|My Mom (pregnant with me) at their first home Mineral Springs, PA - 1941|
Today is one of those days in which I cannot think of anything to write about. Oh yes, I have THOSE days. What do they call it? "Writer's block?"
I do have things I was tempted to write about but all too often I'm complaining or bitching about some perceived slight or lack of service or disrespect. But honestly folks, I do try to control my negative impulses, unlike a certain president elect we know of (mentioning no names here).
So what do I write about this Dead Week between Christmas and New Year's?
I could write about the awful confluence of the deaths of Carrie Fisher and today Debbie Reynolds, only two days after her daughter died. I always liked both of these women because of their authenticity and honesty. So rare these days. Debbie and Carrie, we will miss you but your memories will always be with us. I know that is a cliche but so true. I'll always remember Debbie in "Singing in the Rain" and "The Unsinkable Molly Brown." So much energy and happiness. And of course who could ever forget Princess Leia. Rest in peace ladies.
What I write about today is my first home. It is pictured at the top of this blog. That's my Mother, pregnant with me, standing in the lane to their rented ($5.00 a month), no indoor toilet nor running water, home in Mineral Springs, Pennsylvania. Proof positive folks that I do indeed come from humble beginnings. Literally dirt poor.
My Mother was sixteen years old at the time, rescued into marriage from a Cinderella like existence at her home with the wicked step mother. Her name was "Margaret" and I remember her well. One of my favorite bloggers will appreciate this, "Margaret" was of Hungarian ancestry (Soxso). She was my grandfather's third wife (his first two died, my grandmother was his first wife and she died at age of 29 from a botched abortion).
|Margaret and George (my grandfather and his third wife)|
He divorced her when he found out she was unfaithful to him. In fact he came home one day and found her with another man, who he beat up, causing blood to be on the floor on the papers that covered the wet floor. A story my Mother often told me. I remember Margaret well. When I was about eight years old I used to spend two weeks in the summer at their home in Compass, Pennsylvania.
|Me and my brother John in front of Aunt Mary's "bathroom" - a Two Seater|
That was the first time I ever used an outhouse and lived in a house without electricity. At night all you could hear was the ticking of the grandfather clock.
I've forgotten a lot about my early years but I'll always remember those summers at Aunt Mary's house in the country and the smell of pine trees and the quiet of the night punctuated by the slow "tick" of her grandfather clock.
These days, with all the turmoil in the world I often think back to those simpler days, with fondness and nostalgia. I guess it's true what my late friend The Cajun used to say about me "Ron, you live in the past." He didn't say it in a kind way and I admit my feelings where hurt when he hurled that statement at me but I'll say this, I often get a lot of comfort thinking of my past, my wonderful past. The older I get the more I appreciate it and look forward to the day when I will have my final rest.