Susan Decuir Articles

Ugh! Spring is here. Interpretation being—it’s time for the dreaded “Spring Cleaning.” With so many fun things coming up, like the grandchildren’s end of the school year program, Evan’s eighth grade graduation, his fourteenth birthday, senior center events, etc., perhaps I’ll be so busy I’ll just skip some of the bigger cleaning projects.


Then, suddenly—Coronavirus—a highly contagious, fast moving virus invaded our world. Texas Governor Abbot instructed everyone to shelter in place for our own safety, to go out only when necessary, to wear a mask if we had one, wash our hands often, and use hand sanitizer.  No one knew how long this would last.


As a senior adult, I was in the high-risk category, plus I take immunosuppressants twice a day due to a kidney transplant eleven years ago. Avoiding sick people and applying hand sanitizer every time I go out is my daily norm. Thankfully, I found several masks leftover from my kidney transplant on the top shelf of my medicine closet.  


When everything closed, except for necessities like grocery stores, pharmacies, gas stations, and drive-thru or curbside delivery restaurants, I was thankful that I had two library books that I hadn’t read before the library was also shut down.  


When schools were closed, I was thankful that my grandchildren are used to being homeschooled. The two oldest attend a homeschool academy three days a week. Ava, in the first grade, goes two days a week. The other days my daughter administers their assignments at home, sent by their teachers through the computer.


 I sure do miss hugs and kisses from my daughter and grandchildren. Thankfully, my daughter set up my cell phone so we could face time. It’s not the same, but it is definitely better than not seeing their smiling faces at all.  Sadly, the school events I was looking forward to were also cancelled.


In fact, everything on my calendar had been cancelled. My exercise classes, hot dog day, the camera club, luncheons, and every special event at the Carrollton and Farmers Branch Connection Senior Centers were cancelled. Even my teeth cleaning appointment. What was left? What would I do after I read my two books?


Ugh! Spring cleaning, that’s what was left, beyond the usual vacuuming, dusting, mopping, etc.  With no place to go and with all that time on my hands, I devised a plan to tackle one project a day.

 
The master bedroom lace curtains, neglected for several years, are now sparkling clean and smell as fresh as a walk through the Dallas Arboretum on a Spring day. When it’s open again. I washed and ironed the kitchen curtains another day. I didn’t want to overdo it. Ha ha. 
One day I emptied out the dusty drawer that housed decades of greeting cards from family and friends with the intention of sorting through them and throwing most of them away. After reading one heart touching message after another and wiping back many tears, I realized how blessed I am to have so many loving, caring, family and friends. Every card went back into the dusty drawer, but at least it was more organized. 


Ron, my husband, didn’t give it a thought when I climbed onto a stool, a soapy wet rag in hand, and dragged that stool from room to room washing the dust off the top of every door in the house. The fans and fixtures received their spring baths the next day.    


Ron climbed onto the stool another day to take down the beautiful glass bowls (some were moms) housed on a top kitchen shelf. No telling how long it has been since I washed them.      


Now that my house has been spring cleaned better than ever, perhaps I will plan a big celebratory party when things get back to normal. Keep on praying everyone, and stay safe. This too shall pass.  

June/July 2020

Best Spring Cleaning Ever

“It’s so hot out you could fry an egg on the sidewalk,” the local TV weatherman joked in the 1950s.  It’s as true now as it was back then in the blistering Texas summer sun in North Dallas. 


Dad moved his family from upstate New York to an apartment on Hudnall Street in Dallas the summer of 1953. Years later Mom would say, “It was so hot I thought we had moved to hell.” No wonder! There was no air-conditioning, and Mom grew up in St. John’s, Newfoundland where winters were so frigid the laundry froze solid on the clothesline, and the average summer high was in the 60s.
Mom was hopeful for some relief when they bought a home in North Dallas with a water cooler and an attic fan. With the windows open, and the attic fan pulling in hot air, a box fan on the floor blowing the hot air through the house, and with the water cooler on—it was not only hot, but humid and windy as well. At least that’s what I remember. We all rejoiced the day Dad brought home a window air-conditioner.    


Though it was finally cool at home, it was miserable in school. Air-conditioning didn’t come to Dallas schools until around 1967, and I graduated in 1964. 


On sizzling summer days, my two brothers, neighborhood friends, and I pleaded with our moms to drive us to Walnut Hill Swimming Pool. It was a special treat when one of our moms gave in to our begging and took a carload of us to the pool. Admission was only a quarter.        
Back then we played outside most of the time. We learned ways to beat the heat, whether running through a neighbors’ water sprinkler, taking a dip in some little kid’s plastic pool, or taking sips of tepid water from a neighbors’ water hose. 


Every kid in our neighborhood scurried home in search of a dime from their piggy bank or from their mom when we heard that familiar tune, Turkey in The Straw, playing in the distance.  


With a dime secured in our sweaty hands, we lined up by the curb, drooling by the time the white ice cream truck—tempting our taste buds with images of Drumsticks, Fudgsicles, Popsicles, and Ice Cream Sandwiches displayed on every side—turned onto our street.   


We pressed in to find our favorite. I loved Fudgesicles and Dream Sickles. My girlfriends and I sat beneath a shade tree and savored our frozen treats, delighting in our brief relief from the heat. The boys ran off in another direction with theirs.  


Sometimes Mom made popsicles by filling up an ice cube tray (Who remembers those?) with cherry, orange, or grape Kool-Aid. She placed the tray into the freezer and my brothers and I knew we would have a sweet treat later that day.     


I am sure you have special ice cream memories of your own. Who doesn’t love an ice cream treat one in a while!  I remember my dad saying, “I scream, you scream, we all scream for ice cream.” And I thought he made that up all by himself. He was the biggest kid of all. I know that when I eat ice cream, I feel like a kid again. Don’t you?


Summer is just around the corner ya’ll. Enjoy! I know that on that first hot day I’ll be heading for Dairy Queen for an M&M Blizzard.•

April/May 2020

Beating The Summer Heat 

For as far back as I can remember, Mom, born in Newfoundland in 1920 when it was still a British crown colony, drank a of cup of hot tea with a teaspoon of sugar and a few drops of milk every morning. 


Dad, born in Dunkirk, New York in 1919, met Mom while he was stationed in St. John’s, Newfoundland during WWII. They fell in love, married in New York City in 1944, had three children, then moved to Dallas, Texas in 1953—the land of sweet iced tea. 


In the steaming hot Texas summers, sometimes Mom would drink a glass of Lipton® instant iced tea, but I never saw her drink nor make a pot of coffee. Nor did Dad, unless he drank coffee at work. So, by the time I graduated from high-school in 1964 at seventeen, I had never tasted coffee. 


It wasn’t as though I had never been exposed to coffee. Several of Mom’s neighborhood friends drank coffee. But one neighbor, Mrs. Kemp, was from England. One of my fondest memories was when she would invite me to join her and her daughter (my friend) for tea at four o’clock in the afternoon. What I remember the most were the scrumptious crumpets and sweet treats she served with the tea.


 In the 50s and 60s, coffee commercials seemed to dominate Television commercials. Mrs. Olsen was the smiling grandmotherly lady with an accent who promoted Folger’s® coffee as the mountain grown coffee—giving it a richer and better flavor. Maxwell House® coffee commercials began with the melodic sound of percolating coffee before touting their message: Maxwell House tastes as good as it smells, and it’s good to the last drop.  Though coffee did smell delicious, I was never tempted to try it.


Then, following high school graduation, I landed my first job in downtown Dallas in the Cotton Exchange Building as an IBM Keypunch Operator for Texoma Gins. During our break, I noticed that everyone in the office drank coffee. When I commented on how yummy the coffee smelled, one of my co-workers said, “Would you like a cup of coffee?” 


She gasped when I told her that I had never tasted coffee. I guess it was a rule that if you worked you drank coffee, because she coaxed me into trying a cup. She watched while I took my first sip. It was bitter. I must have scrunched my face because she said, “You might like it better with sugar and cream.”  I tried it. And it was better. But still, I wasn’t that interested.


As the decades passed, I went through phases when I would drink a cup of coffee once in a while, sometimes making it at home, but I soon tired of it. Then—well, about fourteen years ago I discovered a little coffee shop called Starbucks. Oh my!


It was overpriced for sure, but they made the most delicious mocha drink ever, topped with a generous amount of their scrumptious homemade whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle.  I ordered decaf because the straight coffee was so strong it would make your hair curl. 
Later I graduated to a tall (their version of small) decaf, nonfat vanilla latte with whipped cream on top. Through the years I have tried many of their drinks including frozen Frappuccino’s with enough sugar in it to keep me going all day.   


But now that I am a mature adult over 70, I save Starbucks for a special treat. Besides, I can make a decent cup of coffee with half and half at home for pennies, or a cup of hot chocolate made with milk, Hershey’s Syrup, with a spray of whipped cream and a chocolate drizzle on top as tasty as a Starbuck’s mocha, leaving me more money to spend on my grandchildren.


And a cup of coffee is only 25 cents at the senior center. Wisdom truly does come with age. “For the Lord giveth wisdom: out of his mouth cometh knowledge and understanding.” •

February/March 2020

My First Cup of Coffee

“When you get old and out of shape, remember girdles are only $2.98. Ha ha. Ha ha.” This is just one silly sample from my 1950s childhood autograph book, recently retrieved from the depths of a dusty bottom dresser drawer—buried beneath a bevy of childhood memorabilia: my jewelry box, diary, a treasure box of foreign coins, a jar of gypsum from the sand dunes in White Sands, New Mexico from a family vacation, and…well, you know. Stuff. 


I clearly remember how much fun my school and neighborhood girlfriends and I had signing each other’s autograph books and/or autograph dogs (popular in the 50s) competing to come up with the funniest, cleverest, or craziest jingle, such as: ”I’m yours until Niagara Falls”; “U R 2 Good 2 B True”; “I saw you in the ocean, I saw you in the sea ~~~~~~~~~~~I saw you in the bathtub. Oops! Pardon me”; “Roses are red, leaves are green, you got a shape like a washing machine”; “When you get married and have twins, don’t come to me for safety pins,” and “Don’t fall from a mountain, don’t fall from a tree, the best way to fall is to fall in love.”


I guess you could call it the social media of the times. Yet, what we wrote was always  done in innocent fun, never intended to offend or to be mean. 


Bonnie, my best friend in seventh and eighth grade (1958 and 1959), the only school friend I’ve kept in touch with throughout the decades, signed my autograph book with this beautiful poetic message: “When the golden sun is setting and your heart with care is free, when of others you are thinking, will you sometimes think of me.”  Bonnie went on to become an English teacher. Can you tell?


Bonnie and I exchange Christmas cards every year. And with her now living in Oregon and me still in Texas, Facebook keeps us up-to-date as well. Living from one century to another, we have seen some amazing changes in the world of technology. 


But, when I saw a graduation autograph dog in a dollar store, I just had to buy one for my granddaughter, Emma, graduating from the fifth grade, so she could experience some of the joy I had in the days before technology changed the way we correspond.


Curious, I did a Google search on 50’s autograph books. I was flabbergasted to find a brand new one just like mine. If can spare $89.95, you can purchase one of your own.  I am confident that is a lot more than Mom and Dad paid for mine.  


Remember, “If in heaven we don’t meet, hand-in-hand we will stand the heat, but if it gets extremely hot, Pepsi Cola© hits the spot.” It is my prayer that we all choose God’s way and go to heaven. 


“I like sugar, you like tea, so have some coffee with me.”


“Yours until the Greyhound buses have puppies.”  

October/November 2019

My 1950S Autograph Book 

Who doesn’t like to sit around the table playing a fun, friendly board game or a lively game of hearts or spades with family and friends?  
As far back as I can remember, the 1950s to be exact, my dad, a big kid a heart, patiently taught my two brothers and me how to play card games, cribbage, checkers, and chess. In fact, we learned so well that before long we were beating him. But that was the goal, wasn’t it?  Other times Dad would entertain us with his many clever card tricks. 


When the vast Texas sky was temperature tolerable, my girlfriends and I would sit outside on the warm sidewalk in front of one of our homes in our suburban neighborhood in north Dallas playing rollicking rounds of Clue, Scrabble, or solitaire. An entire afternoon passed quicker than a sudden Texas spring shower while we were having the time of our lives.     


Those times were some of my best childhood memories. So, naturally, I assumed that everyone loved to play games.


Well, on a quiet evening—soon after my husband, Ron, and I married in 1979—I suggested that we play a game, since I had a closet full of them. Ron looked at me as though I were a stranger. Scrunching that serious brow of his, he said, matter-of-factly, “I don’t play games.”   
“You don’t play games!  Why, that’s un-American.  How could you not like to play games?” I was incredulous.  It never occurred to me to ask him before we married if he liked to play games.


As it turned out, my peace loving, godly husband came from a family that apparently took fun, friendly games too seriously—arguing over rules, accusing each other of cheating, or short-tempered aunts, uncles, or cousins who couldn’t take the pressure when the game wasn’t going in their favor. 


My mother-in-law, however, loved to play games. But, like her son, her husband didn’t play games either. Nor did Ron’s sister. Actually, most of his family didn’t like to play games. Obviously, everyone except for my mother-in-law, had inherited a mutant gene that repelled them from playing games since it obviously was not connected to any religious conviction. 


Dear Lord, how could this be?  


Then the Lord reminded me of all the things that Ron loved to do and could do that I didn’t like to do or couldn’t do.  Things like fixing our cars, performing plumbing and electrical repairs, the yard work, gardening—a true jack-of-all-trades. I gave him a little slack on the game playing after that revelation, feeling blessed to have my own live-in handyman, and I am truly grateful for that.  But I still missed my games.
Thankfully, the dislike for playing games genetic defect skipped a generation when our daughter came along.  Sarah loved to play games as much as I did. Then, somehow, that sweet little girl coaxed her daddy into playing Connect Four. And he actually enjoyed it. Miracles still happen.  


Sarah grew up and got married, and along came three little ones who call me Nana: Evan, Emma, and Ava, now thirteen, eleven, and six. I was determined that these three would grow up with a love for playing games. As soon as each one was able to sit up on their own, use their hands, and could follow instructions, we sat on the floor and played games.


 Not only have I experienced the joy of playing games with my grandchildren, but playing games like UNO helped them learn their colors and numbers. And in the process, they learned how to follow rules, to play fairly, and about taking turns—gracefully. And what a blessing it has been to pass on my happy childhood memories to my grandchildren as we put aside 21st Century electronic devices and enjoy each other’s company the old-fashioned, wholesome fun way like we did before computers invaded our homes.    

August/September 2019

I Love Games

Mom loved music. While doing her household chores, she was sure to have her beautiful old-fashioned, upright Walnut radio (squeezed between the wall and dining room table in our modest North Dallas Home) tuned to the popular music of the 50s and 60s. Those songs had a great impact on me with lyrics that spoke to my tender teenage heart.  


If you’re from my generation, songs like Bobby Vinton’s “Blue on Blue” or Paul Anka’s “Put Your Head on My Shoulder” or one of Brenda Lee’s sad songs—“All Alone Am I” or “I’m Sorry,” you can probably hear the words playing in your head about now. 


Young girls swooned over their favorite artists like Elvis Presley, Bobby Vee, the Everly Brothers, and Frankie Avalon. Ricky Nelson became my heartthrob when he started singing his songs on his family’s popular television series, “Ozzie and Harriet.” But I didn’t get to see Ricky in person until the late 70s when a friend took me to see him perform at a dinner theater in Dallas.  Wish I would have taken pictures.
When my two brothers and I (ages ten, eleven and twelve) started asking Mom and Dad for our own spending money at around the same time, Dad taught us a valuable lesson: Money was something you earned.  


Soon after that teaching session, the dreaded “Chore Chart,” hand-crafted by our ingenious, fun-loving, best ever Dad, appeared on the kitchen wall. 


If you received a checkmark beside all of your daily chores at the end of the week, you would find a shiny quarter tucked inside your slot, cleverly fashioned by Dad at the bottom of the chart.       


My younger brother, Doug, saved his earnings to buy model car and airplane kits. And he was quite a master at his craft. The shelves in the room he shared with our older brother, Ray, were lined with his creations, much like my thirteen-year-old grandson’s shelves are filled with Lego creations in the 21st Century.  Ray preferred comic books and MAD magazines. 


When I was twelve, I was thrilled when I received my very own record player for Christmas.  I couldn’t wait to go to the record store. It was only a half mile walk from our home down Marsh Lane to Walnut Hill Shopping Center north of Northwest Highway.  Sometimes Doug and I would walk or ride our bicycles together. Doug to the hobby shop. Me to the record store. Life was safer back then, though I suspect moms prayed a lot.      


I kept my ever-growing stack of 45-rpm records beside my record player perched on a table in my bedroom. With my door closed, I would sing to my favorite songs, twist to Chubby Checker’s “The Twist,” and spin, twirl and jive to “The Mashed Potato,” “The Loco-motion,” and “The Swim.”  


In junior high school, I joined the Jimmy Clanton (of “Venus in Blue Jeans” and “Just a Dream” fame) fan club with my girlfriend: fan club pin with his picture on it, certificate, and all. When we heard that he was coming to Dallas for a concert, we waited for his plane to arrive at Dallas Love Field Airport to meet him and get his autograph. 


 Twenty or so years ago, my husband and I heard that Jimmy was going to speak at a local church and we went to hear him.  Afterward we visited with him and I showed him my Jimmy Clanton fan club pin. His face lighted up then humbly asked, “Would you mind parting with your pin? I would love to give it to one of my children.” Of course, I did. I was thrilled to know that he turned out to be such a wholesome, Christian family loving man. But I still have his autograph. 


I still enjoy the music from the 50s and 60s, and I am thankful that Mom was able to rescue most of my record collection from her lake house fire in the 70s. Every now and then I reminisce by taking out my collection and placing a record on the retro, old-fashioned turntable that my husband and I gave Mom for Christmas a decade or more ago, before she went to heaven. I have to confess. I still dance to my records—when I’m home alone or with my grandchildren.

June/July 2019

My Record Collection

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