The Secret Garden Book of my Childhood

 When I was a kid, I read a book called The Secret Garden. I was 8 years old and in the 3rd grade. Mrs Cannon was my teacher at Jay Elementary, and while she was an excellent teacher, she was also the only teacher who hit my hand with a ruler. 

To be honest, it wasn't her fault. In those days, one teacher taught all subjects, except for PE. I was reading my library book, and the subject changed without me noticing. My concentration was intense and absolute in those days. It had been honed by escaping from the chaos that was my life. I had learned, "Calgon, take me away before that was even a thing."

 Mrs Cannon walked toward me, and she grabbed my hand before I could turn the next page. She asked why I didn't change subjects. I was silent. 

My hand met the back of a wooden ruler. One hit. She asked me if I thought I could listen next time, and I was mute. I wasn't used to being asked to speak. I was raised that children were seen, not heard. I felt the next hit. She asked again, "Why weren't you listening when I changed subjects?" 

Again, I was mute. I was still in that daze that I entered when reading. Third hit, hard on the back of my hand, and she asked if I was going to listen in class. I nodded my head, yes. The silent tear rolled down my cheek. My hand was stinging, but I did not cry out loud. That was for sissies and I was tough. I was a beaten child. 

Beaten children learn a few things growing up that other children may not. We walk in fear of adults. In my case, it was men. We don't show signs of being beaten. This may cause trouble for us when we get home. We cover up. We appear clumsy. 

We are quiet thinkers. I immersed myself in books. Inside the pages, I could escape. I could go on a ship to a faraway land with Lilliputians or find a secret garden where flowers bloomed and birds sang. I survived the first 12 years of my life, in part,  due to books. 

On this day, I was reading about this garden. I think I identified with the garden because my mother loved plants. She wasn't at home, but I could see where she had been at one time. The flowers, bushes, fruit trees, and bricks edging flower beds, tires cut in decorative patterns, and painted green to make a flower pot. She had a green thumb that missed me and landed on my oldest daughter.  I think that probably makes her smile as she watches my daughter grow peppers, tomatoes, strawberries, and sometimes flowers.

My mind was back in 3rd grade this morning, thinking of the only time I got whacked in school, and I'm thankful that I had school, the library, and books to escape to. Some children have none of the above, and my heart goes out to the many children who have nothing. I guess that's why I give things away. 

I'm indebted to the people who gave things to me as a child. My grandmother, who brought me iced tea, gave me the first cookie out of the oven and protected me when I was in her house. I felt love for the first time from her. My first cup of coffee with Aunt Loree. I felt so big over that cup of coffee.  My Aunt Elma who gave time to this motherless child. That gave me confidence. My sister for reading to me when I was real lil. That gave me wings of escape. My Dad who stopped drinking when I was 12 and gave me a daddy. Frances Hodgson Burnett for writing a story that I felt was just for me. I could open that secret door and go inside for a bit. I still have my 3rd grade copy of the book. I lost it for a bit, and by the time it resurfaced, I had paid for the copy, so it was mine. Whether the losing was intentional or not, I can't recall. And if I do, I'm staying mute. I did learn some things from my childhood that remain useful. 

Have a beautiful weekend and pick up a favorite book to read. I've heard that reading is in a huge slump in recent years. That hurts my heart. I bought several books this week to read to my great grandson. I'm hoping that books will be his friend not from necessity but from the joy of reading. 

Much love always, kimmee. ♥️♥️

My parents were illiterate

 "Warning Long" 

I come from illiterate parents. My Dad was born in 1912, and he made it through the 3rd grade. By that time, he was 12 and had to begin work at the sawmill. He was one of 7 children. 

My parents could sign their names, but both had difficulty reading. I often wonder if the reason Daddy told me growing up that you're smart and are going to college one day,  was because of his unrealized dreams. That thought saddens me as poor children of that day couldn't dream of school. Their dreams were shattered by long work hours and responsibilities on the farm. 

Grandpa had 120 acres of land outside Jay. This wasn't where he was born, but he had migrated from Garland Alabama to NW Fl, where he found sawmill work. He didn't read, but Grandma did because I remember she always had the Bible open when I visited her. Perhaps her German immigrant parents could read and taught her. I will never know. Her grandfather was born in 1815 in  Germany but had made his way to the US by 1845. 

His name was Michael Kraemer, which was amercanized to Creamer, and his wife's name was Mary Odom. Their son Josiah or Sy, as everyone called him, was a fiddler. My aunt told me that people would pay him to fiddle at gatherings such as weddings, and that's how he eeked out a living. 

My Dad played spoons and a harmonica, so he was from a musical family. 

My mom was born in 1924, a few years after the War, and a few years before the great depression of 29. She was one of 8 children, all of whom survived to adulthood. That was some kind of miracle because her Mom died of starvation at aged 51. My grandpa ran a little store called the Hinky Dink in Jay on Morristown Rd. When he would leave the store, he chained the door up tight lest any of the kids or grandma would " steal" food. When a meal was cooked, grandma always said, "I'm not hungry," and gave her portion to one of the kids. I cried the first time my aunt told me this because that's something that any mother who loves her children would do. 

Growing up, the only reading done in my home was from my sister Ruby. She was 12 years older than me. The Bible was her constant companion, and she read it to me a lot. She also graduated high school. The first child of Mama and Daddy and the first one to graduate high school. Her picture used to hang in the halls of Jay School, and when I got there, I purposefully looked at all those framed pictures until I found hers. I think these photos are housed at the Jay Museum now.

 I wish that I had taken a photo of her hanging in the long hallway when I was 15, but my thoughts weren't of preserving my history then. It was boys. Lol. 

I started this story wondering how my children, grandchildren, and my little great grandson are so smart. My parents were illiterate. I was the 3rd to finish high school in my family.  My brother Leeroy went back to school later in life to get a better job at the Sawmill.  I dropped out of day school in 10th grade, but I went back to night school and finished when my original class did. I did a yr and a half in 6 months. My children were the same way. It was so hard to get them through school after 10th grade because they were bored like I was. My oldest got her GED and became a nurse. She knew all her colors, ABC's, could read some and write her name at 3. My middle one graduated 4th in her class, had scholarships from everyone, but didn't pursue education. My 3rd never opened a book from 10th to 12th grade and graduated with a 4.2 GPA. 

Where did this innate ability come from when I had two illiterate parents? Some say that we are custodians of wisdom from generations past. Maybe we're born smart or not. I don't know. Maybe my dad's desire manifested itself in his children. I'm definitely not smart enough to figure out why Mozart or Einstein children just happen. 

I guess this struck me this morning as I see how illiterate we've become since my childhood. We are regressing as a nation instead of the other way around. 

My paternal people came from England and Ireland to this land for opportunity in the 1600s. They were college educated, writers, musical, and written about in many history books.  My Mom's people were from Scotland, Netherlands, and Germany. Her family had a Dr in the 1700s. Her 2nd Great Grandfather was educated and had a beautiful signature on his pension papers. When did education in my family get lost? Why are we in America pushing for illiteracy again when our forefathers worked so hard to rise above their circumstances. 

Anyway, all these questions came forward after seeing my 18 month old great grandson pick a magnet off the stove door and say "yellow." He knows his colors, takes direction well, and is so inquisitive and reasoning as only an active mind can be. Are all children born smart, or does our environment make us smart?  Why are some children born to illiterate parents smart and some that have educated parents illiterate? Did my dad telling me that I'm smart make me smart? Do parents that call their children dumb make them so? 

Ramblings of my wordy thoughts this morning. Lol. I know that many of you are educators,  so please enlighten me as to your thoughts on innate abilities versus nurtured ones. 

Thank you for reading and for your care for me. I love y'all. Always, Kimmee.

Tears Are Our Rain

 I was watching the rain come down a few minutes ago and was struck by the large water drops hitting the leaf and pushing it down with the force of the drop. It made me think of us when problems come and they have such force that they make us drop down, overwhelmed by the weight of what ever is troubling us. 

There is always strong opposition to rising and this leaf is battling, as we do when we have trials that seem to push us down and leave us weak and sad. 

But when the rain stops, the leaf is nourished by the rain and maybe has grown a mm or two just as our spirit does when we overcome our troubles. We may have cried over them, felt pushed down by them, felt overwhelmed in every way but when the trial is over, we have gained something in our spirits. We are stronger and stand taller because we have survived. 

I am much like that large leaf that you see here. I have been pushed down. I have cried enough tears to fill a pitcher and yet, I am here. Weak in body but so strong in my mind. I have walked through the valley to reach the mountain and I am so thankful for all the rain in my life because it made me strong, just as it does every one of you. 

My hope for each of us is, to not give up when we feel pressed down or have faces wet with tears. Let them nourish us as rain does this leaf and I promise you, we will all be stronger when the storm has passed.... I love you all, Kimmee

Lovely Among The Ugly

 I walked outside this morning to feel the fresh air on a Sunday and attend my church. The birds were singing like a choir and I looked for my lesson, because there is always one if you open your eyes.  

I saw this jumble of leaves, dried sticks, Spanish Moss, debris from the winter's yard, but when I looked closely I saw this beautiful lil flower perched on a blade of grass. 

It still makes my heart jump when you see something so lovely, coming out of something so ugly.

That is our challenge everyday. To find the lovely,  in the ugly. 

We have a lot of ugly in our lives  if you believe the news or the TV or what people tell you, but I am here to tell you that there are just as many or more instances of Lovely,  if we look and listen. 

The bird song this morning was lovely.  The tiny new buds on the trees letting us know that Spring has sprung and new life has started, was lovely. 

When we have new life we have everything and that is the best kind of lovely. 

Today is my favorite day. The memories of Daddy and my sisters and brothers swimming. The silence as buses are quieted, people are off work and children are sleeping in. 

I am so thankful for the lovely in my life. 

Illness is ugly. Pain is ugly, Pills are ugly.  But my family and friends are lovely. They counterbalance all that ugly with the best possible parts of Lovely and I am grateful. 

I pray that each of you find the lovely in your lives today. I love each and every one of you so much, Kimmee

My Tombstone Cousin Doc Holliday

 Jan 3, 2021

Hi, sweet friends. I've been meaning to post pictures of our day in Tombstone and am sincerely hoping that I will be able add as many pics as I took that day. 

Tombstone has a special meaning for me as Doc Holliday was my 2nd cousin 3 x removed. I have read about him and was just tickled pink to be where he stood even though he didn't have the best of reputations as a gambler, gunfighter, drinker and sometimes Dentist. His common law wife was Big Nose Kate and I took some pics of her Saloon that Doc had built. . She was a sometimes lady of the night and fiercely protective of Doc, helping him each day cause he was pretty sick from tuberculosis.  His mother had died from it when he was 15 and the records I found had him suffering at a fairly young age. 

He and Wyatt Earp were friends and Bat Masterson knew him during that day also. 

Kate and Doc had a very volatile relationship and they had one fight too many and he kicked Kate out. He ended up dying in Colorado of his illness at age 36. It was surreal being there, reading about "characters" that I had only seen in the movies. 

There were so many amazing things to see and I wish my knees would have held out for more but I was so thankful to see this cowboy town and Boothill Cemetery.

 I hope that you all enjoy seeing some of the sights of our outing a week ago and I wish you all could have been with me! It was so much fun. I'm still recovering from the Cemetery and praying I get back to where I was one day soon. 

I am praying for a return to more normalcy in our lives and for all those lost and suffering in the pandemic. It makes my suffering seem small in comparison and I am so thankful to still be here enjoying life. I love you with all my heart. Always, kimmee

Hummingbird

 A dear friend of mine shared this beautiful Hummingbird and it reminded me of another. So I hope to honor her by sharing it with all my wonderful friends . 

Kat, your wonderful Hummingbird reminded me of another. I had a beautiful purple hand blown glass one that I displayed with my dolls. She was all of 3 inches long and so elegant in the light. I had purchased her on one of the many trips that Mom( the lady that I called Mom) Wendi and I took together in the 70's. We were down near Disneyland in California and Mom spotted a glass blowing shop. They had several shows a day and my love of hand-blown glass was born. 

Aww man,  he was talented and I bought my Hummingbird that he had made. I protected her through 13 moves by keeping her in a well padded box. 

One day I was cleaning the glass front cabinet she was in and I don't know what happened but she slipped from my hand. Oh, how I cried. I still tear up now just talking about her. She was a link to Mom and our adventures. 

Then all of a sudden the lesson was clear. 

We cherish of sorts of things over the years and they enrich our lives but maybe they aren't meant to be ours forever and we have to let go. 

Letting go has never been easy for me. Abandonment as a child left me clingy, needy and things became my security.

I worked on myself in my 50's and overcame so much and this lil Hummingbird was a last remnant of that former life. It was time to acknowledge that I am different now. I'm not that needy person that kept people in my life that were mean to me. I let people go when they want to go and keep those that want to stay. I learned that I have no control over anyone else but myself and my responses. I didn't need anyone or anything anymore. I had let go and was flying free as that dear Hummingbird.  

It's a new year and I don't make resolutions anymore. I just try to be a good person everyday. A helper, compassionate for myself and others and above all else loving. 

God bless you all for walking with me. Thank you Kat for the gentle reminder on this first day of the New Year. I love you. All of you with my whole heart. Always, kimmee