and others) and much death, hard work, long hours, and being farmers we never had time to go anywhere unless it was raining. And my Mum was my only friend out in the boonies, on a dirt road surrounded by nothing but fields and woods-but it was perfect to me.

Now onto my Daddy...the man NO MAN will EVER add up to in my eyes. He was(is) my hero, the strongest and hardest working man in the world to me. The man who could make something from nothing, grow anything, animals flocked to him and obeyed his commands, and he could fix anything. And EVERYONE liked him.
Each spring he would cut a V branch from a tree and make me a new slingshot from it and a cut up innertube. And each spring we would practice our aim at tincans on fenceposts. Of course he was an excellent shot, and I just sufficient, but he would smile from ear to ear, face lighting up in pride and tell me I was a fine shot, better than most men, he would say with glee. He also taught me to shoot a double barrel shotgun, drive stick, witch for underground streams, drive tractors, and skin roadkills for the hides to sell. All the while I would be in fine dresses and patent leather buckle shoes. Lets just say Mum wasn't happy about that!
This is the man who taught me to do animal autopsies with him, pointed out and named all the plants, flowers and trees for me, brought me flowers and berries each day that were in season, and brought me to the dingy bar with him while we waited for a pizza in our little village, three miles down the road. He would give me quarters to play the arcade games-I liked pinball, or to play on the jukebox. He would have a couple beers, get me a kneehigh orange soda, and he would chat with the locals. Mainly about farming, the cows, crop prices, or mechanics. Then we would head home with the pizza in the 52 chevy pickup that he had restored that was his fathers. How proud I was to be seen with him, so tall, dark and strong, his hair black as night, skin as red as brick, long lean limbs and those work worn, gnarled hands. His hands, my favorite feature. How I would stare at them, memorizing them as to never forget- each scar, lump, oversized broken knuckles, blackened nails with black and white spots where they had been recently smashed for whatever reason that week. And the veins, raised and snakelike. He used to let me touch them to watch the veins shift and move. His hands, his big smashed hands, the hands that held mine as he would lead me safely through crowds and across streets.
He called me his Sleeping Beauty. I was the first child he ever held, yet he had my three brothers many yrs before me. Since then he has held many grandchildren, but I was the first!

There is a picture I treasure, it is of me Mum and Daddy staring adoringly into a pink cradle, set up in our kitchen. My Mum with a kerchief on her head and pin curlers underneath, wearing one of my Daddy's oversized(for her) workshirts. My Daddy leaning on the edge of that pink cradle, a big content smile on his face, and inside that cradle is me, ME! I was soo loved. And how I loved them. and still do.
So, to answer the question I asked at the beginning of this tome...would you give up ten yrs of your lifespan to have someone back-happy and healthy,, I say yes, in a heartbeat, I would give up twenty.

In memory of Gordon(Leon) Everitt Waldron and Audrey Kateri Richards Waldron, who would have celebrated their 57th wedding anniv on Aug 27. It would also be my Daddy's 82nd birthday. May they rest in peace.

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Morbid greetings all...for now none! hahaha

Tis my first attempt at this thing. Please kind readers, be patient with moi. My hair is heavy and killing braincells as we speak.
This will be the beginnings of my tome, the place I rant and cry, praise and prioratize, create and condemn. At times it will be scary, as the rants of most manic depressive, OCD, bi-polar victims is.
But I am a creator as well, a little bit of everything and nothing. I like to recant stories of family and friends past, at times I will change the names of the guilty, others- to 'ell with em!
A bit of a social butterfly, my weekends are full of parties, festivals and events. If so inclined, I may share some of the moments with you. Now don't judge-we all have skeletons in our closets, I just happen to wear mine for all to see. Being as I stepped out of the box and never plan to go back in, unless they take me away again. j/k or am I? We all have our scars, I just happen to like letting my freak flag fly-example-I have a prominate CIRCUS FREAK tattoo on my upper arm. Hey, you get called a freak enough- you start to believe it, in my case-embrace it-and run like 'ell with it!
Now on to other business-I make things, I am not so dedicated to my creative urges as I used to be-my dream is to have my own private room again- a space to call me own, so I can make one of a kind items for the morbidly inclined-without interruption. Music blasting, dancing as I paint or smash n tear...but in hiding so as bad men in white don't take me away. Don't you wish you had a place to just scream? Throw things? In the safety of your own space? *sigh* Someday again I will have such bliss.
Well dear readers, that is all for now. Stay tuned for more tomes of the morbidly inclined, I do so hope you visit again.