|
Post by Deleted on Feb 19, 2014 23:03:42 GMT
I seem to recall that paper plates were often used in my aunt's house.
In later years, after we were far away, I also remember that my mother told a story of having gone visiting once in New Orleans and found Aunt Patricia with another man. This is somewhat perplexing, because I don't know what my mother was doing in New Orleans and I also don't know how she had an address for my aunt there, so my imagination is running wild. Damn Alzheimer's to hell because it prevents any possible interrogation.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Feb 19, 2014 23:15:36 GMT
Yes. That can be a problem. All those unanswered questions.
The aunt I was very close to on the other side of the family didn't have Alzheimer's, but she waited until the others - my father, mother, in-laws - had died and THEN started telling ME some of their secrets. So then who could I believe? I doubt she was making any of it up, but still.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Feb 19, 2014 23:20:30 GMT
Oh, I do remember the "official" reason for my mother's trip(s) to New Orleans. Way back then, there was regular train service between Gulfport and New Orleans (maybe even from Long Beach where we lived) and since my biological father worked for the railroad, travel was free for my mother. She would go shopping in New Orleans because our town was so deathly boring.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Feb 19, 2014 23:32:19 GMT
Must have really surprised your aunt.
|
|
|
Post by mossie on Feb 20, 2014 20:55:46 GMT
RAF stations normally had a "married patch" which was a little housing estate where married men could stay with their families. On occasion a husband would have to go away, sometimes for quite long periods. It was not unknown for some of the wives to entertain other men from the camp. Such men were referred to as "wicked uncles"
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Feb 20, 2014 21:24:43 GMT
This reminds me of when I was on a trip to San Francisco in the mid 70's. My husband and I walked out of a restaurant in the Fisherman's Wharf area and ran smack into a "pilar" of our local Florida community just as he and some sweet thing were getting out of a cab. We all pretended not to know each other, and never did discuss the incident. Certainly didn't tell his wife.
This was a guy I'd never figured as the fooling around kind, and I suppose he assumed San Francisco was a safe place to have some fun. It was only a couple years later when his family life fell apart. There was a divorce and everyone, including the wife and three kids, moved away.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Feb 20, 2014 23:19:10 GMT
The Biloxi family stayed together as far as I know. They were all such strict Catholics that there was no alternative solution. My aunt's husband had a sister who held the local record for being a "good Catholic." She and her husband had 18 children.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Feb 20, 2014 23:37:46 GMT
I can't even begin to imagine....
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Apr 26, 2014 22:02:09 GMT
I have always been mortified by something that I did when I was 5 or 6 years old. My parents' house was next door to our grandparents' house with a rather huge wild garden spanning the area between. There were pecan trees, a goldfish pond surrounded by irises, azaleas, dogwood, a pomegrenate tree, tulip trees... so many different things that I regret that my memory is not even more precise. There was also an old 'summerhouse' groaning under giant wisteria vines. I have no idea when the summerhouse was built or when it stopped ever being used, but when I was little it was already more or less in an abandoned condition. But it was still full of wicker furniture, including a large sofa type item with several layers of old cushions on top.
Small children always seem to have the strangest ideas, but mine was a banal classic: I think I'll hide from my parents and won't that be funny? I went into the summerhouse and hid under the lowest level of cushions on that sofa. I remember being a little disgusted by the huge cockroaches lurking there, but since they scuttled away when I lifted the cushions, no problem. It was hot any musty, but that does not at all bother the age group that I was in. Sure enough, they came looking for me. I could hear them calling my name over and over and over again, becoming more alarmed at time went by. I had had the best idea ever! My parents were calling out, as was my American grandmother but also my French grandmother who was visiting.
Ha ha, it was so funny, because my mother came into the summerhouse to look around and even lifted some of the cushions on that sofa, but not all of them. She was just one layer from discovering me but I was just too clever. They were still calling my name all over the place and I continued to relish how funny my little trick was. And then, right in front of the summerhouse, I heard my French grandmother start sobbing with grief and saying that she was certain that someone had taken me. I sprang out of the summerhouse instantly, pleased that they actually cared so much about me but devastated that I had made my grandmother cry.
I was taken into everybody's arms and nobody ever reproached me for what I had done but I am still ashamed to this day of the anguish that I caused.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on May 8, 2014 18:56:08 GMT
As a child, I was the only member of my family who liked horseradish. I have no idea when I was exposed to it or how it came about, but the jar of horseradish in the refrigerator was for my exclusive use, generally when we were having pork chops.
|
|
|
Post by patricklondon on May 9, 2014 10:21:35 GMT
A variant on the old music-hall song "Tommy, Make Room For Your Uncle"! I'd always assumed it wasn't much known or used outside the UK. It's the traditional accompaniment to roast beef, or sometimes mackerel. My blog | My photos | My video clips"too literate to be spam"
|
|
|
Post by fumobici on May 9, 2014 20:52:20 GMT
A roast beef sandwich lacking a nice dollop of hot horseradish really isn't the same.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on May 10, 2014 0:55:50 GMT
I have 5 or 6 horseradish roots in my garden, which means I'll have a supply forever.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Jun 12, 2014 19:36:15 GMT
After the divorce and my mother's remarriage, and the fact that my birth father appeared to be a drunken psychotic with a gun, it was decided that the best thing to do was to move as far as possible from home. So my stepfather got transferred to the base in Port Hueneme in California, and he moved there to buy a house and get everything ready for our arrival. We were staying until the end of the school year, particularly since my brother was a senior in high school and was the valedictorian. He was pretty upset about moving away whereas I was thrilled.
The school year ended, my brother gave his speech at the graduation ceremony, and I think we were on the road to California the very next day. My mother had rediscovered sexual desire and absolutely could not wait another instant. My brother and I probably would not have minded waiting for a few more days, but we did feel that our mother's happiness was of prime importance. Still, it was basically the only place we had ever lived (except for our grandparents' house in France), so there was a certain stress at the idea of leaving "forever."
Anyway, the day we set out to drive from Mississippi to California, the weather was absolutely awful -- non stop thunderstorms. This is no big deal when you have been living in the Deep South, because thunderstorms are common, even if they do not make for the best driving on the highway. I must have been sitting in the front seat since I remember so clearly what happened as we were going through Louisiana. In the pouring rain, the car in front of us suddenly left the road and went tumbling down a steep embankment, rolling over and over at least ten times. Back in those days, there were seat belts but only across the lap and not across the shoulder. As we passed by the accident scene, I saw the car down at the bottom of the gully, upright at least and with the brake lights on.
I thought that we should stop somewhere and report what had happened. There were no mobile phones in 1967, obviously, so this would have been quite complicated -- going to the next exit, finding a service station (or some other place) and calling the police. I don't think "911" had even been invented back then.
My mother had only one thought on her mind -- arriving in California as fast as possible -- so she just kept driving.
All of these years, I have wondered what happened to the person (or who knows? -- maybe an entire family?) in the car that went off the road.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Oct 8, 2014 20:22:13 GMT
I had forgotten until posting photos of this morning's lunar eclipse that the last semi-lucid conversation I had with my mother was while watching a partial lunar eclipse a few months before she died. I think it was during an early evening at Christmastime and, since we were in the central Florida area, it was warm enough to sit outside and watch as part of the moon was slowly covered in shadow. I knew she was near the end. That fact was also clear to her, even though she was only 65. The rest of the family was inside so it was just the two of us, and certainly a treasured moment for me.
|
|
|
Post by bixaorellana on Oct 8, 2014 20:35:01 GMT
Heartbreaking but beautiful memory, Htmb. How lovely that it came back to you the way it did.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Oct 8, 2014 20:50:04 GMT
Yes, true, Bixa. A nice memory to keep.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Oct 12, 2014 15:39:36 GMT
My father always said I had just two speeds: "slow" and "stop." He was right.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Mar 2, 2015 21:13:15 GMT
The year was 1975 and I was living in NYC, initially as an "au pair" on the Upper East side. The pay was great and I loved the child but, the mother turned out to be a total "nutter". I stuck it out for say 6-8 months, saved a boat load of money as she paid for everything, you name it, if she saw something in the refridgerator that I had purchased, the next day there would be a half a case of it. She was quite controlling and I felt stifled to say the least. I discovered one day that she had gone into my room and the few things I had in there, I knew were they were. Well, one of my treasures was a piece of red sea glass I posted of in an early post in this same thread. I was frantic and thought, "no this couldn't be". This woman has "everything", why would she steal my red sea glass? I crept into her bedroom when she wasn't home, which wasn't often and low and behold see in a jar my sea glass!!! I confronted her the next day and she denied having taken it and then proceeded to rant at me about everything she had given me etc. It wasn't acceptable to me and I left. So, in retrospect, I feel kind of sorry for the woman in that this one tiny "gem" that was given to me out of love, of no value to her, she somehow felt entitled to steal from me. I never felt more free after leaving that job,although,I did miss the child and felt badly about the circumstances of leaving him.
|
|
|
Post by tod2 on Dec 15, 2015 15:14:52 GMT
|
|
|
Post by bixaorellana on Dec 17, 2015 19:16:33 GMT
Wow, what a great car. Everything on and in it seems original, too.
The stickers obscuring large parts of the windshield seem contraindicated.
|
|
|
Post by mossie on Dec 17, 2015 22:06:43 GMT
When I started in the road making business my boss had one of those and I used to drive him about. In those days of course I had lead in my right shoe, my boss would happily doze off while I drove. One day the speedo needle went off the scale to the bottom of the dial and shoved the lump of red plastic out of the generator light. He never noticed.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Dec 18, 2015 1:15:38 GMT
A very cool car indeed!
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Jan 23, 2016 18:07:06 GMT
I obtained my very first fake memories when I was in hospital in December. I think most of us have dealt with fake memories at some time, but usually it is when a parent or grandparent claims to have a very precise memory of something that never happened and no amount of persuasion can convince them that they are completely wrong. Luckily (?) my fake memories never will have to be defended against reality because they were clearly hallucinations due to my condition. But I will call them memories because they are totally imprinted in my mind as things that I really saw, not at all like dreams. My memories of the emergency room are completely jumbled because I was barely conscious, but there was one event that struck me as astounding. I feel as though I saw at least 6 or 7 different doctors (perhaps true), but one of them was in an office with red walls and big bookcases. This is clearly impossible in a modern building where all of the walls are white. But my memory of that room remains intense and I cannot classify it as a dream. My principal fake memory is even more real in my mind, especially since my condition was already improving. I feel as though I spent at least two days in the emergency ward (amazing images in my mind of it being a bedouin camp in the desert, but I definitely put that in the "hallucinations" category). In reality, I am pretty sure that I spent about 22 hours in the emergency ward since I know when I got there and I also clearly remember being told that a room had been found for me and I would be transferred at 2pm (the next day). I had given up on ever being transferred by the third day (hallucination) because time kept going by in my bedouin camp and nothing was happening for me. At first I had thought that the ward was windowless, but one morning (the only morning) I saw that daylight was coming through windows that were behind the beds, so at least I could count the days... However, one day (the next day at 2pm probably) I was suddenly thrown onto a gurney and taken for a one-minute ambulance ride to another building, my home for the next week. And that is where my principal fake memory took place. I was thrilled to have a room to myself (but of course every room in the building for "Infectious and Tropical Diseases" had to be individual) and I quickly sank into a relieved sleep. Evening fell and a meal was brought, which I refused, even though the nice orderly told me that if I wanted to eat later, it could be heated up again. But I sent her away with her tray. However, I remained awake for several hours and could see into the room across the hall because the door was open. The patient was receiving a visit by a group of people. They were having a very animated conversation and even seemed to be playing cards. They spoke Russian or Serbian or something like that, although it could have simply been Portuguese, but I found them very annoying. I knew I was in a hospital for very sick people and could not understand how these people could stay there for hours. Didn't they understand that the patients needed to rest? It just went on and on, and I finally fell asleep. The next morning they were gone at last and a day or two later I started walking up and down the corridors, dragging my wheeled drip thing. I tried to glance into the room across the hall to see what the patient looked like, but I never managed to see him/her. Anyway, the week progressed and I was finally discharged. It was only when I got home that I replayed the hospital in my mind and realised that I had not seen anything it all. The bed was not at all across from the door and the only window in the door was the usual little thin high rectangle for taking a small peek. Those annoying people, who remain crystal clear in my memory, never existed. I find this highly disturbing, because my mind still wanders back to that night and the situation remains engraved as having been real. Now I wonder if there are other totally fake incidents in my memory. It would certainly explain why old people sometimes refuse to face the facts.
|
|
|
Post by mich64 on Jan 23, 2016 20:22:23 GMT
I have had similar experiences in regards to ambulance rides, very vivid memories that have to be completely false. Yet my family have told me on many occasions since the injury of how good my memory is now for past events, not just of myself but of them. So when I remember something that no one else does, these may be fake memories? I had not thought of that.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Jan 23, 2016 21:49:09 GMT
The closest I think I ever came to experiencing anything similar was after giving birth to my twins. I was very ill, due to toxemia which sent my blood pressure into a highly dangerous range. I also had (unrelated) strep throat, and several other ailments. For days, due to the high blood pressure, I saw double of everything. Four babies, two chairs, two tiny televisions, etc. I lost about four days of time and had to later work to rebuild memories by repeatedly asking what happened, and then checking in with what I could remember. I still wonder if I've missed some things. Not long ago I even asked my ex husband if I had received blood transfusions. I hadn't, but I was completely unsure.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Jan 27, 2016 2:43:00 GMT
What a very trying and disturbing time that must have been for you HTMB. I just can't imagine.
I may have mentioned that my brother and I recently put our family homestead up for sale.
I really like the real estate broker that my brother settled on and we have had some very interesting conversations regarding the history of the house and other buildings on the property. She has posted some fabulous photos of the property online. Some are vintage black and whites that I was able to provide for her to use and then some recent shots.
Many of course are of the exterior of the house and the grounds. Then there are some interior shots that brought back a flood of memories. (I was born in this house and lived there until going away to college).
Now, we have all seen pictures of our homes taken in different rooms, the kitchen, dining room etc. at family gatherings etc.
These photos are startling in that they are photos of empty rooms with no people in them.
There is one photo in particular where I can see the door of a huge closet that was built underneath the grand staircase. I used to love to go in there and hide, sometimes read, other times play dress up with some of my mother's coats and shoes. I recall going through the pockets of of her coats hoping to find a tube of lipstick or a lace mantilla.
One particular day while going into a pocket of a coat I found a wad of cash. I don't recall how much money it was but, at the time it seemed like a lot. Then the moment arrived when I had to make a decision about what I was going to do with this find. It occurred to me that my mother had been acting a wee bit strange/stressed and then I realized it was likely because she had misplaced this money. At that particular time we were pretty cash strapped and living off of my deceased father's Social Security checks and times were tight.
It also occurred to me that I could secretly keep the money and buy all kinds of things for myself and my friends.
I choose to tell my mother of my find and the look on her face was worth a million dollars.
I imagine this was likely my first"test" moral conscience decision and I remember how good it felt to see my mother so happy.
|
|
|
Post by htmb on Jan 27, 2016 2:58:10 GMT
Seeing photos of empty rooms in a home you loved must feel somewhat sad, but the wonderful memories that seem to be resurfacing are priceless, Casimira! Reliving joyful childhood memories can be so much fun. How happy your mother must have been when you told her of your discovery. You reminded me that I used to hide out in my parents' closets, too. I had so much fun. Also, once I had children of my own, I used my own closet and coat pockets to hide things from my kids: the TV remote, the key to the lock I once put on the TV plug, their Gameboy. They never figured out my hiding place.
|
|
|
Post by Deleted on Jan 27, 2016 6:39:06 GMT
Hiding in closets is one of the best things ever when you are a child.
|
|
|
Post by Kimby on Jan 27, 2016 13:37:12 GMT
Especially closets with "secret" connections to other rooms or closets. We built such a closet under the stairs at the lake cottage.
As a child, I was especially captivated by a secret staircase behind a bookcase in my Great Aunt Edna's Michigan farmhouse. Apparently the stairway location had been moved during a remodel, and the old stairs were simply closed up behind the new bookcase, accessible via a moving panel.
|
|