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Showing posts from November, 2010

Two Reading Suggestions

If you enjoy reading my reminiscing posts you might like to read my short story, "In Anticipation of Doll Beds", published in the Chicken Soup for the Soul book entitled, "Christmas Magic". It was released October, 2010 and includes 101 heartwarming stories. Another suggestion: Log onto Boomer Living; click on Coffee House Blog; scroll down to Hodge Podge-the name of my blog where you will find "A Plastic Santa-A Holiday Tradition." This entry looks back to the downtown of my hometown years ago when we had a downtown; of shopping in the hustle and bustle where everyone knew each other; where Newberrys and Woolworths each had live Santas and toy departments to die for! Hope you enjoy. If you feel like sharing traditions you remember from your hometown I'd love to hear from you! Wishing you a Happy Holiday season!

Thanksgiving

Although we gathered frequently there was something extra special about Thanksgiving. Besides the turkey and all those marvelous trimmings with homemade pies and my grandmother's famous-much anticipated Christmas bread-there was something else going on. Looking back it was an appreciation of and respect for this day set aside for gathering together and giving thanks. Whether in red vests or a suit and tie, my father and uncles dressed for the occasion. That one particular uncle who lived 45 minutes away was always dressed in his suit and tie. To this day I've never met a man so respectful of or in love with his wife-a spitfire of a woman who was small in stature but full of spirit. Of course the women dressed extra special too. My one aunt in particular always wore red lipstick and her hair was long and flipped up. I thought she was so beautiful. Many of the women wore aprons over their attire as they bustled about the kitchen. There were two tables set; one for the adults; o

Grinding Cranberries

Back when we all lived in those 4 houses in a row Thanksgiving was often at our house. Of course the hope was my father wasn't called out on an ambulance call or had calling hours at the funeral home to tend to but if any such scenarios arose Thanksgiving went on as planned for such happenings were a part of our daily lives. I loved the anticipation just as much as the dinner itself. My parents always ordered a Butterball turkey from a local family-owned grocery. They'd both go to pick it up. I can still see my father walking into the house with his hat and tie and long coat unbuttoned proudly carrying the thick cardboard box with Tom Turkey inside. He'd strut into the kitchen as if he'd gone to the woods himself in hunt of the perfect bird. The hustle and bustle was contagious as potatoes were peeled; stale bread cut up; seasonings gathered; squash readied to be split open; pie crusts made from scratch rolled out on floured boards; china taken out of the cupboard; c

Now that's a lot of Bull!

There was a favorite story we asked to hear over and over when sitting at our grandmother's kitchen table with a favorite aunt who'd never married. It was this aunt we'd wait for a little after five o'clock in the summer heat; hoping she'd take us swimming across the road and down to that river with an Indian name. I couldn't really swim. I'd hold on to a big rock and kick while I watched my aunt. She was a beautiful swimmer; voted prettiest girl in her class. She'd methodically tuck her hair into a white plastic swim cap; then stand there-wetting her arms a few times while checking to see where we were; then stir the water a bit with her hands before diving in like Esther Williams. The best part came after the swim. That's when the graham crackers came out. They tasted so good as we made our way back home dodging cow pies. But it was when this aunt told a certain bull story that we became numb in silence around the kitchen table. No matter how many

The Veranda

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I always liked the word-Veranda when used by the adults describing the screened-in front porch of the farmhouse. It was an elusive term; fancier than needed but it intrigued me; made me feel as if that farmhouse was a castle and my cousin and I were princesses-or something. We could have been whatever we chose for when pretending became part of the play-verandas or tree limbs or hayfields or rambling streams transformed into whatever it was that wo rked into the script of the moment. My most vivid memory of being on the veranda was far from the world of our imaginations. It was real. It was frightening and everytime I hear a clap of thunder and see a bolt of lightning sizzle the landscape I go back to that particular hot, summer night where we gathered together to watch it storm. Yes-watch it storm. My grandmother called us to join her as the wind began to pick up speed and little whirlwinds in the cinder driveway were whipping around like the warm-up-show of things to come. And

Baldy

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I don't remember much about the days when my grandparents' farm was thriving but I've heard the stories. It was always fun to sit around the kitchen table where my grandparents and aunt lived. We'd have a cup of coffee made in my aunt's simple coffee pot that only made 6 cups and enjoy whatever delight my grandmother was baking while we listened to the stories about "back then." "Tell us another one," we'd say. We never could get enough of tho se stories. One particular story was told over and over. It had to do with one mean chicken named Baldy. This bird earned the nickname because of the many fights he'd partake in around the barnyard. Baldy ruled the roost if you know what I mean-winning every battle he chose-leaving him "hairless" in the process. One battle he won every time the opportunity arose was with my oldest brother who was the first grandchild and constantly at the farm. Something tells me he was my grandfat

Cooking berries in a rusted can

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I really make an effort this time of the year to absorb all that's going on for it's a smorgasbord of the senses-just as it was when growing up in the country. When I hear the geese flying overhead I remember back to those times we'd be playing at the creek as fall was thinking about turning into winter. Making fortresses along that creek's bed by building walls of leaves all around us, we were able to see up and down that murky waterway just in case an enemy approached. Don't tell any grown-ups but one time intent in play we picked lots of berries of some sorts; then put them in a rusty old can full of creek water and built up leaves underneath and around the can;then we lit the leaves on fire. (I really can't remember who had the matches)! It fit right into the script of what was going on-surviving in an unknown territory or something like that. So our leaf fire quickly turned to smoke-lots of smoke. My two cousins were scoping the nearby field for twigs

Chicken Coop Clubhouse

It was like combining FAO Schwarz, Disney Land, and the North Pole into one. That's what it felt like when our grandparents, aunts, uncles and parents bought the remaining items from an abandoned schoolhouse and filled the old chicken coop with those desks, chalkboards, and books-lots of books. It'd been void of chickens for some time but there were still bits of feathers drifting about. Most of the windows were missing glass; the door crooked but none of that mattered to us even when it snowed inside. We declared it to be the Girls Club but allowed our boy cousin to join and when that cousin who wore dresses came to visit she was allowed in too but I think we might have been mean to her at times. Not really mean but throwing our weight around because we were older-and we certainly didn't wear dresses as we played and pretended in that old coop. Looking back we were babysitters of the younger cousins in the summertime and we didn't even realize it. To us,they were o

H-O-L-Y Cows!

You won't believe what I'm going to tell you but even though I grew up in the country I never liked cows-with maybe the exception of black angus. My brother had a small herd of angus cows and when he went away to visit relatives I was left in charge of caring for them. I'd get up way before the bus came and go out to the barn; returning when I got off the bus in the afternoon. I didn't mind. I most likely would have been playing around there anyway. His cows never bothered me. They just wanted to be fed and let in and out of the barn that for years housed herds of dairy cows. By the time we all came along the herds were gone. Stanchions were vacant so it wasn't as if I'd grown up surrounded by cows. There was just something about those black and white beasts grazing in the fields of neighboring farms. With their big, bulging eyes, they'd stare as my cousin and I walked by; staring and chewing-and chewing some more as their tails constantly tried keeping th

Grampie's tractor

I was in the 6th grade when my grandfather passed away. Glimpses of him remain vivid in my mind; suspenders holding his pants up; hands worn yet strong; his chewing tobacco in the checkered pouch. I can still hear the put-put of his tractor pulling a wagon full of hay over the plank bridge and up the hill; then down across the flatrock to the barn. We loved his tractor. We'd play on it when he went inside the farmhouse; pretending to shift it into gear and go on wild adventures through alfalfa and clover and then out of sight and into the big, exciting world beyond the horizon. It was small in size. Red-maybe an orangish-red with a seat sitting on springs that would bounce up and down. The bigger the bump, the greater the bounce. There was some kind of compartment that held nuts and bolts and screwdrivers and stray nails-anything he'd need should he break down in the back fields. He must have greased that tractor daily for it constantly smelled like those cans you'd squee