Category: stitchings (Page 5 of 37)

Katie Belle Wesley Ballard (a.k.a. Grandmother) September 1975

Upon her graduation from high school, Grandmother received what is now known as a full-ride scholarship to the Piano Conservatory. She went the first year, and as she prepared for her second year, her father told her that girls didn’t need a college education – especially in music – and declared she was to stay home and find herself a husband. She stayed home, found a husband, and her children all agree that Granddaddy married up.

She may have left the Conservatory, but Grandmother never left the piano. At the end of each summer, she set up a schedule giving each grandchild a day and a time to come for piano lessons. Granddaddy picked us up after school and treated us to ‘cream and Co-Colas (in the small bottles cause they taste better). When Grandmother beckoned us to the piano, more often than not, Granddaddy followed us into the living room, sat on the sofa across the room from the piano, and said “Play me a tune.” We’d roll the piano stool up or down, depending on our height, take our seat, and loosen up with five-finger exercises.

What are piano lessons without a recital, right? So every Christmas came the two words that struck a chord of dread in every parents’ heart: The Program. In early September, Grandmother sent Mother to Newberry’s in downtown Atlanta to fetch the sheet music on her list. Assignments were made, sheet music handed out, and practice began in earnest in early October. By Christmas Day, we were ready. Or at least as ready as we were ever gonna’ be. We all moved to the living room (well, not all of us, really. Daddy, for example, who never spent much time with babies suddenly loved them and volunteered to hold at least one of them. In another room.). Grandmother called us to order, introducing each grandchild, and we took our turn, adjusting the piano seat and playing our piece.

I always wanted to play Santa Claus is Comin’ to Town because it was such a fun tune, and it was the hardest piece on Grandmother’s list, but that song always went to my cousin Cynthia (remember, Grandmother did not abide nicknames) who, I have to admit, really could tickle the ivories better than any of the rest of us. (She still can.) The boys: Jerry, Scott, and Brain played the same thing for 32 consecutive Programs: The Caisson Song. My cousin Stacy bypassed the piano altogether and went for the trombone. He lived in New Jersey.

She never talked about it, and I often wonder if Grandmother ever really got over having her daddy yank her scholarship from her. If this letter is to be believed, she was very good. And I can’t help but wonder – even if it means I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this – how her life would’ve been different had she finished the program.

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In Our Own Language 4:19

Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch.

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Today, we feature the Daily Dahlia’s flip side

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Hey, if you’d like to join the chorus:
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Swizzlestrut.

Jet Assembly.

Mississippi Mama.

Dark Pet.

I love race horse names.

Mother and Daddy always came back from the Kentucky Derby bearing gifts. Armloads of goodies. Suitcases filled – nay, Steam trunks filled to the brim with all sorts of things to let us – their three children – know they were thinking about us and missing us the entire time they were away. For my sister, they brought stuffed animals, new dresses with socks and shoes to match, a new bicycle. My brother got footballs, golf clubs, a new four-wheeler. And from behind those cateye-with-sparkles glasses, my eyes glazed over when they put their Official Kentucky Derby Program in my hand along with a fistful of bookmarks.

I was a sophomore in college before I knew that those bookmarks were actually swizzle sticks.

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In Our Own Language 4:18

Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch.

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The Daily Dahlia

~~~~~~~

Hey, I’m sure glad you’re here.
To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to keep up with these 100 Stories in 100 Days
or my stitchings,
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The letters – written on khaki-colored YMCA stationery – begin with loving salutations like “My Dear Byrdie” and “My Own Dear Baby” and “My Dear Sweetheart”. They close with a little more formality: “With all good wishes, I am” and “I am as ever” though occasionally a little sweetness creeps in: “Yours until death” and “With all my love and kisses”. He signs them as “A. J. Jack Stratton.”

Andrew Jack Stratton (The Engineer’s grandfather, affectionally called Pops) penned the letters to Jakie Byrd Wright (The Engineer’s grandmother, affectionately known as Maw) as he wooed, then courted, and eventually married her on April 20, 1918, a scant three months before he shipped out to France to take his place in history by serving as a Doughboy in the American Expeditionary Force (AEF) of World War I.

In late 2000, I found the bundle of love letters Pops wrote his new bride during World War I, all 67 letters held together with a piece of orange yarn. They are so precious and such a treasure of family history, I set about replicating a set for each family member, scanning the letters and creating a collage of scanned stamps, postmarks, and addresses that I printed then cut, folded, and glued into envelopes. Once all the letters had been recreated and stuffed into envelopes, I tied them together with a piece of orange yarn and put each set in one of the antique wooden boxes I’d been quietly collecting.

Because some of the letters were near illegible, I transcribed each one and put together a little book along with the little research I had time to do about the places and events mentioned in the letters. As I worked, I channeled Pops and Maw through the silver Mont Blanc fountain pen that Pops actually used to write the letters, his name inscribed on the barrel.

Through his letters, we get to know the young Jack and the woman he loves, Jakie Byrd. We witness his flirting, his declarations of undying love, his pledges to stay away from the French wines. We are with him when he checks in at Camp Lee, as he petitions his Captain with a plan to get his sweetheart to visit, and later as he finally sees land from the boat as he arrives in Europe. We feel his homesickness, his angst at not being promoted, his eagerness to “show the Kaiser what the US boys can do.”

The centenary of World War I began in 2014 and continues through 2018, so it seems a fine time to dust off the letters and give them another read. Maybe do some more extensive research about where and how he served. Though the letters are deliberately devoid of details and effusive emotion to allow them to pass through the hands of censors, much can still be gleaned about Pops, Maw, and so-called War to End All Wars, and the climate of America at the time. We know so much about history thanks to handwritten letters, and I fear how much will be lost to future generations because, really, who’s going to sit down and sift through the thousands of emails in our computers? Preserving history – especially primary source history – is not an expenditure of time, but an investment. So let’s get out the pens and paper and write more letters. It’s a fine legacy to leave, and our posterity will thank us. I’m sure of it.

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In Our Own Language 4:18

Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch.

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The Daily Dahlia

~~~~~~~

Hey, I’m sure glad you’re here.
To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to keep up with these 100 Stories in 100 Days
or my stitchings,
just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar
at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

She’d been a writer
since discovering the written word in first grade,
so it’s no wonder she sat in a corner at their twentieth reunion,
watching her former classmates and
sketching them in lines and words. . .

One gal had a bad cold which kinda’ made her look like a clown.
About all she could mutter intelligibly was “Oh”,
so she sounded constantly surprised.
Or sad, depending.

JoeBob sought her out
and apologized
for having stood her up the night of their Senior Prom.
It may have been twenty years ago,
but Cleotia still didn’t believe a single word he said.

While some people needed name tags to recognize former classmates,
everybody recognized Bernice immediately
because the years hadn’t reduced the size
or placement
of her eyes.
Not one little bit.

In the some-stereotypes-never-change department,
the captain of the cheerleading squad
spent the entire night giving flirty eyes
to the captain of the football team.

The older he got,
the more he looked like Groucho Marx.
Everybody said so.

While other folks went off to college,
Peony stayed home and became a Lounge Lizard.

Even though Diotra spent the better part of every hour
trying to convince Dilbo that he,
the man she came to the reunion with
not the fourth grade fella
who’d helped her craft that flour and water map of Italy,
was the true love of her life,
he remained steadfastly mad and unconvinced.

Flossie Belle took home the Most Unchanged ribbon
for the way she still reminded everybody
of the school mascot:
of a rarified one-eyed beaked
ornamonfagnothingazimbo.

The years had not been kind to Hybrid.
Neither was that fascinator she wore perched up on her head.

Twinkle Towez may have had the eyes and the stutter of an owl,
possibly even the night vision,
but when she opened her mouth and started talking,
it became glaringly obvious that
the owl analogy stopped there.

Those unfortunate close-set squinty eyes,
gave everybody the impression that Leotia had trust issues.
Or allergies.

A couple of girls from the Glee Club
sat in the corner and cried all night
at the inevitable conclusion
that their lives had peaked in seventh grade.

The accident left Pet R. Fried with
a swollen, stitched-up right eye,
a blackened left eye,
a mouth sewn shut,
a chin that would need several more surgeries to take in the slack,
and the in-and-out ports on his chest.
But you had to give him bonus points
for donning a tie
and coming to the reunion anyway.

Su Songbird had this way of looking right through you.
It was unnerving, really.

Jim Beamtofroid was up drinking all night the night before,
and it kinda’ showed.

One cup of punch,
and LizaMae was snoring over her cheese straws.

Bette wished
she could’ve gotten in that class
on how to draw better eyebrows
before the reunion.
Her classmates did, too.

When Junior got to drinking,
he looked a whole lot less like Clark Gable
and a whole lot more like Captain Hook in a jester’s hat.

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In Our Own Language 4:17

And if I haven’t worn your imagination slap out,
tell me what (if anything)
you see in this stitched version of Nancy’s drawing.
Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch her drawings.

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The Daily Dahlia

~~~~~~~

Thank you for joining me on my story quest.
To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to keep up with these 100 Stories in 100 Days
or my stitchings,
just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar
at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

I wore one in undergraduate school – a POW MIA bracelet. I don’t remember the name on it, just that I wore it every single day (even though it turned my wrist green). I thought of that copper bracelet today as we observed National POW/MIA Recognition Day and wondered if my veteran (He was a Lt., that’s all I remember) had ever been found.

Four decades after he went missing, one local Vietnam veteran – Senior Master Sgt. Gary Pate, a 1964 Fayette County High School graduate – was found. Those who knew Gary say that his thoughts were focused on the future even as he faced death every single day in Vietnam. He got engaged, was having his wedding suit made, and the couple had ordered their china. By all accounts, he was looking forward to the life he would live when he came home. On May 22, 1968, Pate’s C-130 Hercules crashed in the enemy-riddled jungle. No body was ever discovered, no flag-draped casket was shipped home, and nothing was known except that his plane went down, taking all crew members with it.

The war eventually ended, but the U. S. Air Force refused to give up, continuing to search for POWs and MIAs. Forty-one years later the Air Force found dog tags belonging to Gary Pate. Gary’s remains and the remains of his seven fellow crew men are buried together in a single coffin in Arlington National Cemetery.

Today The Engineer, Alison, and I attended a ceremony dedicated to remembering the men and women who remain on the POW/MIA list of all wars, and let me tell you: the numbers are staggering. It would take a lot of fingers and toes to add them all up. A lot.

At this morning’s ceremony, a wreath was laid, the flag was flown, and the richly symbolic Missing Man table was set. The table is round to show our everlasting concern. An empty white (purity of intentions) chair represents the POW/MIA who is unable to join us at the table. The glass is inverted because they are unable to join us in a toast. A single red rose reminds us of the lives of these Americans and of their loved ones who continue to worry and wonder. A slice of lemon is on the table to remind us of their bitter fate, a pinch of salt symbolizes tears, and a lighted candle reflects our hope for their return . . . dead or alive. It was quite moving – the table, the stories, the numbers, and I’m glad we went. The entire ceremony lasted about twenty minutes.

Forty-one years.

Twenty minutes.

Time well spent.

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In Our Own Language 4:16

I’m still stitching stories, too.
Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch her drawings.

~~~~~~~

The Daily Dahlia

~~~~~~~

Thank you for joining me on my story quest.
To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to keep up with these 100 Stories in 100 Days
or my stitchings,
just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar
at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

My family had a thing about goats.

Yes, goats. Real goats. As in billy goat goats.

My Uncle Gene had a goat whose name was, of all things, Bill. (I think we can all safely say that I got my name from my Uncle Gene but not my creativity.) Now Bill was known to open the back screen door and come on into the house, and Granddaddy was known to lay out his farming clothes before he left for work at the bank every morning. One day Bill came in to get out of the heat of the afternoon and spied Granddaddy’s “dungarees” as Granddaddy’s sister called them, laying on the bed. Bill was either hungry or tired – we’ll never know for sure exactly what motivated him – but either way, he chewed off more than half of both pants leg before he wore himself out and went to sleep in the middle of Granddaddy’s bed.

Granddaddy was not amused.

And Bill was no longer hungry or tired.

Then there was the time my Uncle Bill (that’s him up there in the photo, fishing.) came to show off his new champagne colored Ford Falcon. It had that new car smell and that new car shine. Once everybody had been to ride in the new car, they settled inside the house for a glass of sweet tea. As they talked, there commenced the loudest BAM you ever heard. Then another BAM. And another, and another.

By the time they got outside, Billy Goat Bill had torn the right side of Uncle Bill’s new car to smithereens. Why, passengers had to get in on the driver’s side and crawl over to take a seat in what little passenger space was left cause Billy Goat Bill had done such damage on the door.

The way the story has come down the line is that there he was – Billy Goat Bill – minding his own business when he happened by the shiny new car, saw himself in the reflection, took exception to another billy goat trespassing on his home turf, and launched a full-out attack.

On the car, as it turns out.

Which Billy Goat Bill thought was the stubbornest goat he’d ever come across.

And by the time they tore Billy Boat Bill off of Uncle Bill’s new car, Billy Goat Bill was ready for another nap on Granddaddy’s bed.

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In Our Own Language 4:15

I’m still stitching stories, too.
Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch her drawings.

~~~~~~~

The Daily Dahlia

~~~~~~~

Thank you for joining me on my story quest.
To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to keep up with these 100 Stories in 100 Days
or my stitchings,
just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar
at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

William and Katie Belle Ballard
(shown here on the occasion of their 50th wedding anniversary)

Griffin, GA was once a big city compared to Fayetteville, GA, and we went there to shop for clothes at Saul’s downtown and at Mrs. Sailor’s in the little storage building behind her antebellum home on the way to downtown. For socks, towels, under garments, and all hosiery needs, we went to The Sock Shoppe. Saul’s and Mrs. Sailor’s are now mere memories, but The Sock Shoppe carries on.

Yesterday my mother, Mama Helen, and Miss Nancy loaded up in Mama Helen’s car (she had it cleaned just for the occasion) and headed to The Sock Shoppe. Once the shopping was done, Mama Helen realized that she’s paid $11.99 for ONE pair of socks, so she marched right back into the store and got her money back, losing her billfolder somewhere along the way. But it’s not as bad as it could be given that she keeps all her money, identification cards, and credit cards somewhere else.

Hearing about their trip to The Sock Shoppe reminded me of one my cousin Stacy’s favorite stories . . .

One Christmas Grandmother Ballard talked Granddaddy into driving her down to The Sock Shoppe to do her Christmas shopping. Once she’d bought each child and grandchild a pair of socks, she shopped for Granddaddy’s present.

On Christmas morning, Granddaddy opened his present from Grandmother, held up his new underwear, and asked, “Katie Belle. Are these from you?”

“What?” Grandmother hollered back across the room. She was a little hard of hearing.

“I said, are these from you?” Granddaddy hollered a little louder.

With that, Grandmother sat back in her chair, let loose a chuckle, and said, “Of course they’re new, William.”

Okay, she was a lot hard of hearing.

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In Our Own Language 4:14

Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch her drawings.

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The Daily Dahlia

~~~~~~~

Thank you for joining me on my story quest.
To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to keep up with these 100 Stories in 100 Days
or my stitchings,
just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar
at the top of the screen and follow the directions.

Now I may have closed out fifth grade on a high note, what with taking over science class and all, but it had a rocky start, that year did, because I landed in the homeroom of a foreigner called Mrs. Wooten. I think we can all agree that because she came over from Clayton County (20 minutes to the east of us), she had no way of knowing that I was the perennial Teacher’s Pet.

I had never had to earn the title of Teacher’s Pet – my reputation simply preceded me each year. But Mrs. Wooten was a hard nut to crack. I pulled out all the stops: wore my most adorable dresses; took my time to make sure my writing was legible; brought extra goodies in my lunchbox and made sure I was seen sharing with those around me; left love notes on her desk, chair, chalk rack; kicked every day off with compliments about her hair, her dress, her shoes – something; made sure her chalkboard and erasers were always clean; made sure my desk was always neat and my eyes were always on her – I left no stone unturned, and was still treated like Everybody Else.

Except for Junior M. Nobody was treated like Junior M. Only Junior M. was treated like Junior M. I’m guessing his shoes had something to do with it because Mrs. Wooten told us on the very first day that you could tell all you needed to know about a person by the condition of their shoes. Mrs. Wooten didn’t take well to scuffed shoes, and she could not abide nicknames. She didn’t care if “Junior” was a family nickname of long standing, she simply would not stand for nicknames being used in her classroom. Period. Turns out Junior’s real name was Oliver, and with that revelation, every fifth grader in that room positioned themselves firmly behind Junior.

I did everything but get letters of reference from previous teachers to convince Mrs. Wooten to anoint appoint me her Teacher’s Pet, and when all else failed, I brought in the Big Guns: my mother.

Though I didn’t exactly give Mother all the details . . . well, actually, I kind of told her that Mrs. Wooten didn’t like me and I had no idea why because I thought that presented a more urgent situation. Sure enough, my mother told them at the office that she’d be in late the next morning, and when she drove me to school, she parked that airplane carrier-sized Oldsmobile, and walked in with me. Right down to Mrs. Wooten’s room we went, and i couldn’t decide whether I felt smug or scared.

I needn’t have worried because my mother knew exactly how to get me the job of Teacher’s Pet my teacher to like me: she went bearing gifts. Not only did she wear my favorite pink and white sleeveless shirtwaist dress with the 2-toned high heels and sharp toes, my Mother delivered a gift wrapped present to Mrs. Wooten: a copy of a book called Take Time! by Charles Allen, a book Mrs. Wooen apparently loved because before Mother had time to get to her car, I was in like Flynn.

Every Friday afternoon we’d push the desks against the four walls, pull out the record player, and square dance the afternoon away because as Mrs. Wooten said repeatedly, “We [the teachers] get paid to be here, but they [the students] don’t.” I think I can safely speak for my classmates when I say that we didn’t really require a reason, but the justification sure seemed to make her feel better.

In mid-October at our Teacher/Teacher’s Pet weekly planning meeting, Mrs. Wooten brought up the Christmas party. A woman who believed in planning ahead, she suggested we have a Christmas Around the World Party with every student choosing a country to research and represent. With that, she reached into a bag and pulled out her Authentic Moo-Moo and handed it to me, saying I could wear it when I represented Hawaii.

The morning of the party – Friday, 12/20 – the phone woke us up. It was my Aunt Rene calling to tell us that she couldn’t wake my Granddaddy Hewell up. He had died in his sleep, my Granddaddy Hewell had, and because they couldn’t be sure whether he died before or after midnight, the family opted to make his official death date 12/19, the same date his 18 year old son died years earlier when a tractor flipped over on him.

I was devastated at the loss of my granddaddy and I wasn’t too happy to be missing the Christmas Around the World Party. Mother checked with her friends, and they agreed that I should go to the party since it was after lunch, so I went, but I didn’t feel much like wearing Mrs. Wooten’s size XXXXL moo-moo. She said she understood, and other than that, the only thing I can remember about the party is how touched I was with so many of my fifth grade classmates – Gordon K. was the first – telling me how sorry they were to hear about my granddaddy.

Fifth grade was also the year I started writing songs, but that’ll keep till tomorrow. You know, there’s a line in an Anne Rice book that describes a character as walking like someone who had once been cherished. If I ever did walk that walk, it’s because of my Granddaddy Hewell.

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It’s just been brought to my attention that story #41 ran into technical difficulties and didn’t go out to subscribers.

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Nancy and I are honored to be included in a book of irrepressible artists who create despite their handicaps. Anne Copeland and Barbara Williamson have put together a beautiful book of beautiful art, and they’ve launched a kickstarter campaign to raise funds to get the first run of books printed. Click here to be whisked to the kickstarter page and have a look. Support them as you can and will – financially, by helping spread the word, or both. Any way you can support these two women who have spilled an awful lot of goodness into the world, will be hugely appreciated.

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In Our Own Language 4:13

Nancy (my developmentally disabled sister-in-law) draws.
I (the woman who flat-out loves her) stitch.

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The Daily Dahlia
(This one is home grown!)

To see more of the Daily Dahlias, join me on Facebook or Instagram.
And if you want to subscribe to these 100 Stories in 100 Days,
just mash the black “right this way” button in the orange bar
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