Gingham Style

Back through the years
I go wonderin' once again
Back to the seasons of my youth
I recall a box of rags that someone gave us
And how my momma put the rags to use
There were rags of many colors
Every piece was small
And I didn't have a coat
And it was way down in the fall

Coat of Many Colors - Dolly Parton

Ok, ok, so this story is NOT about rags. I never wore rags. Repeat: never wore rags. Anywhere. Not even to Branson's in Seagoville, TX. Or to Welch's Grocery where a toddler me convinced Gene Altom I could read because I memorized most of the labels. Or to Gibson's where I bought my first ever VINYL RECORD ALBUM at the tender age of 12 (Kiss: Alive II) and my second ever album (Rita Coolidge - Anytime...Anywhere). This story is about childhood. Mine, as it were. Disclaimer: (lay off the colons already, right?)...I had an ideal childhood. I was then, and forever and always will be, blessed. As you read this entry, you're going to think me a bratty, ungrateful child. That is so not the case. I have amazing, gentle, loving parents who did nothing but sacrifice all they ever had and ever wanted so that I could be happy. They did this, though, in their one-of-a-kind pioneer meets flower child make-it-or-you-can't-have-it philosophy. Welcome to the world of Marsha & Ted Stilwell. Pull up a chair, why don't you?

You know the scene in Hope Floats where Gena Rowlands is on the staircase and Sandra Bullock is in the living room and she (Sandra/Birdie) yells at her mother, "Yeah, well I had the mom who brought stuffed road kill to school!" Or something like that.....Well my mother NEVER stuffed dead cats. Ever. But, momma did have a similar philosophy. Go big, my child, or just go home. Hence, I bring you the story of the blue & white gingham/checkerboard curtains. And shirts. And other various and sundry items. 

My father was born in 1927. He was intended for greatness. Had it not been for WWII, he was headed to Texas Tech and would have been the first child in his Great Depression era family to graduate from college. Daddy would've made a heck of an engineer. But, the war calleth, and nothing would ever be the same. So he owned various companies, worked multiple jobs, and eventually landed in Seagoville, TX in the mid-60's, where he opened a laundromat near Smith's Pharmacy (right smack dab behind Wade's Dry Cleaners). That's where he met my mother. Actually, that's where he met my Aunt Johnnie whom he hired to manage his newly opened laundromat. Momma wasn't far behind, at all, though. Now, daddy owned a business. Daddy owned some land in a then unincorporate area of town. Daddy was quite the catch! Imagine if Hank Williams Sr. and Clark Gable could be one person. That's my daddy. So he wooed. He courted. He danced a little, I am so sure. And, he won her heart. And proceeded to move her out to the country. Into a mobile home, which later became a "storage building" when he bought a church in Pleasant Grove and moved it way, way far away. That's my daddy! Children of the Depression are resourceful in a way that amazes me in only the best ways.

Meanwhile, life was quasi-normal growing up. Sure, there were a couple of winters where we ate mostly what was canned from the summer's garden. We shopped mostly at the unclaimed freight store in downtown Dallas. We sliced our own bacon. Thankfully, that was only a phase. I went to school smelling like smoked pork for a year. We installed a fence around the entire acreage comprised of carefully cut creosote telephone poles & chain link. We drank well water from a 40 ft well my daddy dug himself. I rinsed my hair with rain water collected from a tank behind the garage so I didn't have to subject my coif to hard water. Normal, right? 

But, back to those curtains. Rumor has it my father picked up "perfectly good" fabric somewhere. I don't recall the specifics but, based on his MO, it would've either have been the freight store or the city dump - like when he brought home approximately 75 dumped cans of "Cavalier Red" paint & turned my life into The Shining meets Grizzly Adams. But, that fabric! Baby blue and white gingham checkerboard. "Why, Mirt (his affectionate nickname for my mother that she still hates) you could surely do something with this." "Why yes, Ted," said she. "Why, it matches the blue glittery linoleum in the kitchen just perfectly!" Fast forward 3 days. Every window in the entire house has gingham curtains. Blue and white checkerboard EVERYWHERE. It was like we were being stalked by Dorothy Gail after the tornado dropped the house on the witch. But wait, there's more. Fast forward 3 more days. My parents are going country-western dancing. Probably to the Longhorn Ballroom where they once saw Willie Nelson wearing a tuxedo. Maybe the VFW. They call me into the kitchen. To take their picture. Wearing their newly fashioned BLUE & WHITE GINGHAM WESTERN PEARL SNAP SHIRTS THAT MY MOTHER JUST WHIPPED UP! Somewhere in time, a picture exists. It is of my parents wearing blue & white checkerboard shirts. Standing in front of blue & white checkerboard curtains. If you can control your vertigo, you can almost see their heads. This, my friends, is about as good as it gets. Until I tell you about the time I rode a donkey bareback. Let's pace ourselves, shall we?