I LOVE BERNICE

It's an illusion

2005-07-12T23:17:00.000-07:00

Today Shelley said she wanted to show me something that would "blow my mind." I don't know if blowing one's mind is such a good thing at my age, but I was willing to give it a try. Maybe that's what keeps one going, the willingness to always give things a try. Doesn't that make sense?

So she shows me the picture above and says to look at the two squares labelled A and B. Shelley tells me that square A is exactly the same color as square B. Now, I wasn't born yesterday, you know. A was dark grayish and B was much lighter, though in the shadow of that green thing. Don't you think so? My eyes are that bad.

Shelley then says, "Look here at the next picture. Here's the proof A and B are exactly the same color."

"Whoa!" It blew my mind!

So I got to thinking about people. Maybe all the different colors of all the different people are just illusions and a matter of our faulty perceptions? If everyone were the same color, would we have had the Indian prostitution ring and the Jamaican slaves? Would the townspeople have sent all the Indians and ex-slaves into the mountains all those years ago?

I asked Shelley to hold her arm up against mine. Hers appears darker than mine, though my arm is mottled with so many spots. I remember long ago lying between Umberto and Gus. I recalled thinking how their black bodies covered me like shadows or a dark gas. Or perhaps I was just a white ghost or angel among them. There was some sort of beauty in us three. Was it a beauty of contrasts or was it the beauty of an illusion?

Just terrific

2005-07-11T13:23:00.000-07:00

This is Elvis Presley. He's one of the rock and roll singers the kids go so crazy about. Some very bright people made an artwork picture of him out of pieces of colored paper. It's simply marvelous! Or cool, as the kids would say. I really love it.

Youngsters are so smart today, it just astounds me to no end. When we were kids, my brothers tried to impress me by writing their names in the snow with their piss. Actually I do remember being impressed by it.

This wonderful art is called "Post-It Elvis." I have no idea why. This blogsite here describes how it was done and gives directions on how you can make your own. It's just terrific, and Shelley is thinking about doing one of these as a project at the Senior Center. All we need to do is figure out the instructions and cut up a lot of colored paper and get some glue. It actually sounds like too much trouble for us.

Y2K

2005-07-10T15:42:00.000-07:00

The townspeople wanted to do something special for us in the year 2000. Papa Jimsy and Mama Jansy were the only ones to live in our town during three different centuries. Canadiens love hat tricks, and I suppose their achievement of longevity and immobility qualified enough for a celebration.

Mother was delighted at the prospects of a party or maybe even a parade down Main Street. Poor Mama hadn't had much to be delighted about in her life. Father was his usual cantankerous self. He complained that the new century begins in 2001, not 2000, so "what are these idiots going on about?" He was also certain of the upcoming Rapture ready to swallow the planet in a great wall of flames. Father wasn't quite himself during this time. You wouldn't think a man his age would be so concerned about the end of the world or dying, but he was. During the summer of 1999, he took all his remaining money out of the stock market. Father said he had been shorting junk Canadian companies like Nortel and JDSU for over 5 years. I'm not sure how that worked out. Anyway with his remaining money, he bought satiny purple shrouds and brand new black Nike sneakers for himself, Mother and me. We were instructed to wear them everyday, even sleeping in them at night. Papa Jimsy said the Rapture was coming and we had to prepare for the next rendezvous with the Hale-Bopp Comet.

This was a low time for Father. I honestly didn't believe he could survive for long in this state. Worst of all, I figured he was also going to take me and Mother out with him. Papa is usually unstable and mildly dangerous in his drunken state, but now he was overcome by some mad cultlike religious fervor. He wasn't drinking during this time, but he was wilder than ever.

A committee of townspeople visited our lopsided house. They were brainstorming ideas for the celebration. It was all the stuff that got Mother excited. They were thinking maybe a parade in town. Papa Jimsy said no. Maybe a grand dinner ball at the John Deere plant. Papa said no. The Indians were willing to hold a party and comp Father and Mother at the casino for a weekend. Papa said no. He wanted only for them to leave so we could prepare for the Rapture.

This was the first time he was airing his fanatical views to outside people. It was very frightening. I could see the look in the eyes of the townspeople committee. It was that familiar look saying Papa was a crazy man. It was so embarrassing, and I was thrown back 40, 50, 60, 70, 80, 90 years when Father would embarrass me so with his drunken rages. Just as back then so many years ago, I wanted to run. Just run into the woods and run and run and never look back. I wanted to escape so far away and for so long that Father and Mother would be crying for me, worrying and wishing I would just return safely and promising that nothing would ever make me feel bad again. That was my Dorothy fantasy. You know. To be able to look in a big crystal ball and see Auntie Em and Uncle Henry calling out to me and so worried. How nice it would be to experience that kind of love just once in my life.

I did want to run like the wind, but 2 months earlier a truck had smashed into our home one night. I had absentmindedly forgotten to tie myself into bed that night and I paid for it with a broken hip. Father's rage was reaching the boiling point and I knew he was going to start breaking things. I was moving as fast as I could with my walker. Luckily I had tennis balls on the walker's front legs, and the side door was tilted downhill in our lopsided house. Just as Papa Jimsy exploded the still I was on cruise control out the door into safety.

Mother was on my heels. She's a longtime veteran of fires. Of course, Father was on her heels. They were getting great traction from the new Nike sneakers. We were out safely, but our metal container home was gutted again with the townspeople committee roasted inside. I was saddened by their deaths. Father was just going on and on about how his metal house survived yet another fire, and how we were getting great practice for the upcoming hellfires of the Rapture.

After Lemonville

2005-07-01T13:21:00.000-07:00

Happy Canada Day to everyone! We still call it Dominion Day around here. That seems such a more dignified name for a national holiday, so I don't know why they changed it. Happy 4th of July weekend to everyone too. Now the Americans don't go calling their national holiday, the USA Day, do they?

Dear Shelley popped by the Senior Center this afternoon and put this photograph into the computer for me. Didn't we all miss Shelley so? She's such a dear. Shelley is an Indian. I imagine if this was 80 years ago, she would be another squaw prostitute. The times have sure changed. They don't allow Indian slavery anymore. I believe that's a good thing. Now she's able to get married to who she chooses, as she has, get to work where she chooses, as she has been, working at a fine place like the Senior Center here in town, and she even has a beautiful baby. Wow, she's packed more happiness into her short life than I've had in my long one. I'm so happy for her though. She's a dear.

After Lemonville burned down, we were in a real fix. As you can tell from my drawing of it, Lemonville was a fine house. Just the right size for our family. We had to split up the family for a few months. We kids moved in with the Richards. Actually into their slave quarters, but that was better than nothing. Papa Jimsy and Mama Jansy had it a lot rougher. They actually snuck into the John Deere factory and stayed there for shelter. Papa and Mama also stole all the scrap metal and parts they could to build our next home.

It was a very nice house. Papa said it was the first of its kind in the area: the first metal house. It was very sturdy and would be a lot more fireproof than the old fashioned wooden houses. Father also had many more accidents with his still exploding, and true to his word, this metal house never burned completely down. We lived in this house for nearly 90 years in this location.

Sometime around 25 years ago or so, the government took our front yard and built a highway on it. The road connected the big town and the non-Whites. After the government made Indian and Jamaican slavery illegal sometime after WWII, they couldn't live in town anymore. All the slave shacks were destroyed and they were sent into the mountains far away to live and do whatever they did. The John Deere plant didn't want to hire them. (There was a popular saying back then: Nothing runs like a Deere, except a damn Indian when you aim a shotgun at him). Farms like the Richards farm surely weren't keen on paying salaries to their former slaves. So they were all banished. After a few decades of this, there was a huge controversy. They sent newspaper people and cameras into the remote mountains to see if any of the Indians or Jamaicans had survived.

Amazingly, they had created a bustling society. Indians were running some tax-free casino and the Jamaicans had a marijuana empire that sent franchisees to every major city in the world selling dime bags. Back in town, every farm had long gone belly-up without the slave labor, and the John Deere factory that depended on the farmers as customers had laid off everyone long ago and was non-functioning.

So the government did the right thing. They finally built a highway connecting the Indians and Jamaicans to the town, so they wouldn't be isolated any longer and could have ready access to town for work.

The Indians weren't that interested in working in town back then. It's better now. They own the John Deere factory and even this Senior Center. Back then though, the only reason to come into town was to go to Dick's Liquor Store on Main St. I always thought Papa Jimsy could've had a great roadside business if he expanded his homemade still operation, but he was never into sharing his booze. So, 24 hours a day, it was just non-stop Indians going back and forth past our home on this highway (dubbed "Whiskey Road") to buy alcohol. Occasionally (once or twice a day), there would be a drinking and driving incident involving our house. We really were too close to Whiskey Road. Getting hit over and over again by cars served to push us further back to a safer distance, but it wasn't great. We were all lopsided and dented and damaged and we had to tie ourselves into bed each night or risk getting thrown around by the nightly collision.

Anyway, you'd think all this would've made Papa Jimsy mad as hell, but to the contrary, he was proud of the strength of his homemade metal house and vowed never to move. So we never have moved... really. We live in the same basic structure to this day, though we did have a very significant refurbishing to celebrate the new millenium.

A WOMAN AND A FORK!

2005-06-28T07:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sorry for the lack of new stories. Shelley is my helper and she's been home with her 3 month old baby son. She will return next week and help me put the photos into the computer again. In the meantime, as you know, I love to visit other people's blogs. It's like traveling to far off places and meeting all the people I wish I did when I was younger and spry.

Today, I came upon a blog with this entry which I've copied below. It is such a lovely story and I wept while reading it. It made me feel better about all the loved ones who've left me, and also inspired me to cherish Father and Mother more while they're still here.I hope you enjoy it too.

There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was getting her things "in order," she contacted her Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes. She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in. Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman suddenly remembered something very important to her. "There's one more thing," she said excitedly. "What's that?" was the Pastor's reply. "This is very important," the young woman continued. "I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand." The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say. That surprises you, doesn't it?" the young woman asked. "Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the Pastor. The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story, and from that time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say, 'Keep your fork.' It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was coming...like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie. Something wonderful, and with substance!' So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want them to wonder "What's with the fork?" Then I want you to tell them: "Keep your fork .the best is yet to come." The Pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye. He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming. At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and they saw the cloak she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard the question, "What's with the fork?" And over and over he smiled. During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the young woman shortly before she died He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either. He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so gently, that the best is yet to come. Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us. Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when it may be their time to "Keep their fork." Cherish the time you have, and the memories you share ... being friends with someone is not an opportunity but a sweet responsibility. Send this to everyone you consider a FRIEND. And Keep Your FORK.

Wasn't that wonderful? By the way, earlier I read this to Papa Jimsy and asked him if he understood the story. Papa said, "It means shut the hell up. Now stick a FORK in it and get me another whiskey!" Unfortunately, Papa is not the sentimental type. He did tell me later that when he dies, he wants to be buried with his empty whiskey glass, because in Heaven, there will be unlimited refills by women who know how to shut up and be quiet.

Papa doesn't know he's going to Hell.

The Ides of March

2005-03-15T13:16:00.000-08:00

One bad thing about growing really old, aside from the fact you have to wear diapers and food all tastes the same, is that you know a lot of dead people. Maybe some of you think I'm a morbid person. Maybe in your stories about friends, family and acquaintances, the untold ending is that they all went home, ate dinner, watched some TV, fell asleep, went to bed and woke up the next morning. You have to understand that my stories about my family and peers all end the same way: they're dead. That's just how it happened.

When you're younger, the calendar is marked with holidays and birthdays and anniversaries of special, happy occasions. Now as I peel off each month, it's another page of death anniversaries. And so it is with March 15th.

My brother Lenny was two years younger than me and I took care of him growing up. When Papa Jimsy would get into his drunken rages, it was usually Lenny who was the poor victim of Papa's bootstrap and butt end of the rifle. That's why I had to push Papa down the cellar steps so often and lock him in.

Lenny grew up fast and streetwise. He was a hand down the road at the Richards' hemp farm and learned himself all about working with the soil properly. He worked side by side with a couple of Jamaican slaves, Umberto and Gus. I don't know how Jamaicans wound up in Ontario. They were as black as night. I had never seen a real negro, of course, outside of Joe Louis in the newsreels. Joe Louis was a very agreeable mocha shaded man, though. Umberto and Gus were like coal. They scared me. Even after they had bedded me for the 20th time, I was still a little afeared of them. I guess that's just the way it had to be in those days.

Lenny was the opposite of Papa Jimsy. He made a conscious decision to not be like Father. They were different in all traits, except one. Lenny had Papa's moustache. I don't know why. They weren't even in fashion then, unless you had the really itty bitty slim one like William Powell or Clark Gable. I know why Papa had a bushy moustache. He liked to sprinkle cocaine in it and sniff it all day. I guess that was the old fashioned time release capsule method. I know for sure Lenny was not into cocaine though, so I can't for the life of me figure out why he grew that thing. It made him look just like Father when he was a younger man. Was Lenny aware of that?

Anyway, Lenny apprenticed on the Richards' farm for over 10 years. He hid all the money he saved up, thank goodness. Papa Jimsy had lost everything in the Crash of '29 and surely would've lost Lenny's money too if he had known about it. Lenny took a liking to Cousin Eunice, who lived with us. Eunice was 20 years older than me. She was like a second mother to us so I was shocked when she and Lenny eloped. Lenny was only 12 at the time. He had a moustache but no pubes yet. I don't even think his pecker had ever come out its turtleneck sweater up to that time. It was shocking news indeed.

Papa Jimsy didn't like it at all. He had taken Eunice in, slept with her, fed her and all just like his own child, and she goes off and marries his son. "There oughta be a law against that!" he would often hollar at Mother. So Papa kicked them out of the house and they had to go shack up with Umberto and Gus at the slave quarters on the farm, and that's where they stayed 8 years before moving to the States with their 3 young sons: Joe, Louis and Champ.

They moved down to Moline where Eunice got a job similar to the one she previously had at the Ontario John Deere plant: crash testing plows. Lenny bought a quarter acre and did the only thing he knew how to do, grow hemp. They lived that life for another 10 years, and I never was able to see them once in that time. Father was still steaming mad at them and forbade the rest of us from even uttering their names. I did get occasional letters from Cousin Eunice though. One time she sent a photo of Lenny. I was shocked beyond belief!

My baby brother Lenny, who wasn't even 30 yet, looked like a 90 year old man complete with full beard to go with his moustache! I knew farm life and the stress of being kicked out of the family might have aged him some, but this was ridiculous. Lenny passed away on March 15th, soon after I received that photo. We know now that DTT is a poison, but apparently he was using it liberally in his soil and in his moustache, inhaling it around the clock. He died at the plow. Within the year, Eunice died too... at the plow. She was decapitated in a horrific plant accident. Their lovely mocha boys: Joe, Louis and Champ came to live with us, and I took care of them until they were grown up.

Valentine's Day

2005-02-14T16:10:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is always a sad day of remembrance in our family.

It was early 1929. Things were not going well for us again. Father Jimsy had been shorting the market for over a year and losing his shirt, as well as our home again. He was in a perpetual drunken stupor crying about "bubbles" and "irrational exhuberance." It was frightening for the younger ones. Mostly we kept Father locked in the basement so he wouldn't hurt any of us. Unfortunately, that's also where the Canadian Whiskey was kept.

By this time, the family was having a hard time making ends meet. Jake and Josh got a job down south across the border with a man named Bugs Moran. Father used to call him Bugs Moron until Mr Moran sent somebody over to the house to break Father's leg. Anyway, Jake and Josh moved up in the organization pretty quickly. They visited home often, showing off their pinstripe suits and shiny car. At first Father didn't like it. After his leg healed, he still was a bit suspicious of what was going on but didn't say anything anymore.

Turns out Jake and Josh were running whiskey from Canada into the States. They'd make sure to drop off a crate for Father ever couple weeks or so. Suddenly, Father couldn't have been any prouder of his bigshot sons.

Things were going so well with the business, that I was able to join them to as a bookkeeper. I couldn't do math but it didn't seem to matter much. The Guesenberg boys, Frank and Pete, took a shine to me and kinda took personal care of me. I stayed with them for about 3 months that winter of 1928-29, but then I developed some kind of crotch rot. I had cottage cheese discharge and it smelled like a rat crawled up inside me and was decomposing.

We didn't have good medicine back then. Hardly nothing. Once, Frank and Pete tried to rinse me out down there with whiskey, but I didn't have the muscle control to properly gargle. They got fed up with me and started treating me bad. I got back at them the only way I could. I started serving them my cottage cheese with canned peaches. It was pretty bad. They almost died. I ran back home to Canada.

Three weeks later, they were all dead. Jake, Josh, Frank, Pete and two other guys. It was a famous massacre. Their blood splattered bodies were on every front page and in the newreels.

Father cried a lot. He knew his days of free whiskey were over. It took all spring and summer to detoxify. By October, he was totally sober and like old Papa Jimsy again. He had a renewed spirit and optimism again. The first thing he did was take all our family's remaining money and go long the stock market. He said his delusions of bubbles were over now and we were going to ride the coattails of the market to prosperity by Christmas.

2005-01-01T07:54:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Blessings to everyone in 2005. I've made a new list of resolutions for the new year, but I won't bore you with them. It's personal stuff. Mostly dealing with patience with Father.

Merry Christmas

2004-12-25T18:44:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas to everybody. Father sends me Easter Cards for Christmas every year. I don't believe he knows the difference so I never say anything.

Glamour shot

2004-12-07T00:22:00.000-08:00

After Father lost our next home in the stock market, I moved to the big city to find work as a lounge singer. I took the stage name of "Bernice Byres" which rhymed with fires. The act didn't go that well because Father followed me to the big city. He would watch every show, get drunk and heckle me.

10 years old

2004-11-04T15:00:00.000-08:00

After my Sears Roebuck mail order dress arrived, Mother took me to the Sears Roebuck Portrait shop on Main St. It was upon arriving home after this photo was taken that we saw Lemonville on fire.

Lemonville

2004-11-02T09:11:00.000-08:00

My childhood home in Canada - the lovely Lemonville, as recalled by me in a drawing I made 5 years after it burned down. We had a grove of lemon trees adjoining our property. Father was a nasty drunk. His still exploded and the whole house went up in flames. I was 10 years old at the time. Lemonville remains my favorite house I have ever lived in.

The Family in good times

2004-10-25T14:58:00.000-07:00

Brothers Kevin and Jake

2004-10-12T11:01:00.000-07:00

I'm an old crab

2004-10-05T10:03:00.000-07:00

2004-01-02T13:09:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Blessings to everyone in 2004. Thank you, Shelley dear, and all my friends who've helped and encouraged me to tell my life stories and share these photographs of loved ones. I resolve to do a better job in the new year and to be more patient with Father.

Yet Another Christmas

2003-12-23T15:17:00.000-08:00

When you get to my age, every Christmas is like a page in a flipbook. Blink.... and it's gone. What separates one from the other? Not much. Therefore it is hard to remember much... maybe special presents... maybe special reunions... stuff like that.

If you were to ask me what my most memorable Christmas was, I really wouldn't have much to choose from. We never had special Christmases as little children. Not the kind we'd hear stories about with a big decorated tree and presents and a big trimmed goose for dinner. It was usually like any other winter day.

The snow gets high in our parts. Up to the roof in December. Sometimes we were snowed in for weeks. Papa Jimsy would get so drunk during those times, he never even dug out a piss and shit path for us. Everyone would just go in the pot in the basement and you do that for a few weeks and it's not good.

Actually now that I think about it more, there is one Christmas that sticks out. I'm not sure if it was actually Christmas, but it certainly was around that time. Uncle Charlie and Aunt Louerna visited. So it must've been the Christmas-New Year's time. Charlie was Father's cousin. He was also Mother's cousin. I needn't go into that again. Louerna was Charlie's oldest step-daughter and subsequently 3rd wife. His wives had a habit of being kidnapped for million dollar ransoms and never being seen again. It happened five straight times. Louerna was the 3rd, but she was still around at this time.

Louisa was the daughter of Uncle Charlie and Aunt Louerna. She was nearly my age and we looked like twins according to everybody as babies. It's her baby photos that I've passed off as mine. She had a baby brother, Lionel, who looked like my baby brother, Lenny. Well we were all the same blood so who would expect much difference?

Louisa and I were three years old at the time. We got along grandly. It was a strangely warm winter and we played outdoors a lot during their visit. I don't think there was any snow around at all. They brought their dog Rover over. Rover was their dog first. I had never seen such a big dog in my life. He was like a horse to me, and indeed, we did ride on his back just like a horse. We didn't have a saddle, but it was just like a horse anyway.

Papa Jimsy and Uncle Charlie were drinking a lot, night and day. They were having a good time. I even saw them wrestling naked on the bed late at night. Something must've happened, though, because they really got angry with each other and didn't speak or look at each other for many days. It got very uncomfortable in the house. They drank even more separately. Then they just left. Uncle Charlie, Aunt Louerna, Louisa and Lionel just left in the middle of the night while I was asleep. I think my whole family was asleep because Father and Mother were also surprised to see them gone in the morning. They left Rover and left. I never saw Louisa again. Two years later, she was kidnapped for a million dollar ransom with her mother. Uncle Charlie didn't even have a nickel to his name, so he was truly cursed by the constant high demands of those kidnappers. I never understood why he didn't bolt his doors stronger.

Rover

2003-11-11T18:46:00.000-08:00

This is Baby Louisa with Rover. Rover was actually our dog. I just don't have any baby photos of myself with old Rover. They were all burned in the Lemonville fire. I was given all of Louisa's baby photos many years later, since she was already dead and everybody knew all my baby photos were burnt up.

Rover was a beautiful dog. A mixture of some sort. Part retriever, part St Bernard, part more things probably. He was a workdog in his early life, pulling plows in the spring and fall, pulling sleds in the winter and playing with us kids a lot in the summer. As Rover got older, he worked less, played less and just slept around like a lazy dog.

Rover always had a big appetite and Papa Jimsy hated him for it, especially when his effectiveness as a work dog waned. Father always said, "That's right. Eat up you dumb dog. Get nice and fat and we'll eat you for Christmas." Aside from the verbal abuse, Papa Jimsy also regularly kicked the crap out of poor Rover. I'm sure Rover could've killed Papa Jimsy anytime it suited him. He had a strong jaw. Rover could drag our whole family uphill on a sled. I saw him drag up and snap up whole roots of lemon trees. I have to admit there were many times when Father was in a drunken stupor, taunting poor Rover with a stick or planting a boot into his ribs, that I wished the dog would just jump up on take a chunk out of Papa Jimsy's throat. Rover could've done it. No doubt about it. But dogs aren't like people.

We all loved Rover. He was growing old and slowing down as we kids were growing older and speeding up. It was our turn to take care of the old dog, but we never got the chance. One autumn day, Farmer Richards invited us kids over to his farm. He had several crab apple trees, and he let us climb the ladder and pick the tree clean. I recall my brother Lenny particularly had a fun time. He would take a stick, poke at half rotten apples that were already fallen on the ground until they stick on the end just a little off the end. Then he would chase Umberto and Gus around the farm and flick the apple off the stick at them. Them apples were only half rotten. The other half was like a rock, and getting a half rock flung at you from short distance, whipping off a stick, hurts like hell. Poor Umberto and Gus had to take it and not retaliate because they were slaves and didn't dare raise a hand at a white boy, even a brat like Lenny.

They probably got back at Lenny later on though. In a few years, Lenny started apprenticing at the farm under Mr Richards and eventually even moved into the slave quarters for many years. I heard wild rumors of them all playing "hide the black sausage" together, and I don't gather that was fun for Lenny. Even later, Lenny's wife, Eunice moved in with them all, and God knows where the sausage was going then.

Anyway, we did this crab apple picking thing for a week every year. Our reward was that we could take home as many apples as we could carry at the end of each day. That was fun. Mama Jansy made a lot of apple preserves and pies. We also had one additional dish that year. One day we arrived home from the Richard's farm to see Father out in the backyard wildly swinging at a tree with a thick branch. That was a very odd sight. As we got closer, what we saw sickened us.
Papa Jimsy had strung up Old Rover to a lemon tree and was beating the pulp out him.

What had Rover done to deserve this? Nothing. He just got old and useless, and our family was poor and getting poorer, and Papa Jimsy was putting meat on his family's table. All of us kids were crying. Mama Jansy was crying. Rover was dead or unconscious when we arrived, but Mama said Old Rover was alive and welping when strung up and Father laid into him with the first few whacks. He had to be beaten alive to get his blood flow going and loosen his fur and skin from the meat. Afterwards, I helped Mother boil Rover whole. The beating worked. The fur and skin slid off the meat.

We ate Rover with apple sauce. Josh said he say Father cry. I didn't see it, but that's what he says.

Oh to be young again!

2003-09-09T21:44:00.000-07:00

You Are 11 Years Old

11

Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

What Age Do You Act?

Honestly, I took this test because my new online friend, Taku from Burma, sent it to me. I didn't understand half the questions because they dealt with television or modern music. I left all of them blank. I don't know how accurate my score is. Some people remark that I act young for my age, but I always assumed that meant I act around 91, not 11. I'll take 11 anyway.

Me

2003-08-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

One of my million regrets in life is I don't have a real baby photograph of myself. This is my second cousin, twice removed. Her name was Louisa. People used to say we were dead ringers as babies, so I offer this as an approximation of myself as a cute baby. Thank you again, Shelley, for your help putting the photograph into the computer.

It took a long time for my fingers and hands to feel better again after typing so much the first time. I don't have arthritis or anything, but I guess you can say I'm just rusty. I took a stenography course long time ago as part of some "I'm going to be a stenographer" fantasy that never happened and was quite nimble with the fingers. In my prime, I could stenography with my left hand, stir the goat head soup with a wooden spoon in my mouth and give hand love to my black lover, Gus, with my right hand. I don't say that to brag. It's just that sometimes young people don't believe old people were ever young. Now you know. I was young.

I used to have more proof in photobooks of actual baby shots of me, but they don't exist any longer. My grandfather was a wealthy pimp. He supplied furriers and the local townsmen with Indian squaws. He was a very good businessman. The squaws drew no salary and ate very little food, so the profit margins were very good. I think his wish was for his eldest son, Jimsy (my father), to take over the family business. But Papa was never good with business and money, in general. He grew up in affluence thanks to his father, and there surely should have been enough money for my generation and even the next, but something went awry somewhere. The money started disappearing quickly by the time I was born.

Papa Jimsy and Mama Jansy

2003-06-25T11:57:00.000-07:00

My father, Jimsy, married his twin sister, Janice, in 1894.

I suppose some of you may find that shocking, but it wasn't much out of the ordinary back then. You have to remember the population was a lot tinier back in those days. They lived in a small town, and small towns were smaller and more isolated than small towns today, especially in Canada.

As Papa Jimsy explained it, "I was either going to marry one of my sisters or marry my pet goat, Francis. Marrying another man is sinful so I married my sister, and we ate Francis at the wedding banquet."

Father always made it seem like he had a choice amongst his 12 younger unattached sisters, but it was an arranged marriage, selected by my Grandfather Silas Erven.

Oh, I wanted to mention that this is my first time on a computer. I accompany my Father (yes, he's still alive!) most days to the Senior Center in town where the computers are, but I've never actually attempted to use one. Father is still trying his hand at stock market trading and spends most of his time visiting chatrooms. I'm not exactly sure what he's doing, but it's certainly not making money. Not that he's ever had any success in the market, but I'll get more into that later.

I usually just drop off Papa Jimsy by the computers and go hangout at the wall out back where we shoot smack. No, I don't to that. I'm just teasing and seeing if you're really paying attention. My hobbies these days is mostly scrapbooking and telling old stories. There are a lot of younger people here (in their 70s and 80s) who love to hear my stories about the older days. Anyway, a nice young worker here, Shelley, has encouraged me to put my stories into the computer. She can even put some of my photographs here, which is truly amazing. So, she's being a dear and walking me through this project.

My fingers are aching now. This is the most I've used them in 65 years, I figure. I will rest up, and figure out what to say for the next time. Thank you to all the visitors. I hope you find my stories entertaining.

Bernice