Quips from Kay

    I have three blouses which absolutely must be ironed. Today I forced myself to perform that chore and in so doing I was reminded of my past ironing experiences.      First, I must explain that growing up we had a lady who came in and did the ironing...and this was before Polly and Ester showed up so there was a lot to iron. To get on with the story, when I first married, my husband was a Tactical Instructor in the Air Force and he wore white shirts. He informed me that I should starch only the collar and cuffs of his shirts, so obedient new wifie, I set about doing just that. This was before spray starch so I had to make a concoction and dip the collar and cuffs carefully in it. Besides the fact that I hate ironing, this was entirely too messy for me so I got a bright idea how to get out of this chore. (I must add here that he grew up in a family which had a live-in maid so he had no idea about anything like ironing.)    The day came when his ...

   On highway 181 between Beeville, Texas and Corpus Christi there is a little village called Papalote.  FYI, that word in Texas Spanish means "windmill". Anyway, calling this place a "village" isn't really correct. I don't know what it's like now but in the 1930s and '40s it was just a place on the side of the road which had a gas station, a tiny grocery store and a cafe/beer hall. Actually, it really wasn't on the side of the road because you turned off of the highway about 50 yards as you were going South onto a short road that passed in front of those establishments. The beer hall customers were mostly ranchers and farmers from the area and it wasn't a wild, raucous place as they show in the movies. It was just a place to gather and "shoot the bull" so my parents didn't worry about taking me with them when they went down there. Actually, being an only child, I went just about everywhere with them.    On one occasion we were ...

 Well, my writing has suffered a long, dry spell and I still don't have much to write about so I will bore you with a trombone story. As you may recall, some time back I wrote about the reason I can't play the piano....because Mother gave ours to the USO  ,sooo, I learned to play the trombone. No dainty piccolo or flute for little Kay, oh no, however, I truly like the sound of a trombone.  In a marching band the trombone players are usually in the front row because of the far reach of the slide. Our band was invited to march in the Battle of Flowers parade in San Antonio during my flag-carrying stint and I observed that many people just kept sitting on the street curb as the flag went by. Having been taught that one must stand and place a hand over their heart when the U.S. flag is passing, I was appalled at the number of people who were too lazy to stand up as I passed by. Therefore, I developed a little tactic of dipping the flag just a bit toward the sitters, just make...