On being Classy.............

  

     Some time ago, I wrote a story about a friend of mine. When describing his wife, the first description that came to mind was very classy. Later, at his funeral, the pastor’s first descriptive words about his wife was, A very classy lady.

     What is it about some people that just seems to bring the word “classy” to mind? What is it about some people that lets us know they have it? That experience seems to have gotten that question rolling around in my head a good bit, while I’m thinking. I’m very good at thinking, especially when you just consider the sheer volume of it. Not necessarily quality thinking, not necessarily very productive thinking. Just thinking.

     Are there descriptive words out there that are so anti-classy, that, if they truly apply to the person in question, rule out any possibility of being classy? To me, some of those words would be snobby, gossipy, unkind, rude, selfish, prideful, boastful, vengeful, vulgar, intentionally too loud, (physical limitations, such as not hearing well, dosen’t count here.)  and shallow. Like I say, this is just my list. Yours may be very different, yet better. Or worse.

     Are there single, descriptive words out there that, if accurately applied, would prove that classy fits? I seem to have a problem with this question. Perfect will not work, because none of us are perfect, yet some are classy. Flawless? That implies perfect. So it would follow that we may have a few minor flaws, yet still be classy. What type of flaws would be allowed? Could it be that only minor flaws that do no harm to others would work? I tend to think so. There seems to be so many factors out there that go into making up a classy person, that no single word or short description can work, alone.

     Physical traits: While physical traits may be our first indicators, such as how we carry ourselves, how friendly we are, our posture, how we choose our clothes, how neat we are, how clean we are, etc. may get us tentatively in the right group initially, the core of it must come from within. We can’t keep that hidden forever.   And, our station in life we are born into can limit these outside appearances. When we were in the middle of the second largest and worst slum in the world  (Kibera, in Kenya) a little girl who I remember as being around ten years old ran out into our path. She smiled, and said “Hi! How are you?” Her clothes were rags, just hanging on her body, but class stood out all over that girl. Barbara and I both wanted to just take her hand and take her home with us, away from that place.

     Can one learn to be classy? Some people say no. You have to be born with it.  Many of us are so far away from being classy, it’s hard to imagine ever climbing up that far, and we may try and try and never succeed. On the other hand, I’m repulsed by the idea that any of us can be born into a situation, so deep in any hole, that we cannot ever climb out of it, no matter how hard we work. I tend to think yes. With hard work, we can learn to be classy.

I think regional dialects have no place here. We learn to talk like people we live among. Many people tend to look down upon others who do not talk like they talk. I, for example, know a ton of classy hillbillies. Those who look down upon hillbilly slang are shallow people, to my way of thinking. Other shallow people may judge by body build, weight or height. I tend to think physical characteristics of the body one is born with is not a limiting factor.

     A classy person, generally, just “has it together.” We know they are not about to just lose it in the middle of a conversation, and say something stupid.

     A classy person is a good listener. Never quick to interrupt, or talk over another person. This whole statement smacks me right in the face. I’m too busy thinking of my reply, or my next statement, to fully listen to another. I need to work on this one. The more I write on this subject, the more I begin to realize where I fit in. So, can thinking too much rule me out? Maybe so, If I can’t climb out of that hole. And I’m an old man. Don’t have a lot of time to waste.

 The “smirk” is a habit that we should be very careful with, especially for a smart person. It can easily convey the message, “I’m smarter than you.”

 I have a friend who is very smart. He pretty well always has the correct answer. But he usually starts his correction with, “Well, it COULD be that - -“

     When he does that, I just automatically know he’s about to tell me a truth I can count on, take to the bank. A humble preface to a truth conveyed by a very intelligent, classy person. Some people, however, do not respond well to his gentle approach. He and I were once in a van traveling from New Orleans. The driver seemed to think his sense of direction was superior to others. When the driver passed the proper exit, my friend softly stated, “It could be we should have taken that exit.” The driver paid no attention. We passed another exit. “We may very well have missed our turnoff.” No response. Approaching the next exit, “Turn this thing around!! You missed the road!” This time, the driver responded properly. He had just not had it explained to him in those terms before.
      Some people enter a room, and everything about them says, “I’m here! Look at me!” While other people enter a room and everything about them says, “Hello. How are you?” Guess who fits where.

 So what have I accomplished with this column? In the end, very little. Food for thought, and that’s about it. I have never worried about being classy, myself, possibly because I normally do not occupied a position up at the top, looking down; I seem to spend a lot of time at the bottom, looking up. But I’m me, and I just love me, even if it turns out that, in the end, I’m in a small minority.

 A classy person would be very hesitant to put others into a judgmental position in any conversation. So, if we meet on the street, and you ask, “What about me? Am I classy?” Chances are, I would just look at you, smirk, and answer, “I’m far too classy to answer that.” Then you’ll know.

Forever A Hillbilly: On Looking For a Mate....

Forever A Hillbilly: On Looking For a Mate....: On looking for a Mate - -      My wife Barbara is a photographer. After she did hundreds of weddings alone, and pretty well ruined her el...

On Looking For a Mate....

     My wife Barbara is a photographer. After she did hundreds of weddings alone, and pretty well ruined her elbows by carrying that heavy suitcase around so much, we became a team. Though I was only a pretend photographer, having not a single creative bone in my body, I did have the mechanics of the camera down pretty well by then, so I took the pics, Barbara posed everyone and hob knobbed with everbody. We wound up doing hundreds of weddings together.  (We once did four weddings in 24 hours) So, after being around so many people about to take that plunge, we both began to recognize traits each posessed that would make or break the marriage. Thought I’d pass some of them on to you.

     A guy who has never had a thought about hitting a woman just never speaks of it. If he has ever told you he would never hit you, he has that thought in his head, or he has done it before.

If he tells you that regular-like, plan on being a human punching bag after the wedding. Bust outta there!

     Don't marry for looks; looks will fade. (Barbara's the exception!) Character is what lasts forever.

     Watching how he/she treats the family gives you a good idea how you will be treated.

     If you have gone over the top, helping him/her, and been shown little appreciation, he/she has just gotten into the habit of expecting that of you. He/she is taking you for granted already. It will get much worse, but never gets better.

     If the wild, bad boy/girl is the only one who attracts you, your life will be one long, living nightmare.

     A woman can never change a bad boy. It just gets worse.

     If she expects her parents to go into debt, or steal from their retirement fund, to finance her big fancy wedding, she's selfish and self centered. Get away from her. She'll break you, too, and then you'll be history, anyway.

     If he/she cheats on you before the wedding, it will increase tenfold after the wedding, when the hot passion with you settles down some. Forgiving can, at best, only buy you an insecure future. First, express your appreciation for having given you this little warning sign, then turn and run. Before its too late.

     If you know he/she loves you more than you love him/her, you won't be doing any favors by settling for that. You WILL be doing everyone a big favor by easing out of it now. If the spark is not there now, it never will be. A gentle letdown is in order.

     The dominant person will set the pace, and by now you know where you fit in. If the dominant one is not good with money, and goes through it like slicing hot butter, and If you're not that dominant one, get out fast. Hell on earth is headed your way. Best if both are good with money, but that might be a little too much to ask.

     When all your friends and family say no, you'd do well to go - - fast! Remember, they're the ones who love you the most.

     Watch out for the "Hollywood Syndrome." If he/she requires constant adoration, you won't be able to hold up to those standards very long. And they'll be looking for someone else, who will.

     Beware of the control freak. If he/she tells you  they are the only one who loves you, and are always trying to get you away from family and friends, break the door down if you have to. But get away.

     In our wedding photography career, Barbara and I saw a few little tell-tale signs that always prompted us to put a rush order on the pics!

     If  the bride gripes a lot at her bridesmaids on the wedding day, just remember. She picked them, like she picked you. Don't expect to fare any better after the wedding. You might want to consider sneaking out the back door.

     If the bride's Mama is a good Mama who has worked hard to bring this thing together, and the bride gripes at HER on that day, she's selfish and self-centered. These people don't stay married. Cut your losses and get outta there, however you can.  

      If you see, on the wedding day, that the wedding itself takes priority over the groom, plan on always playing second fiddle, at best. Start running, and never look back.

     If your new husband and your father get into a fist fight at the reception, and yes, Gillum photographers have seen that, It's too late. But you might wish to check about an annulment.

Forever A Hillbilly: My Sweet Mother

Forever A Hillbilly: My Sweet Mother: Considering that my mother was about the sweetest, nicest woman who ever lived, I really have not written a lot of material about her sid...

My Sweet Mother

Considering that my mother was about the sweetest, nicest woman who ever lived, I really have not written a lot of material about her side of the family.       She was quiet, and seldom told me stories of her family. Most of her sisters moved to the bright lights of California before I was born, and the others followed soon after, except for Mom. The few times I have carried on a conversation with her sisters, for the most part, was when I was very young. Her brother, Euriel, lived nearby, but he and most of his sons died early of heart problems. Mom’s other brother died as a child. I never met Mom’s parents. So there ya’ are. My knowledge of Mom’s family, for the most part, distills down to what transpired between my mother and I. She did tell me lots of stories, but most were funny, fictional and entertaining. They weren’t about her family.

     After Dad came back from the WWI he went to the oilfields of Oklahoma. When his father died in 1922, he was called back to Wing to run the farm. He first became engaged to a Humphreys girl, (I was never told the first name.) She died soon after. From what everyone has told me, The Gillum family just loved that girl, totally had their heart set on her being Dad’s wife. Dad had even built a house in the meadow for her. I’m not sure how much time elapsed after that happened before Dad and Mom married, but Dad was 33, Mom 21. Since there was no electricity in the Meadow House, Dad and Mom first lived with Grandma Gillum.  Hallie, Dad’s school teacher sister lived there too. For a time, a picture of Dad’s dead sweetheart continued to hang on the wall. After a while, a picture of mom’s former sweetheart, Searce Pickens, appeared on the wall also. Well, Searce Pickens was now working for Dad, and both pictures soon came down.

     My oldest brother Harry, the first born, told me that Grandma Gillum, and also Hallie, on occasion, did not treat Mom well.  I don’t know why, because my mother, when I knew her, was wonderful. Very kind, loving, and hard working. From what I have heard, my best guess is that Mom came from a family that was very different from the stern Gillums, and they were harsh in judging her. After three children were born, Mom wanted out of that house. They moved to the meadow house, even though there was no electricity, and Dad had to do without a radio. Jan was born there. Later, Dad bought the Marion Turner house, which was larger, and they moved there, where Barbara Lou was born. Both of these houses were within hollering distance of the house on the hill. After Grandma Gillum and Hallie both died in 1941, Dad and Mom moved their family back up on the hill. I was born there in 1944.

     Mom was a very hard worker. Since the Gillums were determined to put up enough food for two or three years, just in case the dry years returned, she sometimes canned as many as 800 Quarts each summer over that hot wood stove. They were stored in the concrete cellar, dug underneath the potato house and smoke house. The concrete floor was not very thick, and water often began to seep into that cellar in wet times. It had to get 3 feet deep or so before it reached the canned food, and before that happened,  We often all worked most of a day, carrying it out bucket by bucket. Later, Dad figured out how to siphon it out, and he and I would do that.

     Mom worked full time, while raising six children. Setting a bedpost on a dress tail of a toddler made a good baby sitter while Mom worked. Later, as the girls got old enough, they handled that.

     This is a typical day for Mom on a summer day with no other major projects scheduled.  She arose early, and had a full breakfast of hot biscuits, (made from scratch) sausages, oatmeal, coffee, etc. ready at daylight. After the kids were up and dressed, the entire house was swept. Our dogs entered our house only at great peril from Mom’s broom. Mom might then work in the garden awhile, then it was time to start dinner. Always a full meal, always hot. After the dishes were washed, the dogs were fed the scraps, (dogs were only fed scraps. If there were none, it was their responsibility to go catch a rabbit, or whatever, though Mom normally made a little extra cornbread for the dogs. So they seldom went hungry.) Dishes and pots, skillets, etc. were washed and put away.

     Afterwards, Mom might have 30 minutes of down time, then she might head for the truck patch, a quarter of a mile or so down in the pasture. Most of the food growing took place there, a couple of acres or so. She would hoe weeds, or do whatever needed to be done, then she would head to the house, carrying with her a good part of what would become supper. 
     Time to milk both the cows. Mom always milked them alone, and they were so used to only her milking them, the cows would allow nobody else to touch them. Some of us could have helped, but I guess Mom figured it was just easier to do it all herself than to try to get the cows to tolerate us.         Time to cook another hot meal, do the dishes, then maybe a little down time before bed time. Of course, as we grew older, we helped in all this. I helped Mom for several years before I graduated to helping Dad in the fields. Then, I was one of the MEN.
      The girls, Barbara Lou, Jan, and Jonnie, worked very hard helping Mom, also. If it was a very busy time in the fields, one of the girls brought dinner to the men there.

     This daily schedule varied, of course. One day per week, Mom would wash all the dirty clothes in the big black pots down by the creek, 200 yards down the hill, using a rub board, lye soap, and bluing, whatever that is.  The clothes were hung out on the fence or clothes line, and hauled in at night.           On another day, all the clothes that needed it were ironed with flatirons heated on the stove. That always made the house very hot. Mom even ironed the sheets.  The milk had to be hand churned to make butter and cottage cheese.

The winter time schedule varied from this, of course. There were clothes to be made, (mostly from chicken feed sacks) quilts to be made, etc.   Mom was an expert at wringing a chicken’s neck. I’ve seen four headless, bleeding chickens flopping about the yard at one time. Then they were scalded, feathers picked off, then dressed and cooked.

     Winter time baths were a major undertaking. Water was hauled up the hill, 100 yards or so, bucket by bucket. Then it was heated on the wood cook stove. When the round bath tub was filled, we took turns. Being the smallest, I was last. I was nearly grown before realizing; bath water was not supposed to be brown.

     After we went into the egg business full time, of course that became a large part of the daily schedule. We kids knew nothing of allowances, pay for work, etc. It didn’t exist on our farm.

     In spite of all her hard work, Mom always found time for each of us, every day, though I don’t know how. If Mom ever got a few dollars ahead, it was never spent on herself. She would tell me, “Well, I’ll buy this for you now, then when you are grown and well off, you can buy for me.” Unfortunately, Mom died at 68, and that time never came.

     Mom always found time for her neighbors. Edith Turner told me this year of Mom bringing them loads of vegetables when they moved into Wing. 
     We children never worked on Sunday, and officially Mom did not, either, but somehow, some way, all those great Sunday meals magically appeared. Maybe it was a God thing, but I don’t think so. We were always in Church on Sunday, Mom saw to it. We had a very large children’s picture book, filled with bible stories. Mom saw to it we read every one, again and again. I fear I learned far more about the bible under Mom’s watch, that at any other time in my life.

     Mom always loved having flowers in the yard. It was about the only extravagance Mom allowed herself. During dry times, we always found a way, somehow, to find enough time to haul water up from the creek and keep them alive.

     One year, My oldest brother Harry came up with enough money for Mom to go to California and spend her birthday with her sisters. The  well oiled machine that was the Gillum farm went totally to Hades while Mom was gone. Dad trained me as the dishwasher. “Son,” he said,  “The open hand makes a great dish cloth.” 
     Barbara Lou and Jan took over the milking. The cows wanted no part of that. Early morning screams emanating from the cow barn became a regular thing. What with all the kicking going on with the cows, more milk dripped from the ceiling than wound up in the milk bucket. After a couple of weeks, mom returned, and we all realized that in spite of the hard work by all the rest of us, Mom was the glue that held that well-oiled machine together.

     Everybody in Wing and Rover just loved my mom. A very small handful of Mom’s dear lady friends are still alive. My children were only babes when Mom died.  When they discover one of them, such as meeting Edith Turner at my book launching at Wing, they just cannot seem to ever let her go. They are hearing, from a third party, just how wonderful my mother truly was; they are realizing, it’s not just me saying those things. It’s the total truth. Kinley, my daughter, said "Holding her hand was like finally getting to hold my grandmother's hand."

     After I graduated college and Barbara Sue and I lived at St. Paul, Ar. or Fayetteville, I would slip by and see Mom when I could, surprise her. After I did that several times, she finally told me, “Pat, please let me know when you’re coming by. Otherwise, I find myself sitting on the porch, looking down the road for you, every day.”

     Dad Passed away, at 78, while Barbara and I lived at Fayetteville. When we decided to move to Hannibal, Mo. suddenly to a teaching job, Mom begged, “Let me go with you. I can cook and clean, and grow a garden.” I knew Mom was not doing well, living alone. But we were moving with only a few days left until school started, and we didn’t even have a place to live yet, and very little money. I told her, “When we get up there, get set up, and get a house, I’ll come back for you.” I could see the disappointment in her eyes. I have wished for many years that I had that decision to make over. But life does not work that way.

     We had only been in Hannibal a short time when we got word that Mom was not doing well, Barbara Lou had taken her to Memphis to live with her, and she was now in the hospital. I rushed down. When I arrived, she was already in a coma. As I sat by her bed, I realized. I had never told her I loved her. Open expressions of love were just not normally said in our house as I grew up, or maybe that was just me. I started telling her over and over that I loved her, but in her coma state, I did not know if she heard me or not. She was moved to ICU, and I lived there in that waiting room for days.  A couple of us could go in and see her every few hours.

    The chairs in the ICU were very sleep resistant, unless one had one of the few recliners. One night, I did have one. About midnight, two young women and their mother came in. The older lady was in very bad shape. Her husband was in the ICU. I gave my recliner to the older lady, and moved over and answered the phone the rest of the night. The next day, I noticed that one of those three were always in that recliner. About 8 o’clock that night, one of the daughters called me over. She said, “You gave this recliner to my mother last night when she was in very bad shape. We’ve been saving it for you all day. You need to sleep tonight.”

     My brother Harry arrived from California. I took Harry in, and told Mom, “Harry’s here.” She stirred noticeably. I now knew she had heard me when I  told her I loved her. But way too little, way too late, for a mother like God blessed me with. I should have told her I loved her every day I lived with her, and I knew it.

     Mom died shortly afterwards. I made a vow, then and there, that there would never again be a shortage of open expressions of love in my family. And I have kept that vow.

     I did not set out to write a sad story. But, in writing of the older generations, it just seems to work out that way. We can’t change that. But we are given the opportunity many times during our lives to help improve the quality of life leading up to that ending. Once written, it can never be rewritten or erased.

We just have to live with that.

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - Old Gillums Revisited

Forever A Hillbilly: Part Two - Old Gillums Revisited: Now that I have told you about Martha Jane, let’s look at my dad. I think everyone in my branch of my family will agree, nobody shaped ...

Part Two - Old Gillums Revisited

Now that I have told you about Martha Jane, let’s look at my dad. I think everyone in my branch of my family will agree, nobody shaped our branch of the Gillum clan like my dad, in my lifetime. My information about Dad’s WWI experiences is incomplete. All he ever told me was that while riding the troop ship over, they had to sleep sitting up. It was too crowded to lie down. He also stated that he was close enough to the front to hear the guns when the armistice was declared at eleven o’clock AM on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918.

     From later research, I learned that the main American force had just gotten fully into the war, and the Germans had been pushed back near the Germany-France border. They were well fortified there, and the generals in the field estimated it would cost 25,000 allied lives to defeat them. There were talks in progress about ending the hostilities, and the main question seemed to be, an armistice or unconditional surrender. General Pershing, the American commander, ordered that battle to commence. The field general, however, stalled, thinking of his men, and knowing the war could be over at any time. The battle was delayed, and in a few days, the fighting did cease. Had that attack order been quickly obeyed, would my dad have been one of those 25,000 casualties? Had Pershing’s order to attack been obeyed immediately, with many, many more lives lost on both sides, would it have resulted in unconditional surrender eventually? Would that have, as Pershing seemed to think, have prevented another world war in a few years, or at least delayed it? I really don’t know. All I really know is, if that battle had been fought, and if Dad died that day, I would never have existed. But maybe General Pershing had been right. WW II was not long in coming.

I learned recently that Dad was involved in the trenches in France, but he was in supply rather than actually shooting a gun. Often, he was so tired when he was finally allowed to sleep, that he could not pull his boots out of the mud, having to pull his feet out of his boots, and roll up in his blanket. I still have that blanket. Dad served during the occupation of Germany.

The Gillum’s were pretty well off, for the times, when grandpa Gillum died in 1922. Grandma Martha Jane called Dad back from the oilfields of Oklahoma to run the farm. Things went well, for a number of years. Dad bought a car, and spent more of his time overseeing the share croppers than actually running the farm. But 1930 brought not only the Depression, but also the onset of a number of very hot, dry years, when most all crops failed. June 1930 had only 1/100th of an inch of rain. The cattle had to be ranged out into the mountains for many miles to find forage, and Dad had to ride his horse many miles to find them. The sharecroppers could not get enough money to put in the crops, unless Dad signed the notes. He did, the crops failed, and the sharecroppers had to walk. It took many years to pay those notes off, extending the Depression for my family many years. Dad had to sell off much timberland to the government, at fifty cents to two dollars an acre just to be able to put in his own crop. Nimrod Dam was built, and the government took much of the prime farm land in that project. In addition to these problems, much of the topsoil in the valley was thin, and began to play out. Cotton and other row crops began to disappear, and cattle became the main crop, more and more.

As the depression deepened and dry years persisted, it became difficult to feed a family. I remember Dad, many years later, showing me how to build rabbit gums, quail traps, etc. He also taught me little tricks for catching fish when the need was great. Dad once said, “If we saw a rabbit crossing the road, chased by less than two people, we knew things were getting better.” After I arrived, I never knew of a Gillum eating a wild rabbit. Problems with rabbit fever during the depression changed all that.

Once the unusually dry weather was past, Dad was able to grow plenty of food, with a lot of hard work and foresight. Just spend no money unless it was necessary, buy only staples like flour, sugar, a little coffee. Dad’s solution to the problem was to just work harder and harder, longer and longer. But after the depression, Dad was never able to bring the farm back to the level it was at pre-depression. Only I, the youngest and his helper in his older years, saw how hard he pushed himself.

Dad once planned a fairly long trip to find and buy the finest herd bull available.  A neighbor got wind of it, and asked him to buy one for him, too. Dad did. When Dad got back, the neighbor told him he had changed his mind. Dad was now stuck with two expensive bulls. Dad never had any use for that man again. From this kind of experience, and others along the way, Dad began to get a general mistrust for a lot of people.

I think factors I mentioned above combined with the strong “do right mechanism” Dad had always had shaped him into the man I met when I came along in 1944.  Work hard and long, every day except Sunday. Be careful about trusting people; don’t buy food you can grow. Save up enough food for years, the dry years can return at any time; cut over every inch of cleared land, every year, or the woods will reclaim it. In the early 1950’s, I was doing the pasture mowing. Those were very dry years, and grass and weeds didn’t grow much. Dad insisted that I mow  every square inch, even though it looked exactly the same afterwards. Don’t think highly of lazy or wasteful people, lest you become like them ; be honest, pay the bills first, before spending otherwise. If you feed a hobo, he will just come back the next day, and the next. Keep your daughters away from men, as long as they live in your house; Keep your sons away from honkey tonks, no good can come from all that.

I know all this sounds extreme. However, if you look at the big picture, all six of his children, as adults, worked hard, were honest, fair, the do right mechanism strongly in place. Dad was hard, but it worked. Can one ask more from a parent than that?

     I still have a lot of questions rolling around in my head. Most can never be answered in this world. My Dad and I spent much time together in his older years, with very little conversation passing between us. How could I have been so wasteful? There are so many of these questions he could have answered, had I only asked. If I had but one more afternoon with Dad, now, I could get an answer for them all.