"did" and "said" are the only two important things in your past

Have you ever thought that of all your life and years ... the two things that really matter... the only two things that are of any importance in your past are  "did" and "said" ?

Now, you may think that  "thoughts" is one of them too.  But!  Thoughts are things said to yourself.  Besides, thoughts usually become "dids" or "saids" eventually.

Case -in-point...my mom did and said a lot right before she died.   That's what I remember most about her.  The last things she did ...and...the last things she said.  Especially the last things she said.  I made a point to memorize those "said" things, because I knew those last words really mattered to her.  And I helped her complete all her "did" things.   I've held onto those words and actions.  I play them over in my mind. 

You can see what I'm saying and doing right now, can't you?   Whatever we do and say is what people remember about us.   It doesn't matter what we look like, what we wear, what we own, or what we learn.  It only matters what we "did" or "said".  Words and actions...those two explain it better, at least you may think so.   But I like  "did" and "said".   Why ?   Because they stick with me. 
And think about it, everything is past tense.   Seriously.   It's not what you are going to say.   It's not what you are going to do.  None of that really matters at all.   None of those so-called promises matter a-hill-of-beans (whatever that means).   Only things that matter are what you've physically or verbally put out there in space, tangible stuff, what others hear and observe of you.
My alcoholic dad promised us a lot.  And that meant nothing to us.  We always had the attitude that we'd believe it when we saw it.  Well, yeah, when we were young, we hung on his every word.  But ,we soon got over that.  
So, if you want to break it all down, if you want to know what is the most important things in your life that matters, what you really need to focus on...focus on these two things..."did" ...and... "said".  If you can get those two things right, you'll be remembered kindly and with much love..see

What??? A forgotten memory ???

Why is it that when one begins to wake-up...just coming out of sleep...a long forgotten memory surfaces?  How is that possible?  How 'do' our minds work?  I wasn't even awake, but my mind showed me a mental picture of another dear ol' dad memory.
So I'm just beginning to wake-up, as I just said, and I see, in my mind's eye, this sheet that is covering a wing-backed chair, with steam coming up and out through it, in the living room of my parents' house.  And as I come to myself, I think,  "I remember that!"
Yeah.  My alcoholic dad was such a kidder.  Made me a little afraid of him at times, though.  He liked to play pranks on people...mostly his naive children or irritated wife.  Yeah.   You'd probably refer to those as being punked nowadays.   He liked to do the oddest things to surprise us, and to laugh at us, and generally get a really good kick-out-of-it...for his own pleasure. 
He was a witty man, very witty.  Almost like Archie Bunker, when it came to mom, and like the bully on the Little Rascals when it came to us.  But, I can say he kept our life interesting.   And he could tell stories that made your hair stand-up on your skin...all over your body! 
But, I was remembering that chair with that sheet and that steam, wasn't I?  So, my sister had fallen asleep in 'his' chair.  And, since she hadn't gone-off to bed like a good little girl, and had inconvenienced him, he decided to teach her a lesson and have some fun at the same time.
He took the old vaporizer, and a sheet and pulled it over the wing-back chair.  Then, we all sat back and watched as the steam engulfed that chair, and sheet, and my sister.  I really don't remember what "scent or odor" that dad put on that cotton ball, in the little cup that was used for mentholatum to easy a child's breathing.  But, knowing dad it must have been bordering on cruel.
So, there we sat.  And one thing dad hadn't counted on was that, my sister couldn't be awakened for anything, once she had fallen sleep.  I knew  that for sure.  Nights that I was afraid of 'whatever'...I'd try to wake her --- to no avail.   And so, we all just sat there waiting for her to get spooked, I guess, but the only thing she did was to move her arm and pull that sheet down, foiling dad's little scheme.
Funny, I had thought I remembered all there was to remember, when writing in my journals, and eventually in my books.  But here I am this morning, awakened to a memory that I had totally forgotten.  Just goes to show  ya' --- there's more in one's memory bank than initially meets the mind's eye...see

a hard day's work

Never does a body feel more alive than when its been put through a hard day's work.   One thing my alcoholic dad taught us was to work hard.   He also taught us several other things as well.   Have a firm handshake, look people straight in the eye, if you want to have a friend--- be a friend first, courtesy is the only way to be,  respect all your elders---especially your boss, honesty brings about trust.  
All those things would have had a better impact, if my alcoholic dad had lived that in his own life.  But, sadly, he fell short in all those areas.  He just couldn't rise to the level of his own philosophies.
There was one piece of wisdom that allowed him this lack of follow-through in those areas of decent moral behavior.  His most famous line to us, his four children was; "Do as I say.  Not as I do."
Yeah, it worked (for him) every time...see  

Off and Running !!!

Off to a Writers' Conference Today .....much to do and much to anticipate !!! 
Always hope...always hope....always hope...never let that hope dissipate. 
Hope is what keeps us alive, shares our goals, and makes us get up every morning...God's mercies are renewed every morning...and thank God for that !

winging it today...sort of a holiday story

It's one thing to just look in my journal, and pull-out notes from another memory by way of this reliable source.  It's quite another to just wing it.  So, here I go. 
My sister and brothers say they don't hold the same memories that I have.  But, they also say they can't remember much of anything, of what happened when they were younger.   My husband is the same way.   His younger memories are very vague and foggy.  That has always amazed me.  Not that they do not remember their past childhoods...but that I do. 
Hundreds of childhood memories are forever etched in my brain.  For good or bad, my childhood memories just keep playing over and over.  A smell of some scent...a brownie...a certain item...like an aluminum clad, silver christmas tree complete with that circular, tri-colored, rotating light...things like these automatically trigger my memories.  Yeah, that's what my mom liked...she thought it was very modern and visible from the road...which so doesn't explain another memory of her reaction to an ultra-modern plastic black, orange, and yellow pole lamp that dad bought her for a gift. 
Actually, truth-be-told, dad wanted it located by 'his' chair... so he could get a better look at those girlie pictures.  But, he made it out to be a present for mom...so she'd accept it and put it in her living room.  Did not go over well.  She said she would have to take it back and get something in an early American style.   That was when dad blew-up.  We kids knew it.  All of us were cringing in our seats...hoping against hope that our mom would smile and lie, and say she really really liked it.  But no, mom had this way of pushing dad's buttons.
So, that gift ended up in about a zillion pieces, as dad vented and took it out on that poor lamp.  I wasn't too disappointed that time.  That was one ugly lamp.  Mom later told me that honesty is always best no matter the outcome.  And then she added, she just couldn't stand the thought of having to look at that hideous lamp in her living room. 
She had picked her battle, and had decided that whatever flack she got from dad was going to be worth it, not to have to live with that lamp...but we all had to put up with that stupid silver aluminum tree year after year... see

that stupid stick horse and that stupid door !

Like I was saying, my dad hated for us to go to the doctor.  Grin and bear it...be a big man...don't be a sissy and cry...just deal with it...get over it...yeah those were his favorite lines.  Guess his dad never let him go to the doc either.  
But one day, when all of us were there.  It was the holidays...and dad had come home...and meager toys were given us by our parents, whom we thought to be santa claus.  And, there were those two stick ponies that my brothers got for gifts.
I was happy for them.  As thrilled as they were, you would have thought they were real, live ponies.  So, the day started with them riding their ponies through the house.  Dad told them to take their fun outdoors.  And since our storm door had a broken latch that 'never' latched...my brothers went all the way down the hall, galloping through the living room to get to the porch by way of that door. 
As luck or fate that stupid door would not allow my youngest brother to pass!  And wouldn't you know it!  My dad had actually changed the screen with the winter glass replacement pane!  And wouldn't you know it...my dear little baby brother had smashed through that glass door pane and proceeded on through it.  Well, fact was, only his arm did.  And blood was gushing everywhere!  He nearly fainted, as we got him into the bathroom. 
Then my dad did three things that I'll never forget.  First, he used the line.."be a big man and don't cry"...on my baby brother, the one I always took such good care of!   Second, dad said to mom that in no way was he going to take my baby brother to the hospital.  Third, he took down the Merthiolate and poured it all over my baby brother's arm, as blood and red medicine ran down the drain, until I thought I was going to pass-out !
I don't know if dad had had alcohol that morning.  He was at home that weekend, and that usually meant lots of bottles lying around.  But my poor baby brother was in so much pain.  Mom gave him some baby aspirins and bandaged his right arm.  And that was the end of that holiday. 
Not a great story, but a true one...see

don't EMBARRASS ME please!

My dad had so many complexities to his personality.  If he was happy, he certainly wasn't drinking.  But sometimes, if he was stern, he wasn't drinking either.  When dad was drinking he was always belligerent, and insulting, and ridiculing, and nasty, could be very nasty or potty-mouthed.   But with his many moods, he could be just cold-hearted with his words, even when sober. 
One day in a seemingly happy mood, he took his four children to the zoo.  We didn't care where  we went with our dad.  The stinkin' country was so boring ...nothing to do there.  And dad worked out of town a lot, for various reasons.  I'll eventually get into all the reasons why that was the case.  So, being with dad was a treat for us.  Mom used to say that he was no more than like a visiting uncle, who'd take us places and buy us things (cheap things, very cheap things) and have fun with us.  He hated disciplining us, because he saw us so rarely.
So there we were, at the zoo!  Now it wasn't very expensive to get into the zoo, not back then...a dime a piece.  Dad could handle that, as it didn't dip into his personal funds all that much.  Well, I mentioned in passing that, I had some fears and phobias.  One of those was my fear of going blind....and there's a very good reason for me fearing that malady, too.  But, that's another story, for another day.
Now that zoo park had the entrance right at the bottom of a very steep hill.  Well, unknown to my dad, I had challenged myself to keep my eyes closed all the way up to the top of that long, steep hill...just to see what it was like to walk as a blind person.  I thought I was being really courageous to do that, since I had that certain fear, you know. 
Dad didn't think so.  As we ascended that hill, I had strayed from my family, because it's very difficult to go straight when blind, and so, I was way behind them and to the right of them as well..  They had climbed that hill, and was watching the antics of a massive gorilla in the first outdoor observation cage.  I heard everyone laughing and  screaming.   But, I was determined to meet my goal and 'not' open my eyes, not until I felt the ground  beneath my feet level-out.  That's one thing about a hill, you can tell that you are walking at an incline even with your eyes closed.
Well, unknown to me was that, that creepy gorilla was doing his job, and was investigating it as he did so, by placing his hand on his behind.  My dad turned to see where his little girl was, just as that gorilla decided to throw his job out towards the zoo visitors!   
And then and there, with all those other people around us, dad screamed at me. "Why are you being so stupid and walking with your eyes closed?  Sara Jane! ...Look out !"
No really, he only screamed out that, I should look-out for what was coming my way.  But his tone of voice came through loud and clear, and that's what 'I' heard.   That's what I thought the other people heard too, that tone in his voice.   Dad did pull me over and ask why I was walking with my eyes closed, saying that it was stupid thing to be doing.  But, how could I know that gorilla poop was going to miss me by only a mere inch!
There I was proud as could be at my accomplishment, and it was not at all received well by my dad...the one person I so wanted to please.  And that's a memory of yet another story of mine.  Enough for today, or these other stories will go on and on...see

My Own Mother was wild as the Indians!

Another humorous story to be told...my sister and I spent one week every summer with our wealthy city cousins. That's where we learned to ride 'their' bikes, and where we were 'privileged' to ride in those rumble-seats of those Model-T Fords that their dad, our uncle, renovated for his hobby.  And, where we ate pretty darn well, too, I might add.  When our aunt went to the store she bought what her children wanted.  None of that; maybe there will be enough grocery money for that next week, kind of stuff.
So, sadly, it was time for our mom to come and pick us up from our week long, city-time fun.  We didn't want to leave.  Oh!... how we didn't want to leave !  Life was like heaven there.  Ice cream trucks every night came right to your door!   Street lights shined all night long....no silent, still darkness of nothingness, not at all like in the country.    (Another phobia of mine...fear of the darkness.)
We have so much fun sharing toys, and especially bikes, with our city cousins.  They were the cousins that always got  toys from grandma and grandpa.  We had to get pj's or socks and underwear, or gloves and hats.  Always the stuff we so needed that winter and didn't have already.  They got the toys...pretty darn nifty toys too.  I always calculated in my mind that those toys must have cost way more than our socks and underwear did.  But, what did I know?  I was just a kid and knew nothing of the high price that Sears put on their all cotton under garments.
 I had never heard of the country mouse and the city mouse...but we were the country mice,for sure.  But, now for the Indian part of my story.  You see, my sister and I had long hair...really long hair.  Mom hated to wash and comb and braid our long hair.  We were even in a contest once, where the longest braids won something, (I don't remember what.) if theirs were the longest braids in our city contest.  We even got our pictures posted in the newspaper and the length of our braids were noted.  Some stupid girl that hadn't cut her hair all her life won.  She was probably a pentecostal kid.  Which, by-the-way, my dad's mother was one,and didn't want our dad to get our hair cut---ever!---either.
Anyhow, that certain aunt was a beautician.  She loved playing with our long hair...so she said.  She told us she wanted us to look very nice and groomed for when our mom came to pick us up.  We nearly cried that that was the last day there with that rich family.  But, at the least, we were going to enjoy a final meal together.  Not knowing it would be our hairs' final meal, too!
So, we all sat down to eat.  Mom had arrived to take us home.  The mothers absolutely insisted that the boys sit in the back at the wall on the bench, and the girls were to sit on the outside of the table, in the chairs.   No big deal,right?  We had steaming hot, hot dogs, root beers, and potato chips in front of us...and all was good!
Next thing we knew!  We heard those deafening, awful sounds of scissors cutting, and felt the awful tug of our long braids, as simultaneously, our mom 'and' our aunt sniped-off all four braids --- to the very nap or our necks!!!  We were in shook!  Both of us lost our appetites in and instant!  We immediately ran to find a mirror, of  course!   Into two of the bedrooms we flew.  To our horror, our chopped hair was flopping around our ears!
Mom and my aunt laughed heartily at their sneaky, horrific plan going so well, as they watched us flee our last meal in terror.  I'll never forget the sound of those scissors.  I'll never forget their callous laughs.  But mostly, I'll never forget how my own mother got such pleasure out of offending my grandmother and my dad...by scalping us.  And she didn't even drink alcohol!!!
We kept our braids in a small paper bag, way up high in our closet...almost like a dead loved one in an urn.  Every once in  awhile we'd take them down and just hold them, remembering how it was to have beautiful long hair for which our father told us we were so beautiful.  Never again did either or us have such long flowing locks.  And I won't even go there...where mom, dad, and grandma had it out over our short hair.
So, another memory...but not at the expense of any grievances for my dad...see