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Showing posts from 2013

Merry Happy Christmas Birthday

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Because my brother's birthday was just before Christmas my mother would always make him a cake in the shape of a Christmas tree. Actually she would make all of our birthday cakes in the shape of a Christmas tree because we all loved her Christmas tree cakes. They were double tiered with homemade frosting. I remember thinking how lucky he was to have his birthday in December and close to Christmas. Our family celebrates many December birthdays-some at the beginning of the month and two the day after Christmas. Over the years I've found having a child with a December 26th birthday to be a real challenge. Just to separate the two events is near impossible since the house is a mass of opened gifts-some still in boxes under the tree and some still looking for a place to be put and Santas and reindeer and twinkling lights and ornaments all over the place. Everyone is exhausted from the day before and the thought of having to go to a store for something forgotten for the birthday

Perfectly Sized for Little Hands

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When I was young I had a cousin who lived about 45 minutes away. It was fun to go for sleepovers. Part of that was because she had an amazing number of Little Golden Books-all lined up at the front of her bed-inside a bookcase-type headboard. Those books were perfectly sized for little hands when lying in bed pretending to read. Before computers, illustrating anything relied solely on the original artwork. There was nothing called photo shop. Nothing was digitally adjusted because digital did not exist. In my opinion, this resulted in softer-more enticing artwork. They each had their own feel. They ignited imaginations. At least they did mine! I loved that Roly Poly Puppy trying to get under the fence and Nurse Nancy who loved playing nurse. I wanted all the little animals in Baby Farm Animals. Tootle-the little engine who went to school to learn how to be an engine-was a favorite. I feared that wolf in The Three Little Pigs, worried about Hansel and Gretel, Little Red Riding Hood

That Christmas Wonder called Believing

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In my bookcase there sits a worn and tattered copy of this 1957 Ideals Publishing Company's Christmas story, "Jolly Old Santa Claus." Some of the pages are ripped; some held together by tape; some have crayon scribbles on them. My children loved this book when they were growing up. It wasn't because of the story. I can't remember us reading the story. It was the amazing illustrations by George Hinke that kept us going from page to page-night after night before Santa came to fill stockings, eat cookies and drink a glass of milk, pick up penciled letters filled with Christmas wishes, and leave a few special gifts under the tree. Sitting on the sofa in their pajamas as snow fell and popcorn popped, each page turned became a journey into that Wonder called Believing. Details were executed magnificently-with Mrs. Claus patting the dough before rolling it out on the old wooden table-and elves carrying trays of cookies to and from the small, brick ovens. Santa's

Christmas Programs in that Little School Auditorium

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The floors in that small auditorium were always shiny. I now realize that meant they were polished but I was quite young that particular Christmas when sitting in the grade-school auditorium with a stage at one end and high windows at the other. All I knew was the floors were shiny. They squeaked when you walked on them. I'm not sure but I think I was in kindergarten. I remember sitting in a chair surrounded by other kids in chairs squirming and looking around for family members just like I was doing. The chairs were the heavy fold-up type. They were cold to sit on. They didn't budge because each leg had a rubber-stop thing on the end of it. The place was jam packed. An overflow of parents and grandparents were standing in the back and as the curtain rose the Christmas program in that little school was underway to cheers from tired children and tired adults as well. After all, Christmas was near. Class parties had been held. Gifts exchanged. The program was the last event b

Decider of the Christmas Tree

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Every family has their particular style when it comes to choosing and decorating the Christmas tree. Growing up we always went to the same place to pick it out. The man knew my mother would be looking for the biggest and the fullest tree so he always had some available from which she could make her choice. She was the 'Decider of the Christmas Tree.' We were like Santa helpers. We went along to tell her the tree she picked out was 'perfect' and most always it was. But a few times after the tree was up in the living room it wasn't quite as full as my mother had imagined. So my father would go buy another one; bring it home and put it up next to the original tree. And then-like magic-we'd have the 'perfect Christmas tree.' (One year my father cut too much off the top. But because the tree really was perfect-he taped the top back on with electrical tape and hid the tape with tinsel and decorations.) Getting the tree, putting it up, and securing it was j

When Lash LaRue Came To Town

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There were two movie theaters in my hometown when I was growing up. I remember going to both of them. There'd be two feature films with an intermission in-between. That's when the newsreel was shown followed by trailers for upcoming movies. It was also the time to go to the concession stand for popcorn and a coke and a box of milk duds. Void of any special effects, movies back then were more about the story and most of those stories were westerns-so many westerns and so many famous cowboys like Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, and John Wayne. But a cowboy who wasn't quite as famous was my favorite. I don't know why I liked Lash LaRue so much. Maybe it was because he dressed all in black-or had a horse with fancy accessories and a saddle which I loved. I wanted my parents to buy me one just like it. I didn't have a horse but it didn't matter. I wanted one just like his. He could ride his horse with ease while getting the bad guys. And he got those guys more often than

The Magazine Perfecting the Ideal Christmas

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I can't remember one particular issue of the Christmas Ideals Magazine over another. I do, however, recall how anticipation built waiting for it to arrive. It came through the mail so every time the mailman pulled up to the mailbox sitting by the side of the road, possibility loomed. And when it was finally there, Christmas had arrived out in the country to those four houses in a row-at least according to reaction by my mother and aunts. The Christmas edition of that magazine was an art form. From amazing photography to creative decorating suggestions-beautiful illustrations-seasonal music-poetry-and short stories, that magazine offered something for everyone all wrapped up in a big red bow or better yet-a poinsettia as poinsettias were always featured throughout the pages. When I could pull it away from others, I'd slowly make my way from the front glossy cover to the back. I'd read everything even though I was young. That didn't matter. It was the Christmas Ideals

Addressing her Grandma Moses Christmas Cards

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My mother worked nights as a nurse in the ER and from about a week before Thanksgiving up to the 2nd week in December boxes of  Christmas cards went with her to the hospital. Some nights she never had time for them. That's when she would come home when her shift was over and address a few. It was her way of unwinding. My mother was very organized. She had a special box where she kept the list of names she intended to send cards to, sheets of postal stamps-each with the same Christmas image, a telephone book, and decorated Christmas seals she would lick and adhere to the fronts of the envelopes-the last step before having my father take the cards to the post office to be mailed. Organizing the list took her a long time. She'd have to make calls to relatives for updates to some. I loved looking at the list. It would be all scribbles; some names crossed out and some new ones added. She had the neatest penmanship-very small letters but very legible. The Christmas cards my mot

Number Please

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Growing up we had one phone in the house. It was a rotary phone similar to the one pictured above but it was a different color. It was centrally located in the living room-sitting on the edge of a bookcase my grandfather made for my mother. It sat on top of a pillow on top of that bookcase because the thing rang so loud that it sounded like an alarm despite being turned down to the lowest level. With my father being a funeral director he was called when there were accidents. There were no rescue squads back then so many times the phone rang in the middle of the night. I'd usually hear the phone-then hear him mutter some words. A few minutes later the front door would open and off he would go on what we called an 'ambulance call.' Because of the phone's location there was no such thing as a private conversation. When friends called-words were chosen carefully. And when a boy called those words were scrutinized even more-especially with an older brother around who als

In Envy of a Pony Tail

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There was a girl in my high school homeroom who had a pony tail to die for. She really did! While she wasn't as perky as Olivia Newton-John-she was a cheerleader. Combine that with a pony tail and you're talking one popular girl. Sometimes instead of doing my algebra homework-which was the most dreaded of all homework-I'd watch how her pony tail would swing when she turned her head. It was astonishing to me how it flowed in symphony with her movement. I figured she must have practiced in front of a mirror to have it groove like that. You see, my hairstyle at that time was the beehive-teased and sprayed so heavily that a Grade-5 Hurricane couldn't have disturbed it. Adding to my fixation of her hair was how that pony tail seemed to curl down from her head like a perfect ringlet. I was convinced she must have used Spoolies. As if that pony tail hairdo wasn't enough sometimes she'd wear her hair down. That amazed me all the more because that hair of hers curled

Thanks Betty Crocker for Pg. 94

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On pg. 94 of my copy of this Betty Crocker Boys and Girls Cook Book there's a recipe for "Gingerbread Boys." It's rather worn-with traces of flour and stains from butter used when greasing the baking sheet so many times now that I really don't have to dig the recipe book out of hiding when deciding to bake another batch. I know the recipe. I know what to heat the oven to and how long to chill the dough and how long to bake the little guys because I make them every year. I have been for a very long time. It's one of those little traditions I do and when I do it I feel connected to what this season quickly approaching is all about. It's nice to think about that before the hustle and bustle runs rampant. That's why I like to get this cook book out early-sift through and remember. I actually think the cook book belongs to my sister-or my mother might have given it to all of us. It doesn't matter. What matters are the memories when looking at the fu

When the Wish Book Arrived

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When growing up out in the country, Christmas came in the mail and I don't mean email. It was wrapped inside a protective cover but we knew it was the much anticipated Sears Wish Book. The pages upon pages full of toys were looked at and marked up and dreamt about. By the time Christmas finally arrived the catalog would be without a cover; pages would be worn-some ripped apart. That magic catalog was like having Santa's Workshop right in our home. I was intrigued by all the cowboys and their horses and the stagecoaches. I'm sure that was due to some famous cowboys at the time-Lash LaRue, Hopalong Cassidy, and Roy Rogers to name a few. One year Santa brought my brother a Hopalong Cassidy radio. I was just as excited as he was. 5 p.m. every night we'd listen to it while sprawled out on the living room floor. One toy my brother always circled was a toy cork gun. And for a few years, it would be under the tree Christmas morning. There were crows included that he'

Loving Madras

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I searched for a better picture to point out how much I loved my madras shirt but this is all I could find-geeky me with my hair in pin curls and barefoot. (While the pin curls are no longer, barefoot is still a preferred way to be). It was taken on a summer evening at suppertime when we all lived in a row of four houses out on that rambling country road. We'd pool whatever anyone had prepared for supper-gathering under an aunt's pine trees. And more often than not-I'd show up wearing my madras shirt. My mother (sitting beside me sipping a cup of coffee) would have to pry the thing off me to wash it. I loved that shirt! Actually I loved anything madras. Problem was I didn't have much of anything made from it hanging in my closet. Aside from that shirt and a madras pair of shorts my choices were limited. There was a store in our downtown that carried some madras clothing but they always sold out. And needless to say-there was no internet to turn to. So I turned to th

So where did the veranda and peony bushes go?

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Nothing stays the same.Take for instance, my grandparents' farmhouse. If you rode by that place today-still sitting along a certain country road-you wouldn't recognize what was once the family homestead. It looks nothing like the photo above. But it doesn't matter. When I ride by-always slowing down a bit-I see it as it used to be. The screened-in veranda with its white screen door is gone as is the red-shingle siding all around the exterior. I still see it covered in red shingles. My grandmother's peony bushes are no longer there. Except for one, the poplar trees lining the cinder driveway are gone too. When I think of that driveway I remember crashing my bike on it as I rounded the curve behind the house. I still have cinders in one of my knees as a result of going too fast probably when I was told not to. I can envision mounds of snow that would bury the driveway and hear leaves scurrying across it in the wind. I remember being so afraid one hot summer night duri

Monster Mashers

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Whatever the season or holiday, living in the country provides the perfect backdrop. Growing up, this proved especially true on Halloween when spooks could be hiding in cornfields or in gardens almost bare or in haylofts where bats swooped and creepy creatures lurked behind the bales piled high. With poplar trees nearly stripped of leaves, the remaining ones on the gnarly branches would rustle in the wind-their edginess scripted for the night of ghosts and goblins. And if nature's backdrop wasn't enough for little imaginations to grab hold of and enhance all the more, stir in ghoulish adults with a foot still firmly placed in childhood wonder and pranking and you had the perfect scenario for the most scariest-most horrifying, monster mashing Halloweens ever-the kind you look back on as an adult and feel blessed with the memories. Memories of a grandmother whose nose was fit for a witch as was her heckle and whose long grey hair when left to fall seemed to fall forever; an u

Families and Their Wheels

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On the back of this family photo it's written-"Sold Good Friday-1947." I have no clue who in the family owned this car. I do know it was probably considered a part of the family for more times than not, that's what our vehicles become-part of our families. Many people even have names for their cars. We certainly did! The first vehicle I vaguely remember is my grandfather's old Ford truck. I don't remember seeing him in it. I just remember seeing it sitting here and there. My mother loved buying new cars which is surprising because she didn't get her license until later on in life. I think it must have been the experience of going into a showroom and wheeling and dealing for something shiny and untouched and smelling like only new cars do. Any car she bought had to be black because my father was a funeral director and sometimes the car was used for work. I remember when my parents and my aunt had the same model car. Both black, they were the latest mode

Junk Drawer Treasures

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I'd venture to say that just about every home has a junk drawer. Growing up we always had one in the kitchen. I've carried that tradition on-having my own junk drawer in my own kitchen. Maybe it's called something else by some people but it means the same. It's the place where anything leftover from a package of something like batteries or thumb tacks-anything small that doesn't have a designated place-like on a bookshelf or in a closet or in the garage or on a wall but rather  has a potential to be used like an odd nail or two, a hook, a screw and a screwdriver, a hammer, hair clips, paper clips, pennies, dice, toothpicks, plastic ties, coupons (many outdated), tape, half-used crayons, tubes of glue, pencils and pens, etc.-is thrown and forgotten about until the need arises for a 'what-cha-ma-call-it' or a 'thing-a-ma-jig' and then the hunt begins. It's a place you should go into very carefully for as you ramble through it-your fingers might g

And You Think It's Just A Birdbath

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Putting little fingers in a birdbath may sound simple yet to a child looking at and feeling the water trickling down her fingers it opens her curious mind to imaginative possibilities and unending questions. Just what is this stuff? Why does it move down my things called fingers and fall to the ground-and then where does whatever it is go? Why does this stuff feel like it does and why can't I hold it like I do my favorite blanket or mommy's hand? Why does this stuff move around like it does when I put my fingers in it and why does it go all over the place-including me-when I move my fingers faster and then put one hand in it and then the other hand and move them faster and faster-in a circle and then up and down-even faster-so fast that I can hardly breath because the stuff gets in my eyes and I can't see and that stuff on my head called hair is wet as are my clothes and I feel chilly as the summer breeze passes me by. Yet whenever I am able to catch my breath I laugh a

Searching for S & H Green Stamps

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I remember my mother, grandmother and aunts all saved S & H Green Stamps. They'd lick the backs of the stamps and place them on pages of small booklets. Once they had enough booklets filled, they would go downtown to the S & H Green Stamps store and redeem their books of stamps for merchandise-really good, brand-name merchandise-everything from pearls to luggage to kitchen pots and pans, etc. The more expensive an item-the more books one needed to redeem the stamps for the merchandise. That's how many Christmas presents were 'bought.' Some people would save their  books of stamps all year long and then go shopping at the S & H Green Stamp store. It was fun looking through the 'S & H Distinguished Merchandise Idea Book.' It was like the Sears Toy Catalog-but not as exciting! My cousin and I liked to save the stamps too. I remember searching anywhere to find enough stamps to fill a book-my mother's purse (after asking), desk drawers, under

A Leaf House is a Fun Place to Live-and Play!

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I was recently reminded how absolutely fantastically wonderful it is to play in the leaves. And if that reminder comes from a child-as it did for me-then the experience is all the more amazing-turning an afternoon visit into an afternoon of imagination through the eyes of a 3-year old granddaughter. When I first arrived she and her mommy and daddy had been gathering leaves into a giant pile. She came around the corner of the house, sitting on her daddy's lap-smiling-as he drove the lawn mower while holding a rake. The fun soon began as she buried her daddy-and then her mommy in the picky leaves. Then they turned the tables and covered her in the leaves. She didn't stay still for long. Up she jumped-her hair twisted in leaves-coughing and laughing and jumping around.  After a bit, it was just the two of us at the leaf pile-then in the leaf pile-then under the leaf pile over and over again. But that curious, childhood imagination really kicked in when I took a rake and made

Sitting on a Fence in a Cardigan Sweater

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There are some things that really don't change-like the love of a cardigan sweater that spans generations. I don't know when this picture was taken showing some of my aunts in their cardigans but I wear similar cardigans today. A cardigan is timeless-versatile-always adds the perfect touch.There's just something about them. They become old friends-always there for us-always making us feel warm-making us feel like all will be okay. Although some cardigans come with buttons, hooks, or zippers, the style of the sweater remains the same despite the use of a variety of fabrics. I still remember a cashmere cardigan my mother wore when dressing up-quite possibly the softest sweater I've ever felt. With small silver buttons up the front, I thought my mother looked like a fairy princess every time she wore it to go some place special with my father. When she wasn't wearing her cashmere sweater, my mother kept it in a dresser drawer wrapped in tissue paper. I remember a

My Mother in a Flower Print Dress

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This b/w photo of my mother as a young girl intrigues me-both because of her youth and her style. I love her dress with that flower print and fashionable neckline. My mother's taste for fine fabric was obvious at an early age. Years later she'd open a fabric shop. She was a perfectionist as a seamstress. Camel coats-suits-robes-she made them all. Every seam was straight. Every dart exact. I love her hair. The style reminds me of what movie stars from that era wore on screen. I don't ever recall her wearing her hair long. This is the longest I've ever seen her hair. But even more intriguing to me than the dress or the hair are her eyes. They're not tired or worried. They're full of possibility. Did you ever wonder what your mother dreamt about when she was young and life was yet to unfold? We all have things about us that we keep to ourselves. We all have hopes and dreams and expectations we keep silent in our hearts that have nothing to do with children or f

Pie Remnants

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I am no expert on pie making. I think if I made a pie more often I could master creating the crust from scratch but it would never taste like my grandmother's. Her idea of mixing ingredients for a pie crust was a pinch of this and a dash of that and lard was always cut into the sifted flour with a knife. She was a Master Maker of Pies-berry, raisin, mincemeat, strawberry-rhubarb, and of course, pumpkin and apple. It didn't have to be a holiday for pies to be in her oven. You knew the minute you walked in the door if she was baking. That sweet aroma was all through the house. And it didn't end there for once the pies were cooling-she'd gather the remnants of crust dusted with flour sitting on the counter and roll them into one ball of spongy dough with her hands. Then she'd roll the dough out with her wooden rolling pin-and cut through the dough with a cookie cutter-and repeat the process until all the dough had been recycled into shapes and those shapes were lyi

Picasso in the Pumpkin Patch

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I own a Picasso! It came in the mail-exquisitely drawn on a card with smiling pumpkins on the front. I know why my little Picasso chose that particular Grandparent's Day card. It was those pumpkins! You see, this little Picasso and I wander about the gardens out back. They are full of pumpkins of all sizes-some are still green-some a vibrant orange-all still on gnarly vines with picky leaves. They're so picky that she'll pull her dimpled hand back and ask me to move those big, ugly, prickly leaves out of the way so she can squat down and pat each one-big or small. And as she is patting them ever so gently in their beds of soil or grass she quietly talks to them, telling me to be quiet because they are sleeping. "Shh Gra-Gra! Shhh," she will say to me in a concerned tone with her finger to her lips. Then whispering in a little voice sounding more like a chorus of angels, she tells each pumpkin she touches how pretty it is-how nice it is as the wind sifts thro

Cousins

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I've written so much about growing up in the country surrounded by grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins. I've gone on about playing in the barn and down at the creek and in the pine grove and especially the hours my cousins and I spent in our chicken coop clubhouse. More often than not we older ones took care of the younger ones and we never knew it. We were all just playing. Oddly enough I hardly ever write about cousins on the other side of the family. That's because I hardly knew them. That was my father's side of the family. I have no clue why we didn't get together that often. It's not that they lived far away. They were close by-down another country road. Maybe it was because that side was all brothers and my mother's side was all sisters. Maybe it was because we were always involved with my mother's side since they were our neighbors. In the summers we shared our dinners under my aunt's pine trees. It was a given that every holiday we

Garden Helpers

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With gardens now in overload-plants spreading their vines beyond the edges like spider webs, covering everything in their path; their leaves and bounty selfishly and boldly declaring they rule the back yard or back field or wherever a garden may be, I hear people saying they don't have time to weed or water or even pick and cook and can or freeze or giveaway the beans, peas, squash, zucchini (oh how those zucchini plants produce), tomatoes, corn, beets, carrots, potatoes, peppers, onions hanging from plants or clinging to vines or underground waiting to be discovered. When I hear this-and I say that too-I think back to the gardens on my grandparent's farm.I remember one along the side of their farmhouse. My cousin and I would help weed it. Even better, we'd sit and eat the carrots. But I don't remember the one in the photo above which shows my grandmother at a very young age working it. Besides seeing her so young, what struck me was the enormity of that garden. I s

Just An Old Desk

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Recently when going through files of pictures, I found myself looking at this particular photo differently than when I took it awhile back. Of course seeing my granddaughter smiling, holding her crayons still makes me as happy as it did that Sunday afternoon. But this time it had a deeper meaning. Maybe it's because she's growing up. Maybe it's because she is talking a mile a minute and asking questions and sings and dances and loves butterflies and jewelry and dinosaurs and books and knows her colors and can count and remembers where she left everything when visiting the last time. Or maybe it's because I still remember her father sitting at that desk-coloring, playing with his G.I. Joes and Matchbox cars. She looks just like him. It's the eyes. When curiosity got the best of her that day, I helped her open the top of the desk. We found a few G.I. Joes-a few scribbles her father had done and a few papers from when he was in elementary school. They had gold star

The Creativeness of Hands

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I've noticed in many of the old photos I've seen of my grandparents-so many show them using their hands to create something. While they obviously used their hands to do the necessary-cook, garden, tend to crops and barn duties, clean, do the wash, care for children, etc., whenever there was an opportunity, their hands got busy in a different way-a way of relaxing and making things; stimulating their soul after a hard day's work or after completing one task before getting on to the next. Maybe that's why my aunts, mother, and grandmother got together once a week for what they called their 'Busy Fingers' Group. They'd take turns hosting the group. I remember times when it was at our house. They were always laughing and talking! Of course back in my grandparent's day television was a non-factor. There were no zillion channels with still nothing to watch. Texting wasn't a word. Communicating was face-to-face. And when that moment came-that break in t

Picnic Suppers Under the Pine Trees

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Funny how we never know how great something is until we are looking back. On warm, summer days at supper time when growing up in the country with those four houses full of relatives all in a row, each family would bring whatever they'd prepared to eat together under my aunt's pine trees in her backyard. It became a smorgasbord of hot and cold dishes with all the trimmings. Back then it was the food that I thought about-potato salads, macaroni salads, baked beans, tossed salads, fruit salads, of course hots and hams and all the trimmings plus an assortment of chips. I don't remember many desserts-except for strawberry shortcake with real dumplings made soggy by berry juice and home-made whipped cream smothering the bowl. Of course it all tasted even better because we were eating outside. After everyone was finished, the younger ones would sometimes play baseball as the others sat around and talked and family dogs would see what they could find in the grass or get that loo

Squeezing Lemons in the Squeezer Thing

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The season of squeezing lemons for lemonade is back again! Granted-these days all you have to do is go to the frozen food aisle, pick up some cans, bring them home, open them up, put the frozen concentrate in a pitcher, add water, stir, add ice if you want, and there you have it-Lemonade. You can purchase pink lemonade or limeade-even ice tea. Or-You can buy all those varieties packaged in a carton or glass container. No concentrate to bother with-it's ready to serve. Even the Paul Newman brand offers lemonade, limeade and ice tea. But my favorite brand remains Homemade Lemonade. My grandmother made it as did my mother and aunts. They each had a favorite glass pitcher for lemonade that never came from a can or container. It came from slicing real, hold-in-your-hand lemons and squeezing the juice out by using a thick glass-lemon-squeezer thing. It was odd-shaped but it worked.That's what they all used. You'd hold on to it with one hand and with the other put a lemon half

The One-Room Schoolhouse

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I'm not sure if this is the one-room schoolhouse my mother and a few of her sisters attended before it was closed and they went into the nearby city to school and I don't know how old they were when they made the switch. I do know they graduated from the Catholic high school which has since been torn down and is now the sight of the local fire department. The one-room schoolhouse they attended was up the road from where they lived-down a side road just as it curved by a bunch of maples. The creek that ran behind their farmhouse ran behind the school as well. The school is long gone but the maples are still there. Sometimes I go down that old country road. I slow down before that turn; imagining exactly where that school sat and imagining my mother and her sisters walking along that very road. If this is the school-then this is where my parents, aunts, uncles, and grandparents bought the desks, books, and chalkboards for me and my cousins for our chicken coop clubhouse. Lo

Helping my Brother Out

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By the time my cousins and siblings and I came along our grandparents' farm was not a working farm. Everything was left as it had been when the barn was full of cows and horses; chickens and pigs. There were still some stray feathers in the roosts. Empty milk cans sat unused. Stanchions sat idle. Most days when the bus would bring us home from school my brother would walk up the road to a nearby farm and help out. He was a hard worker. He was also a neat freak-the total opposite of me! I remember sneaking into his room to look at his stamp collection. It was so organized; as were his school notebooks and closet.  A couple of times he bought a few heifers and kept them in the barn. One time it was black angus. It was fun having animals in the barn. I could only imagine what it must have been like back in the day when the farm was up and going. I think our grandfather would have been proud of my brother who was the first grandchild. They were quite close. My brother inherited his

Hurrah for Poems-Long and Short

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Even when I was growing up I loved writing poems. Some were short and funny. Others were long and serious. When playing in our chicken coop clubhouse my cousin and I would write poems. One my cousin wrote remains a favorite from back then: 'Bees make honey-They make it so funny-You'd think they'd say it's a funny day-But it's not-It's not even hot-That's what they say!' We'd laugh every time we'd recite that little ditty. Since those days I've learned there are different types of poems, each with their own rules. I still enjoy writing poems. They make you think. They lighten your load. They offer you an avenue of expression. Since April is National Poetry Month I'd lke to share a few with you and remember-'Poems make you giggle-They make your tongue wiggle!' While I don't remember what type of poem each of these represents or what rules they follow-I hope you enjoy them! SUNFLOWERS 'Tall and lanky swaying in the br

'The Snowman Maker'-a Christmas story

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As I was writing 'The Snowman Maker'-my next Christmas novel to be released October, 2013, I found myself again drawing from childhood experiences of growing up in the country and weaving some of those threads into the storyline. Of course when the story is fiction, the possibilities are endless for the plot and for the characters who-by the time the last word is written-have become part of the writer's family. It's funny when you create characters their lives are in your hands. You decide their hair color-gender-views, etc.-but most important, you decide their fate. Scenes where emotions run high-run high for the writer as well. There have been scenes in both 'The Reindeer Keeper' and this upcoming release where I've laughed-cried-and felt anger towards a character. And when I found I had to write something into the story that caused such emotions, after it was on the page I'd have to get up and take a break. And once the book is published and out the