All Covered Up

If you take a drive around the city of Austin, it is easy to see that the roadways are extremely congested. Admittedly, I get a little antsy at times when I am stuck in traffic or caught in a line of cars that seem to be moving at a snail’s pace. However, when I am in this crazy jammed-packed situation, I have come to realize that even though I do feel a slight frustration at the inability to do much about the delays; more than anything else, I find myself feeling rather grateful. I am ever so grateful that I am not a parent in a car with tired, hungry, screaming children and stuck on a freeway. I am eternally grateful that I am not a child in a car with a frazzled, short-fused parent who is ready to get home and can’t move in any direction. And, most of all, I figure that I should be forever grateful that this crowded situation has reminded me of a way that I could easily make a million dollars. My family has a custom that will help to alleviate problems that occur while stuck in a car with kids in stalled traffic, or any number of situations in life that call for instant calm. I figure if I can just market this item that provides a sweet lull of peacefulness for kids and parents alike, then I will have that easy million. I know that everyone in Austin will come to believe in this convention. Then, when the rest of the world discovers the secret, just watch out! Let me introduce you to habit forming, peace-building, tear-drying, smile-inducing softies.

My mother’s mother died when my mother was three years old. Mom was an only child and after her mother’s death she was raised by her father and her aunts. She readily admits that she was doted on by everyone that knew her. One of the things mom recalls giving her immense comfort during her growing up years was the satin blanket one of her aunts made for her. Her softie. It went everywhere with her. She could not fall asleep without the security of the soft satin next to her in bed. Although it did not take the place of her mother, something as small as this blanket made especially for her provided comfort and solace when it was so desperately needed. The mere contact with the softness produced instant warmth that had nothing to do with the temperature. Little did mom know that she would again be saved by her softie later in her life. How could she have realized that “Noni’s softies” would soon provide this comfort to literally hundreds of people?

My mom started making softies herself when Grace and Sallie were young. I know that she was probably kicking herself when she discovered how effective the softies were for her two youngest children. It must have been a little like the “I could have had a V-8” insight…..too late to do much about the oversight now! She discovered that when the girls had their softies, they also had their smiles. When they had their softies, the dark was not so scary. When they had their softies, they loved to be held and cuddled. When they had their softies, the world was just a better place. Because the world was a better place for the girls, the world was also a better place for everyone else around the girls. Thus, the softie effect was magnified to include anyone that was associated with the one actually enjoying the softie. Both of the girls still have their original softies today. Of course, they are in shreds and I am sure if someone touched them they would disintegrate, but don’t try to get rid of them! Since the first softies were manufactured on the big family table, many more have been made. They have become tradition. Each time a baby is born, a softie is made. Every single grandchild and great-grandchild has a softie made by Noni. The baby softies are made in a smaller size and it is a rite of passage when you get your adult sized softie. Every one of mom’s eleven kids has a Noni-made softie and as far as I know not one of us can sleep without it. The colors of the softies are significant. One of life’s major decisions is the color of your softie. In some way I am convinced that the color affects how well you sleep. Every in-law has had to select a color for their softie for each of them has a softie as well. In fact, people who might have been in-laws have softies. Further, those who we knew would probably never be in-laws have softies. In reality, there are people now who don’t even know my family who have satin blankets that they call softies.

When my girls were in middle school and high school, many of their friends insisted on acquiring a softie. So, as my mother taught me, I taught my girls how to sew a softie. They learned to make these comforters for their friends. Kids would come over, the table would be extended, and another softie was completed. At this point, people outside of our family were getting hooked on the comfort of this Swanson custom. The kids would make softies for their boyfriends; they would give them as Christmas gifts, for “going away” presents, and just because someone wanted one. If their friends were sick, they got a softie. Then, friends started making softies and the domino effect was in place. They got so popular that the clerk in the fabric store would give instructions on “how to make a softie” each time someone came in for 5 yards of satin. Adults were calling our house to ask what a softie was because that is the only thing ‘so and so’ wanted for graduation. I often wondered if some of the boys that dated my daughters did so just to acquire their own softie. Sometimes the kids and even adults in the family would put a slight twist on softies integrating their own special designs. There were softies made of flannel, two color softies, softies sporting the colors of favorite teams, double sized softies, monogrammed softies, and those with and without ribbons. My kids often requested new softies before theirs had been completely worn out, so our house runneth over with these blankets. James always built softie closets into our houses. I often wondered if the realtor knew that there was a good chance a buyer would probably actually know what a softie closet was and would even appreciate its existence!

Because softies were given to newborns and the newborns continued to drag them around as toddlers, the name “softie” was often altered a bit by the speech of the little ones. Some families referred to them as “saucies”. My sweet grandson today asks for his “dossie”. I have heard them referred to as “saws-saws” and so on. A dossie can calm a child in a second. A saucie will instill peace inside a car that is in complete chaos. A softie will relax a grown up enough to promote a sound sleep when it is otherwise elusive. And, in addition, a softie has often provided other purposes besides its warmth and security. My niece Heidi takes her softie with her when she goes to see a movie. She says it just goes with the smell of popcorn and makes the whole movie better. My kids and their cousins would build softie forts that would cover an entire room. Hours of entertainment with satin. James would make our kids (and grandkids) squeal with laughter by giving softie rides. He would have as many kids as possible pile on a softie, and then run through the house dragging the kid-laden softie on the floor, often swinging it in every direction. The last child hanging on would be the softie champ for the evening. My kids did not ever really have to make up their beds because they would spread a softie out over their bedspread, lay down on that softie, and cover up with another softie. They were happiest and most content when their skin was touching only satin. I just recently became aware that softies could actually be knotted together and would hold a teenager as they dropped from a window if tied just right. I also learned that it took practice to make a strong softie knot. Softies came in really handy during the winter months when James was hesitant to turn up the thermostat. The kids would each take turns holding their softies in front of the fireplace to get them nice and toasty, and then dive to the floor to roll up in the blessed warmth of the freshly heated blanket. During holidays when the family would gather it did not matter that room was scarce. At night time, a softie pallet would be laid on the floor from wall to wall and everyone left without a bed would crash on the floor for a good night’s sleep. Bodies of all ages and sizes were snuggled against each other and wrapped in a softie. At Sunday lunch it was not uncommon for a softie to be used as the tablecloth on the children’s table. Even there it brought about calm. It also soaked up spilled food. Thank goodness softies are washable. Many times Emily would patiently wait by the washer and then the dryer for her softie to be ready to go again. When my nephew Bubba was in intensive care in the hospital for three weeks, he would have a recurring dream that he was a human burrito all wrapped up in a softie. The nurses that took care of him in ICU knew the softie story. They never let the special blanket stray far from their patient and each ended up with their own softie made especially for them. I know that when more and more people experience “Noni’s softies”, the uses will be boundless. I also know that the world will be a happier place.

Right now as I attempt to explain the significance of the role that softies played in the lives of my kids, the most vivid picture comes into my mind. It is a picture that forces a smile from me even when my heart is heavy. It is a picture that makes me grab a softie, curl up, close my eyes and remember when James was next to me. I see my sweet husband determined to master yet another task. He was resolute in his quest to make a softie. A softie just for me. Mine was worn out and he heard me say that I needed a new one. Softies were made with 5 yards of satin. Two and a half yards of the satin are spread out and topped with a polyester batting. The remaining two and a half yards are then folded over to encase the batting. The softie must be carefully pinned together folding in all of the edges. It takes long straight pins to fasten the edges and they must be placed closely together. Because of this, the softie maker is stabbed quite often. You must be a strong person to be able to produce a softie and quite agile not to get blood from the pin pricks on the softie. After the pins are in place, with a large darning needle, yarn is then tacked every 8-10 inches through all of the layers of the blanket. This takes forever and this task also inflicts a little pain. I guess it is true that everything worthwhile in life is not easily come by. Now, the edges of the softie are ready to be stitched on the sewing machine. It is at this point of the softie production that I have my picture of James. Pins protruding from his lips (where he is keeping them handy) and mounds of pink satin flowing in all directions. He knows the feeling that a new softie brings and cannot wait to deliver his prize to me. Here is this strong, obviously outdoorsy man, sitting at the table in the house that he constructed entirely by himself, surrounded by the furniture that he built just because he could, pushing the foot of a sewing machine to make me a pink softie. I am pretty sure that it was my favorite softie ever.

Just last week Noni, the “Queen of Softies”, went on a road trip with my sister and brother and their spouses. They drove from Durango, Colorado, to Seattle Washington. Because there is no age limit on softie use, and in spite of limited room; all passengers in the van were permitted to bring their softie along on the trip. Noni had her place in the back of the van. There, she wrapped up in her blue softie, propped up her feet, and read her book in between receiving phone calls from all of her kids. At one point in the trip, Cookie had to make a sharp, quick turn. Because Noni was completely wrapped in her softie, and because the material is so slippery, Noni slid right off of her perch in the back and into the floor board of the van! The more she struggled to get up, the deeper she wedged herself between the seats. The softie made it really difficult to get a firm grip to pull Noni up and I am quite sure the laughter did not help either. It is a good thing that when the situation was corrected, and Noni was again in the back of the van in a normal position, she had her softie with her for extra comfort! It seems that no matter the age, the softie softens most situations. I am 50 years old, and I have to admit that in the last two years, I have worn out my pink softie. I call upon it quite regularly for the comfort and security that it unfailingly provides. I guess I could just quit my job as an educator and become a maker of softies. Perhaps I really could become a millionaire from the phenomenon that would be created by marketing the multi-faceted softie. Or, maybe we should just make a softie bomb. How cool would it be to drop softies of all colors from fighter jets positioned all over the world? Noni’s softies, made with love and sweetly stitched, spread worldwide. Can you hear the hush? Can you feel the peace? Can you see the smiles? The world all covered up in a giant softie. That picture alone is worth millions.

What's In A Name

Being the 7th child, I am sure my parents had to be creative to come up with yet another name for yet another child. I was named Alice Lucille Swanson after my two grandmothers. When my gender was announced in the waiting room at the hospital, my sister, who had been the only girl with 5 brothers, modified my name a little and dubbed me “AlleyLuYa!” Still today she calls me Alley Lu. As I continue to study my life, I realized that over the years I have had many different names. Papa called me “Logi”, which, according to him is Chinese for Lucy. I knew when he called me Logi, we were off on an errand by ourselves. I do miss hearing that name. Mary Claire was called Big Tut by all of our brothers, therefore I was Little Tut. That name brings memories of Navasota, Texas. On many occasions I was just referred to as Number 7. After having four kids of my own, I understand a little better how that was an understandable and quite logical name. As a teacher, I was called Miss, Mrs. Farmer, and even LuDogg! Those are just the names of which I was aware. I am sure there were many more. My kids would call me Mom or Mo..om (where it was a long drawn out name with a couple of syllables). Now that my kids are on their own, I love to answer the phone and hear either version coming through loud and clear. One of my favorite names is Bobbye. That is what my grandchildren call me. After learning the news that I was to be a grandmother, I decided that Bobbye would be my name. Its origin has no roots or ties and I have no idea where it came from, but James and I became Big J and Bobbye. The name still makes me smile, especially when I hear it emanating from a small, sweet child. When my kids want to remind me of all the really good things that still surround me, or if they want me to focus more on what it is that I am trying to discover on this new journey that I have been forced on, or if they think that I just need to breathe deeply, they just call me punkin’. That endearment has held a magic for many years. It was the name James always used for me. Its powers included love, patience, confidence and fulfillment. Today it acts as a balm. What power there is in a name. It all depends on who is doing the calling.
Although my official name is Alice Lucille, I was most often called Lucy. That proved to be a little troublesome in school. I always dreaded the first days of school when the teacher would look at the roll and see Alice and actually say that name out loud! For some reason, that was most embarrassing. I guess maybe I suffered some so that when I was a teacher I would know what not to do on the first day of school. I am not sure why the name was an embarrassment. There really was no logical reason that I can think of. Even with the embarrassment, though, I never once thought of changing my name. Now, my brother Bill had a different story. Bill was a child that my mother swears woke up smiling and happy every single day of his life. His enthusiasm for life was, and is boundless. He did not play the Lone Ranger……he became the Lone Ranger. He did not participate in football…..he lived the sport. When he attended the University of Texas, I have no doubt that had he been cut, his blood would have been burnt orange. Knowing our brother, when Bill came home to visit on one occasion and told us to call him Timber, it was not all that strange. He informed us that he was just trying out that name for awhile. So, we called him Timber, and he smiled. A few months later, we learned that his name was no longer Bill, nor was it Timber. My brother had officially changed his name to Walden. The way we were all informed of the change was almost as unique as his new name. The week that Bill had paid money to have his name changed, several other things happened as well. My father had a heart attack and was rushed to Dallas and put in the Intensive Care Unit. All eleven children hurried to the hospital from all over the country. (Several times we jokingly accused Papa of having these heart attacks just to get everyone to come home!) Pat even rushed home from his honeymoon. Now, no one but James and I knew that Pat was on his honeymoon because he had eloped the night before the heart attack, and he was honeymooning on our lake lot. As we all gathered in the waiting room and made our visits to ICU at the specified times, we learned more news. Papa’s basket factory had caught fire and much of the business was destroyed. We struggled with how and when to tell Papa all of this news. It was decided that since he was hooked up to the monitors, we should probably tell him all of the latest happenings as we electronically observed his heart rate. If we saw that there was too much of a strain, the announcements would cease. First, my Mom and Martin went in to tell him about the basket factory. We all gathered around the monitor in the nurses’ station to gauge his reaction to this setback. The heart rate remained steady after receiving the news. His response was predictable….he would start the business again and make it better. Next, Pat and Mom informed Papa that he had another daughter-in-law. Again, a little blip on the monitor, but nothing that would invite more worry. Papa opened his arms to the latest addition to the family. Next Walden and Mom went in to tell Papa that he could now officially call his 5th child Walden. That is when the heart rate jumped! A name change. Papa gently explained to Walden that they had named him William Reynolds after some people that meant a great deal to them, and that Bill had always been one of his favorite names. Bill enlightened Papa that the name Walden was chosen because it most closely reflected the social and environmental issues, among other criteria, that were very important to him. Bill paused a moment and in his own gentle way explained that if Papa really, really liked the name Bill……then for $29.50 he could officially change his name to Bill! That is all it had cost for him to change his name to Walden. It took a minute, but the heart rate settled back into a nice rhythm, Papa smiled, and Bill officially became Walden for real.
My kids never officially changed their names but they do not all go by their given names either. We went for Kathryn’s open house during her second grade year, and her teacher kept talking about a child named Katie. Thinking she was a little confused as to who our child was, I finally told her that our daughter’s name was Kathryn. She looked a little puzzled herself, and then laughed and said that Kathryn told her that she was to be called Katie. That was the first we had ever heard of that and probably the last time we ever called her Kathryn. I was determined when my son was born to use the name Swanson, so our youngest child was named James Swanson Farmer. The child was called many different names, none of them being James or Swanson. I guess it was a little confusing with two James’s in the house and so many Swanson’s around, so his sisters started calling him Bud. I fought this name tooth and nail and corrected everyone who used it. I guess my influence was not that strong, or either the name was just entirely fitting, because James Swanson is well known today as Bud Farmer. Kristin and Emily both tried out different names for awhile but I think they realized they would be more different if they just kept their real names! My brother’s son, Sean, has followed in his uncle’s footsteps. He is now officially Moon. For years I have called my niece, Colin, “Monique”. When she was young, her ambition was to be a star and this name change was her first step. I think I am the only one that still calls her Monique today, but the name just fits. The list of names goes on and on. All one has to do is throw out a name when our family is gathered and more than likely, someone is either presently going by that name, has gone by that name, is married to someone with that name, or will soon give birth to someone with that name. A response is bound to come when a name is called. The names in our family include several duplicates which may cause outsiders a little confusion. We have the Marys: Mary Grace, Mary Claire, Mary, Mary Claudia, and Mary Caroline. There are several versions of Hunter (four times in 3 generations) with H, Hunty, and Huntington being sported by several family members and both genders. My Dad’s name was Jarrett Cook and therefore there are many Cooks in the family including the varieties of Cookie, Big Cookie, Little Cookie, and Cookie III. I won’t even start on the other nicknames in the family, as they are endless. We relish dishing all of this out when a new person is introduced just to see their reactions. Even with all of this name calling, Grace and Sallie had it pretty simple. Although all of us were named after someone important in the lives of my parents, these last two children had no middle names. Either they ran out of important people or they just got tired. I will have to say that even today I am a little jealous of my younger sisters and their names. After all, on the first day of school Grace and Sallie always got to be just Grace and Sallie.
With most people in my family wanting to be a little like Walden, several of us decided to go by different names in the summertime only. There was nothing official and I guess we did this… just because. No other family that we knew of had “summer names”. The whole premise was silly but seemed to catch on like wild fire. Brothers, sisters, cousins, nieces, and nephews all got into the spirit. When summer would come around, many of us would simply go by a different name. Our summer name. These names all had to be approved by the summer name committee and they had to truly fit its recipient. The names were varied and made absolutely no sense at all. The phone lines would light up continuously until the perfect summer names were obtained for everyone. My summer name was Valeria Corrine. Other titles were Oscar, Correta, Olga, Hugh, Parmenta Jane, Erwin sometimes Otto, Moose, Lemonade, Herbert, and Fannie Mae Claire just to name a few. Sallie was called Sasha Shane. (She went by that in the summer, but because she was the baby of the family, for the rest of the year she was simply called “The Queen”.) Summer names wreaked even more havoc for those poor people that would try to learn the names in the family. Our given names were pretty strange to begin with, then you throw in some nicknames, and you hear a few summer names being tossed about and it was almost impossible for an outsider to get a grip on things. I remember one day several girls rode their bicycles in our driveway to catch a glimpse of the ongoing basketball game in the back. They giggled for awhile and made some pointing motions and finally called me over. They asked me to show them which one of the boys was Peanut. They had heard that he was really cute. I looked over at the group playing ball. Mentally I went through the list of names that were either given at birth, officially changed, or used on a part time basis, and I could not think of anyone named Peanut. I told the girls that there was no Peanut on the basketball court. They giggled a little more and admitted that the name was just a guess. They had heard that I had some really cute brothers. They also understood that some of the names were kind of different and maybe sounded something like food names. Slowly I turned back to the court and saw my brothers in a whole new light. The Swansons had a new avenue of names to explore and I could not wait to get started!
When a child is born there is much thought put into the name that will remain with the infant through the rest of his or her life. Well, at least remain with them until they can afford the cost of changing their name. Walden’s name change showed who he was and what he cared about. Today as my daughter Kristin gets ready to give birth to my first grandchild to be born after James’ death, I understand her desire to use the name James for her daughter. What strength of character she will have if she takes after her namesake. Even with much forethought there are times when a name just does not accurately depict a person or personality. Thus, nicknames are born. Instantly we know so much about a person from this more personal title. My mother has often been called Mother Superior. And, this she was dubbed by a priest. I don’t think anymore description of my mom is necessary as the name says it all. My favorite name for my mom is one that I have tried to adapt for myself. When asked how she has survived all of the emotion, the upheaval, the worry, the scurry, and the shear stamina that it took to run her household everyday, she said, “Just call me a Teflon skillet…..I just let it slide right off!” I think I may look into officially changing my name. Lucy Teflon Skillet Swanson Farmer. It would cost $29.50, but, oh what a bargain if it worked! Sometimes it is all about what’s in the name.

Letters From Home

"Dear Mom and Dad, We have ran away but just for the day. Don’t worry about us, cause we took the mycitracin. Love, your kids. “Attention Farmer family……there will be a show in 10 minutes starring your daughters Kristin, Kathryn, and Emily and your son, Bud….please take your seats on the couch. You will be served grilled cheese sandwiches or a bean and cheese taco in a minute. Please give your order to the waitress when she comes by. No tips necessary since this is your birthday.” They say that a picture paints a thousand words, but a note found unexpectedly many years after the fact, opens a floodgate of memories. These memories paint a more vivid picture and tell a greater story than mere words could ever bring to life. Running away, putting on a show, finding a girlfriend, entertaining a parent, showing concern, giving thanks, pouring out a heart, finding your way, or giving advice; a note tells the story of the strength of a family. You may have to read between the lines, but the image is there. The power of these notes is that the image that is created will live forever.
There are letters and notes of so many varieties. I remember Martin getting the big plastic bags from the dry cleaning and filling the bags with gas from the jet used for the space heaters. He would insert a message into the “balloon” and let it go off into the blue. Several times he received responses from people that eventually found the note in the balloons. I never thought about it at the time, but now I am wondering how we did not have some sort of explosion from the escaping gas as Martin would inflate the dry cleaning bags. Another form of literature that we collected over time is the “Cousin’s Club Express”. My kids, along with all of the cousins that were around their age, would each submit articles about what was happening in their families. Shannon got Homecoming Queen, Rambo the hamster died, Camp Can Do has a record number of participants, Michael is part Indian and has predicted the weather correctly for 6 days in a row. If you needed help with your parents or friends you could write to “Dear Cousin”. Subscriptions were available to all of the family members and “The Cousin’s Club Express” went out every month. I know all families have their own personal stash of sweet notes and letters. Being married to a builder, we packed up and moved quite often and each time we moved, the task we enjoyed the most was bringing out the box that held all of our correspondences. The box contained letters from our kids, notes left around the house, cards made for us by our children on special occasions, and all of the love letters James sent to me when I went off to college. After a move we never actually unpacked this box, so it should have been one of those items that would have been very easy to throw onto the moving truck. However, the lure of what was inside was always too strong to resist, and this box consistently tacked on hours to our moves. Each of us would get caught up in the memories and the stories. After James died, I spent days poring over the letters that he wrote to me when I went away to college and left him in Jacksonville. Little did I know how valuable these words would become to me. The letters reassured me of his love, made me smile, and are now a treasure chest for my kids. What a wonderful way for my grandchildren to get to know their grandfather. The letters paint such a vivid picture of this beautiful man. Then there was the pleasure of rediscovering the notes that we concocted for Father’s Day. We would send James on a scavenger hunt around town. The kids would deliver the first note to him with breakfast on the morning of Father’s Day. The note would contain instructions for retrieving his father’s day gift. Go get in your pickup and drive to Buckner Park. Find the note before it gets dark. No need to push us on the merry go round. Another note still needs to be found. James would find the note on the merry go round and read the next set of instructions. Now drive to the lake and search the barge. The clue left there is not very large. We would all pile back into the truck and off we would go to the barge to look for a note that would contain directions to the next clue. The search would continue and I realize that we were sent on an exploration of places that meant the most to my kids. As I look back now, I think these must have been the greatest father’s day gifts ever. It wasn’t the present that was finally revealed at the end of the chase that was so magnificent, but it was all of us in the truck watching James’ reactions to the clues that was the true gift. These notes, those times, will be forever priceless to me and my kids. These notes show my kids the art of giving from the heart. These notes remind them of what it was like to be a child adored by their father. These notes help keep James alive.
Notes and letters serve many missions. Growing up with seven brothers, it was always enlightening to just sit back and soak up the art of dating. There never seemed to be a lack of females hanging around our house. My brother Bill, in particular seemed to be a “chick magnet”. After reading some of his notes, I am not really sure why. One note that we still discuss from time to time at Sunday lunch is the “scratch and send” note. It went something like this: Dear Mary Jane, I like you very much. Would you like to go steady? If the answer is yes, that is good! If the answer is no, then please scratch out your name and put in Margo’s name and pass it on to her. Always, Bill. Now, I know that Bill has a killer smile. And, I am aware that all of my brothers have movie star good looks (especially to teenage girls). But I cannot understand how the “scratch and send” note could not tarnish his image just a little. This is a note that proved that the pen is a mighty sword when it comes to love (especially teenage girls). The more notes of this nature that were sent, the more abundant the candidates (especially teenage girls)! Sometimes love just does not make sense.
I love reading the letters my older siblings would send home from college. They would all start with the obligatory, Hi all. Hope you are all fine. I am really studying hard. Unfailingly there would be a mention of their love life away from home. Mom, I had a date with Chuck! Now I am completely snowed over three boys: Chuck, Doyle, and Michael! What do I do? or I am winding up my physics lab and need to study for my calculus exam, but I have to tell you that I finally got a date with that beautiful girl I was telling you about! I just hope that it is not the only date I have with her! I really like the girl from last week, but I have had my eye on this one forever! or I am still in love but I don’t guess there is anything I can do about it. Any suggestions? or Dear Mom, I know you really liked the girl I brought home last weekend, but don’t get your hopes up. I just don’t think she is going to work out. There is an unending line of letters and each seems to get around to the dilemmas of dating. When I analyze this situation, I see that my parents were completely immersed in all phases of falling in love. There were the “circle yes or no” kids in elementary school, kids in middle school with hormones raging, kids in high school where the dating game was in full force, and kids in college where weekly they were hearing many names with which they could not even put a face. For a parent, there could not have been enough right answers. There could not have been enough consolation. There could not have been enough talks. There could not have been more worry. And yet the letters, from the ones written in elementary school to the ones sent home from college, show that we knew the answers would be there and that we were not concerned about the worry we caused. We were not apprehensive about broken hearts or meeting “the one”. Finding the love of our life was just another adventure to write about, and if we followed the example set before us, all would be good.
The letters sent from college did not solely address the love lives of the Swanson clan. There were the ones that had several variations on this note. I’m at work right now. But I just wanted to warn you that I might get a D in Government. I made a 65 on my test. I’ve decided to quit studying because I do just as well when I don’t study. Grades were often mentioned in the letters, but I could not find one letter to my parents that did not ask about the “little ones left at home”. Please tell Mary Claire, Bill, Martin, Lucy, Randy, Pat, Grace, and Sallie hi for me. Tell Bill and Martin to beat Brenham in football…..remember that last game when they beat us 72 to nothing? Sometimes money was the theme. Thanks for the $50 check but I am sending it back. I am not trying to be dramatic or Harry Hero, but I would really feel bad about taking money this close to Christmas with all the little ones still at home. I would rather you spend this money on them. The topics were endless and varied, but from the time Cookie left for Austin until Sallie was packed and gone to the University there was a unifying theme that all of us seemed to pick as a topic. Dear Dad and Mom, There are many things that I know you probably want, but none of those things are what I really want to give to you. I want to give to you what is way down deep in my heart. I want you to know the special, wonderful feelings for you that are always inside me, yet there are no words that can express them. Just the other day when I was leaving for school I looked back just in time to see you walking back into the house. I wanted so much to go back to kiss you goodbye and thank you over and over not only for the wonderful time I had over the holiday, but for being such ideal parents. There are only 10 other people in the whole world who are as lucky as I am. This theme was found in letters from all eleven children. I never knew that the others wrote letters expressing gratitude for our family and upbringing until just in the last few years. How amazing that they were all so much alike. From James’s love letters, my kid’s cards and notes, experiencing my brothers and sisters growing up years, leaving home, finding that special someone; to the Cousin’s Club Express, the written word is there for our family to enjoy for an eternity. Cell phones and email have cut down on some of this correspondence, but in reality, not much has changed. Even as the next generation of our family reads through these notes, they can still readily identify with the feelings and emotions brought forth with each story. Times change, but life stays the same. Papa’s letter to my older brothers shows that advice from forty five years ago is timeless:

10/9/63
Instructions On How To Pick A Wife

Dear Cookie, Hunty, and Jimmie,
Pick one close to the church: I don’t say that she has to be a Catholic…but she surely needs to be one that will eventually make a good Catholic because the Church helps to hold a family together and she is the one that will have to turn the family toward God and the Catholic church is a way to do this.
Pick one that won’t be selfish (Now or later):
A wife has to go through years and years of hard work, self denials, anxieties and constant pressures, so you have to project a long way forward and see if one is really good enough to have this kind of love and compassion ten or twenty years from now and keep it during the times the going gets toughest and times when it looks as if others always get the breaks because these things are true no matter what level of income or living you prove capable of providing.
Pick one that you love:
Since you will have to go through so much of the same self denials, so many of the same anxieties and pressures and so much of the same hard work (except to a much, much lesser degree than your wife) it will be necessary for you to have a lot of this love, too. It will have to be enduring in order for you to get over the “low spots” yourself.
Pick one that will help you:
If a wife is great enough to spread her love if and when there are kids and still have enough left over to keep you with the feeling that you still have the same amount of love from her that you had before it was necessary to spread it evenly to so many or to others in the family then you will receive a lot of help in anything that you do just from this alone.
Pick one of which you will always be proud:
Besides the fact that you feel so good when you hear others just time and time again tell you and other people all about the wonderful mother of your children, there is another thing that this pride does for me. Any time I get “down in the dumps” I can go anywhere with your mother and if there are other people about, I can, just by looking around and seeing her against others (and also by stopping to count to 11 at the same time) get out of the “dumps” and realize what a lucky man I am and realize something else, too….That I did such a good job of picking a wife and mother that I can be justified in taking the pleasure of writing this “guide” to you.

This letter can be used through the ages and the words will live forever. As will my crumpled, worn copy of a letter from James. Dear Lucy, I don’t speak many words but I want you to know that I love you more than anything in the world. Even though you are away at college and I am here, you are still with me and always will be. I hope you know that I am with you, too. You will always be my punkin. Love, James

Childbirth

Childbirth must be just as an emotional experience for a father as it is for a mother. James and I had four kids in 5 ½ years. We knew we wanted several kids, and I wanted to be able to stay home with them for as long as I could; so we saw no reason for spreading this child birth thing out over too much time. When our oldest daughter was born, James took one look at her and decided right then and there that he wanted ten little girls. He was overcome with instantaneous love and adoration. His mistake came when he informed me of his decision to have 9 more little girls. It was 23 minutes after Kristin was born. I am glad now that he was so taken with his daughter that he could not read the raw emotion that the mere mention of having just one more child brought forth in me, much less enduring the process for 9 more occasions. Timing is everything. The experience of childbirth proved to be quite emotional for my dad as well. My mom was in labor for many hours with their firstborn child. Consequently, when my oldest brother, Cookie, arrived kicking, screaming, rather cone-headed, and a little red-faced, my father took one look at him and got all queasy. He, too, had something to say 23 minutes after the miraculous birth of his first child. Papa assured Bama, the infant’s grandmother, and his mother, that he knew he would be able to clothe the child. He knew he could feed the child and not let it starve. But, he also felt a certain assuredness that he would never, under any circumstances, be able to love that child that was screaming there in the nursery window. Now, please keep in mind that these were the times when no one was allowed in the delivery room. He did not see my mother during active labor. He did not witness the unrelenting hours of pain followed by the instant maternal love which makes any suffering worthwhile. When he finally got to see my mother for the first time after the birth of their first child; he told her that he just could not go through something like this ever again. There was entirely too much stress involved in giving birth to a baby.

My mother grew to love her stays in the hospital. The hospital staff in Navasota called it her yearly vacation. How things in the world of obstetrics have changed! It is a good thing that mom kept all of her receipts from her hospital stays or I might have openly questioned not only the money, but the length of her stays with each birth. When Cookie was born, Mom stayed in the hospital for 3 full weeks. The cost for the hospital, nursery, delivery room, and any other extra expenses for the three week stay was $53.00. She was not to get up out of her bed until there was someone there to help, and then only for a short trek. The nurses brought the swaddled child in once every four hours to eat. The schedule did not, could not, and dared not vary. Children under twelve were not allowed on the maternity floor at that time. At each birth, Papa would line all of us up on the sidewalk outside of the hospital to watch my mom wave at us through her window. The line of waving siblings kept getting longer and longer with each birth. I think that the line of cars that would drive by to see the line of waving kids also got longer and longer. Birthing one of the Swanson’s was a community event in Navasota. The staff delegated Room 104 to be the Mary Grace Swanson room in the maternity ward. Not often was anyone else allowed to use that room. Rarely was it available. When Sallie was born, Mom’s bill had increased and her hospital stay time had decreased. Her vacation with Sallie only lasted 7 days and her bill rose to an astronomical $252.00.

I know that Mom had several things to wonder about each time she headed home from the hospital. Where would this child sleep? When would she herself find time to sleep? Would she get all these names mixed up? Who would go to the store? Who would keep an eye on all the other little ones? What number child was this again? What would the house look like after her latest vacation? Who would be the most excited to see a new sibling? The questions swirling around, I am sure, were endless. However, she would not have to spend as much time getting to know the intimate idiosyncrasies of each child like some parents would have to do. Many traits were already known purely by the order of the child’s birth. This is another strange phenomenon that has seemed to occur only in my family. The legitimacy and strength of this particular Swanson family trait is undeniable. Before the baby could talk, or walk, or even roll over; we all knew the most vital and important facts of its life. I mean the really crucial things. Things like what they liked on their sandwich. If the baby was an odd numbered child, it would like mayonnaise. If it was an even numbered sibling, it would only eat mustard. What kind of candy would it take to make the child quiet and happy? Odd numbered children would eat Milk Duds; even numbered kids preferred Jr. Mints. If you are opening a can of tomato soup for an odd numbered kid, you better have a can of chicken noodle for the even numbered one. The behaviors of each of the odd numbered children were all identical. We were more out-going and boisterous. Our mouths were seldom closed. We acted exclusively on impulse, and thrived on activity and excitement. We worked better under pressure. Our personalities could best be summed up by the motto, “ready, shoot, aim.” Every other sibling in line had the exact opposite traits. The even numbered children were quiet and thoughtful. They needed to have order and planning in their life. They loved to dress nicely and could sit and read, or converse, or ponder for hours. Decisions were difficult to make, for all options needed to be weighed and each consequence assessed. The motto that governed their existence was, “ready, aim…aim…aim…aim, oh, here; one of you odd numbered kids shoot!” Life was a perfect balance of harmony if no one disturbed the dependability of evens and odds. For breakfast there were scrambled eggs, and fried eggs. For peace, an odd sat by an even. For laughs, there was an audience for a comedian. For production, there was a plan for ideas. For secrets, there was always exactly who you needed. Life was odd, but seemed pretty even.

Even with the quirks of the evens and odds, it seems there was still a pretty distinct individuality with each child. Are personalities determined by birth order, by experiences, by locale, by family values, by how long your mother’s vacation in the hospital was? It seems there was plenty of fodder for research in my family alone to be able to efficiently answer this question. Aside from the “even and oddness” that existed, the birth order inarguably played a great factor in the development of who we were. When my older three brothers would leave home, my mom would always call out to them. “Cookie, don’t get into trouble; Hunty, don’t get hurt, and Jimmie, don’t hurt anyone!” The three boy’s personalities were also poignantly clear in the home video of them jumping off of the high diving board at the Navasota city pool. Cookie was Captain America. He posed for the camera, and made sure everyone was watching. Because his two younger brothers were already on the diving board ready for their turn, he gave last minute instructions to them on where to stand and when to go. Once again posing for the camera before his launch from the high dive, he raised his muscle man arms and took off and seemed to be animated all the way to the water. Hunty, the 2nd born, was next. Slowly, agonizingly, cautiously he crept to the end of the board. He checked to see where his brother had landed. He calculated the length of time he would be in the air before hitting the water. He counted his steps back and forth from the ladder to the end of the board realizing as the line of people waiting to dive got longer and longer that there was no way down but off the end of the board and into the water. Again, he took his stance by the ladder. He warily took himself closer and closer to the end of the board determined that he could make himself jump this time. He held his nose and kept walking right off the diving board. Before he hit the water, Jimmie had launched himself cannonball style right over Hunty hitting the water before his older brother did. These same personalities were seemingly repeated again, along with the personalities of the 4th and 5th children as the last five little ones came along. Once again, mom did not have to wonder about who she was bringing home from the hospital. Birth order. There is something to be said for its influence.

After having four kids of my own, I have learned that much advice is dispensed on the whole event of childbirth. Everyone has a different story of what would, could or should occur both during birth and during the raising of the perfect child. Personally, I was pretty sure I knew it all and did not need everyone else’s advice. I was number 7. Seven is an odd number. As I look back now, I realize that my mom was pregnant for 100 months. Although she did not offer advice unless she was specifically asked, any guidance given by my mom should have been listened to. As I was steadfast in my belief of the natural childbirth method, I remember now that I did hear her offer a tidbit for me to consider. “Lucy, as far as childbirth goes, let me just say that I have had a child every way there is to have one. Take all they offer to give you!” Then there were those things that she didn’t say but as I look back I see that they were spoken in volumes. “Yes, I know that you are an odd numbered child and you will like certain things.” “Yes, I understand that you are the oldest and you need to have someone to lead.” “Yes, I know that you will need to share your room with one more person and at times it might make you feel lost.” “Yes, I understand that you love your brother or sister more than anything, but just needed to yell.” “Yes, I can forget the cleaning and cooking and read you a story.” All those “yeses” helped each one of us from childbirth on to know without a single doubt the most important part of raising a child. Without her ever saying a word, you could always hear loud and clear from her actions that “ yes, you are my child, and you are my favorite.”

The Menagerie

When I moved to Austin, Texas, I was hoping to allow my heart to find a time and a place to heal. I hoped that the environment of a bigger city would be different enough from the small town atmosphere to keep my mind occupied on something other than my loss. I found respite in the walks I could enjoy on the beautiful hike and bike trails that are woven throughout the city and I immersed myself in this daily activity. The repetition, the challenge, and the release of endorphins allowed me a chance to slowly learn to live again. I was able now to notice things that I had never paid attention to before. Things like pets. On these walking trails, many people bring their pets. I started to notice that, either Austin people were completely different in the way they treated their pets, or big city folks had to handle their pets differently than those in a rural community. As I walked and observed, I tried to remember the pets that have been a part of my life both as a child and as a parent. The memories that are so vivid to me, the ones that make me smile, would probably scare the pet loving people that I see in the city. I can tell that the pets on the trails and in the parks are well loved and cherished. Just as the pets of my childhood were. I can see that city pets come in every shape, size and model. As did the pets I remember so clearly. The pets in the city are well groomed, well behaved, and well trained. Not at all what I recall from my pets of the past.

Tinker. I have heard that people tend to resemble their pets. I have looked closely at my siblings, my parents, and myself; and thankfully I cannot find any support for that myth. I know I may just be too close to the situation to be an impartial judge. However, my first and most lasting memories of our dog Tinker, don’t really remind me of any members of my family. Tinker lasted through all of the Swanson children. She was very old when she died. I know during her lifetime she had guarded my brothers during their escapades, listened to complaints from whomever needed to purge themselves, hidden behind bushes during games of hide and go seek, and given birth almost as many times as my mother. Tinker never complained. Tinker never left home. Tinker never took sides. Tinker was always loved as a member of the family. And, Tinker was not too pretty. She was a cocker spaniel and actually was a pretty dog until she got hit by a car. She lived, but one of her eyes was destroyed in the accident. The result was very unattractive, but none of us really cared. We were just proud she was alive. When others saw Tinker for the very first time, you could hear the quick intake of breath when they spotted the mutilation surrounding her eye. It took this reaction from others to remind us that our dog was not a normal looking dog. The stories at the lunch table always have a reference to Tinker or one of her offspring, Briquetta. I am not really sure why my mom consented to letting us keep one of Tinker’s puppies. That was just one more mouth to feed. I know that Tinker was getting up in years and perhaps Mom saw this pup as one who could fill the empty spot when our beloved Tinker was gone. The puppy’s name came about pretty naturally. My dad manufactured charcoal. When we saw Tinker’s puppy for the first time, we noticed the special markings of her fur. She had a soft, curly black coat, and her paws were all a light gray color that extended halfway up her legs and just simply faded into the black fur. It reminded all of us of a partially burned charcoal briquette. Because she was female, we made the adjustment and added “etta” to briquette. I am sure that no other family in the entire world would have seen a partially burned briquette when they looked at this dog, but it was crystal clear to us. We knew charcoal.
Although I might hesitate to utter this sentiment aloud in Austin, Texas, I have discovered that I am not a real dog lover. Of course I would never want any harm to come to any pet, but I just have no desire to put forth all of the effort that it takes to keep a dog alive, healthy, active and happy. It was perfect when I had children at home. My kids needed a pet for the same reasons that my siblings and I needed one when I grew up. A pet’s love is unconditional and life lessons are learned just by the caretaking involved. My kids were the Persons In Charge of our dog. Consequently, Boofers was worshipped. Boofers. I cannot even begin to rationalize from whence the name came. Boofers had a dog house built by one of the premier builders in East Texas. You would think it would be a thing of beauty. It was solid. And, it was sturdy. But it was kid decorated and the name “Boofers” was the biggest thing painted on the outside of the house. Boofers was part border collie and part chow and was rescued from the pound. Boofers stubbornly refused to ride in a vehicle of any sort. (We are pretty sure she did not react in this manner to transportation until we took her to the vet to have some medical attention and had to leave her for a few days.) Being married to a home builder, part of our life involved packing up and moving quite often. Try as we might, we could never get Boofers in the truck to move with us. I guess she just learned to recognize that when a trailer was being loaded with furniture, it would soon be time to take off on another “trek”. Thank goodness our moving was confined to Jacksonville. Moving day was the only time Boofers would ever leave the house and she would only leave then on foot. No amount of bribing or coaxing would convince the dog that we were not going back to the vet. So, as we made our move to a new home, all four kids would hang out of the windows of the truck whistling and encouraging Boofers along. We would make stops often to try to get her on board but to no avail. It would sometimes take a couple of days to have Boofer’s breathing return to a regular pattern after a move, but she obviously felt that it was worth it. I am sure our neighbors thought that we were abusers. The labored breathing from long trips was probably not the only reason that onlookers would tend to question our treatment of Boofers. Our kids also tended to the grooming of our animal. Apparently this was another huge difference in the city dogs on the trails and the dog that belonged to my kids. When my son would trim Boofer’s fur in the summer time, he would want her to match the lawn that he had just mowed. With the lawn mower Bud had meticulously mowed his name in the grass. The letters were cut large enough and deep enough that they were easily seen and quite legible to everyone driving by the house. If passersby could tear their eyes away from the strange trimming of the yard, they would notice the dog whose fur sported the same name. B-U-D was buzzed into Boofers fur so that he could match the yard. That way, I was told, our dog would not have to wear a collar. It was be easy to find where she belonged if she ever got lost. As the years went on, and the groomings occurred less often, Boofers’ adverse reaction to getting bathed took on a force equal to that of her desire to never ride in a car. The fur around Boofers hind legs was so matted that it almost became animated as she walked. My kids’ friends came over just to see Boofers. They loved our dog with the funny fur and I am quite sure that the looks of our pet became topics of Sunday lunches all over town.

A portion of the stories at lunchtime dealt with Jake, the bird dog that my dad so romantically presented to mom on her anniversary. However, dogs were not the only pets that were part of our formative years. My brother Bill could only have been thinking of his younger brothers and sisters when he brought home some guinea pigs for us to keep while he was away at college. And, Martin had all five of us digging a pit in the back yard for the alligator that he acquired. We each took turns feeding the pet gator, and were often forced to build small fires in the pit to keep it from freezing. One of my brothers brought home a boa constrictor. What excitement that stirred in our house! No one else had a boa constrictor and thus another reason existed for a line of visitors to keep filing into the Swanson home. So that my mom would not have to worry about feeding the snake, Bill also brought home a little white mouse for the snake to eat. Anxious to see nature at work, several of the brave kids stood around as the mouse was dropped into the cage with the snake. Minutes passed and nothing happened. Minutes turned into hours and still the mouse was not touched by the snake. We decided that the snake would not eat until night time so we all turned in for the evening. My uncle was visiting us at the time and he was asleep in the room with the snake. Uncle Jim was my dad’s older brother and had no kids of his own. I am sure that each visit to our home was an experience, but this particular visit must have been one of his most memorable. Early the next morning, those that were anywhere near Uncle Jim’s room could hear the exact time when he awoke. The kind, gentle, quiet man was heard quite loudly and clearly the next morning when he exclaimed, “My God, it’s a rat!” My brothers went rushing in to check on him and saw that the little white mouse that was supposed to be snake food was sitting on Uncle Jim’s chest enjoying a siesta outside of his cage of doom. Quickly the mouse was returned to the cage. The next morning, as we checked on the status of the mouse, we were all surprised to see that this mouse had not become dinner for the snake. The snake had become the meal for the mouse! I am pretty sure that this was an occurrence that could not have happened in any other home. Combine 11 kids, a bachelor uncle, a boa constrictor, and a mouse and you just never know what might happen next. Never a dull moment.

The hamster/ gerbil phase was big in our line of pets, too. I know that my brother Pat saved enough money to buy 4 gerbils one year. We kept them in a cage in the den. I am not sure how much food those gerbils had, but as I look back, I know that each one of us would give them a little food each time we passed through the den. That had to be a lot of food, even for rats. One day my mom was pretty upset that one of the gerbils had escaped, but she calmly reached down, caught the rodent by his tail and plopped him back into the gerbil den. As she turned to leave, she stopped to count the number of gerbils. There seemed to be one extra. Upon closer inspection, she realized that she had just picked up a mouse and tossed him into the cage with the gerbils. Another testimony as to the vastness of my mother’s endless capabilities! My own kids also had hamster experiences. Rambo the hamster, that was cousin Hunter’s school take home charge over the summer, provided lots of entertainment for everyone. Sometimes the adults were not privy to the various methods of entertainment until it was too late. For instance, on one occasion, the kids would each grab a corner of a blanket, place the hamster in the middle of the blanket, and see how far in the air they could “flick” Rambo. The hamster seemed to be enjoying the rides and so they moved the hamster launching pad to the den where the ceiling was much higher and the little guy could fly even further! 1….2…..3….flick….fly! When we heard the laughter in the den getting louder and louder we went to check out the source of the fun. We opened the door and distracted the “flicking” of Rambo. When the kids turned to look at who was entering the room the blanket went much tauter and the hamster consequently went much higher. Rambo went so high that it hit the moving ceiling fan and was sent flying off of the fan blades and across the room. After slamming into the wall, and sliding down to the floor Rambo seemed a little dazed and confused. All of the kids were concerned but after a while, Rambo seemed to recover without any ill effects. I am sure that it was the only hamster in history that was actually grateful when school started up again and it could return to the peace and quiet of 25 school children on a daily basis.

I guess the list of pets and this chapter could go on and on and on. Pets at Easter time were highly anticipated. Papa would always bring home brightly colored chicks for all of the kids. We would sit and play with the chicks for hours upon hours. We each had our own special color of chicken. I know that after Easter the chicks were always taken out to a farm where they would have a better chance of living a peaceful life. Well, those chicks that made it through the holiday were taken to the farm. As we all shared the status of our chicks with our parents each evening, Randy, the calmest and most gentle of the younger boys, always had the same report for his pet. His line was always, “My chicken died.” He delivered it the same way, in the same tone, with the same sadness each year. We never really figured out what happened to Randy’s Easter chickens. We just knew that without fail, it was always, “my chicken died”.

I understand that most people cannot relate to these unusual pet episodes. Many would cringe as they think that these animals were possibly even abused. I did not see it that way. No animals could have had more love lavished on them by more people. Although hamsters are not supposed to go flying through the air, my kids got to see first hand how being careless could really harm something that was alive. Just telling them that they could hurt Rambo would not have made such an impact. All of my kids have dogs today and the houses of those dogs are decorated by their kids. So far, all of their fur remains nameless. Just yesterday, we gathered most of the Swanson clan for Easter at Martin and Jackie’s ranch. This has become a tradition that is much anticipated each year. My Mom, now 87 years young, was, as always, the guest of honor. I watched her as she studied the crowd. Was she wondering who was going to say “mine died” as she watched her grandkids play with the still present brightly colored chicks? Did it bring back memories of anniversary presents, gerbils, white rats, and Tinker? I am not ever quite sure what goes through her mind as she studies all of the action at these family gatherings. I know she has been a source of inspiration to me as I continue to search for a way to heal. I hate for her to see me hurting, but know that she is one of the few that can truly understand the pain of my loss. There she was on Easter Sunday surrounded by her family. I watched her as she covertly studied me to see how I was coping. She leaned over with that ever present wry smile, held out her arms to indicate the chaos and said, “Just look what I started.” As I turned to take a more focused look around I saw exactly what she meant. I think I could see what I know now that James must have felt at these gatherings. I saw the kids, the grandkids, the great-grandkids, the in-laws, and an assortment of pets. Even if James and Papa are gone, there will always be part of “what they started” present. I smiled and watched my grandkids as they played with the chickens on Easter Sunday. I smiled as it was my own kids’ turn to rescue dirty dogs and flying hamsters. And, I could actually smile at the end of the day when I softly whispered, “Look, James. See what we started?”

Luxurious Entertainment

Entertainment. It was built in. There was always someone to play with. Always a team or two for baseball. Always enough to play a game of kick the can after dark. Always a Batcave that needed superheroes. Always someone to organize surprises. Always someone around to put on plays and plenty still left to be the audience. Always a building crew nearby for the forts that needed to be constructed. Always a swimming pool to be dug. Always treasures to search for. Always clues to encourage explorations in the woods. Always picnics to be enjoyed. And, there were always neighbors nearby who did not want to miss out on any excitement. There never seemed to be a dull moment around our house. I am not sure that we even recognized that there was constant level of stimulation surrounding our home. (I do know that after we moved to Jacksonville, every single house on our block of Fort Worth Street, except for the brave Kerzee and Groom families, was put on the market in the next few years.) No matter what kind of entertainment was on tap at the moment, because of the sheer number of people involved, a certain level of excitement always accompanied every activity. I guess excitement can be defined in a number of ways. Perhaps age has something to do with the definition. Maybe those who were not members of a large family had a different image in their head of what excitement really was. I am almost positive that when you achieved parenthood, your idea of excitement definitely changed. I am pretty sure that different levels of excitement exist no matter who you are or where you come from or what your position in life might be at the time. No matter who was observing my parents’ life there could be no doubt that sheer madness was their constant companion. How did my mom and dad maintain such a consistent level of tranquility with all the exciting entertainment? As I hear story after story at Sunday lunch, and look back on my own kid’s exciting adventures, I am sure that my parent’s serenity was a result of only one thing. Practice. Day in and day out the constant level of worry, scurry, and mayhem could either wear them out or they could just adjust to the idea that this abnormal amount of activity was their normal. Did they practice counting to 50? Did they practice hiding their worries? Did they practice suppressing moans? Or did they learn to just give in and enjoy the ride?

Surely with all of this constant entertainment, there was a need for my parents to have some down time. I know that when my kids were young, a trip to the grocery store all by myself was a luxury. James would always recognize when I sorely needed a break, and off I would go to the exciting world of grocery shopping. All alone and unattended. Pure indulgence. I realize now that bringing home a 4th child brought about the idea that grocery shopping could be luxurious. I certainly had never thought of that activity in those terms before. What, then, could constitute such an indulgence if you were to come home with your 9th, 10th, or even 11th child? Perhaps just a moment of peace and quiet in the midst of all of the excitement of everyday life could be simply sumptuous. When I hear about the day that occurred during the 2nd week after Pat was brought home from the hospital, I marvel at the complacency with which my mom tells the story. Pat was the 9th child and mom seemed to be able to exist on little or no sleep. My oldest brother had decided he would try to help my mom and take some of the kids away from the house for awhile. Pat was just 2 weeks old, mom needed rest, and Cookie was more than willing to help entertain the masses. With promises of excitement and entertainment for the youngsters, and armed with the help of the older kids, he piled as many of us as he could into the little English Ford and we all took out for a spin. This left the house relatively quiet for mom. Along with the newborn, there were only 2 toddlers left at home. I imagine that Mom put this moment down as one of luxury. Only 3 children at home for at least an hour meant plenty of time to recharge and recoup. As Cookie entertained his brothers and sisters I guess that the level of excitement must have started to wane a little. After all, there were so many people crammed into one car and we had been on so many “drives” for so many different reasons, that we had seen all there was to see in Navasota. Leave it to Cookie, though, to make sure that there would not be a dull moment for us. What would be wrong with seeing if the little English Ford (loaded with 6 little Swansons) could fit on the railroad tracks? It certainly looked as though the wheels were about the same width as the railroad tracks that wound their way through downtown Navasota. With much encouragement from Hunter and Jimmie; and with the inspiring looks of awe that he constantly received from the younger kids, Cookie guided the Ford onto the tracks. There was success for a minute, but of course, there was no way that the car could stay on the tracks for long. And, of course, there was no way the car was coming off of the tracks, either. Now, this was excitement! Try as they might, the boys could not get the car free from the tracks. Being the resourceful son that he was, Cookie sent Bill running home to tell mom that somehow the car got stuck on the train tracks downtown. In the meantime, a crowd was gathering to watch the latest Swanson situation. A train was scheduled to arrive on the tracks in the next few minutes. When Bill arrived home out of breath to relay the situation to mom, she was galvanized into action. As she tells the story, she says she “grabbed the infant off of the top bunk and swept the two toddlers under her arms.” She went to my grandmother’s house in the block behind our house to find a vehicle that could take her to the rescue. (When I ask her why there was an infant on the top bunk she just shrugs and says, “That’s just where I put him!”) She piles the group of kids into the only car available. Never mind that the car did not have brakes; there were children to be rescued, and surely she could manage. As Bill guides her through downtown toward the location of the trouble, she spots my dad’s car parked at the coffee shop. Without use of any brakes, she whips the car around and coasts to a halt in front of the cafe. After explaining the situation, my dad, and the rest of the coffee shop regulars, head for the tracks in the next block. One man runs down the railroad line in hopes of flagging down the train that is now well on its way to town. Several men, along with most of my brothers, helped to lift the car off of the track as the train grinded to a halt before there was any harm or damage inflicted to anyone or anything. My dad thanks his friends, the train starts back on its journey, the kids all pile back into the little English Ford, the townspeople head back home and we are all idly wondering what we would have for dinner that night. My mom had already returned home and missed the car being lifted off of the tracks. At the telling of this story, I am shocked that she did not stay to see if the train actually stopped before ramming the car. How did she make herself leave before knowing that all of her kids were safe? She calmly explains that she knew that everyone was out of the car and that Papa was in charge of the situation. She needed to make sure that she could get home safely with no brakes and since everyone in town was near the tracks watching all of the excitement, the most practical time to leave was right then while there was no one on the road. She had to keep making several extra turns around several extra blocks to make sure that the car would slow down, but she, too, arrived home safe and sound. I know that the coffee shop and Pookie’s beauty shop and Pederson’s Drug Store had plenty to talk about that day. Accounts of the near miss provided lots of entertainment for everyone around town. For my mom and dad, it was just another typical day at the office. The more that I look back, the more I realize that it must have taken a massive amount of creativity to be able to recognize when one of those moments of luxurious peace and quiet actually occurred. My parents must have intuitively known when to grab hold of those sweet, uncomplicated, sparse moments of calm, and bask in the peacefulness that each one must have brought. Is that why I have such a clear picture of my 5 foot tall mom standing on tip toe to kiss my 6 foot 2 tall dad every single morning before he left for work and every single evening when he returned home from work? Were they just grabbing a moment of peace?
The train story is just one of the Sunday lunch stories that show me that, indeed, everything is relative. Things like excitement, entertainment, and luxury. Sure, the kids were stuck on the railroad tracks, but all of us felt the thrill of being alive. Maybe the rescue vehicle didn’t have any brakes, but how capable my mom must have felt to have beaten the odds. Perhaps the respite from having everyone underfoot did not last quite as long as anticipated, but just look how the younger kids kept putting Cookie higher and higher on a pedestal for his powers of entertainment. Maybe there was always a bit a drama surrounding our family, but just consider how a whole village was mesmerized. I am sure that there were nerves that were stretched thin during the whole escapade, but it was followed up with smiles and what ifs and a gratefulness that is still crystal clear as the story is told today. As I look back on my childhood and life, I see that perhaps we did not recognize until later the pure luxury of having parents that handled constant excitement with such a strong sense of confidence and calm. After becoming a parent myself, I will be forever grateful that their actions helped me to recognize and acknowledge the most ultimate of luxuries. The luxury of having a husband with kind, gentle, strong and capable arms that could hold me tight through all forms of excitement. The luxury of having a husband who knew how to enjoy all that life could throw at him. The luxury of having a husband who could recognize and share those rare moments of peace that are sometimes hidden when raising children. Truly there are forms of entertainment that make the heart grow stronger. How luxurious to be able to sit back and really enjoy the ride.

The Mayor

Papa always seemed a giant among men. Does everyone inherently feel that way about their father? Maybe it was his tall stature, or his persistently calm demeanor, or perhaps it was the smile that emanated from way down deep inside that made each one of us feel as though everything would be okay as long as Papa was around. Apparently we were not the only ones who felt that way. Papa was elected mayor of our hometown of Navasota. I look back now and wonder where in the world he found the time to take the reins of this small town. I am sure he thought if he could run his extraordinarily large family with an appearance of success, then running the town would be nothing. Part of the confidence people placed in my dad came from the unquestioning supposition that he would always do what was right. If we ever found ourselves wavering on what we should or should not do, he would tilt his head to the side a little, and calmly say, “Just do what you feel is right.” No more questioning, no arguing and no explanations. Just the calm delivery of his basic philosophy of life, and his absolute belief in us. He lived pretty simply for someone who seemed so important. He would leave his charcoal plant and head for a meeting with the town council. Papa did not run home and change clothes. He would just fold his long legs to scrunch his 6 foot 2 inch frame in his tiny car, head for town hall, stomp his charcoal covered feet at the door and become the town’s mayor as he entered the building dusting the black soot off of his clothes. He was real. He was honest. He was stable. I am sure he was to Navasota what he was to our family. The voice of reason in a mass of confusion. The reality that there is so much goodness all around us if we just take a minute to look. The gentleness that makes you understand that there is beauty everywhere; in clouds, in colors, in architecture, in food, in family, in Sunday drives, in quiet, and even in chaos.

Papa would never dream of calling in favors by using his position of mayor. His children, however, seemed to have a little trouble understanding this particular stand. There were times when “my dad’s the mayor” just came in way too handy. Bill and Martin in particular seemed to invoke that statement much more often than the rest of us. One of the major advantages of being part of a large family is that playmates were built in. Bill and Martin woke up every morning ready for an adventure. Their imaginations sparked such remarkable excursions! I am sure that most of these exploits did not intend to involve the law, but with them, even a simple game of good old neighborhood football could provide extra excitement. On one particular occasion, the gang had gathered at the football field for a quick pick-up game. The next play was on the verge of being snapped when Bill’s attention was drawn toward a movement off to the side of the field. As the boys studied the object, they noticed that whatever was causing the commotion was closing in on them. And “it” was coming at them pretty fast. But, they knew no fear. They were the self-appointed protectors of the city of Navasota, Texas. As the object drew nearer, they all stood stock still and watched in amazement as the animal came loping toward them. According to the story the animal was an escaped kangaroo. As their interest grew, so did the realization that if this was indeed an animal that had escaped from a circus (and where else would a kangaroo come from?) then there would no doubt be quite a sizeable reward for its capture and return. The kangaroo leapt across the entire width of the football field in only 2 gigantic bounds, and the boys were in hot pursuit. Now, you must keep in mind that the adventure started on the actual high school football field which was close to downtown Navasota. Their chase took them past the statue of LaSalle and behind houses. They sailed past downtown businesses and darted through alleyways. The caravan of kids chased the kangaroo to a vacant house which the animal skirted beneath to hide (or rest). According to who tells the story, it was without any thoughts of danger to themselves and only the desire to protect all of Navasota that they tried to crawl under the house to flush out the beast. Our dog, Tinker, growled and snapped at the boys as she tried to protect them from their zealousness. The dog was the only thing standing between the boys and the underground hiding spot of the animal. After several anxious moments, the kangaroo made a mad dash from the back side of the house and the chase continued. They ran back through the streets of downtown and headed to the creek which runs through Navasota. Finally, they had the animal cornered. After studying the situation, the boys were not sure what to do next. Although it was hidden in the brush and not plainly visible, the animal was definitely trapped. The gang decided they would need extra reinforcements to capture the beast. They played a quick paper, rock, scissors game to decide who would call the police this time. Martin, the youngest in the group, lost and had to make the rescue call. Martin called for the help of Navasota’s finest. Now, the police department had experienced calls from the Swanson kids before and tried to be polite and understanding as they told the boys to let the animal go. Kangaroos would probably not inflict harm on anyone. But persistence, and a vision of the weapons that could be bought with reward money, ignited their desire to succeed and they would not be put off so easily. This was not Martin’s lucky day as the 2nd paper, rock, scissors routine landed him the odd man out once again. He repeated the call to the police department and announced that his dad was mayor and if someone did not come out to help with this situation, and come quickly, he would have them all fired. Not only the police, but the fire department as well became involved in the hunt for the escaped kangaroo. It seems that the animal was captured quite easily once the law arrived on the scene. As it turned out, the animal was not actually a kangaroo. When you think about it, a greyhound dog could easily be confused with a kangaroo if it was being chased and was traveling at a high rate of speed.

Papa was not the only important person in town. The boys had a club whose main mission was the protection of the citizens of Navasota. The club, whose numbers varied but seemed to hover around ten, had meeting places all over town. However, the headquarters of “The Home of the Brave” was the old Emory home down the street from our house. This house was vacant and was on a huge lot overgrown with bushes, trees, and brush. An absolute paradise for young fertile imaginations. The clubs main purpose was to protect everyone from the Russians. Every single day they would add to their arsenal. The trees were loaded with bottle rockets aimed in every direction. The members all sported blisters as the lot was eventually filled with deep trenches and holes that were camouflaged with brush. Sling shots were ready should the enemy attack. B-B guns were secreted away. Extra supplies of food and drink were always kept on hand. And, daily each of the boys would take a little of their lunch money to beef up the club’s account. To make sure the money was safe; they buried the funds on the vacant lot right next to their headquarters. After a plan of attack was mapped out in case of a Russian invasion, and all weapons were properly positioned, the boys went about their other business. You know, the business of camping out, playing whatever ball that was in season, building things, roasting birds (with or without cleaning them), chasing kangaroos, spying, and any other activities that came to mind. Since the Russians never did actually attack, the vacant lot with all of its weapons was almost forgotten. They did find out later, however, that their traps worked. When new construction started in that area, several workmen fell into ditches. When brush and trash were burned, the bottle rockets did not scare the Russians, but carpenters ran for cover. Even invoking the “my dad’s the mayor” line did not convince the crews to tear up the slab so that the club’s money chest could be recovered.

I guess my mother was lucky in that she really did not have time to wonder where the boys would be heading as they left home each day to pursue another adventure. And, I am sure that my dad may have cringed a little when he found out that the boys pulled rank on the policemen by informing them that their dad was mayor. Was my mother too busy to worry, or did she just let her sons gain confidence by giving them time to explore life on their own? Was it the easy way out for my Dad to just encourage us to “do the right thing” or was it more difficult for him to bite his tongue as he watched us try to understand for ourselves what really felt right? Even though he may not have approved of the boys using his title to get what they needed, I can see the smile that could not be suppressed each time the kangaroo story was told. I watch the way that my brothers still rush to rescue others to this day and know that there are bottle rockets still in position if they are ever needed. In their actions I see the gentleness, the kindness and the beauty that Papa was always aching for us to see. I see his head tilted and his smile spreading as his boys gently remind me that I am still surrounded by so much goodness no matter how heavy my heart feels. And anyway, if things don’t pan out like we want them to, we can always listen. I am sure we can still call on the mayor for advice.