from Teagan’s Books
My first guest blog was a 2015 post by Linda Bethea of Nutstrok.
Sally Cronin of Smorgasbord – Variety is the spice of life thought it deserved a re-post, so here it is.
The original post begins below this drawing by Linda’s Mother, Kathleen Swain.
test subject guest blogger is Linda Bethea of Nutstok.
When I read her blog I feel like I’m visiting with a friend.
Linda’s style is graceful and she writes with empathy and love.
“Forever Mom” is a drawing by Linda’s Mother, Kathleen Swain..
Linda wrote: I am so delighted my dear friend Robert Goldstein asked me to do a guest post for him. He was gracious enough to allow me to share a portion of Kathleen’s Memoirs of The Great Depression, my current work in progress.
Thanks so much Robert.
The Gentlest of Men
“Good to see you, Doc, but the baby didn’t wait for you. Lizzie was just cleaning up after breakfast when she told to send for you and Miz Smith. She barely had time to put a pot of beans on and shoo the kids out to work the tomatoes before Miz Smith made it here. I shore was proud to see Miz Smith by the time she got here.” Roscoe ushered him in to the front room where the only sign of a recent delivery was Lizzie nursing her newborn. Not wanting the doctor or the kids to find the place a mess, Mary Smith had hurriedly tidied up the mess from birthing and put it out to soak. Before heading back to her own family, she had bathed the baby, helped Lizzie into a clean gown and put the embroidered sheets back on the front room bed. Dr. Bohl knew those sheets were on display for his benefit and would be carefully folded away as soon as he left. The little girl howled at being examined, flushing and waving her fists, clearly preferring her mother to this indignity. Dr. Bohl allowed she’d be a fine baby, if she lived and did well. She had slipped up on them late in life, with Roscoe nearing fifty and Lizzie thirty-eight. Had anyone been dared ask the couple a year ago if they wanted another child, they’d have declared, “That’s the last thing we need in these hard times,” but she’d found a welcome home.
Roscoe called the kids in to the surprise of a new sister before making a pan of cornbread to go with Lizzie’s beans. Mystified that a headache could turn into a baby, Annie sliced fresh tomatoes and heated leftover stewed squash between peeks at the baby she’d been allowed the honor of naming, Kathleen Gordon Ree Holdaway. Kathleen, for a distant cousin the infant Kathleen wouldn’t meet for more than fifty years. Gordon was a traditional family name and Ree was for one of Roscoe’s domino playing buddies, a name Kathleen learned to heartily despise. Every time she looked at the man, she was disgusted Daddy had picked him to name her for. John set the table and brought in water and wood for the cook stove without being told. Roscoe took Lizzie a full plate and a mason jar of fresh milk before the rest of them got started. After their early supper, Roscoe and Dr. Bohl drank coffee in the front room and talked with Lizzie while the kids cleaned up and whispered in the kitchen. Doc’s cynical opinion altered when he found them both well-read, Lizzie having qualified as a teacher before her marriage. Roscoe kept him laughing with tales of his wild misdeeds as a young man. On a corner table, several books were stacked near the coal oil lamp, where a tattered copy of Robinson Crusoe lay bookmarked with a scrap of paper. Before they finished their coffee, the bawling of the hungry calf and cow’s lowing called Roscoe to evening chores.
Digging deep in his overalls pocket, Roscoe dug out a lone dollar he had managed to save since the disturbing day Lizzie had told him she’d need a doctor that spring. Dr. Bohl considered, needing cash as much as the next man, but in a rare moment of warmth, decided against taking it, knowing it was the only cash they had. “I missed most of the work. If it’s all the same to you, I’d sooner have my pay in garden stuff. I’d sure appreciate if you could throw in a ham.” Relieved, Roscoe filled a tow sack with potatoes, tomatoes, a smoked ham, two quarts of canned peaches, a couple of dozen eggs, and a pound of butter……..far more than a dollars’ worth. Miss Loney had been hounding him about his bill at the store. Both men were pleased with their transaction and before Dr. Bohl left, they shared a nip from the bottle Roscoe kept tucked high on a kitchen shelf.
Hours later with the kids in bed and Lizzie at rest after her exhausting day, Roscoe smoked and read a western in the dim light of the coal oil lamp. Kathleen stirred and mewed quietly in her mother’s arms. Her gaunt father lifted her, and returned to his chair for a cuddle, “Well, Kitten. It’s just me and you. The rest of ‘em gave it up. You want to talk to your old daddy just a little. Well…..” The gentlest of men, Roscoe’s heart melted anew, for this unexpected child of his age. He loved his other children, but was never able to hide his special feelings for her. To him, she was never Kathleen. From that day on, it warmed her heart to hear him call her “Kitten,” signaling a fine mood. Kat was for ordinary days.
To see more of Linda’s fine work please visit Nutstrok
(c) Linda Bethea and Kathleen Swain all rights reserved.
First posted April 16, 2015
This is how life is when you feel weak and helpless: you lay down and die or you puff yourself up until you look so big everyone stays away.
But they stare.
One day the puff goes out and you think maybe you don’t need it: there is no one to blame, there is no one to hate.
Bad things happened to me and they still happen; bad things will happen to other people long after I’ve died.
Weak minds and political opportunists abuse religion; they always have, and they always will.
All political creeds are open to corruption; all economic systems are open to abuse, the poor will always be their own worst enemies because violent poverty breeds intense identification with the oppressor.
How does one think ones way out of the hateful violence inflicted by one’s own people?
Somehow, I’ve thought my way out, but it’s taken most of my life.
My puff is gone.
I don’t need to explain myself, to apologize, to make myself livid with rage.
I don’t need to incite power struggles.
Power struggles are about feeling powerless; the need to fight small battles is about the need for distraction.
“Am I dead?”
“No, not dead.”
I’ve never felt more certain of my worth as a person, never more secure with myself.
The puff is gone and in its place, I think I see a person; a man whose past no longer defines who he is or how he will live the rest of his life.
I think I can see my self.
Now, everything is new.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2015-2018
First published Sep 25, 2015
Revised June 27, 2019