The first snowfall didn't hamper my plans much. I wasn't going anywhere to speak of. Maybe that was a good thing, due to my frame of mind.
I lost my keys beneath the snow-white ground cover Friday morning, somewhere. I didn't know where. The dog was of no help.
I searched high and low, on the place, for the openers of all things north of the little blue house. I even stepped back in time, grumbled, mumbled with myself and oh, a no-no; I used some self taught Lynch Latin that I had tucked away. The jargon is sort of like pig -Latin.
That undesirable language isn't that popular with me now, but under stress; I fall off the wagon now and then.
My Mother spent a good deal of time looking for misplaced items, within our overstuffed three- room home. The built-in porch, a mini-warehouse, for things necessary and not was included as a space in her happy hunting grounds. She began her many searches without a clue. Dad misplaced the most stuff and he put the reigns in her hands when he needed the lost item found.
Yes indeed, he put the get-up in her go, in that regard. We all knew how to keep the wheels running smoothly. He had horsepower behind his discipline!
Mom was schooled in a foreign language. The lady could speak Latin fluently, but the kind that I mentioned before; she deemed unspeakable. Her tongue never touched the dirt. She sang old hymns and hummed from her good and pure heart. She even whistled while she worked and dug a whole, out of her day.
Sometime before day's end, the hunter would close the book on the case that she was working on. She waited until the next day to resume the search or look for something else. Looking, looking, looking, always searching. Then, and in time, the day came that she didn't search anymore.
My mother sat and sang and those beautiful hymns. Her tired eyes stared into nowhere and her body grew weak. Her heart failed.
We laid her to rest beneath the cedar, in our plot, in Restlawn Cemetery, Jan. 13,1992.
Mother was loved so much. I am sure glad she didn't have to search for that.
Dec. 3, 2003 edition of The Brazil Times, Brazil Buzz took me back to times to my childhood. Let's revisit it together!
"Christmas is coming and the geese are getting fat" It's time to talk about a feather in someone's cap.
Dec. 17,1909 was a sad day for the people of faraway Belgium. King Leopold II died. On that day, in Brazil, Ind., down at the end of North Harrison St., Hugh Lynch, a young Scottish miner and his wife Etta, a beautiful lady of Belgian descent, became the parents of another baby boy. Their little bundle of joy arrived just in time to select the bird for Christmas dinner. That could have been the beginning of my father's long love affair with poultry.
During my childhood, the holiday season, especially at Christmas time, found my family "tired and feathered." We dressed geese, ducks, turkeys, and other meatbirds that were fat enough to sell. The free- range poultry had to be caught, killed, dunked in scalding water, perfectly plucked and all pins extracted and more. We stood around the iron kettle bundled up like Eskimos.
The skin on our fingers withered and blistered and our backs ached. Feathers flew and tempers flared. The orders kept coming, sometimes edging their way into Christmas Eve.
After all of the poultry were wrapped and ready for pick-up or delivery, the mood softened in our little family circle.
The poetic side of my father kicked in. He would often recite Clement Moore's "The Night before Christmas." Little we knew then that we were building happy memories.
One Christmas Eve, we sensed a foul-smelling odor coming from the bedroom. Dad had decided to gift himself with a hair treatment. The waves were thinning and Doc Lynch decided to take matters in his own hands. The amateur chemist mixed a concoction consisting of: Glover's Sarcoptic Mange Medicine, sulfa and rubbing alcohol, of all things. He vigorously smeared his entire scalp with it.
Then the hairdresser covered his dome with one of mom's nylon stockings. A straight black seam divided where the action was supposed to take place. He theorized that "If it worked on dogs…?"
Santa's special helper had to clean up, bank the coal stoves, and set out the presents before she could turn in.
I can still hear mom speak her mind as she fell into their bed and he got up. In order to appease her ruffled feathers, that hair restoration effort was replaced with the faint floral scent of "Halo" shampoo.
I covered my head and muffled my laughter. Hugh Lynch Jr. was a precious package that I was proud to claim. He is the feather that I mentioned!
Please remember to support The Clay County Humane Society and the needs of all of their temporary house- guests. Take good care of your own outside pets during the cold months ahead and at all times and take care of yourselves.
I can be reached at 446-4852 or drop me a line to 613 North Elm St., Brazil, Ind., 47834, or firstname.lastname@example.org