Girls Without Shoes

May 14, 2009

I Am Not Kiddin’

I am an angry woman.  Bitter I tell ya.  My husband is a dysfunctional man whom is a cross between Fred Flintstone and Archie Bunker.  I could go on and on.  Yes I love- hate him

First I am mad at him because he thinks he knows more than a veterinarian, who has advised us that our dog should not eat animal products other than his dog food as he had an inflamed pancreas.   This Fred- Bunker man whom I love-hate decides to bring spareribs home for the dog.  I tell him “No no, he cannot have that.”  My husband responds intelligently to this with “Aw B.S.!”, literally.

Thus is my life with this man.  I then go out to the back porch and proceed to throw my body across the top of my washing machine to keep it from being off balance as nothing else seems to work.

It sounds like it is full of bricks and is going into a wild orbit which will lead it down my back steps.  Oops! I almost forgot , don’t have a back step either, just a decrepit ramp.  When griping to my friend on the phone , she queries, “What is that God- awful noise ?”,  so I explain.

She then tells me “You know they have little feet on them to level the thing.”   I tell her that I have heard such stories, but no one ever does that here.

Then I ask if she remembers the refrigerator that sat in my yard for way, way too long.  One day I got so upset at that thing and at  Mr. Bunker man that I love- hate for it still being there.

I began to plot and voiced out loud how I was going to push that thing, with the strength of a maniac into the road, and fire on it with a double barreled shotgun, that I do not own, but would get somehow.  My husband’s friend looked at me in alarm.  I just secretly smiled.

Thank God it never came to that.  It seems like I have to loose total control and go ape- shit for someone to get it through their head, over and over and over, that I do not want to live with appliances or junk cars in my yard.  No brother in laws either p-lueez…….. or cousins staying in the garage or the camper.

Sigh……….. Please God take me away………………..


April 4, 2009

Steaming up the Kitchen

I just want to know why when it is 100 degrees outside, why oh why, would John-Wayne want me to cook for him instead of going to dinner? It was hotter than the hubs of hell outside and if I cooked dinner it would be hell inside the house also. Hell for me, I can’t take the heat anyway. Our old house had a crazy old swamp cooler in the living room that worked great for that room. It was basically a fan with hay around it and a garden hose screwed into the side. The cool air never reached the kitchen area. So on this particular day, after a day’s work, no I did not want to cook, with a passion. It was against my law, against my being, against all of my beliefs.

Like I said before, I did not drive in those days, so just jumping in the car and taking myself and the kids to dinner was not an option. Damned John-Wayne, he just wanted to sit in front of the cooler, in his boxers, drinkin’ a beer and watchin’ the t.v. and have me serve him. How could he be so cruel? Did he not know that it would kill me to cook tonight? I told him. He just wanted me to cook. Damn.

I really did not think he cared about me, he surely could not love me. There was no brutality required here. I was a princess, darn him, did he not realize that? Maybe I would get my princess crown out and remind him of that fact. I mean geez, I was once Miss Tomato Queen in my teen years. Well that was an idea, why not? Maybe he would realize just what a prize for a wife he had and then he would take me to dinner.

I went up stairs to the hot bedroom and rummaged around in the back of my closet finding what I was looking for. Ah, there it was, the Tomato Queen dress and banner, along with the crown I kept in a box on the top shelf. I put on the dress made of red taffeta and green lace. It still fit, though barely. The skirt was so short, right up to my behind. Geez, it did not seem so short in my Tomato Queen years. The bodice was low cut showing cleavage. That’s alright, I thought, I still got it, why not shake it? I slipped the green satin banner across my shoulder and under my arm. The crown went on my head. I looked in the mirror, not bad for a twenty something wife and mother. On went the red high heels and down the stairs I pranced, sweating all the way.

J.W. just laughed and said, “Hey look at Ma”. Sally-O chirped, “You look pretty Mama”. I went and paraded in front of John-Wayne and the cooler to see the effect it had on him. “Well?”, I asked him. “It is such a shame to have to go cook dinner in this outfit, but off I go!” John-Wayne’s eyes got big and his mouth dropped open and he said, “hey baby”, but I just sashayed into the kitchen to begin the stupid dinner he wanted, thinking he might just stop me . Revenge is sweet sometimes. Even revenge on a big jack-ass like John-Wayne.

I pulled out pots and pans, sweating more and cursing under my breath, but trying to look and sound sweet, like the princess I knew I was. I began by filling up a big pan full of water and setting it to boil on the stove for iced tea. Next followed 2 more pans with water set to boiling for hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. I’d show that S.O.B., he could make me cook, but he would be miserable right along with me. Soon, the pans of water broke into a boil.

Steam filled the air as I added tea bags, hot dogs and macaroni, making a green salad on the side, ( I had to eat something cool didn’t I?}. I boiled that dinner at the highest levels possible, sweating like a porker as I was cooking, sweating all down the front and back of my Tomato Queen dress. At least the skirt being short was cool there, but that was it. The taffeta was sticking to my body. What an ass I was, thinking that the princess crown would make John-Wayne see me in a different light. All he wanted was a full belly, a beer, an cool area to watch his favorite shows, and maybe a little fun under the Tomato Queen’s skirt. He did not really care that I was killing myself in the kitchen with the steam and all.

Well if I was gonna be miserable, then so would he, though I felt sorry for the kids, none of this was their fault. Oh well, they were kids, they could handle it. It must have been 150 degrees in that blazing inferno of a kitchen, as I set the table. The ice in the tea glasses was melting faster than I could fill them. I slapped the sugar bowl down and went into the living room and announced sweetly, “dinner is served”. I would give him what he wanted, an obedient lovely wife. Haaa!

They all came in to fill their plates, the kids sitting down at the table while I helped them. I put some food on my plate, and turned to hand John-Wayne his iced tea. He said, “hey that looks good baby, but I don’t know why you wanna do them kids that way, making the kitchen so hot and all.” Instead of sitting down at the table, he turned and walked back to his swamp cooled couch with his plate of food, leaving me with my mouth hanging open and on fire at the kitchen table.

That is when I learned what passive-aggressive behavior was. I also learned that the revenge was wasted on John-Wayne, all it did was make me and my kids miserable. I finished up the dishes and traipsed upstairs to take off the Tomato Queen outfit and take a cool shower, thinking that I had tried more than one way to steam up the kitchen and John-Wayne both, but I was the one who ended up being steamed.

March 30, 2009

Confessions of a Motel Maid

This is not what you think, not that kind of confession. Definitely not an X rated confession, don’t even get that idea goin’ round in your head, I’m not that kinda girl. I had a job for a few summers at the local R.V. park/Motel Cabin place in our little town. It was called Shady Acres and had quite a few R.V.’rs and year long fifth wheels there . They also had 12 little cabin type motel rooms. Very clean, very cute in a 1940’s kinda way.

Since we were a river town, lots of tourists came through, and other than the K.O.A. , there was Shady Acres. It was their busy time of year and the owners needed part time help cleaning the rooms. That’s where I come in.

My husband John-Wayne (yes John-Wayne) had been out of work for a little while. After we moved down to the town from his folks’ mountain home, he had to look for an everyday job, rather than doing the stuff mountain families do for a living. He was in between jobs and we had run out of money, so our water bill did not get paid. The water of course got shut off.

For a while John-Wayne hauled water in a big old tank he had on top of his Chevy truck. I would fill the bathtub with some, to use for flushing the toilet, and store the rest for other uses. It worked, but I hated it. Mountain girl I was and could do laundry by hand in my tub if I had to, but dang this was not the dark ages. Action was needed here.

I walked down to Shady Acres and talked myself right into a job. I got the water turned on after a few days work as the owner paid me cash each day. Cool, I was a career woman. My next door neighbor Mimmi, babysat my baby girl Sally-O each morning for 3 or 4 hours while I cleaned motel rooms.

Each morning after dropping my baby girl off at Mimm’s house, I rode my bicycle down the couple of miles to Shady Acres to do the rooms with the owner’s wife Margie.

Margie showed me how to make the beds, tucking in the sheets and folding them down over the blankets so they looked nice. We did not always have to change the bedspread unless it was dirty, but sheets always. Nice to know that in case you ever stayed there, huh?

There was a certain way Margie cleaned the rooms, quickly and efficiently. She showed me her tricks, down to folding the end of the toilet paper in a little triangle. It made me feel that I was doing a little something extra and luxurious for people, kind of like putting the little mints on pillows. I should have made way more in tips than I did, as I put my heart into the job wanting everything to look perfect. Maybe the tourists thought that Shady Acres was not a tippin’ kind of motel. I mean there were no bell hops or room service, though we brought clean towels daily, made beds, and carried the trash out.

Margie and I would stop once in a while for a smoke outside of the laundry house. As we got to know each other, I liked Margie more and more. She was in charge of the motel rooms. Her husband Freddy was in charge of the R.V. Park. Every couple of months Margie would re-do one of the rooms. She would paint and change the curtains etc.. She always managed to keep the rooms fresh and cute with each one having a different color and sort of theme. I think No. 9 was my favorite, as it overlooked the river. I really liked the painting in that room also. It was of a huge pink flower. Later on I took No. 9’s painting home in my bounty of furnishings from their yard sale. I bartered by working for the furniture that I got from their sale. Me and John-Wayne slept on that old motel bed for about 10 years without a frame, right down on the ground. When we finally upgraded to a pillow-top mattress and frame we felt like we were sleeping up so high that we giggled about it. We had a lot of class John-Wayne and I.

Once when Margie and I grew tired of waiting for people to leave No. 8 cabin, she finally knocked really loudly on the door. The woman did not want to be disturbed. Margie finally knocked and used her key and later told me “that was really weird, she is so strange, I went in there and she was hanging upside down just like a bat”. I asked how in the heck she did that and Margie said she had a special kind of boots that made her do that for her health. I was just glad she wasn’t a vampire. The woman left behind a jug of Aloe Vera Juice and I took it to John-Wayne’s Uncle thinking maybe if he drank it his shingles would go away. All that happened was a bad case of diarrhea.

Still, there were some interesting things left from time to time in the rooms. Usually I was afraid I would find something gross or nasty like a condom. Thank God, not on my watch. One day someone checked out and left a brand new bottle of Mescal Tequila straight from Mexico. You know the kind with the worm in the bottle. Gross. I threw it in the dumpster, even though it had not been opened. John-Wayne and his brother Jiggs made me go back and fish it out. We all got drunker than a bunch of monkeys on that stuff. I can’t remember who ate the worm, I know it was not me though. Man those Mexicans made some dangerous booze. John-Wayne said it was ‘cuz they peed in it. I did not believe him.

Freddy and Margie had a little golf cart that I drove around from room to room with my cleaning supplies and linens and such. I loved driving that stupid thing as I did not have a driver’s license. I had driving phobia. Scared to death to drive a car. The one time I did drive, I got in an accident and got a suspended license. I did not drive for 13 years after that. I did like that little golf cart though. I would zoom around from room to room, cleaning, making beds, then hauling the dirty laundry up the hill in the cart.

One day when doing my rounds with the golf cart, the throttle got stuck. I don’t know why, it just stuck. I was zipping along one minute and then found I could not stop the darned thing. I went flying by the office yelling for Fred . “Help the brakes went out!” Luckily I pried the throttle up by leaning down with my hand and yanking it. I was very careful after that to not go so fast just in case.

Once in a while Margie would have a special job for me. Good chance to make extra cash. There was this long, older silver trailer. It needed cleaning badly. I got my friend to help me and we split the money. Margie forgot to mention that this trailer was from hell. The man that had lived there had chain smoked inside for 20 years and never once cleaned his oven. It took us days to finish. What a nightmare. Kenja and I could never look at one of those silver trailers again in the same way.

When we were done for the day, Margie would bring out a popsicle. She said it would cool us down. We’d talk a little more, have a smoke and I would head for home and my little girl. I’d pick up Sally-o at Mimmy’s house, pay her a couple of bucks and go fix Sally-O and myself some lunch. Then it was naptime. I always lay down with my baby girl. I would sing her songs and we’d both nod off. Ahhhhh, being a career woman could sure wear a person out.

March 15, 2009

Maybe That Was A Cowboy

Filed under: fiction,short pieces,Uncategorized,Yarns — girlswithoutshoes @ 5:52 am

That might have been a cowboy that I just talked to.  I mean you never know, do you?

He was in his early-sixties but looked older to me.  Well,  he looked to me what I once would  have considered an older man to look like.    It could be because I was catching up to him in age, well or at least a few miles back.  So that could have been it, or he could have been “weathered”.   That was probably it.  Not that he was not good looking.  He was in a rugged sort of way.

He wore a western type shirt.  I had the sense that it was quite aged.  Jeans, of course the jeans were there.  I did not get a good glimpse at his feet to see if there were boots or not, but, my instinct says yes, the boots were there too.   I did not spy a hat on his head or in his hand, but still……………

His eyes were a deep blue, so  blue that you could swear your saw the ocean in them.  Oceans with ships that carried men far far away from their loves, sometimes never to return.    There was something about his eyes.   You could see the story was there, you just had to look hard enough……..

If you ever really got to know him, you would know his walk, how he kind of swaggered when he was a young man, like he had the whole world at his feet.  He definitely wore cowboy boots then, well broken in.  He also worked with horses on a ranch.  But that was not all.

He once called himself, “Buffalo Mic” and collected women like some folks collect charms for bracelets.  He had a particular fondness for redheaded women.  He loved those redheads.  Fiery temptresses he called them.   He would also call them the Devil’s Lovers.

He had the “gift of gab”.  He would speak and people would gather around him, wanting to be close to him, to touch him, to talk like him and walk like him, and if you were a woman, to be loved by him.

Married women stepped out on their husbands with him.   Very young women were had by him.   Older women adored him.  They would seek  him.  Not one was immune to his charms, but one was wise to him,  and only one.

Her name was  Jean and he was her first and her last love, forever and ever.  Even though he hurt her with his many infidelities, she continued loving him through his lifetime, clear through to the end of it.  She had had a couple of other men whom loved her, had even had children with them, but she only loved  Buffalo Mic.  She had known him since she was 15 years old and they fell madly in love.

Eventually, after years of loving him and being loved back in Mic’s “way”, she had had enough of his unfaithfulness.   She could not share him anymore and left the state, raising her children away from him, far away, though she never stopped loving him.

After Jean left, Mic spent 2 months in solitary in his mountain cabin, brooding, hurting and tripping on LSD.  He did so much acid and peyote, that it was a miracle he lived through it.  He did not have any great revelations as he had expected.

Jean was  his other half, but he was a man who would never be faithful . He and she both knew it, but he could not imagine his life without her always there, his comfort, his heart.

Finally, Mic emerged and went back to the world, continuing on with his womanizing and wicked ways.  Still, people wanted to be near him.

As he grew older, his marriages left behind him like broken vases, he spent more of his time alone with many frivolous relationships in between.  He still liked women, loved women, just felt like he had to put out too much effort, and frankly just was getting tired of all of the effort and the game, the game he had played for so many years, so many many times.  No surprises left for him.

When Mic died, not many were there to mourn him as he had wanted it that way.  Two of his sons and two of his step-children were there.  A handful of  friends whom were close to him 30 plus years prior.   None of his former girlfriends, or wives were there.   Except one.

The one who had loved him in spite of it all, through thick and through thin, through happiness and heartache.  The one who had continued loving him from a distance was the one who spread Mic’s ashes and wept her love out, her tears of sorrow and love mixing with those ashes that were part of her heart.

Yes, that may have been a cowboy that I had talked to.  You just never ever know……..what stories people hold if you look hard enough. ………………………

Secrets of a Mountain Woman

Filed under: fiction,Humor,John-Wayne Stories,short pieces,Yarns — girlswithoutshoes @ 5:14 am

0803090952191secrets_sSecrets? Hmmmmm, got ya goin’ don’t I? Let’s see now, secrets. Oh yes. Well, everyone has to have some secrets, ya know? And just because I am a mountain woman, does not mean I am any different than the rest. Some secrets we take to the grave. Some we share only with our Friends and Sisters. Some even with our Mothers. There are those only between us and our God. Finally there are the secrets between us and the Devil…… those are the ones that we really did know we were doing wrong and went ahead anyway.

Women have secrets about their age, their weight, their jean size and their hair color. Some even keep these types of secrets from their closest friends. No big deal, little white lies, white secrets, no one gets hurt. Dumb if you ask me. Who cares? I cannot imagine having a friend that I could not trust with this type of secret, I would not even want to hide such a silly thing from her. A true friend can be trusted with all of your secrets. Now, I would not go and wear a t shirt or anything stating, “Hi I am Ireney and my current weight is __________”, oops, sorry that is a secret! No sir, more important secrets than that kind.

We share secrets about our feelings, hopes and dreams with our friends, sisters, maybe if we are lucky enough, our husbands.

We hide secrets about how much our telephone bill is, how much we spent on clothes, or that new Mary Kay makeup that makes our skin look so good. Usually this information is kept from our husbands. It is just too bad we could not keep this info a secret from our bank also. Darn those overdraft fees.

I believe you are pardoned for not sharing your underwear size, especially if it goes up past the two digit mark, man alive, don’t tell anybody! Sacred stuff, that there. Be sure and cut out all of the size tags just in case you get in a wreck. That is something your Mama forgot to tell you.

Recipes are something that can be kept secret, even an old family secret. I mean look at Colonel Sanders, his recipe is still a secret and he got rich from it! I probably would share my fried chicken secret with friends and family, no problem, am honored to be asked.

There are definitely the secrets you keep from your Mother and with good reason. Number 1 reason, you do not want to go to hell for breaking your Mama’s heart when she finds out you were in the back seat at the drive in movie with Billy Boy. No, no, don’t go breaking your Mama’s heart.

Now your Father is another one altogether. You would keep the above secret from him also, but for the protection of yourself and Billy Boy. You would hate for Billy Boy to wake up to your Daddy’s shotgun in his face. Ugly way to wake up in the morning.

Speaking of ugly, I would keep a secret if I had plastic surgery, not that I would. Again, I would not shout it from the mountain tops. “Hey, everyone! I got a nose job, come see !” Nah, don’t think so. Now a boob job might be kinda nice to show off.

Your income is kept a secret, at least from the I.R.S. The last thing you would want is the Tax Man coming after you.

A Mountain Woman will not usually keep a pregnancy a secret. I suppose there are some that have had a baby out of wedlock, or by someone other than their husband that has kept it a secret, but usually not. Not this woman. On our mountain it is usually a time for great rejoicing. A new baby is considered a gift from Heaven.

When I was first pregnant with J.W., John-Wayne and I had been living in sin for a few years. We were going to get around to getting married, but you know, it was the 70’s and all and shacking up was cool. I would not do that part of my life over in the same way if I could. I believe in the holiness of marriage. We were dumb though in those days. Secretly I really wanted to be married all along, but didn’t want John-Wayne to think that I had “trapped him”, so did not push it. I was waiting for him to get down on one knee and ask me.

We did keep the pregnancy a secret from the Dukes’ family for about 4 months. John-Wayne decided to wait until Polly was in the hospital recovering from the “woman’s surgery” to tell her. He had a lot of class. He did not mean any harm, but his mother was so sick from infection, I think he was afraid she was going to die without knowing he was going to be a father. We were visiting Polly in the hospital where she looked like death warmed over, if there could be such a thing. John-Wayne announces the baby . Polly just looked at us and said weekly, “Are you going to get married?”.

I don’t remember what John-Wayne answered, but we did get married. A few years later. We finally sent j.w. over to Polly’s house and called the Justice of the Peace in. We got married in our living room, no frills. Well at least J.W. was legal. Years later he jokingly said, “I was a bastard”. For crying out loud. At least it was not in the days where it was a scandal.

When Salli-O came along, we had been married for years. She was quite a surprise as we were a little older than most folks having their 2nd child. She was a gift from heave. We were pretty excited. J.W. just said, “If it is a boy, don’t name it nothing dumb”. We said we would not name it nothing dumb.

So, secrets………………., nothing so bad, nothing so scandalous, just a semi- secret pregnancy, and secret underwear size. Nothing too big up here on my mountain. Funny thing is, I realized later that J.W. should never have been kept a secret at first either, as both of my babies were truly a gift from above.

March 1, 2009

Call Me Mrs. John-Wayne

Believe it or not my name really is Mrs. John-Wayne. You heard me right. It is Mrs. John-Wayne Dukes to be correct. Every one always called my husband John-Wayne, like it was one name. I Guess Mr. and Mrs. Dukes really liked John Wayne or something. I know my husband idolized him, good thing since he kinda shared his name.

We met through a mutual friend of ours named Daniel. We teasingly called him Daniel Boone. So Daniel Boone introduced me to my future husband John-Wayne. How do ya like them apples? Life is sure funny sometimes. Especially if you see the humor in nearly everything, like I did.

Me and John-Wayne got married young and moved up to his folks’ mountain home. We didn’t have kids for a few years , not for lack of tryin, just didn’t happen right away. That was okay by me for now, plenty of time for kids later on.

We had crazy fun in those days. We once had a little blue falcon for our vehicle. We were driving down the road on a Saturday night, smoking joints and listening to country music on the radio, just relaxing and driving to nowhere in particular. We were pretty comfortable with each other at this point. We did not feel the need to talk all the time, we could just be quiet and it was okay.

Small raindrops began to hit the windshield. “Hey looks like rain comin’ our way,” I say, and then “I thought our windshield wipers don’t work?” John-Wayne just glanced over at me and the corner of his lip curled up Elvis style. He said “Don’t worry, see that rope over there?” He pointed to the corner on the passenger side of the car. “Grab it and hold onto it.” he told me , which I did. He then grabbed for a rope on his side of the car kind of by the wing window and yanked on it. Then he looked at me and said “Okay now pull on your side.” I obeyed and watched as the wiper on my side of the car moved some. For crying out loud, I thought, I married a freakin’ genius!

John-Wayne pulled his side of the rope a little harder and instructed me to do the same. “You gotta get a rhythm going to it.” He tells me. “Yeah, that’s cool, that;s working good!”

We continued on down the road with John-Wayne letting out a whoop of glee every so often at his invention. I was not sure whether to be impressed or embarrassed, then got myself so tickled at the idea of what we must look like, going down the road pulling the ropes to make the wipers move. I started to giggle, (remember I was kinda stoned yet), and the giggles got louder until I was laughing so hard my belly hurt.

John-wayne joined in with his bigger voice sounding a little like a jack-ass braying to me, probably because he was loaded too. I laughed so much harder that I could barely keep hold of the rope and the tears started pouring down my face. We were so hysterically laughing that he had to pull the car over for a minute so we could catch our breaths.

I looked at my husband and he looked at me, and I said, “You are a bona-fide inventor sir and you are the man of my dreams!”. We kissed and sat there enjoying the rest of our Saturday Night, just sitting there with our arms around each other listening to the radio and I knew if I was ever stranded on a desert island, this was the man I wanted there with me.

November 27, 2008

Clarence and the Turkey

My Brother In Law, Jiggs was always getting into some kind of shennanigins. He liked to drink and raise a little hell at times. Jiggs was always amazing his family with his wild adventures. Once he had been out a good part of the night carousing. My husband and I woke up the next morning to a strange noise, a kind of whirring noise, like a motor of some kind. We followed the noise down the stairs and out the front door. There was Jiggs’ old white plymouth with it’s nose facing our front yard fence, resting there, The motor was whirring up a storm as the car was still on and stuck in the drive position. Jiggs was passed out at the wheel. Nice.

He had a couple of drinking buddies in town. One was an old man named Clarence. Clarence’s family were some of the original pioneers in our small town. They were into gold mining from way back. Clarence and his two brothers still lived in their family home. I don’t know if they all left, married and raised families and then moved back, but they were all in their latter years and once again lived together.

I had noticed Clarence as he wore a silver hard hat, similar to what miners wear, around town. I also noticed that many mornings in the wee hours, he would have breakfast in the local cafe. He usually looked a bit rough around the edges, possibly hungover from a late night’s bout with the bottle. I thought it odd that he would order Steak and Eggs, with the steak so rare that I could not look at it. Steak tartare anyone for breakfast? Shiver me timbers I say.

Jiggs used to like to sit in the tavern with Clarence and listen to his stories about when he worked at the cement plant in our little town. Back in the 60’s the cement plan was a major source of work for the towns’ menfolk. You could count on hearing the “booms” off and on throughout the day as they blasted away with dynamite. The south side of town was always covered with a fine coating of white cement dust, while the north side had less. I imagine the housewives in those days really hated all of the dusting they had to do.

Yes, Clarence had some stories, and he and Jiggs drank together and “storied” together. Jiggs would sometimes visit Clarence’s house and they would really tie one on. Clarence would often pass out on his couch while Jiggs was “visiting”.

Jiggs rented a spare room at our home back then, so needless to say, he sat at our table for many meals also. One particular day right before Thanksgiving, he had brought me a beautifully fat but frozen turkey to cook for our dinner. It was his contribution to our meal that year. Since money was tight then, I was grateful to have it.

I began the preparations for that year’s feast. It would not be a large gathering, just my husband, myself and our little boy and Jiggs and another friend of ours. The night before, Jiggs had mentioned having Clarence come down for Turkey Dinner the next afternoon, and we said “why sure”. I put another place setting on our little dining room table. Nothing matched, but that was ok, the food was smelling great.

Clarence appeared and the boys began their talking and lying to one another as men do. I swear there was not even a “fish story” going on out there in the living room, but you would have thought so. They say women get going in their talking, but geez. Finally everything was ready and we all sat down at the table, gave thanks and dove in. Delicious turkey, very moist they all said. Clarence, especially seemed to appreciate a hot meal.

It was a pretty nice day all in all. When Clarence turned to leave, he stopped and thanked me for the meal and said it was the most delicious he had had in years. I said, “My pleasure”, and he was gone. I felt pretty good about serving some lonely old guy a Thanksgiving meal.

I would have felt much better about it, had I not later learned, that ,that very same moist delicious turkey had been hijacked by Jiggs right from Clarence’s very own freezer! You see Clarence and Jiggs had become drunker than a couple of skunks the night before, and they had both passed out in Clarence’s living room.

Jiggs had woke up hours later, very hungry and looked through Clarence’s refrigerator. Nothing to eat there, but in the freezer he spied that frozen turkey. Jiggs being still in a drunken state, grabbed that turkey and brought it home thinking he was going to cook it that night. Of course he passed out in his room and found the defrosting turkey next to him the next morning and Clarence’s boots upon his feet! Mortified that he had stolen his friend’s turkey, he gave it to me and invited Clarence to dinner. Jiggs, being the scoundrel that he was, not only invited his friend to a dinner that he had stolen from him, but also served it to him wearing a pair of his heisted boots also!

Happy Thanksgiving to all my fellow bloggers on WordPress, I am off to Fred Meyer’s to pick up a delicious already prepared Thanksgiving Dinner for only $59.99. This is the most relaxing Thanksgiving ever, as I sit in my p.j.’s drinking coffee and writing my crazy story. Hmmmmnnnnnn…………………


September 28, 2008

Princess Witch Woman

Filed under: fiction,short pieces,Uncategorized,Yarns — girlswithoutshoes @ 5:02 am
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There were two witches who lived in the woods, one of them bad and one of them good………………………”

She is part Princess and part Witch. The Princess part comes not only from her good looks, but from certain things in her soul. The Witch part comes out with her very quick temper and her sharp tongue, which can result in a Princess Witch’s wrath being turned upon you in an instant. The shrieking and flinging of her body at you is in complete opposition to the beautiful Princess side of her nature.

The Princess and Witch side both come in with the men. Men love them. Young and old. It does not matter. Young ones would follow her around drawn to her, sensing the magic that she holds inside. Old ones would propose to her. Others would fall under her spell, becoming obsessed with her, though she may not ever give them another thought. They just cannot help themselves. She would just look at them in a certain way, or crook her finger and they were helpless against her powers.

Now, let me explain more to you about Princess Witch Women. They are delicate creatures in some ways and very strong in others. They will cry at the drop of a hat, or fight you tooth and nail for their families, for their rights, or for your love if necessary. Princess Witch Women crave love and affection. It is necessary for their very existence, for them to even feel alive. Without it, they can wither and die inside and it is not pretty.

Princess Witch Women need extra tender loving care for their souls to thrive. I am not talking about in a material sort of way. They will give you their all, their everything special in return with no regrets as long as their needs are being met in the ways needed. It does take a Special Prince. One with integrity, a deep thinker. One compassionate, strong, with a passion for his woman, and family. Sounds like the perfect man to me, what do you think?

Ahhh, if only there were a Man Store to be had, we princess witches would have no problem. Just order up. There would be no fighting with your mate, no insecurities, no hidden feelings, or secrets of evil nature. The Special Prince would be the spiritual leader , making all things as they should be within that family. It sounds too good to be true, too perfect, like heaven. Maybe it is heaven. I hope that is there also.

A Princess Witch Woman can be the most idyllic lover, friend, wife and mother , given the other half of her soul is there . Special Princes tend to quiet the witch side of us, nourishing our princess side, bringing forth all the beauty within.

Many Princess Witch Women are missing this other half of themselves, are yearning for it. Many are so disappointed and disillusioned ,that they give up their quest often settling for less than is meant for them in their lives. It is a complete shame when this happens as all are affected. Robbed of what can and should be. This makes Princess Witch Woman very sad, often very bitter and angry. Some even living their lives looking and becoming more and more the Witch part, the Princess part being tucked away a little more each day.

Ohhh, if only our men knew…. They believe Princess Witches are so complex, which is true, however what we need from them is so simple . We women get it, why can’t they? The most horrid part of it is that we are aware of the loss, even if we never had a glimpse of it. We just know. We just sense that special part is missing. We grieve and cry and yearn for it. Such a silly shame, such a loss. If a Princess Witch truly finds her Special Prince, she will never take him for granted, but treat him with oh, such love and respect befitting a King.

Yes, in my heaven there will not be a Man Store, but that Special Prince that is chosen just for me. That Special Prince who will respect, encourage, love, cherish and nurture me , leading and providing for me in the ways that are necessary. It will not matter if he is good looking on the outside. On the inside the specialness will be there, bringing forth all the possibilities and inner beauty that this Princess Witch Woman holds inside, awakened and released with just one kiss…………………….

This is for all of my Princess Witch Sisters out there, you know who you are…………………………….

September 26, 2008


Filed under: fiction,short pieces,Yarns — girlswithoutshoes @ 7:08 pm
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I first saw her at the general store, hanging around the phone booth like she was waiting for a call. She was very black, extremely pregnant and obviously had been on the road for quite sometime. Poor little homeless thing, I thought. My heart went out to her, as I passed her and went back to my home. I sent a silent prayer up, “Please Dear Lord, please help her”.

I could not get her out of my mind, thinking she looked sickly. Aw, not my problem, besides I was not in a position to help financially. But still and all, she crept back into my mind. I kept seeing her face and I worried that she was hungry.

I became so obsessed with the fact that I finally went back to that phone booth to see if she was still there. Maybe, I could just give her a little bit to eat and that would help her to her next destination.

She was still there hanging around the phone booth. The way she looked hungrily at each person that came out from the store broke my heart. The look on her face was of expectation, like they had a prize for her or something. Several people stopped to say a few words to her, others just looked at her and turned their backs, not caring to look further.

I sucked in my breath and stepped over next to her. Her hair was pretty dirty and had a few weeds tangled in it like she had been sleeping in a field. Good thing it was still summertime. Her feet looked pretty worn. Her face was strained looking. I said, “Hi there sugar, you poor little thing, do you not have a place to go?”.

I was really thinking, “Oh you poor little thing, all knocked up and no place to go”. I wanted to hug her as she turned to look at me, but instead put my hand out to her, which she took, and surprisingly she wrapped her arms around my neck. I could not have been more shocked. There was something desperate about her.

I made her come to my house and fed her lunch and milk, (mostly for the baby, ya know)? She then went and washed up, looking fresher after some of the road dust came off. She was really quite pretty in a sort of exotic feline type of way. Street smart was written in her eyes, surely necessary due to her experiences.

She ended up staying with my family for quite some time. My husband was not too thrilled about the idea of a new guest in our home but was won over eventually by the sweet side of her nature. Sugar became a fitting name.

She was interesting. I wondered about her past. I never found out anything from her. I could not tell her age and she did not offer it. She had a timeless look about her, young looking in one way, yet old and wise in another. She really did not need anybody, though the day I found her she was weak from hunger. She was a survivor.

She quickly fit into our family’s routine and our neighborhood. Everyone seemed to be her friend. She began visiting the hardware store, befriending the men that hung out there telling lies to each other. Sometimes she would be gone all day. She was a friendly girl that is for sure.

My little girl loved her so much. She called her “Mama Sugar”. Sugar loved her too and was very good with little children. She could get my daughter to quiet down and take her nap. She was comforting to her I guess.

There was something wrong with her labor and the baby or should I say babies. There was more than one, one that did not make it. It was so tiny, not quite formed as it should be. We buried the wee thing on our property and marked it with a headstone carved out of wood. I believe the lack of proper nutrition during her pregnancy contributed to that. She did have a huge appetite, but it seemed like I could not fill her up. Miss Sugar did become a wonderful mother though to the surviving.

I found that Sugar did have a penchant for collecting socks and gloves and scarves. Maybe it was a providing type thing that came over her after the pregnancy, a nurturing type of thing, collecting things for her offspring. I am not sure. Maybe she just wanted to be warm.

I began finding gloves of all sorts placed around the house. I just thought they were mine, that I or my baby girl had dropped them. I would just shake my head and pick them up and toss them into this huge basket I kept in my kitchen for odds and ends. I thought it was the same gloves that I was picking up over and over as they were the same color. This was not the case.

A neighbor lady came to my door one day with a story of missing gloves. Many pairs of missing gloves. She described the gloves and the footprints left in the neighborhood gas station which she owned. She showed me the footprints left, and they could very well have belonged to Sugar. Oh my goodness, she was a thief! I looked into my big basket and found 6 pairs of gloves, all matching, all fitting the gas station lady’s description. They belonged to her. What the heck did Sugar want with all of these gloves? I gave them back and apologized and gave Sugar a lecture about stealing from others and how wrong it was. The lady did not press charges, thank God.

Sugar stayed with us a while longer, and then one day just moved on. We did not know where, she did not tell us, she just disappeared. I missed her terribly, missed her company, I wondered what had happend to her and hoped and prayed that she was alright. I figured she just one day got a ride with a stranger to her next destination. Apparently she had itchy feet. Her name should have been Gypsy.

I never heard from her again, but a few years later, I picked up the local newspaper and saw this article about a black cat in a neighborhood with missing gloves and socks. A lady had put up a clothesline in her front yard for the neighbors to claim their missing items.  It sure sounded like Sugar, though I could never be sure. I left it alone as it sounded like if it was her she was extremely happy and doing well in her new diggs.

I wonder from time to time if she had moved on again, which I suspect she did. Keep your eye out, watch your gloves and your socks and scarves too. If you suspect a shortage of these particular items, Sugar may have moved into your neighborhood for a time. Just long enough to move into your life, stealing not only your socks and gloves, but stealing a piece of your heart too.

September 13, 2008


Filed under: short pieces,Yarns — girlswithoutshoes @ 11:33 pm

” Hello please leave a message after the tone”. Mimmy thought the default voice on the answering machine was a real man in her cousins house. She didn’t get it. She had called the same number at least 5 times and always the same man’s voice came on . “Who is this? I’m trying to reach Polly and what are you doing in her house?” She was getting mad and really worked up now. She had always heard Polly’s voice on the machine when she had called before, she did not understand that there was a pre-recorded voice already on these answering machines.

She decided to walk down to her cousin’s house and see what this man was doing there. How dare Polly not tell her she had a man friend ? It kind of made her jealous. It had been a little while since Mimmy had been divorced and the last man friend she had was the maintenance man in her old apartment building. She pronounced it “Maintmenman” all one word.

Mimmy only developed so much mentally and emotionally after the age of 11, when witnessing her Mother’s death at the old homestead. It was of natural causes, however it did quite a number on Mimmy’s young mind as she was alone with her when it happened. It was kind of like it stunted her in the head. The children in her family were farmed out to different cousins to be raised after that.

Mimmy went to her cousin Polly’s family. She and Polly were like sisters. Later after the teenage years, Polly was looked at more like her older sister, almost a mother figure. Mimmy could become jealous of Polly’s relationship with her husband wanting the same for herself. She called Polly’s husband “Big Daddy”. Sometimes this annoyed Polly, especially when Mimm would drawl it out in an almost sensual way, “Hey Big Daaaaadddy.” Polly knew it was an ignorant innocence on Mimmy’s part, but you can only have so much patience. She loved Mimmy dearly, but sometimes, oooohhh Mimmy could really drive her to want to drink (not that she was a drinkin’ woman ).

Mimmy grew up to be quite beautiful to look at and brought plenty of male attention her way without trying. Polly and her husband felt the need to protect Mimmy, but Mimmy got pregnant ( pregum” in Mimmyspeak) anyway by a young man who neither cared about her or wanted their unborn baby. Polly’s hubby introduced an older man who was a drinking buddy of his at the tavern, and they ended up married very soon after that. He was about 30 years older than Mimmi, but was a father and husband to her and her son Lee-Lee. He was quite an odd one also, being a cast off from some gypsy family.

Mimmy was the babysitter of Polly’s children and some of the grandchildren in the years following. You could not ask for a better babysitter. She was so childlike in someways and the kids loved her. She had a saying “I watch them like a hog” (though she meant hawk). She and the kids would play and dance around and have the greatest time while their parents were gone. The kids loved it, they got to do lots of things they would not normally do, like have sword fights with curtain rods and run through the house. Their father was quite strict and never let them leave the yard, so Mimmy time was fun time for them.

Her emotions were not easily controlled, and when the grandmother of the family died, Mimmy fell on the floor screaming and pulling at her hair. You would have thought she was either possessed by a devil or by the holy spirit himself the way she carried on. This made Polly so mad, she kicked at her ordering her up off the ground. No one but Polly could make Mimmy get back in control. It was quite a sight.

As Polly’s children grew into young adults, Mimmy seemed to get a crush on one of the handsome young sons, Jiggs. She would make excuses to stop by many times during the day to ask where he was. Polly put a lid on that nonsense right away. Poor Mimmy she seemed to crave male attention whether from young or old, it did not matter. Polly and her husband watched over her and her son after Mimmy’s old man husband passed away 12 years into the marriage. He was in his 80’s when he died and she was just barely 50 years old.

Mimmy would from time to time have some man move into her house, most of them were as repulsive as she became in her older years. Her body shape changed to mostly belly, very thin hair with bald spots, sores on her arms and legs due to extreme diabetes and skin disorders losing her eyesight eventually. Her son Lee-Lee took care of her to the best of his ability, in between fly fishing, and flying his kite.

One summer day it was over 100 degrees and Mimmy could be seen sitting cross legged in a child’s wading pool in front of her home cooling herself off. This was Lee-Lee’s answer to no air conditioning.

Mimmy left this world with some bright spots though. She had the funniest way of saying things. She loved to go camping and would recite every bit of food that she brought along. She would say “we got onion, we got potato, we got sketti and we got noodos too. ”   “Sketti- noodos” came to take on more than one meaning to the family later on. If someone was labeled as crazy, they were also known as “sketti-noodos”. It fit perfectly.

There were lots of other things. At a family birthday party, Mimmy had brought her tea-cup sized poodle with her. A friend asked her what the tiny dog ate.  Mimmy ticked off  “Oh he eat everything, he eat onion, and tomato and lettuce too. ” The friend asked “What is he a vegetarian?”.  Mimmy replied very seriously, “Ooh no, he a tea-cup poodo”. Many laughs at her cute innocence were had over the years.

She also had a little dog whose name was Blackie. She was once overheard yelling at the dog , “Blackie on three, or your hide is purple”. She was trying to get the dog to go outside to potty. “On three” became a staple with the family also.

Mimmy also “cheezed her freeze” speaking of the free government cheese handed out during President Reagan’s regime.

She would get “tipsy” at family holiday parties on one sip of punch, even if there was no alcohol in it, and would laugh and dance herself silly.

Her make up left something to be desired, as it was a little clownish in nature. Eyebrows were drawn on darkly , giving her a very surprised look, almost freakish in nature. Eyeshadow was in the most garish blues and greens and way too dark. Her cheeks were always too red. At times she wore a goofy looking wig thinking she looked so nice. Still you could see that she was once a pretty young girl if you looked hard enough.

She often smelled of cooking oil as she liked to fry everything and not open her windows or doors. It was tolerable unless she had cooked fish the night before. She liked to spray cheap perfume on over it, the odors being be quite incompatible.

Mimmy was big hearted and generous to a fault. She had a charge account at the local hardware store and bought the family expensive gifts at Christmas from there, though she had little enough money. You would also see her every so often carrying a big bouquet of flowers down the street for Polly.  She always told Polly “I love you”.  A day would not go by with out Mimmy saying “I love you” to Polly, at least by telephone if not in person.  Her sing-song voice would grate on Polly’s nerves as she heard from Mimm for the 7th time that same day.

So today, when the man kept answering Polly’s phone for her, Mimmy set out to see who he was and the nerve of him answering her cousin’s phone.  The nerve of Polly for not telling her she had a boyfriend (they were both widows now).

Mimmy stopped to pick some huge purple and white lilacs as they were blooming all over their lane and smelled so good. Polly and she lived on the same street so it did not take her long to get there.  She knocked on Polly’s screen door, first stopping to fluff her wig a little bit, then trying to see inside. Polly came to the door and Mimmy said, “Where is that man you are hiding?” “Oh for cripe’s sake Mimm, do you really think I have a man in here? I heard your silly messages, that is the voice that comes on the answering machine.” Polly replied in disgust.

Mimmy just looked at her sweetly and said “are you sure there is no man in here?”, patting her wig again (she did so love the men). “I was worried”.  She handed Polly the big bouquet of lilacs, and said with a little lilt in her voice “I looovvve you”……………..

Purple represents first love

White Lilacs represent innocence.

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