Author: Nancy Malcolm

I am a photographer, writer, mother, grandmother, wife, retired educator, friend, aunt, sister, and believer. I am a motherless daughter.
Posted in Boo, Fears and Worries

Water Issues by Nancy Malcolm

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            My closest friends know I have issues about water.  I worry we won’t have enough.  I always bring my own and I don’t drink bathroom faucet water unless it is at my own home. I know that the tap water from the kitchen sink is the same water from the bathroom sink, and it’s not that I think your bathroom isn’t clean…it’s just that, well I’m not sure why.  There is something about it that makes me squeamish.  I’m not proud of this, mind you. I am just being honest.

            I cannot go to Costco without purchasing a case of water and I carry bottles of water in my car at all times.  Until this third week of February, when I was completely discombobulated by our freezing weather, loss of power and depletion of water.  We had twelve bottles of water in the garage and just a mere trickle of droplets coming from our faucets before it completely cut off. As a former Girl Scout, I was totally chagrined at my lack of preparedness and cavalier attitude.  My years of lecturing family, friends, and coworkers on the importance of drinking enough water every day and planning ahead fell flat as we stood at the sink for hours at a time to get enough drops to half fill a small saucepan with enough bad water to boil.  We also scooped snow and stored it in a cooler to use for flushing the commode.  Oh, the horrors and indignities we suffered!

            It used to be, if anyone complained of a headache, I asked, “When is the last time you drank some water?”  Stomachache, sore throat, bad mood?  “Here, drink this glass of water.” Water is the answer to all your ills.  I firmly believe that, and the fact that this week Boo and I have been less than cordial to each other on a few occasions just proved the point that we needed water. 

            When we travel, you can be sure that I have packed water bottles in my suitcase and cuties in my purse.  Once, on a cruise, I brought a case of water and checked it like luggage.  They actually let me do it and even brought it to my room.

            “You embarrass me sometimes,” Boo said.

            “Do you know they charge $6 for a bottle of water on the ship?  You should be proud of me.”

            Once, we were on vacation in Philadelphia.  I had drunk all my water and asked Boo to go across the street from our hotel and purchase two bottles of water from a rather shady McDonalds. 

            “If I go, I’m going to smoke first.”

            “OK,” I said.

            I stood at our fifteenth-floor window and watched as Boo came out of the hotel.  He smoked and then walked across the busy street toward the McDonalds.  Then I saw three rather unsavory-looking guys approach him and they stood in a circle talking. One of the guys must have been the ringleader because he talked the whole time and gestured with his hands.  I watched as Boo gave each of them a cigarette, opened his wallet, and handed the man who was talking, some dollar bills. I was yelling and waving my arms, but of course he couldn’t see me from the fifteenth floor.  Then the main guy put his arm around Boo, and they turned around and all four walked down some dim lit steps that led to who knows where.  I stood frozen as I watched them walk out of sight.

 I’m not going to lie, I was scared.  I had a vision of Boo being mugged and left for dead.  He would be lying crumpled at the bottom of those stairs, with his empty wallet nearby, and blood gushing from a knife wound.  I thought I should call the police, but I stood frozen watching out the window for what seemed like hours.  I envisioned the police report and how I would have to admit I sent him out at 10:30 p.m. for bottled water.  Seven long minutes later, Boo emerged from the dingy steps with his new best friend’s arm around him.  They said goodbye at the corner and Boo walked up to the hotel, holding a McDonalds bag.

            “Boo!!!!  I’m so sorry.  I was so worried and thought I should call the police, but I froze!  I saw that guy with his arm around you.  What happened?” I cried.

            “Oh, they wanted to bum cigarettes and then said they were hungry, so I bought them all burgers.  Then, the one guy told me he would escort me into the McDonalds and keep me safe from the riff raff while I bought the water.  He said we would be friends for life.  It was quite the experience. We had to go down some scary stairs to the Mickey D’s.  The things I do for you.”

            I was appreciative of Boo’s heroics, and I knew I may have pushed things a little too far. So, I got my own water from then on out, and tried to plan ahead.  Which brings me full circle to our Polar Vortex, the very same one I was not prepared for.  As Boo and I lamented about the fact that our only baths had been with baby wipes and we had drunk all the beer and Gatorade, I remembered a cheery bit of information to pass on.

            “According to the Mayo Clinic, men should drink 15.5 cups of water a day.  That’s only 124 ounces,” I quoted.

            “Are you trying to drown me?”

            “I don’t care, the Mayo Clinic is never wrong,” I said.

            “Good, I love mayo on my ham sandwiches.”

            My quote of statistics does fall flat in the light of February’s disaster for so many.  My gratitude has grown for all of the things I have taken for granted.  Clean clothes, clean dishes, clean water to drink.  Not to mention so many without electricity and a warm place to stay. My fellow Texans have had a very rough few weeks, and I sincerely hope and pray things are getting back to normal considering the Pandemic and all.  As for me, I promise to be better prepared, more grateful, and less haughty about ‘bathroom’ water.

Posted in Contemplations, Grandmother

The Mantle Clock

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
That black mantle clock stayed with Grandma even in the nursing home.

            Occasionally, as a child I would spend the night with my grandma.  She lived in a small, stucco duplex on Hayden Street in Amarillo, Texas.  Modest is an accurate term to describe my grandma’s house, modest and comfortable.  Grandma lived a simple life and was quiet by nature, and since she did not own a television, her house was very quiet, too.  The rattle or clang of pots and pans in the kitchen or the on and off of her sewing machine was the only noticeable sound, except for a long sigh or wince as she lowered herself into the swivel armchair by the window, smoothing her apron and rubbing her knees.

On the mantle, proudly displayed in the center, right above the little gas heater was her black mantle clock.  The ticking sound was steady and rhythmic and set the tone for Grandma’s house…methodical, never rushed.        

            My brother and I would ask to wind the clock when it wound down, and often she would let us, but only under her watchful eye and direction.  She kept the key that wound the clock safely placed behind it.  We understood that if the clock was wound too tightly, dropped or mistreated in any way, it would have to be taken to a clock repair shop and that would cost money.  We instinctively knew she did not have the extra funds for that, and so we treated her clock with much respect.

            At night as I lay on the lumpy pull-out sofa bed, under two or three handmade quilts, I would fall asleep to the ever present rhythm of the clock.  My heart would begin to beat in time with the ticking and I would be lulled into a deep, peaceful sleep.  During the day, the clock struck on the hour and half hour with a coil gong striking sound, but at night the gonging sound never made it into my dreams.

            Now, in my den, on the mantle is a little French, battery operated clock that reminds me of Grandma’s mantle clock.  In the mornings I find it peaceful yet strong as it regulates my heartbeat and sets the perfect tone to ‘sit ugly.’  Listening to the steady ticking reminds me to relax and slow down before the demands of the day take over.  There is so much noise in our world, so many sounds that assault us from morning till night.  Alarm clocks, blaring music, angry news, sirens or car alarms to warn us of various violations.  Have you ever noticed that even commercials are louder than the television show itself?

The other day, I bolted out the door to get in my daily walk.  I was halfway through my route when I noticed that I had been “thinking” or at least having mental chatter the whole time. I almost wasted my walk, my time to recharge.  When I quiet my mind and listen to nature, my walk is restorative.  When I worry, think too much or rush my walk, I waste the gift of today. 

 Birdies singing, squirrels scampering, the rustle of the wind through the trees; these are the sounds that heal.  Nature heals us if we will let it, if we listen to the rhythmic beat of the earth.  Everything and every living being falls into the pattern flow of the earth and if we purpose it, our footsteps are like the clock, peaceful yet strong, left-right, left-right.  Thich Nhat Hanh, the Buddhist priest and author of Peace Is Every Step: The Path of Mindfulness in Everyday Life, said, “Walk as if you are kissing the Earth with your feet.”  As you walk, you are aware.  Aware of your being, your thoughts, your surroundings, and your blessings.  The blessings given to you by nature.

            Grandma’s mantel clock was one of her most prized possessions.  It was the center of her home and the focus of her life, especially as she got older.  I think the steady ticking and hourly gonging comforted her and reassured her she was not alone.   That classic, black mantel clock stayed with Grandma even in the nursing home, and when Grandma left this world, my brother became the proud recipient.  He has it, even to this day, on his mantel, front and center.

            We all need to find our rhythm, something that centers us and regulates our insides so that the outside world doesn’t wear us down or threaten our peace.  Whether it is the steady ticking of a clock, the rhythmic pace of a mindful walk or sitting quietly with your hand over your heart, this is the day we have been given.  We must embrace it.   The path to peace is always methodical, never rushed.

Posted in Boo, Relationships

Boo’s Staycation

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

          I returned home Sunday, from a three-day girl’s weekend.  The four of us have been friends for many years and really treasure our time together to talk, laugh, eat good food and maybe drink a little wine.  As is my custom I usually call or text Boo when I am on my way home.  “Time to kick out the dancing girls and stack up the beer cans!” I joke. 

But, when I walked into the house on Sunday, I was immediately hit with the smell of Fabuloso (think Pine Sol with a big dose of lavender) and charred red meat.

          “Wow Babe, did you clean while I was gone?”  I asked.

          “Oh, you know…I like to have everything looking good for my baby when she gets home.”

          Lest you think I am an ingrate; I know his little secrets.  Fifteen minutes before I walk in the door, he will Swiffer the entry hall, swish Fabuloso in the hall bathroom commode, open the blinds, fold the accent blanket on the couch and for a bonus effect he will start the dishwasher or a load of towels.  This is his “cleaning” routine for his ‘baby’.  It smells Fabuloso, but don’t look too closo.

          “Did you girls have a good time?”

          “Always!  We talked and laughed the whole time and made a charcuterie board with fresh shrimp on the side.

          “What kind of board?” 

          “Cheese, crackers, olives..just snacky stuff,” I said.

          “Hmmmm.”

          “Enough about me, what did you eat while I was gone?  Something meaty?”

          “Just the usual.  Meat Lovers Pizza Friday night then Saturday, I cooked Baby back ribs on the grill, sausage links, and a New York Strip.  I made salad and a fresh blueberry pie.”

          “Oh, and I opened a can of green beans.” (opened is the operative word.)

Boo’s idea of salad is either iceberg lettuce with croutons and lots of dressing or it is Suddenly Salad, which is not really salad.  Suddenly Salad is a macaroni, mayonnaise and secret packet concoction that has preservatives listed as the number one ingredient.

          “Wow!” I said.

          “I know,” he said with pride.    

          While I’m gone, I know he eats pretzels and M&M’s in bed and sleeps all night with the T.V. on, which is the opposite of the dark, quiet room I like.

          I know he lets the cat sleep with him, in fact she acts indignant when I get home.  She tries to get in on my side of the bed before I can and puts her little head on my pillow.

          I know that days before I go out of town, he is making a secret grocery list with all the essentials:  meat, meat, and more meat.

          I know he made a pie, but I also know there’s a new package of Twizzlers, Caramel de Lites Girl Scout cookies, and Tootsie Rolls open in the pantry.

          He watches the news and sports and an action movie on Netflix all at the same time, clicking back and forth.  Denzel Washington is probably killing someone or blowing something up in between Wolf Blitzer or Sean Hannity and all the while corn is popping in the microwave, with real melted butter. 

          Boo goes all out for his staycations.  I don’t begrudge him any of his fun and relaxation because he always lets me go and do whatever I want.  He encourages me to see my friends and he genuinely wants me to be happy, and if he happens to have a weekend to himself then it’s a win-win.  I applaud his self-sufficiency and creativity. 

Boo is a self-actualized man who knows how to take care of himself.  I would never have to leave him casseroles in the freezer for fear he would starve, and while we don’t always see eye-to-eye on nutrition or cleanliness, he’s capable and likes to think out of the box.  He’s the yin to my yang, the Snoop Dogg to my Martha Stewart.

I know Boo really likes his time alone at home, just to chill and do his thing and I’m glad it’s not with the dancing girls and cold beer!  So, if a few ribs, a little candy and 24/7 TV makes him happy who am I to spoil his fun?

          That Boo is fabuloso!

Posted in Contemplations

I Love Oprah

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

I Love Oprah by Nancy Malcolm

            In 1986 I began my love affair with Oprah.  I loved her.  I mean L O V E D her.  During the early years I would race home from teaching school, throw my kids a snack and turn on the television.  Propping my feet up, I would zero in on Oprah’s newest topic, challenge or guest.  If one of the kids dared to interrupt, I was indignant.  “Can’t you see I’m watching Oprah?”  I did not want to be bothered by the real world when Oprah was imparting some important life lesson, weight loss miracle or reuniting a fractured family.

            As the years went on, work plus family life did not allow a 4:00 p.m. break.  We finally got a DVR and could tape her show, so I at least had my fix before bedtime.

            As a true believer, I would often quote Oprah and her mentor Maya Angelou.    “When someone shows you who they are, believe them the first time.”  I admit I learned this lesson the hard way, but none the less, Oprah was right.  If one of the kids would complain about not getting something, I would spout, “Be thankful for what you have; you’ll end up having more.  If you concentrate on what you don’t have, you will never have enough.”  If Oprah said it, it was gospel.

            I relished Oprah’s Christmas Give Away shows, even entering a lottery to get a ticket for the show.  I saw myself screaming, jumping up and down and smiling ear to ear as I won a TV, toaster oven and adorable mink lined slippers.  One year Boo gave me a subscription to Oprah’s magazine, and this fueled my even bigger fantasy, that I was one of Oprah’s friends.  Once, Oprah told us about one of her favorite snacks, which I took to be mine, as well.  Wasa cracker, thin layer of light mayo and a slice of deli turkey.  Delicious and low calorie.  One spring I literally lived on Oprah’s favorite snack, ignoring the fact that Oprah obviously had many other favorite things as well as snacks.

            I was there when she lost, then gained, then lost her weight.   I watched as she discovered her half-sister.  I was a member of her Book Club and I watched The Color Purple.  I laughed when she laughed, cried when she cried, and I always believed Stedman was her soul mate.  I was unsuspecting when the worst thing imaginable happened…The Oprah Show came to an end.  May 25, 2011 was a dreadful day indeed.  Who would I become without Oprah?  I was depressed and despondent as I shuffled through the few hours between work and bed, and I resented her desire to do something else.  “What about me?” I cried.       

            Soon, she started her OWN network, and I watched the Super Soul Sunday’s, and did my best to hang in there with O.  It just wasn’t the same and soon, my attention dwindled.  Boo became fed up with my moping around and declared my depression was all in my head. 

“Get over it already,” he admonished.  “Just let go and go on with Dr. Phil.”

“Easy for you to say,” I cried.  “You don’t know Oprah like I do.”

It was hard, but I did recover.  I’m just grateful that I had Oprah for as long as I did.  I want her to be proud of me and know that I am doing just fine these days.  I want her to know she was my inspiration and my role model.  And if I close my eyes, I can still see her smiling and saying, “YOU get a car!  And YOU get a car!  And YOU get a car!!!”  Her generous spirit lives on!

I love you, Oprah!

Posted in Family

Auntie Sue aka The Skip-bo Queen of O.K. City

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            My little Auntie Sue always said she was going to give Eve a ‘talkin to’ when she got to Heaven.  Never a complainer, she did want to tell Eve how miserable life with menstrual cycles, menopause and adult diapers was.  She blamed Eve for all of this and wanted to give her the ‘what for.’  It’s been several years now since Auntie Sue got to Heaven so I’m sure by now they’ve had their talk.  Being a reasonable soul, I’ll bet Sue got it out of her system and all is forgiven.  She never was one to hold a grudge…for too long.  Unless you continuously interrupted her sittin’ ugly time or messed with her family, then she could positively be ninety pounds of bulldog fury.

Auntie Sue and my mother

            Every morning, at the crack of dawn, she would make her one and only cup of Sanka and sit down to read her Bible and her Alanon book.  This was her sittin’ ugly time.  Her quiet time to get her mind straight for the day.  And then she was off like a bolt of lightning, hitting the trail for her morning mile with her sporty red walker.  Down the hall, down the elevator, past the common room, across the solarium, outside, down the sidewalk and across to another part of the building then back up the elevator and down the hall to her apartment 215.  She would do this twice a day, adjusting for rain or snow, as Oklahoma City was prone to have.  “You have to walk or die,” she would say.  And I believe her.

Family Reunion Love

            My little Auntie was over-the-top with enthusiasm.  If I came for a visit, she would say it was the best visit ever!  Every rent car I drove from the airport was the best car ever. It was always better than the last one.  Every joke she heard, was the funniest thing ever told.  Every meal was the most delicious.  Every game of Skipbo was more fun than the last and everyone she met received a compliment.  She was genius at complimenting even the hardest shell.  She was thankful for every phone call, card, and hug.  She was generous with her money and always tithed to the church, even on a fixed income.  She was fiercely loyal to her family and loved her only child more than life itself.

Ysleta and her son, Chuck (me)

            If she was here and heard me going on and on…tooting her horn, she would argue that she was not perfect, she had faults.  Maybe she did, but I never saw them.  Her five-foot frame, ninety pounds soaking wet, shock of white, curly hair and easy smile was perfect to me.  Her true grit, determination and positive attitude was perfection.  Auntie Sue had it all and everyone wanted to be her friend, even her would-be foes.

  Like her issue with Eve, there are many things in life we don’t understand now. There are loved ones who leave us too soon, and some things we know in part but won’t know the true reason until we’re in the by and by.  That’s just the way it is.

            January 19th would have been Auntie Sue’s ninety-ninth birthday.  Those of us who knew her and loved her, still miss her every day.  She was a loyal and loving wife, mother, grandmother, aunt and friend and there will always and forever be only one, Ysleta Davis Lane aka Auntie Sue, the original Sittin’ Ugly Sistah!

Posted in writing

A Writer’s Soul by Nancy Malcolm

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

            Writing has been a part of my life for as long as I can remember.  I had a white ‘My Diary’ journal in sixth through eighth grade.  It had a tiny key so I could lock up my secrets safely from prying eyes.  I’m positive I wrote about daily occurrences and boys I liked or who said what about something or other.  I wish I could remember what happened to ‘My Diary’.  Maybe it made it to a landfill somewhere, fully intact, secrets safely hidden.   Maybe I dramatically ripped out each page and tore it into a million pieces to protect my thoughts… I  don’t recall its demise.

            Once, I came across some writings from high school where I had copied the words from songs. During one particular romance, it was that song by the Turtles: “Imagine me and you…I do.  I think about you day and night, it’s only right…. So happy together!”  The name of the boy is nowhere on the pages, and quite possibly he didn’t even make it to the end of the song, but I had pages of songs written out.  I must have listened to my albums playing over and over to get the words, because there was certainly no google lyrics to look up.

            In my early twenties, my then husband and I tragically experienced the stillbirth of our first daughter together.  The months afterward were dark for me, and I have since found the poems I wrote during that time.  The poetry of my grief was written in sprawling handwriting on sheets of stationary and somehow, I preserved them, guarding my grief like the protective mother I wanted to be.  I still feel the sadness written onto those pages.  It rises from each word like heat off a summer sidewalk.

            I saved the hysterical letters I later got from my girls when they were at summer camp.  I’m sure my letters to them were discarded long ago, but theirs are short and confessional.

Dear Mom, I’ve worn the sme cloths evryday, but they made us take showers and eat cantelope.  Send stamps!  Luv, Courtney

           Sittin’ Ugly Sistahs, the antics of life that Ginger and I share with you, as well as the birth of my memoir, I Thought It Was You are recent projects that fill me with joy and at times, angst. I feel as though to write is to live.  To breathe is to write.  Words scrawl across my mind like an old-fashioned typewriter clicking away.  The one thing that remains the same is my fear at being vulnerable and, in contrast, the exhilaration of facing my fear.

            I’ve learned an awful lot about myself since beginning this writer’s path.  I’ve seen boldness and shyness live on the same page.

I’ve pushed myself to see parts of my life I long ago buried.

I’ve resurrected bravery.

I’ve accepted that not everyone wants to read what I have written, and I’m learning not to take that personally because I have to write.  It’s part of who I am.  And whether trolls on the internet agree with me or not, I am a writer.

Whether an agent takes my book or not, I am a writer.

Whether my husband, children or grandchildren ever read a word I’ve written or not, I am a writer.

Whether somedays I don’t believe it myself, and my inner critic is screaming ‘You’re Not Good Enough!!’ I am a writer.

I am a writer with a writer’s soul.

I am a writer.

 “I can shake off everything as I write, my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.”

Anne Frank

Posted in Holidays

A Generous Spirit

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Once upon a time, all I wanted for Christmas was a new car.  I believed Santa would grant my wish, I believed in the spirit of Christmas, and I believed I had been a very good girl all year long (my brother would beg to differ).

As a child I wanted all kinds of things, like a red, cowgirl outfit, baby dolls and a bicycle.  Although Santa did not always bring what I asked for (the cowgirl outfit), I always had gifts and we always had a tree.  Not true for many families these days.  There are so many folks in need, working hard to provide for their families.  We have only to open our eyes to see the vast opportunities to help others this holiday season.  St. Francis of Assisi said, “For it is in giving that we receive.”  This sentiment seems, at times, to boggle the mind, but I assure the doubtful, that once you truly give, you will receive the gift.  Like the Grinch, your heart will grow three sizes. 

 Generous people are the ones who give more than is expected of them.  And it is not strictly the giving of money or gifts, it could be the gift of time, the gift of help and the gift of a smile or a door held open.  Generosity of spirit.  Those that have it can’t contain it.  A generous spirit can’t stop itself, because to give is to live.  The spirit of generosity is a personal trait to be valued and admired, upheld and protected.  It is a gift to others and the one to whom it belongs. A cheerful giver has his reward from simply giving.  Each one must give as he has decided in his heart, not reluctantly or under compulsion, for God loves a cheerful giver.(2 Corinthians 9:7)

My Boo is one of the most generous souls I know.  One example is that every year he gives a gift to the city workers that pick up trash and recycling in our neighborhood.  Last year, he thoughtfully wrote them each a thank you Christmas card and put fifty dollars in each envelope. After that, one of the workers generously rolled up our trash can every week for a month, and honked as he went by.  If Boo sees a lemonade stand, he stops for a cup and donation.  If he substitutes for someone who has had a particularly hard situation, he will leave them a gift card.  He is generous of spirit with all of us and asks nothing for himself.  

This holiday season, I hope we all take time to give.  “No one has ever become poor by giving.”(Anne Frank)  Even small things may be big to someone else.  You just never know what a smile might do.  Be generous with yours.

And I will leave you with one more quote by John Wesley,

“Do all the good you can,

By all the means you can,

In all the ways you can,

In all the places you can,

At all the times you can,

To all the people you can,

As long as ever you can.

Merry Christmas from the Sittin’ugly Sistahs!

Posted in Boo, Relationships

Vegetables, Granny Style

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

Scott eating

Most Sundays after Church, before the Pandemic, we would go to Luby’s, a Texas traditional cafeteria.  And almost every Sunday I would marvel at the colors and textures on Boo’s plate.

Strangely, chicken fried steak, cream gravy, fried okra, mashed potatoes, and a roll are all in the same color family…beige.  Of course, okra is green, but the outside is fried and therefore a brownish beige color, too. There is no pop of color, nothing with a stalk and no variety unless macaroni and cheese or corn is swapped for the usuals.  But, the colors are the same: beige, brown and blah.

I used to lament about his choices, calling him out for choosing nothing green.  I’ve lectured on the health benefits of vegetables and I have prepared every root, tuber, flower, bulb, seed, leaf and stem known to man.  “You need your greens!” I preach.

“Granny used to cut up my vegetables so fine she could hide them in my mashed potatoes and gravy,”  he said.

“Really?”

Laughing, Boo said, “No, not really!  Granny never made me eat vegetables. She loved me.”

Some culinary experiments go over better than others.  Cauliflower rice, broccoli slaw, and butternut squash was a big thumbs down.  Creamed spinach, creamed corn or green bean casserole was a thumbs up. If I ask which vegetable he wants with dinner, it’s always the same answer, “Just open a can of green beans.”  At dinner, he will proudly count out 4-6 green beans and smile, “See? I like green vegetables.”

“Remember last time we went to Costco, and I insisted we get the twelve can box of green beans?  I’m practically veterinarian,” he said.

“Boo, it’s vegetarian, and no you’re not,”  I countered. 

“Don’t be snippy,” he said and added, “I like broccoli rice casserole. It’s chocked full of broccoli and healthy stuff.” 

 Of course he does.  BRC is chocked full of cream of mushroom soup and cheese, and not even real cheese at that… Cheese Whiz!   Boo’s list of vegetables all includes words like creamed, au gratin or cheese sauce. He tries to say fried zucchini and french fries are true vegetables.  He insists guacamole is a superfood and when he gets black olives on his meat-lovers pizza he is boastful for days.

“A man your age should eat vegetables without having to hide them in his mashed potatoes,” I say.

I felt him roll his eyes.   

“You’re trying to kill me,” he said.  “Remember the time you brought home grapefruit and tried to make me eat it at breakfast?  You know it doesn’t mix with my meds.”

“That was an accident.  I didn’t mean to. I just want you to eat more fruits and vegetables so you can live a long and healthy life.  I love you, Boo.”

“Promise me you’ll try to eat more greens?”  I asked. “You know, greens without a fried outer covering or smothered in cheese sauce?”

  “OK, but you’re asking a lot,”  and as he walked away I heard,

“I wish Granny was here.”

Granny
Posted in Grandmother, Relationships

Martha Margaretha

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm
Valentine Queen

Growing up, everything I knew about beauty I learned from Grandma.  She was my source of information on becoming a woman, wife and mother.  Because my mother was deceased, I had no one to teach me the basics except Grandma and sometimes my dad, which as you might expect, was not always on point.

Grandma was raised on a dirt farm in Kansas.  They were so poor that her parents sent the last two siblings to live with another family because they could not feed them all.  She was only able to complete the 3rd grade because everyone was needed on the farm.  Grandma told me once that she did not remember laughing as a child.  “There was nothing to laugh about,” she said.  “We worked from sunup to sun down.”  And so my grandma, Martha Margaretha, was a serious, no nonsense kind of gal most of the time, but there was a little girl inside who longed to have fun and feel carefree.

Grandma was a wonderfully accomplished seamstress and made all of her clothes, even slips, bathrobes and nightgowns.  She also made all of my clothes until I was old enough to sew for myself.  She made my Barbies the most fabulous ensembles!  I distinctly remember Barbie having a dress out of the same fabric as Grandmas, and even a fully lined coat, complete with bound buttonholes.  Barbie never lacked for functional yet stylish outfits and neither did I.  Grandma had an eye for pattern, texture, design and she could easily visualize how our dresses would turn out, while working tirelessly to make it come together.

Martha had two main rules on beauty:  Always wear lipstick and always wear earbobs or ear screws, as she called them.  In Grandma’s bedroom, on her dresser, was a tray that held her cherished personal items.  There was a comb, brush and mirror set that I always remember her using.  She wore Lady Esther loose face powder, and kept the box front and center.  If I close my eyes I can smell the sweet fragrance and remember the way Grandma’s face felt so soft when I hugged and kissed her.  She always smelled of this face powder and I think to this day I would know it, if I were lucky enough to breathe in that precious scent.  The fluffy, round puff sat on top of this all important powder and next to it was her lipstick.

The dresser top was balanced with a simple jewelry box.  The kind that opened up and the top folded back revealing a bottom section.  Grandma had a large collection of earbobs, necklaces and brooches, most of which came from us, for Christmas or birthdays.  She also had a small little cameo that she pinned on for special occasions.  I would always ask to look through her jewelry box and try on these simple, yet glamorous pieces.  Grandma truly believed in accessories, and although coming from humble beginnings, she wanted to look her best.  It was very important to her.

With her beautiful silver gray hair, smart clothing, ear screws and lipstick, Martha always looked ‘put together’.  No matter how poor you are, you can be clean and neat...a Martha mantra for sure.  Everywhere she went, she would be complimented on her neat appearance, even winning Valentine Queen at her nursing home.  Grandma lived well into her 101st year on this earth.  I remember once, while visiting her in ‘the home’,  one of the caregivers gave her a compliment, which made her proud, yet shy.  After the worker left, Grandma turned to me and said, “It’s almost a curse to be so beautiful”, then she laughed and patted my hand.

 My dad made sure she was always taken care of and able to live comfortably, and so the former Valentine Queen was content and loved.  I know even now, as she sits playing Canasta in heaven, she’s looking all done up…lipstick, ear screws and that wonderful face powder.  We would expect nothing less from Martha Margaretha.

As CoCo Chanel once said, “Beauty begins the moment you decide to be yourself.”

I think Grandma knew that too.

Grandma’s 100th Birthday
Posted in Boo, Relationships

Talking Up A Storm

Posted on by Nancy Malcolm

“Hi Babe, how was the fishing?”

“Good.”  (1)

“Did you catch anything?”

“Three bass and a catfish.” (5)

“Did y’all have fun?  What else did you do?”

“Yep.  Just fished.” (3)

Wait time……

“Got a burger coming home.” (5)

Or here’s another scenario:

Me:  “What did the doctor say?

Boo:  “Not much.  I’m good.”  (4)

And another…

“What all did your brother have to say?”  I asked Boo this after a twenty minute animated conversation on his phone.

“They’re good.” (2)

Wait time….

“It rained.”  (2)

I get that in some cases it is my fault for asking questions that could be answered with a yes or no.  Sometimes, I try adding  “what else?”  or “tell me more.”

Me.  “The kids want to know what you want for your birthday.”

Boo.  “Underwear or socks.”  (3)

Me.  “They can’t all get you underwear and socks.  Isn’t there anything else you need or just want?”

Boo. “Gift card?” (2)

Me.  “To where?”

Boo.  “Anywhere is fine.” (3)

Me.  “Really?”

Boo.  “No.” (1)

Wait time….

Boo.  “Home Depot or Academy.” (4)

*(I could have answered that question myself, but I was hoping maybe he would branch out on ideas, although sometimes he does say Red Lobster.)

It’s not always like this.  Sometimes I can ask a simple question and he will go on and on with elaboration, facial expressions and hand jesters.  It just depends on the topic, time of day or whether CNN is on.

Boo is the strong, silent type until he’s ready to share.  He’s really a deep thinker, but he rarely expresses his thoughts unless the spirit moves him, and when it does, I see a whole different side of Boo.  He’ll talk up a storm, and I’ll get a glimpse into that steel-trap mind and heart of gold.   Any newsworthy topic, discussion of grandchildren or sports will have him chatting for minutes at a time.  He’s practically loquacious.

  But until then…we’ll share our peaceful silence.

That’s just Boo. (3)