IN WHICH WE SETTLE IN

I'm hoping to stay relatively chronological with these little stories...but they're all over the place and so am I, but we'll be close. Not completely accurate, but relatively close. I wrote them over 45 years ago, tried to clean them up and sort them out a few years ago, and now I'm at it again. So...if you're patient enough, we'll just take them as they come.

I know that Denise and Kristi moved to Dodge City right after  their school year in Oklahoma came to a close. Actually, Darrell was ready to grab you both right out of your classrooms before school ended, while Grandma Lois was hoping to hang onto you for the summer...and beyond, if she could swing it. I do remember the drive from Blair (or my version of it). Kristi sat on my lap while Mickie was in between Darrell and me. It had to be a scary time for all of us...no one really knew what the future held. Denise must have been in the back seat, and I'm sure Pancho (that  snappy little dog) was somewhere in the car. We made the trip in your father's dark green Torino...a newly purchased sexy car with which, perhaps, he had hoped to attract women. And, for this trip, he had four of them...just not quite what he might have had in mind...bless his heart. But, really, we all know, it was exactly what he had hoped for. He wanted his girls back with him and this was the day it was happening.

I had not thought of that Torino in years. I don't remember it as being a large car at all, but it was relatively sleek. He thought it was wonderful. Just for fun, I googled "Torino" to see if the car still existed and what one might bring today. Much to my surprise, prices range from just under $10,000 to a high of $65,000, which must have been a rare model indeed. Maybe it was Clint Eastwood's in the "Grand Torino" movie. I think your dad's was relatively plain...so he could afford it. At that point, he made $18,000 per year--which seemed a lot. I believe I was pulling in somewhere near $4,000. Maybe.

I'm embarrassed to realize that at the time, I missed (or dismissed) how traumatic this whole situation was for you three little girls. I really couldn't point out which of you might have been most affected, but no one escaped unscathed. It was, as we had hoped, a wonderful life for all of us, but not then. And, perhaps, not for some time later. I admire all of you for gritting your teeth and sticking with it. They don't pillory step mothers in every fairy tale for nothing! And, I should apologize for being such a young chick blithely assuming I would create an instant happy family. In my defense, I must remind you that I was in love with your dad and he was in love with me, and we were both in love with you three girls. I mean, when there is that much love......what could possibly go wrong??

I remember that Denise and Kristi came with much nicer wardrobes than Mickie possessed, and more cool dolls for sure...and I also know that when Grandma Lois took on the care and feeding of Denise and Kristi some years earlier, her every dream had come true. The day was late, but she had finally gotten her girls and she made the best of it. Ruffles and organdy and bows and curls and tiny tap shoes. It did not get any better for her than that! And, bless her, she loved every minute of it. And bless you two (Denise & Kristi) for accepting Mickie and me into the fold. I know there were spats from time to time but, I hope, not that many and not that scary.

I also remember Kristi arriving with her rocking chair, which she immediately planted in front of the TV and rocked her way through hours of "The Electric Company". We inherited the player piano purchased, I think, when Denise began taking piano lessons in Oklahoma. I remember that one of Grandma Lois' concerns (among many, no doubt) was the importance of Denise continuing with her piano lessons. G'Ma Lois didn't know that I had a decade of piano lessons and an equal amount of practicing under my belt, and no daughter of mine would not have piano lessons, no matter how much she whined. I always hoped that made G'Ma Lois feel a little better.

I hope that this THS MRS was an early effort, because I do cringe when I read it. But, at the time I thought it was great...so here goes:

"According to 'Good Housekeeping,' 'Women's Day,' and various other periodicals, instilling cultural awareness and appreciation in our children is the moral obligation of every mother in this country. Heaven forfend that I should slack in the area of moral obligations, so I promptly called a friend of mine who gives piano lessons, enrolled our oldest daughter and began anticipating quiet evenings of Chopin nocturnes and Beethoven sonatas.

 After three weeks of lessons, I figured Chopin and Beethoven were at least ten years off, and became content with twenty versions of 'Mary Had a Little Lamb.' After six weeks, Denise had progressed to Five Finger Exercises and her artistic temperament came to the fore.

'Denise, it's 4:30--time to practice',  I would call from the kitchen.

'Do I hafta?' came her reply.'

'Yes. You're taking lessons of your own free will, plus a little shoving, and you are going to practice.'

'Gee, Mommie--Judy only has to practice when she wants to. She doesn't practice every day.'

'I don't care what Judy does. You're not Judy--you're Denise--and you're going to practice.'

'Janie only has to play her pieces once a day. Why do I have to practice a half hour?'

'You're not Janie, either. And, you practice half an hour a day because your teacher and I decided half an hour was the right amount of time. When I was your age Grandma tied me to the piano for one hour every afternoon. How would you like that? Besides, someday you'll thank me for this.'

'Mommie', asked Denise, 'what's thirty divided by four?'

'Seven and a half--and what does that have to do with practicing?'

'Well, I've got four pieces and if I do each of them seven and a half minutes, that'll be my half hour.'

'OK...Good math. Get at it'.

'Let's see--I started at 4:30 so I have to practice til five.'

'Wrong! You've argued since 4:30. It's now twenty til five, which means you practice until ten after five.' 

'Mommie!'

After nearly four minutes of 'Farmer in the Dell' Denise cried: 'Is that seven and a half minutes yet? I can't tell seven minutes on this clock.'

'No. You've still got three and a half minutes to go.'

'Would you tell me when my three minutes is up? I don't want to go over.'

'Hon--I won't let you go as much as a second over the time. OK?'

'OK.'

As the half hour progresses, I notice that the tempo of the songs does too.

'Denise, what was that last song you played?' I asked.

'That was Baby's Lullaby' she answered.

'We could market that to every army base in the United States for Reveille and make a fortune. Now--slow down a bit and think 'baby' and 'lullaby.'

Later--'How was that? Any better?' asked Denise.

'Well, it was slower--can you try for softer now?'

'Is my seven and a half minutes up yet?'

'Not quite. Try the lullaby again.'

Then, after scales, another song and shouts of "F-Sharp, Denise,' and 'E-Flat, Denise,' our half hour ends.

'Time to quit,' shouts Denise. 'Finally!'

'OK,' I sigh. Later, after a few minutes of blessed silence, I once again congratulate myself that our daughter will grow up to be a culturally appreciative young lady. 

In the meantime--does anyone have a cheap pair of fool-proof ear plugs?"

I have to ask. Did anyone really call me Mommie? That does not ring true  at all...but then again I'm much older than I was then. If you did, I'm sure I encouraged it as it would have sounded much more...much more...Mom-like. And I would have liked that. I also don't remember a Janie or a Judy or any names that appear in these columns. Apparently, as a "columnist!" I thought I should use fake names...  It was a long time ago.

July 13, 2019