Matter of fact, any time when anyone was on the computer for any type of game or anything interesting there was ALWAYS a group watching, that is until Mom came into the room and they would all scatter back to their respective school areas.
Hannah HATED typing class, and Mavis Beacon always stared down her nose at the end of each class, and with her computerized voice said ‘practice makes perfect, how about another try?’ I loved my math games that I got for Christmas one year from Auntie Coach, and each new level I gained was applauded greatly by the little brothers who always crowded around to watch.
For everyone it was different, I remember Missy absolutely loved her piano lessons that the computer gave her, and the little piano keyboard that hooked up to the computer always fascinated me. When we started school we would always have schoolwork to do on the computer that was a lot of fun, then stuff that wasn’t so much fun, and then the worst favorite of all. The ‘computer closet’ was a place of fun, games, tears and sorrows. I finally got over my fear of that toilet, but it took a year or two. As he was down on his hands and knees with the Pine Sol and a bucket I tried to explain to him why I didn’t do my ‘business’ upstairs, but I’m afraid he didn’t understand. I promise I didn’t want to have to go wake Dad up at two in the morning to come clean up the mess that was on his beautiful hardwood floor, but hey, a girls got to do what a girls got to do. I didn’t make it all the way to the bathroom, and as soon as I got by the computer closet my stomach revolted. I knew I couldn’t, or wouldn’t stare right into the face of the horrible toilet upstairs. One night I woke up on my green pallet and felt like I was going to be sick so I headed downstairs as fast as I could. I always took the long journey down the twenty two stairs to the smaller, daintier commode in the downstairs bathroom with its beautiful wooden cover and small round seat that fit my bottom just right. The tall elongated toilet was a horror to me, and I never, ever, if I could help it used the upstairs bathroom when I had to perform my ablutions. I had this feeling of aversion each time I had to help clean the upstairs bathroom.
#THE LAST MR BIGGS HOE CHECK PATCH#
Dad would fuss at us about putting tacks or pushpins into the wall, and I remember when we were trying to sell the house that he came in and had to patch quite a few areas of sheetrock thanks to us not listening to him.
#THE LAST MR BIGGS HOE CHECK FULL#
Our sheetrock walls were full of pushpin holes as our tack boards were always too full to hold all our latest drawings, paintings, pictures and cards. Our bedroom closet actually had a door on it, which was something I took for granted until we moved to our other homes…I would crawl in the corner of it behind the hanging clothes, close the folding wood panel door and hide when Mom or Dad or one of the older kids would call me to do chores or ‘help’ cook in the kitchen. The ceiling above me when I slept under the bed consisted of a plywood graffiti board, which over time had more and more and more wrote or colored on it. Sometimes I would crawl up under the Hannah’s bed on the floor in the nine or ten inch space there and sleep under the bed pretending that I was in a cave, and there were bats after me each time Missy or Hannah shifted on the above bunks. I didn’t have a bed in there, just a fold up ugly green pallet that pulled out from under the lower bunk on the bunk beds-Hannah’s bed-each night. The girls bedroom upstairs is where that I spent a lot of my time when I was younger. Of course it has changed a lot since we sold it and moved, the new owners covered up, dug out, painted over, and cemented down a lot of what was part of our ‘home’ through the years, but it is now THEIR home so I can partially accept it. I drove by it the other day and got a little misty eyed just seeing it. The log home on Bluff View Road that I called home for the first eleven years of my life still holds a lot of memories. Nope, not done, but I wanted to share a few of these older memories as I wrote…
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