Homemade Pies

In our daily IM chats my sister Esther and I frequently talk about food. She lives with her son and cooks for the two of them. Dinner is usually waiting for him when he comes home from work, but her diet is quite restrictive so her meals are different from the ones she serves him. Recently she made a blackberry cobbler and when I asked her how it turned out, she said it was really good. I reminded her that blackberry pie was a favorite of Dad’s and that got us reminiscing about Mom’s pies.

Some years ago, when the folks lived on Calera St in Covina, California, an acquaintance offered to buy a coconut cream pie from Mom if she would make it. Mom hesitated, but after being coaxed, she agreed. Mom took special pains to make certain her reputation for good pies held and she did a top notch job for her friend. The pie was served that night and the friend was so pleased she phoned Mom and ordered two more, one coconut and one banana. At $5 per pie Mom was suddenly in the pie business! Over the next several days Mom filled her friend’s order for both cream and fruit pies. Surprisingly, Mom began to get phone calls from the woman’s co-workers asking if they could order pies. Mom was so tickled about her new found fame as a pie maker and actually earning money baking them that she continued filling orders as they came in.
Her baking schedule depended on how many pies she had to have ready for pick up by 5 in the afternoon. It wasn’t long before the whole morning was taken up baking pies. The fillings were all made from scratch as was the pie crust and as the work progressed, pies, tagged with names of customers sat cooling on every available table top and shelf. As word spread about Mom’s homemade pies, orders increased. The pies were baked in the oven of the kitchen stove and only so many could be baked at one time. Soon the afternoons were given over to baking and many times a customer picked up a pie as it came out of the oven. Dad, always a great one to help Mom in her various endeavors, became her assistant. My sister Adeline and I often came to help. In the evenings Aunt Margret and Uncle Chester and Uncle Lester would drop for a visit and to hear how the pie business was going. Of course pie was served as refreshment.

One day Mom realized she was spending all her time cooking and baking. She had enjoyed her little pie business, but the time had come to stop and smell the flowers and maybe spend some of the money she had been earning.

Many years later, when the folks and I lived next door to each other in Texas, we enjoyed morning coffee breaks with my brother Charles, who lived with them and worked with Dad in his antique repair business. During one of our breaks, Mom mentioned that her father’s favorite pie was Vinegar Pie. I asked if it tasted like lemon pie. Mom said yes, and that gave her the idea of making a Lemon pie for supper. I said that if she wanted, I’d make the pie but I’d rather make a Lemon Cream. Charles, who liked to stir the pot, suggested we have a contest to see who could make the best Lemon pie. Amid lots of laughing and sudden bragging, Mom and I accepted the challenge.

As the morning went by, Mom and I got busy with our pie making. Charles, acting as a double agent, came to give me a report on Mom’s progress and in turn gave Mom an update on mine. I never measured ingredients, always guessing amts and relying on sample tastes for my Lemon Cream filling. I had modified a recipe taken from a magazine and had never written down the changes, but I had made the pie so often I was confident that my pie would be sensational.

It was a fun day and everyone got into the spirit of the contest. After supper that night Mom and I brought out our respective pies and waited for oh’s and ahs. Small wedges were served and suspense increased when Dad and Charles asked for second samplings. Finally, it came time to vote. There was no question of who the winner would be. Even I had to vote for Mom’s pie. It really was superb. But of course I had to make out like the voting was rigged!!!!

The ability to bake delicious pies helped Aunt Bessie Ross earn a living during the great depression. She baked pies in her apartment and delivered them to the cafes that gave her standing orders for so many every morning. I often baby sat cousin Homer when she had to make deliveries. Over the years, she could always rely on baking and selling pies to help her over any financial hardship.

I once had a fling at baking and selling pies when my husband and I lived in Paris. I often baked American style apple pie for dessert when we invited other Americans to dinner. Occasionally I was offered money to bake an apple pie for a guest. The French make wonderful tarts but when some of our American friends longed for a slice of an old fashioned apple pie, I’d comply.

My favorite, when it comes to pie, is as changeable as the wind. As a young girl I liked rhubarb custard as only Mom could make it. A leftover slice of cold apple pie for breakfast is a delight but hot apple pie with melting vanilla ice cream is always on my favorite list. I grew up eating gooseberry pie and will order it when ever it’s on a menu when I eat out. Pumpkin is ok if there is lots of whipped cream. Pecan pie gives way to chocolate and coconut cream. Peach and berry cobblers have been favorites from time to time; they certainly have to be considered by any pie enthusiast.

Political Conventions

Our two dominate political parties, Republican and Democrat will soon be holding the 2008 presidential conventions; Democrats will meet August 25-27 in Denver, Colorado, Republicans, September 1-4 in Minneapolis-St Paul, Minnesota. Interest in choosing each party’s representative has been intense and bound to increase thru the election in November. It’s possible that a black man, Barack Obama, may be the first black elected President of the United States.

I am an enthusiastic viewer of televised political conventions. Some of the speeches are boring and too long, but generally speaking, I share the excitement of the delegates when momentous votes and roll calls are taken. My ‘interest’ in politics doesn’t denote an ‘expertise’ in all the whys and wherefores of party policies and platforms, but I try to be learned enough to know when laws and practices go astray of our constitution.

My husband and I lived in Stanford Village when we first registered with a political party. We had to go to Menlo Park to register and on the day we went, there was a long line of student friends and we joined them in waiting. When it came our turn, we were amused when a woman handed us a card and asked us to read it aloud. We knew it was a custom in the south that people of color had to prove they could read in order to vote, but we laughed and assured the woman that we knew how to read, and handed the cards back. The woman insisted, saying it was the law, but after hearing a word or two, she said that was enough. After a short discussion when we mentioned that we would probably vote for the ‘best person’ regardless of party, the woman suggested we register as Independents. We had not anticipated that possibility, but it allowed us to hedge any commitment. We registered as Independents, but by the time we actually had a chance to vote for a president, we had been re- registered as Democrats.

We knew that we would be out of the country during the national election in November because we planned a year abroad immediately after graduation. Consequently, our interest in politics dropped off dramatically when our attentions turned to other matters. We had made arrangements to share driving expenses with a student driving his car to the same Philadelphia area my husband’s family lived, and within hours of the graduation ceremonies, we were on the highway, heading east. My husband, our 2 year son and I would live with my husband’s family until our sailing on Queen Elizabeth in August.

The trip across country was a delightful one. It was enhanced by our friend’s congeniality, euphoria of graduation and anticipation of a year in Paris. We spent long hours in conversation and listening to the car radio. The radio stations faded in and out in strange ways. At times the frequencies from some distant station would be loud and clear while those near the car’s location would drift annoyingly. By chance we tuned into the Republican convention taking place in Philadelphia. When we realized what we were listening to, we made every effort to keep the dial tuned to the coverage until they adjourned.

Our trip ended a few days later. Wrapping up last minute details of our trip kept us busy, but when I learned that it was permissible to attend the Democrat convention, not as a delegate but as a visitor, I jumped at the chance. The convention was held at the Philadelphia Civic Center Convention Hall. There was no seating for anyone but the delegates; it was standing room only in the balcony but I was thrilled to be there. Crowds inside and outside the hall milled around while the balcony crowd stood shoulder to shoulder and pushed against each other to better their view of the doings on the floor below us.

The noise was deafening with band music, whooping and hollering. The delegates waved flags and balloons and wore decorated hats with pins and ribbons. When they perceived a favorable vote or introduction to a speaker, they marched en mass round and round the hall while speakers implored them to be seated. Speakers were rarely heard but loudly applauded. We had an opportunity to mingle with delegates out side the hall before they were called to order and after adjournment. We made a concerted effort to say hello to those representing states we had a claim to, namely, California, Pennsylvania Iowa, and Kentucky. As long as the convention was in session, a circus atmosphere permeated the hall but serious business was accomplished when all was said and done.

It was a wonderful experience to have been a visitor to that convention. The election of 1948 is considered the most historic in our history to date, although this year may out do that one if Obama wins. I’ve followed this year’s primaries with great interest and am looking forward to the coming conventions. I may miss some sleep, but I will definitely be watching TV for as long as events unfold.

Link to Wikipedia Artical about the 1948_Democratic_National_Convention

Vacations

It’s August and ‘vacation’ is the operative word. Congress has gone on vacation. Barack Obama, the democratic candidate for President of the United States, is vacationing in Hawaii. Grade school children are still on summer vacation. Friends have been returning from and/or starting vacations.

As a child I loved ‘going’ on family vacations. Dad always chose the month of October for his annual vacation from his job at the Telephone Company, and as the years passed, his vacation time increased from two weeks to three. We children loved October vacations because we got to miss school and never given homework to make up for the missed classes. We always drove to Kentucky to visit grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. During the year we often visited Mom’s people and they often came to visit us, but we only got to see Dad’s people during his vacation.

Dad’s vacations started on Mondays, but on the preceding Friday, when the office closed for the weekend, Mom and we children would be ready to travel to Kentucky when Dad left work at 5 o’clock sharp. At the time I was unaware of it but in looking back, it was a miracle the way Mom always had things organized to the ‘nth’ degree. There were eight of us children and Mom had to supervise all the preparations for the trip. Adeline and I helped to some degree, but Mom actually did most of the work. She made certain all the clothes needed for each of us for three weeks were clean, ironed and packed. On the day of departure, just making sure that each child was bathed was a huge chore by itself.

We did not have running water or inside plumbing on the asparagus farm. We had an outdoor privy that we referred to as the ‘outhouse’. We had well water with the pump a few feet from the kitchen door, but water had to be carried into the house for cooking and cleaning. Two big water reservoirs on the iron cook stove heated the water and a large tea kettle was always kept full and heating on top of the stove. A pail of drinking water and a long handled dipper was kept on a counter by the sink which had a drain, but no faucets.

We bathed in the kitchen which gave some privacy to the older persons. We took baths in a round galvanized tub that was also used to launder clothes. Hot water was cooled to the right bathing temperature by adding pails of cold water. The younger ones shared the same bath water by taking turns, but the tub had to be emptied and fresh water prepared for each of the remaining baths. We older ones had to sit in the water with our knees bent and we tried not to splash water on the floor. It took two people to empty the tub and by the time everyone finished bathing, the floor around the tub was wet with soap suds and had to be mopped.

On the Fridays our vacation trips began, Mom would drive Dad back to the office after lunch so she could keep the car. The boys, Jr. (later known as Mickey), Charles and Elbert had to vacuum the interior of the Terra Plane Hudson and wash the windshields and windows. Adeline and I helped Mom bathe and dress the little ones, Esther, Dick and Jerry. One by one we older ones bathed and dressed, then we all had to help keep the little ones from getting dirty while Mom finally got to take her bath and dress.

Our suitcases were loaded in the trunk of the car along with the jars of honey from our bee hives that would be given as presents. When it was time to pick up Dad, we climbed in the car and off we went. After Mom turned the steering wheel over to Dad, minor shuffling of seats took place and at that moment, we kids became captives of a ‘vacation excitement’ that lasted the full 3 weeks of Dad’s vacation.

Memories of those days are a tonic when Esther and I reminisce about our southern vacations and life on the asparagus farm. Living in the Corn Belt was so different from that of our cousins living in the tobacco belt. Their southern drawl in conversation was a music we only heard on those vacations. To visit Dad’s relatives, we had to drive the back roads and mountains of Kentucky, Tennessee and the Virginias.

I’ve had wonderful vacations, but the best and most memorable one was in Acapulco many years ago. My daughter, Kim and I planned the three day sightseeing trip as a diversion from work, but we spent most of the three days sleeping. We ended up reading and napping during the day, eating all our meals in the hotel dining room, and swimming in the hotel pool after dark. We had morning naps as well as afternoon naps. We did take a drive along the beach once but decided to return to the hotel for another nap. It’s the only vacation I’ve ever had where I really felt rested when it was over.

As Girl Scouts, Adeline and I spent lots of time camping and I have enjoyed many camping vacations over the years. I like camping and have been good at it. I have camped mountains, deserts and beaches. I’ve camped in France, Italy, Mexico and Canada. Of course I’ve camped in many of our American states. I’ve camped with tents and without tents. I know how to rough it. I know how to bake beans in a hole with hot rocks covered over with dirt and how to cook over a bon fire.

It was easy to camp when I had the Corvair van. Kim and I used to invite cousins Donna and Loretta to join us when we camped at the Long Beach pier. We could watch the huge ships as they sailed pass the cement parking area. We used the pier’s public rest rooms and ate at the all night café when ever we felt like walking to it.

One never gets too old for vacations but I no longer ‘rough it’ on camping vacations. Now, I vacation ‘in place’ when the Baton Rouge gang comes to Houston. They vacation ‘away’ from home, and I join them in seeing the usual vacation tourist spots and eating at the trendy restaurants. Nothing compares to having all the creature comforts when on vacation.

Electronic Medicine

How times have changed the way hospitals are run these days compared to way they were when I went to the hospital to have my children in 1946 and 1952. I was in St Luke’s hospital here in Houston a few days ago for a stress test and discovered an electronic world.

St Luke’s is the hospital that had the lower floors flooded when Allison stalled over the city and poured rain for 8 days. As I was wheeled thru the building, I was astonished at the renovation. The building looked brand new. I had seen the TV pictures of the flood damage and read about the destruction Allison caused but currently there isn’t a hint of such flood having taken place.

Humans carry, push, and roll the electronic gadgets and monitors from place to place and from room to room. As for the cameras and other electronic machines that have to remain stationary, patients are pushed, carried and rolled to them.

When vital statistics are required, patients are connected to the various electronic machines by cords which are attached to the body by adhesive snaps and suction cups and the data is determined electronically.

I had wheel chair rides to and from various departments and some of my ‘pushers’ were race drivers. What fun speeding down long, long empty corridors and turning corners to race in another direction. My room was on the 9th floor but the elevators only served a few floors. We had to go long distances to the opposite side of the hospital to get another elevator which would take us to the floor for my tests.

Years ago one always knew doctors and nurses by what they wore. Doctors wore white coats and nurses wore uniforms and caps that had a code of colored stripes to distinguish RNs from Practical nurses. Now everyone dresses alike. I couldn’t tell who was a doctor and who was a technician. I was never certain if a doctor was describing a procedure or a technician was. Male nurses seemed to outnumber female nurses and I lost my modesty in a hurry when I had to get ‘hooked’ and ‘unhooked’ to another monitor or camera.

It’s really a marvelous thing to have a camera take photos of one’s heart from different angles while all one has to do is lay still and breathe normally for 21 minutes. Then I walked the treadmill to get my heart rate up high enough to please the technician. Since I had noticed an audience of about a dozen people watching me walk the treadmill, I naturally had to do my best walking. No way was I going to fail that test!!! Then it was back to the camera and normal breathing again for another 21 minutes.

I’m happy to say my stress test indicated all was well and when it came time to be discharged I was given pages and pages of printout describing everything in detail. All the pokes and prods and the time of each had been recorded, analysed and preserved for posterity

Now that I'm home, I am re-attached to all my own gadgets: My Laptop, the Internet, the International Chess Server, my Voice Activated Cell Phone and I've trained my Digital Camera on Miss Mimi, who doesn't seem to mind the attention at all.

One More Cast

In a teaser sound bite for Kevin Costner’s latest movie, SWING VOTE, he is shown casting for fish as he and his daughter sit on the bank. When the daughter asks to leave for school, Costner says, "Just one more cast".

I immediately remembered, and related to his wish to continue casting because I experienced the same years ago when I had an opportunity to fish the private lake at my sister and her husband’s property in Baton Rouge, Louisiana.

One morning during my visit with them, Esther’s children, Marion, Cindy and ‘Mo’ (Vern, Jr.) took my daughter, Kim and me fishing. They furnished the fishing gear and tackle and while they collected rods and bait, Kim and I fixed a picnic lunch which included enough munchies to last the afternoon. Making sure that we had the mosquito repellant, the children, whose ages ranged from 10 to 14, piled into my Corvair van and off we went. Mo gave directions on how best to drive the pastures to avoid muddy or rocky spots until we reached a grove of trees along the waters edge.

Kim and I were novices at fishing but the girls and Mo gave us tips and made suggestions. As the morning passed, we had nothing to show for our efforts. We ate our picnic lunch and went back to fishing. We had lots of nibbles but no fish so we ate munchies and fished some more. The afternoon wore on without a single fish having been caught. One by one, the children started hiking back to the house leaving me to fish by myself. I told them I’d stay a while longer but I’d be along soon.

The sun went down, dusk settled in, and I was busy with, "one more cast". Dusk got duskier and when it was really on the verge of being dark, the headlights of my brother-in-law’s truck came shining thru the trees. He had come to drag me back to the house for supper.

While I put all the fishing paraphernalia into the Corvair, Vern took my fishing rod and cast ‘once’ just to see if the fish were biting. Suddenly, on the first strike, he had a big one on the line. While I stood with my mouth wide open, I watched him bring in a beautiful big mouth bass.

Breads

A friend, the chef of a catering firm here in Houston, brought my son and me a gift of the traditional St. Patrick’s Day Soda bread and some split pea soup to go with it. I didn’t know about Soda Bread being traditional. I always thought it was corned beef and cabbage.

My son thought Soda Bread would be a new taste experience for me but I had eaten it many times during the depression years when Grandma and Grandpa Abbott lived with us on the asparagus farm. Grandma and Mom baked it occasionally but the family really never cared for it so we didn’t have it often. The Soda Bread of my childhood was plain not fancy with nuts and raisins like ‘Chef’s’ present.

It took skill to bake things in the oven of our big cast iron kitchen range. We seemed to have developed a sixth sense when we baked pies, cakes, rolls and loaves of bread. The wood and coal fire would have heated the oven to an unknown degree and we had to guess at the baking time. We timed the baking of bread according to the color. When the crust turned a golden brown it was time to remove it from the oven.

When I got home from school in the afternoons, I often had to finish working up the bread dough Mom had made earlier in the day. The yeast dough would have risen to fill the container and it had to be punched down before forming it into loaves. If bread was needed for supper that night, I might make rolls as well as loaves. I often made ‘fried bread’ too for an after school snack.
I would stretch and pull a small pinch of raw dough until it was about the size of my palm and drop it into a skillet of hot oil. As soon as it was golden brown on one side it was browned on the other then drained on a paper towel.

The kids would hang around the kitchen yelling ‘dibs’ for the next piece and slather mounds of butter on it while it was still piping hot. They would juggle the bread from hand to hand until it cooled enough to eat.

Many years later some girl friends raved about eating ‘squaw bread' at an Indian pow wow and invited me to join them the following week. You can imagine my surprise when I saw that ‘squaw bread’ was nothing more than our ‘fried bread’. I told the girls I had been raised on the same and they refused to believe me.

When my sister, Esther, visited several weeks ago, my son took Esther and me to browse Central Market. When we came to the bakery, the choice of breads was over whelming. Every size, shape, color and ethnic preference was exhibited. The delicious odor of baking bread caused our eyes to get bigger than our stomachs and the three of us left the market with enough varieties to feed a platoon of Marine recruits.

I want to make Boston Brown Bread and have saved a lot of coffee cans to use when I get around to making the recipe. Mom used to make it often for the family and Esther remembers helping her but has forgotten the details. She recalled enough of the recipe and how the coffee cans were used, that I could surf the net for a recipe that fit Esther’s memory. Until I found the recipe I had been unaware that brown bread is cooked on top of the stove and not in an oven. The batter is poured into greased coffee cans, covered with aluminum foil and placed in a pan of water which is simmered on top of the stove.


My brother Mickey taught me how to make Angel Biscuits years ago when I lived in Palo Alto. He was spending the Christmas holidays with me on his weeks of R&R before returning to his job as cook on an oil rig off the coast of Alaska. Mickey was a gourmet cook and was a delight to work with in the kitchen. He was a lot of fun and enjoyed sharing his knowledge, but he could and did use every pot, pan and utensil in the kitchen to serve his purpose then steadfastly refuse to wash them and left the clean up to others.

I am not fond of biscuits and rarely eat them, but Mickey guaranteed that I would like his Angel Biscuits. I was doubtful, but was happy to hand him so and so and give him this and that when he asked. He was right! I was won over after the first bite! They were so delicious I asked him to make them several more times that Christmas holiday.

Recently I have discovered Bread sticks. There is a place here in Houston called, Café Express. They keep a large basket filled with imported Italian bread sticks on the condiment bar. Each packet holds 5 or 6 sticks each a foot long and half the diameter of a pencil. They are scrumptious and I thoroughly enjoy the way they ‘crunch’ as I nibble from one end to the other.

When I first discovered them I took to grabbing 3 or 4 of the packets to nibble on while we waited for our orders, but I made certain there was a packet or two left that I could take home when we finished eating. My purse is too small to hold bread sticks, so recently I graduated from nibbling them while eating there, to getting orders ‘to go’ which allows us to stop at the condiment bar on our way out to grab a really big handful of bread sticks. The other day as I was eating the last of the sticks I had at home, I wondered if there was some way I could, in easy conscience, exchange my purse for a tote bag the next time we go to Café Express. Perhaps the more prudent move would be ordering a case directly from the bakery in Italy.

I.E.

i.e.
Function- abbreviation
Etymology: Latin - id est
that is

‘i’ before ‘e’ except after ‘c’ and sounding like ‘a’ as in neighbor and weigh. I learned that rule in grade school spelling and it has certainly helped me with spelling thru the years. But it also has me reviewing the whys and wherefores of the English language since I’ve recently started to learn German. The rules of English grammar have been dormant in the back recesses of my mind, but now I have to drag them out and try to make sense of the new language constructions. The pronunciation of ‘ei’ in German is not like ‘a’ as in neighbor and weigh, but like ‘eye’.

My interest in German started when I began to play chess on a German chess server where players from around the world meet 24/7 to play chess. I am unrated and play for fun in the beginner’s room. I enjoy the game, win, lose or draw, and have an appreciation of my opponent’s ability to maneuver his pieces around the board. Many high rated players also play in the beginner’s room. They know all the tricks and practice their skill in unrated games with peons like me.

User names and the flag of their country identity each player and a rating is listed if the player has one. Players can choose to play either rated or unrated games. The number of players often peaks at over 6000 with the common language being chess. German dominates the chat line but players who know the smiley codes often type ‘sad’ or ‘happy’ text messages, which seem universal.

I’ve kept a German to English translation page minimized behind the server screen so I could satisfy my curiosity about some of the remarks on the chat line. As my interest in the language increased, I bought a unique beginning German book by Charles Berlitz that has every sentence and dialog written three times, first in German, then in easy to read syllables that show how to pronounce it and finally in English. I also subscribed to the online BBC German course. I’ve made enough progress in the language to understand some of the words written in the chat line, but still have to use the translation web site to get the total meaning of a comment. I myself never chat or make remarks.

That is……. until now.

A high rated German player has begun a flirtation with me. He uses his first name followed by what I assume to be his age, 38. It started when he frequently challenged me to games which he consistently won. My chess playing is strictly trial and error and a win on my part is almost always by accident and tickles me no end!!! Eventually I did win a game or two and he began watching as I played other opponents.

One day he got my attention by sending me a bell tone and wanting to chat. I told him I didn’t speak German. He doesn’t speak English. He asked about my job and my age, but I ignored all his questions. Our dialogs began by his saying Hi and me replying Hi. My initial forays in German were phrases like, Gutten Tag, Gutten Abend, Danke and Bitte. I never refused to play him when he challenged me to a game but I never invited him to play. As the quality of my games improved our games lasted longer and I made him work for his wins. He was always courteous and sent smiley kisses.

That is…….

Until the day I won two games in a row. Up to this point we had played only one game on any given day. On this particular day my first win must have irritated him because he IMMEDIATELY challenged me to a second game. I happened to win the second game in short order which surprised me as much as it did him! I sent him the usual ‘thx’ for the win, but there was only silence from his end. 20 minutes later he posted a naughty word on the chat line which I knew was a reaction to his losses. I was shocked that he would let his losses cause him to react as he did. Three or four days went by before he spoke to me again.

Our greetings have been reduced to an exchange of ‘Hi’ but as of yesterday, I doubt seriously he will ever want to play chess with me again. Yesterday I won THREE games in a row from him and I haven’t stopped laughing. I think our flirtation is over. I’ll miss the bell tones, the chats and the smiley kisses.

I think if he knew I only took up chess as a diversion a couple of years ago, and that I was an old lady closer to being 86 than 85, he would really swear!!!!

Happy New Year

May all who read this blog enjoy prosperity, health and happiness during 2008! I’ve had the pleasure of a cheerful Christmas season and the joy of a wonderful visit from my dear sister Esther.

When Esther’s daughter and her husband, (Cindy and Arthur), bring Esther to visit, they book reservations for a week or more at a motel, but Esther stays with me in the extra bedroom we consider hers. This trip, Cindy and Arthur brought a friend, Joyce, with them who also stayed at the motel.

For weeks prior to the holidays, Esther and I planned on spending many hours beading and exchanging design ideas and techniques, but we cast those plans aside to tour Moody Gardens in Galveston. The holiday decorations of the three pyramids are exceptional and get prettier every year. From that point on, our time was filled with holiday activities.

My son, Bob, was chauffer for Esther and me when we wanted to go places not on the other’s agenda, but the group managed to spend quality time together exchanging gifts, eating in or out, shopping and sight seeing. One evening we enjoyed a live concert when Bob played guitar and a friend came with his mandolin.


A card game, Spite and Malice is usually played when we get together, but this year we chose Scrabble. Esther and Bob are the real Scrabble players. They both remember Esther’s win 3 years ago! She even remembers the two ‘a’ letters she had to work with. That particular game was my first time playing Scrabble and I had a hard time making words with the tiles I had, but this year I had beginner’s luck and won 2 games.

One of the highlights of our visit was chatting by phone with family members in other states. Because Esther’s hearing loss is so profound she doesn’t talk on the phone but when we are together she is able to talk to the person on the other end of the line and I tell her what they say. It’s such a delight hearing Esther’s voice. It’s surprisingly soft and sweet. She doesn’t have that quality of speaking too loud as many do when losing their hearing.

I have made a list of New Year Resolutions. This year they number 10. I usually make between 9 and 12 and actually keep a good portion of them. The top two are weight and exercise. They are the ones I Don’t keep. I don’t know why I continue to add them to the list and place them at the top, but guess it’s because HOPE SPRINGS ETERNAL. That brings me to my latest poem…which I almost forgot to tell you.

Time

The eternal ring of time
Is a race twist moon and sun
The circle has no ending
The race is never won

In the last wee hours of morning
When moonlight’s race is run
The light of day comes dawning
To hail the golden sun

The cycle ever spinning
New days are begun
In the measured pace of turning
Another race is spun

Good News, Bad News

Good News:
The Library book has been found. It was found on a shelf of the library. Their computer was making mistakes and is now in the process of being updated.

Bad News:
The hurricane DEAN is heading toward Texas.

Library

I’m in trouble with the local branch of the Houston library. They say I have a book that’s over due. I know I returned it ahead of the due date and I’ve told them that, but their computer keeps notifying me to return the book. I continue checking books out and each time I return them I hand them to one of the librarians IN PERSON, but they are so busy they don’t remember. I’ve searched the apartment for the missing book, but it’s not here. I asked my son to help me look for it but he couldn’t find it either.

Once last year, I did mislay a book I had purchased at a thrift shop, and spent days searching for it. I was quite embarrassed when my son found it on my bedside table, almost in plain sight. It was lying under a flower catalog. Thinking it was a pile of catalogs, I failed to turn over the top one.

The missing book had been put on reserve for me, and I had waited several months before it was available. After taking it home, it wasn’t interesting enough to keep very long, and I returned it along with other books, none of them over due.

I do not know why I’m so greedy about books. From the time I learned to read and was old enough to go to the library by myself, libraries have been a source of pleasure for me. My sister Adeline and I believed the library was our second home. We spent hours browsing picture and story books. It was easy to stop at the library on the way home from school and we both developed a love of libraries that lasted thru the years. Adeline even became a volunteer to help stack returned books when her children were all grown and away from home. I’ve mentioned in past posts that Adeline and I, either jointly or separately, were in constant debt to the library when we were in the third and fourth grades. By the time we had reached the higher grades we had learned to return books on time, and no longer had to spend our summers finding jobs to pay off the fines built up during the winter months.

Even though I’m diligent about returning library books on time, I once deliberately ignored the due date of a book many years ago. All the used text books for a six weeks college class in Art History had been sold and my budget didn’t allow the purchase of a new text. I telephoned the downtown Los Angeles Public Library and was told they had several copies. I checked one out as quickly as I could, knowing full well I would keep it past due. I had mentally weighed the exorbitant cost of the text against the daily fine and chose the fine. If I remember right, the fine came to a little over $4 and the cost of the book was nearer $30.

My son has been in phone contact with the library from whence the missing book came. There is still hope that it will be found, but it might take as long as 5 weeks to track it thru the library system. If it’s not found, I will probably be asked to buy one to replace it.

Bicycles

The other day on the way home from grocery shopping, we saw a lone bicycle rider pedaling 90 to nothing in the right hand lane of a feeder road. Traffic moves as fast as it does on the freeways and I remarked that apparently Houston didn’t have bike lanes and the guy we just passed would be lucky to get where he wanted to go without getting killed. My son, who was driving, said that Houston does have bike lanes but our errands rarely take us near them.

It has been years since I rode a bike. I enjoyed biking, but I never developed the skill of total control. My first experience was during the summer between third and fourth grade. Several of my siblings and I had gone to the park along the river near the dam to play on the swings and rings. A boy from my class rode up with his new birthday bike to show off. He let a couple of boys ride it to the end of the block and back and I asked if I could have a turn. He asked if I knew how to ride a bike, and I told him, "Of course!" I had never been on a bike but I had confidence that what the boys could do, I could too. I asked him if it would be all right if I rode to my house and came right back. He asked how long it would take and I said a few minutes. He grudgingly gave me permission and I got on the bike. It was a shaky moment but, once I got on the seat and started pedaling, things when as they should. I did have to pedal rather fast to keep my balance but all went well until I got to my house and turned to go back to the park. I made a wide circle but it wasn’t wide enough and the bike ran up on the sidewalk and headlong into a tree. To keep from falling completely over, I had to skip/jump on one leg but the bike scraped my knee and leg as it went side ways. I quickly looked the bike over for damage but it was ok. My leg hurt a lot, but I was determined not to let the boy know I had a fall. When I got back to the park the boy was irate because I had been gone so long but I reminded him that he knew where I lived and he had given me permission and besides, I went there and right back!

During the depression years when we lived on the asparagus farm, the folks bought a bike for the boys to share. Adeline and I, being older than the boys, wanted a bike too, but the folks couldn’t afford it. The boys took to the bike like a duck to water. Jerry, the youngest, was too small to ride, but that didn’t stop him. He developed a style of swinging his body back and forth across the seat, dropping his weight down on the pedal as it reached the high point and shoving the pedal down as hard as he could to bring the pedal up on the other side.

Many years ago when my husband and I lived in the country house outside of Paris, the women in the small village invited me to go biking with them on Saturday mornings to shop in the near by town about 10 or 15 kilometers away. Neither we nor the villagers owned a car. My husband and I walked the three miles to the train station or paid a farmer’s son to take us by horse and wagon. We didn’t have a bicycle either, but the women said they would furnish the bike if I wanted to join them. The bicycle was not like an American bike. It was very high off the ground and I needed help just to get on the seat! There was a basket on the front for carrying groceries but I knew from past experience that if I put in anything weighing more than a feather, I’d probably lose my balance. I was along for the ride more than the groceries. Within a few minutes it was obvious that I was not able to keep up with the others and I began to lag farther and farther behind. One or two of them came back to encourage me to go faster so we could get home before the heat of the day reached a high point. I had never used handle bar brakes and I was warned about not coming to an abrupt halt. At the speeds the women traveled, a sudden halt would have been fatal. I was able to make the trip without mishap, but I refused all ensuing invitations. I think the women only asked out of courtesy and were secretly pleased when I didn’t join them a second time.

The last time I was on a bike was in Palo Alto, back in the 70s when I took my daughter’s bike for a ride. I had a bike/car accident. The fact that the car was a block behind me doesn’t negate the accident. It was a sunny afternoon and I was riding down an empty street near the courthouse. I heard a car and turned to see how close it was and lost my balance. I landed on my keester and got scrapes and bruises and messed up the bike so bad it couldn’t be ridden. Of course the driver of the car never suspected he was the cause of the accident and went in another direction at the intersection. I had to walk the bike home and my aches and pains increased as hobbled home. My son often suggests I get an exercise bike, but at this stage of my life, I know my limitations!

Radio Music

The other day I walked into the kitchen to get something out of the refrigerator and heard Home on the Range being played on PBS radio. It took a moment to believe what I was hearing because it’s not the usual type of music that station plays. My kitchen radio is tuned to PBS radio and plays 24/7. Having been a listener of that station for many years I was a bit astonished. The orchestration was so lovely I paused to listen. I expected the music to end any second but as it continued, I leaned against the counter and lost myself in the arrangement. As it played I wondered what orchestra had recorded it, and hoped it would be identified when the music ended. It was the Boston symphony with Arthur Fiedler conducting.

The song brought back a sweet memory of the ‘music practice’ Esther and I had every day with Mom when she was closer to 100 than 95 years of age. The sessions started one day when I was inspired to create an activity Mom could participate in. I took her by the hand into the kitchen and sat her down at the round maple table in the middle of the room. As she got comfortable, I pretended to be a music teacher. We did some warm up breathing exercises and sang the do re me scales a couple of times, then began singing songs like Old Kentucky Home, Down In the Valley, On Top Of Old Smoky, Amazing Grace and Home On The Range.

Mom had a wonderful time so the next day we repeated the ‘lesson’. Soon we were a trio when Esther came from Baton Rouge for a visit. Between the three of us we remembered more songs and added them to our repertoire. Esther had a wonderful idea of going to the library to get song books to help us with the lyrics. We searched thru music books and made zerox copies of songs we liked, lullabies, hymns, cowboy, patriotic, and pop songs from the 40s and 50s. When Esther went back to Baton Rouge she took the copies with her and made us four duplicate song books.

There was an extra for anyone who might want to chime in. Jerry did join us once when he was visiting from Groesbeck, and I was pleasantly surprised to discover he knew all the words to many of the songs, especially the hymns we sang! Adeline took part in our daily singing sessions when she came for a long visit from California. We coaxed Dad and Charles to join in but they refused. Dad preferred watching ball games on TV and Charles sat outside under the patio umbrella which was between the kitchen door and the wood shop entrance, and talked with Pierce, a neighbor. From time to time, either Charles or Pierce would come thru the kitchen on the way to the refrigerator for another cold beer. They would make disparaging remarks about our singing, but I noticed they stopped talking when we sang certain songs, so we must have at least been carrying a tune!

Esther has an unusually fine voice and enjoys singing and listening to music although her hearing loss is becoming profound. Charles had a wonderful singing voice when he was young. He was often asked to sing solos in school pageants but those days were long gone. When I was in high school I sang alto in the girl’s glee club and even after all these years, I recall the phrase ‘the diadem of beauty reigns’ from the Waltz of the Flowers.

My taste in music is varied. I often stop in the middle of what ever I’m doing if I hear Ode to Joy and hum along with it. Aaron Copeland’s Appalachian Spring using the shaker hymn as the main thread throughout is so distinctive a melody it too is a favorite. I often tune my bedside radio to an FM station that plays oldies like Willie Nelson’s ‘Georgia’, or turn the dial to a good Jazz station. On my computer I often listen to a web station broadcasting only piano music while I’m online. Although I love the 1812 overture, and anyone playing the violin will get my attention, I do not have a good ear for music, but both my daughter and son are blessed with musical talent.

Open Range

A recent PBS TV program, a 2 year photo chronicle of a small band of wild horses in Montana, brought to mind the many times I had seen wild horses running free when traveling across the country. For some period of time after WWII, the country remained as it was before Pearl Harbor although at the war’s end, an all out effort to regain a peace time economy seeped into every facet of living.

The highway system at that time was basically a series of two lane roads connecting east and west, north and south. The west was open range country meaning there were no fences to prevent animals from crossing, walking or sleeping on the highway. It could be quite dangerous, especially when driving at night. Automobiles had only mechanical brakes and seat belts had not been invented yet. Rounding a curve at 60 miles per hour to see deer, or cattle standing in the middle of the highway only yards in front of your vehicle was a heart stopper to say the least!

Cross country travel by plane was not yet available; one chose car, bus or train. If driving and having to cross the desert, you did so at night. Departure was timed to put as many miles behind you as possible in darkness to avoid the searing heat of day. Canvas bags of water were hung on car bumpers for emergencies. Engines often over heated or fan belts broke. Prudent drivers carried ‘extras’ to cope in various situations. In the western states, towns and gas stations were few and far between. ‘Last chance’ signs on the outskirts of a town warning how many miles to the next gas stop were duly noted, rarely ignored.

Day time traffic was very light. One could drive for hundreds of miles and see only trains passing in the distance, but in the desert areas at night one would frequently see the headlights of oncoming or passing vehicles.

Traveling from west to east, scenic views comprised mountains, forests, desert and prairie. The rolling hills of Midwestern farming lands gradually gave way to towns that were increasingly nearer to each other and which eventually blended into the congestion of the great cities of New York and Philadelphia. About the second or third day on the road, one began thinking of the pioneers crossing the same landscapes but in covered wagons. We counted our blessings at the easy way we traveled compared to the hardships endured by those early settlers. It was easier, but at times tedious.

Calculations based on the visual distance of mountains were misleading. After hours of steady driving, a highway could become a monotonous ribbon narrowing to a vanishing point on the horizon. Sometimes shimmering heat mirages were projections that kept pace a few yards in front of the car disappearing only when the sun set or it rained.

The excitement of unexpected happenings during a cross country trip outweighed the boredom that sometimes crept into attitudes resulting from longs hours of sitting. Spotting a band of wild horses brought a pleasure that was twice observed; first, our surprise and delight in seeing and driving past them; second, talking about them after they were long out of sight. Occasionally we would come across the history of a particular band when we stopped at a road side café and asked about the photographs of horses and framed newspaper clippings on the wall. We took for granted that our trips would always be enlivened by seeing horses running wild, but the development of the national highway system and the ever expansion of cities and freeway businesses plus the loss of open range relegates those days to the past.

Weather and Climate Change

Global warming is certainly playing havoc with the weather! Drought, floods and heat are bringing misery to thousands. Wild fires, torrential rains, and extreme temperatures make news every day. I’ve experienced temperatures of 117 degrees which lasted several days when l lived in Palo Alto, California a few years ago, but the 128 reading in Las Vegas only days ago is a staggering record. Death Valley often records phenomenal temperatures in the 130 plus range, but as wags like to remark, “it’s a dry heat”….add a little moisture and you get a Texas summer.

In my phone and computer chats, weather conditions dominate the conversations. We compare temperatures, the cost of running the AC, and whether or not the streets are flooded where we live. Occasionally I phone Mesa Tessa to get a currant weather report from her ‘spread’ in Arizona.

In thinking of ways to conserve energy, I’m reminded that before air conditioning there were shade trees, hand held paper fans and porches with swings where one might catch a breeze however slight.

Porches are almost a thing of the past; worry about mosquitoes carrying West Nile virus causes one to forego the pleasure of rocking in a porch swing as the summer moon rises. Porches can certainly play a part in saving energy though. There is nothing like sitting in a porch swing, whiling away a hot afternoon and sipping cold lemonade. Two of the houses the family lived in had screened sleeping porches. The Victorian house in Iowa had one on the second floor. The Sky Ranch in California had a wrap around screened porch, one section given over to a row of beds, dormitory style, where anyone choosing to sleep outdoors could do so. The fragrance of the redwoods and the night time sounds of rustling leaves was the only sleeping potion needed for a good nights sleep.

Fans are electric these days. Hand held fans are no longer given away free as advertising gifts. Small individual battery fans replace the pleated Spanish fans that fold with a snap of the wrist.

Several years ago, my sister, Adeline, and I wanted to get some Spanish fans. She and I combed the malls near and far without luck. On our drive north to Mt. View, California to visit family we took a driving break and browsed a Pier One shop. In a dark corner at the back of the store we found a bin full of Spanish fans, all colors. Many were broken and of no use but the two of us bought the remaining ones. I got 7 or 8 and Adeline got the same. I gave half of mine away but those I kept have been repaired several times by trimming the white priority mailing envelopes from the Post Office to fit the fan shape and gluing it to the colored paper. Every time I use one I think of Adeline and our adventure in finding them.

Before moving to Houston, picnicking on hot summer days at the Louisiana tourist bureau and rest stop across the Texas line was always a welcome relief from stifling heat. Elevated wooden walkways circle thru the Cypress trees allowing one to look down into the backwaters of the Gulf and see rare plants and flowers native to the area.

Here in Houston there is a mesmerizing water sculpture. It’s a semi circular wall, 65 feet tall with 11,000 gallons of water per minute cascading down the sides; a most impressive sight! I enjoy going there after a scorching hot day. Lights illuminate the water from underneath and, if there is a breeze, a mist from the water fall rides the draft and creates a net over hair and clothes as you walk from one end of the wall to the other. A park of oak trees lies between the wall and the Williams Tower, owner of the wall.

Television programs on climate conditions and global warming leave me bewildered. I become enmeshed in a cycle of sympathy about what’s happening over yonder, thankful it’s not in my back yard and feeling guilty that I’m lackadaisical about saving the planet.

I HAVE replaced incandescent light bulbs with fluorescent and the new energy saving spiral bulbs. I promise not to buy any more Styrofoam plates and bowls after I use the ones I have on hand.

Sometimes I wonder what life will be like for future generations. Will earth warming be so drastic that humans won’t survive? They say anything that can be imagined can be done. If that’s so, people may live with blessings and curses. There’s bound to be medical breakthroughs and scientific discoveries, inventions of labor saving devices to ease the drudgery of work, possibly more time for pursuit of happiness, and a greater understanding of the universe. But there may also be a greater disparity between those who have and those who haven’t and the idea of a peaceful life may be at a premium paid for only by war and violence.
It’s tempting to think wonderful things will come to pass like an unending supply of energy for all of humanities’ needs, and travel to and from other planets. I don’t seriously believe it will ever happen. If the predictions of drastic climate change actually occur, however many years in the future, humanity will face catastrophic conditions just to survive.

Green Tea

Lipton’s bottled green tea with citrus flavoring, (diet style), is my favorite summer drink. I buy it by the case and drink numerous bottles of iced tea throughout the day and evening. Lately I’ve heard on the TV news that many cities are banning the use of plastic bottles for water because they damage the environment and overwhelm the land fills. The cost of producing and delivering them requires exorbitant amounts of energy and money. The same applies to the bottles used for my tea. The bulk of my own garbage consists mainly of empty plastic bottles; consequently, I’ve decided not to buy any more bottled tea. I’ll go back to brewing tea the old fashioned way.

I switched to green tea several years ago when it became a ‘must’ for good health, but I grew up in a household that only used Orange Pekoe. I remember a green tea incident caused by my younger sister, Adeline when we were around 8 or 9 years old. Mom used to let us take turns telephoning in the grocery order for home delivery. I never deviated from the list, but Adeline often added items. I don’t remember a fuss being made over the fact, probably because the items were of little consequence like the tin of corned beef she ordered because she wanted to taste it.

On this particular day, disregarding Mom’s tea preference, Adeline ordered a large box of green tea instead of the usual. The groceries came in the last delivery of the day and it was too late to re-order. There was a lot of fussing and fuming because no one liked green tea, iced or otherwise. That box of green tea remained in the cupboard for years and I doubt a cup was ever brewed.

In those halcyon days of my early childhood we had deliveries of all manner of goods. Groceries were delivered twice daily. The morning delivery was around 11 if the list had been phoned in by 10 and the afternoon delivery around 4 if the list was called in by 3 pm.

Milk was delivered to the front door step every morning. There was a standing order of so many quarts and so much cream, but when extra whipping cream or milk was needed, a note was left sticking out of the empty milk bottles which were put outside at night for the milk man to pick up the next morning. A farm woman delivered eggs and chickens.


The doctor made house calls whenever someone was sick or had an accident. In case of accident, the doctor came as quickly as he could, but if there was illness, he would see the patient on his daily rounds, or according to the seriousness of the illness. The doctor had patients scattered throughout the farming area as well as residents of the town so we never knew exactly when the doctor would come, only that he would.

The cleaners had pick up and delivery of laundry and dry cleaning although my family only sent the dry cleaning out to be done. The laundry was done at home.


The mail was delivered to the house twice a day, morning and afternoon. When a letter was ready for mailing, someone would ask if the mailman had gone by, hoping to get the letter in the mail that day.


A daily newspaper came every afternoon, but the printer had an advertiser paper with household items for sale, that was delivered once a week.

Ice was delivered every other day. A sign in the window would let the ice man know how much ice was needed. All the neighborhood kids liked to chase the ice truck and beg slivers of ice. It was great fun to chew gum and ice at the same time but the gum was often accidentally swallowed. The iceman always predicted dire happenings and gave warnings about chewing ice and gum at the same time, but he never seemed too worried and continued to give tiny chunks of ice to all the kids.

We even had a candy delivery. There was a woman who came regularly to take orders for butter brickle she made herself and would deliver on the dates Mom chose.

At the beginning of cold weather, the folks always had two large wooden barrels of apples delivered. They would last thru the winter and I made many trips to the apple barrels when Mom wanted to bake some for supper or they were wanted for after school munchies.

Projects

I’m anxious to tell you about two of my latest projects, but first I want to thank those who sent messages asking for more postings on my blog and telling me how much they’ve enjoyed reading it. It’s nice to know I have ‘fans’. I will write more frequently now that several of my projects are at a manageable stage.

Some weeks ago during a telephone conversation with Aunt Elizabeth, she was telling me about her room at the retirement facility and mentioned that she slept in the bed that had been grandma W’s. I asked if she was also using a quilt she or grandma might have made but she said no. I told her I would make her a quilt for her 93rd birthday on May 11th; one she could use when she napped. I planned to use the sewing machine to piece the top and sew the flannel backing, but would not use batting.

I had committed myself to a very tight schedule which became even tighter as I took days deciding on the pattern I would make. I also had to solve the problem of finding a table with the right height for my portable sewing machine. As luck would have it, my son found a marvelous antique drop leaf table at a local thrift shop so I didn’t have to get mine out of storage.

Because our family was among the true pioneers that helped settle the country and were homesteaders in South Dakota, I chose to do a Log Cabin for Elizabeth. Of the many quilts I’ve made, I had never pieced or quilted a Log Cabin. The blocks are made of light and dark fabric strips sewn around a small center square dividing the block into diagonals of light and dark. There are many ways to assemble the blocks of a Log Cabin quilt, each design having its own name. I chose to make the Log Cabin Star. I used five different light colored fabrics and five different dark color fabrics for the strips and red for the center square. The center color of either red or yellow represents a light or lantern in the cabin.

As the work progressed, the living room slowly lost its identity and turned into a Hodge podgy assembly area of scattered fabric strips, rotary fabric cutters, star charts, and stacks of finished and unfinished quilt blocks. All of which Mimi, the cat, believed were her new toys. At times it was a toss up of whether I was in charge or Mimi was. When the top with the center star was finished, I backed the colorful blocks with soft pink flannel and got it in the mail just in time for it to be delivered the day before Elizabeth’s birthday.

I wasn’t able to reach Elizabeth by phone on the day of her birthday. The following day I received a phone call from a son telling me she had suffered a stroke on her birthday and that she had not seen the quilt before the stroke. I send loving thoughts to her every day and pray she regains a measure of health so we can continue our phone chats. I miss them.

While browsing the thrift shop for a sewing table, I spotted a lovely necklace in the glass case by the cashier. I knew immediately what it was and asked if I could see it. I had seen a PBS television program the night before on Pearls and recognized a type of elongated pearl that is becoming rare due to the pollution of the waters in Japan where the pearls are found. It was a stunning necklace and I bought it for a ridiculously low price.


Off and on through the years I enjoyed beading but never worked with pearls, but now I decided to learn how pearls were knotted and to make necklaces for myself and members of the family.

I started by going to the library and reading everything I could find on the subject. The next step was practicing on imitation glass pearls. The overhand knot is simple but the trick is to know when, where and how to tighten it. The knot is important, but learning the tricks of fastening necklace clasps equally so. Undoing a bad knot is a hassle and I quickly learned that total concentration is a must. Once I spent an untold amount of time undoing a knot in the middle of a string then making a bad knot in the place I had just untied one! It’s easy to let your mind wander when the rhythm of knotting verges on rote.

The trip to the bead store to buy real pearls was a delight. The clerk was patient and willing to answer all my questions. I bought 5 strands of varying colors and sizes. I had never seen the process done and the only photo I could find on knotting was one on the internet showing how the cord was tied in an over hand knot. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, so undaunted and treading where angels fear to go, I started creating necklaces. My first failure came after knotting about a dozen pearls. Because of a bad knot that resisted all my efforts to untie it, I had to cut each pearl from the cord and start anew. I’m please to report that I finished all five necklaces without further problems. When I showed them to the clerk at the bead store he told me I had done a very good job of knotting. I’m giving these necklaces away and I’m already busy knotting the next batch of pearl necklaces.

Catch Up News

It’s been a while since I’ve written in my blog so thought I’d better post something or everyone will assume I’ve been subjected to another disaster similar to Rita.

During this past year my daily routines have settled into a comfortable pace that suits me. I’m becoming accustomed to apartment living in Houston. My computer and telephone keep me in touch with the latest activities of the young as well as the older family members. MimiCat and I share the apartment, but she lets me believe I’m the boss. She has had her ‘fix it’ surgery and has matured into a dainty lady, albeit a mischievous one at times.

I recently had to take all her toys and boxes away so we could accommodate my sister, E, when she came from Baton Rouge to visit for a week. E. has to use oxygen around the clock and the 50 foot oxygen tube and her walker was hazard enough without catnip mice and pretend cave boxes being in the way.

My son helped me choose furniture and decorations that would make Esther’s room as attractive and comfortable as possible because I hoped to entice her back for a longer visit. I may have succeeded. She plans to visit again the last of April. We devoted one day to shopping. C., E.’s daughter, was kind enough to be our chauffeur. We browsed a needlepoint shop and fabric store to our hearts content. Besides the purchases from the needlepoint shop, we bought Muumuu patterns and appropriate fabrics for our sewing projects that never seem to end. The three of us had a late, leisurely lunch at a Chinese café and the Fortune cookie comments made us laugh as they seemed to hint the truth about each of us.

Perhaps the following bits of news might be of interest to those of the family who have settled far and wide.

Aunt El. has been moved from southern California to a facility in Idaho. The move allows her to have more frequent family visits. She is in fairly good health and we chat often on the phone. She will be 93 on May 11th. She is the last member of Mom’s family that has known me all my life. There is something special about having a relative who has known you from the day of your birth to the present. It’s a delight to reminisce with her and she often clarifies bits of our family history.

A. phones frequently from California. Researching the source of his name shows it to be a form of ‘John’. He recently had heart by pass surgery and is recuperating nicely.
I often have long phone conversations with Mesa Tessa in Arizona. Yesterday she told me she had planted another tree, one that will produce several types of pears. Her orchard is comprised of various types of fruit; all dwarf trees, some beginning to bloom.
G., in Iowa, a veteran of WWII, tells me of his visits to the VA hospital. He and I discuss the national economy and political affairs and bemoan fact that the country is going to Hell in a hand basket.

E. in Louisiana chats of beading, quilting, recipes, books, and her medical appointments. She and I have a running dialog about her position as campaign manager if I run for president. If laughter is the best medicine, we won’t have to refill our prescriptions for quite a while!

D. H. emails wonderfully interesting and thought provoking photo articles and videos which I pass on to D. A..

M. in Mt. View, tells me about treasures found at thrift shops and the latest gig of D.’s band.

And so it goes. My routines rarely vary, but I add projects and squeeze them in between projects underway. The latest addition is gardening. The Strawberry plants in hanging baskets that I ordered have arrived. I hope they will produce berries like the catalog pictures. I also plan to have several containers growing tomato plants. As hope springs eternal, I hope to pick fresh tomatoes during the growing season!

Substitutes

Americans love substitutes. We accept them, we create them, and we approve of them. Our national economy thrives on them. Even our national security depends on them. Our daily lives are influenced by substitutes from the time we wake up in the morning to when we go to sleep at night. We even have a substitute for time called daylight saving time. Our language is full of substitutes. We shorten words to the barest minimum of characters which can still give meaning to our thoughts. Thx, ok, ty, ttfn, wtg are examples. We substitute nick names for real ones. We often use letters of the alphabet as a substitute for names of people such as FDR and OJ or grocery stores called H.E.B. Our government uses abbreviated words and letters to denote agencies.

We have even found a way to substitute some foods for the real thing. Splenda is a substitute for sugar. Canola oil is a chemical substitution for some oils. We patronize restaurants that give substitute choices for things on their menus.

Substitute teachers are part of our education system. We are constantly in search of new ways to substitute money. We went from substituting paper for coins to banking with checks, then graduated to plastic and currently we are attempting to substitute online services to replace the tangible substitutes in use now.

Our clothing is comprised of synthetics which are substitutes for wool, cotton and silk. Vinyl replaces leather. Our residences are partially built and decorated with synthetic woods and stones. Television and radio have substitute hosts. Pharmacies often substitute one medicine for another. The National Guard is a substitution used to augment the army. Injured soldiers are given substitute arms and legs to replace those lost. Doctors routinely transplant substituted organs for defective ones. We keep ourselves comfortable in substituted climates of heating and air conditioning.

Undoubtedly there are many more examples but these are just a few that crossed my mind when I watched a television commercial for Capital One credit card. It’s really amazing that we are so unaware of how the culture of our time is developing or that rules of American society are predicated on substitutions.

See Internet abbreviations at:
http://www.pulpchat.com/faq/faq215.php
See Government Acronyms at:
http://www.ulib.iupui.edu/subjectareas/gov/docs_abbrev.html
See Ingredient Substitutions at:
http://www.e-cookbooks.net/ingresub.htm
See a document listing Drug Substitutions at:
www.wiba.org/pdf/insurance/prescription/2006_formulary_list.pdf