Apple Showers

My sister Esther and I, in a recent morning Instant Message chat, talked about receiving letters from various family members from time to time with lovely folded handkerchiefs inside when we were kids. Those little presents were precious and I saved mine in chocolate candy boxes.

In those depression days lovely embroidered handkerchiefs with lace were sold in flat boxes the size of the handkerchief for 25 cents. The boxes were wrapped in cellophane and tied with ribbons so you could see the whole embroidered design. They were not meant to be used, but for show. My sister said that she gave those handkerchiefs boxes to her teachers. I never gave a handkerchief to a teacher but I did give apples.

Only favorite teachers got "apple showers" once during the year, perhaps twice, and always as a surprise. Some teachers never received them and I’m certain they were thankful when the favored teacher related her experience. In remembering and telling about how we gave the apples, I am astounded that we never killed a teacher.

When I was in the third and fourth grade, someone would pass the word around that we would have a surprise "apple shower" that afternoon. I never knew whose idea it was, or how it had been decided, but I helped whisper the word around making certain everyone got the message. At noon, when we all went home for lunch, we got an apple from home, or bought one on the way back to school. Before the bell rang to start afternoon classes, there was lots of whispering and hiding of apples and it was decided that someone would give a signal when it was time to surprise the teacher.

Everyone kept an eye on the wall clock, and as the afternoon dragged on we fidgeted, knowing that any minute we would get the signal. Sometimes the signal was someone calling out “Now!”, but usually it was just someone throwing the first apple. In a fraction of a second, apples began flying thru the air toward the teacher standing in front of the blackboard in front of the room, and all us kids yelling, “Surprise!”

The poor teacher, taken unawares, had to dodge apples as 40 kids sent their apples in her direction, some hitting her desk, some hitting the blackboard and many landing and rolling around on the floor. She tried to get our attention by yelling, “Stop! Stop! Bring the apples to the desk!” After all the apples had been picked up from the floor and stacked on the desk, she would catch her breath, then thank the class for the apples, but suggest walking the apples to her desk would have been better than throwing them.

By the second half of the fourth grade, most of the girls carried their apples to the teacher’s desk, but the boys always forgot and threw them.

THIS IS A TRUE STORY

Babies

Two sons of my dear sister, Adeline, have recently become grandfathers. The photos show adorable babies. One of them has a blog about her daily routines and I enjoy reading the comments her proud parents write.

As I surf the internet, I come across blogs written in languages from every corner of the world and I’m constantly amazed at the number of blogs about babies. One doesn’t have to understand the language because the photos speak for them selves. The photos are a delight and the children capture ones heart with their smiles.

Having grown up as the oldest of 8 children, I have been around babies and small children all my life. My sister Adeline and I helped Mom change a wet diaper on occasion, and we older ones helped look after the younger ones.

While my son was still a baby, I met a woman who had a California state license allowing her to care for new born babies in her home. They were Chinese babies from San Francisco. I had never heard or dreamed of such an arrangement. I was told that the mortality rate of Chinese babies was very high and that many new borns were in foster homes in order to get a healthy start.

Not long after my husband and I moved into Stanford Village, I had applied and received a California state license to care for children and I supplemented our GI bill money by watching children while parents were either in classes at Stanford or at work. I usually had one or two children for only an hour or so and on occasion, a faculty member would ask me to baby sit for an evening. My husband and I discussed the possibility of my taking a new born to care for and we decided that if I got the opportunity, he was agreeable.

I made an appointment with a Chinese Dr. in San Francisco and told her my plans. She was delighted and I signed a paper saying I would not make an attempt to adopt but only give foster care. She told me to go back home to Stanford Village, (on the San Francisco peninsula), and when a new born was available she would phone me. We had no idea how long I would have to wait.

A day and half later, I got a phone call around 2 o’clock in the afternoon to come pick up a baby at the hospital in China Town. I told them I would be there as soon as possible. My husband was in class on campus and he had our car so I was momentarily at a loss, but I ran to the apartment of another Stanford couple and asked if they might help. As luck would have it, the husband had just gotten home from a class and they said they would drive me into San Francisco for the baby. The availability of a new born, so quickly after my visit with the Chinese Dr., was so unexpected I was totally unprepared. Fran, the wife, quickly helped me collect a few things and even gave me a wonderful small crib that was perfect for a new born.

We three went up the hospital elevator to the floor where the nursery was. A nurse met us at the elevator and took us to a small enclosure and said she would be right back. We did not see a viewing glass with babies in view, nor did we see a hallway with doors leading to rooms. We thought we might be taken to someone’s room, but as we were discussing it, a nurse came with a baby wrapped in blankets and handed it to me. It was a baby girl, six days old and her name was Lily. She was beautiful with jet black hair and satin skin. We learned from a neighbor studying Chinese at Stanford that ‘mei mei’ meant ‘little sister’ so we called her Mei Mei. She was with us for a year.

There were two other occasions when I had an opportunity to have a new born to care for. One of them was during an evening in Paris, when my husband, my 3 year old son and I were spending a week in Paris at a favorite small hotel. It must have been between 10 and 11 in the evening because the hotel was quiet and most tenants asleep. Even street traffic had come to a halt and only a taxi now and then passed by. We had spent the day with friends and had just returned to the hotel and were getting ready for bed, when there was a knock on the door. It took a moment to throw on a robe but when my husband opened the door, there wasn’t anyone there. Suddenly we saw a bundle on the floor and realized it was a crying baby. It had a rag for a diaper that was soaking wet. We used my husband’s handkerchief for a diaper and discovered the baby was a boy, probably only 1or 2 days old. I used a towel for a blanket while my husband went to find a concierge. No one could be found and the baby was crying up a storm. We were completely at a loss about what to do. My husband finally found the concierge who refused to take the baby and begged us to not call the police. He said he would take the baby in the morning and he gave us some sugar and milk and a spoon. We were able to quiet the baby and prayed for daylight when we did give the baby to the Concierge. Later that morning, a young man from England came to talk to us. He was the father of the baby but said he did not want to marry the French girl who was the mother. He begged us to keep the baby and raise it. He countered all our refusals and said both he and the girl would sign legal papers giving us the right to take a French born baby to live with us. The prospect for the baby seemed bleak, but we refused. I often wondered at the callous attitude the Englishman had toward his baby and what happened to it.

The other opportunity was during a dinner party at a friend’s house in Los Angeles on one of my many trips home from Mexico. It was a gathering of working women, no two careers alike. One of the women, a social worker, said she had to find a place for a new born baby girl. As she asked each of us if we were interested, I said if the circumstances were different, I would have considered it but at that particular time I would not be able to. She told me that the state would supply funds for raising the child and that being a widow was not a drawback. She begged me to think seriously about it, but I had to refuse.

I’ve often thought about having not one, but two chances to care for a new born.

Changing Times

The changes in our cultural practices are so different from those of my childhood. Many actions, considered ‘modern’ and the ‘norm’ today would have been frowned upon in the ‘good ole days’.

Society has a way of dropping and adding changes that sweeps one along with the new practices, like it or not. Some of the better changes indicate we may be moving in the direction of achieving equal opportunities for pursuing happiness. This, of course, may mean different things to different people.

The French are being faced with the possibility of giving up their traditional month long August vacations to compete with year round work practices of other countries. International travel plays a part in the changing mores of countries too. When I first visited Mexico; women were rarely seen on the street without being accompanied by a male escort, (a small boy would suffice), or in the company of other women. Neither did they wear pants or slacks. Daughters were always chaperoned when they went on a date with a boy.

In the years prior to WWII American women were in the habit of wearing hats and gloves as a fashion statement. When my family lived on the San Francisco peninsula, our dress was casual, but when we went into San Francisco we ‘dressed’ for the city wearing hats and gloves. When we shopped for gloves at the department stores, we sat on high stools at a counter and placed our elbows on a pad while a clerk carefully massaged the kid gloves onto each finger until the glove was on our hand then the process was repeated on the other hand.

Buildings with elevators had operators whose job was ride the elevator and push the buttons for people getting on and off. The operators also announced the list of goods sold on each department store floor as passengers got on and off.

When I moved to Texas and started building my little house, I discovered that blue laws prevented shopping for materials on the weekend. Having moved from California where one could shop 24/7 for anything, I was amazed that such limitations still existed. The recession during Regan’s term of office caused the decline of the oil patch and caused southeast Texas economic hardship. The business men and shop keepers demanded a change in the laws and it wasn’t long before one could buy a hammer on Sunday if you needed one.

The internet, television and globalization are fast changing the lives of people everywhere. Homogenizations discard traditional customs in language, food and dress. People are less formal and often use first names instead of the more formal Mr. or Mrs. Even President Obama is often called Barack as a matter of affection. Vocabulary is diminished when a few words of slang serves as communication. The art of conversation is lost when abbreviated texting replaces the give and take of communication.

We have adopted foreign foods like Tacos, Burritos and Pizza and turned them into ‘fast food’ ignoring regional dishes unique to a place.







The migration of people also plays a role in changing cultural patterns when sifting and blending gives way to adoption. Traditional costumes identifying nationalities, now seen in pageants and museums, are replaced with garments duplicated in factories the world over.










National security has drastically changed the ease of air travel. The days of arriving at the airport with tons of luggage just in time for a scheduled flight are gone forever. We have all seen the horror stories on television when passengers have been captive for hours before disembarking. Metal detectors and X-ray machines verify that weapons are not being carried on board.

Variations

Variation is the embellishment, modification, alteration, deviation or mutation of the original so that it doesn’t lose its identity.

There are variations in ‘rate of’ or ‘magnitude of’ change or as a ‘departure from’ a position or state in language, music, math, dance, astronomy etc.

Our culture is riddled with variations. I googled for something the other day and came across variations for Deviled Eggs. I was astonished at the number recipes for creating and serving deviled eggs!

Take water faucets for example:
Years ago the faucets I knew as a child were simple handles one turned to start the flow of water, and turned in the reverse direction to stop the flow.

This variation changed from two handles to four knobs.

This variation just rounded the knob ends.

A variation with elegance

Some call this progress, but sometimes the originals are better than the variations. I hate the one large ball handle you have to pull out from the wall and turn left and right as if opening a number padlock just to get water for a shower that’s not too hot or too cold!

Amateur Radio

Dad was a licensed amateur radio operator with a call sign during the 1930s and ‘40s until amateurs were suspended from broadcasting during the duration of WII. I was in the third grade when Dad began building his station in one of the upstairs bedrooms of the house on Bliss Blvd in Iowa Falls, Ia. He was able to indulge his hobby during the depression years although Mom often complained that he was spending too much money on radio tubes.

The corner of the room was gradually filled with unpainted shelves of soldered wires and radio tubes. The room was always kept locked unless dad was in the room but he allowed us children to come in and watch as he soldered or tuned his transmitter. At that time he sent and received messages in Morse code. He received cards in the mail from his contacts with their call sign and in turn he mailed them his card. His accumulation included cards from around the world.

When we moved from Bliss Blvd to the house on Woodland Ave Dad set up his station in a corner of the dining room which allowed the family to be part of Dad’s activity. If Mom was in the kitchen she could see Dad as he tapped out the dots and dashes on the transmitting key, and if any of us children wanted to sit next to Dad and read the messages as they came in, we could. Dad also added a microphone and occasionally he allowed us children to say hello to the other operator when it was Dad’s turn to speak. I have a memory of talking to a Dr from Japan and was impressed that Dad was able to talk to someone so far away. Some years later when the war started, I often thought of that chat.

One night when Mom and Dad were out for the evening, Uncle H.O. was left in charge. H.O. was only a few years older than I was and we loved it when he came to visit. On this particular night we had a storm with heavy rain, thunder and lightening. Suddenly a lightening strike hit the radio station and jagged streaks of electricity bounced around the room. We all knew how dangerous it was, but didn’t know what to do except scream at each other not to touch anything!!!!! We had been taught never to touch the radio, but something had to be done or the house might catch on fire. H.O. finally got his wits about him and pulled some plugs from the wall which turned off switches and stopped the electrical show. H.O. became our hero, and I think Dad’s too.

When my sister Esther’s husband Vern retired, they moved to Toledo Bend Lake. La. Vern had his fishing hole and Esther became a licensed amateur radio operator and enjoyed being a member of a ladies radio league. She upgraded her radio station equipment after passing the FCC exam for Extra, (the highest an amateur can achieve).

When I moved to Texas, I was influenced by Esther to take the Code exam. As children, Adeline and I had learned Morse code as girl scouts, but I had forgotten most of it and had to study it again. I got my FCC Novice license, then upgraded to Technician, but did not set up a station. Esther told me that she would give me her old radio if I would study and pass the exam for General. I ignored the challenge until the year 2000 when I finally decided to try. I studied day and night for 6 weeks. The members of the Orange Radio club were encouraging and extremely helpful. I took the exam and passed with 100 percent. Esther did give me her old radio and members of the radio club strung the antennae for me, but I rarely chatted on the radio, preferring the contact with other amateurs on the computer thru EchoLink, a program that only licensed radio amateurs from countries around the globe are allowed to use.

My First Trip to Mexico

My first visit to Mexico was a mix of positive impressions and culture shock. Bright colors and flowers met the eye in every direction. The city vibrated with movement and noise. Colonial buildings and huge plazas were awesome. Black glass windows in beautiful modern buildings were duplicated in automobiles. Street vendors selling everything from grilled chicken, balloons, lottery tickets, fruit drinks and hand woven rugs were prevalent everywhere. Indigenous Indian women sat on busy sidewalks constantly arranging and re-arranging pyramids of oranges for sale. Views of the snow capped volcanoes, Popocatepetl, spewing smoke, and Iztaccihuatl, called the sleeping woman, dominated the far distance sky line.

Some months before I made the trip, an invitation to a private showing of paintings by an artist from Mexico City was fortuitous. Aside from my oil painting, I was also working with lithographs, and meeting an artist from Mexico City gave me a chance to ask about the work being done by artists at Taller de Grafica. I, along with several other painters, volunteered to show him some of the tourist sites and take him to various studios to meet other painters during his short visit.

When I told him I planned a visit to Mexico City, he made reservations at Casa Del Maestro for me. He and his wife graciously met me at the airport even though it was near midnight when my plane landed. They helped me register at the hotel and said they had arranged for a young woman to act as an interpreter for me the next day.

The next morning a very pretty young woman, who only spoke Spanish, met me in the lobby. What little Spanish I attempted to use got corrupted with French words and I found myself speaking gibberish of pidgin Spanish, English, and French, punctuated with lots of hand gestures, none of it intelligible to my new friend. I finally understood that she was taking me with her to a friend’s wedding.










We were joined by several other girls. As a group, we rushed to pick up dresses from cleaners, and then rushed to their home so they could change clothes. Constantly keeping an eye on the clock while a lost button was replaced, the girls were finally ready. We had to run to catch a taxi, but made it to the church in time.

The reception was held at a private home. The family had hired an elderly woman from Guadalajara to prepare a traditional Barbacoa. As the party got underway, she told me the food had been cooking for several days. Goat or lamb is wrapped in maguey or banana leaves. A cauldron of hot water is placed over hot coals in a pit 3 feet deep. Beans, vegetables and spices are added to the cauldron; a grill is placed on the cauldron and meat placed on it. More maguey and banana leaves are added, a few sticks of burning mesquite are placed on the leaves and all is sealed and covered with damp earth. The meat is ‘falling off bone’ tender when served and has a smoke flavor not achieved in any other way. Barbacoa is served at weddings and other festive occasions. If anyone has an opportunity, I hope they can experience an authentic Barbacoa!

The next day a young man, a friend of the artist, volunteered to take me sight seeing. He told me he was a dancer. About mid morning, we went to a small café where he ordered Atole, a common beverage in Mexico, made with cornmeal and served hot or at room temperature. It’s delicious with a consistency of thin pudding.

I was invited to watch his dance group practice ancient Aztec dances. They danced in a circle around incense smoke coming from burning copal. Wearing elaborate headdresses, they shook gourd rattles as they chanted in Nahuatl.

Before I returned to the states, I was invited to my friend’s studio to meet other artists. The studio was small but the group helped push easels and paints out of the way and stacked paintings against the walls. Makeshift seating was created with a crate and a pillow for me but everyone else sat on the floor. A board placed on a stool made a table for the potluck snacks and bottles of wine people brought. Small tins were opened and someone prepared a small plate of crackers with mounds of something white on them and handed it to me. The white mounds were tiny little white things with black eyes. I did not want to eat them. They said it was fish, but I had never seen fish like those on the crackers. I used every excuse imaginable, but no one would taste anything until I had taken a bite. It was obviously a delicacy and served in my honor, so I closed my eyes and took a bite. Big surprise! It did taste like fish and was exquisitely delicious! That was my introduction to Angoullas/Anguilas/Angulas a delicacy not often seen by tourists.

Click here for a recipe on how to make Angulas

Chess

I enjoy playing chess. Win or lose, I enjoy the game which surprises me since I avoided the game for years. My first experience was many years ago. My husband showed me how each chess piece moved and suggested we have a game. After the first couple of moves, my husband began to spend what I thought was an exceptionally long time studying the board before he would make a move. I became impatient and urged him to play more quickly, but the wait between moves got so long it was exasperating. I would leave the game, do something else until he said it was my turn, then return to the game, quickly glance at the board and make a move. The game became so in terminally long that I lost what little incentive I had at the beginning. I vowed never to play again. After all, chess is just a game; the fate of mankind doesn’t rest on the outcome.

A great number of years later, my brother, Mickey and his son, Jimmy, aged 12, started a chess game during a family barbeque. As the afternoon went on, challenges were issued and accepted and before long I was the only one not playing. I watched and rooted for the underdog and had as much fun as those playing. The games didn’t last very long, but it soon became obvious that Jimmy was the one who was forced to defend his title as best player of the day.

During the next few days Chess mania took over the house. Mickey and Dad went into Dad’s workshop and made several chess sets. Mom and Dad learned to play and began little tournaments between themselves. My daughter Kim gave Jimmy a run for his money at the board, but I did not play.

Another great number of years passed, when one day, while at the annual book sale of the public library, I found a black book without a cover, in fair condition, at least 3 inches thick, priced $1. Hopping for a saga similar to Shogun, I looked inside but it only had diagrams of chess games. I bought the book anyway.

When news of Bobby Fischer, Big Blue and Kasparov made daily headlines, I began to think maybe playing chess could be fun and started playing online as a way to keep my brain active building neurons. As I played, I began to see the logic of making certain moves and realized that chess was more than merely capturing a pawn or knight. I play unrated games to avoid the double stress of winning the game and losing points in a rating. Over the years I treated chess like any ‘ole’ game, but now in my old age, I realize it’s an art, and I enjoy the brilliancies of master chess players, past and present. The nicest thing of all about chess is that anyone, at any age, can play and take from the game as much pleasure as they choose. Come join me at http://playchess.com/ it’s free if you play as a guest.

A poem by Chuang Tzu

When an archer is shooting for nothing, he has all his skill.
If he shoots for a brass buckle, he is already nervous.
If he shoots for a prize of gold, he goes blind or sees two targets.
He is out of his mind!
His skill has not changed, but the prize divides him.
He cares. He thinks more of winning than shooting---
And the need to win drains him of power.

Mimi

Poor Mimi is traumatized. She is upset because I got a new bed. It’s queen size and replaces the single bed she and I have shared since she was a baby. I can’t believe that she lost her usually tranquil demeanor over the event, but she carried on like a banshee all night. My plans for a comfy nights sleep in my comfy new bed turned out to be one of the worse nights I’ve had in a long time.

She cried all night, sometimes meowing softly, sometimes more loudly, and sometimes in my ear. She jumped on and off the bed. She walked on my pillows, and she walked on me. I thought eventually Mimi would settle down and divide the night between sleeping at the foot of the bed and stretching out on the window sill next to the bed, and as usual, make her nocturnal forays from room to room leaving her toys scattered around for me to find in the morning.

Instead, around 3 in the morning, I was awakened with a noise that made me sit straight up in bed. In my ‘sleep-confusion’ I reached for a light that wasn’t there, on a night stand that wasn’t there either. Because the queen size bed took up so much space, the night stand had to be moved to a different spot. When I did turn on the light, I saw that Mimi had turned over a large floor fan that had a strand of jingle bells attached. Nothing was broken. The only damage was to my nerves.

Not having been born a true cat lover but having ‘acquired’ the affection like one ‘acquires; the taste for green olives, I’m learning that cats do not tolerate change well. ‘What to do Percy? What to do? I believe that when Mimi finishes sniffing and realizes the bed is here to stay and discovers that it might be more comfy for naps than the old, lumpy, narrow single bed was, she’ll be my sweet, lovable Mimi again.

Weather

I get annoyed about the way weather people report the weather on television. This annoyance has been building for years, but like Mark Twain’s famous saying that everyone complains about the weather, but no one does anything about it, I complain but I don’t do anything about it.

Doing something would probably mean writing a letter to the TV station asking the weather people to change their ways. Or more precisely, asking them to stop hogging the camera. In fact, get out of the picture all together!

In the old days of television, weather reporting was done by a person at the edge of the TV screen, holding a long stick and pointing to the map where certain weather anomalies were taking place or might take place. It was a fine system, simple and direct. You always knew where the weather was!

Modern weather people stand in front of a map with myriad symbols representing clouds, rain, snow, flood, sun, wind, humidity, heat index, jet stream, highs, lows, temperature and warnings. They speak in a rapid gun fire weather jargon while drawing on the electronic map and adding more lines to the scribbles and never moving from the best camera angle.

They are always standing in front of the weather I want to look at! If I want to see the weather at the border of Texas and Louisiana, the weather person is either standing in front of that portion of the map, or the map cuts off at Houston. If I want to see the weather in southern California, the map stops with Colorado as the most western state.

Give me Radar Weather. At least with the sweep hand centered near ones location you can see where the weather is!

Aunts

I had two aunts named Bessie. Mom and Dad both had sisters named Bessie. Mom’s sister, Bessie Ross, lived in the north; Dad’s sister, Bessie Denison, lived in the south.

Bessie Ross was like an older sister and always a port in a storm for me. She was a pragmatist and over the years demonstrated her ability to cope with difficult situations and not only survive but come out on top. Bessie was married to Uncle Wallace and their son, Homer, was their only child.

Bessie Denison was the pivot around which Uncle Alvin, their children, Rosalee and Albert plus Grandma and Grandpa Abbott revolved, and we always stayed with them during Dad’s annual vacation. The trips to visit relatives in various parts of Kentucky and Tennessee radiated from their home.

Bessie Denison was soft spoken with a charming southern drawl that contrasted mightily with the quick, hard edged speech we in the north were used to hearing. It was great fun to have Rose and Albert repeat words such as ‘time’. Adeline was always quick to pick up the nuances of language and within a few days of our visit, Adeline was talking like Aunt Bessie. Apropos of the spoken language, when my daughter, Kim was 5 years old, she asked Aunt Bessie Ross to tell her about sewing the flag. We had a wonderful laugh when we realized that Kim had confused the names Betsy and Bessie.

I will never forget the wonderful visit my husband and I had with Aunt Bessie and Uncle Alvin when they lived in Bowling Green, Kentucky. While Bessie and Grandma prepared a wonderful meal, Uncle Alvin took us on a tour of the tobacco crop and we helped put the milk cans on the road for the milk truck to pick up. Albert was our special guide and made certain we saw everything. I loved his enthusiasm and I still recall his saying the words, ’flatter’n a fritter cake’. At that time I never thought such an engaging youngster would grow up to look like the proverbial distinguished Kentucky Colonel with snow white hair and beard that Adeline and I met again years later when we visited him in South Carolina.

As the years went by, both Aunts continued to be the hub for family gatherings and sources of news about distant cousins, aunts and uncles. Even after Uncle Wallace and Uncle Alvin passed away, I often turned to them for comfort when Mom and Dad were not at hand. They were a grounding rod for me during difficult times and I will never forget how gracious and willing they were to show me kindness when I needed it most. I have been very lucky to get bunched in with such a generous and loving family!

What fun to recall drinking coffee with Bessie and Grandma Abbott and watching Grandma’s parakeet sitting on her shoulder and saying, “I’m a democrat”.

A Wonderful Birthday Cake by Esther

[note: this story was written by my sister Esther]

It was so nice to see Mom and Dad. They came to spend a few days with us on their way through to Florida. And best of all they brought along with them Mom’s sister, Aunt Nettie and her husband Matt. Aunt Nettie is everyone’s favorite and she was one of the best Aunts any one would want.

Vern and I enjoyed taking them sight seeing what was to be of interest and in general what made Baton Rouge a growing city. First stop was the capitol. It’s always a good place to spend several hours. We left there to go eat lunch and then we were off to a hard ware store.

It was a general store that was long past it’s time. But it was not about to close it’s door and go out of business. They had so many customers that needed them. I told the owner I had to bring my parents in to show them and he was more than pleased to show us around. He had farm equipment for the small farmer and for the rice and cane big time farmers.

If you needed harness for any animal he had it all. If you needed tools, he was your man. If you wanted bees he had them for sell too. By now Dad and Matt were really enjoying this place. We had a first class tour and he was a fantastic guide. The owner was as pleased to know Dad and Uncle Matt were old time farmers too.

Us ladies also had a great time there just looking. It was like being back a few generations, where a general store meant the store had everything to sell. It had fabric, buttons, ribbons and patterns for the one who sewed. The furniture was the best made and in style, from the kitchen all the way though the house.

Mom and Aunt Nettie and I spent a nice afternoon and we all thanked the owner for his time showing us how good the old days were. I really loved taking everyone there.

The children loved it when Grandma and Grandpa came to visit. They really spoiled the kids. That’s what they are suppose to do. They loved to hear grandpa tell about when he would work with Paul Bunyon. He would tell the same stories my brothers and sisters would ask him when we were small. And Dad would have one of them cut the string in to two pieces and then he would make it back into one string. His fingers were fast.

The day before they were to leave to continue to Florida, was my birthday. I was going to bake my cake, a devils food cake with white mountain icing and lots of shredded coconut flakes all over the top and sides. Mom always made the best cakes, but there just was not enough time so Aunt Nettie and I went off to the bakery to see what I could find. She wanted to buy me something and there was not a thing I would let her get for me.

We made a stop at the grocery store and got several items I needed for supper and after that we went to the bakery and looked at the cakes in the glass cases. They all looked so good. It was like when I was very young and I had a penny and could only buy one piece of candy and there was twenty five different kind to choose from.

Aunt Nettie saw one that she liked and pointed it out to me. It was really a nice looking cake. Had five layers, was a rectangle, and each layer was a different color. It was a rainbow cake. It was just the best looking cake and I told her she pick a winner. She wanted to get it as my birthday gift and I let her do it. I have always treasured that cake and it was several years later I found the recipe for it and if you do make one, you will love it for sure.

I don’t make five layers and so I don’t have all the colors at one time. Any flavor is good and the frosting is a glaze drizzled over the top. I will leave the recipe for you to try, knowing it’s a winner.

Cake

1 white or yellow cake mix
1 3 oz any flavor jello
½ cup oil
¼ cup fruit juice to match jello*

Follow directions on cake box and add the dry jello powder,
oil, fruit juice or water, with an electric beater

Bake in two layer cake pans or a 9x13 inch pan at
350 degree oven till done. Cool before icing.


Icing

½ cup butter room temperature
1 lb. powder sugar

Start with a few drops of lemon juice till you have glaze icing

Spread icing over first layer put second layer on top first layer
and spread the rest of the icing on top.

Bastille Day

After seeing the eye Dr the other day, I stopped at the appointment desk to set the date and time of my next appointment. It fell on the 14th of July. I casually mentioned to the nurse that July 14th was Bastille Day. She and another nurse gave me a questioning look and asked what I meant. I had surprised myself when I blurted out the name of the holiday, but I explained that it was a National holiday in France, celebrating the storming and liberation of the Bastille prison and the beginning of the French Revolution.

In 1948 my husband and I, along with our 2 year old son, went to France. Soon after we arrived, we rented rooms in the apartment of a Jewish couple, M’sieur and Madam Dryfus, who had been in concentration camps and had taken in their 8 year old niece whose parents had been killed by the Nazis. They rented us a combination living room/bedroom and a dining room/kitchen but the bathroom was shared with them.

A large double bed in one corner of the living room was enclosed with heavy gray velvet drapes separating it from the rest of the room. The dining room had a large dining table and chairs in the middle of the room with a mini kitchen in one corner. A cot for our 2 year old was along one wall. There was a large window overlooking Paris in the dining room and a similar window in the living room overlooking shops on both sides of the street below and a park, which was catty corner across from our building

At the beginning of our stay in France, neither of us spoke French. The Dryfuses did not speak English, but we quickly absorbed enough French to understand them. They told us about the customs and habits of the French which paved the way for us when we shopped and traveled around Paris and the countryside. They urged us to join others of the 15th Arronndissment, (a working class neighborhood), and dance in the streets on Bastille Day to celebrate French Independence Day.

We were hesitant, but wanted to see how they celebrated. There was loud record music coming from an open doorway and 5 or 6 couples were already dancing in the street, but it wasn’t long before more people came to dance. The general atmosphere was one of gaiety and laughter. Many were strangers to each other and as greetings were exchanged, they realized we were Americans. Regardless of our limited French, and our decision to only watch, everyone insisted on dancing with us. I was very shy and tried to hold back, but found myself being whirled and turned as I tried desperately not to sprain an ankle as we twirled over the irregular pavement. My husband was also dancing and as busy changing partners as I was.

Besides being an evening to remember, it was a wonderful welcome to the neighborhood as well.

Kentucky

I must have been born with a ‘travel gene’ because from earliest memories I have been interested in far away places. By ‘far away’ I mean anything beyond home and environs. About the time I was in third grade at school, the names of states began to make an impact on my consciousness. I used to coax Dad to tell me once again the name of all the states he had been to. I kept track of them and if he forgot to name a state I would remind him. Mom’s list of states was meager compared to Dad’s and so was mine.

I loved to hear the folks tell me about the places I had been as a baby. In their telling, my birth state of Kentucky took on a quality of specialness that I never applied to any other state I’ve lived or traveled in. Neither have I spent much of my life there, but perhaps birth states are special. I certainly seemed to have bonded to mine.

In those early childhood days, any bit of history about Kentucky got my attention. Kentucky was called both ‘the dark and bloody ground’ and ‘the happy hunting ground’ but my grade school history books never explained the reasons. As an adult I read that Kentucky was not home to any tribe per say, but surrounded by many that hunted in the area and oft times clashed, thus, the bloody connotation.

When ever Dad would say that Kentucky was the home of fast horses, beautiful women, tobacco and whisky, he always had a twinkle in his eye and gave Mom a knowing look. I could tell a secret meaning had passed between them and it seemed as if Kentucky was special to them too.

Growing up I sifted the remarks about horses from Calumet Farm when the Kentucky Derby was run and took childish pride in having the famous race at Churchill Downs in ‘my’ Louisville. Even today when I watch the run for the roses on television, I get a delicious shiver when the crowd sings My Old Kentucky Home.

It has been many years since I was last in Kentucky, but I’ve had the pleasure of visiting Kentucky relatives who now live in other states. Favorite cousins, brother and sister, RosaLee and Albert and their families now live in Georgia and our last visit was memorable! Just hearing Rose’s voice on the phone brings back a wave of Kentucky nostalgia. I never get tired of remembering the house on Phillips Lane in Louisville and the love and warmth I experienced there. Viva RosaLee! Viva Albert!

Parades

Last night I watched a 1950’s movie about a small Iowa town’s high school baseball team winning the season’s championship game. To celebrate, a long line of vehicles, with horns blasting and occupants hooting and hollering, paraded through the center of town. The parade in the movie reminded me of the time Mom and I were forced to join a July 4th parade in Orange, Texas. It was scheduled to start at 10 o’clock in the morning at one end of town then pass thru an intersection near our house before turning onto McArthur Blvd, the main route of the parade.

Knowing the intersection would be blocked to ordinary traffic during the time of the parade, Mom and I, believing we had enough time to avoid the blockade, got in my 20 year old Buick Centurion and drove to a grocery store located on the corner of the intersection. We planned to quickly shop and return home before the parade started, but on reaching the intersection, we discovered the parade in progress! Mom and I were astounded that we had miscalculated the time. As we began to grasp the consequences of the situation, we assumed we would be watching the parade pass directly in front of the car for as long as the parade lasted since there was no way I could turn the car around and leave.

A policeman, monitoring the parade, held up his hand and stopped the flow of the parade. A marching band came to a halt but continued playing and the horses following the band began to prance in place. I thought the policeman was going to let me drive thru the intersection, but instead he motioned me to turn left and join the parade. I hesitated, but he again motioned me to get in line and I had to comply.

The idea of driving my old, battered up vehicle in a 4th of July parade was ridiculous enough but we had to endure the embarrassment the full length of the parade. All we could do was giggle. After a few moments, making the best of the situation, we actually got into the spirit of the day and waved to bystanders.

My Sister Marion Elizabeth By Esther

[note: this story was written by my sister Esther]

Marion Elizabeth was the oldest of the children . She was always the one to baby sit us younger ones. She loved to teach and would show us how to do what she wanted done. Also, she taught us to make nice craft items and she loved to sing. After the chores were done and before bed time we would sing together.

I don’t remember how long it was that Mom and Dad were gone, but I was missing them. It seem like they should have been home and I looked every day for them to drive up into the drive way.

They left Jerry, Dick and me with Marion and Charles to take care of the farm and help with us three kids. We did help to feed the dog, chickens, gather the eggs and help in general with the chores. Chuck would supply the wood needed to cook and bake in the wood stove. Marion would do the cooking, cleaning and washing the clothes.

Marion would tell us what the plans were each day. She said if we did every thing she wanted done, she would bake us something good. And we understood she meant being good and doing what she wanted done. She cooked as good as Mom did.

Chuck liked it when we did the chores in a reasonable amount of time. We three did like to play and some times we did not get it done as soon as we should of but Chuck was never one to fuss. Most times, he would jump in and help us to finish the chores. Than he would take us to the back pasture to treat us to an apple from the tree. It was great to climb the tree, pick the one apple you could reach and sit on the branch and enjoy the ripe apple. Most of the time the apple was not all the way ripe but it was still good to eat.

Marion did the cooking and baking. She was as good at fixing the meals as Mom was. She would bake cakes and cookies and pies or most any desserts we three wanted. Meal times were good.

Chuck was also good at fixing food. He made a pumpkin spread to put on a slice of bread. It was his secret blend of spice and brown sugar, he would put butter on the bread, toast it in the oven and then added the pumpkin. We three loved it.

When Marion needed someone to run to get her something from the cellar she would call one of us three to go get it for her and the three of us went after it. Then we would know what was going to be for the next meal.

Mom had been gone for some time and I kept asking Marion, “Is Mom coming home today”? And she would tell me, “Maybe”. She would tell me to watch and see if I could see them coming up the drive way. Marion knew I was missing Mom and she told me to try to understand that Mom was needed there with Dad, more than I needed her and if I was patient she would let me wear her gold coin that was on a very thin gold chain. And I could make a wish on it but it was not a magic coin, it was only to be a wish. I wore her gold coin and it was a very special favor she let me wear it.

I did wish Mom and Dad would come home now. Today. It was almost supper time and I was sitting out in the drive way when Marion called us to supper. As I got up to go in I looked back and there was the car turning into our driveway and it was Mom. They were home.

We had a great supper. I was content. And Grandpa was well and so was Grandma. Every one was happy to have our Parents home, where life went on in a normal way.

River Town

I grew up in a river town, but the fact was such a natural part of my childhood it never became a point of distinction in my stories. It’s only in recent years I’ve come to realize we took the river for granted. We accepted it as naturally as one accepts the existence of trees. It was just there. The following photos are a trip down memory lane.

Vehicles traveling north on highway 65 entered town underneath a railroad viaduct, then jigged a precarious ‘S’ jog to the left before heading in straight line to points north. If the vehicles managed the ‘S’ jog safely, (sometimes trucks carrying watermelons and eggs didn’t), they crossed over one of the high concrete bridge spanning the Iowa River.

The 70 foot high limestone cliffs near the dam gradually diminished until the river banks were at water level on the far side of town.



















We hiked, picnicked and gathered wild flowers on the river banks, swam in the river water during the summers and ice skated on the frozen river in the winter.














The above photos are of the library, the Princes Café, the Metropolitan Opera House and Movie Theater, and the High School.

The Band Shell in the city park, the Post Office, and the ice house

There were Friday night concerts in the Band Shell during the summer. We watched Ice being cut from the frozen river in the winter time. I earned nickels and dimes running errands to and from the Post Office.

Change

It’s a time of change; it’s a time of confusion. Each day brings new aspects of a world in flux. Television coverage of local, state, national and global events depicts humanity struggling to cope with powers beyond their control.

From an individual’s need to provide daily sustenance, to the masses of humanity searching for the means of survival and security, the struggles are shown in digital color over and over on television and are reminders that certainty is not an absolute.

Breakdown of financial institutions and failed economies have caused hardships and confusion for populations as well as governments. Tyrannical movements based on fear and religion have spiked around the globe. The behavior of countries striving to gain power advantage over neighbors through weapon development is incomprehensible as it creeps us ever closer to the destruction of war.

I am totally bewildered when I listen to the myriad discussions on television and radio about the whys and wherefores. Everyone has a solution but also opposition.

"What to do, Percy? What to do?"

I remember another time during a depression when similar happenings took place. Weapons were tested on the people of Spain and Ethiopia. An Asian country caused mass upheaval the world over, another created a thousand year reign.

What is it about ‘human rights’ and ‘sovereign nation’ that we don’t understand?

Thank You

Thanks to one and all for the many birthday wishes. I’ve had a wonderful day. I’ve received lovely gifts and treats galore!

I’ve been ‘hugged’ and ‘grubbed’. Virtual hugs by email and IM chats. I got bear hugs from my son, who also treated me to wonderful dinner at Ninfa’s, Houston’s famous Mexican restaurant.

After such a nice day, I’m ready for anything the fates throw my way until my birthday next June.

Love and hugs to all,
marion

A Memory of the Fair by Esther

[note: this story was written by my sister Esther]

It was a day that my sister had promised to take me to the fair. I had looked forward to going and the best part was my sister was going to make it a special day just for me. Adeline was going to treat me to an all day event. I was about five or maybe six years old. I was to see any and every thing there was to see at the fair. Having never been to one, she had told me what I might see and how the day was to go. She was waiting for me to finish my breakfast so we could be on our way.

Adeline had our lunch packed in her carrying sack and her book to read was in her pocket. She took my hand and off we started to town. We lived in the country. It was a long way to town. We walked down the gravel road to the main highway that would take us to the main street in town. It was a good day to walk. The sun was shining and the wind was just a gentle breeze. Adeline and I were laughing and having a good time hiking and playing tag as we went on our way to town. Adeline was always happy and she was telling me I needed to be a good girl and not give her a bit of trouble today. She said it was to be a special treat only for a good girl. So I promised to be a good girl and do just what she told me.

It was not long before we had other people walking to the fair with us. There was soon a crowd. Everyone was talking about what we would see at the fair and it was not long till we were there.

There were rides that I knew were not for me to even want to get on. The one I did like was like a a big round wheel. It was very tall. It was a Ferris wheel. Adeline was not sure if we could ride on it. She looked to see if she had enough money. Yes! She did and we got in line with the others who were waiting for the next ride. It was good to just watch as it went around and around. Just looking up as it went over and started down was exciting. We got on a seat and the man put the bar down and Adeline put her hands on the bar and I did my hands like hers. When the Ferris wheel started up, I began to get scared, it was not like I had thought it would be. Adeline was telling me not to be afraid, I was going to be fine. And she reminded me of my promise to be good. I really did hold on tight and made it till we got back on the ground. I did promise myself I would never do that again.

We made our way through all the fair and at noon we stopped at a picnic area. Adeline found a table and bench and we had the lunch she had in her carrying sack. We were really hungry and could have eaten another sandwich if she had had one. We sat there for a while. Adeline had her book out and was reading it. She always had a book with her to read. She loved her books for as long as I knew her. She was never without one handy to read if she had a minute or two. She finally put the book away and we started out toward home.

We had planned to walk back to the starting gate and then head home. She lead the way and I walked behind her. It was at the puppet show I stopped for a minute; then when I looked for her she was gone. I had lost her and I look all around me and she was no where to be seen. I was alone in the crowd and this really frightened me. I started to cry and it was not long till every one was looking for my sister. The last time I saw her, she was reading her book walking in front of me.

A nice man helped me to quit crying and he said he would see to it that Adeline would be with me and it would be alright. I just needed to wait and see. It was not my sister that came and got me, it was my father. One of the people who was looking for Adeline knew who I was and went to the telephone office where my father worked and he came to get me. I was so happy to see him. I cried and hugged him, I knew I was safe with him. I held his hand and would not let go. He walked with me to his company office and it wasn't long 'til Adeline was there and he told her to never let me out of her sight again. He did fuss at her and I felt so bad. I was not the good girl I had promised to be.

In the end, Adeline did give me a hug and made me promise to never stop when walking behind her. Which I did. She said “Sisters have to stay together.”

Memories of Long Ago Part 1 of 3

During the Great Depression years, we three girls and five boys lived with Mom and Dad on an asparagus farm in Iowa. The girls: Marion Elizabeth, Marie Adeline, and Esther Lavern and the boys: Herod Jr, Charles Hamilton, Elbert James, Richard Lee, and Gerald Dean had nicknames that changed over the years. We changed Junior to Mickey when he was in his teens. The only person to use Marie was her husband Larry. She was always called Adeline or Addy by family. Charles was sometimes called Chuck. Richard was Dick and Gerald was Jerry. My husband and his family called me Abby but I was always Marion to the family. When Elbert went into the Marine corps and later married, he was called Abby by his wife, Mary and his co-workers, but remained Elbert to the family.

Adeline and I walked to a school in town but Esther and the boys went to a country school and were driven there in a car. Their school had only one room with one teacher that taught first grade thru the 6th grade. Adeline and I took shortcuts thru several pastures to reach a road that led to our school.

Every morning Esther had her beautiful long, red hair braided French style. If Mom was busy, I braided her hair, but I did not know how to do French braiding so did plain braids and tied them with ribbons. Esther was always patient and never squirmed or wriggled when she was having her hair done.

Adeline had ash blond hair that was extremely fine, cut shoulder length. Sometimes she got chewing gum in her hair. If she went to sleep with chewing gum in her mouth, it would fall out onto the pillow and get into her hair. Mom would use oil to carefully remove the gum without using scissors, but sometimes it was too difficult and the gum had to be snipped out. Once Adeline spilled a bottle of blue ink in her hair and regardless of many shampoos, she had to wait until her hair grew long enough for the color to be trimmed away.

My hair was a lighter red than Esther’s. I worn it page boy style but when I wanted curly hair, I’d do it up in pin curls at night before going to sleep. In the morning, when I removed the bobby pins and combed my hair, the ends would be curly. Sometimes Adeline and I would ask Mom to put our hair up in rags. Locks of hair were dampened and wound around strips of rag. When the hair dried, the rags were removed and we’d have long curls like the children wore in the old south.

Memories of Long Ago Part 2 of 3

Memories of Long Ago Part 2 of 3

In spring time when the asparagus started to grow, all the children got up early in the mornings to help Mother and Dad cut the asparagus and get it ready for sale to the grocery stores. The stalks had to be rinsed with water and bundled with an elastic band into one pound bunches. The grocery stores bought the asparagus for 25 cents a pound.

The older children helped with the chores when it did not interfere with their school work. Sometimes Adeline and I were asked to milk the two cows the family owned. I was very skittish around cows. I knew they are gentle creatures but their size intimidated and frightened me. I was even afraid of cows in the pastures that Adeline and I crossed on the way to and from school. If any of the cows grazing at the bottom of the hill near the creek started ambling toward the fence line where the path was, I asked Adeline to run ahead and shoo them away.

Tippy, a collie was our favorite pet, but we also had a pet pig. It had received special attention to help it survive and was kept in a box close to the kitchen wood stove. As the pig grew it was housebroken and slept in the corner of the kitchen at night. The pig was very intelligent and learned how to open the kitchen screen door by itself. When it wanted to go out, it would gently bump the screen with it’s snout until the hook popped open. When he wanted to come back in, he would make oink sounds. If the pig was ignored or no one heard him, the noises got louder. The pig was very gentle and loved having his tummy scratched. One day Mom gave orders that the pig had to stay outside; that it could no longer come into the house. We children protested, but knew that eventually the pig would grow too big to be a pet. We took him to the barn where he joined his siblings in the pen with the other pigs.

Another pet we had during those years was a white calf. It had to be taught how to eat from a bucket. Dry feed was mixed with milk for the calf to drink. To teach the calf to drink the food, we dipped a hand into the food, and then slipped it into the calf’s mouth so it could taste the food and start sucking. When we dipped our hand back into the bucket, the calf learned where the food was and in a few days he eagerly gulped his meals. While the calf was young it was staked near the house in a grassy area. When it learned to graze, we moved it to a new grassy plot several times during the day.

There were many chores that had to be done on the little acreage. Besides the acres of asparagus, there were large beds of strawberries, blackberries and raspberries that had to be picked. We always had a big vegetable garden and there were chickens to feed and eggs to collect. Dad helped with the chores before going to his office at the telephone company and again when he got home from work. We girls and boys helped before and after school.

One day Dad called everyone together and told them that he was going to get some bee hives so the family would have honey and there would be enough to sell. Dad showed everyone the catalog from a company in South Carolina that sold queen bees and the equipment needed to work with them. There were hats with screens covering the face, heavy gloves and other protective clothing for protection from bee stings. There was a can used to make smoke which calmed the bees when you took honey from the hives.

Every one was excited when the hives arrived. Father chose to put them near the berry patches so they would not interfere with activities near the house. As time went by, we children learned a lot about bees and helped Dad check the hives to see how much honey was being made. When a colony of bees got too big to live in one hive, they swarmed, which meant half the bees would leave with a new queen bee and start a new colony somewhere else.

One day one of the children saw the bees beginning to swarm and called for everyone to come and see. The bees began to form a buzzing mass in the air above the hive with a new queen surrounded by worker bees protecting her. As more bees streamed out of the hive to join the new queen, Charles picked up a clod of dirt and tossed it into the air and into the swarming bees. He held out his arm and the new colony settled on it. He was able to very gently push the bees into an empty hive without getting stung. Everyone praised Charles for being so brave! It had been a very exciting event and everyone was happy and very proud of Charles.