Vignettes of Life (part 2)

                                                Indian Princesses

When I was in 2^nd grade, my sister, Suzan and I went to a group called “Indian Princesses”. Now besides this being considered NOT ‘Politically correct’ these days, it was a small group in someone’s home. I have no idea if this was a nationally known group like the Girl scouts, but we were a part of it anyway.

We made head dresses and toy drums. My Mother even gave me long braids on either side of my head. I have always claimed my Native American heritage with pride. (I often wore braids, whether with the group or not)

This gathering was something to be respected as well. We even went to Nursing homes to deliver baskets of hand-made flowers, something only us young girls found beautiful. Well, now that I think of it, our recipients probably did too.

                                                Dad’s braiding

When Mom went to the hospital to have my little sister, Nancy, I was left in the care of a woman from our church that came to our house; I believe her name was Mrs. Likes. With a name like that, she was bound to make young children her friends. Dad still was home in the morning to help get the kids off to school, but when he went to work, Mrs Likes was there. Anyway, I remember my dad braiding my hair like my mother always did. At least it was intended to be. I remember standing there while he attempted the fine art of braiding. Not Fun! He was trying, and he just wanted to make me happy, so I was….I tried to be anyway.

I remember when my mom and dad brought my baby sister home from the hospital, I had been staying at our neighbors house, which was the parsonage. I don't know how long I had been there, but as the car pulled up, I was out the door running to see this new baby.

                                                My sister’s 10th (?) birthday

One of the traditions of our family was to have mom make our birthday cakes. Whichever kind we wanted, Mom would make it for us. She started from scratch. Making each step her own, she meticulously decorated each cake to be a representation of the recipient.

Well, on my older sister, Suzan’s 10^th birthday, I got to be in the kitchen before she brought out the cake to be displayed. There was one problem; the cake had a 9 on it. I said nine? Rather loudly, to which she suddenly told me to hush, thinking I was spoiling the surprise, and took it out for display in front of the birthday girl.

I don’t remember Suzan’s response, but I do know that mom fixed it, and nothing else was said.

So maybe I wasn’t so loud after all. Maybe I could have been louder.

                                               In Angie’s room

My cousin Angie is two years older than I and has always been 10 times prettier than I. I have always admired her, and still do. My mother would make sure that we would be able to hang-out with our cousins. She would make a point of going to her sister’s house, especially for my siblings and me. I would usually play with Danny who was one year younger, but sometimes I would follow Angie around. Many times, we sat in her room listening to an album by “Bread”.
I remember one time that we were together and I was holding her cat. I never owned a cat and didn’t know their instinct of sudden claws shooting out. We were having fun and a casual conversation when I decided I would throw her cat to her. A choice I have always regretted.

The animal instinct became evident when Angie screamed and grabbed her ear. Her cat’s claws had grabbed her earring and tore it from her ear in a downward cutting style. I don’t remember if or when it healed, but I do not throw cats anymore, ever.

I must have been forgiven as Angie has included me any time I go to visit her. I remember going to the hospital with her when she was in labor with her son. I rubbed her back and comforted her. After my accident she would invite me over to her house just to be together.

 In Angie’s room, I was accepted, always.