The Reindeer Keeper

Laurie's Thoughts and Reviews: The Reindeer Keeper by Barbara Briggs Ward - Excer... : ABOUT THE BOOK   Abbey senses something special about the little man tending to the reindeer who, along with a century-old farmhouse, a b...

The house where Santa came on Christmas Eve when I was growing up was situated beside a lane on a street with a bit of a hill. It was a great place to live when just a youngster and the place I look back upon fondly when thinking of hanging my Christmas stocking with my brother on the taped-together, heavy cardboard fireplace our parents brought down from the attic a few weeks before Christmas. We loved the fireplace. It looked real once the “fla mes” were plugged in. The flickering effect for some reason made me feel warm and cozy. Sitting on the black cardboard mantle in the same spot every year were a plastic Santa and Snowman. Once turned on, they’d light up. The snowman became a green or blue or red snowman-depending on the little bulb my mother chose. We always had a real tree. It always sat in the same corner of the front room. My mother insisted. She was a perfectionist when it came to decorating it after my father strung the lights. The smallest ornaments would be hung a

Growing up out in the country mounds of snow were as much a part of Christmas as the presents. We never doubted if we'd have snow for Christmas. The question was how much of it would there be. Those wintery Christmas landscapes were strikingly beautiful day and night. Down in the pine grove, trees with thick, white branches looked like Christmas snow angels; fields and pastures stretching forever appeared tucked under the same blanket. In the evenings when skating on the creek-with the silver stars and dancing moon-sparkling diamonds lit the landscape as my cousin and I would talk Christmas lying atop the ice- wondering who got us what, trying to keep secrets, and fearing it would never arrive! Looking back we lived and played and waited anxiously for Santa Claus in a Currier & Ives Christmas scene-all part of the splendor of a snowy country Christmas.

My grandparents worked more than a full day every day no matter the season. There were no vacations; no sick time. From all my grandmother's daily responsibilities in the farmhouse-plus caring for six daughters and preparing the earth for the spring gardens-to my grandfather working the fields and tending to his duties in the barn-that farm defined them and left those of us who loved them a lasting impression of what the word "work" both looks like and means. When my grandfather came in through the back door of the kitchen in the evening after finishing his nightly chores in the barn, he'd take time to relax before going to bed. Besides being an avid reader he was quite skillful as a woodworker. It was that skill that created my most favorite Christmas present ever-a pine desk with a single drawer and matching stool which he made for me when I was seven. Leading up to Christmas that year my cousins and I weren't allowed in the kitchen of the old farmhouse d

Christmas is the Gathering Season; families coming together; generations connecting around Christmas trees and kitchen tables and oak pedestal tables such as the one pictured here. It was a fixture in my grandparents' dining room in their old farmhouse. Weddings and birthdays; holidays and funerals-whatever the occasion that table served as host to those gathering. At Christmastime, we gather to celebrate. We gather to remember. We gather to share. We did all of that and more around that oak table. As bowls full of home-cooked favorites were passed from one to the other, conversations flowed and connections renewed. When the mince pies made the rounds, conversation came to a halt while outside the snow kept falling. As you gather this Christmas take the time to sit back and absorb the moments around the tree-around the table. They slip through our fingers too quickly and become memories. Happy Gathering!

I know I've written about our chicken coop clubhouse many times; telling you about all the fun my cousins and I had playing and pretending inside that old place. A favorite thing I liked to do was write little poems. I still like to do that and I thought it might be fun to share one with you-especially since it's a Christmas poem. This is for all the Christmas Bakers and Cookie Cutters and Gingerbread Men Makers: CHRISTMAS COOKIE FUN It's Christmas 'round the kitchen; We're making cookies by the dozen. We cut them from the spongy dough; then put them in the oven- to bake up warm and tasty; they're such delicious treats- We have so many recipes- some with oats and some with whole-grain wheat- or little chocolate morsels; topped with a brush of honey; Some turn out square or very round; Some look like elves so funny; or snowmen standing with their brooms or Santa in his sleigh- Mommy calls me her little helper as we pick up from our day. Sh

While family traditions are as varied as snowflakes, they all come wrapped in memories. My grandmother's Christmas bread remains a tradition in our family. Although she is no longer with us, some in the family have continued the laborious process of scalding the milk; folding in the currants and candied fruit and seedless raisins and pineapple; then letting dough rise three times followed with more mixing and pouring and greasing-and then waiting and praying the batch in the oven passes the family taste and smell test. The bread had a certain texture. We all know it. Its aroma is unique and remains in the hearts of all fortunate to have called this woman Giddy-a nickname given to her by her first grandchild. It caught on. Everyone who knew her called her Giddy. The attached picture shows Giddy in one of her house dresses preparing the bread with greased tins ready to go. She knew that recipe by heart. She knew every recipe by heart if there was a recipe. Most times she just went

Pictured here is my older brother showing off his new cowboy outfit Santa brought him "just a few years back" on Christmas. I'm in the rocking chair. With us are two cousins. Brothers are good to have. Maybe one doesn't realize it for they can be pests. Take this cowboy for example. It's not that he was a pest. It's just that he was the first born and in my parents' eyes-especially my mother's-and my grandparents, aunts, uncles,and cousins he could do no wrong. Growing up, because he was a few years older, he really never hung around with us younger ones. He never played in the clubhouse or skated on the creek with us. Instead, he hung around more with our grandfather-riding the tractor or going to town with our grandfather in his old truck. Aunts and uncles included him in activities and usually he got to sit at the big table during gatherings. We younger ones were never jealous or felt slighted. After all, he was the oldest. With his red hair and

I've blogged so much about my grandparent's old farmhouse. I've written about the parlors and the back stairs and front veranda; the dining room with the slanted floor and the bedroom upstairs with a secret passageway. All those memories played a role in my writing of The Reindeer Keeper. The warmth and joy of family felt in that old house has stayed with me through the years and it was those memories that I tapped into when writing about the family in my Christmas story. The barns and fields and pastures and pine grove in the book all stemmed from the surroundings around that old farmhouse. I only wish my grandparents were still alive to read The Reindeer Keeper. My grandfather would especially have enjoyed what happens inside the "majestic old barn" in the book. He was an avid reader; a lover of Christmas. I'm attaching a photo showing my grandmother cooking at her woodstove. You can see her in one of her house dresses which I've previously blogged abo

In my previous blog I posted a photo of my grandfather's old barn which played a keyrole in "The Reindeer Keeper." Now I'd like to share another one I found Thanksgiving night when going through old photo albums with my brother. It shows the kitchen table I've talked about several times-the one we'd all gather around as a family at my grandparents. This old table has heard many a great arguement; kept many Christmas secrets; and withstood generations. I was fortunate to have been given this table by my aunt when she passed away. To say I treasure this heirloom doesn't begin to describe how happy I am to have this table in my home. Tonight my 18-month old granddaughter came for an overnight. As she climbed up onto one of the chairs shown in the picture; then stopped to play with the little ring on the wire near my grandmother in that very picture-before climbing on top of the table and sitting proudly where meals of so many before her had been served-I th

What a treasure of a picture I discovered Thanksgiving day. Going through family picture albums with my older brother we came across so many pictures we'd never seen before. We had an aunt who organized family pictures by year and by family. Behind many of the photos were the negatives. I can't imagine how long it took her to do this but I am thankful she did. The first photo I would like to share is this amazing photo of my grandfather's barn. This is the barn I went back to in my memory several times when writing, "The Reindeer Keeper." My cousins and I spent countless hours playing and pretending in this massive structure with two haylofts connected by an old plank bridge and empty stanchios and empty chicken roosts. But empty didn't matter to us. In our imaginations they were sometimes occupied. In our imaginations that old barn was one great adventure after another. Despite the snow and rain creeping in between the cracks, we stayed inside that barn-and

My one particular aunt who lived with my grandparents really never cooked. Besides oatmeal and chipped beef on toast, she stayed out of the kitchen. She really didn't have to cook when my grandmother was alive for nothing could beat what this woman of French-Canadian descent created with ease; mixing and stirring without a recipe; using a pinch of that and a dash of whatever else she felt was needed. My grandmother mastered the art of cooking long be fore TV chefs made their way into our homes. But once on her own, my aunt did master a few recipes including her great version of coleslaw. It became a family favorite. It was always requested for family gatherings including Thanksgiving. I'm not sure if my grandmother gave her some secret tips for making coleslaw but whatever my aunt's secrets, her version of this basic salad was carried out to perfection every single time she made it. On Thanksgiving Day her yellow bowl with that salad was a sought after item. It always

Even though we were young, my cousins and I must have realized the china cupboard situtated in a corner of the dining room of the old farmhouse was off limits. I don't remember us talking about it. If we had talked about it I would have remembered because such talks were usually long ones. And I don't remember any adult telling us not to play near the cupboard so it must have been our youthful intuition at work. Oh we played in the dining room all the time. We ran through it, played tag around the oak pedestal table; hid buttons for "Button, Button, Who's Got The Button", laughed and giggled in games of "Red Light-Green Light" and so much more but not once did we venture near that cupboard. Looking back I think it's because we knew it wasn't just any china cupboard. It was our grandmother's china cupboard. The glass doors were only opened on special occasions-including Thanksgiving. When they were, out came bone china dining sets and servin

I only remember one time when I saw my grandmother in anything but a house dress. It was later on in her life. She was going berry picking in a pair of jeans. That image was odd to say the least because growing up, she always wore a house dress; sort of like June Cleaver and Harriet Nelson but more down-to-earth like the Waltons. My grandmother worked from the minute she got up to the minute she went to bed. I guess you could say when she went downstairs in the morning, she was reporting in to work wearing her uniform. Functional, with pockets, her house dress with its lose fit freed her to move fast, cook fast, mend and sew and knit fast, bake bread and prepare meals and clean-up after fast, tend to six daughters fast, help her husband in the barn and fields and gardens fast and deal with everything else in between through four seasons, seven days a week even faster. She had a few house dresses. They were always clean and neat and complimented her as she moved about the old farmh

I can remember going to my grandmother's and eating tuna fish sandwiches. She'd cut up celery into little bits and with a dash of pepper, add the bits to the fish and mix it all together with mayonnaise-never a substitute. Then she'd open a jar of pickles and put them on the table. If she'd run out of her own slippery pickles-the best pickles in the world-she'd serve dill pickles bought at the A & P or Loblaws. To me, pickles and tuna fish were made for each other-like peanut butter and jelly-ice cream and cake. My mother made a great tuna casserole. Served piping hot with bread, the creamy mixture complete with peas and sliced hard-boiled eggs was the perfect meal on a winter's night. It was also good the next day-cold, for lunch. Still to this day my love affair with tuna fish continues most every single day either for lunch or dinner-or both! I don't know what it is about that can of flaky fish. It's not just a habit because more often than no

"Run! Run! This Halloween- Get away from such a scary Scene! Ghost and Goblins, Witches too- Are ready to scream a Halloween B-O-O!"

With Halloween looming I'm reminded of my one particular uncle blessed with the art of storytelling. He was from Indiana; taught biology and coached basketball but it was his wit and smile and that particular gift of his that I remember the most-especially this very spooky time of the year. There was one particular poem he'd recite and everytime he did we sat breathless, gearing up for that last sentence spoken with such certitude and fear. Although he'd recite it any time we asked, it was this time of the year of witches and ghosts and creepy, dark shadows that the ending of that poem sent shivers through our little spines. Of course it was all in the delivery-and deliver he did every single time. "Little Orphan Annie" was the poem. It was written by James Whitcomb Riley who was born in the very city in Indiana where my uncle lived with my aunt and four cousins in an amazingly elegant, old Victorian home filled with amazing antiques he and my aunt restored.

The Reindeer Keeper: Halloween in the Country

Running along side my grandparent's farmhouse was a cinder driveway. To the adults it was a driveway; to those of us riding our bikes it could have been the Indianapolis 500. Some days, it was. After waiting impatiently for the snow and ice of spring to somewhat melt away, we took our Schwinns out of the garage. I loved my bike. It was blue and maneuvered that track like a pro. A long straightaway marked with tall poplar trees led to a left-hand curve we called Dead Man's Curve. The trick was to build up speed when approaching it and just as you'd go into it, you'd slow down, keeping your feet poised to brake-but not abruptly for that could prove fatal. There were times when the course was flawless. This was normally on those hot summer days when the breeze through the poplars fanned us from one race to the next. There were times when it should have been shut down-like the wild October Saturday when wet leaves covered the cinders like a damp, slippery blanket. It did

When I was older and we moved above my father's funeral home situated in the nearby small town, most every day he'd go to the post office to pick up the mail. More often than not he'd be gone for over an hour-and the post office was just around the corner. That's because he didn't go just to get the mail. He went for the experience. He went for the exchange of conversation. Sometimes the conversations were with business acquaintances; sometimes old friends and sometimes with people he really didn't know but saw every day at that old building with its wall of p.o. boxes and photos of the town so many years ago and the counter where stamps were bought, letters mailed and packages picked-up. Christmas was his favorite time to go there. Besides the usuals he was certain to run into old friends visiting or locals not normally there but were in need of services only a post office could provide back then. Sadly I hear some small town post offices might close. You h

This is the time of the year when all the thinking and ordering, cultivating, planting, weeding, watering, picking, cleaning, canning, freezing, and pickling come full circle. You've done all the work starting back in January when the seed catalogs showed up in your mailbox. You've accomplished and crossed off each step on your long list. Now it's October. Time to dig for those potatoes and pull those pumpkins from their straggly old vines. Digging into the earth in search of potatoes is as exciting to me today as it was back when I was a kid living in the country. My grandparents had massive gardens. They had to. With 6 daughters and farmhands, meals were major productions especially during haying season. When it came time to clearing the gardens in the fall, helping dig for potatoes was like going on a treasure hunt. You never knew what the shovel pushed into the ground might reveal when pulled back out. The hope was for oodles of potatoes but there were no guarantees.

The statistics are amazing! In 2008 Americans bought 34 billion liters of bottled water. Everywhere you go you see people carrying those plastic bottles. Water has become a zillion dollar business! One of the most favorite things my cousins and I did when growing up in the country was to go down to the flat rocks which spread out between our grandparents' farmhouse and their barn. One by one we'd lay on the rock; clear away the green, stringy moss and drink the fresh, spring bubble of water shooting up and out from between the rocks. That water remains the coldest, the most refreshing water I've ever drank even in the smothering heat of the summertime. And every time we'd have our fill there were no plastic bottles to redeem. Sometimes simple is best-and more fun! I admit I do drink the bottled stuff these days but despite all their hype not one of those brands could ever satisfy like that natural bubble-sprouting its way up to the surface for little kids to get on

There's something about the colors and aromas and crispness of October that, when combined, present a most amazing awareness to one's senses. Add in apples and cider; pumpkins and candy corns and October climbs to the top of my most favorite list. I wrote a little poem once about leaves which stated exactly how I felt about them: "Falling, tumbling, drifting down-I love the leaves when they cover the ground; Falling, tumbling, drifting down-I love the leaves all around!" I still feel the same about the leaves. I love watching them zipping and skipping and dancing across a field or highway. I imagine them in a giant hurry to get somewhere-all travelling in a clump like a family on a mission. When I was growing up in the country leaves were meant to be played in. They were more than just leaves. They became giant mounds to jump in and hide in; getting up the nose, in the mouth, and stuck on clothes. None of that mattered when playing and pretending with cousins in l

Fishing down at the creek consisted of either a bamboo pole or very long stick with string and at the end of the string a safety pin left wide open in order to hook-something. I don't think we'd ever seen an actual fish in the murky water that flowed behind the four houses in a row but that didn't matter when you are determined fishermen-and we were determined. Either casting our string while surrounded by creek grass standing on the shoreline or casting while standing on the edge of the rickety plank bridge that connected the backfields, we tried with all our might to get that string as far out into the creek as we could. Usually it ended up tangled in weeds or right back next to us. Determined we remained; excited by the old cans we'd catch or masses of guck and goo. We never did catch a fish but we sure had lots of fun trying and that's what it's all about when your a little kid playing in the country.

In the evening my grandmother would sit in her rocking chair by the front window surrounded by African Violets and Geraniums and slowly take the combs out of her waist-length hair. As she'd talk she'd pull the combs through her grey locks. There was something reassuring watching my grandmother do this; sitting there surrounded outside by the acres she and my grandfather had farmed for years. She represented tradition. She spoke for those who came before us; sharing their stories so we'd be able to share them with future generations. We'd hear about her days of living in the farmhouse with six daughters, parents, and a hard-working husband who in the evening would chew tobacco as he sat in the front parlor and read. We'd hear about the barn and favorite horses and bringing the hay in from the back fields. When she was finished combing her hair she would put the combs in her lap and gather the hair together in a ponytail. Then she'd do a few twists, pulling the

My grandparents had a few gardens but the one I remember most spread alongside the farmhouse. Being a kid I can't remember who cleared and worked the field in early spring or who planted the field later on but I do remember sitting with my cousin amongst the rows of carrots in that field-and eating as many of them as we could. I have no clue how long we sat there or how many times we sat there. Nothing like that mattered. I just knew every time we did sit in the carrot patch, great fun and a delicious meal were seconds away. If we pulled on a carrot and the top broke lose leaving the carrot in the ground, we'd dig deep into the soil all around it with our fingers and patiently free that carrot for our quick consumption. There were no hoses to clean the vegetables off back then but even if there had been we wouldn't have taken time to use them. You see, we firmly believed a fresh, vibrant carrot coming out from the soil was about the best tasting experience to be had when

Despite believing with my whole heart that Summer would never end when growing up in the country, September brought reality with the return of the yellow school bus. After what felt like a century-long time lapse devoted to playing down at the creek-pretending and swinging on the rope with its big knot-going out and around and over the creek and sometimes in it and riding on telephone pole rafts off on great adventures from one bank of that sucker-filled creek to the other; climbing into the hay lofts of our grandfather's old barn and walking across the rickety, wooden planks going from one hayloft to the other; spending hours day after day in our chicken coop clubhouse pretending, creating, reading, writing,and producing great circuses and art shows which the adults, I am sure, loved attending-it happened-that yellow school bus was once again coming around the bend of the road to pick us up and take us back to that other world we'd left behind so very long ago. Riding daily

Growing up when Summer gave way to Fall meant it was time to say to the adults, "Let's talk Christmas" as we gathered around our grandmother's kitchen table. One aunt in particular loved to talk Christmas. Most of the time on those Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings she'd do all the talking-telling us of their Christmases in the old farmhouse. We'd hear about the oranges and nuts in their stockings; the meals prepared; the spirit of the Season shared. With the Holidays less than 16 weeks away I'd like to talk Christmas by sharing a few odd little Christmas bits of trivia-fun to know-especially good for crossword puzzles! Here we go: . In the poem, "The Night Before Christmas" Donder and Blitzen were originally named Dunder & Blixen. . The Christmas window displays seen in the original movie, "Miracle on 34th Street", are on display at a bank in Milwaukee every December in the bank's lobby. Have fun! Enjoy! More to co

Through the wonder of the internet my path crossed that of Michelle @ The True Book Addict who is-a true book addict and a lover of Christmas! It is from Michelle that I learned the 25th of every month is-for true lovers of Christmas-"Rudolph Day." I had the pleasure of doing a Guest Blog 7/28 on her site-The Christmas Spirit. It's a magical site capturing the spirit of the holidays all year long. Besides poems and stories and snippets of old movie scenes and favorite TV specials and a collage of Christmas books and marvelous art including Victorian, the well-designed, well-thought out layout of the site right down to the colors and typestyles used taps into that heartfelt feeling of Home and Christmas. (My blog can be found down the left-hand column-"Guest Post with Author Barbara..."). I'm happy to say Michelle will be reviewing "The Reindeer Keeper" at a later date. To check out Michelle's sites: . christmasspirit-truebookaddict.blogs

Sitting amongst the cupboard and tables and chairs in my grandparent's farmhouse kitchen was a small, white free-standing cabinet. On one side of that cabinet there was a door that when opened, you'd find boxes of hot and cold cereal. On the other side there were 3 drawers. One drawer in particular was the most exciting. Not because there were surprises inside. It was just the opposite. There were no surprises at all-just Cookies! We all knew that's where those special cookies were always kept! Later when the farmhouse was sold and my grandparents and aunt moved into a smaller home nearby-that cabinet went with them and sat in their new kitchen. Nothing had changed but the location for inside that one particular drawer with its top with holes for fresh air that you'd have to pull back with your finger in the right spot were those cookies. They were always the same cookies-Lorna Doones and Fig Newtons. Unlike today there weren't a zillion varities of those two b

When Borders closed their bookstores my thoughts took me back to when I was a little girl, going downtown to a small bookstore with my mother. She was a nurse; on duty midnights. Back home in the mornings, she'd read before going to bed. She was an avid reader even when exhausted. There was something about those stacks of books piled on top of old tables and filling shelves in that bookstore of long ago. That place was part of the community. It was a place to gather located in a family department store on the main floor tucked off by itself. I remember small window panes protruding out a bit onto the sidewalk; making for great displays especially when it was Christmastime and I was shopping with my mother. I don't think I could even read back then but it didn't matter. Whatever book I picked up I'd pretend to be able to put sentences together-and read. Bookstores, real bookstores with front doors and people browzing and sitting and sipping coffee-all involved with

It seemed summer was forever when growing up in the country. Saying good-bye to friends at the end of the school year was like a sad farewell. But once the school routine was tossed to the wayside not much thought was given to those friends until that routine returned. We never did day trips or long trips; trips to Disney or parks full of animals or historic sites or beaches. Instead our trips were on the back of an old wagon going over the plank bridge to the hay fields. Our trips were walking down to the pine grove-lying under the pines and talking and listening to the wind sift through the trees. Our trips were waiting for our aunt to get home from work to walk down through the woods to the river for a swim and after the swim, enjoying graham crackers on the walk back home. Our summers were totally set in the country-on our rafts made out of telephone poles going up and down Sucker Creek on great adventures; up in the haymows or around the stanchions and paddocks that once ho

There's something about a back stairway that adds comfort to a home. They certainly did in my grandparent's old farmhouse. While the front oak stairway and banister were polished and kept immaculate, the backstairs were quite the opposite. Worn, made from planks of wood, some creaked; some were uneven. But they were such fun. We'd run up and down them-half running and half skipping through the five bedrooms and the bathroom with two doors. Tucked behind my grandmother's wood stove in the kitchen, you'd never know the stairs were there if the door was shut. My mother used to tell how she and her sisters would run down them in the winter, anxious to seek heat from the woodstove. When we were very young, we'd hurry up those stairs to bed when staying over, especially when the adults told us if we didn't-a man up the road would be stopping by to find out why we were still up. It worked every time. That's when we rushed up those stairs so fast that a few ti

I know every family has those unique, in-family nicknames given to one another over the years. Most of the time just family members are aware of them and when you get together years later, those nicknames seem to slip right out. While people obviously mature and grow out of a strange, cute, or sarcastic name attached to them when they were younger, awkward situations can arise when a potentially new member to the family is introduced. That's when th e fun begins for family insiders! Our family certainly has had its share of nicknames. The most "famous" of them all continues to be the nickname "Giddy" given to my grandmother by my brother. He was the first grandchild and was unable to say grandmother. It came out Giddy and that stuck like glue to the most amazingly strong and beautiful-in-spirit woman I've ever known. Fact was she was called "Giddy" by most everyone who knew her. Other nicknames that have sprung up over the years-and I will n

When I was a little older and when summer vacation hit, I'd stay up after the late news and watch the late movie with my father. He'd sit in his chair and would usually fall asleep before it was over. He always said dozing off in that chair was the best sleep ever for him. There was never a hesitation if I'd be able to watch any of the nightly, feature-length fil ms. They were all decent movies with no overload of special effects or violence or sex. They were good, solid movies with no effects needed. The acting did all of that. I'd either curl up on the couch or on the floor with blankets and a pillow and go off on adventures with Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, Jimmy Stewart, Rita Hayworth, Marlon Brando, Natalie Wood, Robert Wagner, Katharine Hepburn, Spencer Tracy, Henry Fonda, Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart, Gregory Peck, William Powell, John Wayne, Robert Mitchum, Elizabeth Tayor, Richard Burton, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Cary Grant, Doris Day, James Cagney, Kir

To the right and down a bit on this page you will see a photo added this week of me standing between some neighboring kids in front of the Chicken Coop Clubhouse which I've written about in a few blogs. The photo points out the truth in the adage, "A picture is worth 1,000 words." Ramshackled with hardly any glass in the windows that small, old building was our DisneyWorld-the hub of our growing up in the country. It was a schoolhouse-a playhouse-a library-a restaurant-a stop along the way for stagecoaches or whatever else our imaginations pretended it to be. It provided us hours of creativity. It allowed us to explore the depths of childhood imagination. It instilled in us an excitement of the possibility. We learned sharing and responsibility; caring for those younger than we were; organizing events and carrying through with those events when the best laid plans hit roadblocks-just as life does when becoming adults. We read books; my favorites always by Laura Ingalls

When we could-meaning when there were no adults around-my cousin and I conducted experiments in my mother's kitchen. We'd take out my mother's big, yellow bowl and "make recipes." Sometimes we'd add the ingredients-just water and an egg as I remember-to a Jiffy cake mix and then devour the goo like soup. No need to bake it when you're experimenting. After all, it was a small cake mix; like drinking a milk shake! Before we'd make-up r ecipes we'd look out all the windows to make sure no one was coming; then we'd rush back into the kitchen and the fun would really begin! We'd start with one of those little cake mixes-most always white or yellow. Then we'd add whatever we could find; mushed-up bananas, cut-up cherries, peanut butter, jam of all sorts, pepper (Yes-Pepper-we were experimenting remember!), coconut, chocolate chips, more sugar-even brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg, ginger, garlic (Yup-garlic),allspice, plus a dash or two or

Amazing how coffee is such a phenomenon. So many brands and so many ways to serve it besides the standard hot cup of coffee. Now you have choices with strange names like frappuccino-latte-caffe mocha-macchiato. Then you can choose to stir-whip-steam or shake-and drink and drink some more! Some of these brands are so recognizable that their locations are sought after destinations in metropolitan centers to rural locations and every place in between . When I think of coffee, I think of my aunt who loved to go out for breakfast at local diners or small eateries. She'd savor every bite and enjoy every drop of her brewed coffee served in a thick, milk-white ceramic cup with a saucer. She'd add a bit of milk and sugar and stir it until it was "pretty"-as she called it. The waitress would fill her cup up a few more times as we'd linger and talk and watch people come and go. It was always fun being with her at these places which, to my aunt, were more enjoyable than

Digging through a kitchen cupboard the other night I came across two cake tins that symbolize the celebration of birthdays out in the country. They're pretty worn but then they were used for every birthday when we were growing up. They're not very deep but they're not supposed to be. Both are shaped like Christmas trees and when stacked on top of each other-with icing in between-they make the perfect sized cake especially when you are young and it is your day on which the Christmas tree cake is made just for you. It didn't matter in what month a birthday fell. The cake was always the Christmas tree cake. On the morning of a birthday my mother would get the tins ready, coating them with butter and then covering the butter with a layer of flour. It seemed to me the making of the cake was an all-day procedure but I now realize my mother certainly did much more leading up to the celebration after dinner than just bake a cake. But I only cared about the cake-making goin

It was the glitzy box that caught my eye just as it was supposed to do. I'd run in the store for a few things and ended up in the aisle loaded with all sorts of craft kits for kids. I was surprised to see so many kits designed to stir a child's imagination. I was also taken back by memories of doing funstuff when I was growing up in the country and doing projects with my child ren when they were young. But aside from the kits I bought my daughters to make pot holders out of loops on a grid and those bags full of colorful plastic crystals which they used to fill-in wired shapes the best their little fingers could and when ready I'd put them in the oven to bake with the end result being a pretty flower or butterfly or rainbow suncatcher-the rest of whatever was created was purely out of what nature provided-with a little help from crayons and glue made from flour and water when in a pinch. Most of the time imaginations were stirred by what was around. Rocks were always gr

It doesn't feel like May yet. Where I live we're still getting sprinkles of snow now and then but the anticipation for wildflowers smiling about the fields and a warm breeze and garden planting is the same as when May was approaching out in the country when I was a kid. May's like a gift; a reward for getting through the winter-a pleasant sort of a month before the humid side of June swallows the landscape up in a smothering blanket especially when working in the hayloft during haying season. When that happened, I'd always wish it was winter again. Guess we're never happy with the weather-sort of like our hair. Sometimes all the weather is good for is conversation. When you're young rooms seem bigger; backyards seem to go forever-the wait for Christmas never-ending. That's how I felt when May was just about here; when one day would be freezing and the next day in the 50s. When would it happen? There never was a magic wand to wave and then-here you go-it

We were lucky. We had that uncle who was more child than adult and never was this more apparent than on Easter. As I've explained before, there were 4 houses full of relatives all sitting in a row on a winding country road. Besides yards, there were back fields and a creek and an old barn and granary and pump house and wood shed and a chicken-coop-turned-clubhouse and on and on and on. There were just so many nooks and crannies tucked here and there and our uncle took advantage of most all of them because back then, every Easter, he plotted and ployed as off on a mission he'd go around the fields and creek and old barn and granary and pump house and wood shed and a chicken-coop-turned clubhouse hiding numbered, folded pieces of paper on which he'd written a clue. Putting all those clues together, this uncle was actually the Mastermind behind Treasure Hunts that could have been possibly the most amazing adventures any child anywhere could ever had wished to be a part of on

Excitement was building. What was quite possibly our biggest event ever scheduled to take place at our Chicken Coop Clubhouse was fast approaching. My cousin and I had spent every spare minute we had getting ready;scrubbing and picking up the Club; practicing and then practicing some more; getting all the little ones prepared to perform the way we expected or at least march in a straight line for a few minutes. This would be our first of what we hoped would be many more Easter Parades-a new event added to our list which included carnivals, circuses, art exhibits, plays, and Halloween spook houses-and others without official titles. How lucky were all the adults to have so many wonderful happenings to attend! We took pride in being such an active Club. Hours were spent making decorations from construction paper. Perfect Easter eggs were easy when you folded the paper in half and finished the job with crayons. Decorated strips of paper glued together made simple Easter baskets. Our bu