I was going to write a short bit today about an historical village back home called Crossroads Village and Huckleberry Railroad. There are folks here who hear me talk about it and say, "Oh, it's just like Silver Dollar City!" No, it's not, it's not a frontier-themed amusement park, it's part of the Parks Department and is a learning experience. That's all I say about it for now, because something happened the other night at work that set me off a little, and reminds me a great deal of my Mom's Dad, my Grampa Max. As Mom raised me as a single parent, Grampa was a big part of my life and I often called him "Dad" as well as an adult. Grandma Edna was "Mom2" because, while she was his third wife, she looks an awful lot like my biological Grandmother.
Anyhow ... what happened, in short, was this. One of the x-ray machines in my area kept breaking down. The second time, one of the guys I work with was doing some stuff up near me, and made the comment that he didn't know why they were bothering to try to fix it, all they were going to do was n-rig it anyway. And he used The Word. The n-word. The one word guaranteed to send me over the top, along with a whole host of others at work. Seriously, they'll tolerate just about any amount of foul mouth as long as it isn't loud and offensive, and that is despite rules saying we aren't supposed to swear. But racial slurs are a fireable offense. Sadly, I had no witnesses that were certain they'd heard it, just they "thought" they heard it, so he only got a verbal reprimand. But it reminded me of my Grandpa Max.
You're wondering why. In the early days of the Civil Rights movement, my Grampa, his second wife (Doris) and their bunch of my adopted aunts and uncles all went to a black church. Mind, they didn't just attend. Grampa was involved with four black churches during those years, as he was ordained as a Pilgrim's Holiness minister, and preached Baptist, mostly. One of those churches he was youth pastor. Another, the associate pastor. A third, he helped found. Mom even has an old article from the paper about it, complete with a photo of him working with some of the congregants. It's so old, the article refers to them as "Negro churches." As many of these people were ones I grew up around, one way or another, I take extreme umbrage towards use of that particular word in any form. It's a highly offensive word. You want me to go off on you and turn you to hamburger? Use that word around me, and you will discover a whole new meaning to "going to the Devil's playground."
I remember when Grampa died ... gosh it's been eight or nine years ago now. I hunted through Mom's scrapbooks for that article and made nice photocopies of it for all four churches mentioned. Then I took a half-day I had off and ran them around to all four of those churches. I explained to the church secretaries that my Grandad had passed, their church was mentioned in an old newspaper article about him, and thought they might like a copy for their archives. Every single one of those ladies said something like, "Oh, my yes, we certainly would love a copy!! And now, let's take you to meet Pastor. He'll want to pray with you and talk to you about your Grampa. We remember him so well. So sad he is gone."
The biggest of the churches, the one where he'd been a youth pastor, was amazing. I ran into a young man there who was in his early twenties. I mentioned why I was there and he said something to the effect of he remembered hearing about my Grampa from his grandparents telling stories all the time. Then I got to meet the grandparents. And the pastor, and most of the church elders, AND most of the church ladies. Seems there was some sort of shindig going on and I'd managed to fall into the middle of it. Four hours after I started, I went to see my Mom at work for a few minutes, and she asked how it went. I said, "I have been blessed and prayed over so much in the last few hours, I think I'm set for a month."
At Grampa's funeral, there were arrangements from all four churches, and the big one had also faxed a letter to the church where the funeral was held, and the minister presiding over the service read it during things. My Grampa was so loved, I don't think there was a dry eye in the place.
I have a lot of good memories of Grampa. From the copperhead story I mentioned before, to helping with the chickens and rabbits then, to going fishing with him off the neighbor's dock. Those were great days for a little girl. And when he stayed with Mom and me for a while after we got our first house, I remember a lot of afternoons when I'd come home from school, and we'd grab spoons and the jar of peanut butter. I'd sit in his lap and we'd watch cartoons together while eating peanut butter out of the jar. I'm sure he had things he would have like to do, other than that, but spending time with me was important to him, and he sacrificed a lot of what he wanted to do so we could have time together. Even now, I love peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and have them daily at work for lunch. But I still can't open the jar without thinking of Grampa.
I did have to take the day off yesterday, though, much as I hated to. Late afternoon appointment with the eye doctor, and Quentin went with me, just in case they needed to dilate my eyes. They didn't, but it turned out okay. I've been using cheaters for a while to read and such, and the last couple of weeks, things have been causing me some eyestrain. Having had regular glasses before, I know this is a sign that your glasses, cheaters or not, are not quite in line with your eyes. So it was off to the eye doctor today to get them checked. I am now officially old. I have to have bifocals. My right eye is pretty good, and with using both eyes, I have 20/20 vision yet. My left eye has always been problematic, and at 46, I am essentially nearly blind on the left.
Everything is so blurry without extreme work on the left lens that for reading and other fine work, I'm really in trouble on that side. Quentin made the mistake of telling the doctor he would make sure I took care of my eyes, and got asked how old he was and when he'd last seen an eye doctor. I have to laugh. Quentin got to put on the cheaters and read a bit off the story card to see what his vision is like, and got recommended to get +2.50 diopter reading glasses. So he did that, and my no-line bifocals are ordered. I only have about a week before they are in, and my vision troubles will be over for a couple more years. Quentin is now under orders to come in to get a full checkup by the spring to see what his vision is doing.
Of course, all of thise also means I have had to set the zoom on my internet stuff to 125%, because even with a 15" screen, that little bit extra will help with easing some eyestrain. It also means I read more Kindle books from now on. I do love my hardcopy books and will continue to get them, but with ebooks, I can much more easily zoom in and ease eyestrain problems as well. So, all in all, it's a quiet day here, and I'll do what I can on paying stuff. I have to be careful to limit things a bit till my glasses are in, but other than that, I'm good to go!
KINDLE FREEBIES OF INTEREST
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