1949 Ford Pickup Truck

I was sitting in the restaurant today waiting for my lunch, a strawberry walnut salad. I live in Plant City, Florida, the land of the strawberries, so I figured why not a strawberry salad…big plump strawberries. Well as I sat waiting on my lunch I began to look around the restaurant noticing all the paraphernalia on the walls, pictures, plaques, and replica metal advertisement from years past…Swift’s Borax, Electric Magic Mixer – “Why beat it by hand” was the tag line, Coca cola 5 cents (no cents symbol on the keyboard…that says something in itself), Nehi Soda’s – “Strawberry Nehi is my favorite”. Then I saw it….a picture of a Ford pickup truck – what appeared to be about a 1949. 

 Suddenly I was taken back to a warm sunny day in 1970. I could picture Daddy Humpy’s old green 1949 pick up truck in our driveway. It wasn’t much to look at by any means. It was a pale faded green that obviously had never seen a coat of wax, and it had man built wooden rails attached to the top of the bed extending above the existing manufactured sides. Not to mention, this truck had seen its better days. But somehow all of us kids loved that darned old truck. There were times we would all pile into the back of it with our lawn chairs, sunglasses and sun visors on, thinking we were the coolest thing since sliced bread. Oh yes, we were definitely cool! We didn’t realize we looked more like the Clampet’s from the Beverly Hillbillies. Truly people must have thought we were a true sight. But you know it doesn’t much matter what they thought …we had a blast and that’s what’s important…family having fun. Of course that sort of behavior would be unacceptable these days. A person could be thrown in jail for such careless tactics.

Well I remember one particular day my dad was leaving the house to run some errands and I put in to go with him. I had my restricted driver license and always looked for opportunities to drive and practice my skills. So he happily agreed for me to drive him into town. So off we went out the door, me grinning ear to ear knowing full well I would be driving. Then it happened, the old 49 Ford pickup truck was sitting in the drive way. My dad looked at me with his half cocked grin, hand me the keys, yet it was the one lonely key to the old truck. I began to feel a bit sick to my stomach. Immediately I began to protest, I did not have any idea how to drive a stick shift, much less one on the steering column. I mean, how weird was that anyway?

 In my driver’s ed class, we had cars with stick shifts on the floor, but there were none like this truck; no, not a single one. Well my father told me it was the perfect time to start learning to drive the old truck. It was good experience. He said to me, “If you are going to drive you need to learn how to drive a real automobile” Me, I’m thinking to myself, ‘This is not a real automobile, by any stretch of the imagination”. Every time I would say, “But dad…” he would cut me off and tell me, “Crank it”. After many attempts, I was finally successful at cranking the darn thing after pushing and pulling some button. I think it was called a choke, but I don’t really remember. I just remember it was weird. So with the clutch pushed in we were cranked and ready to back out of the driveway; which seemed at that moment to be about a half mile long. Each time I would let off the clutch the truck would buck and then go dead. After about 3 or 4 attempts I got it out of the driveway. Yea! But as we hit the street it bucked one more time and went dead once again. I quickly realized I was so concerned about backing out without killing the engine I forgot to turn the wheel as I reached the street. So there we were straddling the street and wouldn’t you know there was a car coming. Oh it was a bit away, but none the less it was coming right at us.

At that moment I decided it just wasn’t that important for me to drive that day. I looked over at my dad, seeing the sly grin all over his face, and I said, “I’m not driving this thing…you can have it” and I jumped out of the truck. That’s right; I jumped out of the truck!  I was for sure getting out of the way of the on coming car. Of course you might have guessed, my dad’s grin disappeared and he jumped into the driver’s seat and quickly moved the truck out of the street. He could not believe that I jumped out of the truck…and I couldn’t believe he was going to just sit there and let me continue struggling with that ox of a truck with the shift on the column. Good grief, who had ever thought of such a contraption?

 Once my dad gained his composure, he never said a word to me about what had just happened. He just laughed nervously.  I think he realized he should have given me a course on driving the old truck before making me get behind the wheel. After all, how could he blame me for something he made me do… knowing all the time that I had protested against it from the beginning.

 Well I never learned to drive that old 1949 pickup truck. Somehow I think my dad had a different opinion after that day and most likely decided it just wasn’t that important anymore. He never made me try it again. And I don’t think my Daddy Humpy was ever told about the incident because it was never mentioned after that day.

But I did love that old truck, yet I never had the desire to drive it. Trust me when I tell you that.  Did I ever learn to drive a stick on the column? Yes, about 15 years later, but not without great hesitation and flash backs. Did I like it? Absolutely not! I thought it was the most profound thing ever built. But, let me tell you this, I would rather drive a stick shift…on the floor…any day! Well I guess it’s all relative to time. Back in 1949 they had shifts on the column and ate salads, but I bet they never thought there would be a day when you put strawberries and walnuts on a salad or gear shifts on the floor for young whippersnappers like you and I. Don’t you just love the old memories? I know I do!

This article is dedicated in memory of my father: Rayford Lamar McFarland (Jan 3, 1930 – May 15, 1982)

 I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to write our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

May 9, 1992, like any other day began with the typical routine. The alarm went off at 6 AM; I reluctantly drug myself out of bed knowing full well that I had another busy day ahead of me at work. My morning routine consisted of running down stairs to pour a glass of orange juice for me and my husband, Jack. Once we finished our juice, he was off to the master bathroom and I was off to the guest bathroom for a shower and preparation for work. That particular morning I chose to wear a burgundy and black hound’s tooth print skirt set with a matching double breasted jacket, black panty hose, and black high heels. Yes, back then panty hose and high heels were still very much in style. Isn’t it amazing how you can remember such details on a day that impacts you the rest of your life?

Just before I left for work I remembered to pack my gym bag in hopes to make it to Jazzercise right after work. I made it a point to attend jazzercise at least 4 to 5 times a week. At that time I weighed 109 pounds, wore a size 5, and was very determined to keep my shape. And the good part about it was I really enjoyed the jazzercise…it was like dancing…and I love to dance.

I drove a 1988 Triple White Volkswagen Cabriolet Convertible, also known as a Fahrvergnugen, which was the name on the side of the car. I always got a kick out of telling everyone I drove a Fahrvergnugen convertible. They would look at me as if I had one eyeball in the middle of my forehead. Then I would laugh and tell them it was German for Volkswagen. Actually the Volkswagen commercial used the term Fahrvergnugen in their advertisement with the tag line, “it’s what makes a car a Volkswagen!”  The definition of the word is “driving enjoyment.” The description ‘Triple White’ meant it had a white body, white convertible top, and white leather seats with a 5 speed stick shift. That little car was so much fun, it would haul butt, especially when I was in the driver’s seat. I remember when I first bought the car my mother told me it was the most impractical thing I had ever done in my life. My response, “Well mom I’m tired of being practical. The kids are gone and it’s my turn to have a little fun.”

So, off to work I went with the top down on my car, hair blowing in the wind, radio blaring over the wind noise, and I was singing to the top of my lungs to my favorite oldies music. That was the perfect way to start out a daily drive to work. As soon as I arrived at work I put the top up on the car and headed straight for the coffee pot; after spending a couple minutes getting my tousled hair back into place. With coffee in hand, I made my rounds to say good morning to everyone I worked with in the department.

I can’t really tell you much about the remainder of my day except to say it was typical; well, almost typical. I remember getting back into my car after work, this time leaving the top up, and heading to my jazzercise class; only I never arrived at class that day. They tell me I was in a car accident which I have never remembered up to this very day. What I do remember is getting into my car and then all of a sudden something feeling terribly wrong. I saw two men standing on the street corner and then I went down; I passed out. The next thing I hear are people all around me and someone is putting a neck brace on me and telling me to relax. But being claustrophobic, relaxing is not something you do when someone appears to be shutting off the airway to your lungs; the only connection to life you feel you have at the moment. I begged the lady not to put the neck brace on me, crying, reaching out and grasping with every fiber of my body to keep the air flowing into my lungs. At some point I realized the lady was a paramedic and I was in terrible pain. I believe she realized the trauma I was experiencing from the neck brace was far worse than the pain from the accident, so she let me hold on to the brace; giving me a glimpse of hope that I could keep it from cutting off my air flow. And believe me I held on to that brace with every ounce of strength I had; trying desperately to keep it from touching my throat. My next conscious realization was in the ambulance when someone, a female voice, was hollering at me saying, “This is all your fault!” She continued to repeat it over and over. Then another voice appeared saying, “Shut up! This was not her fault!” I continued to lie there, passing in and out, trying frantically to figure out what was happening to me. As I reached the hospital a crowd of doctors and nurses gathered all around me, the voices were muffled, faces were blurred as if I were having a dream, and panic was in the air. I tried so desperately to make connection with the faces and voices but it seemed hopeless. Then the questions started. “What is your name?” I don’t know. “Who can we call for you?” Funny thing is I could remember Jack’s name and our phone number, so I gave it to them. “Do you have any children?” Yes, two. “What are their names?” I don’t know, but I know I have a boy and a girl. “How old are they?” The questions kept darting out at me, yet I hardly knew any of the answers. “What was happening to me?” “How could I forget my own children’s names?” “How could I forget my own name?” Really, what was happening to me?

Finally, after what seemed like hours, it all began to make sense. Jack came into the room and I was so happy to see a face I recognized. Somehow I knew I was safe and in safe hands. He began to explain that I had been in a bad car accident. A woman had made a left hand turn into me as I crossed the intersection at the corner of Kings Avenue and Oakfield Dr in Brandon. My car had been totaled but somehow I was going to be fine; even though every fiber of my body throbbed with pain and blood was all over me.

I stayed in the hospital overnight for a series of cat scans, x-rays and observation to insure there were no internal injuries. I even passed out and fell in the floor after warning an x-ray technician that I was unable to stand. Strange thing was he was going to x-ray my back for any damage. Well, when I arrived home the first thing I did was go straight to a mirror. I could not believe my eyes; I had no idea who was looking back at me. I did not recognize the swollen face, black and blue from the impact. One side of the head was shaved with about 30 staples running from the crown of the head to just outside the hairline over the left side of the forehead. What a sight I was and the pain in my body was excruciating.

As time went on I began to heal. But I soon realized my sense of reasoning had been compromised; I could not add 1 + 1. There I was a business analyst and I couldn’t do simple math. About four weeks after the accident I went to the doctor for a weekly visit, children were still starring at me because of the shaved head and bruises. What a sight I must have been to them. I’m sure I looked like something out of a horror show. When I saw the doctor I was so happy to share with him that I was doing so much better. So much better that I had started back to jazzercise doing the ‘low impact’ classes but I was experiencing problems with my reasoning skills. He immediately became angry with me and began to scold me. He said, “Who told you it was OK to exercise? I don’t want you as much as walking fast for a minimum of one year!” Then he explained that the main artery in my head had been severed and was stitched back together and any extra movement could cause it to tear back open. He explained if that happened I would be dead at the snap of a finger. He said if it hadn’t been for the two men on the street corner, which had just left the gym across the street, holding their towels tightly on my head, I would have died at the scene of the accident. So needless to say, the doctor got every bit of my attention. I never went back to jazzercise and wouldn’t you know it, I gained 30 pounds within the year. But the alternative would have been far worse than any weight gain.

As for the Fahrvergnugen, it was completely demolished. I finally went to remove my personal belongings and I was devastated when I saw it. The engine was pushed up against the firewall like an accordion. The triple white was no longer so, as the interior was completely covered with blood, my blood. Not to mention the stench escaping from the car as I opened the door and saw the towels used to save my life. When I looked at it I wondered how anyone could have possibly survived such an accident. When I walked away from the heap of metal, I was speechless. I still had a hard time adding simple numbers, but I had my life.

As I drove from the junk yard that morning, all of a sudden I had no idea where I was. I was lost and I began to panic! Where was I? How could I get so lost? Again, I remembered Jack’s phone number and called him immediately. Luckily, as a result of the accident, he had bought me a cell phone just in case of emergencies. As he answered the phone, he immediately heard the panic in my voice. Once he finally understood what I was saying and what was happening with me, he began to speak softly to me. As I heard his words, I began to calm down and gain composure, but I still had no idea where I was.

Earlier that morning he had told me he didn’t think I was emotionally ready to see my car. He had seen it just a few days before when he removed, what he thought were, all my personal items. Yet I assured him that I would be fine. So reluctantly he agreed to let me go. I dropped him off at work and drove his car. However, during those moments of my panic, I knew in my spirit he had been right all along.

Jack told me to describe the area around me and to get back on the road and start driving, while continuing to describe my surrounding areas every minute of the way. Finally he was able to determine where I was and he directed my every turn until I reached his office. I was so happy to see the familiar building and then to see his face; something that I finally recognized. I then knew for certain, I was safe once again.

When I arrived home that afternoon I went and looked at the blood stained garment hanging in my closet that I had kept as a reminder, then in the mirror I saw my badly bruised face, the shaved head, the horrible scar and tracks from the removed staples on my head….I knew then…. “I may not be able to add 1 + 1…and I may not be able to remember where I am at times, but one thing I know for certain, God has given me a second chance at life.” For certain, that day I knew I was one lucky lady.

Eventually the memory returned, the bruises faded away, and the scar was covered as my hair grew back in place. But today if I run my fingers through my hair I can still feel the deep scar and instantly I am reminded of that day in 1992 and I realize how blessed I have been.  Although I have never remembered the accident, people always tell me that’s a blessing as well. As for the car, I never saw it  again…but it truly spoiled me on convertibles and I have had one every since. To this day, I still love putting the top down, cranking up my tunes, and singing to the top of my lungs as my hair blows in the wind.

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to write our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

Erika McFarland Newey

Today our country is wearing the color ‘red’ to show our love and support to the men and women who have sacrificed and dedicated their lives in defending  this country….Our Country, the U.S.A. What better day than today to remember my special niece, Erika Dell McFarland Newey, a member of the U.S. Air Force.

In order to give you some background on Erika’s character I must start off with a couple of important facts. Erika is my brother Rodger’s daughter and she is the 5^th grandchild in our family. The first 4 grandchildren have something extraordinary about their beginning in life.  

Extraordinary Statistics:

1.  Michael Shane Rogers – Born March 31, 1972 – Weighed 1 lb 13 oz – premature
2.  Leslie Dawn Rogers – Born October 28, 1973
3.  Jeffrey Don McFarland – Born October 28, 1978
4.  Brett William McFarland – Born October 28, 1984 – Weighed 2 lbs – premature

Notice, the first 4 all had something in common; two were born 3 months premature weighing right at 2 pounds and three were born on October 28^th.  

Then there is grandchild #5… Erika Dell. Based on all the previous statistics and the time of year, we expected her to be born on the same day as the last three babies in the family. Time was drawing closer and closer to the date and finally the phone call came.  On the afternoon of October 27^th, Rodger called to inform us that he and Beverly were on their way to hospital. The family could not believe the possibilities that this baby really could share the same birth date as the last three. But, little Erika had another idea….she wanted to be both unique and extraordinary from the very beginning. She wanted her very own special birthday. So at 6: 12 PM on October 27, 1987, she was born, weighing 6 lbs. 13 oz. And let me tell you, she was a little doll from day one; so tiny and so petite like a little china doll. She had the bluest eyes and the curliest blond hair you have ever seen. You just wanted to squeeze her into, she was so precious. I’m sure you know the feeling.

So you may wonder, like I do at times, how did her parents come up with the name Erika Dell? In questioning her parents here is what I found. The name Erika was after a little girl who lived next door to Mom and Rodger when he was growing up. Rodger said she was the most beautiful little girl he had ever seen. The name Dell was after our Aunt Eva Dell, our mother’s sister. So there you have it…the name Erika Dell McFarland.

Needless to say, she was spoiled rotten from the very beginning. Oh she was sweet, a real doll she was. And somehow in her little spirit she knew it. When I think about her as a small child there are a couple of stories that stand out so clearly in my mind that I want to share with you.

Erika was probably about 2 years old at the most. I had gone over to my mother’s house for a visit and was sitting in the dining room chatting when my sister-in-law came by to drop the kids off for mom to baby sit. Beverly had two other children Kristi and Adam, which were both very sweet and well mannered. They went right on in the house this particular day. But Erika had a different idea. She was mad, pouting, and a bit honary to say the least. I’m sure you can relate to how children can be. Well, as Erika got out of the car she went directly to the front door steps, sat down, folded her little arms in front of her, stuck out her bottom lip into the well known pouting posture, and looked down at the ground. She was determined to stay perched on that step. My mother, on the other hand had a difference of opinion. Mom demanded Erika to go inside; however, Erika stood her ground and continued to stay perched right where she was, never changing her position or attitude. After a few more demands from my mother, seeing that her attempts was useless, she tried one more final tactic. Erika Dell, she said, “I am going to count to three and when I’m done your butt better be up and off that step! 1…2…3!” As mom hit the count of 3, Erika raised her butt off the step about 3 inches, never changing anything else about her posture. But one thing for sure, she had minded my mother and lifted her bottom off the step as directed. What a site! I thought I was going to lose it. I laughed so hard I could not believe it. A two year old just outsmarted my mother. Finally, my mother lost all composure and began to laugh. What else could she do? She then scooped Erika up off the step and took her in the house completely amazed at what had just happened. I think that day was the beginning of seeing Erika’s true personality come to life. Miss independent herself.

On her 5^th birthday I had agreed to pick her up and spend the day with her, taking her shopping and out to eat. The first thing I did was ask her where she wanted to go. That was the mistake, asking a 5 year old where they wanted to go. Wouldn’t you know our first stop was McDonald’s.  She wanted a Happy Meal. After we finished our fine dining, I asked where she wanted to go shopping; thinking a toy store would be her suggestion. Much to my surprise, she wanted to go to the ‘Dollar’ store. Only problem with that was, I did not know where a dollar store was located. When I shared my dilemma with this 5 year old, her words to me were, “I can’t believe you don’t know where the dollar store is! Everyone knows where the dollar store is!” Then she proceeded to direct me to call her daddy or Uncle Jack….in her thoughts, they would for sure know where one was located. She even said to me, “You need to go to bed! Cause you don’t know where a dollar store is!” She absolutely couldn’t believe her own ears. Well, I had to some how save face with my 5 year old niece.  So I headed to town in hopes that I would find a dollar store. To my own amazement I found one in the heart of Brandon. Whew, it was sure a close call!

We proudly went into the dollar store. On our way in, Erika informed me she had $5.00 to spend. It was her birthday money that she had brought with her. As we began our shopping experience, she quickly picked out 5 items. As I looked at the prices, I informed her she could buy more items. Immediately she set me strait. She said, “Unt uh, I have 5 things….1, 2, 3, 4, 5”. She had counted them off for me and proceeded to inform me she had 5 items and they were $1 each, therefore it would cost her $5.  So there I had it all summed up for me by a 5 year old; completely logical. And believe me when I tell you this, nothing was going to convince her otherwise. So, as she directed, we headed to the check out counter. The cashier put the 5 items in the bag and Erika so proudly handed the lady her $5 bill and off she headed to the car. Only to hear the lady call her back to give her the change she was due. Immediately, Erika began to educate the cashier as she had just previously educated me. She informed her that she had 5 items and they cost $1 each ….1, 2, 3, 4, 5….therefore her total cost was $5. Well let me tell you, it took both of us adults to convince this child that she had change coming and that it was OK to take it. Truth be known, I don’t think we ever convinced her, but we did give her permission to take the money and put it in her purse.

So yes, I have to say, Erika has achieved being both unique and extraordinary. Today she is in the U.S. Air Force and is considering extending her time into a full time military career. She is a very independent young woman, yet at the same time she really is dependent on her family and friends. But, aren’t we all? …Even if we don’t always admit it? Don’t we all rely on our family and friends to be there for us? …To have a shoulder to cry on when we need it? I know, besides her mother and father, this family will always be here for Erika.

Erika calls me Aunt Lordi and I love it when I hear those words, because that makes me feel very special. Her sister Kristi is the oldest and she named me Aunt Lordi when she was just a toddler. Now, today, all 3 of those kids, Kristi, Erika, and Adam, call me Aunt Lordi…..and for certain….I am very proud to carry that special name.

This article is dedicated to the memory of:  Brett William McFarland (October 28, 1984 – January 20, 1987)

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to writie our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

Grandpa Pone

It was June 8, 1967, just days before my 12^th birthday. There I sat peering between the heads of people sitting in the pews; trying so desperately to see what was lying in the front of the room. It was the first time I had been to a funeral. I had no idea what to expect; I had never experienced death before; at least not that I could remember. My grandpa ‘Pone’ had passed away just three days before. I, being the first grandchild, had tagged him with the name ‘Pone’. As it has been explained to me, I could not say grandpa so, being the creative creature that I am, I came up with the name Pone. My grandpa was so proud to sport his new name and eventually everyone knew him as ‘Pone’.

It was such a sad day for me. Somehow I knew I would never see my Pone after that day. All the plans we had made together had been ruined. My grandpa and I had been so very close; we were true buddies. Not only was I the first grandchild, but the only one he had shared with my grandmother. She had died a premature death in 1956, at the age of 43; I was just days shy of being 18 months old. After her death I would go stay with my grandpa Pone on occasions. Each time I did we would always go across the street to the little wooden framed grocery store, and buy a special meal. It was my most favorite meal in the world!  Together we would eat ‘little fishes’, (better know to you as sardines) and drink Strawberry soda’s. That was the cat’s meow to me; I loved it. To me there was nothing more special than those times with Pone.

As time went on, my grandpa Pone moved in with us. Shortly after that, he went to work as a custodian at Horace Mann Junior High School, which was only a couple of miles from where we lived. He did such an outstanding job and was quickly promoted to head custodian. Just months before his death he had moved into the small silver trailer that sat on the school campus. I would say it was about an 8 foot by 20 foot trailer and it sat at the corner entrance where the school buses traveled for loading and unloading students. I was all set to attend this same junior high school the following school year, which was only three months away. I was so excited! But the excitement was more than just attending junior high school, although that was pretty cool; it was because my Pone and I had concocted a plan. The plan was that I would stay with him every day after school in that little silver trailer that I thought was so cool. And once my homework was complete I would be able to help him clean the school. I had especially looked forward to going into the boys’ restrooms. Pone had taken me in there once during one of his cleaning tasks and I was totally amazed at those contraptions called a urinal. I had never seen nor heard of such a thing and I was sure curious how they worked. I wondered how they kept from flooding the floors when they flushed; but I had not yet burdened Pone with such a trivial question. I was saving that up for a special moment in time. However, now everything had changed with the blink of an eye and my grandpa Pone would not be able to satisfy my curious little mind. Nor would we be able to eat ‘little fishes’ and drink Strawberry soda’s together again. Instead, there he laid in a powder blue long box they called a casket. I looked to the front of the room, with my neck stretched as much as possible, shifting back and forth trying to see around all the heads in front of me. I could barely see the long box and my grandpa Pone’s nose protruding just above the edge. As I sat there for what seemed like hours, I waited anxiously for my Pone to sit up and ask the question, “What’s everybody starring at me for?”

As I sat there, so many thoughts and questions were running through my young mind, but I was unable to ask anyone. My mother, devastated at the loss of her father, had immediately sent my three brothers and me to a distant relative’s house. The relatives took us to the funeral and sat us way back in the last pews of the room. During that time I had no idea where my parents were and I kept wondering when they were going to show up. Later I found out, they, along with other close relatives, were sitting in another room called ‘the family room’. So there I was without my parents, sitting and waiting for my grandpa Pone to rise up out of that powder blue box.  But much to my disappointment, he never sat up and I never saw him again after that day.

Immediately following the funeral I began to have night mares every night. And, like clockwork, my mother would come into my room to try and console me telling me everything was going to be all right. She would say Pone is in heaven with Jesus. At the same time I in turn tried to desperately explain to her how I knew Pone wanted to get up out of the box; he was suffocating and could not breathe. I just knew without a doubt I was right.

Finally, after many months of the dreaded nightly event, my night mares subsided and I realized that death was a final thing and no one could change it. But somehow I still had problems with the box, known to all as a casket.

Today as I look back at this whole event I wonder if my grandpa Pone’s funeral was what caused me to be claustrophobic. To this very day I cannot witness a casket being closed in front of me. That became apparent to me later in years at my paternal grandmother’s funeral in 1975. Although I was 20 years old at the time, when they closed the casket  I immediately began to panic and thought, like my Pone, they had shut her in that box and she was unable to breathe. They were suffocating her. How would she be able to get up out of that box?  Maybe, just maybe, I was able to see the vision that I had seen so many years earlier in hopes that she too would sit up. The lid had been shut right before my eyes and I could not even see the smallest glimpse of her. And like my grandpa Pone, I also knew from that moment on I would never see her again.

I know this may sound like a childish thing to most people but to me it is real. And it is an uncomfortable situation that I always contend with during a death. I do know the dead can not breathe and are not being suffocated; but I also know claustrophobia is real, finality is real, death is real, and that dreaded box is real.

This article is dedicated to: My Grandpa Pone – Amos Venson Turner a/k/a “Buddy” (Dec 23, 1908 – June 5, 1967)

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to writie our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

“It’s not a boy!” should have been what the doctor said. June 15, 1955 at 7:10 AM, Rayford Lamar McFarland and Eleanor Joyce McFarland became parents for the very first time to a 7 pound 10 ounce baby girl. They named her Barbara Lorraine.

One day I questioned my parents about how they came up with my name, since no one in the family shared the name Barbara or Lorraine. I must say, their reply totally surprised me. It’s not every day you find out you are named after your fathers’ ex-girlfriend. Go figure, only in my family! The ex-girlfriends’ name was Barbara and they explained how much dad loved the name. My mother wanted to name me Lorraine, after one of her girlfriends. Well, my father wasn’t really satisfied with the name my mother chose, but he was willing to make a concession if she would agree to the name Barbara. Actually I would say my mother made the concession. There you have it, the agreement was made, and they decided to call me Lorraine. However, about two years ago I found out my great great grandmothers’ name was Barbara, so I choose to believe I was named after her. I am certain that would have been the case had my father known that bit of history and I know my mother would have been more comfortable with the name. Who knows, they may have even called me Barbara. It makes me wonder, if I was called by a different name, would I have turned out a different person.

From day one my mother dressed me like a little baby doll. I had frills draped on me from head to toe; crinolines, ruffled butt panties, laced bonnets, ruffled socks, and lace gloves. She wanted everyone to know I was a girl. Apparently, word has it, I was bald until I was about two years old and my mother didn’t want anyone to think I was a boy.

All throughout my growing up years my mother desperately tried to keep me a prissy girl; a tomboy she did not want. When I was in elementary school she would give me home permanents so I would have curly hair. My hair was naturally very straight and she thought her little girl should have curls. She also took great pride in her obsession to be certain I always wore a slip under my dress to school every day. When I was in elementary school, dresses or skirts were the only attire you were allowed to wear. My mother explained that I needed to wear this garment so little boys could not see through my dress. I, the curious one, wondered how they could see through my dress. In my inquisitiveness I would bend over and peer through the skirt portion of my dress to see if I could see through it. Then I would reveal my findings to my mother and explain that no one could possibly see through it because I couldn’t. Of course she never agreed with my conclusion. But let me tell you, I hated to wear a slip and I would do anything to get out of it.

I was born pigeon toed which means when I walked my feet turned in towards one another and my knees would hit together the majority of the time. I had to wear ‘ugly’ corrective shoes with the soles built up on the outside of each shoe in hopes that it would force my feet to turn outward. That in itself was a sight; a prissy little girl with all her frills wearing ugly black and white saddle oxfords and ruffled socks. So when I wore a straight silky slip without all the ruffles the thing would crawl up between my legs with every step I took. I constantly had to reach down and straighten it only to know it would happen again in a very brief time. It would be so annoying I would just want to scream. Then I got an idea, I would go into the restroom and take it off. Soon I began to get dressed in the mornings and not put on a slip in hopes that my mother would not find out. Some days I was successful, but on the days my mother would catch me it was not pleasant. I would get in so much trouble. Soon it began to be a continuous problem. My mother explained to me that if I were caught not wearing a slip she would spank me. I don’t know about you, but when my parents spanked us they used a wide leather men’s belt. I’m here to say the belt usually captured our attention. However, in this case it appeared to be a useless tactic.  Although I continued to sneak around and remove my slip at school, I would try and remember to put it back on before I left to go home. Should I forget and get caught, my mother would spank me as she had previously promised. One day she became so angry with me she told me she was going to have my father address the problem. She was at her wits end. She sent me to my bedroom and told me, “You stay there until your father gets home!” Needless to say she was very angry and I was a bit nervous. One thing you didn’t want to do in my household was get a spanking from my father; you knew without a doubt if he spanked you it was serious. So I sat in my room for what seemed like hours anticipating the trouble I was in with my father.

 Finally it happened. My father, a tall man, thin in stature, had the look in his eyes like Chuck Connors in the show “The Rifleman”. My brothers and I always dreaded that look. As he walked into the room, he was carrying in his hand the infamous wide leather belt. I knew this could not be good. But something unexpected happened. As my father closed my bedroom door the look in his eyes were different and I was a bit confused. He sat down on my bed and began to talk to me. He asked me, “Why is it so difficult for you to wear a slip? You know how important it is to your mother.” Then I so carefully explained the problem as I seen it, through the eyes of a child. Strangely enough, to my surprise, he listened closely. Once I was finished with my intelligent explanation he said to me, “I don’t see what the big deal is either and I don’t agree with your mother. Here is what we are going to do. Your mother sent me in here to spank your butt. So, when I snap this belt you better scream out so she thinks you are getting your spanking.” Of course I happily agreed without any hesitation! My father then gracefully folded the belt in half and made it snap a loud noise. Each time it snapped I would happily scream out as he had instructed me. When he finished he said, “Don’t let your daddy down. As ridiculous as it is, wear a slip to make your mother happy.” Then he smiled and winked at me as he walked out of the room. I sat there pretending to cry as instructed, yet thankful for my father’s understanding and the fact I had escaped, what was in my mother’s eyes, a much deserved spanking.

I never wanted to let my father down, so from that day forward I tried hard to always wear a slip. I have to say, I was thankful when I reached Junior High School and we were allowed to wear pants to school. Finally, I could throw away those ridiculous slips! To this day, I have a slip phobia. And believe me when I tell you this, I would rather wear pants than a dress anytime just to avoid the haunting slip issue.

Oh yes, you may be wondering if my mother ever found out what took place that day. She did find out, but not until about 5 years ago. I thought it was safe to tell her because my father had since passed and I knew he would not get into trouble for sparing the rod that day. She laughed and shook her head in disbelief. But in the end she knew she had been successful regardless of what my father done. Her little girl was still prissy and everyone knew Barbara Lorraine definitely was not a boy.

This article is in special memory of: Rayford Lamar McFarland (Jan 3, 1930 – May 15, 1982)

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to write our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

Have you ever been so far down in life that you had no desire to get out of bed in the mornings? You wondered what your purpose was in life. You had no desire to wake up the next time you closed your eyes; or, you cried out to God and you asked, ‘Why?’ Yet, you felt your prayers were going no place and only falling on deaf ears?

Friend, as dark as it sounds, I have been in that place. I am here to tell you, the year 2009 was the most difficult year of my life. There were truly days that I wasn’t sure what would happen to me; and frankly, I didn’t really care.

A couple of major things took place for me within just a short couple of months. First of all, I had just told the biggest secret of my life. A secret I had kept for 45 years; the secret of sexual child abuse. I had finally come to realize that my well kept secret was affecting me as an individual and affecting relationships in many areas of my life. So I faced the sleeping giant (another story). However, as devastating as that was, it was minor compared to the phone call I received on January 8^th. I’m sure you’ve heard the saying, ‘Your life could be changed forever with a simple phone call’. I am here to tell you, it is so very true. That night I was called to the hospital only to learn that my husband Jack had passed away with a heart attack. I was in total shock at the words I heard the doctor say. It was as if I were having a nightmare….the words kept echoing in my head…over and over again. All I wanted to do was see him; see for myself, because my heart would not let me believe the doctor’s words. Then, I saw it was no longer a nightmare, but a real truth. I knew at that moment life as I knew it would never be the same again.

As the days, the weeks, and the months went on I began wonder why the sun still came up in the mornings, why the birds still sang a happy tune, why life continued on as my world had crumbled all around me. I began to go deeper and deeper into depression. The person I was only a few months before had been completely stripped from me. The changes that had taken place in my life, transformed me into a person I no longer recognized; everything that had protected me for so many years was gone….the walls of secrecy…my husband…all of it gone. And I had no idea how to deal with it, nor did I have the energy or desire to do so. Life just became darker and darker each day. Oh sure, family and friends tried their best to help me, but much to no avail.

Then, early one morning in April, I was in a very deep sleep when suddenly I was abruptly awakened at 4:00 AM. I heard the words, “Get up! I said, Get up!” At first my thoughts were, I was dreaming. I was a child dreaming that my mother was trying to get me out of bed. The words ‘Get up’ continued to ring in my ears. Finally, my eyes opened wide. Who was there? Why did I need to get up? It was 4:00 in the morning. Then quickly, the voice became as clear as the words written on this page. “Lorraine, ‘Get up’! You must get up because no one else can do this for you. Do you remember the man in Bethesda? The man by the pool who waited 38 years for someone to pick him up and put him in the pool so he could be healed? Jesus went to him and told him, Get up! Pick up your bed and walk!” That morning God told me that I must do the same as the man by the pool and I could not rely on anyone else to help me. I had to be the one to get up and walk; the one to take control of the healing in my life. I had to put one foot in front of the other and walk again; one step at a time.

Well there is so much that happened that day, I can’t begin to share in this simple page. But, what I will say, it was an adventurous day full of life. As a result of that day and those two simple words, “Get up”, my life has not been the same. You see, I began to write my morning pages from the journey God sent me on that particular day. And from that journey and my writings, you are seeing the birth of ‘Women in Motion’, my ministry for sexually abused women and children; ‘Rocking Chair Chatter’, the blog you are reading today; and ‘My Front Porch Friends’ the name God gave me for the official writing of Life stories and Memoirs of others.

So in close let me say, this is just a small glimpse of my life story. Just like you, I have story after story; some good and yet some not so good. I also know this; I am not the only one who has experienced life’s issues of sexual abuse or even the death of a spouse or a loved one. But I can say; this is my truth and my personal experience with darkness that I share with you. Because I know, sometimes we don’t see God at work in our lives, but if we hold on, and hold on tight we will soon be able to see the fruit. I won’t kid you, it is hard and sometimes you feel like giving up, but please don’t! Hold on! Believe in yourself …AND… believe in God. Through Him all things are possible!

I hope you have enjoyed today’s story. And although it may seem a bit dark and a lot of specific details are left out, I hope you see the light and all the possibilities for your own life. That’s what so great about sharing stories….the good ones and the bad ones…at the end of the day we can still see life in them. That my friend is my truth.

Bible Scriptures referenced today: John 5: 1- 15; Matt. 19: 26

This article is in memory of: Jack Steven Mayfield (Feb 23, 1945 – Jan 8, 2009), my husband.

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to write our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.

What is a Humpy? … That is my question for the day. Every since I can remember I have heard the name Humpy.  That my friend was my grandfather’s nick name. We all called him Daddy Humpy. But his given name was Loyd Bowman McFarland. I bet that is a bit of trivia for some of you family members out there. No wonder we have a problem trying to track our family tree down; we don’t even know the given name.

But you know it makes me wonder what’s in a nick name? How in the world do people come up with such stuff? Think about it, how many of us have nick names? Actually, just in my family alone there are other nick names such as ….Rooster, Pone, Bo Monkey, The Sputniks, Goober and Doodles; and that’s just to name a few. I was chatting with a friend the other day and he was talking about a family member named ‘Cooterbob’. As we concluded the conversation, I began to wonder about the name, ‘Cooterbob’. That’s when my precious Daddy Humpy came to mind and I was reminded, his name was unusual as well. And then I wondered why did the family call him Humpy?

Well I know they say each name has a meaning. Many years ago the name they gave children was extremely important. You didn’t choose a name just because you liked it. You chose it because it had great meaning. The name was more of a prophetic speaking over the child’s life. In the bible names were changed over and over again to give greater meaning. Maybe that was it! Maybe my grandpa’s name was changed to Humpy for greater meaning. Believe me though; I wasn’t holding my breath waiting to find out.

To my great surprise, I did find out the meaning of ‘Humpy’. Of course, I went to the dictionary first and the closest thing I found was the word, ‘hump’. Well, that didn’t do it. Surely, if it wasn’t in the dictionary then it would not be in the college thesaurus. Yep! Sure enough, it wasn’t in the thesaurus. Was it in the list of baby names? What’s your guess? NO!… Not even almost! So like any red blooded American would do, I went to the Internet and began my search. By this point I was surely curious; did someone just pull it out of thin air? Trust me; I know they did with my ‘Pone’, because I came up with that name as a small child….poor guy. He was stuck with it for the rest of his life. But, as weird as it was, I think he sported the name proudly!

So let’s see what I found. This is what Wilkipedia had to say about ‘Humpy’ … A humpy is a small, temporary shelter made from bark and tree branches, traditionally used by Australian Aborigines, with a standing tree usually used as the main support. The word humpy was adopted by early white settlers, and now forms part of the Australian language. Small impermanent dwellings, made of branches and bark were built prior to the construction of more permanent buildings, and were referred to as humpies. It is sometimes called a lean-to, since it can rely on the tree for support.

Well, there you have it!….You know, I must say, I really like the word lean-to. That describes my Daddy Humpy so well. He most definitely was a lean-to….we leaned to him for support, love and encouragement…AND….he leaned to his family for the same. Do you see it? The lean-to relies on the tree for support and we all rely on our families for support….our family tree. The secret here is my Daddy Humpy was my great-uncle before he became my grandpa. That’s correct; my real grandfather was ‘Rooster’ (William Franklin McFarland); which is yet another story. He died when my father was only 17 years old. Shortly after that my great-uncle ‘Humpy’ came to the rescue, fell in love, and married my grandmother, ‘Mama Mac’ (Inez Pearl McFarland).

It was many years before we knew the real story about Daddy Humpy, but somehow it was unimportant. He was our grandpa and we loved him dearly. He loved to aggravate us….he would jiggle his false teeth at us…and sometimes lose them in the process. He was a real ‘hoot’ and a wonderful grandfather….a real lean-to….and he has left some beautiful memories for generations to come. There was nothing temporary about our Daddy Humpy. He was for real and he loved us dearly….AND….We love our Daddy Humpy!

This article is in memory of: Loyd Bowman ‘Humpy’ McFarland (Mar 27, 1910 – Sept 1, 1977); Inez Pearl ‘Mama Mac’ McCowan-McFarland (Jan 8, 1910 – Dec 29, 1973); William Franklin ‘Rooster’ McFarland (June 12, 1904 – June 27, 1947), my grandparents….AND…my father, Rayford Lamar McFarland (Jan 3, 1930 – May 15, 1982).

I offer my services to write memoirs and life stories of you and your loved ones. It’s as simple as sitting on a front porch sharing story after story about your life and your loved ones as you relax in a rocking chair, chattering away about what you know best….your loved ones.

Please continue to read my blog  http://rockingchairchatter.com and be sure to keep a watch for my new website  http://www.myfrontporchfriends.com/ as we continue to write our stories.

Enjoyed the chat,

Lorraine

Lorraine McFarland lives in Plant City, Florida. She is a professional writer specializing in memoirs, life story writing, and capturing memories of your loved ones.

Copyright March 2011 by Lorraine McFarland. The author retains sole copyright to her contributions to this article.