By: Karen Walker-White

With both Mother’s Day and Father’s Day coming up, I think it would be very appropriate to write about parents. Wanna hear about my two? They’re going to kill me because although they’re both incredible people, they weren’t perfect parents. That’s right, imperfect parents; have you ever heard of such a thing? They made a few mistakes and mainly with me because I’m the oldest and their ‘learning experiment.’ Dear God, don’t think that wasn’t a trip! Thank heavens we all turned out all right, not perfect, mind you, but all right, because there aren’t second chances with raising kids.

Everyday after work Dad would hightail it out to his cherry orchard to putter around and we’d never see him again until evening supper.

“Do you even remember Dad growing up?” asked my sister Mary Paula.

“Of course I remember him. I was his favorite, probably still am, so I always got special attention.”

‘You always think you’re everybody’s favorite in the family and it….”

“Look, ‘ Miss Put A Damper On Your Sister’s Dream,’ this isn’t about me, it’s about two desperately in love people coping with raising five kids on the threat of, ‘Just wait until you have children of your own!’”

By today’s standards we were extremely innocent, but like many children, very headstrong. And because we were raised in a home with a very loving but hysterical mother, there was always that perpetual sense of the sky falling down at any given moment. Everything was such a huge production and big deal. I remember one visitor once commenting that just having lunch in our home was more exciting than attending the fourth of July fireworks.

And God help us kids if we were at a friend’s house and we called to ask if we could stay overnight. The phone ringing any later than that ridiculous hour of 9:00 P.M., and Mom had us in an accident, intensive care unit being administered the Last Rites because we were almost dead and buried! Dad on the other hand, would be the calming force---so much so that Mary Paula doesn’t remember him, remember?

In their younger years, were my parents compatible? It’s not for me to say, but I’ll take a wild stab---heck no! So how do you explain that they’ve stuck it out for almost 68 years in December? That’s not another column, that’s for Ripley’s Believe It Or Not to tackle. But how did they ever know at such a tender age to fully honor their responsibilities to marriage, kids and home?

“We didn’t,” winked Dad. “I didn’t so much as have an extra dime to take your sweet mother out back then.” Okay, so Dad didn’t say sweet, because that’s not his style. But Mom would sure love hearing that.

“About us not having money to go out; you kids needed it all,” smiled Mom.

“Dad, take Mother out now,” I suggested.

“Are you kidding? We’re in bed at 8:00 P.M. and even though your mother is still a pretty little thing, (yes, he did say that) pushing her around a dance floor would feel like pushing around the Empire State Building. No, we both just don’t have the strength anymore.”

“Strength, you kids took it all,” nodded my mom.

And guess what? There wasn’t a trace of bitterness or resentment in her voice and we kids don’t feel guilty. Now those are real lessons in love.

To all you parents out there---God bless and enjoy your day---enjoy your life.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Some people never know when they’re well off---mainly me. I mean, I enjoy an exceptional rapport with teenagers, and there’s never a hint of blood on the classroom walls whenever we leave. Isn’t it exciting that my students know enough to keep their hands to themselves, their tempers in check and all seem to have an infinite tolerance for a teacher who in a few years may be too old to see or hear them, but who has no intentions of hanging up the chalk. I believe an educator’s enthusiasm offsets being blind, deaf and dumb, because exuberance is highly contagious. Unfortunately, so is a depressing down attitude.
I tremble with excitement when I teach “Death Of A Salesman” and “Of Mice And Men,” so why did I ever accept a subbing position in the elementary school? They don’t teach the classics there, but oh those worksheets!

It’s amazing that winter didn’t turn into spring considering the time it took those very short people to discard their winter gear. There outta be a law---no more than 15 pounds of clothing per child. By the time they straggled into the classroom I was eyeing the rescue window for a quick escape. But they had their problems too when they discovered that I didn’t do things EXACTLY like the young, pretty Ms. Johnson. Soon they were all begging to go see the school nurse complaining of headaches, diarrhea and the urge to throw-up.

How was I to know that when distributing worksheets the yellow group gets theirs first, red group second, and the blue section last. Hands were waving, lower voices became sopranos, and the faint-hearted ones flung themselves on to the floor, looking like victims of a plane crash.

My carnal sin was when it was time for them to line up for lunch and silly me, didn’t know there’s always a designated line leader. I pointed to a forlorn little lad to ‘lead the way.’ Suddenly a freckled little face was plastered with tears.

“Ms. Johnson said I’M the line leader,” he wailed, so I had to do some rearranging---fast. But I wasn’t finished---not by a long shot. Did you know that those little darlings should be filed in line according to the lunch menu? First cheeseburger, second, hot dogs; third, PB&J and finally those who brown bagged it. I snatched, from one packer, a brown bag to breathe into. Hey, what’s a person to do when suffering from a panic attack?

The best thing about high school is that there aren’t perpetual water fountain and bathroom breaks. Why haven’t administrators caught on that there’s a correlation between drinking and bathroom visits and, to eliminate the former would probably cancel out the other, then all day long you wouldn’t be missing half the class.

But look, what do I know? I’m simply a sub who can teach iambic pentameter and iambic trimester in Shakespearean works, but I can’t decipher a crummy second grade worksheet. It’s true because that rotten worksheet had pictures on it depicting the things we had just read about in a short story.
Write the names of the pictures that have an X in them, the instructions read. No problem---wanna make a bet? There was a sketch of a boy and a bold black arrow pointed directly to his head. Immediately biology terms pertaining to the head flooded my brain---cerebral cortex, prefrontal cortex, choroids plexus and neocortex.

But weren’t these words far too advanced for second grade? I was totally stumped, but not those second grade geniuses. All that crummy, lousy arrow at the boy’s head meant was to label his name---Max!

Sometimes the simplest things are the hardest to understand. Like who would ever be a kindergarten teacher?

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

By: Karen Walker

He seemed like a heck of a nice guy, this stranger who my husband brought into our home for me to meet. Seems they were out in the garage shootin’ the bull about what NOT to do while turkey hunting. Both had gotten up at 4:00A.M. and both had returned ‘fowless.’ I’m surprised because my husband is such an expert shot.

“Ya gotta see one to shoot one,” was my husband’s flimsy excuse. If I sound impatient and slightly bitter it’s because the man would never, I mean never, get up at 4:00 A.M. for anything I wanted to do. Come to think of it, he wouldn’t go to bed either for anything I wanted to do. I really better be careful with what comes out this mouth, because I did say he’s an expert shot, didn’t I?
Well, in treks his turkey hunting buddy with a pleasant smile, an unassuming manner and when I offered him a chair, he was very considerate of our humble furnishings. Funny how wrong we can be with first impressions.

“No thanks,” he softly replied, as he refused to walk on our carpeting with his muddy boots, or sit on our couch with his less than fresh smelling camouflaged clothing.

“Don’t be silly,” I insisted, “I still have to do my spring cleaning.”

“For which year?” roared my husband, and because he thought that was so uproariously funny, he had to take out his ‘hunting’ handkerchief to blow his nose and wipe his eyes. That’s when I noticed something very strange, even for him.

“Why the florescent orange colored handkerchief?” I asked. “I thought all you owned were monogrammed white and red bandana ones?”

“That’s how much you know about me,” he flippantly replied. Sometimes when other people are around I don’t like him very much, because he speaks to me differently than when we’re alone. He accuses me of the same thing and you know something? He could be right.

“Ya never wave a blue, red or especially a white handkerchief while out in the fields, because other hunters can easily mistaken you for a turkey and bang!” he whispered.

Boy, what a come-back I could have with that remark, but because I really am such an exceptional wife, I decided not to embarrass him in front of his new found friend. That man should really appreciate me more than he does. I turned my attention to this stoic stranger who resembled a decoy and again, I pointed to the chair and uttered those two little words that unleashed his ire---“Please sit.”

“You women never listen to us men like you’re supposed to,” he blurted out.

“That’s the damn trouble with this world, the women wanna be the boss.”

So help me, girls, I almost choked on my saliva. “’Like we’re supposed to?’” I gasped. If that ignoramus had even dared to sit down to make himself comfortable, I would have called the Border Police because clearly, he had over-stepped his boundaries. I might have taken my husband’s feelings into consideration, but not this stranger’s.

“My husband mentioned to me how you’ve been married and divorced more than once. I’m shocked you attracted anybody at all!” I snapped.

Immediately I felt guilty and ashamed for having stooped so low as to retaliate. But I’m only human, so to appease my conscience I packed this ‘Turkey the Terrible’ a lunch to take with him hunting the following morning. But because I’m only a woman, ‘inferior’ to men by their assessments, and I don’t know any better, I slipped a gleaming white handkerchief into the bag. The man might sneeze, God bless him--- he’ll need it.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

Years ago at 192 pounds, I would corner my brother Michael and ask, “Do you think I’m fat?” Hesitantly he would reply, “Well, you can afford to lose a few pounds, Karen.” Of course I would become all huffy and hurt, that isn’t the reply I wanted from the one who was considered the best one of the lot in our family of seven.

Michael got all the brains, looks and that incredible mix of both strength and gentleness. When you’re the only brother amongst four sisters, you’re put in the position of being the ‘king.’ Michael wasn’t a self-ordained or self-righteous idol. We unfairly placed him there and he proved he could handle such a lofty position.

You’d think we girls would be seething with jealousy, but our family has never experienced that useless, destructive, wasted emotion. We lived in a three-bedroom home and Michael had his own room. I repeat, a family of seven, three bedrooms and Michael had his own room. He also had one of the five-bed pillows when; actually, our family desperately needed seven. Whoever went to bed first got a precious pillow, but seldom when you awoke was it there because it was swiped from under your slumbering head. You couldn’t steal Michaels’ pillow though, because he’d tie it to the bedpost and attach a cowbell to it so that the slightest movement would signal that a ‘thief’ was about to attack. “Hey Ma, “ Michael asked years later, “Why didn’t you just run out and buy two more pillows?”

I tell ya, you can’t throw curves at the women in our family. “You know, honey, I never even thought of it,” she replied.

In Mother’s defense she had a hectic life raising five kids and my father. It was fun being raised in an active household with a highly dramatic mom and a Hollywood handsome dad. Michael seemed to roll, but I didn’t fare as well.

Michael went on to eight years of college but stopped short of his doctorate.

“Why?” we asked.

“I don’t like titles and I want to do it all on my own.”

“Do what?” we pressed on.

“Escape from this funny farm,” he winked.

I ask you, how many go from janitor (in his college years) to senior executive at a huge company? He never once boasted, or even mentioned when he got a promotion or a raise, but when you swap flannel shirts and jeans for suits and silk ties, you sorta can tell it’s no longer mop and bucket. But no matter how high Michael climbed on the corporate ladder, the farm remained in his blood, and during summer vacations, he’d toiled ‘The Good Earth.’

When you lose a loved one in a tragic farming accident you seriously doubt your ability to cling to your sanity. When you can’t scream loud and long enough to purge yourself from the deep pain, you must seek other ways to cope.

It’s been 11 years now since I started walking. A day doesn’t go by when I don’t step briskly to divert my mind and dispel the energy I would otherwise use for mourning. “Michael, my Michael,” I want to cry out, “I can easily now slip into a size 12, and when the tag is mismarked, a size 10. Am I getting too thin?”
I can almost hear him say, “Well, you can afford to put on a few pounds, Karen.”

And if I could have him back, I would so willingly do just that. My brother gave me the gift of health---physically, that is.

To read more of Karen’s previously published articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com

By: Karen White-Walker

Like payments on an expensive purchase, this is the last installment on my writings about Uncle Giuseppe. If they’ve bored you I haven’t done ‘Biggie’ justice, because you never yawned when he was around, more like you got a migraine because he always operated on high C.

Papa, my gentle grandfather, had to wait till almost the very end of his life to witness his son’s goodness. To think, Papa worried all those years, and for what? Giuseppe passed the final test---scoring points that can only be calculated in heaven.

In his 86th year, Papa suffered a debilitating stroke that left him bed-ridden. Mama kept wringing her hands and sobbing, “Get-up, get –up, Papa, we-a only had 62 years-a together, that’s-a nothin’, nada. I’m-a selfish-a pig. I wanna more. I know I gotta bigga mouth and drive-a you crazia in the head, but I love-a you. And if-a there was no-a God, no-a children, you would be-a first.”

Papa’s failing body cringed at the sound of ‘no-a God,’ that could never ever be. Family and friends came and went and paraded passed Papa’s bed. Just because the dear man couldn’t talk, they assumed he couldn’t hear, too.

“He’s gonna die!” wailed my aunts, and my uncles smacked their smothering hands over their sisters’ blubbering mouths. Yes, many people came and went, but only one stayed---one. And he stayed around the clock with his mouth and hands going every minute.

“If you think I’m going to just sit here and watch you rot, Pa, you’re wrong,” warned Uncle Giuseppe. “There’s still life left in you and I’m giving you a jump-start at getting it going again. Hey Pa, all men need a jump-start once in a while, huh?” he devishly grinned.

Uncle Guiseppe gave Papa three vigorous rubdowns every day. ‘Biggie’ couldn’t sing a lick, but he belted out arias that would have made Enrico Caruso cry, not from joy, but from regret at how an Italian could crucify such majestic music. Papa tried to smile, but he looked pained, and pretty soon he was struggling to speak, if for no other reason than to say, “Giuseppe, shut-up-a your face!”

Strength slowly came back into his limp arms and legs and suddenly, there was bold ‘Biggie,’ leading Papa around the backyard. He became his father’s human walking stick, and Papa never stumbled. Papa eventually learned to talk again, but it was difficult for them to reminisce about the ‘good old times,’ because after all Giuseppe had pulled in the past, things were best left unsaid. Besides, Papa believed you don’t go back, only ahead. For Mama it wasn’t so easy.

“I used to no trust-a you this-a much,” and she measured less than half an inch with her thumb and forefinger.

“You’re not bringing THAT up again?” and Giuseppe’s eyes rolled back into his head.

“You were like-a snake, son. I pray-a for saints and what do I-a get?”

“You get a snake, Ma,” mumbled her son.

“I pray-a for saints and I get-a sinners AND a snake, shame-a shame.”

“Leave-a the kid alone,” begged Papa.

“Please Pa, I’m 60 years old; I don’t need my father fighting my battles for me.”

“Who’s-a fighting?” asked a surprised Mama. “I was just-a remembering when---that reminds-a me, don’t remind-a me.”

Giuseppe gave his father his last shave and Papa gave his son his final smile that reflected true love, gratitude and inner peace. Papa’s waiting was over.

To read more of Karen’s previous articles, please visit homegrownharvard.blogspot.com