Civil War History
I heard on the news this morning that Shelby Foote the famous Civil War Historian, has passed away. In 1990 when the Civil War series was shown on PBS, three women friends and I were avid viewers. After each airing of the series, we met for a picnic at the Louisiana Rest stop near the Texas border. It’s a delightful park like setting with shaded picnic tables, raised wooden walkways to view the swamp flowers and plants and a tourist information building. While spending the afternoon, we four widows discussed the film, and mutually confessed to falling in love with Shelby.
Long after the strife of the War Between the States was over, attitudes in the north as opposed to those in the south were part of my consciousness as I grew into girlhood. Customs of race, religion, agriculture and speech were topics of interest when comparing my life with my cousins in the south.
My southern family had fought for the confederacy; my northern family fought in the Union Army.
I grew up with corn fields; my cousins grew up with cotton and tobacco fields. I went to school with black children, my cousins did not. My cousins spoke with a ‘southern accent’, I did not. Both families went to Southern Baptist churches, but sometimes I tagged along with a school friend when she went to catholic catechism classes.
Abraham Lincoln, the song Dixie, and the Underground Railroad epitomized my understanding of the war when I was a kid. At Grandma W’s house there was a long, secret passage leading from a closet under the stairway to a large cellar room that had been made from digging into the side of the hill. The room had walls lined with bricks and a dirt floor. Potatoes, apples and jars of canned fruits and vegetables were stored on shelves around the room. From that room there was a door leading to the back yard as well as door leading to the kitchen. George and I were convinced that the house had been a way station in the Underground Railroad. George is my uncle and only a year older than I but we were like brother and sister in those early years.
When I was around 35 years old, I became intensely interested in reading about the Civil War. Over a period of about 5 years my reading was heavily concentrated on the subject. I frequently made mental notes to read more about a certain general, or battle and would be astonished when I would quite by accident, not design, find the very book I needed when I went to the library It might be a book on display or one left on a reading table.
This is something that happens to me in libraries. It’s as if ESP takes me directly to the book I want or need. I once was curious about how the Japanese tied bamboo together to make a fences but I had no intention of going out of my way to find out. On a visit to the library, I started down the whodunit aisle and the first book I pulled from the shelf was a book that was slightly out of line with the other books. It was a volume with colored photos of Japanese fences with instructions on tying the various knots. This happens often when I’m in a library, and, I’m equally astonished each time it occurs.
Esther and I once attended a two day re-enactment of a civil war battle in Mansfield, La. It rekindled my interest in the history of the war and the land where it was fought. When Adeline and I visited family in a part of Georgia that I had not traveled before, Sherman’s march to the sea crossed my mind dozens of times as I tried to envision his troops moving across the terrain. The consequences of that struggle are still creating situations to be coped with today, but the explicit history of those times continues to fascinate me.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Vacation Car Trips
Friends are going to Cancun, Mexico on vacation. I have not been to Cancun, but my visits to Mexico have always been enjoyable. I know they will have a good time. I love to travel. I take after Grandma W in that respect. She was ready to go at the drop of a hat, literately. At the end of WWII, many of my aunts and uncles traveled back and forth from Iowa to California and often ‘hauled’ paying passengers. They would put a notice in the newspaper telling how many persons they had room for, cost per person and date of departure. Every effort was made to accommodate the riders as to luggage and departure time.
Most of these trips were non-stop with a team of two, sometimes three, family members as drivers. They were very fast drivers, stopping only for meals and gasoline. It’s a miracle no accidents occurred in the many trips they made. There were no freeways, only two lane roads, open range, (cattle and horses were not fenced), with long stretches of rural country side. The east-west routes went down the main drag of small towns and thru the centers of larger cities. After passing the fields of local farmers, Burma Shave verses were the only relief from the monotony of wide open spaces. There were few facilities of any kind between towns, so mileage markers were carefully noted, especially the ‘last chance’ warning signs to ‘fill up’ with gasoline.
Autos did not have air conditioning. One drove with open car windows. Canvas bags of water were tied to the bumpers for emergencies and for drinking. The desert was driven at night to avoid scorching temperatures. The rays of sun rise and sun set blazed with blinding intensity on cloudless days. I don’t know if there were speed limits in open country back then, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. The cars my aunts and uncles drove were top of the line, luxury cars that stood up well under adverse driving conditions with speedometers registering speeds well past 100 mph. The brakes were mechanical, and there were no seat belts.
Sometimes Grandma W was invited along so she could visit some of the family that had left Iowa to settle in San Bernardino, (often called, San Berdu), and Los Angeles. She could be ready in minutes if necessary and regardless of possible hardship, she was raring to go. The circumstances of her life had taught her how to meet traveling hardships with practicality and simplicity. Her vacations were not the kind of leisure trips to foreign lands and souvenir shopping of different cultures that many of us enjoy today.
All my earliest travel trips were much like the ones Grandma W made. The destinations of Dad’s annual 3 week vacations were families in Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia. Mom and Dad were not speeders, but once Dad got behind the wheel, he didn’t like stopping. After many requests to stop at the next gas station so we use a bathroom, Mom would say, “Herod! My dentures are floating”! Hours spent on the road cut into the precious visiting time with family.
Dad took his vacations in October which got us out of school for three weeks. To compensate for the lack of classroom study, Mom and Dad sandwiched tours to strange and unusual places for us on these vacation trips. Among some of the places we visited were a tannery, a mortuary, a weaving mill, horses at Churchill Downs, and the old family cemetery in Virginia.
In the early years of my marriage, trips from California to Pennsylvania were also rushed. Deadlines had to be met when my husband attended summer classes at Temple University while at the same time we visited his family for the summer. At the end of summer we rushed back to California to meet the deadline for his fall classes. For many years now, I’ve had the opportunity to enjoy leisurely trips by both auto and air.
.
Most of these trips were non-stop with a team of two, sometimes three, family members as drivers. They were very fast drivers, stopping only for meals and gasoline. It’s a miracle no accidents occurred in the many trips they made. There were no freeways, only two lane roads, open range, (cattle and horses were not fenced), with long stretches of rural country side. The east-west routes went down the main drag of small towns and thru the centers of larger cities. After passing the fields of local farmers, Burma Shave verses were the only relief from the monotony of wide open spaces. There were few facilities of any kind between towns, so mileage markers were carefully noted, especially the ‘last chance’ warning signs to ‘fill up’ with gasoline.
Autos did not have air conditioning. One drove with open car windows. Canvas bags of water were tied to the bumpers for emergencies and for drinking. The desert was driven at night to avoid scorching temperatures. The rays of sun rise and sun set blazed with blinding intensity on cloudless days. I don’t know if there were speed limits in open country back then, but it wouldn’t have made any difference. The cars my aunts and uncles drove were top of the line, luxury cars that stood up well under adverse driving conditions with speedometers registering speeds well past 100 mph. The brakes were mechanical, and there were no seat belts.
Sometimes Grandma W was invited along so she could visit some of the family that had left Iowa to settle in San Bernardino, (often called, San Berdu), and Los Angeles. She could be ready in minutes if necessary and regardless of possible hardship, she was raring to go. The circumstances of her life had taught her how to meet traveling hardships with practicality and simplicity. Her vacations were not the kind of leisure trips to foreign lands and souvenir shopping of different cultures that many of us enjoy today.
All my earliest travel trips were much like the ones Grandma W made. The destinations of Dad’s annual 3 week vacations were families in Kentucky, Tennessee and Virginia. Mom and Dad were not speeders, but once Dad got behind the wheel, he didn’t like stopping. After many requests to stop at the next gas station so we use a bathroom, Mom would say, “Herod! My dentures are floating”! Hours spent on the road cut into the precious visiting time with family.
Dad took his vacations in October which got us out of school for three weeks. To compensate for the lack of classroom study, Mom and Dad sandwiched tours to strange and unusual places for us on these vacation trips. Among some of the places we visited were a tannery, a mortuary, a weaving mill, horses at Churchill Downs, and the old family cemetery in Virginia.
In the early years of my marriage, trips from California to Pennsylvania were also rushed. Deadlines had to be met when my husband attended summer classes at Temple University while at the same time we visited his family for the summer. At the end of summer we rushed back to California to meet the deadline for his fall classes. For many years now, I’ve had the opportunity to enjoy leisurely trips by both auto and air.
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Thursday, June 23, 2005
Lost Children
It was good news yesterday when Brennan Hawkins, 11 years old, was found safe and unharmed after being lost 4 days in the rugged wilderness area of the Uinta Mountains of Utah. Searchers had intensified the hunt for him as concern for his welfare mounted.
Thankfully the search ended in a successful rescue. The boy was found approximately 5 miles from the Boy Scout camp site near the East Fork of the Bear River having suffered only dehydration, hunger and minor cuts and bruises.
It’s always good news when a missing or lost child is found or rescued. One of the frightening experiences Mom told about homesteading in South Dakota, was when her brother, Lester was lost. He was a very small boy when he became lost in the high prairie grass.
It stretched across the plain for miles, as tall as a man’s head, thick and dense. An adult on foot could quickly become disoriented and have difficultly finding his way thru it. When everyone realized Lester was missing, Grandpa W organized a group of men to search on horseback. The worry was over when the riders quickly found Lester and brought him back where he belonged!
Thankfully the search ended in a successful rescue. The boy was found approximately 5 miles from the Boy Scout camp site near the East Fork of the Bear River having suffered only dehydration, hunger and minor cuts and bruises.
It’s always good news when a missing or lost child is found or rescued. One of the frightening experiences Mom told about homesteading in South Dakota, was when her brother, Lester was lost. He was a very small boy when he became lost in the high prairie grass.
It stretched across the plain for miles, as tall as a man’s head, thick and dense. An adult on foot could quickly become disoriented and have difficultly finding his way thru it. When everyone realized Lester was missing, Grandpa W organized a group of men to search on horseback. The worry was over when the riders quickly found Lester and brought him back where he belonged!
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Swimming
Summer is officially here. I don’t take part in warm weather activities like I did when I was young, but I like to linger over the sweet memories of those long ago lazy summer days. Swimming was a twice a day activity at the city pool when the eight of us children were old enough to be at the pool without a parent. We were in the water from the time the pool opened in the morning until we went home for lunch. We had to wait a full hour after eating before Mom allowed us to go back to the pool for the afternoon. It was only a few blocks, about a ten minute walk from our house.
Food and ‘pop’ (soft drinks) was not allowed at the pool but if the attendants were in a good mood they would give permission to leave and return without additional charge if we wanted to buy snacks from the vendor outside the pool gates. We had nickels and dimes for morning and afternoon snacks, but no matter how many ice creams or fudge bars we ate in the morning, we were ravenous at noon.
Mom cooked our lunches in a big canning size pressure cooker. She called the meals English Boiled Dinners. There were layers of pans filled with fresh vegetables from our garden and meat. Dad always walked home for lunch and Mom was ready to serve the minute he walked in the door. She let the steam out of the cooker, removed the lid and lifted out the trays of pans, each containing a separate vegetable. There was always a freshly baked pie or cake. I liked Gooseberry or Rhubarb pie best but she made Banana Cream or Coconut Cream pies as well as Pineapple Upside Down or Burnt Sugar cakes, which were my second favorites. We drank pitchers of lemonade, orangeade and grape Kool-Aid.
One summer day I developed an abscessed ear that caused me to lose my hearing. The Dr was concerned that I might become totally deaf and I started to learn sign language, but after some weeks, my hearing returned and I stopped learning to sign. Since that time however, I always wear a nose guard when I dive while swimming. Jerry, the smallest and youngest of my brothers, learned to swim long before I did. He was like a fish in the water and had no fear of the diving boards and accepted all dares to jump off the highest board. My brother, Charles, liked to play water polo and was quite good at it. I enjoy swimming, but am not good at it. I can chug along, but I’d never win a race.
Food and ‘pop’ (soft drinks) was not allowed at the pool but if the attendants were in a good mood they would give permission to leave and return without additional charge if we wanted to buy snacks from the vendor outside the pool gates. We had nickels and dimes for morning and afternoon snacks, but no matter how many ice creams or fudge bars we ate in the morning, we were ravenous at noon.
Mom cooked our lunches in a big canning size pressure cooker. She called the meals English Boiled Dinners. There were layers of pans filled with fresh vegetables from our garden and meat. Dad always walked home for lunch and Mom was ready to serve the minute he walked in the door. She let the steam out of the cooker, removed the lid and lifted out the trays of pans, each containing a separate vegetable. There was always a freshly baked pie or cake. I liked Gooseberry or Rhubarb pie best but she made Banana Cream or Coconut Cream pies as well as Pineapple Upside Down or Burnt Sugar cakes, which were my second favorites. We drank pitchers of lemonade, orangeade and grape Kool-Aid.
One summer day I developed an abscessed ear that caused me to lose my hearing. The Dr was concerned that I might become totally deaf and I started to learn sign language, but after some weeks, my hearing returned and I stopped learning to sign. Since that time however, I always wear a nose guard when I dive while swimming. Jerry, the smallest and youngest of my brothers, learned to swim long before I did. He was like a fish in the water and had no fear of the diving boards and accepted all dares to jump off the highest board. My brother, Charles, liked to play water polo and was quite good at it. I enjoy swimming, but am not good at it. I can chug along, but I’d never win a race.
Monday, June 20, 2005
David A.
My nephew, David A. had an interesting Father’s Day. His brother, Danny, secretly entered David’s name in a local radio station contest about dads. Danny described how successful David is as a single father, raising his daughter, Brittany, from babyhood to a high school senior. The radio station selected David along with several other fathers to sing the National Anthem at the Dodgers game on Father’s day.
David is a ‘go getter’. As a 4 year old, he started several businesses that earned him money for hamburgers at a nearby McDonalds. He picked radishes from his mother’s garden and sold them for a penny apiece. His ‘territory’ was the street he lived on which was a semi cul-de-sac that circled a small park at one end, with a large thoroughfare at the other.
One lovely summer morning, my parents picked up David and brought him to my house for a little visit. I set up a card table in the living room with a cloth and napkins and served the four of us milk and cookies. While we chatted, David showed us some stones he had picked up from the driveway that he planned to sell. He asked if we would like to buy any. They were various prices; some 3 cents, but most were a nickel. It was a big decision to choose which were the prettiest, but I finally chose three and paid him the money. We were still having cookies when I picked up one of my stones, walked over to the window and looked at it in the light. I called Dad over to the window and asked him if he thought the stone was ‘A GENUINE’... After Dad looked at it from all sides, he said, yes, it was definitely a GENUINE. David had been quietly observing this and when Dad agreed with me, David said, “That one should have been a dime!”
When David was 4, he went to the park every day and played ball with the little leaguers. One day he had his picture in the paper. He was photographed in a batting stance ready to hit a fast ball. David collected several newspaper copies of his picture from neighbors, then went up and down the street offering to autograph it for a quarter.
When David wanted a hamburger and didn’t have enough money to buy one, he’s sit down with his crayons and draw pictures to sell door to door. He had several customers who bought regularly from him so he enjoyed lots of treats from McDonalds.
David has a day job, but he also plays guitar with a group. They play gigs on weekends and for fund raising events. His band often entertains when his daughter, Brittany invites friends for a weekend bar-b-queue.
David is a ‘go getter’. As a 4 year old, he started several businesses that earned him money for hamburgers at a nearby McDonalds. He picked radishes from his mother’s garden and sold them for a penny apiece. His ‘territory’ was the street he lived on which was a semi cul-de-sac that circled a small park at one end, with a large thoroughfare at the other.
One lovely summer morning, my parents picked up David and brought him to my house for a little visit. I set up a card table in the living room with a cloth and napkins and served the four of us milk and cookies. While we chatted, David showed us some stones he had picked up from the driveway that he planned to sell. He asked if we would like to buy any. They were various prices; some 3 cents, but most were a nickel. It was a big decision to choose which were the prettiest, but I finally chose three and paid him the money. We were still having cookies when I picked up one of my stones, walked over to the window and looked at it in the light. I called Dad over to the window and asked him if he thought the stone was ‘A GENUINE’... After Dad looked at it from all sides, he said, yes, it was definitely a GENUINE. David had been quietly observing this and when Dad agreed with me, David said, “That one should have been a dime!”
When David was 4, he went to the park every day and played ball with the little leaguers. One day he had his picture in the paper. He was photographed in a batting stance ready to hit a fast ball. David collected several newspaper copies of his picture from neighbors, then went up and down the street offering to autograph it for a quarter.
When David wanted a hamburger and didn’t have enough money to buy one, he’s sit down with his crayons and draw pictures to sell door to door. He had several customers who bought regularly from him so he enjoyed lots of treats from McDonalds.
David has a day job, but he also plays guitar with a group. They play gigs on weekends and for fund raising events. His band often entertains when his daughter, Brittany invites friends for a weekend bar-b-queue.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Elbert
June 19th is both Father’s Day and my Brother, Elbert’s birthday. He was born at home in Spencer, Iowa on June 19th, 1929 and named Elbert James A. I’ll observe the day by telephoning Mary, his wife and sharing memories of him with her. We haven’t saved our memories of him to recall on a special day; we speak of him often in our frequent phone conversations.
During the night that Elbert was born, I woke up and thought I heard my mother calling. I opened my bedroom door and got as far as the curtain hanging at the end of the hallway. As I pushed the curtain aside, my father quickly put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me around and said I should go back to bed. He assured me everything was fine.
The next morning Mom, who was still in bed, told me I had a new baby brother and if I looked in the carriage near the bed I could see him. It was an old fashioned wicker buggy, high off the floor with a dome like bonnet covering half the buggy. I couldn’t see the baby so I pressed down on the handle bars and tipped the buggy for a better look. As I did so, a pillow slipped out of the buggy onto the floor and the baby, wrapped in a blanket, was nestled on top. Fortunately, the baby wasn’t hurt and I was allowed to hold him for a few moments.
I loved to tease him by calling him “kissy lips”. He’d grin and we’d laugh about the toddler story Mom loved to tell. She had finished giving him a bath one morning, but hadn’t dressed him yet. While she was draining the tub, he ran out the front screen door and down the street, naked as a jay bird. Workmen making repairs on the roof yelled for Mom to let her know. Mrs. Jones, our neighbor two houses away, picked him up and carried him home. Mrs. Jones thought Elbert was the ‘cutest’ thing and that he had the “prettiest kissy lips”.
It was about this time that Elbert learned to cuss. Dad was busy working on the dining room chandelier, his tool box on the floor at the foot of the ladder. Elbert would pick up a tool and walk away with it. Dad kept ordering Elbert to leave the tools alone, but Elbert paid no attention. Dad became frustrated when Elbert wouldn’t leave the tools alone, and I can still hear Dad saying, “Hell’s Fire”. That expression soon gave way to, “God Damn!” It wasn’t long before Dad let out a, “God damn son of a bitch!” Mom yelled from the kitchen, “PLEASE, NOT IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN!” Elbert said, “Doddamsombit” and proceeded to repeat the phrase over and over as he ran around the house. He continued using this expression all his life, but Dad eventually gave up swearing and we rarely heard him curse in later life.
Elbert had Mom and Dad’s blue eyes and dark hair. He had the same facial features as Dad and Grandpa A. As Elbert aged, he looked more and more like the two of them. I once did a drawing of Dad from memory and when it was finished, the drawing looked more like Elbert than Dad.
Elbert was industrious as all my brothers were. When he was quite small, he agreed to pull weeds for a neighbor in exchange for a fishing rod. Our family and several aunts and uncles planned a joint camping-fishing trip and Elbert was excited about having a rod of his own to use. The neighbor really took advantage of him by insisting he finish weeding, even as the paraphernalia for the trip was being stowed in the vehicles. At the last moment, they gave him the rod, but it was broken. Never the less, Elbert was excited when he was allowed to join those in the boat and fish with his own rod. As it turned out, he was the only one to catch a fish that day. The fish was not very big, but it was cooked especially for him.
I have many treasured moments of the fun times we spent together, during WWII, the many dinners in San Francisco’s China Town, and browsing the shops before his reporting in at the barracks at the bottom of the hill. He looked so handsome in the sailor type uniform belonging to the merchant marine program he was in. We used to also enjoy frequent dinners at various restaurants in Los Angels when he worked construction with an uncle on the first Disney Land Park in Anaheim, Calif. Afterward, we’d drive side by side on the freeway, him in his red convertible, me in my blue one, until he came to his exit. We’d toot our horns and Elbert would give me a debonair wave as he turned off the freeway and headed home, and I continued on to my place.
I have many more stories to write about Elbert. He was truly a special person and I was blessed to have him for my brother. He was forever kind and generous to me and I know my affection was returned. Elbert didn’t like his name and preferred his nickname. Unfortunately, I was known by the same nickname. Mom, Dad, brothers and sisters used our real names, but everyone else, our spouses, friends and co-workers knew and used our nicknames. Since we didn’t live near each other, there was never a conflict. When I talked to him on the phone I always called him Elbert. One day I received a letter from Mary. Elbert had scribbled a line telling me to not call him Elbert any more! I sat down and wrote this poem to him.
During the night that Elbert was born, I woke up and thought I heard my mother calling. I opened my bedroom door and got as far as the curtain hanging at the end of the hallway. As I pushed the curtain aside, my father quickly put his hands on my shoulders and gently turned me around and said I should go back to bed. He assured me everything was fine.
The next morning Mom, who was still in bed, told me I had a new baby brother and if I looked in the carriage near the bed I could see him. It was an old fashioned wicker buggy, high off the floor with a dome like bonnet covering half the buggy. I couldn’t see the baby so I pressed down on the handle bars and tipped the buggy for a better look. As I did so, a pillow slipped out of the buggy onto the floor and the baby, wrapped in a blanket, was nestled on top. Fortunately, the baby wasn’t hurt and I was allowed to hold him for a few moments.
I loved to tease him by calling him “kissy lips”. He’d grin and we’d laugh about the toddler story Mom loved to tell. She had finished giving him a bath one morning, but hadn’t dressed him yet. While she was draining the tub, he ran out the front screen door and down the street, naked as a jay bird. Workmen making repairs on the roof yelled for Mom to let her know. Mrs. Jones, our neighbor two houses away, picked him up and carried him home. Mrs. Jones thought Elbert was the ‘cutest’ thing and that he had the “prettiest kissy lips”.
It was about this time that Elbert learned to cuss. Dad was busy working on the dining room chandelier, his tool box on the floor at the foot of the ladder. Elbert would pick up a tool and walk away with it. Dad kept ordering Elbert to leave the tools alone, but Elbert paid no attention. Dad became frustrated when Elbert wouldn’t leave the tools alone, and I can still hear Dad saying, “Hell’s Fire”. That expression soon gave way to, “God Damn!” It wasn’t long before Dad let out a, “God damn son of a bitch!” Mom yelled from the kitchen, “PLEASE, NOT IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN!” Elbert said, “Doddamsombit” and proceeded to repeat the phrase over and over as he ran around the house. He continued using this expression all his life, but Dad eventually gave up swearing and we rarely heard him curse in later life.
Elbert had Mom and Dad’s blue eyes and dark hair. He had the same facial features as Dad and Grandpa A. As Elbert aged, he looked more and more like the two of them. I once did a drawing of Dad from memory and when it was finished, the drawing looked more like Elbert than Dad.
Elbert was industrious as all my brothers were. When he was quite small, he agreed to pull weeds for a neighbor in exchange for a fishing rod. Our family and several aunts and uncles planned a joint camping-fishing trip and Elbert was excited about having a rod of his own to use. The neighbor really took advantage of him by insisting he finish weeding, even as the paraphernalia for the trip was being stowed in the vehicles. At the last moment, they gave him the rod, but it was broken. Never the less, Elbert was excited when he was allowed to join those in the boat and fish with his own rod. As it turned out, he was the only one to catch a fish that day. The fish was not very big, but it was cooked especially for him.
I have many treasured moments of the fun times we spent together, during WWII, the many dinners in San Francisco’s China Town, and browsing the shops before his reporting in at the barracks at the bottom of the hill. He looked so handsome in the sailor type uniform belonging to the merchant marine program he was in. We used to also enjoy frequent dinners at various restaurants in Los Angels when he worked construction with an uncle on the first Disney Land Park in Anaheim, Calif. Afterward, we’d drive side by side on the freeway, him in his red convertible, me in my blue one, until he came to his exit. We’d toot our horns and Elbert would give me a debonair wave as he turned off the freeway and headed home, and I continued on to my place.
I have many more stories to write about Elbert. He was truly a special person and I was blessed to have him for my brother. He was forever kind and generous to me and I know my affection was returned. Elbert didn’t like his name and preferred his nickname. Unfortunately, I was known by the same nickname. Mom, Dad, brothers and sisters used our real names, but everyone else, our spouses, friends and co-workers knew and used our nicknames. Since we didn’t live near each other, there was never a conflict. When I talked to him on the phone I always called him Elbert. One day I received a letter from Mary. Elbert had scribbled a line telling me to not call him Elbert any more! I sat down and wrote this poem to him.
I’m too much myself
If I’m called Elbert,
I ask you not to use that name.
“What’s in a name?”
“A rose would smell as sweet
By any other”*
Is this a game to pick and choose?
To nick a name for part of self,
The rest of self to lose?
E is for an ancient King
J for family past, yet of our time
No legend, myth or mask enfold
These names
But History, Truth and Honor, all contain
What whim of self to own a name
You will not use
There are no laurels lost or gained
If ‘E. J doesn’t suit, or be too plain
Be this a puzzle or a game,
Will you believe
My heart remembers
Will not forget
I love an Elbert without regret.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Bread
I have been walking around the house for two days spelling: Sea, Eye, A, Bee, A, Double Tee, A, Ciabatta. The latest Jack-in-the-Box spelling bee ad has seeded itself in my noggin like a tune that plays over and over. The current series of ads are very clever. I began paying attention to them when Jack returned from vacation with a woman who knew the ciabatta recipe. I had to laugh When Jack shared a ciabatta sandwich with a customs inspector, but the spelling bee ad has got me imitating little Jack’s sing- song spelling of the word.
The appearance of the ciabatta buns in the ads remind me of home baked breads and rolls the women in our family used to make. These days we have the convenience of baking a single loaf in a machine that sits on the kitchen counter, or buying a loaf of frozen bread dough to bake in the oven, but when I was young, bread was made in batches large enough to last several days.
In the kitchen of the asparagus farm, we had a large cast iron stove with double water reservoirs and a warming oven across the top. Wood and coal was used to heat the stove for cooking and baking year round. When Mom made bread, she mixed the dough in a large crock, let it rise until it had been ‘punched down’ at least once, and then made it into loaves or rolls. If there was a second batch to be baked, it went in the oven as soon as the first batch finished baking. Mom always brushed tops of the hot bread and rolls with butter as soon as they came out of the oven.
Mom always mixed the batch of dough, but Adeline and I often helped with the baking. My brothers also helped as they got older. Mom started teaching all of us how to cook and bake when we were small. All five brothers became excellent cooks and one enjoyed gourmet cooking.
One of our favorite snacks after school was fried bread. Being the oldest, I was the one usually making it while the others waited impatiently for a piece. Fried bread was made from a pinch of fresh dough, stretched to the size of one’s hand and deep fried to a golden brown in Crisco. Each piece was slathered with butter. To keep from burning our fingers it was switched from hand to hand as we tried to keep the melted butter from running down our wrists. Sometimes we sprinkled it with powdered sugar.
One day during the 1960s, a girl friend introduced me to the wife of an American Indian. The two of them invited me to join them in attending an Indian powwow in Los Angeles. They raved about how delicious Squaw bread was and I was curious to know what it was like. My mother was named after her great grandmother, an American Indian, and I grew up hearing stories about her, but I had never heard of Squaw bread. The first thing we did when we got to the powwow was to head for the food booths. When we were served the bread, I was surprised and amused. I exclaimed that I had grown up with this kind of bread, but my friends refused to believe me.
The appearance of the ciabatta buns in the ads remind me of home baked breads and rolls the women in our family used to make. These days we have the convenience of baking a single loaf in a machine that sits on the kitchen counter, or buying a loaf of frozen bread dough to bake in the oven, but when I was young, bread was made in batches large enough to last several days.
In the kitchen of the asparagus farm, we had a large cast iron stove with double water reservoirs and a warming oven across the top. Wood and coal was used to heat the stove for cooking and baking year round. When Mom made bread, she mixed the dough in a large crock, let it rise until it had been ‘punched down’ at least once, and then made it into loaves or rolls. If there was a second batch to be baked, it went in the oven as soon as the first batch finished baking. Mom always brushed tops of the hot bread and rolls with butter as soon as they came out of the oven.
Mom always mixed the batch of dough, but Adeline and I often helped with the baking. My brothers also helped as they got older. Mom started teaching all of us how to cook and bake when we were small. All five brothers became excellent cooks and one enjoyed gourmet cooking.
One of our favorite snacks after school was fried bread. Being the oldest, I was the one usually making it while the others waited impatiently for a piece. Fried bread was made from a pinch of fresh dough, stretched to the size of one’s hand and deep fried to a golden brown in Crisco. Each piece was slathered with butter. To keep from burning our fingers it was switched from hand to hand as we tried to keep the melted butter from running down our wrists. Sometimes we sprinkled it with powdered sugar.
One day during the 1960s, a girl friend introduced me to the wife of an American Indian. The two of them invited me to join them in attending an Indian powwow in Los Angeles. They raved about how delicious Squaw bread was and I was curious to know what it was like. My mother was named after her great grandmother, an American Indian, and I grew up hearing stories about her, but I had never heard of Squaw bread. The first thing we did when we got to the powwow was to head for the food booths. When we were served the bread, I was surprised and amused. I exclaimed that I had grown up with this kind of bread, but my friends refused to believe me.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Horses
The Belmont race is this Saturday. I’ll be watching on TV. I’m not a big racing fan, but I always get caught up in the excitement of races like the Derby. Anticipation of the outcome builds as commentators discuss past performances of the horses, interview owners, and coax information from trainers and jockeys.
I admire the ability of riders to contend with the pressure of winning when fabulous amounts of money are wagered on their crossing the finish line first. In my estimation, jockeys exhibit tremendous courage when they sit on a postage stamp size saddle and ride at breakneck speed in a cluster of galloping horses!
I choose my favorites by color of the silks jockeys wear as they parade the horses. As the camera pans from horse to horse, I weigh their chances to win by the way they prance and perk up their ears and choose one to win, one to place and one to show.
I’m not a connoisseur of horse flesh. They all look alike to me. I can’t tell one breed from another, but they capture my imagination in stories and movies and I enjoy reading about them. Horses grazing in a field or colts and fillies running along side their mothers in a pasture are lovely sights, but horses intimidate me. I like having a fence between me and a horse. Unlike my daughter, who inherited my Grandpa W’s way with horses, I am content to be a viewer, not a doer.
Mom used to tell us stories about grandpa and his horses. He had a wide reputation for handling and training horses without abuse and selling them to area ranchers and farmers. When they were on the homestead in South Dakota, a local rancher came to grandpa with a proposition. If grandpa would capture a particular herd of wild horses, he could name his own price and also have first choice of the herd.
Mom said it took three or four days for riders, who took turns around the clock, to keep the herd moving before they could corral them. . The leader of the herd was a magnificent stallion which, of course, the rancher wanted for himself, but, true to his word, he honored it when grandpa chose the stallion.
The horse was so wild that no one could get close to him, not even grandpa. Grandma was the one who gentled him. He was kept in a separate corral without food and water. She started by frequently offering the horse water to drink and gently talking to him. Little by little, the horse began to accept food and water from her and eventually from grandpa. They named him, Doc. The horse was tamed and was grandpa’s pride and joy for many years. Although Doc was gentle around people, he would never allow anyone but grandpa to place harness on him.
I admire the ability of riders to contend with the pressure of winning when fabulous amounts of money are wagered on their crossing the finish line first. In my estimation, jockeys exhibit tremendous courage when they sit on a postage stamp size saddle and ride at breakneck speed in a cluster of galloping horses!
I choose my favorites by color of the silks jockeys wear as they parade the horses. As the camera pans from horse to horse, I weigh their chances to win by the way they prance and perk up their ears and choose one to win, one to place and one to show.
I’m not a connoisseur of horse flesh. They all look alike to me. I can’t tell one breed from another, but they capture my imagination in stories and movies and I enjoy reading about them. Horses grazing in a field or colts and fillies running along side their mothers in a pasture are lovely sights, but horses intimidate me. I like having a fence between me and a horse. Unlike my daughter, who inherited my Grandpa W’s way with horses, I am content to be a viewer, not a doer.
Mom used to tell us stories about grandpa and his horses. He had a wide reputation for handling and training horses without abuse and selling them to area ranchers and farmers. When they were on the homestead in South Dakota, a local rancher came to grandpa with a proposition. If grandpa would capture a particular herd of wild horses, he could name his own price and also have first choice of the herd.
Mom said it took three or four days for riders, who took turns around the clock, to keep the herd moving before they could corral them. . The leader of the herd was a magnificent stallion which, of course, the rancher wanted for himself, but, true to his word, he honored it when grandpa chose the stallion.
The horse was so wild that no one could get close to him, not even grandpa. Grandma was the one who gentled him. He was kept in a separate corral without food and water. She started by frequently offering the horse water to drink and gently talking to him. Little by little, the horse began to accept food and water from her and eventually from grandpa. They named him, Doc. The horse was tamed and was grandpa’s pride and joy for many years. Although Doc was gentle around people, he would never allow anyone but grandpa to place harness on him.
Monday, June 06, 2005
My Sister Esther
In a recent IM chat with my sister, Esther, she offered to make me a muumuu. Mine had finally worn out and was beyond patching and I was complaining. Of course I accepted her offer! Esther is a whiz with a needle. She started sewing before she was old enough to go to kindergarten. Mom used to tell how she would sit on the floor under the dining room table and amuse herself for hours sewing clothes for little celluloid dolls. I could never come close to matching her sewing ability; in fact I never really learned to sew. Sewing machines remain a mystery to me.
When Esther was a baby learning to walk, we older ones loved playing with her. She looked like a doll in the pastel colored dresses and panties Mom made for her. We older ones played a game of pretending to drop things and she would pick them up for us. We thought it was hilarious when she bent over and her ruffled panties showed.
Esther was sixth in birth order; bunched between three older brothers and the two youngest. She was the third and last girl to join the family. In Mom’s last years she still called Esther her ‘baby girl’. When Esther was small, she fell off the steps of the back porch near our tomato patch and cut her cheek on a piece of broken glass hidden in the tall weeds next to the steps. When the doctor came to the house to treat Esther, he lectured Dad for not keeping the area clear of hazards and expecting Mom and us older ones to do it. The cut left a jagged scar, but fortunately, it lightened and became less noticeable as she got older.
Esther and the boys attended an old fashioned country school when we lived on the asparagus farm in Iowa Falls, but Adeline and I continued high school classes in town. Esther had beautiful, long red hair, a peach and cream complexion and an affectionate temperament. She wore her hair in French braids. Occasionally, when Mom was too busy getting everyone ready for school in the mornings, Adeline or I would do her hair, although I never learned to French braid and did the regular three strand braiding.
During the war when Dad’s office transferred him to San Francisco, the family lived on Hillcrest Drive in Redwood City, a peninsula town. Esther started to design and sew some of her clothes when she went to Sequoia high school. I remember being very impressed with one of her house coat designs.
During the war, Esther met Vernon, a charming young sailor from Baton Rouge, Louisiana that one of our brothers had befriended. They fell in love and corresponded while he was overseas in the Pacific. When he returned to the states at the end of the war, he wanted to marry Esther, but the folks thought she was too young and asked them to wait. They threatened to elope, so the folks gave permission. My husband and I had the wedding and reception at our home in the Redwood City foothills. Esther was so beautiful in her white satin wedding gown. Friends of Mom and Dad loaned Vern a convertible to drive while they honeymooned on King’s Mountain. They lived in California until after their second baby girl was born, then made a permanent move to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Vern’s home town.
Esther saved her family a lot of money using her sewing talent to make school dresses for her three daughters and western shirts for Vern. The beautiful wedding gown she made for her oldest daughter has been loaned to cousins to wear at their weddings.
After raising a family and retiring, Esther and Vern moved to Toledo Bend, Louisiana, a resort area where Vern fished and Esther studied to become a ham radio operator like Dad had been prior to WW II. Her FCC license was upgraded from Novice, to Technician, to General and eventually to Extra, the highest, and she participated in various radio networks.
About the time Esther and Vern moved to the lakes, Mom and Dad moved to southeast Texas. Vern kept the folks supplied with freshly caught big mouth bass, and veggies from their garden. Mom started quilting in earnest when Dad made her a quilting frame. She liked quilting, but didn’t like ‘piecing’ them, so she paid Esther to make tops for her. After they decided on colors and patterns, Esther would make two tops, one for Mom and one to keep. In this way, they both had quilts to sell and give away as presents to family members.
Vern passed away several years ago and Esther now lives with a son in Baton Rouge. Her three married daughters live near by. She is truly blessed with a loving family and grand children. Esther reminds us of Grandma W in looks and attitudes, but she is like Grandma A when it comes to needlework. Grandma A was also hard of hearing and found pleasure in quilting, knitting and crocheting. Since Esther’s hearing loss has deepened in recent years and prevents her from participating in the radio networks she enjoyed for so many years, new doors have opened for her. She has taken to computers like a duck takes to water. She also discovered beading. If she isn’t sewing or crocheting something for a new grandchild, she’s finishing work on a counted cross stitch project, working with beads or starting a new quilt. As if that isn’t enough, she is now making me a muumuu!!!!
When Esther was a baby learning to walk, we older ones loved playing with her. She looked like a doll in the pastel colored dresses and panties Mom made for her. We older ones played a game of pretending to drop things and she would pick them up for us. We thought it was hilarious when she bent over and her ruffled panties showed.
Esther was sixth in birth order; bunched between three older brothers and the two youngest. She was the third and last girl to join the family. In Mom’s last years she still called Esther her ‘baby girl’. When Esther was small, she fell off the steps of the back porch near our tomato patch and cut her cheek on a piece of broken glass hidden in the tall weeds next to the steps. When the doctor came to the house to treat Esther, he lectured Dad for not keeping the area clear of hazards and expecting Mom and us older ones to do it. The cut left a jagged scar, but fortunately, it lightened and became less noticeable as she got older.
Esther and the boys attended an old fashioned country school when we lived on the asparagus farm in Iowa Falls, but Adeline and I continued high school classes in town. Esther had beautiful, long red hair, a peach and cream complexion and an affectionate temperament. She wore her hair in French braids. Occasionally, when Mom was too busy getting everyone ready for school in the mornings, Adeline or I would do her hair, although I never learned to French braid and did the regular three strand braiding.
During the war when Dad’s office transferred him to San Francisco, the family lived on Hillcrest Drive in Redwood City, a peninsula town. Esther started to design and sew some of her clothes when she went to Sequoia high school. I remember being very impressed with one of her house coat designs.
During the war, Esther met Vernon, a charming young sailor from Baton Rouge, Louisiana that one of our brothers had befriended. They fell in love and corresponded while he was overseas in the Pacific. When he returned to the states at the end of the war, he wanted to marry Esther, but the folks thought she was too young and asked them to wait. They threatened to elope, so the folks gave permission. My husband and I had the wedding and reception at our home in the Redwood City foothills. Esther was so beautiful in her white satin wedding gown. Friends of Mom and Dad loaned Vern a convertible to drive while they honeymooned on King’s Mountain. They lived in California until after their second baby girl was born, then made a permanent move to Baton Rouge, Louisiana, Vern’s home town.
Esther saved her family a lot of money using her sewing talent to make school dresses for her three daughters and western shirts for Vern. The beautiful wedding gown she made for her oldest daughter has been loaned to cousins to wear at their weddings.
After raising a family and retiring, Esther and Vern moved to Toledo Bend, Louisiana, a resort area where Vern fished and Esther studied to become a ham radio operator like Dad had been prior to WW II. Her FCC license was upgraded from Novice, to Technician, to General and eventually to Extra, the highest, and she participated in various radio networks.
About the time Esther and Vern moved to the lakes, Mom and Dad moved to southeast Texas. Vern kept the folks supplied with freshly caught big mouth bass, and veggies from their garden. Mom started quilting in earnest when Dad made her a quilting frame. She liked quilting, but didn’t like ‘piecing’ them, so she paid Esther to make tops for her. After they decided on colors and patterns, Esther would make two tops, one for Mom and one to keep. In this way, they both had quilts to sell and give away as presents to family members.
Vern passed away several years ago and Esther now lives with a son in Baton Rouge. Her three married daughters live near by. She is truly blessed with a loving family and grand children. Esther reminds us of Grandma W in looks and attitudes, but she is like Grandma A when it comes to needlework. Grandma A was also hard of hearing and found pleasure in quilting, knitting and crocheting. Since Esther’s hearing loss has deepened in recent years and prevents her from participating in the radio networks she enjoyed for so many years, new doors have opened for her. She has taken to computers like a duck takes to water. She also discovered beading. If she isn’t sewing or crocheting something for a new grandchild, she’s finishing work on a counted cross stitch project, working with beads or starting a new quilt. As if that isn’t enough, she is now making me a muumuu!!!!
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Gardening
One of two African Violets that I rooted from a leaf cutting has beautiful white blossoms with blue edges. I’m a sometime gardener. I get enthused in spurts and go all out, 90 to nothin’ propagating plants, buying seeds and digging holes in the yard until my back gives out. Then I take to my bed and read whodunits. From that point on, the fruits of my efforts have to make it on their own or die.
Years ago, when I was in a dentist’s waiting room, I read a magazine article on how to grow roses from stem cuttings. My husband had sent me a dozen American Beauty Roses so when the petals dropped, I collected coffee cans, drilled drain holes in them, and filled them with dirt from the yard. After carefully measuring, cutting, and planting the stems in the coffee cans, I watered and watched. Days went by; the stems turned brown and the cans rusted. It turned out that I had just been watering sticks. Eventually, I threw them away.
One day my daughter wanted to make a bonsai. As we browsed a nursery for a plant with an interesting shape, I saw several women filling flats of sand with tiny pieces of plants and asked what they were doing. They showed me about how to use rooting hormone. Since then, I have had a lot of pleasure learning and propagating various plants.
Mom and Dad always grew big gardens. They were family projects. When we lived on Bliss Blvd, we had a small tomato patch near the back porch and a large field garden on the other side of the railroad tracks that ran in back of our house.
When we kids woke up on summer mornings, we’d find Mom working in the tomato patch and she’d let us pick the biggest, ripest and juiciest tomatoes to eat as we sat on the porch steps. In the afternoons when Dad got off work from the office, we hurried thru supper so we could get as much garden work done in the field garden as possible while there was daylight. We reached the garden by walking down a path and crossing the tracks at the bottom of the little hill.
We’d walk single file down the path carrying buckets of water, hoes and rakes. Carrying water was a hard job. We larger ones made the water trips, filling the buckets at the house then carrying them to the field. We tried not to spill or splash too much water out of the buckets so we wouldn’t have to make so many trips. We gardened until dusk, and then Mom would serve us slices of melon or ice cream and homemade cookies. .
In those days we went barefoot all summer, except when we went to Sunday school. One day I was running down the path ahead of the others and stepped on something. It was a coiled snake lying in the middle of the path. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds, but to this day I remember how it felt when my foot touched it. On the way back up the path, I insisted everyone go ahead of me to make certain there wasn’t another one.
Years ago, when I was in a dentist’s waiting room, I read a magazine article on how to grow roses from stem cuttings. My husband had sent me a dozen American Beauty Roses so when the petals dropped, I collected coffee cans, drilled drain holes in them, and filled them with dirt from the yard. After carefully measuring, cutting, and planting the stems in the coffee cans, I watered and watched. Days went by; the stems turned brown and the cans rusted. It turned out that I had just been watering sticks. Eventually, I threw them away.
One day my daughter wanted to make a bonsai. As we browsed a nursery for a plant with an interesting shape, I saw several women filling flats of sand with tiny pieces of plants and asked what they were doing. They showed me about how to use rooting hormone. Since then, I have had a lot of pleasure learning and propagating various plants.
Mom and Dad always grew big gardens. They were family projects. When we lived on Bliss Blvd, we had a small tomato patch near the back porch and a large field garden on the other side of the railroad tracks that ran in back of our house.
When we kids woke up on summer mornings, we’d find Mom working in the tomato patch and she’d let us pick the biggest, ripest and juiciest tomatoes to eat as we sat on the porch steps. In the afternoons when Dad got off work from the office, we hurried thru supper so we could get as much garden work done in the field garden as possible while there was daylight. We reached the garden by walking down a path and crossing the tracks at the bottom of the little hill.
We’d walk single file down the path carrying buckets of water, hoes and rakes. Carrying water was a hard job. We larger ones made the water trips, filling the buckets at the house then carrying them to the field. We tried not to spill or splash too much water out of the buckets so we wouldn’t have to make so many trips. We gardened until dusk, and then Mom would serve us slices of melon or ice cream and homemade cookies. .
In those days we went barefoot all summer, except when we went to Sunday school. One day I was running down the path ahead of the others and stepped on something. It was a coiled snake lying in the middle of the path. The whole incident was over in a matter of seconds, but to this day I remember how it felt when my foot touched it. On the way back up the path, I insisted everyone go ahead of me to make certain there wasn’t another one.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
June Is My Favorite Month
June is my birth month. I suppose everyone’s favorite month is their birth month. My brother, Elbert was also born in June. If one of our birthday months included a national holiday, the month was even more festive.
I hate to admit it but I have forgotten my birthday on several occasions. Once, a whole week passed before I realized my birthday had come and gone! For some inexplicable reason though, my Grandmother A’s birthday is imprinted on my mind. I always remember hers.
When I was in second grade, I created a birthday for myself. I don’t know what day or month is was. I only remember that it was a school day. After the class had said the Allegiance to the flag, we sang songs. Miss Chase, our 2nd grade teacher, sometimes asked if anyone had a birthday and if so, they got to choose a song. One day I raised my hand and told her it was my birthday. She looked at me a little strangely and asked me how old I was. I looked her straight in the eye and said,” Seven”. The fact that I would NEVER have a school day birthday and would NEVER get to choose a song had hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew I was telling a lie, but I continued the charade at recess. I invited several girls to my house for hot chocolate when school was out. When we reached home I told Mom why they were with me and why I pretended it was my birthday. She didn’t say anything but she served us hot chocolate and cookies just as if it was my real birthday.
I hate to admit it but I have forgotten my birthday on several occasions. Once, a whole week passed before I realized my birthday had come and gone! For some inexplicable reason though, my Grandmother A’s birthday is imprinted on my mind. I always remember hers.
When I was in second grade, I created a birthday for myself. I don’t know what day or month is was. I only remember that it was a school day. After the class had said the Allegiance to the flag, we sang songs. Miss Chase, our 2nd grade teacher, sometimes asked if anyone had a birthday and if so, they got to choose a song. One day I raised my hand and told her it was my birthday. She looked at me a little strangely and asked me how old I was. I looked her straight in the eye and said,” Seven”. The fact that I would NEVER have a school day birthday and would NEVER get to choose a song had hit me like a ton of bricks. I knew I was telling a lie, but I continued the charade at recess. I invited several girls to my house for hot chocolate when school was out. When we reached home I told Mom why they were with me and why I pretended it was my birthday. She didn’t say anything but she served us hot chocolate and cookies just as if it was my real birthday.
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