The Crab Chronicles

The BEST Thanksgiving and the WORST Thanksgiving

When I was a kid we had two kinds of Thanksgivings, the ones with the extended family and the ones with just the four of us. Over the years we would sometimes get together with my mom's two brothers and their families for Thanksgiving, but not every year. 

Left, about 1968 or '69, with my aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents. I am in front wearing blue pants and a red jacket.

The holidays with the extended family were always fun, because my mom and both aunts and my grandmother were all wonderful cooks. Nobody has ever equaled my mom's homemade dressing, as I explained in an article for The Cook's Cook a couple of years ago, Enjoy Elva's Cornbread Dressing. I was unaware there was anything other than cornbread dressing until I was almost grown. One year when it was just the four of us, Mom made a small pan of oyster dressing in addition to the standard one. It was delicious, but not something she did every year. In addition to the dressing, the Hasty Thanksgivings also included the standards: turkey, gravy, mashed potatoes, green bean casserole, pies.

The BEST Thanksgiving was in 1970, when the family gathered at Amicalola Falls in North Georgia, and rented a cabin in the mountains. I slept on the floor in the main room with my cousins, in a sleeping bag, but I didn't mind. I got to play with my cousin Linda, and my brother played with Bill, her twin. We were all happy to be together. The food was marvelous, too, of course.

One of the highlights was my uncle Don showing all of us a cassette tape recorder. In 1970 that was hi tech, exciting stuff! He worked in the corporate office of GE and always got to use the latest techno wizardry. He recorded all of us kids, and some grownups, talking about the weekend. Years later, he and my aunt found that tape and had copies made and sent a copy to each family. I still have it. It's one of my most prized possessions. A few years ago I played the tape on an old boombox and I recorded a snippet of my grandmother's voice and it's stored now on my desktop, where I can listen to it any time. I love hearing her voice again.

Linda recently sent me a copy of some of the home movies her dad made that weekend and I got such a kick out of seeing those. I had forgotten that I was a Hot Mess. I am constantly turning cartwheels and jumping around and pretending to be a ballerina. I had forgotten I was such a lively kid.

My grandmother was a prankster, all her life, and I never really knew that until that weekend. The second night, she announced she was going to bed early, then snuck out of the cabin and went to her car and put on some old clothes and a wig and hat, and then came and knocked on the door, cigarette dangling, and asked my cousin Robert for a light. (She wasn't a smoker, in reality.) Always polite, he said "I'm sorry I don't have one, but maybe my dad can help." My uncle Bobby appeared, took one look, and knew it was Memaw. He kept bending down to see her face, and she kept dropping her head down because she didn't want him to see it was her, which was pretty hilarious (we all agreed later) because Bobby was 6'3 and Memaw was 4'11! I stood back and watched it all, fascinated. Years later, long after Memaw had died, Mom told me of some of her escapades as a young girl and even as a young mother, including dressing up as a vagrant for Halloween, with a friend, and playing practical jokes on all the neighbors.

The summer before that had been particularly awful for our little family. My mother had been in the hospital, very ill with blood clots in her legs, Daddy had to have emergency hemorrhoid surgery, my brother had been horribly bullied at school, and I had been sick with pneumonia for 3 weeks. Thanksgiving with the family was a welcome change.

The Thanksgiving in the mountains was the last time all of us would be together with my Memaw and Papa Hasty. We didn't know it then, but in January of 1971 our family would move to Knoxville, Tennessee, and be about 4 hours' drive from my grandparents, and my uncle Bobby and his family. About 18 months later my grandfather would die, as a complication of surgery on his hip.

In the coming years there would only be a couple of get-togethers of all the Hastys, as the distances were too great, then of course all of my generation grew up and scattered across several states.

So that was the best Thanksgiving.

The worst Thanksgiving was actually comical, in hindsight.

My brother married a lady who I won't name here but she was very strange. I think she was Bipolar, or something. She was always making crazy plans that she insisted would come to pass but they never did. After my father died, around 1997 or 1998, my brother and sister in law came to my mother's house in Augusta for Thanksgiving. They had no children, but two dogs, who came with them, all in one car. Mom and I were there, working on the big meal to be shared that night. We were all in the kitchen, talking. Sis said that on Christmas she and my brother would be in Colorado, either in a hotel or camping. That struck me as odd because my brother hates camping, and Colorado is a long way from South Carolina.

After my sister in law made her bizarre announcement, I looked at my mother, and she looked stricken. Mom always wanted her children home on Christmas -- the only time she was really insistent on that.

I said "Have you all made reservations? Booked flights?" I suspected it was just another wild idea. Oh no, she said, but it was going to happen. I said "Well couldn't you just wait until the day after Christmas maybe? or before Christmas, so y'all could be with us on Christmas Day??"

"But we want to go to Colorado for Christmas!" she insisted. I looked at my brother's face, and he looked super annoyed, like this crazy plan was news to him.

"I'm not saying don't go, I'm just saying be flexible with the dates," I said.

I wasn't yelling. I wasn't visibly angry, just annoyed. I knew my mother was on the verge of tears, anticipating two holidays being ruined by my sister in law -- a new record, for her.

Instead of engaging in a discussion, sister just screamed at me "You are SUCH a BITCH! We're leaving!" and she grabbed her two dogs, and her car keys, and hustled out the back door. I had never seen her move that fast. My brother looked horrified.  "I'm sorry, Mom. I would stay but I'd have no way to get back to Columbia," he apologized. He had to literally run out the door, as his wife was already backing down the driveway. He told us later he had to yell at her to get her to stop so he could get in!

So that year it was just me and Mom, and Mom was very upset. I think we ended up just eating canned soup or sandwiches.

Fortunately, a couple of years later my brother divorced the Crazy Lady.

The one really good thing to result from that awful Thanksgiving? I never saw my sister in law again. Haven't see her since, and that was about 25 years ago. I hope I never see her again. My brother divorced her but they stayed friends. They still occasionally meet for lunch. She actually had the nerve to tell him she wanted to be friends with Mom again, about 15 years ago. Brother mentioned it when visiting us. Mom said NO WAY. She had welcomed my sister in law to the family and treated her like her own child, but when Elva was done with someone, she was DONE. She never forgot, did forgive eventually, but was quite capable of cutting someone entirely out of her life when they didn't act right.

I think sis was/is mentally ill, and my brother eventually came to agree with me. I did exact a little revenge though, as only a writer can. In one of my books there is a character that is a total screwup, an obnoxious young woman who acts like a ho, and I gave her my sister in law's name.

To all y'all out there, I hope your Thanksgiving is lovely, and you are with family and/or friends. It will just be me and my son, and that's fine. We will just eat a lot [pork roast, as we aren't wild about turkey] and watch movies all day.

Check out my new novel Dancing in the Wreckage, on Amazon

Working Hard

As a child, I was bad about blurting out inappropriate or odd things at inopportune moments. Sometimes it was funny. Oftentimes, it was not. I liked to push the envelope and was often accused of "talking back" -- in other words, saying rude and/or disrespectful things. My parents had a very low threshold of tolerance for backtalk from me and my brother. I was thinking of that recently while listening to an audiotape of a long-ago Hasty family get-together. My 8 year old voice can clearly be heard saying to my grandmother "But you all were rich Memaw, Mommy said you were rich growing up!"

My grandmother, Wilma Butler Hasty, ignored me and went on with what she was saying. When I heard myself years later I cringed, because I could imagine the awkwardness of how my beloved grandmother must have felt. She grew up in a wealthy family, yes, but in the 1920's her family lost their money. My grandfather lost his major league baseball job in 1924 and went out west and played for minor league teams for years, before coming back east, and then in 1929 everyone lost everything.

We can all complain now about inflation and high prices but the Great Depression was far worse.

At that point in my life I had no idea what the Great Depression was, or how hard my grandmother had to work, for years, first to keep food on the table when times were tough, then to put her children through college. Finally, in her 60's, she stopped working a regular job but she worked hard as a seamstress, sewing dresses for me and my mother, and other family members. Memaw made all of my school clothes, for years. Little girls had to wear dresses back then, and children's clothing wasn't cheap. Memaw had 5 granddaughters, 2 daughters-in-law, and many siblings and nieces, nephews, etc.

I was blessed that Mom told me many stories about the remarkable lady I called "Memaw." She was an amazing person. Smart, funny, energetic.

I wanted to share three anecdotes about my grandmother, that made a big impression on me.

When I was  about 7, Memaw said to me: "Always do your VERY BEST, every day, Dee. Always. Then at the end of the day, FORGET IT. Then you can sleep." She was right. If you always give every task 100%, you don't have to worry about regrets. I'm sure there were things in life she regretted, but she didn't dwell on them. She just did her best and got on with it.

VERY valuable life lesson, there.

Memaw may have grown up rich, but she lived through The Great Depression of 1929-39 and she had three kids to feed and a husband who restlessly changed jobs about every year. They didn't always live in places with indoor plumbing. There wasn't always any family around to help.

During the Great Depression, Mom told me, hobos [homeless men] would often come to the back door of the house asking for a handout. Memaw never just gave them handouts. She would ask them to do something, and then give them some food before sending them on their way. The chore might be pulling weeds, or sweeping the porch, or whatever they could do, but she never turned anyone away hungry. Of course, most of those men were just out of work, not alcoholics or mentally ill. They were usually just good people who were trying not to starve. Mom said the hobos would carve symbols or numbers into a tree or fence or somewhere in front of the house to signal that it was a place with kind people who might give a person a meal.

When Mom was small, at one place where they lived, there was a tiny school but there was no cafeteria. Every day at noon the kids were given an hour to walk home and eat lunch and walk back. A lot of those kids had no lunch waiting for them at home. Memaw got together with other mothers and worked out a plan so each mother would take a turn every week or two, and bring food to the school and serve it to the kids. It might be only a sandwich and an apple, or a plate of beans and cornbread, but each child [in the entire school] got fed, each day of the school year.

My mother was a wonderful storyteller, and I was so lucky that she told me many stories about Memaw. I am thankful I knew her, and she spent a lot of time with me when I was a child.

Memaw worked hard, but she also laughed a lot, and she raised her children to be hard workers, but also to hold onto their sense of humor and to not dwell on past mistakes or misfortunes.

Most importantly, she had an abiding faith in God, and she passed that along to us all. She didn't just talk the talk, though. She was kind and generous to everyone, and although she could be a bit demanding in restaurants she was never rude, and I never heard her raise her voice.

The older I get the more I appreciate her profound influence on me. I wish I could have a visit with her. I have an audio clip of her telling a funny story and occasionally I listen to it, just to hear her voice. I played it for Michael yesterday and he listened thoughtfully and said "She sounds a little bit like Granny." So true. The apple didn't fall far from the tree.

I still talk back, and still occasionally put my foot in my mouth, but I apologize and I don't lose sleep over it.

The Teacher That Changed My Life

Have you ever thought about the adult who most influenced you when you were a kid, who wasn't actually related to you? [I'm not talking about parents, siblings, grandparents, etc.] In the years since I walked out of Cedar Bluff Middle School for the last time in June of 1976 I have often thought about Catherine Gettys.

It should come as no surprise to anyone who knows me that the most memorable teacher I ever had was an English teacher. She was my homeroom teacher in 5th grade, and the English teacher on my team in 6th and 8th grades. About 90% of what I know about English Grammar, punctuation and spelling I learned from Miss Gettys. Of course, nobody called it "English" - it was "Language Arts."

Cedar Bluff Middle School in Knoxville in 1972 when I started 5th grade was very different than school is today. There were no computers anywhere. Girls being allowed to wear pants to school was a very new thing! Proper clothing for kids was strictly enforced. All grades [5th through 8th] went out to recess at least once a day. Parents were never asked to spend hundreds of dollars on school supplies. I usually got a new notebook and some pencils at the start of every year, and maybe a new lunchbox. We had Art and Music classes every week. We had PE classes several times a week, and for that we had to "dress out" - wear shorts and tee shirts, not our good "school clothes." Big treats were being able to watch movies once in a while, or field trips. Sometimes Drama students from the nearby University of Tennessee would do plays for us in the gym, and I loved that. I sang in Chorus every year, and loved "Mini Labs" -- fun classes like Fun Foods and Chess and Sign Language. I went there to Cedar Bluff Middle for four years, 5th through 8th grades, 1972-76. I was taunted about being fat and there were some boys who sometimes verbally bullied me, but otherwise those years were good.

There were teams of four teachers for each grade. We learned Math, Science, Social Studies, and Language Arts. Teams had 5th and 6th graders or 7th and 8th graders.

Things didn't start well with Miss Gettys. I was in 5th grade and it was her first year teaching. She had 35 rambunctious, intelligent fifth graders, and we were not shy or quiet. She was usually even-tempered but every so often she got so frustrated at our inability to be quiet that she was screamed at us. Sometimes other teachers had to come in and make us "quiet down." We were told by Miss Gettys as well as other teachers that we were the worst-behaved class in the entire school -- which I found mortifying. I was a shy bookworm and I didn't misbehave. I told my mother my frustrations but she couldn't do anything to help. Her wise counsel was always to mind my own business, do my work, and be respectful. My mother had been a teacher before she had kids.

I admired Miss Gettys. I liked her handwriting and copied it until mine looked like hers. I admired her for her appearance. She had a trim figure and curly reddish-brown hair. Her face still showed freckles. She wore a lot of jumpsuits, which were very popular then, cute jewelry, and occasionally a colorful scarf. Daily, she looked fashionable. I also always remember her with a large cup of coffee in her hand.

Miss Gettys' main contributions to my life were twofold. One, she taught me everything I know about how to write a proper, grammatical sentence. We diagrammed sentences for hours, on the board. Subject verb agreement was important. Commas were wielded appropriately. Paragraphs were built solidly and God help you if they were weak. I rarely cracked open my Harbrace because when I read the rules of grammar and punctuation they usually mystified me. I learned how to spot a bad sentence a mile away, though. It helped that I read voraciously and was always several years ahead in reading ability.

In 6th grade, her classroom was chock full of photos and drawings, and we could earn extra credit by writing paragraphs or stories describing what was depicted. I loved doing that. It taught me how to analyze an image, and how to think creatively. We didn't have letter grades but the good grades were "EP" (excellent progress) and "SP" (superior progress). I always made EPs or SPs in her class.

In 7th grade I had the misfortune to be in the homeroom of a Language Arts teacher who was a nice man but very ineffective as a teacher, Mr. McCormick. Worse, the 7th graders were divided up at the beginning of the year and classified as either being smart or dumb -- of course those terms weren't used but it was obvious. Math was my weakness and because I was terrible at it I got put in the dumb class. It was humiliating and I was miserable. I don't think I learned anything in any classroom that year because the kids were so awful the teachers made no real effort. Lesson plans were ignored by most of the kids and classrooms were zoo-like.

I was on a different team in 8th grade and I was much happier. Over that summer, all the kids grew, and I went from being freakishly taller and bigger than anyone else to being among the shortest in class, at 5'3. We had a good group of girls and we all got to be friends. They were a lot of slumber parties that year.

Once again, Miss Gettys was my English teacher.

In 8th grade I started calling her "Catherine" instead of Miss Gettys. I don't know why I did it and I don't know why she put up with it. I remember tedious classes in grammar and punctuation, and more sentence diagramming, but also chances to write creatively.

Every year, each team awarded prizes for every subject. You could either win Most Improved or Best Student. In 8th grade I wanted to Win Best Student in Language Arts. I worked hard all year and Made SPs every quarter. A poem I had sent in to Read Magazine was actually published! It was a national magazine for kids. Another one of my poems was published in a collection of children's poetry by the University of Tennessee. I was chosen to be on the newspaper staff at Farragut High School while still in 8th grade, which thrilled me. I had been a writer for my team magazines in 7th and 8th grades. I felt like I deserved to be acknowledged as the best English student on my team.

The day came for the awards to be handed out. I remember sitting on the floor of the gym and hearing all the names called out. Finally, they got to the Language Arts awards for our team. I won! I was furious though because I was named Most Improved in English, not the Best.

I remember stomping angrily up to take my award from Miss Gettys, not looking at her, so terribly upset that I went home and cried. My parents couldn't console me. The boy who won was a smug jerk that I couldn't stand. [I think today he is a car salesman.]

[above left, me in 5th grade, and right me in 7th grade]

It was really childish but I was angry at Miss Gettys for years. I held a major grudge. I never got over that Most Improved prize humiliation. I think it fueled my desire to write because I wanted to prove to Miss Gettys that she was wrong to give me that "most improved" award. I published a memoir about my daughter's adoption in 2009 and I sent a promotional postcard to the school after seeing online that Miss Gettys was still teaching there. I wanted her to see me as a published author, not some pitiful chubby kid who never amounted to anything. I addressed the card to her.

She probably never imagined that I would eventually become a published writer with an extensive portfolio, or that I would publish novels on Amazon. I also utilize my writing skills daily in my job as a litigation paralegal and I've written a sourcebook for paralegals, Paralegal 411.

I Googled Miss Gettys a few years ago and she was still teaching at Cedar Bluff Middle School but she had switched to teaching Social Studies. Her students loved her. I long ago forgave her for not giving me the prize I had felt I deserved. She gave two things far more valuable -- the ability to proofread and edit like a pro, and a love of creative writing that caused me to get an MA in Creative Writing and to eventually become a novelist.

If I can find her on social media I'd like to send a link to Miss Gettys, to show her that she had a huge influence on my life, and to thank her for everything. I don't think she ever had children of her own but her impact on her students was profound.

We need more teachers like her. Below, my 5th grade class. I am not in the picture because I was sick that day.

Check out my latest novel Dancing in the Wreckage.

Stopping a Child's Tantrum

Not long before she died my mother and I had a very illuminating talk and she reminded me of something she did when I was a small child that had lasting repercussions in my life. I was telling her about something I'd read about the best way to deal with a child who was having a meltdown, putting them into "time in" instead of "time out" and she listened very thoughtfully. "I did that with you," she remarked.

"What? I don't remember that." Then she reminded me of her tantrum strategy.

I was the baby of the entire family. All my Thompson cousins were 5-10 years older. All my Hasty cousins were 2-12 years older. Often I was the youngest child in the neighborhood.

When we lived at our wonderful old house on Heard Avenue in Augusta I was 1-5 years old. It's the first house I remember. It was built in the early 20th century and had a big front porch, with a swing. Sitting out there, watching the bees and butterflies in the flowers, was peaceful and lovely.

I always wanted to play with the bigger kids, play on an equal basis with them. My two best playmates were my brother Bruce, 2 1/2 years older than me, and my BFF and next door neighbor Joanne, about 18 months older. So often, though, I couldn't keep up with them intellectually or physically.

I would get frustrated and have screaming temper tantrums. I could throw quite a tantrum. I've always had a BIG voice, even as a little kid, not to mention a flare for the dramatic.

Mom developed a strategy born of desperation, I'm sure. She did what would now be called a "therapeutic hold" - a controversial technique but one that works.

When I launched into a tantrum, she would pick me up and go out to the front porch, getting me away from the older kids, and sit down on the porch swing. There, she would quietly hold me and swing, while rubbing my back. I can remember that very well.

I was a fighter. I always wanted to fight, and beat my enemies. [Good preparation for spending decades as a litigation paralegal, now that I think of it!] The older kids became "enemies" when they excluded me, intentionally or unintentionally. Bruce and Joanne loved me but I know at times they viewed me as a nuisance.

Anyway, when I threw a fit Mom got me away from the other kids and that was a blessing. I thought of her as a huge, strong person, and I was astonished to grow up and see she was petite [5'4] and not very strong, actually.

Once we were seated on the porch swing, I could not get down, off of her lap, until I went through several steps.

1. I had to un-clench my entire body and stop crying.
2. I had to get my breathing back to normal. Sometimes I had to endure Mom wiping off my face with a cold wet washcloth.
3. I had to listen to Mom telling me not to let the other kids bother me -- or her explanation of why the tantrum was the wrong response to whatever was bothering me.
4. I had to just sit quietly for at least 5 minutes, while Mom rocked. Sometimes we would sing, or she would sing to me.
5. I had to laugh. Mom made a sort of puppet with her hand, sticking her thumb between her index and middle finger, and did the funny voice of Thumb-bum. I had to listen to Thumb-bum tease me or say funny things until I laughed.
6. Finally, I had to promise to behave myself before I was allowed to get off her lap and go back to playing.

Now, I didn't know as a small child that my mother was unusual. I didn't know she had taken many classes in psychology, including child psychology. I didn't know that she found her two children endlessly fascinating and she studied how to help us to have as happy and stress-free a childhood as possible. I'm sure there was fierce protectiveness because she knew there would never be more children. She had wanted four kids but fibroid tumors in her ovaries made it really difficult for her to get pregnant and led to a hysterectomy when I was still small.

She was a brilliant person and I know at times she found it really difficult to be a stay at home mom, stuck in a house all day with two small children. Dad was very tight with money so there was little extra for fun activities. I feel very lucky that she was able to be at home with us, though. She essentially taught me how to calm myself down, and not let the bigger kids destroy my peace of mind.

To all you young parents out there, God Bless You. If you find yourself dealing with tantrums, try a loving "time in" plus therapeutic hold, and see how that works. It will eventually get better. If you're lucky, you might wind up with a child who can calm themselves down effectively even when you aren't with them.

#thebestwaytocalmachild, #dealingwithchildhoodtantrums, #therapeuticholds, #timeinforkids

Traveling Then and Now

As a child, I used to wonder why my mother never set off on a trip without a really big straw basket filled with kitchen supplies and snacks. I went through that basket one day after my mom and I moved in together and it still held coffee, Vienna sausages, straws, wet wipes, Woolite, paper napkins, salt and pepper, a jar of nuts, plastic cutlery, and I don't recall what else. I asked Mom why she had always carried all that on trips and she looked puzzled and said well her mother had carried the same basket on all trips, plus blankets, and it made a lot of sense.

My grandmother Memaw Hasty was the greatest grandmother a future paralegal could ever have. She was meticulous about being prepared for any situation. Travel by car was seen by her and my grandfather as a grand adventure. Of course, cars back then were prone to flat tires and they might sit on the side of the road for hours if there was no spare, or the jack didn't work, etc. Restaurants were not always available, even if you'd been traveling for hours and were ravenously hungry. My memaw's travel basket meant if she and her fellow travelers were stranded they could survive on the side of the road for hours or even a day or two, if necessary.

While researching for my book Return to Marietta, Mom told me that when her oldest brother Bobby was a baby, Memaw missed her family terribly and a couple of times she drove by herself with infant Bobby from California to Georgia to see the family. She packed the travel basket and blankets and canteens of water, and of course a loaded pistol.

I had forgotten about canteens. They were small tin water bottles carried by soldiers. Before bottled water, one carried a canteen of water. We always had one around the house, though Mom was more fond of a thermos.

I thought I would reminisce a little about how much travel has changed in the last hundred years or so, since the summer is when most of us take long car trips. [below, my mother and grandparents, sometime around 1942 or thereabouts, on a trip]

This is from my mother's memoir, Singing to the Cows:

"Fast food as we know it now did not exist until less than 50 years ago. There were no expressways. We drove on two lane roads, through small towns or through big cities glutted with traffic. So if a family was traveling, they might find something to eat or drink at a gas station – or maybe nothing but a soda and package of peanuts at best. My mother always carried snacks, water to drink, wet wash cloths, first aid supplies, etc. Most often, we had a thermos of sweet tea mixed with fruit juices. For a longer trip, there would be a full meal. Back then, the food was certainly better and cheaper and no waiting in line. I carried big beach towels because they could serve as tablecloths, wraps, etc."

I remember my dad packing the station wagon for us to take on trips and getting all the suitcases in the car, and then his look of consternation when Mom came out carrying the travel basket for him to put in the car. "We don't need all this stuff!" he would fuss.

Sometimes the trips were much shorter - basically day trips. My grandparents loved to picnic. Nowadays people don't picnic that much, probably because of the proliferation of fast food places. Even as a child [1960's] I remember driving back and forth to Atlanta and there was a little restaurant somewhere on Highway 78 where we always stopped and ate, but it was a regular restaurant and there was nothing fast about it.

Anyway, here are some of Mom's picnic memories.

"My parents, as well as the rest of the family, just loved going on picnics. They had a system of what to carry and just how to pack it. This was mostly before Tupperware, Styrofoam, canned drinks, and lots of convenience items. We did have a large thermos jug which would be filled with a combination of sweet tea and fruit juices - delicious! Also, there was no plastic wrap or foil – but waxed paper was fine. The food was about what one would expect: fried chicken, potato salad, ham, fruit salad, slaw, cold biscuits, usually a pot of green beans with ham hock, and someone always brought a wonderful home baked cake, and cobblers, and pies. They kept the old tablecloths for picnics. We always met at the Atlanta area parks that had nice picnic tables, most often with thatched appearing roofs, or a pavilion. The adults would sit around and visit and the young folks would take long walks around the park, after the meal."

I remember Mom sometimes persuading my dad to take picnic foods on trips so we didn't have to eat fast foods, but he was always impatient and grouchy with the whole idea. Standing outside and eating sandwiches out of the trunk while cars whizzed by and Dad grumbled was not fun, at all. (Maybe that's why I have never understood tailgating. Eating out of the trunk of the car just doesn't appeal to me.)

Even just in my lifetime, taking a trip has changed dramatically. I can remember driving for hours without a gas station in sight, and my dad pulling the car over so I could squat and pee, with the car door and Mom hiding me from the sight of anyone coming down the road. We always carried paper napkins and/or toilet paper in the travel basket, for potty emergencies.

My dad taught me how to change a tire when I was 18. I was amazed to learn later that not all girls could change a tire, or check a car's oil, or add water to a car, or use cables to jump start a car. Dad wanted me to be prepared.

Here's what prompted me to write this blog.

My son Michael was asked by a friend, a chef, to drive to SC this weekend and help with the cooking for his niece's quinceañera. Michael had never driven 2.5 hours alone before and I tried not to freak out. I was driving 6 hours back and forth to college at the age of 19, but Michael has just never needed to drive anywhere alone before. I asked him if he wanted to take cold drinks, a flashlight, etc. but he stopped me before I recited a long list of stuff and said "Mom, if I need anything I will just stop and get it?!" like DUH, Mom.

He called me when he reached his destination, as I had asked.

Even today, when I travel I take my version of the travel basket, for emergencies. I advise y'all to do so also. Picnics are nice, too.

#travelinglongago, #twentiethcenturytraveltips, #familypicnictips, #familypicnics, #packingfortrips, #cartripslongago, #cartripsofyesteryear

Stories from The Past

My dad grew up in a tiny town near Augusta Georgia, Hephzibah. As a child, the word "Hephzibah" was always associated with my uncles and funny stories. The stories were simply part of my Thompson life, and I never realized how lucky I was to be related to three very smart, very funny, Southern men. My father Tony Thompson and my uncles Lewis and Bobby were what might be called "old school" today. 

I shared some memories of our family in a story published in Salvation South today, Cordelia's Giggle.

My uncles both served in World War II. Bobby was in the Navy. Lewis was in the Army and fought in the South Pacific. I was born years later. Both of the men I knew were tall, easygoing, affable, guys. It's hard to imagine them in a war, getting shot at or possibly shooting at someone else. Now my dad was a very different guy, a dynamo of energy. It wasn't hard to imagine him in a war because he loved all thing military and pushed my brother to go in the Army.

However, unlike his two brothers Dad was never in a war. I always assumed he was in the Korean War but when I was cleaning out my house to move a couple of years ago I found letters he wrote to his parents while in the Army and they were dated 1954, after Korea had ended.

Dad spent most of his mandatory military service running around Europe every time he got leave. He was stationed in Germany. The photo at left shows him and two friends on the French Riviera. The letters are hilarious, because he was so young [24] and from a tiny town, and he missed his parents a lot.

When I was a kid, I noticed that whenever Dad was with one or both of his brothers, the Hephzibah stories would often get told. Whiskey was often consumed during the telling.

The most memorable storytelling occasion happened in 1974, just after Christmas. My cousin Chris was visiting his father's family and Lewis and his family had been to Rome, Georgia to see his wife's family, and we all converged for an afternoon at an Atlanta hotel, for lunch. Below is one of the black & white photos made by my uncle Lewis that day.

I was 12 years old. All my cousins and my brother were older. It was the only time we were all together, unfortunately, because Chris lived in California and his visits were sporadic. At the time, Chris was working as a plumber or carpenter or something, but he later went on to an illustrious career as a TV and movie writer and producer. I don't know if he realized that he got a lot of his humor from the Thompson side. 

In the article I wrote about my grandmother Cordelia, I got a kick out of talking about the funny Hephzibah stories, but I wanted to also carefully explain that she raised three fine men.

Cordelia Henderson Thompson didn't have an easy life. She was an "old maid schoolteacher" about 31 years old when she met and married Grandaddy. In those days, if a woman wasn't married by age 25 she was an "old maid" and unlikely to ever marry, according to the social rules of that time. She was very smart, loved to read, and loved to make photos. Dad said she always carried her little "Brownie" camera everywhere, and because of that I have some wonderful old family photos like the one below, of Cordelia and her youngest son Tony, my dad.

She married my grandfather in 1923. He was not educated and he didn't have any money, but it was a true love match. They raised three sons during the Great Depression, watched two of them go to war, and died in the late 1950's. Thompson had been a professional soldier for many years and although he was a small man [about 5'7, 135 lbs.] he was fierce and he had a temper.

Cordelia was gentle. She was very ladylike, and proper. Although she married her opposite, she loved him very much. Mom said she used to talk about him all the time after he died, and her heartbreak was evident. They were married for 34 years, until his death from emphysema complications in 1957, a few months after my parents' marriage. 

Most of what I know about Cordelia I learned from my mother. She only knew her about 2 1/2 years but she grew to love Cordelia and happily named me after her, three years after Cordelia's death. My name, Dee, is a shortened version of her name.

Some people -- including my own cousins -- think I am really weird for finding my family so fascinating. I feel like I am lucky to be a product of two old Southern families, and stories of my ancestors fascinate me. I got that from Dad. He was always organizing family reunions, always on the hunt for old photos and memorabilia, and very reverent about family history and lore. There's nothing wrong with that.

I feel like all of us are products of the DNA of all our ancestors stretching back for generations. We may look back at them and think they lived such different lives  than we did but that's not entirely true. My grandparents lived through two World Wars and The Great Depression. Life was a lot harder in 1923 when all four of my grandparents got married, but they wanted the same things we want. Home and children were important. Faith was important. Good manners were very important. Stories were important. I am proud to be a product of all of my grandparents, the ones I knew (Bob Hasty and Wilma Butler Hasty) and the ones I didn't know, Thompson and Cordelia. I carry their genes in my body, but more importantly, I try to carry on family traditions and tell the stories, so the next generations will never forget them.

My Musical Tastes

I asked my father once what it was like to be a young man when Elvis Presley broke into the music business and his records started getting played on the radio. (I have been a big Elvis fan since I first saw Viva Las Vegas on the 4:00 movie when I was in fourth grade in Knoxville Tennessee. His song "Merry Christmas Baby" is my fave Christmas song.)

Dad got a look on his face like he was eating some bad turnip greens. 

"I didn't listen to him. I listened to Frank Sinatra. Didn't like Elvis," Dad said dismissively. [Years later Mom told me they took a record player and one Frank Sinatra album on their honeymoon and they wore that one Frank Sinatra record slap out.]

I was disappointed. I wanted to hear some fun story about the first time Dad heard "Heartbreak Hotel" and he couldn't stop dancing, or something. Fun fact: my parents were known to sometimes do the jitterbug after they'd had a few drinks.

Heck, even my memaw loved Elvis -- she listened to his gospel album until it was worn out. If you've never heard Elvis sing "Peace in the Valley" check it out. My voice teacher said if Elvis had chosen to sing classical music he would have had a big career. (Too bad he settled for a small career.)

Elvis changed the world. He bridged the gap between country, soul, and what would become rock & roll. He imitated "race records" as records by black artists were known in the early 1950's. I love most of Elvis' music. [I must confess, however, that once I heard Big Mama Thornton's version of "Hound Dog" I much preferred Big Mama's rendition. When she sang "you can wag yo tail but I ain't gon' feed you no more" I believed her.]

Dad skipped Elvis. He went right from liking Frank Sinatra to liking Willie Nelson, after we moved from Augusta, Georgia to Knoxville, Tennessee, in 1971. Dad had a 20-30 minute drive from our home in the Knoxville suburbs to the Valley Fidelity Bank in downtown Knoxville every day, and he listened to WIVK, a country station that came in loud and clear. One summer I worked at the bank and rode to work with him every day since I didn't have a car. Eventually I grew to appreciate some country songs, like Willie's version of Stardust. Even though I was not a big country fan. I did appreciate the simple but poignant sentiments Conway Twitty sang about in "I'd Love to Lay You Down" a song with the immortal lyrics "you've got a way of doing little things that turn me on like standing in the kitchen in your faded cotton gown." [Just imagine how excited he got when she wore a nice dress and high heels! She must have had to fight him off so she could cook some fried chicken...]

Now, my musical tastes are all over the place.

I make no apologies for that.

In the mid 1970's my brother bought a cassette tape of the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack and we listened to it until we could sing all the words to classics like Disco Inferno. I liked disco. Don't judge.

When I was a kid my mother bought a series of expensive record sets that she forced me to listen to so I would become familiar with Mozart, Bach, Brahms, Beethoven, and her favorite, Rachmaninoff. I was forced top listen to that music and some of it I actually liked. Mom is why this song -- O mio babbino caro is -- in my opinion -- literally the most beautiful music ever created.

My older brother listened to WIMZ, which played a lot of music with few commercials in the 1970's. So I listened to that too, and I learned to appreciate rock. Funny story. Brother used to leave the radio on a lot and he would fall asleep listening to it. One night he was awakened by a very disturbing sound, the bridge to "Frankenstein" by Edgar Winter, which sounds like the background music to an alien invasion. Bro was joplted awake hearing that and was afraid a spaceship had landed and little green men were going to commence the anal probes, until he woke completely up and turned off the boombox.

I also listened to WNOX, which played pop music and featured Casey Casem's Top 40 countdown every Saturday. I can sing every single word to every pop hit from 1971-80. I remember being able to sing all the words to "Me and Mrs. Jones" when I was about 11 years old. Some might argue I shouldn't have been singing about an extramarital affair but my parents paid no attention to music lyrics and let me listen to (and read) whatever I liked. Compared to today's rap lyrics that song is very tame.

I am lucky now that I work at home and most of the time I can listen to music while I work. I listen to a lot of soundtracks to movies because instrumentals are less distracting. My current faves are the soundtracks to Interstellar and The Cinematic Orchestra's version of Arrival of the Birds & Transformation.

I realized the other day I can sing every word to all the Beatles greatest hits [red album and some of the blue album] while simultaneously analyzing documents.

No matter what your musical taste, music makes life so much richer. I still listen to CD's of my favorite artists like Paul Simon and James Taylor and Mary Chapin Carpenter. I also love going on YouTube and putting in the title of some obscure old pop song and being able to listen to it again. My current re-discovered oldie fave is "Strawberry Letter 23" by The Brothers Johnson.

I will never be as badass as George Jones but I can live with that.

 

The Legacy of Tina Turner

I remember seeing Tina Turner on the Ed Sullivan Show when I was a little girl and loving seeing her dance. She looked incredibly strong and powerful. I had no idea when she was with Ike Turner he was beating her up constantly. I was shocked to find out years later that she had to literally flee from him, in fear for her life, to get out of that marriage, as she wrote about in I,Tina.

Here's a bit of truth that makes people very uncomfortable: in the old days, which many people refer to with great fondness as "the good old days" women getting hit by their husbands or boyfriends wasn't discussed. It was considered nobody's business. The mantra "mind your own business" covered a multitude of sins, from domestic violence to child abuse, to child molestation, etc.

Tina's courage in walking away from Ike signaled a change in society, a huge shift in how women allowed themselves to be treated.

My mother told me when I was a teenager and starting to date "Never, ever let a man hit you and get away with it. If it happens once and you take it, it will happen over and over. Get away from him. If you're married, walk out, and take your children. NEVER put up with it, not for a minute."

It seemed obvious to me.

Skip ahead a few years and I am a Freshman in college. One of my friends returns from a weekend at home with a black eye where her boyfriend hit her. She was a cute little blonde, very funny and feisty. I was shocked. I told her she had to break up with that boyfriend "But he said he was sorry and it wouldn't happen again!" I got so frustrated with her. Several of us told her to break off that relationship, but I don't know if she did. I don't know what happened to her because I transferred schools.

My dad had a cousin who was a beautiful lady, very smart, a prominent businesswoman in her small hometown, and her husband beat her. She told no-one except a close friend, and that friend also had an abusive husband. The small town where they lived was [probably still is] very old-fashioned and judgmental.

What many young women don't realize nowadays is that abuse still happens, and shame and embarrassment keep many women from talking about it or doing something about it. I've told my own daughter she must never put up with abuse.

God Bless Tina Turner for taking something so personal and painful out of the shadows, and holding herself up as an example of strength. NO WOMAN should put up with abuse, not even one time.

There is a National Domestic Violence hotline and the number is 800-799-7233 -- if you are being abused, call it. There are women's shelters everywhere, and there's no shame in asking for help.

You Either Win Or You Learn

A few years ago I was hired to work for a local law firm and I completely ignored the Inner Voice telling me not to take the job. I had not pursued the job, actually. I had been looking for a good job ever since my mother died, a regular full-time position. A recruiter called me and said she had seen my resume somewhere and she had a terrific opportunity to tell me about. I should have realized that what was actually happening was that the recruiter was desperately trying to fill a position at a firm where nobody wanted to work. That should have set off alarm bells in my head. I just didn't connect the dots until later.

A bit of background.

Sometimes in life you go through a really difficult experience and realize later that you learned a lot, so the difficulty was worthwhile. When I came to work here in Atlanta years ago I spent 6 years working for an attorney who was very demanding. None of the other paralegals in the firm could understand why I took the job. It was simple, actually. I lived in Knoxville and I had been trying to move to Atlanta for several years, since I had finished paralegal school here. So even though I realized -- even in the interview -- that that lady was wound up pretty tight, I took the job. It got me to Atlanta, where my paralegal career could advance. Then I spent 6 years working for an attorney who was not only very demanding, her own insecurities caused her to be harsh and caustic, which I hated. I learned a LOT, however. Those years gave me an advanced education in so many ways. I learned how to really analyze records of all kinds -- medical, employment, school, etc. Those analysis skills have made every paralegal job since then more enjoyable. I am really good at analyzing records. It's the most fun part of being a paralegal. I also left on good terms, instead of telling the attorney to go pound sand and walking off the job. A few years later I was again on the job market, after a layoff, and the attorney wrote me a very nice letter of reference.

When I left that first Atlanta job, finally, it was to work at a much bigger firm for another very demanding female attorney, and I immediately realized I had to keep looking and find a different job because she was a screamer. She once screamed at for a solid ten minutes for something the paralegal who had the job before me had done. I had done nothing wrong but she wanted to scream at someone and I was a convenient target. My predecessor in that job had left without notice, fled, and left no forwarding information. I'd like to say I learned a lot in that job too, but I didn't. I cried every day, from the stress. (The next job was much less stressful because I went in-house at a large corporation.)

Anyhow, back to the job I started off talking about. I knew from the first day forward it was not the job for me. I should have quit immediately, but I figured well, I will stay and work until I can find something better, then quit. Instead, I spent weeks being miserable. One day the office manager called and told me I was being terminated, which was actually a relief. What she said to me in that call shocked me to the core. The office manager said "You are being terminated because you ask too many questions."

After I hung up the phone I had to just sit for a while and process what I'd been told. My father once told me that he liked to hire people who would ask a lot of questions, because then he knew they were learning. My dad ran the trust department in a bank for many years and he was a very savvy businessman. He knew that someone who asked questions wasn't stupid and they weren't trying to be annoying. They were interested in really understanding and learning. About 95% of the time when someone starts a new job they will have questions because nobody [except maybe a CEO] starts off on day one knowing everything. Most of us need to learn the company, learn the product or service offered by the company, learn the personalities of those we are working with, figure out how to coffeemaker works, etc.

It took me a while, but I eventually realized that the office manager who terminated me from that miserable experience actually did me a favor. You see, in life you either win or you learn.

I learned not to ignore my Inner Voice when it told me not to take a job.

I learned several new software programs that I used in subsequent jobs.

I learned to immediately be wary of an office manager who described herself as "the REAL CEO" of the law firm. She was on a real power trip and she delighted in making everyone around her miserable. She wanted minions, not colleagues. Everyone was afraid of her, and ruling by fear indicates a terrible manager.

An agile mind is always asking questions.

I have an innate curiosity about everything that I can reasonably comprehend. It makes me a good writer and it enriches my life. When I go to work for a new attorney I can't help but wonder if there are ways things can be done better. When I can discuss that with my supervising attorney, it makes for a far more pleasant working environment, even if she vetoes my ideas. At least I am heard.

Attorneys sometimes want paralegals to simply be a cog in the machine, silent and efficient. Sometimes that's a good arrangement, for a paralegal who simply wants to work that way. I always prefer feeling like I am part of a team, and we are all working towards the same goal. Collaborating makes me happy.

There are plenty of people who learn faster than I do, but I prefer to take my time, figure out the right questions to ask, and then really settle in to learn and grow, not just hit the ground running until I am bored and then move on.

If you are a newbie paralegal, you might find it useful to read my newest book, Paralegal 411: Tips, Tricks, and Timesavers for the Litigation Paralegal, available on Amazon.

#paralegaleducation, #paralegaltips, #howtomanageparalegals, #questionsaregood, #howattorneysshouldmanage, #acuriousparalegal

Understanding the Struggles of the Past

Most of my cousins think that my interest in genealogy is downright peculiar. I go nuts over old family photos. I loved to hear my mother and daddy and grandmother and aunts and uncles tell stories about the time before I was born, about what life was like in the early part of the twentieth century, particularly.

I saw a photo a few minutes ago of a young girl cooking on a wood stove. It sparked a memory, of trying my hand at cooking on a wood stove. My father bought a woodburning stove for our lake house and put it on the back porch. That way he could sit out there when the weather was cold. One winter we lost electricity and I tried cooking on that stove. It was horrible. I had no idea how to regulate the heat, and I burned myself. Mom tried to show me how to figure out where the hot areas were and move the pots around accordingly, but it was scary and I never got the hang of it. That brief period of time changed me forever, although I didn't know it then. It gave me a fascination for the past. Cooking is pretty easy nowadays. Imagine having to cook on a stove where you had to stir up the fire to cook your food!

In her memoir, Singing to the Cows, my mother talked about doing without plumbing and electricity during World War II:

"During most of the WW2 years, we lived on a farm --- so many of our memories stem from there, for lots of reasons. Our house, new I guess, lacked running water, gas, and electricity. There was a wartime shortage of pipes, wire etc. One had to get on a list and wait. There was a bathroom, but no running water etc. At first, we had to haul water from a well and heat it on top of the wood range. I still have burn scars on my arms from that stove. Our best source of heat was the dining room fireplace so that was mostly where we lived. Dad placed 3 or 4 big oil lamps in the middle of our dining room table. We ate there, did homework, and read the newspaper there."

When my grandparents were young and living in Philadelphia, they saw a lovely dining room table in a department store but they couldn't afford it, even though my grandfather was a major league baseball pitcher. In the off season, Papa made his own version of that table, and they used it for the next 50 years, and then my uncle and aunt used it. It's still in the family.

I digressed.

The moments in my life that have taught me the most indelible lessons about the struggles of my ancestors were sometimes literally just moments.

I remember being in a history museum as a middle schooler and there was a dress there that was over a hundred years old. It was for a grown woman but I wouldn't have been able to fit into it. The waist was TINY. Women were expected to wear corsets to fit into those dresses, and sometimes rich women would have ribs removed, to make their waists smaller. I can still see that dress, in my mind's eye.

When I was in first grade I went on a field trip with my class to somewhere way out in the country. I don't recall the purpose of the trip, to be honest. However, at one point we were off the bus and standing beside a field full of ripe cotton, ready for picking. We were supposed to stay in the group but I snuck around and examined a stalk of cotton and tried pulling the fluffy white cotton boll out of the pincer-like grip of the plant, and it was very difficult, even with my tiny nimble fingers. Years later I remembered it when I saw the movie Places in the Heart, about everyone on a farm pitching in to get the cotton picked. Backbreaking labor. My ancestors, most of whom were small farmers, had a tough time of it.

[left, my great-grandfather Hasty's syrup mill in Cherokee County around the turn of the century.

My power steering went out on my car once when I was in my twenties and it scared the pee out of me. I could barely get the car steered over to the side of the road. How on earth did Mom learn to drive on one of those old cars?!

[Right, my mom and the car she learned to drive in]

I remember my immense frustration at trying to learn to sew because my grandmother died before she could teach me. I tried to learn. I took a sewing class at the mall, at a fabric store. I was awful at sewing. I couldn't imagine having to sew my own clothes as a necessity! Yikes.

I watched my mother one afternoon making homemade jelly. It took all day long and she was frustrated and sweating. At the end of the day she had 2 small mason jars of grape jelly. She looked at me in disgust and said "Well I won't ever try THAT again! Smuckers is just fine."

[She always at toast with her breakfast and it always had jelly on it, BTW!]

When I was in 5th grade I came down with scarlet fever. It was going around the middle school. I stayed home for a week and felt crappy, but I survived. A hundred years before, when there were no modern medicines, and I might not have survived. I remember being a bit scared, because I read a lot and back in the day scarlet fever was often deadly.

These are just a few of the moments that have given me a fascination for the past.