tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12887095832894593992024-03-05T06:49:49.969-08:00BACK IN THE DAYStories about my family and growing up in the 1940s and 1950s. Stories about raising my kids, about retiring to Florida and life in general.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-47532730283068641732016-11-11T12:31:00.000-08:002016-11-11T12:31:10.087-08:00Ezekiel 36:28 And ye shall dwell in the land that I gave to your fathers; and ye shall be My people, and I will be your God.<br />
Exodus 28:2 “Make special clothes for your brother Aaron. These clothes will give him honor and respect.<br />
2 Corinthians 5 We know that our body—the tent we live in here on earth—will be destroyed. But when that happens, God will have a home for us to live in. It will not be the kind of home people build here. It will be a home in heaven that will continue forever. But now we are tired of this body. We want God to give us our heavenly home. It will clothe us and we will not be naked.<br />
John 13:34-35 “I give you a new command: Love each other. You must love each other just as I loved you. All people will know that you are my followers if you love each other.”<br />
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I think I have mentioned before that my cousins are the siblings I did not have. I looked forward to summers spent with Terry and Pris, Marlene, and Charles. The big guys Colin, and Dwayne were far too old to be companions, but around just enough to keep us careful. When we were younger Terry would come to our home in Rochester, MN for the summer. We spent happy days roaming the medical museum, the historic museum, the Mayo Clinic, and whatever wonders Terry's inquisitive mind searched out. He was good at that...Terry could make fun happen from a trip to the store. When we moved to Iowa I usually went to Terry's. We rambled the town, visited friends and cousins, walked out to Cocoa Beach, and baby-sat for money to spend for movies and cherry cokes at the drug store. We hitched rides to Washington, or to Grandma's out on the St. Claire Road so we could walk to the swimming pool at the country club. We were not members but someone always would sign us in. We sat up nights in the breathless Missouri heat and talked of futures and plans, dreams and movies, books and wishes, and what to do tomorrow. We loved one another, as only two lonely onlies can love. We fostered dreams, we shared hurts and fears, we looked after one another.<br />
It was a much simpler world. No one thought anything of two young teens wandering the streets and highways. We were clean, decently dressed and minded our manners so we were accepted where ever we went.<br />
One night we went to the Muny Opera in St. Louis, the show may have been ROBERTA, with Bob Hope. Afterward we stopped at a bistro for a sandwich and coke before the hour ride home. Some how we'd miscalculated our money, or maybe it was lost or stolen....at any rate we hadn't enough cash to pay the bill. I sat nervously nursing the rest of my coke while Terry ran to a nearby hotel and cashed a check. Can you imagine such a thing today? The hotel cashed his check, the Bistro gave us no problems, and we went our embarrassed way.<br />
Although you can be sure we checked our cash more carefully from then on, it didn't slow us down. Once discovered, St. Louis was our goal, just a bus ride away. We did progressive dinners, beginning with a famous salad at a certain restaurant, and so on through 4 or 5 course meal. We slipped into night clubs to hear the jazz, or comedy and no one questioned us as long as we did not order liquor. Not a problem, we were there for the fun, the laughter and entertainment, booze was for adults at the American Legion at home, where the folks were. Where we avoided being and our absence was rarely noted.<br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-86600433033491767442016-07-01T07:40:00.001-07:002016-07-01T07:40:51.592-07:00Children of the American Revolution <div style="background-color: white; color: #1d2129; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
On the eve of the Fourth of July, I want my children to know their own history. This story was hand written by Grandma Blanche Campbell Downs, my mother. I believe she copied it from a genealogy book researched and written by a Gideon cousin. Next time you are here, ask to see this. </div>
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James Isham Gideon was born in Cork, Ireland in AD 1749 of Irish parentage. His father was a hatter (he made and sold hats) by trade and in humble circumstances.(I'm guessing this meant they were really poor!)<br />He (James) and his two ha<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">lf brothers landed in Norfolk, Va about August of 1764. They settled in Roanoke County, Va. on a large tract of land where they engaged in farming until the Revolutionary War. They joined the Continental Army under Washington and served during the war. (James) Emigrated to Hawkins Co., Tenn. on a farm on War Creek. (the parcel of land was his payment for serving in the army) He died in 1832.(He was 83) He was a Federalist or Anti-Tory, a hard shell Baptist and a Mason.<br />James G. Gideon (4th child) son of Isham Gideon #1 and Nancy Miller was born in 1822 in Tennessee. He died August 22 1874 in Franklin County MO. (aged 73) His first wife was Martha Eliza Parman? (I am not sure of the spelling.) They married in Feb. of 1847 in Laurel Co. KY. She died May 12, 1865 in MO leaving 5 small children. On Oct 20, 1859 James married Lurana Butcher in Wright Co., MO. She was born in 1834 in Hawkins Co. TN and died in Franklin Co, MO in 1873.<br />During the Civil War he, along with his widowed mother and sister in law's family went to Franklin Co, MO for safety. They left Wright Co., known as Gideon Valley, to escape outlaws and bushwackers. When they returned after the war, all their property was destroyed. He sold his Wright Co. land and became a prosperous farmer in Franklin Co., MO. Both James and Lurana are buried on their Old Mill Creek Farm.</span></div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-6483583515316527712016-03-27T07:32:00.003-07:002016-03-27T07:32:37.076-07:00Crash.<span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">When I was about 11 years old I pitched a real fit. It is the only time I ever remember throwing a fit and certainly the only time it worked. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">But this was beyond the pale. Daddy was going to visit Grandpa Downs and planned to go alone.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">Since Grandpa lived with us for a year when I was six, we had been good buddies. He'd taught me to use the Dewey decimal system, and I used it to fetch his reference books for his grand</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">opus, the HISTORY OF THE AMERICAN PRESIDENCY. Since Grandpa moved to Evanville, IN and we had moved to Rochester, MN I had not seen my pal. We had spoken, and written occasionally, but had spent no time together at all and now Daddy was going to see him and leaving me home! They were going to go to some race in Indianapolis and Uncle Gene and cousin Jimmy were going, too.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">It was SO unfair that Jimmy could go see Grandpa and see the race and I was being left home. Somehow this argument worked.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">We were hitching a ride with a pilot who was delivering a 3 seater to it's new owner. I do not recall what kind of plane it was, certainly not the usual Cessna 140 or 170...for one thing it</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">did not have a tricycle landing gear, which interested me. How my father ended up in the pilot seat I do not know, but we took off into a beautiful blue yonder, and sailed past cotton puffs</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">and through rays of warming sun. I was small enough to fit in the single passenger seat in back, but I was crammed round with dufflel bags and luggage and barely had room to turn the</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">pages of my book. I must have drifted off, and when I woke we were circling the airport at Joliet. The familiar sinking feeling in the stomach told me we were losing altitude quickly. Maybe too quickly? Daddy kicked the rudder, nearly standing on it, pulling the stick so hard I could feel the constriction in my knees.....he was trying to turn the landing into a touch and go, but the plane was having none of it. The nose refused to lift and with a sickening thud the left landing gear crushed in on itself and the right wheel circled around it in a neck wrenching ground loop. The sudden halt threw me hard against the seat belt I still wore, then smoke drifted up from the overheated engine. Hands were pulling on me, </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">jerking at the belt latch, dragging me roughly through the hatch, over the wing and onto the tarmac. Under the boiler suit, I defined a woman's figure, stocky and strong enough to hold</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">all 110 pounds of me in her arms. She set me down, patted me over, checked me out thoroughly and asked if I would like a cookie. I've never turned down a cookie in my life, so I said</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">yes, of course. Behind us the crunched plane was being sprayed down with fire retardant. I have no idea where my father was in all this time. Not by me. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">We took a train to Indianapolis and met up with Grandpa, Uncle Gene and Jimmy. We got to Indy, spent the night and got up early the next morning to get out to the track. Grandpa did not go. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">Even then, the Brick Yard was an amazing sight. We climbed nearly to the top of the bleachers. It was sunny and hot, and I was soon fried and miserable. After an eternity Bill Vukovich won. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">After dinner I was abandoned in the hotel room with a radio and a Gideon Bible for company while the "men" went out. I didn't </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">even get to spend any time with Grandpa. The following day we took a long slow train ride back to Rochester. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.32px;">I spent most of the time wishing I'd lost the battle to attend the 1954 Indy 500.</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-91051514603179195612015-07-23T12:23:00.001-07:002015-07-23T12:23:34.810-07:00A Minute at the End of LoveRobby swept the light bulbs right off the dining table and growled at me when I came in. I hung onto a chair, buggy eyed and scared by this odd behavior. Robby's eyes were red like from crying, but big brothers give piggy back rides, they never get mad and never, ever ever ever cry. His mother shushed him, saying something about little girls not being to blame for what big people did.<br />
I had been at the Miller's house for two days. That wasn't unusual, Susie was my very best friend in the whole world. In the first week of the first grade she pulled me off the school steps and into the game she was playing. Her whole name was Brenda Sue Millard and she was right in the middle of the family. Her big sister, Letha was a senior in high school, Robby was 14, Brenda Sue was 8, then Billy who was 5 and Patsy who was 3. I liked to pretend that the Millards were my own family. Robby was the perfect big brother and I thought he liked me. The idea of Robby hating me made my tummy roll. I ran into the bathroom to throw up. Susie followed me in. Accustomed to sick siblings she wiped my face with a wash cloth and patted my back, shushing, patting and tsking me. <br />
When we returned the glass was cleaned up and Robby had gone, to work, to practice, to somewhere else. Outside with the neighborhood kids we raced around the yard playing cowboys and rustlers and Indians. The morning scare was forgotten for the time being. Mom picked me up just as we were starting to have fun.<br />
A few weeks later my parents announced that we were moving again. We were going to Minnesota, two whole states away on the map. Mrs. Watson showed us on the big pull down map. She even drew a line along the road leading away from home so we could see how far it was. On the last day of third grade, Mrs. Watson, the best teacher ever in the whole wide world, pronounced that Susie and I were "best friends forever", but it didn't help. I wanted to stay, never to move again.<br />
I was much older before I learned that my father's affair with a Millard sister in law had led to the suicide of a cousin just a year older than Robby the night before the light bulbs smashed on the dining room floor.<br />
Sometimes we get to understand what happens, just as the grownups tell us we will.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-28400536705157472382015-07-04T11:16:00.000-07:002015-07-04T11:17:37.927-07:004th of July Old StyleIn our little town the 4th of July was a very big deal. The Parade formed behind Court House Square, looped around, and proceeded past our house, past the church, and marched the entire length of Pleasant Ave. to where the street dead ended at the park. The Mayor lead the way in a convertible borrowed from whichever dealership had the biggest, brightest and shiniest car to loan. A big hand painted sign hung on the car door told which entrepreneur lent his best. Next came the Homecoming Queen and her court, in another borrowed vehicle, followed closely by the High School Marching Band. The Sheriff rode his big black horse, his son was mounted on a prancing pony and behind them followed the boys from the farms and ranches surrounding the town. All tossed hard candies and suckers from bags hanging from the pommel of the saddles. Nest the 4 H winners lead their prize winning calves, goat kids, lambs, or carried the hen, bunny or goose that had taken the fair by storm. The clowns followed with pooper scoopers and silly antics. The Shriners rode bicycles in intricate patterns they practiced all year, weaving in, out, round and back, making the crowds gasp at the near misses. Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts rode hay wagons, waving and singing camp songs. A local Barbershop Quartet sat in the back of a pick-up truck singing SWEET ADELINE.<br />
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That was the official parade and after that anyone and everyone could join in. Tots on trikes, boys bashing garbage can lids, majorette wannabees, all proudly strutted those 10 blocks. Families watching from their front porches would fall in behind pulling Radio Flyer wagons carrying picnic baskets, blankets and babies, ready for the speeches, the games, music and the booths selling cookies, pies, home made ice cream, and sweet tea, all for sweet charity. Darkness brought the fireworks, OOOOOOOOOOOOOhhhhhh! AAAAAAAAAAAAhhhhh. Then the long trudge home, hot, sweaty, sunburnt, tired, proud and happy.....we were the USA. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-62604271414720131452015-07-01T12:47:00.001-07:002015-07-01T12:47:47.973-07:00Missouri Home The old road from Aurora, through the outskirts of Springfield, led past the WigWam Motel, out and across the cricks, through the crags, bluffs and and over the hills. Red and gold in the fall, paynes' gray, dun, and dull black in winter, forest green on hunter green on olive green in summer and a miracle of dogwood, ground roses and apple green in spring. About three quarters of the way to Union, in the midst of towering pines and overwhelming cliffs a weathered, hand painted board was impaled half way up a preposterous hill. It read "hot biskits and honey". At the top of the hill an ancient black iron stove sagged on three legs outside of a rickety old cabin. No one ever appeared at the sound of our motor. No dog lounged on the falling porch, no chickens scratched about the yard and no granny woman pulled "biskits" from the rusty oven. Daddy always promised that "next time" we would stop and climb to the top of the ridge. We never did.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-29855957631066922632015-06-13T10:04:00.000-07:002015-06-13T10:04:04.247-07:00Mary Elizabeth's Great AdventureMy paternal grandmother, Mary Elizabeth Plumlee Downs was a woman who knew her own mind. What was right was right. God was her Father, Jesus was her Savior, and the Bible was her guide. These facts didn't change because her husband abandoned her. She gave up her beloved spot on the Board of Directors of St. Elizabeth Hospital in East St. Louis, her church and her dream job as high school English teacher. She sold the elegant, and lovingly polished furniture, and left the grand old apartment building to head west.<br />
At least one brother and two sisters lived in the area in and around Bozeman, Montana. Brother Clinton and his wife ran a motel just outside of Yellowstone Park during the summer months. They owned a house in Bozeman, but in the winter months they ran a motel and lived on a nut farm north of Los Angeles about 60 miles. Sister Sara owned a meat market/neighborhood grocery store. She and her two sons lived behind the store in a tiny apartment, not much more than a kitchen with two bedrooms and a bathroom. Sister Laura lived in Helena. They quickly closed ranks around their beloved baby sister. During the winter, while Clinton was in California, Mary Elizabeth stayed in the Bozeman house, got her Montana teacher's license and applied for work. No local jobs were open.<br />
Then she learned that the mining companies badly needed teachers due to new legislation requiring them to provide one teacher for every thirteen children living in the mine village. Transportation, housing, and food supplies were included along with a salary higher than most teachers ever saw in a lifetime. However, only single women under the age of fifty need apply. Grandma was over 50, married and planning to stay that way, but evidently figured they didn't need to know all that. She was hired.<br />
Her first job was at the Mike Horse Mine and she loved to tell the story of how the mine was discovered.<br />
In 1890 a miner, Joseph Hartmiller and his horse Mike, were out prospecting along Beartrap Creek. Old Mike was startled by a rattler and began to buck. As he kicked he struck a stone and uncovered a vein of ore. The prospector made his fortune but never forgot it was the horse that found the mine, and Mike Horse lived out his days in green pastures.<br />
I do not believe she was their first teacher, but was certainly their last. She taught all the children from kindergarten through ninth grade. She was proudest when one of "her" children went on to high school.<br />
When the mine shut down, she collected and redistributed the books stamped Mike Horse Mine School and moved on to another mine to teach.<br />
ME and Grandpa Downs never shared a home again, although they traveled together during summer vacation and for holidays. Grandpa died of an overdose of barbiturates in about 1967. Grandma lived well into her 90s. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-1929963358154282822015-06-02T11:36:00.003-07:002015-06-02T11:45:08.023-07:00A FONT OF KNOWLEDGE<div style="text-align: left;">
At the age of 6 I began learning to use the Dewey Decimal System from the man who had been Head Librarian for the East St. Louis, Illinois Library System. </div>
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I didn't understand or even consider why Grandpa, whose home was a beautiful 4 bedroom, oak </div>
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paneled apartment in East St. Louis, IL, suddenly become a fixture in the spare bedroom in our house in Aurora, MO. One day Grandpa simply came to stay, bringing more books than clothing. </div>
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Whatever he was reading he shared with me. His mormally dry crackly voice became rich and lustrous when reading aloud. It didn't matter that I was 6 and he was 60, we shared a loved of the story. Through the constant cigarette haze of his chain smoking, I absorbed carcinogens along with tales he read to me. Paragraphs and epics of regular people doing astounding things as well as odes, and epics of heroes, kings, emperors, and of course, the United States of America. Did I understand everything he read to me? No, but as a natural teacher, he stretched my comprehension, my vocabulary, as well as my imagination to the max. </div>
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He planned to write the definitive book on American presidents, and voraciously collected tales, sentences, mind pictures to include in his book. The research consumed him. The walk to the library was only 4 or 5 blocks, but that is not an easy distance for a man who'd lost his right leg to tuberculosis when he was 12. Usually, rather than come home for lunch, he simply read through the entire day, making copious notes. At first it was my job to walk to the library and bring him home for dinner. On Saturdays and holidays, he sometimes took me with him as his "research assistant". </div>
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Smoking was allowed in the library then, but neither food nor drink could come through the doors. The librarians often slipped him a secret cup of coffee, but I survived on the water fountain and nothing else, as it is a well known fact that small hands spill. These hands were checked frequently by the librarians, and I was often sent to the restroom to wash them when they became begrimed by the contact with old books. To this day I clean my hands before reading out of respect for these fonts of knowledge, (pun intended). I do not crack the "spine" of a book, not even a paperback, nor do I "dog ear" pages. I use proper book marks, or little rips of scrap paper, even occasionally a paperclip. </div>
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It was more than 40 years before I learned that one day Grandpa had gone to the store for cigarettes, and simply disappeared. He was gone for months, leaving Grandma worried and heartsick. Eventually, she sold the grand apartment, and went to live in Montana with her sister. And that is story for another day. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-48000913607917554472015-05-04T12:10:00.000-07:002015-05-15T08:42:14.625-07:00Safe in His Arms. I was reading a MITFORD book in which Father Tim is recalling a stern and cold father who yet shared a wonderful moment with his son on Christmas Eve. I wanted to have such a memory of my own, to have and hold onto, shoving all the rest away.<br />
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I don't often write about my father except in passing. He was there, in my early life. His wishes and wants trumped all but our most basic needs. Shelter was provided by the church, including most but </div>
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not all utilities. Mama grew and canned most of our own food. Meat was usually provided by farming parishioners. We ate a lot of squirrel, rabbit, eggs, bacon, and chicken. Pork, beef and ham were holiday foods. I never ate a steak that didn't require pounding to a fare-thee-well until I was a grown woman. SOS was a staple in our home....made with one six ounce jar of chipped beef for the three of us. Daddy got most of it, Mom and I each got a sliver. </div>
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We were decently clothed more due to my Grandmother and aunts than from his paycheck. My mother's cleverness with a needle mended many an outfit made to fit one much larger than I. Purchase of a few yards of new fabric for clothing happened at the beginning of the school year and never seemed to stretch to anything new for Mama. One fall Mama and I each got a brand new store bought "Storm Coat". I think Grandma Downs saw what we had been wearing and took charge. </div>
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But I am doing what I didn't want to do. I am recalling all the things that were wrong. Let me see if I can remember....the time he took me to the YWCA Father/Daughter dance...and asked loudly if anyone could believe he was old enough to have "one that age". On a particularly bad hair day, saying as we were headed out to dinner "So, is that how the girls are wearing their hair, now?" Remarking sorrowfully to a friend, "I had hoped to raise a surgeon, but the best I can hope for is a librarian." I was doomed to be a disappointment. Curly, bushy hair, skinny, gawky, graceless figure, with no charm or gift of gab. He wanted those curls to be Shirley Temples, he wanted a daughter who danced, sang, played ball, or at least some kind of sport. I could read. Who cared. Not him. </div>
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The only praises I recall are public ones that told the world what a great guy he was. I don't remember a single bedtime story. I don't recall a single cuddle that wasn't public. Although by the time I was noticing, he was denying that he was old enough to be my father. </div>
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The only time I remember having his full and absolute approval, I was 2 or 3 years old. We were in San Antonio, TX, at an amusement park. Against mama's better judgement, Daddy took me on the roller coaster. Each time we finished a ride I begged to go again. I do not know how many times we rode, certainly three or more, before he tired of it. I did not. I wanted to go fly some more, with my daddy, holding me safe and tight and approving. There it is. That feeling. The reason I still love to ride long and fast and high. Laughing in my daddy's arms. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-22453839461977662902015-04-27T11:14:00.001-07:002015-04-27T11:14:18.671-07:00SUNDAY SUNDAY<br />
<br />
We were sitting behind two couples in church Easter Sunday. They were at least my age, maybe older, all had<br />
short gray hair still twisted up at the crown from the Lazy Boy. The women wore pedal pushers with sweaters, and<br />
sturdy, flat podiatrist prescribed sandals. Both men wore khakis and a cotton shirt, with Keds. My husband<br />
is dressed similarly. I check my hair. It seems to be laying flat. So is Dick's. I smooth it down just to be sure and he<br />
gives me that "huh?" look.<br />
Two rows up and one over a black woman of our age group is elegant in hat, silky suit and<br />
sensible heels. Dotted around the sanctuary like orchids amongst peanut vines are others in their Easter finery.<br />
Our few contemporary black men are wearing suits, collared shirts and ties with good leather shoes. <br />
My brain went into oddity overdrive and I began a mental poll of the congregation.<br />
Nearly all the white women of my daughter's age (fiftish) wear jeans or clam diggers, tees or tanks and sandals with a moderate heel. Their hair is long, worn pony tailed or loose. Most of our black sisters in this age group are dressed in the cutest short swishy skirts, astoundingly high platform shoes, and wonderfully intricate hair dos. The men are wearing vests, with dark slacks, and collared shirts, black or pink seem to be the prevailing color today.<br />
The younger moms, both black and white, wear simple dresses, slacks or knee length shorts, and flat shoes appropriate for child chasing. Their hair is sensible and easy care with an occasional baby wrought twist. The fathers are in slacks, tennies, polo shirts, no tie.<br />
Except for a few, the teens and school aged kids are wearing cut offs, tee shirts, and sandals or tennies. Those who are dressed up seem ready to declare rebellion.<br />
Toddler boys scoot happily around our legs in little suits, shirts and tiny ties. The toddler girls are without exception dressed to the nines, in starchy petticoats, pastel pinafores or sundresses suitable for a sunny Easter in Florida. In a few years they'll be in cut offs, but hopefully still in church.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-62314620327029916032015-02-09T11:46:00.003-08:002015-06-13T10:16:04.685-07:00The $25 ARKWe had moved to a small town in southwest Florida to be near my husband's elderly mother.<br />
My mother and our 6 year old grandson, Sam, moved with us. In rapid succession my mother, who was Sammy's best friend and caregiver died, and then Dick's mom died following a short illness.<br />
We were reeling and confused, rocked to our foundations. We were trying to make a home,<br />
find jobs, grieve, and be good parents, when one of Sam's teachers invited us to Edgewater United Methodist Church. Many of Sam's school friends attended there, people remembered us and included us. We had a church home. <br />
That was wonderful, but we needed paying jobs. During the illnesses of our mothers, our savings had dropped drastically and neither of us was eligible for Social Security. Sam went on Florida Healthy Kids, and got free lunches at school.<br />
No one in either of our families had ever had to ask assistance, even during the Great Depression. Then we rediscovered football.<br />
In Charlotte County Pop Warner is total participation. Everyone attends the games. The kids<br />
from the high schools attend because they learned the game with Pop Warner. The Cheerleaders attend because they learned to cheer with Pop Warner. Their families go because they always had.<br />
We registered Sam for Pop Warner football and became part of that community. Many of<br />
our church friends were involved in coaching, playing and cheer squad. It was an enlarged family.<br />
We took turns driving Sam and his friends to practice while Dick worked toward his real estate license. The football fields for Pop Warner are better than some schools I attended. Money to support the fields and the teams was raised by holding a raffle. They cost $25 and night after night I fended off the football moms saying I had no money with me. But on one of Dick's nights, he pulled out his wallet and paid up.<br />
I exploded. Our bank account is down to 3 very low digits and how could you be so foolish<br />
and what did you think you were doing and all those accusations came out of my angry<br />
mouth.<br />
My anger sizzled for weeks. I am pretty sure it festered everything I touched. Then,<br />
one night at Bible study, friends at our new church prayed with me for peace and the anger left. We hadn't starved yet, we had a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and even decent cars to drive. We were blessed and Dick was studying for his real estate exam.<br />
The day of the raffle drawing Dick came home stunned and bemused, holding the<br />
winning ticket. He was now the owner of a big, beautiful boat contributed by a Marina<br />
owner whose son played on Sam's team.<br />
The generous contributor agreed to keep the boat on his lot and sell it for us. May God bless that good and decent man.<br />
The proceeds from the sale supported us for nearly nine months while Dick learned the<br />
business of real estate.<br />
My family was saved by a $25 boat.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-86227712163566976432014-12-13T11:44:00.000-08:002014-12-13T11:44:15.968-08:00Silent little ChristmasIt was our first Christmas at my father's new pastorate, the First Christian Church in Aurora. We had moved in the late summer and I had started first grade at the two story school that housed grades one through 12 in this little town.<br />
The weather had turned suddenly cold and sniffles spread like the vicious little monster muggers they really are. Me, I felt fine! The church pageant and celebration would start at 6 p.m. so all good little children could be put to bed nice and early. And wonder of wonders, Santa was going to appear at OUR CHURCH this very night before leaving on his big round the world tour. The excitement was deafening. I skipped, I sang every Christmas song I knew, I danced and I giggled the whole day long. I am sure my mom was going stark raving mad! Daddy was at the church organizing and I wasn't allowed to help. I really liked to help, but Daddy said it tried his patience.<br />
At last it was time to go. We crossed the street and climbed the broad stairs. The heavy wooden doors were festooned with evergreen swags, holly and big red bows. Joy and sorrow flowed and ebbed side by side. This was the first full year after the end of the war and everyone wanted to make a whole new start. Forget the bad, remember the good was the byword of the year.<br />
The choir sang gloriously, the tree sparkled and spangled, winked and blinked while we listened to the story of the very first Christmas gift.<br />
Suddenly Santa appeared and sat himself in the big old throne chair beside the tree. His huge bag bulged mysteriously. Corners poking here, things curving there, with bright ribbons and colorful wrappings spilling out the top. <br />
Santa had a list of names, and one by one he called us to the front to sit on his lap and listened to our requests and handed us a candy cane and a gift from his bag. I bounced and twitched awaiting my turn to tell Santa my Christmas list...the usual, a pony, some paper dolls...I liked to punch them out but was totally uninterested in playing with them, cowboy boots and a holster with a pistol that would shoot.<br />
At last he called my name. I ran down the aisle and climbed on Santa's lap.<br />
I could not utter a word. I was struck dumb. Nothing, not a whisper of a whisper came out. My face flamed and I put on my strongest grin and trotted back up the aisle to my mother. I could not even tell her what was wrong, but my silence had her wrapping me up and whisking me back across the street to my big tall bed. <br />
It was the quietest Christmas ever. I had Vick's spread from ear to ear and down my chest, Daddy's sock was wrapped around my neck and pinned securely. Tea and toast were my Christmas eve snack. I did sleep silently through the night, and silently opened my gifts in the morning. I got paper dolls to punch out, a baby doll, and a cap pistol and holster.<br />
I'll bet if I could have talked to Santa I would have gotten the boots and the pony.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-69500362791416221002014-12-09T12:48:00.000-08:002014-12-09T12:48:20.745-08:00Doc Martin's SandalsDreams, good or bad, do not stick with me on waking, but I an oddly memorable one not long ago.<br />
I was in Doc Martin's car which was parked in front of Auntie Joan's barn. Excuse that the TV show never showed any barn, I was there, sitting in the driver's seat.<br />
Aware that I had to change into sturdier shoes or wellies so I could enter the barn, I reached under the passenger seat.<br />
The most gorgeous sandals came cascading out. Leather, suede, silver, gold, pastels, rainbows and technicolor. Some had jewels, some had precious metals, delicate, elegant, all were my size, and all were for the right foot only. Out and out they spilled, each more lovely than the last, but no wellies to be seen and no shoe for the left foot. <br />
I never got into Auntie Joan's barn, but my memory sees those sandals in glorious detail, and I wish I owned them all. Preferably for both feet.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-36213338716717748202014-10-06T11:53:00.000-07:002014-10-06T11:53:11.321-07:00THE ORPHAN FROM THE TRAINMost stories about the Orphan Trains seem to have pleasant endings with children finding forever families and living happily ever after. Our story did not go so well.<br />
<br />
In the early part of the 20th century my grandfather's Uncle John Campbell and his wife, Aunt Henrietta, moved from Franklin County half way across the state to the small lead mining town of Aurora, MO. Uncle Johnney was a foreman at the mine and made decent money. He and Aunt Etta had a small acreage, a decent house and in the way of things at that time, they raised chickens, gardened, had a cow for milk and a sow with piglets to sell and/or slaughter in the fall.<br />
<br />
They were hard working people and if Uncle Johnney drank a bit too much, well, it was a palliative for the lead mine's side effects. Aunt Etta was downright upright, working from dawn to dusk, never letting up. She was a founding member and chief fund raiser for Aurora's First Christian Church. The imposing brick building was and is located a block down from the Court House on Pleasant Ave. Following WWII my father became pastor there. I have no idea if the lingering memory of the Campbells influenced this, but it might be.<br />
<br />
John & Etta had no children, whether God's decision, a side effect of the drinking or the lead mine is hard to know, but when the Orphan trains began to run they decided to get themselves a son to care for them in their old age. They would set a good Christian example for the world. A bit of help around the farm wouldn't hurt either. <br />
<br />
They adopted a young boy and began training him up in the right way. The rod was not spared. My mother's family met him once, I believe. Was he blonde and blue eyed? She thought maybe so, but wasn't certain. He was thin to the point of emaciation and seemed cowed and dodged when anyone moved a bit too quick. Not long afterward he ran off.<br />
<br />
Many years later Aunt Hazel traced him to Texas and she and my mother placed a phone call to his family home. He refused to speak to them. How could he know they came from the good and gentle side of the family?<br />
<br />
I do not even know his name. Mea culpa. Mea maxima culpa.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-40717139134992606652014-03-23T11:41:00.000-07:002014-03-23T11:41:31.409-07:00THE BLOWOUT SALE We are downsizing. The house will remain the same but the extraneous stuff has got to go. My favorite Cuban whirlwind came over for a couple of hours on a weekend and accomplished more than I had in a month. It may be an energy level thing, but I'm guessing it's a talent for organization, which I do not possess. She pointed, Geoff moved, I sorted, then she tidied behind us. <br />
Sale treasures went against the left hand wall. Keepables were sorted into plastic bins for storage. Five underbed boxes now live under my bed. There's not much room left for Bob the cat to hide when Chuchi the weiner dog comes to visit. Then again, he may be safer as chubby Chuchi cannot get over or around the boxes. <br />
Giant tables entered the garage. The day of the sale they would be filled with items that someone else surely longs to possess. Games with pieces missing. Games that have never been opened. Art works that have seen their day come and go. Clothing, some with tags still attached. Sheets, towels, lamps, curtains, pots, pans, dishes, kitchen pieces and parts. Books, lamp shades, art, sewing, & craft supplies, things surely needed by someone else. Debris and detritus, somewhat past the USE BY date. <br />
When Jenni came we cleaned the tops of the cupboards and sorted through my mom's grandmothers' remnant dishes. The blue gray bone china tea cup that only ever held gin belonged to my great grandfather Jerry's brother John. Grandpa Campbell's wooden shoe forms from the repair shop and a lidded withy basket woven by his grandfather were washed and returned to the shelf. Grandma Nettle's brass cherub got polished and is once more poised proudly on one toe, arm outstretched awaiting his gas lamp. Aunt Hazel's brightly painted Christmas cookie tray is sitting cornerwise waiting for it's place on the holiday table, Grandma Grethel's Franciscanware platter and bowls again lean bright and proud against the wall. Memories and family history washed clean, refreshed, relabeled and stowed carefully away again. Almost nothing up there, except the pitchers I bought for color, went into the sale. Even the rooster purchased to match the cutsie French chef décor got a stay of execution. I just like it. What can I say? <br />
Black and white checked curtains with red trim, ice cream chairs cushioned in toile, a yellow wrought iron table and an old red toaster, faded to flamingo pink, went to the sale side. Holes dot the house where too much used to be. The feeling of accomplishment is wondrous.<br />
Even emptying waste baskets accomplished something. Files, folders, a 15 years of real estate research and such got pitched. Eight years of newspaper info and regs got tossed.<br />
Recycle those ancient phone books! Toss the tattered Real Estate study books! Pitch the old maps! Out with all the 'dexes (rolo, filo, etc.) We're retired and they're out of date! Into the fire pit with it all! Toast them 'shmallows! Build them s'mores! Get a little fatter, but the papers are burnt! <br />
On sale day, in the dark of the morning we set up the tables in the driveway and arranged our glorious array. The coffee was on and we sat in the chilly garage, waiting, but it was a sunny 8 a.m. before a steady stream of older male schmoozers came and asked if we have any tools for sale. No, we didn't. Fishing equipment? Just an old rod and reel. Eventually a guy bought those for his grandson. A box of random electronic wiring I meant to toss got sold for $1. Wow. Who knew? How much for this? What do you want for that? Will you take $X? The extremely heavy Creuset enamelware went in the 10 a.m. wave of older couples. We'd bought it at the Thrift Shop and used it for nearly 10 years. Towel sets from the closing up of multiple relatives' homes sold, along with sheet sets and random kitchen thingies. <br />
About 1 p.m. women in pairs and singularly began to show up. By 4 we were staring glassy eyed at one another. At 5 p.m. we dragged the tables into the garage and closed down.<br />
By 7 a.m. Sunday morning we were ready and rarin' to go. Unfortunately our first customer showed up at 11 a.m. <br />
The day dribbled on. $1 here, 50 cents there. A book, a plate, a tray. In the late afternoon a lovely lady finally bought the wrought iron garden table with the ice cream chairs. She had a rather small car, but we slotted and puzzled it all in and tied it down with ropes. We waved her off and carted the leftovers back into the garage. Boxes, books, bags, and things were once more stacked high around the walls. That was not part of the plan. <br />
It felt a bit better after counting the intake. We covered expenses plus a bit that we didn't have before. It went in the bank until the next time, because we WILL have a clean garage. We are determined! Sort of. <br />
<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-67984285634191553782013-11-02T14:09:00.000-07:002013-11-02T14:09:47.076-07:001944 MUD MEDSI have no clue where the idea for mud medicine came from. Were we possibly bent on the destruction of the hated cod liver oil or trying to extend our meager supplies? No matter, there we were, the three of us, under the back porch in our favorite hidey hole, deciding to create mud medicine. <br />
As I am sure you know, medicine requires "stink"! That it would taste bad went without saying. It was mud.<br />
None of us could read, so we took every bottle in the medicine chest. I do not know how we escaped the notice of three eagle eyed moms in residence. <br />
Back under the porch we dumped the contents of each and every bottle into our pail, then added dirt to make a really good goo. We rolled it into "pills" and put them out to dry in the sun. When they seemed dry enough we put them back in the bottles. It did not go well. On the trip back to the bathroom cabinet we were discovered. <br />
During the war most medicines were hard to come by. Our moms had pooled their treasures of cough syrup, aspirin, and vitamins along with the hated cod liver oil and my mother's precious "nerve medicine". That was the irreplaceable one. <br />
The doctor prescribed in it's place 2 bottles of beer each day. Mom hated beer. Each time she tried to choke down a swallow she reiterated the mud medicine episode. I heard about it for more than 50 years, which may be the reason I remember it so well. <br />
The rest of the medicine was slowly replaced as war coupons became available, except for the hated cod liver oil. It was cheap, available and back the next day. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-61983957998763103652013-08-30T12:35:00.000-07:002015-06-13T10:25:48.909-07:00FAMILY VACATION 2013We planned to spend a few days in Key West when Jenni and Tony came down. They had never been there and it had been nearly 20 years since Dick and I had gone. Geoff recommended a place he and his friends stayed when they went fishing. I reserved a couple of rooms at KingSail on Marathon Key and after I finished work on Wednesday we headed out for parts south and east. <br />
Tony drove, Geoff was our GPS and Jenni was our official tourist. When she saw something fun, we stopped. Tony wanted flip flops, but they had to be special. It took three stops at three Sandal Outlets (there must be 80 of those between Key Largo and Key West) but he did find something that suited. I was gasping at their "outlet" prices...$186 for a pair of shoes that cost $39.95 at Bealls! Tony paid an awful price for his acceptable flip flops, but I wasn't buying so oh, well! <br />
When we reached Key Largo, Jenni wanted to stop. She'd seen the movie and liked the sound of it, but Geoff and I both assured her there was nothing to see so on we went. We got to Marathon around 5 and sorted out the rooms. <br />
One was on the second floor and had a kitchenette and 2 double beds, the other was on the patio near the dock and had two double beds and a sunroom with a mini fridge and microwave. No stairs, so Dick and I took that one. <br />
Both rooms had white with black trim tiles floors and cheap wood paneled walls, with tattered, broken matchstick blinds at all the windows. Everything was old, somewhat chipped, and quite clean. Nothing had been updated since 1970, but the beds were comfortable, and the TV got the golf channel so Dick was happy. <br />
Outside on the dock a short round mahogany tanned gentleman wearing flip flops, a baggy swim suit and a floppy straw hat cleaned his catch, filleting each fish perfectly to prepare on the nearby grill for his dinner. He was there the next day, too. <br />
We had a lovely dinner at a little Mexican place Geoff knew and spent the evening between the pool and the patio, sipping cool drinks and watching the Cubanitos play in the pool while their parents congregated on the patio. <br />
Geoff knew a lot of good inexpensive places to eat so we ate well and cheap and except for the Waffle House on Thursday morning, not once did we darken the door of a chain restaurant. <br />
It was Key weather. Hot and sultry with a lovely breeze. After breakfast we headed for the end of the USA. <br />
Our aim was to find a glass bottomed boat for Jenni, and an Atlantic beach for Tony. We drove once around Key West to get our bearings then parked near the trolley stop. <br />
When we got out of the car the traditional Key West chickens fluttered and clucked at us. With his usual enthusiasm Tony skittered across the puddles trying to capture the rooster for a photo op. The rooster was having none of it and being far more experienced in escaping boys than Tony was in capturing chickens he got off scott free, or Tony free in this case. <br />
We boarded the trolley and rode around the route listening to the wonderful patter from the driver. He had a story for every point of interest and a joke as well. We got off for a photo op near the buoy at the end of the world, or what ever they call it. Geoff and Jenni got some great shots, but when I tried to use Geoff's camera it kept going to the main menu without snapping the pic. The tourists in the long queue were beginning to grumble so we moved on. We stopped at a little row of cutsie tourist traps and fingered merchandise while Tony ordered T shirts for himself and his 2 brothers and the littles. <br />
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We found a little place for lunch...decent and forgettable. Used the bathroom, checked the merchandise, and moved on. <br />
Back on the trolley we enjoyed more patter from the driver and viewed more Key West sights. About midafternoon Dick and I were feeling our age. We sat on benches near a museum and wished we'd thought to bring water. Back on the trolley and back to the beginning. Tony went to fetch the car while we sagged against a bike rack. They drove us back to Marathon to the KingSail, provided us with Subways and such then Jenni and Tony drove back to Key West, caught a sunset cruise, checked out the beach action, and got lost good and plenty. They got back about midnight, full of experience and sun. <br />
In the morning we headed back, stopping for breakfast at a little café around Bird Key. By the time we got to Key Largo Jenni had convinced us to stop, even though there was nothing there. We found a sign advertising cruises on the real, original AFRICAN QUEEN. <br />
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It sure looked like it. Maybe even smaller than it seemed in the movie. They offered dinner cruises...our group of 5 plus someone to run the boat would have scuttled the shiplet! We snapped our photos and moved on. <br />
As we pulled out a sign told us a state park was nearby with beaches and such. We took the wrong turn, meandered pleasantly about, but finally reached John Pennekamp State Park. Besides a lovely beach they offered glass bottomed boat rides out to the coral reef at $24 each. The cabin was air conditioned and had 2 glass "windows" in the boat bottom. Benches lined the cabin and you could climb down into the cavity around the glass and get a closer look. We passed over a couple of turtles, a sting ray, a small shark and plenty of colorful fish, as well as seeing the corals along the reef. They were selling seasick pills for $1 a dose, so I fortified myself. I was fine, but I saw a lot of greenish gills and many seasick bags as we moved along. It was a bargain of a lifetime trip with expert park rangers giving us the lowdown and uptick on all the sea life. The glass bottomed boats on Key West cost in excess of $50 each. I do suppose there are more and better reefs off Key West, and I am sure they have knowledgeable guides, but were they cute, long legged, shorts clad, pony tailed young women swinging from bench to glass bottom like a trapeze artist? GO, Key Largo! <br />
We drove, passing through refurbished Homestead and points west and north. At home Tony grabbed a beer and flopped onto a floatie in the pool. <br />
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Jenni called Aunt May to tell her we were back and happened to mention Tony being in the pool with a beer. </div>
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May cries out "Ginny, you git him outta thar! He ain' usta drankin' and he's li'ble ta dround!" </div>
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Tony was fine. We love May. </div>
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Saturday Tony and Jenni went shopping at Fish'ville for souveniers to take back to the littles. Sunday they left. </div>
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The following week it was so quiet I wanted to jump in the pool and "dround" my own self. On Saturday I got a call from Jenni. Tony thought he'd left the precious Key West flip flops on the front porch. Would I go see if they were there. I opened the front door and there was Sam. Hallelujah. Sam. We didn't do much, but we talked and he walked Baby. We had a birthday dinner for the birthday boys, Geoff and Sam and Dick drove him to the airport Tuesday. It was wonderful. A family vacation complete. </div>
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-5726108988289481382013-07-01T06:03:00.000-07:002013-07-01T06:03:14.081-07:00Unforgotten FriendsIt was a warm, sleepy summer day and the only noises came from the Missouri Farmers' Association big store across the alley. Clucks, quacks, an occasional clang from a milk can and very occasionally a passing car were part of the sounds of living and I didn't really hear it as I carefully chalked a new hopscotch on the sidewalk. <br />
My usual companions, Sunny Sue Robertson and Barbara Schwartz, were somewhere else, not there and then. As an only child, I was accustomed to entertaining my own self, even if I preferred not to. Head down, nose to the ground, I worked to get it perfect. I didn't hear her come up behind me and it took a few moments to feel her there. <br />
She was just my size, with blonde hair, a dress much like mine...a bit too small, a bit worn, but clean. <br />
I offered her the smooth gray stone I had found to pitch and she smiled. <br />
We played hopscotch, then tag, then sat in the old hammock on the side porch to swing and talk. We had lemonade and cookies on the front steps. I told her where I went to school and about my teacher and she said she wished she went to my school, but when I asked where she went to school she just mentioned a town across the state, then asked about the story book I'd been reading in the hammock. <br />
I walked her home, down the street to the next block to the shanty houses that rented by the week set in the alley behind the big houses like mine. <br />
My pals came back and life was full and busy and I forgot my new friend until another lonely day a week or so later. I walked to the little shanty in the alley and knocked. The person who answered the door didn't know her. <br />
I never saw her again. I liked her. I wish I remembered her name. <br />
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Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-88055146566723199442013-04-20T16:37:00.000-07:002013-07-01T05:42:08.152-07:00A VISIT FROM MRS. JACKIE ROBINSONI was messing around in the office, modpodging an old pair of sandals and checking for updates on Jenni and Claude's move to the new house. <br />
Geoff and Dick were discussing the new Jackie Robinson movie in context with the older versions. While they talked a tiny piece of trivia popped into my head and I shared it with them. Geoff said "Why don't you write stuff like that on Face Book instead of writing about failed detergent?" So I put it down while I still remembered. <br />
My father became pastor of the First Christian Church in Rochester, Minnesota in about 1950 or 51. At the time the resident population was about 10,000. At least 1/4 were doctors, another 1/4 were doing residency and 1/4 were supporting professionals. The "bad" section of town consisted of a 2 block stretch of poorer blue collar 2 up/2 down clapboard sided homes. The other 1/4 was us. Clerks, mechanics, carpenters, and so on. <br />
Downtown consisted of a few blocks of businesses, a high school on a 3 block campus with buildings connected by a warren of tunnels that connected to the Mayo Clinic which took up a lot of the downtown area. The rest of downtown was hotel space. DE-lux, lux, middle class, cheap and the tumble down building by the rail road station used by American people of color. Nearly every family in town picked up Christmas money by renting out rooms to a "transient population" of about 17,000 annually. <br />
Walking downtown was a geography lesson. German, French, Spanish, plus languages unknown spoken by folk of every shade of white, brown, and yellow. It was notable that every black person strolling the streets was exotically clad in long silky robes, hard round brimless caps with tassels, no matter what language they were speaking. <br />
I remember my parents being in conference, talking softly. Mrs.Jackie Robinson was coming into town. I do not know if she was going to the clinic herself, or if she was visiting someone. I do know every hotel in town had refused her reservation, except for the "Colored" Hotel by the tracks. <br />
The clergy and the doctors were aghast. MRS. JACKIE ROBINSON refused room at our inns? Appalling! Why, the Robinsons were rich and famous! <br />
Yeah, even then I thought it strange that nobody seemed to condemn that rattrap hotel when it was just your average black family. <br />
At any rate my father, along with a number of other families offered to open our homes to her. I don't recall if she spent the night but I know it was discussed. We had a meal together, at least. I remember a very pretty, pleasant, well dressed young housewife, who happened to be darker than me.<br />
And that's my story. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-10140228570719192092013-04-19T13:26:00.000-07:002013-04-19T13:26:08.901-07:00Have You Noticed How Expensive Detergent Has Become? I can sew quite decently. I can paint almost any surface. I am handy enough with a hammer, saw, drill, etc. I don't cook a lot, but none of my family starved even when the cookies and chips ran out. So, I figured with a recipe for homemade laundry detergent...I can do that! <br />
I got out the stock pot, which is the largest cookware we own, and began to assemble the ingredients. I had it all, didn't even have to go to the store. Baking soda: check. Borax: check. Washing soda: check. Water...yep, got that too. Bar of Fels Naphtha soap. <br />
It was suggested that the bar of soap be cut in pieces and grated, run through the food processor or microwaved. <br />
Hmmm. Mess up my food processor? or microwave it? No contest. If the directions say the soap expands when microwaved, then, place it in a plastic bowl! Microwave for 5 minutes, then in 15 second increments until the soap is completely melted. What could go wrong?<br />
The bowl melted in less than a minute. The soap took longer. It also took a while to separate the melted soap from the melted bowl. <br />
Finally I globbed the melty soap into the stock pot, added a cup of water, and turned the heat to simmer and began adding the dry ingredients. Almost immediately it began to scorch to the bottom of the pot. I added water and stirred, more water, stir...sticking, more water...at last I added about a gallon of water. I hopefully left the pot on simmer and went to do some other important things. You know, check my work site, my work email, my personal email while I was at it, Face Book, and a quick run through Pinterest while I was at the keyboard. <br />
Back at the stove, the pot had "simmered" all over the stove top. Sticky glop adhered to the lid, to the rim, to the pot, to the burner and everything around it. I pulled off the lid and poked at the stuff with a long wooden spoon. Now the spoon was coated, too. ARGH! I set the pan off the heat and replaced the lid. <br />
When the stovetop cooled I began trying to clean the mess. I wiped at it with a sponge...no dice. I covered it with soaked paper towels. No effect. Scrubbies. Little effect. I finally got out a heavy steel spatula with a sharp edge and began to pare it away. It took hours. <br />
The next morning the lid had to be pried open. Inside the stock pot was a watery soup with a thick, gunk island bobbing around. I considered my options, and put a cooling rack in the bottom of a clothes basket which I placed in front of the stove. I broke the island into gunky chunks and put them on the rack to dry. The watery goo went into a detergent container. I'll find a use for it. It is bound to be a really bad example of something. The stock pot is clean as a whistle, though. Whatever that means. <br />
It was really cheap to make, as advertised, unless stirring time and cleaning time is included. All in all I think I'll continue buying expensive detergent on sale with coupons. On the other hand maybe it was worth the laugh on a tense Boston Marathon week. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-54242812475522714962013-02-10T15:08:00.000-08:002013-02-15T10:12:56.310-08:00OLD JOHNCoyotes ate the ducklings they'd watched over so lovingly. Chickens were messy and might meet the same fate as the ducklings. Uncle Pete's cattle grazed down the front acreage. Mom & Aunt Hazel were 67 and 73 respectivly, but for some reason, live stock of their own seemed important to have, so they kept sheep. <br />
The sheep didn't need a lot of care except during lambing and mostly ambled about gnawing up plant material. They also kept the snake population down, according to Aunt Hazel. We kind of smirked when we heard that, but as usual she was right. I watched a placid ewe turn Rambo when faced with a rattler. She jumped straight up into the air and landed with one hoof on the rattler's head, and another on the middle of it's back. By the time she finished stomping, you couldn't tell what that slitherer had been. I became a believer. <br />
The sheep lived in the barn with pasturage that ran down toward the old log cabin. A gate that appeared in photos from Mom and Hazel's childhood led from the farmhouse yard into the lot. A burn barrel held trash waiting to be disposed of when so ever the weather was wet and/or dry enough. Each week it was Hazel's chosen duty to carry the tiny bits of debris to the barrel. <br />
She stood beside the barrel but decided it was too windy to light a fire and turned to go back through the gate. As she stepped out Old John, the lord emperor of the tiny flock put his head down and butted her face first into the dirt. <br />
Hazel rose with her usual composure and aplomb and dusted herself off. With dignity she turned to face the old ram.<br />
"Why, John!" she said. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-89231411426548124342013-02-08T10:01:00.000-08:002013-02-15T10:14:34.188-08:00JOSE'S ALPENBLICKGeoff was stationed in Germany near the Czech border and cousin Charles & his wife Laverne were living 'on the economy' in Hamburg where he was a purchasing agent attached to the Army. Dick and I had 3 whole weeks. It was a lovely trip. The dollar was strong, people were friendly and the scenery was amazing. <br />
We found a lovely small resort hotel called Zum Turken on a mountain above Heidleburg. It had been run by the same family for 4 generations, barring the takeover by the Reich during the war.<br />
Charles and Laverne were attending a Lutheran Conference at 'The General Walker', a large military hotel about a mile above Zum Turken. Charles had learned of a Mexican restaurant on the next mountain over, in Bishophof. You have no idea how good Mexican can sound until you have lived on the wonderful, thick, saucy cuisine of Bavaria for a couple of weeks with no respite. <br />
The trek was on. <br />
The tiny rental Ford was crammed with 3 large guys and 2 medium sized women. With Charles at shotgun we found Bishophof and eventually the restaurant. I vaguely recall a stone built single story ediface with a wishing well in the yard and an Irish setter lying in the sun across the entry. The dog did not stir as we stretched our legs over her and entered. The front was a dark alcove, the center room was bright with windows, small booths and tables. Few people were there...not surprising viewing the stony, narrow, winding and steep approach. <br />
We found a roomy booth in the dark snug and began checking the menue. It was well and truly Spanish/Mexican. Ahhh! Heaven. The food was excellent, the beer delicious and eventually Laverne and I needed to make our way to the Ladies'. The setter now lay across the entry to our booth. We stretched our legs over her again. <br />
Two men who were living the description of 'mountain guide' sat in a small booth by the windows drinking the local brew. Both nodded as we passed on the way to the restroom. On our return the guide facing us smiled at me beerily and slurred "My name is Mike. You haf be-u-tiful moun-tains!" The face of his boothmate turned an even brighter red than his healthy glow. He stuttered and stumbled over the appology for his friend's boozy statement. <br />
"His name not Mike. He is Michel! He is too much drinking!" <br />
I could hear the reactive laughter from the snug. <br />
It wasn't the first time I had been complimented in a bar, and maybe not the last...but I freely admit it was the only time my mountains had been publically admired. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-43756716340647234822013-02-07T13:14:00.000-08:002013-02-07T13:14:20.919-08:00LIKE THE GIFT OF THE MAGIGrandma Campbell had a fierce and determined love of all learning, and she determined fiercely that each and every one of her children would finish high school. Today, this does not seem like an unusual ambition...it is generally expected that our kids will graduate from High School and go to college. But when Grandma was 13 her father decided that the high school was too far away, the neighbors might talk, it was not seemly for a young lady to ride all that distance, her mother needed her at home to care for the littler ones, and that was that. Even with the backing of her beloved teacher she could not change the mind of Matthew Nettle, "gentleman farmer", who, by the way, served on the school board!
When they married, Grandpa Arthur loved her so dearly and supported just about anything she wanted, as long as he was not too much bothered with the details. All the children attended school. When they outgrew the little one room school house on the farm they were shipped off, usually two at a time, to friends or relatives in town for the school year.
When it was time for Mom and Arby to go, they stayed with distant cousins. Arby had a job and Mom helped in the house and they paid their room and board in money and in service. That first year, although she loved school, Mom missed her mother, Hazel, and probably even Girly and Art desperately. Arby could hear her crying herself to sleep every night.
There was no expectation of going home for holidays as we would do today. It would have been a wagon trip of the better part of a day each way, and the bus fare was beyond dreaming of.
A few days before that first Christmas away from home, Arby presented his little sister with the most amazing gift, a round trip bus ticket home. He had shoveled coal for neighbors, toted feed bags for farmers and any other odd job he could find to save enough for the ticket that would mean that while he spent Christmas alone, she did not. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-79245517474741623832013-02-01T08:23:00.000-08:002013-02-01T08:23:20.788-08:00INTO THE WOODSWalking down the hill behind the barn and entering the shadowy cedar scented forest didn't seem a scary thing to me...but I was an adult, with a stout stick in my fairly strong arms. I was not a 5 year old girl with a 3 year old sister in tow, both carrying lunch to the men working in the fields below. The way was long and somewhat strenuous for me. I cannot imagine what it was for a tiny child with the sure knowlege that her older brothers had killed a wolf on the hill above the farm just months before. Even in 1919 a 5 year old knew that wolves do not travel alone. Why was Blanche with a tiny Girly doing this errand? Mom didn't recall, although she gave the adults some credit that they must have been the only ones available and able. If Girly was 3 Grandma may have been heavily pregnant with Art. Grandma Nettle had arthritis. Aunt Maude was probably pregnant...who knows? Not me and not mom...all she remembered was shivering in fear, walking arm to shoulder with a toddler, but doing her duty, as was her wont. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0Missouri, United States36.597889133070218 -98.789062511.075854633070218 -140.0976565 62.119923633070215 -57.4804685tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1288709583289459399.post-80211278101982518162013-01-23T13:27:00.000-08:002013-02-09T10:45:45.836-08:00A FORGOTTEN BIRTHDAYI don't know the date or even the month, but it was warm and very green and it was Marlene's birthday. How I came to be there is a mystery as I surely didn't live nearby, but there I was. Terry was there, and Pris and Charles. Marlene's best friend and some neighbor kids were there, too. I don't recall either Dwayne or Colin being there, but they were "big boys" and probably off doing "big boy" stuff. We sat on the living room floor and played "Button, button, who has the button?" and "Spin the bottle" and "Telephone". The day was pure gold with dust motes glinting and reflecting light. We had cake and lemonade then piled onto the big ol' hay wagon. Aunt Ruth hiked up her skirt and climbed onto the tractor. For some reason that surprised me. As she started the engine she turned, her face lit with pleasure as she observed us. Sweet, plain Aunt Ruth was prettier than any movie star in that moment. She put the tractor in gear and we jerked away down the hill to the creek. We paddled in the shallow waters in dappled sun and shade until we were hauled protesting and dripping back to the house. In retrospect I wonder where my mother was, where my other aunts were, and Grandma? Has memory wiped them off the slate of the day? How old was Marlene that day? 2 years older than me! But how old was I? I guess it doesn't matter. We were together, and happy in the day. Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00219084570223562086noreply@blogger.com0