(Book Review) An American Childhood

(Book Review) An American Childhood Daisy Parker Book Review An American Childhood by Annie Dillard At first I had a hard time getting into Annie Dillard’s An American Childhood. Being a first grade teacher for over 20 years, I am used to reading very simple books. This is not the way she writes. One sentence (11 lines) was an entire paragraph! The more I read, the more I appreciated the way her words made me see it, hear it, and feel it. Her words are so realistic that I felt like I was sharing every moment with her as she describes going to dances, living among the steel factories of Pittsburgh, and listening to her dad sing “Li’Liza Jane”. Being a child growing up in the 50’s like Annie, we had some of the same childhood adventures. When she was describing playing baseball in an empty lot with all the neighborhood kids, it was like she was painting a picture of the empty lot next to my house. I could feel the hurt as Annie tells the story about how disappointed she was because they wouldn’t let girls play Little League baseball, and in the next chapter, I was sharing the thrill she felt as she watches a tornado hit her neighborhood. I loved it when she wrote about playing with the loose skin on her mother’s hands. Immediately, one of my childhood memories pops into my mind. Her words take me back to when I was only four years old, and I was holding the hands of my 100 year old great grandmother as I tried to make the protruding veins disappear. You will enjoy reading An American Childhood because Annie Dillard’s way with words will take you back to a time when children were safe to ride their bikes all around town, roam the neighborhoods with friends, and enjoyed spending summer vacations with their grandparents. She was right on the money when she wrote… “the events of our lives are like dots on a map that God connects to shape us into the person we will become”.

A Morning on His Farm

Daisy Parker Focal Point: Place A Morning on His Farm “Grab those buckets, girl.” I almost trip over the chair leg as I’m running to the back porch to get the two dented buckets. Holding one in each hand, I let the screen door slam behind me, as I hurry down the steps to catch up with Uncle Otis. It will be light soon because I hear that mean old rooster crowing. (I’ve been scared of that rooster ever since he chased me.) Walking close behind Uncle Otis, I try to place my feet where his black rubber boots are making big footprints in the dew. I feel goose bumps on my arms from the chill in the air, but soon it will be so hot that Uncle Otis will be taking off his tattered straw hat and using that ragged red handkerchief he carries in his back pocket to wipe the sweat off his face. The barnyard perfume fills the air. Only people with a passionate love for farm animals can appreciate this smell. The chain jiggles as Uncle Otis unlocks the gate. It amazes me how this soft sound lures about twenty animals to us. There’s a magical respect between these animals and Uncle Otis. They know his voice, his smell, his touch, and his love. They trust him completely. I would never walk in this pen alone, but when I’m with Uncle Otis, I feel perfectly safe walking among these magnificent animals. First we slop the pigs. It looks like garbage to me, but those pigs must love it by the way they gobble it up. I laugh at the huge black sow because the watermelon on her snout looks like she’s wearing smeared red lipstick. The horse, the cows, and the calves follow us to the crib barn. Putting the buckets on the ground, I follow Uncle Otis into the barn. I reach my hand into the burlap sack and scoop up a handful of oats. I slip out the barn holding out my hand to feed the old plow horse, Bell. As she gently nibbles the oats, I feel her soft lips and wet tongue tickle my hand. She lets me pet her soft nose until she sees Uncle Otis carrying the big bucket of oats to her trough. Then she immediately turns away from me and follows him. I grab my two milk buckets because the moment I’ve been waiting for all week finally arrives. I get to milk a cow! Ol’Betsy knows the routine. She slowly walks into this tiny wooded shed with the rusty tin roof and the dirt floors waiting for Uncle Otis to pour her food into the trough. While she’s eating, he hooks a rope around her neck. Then he sits on the milk stool and reaches for me to give him a bucket. Uncle Otis gently leans his head against Ol’Betsy’s warm side as his eyes focus on the rhythm of his strong fingers squeezing the soft utters. The steady beat of the milk hitting the bottom of the metal bucket sounds like a song to me. I’ve watched him milking Ol’Betsy for five days, and I think…this is going to be so easy. Not wanting to nag him, I start wiggling around hoping Uncle Otis will notice me. Finally he gets off the milk stool and says, “Sit down and let me show you what to do.” (I think it, but I don’t say it…I already know what to do.) “Take your thumb and first finger making a circle around her utter. Then squeeze real tight. Next, start curling your other three fingers going down the utter.” (He’s showing me with his big hands as he’s explaining it). I try to do exactly what Uncle Otis told me to do…no milk. I try pulling on the utters…no milk. I try twisting the utters……no milk. (Ol’Betsy should kick me to make me stop, but she just keeps on eating.) After trying for what seems like hours, huge tears start filling my eyes. Uncle Otis must have notice my tears. He could have teased me or said I told you it wasn’t easy, but he didn’t. He said, “Daisy Margaret, I think your hands are just a little bit too small. I bet by next summer when you’re seven, your hands will be much larger and you’ll have this bucket filled up with milk. Why don’t you just talk to Ol’Betsy and make her stand still for me while I finish milking her.” I was only six, but I never forgot how his kind words healed my broken heart that morning. Uncle Otis taught me to love and respect people, to be kind to animals, and to ride a horse. He tried several times to teach me how to milk a cow, but I never learned. (I guess my hands never got large enough.) This quiet, unselfish man never married. He took care of the family farm his entire life. Four years after his death, to honor my beloved uncle, I named my first born son, Benjamin Otis.

My Mother's Amazing Comfort

My Daisy Parker Focal point: Moment in Time My Mother’s Amazing Comfort I glance at the clock. The bright red numbers say 6:13. Thank goodness I don’t have to get up and face this day for 17 more minutes. I sit up and hug my pillow, hoping for some kind of comfort. It still seems like a horrible nightmare. I stare back at the clock – still 6:13. How strange. Today is 6-13-1998…the day I will bury my mother. As I reach to cut off the button on the alarm clock, my fingers touch my Daily Guideposts book that mother gave me last Christmas. I pick up the book. Huge crocodile tears began to drop all over the cover. For just a moment, I cuddle this book in my arms like I would hold a new born baby. I can feel my mother’s love. For more than 10 years, she made sure a Daily Guideposts was under the Christmas tree for me. Giving me this book was just one of the ways she shared her faith with me. Memories started pouring into my mind as fast as water pours out of a faucet. It hurts so bad I want to just turn them off, but I can’t. That’s all I will ever have now – just memories. I slip out of bed still holding my book tight to my chest as I head to the kitchen. With my book still cradled in my arms, I make the coffee. As the coffee’s brewing, I open my Daily Guideposts to June 13, 1998. As I begin reading the words, I can’t believe my eyes. This is the poem that was written on the page… “When I must leave you for a little while Please do not grieve and shed wild tears And hug your sorrow to you through the years. But start out bravely with a gallant smile, And for my sake and in my name Live on and do all things the same. Feed not your loneliness on empty days But fill each waking hour in useful ways. Reach out your hand in comfort and in cheer, And I in turn will comfort you and hold you near. And never, never be afraid to die… I’m waiting for you in the sky!” An instant peace comes over me. The words in this poem tell me what my mother wants me to do. “Coincidence” some may say. I know better. I needed this message to comfort me and to give me strength because my life will never be the same again. I whisper a thank you prayer and ask God to give His newest angel a message from me, “Mother, I’ll love you forever and please don’t worry about me any more. I will live on and do everything in my power to make you proud.” By now the aroma of the coffee has absorbed the kitchen as I am fixing my first cup. A warm comfort is filling my body as I’m sipping the caramel colored coffee (I like extra sugar and cream). Mother loved her coffee this way, too. Wiping the tears from my eyes, the memories of the two of us drinking coffee into the wee hours of the night while we giggled over our silly secrets, brings a smile to my face. I want to stay wrapped in this memory forever, but I feel a “little nudge” letting me know it’s time to come back to reality. Death has taken her body, but death will not steal my memories of her. Good memories are a gift from God, and I plan to use this gift every time I’m lonely or I’m sad or I’m just missing my mother. If it’s only for a brief moment, I can slip away into the comfort of my memories whenever I need to feel her love. I need to quit thinking and get ready. Everyone’s meeting at my parents’ house before the funeral. Walking through the front door, my heart sinks when I see her empty rocker. My mother should be sitting there, smiling at me saying, “Hi Honey, I’m so glad you came over.” I fight back the tears. With the commotion of 46 people in the house, it should be a family reunion, but it’s not. Squeezing between my cousins, I move to the corner of the room. Memories flash through my mind as I gently rub my fingers across the back of Mother’s rocker. Finally I get the courage to call everyone into the living room so I can share the poem from my Daily Guideposts. As they listen to the words, I notice this calming peace on everyone’s face. Then smiling through my tears, I say, “It’s time to go and celebrate her life.” Mother's Amazing Comfort

His Giving Spirit

Daisy Parker
Focal point: person


His Giving Spirit

If ever there was a man that had the “giving spirit” of Santa Claus, it was my daddy. He fits the description of Santa Claus perfectly (except for the snow white beard) in the poem T’was the Night Before Christmas. For over 25 years, he loved being Santa at all the Christmas events for our small town. The happiness he brought to children and adults wasn’t only at Christmas, it continued year round.

In the 50’s, 60’s, and 70’s times were hard, and Daddy had to teach school, coach football, and sell insurance to support our family. Even with this much responsibility, he found time to volunteer. I can still remember Daddy’s bold voice on that old CB radio, “K-O-M-5-2-3-3 mobile to base. Can you copy?” These old radios were the only means of communication when he helped form the Berkeley County Rescue Squad in 1966. Because of the dedication of my daddy and many other fine men, hundreds of people have been rescued when the waters of our lakes turned violent.

I still marvel how Daddy poured his heart and soul into his coaching. His four year football scholarship to Furman gave him the skills he needed to develop fabulous football teams. He was a tough coach, but he was loved and respected by his players. The school couldn’t afford a blocking sled, so Daddy would sit and mash the brakes of his old 1950 ford while the football team pushed that car all over the field. This wasn’t the best thing for the car, but he had some very strong football players! Clean uniforms were important, but the school didn’t have a washer and a dryer. Daddy would bring those smelly, sweaty uniforms to our house and wash them. He even had to build bleachers for the fans. Whatever was needed, he did it!

Daddy shared his time and talents with many people, but he was still my daddy.

Being the only girl with three brothers, I was “Daddy's Little Girl”. Never in my entire life did I ever doubt his love for me. I remember he bought me the cutest red pony cart. We had one major problem. My pony was so small that we couldn’t find a harness small enough to fit him. Daddy went to the hardware store and bought some leather straps. Placing my pony between the bars of the pony cart, he said, “Daisy Margaret, hold that pony still while I measure him.” I talked to my pony and made him stand perfectly still while Daddy used his sharp knife to cut the leather straps. Then we were off to the shoe shop. Daddy showed the man at the shoe shop exactly where he needed to sew. In no time, my pony was pulling my friends and me all over the neighborhood.

Then in 1988, tragedy struck our family. While we were in Clio at my Uncle Frankie’s funeral (my daddy’s older brother) our house caught fire and burned. My poor Daddy buried his brother and lost his home and business in that one day. Our home, with its Southern hospitality, always welcomed family, friends, and customers. Daddy’s goal was providing honest service at anytime. A few days after the fire, in spite of his own troubles, he was sitting at a card table in the backyard helping customers.

Our house was rebuilt on the same lot, but his insurance office was moved to another location. Life got back to normal for our family. This was a great time in Daddy’s life because he was working only one job which gave him more time for fishing, hunting, volunteering, cooking, and spending time with his grandchildren!

There was always something delicious cooking at our house! Daddy was a fantastic cook. He won a National Catfish Stew contest, but his favorite food to cook was barbeque. His “old-timey” Hamer Barbeques thrilled everyone. The men sat around the campfire talking, laughing, and shoveling hot coals into the open pit all night as they slowly cooked the pigs. Early in the morning everyone was busy chopping meat and mixing it with that “special” sauce. By noon there would be over 200 people at the Hamer house to enjoy the food, fun, and fellowship.

Now my daddy loved people, but here was no one on this earth that he loved more than my mother. He loved telling stories. His favorite story was the day he fell in love with my mother. He’d get that precious grin on his face as he would say,
“Sit down here and let me tell you about the day I fell in love with Vonnie. It was the summer before my senior year in college. I needed money. My job was sweepin’ floors at the mill in Greenville. One day as I was sweepin’ up the floors, I happened to look out the window and I saw the most beautiful girl I had ever seen in my life. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. Then I turned to the man working beside me and told him to shake my hand. I want you to be the first man to congratulate me because I’m getting married! See that gorgeous girl. That’s the girl I’m going to marry.”

Daddy was known for dating a different girl every week, but from the moment he saw his beautiful Vonnie, he only had eyes for her. After graduation, he married my mother (she was only 17). Their marriage had the passion of newlyweds for 54 years. Mother died seven years before Daddy, and during these difficult years, his love and devotion was just as faithful to her as it was the first moment he saw her.

After mother’s death, Daddy spent most of his free time at the hunting club. I know he enjoyed the hunting, but the fellowship with all the hunters helped to fill up some very lonely days. He started a Christmas tradition for all the hunters and their families. Daddy had the best time shopping and wrapping gifts for everyone. Instead of a sleigh, he would fill up the back of his 1991 blue and white truck and haul all the presents to the hunting club. He made sure he wore his red Santa hat as he passed out hundreds of gifts.

One year he sewed these huge deer antlers on his Santa hat. As he was passing out gifts, Daddy said, “Bubba, What’s the biggest buck you’ve ever seen at this huntin’ club?”
“I think it was about 220 pounds,” Bubba replied.
“Nope,” my daddy said, “I weigh 260 pounds. I’m the biggest buck you’ve ever seen at this huntin’ club!” Daddy loved a good time!

The next year, Daddy was preparing another big Christmas when he got very sick and had to go into the hospital. He knew that he might not make it out of the hospital this time. He made me promise to take all the gifts to his friends. A week after my daddy died, I kept my promise. Wearing his Santa hat, I drove his old blue and white truck overflowing with gifts to the hunting club. I really believe that this day was harder than his funeral. Every heart was breaking. The tears of love were in everyone’s eyes as they accepted the last gift they would ever receive from my daddy.

During his 85 years on earth, God blessed Daddy with many gifts. “Loving” and “giving” were at the top of the list. So whenever you see Santa Claus, I want you to remember that there once lived a man that had the same “giving spirit” that Santa Claus represents. I know this is true because that man was my daddy, Ralph Hamer!

Sam the Man

still under construction

My entire life I wanted an Old English Sheepdog. I couldn't believe that my husband took me to Columbia to get my precious Sam on August 13,2000. (This would have been my mother's 74th birthday if cancer hadn't taken her away from me two years before). I held this bundle of fur in my lap all the way home. Sam was fun, loveable, and hairy. I know I broke five vaccuum cleaner in the six years that Sam lived in my house, but it didn't matter I loved this dog like no other dog I had ever had before.
Sam loved everyone and he thought everyone loved him just as much. He acted like he was still a tiny puppy even when he was 75 pounds. He didn't realize that he took up the entire chair when he wanted to snuggle with me. My four sons would say, "Sam can do no wrong. You love Sam more that you love us." I knew they were teasing me, but there really was something special about this dog.
I notice I was having trouble hearing out of my right ear. I went to the doctor to have it checked. I was sent for other test and I was diagnosed with MS. I remember going home and sitting on the floor in total shock. Tears began to fall down my cheeks. Big old Sam came over and licked the tears away. I hugged this big fur ball. That big slobbery kiss gave me the courage I needed. I decided that I wasn't going to let MS have control of me until I was 100 years old. I was planning to go to heaven at 100, so this is when I would deal with my MS.